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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

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El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won��t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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fatehbaz · 4 years ago

Text

This was how the initial TEAM coalition was built among the Muscogee (Creek), Chickasaw, Seminole, Osage, Citizen Potawatomi, Eastern Shawnee, and Miami tribal nations. [...]

TEAM, now known as the Tribal Alliance for Pollinators, or TAP, is now a well-oiled [...] machine. [...] According to the TAP website, the tribal coalition is responsible for planting 50,000 milkweeds and 30,000 native wildflowers, which stand in addition to the 142 seed types the collective now has stored at a seed bank at the Euchee Butterfly Farm.

TAP began with a handful of people deciding that tribal nations could, and should, step into the void the federal and state governments had left on monarch conservation. Now it’s looking like it could be a model for conservation efforts far beyond a single species. [...] What TAP has managed to do, in just a few short years, is alter how tribal nations in Oklahoma view the lands they maintain control over.

Tribal nations like the Eastern Shawnee have since published their plans for pollinator restoration programs. The Chickasaw Nation has created as efficient a milkweed planting program as exists in the nation. [...]

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Every winter, monarch butterflies across the northern corners of the continent fly south to the mountains of central Mexico. The migration pattern -- which, for some, stretches over 3,000 miles -- is a natural wonder, not replicated by any other butterfly in the world. Nobody knows how the monarchs’ homing system works; the butterflies that return to Mexico are often the great-grandchildren of those who made the trip the year before. Many of the winged creatures fly through Iowa, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas before plunging through Mexico. And, as has now been widely reported, many are dying before they can complete the full trip. [...]

Monarchs cover the vegetation of their Mexican winter territory so densely that it’s easier to count them by area than insect-by-insect. Last week [February 2021], researchers in Mexico announced that the winter monarch population had dropped by 25 percent between 2019 and 2020, declining from 2.6 hectares to 2.1 hectares. In 2018, the monarchs covered 6.1 hectares. In the 1990s, they regularly covered 20 hectares. Something is going very wrong.

The issue, which he has documented extensively on Monarch Watch’s blog and acknowledged in our conversation as being “pretty complex,” is basically about food. Monarch butterflies have, for centuries, relied on milkweed and nectar plants -- in Oklahoma and Kansas, this includes sunflowers, ironweed, coneflower, and a host of others -- to fuel their journey up and down the continent. With no milkweed or nectar-rich options to restore their fat reserves, monarchs can’t fly -- and if they can’t fly, they can’t migrate or serve their role as pollinators. But landowners often see milkweed as an annoying weed and remove it using herbicide.

There is also the issue of reduction via overgrazing on cattle lands -- which is a problem given that the butterflies’ traditional path takes them through Oklahoma and Texas, two states that lead the nation both in terms of beef production and cattle population.

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For those who have been observing and researching the monarchs for decades, like Dr. Chip Taylor, head of Monarch Watch at the University of Kansas, the numbers are troubling but not surprising. Taylor, who has been studying pollinators since 1969 and monarchs in particular since he started Monarch Watch in 1992, nearly predicted this year’s drop on the nose [...]. Breckinridge sent Taylor an email, asking for his help in creating a monarch migration trail through tribal lands in Oklahoma. Taylor agreed to lend a hand, but he warned Breckinridge that a “capacity issue” might arise. “He said, ‘You don’t have the milkweed seed resources, you don’t have the nectar plant seed resources, you don’t have any of that locally sourced. And that’s how we do restoration work. You don’t have greenhouses or hoop houses that are willing to grow the seeds out in organic, pesticide-free environments. [...]’“

Breckenridge, undaunted, joined with Taylor to found Tribal Environmental Action for Monarchs, or TEAM. The idea was to create a coalition among the tribal nations along the migratory path, which required a hefty organizing plan. [...] A few months later, that same consultant introduced Breckinridge to Dr. Carol Crouch, a Salish Kootenai citizen and Oklahoma’s state-tribal liaison for the USDA’s National Resources Conservation Service. [...] Along with her husband and her mother, Breckinridge spent three years driving across the state with Taylor, visiting any and all tribal communities that would have her. Crouch’s support offered the legitimacy she needed to get TEAM’s foot in the door. And on those trips, Taylor helped Breckinridge see the scope of the man-made problem. [...]

Bermuda grass as far as the eye could see. Entire ranges grazed down to the nub. Lawn after lawn of nonnative grasses, the product of over-normalized herbicide treatments. The casual but vast destruction of the monarch habitat was impossible to unsee, and it fueled Breckinridge’s sense of urgency. By the end of that initial outreach phase, she had put over 30,000 miles on her car. [...]

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When it came to building that coalition, the Euchee farm’s central location in the state -- “two hours away from everything,” Breckenridge said -- helped. “For instance, maybe the Citizen Potawatomi Nation can’t get an expert on organic pest management and greenhouses to come in and speak to them,” Breckinridge said. “But if TAP contacts the university and says, ‘We’re going to have 20 different tribes there, it’s going to be 40 people, can you come in and present and provide guidance on these issues?’ we can get all sorts of really interesting people participating.” [...]

As Breckinridge noted in our conversation, the message she heard from environmentalists and conservationists while living in the Twin Cities was almost entirely focused on leaving land and resources wild and untouched. But that is not how the land was prior to colonization, when Indigenous nations and communities across the country actively managed and stewarded their natural relatives. “Being a Native person, land is not something separate,” Breckinridge said. “We live here, we’re a part of it.”

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Headline, images, captions, and text published by: Nick Martin. “The Tribal Coalition Fighting to Save Monarch Butterflies.” New Republic. 4 March 2021.

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bangtae-sohotddaeng · 4 years ago

Text

we’ll be counting stars | k.th. | 4

(^ gif cred: ON THE VOYAGE | pinterest)

pairing: idol!Taehyung x publisher!Reader

rating: nc-17 (for language and themes)

summary: You’d sworn off love and relationships forever. You were here to do your job - work with the biggest boyband of the world. Not forge friendships and...and whatever it was that you and Taehyung were building up with these sneaky glances. It was, to be very fair, your Chief Editor’s fault that you’d landed in this mess. Maybe you should quit your job? Maybe you should quit life -

Oh, he was staring again, and did he freaking lick his lips?

warnings: swearing (reader’s got a potty mouth) + this is set like 5 years in the future + reader has emotional issues, she's a relationship phobe + mentions of weed

genre: so much ANGST ugh + fluff + comedy + some crack

words: 4.6 k

note: hey, y'all. i know i've been awol and i'm really sorry about it, but, well - first i went back to uni for a while and got busy with my classes and my boyfriend. but this lasted for, like, barely three weeks, and then i came back home and got covid. yep, i finally got unlucky. my parents got it, too, after me, and the three of us had been home quarantined and getting treated for the past month or so. we're in better health now, though, so i'm getting back into writing. here's hoping i pick up speed super quick! 💜

< prev | next >

series masterlist

gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

Your first week of heading this project with all its roadblocks and exhