#i like anything that lets me just gratuitously describe....anything

[daimyosprincess]

PART I: FOREWORD

—PAIRING: Professor!Boba Fett x F!Librarian!Reader

—SERIES RATING: Explicit, 18+ only — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

—SUMMARY: When the new Mandalorian studies professor Boba Fett comes into the university library looking for help, you’re more than happy to be of assistance.

—WORD COUNT: 6.4k

—TAGS & WARNINGS: second person narration, no use of y/n, references to sexual themes, alternate universe, professor!Boba, age gap relationship between an older man and younger woman (reader is mid-twenties and Boba is late forties), bisexual reader, reader described as having hair, alcohol consumption by reader and others, GRATUITOUS flirting (like a ridiculous amount), use of pet names

—AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here it is, my first ever posted fic! I'm so excited to share this with y'all, it's been so much fun to write. Thank you for all your support for this series. Enjoy the Boba brainrot with me :)

Read on AO3 — Series Masterlist — Taglist

Part II>

The university library is dead—classes aren’t in session and things are slow. The afternoon summer sun streams through the building’s tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the golden light. The faint rustle of papers turning is the only sound filling the idle air other than you and your coworker’s chatting at the circulation desk. 

“No, I’m telling you there’s no good guys to date here. They’re all either emotionally unavailable or terrible in bed… or both,” your friend Selena gripes. She’s exasperated by the most recent of her flings ghosting her after their last hookup. 

Swirling your iced coffee, you roll your eyes. “Well maybe you need to expand your dating pool, there’s more out there than just twenty-something guys who spend all their time in the gym.” You grin knowingly at your friend—she definitely has a type.

She throws an elbow at you. “Hey! Not all of us are into girls and men old enough to be our dads! Speaking of which…” she cuts off, wiggling her perfect eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice calls from behind your back, “is there a librarian I can speak to about reserving my course materials?” The voice’s vowels lilt and come together like sand being molded by an ocean wave, powerful yet graceful—it’s a voice that could warm you in sunny, shallow waters or drown you in a raging storm.

All but choking on your coffee, you spin to face the front desk. Standing on the other side of the counter is the most handsome man you think you’ve ever seen: copper skin, white teeth, and dark eyes stand atop a crisp linen shirt rolled up to reveal thick, strong forearms. Pale, silvered scars crisscross his skin, glinting in the light, making him look equally dangerous and enticing, like a trap baited with everything you’ve ever wanted.

Shit, he could get me in a lot of trouble… and I’d let him. You clear your throat, doing your best to recover with at least some of your dignity intact—a difficult task when the absolute god of a man before you just heard that you’re definitely into men his age. 

Selena, however, beats you to an answer. “Yes, sir, that would be my coworker here,” she answers in a sing-song voice, “she’s more than happy to help you with anything you need.” You shoot her a dirty look as she flounces away back to her desk in the back, her attitude completely unapologetic.

Being the flirt you are, you did fully intend to hit on this handsome professor, but that’s not the point. Rallying your thoughts, you flash him a dazzling smile. “Yes, I certainly am,” you confirm. “What can I do for you, professor…?” Your voice trails off in anticipation of his response, and you catch the dark gleam in his coffee-colored eyes. 

“Fett, Boba Fett. Professor of Mandalorian studies,” he answers smoothly, his rich timbre confident and unphased by you and Selena’s antics.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, professor,” you respond, matching his blithe tone. You introduce yourself with your name and title as the research materials librarian.

He smirks, flicking his eyes over your frame in a casual, yet interested, way. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” When his eyes meet yours again, they flicker with amber fire, bright and tempting.

You let his compliment hang in the sunlit air between you for a moment, gauging whether he too felt the electric connection buzzing between you two. Judging by the glint in his eye and quirk of his lips, he did.

Game on. “Well, usually faculty submit their materials for purchase and reservation at the end of the previous school year or at the beginning of the summer session,” you inform him with an overly patronizing tone. “But I suppose I can make an exception for you since you’re being so polite.” You end your statement with a wink, inviting him in to test the waters.  

Taking your hint, he leans his muscled arms on the high lip of the desk, bringing himself closer into your space. “You’re too kind. Things have been a little difficult since I’m new to the school and wasn’t in the country until last week… and I’d really appreciate your help, princess.” The pet name rolls off his tongue like spiced honey, hot and sweet.

  Your brows arch up and you run your tongue over teeth behind your lips as you consider the handsome professor. Most men you meet are either too intimidated or too stupid to give you a fair fight, but this Boba Fett… he might just be the one. Without saying much, he’s said it all: true power doesn’t need to be defended because it speaks for itself. His innate confidence makes your stomach tighten and your blood run hot—this is going to be even more fun than you first thought. “Why don’t you come into my office and I can see what all I can do for you, Professor Fett,” you offer with a flirty smile.

“Please,” he entreats with a saccharine smile, “call me Boba.”

Leaning against your doorframe, Boba shoulders his leather satchel, his broad shoulders rippling under the material of his shirt. The muscles in his arms carve out valleys in his marked skin, making your mind race with the thought of how those arms would feel around you, lifting you up, or pinning you down beneath him. The way he totally fills up the space around him is enough to send heat between your legs, and the snatches of fantasy only heighten the desire simmering in your core. You’ve done everything you can to help the professor at the moment, but neither of you seem too keen on parting just yet, much to your satisfaction. 

“So how old are you, then?” he asks, eyeing you tilted back in your chair below him.

You’d teased him about his thesis date being long before your birth while you chatted as you submitted his materials requests. “Why, professor,” you taunt, looking up at him from heavy-lidded eyes, “are you trying to make sure I’m at least eighteen?”

He answers with a devil’s grin. “No, just trying to see whether or not I’m old enough to be your father.”

Yep, he definitely heard that earlier, you groan internally as heat pricks up your neck. Not one to be beaten so easily, however, you lazily trail your eyes down to his left hand braced on your door, a smirk splitting your face when you don’t find a ring. “As long as you’re single, I’m twenty-six.”

“And if I’m not?” he counters, cocking his head in pointed curiosity.

You pray to whoever might be listening that he is because you might not survive temptation much longer, not with the way he’s looking at you like you’re the sweetest dessert he’s ever seen. “Well then, I’d be twenty-six and disappointed.” 

He snorts, shaking his head with a deliciously low chuckle. “You really are something, aren’t you, little one?”

Your stomach flips at his continued use of the sweet names, but you swallow it down. Boba Fett is a test you intend on passing and that means you have to keep your wits about you.  “I have been told I can be quite the handful. Hope that's not a problem… don’t think it would be for you, though,” you reply, looking him up and down meaningfully and letting your eyes linger on the fabric stretched tight over his biceps. He’s built like a kriffing brick wall, thick and solid, and you want to climb him to the very top. 

The sultry look he gives you makes you think he’d let you, too. “After forty-seven years, princess, I don't think it would be.”

That same hum of charged energy of your initial meeting fills your office as your gaze falls into line with the intense depth of his own. You were wrong before, he’s not looking at you like you’re dessert. You’re prey, soft and open, and he’s the predator tracking you deeper and deeper in the forest, far away so no one would hear your shriek when sunk his teeth into your flesh. 

But did prey ever want to be torn apart by its hunter? You roll your lips together, squeezing your thighs against the embers of desire flickering to life between them. 

A few moments later, your computer chirps with an email notification and you blink back to reality, the tension fizzling out into the surrounding air. Probably for the best since I’m about ten seconds away from jumping this man's bones in my office. Straightening up in your seat, you clear your throat. “Same time tomorrow, then, professor?”

“If it’s not a problem,” he shrugs, his heated gaze betraying his nonchalance, “I know you’re a busy girl.”

He’s clearly enjoying calling you everything but your name and you, much to your surprise, are lapping it up. In an attempt to even the score, you push up from your chair, snatching up one of your business cards from your desk and scribbling your cell number on the back. Sauntering over to him stretched out in your door, you stop just a little closer than absolutely necessary. You slip the piece of paper into his front pocket, pleased with the way the muscle in his jaw twinges at the contact. “Oh, no, it’s no problem at all,” you practically purr, “At the university, we want to make sure our new faculty enjoy everything the library has to offer.” 

He huffs in amusement, not moving away. “Your efforts should be rewarded, then,” he notes, his voice like rich molasses, “You’ve been nothing but eager.”

Before you can stop the impish impulse, you rattle off your usual coffee order. The worst he can say is no, but something tells you he’s willing to indulge you just a bit more than most would.

He tilts his head to the side, his lips twitching into a smile in understanding a second later. “Size?”

“As much as you’re willing to give me,” you wink, flipping your pen between your fingers under your chin. You’d like to think he’d indulge you in that too, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself.

“Don’t worry,” he assures, his voice like bittersweet woodsmoke, “I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.” The promises laced through his words like invisible threads, weaving together images of love-bruised skin and rough hands pressed into soft flesh.  

You swallow thickly, and almost groan in embarrassment when his eyes track the bob of your throat with a smug look. “You could get a man into trouble, little one. A lot of trouble…” 

He shoves off the doorframe, his face swaying dangerously close to yours as he turns to leave. “See you tomorrow, princess.” He says the words like a promise rather than a casual expression.

“Oh, professor?” you call out after him. You can’t let this man come out of your office thinking he’s won your little game, your pride simply won’t allow it—and neither will the lurid desire bubbling up from somewhere deep within you. You want to push him, needle him until he snaps, poke the bear until he takes a swipe. Not very smart for someone who’s definitely the prey.

He turns to face you as if he had been hoping you’d stop him. “Yes?”

“You should know,” you bait, letting your eyes flicker down to his lips and back up in wicked pleasure, “I like trouble.”

Every day since your electrifying meeting has been an excuse to see him: hand delivering something that could have been interofficed, calling his office phone and inviting him to look over some course book in person, or volunteering to give him a tour of campus that happened to include lunch together. Boba’s like a burning sun and you’ve been ensnared in his orbit, your every phase and season given life by his heat.

When you couldn’t find an excuse to be around him, he found one; he came to make copies in the library because his department’s machine “never seems to work right,” the coffee shop gave him an extra pastry he “couldn’t possibly eat,” or the darn databases wouldn’t let him log in and you’re the “only one who can get them to work.” Even when your extensive partnership gathering his course materials came to an end, Boba was quick to offer you a spot in his office to work while last minute construction went on in the library before the start of the fall semester.

Boba’s office is tucked away at the end of a long hall in the gothic-style humanities building and quickly becomes your own personal sanctuary for the remainder of the summer. Its soaring ceiling and long, arched window gave a sense of lightness to the corner space, the natural light reflecting off the pale walls. Brass lamps with warm, golden light keep the room cozy when clouds roll in, along with the sumptuous oriental rug spread over the stone floor. Boba’s furniture is functional and comfortable; a large, sorrel leather couch sits perpendicular against the wall from his sturdy oak desk, accompanied by matching armchairs facing him for visitors. The walls are lined with bookshelves and cabinets housing his impressive personal library and mementos from his illustrious life.

It’s in this ivory tower oasis that your heart begins to grow into a softer shape and your mind settles into the rough-hewn grooves of the professor’s tides. The power of him both rouses and relieves, stirs and soothes; the shards of you are made into soft seaglass by the roll and drag of his waves against the sand. And oh, how you’re tempted to let him pull you under the glassy surface, to submit and let his current tow you to blissful paradise. You yearn to provoke his storms as well as seek his shelter from the harsh creatures of everyday life—you’re sure he’s going to be the end of you.

The week before classes start you’re slouched comfortably across the couch in his office. Sunlight dapples the room in a saffron glow through the forked leaves of ivy hugging the window as you’re half-heartedly responding to the numerous last minute item requests from harried professors. While most of them are smart enough to be polite, quite a few have decided to be rude, pain in the asses instead. 

You grumble loudly, throwing your head back against the cushion behind you. Your frustration is not helped by the fact Boba is extra good looking today, his white shirt is practically glowing against his sun-kissed skin and open a button lower than usual for the breezy weather—not that you noticed those kinds of things about him. Just like you definitely weren’t aching for his attention that’s currently wrapped up in class prep.

“Why do all these professors expect me to drop everything to attend to their specific requests like I have nothing better to do?” you huff, massaging your temples with your fingertips. “I do have an actual job besides course reserves.”

Looking over a pair of reading glasses, Boba leans back in his chair, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Must have seen you doing it for me, princess.”

You blow out a dismissive sound and roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re different.” Snapping your laptop closed, you manage to keep the pleased smile from turning up your lips. You have Boba’s attention now, just like you really wanted.

“Mmm, different how?” he hums, his intense gaze now trained on your face.

The heat of his assured, teasing confidence makes your guts churn. While your mutual physical attraction to one another is surely evident to both of you, you’ve been doing your best to hide the fact that he holds your heart in his hands too. No use ruining the good thing you have going with the handsome professor by admitting you have an honest-to-god crush with feelings.

Rolling over on your side so you can prop your head up on your hand, you find Boba entirely too smug for your liking. Putting on your most innocent face, you blink up at him with wide doe eyes. “Oh, you know me, professor, always happy to help you older folks figure out all the complicated technology involved in getting your books.” Despite your efforts, you can’t help cracking a grin at the end of your sentence.

That sparks the fire you hoped it would in Boba, his eyes glittering and his posture shifting forward in response to your goading. “Watch it, princess. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

Heaven help me, he looks so kriffing good, his shoulders alone make me want to risk it all. “Don’t worry,” you grin, “I’ve never had any trouble swallowing what’s in my mouth.”

“Well, well, well,” a rich female voice interjects from the door, making you jerk upright. “If it isn’t the new Mandalorian studies professor going at it with the pretty little librarian. I should’ve known that I couldn’t trust you around her, Fett.”

“Fennec!” you exclaim, relief dousing your prickling surprise: she knew you were a tease. You scramble off the lounge and throw your arms around your friend. “It’s Wednesday,” you state, perplexed, “I thought you wouldn’t be back from your trip until Friday?”

She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a satisfying hug. “Missed you too much, kitten, had to come back a little early,” she answers with her usual flirtatiousness. You don’t miss the way she winks at Boba over your shoulder as her palms slide over the small of your back when she pulls away. You secretly hope it will make him a little jealous.

“Never met a beautiful girl you didn’t try to seduce, have you Shand?” Boba pipes up from behind you, his tone familiar.

Your heart rate spikes at his compliment but you tamp down the heat threatening to creep up your face. Stepping back, you swing your head back and forth between the two professors. “You two know each other?”

Flicking her long braid over her shoulder, Fennec smiles, throwing a puckish look at the man behind the desk. “Oh, Boba and I go way back, long before either of us cleaned up and joined academia. Who do you think got him a job here?” she quips, sinking her weight onto her hip with her usual air of unapologetic fortitude.

“I got myself a job here,” Boba cracks back, his grumbling making it obvious he’s accustomed to Fennec’s ribbing.

She shrugs, grinning. “Don’t discount the power of a good word on the inside.” Slinging an arm around your shoulder, she loudly whispers in your ear, “What’s a pretty thing like you doing with a man like him anyways, kitten? Thought I taught you better than that.”

“Kark off, Shand,” Boba huffs, and Fennec throws her hands up in front of her chest in a showy apology.

Letting his languid gaze slide over to you, Boba studies the curves and planes of your body, mapping out each. You can’t squash the tingling glow buzzing in your chest at his attention, and your eyes sink down under fluttering lashes, your resolve weakened. “She’s a smart girl, she knows what she wants,” he finally says, releasing you from his inspection to smirk at his colleague.

The heat in your lower belly flares hot and wanting at his passive claim over you. Shit. Sometimes you wish he’d just shove your clothes aside and bend you over the nearest flat surface to take you for himself. Dangerous thoughts like those keep you up at night, wishing it his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy instead of your own. 

You drop back down onto the couch to buy yourself a second to regroup. Kicking your feet up in an act of collected indifference, you drawl, “Aw, don't you two go fighting over me, there’s plenty to go around.”

“Yeah, but Boba doesn’t like to share,” Fennec snorts.

You grin up at the dark-haired woman and prop your computer back on your thighs. “Good thing we’re just friends then, Fenn.”

“Lucky him,” she chuckles. Straightening up and drawing a breath, her jovial expression settles into something more sincere. “Well, I’ve got plenty to do for classes next week, just wanted to stop by when I heard your voices. It’s good to see you again.”

Genuine affection spreads in your chest as you look up at your friend; for all her teasing and bluster, Fennec has a heart of gold. “Glad you made it back safe, Fenn, we’ll get coffee and catch up soon,” you promise with a candid smile.

“Sounds good, let me know if you ever want some better looking company.” She winks at you then tosses her head in Boba’s direction. “Always a pleasure to see you still in one piece, Fett.”

Despite his glowering expression, Boba’s voice is warm. “Same to you, Shand. Just remember to always watch your back.” The sound of the dark-haired woman’s throaty laugh echoes down the hallway as she heads towards her office. 

When you look back at Boba, his mahogany eyes are already on you. They’re watching, as they often are, like you’re some fascinating phenomenon that might disappear if he doesn’t recommit it to memory repeatedly. “So you and Fennec are friends,” he states simply, leaning forward on his elbows. There’s something expectant in his tone, his demeanor hinting at anticipation. It makes the cozy atmosphere of the office crackle with intent.

You learned rather quickly that there was little use in trying to figure out Boba when he didn’t want to be figured, so you relax back into the couch and play along. “Yeah, she’s one of the first people I met when I started at the university. She took me under her wing and helped me find my way around here, she’s a good friend.” Before you can think better of it, you add, “But she’s only ever been a friend, despite what she might hint at.”

A small smile chips through the stony set to his features that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well that’s good to hear. Raises my hopes for your answer to my next question.” The richness of his voice belies any nervousness, if a man like him even feels such a thing. He always seems so sure, always in total control. 

Was he jealous of Fennec? Your mouth goes dry and you force your easy smile to stay in place; Boba’s focus is zeroed in on you and you'd rather die than slip up in front of him—he'd enjoy it far too much. “Oh, do tell, professor. I'm all ears,” you urge, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your cool with passing success.

His lips twitch up, amused with your brashness. “You’ve been more than helpful these past four weeks, little one,” he begins, “I couldn't have gotten everything done for my classes or had the peace of mind to get properly settled here.”

“Really, it's no problem, I don't-”

Boba raises a hand for silence and your jaw clicks shut in quick obedience—much to your embarrassment and his obvious pleasure. “Whether you mind or not,” he continues, “or if you feel it's your job, I greatly appreciate all your efforts.” He studies you for a moment and it feels like he can see right through to your insides. “Can I take you to dinner at the Vineyard this Saturday, to thank you for all you've done?”

Genuine surprise releases a stream of words pouring from your lips before you can even register them. “The Vineyard? Downtown? It’s so fancy, you don't have to do that. I mean it's like $100 dinners and-”

“You deserve it, princess. I told you you'd get everything you deserve, remember?” Boba smiles, the corners of eyes crinkling in a fond expression. “Plus, I enjoy your company… and I think you enjoy mine, too.”

Your poor heart is beating so hard in your ribs you’re sure Boba's able to hear it. The safety of him and his space have disarmed your usual defenses, sanded down the spear of your tongue; it’s equal parts freeing and terrifying, uncharted territory ripe with possibilities and danger. You’re left unable to deny his assertion—or form any real words—so you opt to arch a brow instead. 

“Don’t play coy, little one,” he chastens, his firm words and velvet tone skating over your heated skin. “I know construction in the library finished last week, yet you're still spending all your days in my office.”

Biting your lip, you do your best to look surprised. “Oh, really? I must have, uh, missed the memo on that,” you try lamely, scratching at the back of your neck. It’s a weak defense but it’s all you can muster at the moment, only half your brain is available to cobble together a response; the other half is too busy fighting the urge to leap over his desk and into his lap.

Boba chuffs a laugh, his handsome face all too knowing and his deep eyes sparkling with amusement—and maybe something darker, more sensual if you could bear to look. His reaction does, however, kick-start your customary attitude. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you fix him with the most sardonic look you can. “Well, I didn’t see you complaining, professor.” You tack on an eye roll for good measure as it never fails to get a reaction from him. And, oh, how you wanted to get one out of him, be the reason he’s loses his cool. Just the mere thought of it makes you ache.

Cocking his head to the side, he has the gall to look like he’s already won. “Why would I complain about getting what I want?” His face is drawn in a question, but his eyes flash with the answer.

“Well, you… you, er,” you stammer, suddenly unable to find a foothold. Boba had shaken the very earth beneath you with his admission, it has scattered your mind and rattled the bedrock of your resolve. The familiar nagging, forbidden desire to give in, to submit wells up in your throat; it would be easy, sinfully easy, to give up the fight and let Boba win. But easy’s never been my thing, has it?

Rolling back your shoulders, you mount your last stand. You let your head loll over to look at him directly, your eyes peeking out at him from under hooded lids. “And just what do you want, Boba Fett?” you answer, your voice husky and weighted.

The air itself thickens around you, dampening the outside world to something far away and unimportant as Boba contemplates his response. This is the impasse the two of you had been circling all along, choosing to precariously balance your brash determination against his indomitable will rather than risk tipping the scales. The only true solution is for one of you to give, but neither of you had yet been willing to break.

Finally, Boba’s lips part, a quick tongue darting out to wet the chapped skin. “I want,” he starts, low and deliberate, “to take you out to a nice dinner, have a good glass of wine… and have you all to myself.”

His words are etched in crystalline honesty and thus you have no choice but to respond in kind, even if it only skirts your shared quandary. “Then who am I to deny you, professor?”

The rest of the week might as well not have even happened as far as you're concerned—all that mattered was making it to Saturday. Boba had dangled the promise of sweet reward in front of you and seemed content to watch you flounder your way to it over the intervening days. It also didn’t help that Selena could not shut up about it, even now as she’s standing behind you, pinning and primping your hair to her liking.

“Ooo, I can’t believe it’s really happening!” she squeals, sliding another bobby pin into place against your scalp. “You and the hot professor, going on a date to a romantic restaurant all dressed up! I bet he’s going to invite you back to his place after. Do you think he has a big… you know?”

“If you never finish with my hair, I’ll never have to know,” you grumble. Now that the time has nearly come, you’re about sick to your stomach with all the overthinking you’ve done. You almost talked yourself out of going three times before Selena even came over to help you get ready.

“Hey, none of that sad shit,” she chides, pointing a hairbrush at you in the mirror. “You’ve been dying to go on this date all week, you’ve just got a little case of nerves. Totally normal.”

“But what if he doesn’t actually see this as a date? He never actually said it was. Or what if he really just wants to sleep with me and ditch me after this?” You groan, flopping back against your vanity chair miserably. Your earlier suspicions about his mutual feelings for you had soured—now you’re not even sure he likes you. 

Selena thwacks the back of the head. “Ow!” you yelp, glaring at her in your reflection.

“Pull yourself together. Anyone within a mile radius of you two can tell you’re crazy about each other. Now sit still so I can get these pieces even,” she orders, centering you in the mirror with her hands on your shoulders. You do as she says, focusing on the practiced movements of her hands as a distraction for the feeling in your gut.

By the time you pull on your dress and slip into your shoes, you’re beginning to come back around to your usual self, likely in part due to the shot of tequila Selena convinced you to take with her—not that you needed much convincing to begin with. 

She hypes you up as she fastens the clasp of your necklace around your throat. “Shit, girl, you look hot! I’m not sure he’s going to be able to take his eyes off you long enough to drive to the restaurant.” 

“I do look good don’t I?” You flash yourself a smile in the mirror. After a trip to the mall yesterday, you and Selena had decided on a simple black satin slip dress and matching strappy heels. The deep “V” of the neckline and snug fit around your hips gave the dress just enough sex appeal while still being elegant. Twisting around, you check the lines of the dress in the back. “It’s too bad no one can see these panties, they’re so cute.”

“Oh, someone’s going to be seeing them alright,” Selena giggles from her perch on the end of your bed.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the girlish grin turning up the corners of your mouth at her insinuation. Shit, I hope he rips them off me. “Only if I decide he deserves to.”

“There she is, there’s the girl we know and love. Give him hell!” 

Your phone dings on your bedside table and your friend snatches it up before you can get to it. “Hey! Give it!” you demand, grabbing at the device.

Sliding up the bed out of your reach, Selena hunches around your phone. “He’s here! And he sent a bunch of heart emojis.”

Your nerves tingle in cold-hot anticipation, your face going slack in disbelief. “He did?!”

Selena bursts into laughter. “No, I’m just messing with you, he just said he’s outside.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you groan, snatching away your phone. “Go ahead and see if I keep helping you come up with texts to send all your gym rat side pieces.”

She lays a hand on her chest, feigning shock. “You would never. Now get out there and blow his socks off, or you know, whatever else you want to blow.” She smirks suggestively, shooing you towards the door. “I’ll lock up, now out out out.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going!” Your heart hammers in your chest and you consider another shot of tequila before dismissing it—no need to set yourself up to be any hornier than you already are for the Mandalorian professor. Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you’re out the door.

Leaning against a sleek midnight black Audi is Boba Fett in all his glory, dressed in a well-fitted pressed shirt (with the sleeves rolled up, damn him) and gray slacks. His salt and pepper stubble and dark eyes make his already handsome face look even better. Catching your appearance in the doorway, he juts his chin up in greeting, his eyes sliding over you in obvious pleasure. “Evening, princess.”

He holds out an arm and you take it to step off the curb, testing his muscles underneath your fingers as you do; if Boba notices, thankfully he doesn’t say it. He opens the passenger door and you step in, settling down onto the supple leather of the lush interior. 

He doesn’t close the door right away, instead standing and clearly enjoying the view down your dress. You glare up at him in mock annoyance. “You gonna stare like a dirty old man or are you going to take me to dinner, professor?”

“You’re the one who got all dressed up for a dirty old man, sweetheart, I figured you'd want me to enjoy it,” he replies smoothly, his lips quirking into a smirk as he shuts the door before you can manage a response.

Yep, these panties don’t stand a chance.

“So, Fennec tells me you were some sort of deadly mercenary gun-for-hire before you settled down to teach the impressionable young minds of university students,” you smile cheekily over your glass of wine, swirling the sparkling contents around the cup’s curves. “That true?” Stars help me if it is, I don’t know if he can get any sexier.

The evening air is crisp and warm, a mild sea-breeze rustling the hem of your dress under the table. The scene laid out around you is so terribly romantic you have to pinch yourself a few times to make sure it’s not all part of the best dream you’ve ever had. Tables for two are scattered over a stone patio overlooking the sunsetted ocean, with glowing candles in their centerpieces and string lights criss-crossed overhead illuminating the space with soft light. 

Boba lets out an exasperated sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Of course she did. Don’t believe everything she says about me, she loves to tell a good story.”

“Avoiding the question, are we?”

“Sure you don’t want any dessert?”

“Aww, come on Boba, pleeease? Please tell me,” you whine playfully, sticking out your bottom lip for extra effect. He hadn’t denied you anything yet tonight—and you intend on keeping it that way. 

He sighs, resigned to his fate. “You’re going to be the death me, you know that, princess?” You squeal a pleased sound and lean in conspiratorially on both your elbows, eager to hear his answer. Tossing his napkin from his lap onto the table, he leans against the back of his chair and props his arm up, gazing at you over the candlelight. “I’ll tell you, but you have to answer a question of mine if I do. Deal?”

Running your teeth over your lip, you nod, blinking your eyes down to his crotch and back up to his face slowly so he’s sure to notice. “Yeah, we have a deal. Spill it.”

True to his word, Boba recounts what you’re sure is a heavily abridged version of his life before becoming a teacher. He was born on a rainy little island called Kamino and lost his father young. While his father was a Mandalorian, Boba himself didn’t necessarily consider himself to be one, hinting that he hadn’t felt the most welcome by his father’s people when he visited the island of Mandalore before it’d been nearly wiped off the face of the earth. 

Alone in the Mandalorian diaspora, Boba had turned to what he knew best to make his way in the world: fighting. Working protection gigs, “recovering property” (which no doubt was not entirely legal), and retrieving missing or abducted persons, he made a name for himself in that world as the best since his old man. It was also how he met Fennec, who apparently was one of the best espionage mercs money could buy, and why he had a ridiculous amount of money for a college professor.

“So why did you go into teaching then?” you ask, pushing your now empty glass aside. “Kind of an interesting choice considering your… previous profession.”

“Didn’t plan on it.” Boba drains the rest of his glass and sets it next to yours. “After one too many close calls, though, I knew I couldn't continue that life. All of that wasn’t-isn’t the legacy I want to leave behind. The death of my father and his heritage might have been out of my control, but I will not let it be in vain. So I took what I knew, learned what I didn’t, and started teaching in Mandalorian studies.”

You two sit in silence for a while, watching the tide roll in under the silver gleam of the moon. “Thank you for sharing.” Your voice is almost a whisper, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad. He would've been so proud to see the person you’ve become, I’m sure of it.”

Boba tilts his head to the side, studying you as if you’ve said the most interesting thing the world has ever heard. “Thank you… that’s kind of you to say,” he answers quietly, as if he doesn’t quite believe you himself. The careful look in his eye makes you wonder what other secret burdens the handsome professor bears in silence. Even more so, it makes you want to shoulder some of it, or at least provide him some sort of relief.

The table off to your right bursts into hoots of laughter and the dusky spell between you is broken. You blink the haze out of your eyes and Boba clears his throat. 

“Time to pay up, sweetheart. It’s my turn to ask you a question,” he smiles, his white teeth catching the flickering candlelight. The faraway solemnity in his eyes is replaced with dark heat.

“Go right ahead, I’m all yours,” you grin back, “ask away.”

Signaling your server for the check with two fingers, Boba leans forward, taking your hand in his large one. “Tell me, little princess, am I dropping you back at yours after this, or are you coming home with me?” 

—Endnotes: I don’t know anything about cars, I just know that Audi is a fancy car brand, at least in the US. Don’t judge me 😭. Also I guess this is a coastal university. I don't have a name for the school yet though, what do y'all think?

Part II>

[karatekels]

TIGmas Day #2 - Saturnalia

This fic is for @cortmac1989, who has asked for Valek romancing Reader at a Christmas masquerade! I’ve taken a bit of liberty with the request to stretch it out a bit longer – hope you don’t mind and that you all enjoy!

TW: Stalking; Voyeurism; Blood-drinking (due to vampirism); confession under duress (mesmerization); dark, rough sex; References to violence and murder; Gratuitously going against the lore (or lack thereof) of vampirism from the book/movie to fit my own agenda

---

Saturnalia

---

Valek’s POV:

He takes care to press down with every step, ensuring that a footprint is left behind in the snow. It was important to never give the humans a reason to suspect he was anything more.

Jan Valek had always embraced the winter months; the loss of hours of sunlight giving him the opportunity to surround himself with people going about their lives as usual beneath the blanket of darkness. Christmas was quickly approaching, and Valek always found himself wistfully thinking back to his human life at this time of year. His family, their traditions, all long dead… watching people all around him, bright and alive and happily thinking of their loved ones could make him feel either moved or horribly depressed.

Tonight it has him feeling empty.

He makes to leave, to return home and to his lonely, meaningless existence, when something suddenly catches his attention: an intoxicating scent on the wind that washes away all traces of his melancholia.

Curious and almost unable to help himself, he tracks the scent. He knows that the aroma belongs to a human, but he can’t remember the last time he was so tempted by the bloodlust, feeling his canines start to lengthen and sharpen as his mouth waters. He pauses in his search of the source of the appealing scent, getting himself under control – he was able to relatively blend in with the humans when his vampiric instincts lay dormant, his features only revealing their true form when he was making use of his abilities to fight or feed. There would be time for that, once he had isolated the victim…

Nicking his tongue on a still-sharpened fang, he lets his own vampiric blood flow into his mouth, helping to distract him from the scent until he is able to continue his pursuit. Eventually, he comes across a small group of people bundled up for the weather and chatting amongst themselves. One woman, the source of his temptation, stands slightly apart from the crowd, watching the others talk with a slight smile rather than participating in the conversation.

“Everyone is coming on Friday night! No excuses!” one woman’s voice drowns out the others, resulting in a cacophony of whoops and groans from the others.

“Do we have to wear a mask?” someone complains, murmurs of agreement echoing him. “Halloween was months ago!”

“Yes!” the woman insists. “It’s going to be a fancy Winter Solstice masquerade, and you’re all cooperating. We haven’t all gotten together in years, and this will be fun!”

“Your version of ‘fun’ is very different from the rest of ours, Roberta,” another person chimes in, and the woman, Roberta apparently, scowls at the group.

“We will have my family’s manor to ourselves, with full access to their liquor cabinet. Am I really asking for so much here?”

A hush falls over the group for a brief moment.

“Masquerade ball it is!”

“Great idea, Roberta!”

“Can’t wait for Friday!”

Roberta smirks, pleased that the group has been won over, but Valek finds his gaze drawn to you, the wallflower, as you roll your eyes at your friends.

“Hey, how did you get Y/N to agree to come? There’s no way alcohol would be enough to win her over!” someone asks with a laugh, and you jump as you become the new topic of conversation. Roberta throws a friendly arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer.

“She’s staying with me while she’s here; she has to!” the woman announces smugly, and you give a bashful, reluctant smile.

“Plus, she described it to me like a Saturnalia celebration, so I’ll just hide in the corner and observe from a safe distance,” you add, your smile fading as no one recognizes the word or asks about it. Valek himself is surprised that you’ve mentioned the ancient Roman festival – it has no current cultural relevance that he’s aware of.

“Ugh! No nerd stuff, please!” someone chides you, and you scowl. “You’re supposed to be taking a break from all that, Y/N!”

“And you will not be hiding in a corner during my party!” Roberta insists. “Hopefully you and Michael will hit it off before then so that he can help you have some fun!” she winks roguishly at you, and Valek hears your heartbeat speed up as you blush.

“You’re going out with Michael?” someone asks excitedly, and the other women in the group burst into giggles.

“Roberta–” you hiss at her, yanking yourself out of her grip. “I’m not talking about this. I’ll see the rest of you on Friday!” you snarl, stomping off down the snow-covered street, clearly upset.

Valek ghosts after you, staying in the shadows. Perhaps the opportunity to feed will present itself to him – he wants to savour you, just the once, and if he wasn’t rushed at the thought of being discovered, there was less chance for an… accident.

“Y/N, wait up!” Roberta calls, jogging to catch up with you. You reluctantly stop to wait for her, tapping your foot impatiently. Valek takes the opportunity to move to the other side of the hedges that line the sidewalk you were on, allowing him to eavesdrop and watch you through the snow-covered pines without being spotted himself.

“I can’t believe you,” you grumble as she approaches, and from what he can see, the woman has the grace to look abashed.

“I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking,” she says, and you two set off down the path together.

“Why are you insistent that I go out with him while I’m here?” you ask quietly after a minute or two of walking in silence, and your friend peeks over at you, concern in her eyes.

“I just… I worry that you’re alone, Y/N,” she admits. “Your parents have been gone for a few years now, you’re away from your hometown and busy with school, and I know you’re not the most social person… I just want you to be taken care of, hun.”

You let out a deep sigh, your breath coming out in a spiraling, misty cloud.

“I’m fine by myself, Bob,” you tell her, and both your mouths twist into a smile at what Valek presumes is a nickname. “I appreciate your concern, but trying to force the issue isn’t going to get me into a relationship that lasts. The right person will show up when it’s time; I don’t want to rush it.”

“I get it, I get it. I won’t do it again, I promise. Just please give Michael a chance? For me?” she asks you hopefully, and you roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you give in with a reluctant smile. “But just a quick cup of coffee – I don’t want to be stuck at a restaurant for hours if this goes south.”

Your friend nods, a wide smile on her face, and skips off ahead of you, whooping into the night.

So, he wasn’t the only one that felt alone during this time of year, Valek muses to himself as he follows the pair of you to the elegant manor house where you’ll be staying. It was unfortunate, but truly made you the ideal ‘victim,’ loathe as he was to use that word. But you had no family, you were here for a short period of time… it would be easy to make you disappear in the event that he got carried away.

He doesn’t think he will – sure, your blood was inviting, but he finds himself equally, if not more so, interested in your brain.

---

One Day Later…

Reader’s POV:

You force yourself out of Roberta’s home, bundled up against the cold. You really don’t want to go on this stupid date, but you had promised, and you didn’t want to be rude to Michael.

You stifle a yawn as you make your way to the coffee shop, grateful that you’d at least be able to wake yourself up a bit with a nice, hot beverage. You hadn’t slept well the night before, and as twilight turns to dusk the darkness isn’t helping with your fatigue. Still, it’s a beautiful, clear night, the snow still thick on the ground and the treetops, so you do your best to enjoy it. Perhaps Michael would be late, and you could take some time to yourself; your journal and a bag of poetry were in your bag.

Unfortunately, you see him waiting for you outside the coffee shop as you approach, and he gives you a beaming smile that you do your best to return. No time to enjoy the night on your own, then.

Michael wraps you up in a friendly hug as he greets you, the embrace lasting slightly longer than you are comfortable with. You two weren’t complete strangers; he’d been a year above you in high school and you had seen each other at the few social events you had attended with your friends in the years since.

Once you grab your drinks you decide to make your way to the nearby park, making small talk along the way. Michael is… fine. He’s friendly, not leering overtly as he checks you out (you’re grateful again for the cold weather and the layers of clothing it affords you), and he even offered to pay for your coffee, but there’s just… nothing between you. You feel no spark, no real interest towards him, and every attempt you’ve made to tell him about your hobbies and interests he couldn’t be bothered to indulge you, always steering the conversation back to himself.

You’re disappointed, but not surprised. Like you had said to Roberta yesterday, you aren’t going to hit it off with someone by being set up with someone else. You’re old-fashioned, romantic, reserved, with a bunch of interests that people rarely wanted to hear about. Finding someone that you would connect with would be like finding a needle in a haystack, especially in this tiny town.

You sigh internally, trying to turn your attention back to Michael instead of counting down the minutes until you can go home.

---

You manage to make it an hour and a half before you start laying it on thick with the exaggerated yawns, and Michael eventually takes the hint, walking you to the entrance of the park.

“I hope I’ll see you at Roberta’s party on Friday,” Michael asks with a boyish grin. “I’ll be the one in the mask!”

You let out a genuine laugh for the first time that evening. “Yes, I’ll be there – she’s insisted on it!” you reply wryly, avoiding the subject of seeing him there. You’re bad at rejecting people – you hate disappointing anyone, for any reason – and are hoping that you can just go your separate ways without having to formally announce it.

Fortunately, Michael just wishes you a good evening with another hug that you force yourself to return before he turns to head home. You frown at his back. It’s not like you need him to walk you home – or even want him to – but the gesture would have been appreciated. Letting out the sigh you’d been keeping inside all evening, you turn to head back home.

“Excuse me,” comes a smooth, deep voice behind you that makes you jump; you hadn’t heard anyone coming up behind you. Turning around, you’re taken aback by the massive man that stands just a few feet from you. He must be nearly six and a half feet tall, with long, pitch-black hair that flows to his shoulders, blending in with his dark clothing. In contrast, his skin is incredibly pale, and his eyes were a piercing blue-grey that you can’t look away from.

You take a reflexive step backwards and bite back a gasp, and the man tracks the gesture before taking a few steps back. You feel guilty immediately – he seems polite, and you hope your jumpiness didn’t offend him.

“I apologize; I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says gently. “I merely wanted to ask if this was yours.”

He holds up a book which you immediately recognize as your poetry collection; it must have fallen out of your bag somewhere.

“Oh, yes! Thank you so much!” you exclaim with a smile, accepting the book from his gloved hand and returning it to your bag. “How did you know it was mine?” you ask, looking up at him.

“Nobody else is here. Someone was just leaving as I arrived, but he did not seem like the type to read poetry.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing – no, Michael was definitely not the literary type. This man, on the other hand…

“He’s not – not for my lack of trying, anyway,” you say with a wistful sigh. “I’m Y/N, by the way,” you introduce yourself, extending a mittened hand to him.

“John,” he returns, taking your hand in his large one to shake it. Your skin never touches his, but you feel a thrill of electricity race from your palm up your arm, making you tingle.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” you breathe, finding yourself reluctant to step back from his personal space.

“And you,” he replies, not taking his eyes off of yours as if considering something. Your heart is thumping like mad, and you’re glad there’s no way he can hear it.

“So, the not-poet is a friend of yours, then?” John asks with an amused smirk.

“Who?” you ask, momentarily confused. This man’s presence is very overwhelming, and you find it hard to focus on anything else. “Oh, him! No, not really,” you say, rushing to get the words out. “We haven’t seen each other in years and were just catching up.”

“That makes a bit more sense,” he replies, and you cock your head at him inquisitively. “Someone closer to you should have the decency to walk you home, especially so late at night.”

You feel yourself flush, and hope that he attributes it to the cold.

“I don’t mind,” you say shyly, unable to look him in the eye as you speak. “It’s let me talk to you.”

Braving a look up at his face, you see him smiling down at you, his blue eyes glittering like the snow under the lights that line the sidewalk.

“May I walk you home, then?” he asks quietly, seeming nervous himself. “Provided that I would not be imposing.”

“You’re not imposing!” you say quickly, hoping that you’re not coming across as too eager. John merely grins at you before asking you to lead the way.

You slowly make your way back to Roberta’s home, trying not to shuffle your feet, but you can’t help it – you don’t want this walk to end. You and John talk about literature the way that you haven’t been able to with anyone outside of a college lecture hall, and it feels wonderful. John is knowledgeable, opinionated and thoughtful, and you’re both firing off questions one after the other. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt so comfortable with a stranger; he doesn’t even feel like a stranger!

All too soon, you make your way to the front gate to Roberta’s home, turning to John with a sigh.

“This is me,” you inform him reluctantly, trying not to let your disappointment show. “Thank you so much, for giving me my book, and walking me home.”

“It was my pleasure, Y/N,” he replies warmly, before giving you that look again that has you desperately wanting to know what he’s thinking. “Have a good evening.”

“You too, John,” you say, giving him a timid smile. “I’m really glad that I met you.”

You fight the urge to look over your shoulder to see if John is still there, forcing yourself to walk up the driveway and to the large, ornate front door. The moment you close the door behind you, you press your nose to the glass of the window to check, but you can’t see him standing there. Turning, you lean your back against the door with a sigh.

What an absolute dream…

An encounter with someone like that, even just a one-off as this was – and your heart twinges at the thought of not seeing him again – made you believe that your approach to romance was correct. Why settle for just anyone when you now had evidence that someone like that existed?

“You look like you had fun.”

You jump, a guilty smile spreading across your face as Roberta enters from another room with a smug expression.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie flatly, and the woman rolls her eyes.

“Oh please, you look positively smitten. I’ll admit, I didn’t think things would go quite this well when I set you two up!”

You open your mouth before snapping it shut again, weighing your options. Telling Roberta that your good mood was from spending time with anyone other than Michael would beget a hundred more questions that you didn’t want to answer. A large part of you wants to keep John a secret, keep tonight something that belongs only to the two of you.

You hide a smile behind a feigned yawn, moving towards the stairs and the privacy of the guest room you were staying in.

“I’m not talking about this right now. Goodnight, Bob.”

“Sweet dreams,” the woman replies, her tone thick with implications. “I plan to see this romance for myself on Friday night!”

---

Friday Evening…

Valek’s POV:

He feels he’s making a mistake, but he just can’t help himself.

Entering a venue amongst a large group of people, their inhibitions lowered as they celebrate, their collective blood pumping in their veins, and your mouth-watering scent among them… For all his centuries as a vampire, Valek finds himself doubting his self-control.

He’s been taking precautions, to be sure – feeding far more than usual in the days leading up to tonight, the Winter Solstice. Tempting as you are, he finds he no longer wants to feed on you – he doesn’t think of himself as worthy.

He remembers that quote about the flower by Osho – about not picking a flower that you love, as it then ceases to be – and finds it appropriate for you. As much as he wants to take you, consume you, that would deprive the world of the beauty and life that you bring into it, should he get carried away.

Despite that, he’s going to see you tonight; he can’t bring himself to stay away.

You’ve made him feel nearly alive again, ever since your meeting a few nights ago. He’s been plagued by desires; for your blood, yes, but also for more of your conversation, your smile, your essence…

He has been tempting fate these past few evenings, needing to be close to you and content to just watch from a distance as you appear at one of the manor’s windows or walk into town with your friend. He doesn’t let himself approach the home, not wanting to torment himself, even as you sleep. Instead, he has left deep red roses on the doorstep every night for you to find in the morning. Somehow, you rightly knew that they were intended for you.

He adjusts the cuffs of his blazer, still unaccustomed to this type of modern clothing. He’s chosen a black three-piece suit and tie, his shirt a deep blue that matches his mask, his hair down, and finds himself feeling only mildly foolish. Based on the conversations he’d overheard when he had first spotted you, he assumes that this is customary.

Valek is not sure what he wants from tonight beyond getting close to you – again, this all seems like a risky endeavour – but he hopes that one night will be enough to tide him over for eternity.

It would have to be.

He makes his way to the party, the path to the manor familiar to him by now, and joins the throng of people. It doesn’t take him long to find you by scent alone, avoiding attention and standing off to the side, his wallflower. You’re wearing a floor-length, strapless blue dress and a swirling mask of blue, white and gold, your hair in an elegant twist that emphasizes your graceful neck.

Tonight will be difficult.

 ---

Reader’s POV:

You watch the party from a respectable distance – it’s truly a sight to behold, but not really something you want to partake in yourself. You promised Roberta you would stay downstairs and in the ballroom until at least midnight, but you’re finding it difficult to keep that promise, and it’s only just past 10.

“I did not take you for someone that would attend this sort of bacchanalia, Y/N.”

The voice sends shivers down your spine, your memories and dreams over the past few days not doing it justice. Your heart immediately begins hammering away as you turn to face him, and he is utterly resplendent in blue and black – your costumes compliment each other.

“John!” you exclaim, trying to keep the overwhelming joy you’re feeling inside. “I was coerced into coming. What’s your excuse?” you ask, curious, and he smiles secretively as he holds out a glass of wine to you. He is wearing gloves, even indoors, but you don’t comment on it as you accept the beverage. Your mouth is suddenly very dry, and you take a healthy sip of the wine, feeling warm.

“I’m quite certain that the entire town was invited. I recognized the address as your own and found it difficult to believe that you would be hosting something like this; I should have known subterfuge would be involved.”

You giggle, the wine going right to your head. “This is my friend’s parents’ place; I’m staying with her while I’m in town. She demanded I stay down here until at least midnight as a lodging fee.”

“You’ll have to introduce me to her at some point tonight. I have to thank you for ensuring your attendance,” he teases in his deep, smooth voice that has your cheeks flaming beneath your mask. “You are dazzling.”

You try not to hyperventilate, pressing yourself against the wall for support.

“So do you!” you reply quickly, trying to recover. “You look…” Stunning? Gorgeous? Delicious? Like a dark prince straight from my indecent fantasies?

“…noble! Plus, we match!” you tack on hastily, trying to move right past your corniness.

John doesn’t seem to mind, giving you a dashing smile that has you nearly swooning. Instead, you quickly finish the rest of your wine, needing the courage to continue having a conversation with this unattainable entity. Your talk quickly returns to your passionate discussion of literature, and you find yourself relaxing in John’s presence, almost unaware of the party surrounding you.

Looking back up at John – you find your eyes need to take frequent breaks from gawking at him to allow you to maintain some degree of focus – you see that he is looking at you with an amused expression.

“What?”

“You’re practically dancing,” he comments, and for the first time you notice that you are indeed swaying to the music, an orchestral version of one of your favourite pop songs. “Would you like to?” he asks, and you immediately start to panic.

“No!” you cry out before it occurs to you how the rejection might be taken. “Not because you asked, I mean; I just can’t dance.”

“Nonsense,” he counters immediately, stepping closer to you and making you tilt your head nearly all the way back in order to keep looking up at his handsome face. “It’s all in the leading. May I?” he asks, extending a hand towards you. You bite your lip, setting your empty glass down on a nearby table before placing your hand into his much larger one, your fingertips tingly as they brush against the supple leather of his glove. That same feeling of electricity shoots up your arm and nearly has you letting out a moan; the alcohol clearly isn’t helping you keep your composure.

John leads you towards the edge of the dance floor, then turns and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer but not flush against him. He raises his other hand, still holding yours, then moves his gaze pointedly to your left shoulder, your arm still nervously pressed against your side. You slowly lift your hand up between your bodies, placing it on his broad shoulder, and he gives you a pleased smile. He guides you through the slow dance, his palm pressing yours in a way that somehow has you moving the right way.

“Wow, you were right!” you exclaim in surprise, hardly able to believe it. “It’s all in the leading.”

“You are also a very good partner,” John croons down at you, his eyes twinkling beneath his mask. “Very responsive…”

His words have you blushing and feeling nearly dizzy as you sway to the music under his guidance. You could happily get lost in this moment, in his blue, blue eyes forever…

But after a few songs, you’re feeling overwhelmed and need a break; it’s almost hard for you to breathe. Reluctantly, you remove your hand from his shoulder, and he respectfully releases you.

“I’m going to go get some water if I can, provided Roberta hasn’t replaced it all with vodka. Can I get you anything to drink?” you offer with a smile, wanting to do something, anything for him. John’s lips twitch in amusement, but he declines your offer, and you move through the crowd, trying not to stumble in your haste to get to the refreshment table and back to him as quickly as possible.

You gulp down the cool water greedily, still feeling so warm all over. You’re desperate to return to John – you feel a tangible ache at being apart from him, and while you’re not sure that it’s a good or healthy thing, it’s not something you’re willing to endure any longer than you have to.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Whirling around, you’re disappointed to see not John, but Michael, his black and gold costume a bit too ostentatious for your liking. But you suppose you’re being a bit unfair; there was nothing this man could do to hold a candle to John in your eyes.

“Good evening, Michael. Enjoying the party?” you ask politely, even as your eyes scan the ballroom for John – he’s not where you left him.

“I am now. Would you like to dance?”

You hesitate before giving your answer. You really don’t want to give Michael the time of day, but you’re not comfortable with rejecting him, especially surrounded by people you both knew. And even without alcohol, him possibly seeing you with John, or any other factors, men could be unpredictable when they were jealous or rejected. You look for John somewhat desperately one last time, hoping he’ll come save you, but he is nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” you agree noncommittally, unable to feign even a shred of enthusiasm. Unlike John, Michael pulls you tightly against him as he dances with you, his hips chasing yours in a way that makes you feel dirty and uncomfortable. You try to step away after the song ends, but he tightens his grip on you, giving you a pleading expression, and you resign yourself to another dance. He isn’t even bothering to try to speak with you, content to occupy your body rather than your mind, and you’re not upset about it as it allows you to keep your thoughts on John.

You manage to talk Michael out of asking for a third dance, but he doesn’t get the hint, attaching himself to your side as you move through the ballroom, still looking for John. He was so tall, so impressive, so utterly impossible to miss, that you’ve all but accepted that he’s left the party. You hope he hadn’t seen you dancing with Michael and gotten the wrong impression…

The large clock chimes twelve times, and you’ve never been more grateful for the sound. You’ve held up your end of the bargain to Roberta, and are now free to leave the party, and without John’s presence, there’s nothing to keep you here.

You fake a yawn, trying to look at Michael with an apologetic expression that you know rings hollow.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. I’m exhausted,” you say. Michael looks pleased to hear this information, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end at his expression.

“Would you like me to walk you to your room?” he purrs, and you suppress a shudder, certain that he will misinterpret it.

“Oh, no thank you,” you say clearly. “It was wonderful to see you again, Michael. Have a good night.”

You move past him without another word, not wanting this conversation to go on any longer, and hurry to the staircase and your bedroom. You slip inside and immediately take your mask off, feeling dejected. John’s presence at the party had been such a wonderful surprise, but his disappearance has left you feeling hollow and surprisingly upset.

There’s a knock at the door and you reluctantly open it, expecting Roberta to be chastising you. Instead, John’s tall form looms in the doorway, his dark mask still concealing his face. You briefly stop breathing, your heart thudding against your ribs.

“John!” you cry, the joy evident in your voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you leave after speaking with that man from the park, and you looked upset. Are you alright?”

“I –” you start to say, but you pause, wanting to choose your words carefully. Were you alright? Probably not, considering you were head over heels for a mystery man you barely knew.

“I thought you had left, and I didn’t want Michael bothering me anymore,” you tell him instead, keeping things vague. “Where did you go? I was kind of hoping you would come rescue me.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have been proper.”

“Regardless, it would have been appreciated.”

John opens his mouth to continue your banter but freezes, his head turning to the stairs. After a moment, you hear the footsteps that had undoubtedly caught his attention; he must have excellent hearing. Feeling brazen, especially seeing as you don’t know if or when you would see him again, you take John’s hand and tug him inside, closing the door and turning out the light. You press your ear against the door, listening to the approaching footsteps. John watches you, an amused smirk on his face, and you glare at him in the silence. Eventually, the footsteps retreat, and after a moment or two of waiting, you conclude that Michael has gone, flicking the light back on with a sigh.

“You know, you could consider telling the man you are not interested,” John suggests with amusement. You growl at him.

“I shouldn’t have to outright reject him to keep him from trying to follow me to my bedroom,” you snarl, and he raises an eyebrow at you. “Plus, men aren’t always the most accepting of a rejection.”

John is visibly upset by the implications of your words, and something about his slight shift in demeanour has you feeling wary.

“Are you suggesting that someone hurt you as a result of you rejecting them?” he hisses, the sound making you shudder.

“It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t that bad,” you reply quickly, wanting him to settle down. “Loads of my friends have experienced way worse! It’s fine, John, really,” you add, trying to reassure him. His jaw is still clenched, but he takes a deep breath, clearly trying to calm down.

“Why would anyone respond with such anger?” he asks, sounding appalled. Perhaps the culture where he was from was vastly different from America.

“Most people only want to hear what they want to hear,” you say with a shrug. “No one is interested in honesty. I mean, I think I prefer the truth, but even I lie to people if the need arises – I’ve accepted that it’s necessary.”

“Do you mean you would always prefer the truth?” he asks, his eyes locking with yours with a serious expression.

“Yes.”

“In every circumstance?” he presses, clearly fishing for something. It has you feeling nervous.

“Yes, I think so,” you breathe, your eyes at his back as he walks across the room to look out your window. After what feels like an eternity, he turns back to you.

“I have not been honest with you, Y/N,” he confesses, looking deeply into your eyes with a pained expression, and you immediately feel yourself choke up. Of course this wasn’t real; there’s no way that somebody like him could truly exist.

Best get the truth out of him now, then, so that you could move on. You can already feel tears pricking your eyes, so immediately affected by his deception.

“W-What do you mean, John?” you ask in a weak, timid voice, and he takes a deep breath before responding.

“My name is not John,” he begins, and you tense up, the blood in your veins turning to ice. “I am Jan Valek, the first and oldest vampire.”

Neither of you blink or say anything for a long moment, your eyes locked. Finally, you let out a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh, the alcohol burning away your nerves.

“T-That’s a good one!” you giggle, unable to contain yourself, and John surveys you with a mildly irritated expression.

“I could prove it to you, if you’d like,” he offers.

“Oh by all means, go ahead!” you agree, beginning to laugh harder.

In a movement far too quick for you to see, he closes the distance between you, taking you in his arms and lowering his head to the side of your neck for a long moment, inhaling deeply. Your laughter dies in your throat immediately. He releases you, taking a step back before reaching up to pull away his mask. Blue veins beneath his pale skin are now prominent around his eyes, and he opens his mouth, revealing a rapidly growing set of sharp fangs.

You scream, stumbling backwards, but then he is on you once more, covering your mouth and nose with a gloved hand and lowering you to the ground gently.

“Calm down, Y/N,” he commands you, a strange light shining in his eyes, and against all rational thought you feel your body start to relax, your heartbeat returning to normal.

“That’s good,” he murmurs approvingly. “Speak quietly,” he adds, his eyes doing the glowing thing again, and you feel the scream you had been building up fade away. He removes his hand from your face, and you wrench yourself out of his grip, scampering back and away from him.

“What…” you begin, clearing your throat as your voice comes out hoarse and soft. “What did you just do?” you demand, the alcohol helping you push past your fear into anger.

“Mesmerization – it’s a sort of hypnosis,” John – Valek, apparently – explains, his voice calm.

“You hypnotized me?!” you hiss, injecting as much venom into your voice as possible since you are unable to yell at him.

“I didn’t want you to draw anyone’s attention, Y/N, I apologize,” the vampire offers, somehow sounding both sincere and unrepentant.

“Why? Are you going to kill me?” you ask him, whimpering at the thought. Strangely, the thought doesn’t upset you as much as the fact that he has been lying to you.

“No.” His reply is forceful and immediate; he looks anguished at the mere suggestion.

“Then what do you want?!” you cry out as loudly as you can, tears streaking down your face. You’re very aware of how the cut of your dress and your updo leave your neck completely exposed, and you pull your hair out of its twist to fall past your shoulders, concealing you. You know that it’s a completely pointless gesture, but you can’t help yourself, the instinct to cover yourself overwhelming.

Valek watches you with a pained, sad expression.

“It is not your blood that I desire, but your heart,” he confesses, longing and desire filling his eyes. “When I first came upon you, I did want to feed on you. Your scent is… intoxicating,” he groans slightly, his eyes rolling back into his head. Goosebumps erupt over your body as pure, primal terror courses through you.

“But as I heard you speak, as I watched you, as I spoke to you myself, you captivated me,” he continues, as though he hadn’t just admitted to wanting to drink your blood. “I have never been drawn to another as I have been drawn to you, Y/N. I have lived over seven hundred years, and in you I find a kindred spirit for the first time; you make me feel alive in ways I long thought were impossible. I have never wanted another the way that I want you, and I know that I will never find another like you as long as I live. I would happily spend the remainder of my existence by your side, and you would be the only thing in this world that I would cherish.”

There is a prolonged silence between you as you struggle to think of something, anything to say in response. Eventually, you give up.

“What am I supposed to say to that?” you ask, your voice slightly hysterical. How could you believe any of this?

“Do you desire me in the same way? As a confidante, a partner, a lover?” he asks bluntly. “Please, beloved, tell the truth,” he adds, and you feel the mesmerization at work once more. You’re upset that he’s controlling you with his strange magical abilities, but the urge to answer builds within you, creating a pressure so great that you are quickly forced to respond.

“Yes,” you moan out the truth, the intense feeling immediately dissipating as the words leave your lips. “You have been everything I have waited for, everything that I hoped a soulmate could be.”

The look he gives you is that of a man seeing the sun for the first time, awe and euphoria practically pouring out of him.

“But this is too much!” you continue, brushing aside the guilt that makes your heart clench as you watch his own break at your words. “You wanted to hurt me, to kill me! You’re not even human! And you lied to me – how am I meant to trust anything you say, to trust you with my life, when I’m… I’m so scared of you right now!” you sob hysterically, wrapping your arms around your knees. “I don’t want to feel this way for you, I don’t want to love you!”

You force yourself to look back up at him, scared at what your rejection might cause him to do. He is frozen in his crouched position on the floor across from you, eerily still, an expression of pure agony on his face. His eyes flit to yours, and then he nods, standing up in a flash of movement that causes you to let out a strangled yelp. He lifts you to your feet before you can protest, his movements gentle and controlled, and you find yourself trembling in his grip.

“Sleep, beloved,” he murmurs, and your eyelids immediately feel heavy. He guides you to your bed, helping you onto it but making no move to join you. You know that you should feel upset, angry, terrified – who knew what the extent of his strangely hypnotic powers were? – but you find yourself trusting him against your better judgement. He covers you with the blanket, looming over you, and you close your eyes – it’s too difficult to look at him right now. Still, you feel a tear escape and trail down your cheek at the mess of emotions that would be overwhelming you right now if you weren’t so tired.

“Be at peace, my treasure,” he coos softly as you drift off. “I wish for nothing more than your happiness.”

---

The next few days are hard and lonely. You had steadfastly rejected Roberta’s invitation to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve at a nearby ski lodge with your other friends, desperately needing to be alone. You’re grateful for the time to yourself – you know you wouldn’t be able to hide the turmoil of your emotions from anybody. You had initially wanted to get a flight back to school when you woke up the day after the party, wanting to be away from this place and anything that made you think of him, but a snowstorm had grounded all flights.

You’ve been too scared to leave the house, afraid of running into him despite knowing that he wouldn’t need to lie in wait for you in town if he wanted to see you. Regardless, you’re grateful for the fully stocked fridge and pantry – there was no reason you would have to leave the little bubble of safety you had encased yourself in.

You yawn once again despite it being the middle of the day, rubbing your eyes sleepily. The days since the masquerade have been devastating – you’ve floated around in a fog, confused and heartbroken and exhausted. You can’t get Valek out of your head; you dream of him, you think you see him in the shadowy corners of the manor… you recognize the symptoms of lovesickness and heartbreak from your favourite old romance novels, but you never expected that the pain could be quite so intense.

You’ve taken to jotting your thoughts and feelings down in your journal, just needing to get them out of your head – this isn’t exactly the sort of thing that you can talk to Roberta about. A shame, really; she’d been wanting for you to have a love life for years now, and now that you actually have a situation you can’t even come to her with it.

You wander around the manor, eventually ending up in the ballroom – you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to visit it since the night of the masquerade. You wrap your arms around your body comfortingly – the large, open space is incredibly drafty and cold when not filled with people. Your eyes instinctively move to the wall on the far side of the room where the two of you had stood, and you again feel overwhelmed by your emotions. You miss him terribly; not just his presence, but the way he made you feel worthwhile, hopeful for the first time in a long time.

But, as much as your heart aches with regret, you can’t stop the shiver of fear that runs through you at the thought. Valek was a vampire, immortal, lethal; he had wanted to kill you before you had even met!

You force yourself to head back to your room, the ballroom bringing up too much for you to handle just now. It’s dark again already, and you turn the bedroom light on as you enter. Your eyes flit to your journal, still laid open on your desk, bits and pieces of your handwriting jumping off the page at you.

… It isn’t only the feelings he sparks in me, but their depth; I never would have believed such intense emotion existed, let alone that it could be felt so much, and for so long…

… I haven’t had a restful sleep since that night, and it’s starting to affect even my waking life. I see him in every shadow, anticipate him around every corner; he has consumed me entirely, and I fear that it will go on forever…

You grimace down at your messy cursive, feeling pathetic. Who’s to say that he had even been genuine about his feelings for you in the first place? You could be mourning the loss of a relationship that he never even wanted.

You turn to sit on your bed, and as you do you notice that your book of poetry is open on your bedside table, a deep red rose placed along the spine as a bookmark. You freeze. You had buried that book in your luggage the morning after the party, and tossed the roses away immediately afterwards, not wanting to see anything to do with him, and you have been alone in the house for days now. Against your better judgement, you pick up the book, moving the rose to rest on the table and reading the poem on the open page.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

You find yourself tearing up as you read the poem with fresh eyes, Valek’s choice both beautiful and heart-wrenching. You’re still unsure if you can believe his feelings to be genuine, but if they are, you both share the same intense angst of an unrequited love. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself as you prepare to confront him.

“Valek?” you call out, your quiet voice still echoing through the silent old house. It was the first time you had said his real name; you haven’t allowed yourself to since learning it.

There’s a light breeze behind you and when you turn, Jan Valek is standing in the middle of your bedroom. Your heart races immediately, both in fear and longing, and you’re unable to tell whether you want to run into his arms or to run away. You survey each other in silence for a long moment, and then he finally opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t!” you growl out, your voice not betraying any of the nervousness and fear you’re currently feeling. His mouth snaps shut.

“Don’t even think about trying your mesmerizing hocus pocus on me, Jan Valek!” you snarl, and he presses his lips into a thin line; you think he may be trying to keep himself from laughing, which only fuels your anger.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You follow me around because you want to… kill me, or eat me, or whatever, you spy on me, you hyponotize me into confessing that I’m in love with you, you break in, you read my journal, you go through my things!” you pause mid-rant to catch your breath, angrily tossing the book of poetry at him, and he lets it smack him in the chest, remaining perfectly still. “How am I meant to feel about all of this, Valek?! I’m scared, I’m angry, I haven’t slept in days, I don’t even feel like a person anymore! You’ve ruined me!” you sob, unable to look him in the eye, instead staring at the ground in front of his feet.

“But I don’t need to tell you any of that; God knows you’ve been watching me suffer this whole time,” you whisper softly, your anger completely drained from you and replaced with a painful emptiness. You hear a sharp intake of breath that makes you look up at him through your tears; he looks completely devastated.

“So what do you want?” you ask, bracing yourself for the answer, be it in the form of words or his fangs piercing your flesh. “Why are you here?” you demand, crossing your arms in front of you.

“I could not bring myself to stay away,” he admits in a quiet, pained voice, looking at the ground just as you had during your own little speech. “At first I was merely being selfish, needing to see you again. Then, I saw you suffering as I have been, and I needed to know that you would pull out of it, that you would be alright. But it has been days, and you are in such pain… I do not know what I can do to make it stop, but I will do anything you ask; I cannot bear knowing of your heartache any longer.”

Your heartbreak takes on an entirely different level of hurt as you watch this giant, otherworldly man come undone at witnessing your suffering. So much of your soul longs for Valek, your love for him rivaling all other emotions, and you find yourself needing to ease his pain, so intertwined with your own. But how to do it?

“Give me a minute,” you tell him quietly when he looks like he’s becoming agitated with your lack of response, “I’m trying to think.” He nods, seeming relieved that you’re planning on answering him at all.

You force yourself to confront all of the negative feelings that this man – for he was still a man, at least in some regard – to try to figure out where they were coming from and how they could be rectified. There was just so much that was completely unknown to you: who he was, what he was, what he wanted with you… perhaps getting some answers would help clarify things for you.

“You forced me to tell you the truth,” you remind him bitterly, and his mouth twists into a grimace. He certainly seems to regret his actions. “Will you do the same for me? Answer my questions honestly, no matter what?”

He nods immediately, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. “I will never lie to you again, dear one. Ask me anything, and I will tell you true. And if at the end you wish to be rid of me, I will never bother you again.”

Your heart twinges painfully at the mere thought of never seeing him again, but you push your feelings down for the moment, giving him a nod.

“Sit first, please,” he implores you, gesturing to your bed. “You are exhausted, beloved.” You move back, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, not wanting to get too comfortable and fall asleep. Now that Valek is here, much of the pain you had been enduring had gone away, being replaced with overwhelming fatigue.

“What about you?” you ask, crossing your legs under yourself.

“I do not tire as you do; my kind has no need for sleep.”

“Well, sit for my sake then, if you would. Looking up at you will hurt my neck after awhile.”

Amused, he looks around the room at his various seating options, then neglects them all in favour of kneeling on the carpet before you, looking up at you with pure devotion.

“V-Valek,” you stammer, peering down at him. “I meant in a chair…”

“I am where I wish to be, Y/N. Now please, what answers are you wanting to hear?” he insists, gazing up at you expectantly.

You decide to start with some of the safer, less personal questions – namely, the ones about vampirism.

“So… you’re a vampire,” you begin hesitantly, worrying your lower lip between your teeth.

“I am,” he answers, smiling at you indulgently.

“Does that mean that you kill people regularly?” You hold your breath, bracing yourself for the answer.

“Not regularly,” he clarifies. “I have killed vampire Slayers who attempted to kill me and mine, mostly.”

“There are vampire slayers?” you interrupt him, incredulous.

“Yes, they are a part of the Catholic Church.”

You blink down at him, stunned as you process that piece of information. “That’s… er… alright.”

“I do not make a habit of killing humans, Y/N,” he continues, returning to your initial question. “I have, on occasion, gone too far while feeding, and lost myself to the moment, but not for many years. It is largely an issue of self-restraint, and I have had centuries to develop that.”

You mull this information over.

“So you don’t normally kill people to feed on them?”

“Rarely, and never intentionally.”

“And how often do you feed?”

“Every week or so.”

“And do your… victims know about it?”

Valek looks away from you with a contrite expression. You wait him out for a long moment, staring down at the top of his head, but he doesn’t respond.

“You promised,” you remind him, and he looks back at you, ashamed.

“They do not,” he admits, and you find yourself reflexively leaning away from him. His eyes track your movement with an unhappy expression. “Please, may I explain to you why?”

You nod; if he’s willing to give you the truth, the least you can do is listen to it.

“Once we have fed, it is common practice to coat the wound in our saliva. It seals the wound and expedites healing. By morning, they will have a faint bruise, and the area may feel tender for a day or two, but nothing more. I typically mesmerize the victim to sleep beforehand; they never realize anything has happened.”

“You mesmerized me to sleep,” you point out with a cold expression. “Did you feed on me?”

“No, beloved, I assure you. I knew from the first minutes of our conversation that I would never in good conscience feed on you,” he reveals, sincerity ringing in every word. “Without your permission, that is.”

“Why would someone give permission to be fed on?” you ask, confused. “What good does it do them?”

“Companionship between vampires and humans is not unheard of, romantic or otherwise, though I have no personal experience with that sort of thing,” Valek says, and your heart skips a beat. “Some humans offer themselves to be fed on in place of unwitting victims, believing it to be easier on their conscience for befriending one of my kind.”

He rests his head on your mattress next to your legs, looking up at you with a scorching gaze that has your knees going weak. “I have also been told that the sensation of being fed on is nothing short of ecstasy.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you busy yourself by adjusting your position – namely so that you can clench your legs together, darkly seductive images coming to mind. Perhaps Valek’s vampirism was yet another reason you had been drawn to him, your sexual fantasies far less innocent than your relative inexperience would suggest.

“Regardless,” you say, trying to get back on track – or at least away from the current topic. “Just because you heal someone up afterwards and they never know about it doesn’t justify feeding on them without their knowledge.”

“I agree with you; my reasons are entirely selfish,” Valek concedes, looking regretful once more. “But think of how you responded when I showed you what I am; how you are still afraid of me now.”

You swallow, thinking back to the primal fear that flowed through you as you had seen his true form for the first time.

“I do not enjoy being a monster, Y/N,” Valek admits, his voice filled with anguish. “I do not want to cause harm to humans, to see their fear and revulsion in their eyes. Not even if I can compel them to forget it by morning.”

You pity him, seeing the toll that the centuries of suffering he has endured has taken on him. It wasn’t his choice to be a vampire, you presume, and watching others be terrified of you for doing what was necessary to stay alive must be intolerable. Perhaps there is some logic to his approach…

You pester him with further questions, each of his answers only bringing up more questions. He tells you about his abilities – you grill him particularly aggressively about mesmerization – and how many of his kind there are, which prompts questions about how someone is Turned into a vampire. The interrogation goes on for ages, and you find yourself fighting your fatigue more and more as the night stretches on.

“You said that you were the first vampire the other day - How did you become a vampire if no one was around to bite you?” you ask, immediately feeling horribly guilty as the question has him nearly cringing. “I’m sorry! You don’t have to tell me.”

He looks back up at you appreciatively, slowly lifting a gloved hand to yours, stroking the back of your hand. You snatch up one of his fingers, giving it a squeeze with a shy smile, and his gaze softens at the gesture.

“I said that I would tell you the truth, my treasure, and I will. But thank you for your grace, Y/N,” Valek coos, and you feel yourself blush. He summarizes the brutal and unjust exorcism gone wrong, and you feel a vicious rage building within you that you haven’t experienced before.

“That’s horrific,” you hiss, nearly shaking in your anger. Valek reaches up without having to look, reclaiming your hand once more.

“Do not be angry, beloved – it was very long ago, and I have made peace with it.”

“How?!” you ask incredulously. “What could possibly help you get over something like that?”

“It enabled me to meet you.”

His tone is casual, as though it should be obvious that knowing you was worth torture and a warped, twisted life of immortality, though he can’t bring himself to look into your eyes. You’re sure he can hear the way your heart is hammering under your ribs.

“Valek… you can’t mean that.”

He smoothly gets to his feet, turning to look down at you with reverence. “I do mean it, little one,” he croons. “I may have accepted this existence centuries ago, but I have never been grateful for it until I met you. My heart no longer beats, but I feel as though it could for you, Y/N. I desire you in any and every capacity you would allow me to have you, my love."

The confession is everything you dreamed of hearing one day, and so much more.

“The other vampires that you mentioned before, the ones that were involved romantically with humans… how did those relationships end?” you ask hesitantly, and Valek’s eyes light up at the implication that you aren’t completely shutting down the idea of being with him.

“Some go their separate ways, some live out their partner’s mortal life with them, and others go on forever, the vampire Turning the human,” he explains, laying out your options. “I would never Turn you unless it was something that you wanted, Y/N,” he assures you. “I will be with you until your dying breath if you permit it, be that as a mortal or a vampire.”

You’re not sure when you moved off the bed, but you find yourself slowly closing the distance between you until you’re nearly in his arms.

“You are mesmerizing me, Jan Valek,” you accuse, looking up at him with unbridled longing. “You have to be. This can’t be real.”

“I assure you that you have the same hold on me, my treasure,” Valek purrs, his presence seeming to surround you, though he makes no move to touch you, as though worried the gesture might scare you away. “You have me completely at your mercy, Y/N. I will give you anything, you need only to ask.”

“I… I want everything that you are, Valek,” you confess, feeling as though a weight has been lifted from your shoulders the moment you get the words out. “I love you; I need you.”

Valek slowly reaches for you, drawing you close to him with an arm around your waist, his other hand gently brushing a loose lock of hair behind your ear before cradling the side of your face.

“Kiss me,” you beg in a whisper, and he immediately obliges, bending to capture your lips with his own. The tingling sensation that had raced through you when your hand had touched his gloved one in the past pales in comparison to the sheer electricity that courses through you as your lips meet. Your desire fully overwhelms you as you throw yourself at him, leaping into his arms to twine your arms around his neck, your bodies flush with one another as you kiss him with everything you’ve got.

Valek seems briefly taken aback by your ferocity; it takes him a moment before he lifts you right off your feet, holding you against him with ease as you devour one another. His lips are surprisingly soft and warm, and incredibly inviting – you find yourself getting dizzy. Valek lowers you back to the ground, trying to break the kiss, but you cling to him; he ends up having to forcefully pull you off of him.

“You stopped breathing, beloved,” he explains with a chuckle when you pout at him, not even aware of your body frantically trying to catch its breath. You blush, horribly embarrassed, and he scoops you up, carrying you to the bed and sitting you down on it, moving to stand back from you, intent on waiting for you to calm down.

“That’s hardly my fault,” you say huffily, staring up at him with dark, hooded eyes, and he smirks down at you in a way that has your whole body trembling with need. “Please don’t stop!”

Valek has you on your back on the bed quicker than you can blink, looming over you with his larger form but pointedly not touching you. Impatiently, you reach up to pull him down but he thwarts your attempts, gathering your wrists and pinning them over your head gently with one hand. Such a little act of dominance has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, completely ready and willing to give yourself to him in any way he wants. 

“Tell me what you need, my heart. I want to taste your desire in your words,” he purrs, lowering his body closer to yours but remaining just out of reach.

He makes you want to let go and lose control and just feel, and you tell him as much, shamelessly begging him to take you and do all the darkly romantic, sensual things you didn’t think you’d ever be able to bring yourself to ask for. The heated look he gives you assures you that he will give you them all and nearly has you delirious with lust.

He moves agonizingly slowly, his hands controlled and precise as he undresses you. Every inch of your flesh exposed to his gaze is looked upon with adoration and awe, and he doesn’t stop to give into his burning desire to touch you until he has fully divested you of your clothes, relying on every shred of patience he’s developed during the course of his existence. Having not had his centuries of experience, you eagerly try to push his heavy coat off his shoulders, your fingers moving to the buttons on his shirt as he chuckles and moves to help you take off his coat.

“Patience, my dear,” Valek croons, taking hold of your hands once more as you squirm underneath him, chilly and impatient and desperate for his touch. “I fully intend to savour every moment of this as I make you mine.”

“But I want to see you!” you whine, pouting up at him and batting your eyes. He looks down at your naked form, desperate with need for him, and the pale blue veins around his eyes start to appear as he gives into his carnal desires. He licks his lips, and you see his fangs sharpening in his mouth.

“Fuck,” you moan wantonly as his vampiric side comes out. Instead of the fear that you had felt the first time you had seen him in this form, now it only sends a thrill through you; somehow, you want him even more because of the danger he poses. Valek, however, misunderstands and immediately moves to soothe you.

“It is alright, Y/N, just the similarities between bloodlust and my lust for you that bring this side out of me. I can stop if you are frightened, but I assure you that I am still in control of myself.”

“I’m not!” you pant, unsuccessfully trying to squirm out of his grip and pounce on him. “Please, Valek, I’m not scared of you doing anything except stopping.”

He leans down to kiss you once again to silence your complaints, and you happily oblige him, letting him kiss you into submission, his dark hair falling around you like a curtain. Still with his lips on yours, Valek tears his gloves off to reveal his long, slender fingers and sharp nails, running them lightly up your sides and making you arch up off the bed with a wail, your cries swallowed by his mouth.

He releases your lips, allowing you to catch your breath while he lays kisses all over your face as though he wants to claim every inch of you. You hope he does; you’re already all his.

“Your skin tastes of sunshine,” he murmurs seductively, his lips moving lightly down your neck to one of your shoulders, then slowly making their way along your collarbone to the other. “I would bask in your warmth forever if you would let me, beloved.”

“I will, I do,” you moan, reaching between you to try to finish taking off his shirt. A loud, purring rumble emanates from within him as your fingers stroke his bare chest, giving you a fluttering sense of pride. Feeling more confident, you slide your hands up along his neck to hold his face, tilting it upwards so that his eyes meet yours. He cocks his head at you with an inquisitive expression.

“You know that I love your old-fashioned approach to romance, Valek,” you tell him seriously, “and we will have my entire lifetime – if not forever – to take things slow. But I need to be yours right now. And I don’t want you to be gentle; show me that you desire me the way I do you – don’t hold back.”

He gives you a nearly feral look, his hands curling into fists as he tries to control himself; somehow, you are able to sense the energy he’s fighting to keep inside of him instead of tearing into something.

“You wish for a taste of darkness, beloved?” he asks, pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the side. You gawk at his broad, pale chest, trying not to drool, and lick your lips. Valek hisses at the action, adjusting himself over his pants. You sit up, your hands moving to his belt; this time, he doesn’t stop you.

“I wish for a taste of you, Valek,” you tell him in a fierce whisper, looking up at him as you remove his belt and move to the button of his pants. “If being rough with me will make you feel half as good as I know it’ll make me feel, then yes, please. Claim me, my love. Make all of me yours.”

He pins you back against the sheets with a growl, his sharp nails drawing teasing patterns across your breasts, your nipples peaking as if to demand more of the rough treatment. You arch your back, thrusting your breasts into his hands with a needy cry. Valek is utterly merciless in his torment, bringing you to the threshold between pleasure and pain and keeping you there. You are practically vibrating with need as one of his hands trails down your torso to your thighs, parting them with ease. One long finger slips between your slick folds, grazing your clit, and you shriek, bucking your hips towards him. You hear him snicker softly against your chest, his lips and tongue continuing to tease your breasts as his hands move lower.

“You are otherworldly when you are giving into sin, Y/N,” he croons, his fingers insistent as they explore your entrance, slick with your arousal. You let out a whimper that he swallows into his mouth, his fingers working at your clit and not relenting until you’re on the precipice of orgasm before he backs off, only to repeat the action, edging you over and over until you’re nearly delirious. And still, all you want is more.

“Please!” you manage to beg him, your hands guiding his face to your neck, wordlessly trying to convey what you want. You’re losing all sense of lucidity, clinging desperately to your sanity as he brings you so close to the edge. Valek turns his head to the side, his tongue reaching out to lick the outer shell of your ear and making you shiver.

“Please what, my sweet? I want to hear you say it,” he whispers, and you can tell he is enjoying prolonging your torture.

“Bite me! Feed on me!” you demand shamelessly, your eyes shut tight as you try to focus on the feeling of his mouth on your skin, seeking any indication that he will give this to you. “Make me scream for you.”

You hear him inhale deeply, his nose lightly running up and down the side of your neck, and you turn your head to the side to give him better access. His fingers have stopped their endless teasing of your swollen clit, but you are still trembling in anticipation. You feel his tongue dart out and give your sensitive flesh a sinful lick, making you gasp for breath.

Finally, you feel him bite you, the only pain being a slight sting that only adds to the overwhelming pleasure that courses through you. You’re not even sure that ecstasy was an accurate enough description for this feeling coursing through your veins – the pleasure is absolutely indescribable. Your eyes roll back in your head, the parts of your body not currently pinned in place by his body thrashing out of your control as you come violently. You hear yourself distantly shrieking in rapture, moaning and whimpering his name, babbling for more as he feeds on you, his fingers relentless at your clit and drawing out your climax – or maybe he was just making you orgasm again and again without interruption.

Eventually, he ends his torment, licking your wound to seal it before lifting his head from your neck, traces of blood on his lips. He stares down at you with a satiated expression, trying to remove his hand from between your clenched thighs, still spasming and out of your control. You’re sure that your inner thighs will be bruised from how you had squeezed them against his firm hand, and the idea only adds to your bliss. He leans down to kiss you but hesitates, unsure of your willingness to taste your own blood. You’re able to gather enough strength and lucidity to force yourself to sit up and kiss him, pulling him down to lay on top of you. There is a slight metallic taste to his lips, but it is largely overshadowed by the intoxicating taste of Valek, an indescribable flavour that you’re sure you’ll never get enough of.

“Finally satisfied, my little temptress?” Valek asks teasingly against your lips, your body completely relaxed beneath him.

“Nearly,” you hum through a yawn, blindly reaching to remove his pants once more. He groans, rolling over with you and cradling you on top of his chest.

“You are exhausted, beloved,” he points out, stroking your hair affectionately. “There will be time enough for that later.” Stubbornly, you ignore him, pushing yourself up onto your knees and tugging his pants down his legs, trying and failing to dodge his hands as they snatch up your wrists.

“Valek!” you whine, pouting down at him. His lips quirk into a smile at your persistence, and you narrow your eyes at him before throwing one leg over him and straddling his narrow waist, inches away from where you really want to be. Valek stills, transfixed, and you slowly bend down until your face is right above his, feeling decidedly naughty.

“I believe we agreed that you would be rough with me, my love,” you murmur, one hand drawing teasing patterns across his bare chest. “I hope you don’t think I’m so delicate that I’ve already had enough of you tonight. I need you to defile me, inside and out.” You grind yourself against his firm abdominal muscles, and he growls. You decide to try the innocent approach next to get him to give in.

“Please?” you ask, batting your eyelashes down at him with the most innocent expression you can muster, and he lets out a wild snarl, rolling you onto your back again and tearing off the rest of his clothes hastily before positioning himself between your legs. You can’t see his cock, pressed against him as you are, but you can certainly feel it, the silky hard length rubbing against your thighs enticingly. Eagerly, you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to line him up with your entrance by feel alone.

“You will be my undoing, my treasure,” he tells you, his blue eyes locked with yours, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you until your foreheads touch.

“And you will be my forever, Valek,” you reply, kissing him passionately. He thrusts into your wet heat in one fluid movement that has your toes curling and sets about claiming you yet again; you have only so much time before the sunrise.

---

[FYI: The poem Valek chose for her is “Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond” by E.E. Cummings]

Hope you all enjoyed! Day #3's fic is looking to be more depraved than this one, if all goes according to plan... 👁️👄👁️ (It's a carry-over from Dark Desires October I didn't get to; sue me!)

[rametarin]

Abuse that leaves mental scars.

A little technique my mother used to be abusive without being physical, was to demand attention- and then refuse to let it go.

It's understated and subtle, but deliberately premeditating to waste somebody's time and attention is extremely sadistic. Especially if you demand their presence so they can't function or do anything outside of their obligation to listen. Forcing someone to listen and divide their attention in such a way that they can't ignore you or even get around you, is a form of controlling behavior.

Just. Imagine an RPG game. Do you remember unskippable cutscenes and endless dialogue/text scrolls? Stuff that just seemed excessive, stuff that just put you to sleep trying to read through for any relevant information bits to compile. The frustration you felt waiting to see if there was any gems worth sifting through all the shit for- only to find nothing.

But you were not in a position to tell them to leave you alone or actually say anything of value, and they were in a position to make your life miserable for long periods of time if you weren't listening to every little thing they said. Being forced to wait until the end of their spiel, just to compile and determine that entire conversation served as nothing more than, "MEE!! ME ME MEEE!! MMMEEEEEEE!! HAHA, MEMEMEME. ME ME MEEEEEEEE."

To this day I can't focus on large amounts of information without a part of my spiteful self trying to tune out and save mental resources by trying to get to the end, trying to find some intuitive way to filter through all the unchecked gratuitous EGO creating big pockets of nothing in what someone is saying. When dealing with a narcissistic piece of shit, it's a survival tool just to prevent them from sucking your entire soul out of your body by demanding all your time and attention. Trying to function as an adult with long winded instructions for important things, it's like having dementia or time traveling through important conversations.

As a man, I cannot conceive of any use or premeditation of this systematic and deliberate form of mental abuse as anything but the most hateful of ways to interact with a person and pretend it's just a benign conversation. It's the sort of abuse you do in full view of anybody else and it just seems a little bizarre or rude, but in actuality it's a very persistent and antagonistic form of mental abuse. At least when a man punches you in the face, that's overt and obvious. It leaves marks.

Nobody considers what I just described coming from women to be a genuine form of abuse, because ascribing a kind of abuse to ways women interact with themselves or others is a taboo. I'd have to use non-gendered language, because god forbid women have a preferred pattern of abuse attributed primarily to them.

Instead of something like, "Hey, take out the trash," pure and sweet, simple, they prefer to start a conversation that requires 2-3 minutes of your time, demands you actually respond with more than a barked "Okay" or the conversational equivalent of hitting any button on the keyboard to prove you're listening and think about the worthless bullshit she's saying (and forcing you to value NOTHING for prolonged periods of time is part of the abuse) and then after you think the conversation is done, they revisit it like ressurecting an old forum post to CONTINUE what you thought was a settled conversation. Just, digging claws into you, and refusing to fucking let go.

So, what should be, "Take out the trash" becomes forcible stilted interaction and back and forth and banter and some disgusting asshole sitting on your precious time, refusing to budge until they get their pound of flesh from you.

And then they come back around to interrupt your life a few minutes later, about the same thing you thought you resolved. Now they've barged back in to interrupt, disrupt and paralyze.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

Subtlty, it's a way to deprive you of time and privacy until you get frustrated with them and just do whatever they want in a hurry in the hopes they'll just leave you alone. And if that happens to be the narcissists goal, sometimes that works. At the cost of teaching them that bending the knee to get them out of your hair gets them what they want. They don't have to demand, they can pretend they were being "gentle and non-invasive," and just torture you by being a cow on the railroad that refuses to move and just moos in your path, demanding to be placated or run over with violence to get them out of the way- but if you choose violence, that's your failure, and they'll impose those consequences by screaming to authorities.

But when they really want to antagonize you, it never stops at just a conversation about the trash; in fact, the trash is unimportant. It may not even require any relevant activity at all. It could just be them wanting you to interact with them on the subject of dinner tomorrow. It's about forcing you to interact and give them an essay of an answer before they'll be satisfied and leave you alone. It's not about actually wanting the information, it's about wanting your time and wanting you to invest effort into even a meaningless interaction with them, whatever you want or feel about it.

So, a little like when someone wants sex, and you don't, and decides to force you to do it via rape. Only, they just design to harass the shit out of you and use you "ignoring them" as a justification for harassing you. You don't want to converse? So they exploit any position they have that allows them to justifiably harass the shit out of you or demand your time until they get what they want. And in the meantime, it just spoils anything and everything you try to do with that time.

I grew so frustrated with this attention whoring and authoritarian harassment that I started hating music. I couldn't enjoy a single god damned song without my mother deciding she needed to swoop in and be the subject of observation and interaction instead, and it became impossible to enjoy anything. Everything becomes locked behind a coercive barrier, everything becomes distant behind a gate. And because of being unable to keep her out of my time and attention, I grew to despise what I could not just have in peace. It became easier to live without it, because trying to have it took too much labor to be of any worth.

I DESPISE being forced to labor, even if just mentally, for nothing. Absolutely detest to the point of violence people in positions to obligate me to do that, wish them incredible harm, wish for some legal circumstance that'd permit me the carte blanche to punish them for it. I despise being in a position where someone can extract my time or attention and give me nothing but pain for it, and all I an do is comply just to feel nothing at all as a reward.

[wecametobealonetogether]

People don’t understand that bad things happen to real people in real life, which sounds like such an absurd statement, but bear with me.

I’m told to reach out for help, but that help involves disclosing my life experiences that are described as “torture porn” by many, as if that media critique applies to my actual, lived experiences. People are so caught up in their own personal gauge of suffering that they cannot fathom anything outside of it. I can never be a good enough victim because I was too quiet about it then and even whispering about it now is too loud. They get control over the story of my life because what happened to me is too violent (“gratuitous”), too disgusting, too miserable. I can only ever be the victim of violent, misery-inducing, disgusting acts, because letting me be anything else involves admitting that the things they don’t want to think about happened to a complex, real human being and not some two-dimensional victim. Recognizing that I survived involves admitting people can survive the things I went through, that the too-soft victim made it out.

I made it out, so why aren’t you proud of me? If you want me to be a “survivor” so badly, why won’t you let me live? Why won’t you let me live with the fact that I did what it took to survive?

“Why didn’t you just run?” And I answer it.

“You wouldn’t be able to talk to me about it.” But I am.

Stop denying me. It’s almost like you didn’t want me to “survive.” It’s almost as if your ideal survivor is a dead one. You can only picture the things that happened to me in the context of banned horror movies and true crime podcasts, but I am here, and I am real, and I am so much more than the ruined mass of flesh you make me out to be. It’s almost as if the forever-lost girl is your favorite because she better suits the story you want to tell. I’m not sorry I don’t fit into your plot structure. I’m not sorry you weren’t planning on my coming back.

I’m not even scarred in the right ways for you. I came out different, but I am both too changed and not changed enough. I should have gone quietly, but I should have fought more. I should have told someone, but it’s too disturbing to hear about now, so I should keep my mouth shut.

I’m tired of being treated like broken goods.

I’m tired of being criticized for the way I have to put myself back together because I’m doing it the wrong way, but I shouldn’t dare reach out and subject anyone else to the knowledge of what happened to me, and I shouldn’t need anyone else because I’m not healed enough to be loved yet, but we all love you and we just didn’t know, and we don’t know who you are anymore and it’s your fault but the version of you that came before wasn’t good enough because she let this happen to her and why didn’t you tell us? Why don’t you trust us? Don’t you know you’re safe now?

They’re shoving me into limbo. I’m not allowed to be an adult or child or victim or survivor. I’m not allowed to be who I could have been before it happened or who I am after, I’m not allowed to be anything.

Surprise: there is no version of me from before. There never has been. She is purely hypothetical, but she gets treated with more respect and legitimacy than I ever will.

I’m not allowed to be in the past because the person I had to be to get through it has been denied her humanity. What happened to her was so filthy, she has become filth. That’s what happens when you make something so taboo that you can’t talk about it. You turn the person it happened to into a taboo.

They ask me why I stayed but I’m not allowed to answer. I’m not allowed to admit there were moments of softness, or how hungry I was for comfort, and how I could not conceive of a world outside once the switch flipped.

That sort of brain-breaking is only in science fiction, so I must be a liar. That’s at the core of all of this: their “victim” as a liar. To suffer as I did is to lie. The things that happened to me can only be found in stories people shouldn’t be reading, so I can’t be trusted. Stop asking me about my story if you treat it like a book so dirty it needs banned from your library. There is no me without the part of my history you hate.

I’m not sorry I didn’t follow your timeline. I’m not sorry I think my life still has potential. I’m not sorry for being so deeply in love in a world that thinks I should only receive pity. I’m not sorry for treasuring my future, knowing I cannot erase my past. I’m not sorry for being the sort of survivor you’re unable to venerate with a clear conscience.

I made it out, and my life is so much more than the story you’ve decided defines it.

[apoptoses]

One of the many things Anne said over the years that has always haunted me is how Daniel deliberately left out a lof of things about Armand from IWTV. Specifically about his looks. He's described as being simple, beautiful and having dark eyes but not much else, and at first I thought that maybe Anne hadn't gone into detail because she hadn't fleshed out the character that much, but the fact that she rationalized it as Daniel very intentionally leaving that type of information about Armand out of the audience's reach is SO fascinating to me because... at that point they'd already begun their cat and mouse game and were beginning to fall for each other, so Daniel getting all possessive (and protective dare I say???) about Armand is just so sdjfhjsfjskhdsjk. In his mind, the world was ready for the goriest, most horrific aspects of Louis' tale, but it wasn't ready to know just how beautiful Armand was.

What a timely ask, anon. I've been having a lot of (literal and metaphorical) death of the author thoughts lately.

I think it's really hard to say what Anne intended to do at any given time. She was very open about the fact that she outlined little, just tended to sit down at the keyboard and see what happened, and so I think people can go around and around with these continuity issues until kingdom come. But the truth of it is like...she wrote about these vampires for nearly 50 years, she probably forgot some stuff and made up some other stuff to try to bridge those gaps.

I personally assume the Daniel keeping these details to himself thing was something she said to cover why this info was coming out in playboy vs an actual book but it is a really fun think to think about, isn't it?

(being completely honest, when I wrote that line in my fic about Daniel hoarding the details of Armand's appearance for himself I was just making shit up, I didn't even realize Anne had said anything like that until after lol So nice to know she and I shared a braincell for that one brief moment)

My personal head canon is that some he left out because his editors were like 'dude, this book is getting way too long and frankly this is gratuitous' (like that story that ended up in playboy? Daniel was desperate for some cash to travel on and so he dragged that sordid bit of smut out of his drafts and tossed it in the mail). The rest- god, he just really couldn't believe anyone could be that good looking. Maybe he assumed Louis had idealized him in his mind, maybe he decided no reader would find someone so beautiful palatable (especially in light of some of the things Armand let happen).

And then also a secret third thing, where Daniel has always kinda had a thing for redheads with big brown eyes and shit, did Louis know that about him and describe Armand like that just to mess with him or is there really some hot little blood sucking guy running around out there, being the smoke show of his dreams?

It's fun to wonder about, like it's fun to wonder about what all Lestat and Daniel left out of that chapter in queen of the damned. I hate that we don't have more content from them but I do love how many gaps we can fill in ourselves.

[radioprune]

g, h, i :)

(this is @charlesandkeef btw)

hi kay!

G: Care to share a favorite crack fic? tbh, i'm not even sure what qualifies as a crack fic. i'm not even sure if i've ever read one. the wackiest thing i've ever written, which maybe answers this question, is my mash truman show au where hawkeye realizes he's in a tv show lol

H: How would you describe your style? ummmm hmm. my style really is an amalgam of all the writers' styles i admire, and when i'm writing for mash i tend to (at least try to) evoke a lot of vonnegut and heller. i think it's a bit meandering (though i kind of mean that in a good way), like i like to take my time to describe small moments in real time. i try to trust my audience and not explain too much, but that's something i'm still working on

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)? hmm i'm not sure! i pretty much write what i like to read, so if there's anything in there that qualifies as a guilty pleasure let me know. if anything i definitely enjoy gratuitous references and allusions and will include them to the nichest things in the world just for me and i really dont care if others get them aslkdjsalkj

fanfic asks :-)

[prospectivehero]

BATMAN • SUPERMAN: WORLD'S FINEST- THE DEVIL NEZHA - Written by Mark Waid, Illustrated by Dan Mora

Holy writer's block, Batman, I needed this wholesomeness!

For some context, I love the domestic side of superhero stories. I love watching Clark Kent make waffles for Lois Lane as much as I love watching Superman beat up Zod. Most comics I read that involve the Caped Crusader and the Dark Knight focus on the latter. If I look, I'll usually find comics like Kingdom Come or New Frontier. Let me be clear, my favorite comic is New Frontier. There is nothing wrong with liking either of those or anything like it. But rarely do I find a story that makes these larger-than-life heroes look and feel so human, and rarely do i get to see Robin drinking coffee with Superman. The interactions are charming, Batman and Superman have amazing chemistry, and their story is very engaging. The story doesn't trade focus on interpersonal relationships for the suspense and action crucial to superhero stories. It only adds more weight and consequence.

When we know what these characters care about, we have a better connection to that character and what they will feel if they lose that important thing. Batman, Superman, and Robin are familiar characters with familiar relationships, yet this comic gives us dialog and backstory that establish the father-son relationship of Batman and Robin and their friendships with Superman. It makes the fights with ancient villains and end-of-the-world threats feel more involved and intense. When these heroes are threatened or hurt, I'm desperately turning the page, hoping they'll make it.

The illustrations compliment this personal story-telling. My associate's degree in Batmanology doesn't give me the vocabulary to describe this well, but I'll do my best. Many comics with fantastic art have superheroes depicted in a way that you would expect. Once again, I refer to Kingdom Come. The art is gorgeous but not distinct (in my eyes, at least). Dan Mora's depictions of our well-known heroes are unique and feel personal, and that adds to the focus of the comic. There is no irony or unnecessary darkness in this comic's story, and the bright and dynamic character designs and backgrounds really add to the earnest tone.

TRIGGER WARNINGS (with potential spoilers) -

1) Comic Chicanery - An expected amount of violence and antics for a superhero comic. Nothing gratuitous or gross, just some reasonably intense action scenes.

2) Demons/Hell - Both are explored lightly and represented loosely, but they are still present.

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 24th October

We're well into autumn now, aren't we - and to mark it, it's apparently party time, with Elvis doing his best Winifred Atwell impression. Also some Pat Boone. So there's that.

(Let's Have a) Party - Elvis Presley (peaked at Number 2)

Okay, I joked but this is exactly the format that Winifred Atwell used for just about every track she ever released. And weirdly, this track, with its slightly slipshod piano, doesn't sound a million miles from something Winifred Atwell would play. It's not got that out-of-tune bar-room piano vibe, but the whole thing just trundles along quickly enough that the musical accompaniment sounds sort of out of control, like the whole thing's going a little faster than it really ought to be going. It's great!

The song's conceit is simple: Let's have a party. That's, like, 90% of the lyrics. Except the party described sounds like a rager, the likes of which have only been alluded to up until now. I mean, liknes like Send him to the store, let's buy some more really feels like it's about sending somebody on a booze run. We've got a bunch of characters - Honky Tonk Joe sounds like a riot - and we've got food, with Elvis inviting everybody to taste his pasta parmesan, and of course, since this is a rock and roll song, we've got dancing happening. Because it's 1957, you've got to have dancing.

The lines about dancing are delightfully goofy, that said. From the start, as Elvis sings about how movin' and a-groovin' gonna satisfy my soul, to frankly nonsensical lines about how I've never kissed a bear, I've never kissed a good / But I can shake a chicken in the middle of the room, this song really manages to paint a vivid - and not particularly dignified - picture of the youths letting loose.

For me, at least, the goofiness of it all actually kind of diminshes the threat level of it all, just a bit - it's hard to get worked up about Elvis the Pelvis corrupting young minds with his gyrating hips, when he's also singing about "shaking a chicken" and serving everybody pasta parmesan, you know? Or maybe I'm dead wrong, and parents nationwide were shaking their heads and tutting at this particular track.

If I were being a little less charitable, I'd say that Elvis is forcing the energy a bit, but the overall atmosphere is still that of a party in full swing. I think the sheer density of sound helps, here - you've got Elvis piling on verse after verse, past the point where he arguably should have stopped, but you've also got backing singers echoing him, you've got two different piano lines, you've got guitar noodling round in the background, you've got a bass line, and you've got thumping percussion. It's a lot, and the final effect's almost glam rock in its full-on, self-indulgent stompiness, a real ode to party excess.

As such, it's entirely fitting that the whole track ends with the most unnecessarily drawn-out piano chord, repeated five times for emphasis, leading into a very gratuitous glissando. It's the most extra, extravagant, camp way to end anything, and in context, it works surprisingly well. But yeah, not every song could end like that, that's for sure.

Remember You're Mine - Pat Boone (double A-side, 5)

I'm not as thrilled by this combination of title and artist, but we shall see what this track has in store. Pat Boone's not a favourite, but he's done some good stuff before, I think, as I click the track. Keep an open mind, right?

And then it starts, and... well... yeah. Musically there's nothing wrong with it. Pat's gone with a slightly more modern sound, complete with vaguely barbership backing singers and a strummy guitar that even gets a few rather rock and roll licks in between the verses. There's some of those rock and roll arpeggio chords, and the triplets we've been hearing more and more of. It's got some fairly modern trappings, and it's very competently made - I actually really like the backing singers, and how tightly and unobtrusively they slot into the whole thing.

But while the music, superficially, has adapted to 1957, the lyrics are a variation on the age-old theme we've been seeing since the start of the charts of a man being worried about his partner's fidelity while they're separated. As such, the whole track is basically Pat urging his love to Be faithful, darlin', when you're away / For when it's summer, a heart can stray. And yeah, it's not an entirely objectionable sentiment, this idea that you want your love to remember you over summer, but something in the framing of it makes Pat sound particularly mistrustful. After all, it doesn't sound like Pat's love's given him any cause to actually think they're going to be unfaithful. It's mostly just Pat fantasising about his lover being tempted to kiss somebody in the heat of a summer night, the whole encounter described in just enough detail that it kind of feels unhealthy and obsessive, on Pat's part.

Other lines stand out as just vaguely weird. I don't love the And though I'll miss you / Have a wonderful time lyric, for example - it reads as weirdly passive aggressive to me, like Pat's trying to make his love feel guilty that Pat's going to be missing them. Similarly, in context, the lines about how I'll be lonely, I'll be blue / But I promise I'll be true feel a bit snarky, like Pat's trying to throw in his love's face just how sad they're making him, and what a noble sacrifice it is for him to stay true.

And then, to top it all off, you've got the final line, one final Remember you're mine, where the backing music drops out and the whole thing slows down. Which I know is meant to signal finality, and the song drawing to the end, but all I can think is that it sounds weirdly menacing, like a threat. Best case scenario, Pat comes out of this sounding insecure, worst case, he comes away sounding downright creepy. Needless to say, not a turn-on, in any way.

There's a Gold Mine in the Sky - Pat Boone (double A-side, 5)

Okay, I'll admit, I was intrigued by the title of this one. There's a gold mine in the sky, you say? Go on, then, I'll bite...

We start with a slow, country ballad sort of vibe, complete with steel guitar, and a syncopated "clip-clop" rhythm that I associate with the various Western themes we've heard. And indeed, this does seem to be a Western-themed song!

Pat, you see, is singing from the point of view of a gold miner or prospector, who's singing about how There's a gold mine in the sky far away / We will find it, you and I, some sweet day. So it's a song about heaven. Except Pat's not singing to a lover, or a friend, but to his mule, hence lines about how there'll be clover just for you down the line, or about how you'll pasture in the stars / When we strike that claim. It's a charmingly weird view of heaven, a place to pitch your wagon and sit and watch the world pass by, a place you can call yours, after what's presumably a long and itinerant existence looking to strike gold.

Plus, as ever, in songs about heaven, there's also a melancholy to it all, a sort of recognition of the difficulties of this life, and of the tribulations of ageing and mortality. Which is heavy for a song that's ostensibly about a man singing to his mule, but what else am I to make of lines urging the mule to Take your time, ole mule / I know you're growing lame, or the line about how we'll say hello to friends who've said goodbye? Pat's an old gold propsector, and is ready to die - underneath all the sentimentality, that's the point of the song, and it's not painted as a frightening or a bad thing. Which honestly, I kind of respect.

It's vaguely spiritual-feeling, but not explicitly religious, unlike some of Pat's other songs. You're not being hit over the head with the idea that you need to put your trust in Jesus to get to this gold mine in the sky, or anything. Which is fine - it would probably be a little too much, for this song, which, at the end of the day, is just trying to be a slightly emotionally-manipulative Western pastiche.

I also really vibed with the bit in the middle of this song that was just Pat humming along to the music. It's not a long bit of the song, but it's just kind of relaxing. I've also just noticed that the song more generally does the same thing that Remember You're Mine did, where it uses some of the sounds and trappings of rock and roll, especially the piano triplets and the electric guitar licks. Which is kind of cool, because I can't remember if we've seen as much of that in the more Western-inspired songs before. Huh

Overall, I think my favourite here has to be the only song of the bunch that I actually would re-listen to. Still, it was nice to see Pat holding his own, even if I didn't like one of the songs that much. He's really adapting his sound - he sounds totally different to the Pat Boone we were hearing four or five years back, and that's definitely for the better.

Favourite song of the bunch: (Let's Have a) Party

[winderlylandchime]

Hello! The anon from before about the Tattoo fic. I feel like at this point you can just expect me to be in your inbox after a new chapter all the time. I just finished the new chapter and I am trying to calm myself down just enough to put words into a sentence but I AM FREAKING OUT AND IT IS HARD! My heart broke into a million pieces every new paragraph. I have so many thoughts from Vic and Brian’s conversation, to Mikey??? And Mikey and Brian???? And Mikey and Ben?? I can’t even fully decide what my thoughts are on like two of those topics but I know they’re there. And just Brian alone? My heart! This is killing me! This is what we deserved to also see in the show! Damn you writers, what a missed opportunity! But bless you for making it a reality! I had time to read it at work (big mistake) and this paragraph and I apologize for literally sending you your own words back, but this paragraph: ‘And Brian, Brian is mourning the loss of their future, imagined, an entire future imagined in a single moment in a dark parking garage where two men stood and looked into each other's eyes and didn't say anything.’ IT ABSOLUTELY BROKE ME! My jaw actually dropped and no joke I teared up. I had to reread this paragraph like 5 times in order to move past it. It fully described everything from just what happened to every single emotion and regret and anger and fear and love. My god, you are killing me with every single chapter and I absolutely love it. And the part in the fic where they try to have sex and then the aftermath? Absolutely nailed it, with once again emotions and just everything. I am struggling to put it into words but just so you know it was a very very beautiful and emotional chapter to read even if the ending absolutely destroyed me to the point where I very silently said ‘no’. My God, I cannot wait for when I will be able to reread the entire fic from start to finish and let it destroy me all over again all while also putting me back together.

Hello dear sweet anon!

Thing you (or anyone) never needs to apologize for: quoting my words back to me. I don't want to presume to speak for every author but I'm pretty sure this is a universal thing. I LOVE HEARING what words meant something to you and made you feel something.

I know the Brian-Mikey-Ben of it all remains a bit ambiguous. There was going to be more of it in this chapter but it was getting long so I shifted some plot to the next chapter (and I think for that everyone is unknowingly grateful - I would have left everything on a bit of a painful cliffhanger and honestly my heart after Good Omens S2 Ep6 just couldn't handle it). The ambiguity is also on purpose. These characters? They do not communicate. If suddenly Brian and Michael were to sit down and hash out feelings for Justin, Ben, and each other that would be wildly OOC so having some wanting to shake them and make them talk is needed.

That flashback to that moment in the garage? I'm so glad that landed. It was one of my favorite lines to write. It makes me happy when I'm proud of a line and then IT GETS QUOTED BACK TO ME. I don't play sports but, like, touchdown!

I'm so glad the sex scene didn't seem gratuitous. I was trying to find a parallel to the scene in S2 when Justin panics. I could have done the exact scene (because it's so good and also the parallel to that and then during the cancer arc... LOVE) but I set up this bit early on with Justin's relationship with Ethan. It hurts just that bit more because it's not only something that he has "lost" as a result of the bashing but it's triggering all those old bad memories with Ethan. (I'm know I'm cruel and heartless and I love the angst... but only because the resolution feels better as a result.)

Thank you for coming to my ask box. As you saw in the author's notes, these sorts of things absolutely feed me.

[someonestolemyshoes]

Hey! First of all, I'd like to say that I love your works on AO3! "Fifteen Minutes With You" (or smth along those lines) was one of the first fics of levihan I read, and I loved it!

Anyway, a couple of sentence prompts that've been rolling around in my head. I'll add some detail, but feel free to use or discard anything. Writing is tricky lol!

"What if I (insert bad deed)?"

"I'll love you just the same"

"And if I (do smth bad)?"

"I'll love you just the same."

I was feeling a childhood levihan thing goin on here, maybe angsty? Idk

And fluffiness

"Wow! It's been 4 days!"

"Since?"

"I last bathed!"

*thwack*

Aaah hello! Thank you so much, I’m always pleasantly surprised to find people who read my Levihan fics from back in the day :D it brings me so much joy, you’ve no idea. 

I decided to go with the bath prompt - though admittedly, it ended up far less fluffy and far more angsty than I intended, I hope you can enjoy it regardless! 

---------------------------------------------

"Hange."

...

"Hange."

...

"Oi, shitty glasses. Hange."

No response.

Levi stands in the doorway, shoulder-leaning the frame and glowering into Hange's cluttered quarters. He has been calling her name for the better part of five minutes now, but Hange, hunched over her desk with her nose mere inches from the leaf of parchment she is scribbling on, had failed to notice him.

He kicks his boot against the door, and the resounding bang is enough to catch her attention. She jumps a little in her chair, and turns quickly to the door. She relaxes when her gaze lands on him.

"You scared me."

Levi grunts. "You didn't come to dinner.”

Hange blinks at him. Her gaze travels to the window, where the sky beyond had grown dark save for a speckle of stars and the thin smile of a wispy moon.

"I forgot.” 

Levi rolls his eyes, pushing off the door frame.

"You forgot lunch, too." And breakfast, and countless meals over the last few days, weeks. Months, maybe.

She hums absently, turning back to her papers. "I've been busy. Lost track--I don't know how Erwin had enough time in the day to do everything."

Levi gives a noncommittal grunt and picks his way towards the desk, avoiding haphazard piles of books and papers and discarded scrolls, small, disorganised mountains of debris that must have made some semblance of sense to Hange. Even as he watches, she twists in her chair and reaches blindly into one pile, plucking up a stack of papers and dropping them onto the desk with a sigh.

Levi stops beside the desk, arms folded over his chest to look at her.

Up this close, Hange looks tired. It isn't an unusual sight--Hange has been prone to fits of research-fuelled insomnia for as long as Levi has known her, so easily side-tracked by her every theory and scheme that basic needs like sleep and sustenance often took a back seat. But there is something unsettling to her exhaustion, these days. There is no manic glint in her eye, no exaggerated waving or yelling, no aroused flush to her cheeks; recently, Hange is always pale, skin papery at best, but waxy and sickly more often than not. Her shoulders sag over the desk, shirt hanging more loosely over her frame than Levi remembers, and there's a near constant tremor to her fingers that barely ceases even as she presses pen to paper, scribbling notes and signatures on countless forms presented by countless people.

Her gaze is fixed dully on the newest expense report, now. The low orange light of her lamp flickers in the lenses of her glasses; fire dances on a matt black backdrop over her left eye, where the patch is strapped firmly in place. Her right is half closed, exhaustion pulling at the lid, the skin beneath is puffy and bruised deep purple. Her lips, dry and cracked, shift almost imperceptibly as she mouths the words on the page, reading quickly, scratching her signature where needed and flipping to the next page.

"There's food," he says, leaning his hip on the corner of the desk. "Stew, and the brats hid some bread from Sasha. Go eat something."

"In a minute," Hange mumbles. Levi huffs, and pinches the top of the quill, plucking it out of Hange's grasp. It's a testament to her exhaustion, that her fist keeps the motion of writing for a second too long before realising she is no longer making a mark on the paper. With a tired sigh, she sits back, and levels her tired gaze on Levi.

"In a minute," she says again, holding her hand out for the pen. "Let me finish these first."

"Eat. It'll still be here when you get back."

She looks very much like she wants to argue. Levi watches the way her brow creases in the middle, the way her eye pinches, narrowing at him, the way her hands ball into white-knuckled fists against her thighs. But she's tired. She is bone tired, and the righteous energy saps from her within seconds. She deflates, and brings a hand up to rub at her eye, knocking her glasses up to her forehead as she does.

Levi almost wishes she had fought with him instead. There's a terrible, gnawing guilt, seeing her like this--seeing the way the weight of his choice bears down on her. Hange is a worthy Commander, of that, Levi is certain--Erwin never would have chosen her if he didn't believe the same.

But things have changed. The world has changed. And what it means to be Commander of the Survey Corps has morphed into something unfathomable larger and more complex than what it was before. It is unchartered territory, and Hange has been thrown into waters black and bottomless.

Hange pushes her bangs back from her face with both hands. The hair, limp with grease, sticks in place, and even Hange seems surprised, pulling her hands back and looking almost curiously at her palms.

"Huh. Its been four days."

"Since?"

She gives him a look, then, and there's a flash of something old and familiar in her eye. She quirks the corner of her mouth in a grin.

"Since I bathed."

Levi swiftly raises his arm, and Hange flinches, but the curled fist that thunks atop her head is almost gentle. She blinks up at him in surprise.

"Disgusting. I'll hose you down after you eat."

-----------------

Hange sits cross-legged in the tub, while Levi's fingers scrub soap suds into her scalp. The bathroom is mostly dark, save for the flicker of lamplight and the pale, foggy glow from the moon through the window.

She is quiet while he cleans her. She had eaten some food, though not as much as he would have liked; sipped at the stew and picked half heartedly at the bread the kids had painstakingly secured. It was better than nothing, but Levi finds his gaze travelling from the top of her soapy head to her bony shoulders, and to the knotted curve of her spine. He can see the shift of her ribs beneath her skin, and when she obediently leans her head back for him to rinse the suds from her hair, he can see twin points of bone at her hips, the skin brutally bruised from the pressure of their belts.

Something unpleasant rolls in his gut.

"Turn around."

Hange does, twisting until she is facing him and re-crossing her legs. Levi dips a cloth into the warm bath water and begins the meticulous process of scrubbing her down, starting at her shoulders. Hange dutifully extends first one arm, and then the other, and it is while Levi is thumbing at the grime between her fingers that she hums, tucking her knees to her chest and resting her chin upon them.

"It's been a while," she says, voice soft in the quiet. Levi moves on to the next finger; Hange's hands, like his, are calloused across her palms and at the tips of her fingers, from years of using the triggers on the manoeuvre gear. They are rough, but her fingers are longer and thinner than his own, and limp in his hand like this, they look almost delicate.

Levi hums in question.

"Since we did this."

Levi makes another non-committal sound. Things have been hectic, since everything that happened at Shiganshina. A whirlwind of learning, adapting, planning, everything moving at such a dizzying pace that moments like this had been all but abandoned.

Moments of peace, of quiet; moments where the world falls still and time slows to barely a trickle, they are a rarity none of them have been able to afford.

Levi dips the cloth in the water and rinses the soap from Hange's hands.

"We've been busy," he says. You've been busy, is what he thinks, but his guilt would sit too far forward, if he said it like that; it would be too brazen, and he knows already that his apology is not what Hange wants to hear. He made his choice, and now he has to live with the consequences. There is no room for regret.

Hange sits back when Levi brings the cloth down over her chest, crossing her legs so he can wash over her belly and sides.

"It's nice," she says. "I forgot. How nice it was."

"For you, maybe," Levi says. He taps her knee, and Hange hook her leg out over the side of the tub. Levi adds more soap to the cloth and smooths it over her thigh.

Hange lets out a low chuckle. "Just another floor to mop for you, huh?"

"The floors don't get this filthy."

He is careful around her knee, where scar tissue from a recent wound is still forming. It is tender to the touch, he knows, but Hange makes no complaints when he touches it. She lets out a pleasant little groan when his fingers knead into her calves, toes curling.

Levi washes over her foot, then taps the sole, and Hange draws one leg back in and raises the other one, and the process starts again. It is methodical and familiar; strangely comforting, in the mess of everything. They've been battered with new information, faced with a world that is so vastly different from anything they had imagined before, burdened with the  insurmountable task of exploring it, of finding their place in it--all of this new, all of this frightening.

But this; this is an old tale. They have danced this dance for years, muscle memory leading them in each step. Shiganshina changed some things--Levi is more gentle in places than he used to be, careful cleaning the thickened, still healing skin on her back where Bertolt's titan had burned her. He used to dump water over her head like a dog, bit back smiles at the way she would cough and sputter and stare indignantly through her hair at him, but now is he careful to keep water from dripping into her bad eye. He slides the cloth over her face with more consideration, avoiding too much contact with the tender tissue above and below her clouded, milky eyeball. The swelling has lessened considerably over time, but the wound will remain raw for a long while to come.

When he is done, he helps her stand, and rinses her down with a pale of clean water before offering a hand to help her step from the tub. Standing up to full height, Levi can see the extent of the way her body has changed. She has always been a rake of a thing, all straight lines and sharp edges, but she has always seemed strong and sturdy. Something steady, dependable.

Now,  she seems fragile in a way Levi has never known her to be. There is no room left for her to bend; too much pressure, and he fears she will snap, splinter into a million pieces he cannot hope to fit back together again.

He holds a towel for her. Hange takes it with a small, grateful smile, and wraps it around herself, then leans back against the edge of the tub and bows her head. Levi scrubs at her hair with a second towel, ringing as much water from it as he can.

She dries herself half heartedly  and pulls on the spare shirt Levi had brought for her while her back and shoulders are still damp. The fabric sticks to her, highlights the protruding bones of her spine when she bends over to tug on her pants.

Once fully dressed, Hange stretches, popping her back as she does, and rolls her shoulders, her neck. She gives Levi a lazy, pleased smile.

"I needed that," Hange says. Levi clicks his tongue.

"I know. You stank."

Hange laughs, a light, airy thing.

"Always so kind, Levi," she says tunefully. She seems loose, more relaxed than Levi has seen her in what feels like forever. Her shoulders sit lower not bunched up about her ears, and her face isn't so pinched or strained. It's a relief.

It's short lived.

"I should get back," she says.

"You should sleep."

She shrugs a shoulder at him, waves a hand.

"Later," she says. Even as she speaks, Levi can see the tension rising in her; the respite of a bath and a hot meal had been brief, and already the weight is reloading. Her burden grows heavier by the second.

"A few hours, Hange. The paperwork will still be there when you wake up."

"And there will be more, no doubt," she says. "I'll get further behind than I am already."

There is no more room for negotiation. Levi can only count himself lucky that he managed to get this far with her, to do this much. He schools his face into a neutral expression and nods, scooping to pick up her wet towel and dropping it into the laundry basket as he follows her out of the bathroom.

Levi refuses to regret his choice. He made the right decision in Shiganshina, and he will not doubt himself for that.

But the tight, nauseous knot in his stomach does not ease. He watches Hange settle back into her desk chair, strap her eye patch over her still-damp hair, and bow herself over the pile of papers she had abandoned on the desk, and the sickening unease swells to his chest, pushing the air from his lungs.

He made the choice to condemn Erwin to death. He will do everything he can to ensure he has not done the same thing to her.

--------------- 

Thank you again for the ask!! If anyone else has prompts, please feel free to send them :) I can’t promise I’ll fill everything, but it’s a fun exercise 

[loving-n0t-heyting]

epistemic status: i wish this weren’t true but can’t see how it isn’t, more emotive than analytic

The western response to Putin’s annexation speech is fucking with me simply bc, afaict, setting aside the topic of the annexation itself, the speech is 95% true and pertinent and damning and the press (and others I would expect better from) is reacting to it like it’s a bunch of borderline psychotic word salad or a form of verbal terrorism or both at once

You have the guardian describing it as the rambling screed of an angry taxi driver, but idk, having read the actual text I think it has a pretty clear and straightforwardly argued thesis: US military and financial hegemony is just the latest phase in a continuous 500yr-long history of western international subjugation and terror and vassalage, which western elites look upon as their very life and will fight to the last of their subjects to preserve, while Russia will refuse to be cowed. And the core claim here about western hegemony is absolutely correct! He’s just right! Right, and damning

I mean, yes! I, too, would like to see some of these rules! I think these are some reasonable points! (“Well, but he’s a hypocrite! He started the war!” Ok, who is whatabouting now?)

No two moments of the speech have attracted more attention than the “barely concealed nuclear threat” and the concluding batshit remarks about gender and sexuality. Let’s look at those in turn shall we?

Putin does, indeed, state outright that the US has set a nuclear precedent, but look at the context:

Is there some whataboutism going on here? Sure. Does it carry some implication of willingness to escalate? Yea ig. But what could any hs students scoring above the 50th centile on the reading comprehension portion of the ACT divine as the clear overall message being argued here? That the US abd its allies since WWII have demonstrated a total unrenounced and gratuitous disregard for innocent human life in the course of subjugating their enemies and lording over their “friends.” And it’s fucking true!! Mass murder has been the calling card of US interventionism for the last sixty some years, and all in the service of a network of vassal states it cynically presents to the world as its peers and allies! Any threat of aggression here is secondary to the correct and utterly pertinent analysis of American global rule being decried!

And finally he does end the speech by dredging up homophobic panic about the end of traditional families and gender roles that could have well been copypasted from one of the more articulate screeds on /pol/. Ofc this is stupid. But what, to be even-handed, is the unspoken claim of the media reports harping on this globohomo fearmongering despite its occupying a tiny overall fraction of the text itself? What is the obvious implication of fixating on putins nationalist fag-hatred in the midst of characterising his speech denouncing American world domination as the conspiratorial ravings of a lunatic? That the evil he is castigating, the international system of unilateral military and economic terror on the part of Washington and her friends, is the true guarantor of queer liberation. And if putins bigotry is revolting this cynical pinkwashed apologia in return has to come close

None of this, ofc, excuses the annexations or legitimises the phony electoral veneer, let alone the invasion itself. But my God! Truly this makes me understand where the tankies are coming from!! It’s one thing to decry the act, another to suggest this speech is anything worse than a litany of truths in the service of a lie! But these swine, these vampires, these bloodthirsty warmongering brutes are so totally accustomed to the presupposition of their own common sensicality and so inured to criticism they cannot perceive a list of fair charges against them for what anyone with eyes to see can readily acknowledge it in fact is

[thruheavenandhighwater]

Best Nurse In Hawkins [part one]

[[PART TWO]] [[PART THREE]] [[PART FOUR]]

Pairing: Steve Harrington/ Platonic Best Friend Reader

Word Count: 1,731

Requested By: NA

Summary: Steve comes to you after his fight with Jonathan Byers. You're his best friend in the world, so naturally he turns to you for comfort after one of worst days.

Content Warning: Descriptions of Steve's injuries following his fight with Jonathan in season one. Nothing too gratuitous, but it's part of the story. If you see anything else you think I should add, please don't hesitate to let me know.

Or; The three times you fix Steve up after a fight, and the one time you can't.

Steve Harrington Masterlist

Stranger Things Masterlist

Series Masterlist

~~~~

The shrill ring of the phone echoed through your empty home. Well, it wasn't exactly empty. Obviously. You were home, but you were alone. Chemistry book open on the dining room table, notes and worksheets spread around it. Your yellow pencil halted at the sudden noise. You considered letting it ring. But with your parents visiting family in Fort Wayne for the day, you figured you shouldn't ignore it. Just in case. 

"Hello?" You answered, your voice hoarse from lack of use. 

"Hey," a familiar voice groaned. 

"Steve?" 

"Yeah, hi," he sighed. You heard him suck a sharp breath through his teeth. "Can I come over?" 

You had to laugh. "You can always come over." There was a pause, less than a moment. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah," he chuckled weakly. "Be there in ten." The line clicked loudly in your ear. 

You quickly packed up your school work. Tucking papers into the pages of the heavy book and capping your highlighter while you waited for Steve. Normally, the idea of someone interrupting your weekend study sessions would irritate you beyond words. But it was Steve. Steve was different. 

Steve Harrington had been your best friend since middle school. You'd been inseparable for years. Until sophomore year, when he hit his last growth spurt and his acne cleared up. He'd tried to bring you into his world of parties and popularity, but you didn't want any part of it. You were content to sit at home, studying or spending time with family. And he understood. 

He'd shared with you before that the life of the in crowd wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "Petty drama, endless one-upmanship, and two faced cliques," was how he described his new found friends over the phone, late into the night after whatever party he was at had ended. 

He never stopped being your Steve, though. No matter what. Sure, sometimes he let his status get to his head. He could be snobby, only when he was egged on by the crowd. But he always found his way back. He always kept his good nature, even if he lost it from time to time. 

Suddenly three soft knocks sounded from your front door. You smiled to yourself as you pictured Steve on the other side. His shy smile as his knuckles rapped against the wood. What greeted you on the other side of the door was a shock, to say the absolute least. 

The first thing you saw was the busted bottom lip. Blood had fallen from it, collecting in the corners of his mouth. Your eyes trailed up his face to the broken skin on the bridge of his nose. Following the trail of blood and bruising you finally saw the worst of it. His left eye was bloodied and swollen almost shut

"Jesus, Steve," you exhaled, opening the door to allow him inside. "What happened to you?" 

"Jonathan Byers," he huffed as you closed the door behind him. "'s my own fault. Just need, like, a bandaid or something." He winced, gesturing vaguely at his face. 

Taking his hand you noticed his knuckles were scraped. He'd landed a few punches of his own, it seemed. You wanted to scold him, if you were being honest with yourself. The whole town knew what Jonathan and Joyce were going through. In a town the size of Hawkins, it would be hard not to.  

But you didn't scold him. You silently took his hand in yours, ignoring the sticky blood that coated your palm. Leading him into the kitchen you set him in the chair you'd just vacated. You searched under the sink for the first aid kit your mother always insisted you'd need someday. You decided that you wouldn't tell her she was right. 

Steve rested his elbows on his knees, his forehead planted to the heels of his hands. You knelt in front of him as you flipped the plastic lid of the kit open, setting it beside you on the tile floor. 

"Wanna talk about it?" There was silence. It was heavy as it hung in the air around you. He didn't want to talk. And you didn't push him to. 

The ripping of the paper packaging was the only noise in the house. You carefully took his hand in yours. He flinched when you applied the alcohol wipe to the broken skin at his knuckles. You blinked up at him, silently apologizing. It probably hurt, but there was no getting around this. 

Once satisfied that his hand was cleaned you moved to his face. You couldn't help but to frown at the state of him. Blood had dried on half of his face, staining his normally perfect skin an ugly shade of red. 

You rose from the floor suddenly. Turning to the sink as sobs threatened to scream through your chest. You hoped he didn't notice. The running of water seemed to cover the sounds of your sniffles. 

When you took your spot back between his open legs you put two fingers under his chin. His eyes met yours as you lifted his face. The heavy air around you was almost too still as you began to press the warm towel delicately to the dried blood that had pooled on the curve of his chin. 

He watched you intently. His eyes fixed on your hand as it moved. When your other hand reached forward to cup his jaw, he seemed to finally relax. His eyes closed as he pressed deeper into your touch. 

You held his face in your hand as you continued your efforts at his wounds. He remained silent, though you thought it must hurt. Blood tarnished the white towel you'd hastily grabbed from a drawer near the sink. 

The only time his eyes opened was when your towel pressed to his cheek. You weren't sure where the blood ended and bruises began. His hazel eyes seemed to burn into yours as you worked. They were hard to ignore. 

The silence became just a bit less stifling, the cleaner he became. It was like shedding the proof of whatever happened had lightened a weight on his shoulders. Once you had cleaned all the dried blood from his wounds you tried to stand. His hand shot up and grabbed the wrist of your hand that was still holding his cheek. You stayed where you were. 

His hand was soft as his thumb pressed to your pulse. He lingered for a moment. Like he was counting the beats. When he finally released his grip your hand fell unceremoniously to your lap. You looked at each other, really seeing one another for what felt like the first time. 

Finally standing, you threw the stained cloth into the trash can. There was no saving it, and you didn't have the energy to try. You ripped a paper towel from the roll and made yourself comfortable, one again, between his knees. You softly patted the towel to his skin. 

"It was my fault." Steve suddenly repeated. His voice was so low, so soft that you weren't sure if he meant to say it. "I'm such an asshole sometimes." 

You opened a tube of antibiotic cream, squirting a dot onto your ring finger. "Wanna tell me what happened?" You asked, matching his tone as you held his cheek in your hand once more to hold him still. 

"It was Tommy's idea," he started, not missing the quick roll of your eyes at the mention of the other boys name. "But I'm the one who did it. I'm the one who got up on that damn ladder. I'm the one who pushed him." 

"You pushed Tommy?" 

"Jonathan." You nodded, a silent 'oh' on your lips. Your fingers worked tenderly at his broken skin. "I pushed him, and he finally hit back." 

You pulled your hands from his face. The sudden lack of contact was cold against his face. He was quiet, watching as you retrieved more cream from the open tube in the kit on the floor. "Kids got a hell of a punch," he said, almost smiling at how stupid he felt about the whole interaction. 

"So, why?" You asked. He hummed, his brows furrowing at your question. "Why'd you get in a fight with Jonathan?" Your hands found his face once more as you continued to apply the cream to his wounds. 

He sighed deeply. His shoulders fell, relaxing beneath his sweater. "He was flirtin' with Nance." 

That shocked you. Steve had never been like this before. He'd been cocky and rude sometimes, sure. But jealousy was new. You didn't like it. 

Your hands fell to your lap as you looked at him. "So you beat up a kid whose brother just died… Because he was flirting with a girl you've been dating for what? A week?" 

"It-" he started, looking away from you as he took a breath. "It just- Tommy had the idea and I was so mad," he told you. His eyes were bouncing off of every surface in your kitchen. He was looking everywhere but you. "It was stupid. It- it was stupid, okay?" 

You were quiet. You didn't have words, honestly. Anger replaced the sadness that had taken over your body when you saw him at your doorstep. 

"I don't know what goin' on with me lately," he confessed in a hushed tone. 

"Tommy Hagan is what's goin' on," you said. "Listen, you know I love you, right?" You asked, moving your head so that he had no choice but to look at you. He nodded. "'Cause I do. You're my best friend. Always will be, but ever since you started hanging around him and his little shithead friends, you haven't been acting like yourself." 

"I know." 

"I know you know!" You told him with a small smile. "That's why it's so frustrating to watch." 

"For what it's worth, I don't think he'll be around anymore," he sighed. "Pretty much told him and Carol both to fuck off." 

"It's about damn time," you laughed, lightly tapping his knee with your fist. "I want my lil old Stevie bear back." 

"You got him, honey," he smiled. 

"Good," you answered, your own smile growing to match his. "Now go get changed and get your girl back. And tell Jonathan that you're sorry." You told him, your voice becoming stern. "For everything." 

~~~~~

This is part one of a four part series I've been working on for a while. I really hope you all enjoy this little story.

Feedback is always appreciated! If you have any requests, or would like to be tagged in future Stranger Things fics, please let me know. Have a great weekend! 🥰

Tag List: @manyfandomsfanvergent @paradoxicalconundrum

[edgelordfucker]

A preview of a WIP Belosxreader sfw fluff fic with the working title of 'date out' that will be changed

So far I have the bones of this one 80% sketched out at 6k words with the need for ligaments and scene joinery, and, of course, flesh. Tentative ETA would be... maybe another month or two? Maybe less. Oh, there is gratuitous swearing.

The waiter comes to stand by the table. He sets the frappe and the cake in front of you, and the kouign-amann and the iced black coffee in front of Belos. 

“Thank you!” you say brightly.

“Yeah, you’re very welcome; let me know if you need anything else,” he says with a smile, before he walks away.

With a look of the utmost amusement, you slide his food and drink over to him and he passes yours over to you.

“I appreciate that he thinks I’m too femme for bitterness,” you say.

“Too delicate by far. What’s next? Chipping your polish?” he replies. You snicker, and then consider him.

“You know, I think you’d look cute with your nails painted.”

“Thank you. What color?”

“Hm...” You study him seriously. “You know I love you in blue... I think white would be a bit too much, and it’s a bitch to keep up with. Gold would be nice. Ooo, black! And we could be matchies.” You reach out for his hand, and he gives it to you. You slide your tiny hand up his palm to thread your fingers between his. “I like you,” you tell him with a tender sincerity. Belos feels his face heat up, and looks towards the street.

“You’re alright,” he replies.

“Pfft! So mean. You know,” you say, slipping your hand away and leaving his rather cold, “one day, I’m gonna be dead-” His stomach drops. “-and you’re going to be fuckin’ malingering in your coffin, or draped despondently over a chaise lounge, or whatever, and you’re gonna look back and think, ‘Man, I really should’ve told my beautiful girlfriend that I liked her back that one time we went out for coffee five-hundred years ago.’”

“Firstly,” he replies, gleefully latching onto this quibble, “that’s not what malingering means.”

“What does it mean?” you ask, as though he’s just given you a terminal prognosis. 

“It means to pretend to be sick, or something like that, to get out of having to do something.” 

“What?” You hit the ‘w’ with so much emphasis that it sounds like an ‘h’. “I’m going to go live in the woods.” He snorts. “Oh, god. Belos, do you know how many times I’ve used that word to describe lingering in, like, a fucked up or evil way? Oh, my god. I have to abandon society. I have to leave.”

“You couldn’t wait to do that until after I’ve had my cake, could you?”

“I could be persuaded by someone who likes me,” you reply.

“Eat your pastry,” he retorts.

And then, from another scene a little later on:

“Oh my god,” you whisper. A chill goes down his spine. “You have merch?” There is a note of terrible glee in your voice, and he knows, in much the way a field mouse does when the first cold breeze of Autumn kisses their whiskers, their little black eyes bulging out of their eggshell skull, that harvest time has arrived and the thresherman will come threshing with his scythe no less sharp than Death’s, that he is about to be mercilessly bullied by a woman who is literally half his size, and there is nothing that he can do about it.

 Belos considers picking you and physically removing you from the store, books be damned, but you are already touching things.

“There are little Belos stuffies? Little Belos pencils? You are on a lanyard?” your voice warbles like a bouncy ball tossed onto a xylophone. He has an explanation for this, he does.

“It wasn’t my idea-” he starts, which is a lie, but sounds better than, ‘Yes, darling, I did decide that selling mass produced twelve inch soft sculptures of myself was a great way to secure the hearts and minds of my people.’ You cut him off.

“No, no, I love your brand. Very patriotic, my love, very ever present. Are you in the PSAs? Are you on the milk cartons?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “You have things like this in the human realm, surely.”

“Fifty years Emperor merch? No, we don’t.” There’s a derisive note to your voice. Belos bristles. This is the closest the two of you have ever come to directly discussing his rule, and this is the closest you’ve ever gotten to telling him exactly what you think about his Empire. 

“Really?”

“Well, we do, but the people who get more than, like, a t-shirt or a bumper sticker for a specific politician tend to be... less than stable.” Your eyes catch, and you gasp. “You are a little cup?” The mug you pick up is in the shape of a cutesy caricature of himself, and you hold it between two hands like it’s something precious. 

“Put that back,” he whispers, trying to take the mug from you. You take a step away, holding it close to your chest.

“Please don’t put your hands on my boyfriend, sir.” There’s a beat.

He says your full first name, and he means it.

“Belos,” you reply. You tip your head and look at him with that infuriating grin, close lipped and so, so, so smug. Without breaking eye contact, you fish a stuffie from the table as well.

“You’re not getting those.”

“We’re a triad.”

“I’m telling you no.” You put your head on one side. Belos is a big enough man to realize when he’s made a tactical error.

“So, like, do you hate the Emperor, or something?” you ask loudly, with innocent eyes, bringing the cup and stuffed him up under your chin. Heads start to turn. 

An outraged voice calls, “Does that guy hate the Emperor?!” from the depths of the shelves.

He’s going to strangle you.

“Fine.” He stalks towards the checkout.

[writingwithcolor]

Tragedy Exploitation and Characters of Colour

hi! i've browsed your blog for a while now and it's been really helpful to me, so first off, thank you. i was wondering about something tho, i recently saw your response to a person explaining their story idea that revolved around two lovers, where one was cursed to kill the other and the other was always resurrected only for it to repeat, and i believe the characters were POC. in your response you seemed quite upset that such a plot was happening to POC characters specifically and it confused me because it sort of read as if you were mad that a bad thing was happening to a POC character in a story, which i genuinely didn't understand (i really don't want to sound rude, i'm being sincere), because it came off as advocating for only good and happy and nice things to be reserved for POC characters and if an author dared write something bad or traumatic happening to a POC character it's immediately 'poor narrative', and i personally don't agree with that take, because i feel like that reduces a POC character to just being POC instead of a person, which I feel like hurts POC rep in fiction, because being upset someone wrote something bad happening to a POC character makes it all about just that character being POC instead of just a regular person something bad has happened to in the story that just happens to be a person of color at the same time. my god this has gotten long, i got very interested in hearing more about this because i personally didn't quite understand and it sounded wrong to me, your original response. if you do reply to this, thank you, i hope i didn't sound rude, i do genuinely want to learn, because even tho i typed all this out i still feel like i'm wrong about this & missed the point somewhere

Disclaimer: please do not pile onto the ask about a Black woman murdered by her lover, as the asker has realized the issues with the ask. We are presently addressing the attitude of “why can’t bad things happen to PoC?” in this comment, with the name retracted, because it’s an attitude that crops up every once and awhile.

-

You have missed our extensive backlog of posts about double standards re: PoC and white characters, wherein we describe, at length, how we are uncomfortable that PoC characters get extra bad stuff that’s treated as “organic” because our history is full of suffering, when white characters often don’t get that same thing.

like White Authors and Topics to Avoid/Tread Carefully

and Writing About PoC Trials and Tribulations

We ask that people question why they decide to automatically make someone suffering a violent constant-death-loop be a person of colour, especially multiply marginalized (Black, woman, LGBTQ+). Because there are already too many stories of characters of colour (especially multiply marginalized) suffering needlessly and oftentimes worse than the white characters for the sake of a plot.

You completely misread the heart of the reply, which was “why are you forcing Black women to suffer the worst fate imaginable (murder) in one of the most emotionally heartbreaking way imaginable (at the hands of your lover) multiple times in order to “earn her happy ending”? this is tragedy exploitation and is making a mockery of trauma”

PoC already have enough stories about us traumatized by circumstance. And while we can suffer, narratively, part of systemic racism is only telling stories of PoC when we are suffering as the sole marker of the plot. Especially when characters of colour are suffering disproportionately to lighter skinned characters.

You also missed the part where Marika said that even if it were white characters, they would be uncomfortable because constantly pulling out murder as a curse is lazy writing.

All we ask is: why did the asker decide that a woman of colour must suffer to the point of repeated murder before she can be happy? Why does she have to forgive the person who did it to her? Because that is a logic born of passive racism that tells people: women of colour, especially darker skinned/Black women, can “handle anything”. And that is a lie.

~Mod Lesya

Echoing Lesya, I’m puzzled as to how you came to the conclusion that “If an author dared to write something bad or traumatic happening to a POC character, it’s immediately a poor narrative” when I explicitly said I thought this was cheap theatrics and tragedy exploitation even if both characters were white, particularly as the ask had given me no conception of the author’s motivation in using the curse as a dramatic device. In Japanese, we jokingly use the word 中二病 (Chuunibyo) or “8th grade disease” to describe edgelord phases for teens. This is a 中二病 plot device. It’s perfectly fine for niche angst addicts on ao3, but not something I would be able to take seriously in a more substantive work aimed at a larger audience. I think it is also telling that even the original asker has commented that they independent of our answer concluded this was a poor plot choice.

Finally, with respect to your question of the usage of negative tropes like the ones mentioned in this ask (Misogynoir and Bury Your Gays), I am concerned that you do not understand the motive for this blog. Our purpose is to provide instruction to those who wish to use diversity in their writing in an inclusive manner in ways that resonate with marginalized populations. We are not proposing a ban on tropes. They are tools, but like all tools, they have appropriate forms of use. Do you honestly think that many BIPOC individuals would be happy to read a story with this kind of tragedy exploitation? And how would you, as an author, factor in their impressions when writing your own works?

No one can stop a writer from pursuing the narratives they wish to pursue, but the opinions a writer is primarily concerned with says a lot about who a writer believes their work is for. Let us say I were to write a story with a gratuitous depiction of sexual assault purely for the shock value, despite never having experienced sexual assault myself? How might survivors of sexual assault regard both me and my work? Now imagine BIPOC individuals whose main experience with representation in media is seeing characters look like them die from the kinds of violence that are common for them to experience, and it should become clear that an author who adopts these approaches, at a bare minimum, is being exceptionally tactless. A writer who finds no issue with tragedy exploitation involving BIPOC characters is likely not a writer who cares about what the BIPOC members of their audience think, or, even worse, does not even factor BIPOC perspectives into their writing.

- Marika

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

À Terre | Poe Dameron x OC/Reader

A/N: Reader is a Resistance pilot that manages to escape capture by hijacking a ship. Injured and disoriented, they rejoin the Resistance by crash landing just outside of the base. A certain distraught squadron leader runs out to help. 

Hurt/Comfort. Gratuitous, self-serving one shot. I don’t like using “y/n” so I give the reader a generic, 1 syllable Star Wars name in the middle of this bad boy.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I’ve been daydreaming about this scene for months, so I finally decided to write it out.  There’s a little bit of a long set up, but I’m not sorry about it.

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions blood. References torture. Shellshock. Cursing. Injection (so needles)

Word count: 5,445

Masterlist

Part II

You woke up on the floor of your tent sometime in the early evening. Your memory of exactly where you had been prior was unsurprisingly inaccessible. There were so many holes in your recollection of your time on Batuu. Certain details were lost much like when a computer fails to locate stored data. It was the only way you could describe the feeling, because you felt more like a malfunctioning machine these days than anything else. 

Nearly all of your senses seemed dull and warped.

Time, smell, touch, hearing…only your eyesight really remained proficient.

There was no way to judge how long you had been asleep. They made the sessions so unpredictable that you could no longer determine the exact time of day. You only knew that at some point they would begin, and after far too long they would eventually end.

The drugs they gave made you sleep for stretches of time that varied. Depending on the cocktail administered, you could be out for a couple of hours or multiple days.

Slowly, you began to stretch and test your limbs. The familiar stiff ache in your body was still ever present. As you forced yourself to move about, your arms quickly found the limit of your restraints. They remembered to double lock the chains this time, you noticed.

You could tell that sleep wouldn’t return for you anytime soon. You would be awake until well after the sunrise and following sunset.

That gave you plenty of time to think.

You were amongst the first to volunteer for the solo mission to Batuu. They needed someone who could pilot and who spoke decent Huttese. You were only supposed to spend five days max on planet before returning back to base. You needed to talk to some smuggler rings about intelligence on a possible First Order spy network. While remaining undercover you would help them intercept a supply shipment destined for a First Order post. It was a shipment supposedly full of inner territory riches that were hard to come by all the way out at Black Spire. In turn, they would give forth what information they knew.

As someone still relatively new to the Resistance and only ranking as high as lieutenant, you would pass conveniently under the radar. Leia didn’t want to send a more experienced member and risk having their cover being blown.

An easy and simple reconnaissance mission. In and out.

You saw it as the first opportunity where you could prove yourself as more than just a sky jockey, so you jumped.

But now the five days you were meant to be on Batuu had stretched into an undefinable amount of time. You no longer knew how long you had been gone. 

From the beginning, Poe was firmly against you signing up for this mission. He was furious that Leia had even agreed to let you leave by yourself. After you volunteered in front of everyone during the meeting, he pulled you into his quarters and began chewing you out like you were back in flight school.

“I’m your CO. Did you even think of running this idea by me before opening your mouth?”

“Poe, you heard what they needed! Pilot. Can speak to the Hutts. Low profile. Who else could that be?”

He shook his head while he watched you list the criteria on your fingers.

“Don’t you see that this mission is fucked? Do I need to spell it out for you?” He gritted this out through clenched teeth, his anger coming to a rapid simmer just under the surface. He patronizingly began to count on his own hands. “One. You aren’t experienced enough to go alone. Two. The risk is too great for very little reward. Three. Our resourc-”

“Too little reward?!” You spat, effectively interrupting his lecture. “Weeding out this First Order spy network is not reason enough for you?”

“We need every one of our pilots!” Poe bellowed back at you, shoving his desk chair as he stormed away. “Are you going to look me in the goddamn eyes and insist that you don’t hear what I’m saying? If there is one hiccup and the mission goes south, Batuu is too far out. Our resources are too strapped to scrounge up a rescue. You are entirely on your own.”

Coming from him, all of those reasons seemed painfully hypocritical.

“You don’t think I can do it.” You stated it as fact, not caring anymore if your voice displayed how hurt you felt. “Just fucking say that then! You’ve gone alone countless times for missions that were far more doomed than this one. But the second someone else tries-”

Poe made a sound of frustrated disgust.

“I didn’t say that I don’t think you’re capable. That’s not what this is about, so don’t pull that childish shit with me.”

There it was, you thought. The real word that revealed how he truly felt—childish. You would always be on some lower level for him, never his equal. Never due the same respect.

It shut you down immediately. There was no talking with someone who didn't respect you.

You watched him head for the door. He angrily hit the button for it to slide open.

“I’ve said enough.” He spoke, leaning back heavily against the doorframe. “Either you listen or you don’t, but just know one thing. You leave on this mission and you’re done. I need people on my squadron who can follow orders when it counts, who know when to swallow their pride and take advice.”

“You of all people can’t be saying this.”

Poe only nodded curtly towards the exit. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re done talking. You have your orders.”

Your heated conversation over the matter still rang sharply in your ears the next morning when you flew out from the hangar.

What was happening between you and Poe was fucked up. Sleeping with your commanding officer violated just about every damn oath you ever swore. It was chaotic and messy on multiple levels, but you both clung to it with desperation and recklessness. There was just too much commonality between you - natives to Yavin IV, children of parents who fought in the Battle of Endor. You were two Rebel brats who inherited this new war against the very boogeyman your parents’ generation gave everything to defeat. History hardly remembered them and it would certainly not be any kinder to either of you. The bleakness of that shared truth took its toll. Lying pressed together in the dark was the only temporary balm either of you had. 

Now here you were, battered and growing steadily weaker as you lay on the dirt floor of a canvas tent, somewhere in the jungles of Batuu. Soon you would be forced to confront the reality that Poe had been right. It was only a matter of time before infection or some disease took you.

The thought made you bitterly angry.

This mission started off relatively well, but times were more desperate than maybe you or the others had realized in the outer rim territories. You succeeded in working out a deal with the gang identified by Resistance intelligence, but things disintegrated when the heist fell through. The attempt to overtake the freighter destined for First Order systems quickly turned ugly. A rival gang had been hired to ensure its safe passage and you didn’t have the necessary fire power to respond. In a desperate moment to save your own life and the lives of your business partners, you made the difficult call to let the freighter escape.

Terrified to return back to their syndicate boss empty handed, the gang decided to take you as a payment. They didn’t know who you worked for, but they felt that the person they currently served would be curious to find out. At least, that’s what they seemed to desperately hope for. 

Ransom money was easy business in the outer rim, and even if you weren’t of any value to the First Order, offering a young, able-bodied prisoner wasn’t a total loss.

You were shackled and transported across-planet to a remote camp out in the jungle. A hood was shoved over your head for the entire journey, but just from listening you were able to judge that they were moving you somewhere pretty far out. Your ears only detected animals and the occasional passing vehicle, which probably meant farms and maybe the occasional trading post. The hood was finally yanked off your head sometime after arrival. As soon as your eyes adjusted to the light, you tried to memorize everything. The camp was fenced off with guard spires at all four corners. You did your best to commit to memory the location of the big tent where they dragged you before their boss.

Much to your surprise, the person they answered to wasn’t a Hutt, but a human named Mar Alem. He was tall and thin with no visible body hair. You remembered thinking that he resembled a muscular baby. His smile was unnerving and it never seemed to leave his face.

You soon found out that his business was the slave trade, and with that revelation your situation suddenly became much more dangerous.

He laughed when your captors suggested that they would draw information from you to see if you were potentially of value to the First Order. 

“Why would we ever do that? They have enough cheap labor from me.” He insisted, smiling behind his glass of fire wine. “No, no, I’ll be keeping this one for my personal collection. I’ll even see to her conditioning myself.”

He wished to keep you as one of his own, and you found out very quickly what he meant by “conditioning”.

Mar Alem was a former pharmaceuticals manufacturer who became big in the Outer Rim’s slave trade after the fall of the Empire. He prided himself on providing some of the healthiest and most obedient workers on the market. That obedience came from his unique style of “conditioning”, which was just his fucked up way to say torture. His slaves were some of the healthiest because his methods involved very little physical punishment, he sought to break them through administering psychoactive drugs.

Your sessions with Mar would begin with you being hauled out of your sleeping quarters to a separate tent. Inside there was a rusted imperial interrogation chair, one that you had only ever seen in those old holovids you watched during training. The chair was underneath two large surgical lights, which were used to blind you from your surroundings. They began each time by injecting you with different substances. Spice. Nerve-agents. Psychotropics.

While under the influence, you would be asked questions or forced to recite things. The goal was to distort your reality, make you forget your own identity. If you answered incorrectly too many times, you received another dose.

You didn’t respond as well as he would have liked to the sessions. After several days you were no more “broken in” than from the very beginning.

Frustrated, Mar decided to intensify his approach, to take a more traditional direction. You became his little project, and after all, you weren’t for sale.

The beatings never touched your face, a kindness in his eyes because were a woman and they wanted to give you a chance to “preserve your looks”. After two days, they progressed past beatings to holding your head under water. By the fifth day, they were frustrated enough to move on to electric shock. Sometime during the second week, they broke one of your arms. 

Fear set in and you realized that you were going to die on this fucking planet.

Too ashamed to let yourself die on a failed mission in some remote corner on the edge of the galaxy, you plotted your escape.

The pain in your arm and the lack of food made things difficult enough, but the drugs made you hallucinate and disrupted your sleep. You would have short, fitful dreams of home, of those who knew you agreeing to accept the loss and move on. When awake, all you could think about was the guilt you felt for failing the mission coupled with the infuriating fact that Poe had been right.

But your captors left you with far too much time to think.

Whenever alone, you let your mind run through everything- considering the best you could every detail and noticeable rhythm. You knew by voice who kept guard outside, who dropped rations off to your tent, who escorted you to the sessions with Mar. You began to listen to different sounds outside, those of ground transport vehicles and the occasional ship overhead. It was rare, but once in a while you would hear small aircraft landing and taking off. It sounded to be just to the south of camp.

It took time to see your opening, but after breaking your arm, your captors slowly grew careless. There were brief windows where you were left unsupervised. You managed to swipe a set of needles from the interrogation tent. At the end of one session you mustered your strength when Mar left you on the ground and reached up on the supplies table to grab the first thing you touched. It was a pack of hypodermic needles of different widths.

The change in guards in the middle of the night became sloppy over time, leaving you an opportunity of several minutes to use the needles to pick the lock and make an escape under the cover of darkness.

Slipping out of your cell that night was relatively easy, even with just one functioning arm. The real trouble started once you reached the hangar and saw that the selection of ships was less than desirable. They only had two scrap ships to choose from, and neither of the poorly constructed hunks of junk looked promising.

You eventually chose the ship that vaguely resembled an old A-wing, completely unsure if it would even start. 

Your captors were immediately alerted of your escape once the ship’s engine came to life. You took heavy fire as you closed the cockpit’s canopy and put the vessel into motion. The take off was far from smooth, but you managed to peel out of that hangar, only realizing once you were in the air and the adrenaline began to fade that you had been grazed by blaster fire.

Your side burned white hot as you fumbled with the ship’s controls one-handedly. The smell of your seared flesh filled the cockpit, making your stomach turn. The edges of your vision grew hazy, but you forced yourself to concentrate on navigating through the planet’s atmosphere. You could only thank the force when you discovered that there was a functioning hyper drive and just enough fuel to make the jump. 

Just as you pulled into the comfort of hyperspace, you only barely succeeded in tugging the life support mask over your face before you lost consciousness.

_________

You sprung awake as the shrill alarm signaling the end of the autopilot and the ship dropping out of hyperspace blared through the cockpit. Your fuel reserves were dangerously low as you approached the outer atmosphere of D’Qar. It demanded all of your strength just to pilot the ship. The thumping pain in your head and right side dominated your thoughts when the command center’s first contact message buzzed in over your comlink. 

“Unidentified aircraft, you are entering a secured zone. State your name and purpose.”

Your voice wasn’t strong enough to respond. You only managed to produce an airy moan, which was just muffled by the life support mask. 

“Unidentified aircraft, I repeat, you are entering a secured zone. State your name and purpose or you risk being fired upon.” 

You tried to wheeze out your call sign, but nothing comprehendible came out. You let go of the control stick just long enough to begin tapping a message in binary over the comlink, but you stopped when you noticed that they didn't hear you.

“Unidentified aircraft, you have twenty seconds to respond or your ship will be brought down.” 

The warning messages continued on, unaware that you had no ability to respond. Your head bobbed around as you tried to navigate through the planet’s atmosphere. The low fuel alarm buzzed loudly as your pathetic excuse for a ship violently rattled.  

You desperately tried to send out a distress signal, but your blurred view of the control panel only complicated things. Your one good arm struggled to keep control of the ship as you prepared to land. You were coming in much too fast and you knew it. 

Hoping to land somewhere just behind the base’s underground hangar, you guided the ship the best you could towards a small opening in the trees. Your safest bet at that point was to graze a few smaller objects on the way down in hopes that it would break up the force of impact. 

A screaming alarm alerted you of incoming laser fire. 

In a last ditch effort, you felt down underneath the pilot’s seat for an ejector switch. You closed your eyes as you gave one desperate tug to the metal tab, but your heart dropped into your stomach when you remained firmly seated inside the cockpit. 

Of course it’s fucking defective. 

The ship went nearly sideways as the right wing took the brunt of the hit. You quickly took hold of the control stick once more. It was all you could do to keep from going into a spin as you sailed downward toward the edge of the clearing. The first tree limbs grazed by the ship hardly made much noise at all. Things moved in slow motion as you desperately tried to balance out with the horizon line, wanting nothing more than to land on the belly of the ship.  

The real impact came quickly after, though. Everything began to move at a chaotic speed as a series of deafening and rapid cracks filled your ears. The scene through the glass canopy is a blur as you cut through what must have been dozens of trees. Your hand had no choice but to release the control stick.

You firmly closed your eyes as you rode out the crash. The straps of the harness were what graciously kept you from turning into a loose rock rattling around inside of a metal can. 

The light began to fade. Everything went black. 

________

The stillness was the first thing you noticed upon waking. The stillness was quickly followed by the painfully tight weight pressing against your chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe or move. 

You struggled to open your eyes. It was impossible to know how long you had been out, but you saw that there was still daylight as you stared at the mangled trees outside. The inside of your cockpit was surprisingly intact, though the ship was tilted at a slight angle. It was far from being a textbook emergency landing, but you would gladly take being alive. 

Your head throbbed as you slowly tried to take stock of your body. The only part of you that you were brave enough to try moving was your right arm. 

You startled slightly at the sound of distant shouting.

People were quickly approaching the crash site. It was impossible to count how many voices, though one in particular was louder than all of the others. 

You tried to make out the words, but your concentration was clouded by fear and the drilling pain in your chest and head. 

The voice was maybe familiar, you realized, even if you couldn’t quite understand. 

Some unintelligible command was shouted at you before a figure suddenly appeared. You immediately registered the blaster rifle they had trained in your direction. 

There were rushed footsteps before something knocked sharply against the body of the ship. You tried to smooth your shallow and ragged breathing as they came up along the side.

Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared. Fear slows the mind and won’t let you think. 

It was unsure who recognized who first, but Poe’s figure went stiff when he realized who was stuck inside the cockpit. 

You saw his lips move before he jumped into action. He left his blaster on the ground before he clambered up onto the wing of the ship. He was suddenly down on his knees working to get the hatch of the canopy open. You watched as he turned to scream over his shoulder for medtechs. 

Even though he was outside of the cockpit, the volume of his voice stung sharply in your ears and reverberated inside your head. You didn’t know how he managed to pop open the canopy from his side, but in the time it took for you to blink he was somehow down in the small space of the cockpit with you.

He began talking. Too much and too quickly.

It was the first set of words that you actually understood.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Why didn't you respond to the tower? They didn’t have a choice but to shoot you down!”

"Hol!"

You watched his lips move but it took you several moments to process that he was calling your name. Not your call sign, rank, or number, but your real name. For maybe the first time in your life, the sound was unfamiliar to you. It made you wonder for how long you had actually been gone.

His attention rapidly switched from his anger with you towards the gravity of your condition. The abruptness of the transition felt like having the rug pulled out from underneath your feet.

Your eyes finally managed to focus on his face. It was a surprise when you made out that he was in fact inches from you. Things were bad. That much you could see in his expression. He cursed under his breath as he looked you over, cataloging what he could of the damage.

“Fuck, baby…”

His hands began to gently check over your body, trying to get a feel for where the bleeding was coming from. All of his movements were rushed. His fingers went to press against the pulse point in your neck, but he continued to read your face as he took a moment to count the beats in his head. 

“Why didn’t you just eject?” He repeated, though no longer with the same bite. His voice was strained, you realized, struggling under the weight of the worry and grief that you caused him. 

“You didn’t follow a single procedure. You didn’t even-”

The lecture was suddenly abandoned as he turned awad to stand and pop his head out of the cockpit. He screamed for medtechs once more. You were someone who was very used to Poe shouting orders, but you had never quite heard him like this. There was normally a general sense of urgency in his voice, even when he was off duty, but this was so different. The intensity of the sound made your eyes screw shut. 

Just as he began to stoop down back into the cockpit, he paused when your trembling hand blindly reached for him, desperate to grab a hold of anything. You needed his attention. You needed to make him understand. 

“Poe…” 

Your voice had no real weight or power. It was a struggle to gather the necessary air just for that one word. The oxygen flow coming from the life support system had gone thin. You knew that most of the reserves were probably lost during the crash. 

His hand gripped yours as he squatted down once more in the cramped space. He must have been half-sitting on the control panel, you imagined. 

“Okay, it’s okay, I’m right here-” He started to reassure you, but his brow creased in confusion when you tugged your hand free and began pointing to just below your seat. 

“S’broken.” You managed to choke out through the respirator mask. The consequence of your effort was a painful cough that ripped through your chest and brought blood into your mouth. You were afraid that your voice was too faint to be decipherable. You began to worry that you would have to try and say it again, but his eyes finally followed to where your good hand was pointing. 

His mouth formed a tight line as he took in the faulty dead man’s switch. Understanding finally flashed across his features. He quickly turned away to look over his shoulder at the control panel. Soft curses left him as he took note of everything: the empty fuel tank, the error message for the comlink system, the low oxygen reserves, broken ejector switch. 

“Maker…”

He shook his head in disbelief as comprehension of your situation began to set in.. 

You began to wonder if you were imagining being there with him. Maybe you didn’t really survive that crash. Maybe this was some hallucination you were having while hovering between life and death. Tears pricked your eyes, a stinging sensation developed in the back of your throat.

“Need you to talk to me, Hol.” His voice went strangely soft as he regripped your hand, commanding your attention once more. “Can you tell me what hurts?”

You tried to say something through the mask, but it only came out as a rasp. You struggled to keep your head up. The safety harness fastened over your chest had gone crushingly tight, effectively knocking all of the air out of your lungs when you botched the landing. 

Poe instantly saw the problem.

 “All right, it’s okay, nevermind.” He was quick to tell you. His eyes fell to search for the release mechanism. “You know what, sunshine? New plan. You’re going to let me do all the talking while I get you out of this thing. How’s that? Just sit tight while I yap.” 

You nodded your head vaguely as you began to blindly search with one trembling hand for the release button along your lap belt. The tremors made your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, your fingers failed to wrap around anything. 

“Hey, hey, hey-Tarmin, stop!” 

The moment Poe found himself battling against you for access to the buckle he snatched your hand. His grip was firm, causing you to regain focus. 

 “Stay still. Let me take care of this.”

It’s the voice he used when issuing an order, you realized. There was no anger, but the tone was stern in a way that instantly snapped through your cloud of panic and unease.

You let him place your hand down at your side. A soft click came down by your waist as the straps cutting into your chest and hips finally went slack. Your body slumped forward in the seat as Poe slipped the harness down from your shoulders. You coughed at the release of pressure, your face twisting up as you realized the restraints did a number on your ribs during the crash. Poe was there to catch your weight, letting your head settle onto his collar bone.

“Easy, I’ve got you.” He murmured. His hand braced the back of your head, fingers tangling easily into your hair. Gently as he could, he eased you back against the pilot’s seat. “Listen, can you hear that?” He continued slowly, lips brushing against your temple as he spoke. “Med crew is here now. You stay with me, okay? We’re going to get you to the medbay.”

It was true what he said, you realized. Over the sound of your ragged breathing you could hear people shouting outside. Every inhalation hurt. You recognized that he continued to talk to you, but the words stopped registering in your mind. Inhaling and exhaling demanded all of your concentration. The cockpit’s life support wasn’t giving off much air anymore.

A young med tech appeared up on the wing, dropping his large bag down just outside the cockpit with a heavy thud.

“Really need a respirator here!” Poe yelled over his shoulder.

“It’s coming, Commander. Did you get a name?” A new voice entered into the confined space with you.

“Lieutenant Hol Tarmin. One of ours. Black Squadron.” Poe fired back. 

You didn’t miss the subtle message he passed  along through that last piece of information. One of mine. So do your fucking job. 

He was already going for the black mask around your face. You started coughing the second the device was pulled away. He grimaced when he noticed the blood coating the inside of your mouth. Panic began to creep in again as it suddenly became difficult to breathe. You sputtered slightly, your good hand nervously started to fidget, blindly reaching for anything to use as an anchor.

“Hey, I know, I know. Just need to get this off for a second.” Poe stilled you once more with a firm grip on your hand, quickly shaking his head. “Work with me, babe, c’mon.”

The medtech was now on his stomach, half hanging into the cockpit just so he could reach you. He handed over a small box with some tubes, which Poe promptly took from him. He fumbled with the respirator mask momentarily before bringing it to your face.  

“It’s okay, this is going to help.” Poe assured as he was tugging the elastic around your head. You immediately noticed a difference as pure oxygen began to steadily flow through.

“Breathe as deep and slow as you can, Lieutenant. Don’t force anything if it hurts.” The medtech advised as he slowly ran a bioscanner over your body.

You winced when the blinding blue light reached your eyes. The medtech shook his head while he read over the results on his data pad. He turned to some colleague nearby and gave some orders before turning back to look at Poe. “We need to move her out of here as quickly as possible. The medbay is already on standby. This stimpack is going to keep her vitals stable enough for transport.”

You noticed a pen shaped object in his hand. He easily flicked off the cap to reveal a thick syringe needle.

Before you knew what was happening, Poe’s hand went to your shoulder, bracing you against the back of the seat. 

“C’mon, Tarmin, eyes on me.” He ordered. 

You obeyed the command, slowly lifting your gaze enough to meet his stare. His other hand gripped your knee. A nervous, unspoken question rose in your throat when he pushed down with his weight to hold your leg in place. 

You prepared yourself for the pinch of the injection, but your body went rigid the moment a stabbing sensation tore through your thigh. Your teeth ground together as you tried to breathe through the pain. You faintly registered the medtech counting the seconds the needle was inside your muscle tissue. 

“Breathe, it’s almost over.” Poe whispered, his lips briefly brushed against your clammy forehead. You realized that he must have his own personal experience with stimpacks.

After what felt like the longest ten seconds of your life, the medtech pulled the syringe away. Poe immediately released his grip. You looked down to see his hands working to massage your thigh muscle, helping the substance spread through your body quicker. 

“Truck is here!” A new voice shouted from outside.

The two went back and forth about how they’re going to move you. Poe explained to the medtech that he found blaster wounds in your right side, that your arm was broken, and then something about your right leg. A vague numbness took over your body not long after. It became a little easier to focus on their words.

Poe gently took your good arm and wrapped it around his neck. “Need you to hang on to me.” He mumbled as he worked an arm around your back. “You let me do all the work, okay? Just don’t let go.”

He drew you up out of the pilot’s seat, holding you briefly against him as he maneuvered around the tight space. Your head felt like it was detached from your body and being tossed around in the sea, but you tried to focus on breathing through the dizziness.

“Good, Hol. Stay with me.” You heard him murmur as he shifted your weight.

Hands from above grabbed onto your flight suit. You were suddenly being jerked upward.

“Hey! Easy with her!” Poe barked from behind.

Light assaulted your eyes the moment you were extracted. Just as they maneuvered you down onto a gurney, you felt something split in your chest. Your body flinched as it felt like something gave way inside you. Your vision went cloudy white. The pain in your chest was sharply hot, like being stabbed with light. You couldn’t really inhale or exhale.

People were yelling. The gurney began to rapidly move. The sky passed in a blur overhead as someone shouted something about a punctured lung.

You slipped under.

[wttcsms]

♡ | forever golden [I]

PAIRING tooru oikawa x f!reader WORD COUNT 1.7k

SYNOPSIS everything is going fine: you just graduated with your first degree, you get to work alongside your older brother for the 2021 olympics, and you think now might be the perfect time to finally jumpstart your dating life (atsumu miya certainly seems cute…).

there’s no time for you to think about torn acls, shattered dreams, and the fact that this was never your original goal in life. and there’s certainly no time for you to worry about tooru oikawa, the boy who practically grew up in your house now turned into the man who poses as your team’s fiercest competitor. you definitely don’t have the free time to remember how he’s the first boy who ever had (and subsequently broke) your heart. or that the two of you went from practically joined at the hip to total strangers for the past four years. you don’t even bother wondering why he suddenly wants to repair the broken bond between you two, and you totally don’t give in to him (except for the times that you do… which is almost all the time).

yeah. everything is going fine.

SERIES MASTERLIST 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there? You’re sure you’re keeping any activities—”

“Mom, just like the last ten times I told you, I’m fine.” You’ve got your phone tucked in the space between your elevated shoulder and pressed against your ear, mentally preparing yourself for the act of squatting down to pick up a box.

“Mhm, yeah, I bet you are. Don’t tell me you’re about to force yourself to pick up something off the ground whenever I specifically told you to just let Hajime handle it.”

You pause. Damn, she’s good.

“Mom, can’t we talk at another time? I’m reeeeally busy.”

“Oh? Too busy not listening to your poor mother? What did Dr. Ennoshita say?”

“He said—”

“— ’listen to your mom’ .” You both say.

You should have known Ennoshita was nothing more than a dirty traitor. A good physical therapist, sure, but a traitor nonetheless. And a kiss up. It’s no wonder why your mom just loves to tag along any chance she gets. The urge to kick him in his shins gets overwhelming sometimes, but you’re nice enough to consider using your bad leg to do so.

Right — you’re not supposed to call it your “bad leg”. Something about how it’s mentally damaging to your recovery process. But if it’s not your bad leg, then what exactly is it? How do you describe the reason for all your dreams being flushed down into the sewer as anything but bad?

“Hajime is a big boy.” Your mother is still speaking, and you force yourself to focus on her words and not the heavy box that seems to taunt you as the seconds go by. “And you barely brought anything with you in the first place. Are you about to go shopping? Is that it? Remember, you need to spend your money wisely…”

Forty-eight minutes, one over-the-phone lecture, and only two times you made a face as you purposely strained yourself (and consequently, The Leg That Shall Not Be Named) later, and you could finally take a break.

“I told you that you didn’t need to help.” Hajime frowns, nodding to your elevated leg.

“And I thought I told you to shut the hell up and that you’re not the boss of me.” You turn to face him, letting your body sink even deeper into the couch. You’re only joking, and judging by the irritated look he gives you, he knows it.

“Don’t be an idiot.” He grumbles, leaning forward to adjust the throw pillow you’ve got your foot on. “I only told you to take a rest because you’re gonna have your work cut out for you chasing after the rest of the other idiots.”

“The other idiots” being Japan’s Men’s Olympic Volleyball team.

As far as jobs after graduation go, being able to start off your career as one of the assistant athletic trainers for the fucking Olympics is a pretty decent gig to you. Amazing, even. Whenever Hajime first told you that he might be able to pull some strings and give you a recommendation, you nearly knocked him over with the force of your gratuitous hug. Whenever you made it past the interviews, background checks, and practice sessions, he was there to support you and keep you pushing. And whenever you got the official email, the first person you had screamed the good news out to had been him. (Your parents count as well, considering that they were only several feet away from you while you were yelling over the phone, but the intent had always been for Hajime to be the first to hear the good news. It’s the thought that counts.)

And you are happy. Thankful for your older brother, too. And of course, you’re excited for an opportunity your other classmates couldn’t even dream of having. The only tiny — very small, practically minuscule — problem is the fact that this was never your plan for your future. Never your goal. Certainly has never even made it at the top of your list of dreams.

It doesn’t matter what your original game plans for your future were anyway. Not anymore, at least. Not after you chasing your dreams happens to be the one reason why you had to give them up in the end.

“The first week is gonna be the easiest.” Hajime tells you, grabbing the remote off the living room table. “Just getting to know the players, reviewing their physical stats with a series of tests, stuff like that. Afterward, we can work together to come up with a solid plan for both the team and the individual players.”

“Sounds boring, Haji. I thought I was being paid to check out hot athletes getting all worked up and sweaty five days a week.”

He rolls his eyes at that. The first thing you ever asked him whenever you saw the official roster was “is being hot one of the requirements to be considered for an invitation to join?”.

You were joking, of course.

For the most part.

“Don’t tell me I have to keep an eye on you, too.”

“Of course not! As a matter of fact, don’t even worry about half of the team. As your assistant, I will take my duties very seriously, and if keeping a close eye on these very strong, very tall, wealthy, successful, hot men is in my list of responsibilities, I can personally guarantee you that—”

Hajime’s phone ringing interrupts you, which he considers a tiny victory. The last thing any older brother wants to hear is whatever bullshit you were about to spout out.

He brightens at whoever is calling him, getting up to answer it in a different room which has you raising an eyebrow. Potential girlfriend, maybe? Hajime doesn’t really date, but you highly doubt he would tell you until anything is official. Maybe it’s one of the physical trainers he’s networked with over the past years? Whoever it is is none of your business, though, so you settle for turning on the TV while you wait for him to come back.

You recognize the sports announcer who greets you on the screen. Leave it to Hajime to always have the sports channel on. The only thing that stops you from changing the channel is the fact that it seems like they’re about to start discussing the Olympics.

“The 2021 Olympics is fast approaching. Just last month, we were all given access to the official roster for many of the athletes who will be representing Japan, but other countries have also recently released their own official statements declaring who will be representing their respective countries. One that has caught the attention of many of our own citizens is Tooru Oikawa. Many around the world have heard this name before, but others also know him by the title of ‘The Great King’.”

Accompanying the announcer’s commentary is a headshot of Tooru Oikawa himself. He’s got the Argentina flag draped over his shoulders, a smirk that makes it seem like he knows something you don’t, and he’s even got the most ridiculous golden crown resting crookedly atop his head — probably dedicated to the equally ridiculous nickname people have been referring to him as.

There are probably millions of people who know the name Tooru Oikawa, maybe even more who know him by his stupid moniker of “The Great King”, but the fame and the titles that come with it don’t really matter to you; they don’t really change who he is — was — to you.

He’s always going to be Shittykawa, that damn brat, or the boy down the street to you. In your memories, it’s all you can ever really remember him being. Granted, two out of three of the possible ways to refer to him come from older brother dearest, and the only people privy to these titles are the ones who knew him well before anyone else did. If you like the feeling of being punched in the gut in an emotional sense, then you can even allow yourself to remember him as your best friend, Prince Charming, or Tooru. Just Tooru. Tooru with the sweet smiles and sweeter tooth and cologne that his mom picks out for him. Tooru, the boy you wrote about in your diary when you were thirteen, so sure that you were going to marry him.

But, it’s like you told yourself — you don’t think about that Tooru unless you’re feeling extra sadistic.

Shooting a look at your elevated leg, focusing right on the scar that came as a result of your second surgery, you remind yourself that you’ve got enough pain to last you a lifetime. There’s no reason to add another generous serving of suffering on top of what you’re already going through.

The announcer continues to prattle on and on about Oikawa’s history, even going as far back to his middle school days, and you can’t help but feel the need to change the channel or even turn the TV off. If the editors keep flashing photos of Oikawa on the screen, you even debate throwing something at it, but that would be admitting that Oikawa still gets under your skin to this day. Which he doesn’t.

For whatever reason, though, (probably the fact that you’ve never had a very strong sense of self-preservation) you don’t switch the channel. You don’t turn the TV off. You don’t even want to throw a heavy object at the screen, even though you have enough in your savings to pay Hajime back for the damages.

The first question you have is why the fuck does this announcer keep talking about him despite the fact that there are perfectly other good volleyball players to talk about other than him? The second question, the more pressing question, is who the fuck is the girl sitting on his lap?  The image that they flash on the screen looks like a screenshot from his teammate's Instagram story. Probably from a video, too, if the blur is any indicator.

Not that you're, like, analyzing it that seriously. Not like you even care.

The image stays up for a few more seconds.

You really should’ve just thrown something at the TV.

> author’s notes more of a prologue of sorts? chapters really shouldn't be as short, but i just wanted to sort of establish the setting, give everyone a feel for y/n's personality, allude to y/n's backstory, stuff like that. moving on, things should be flowing a bit better; it'll def get more interesting as the pace picks up & of course, details like what happened to reader and the history between reader/oikawa will be done!!!! i was just really excited to get this out n posted, esp since my semester is almost over & i know this may be one of my last chances to write freely before i worry abt my next semester n two internships bahahahahaha. pls let me know what u think, i live off of attention <33333 ALSO: do y’all want the next part posted today or wait until tomorrow??? muhahahaha

> taglist @qualitygiantshoepsychic​ @mothfriendsandfamily​ @what-a-bratt​ @khwohsahnt​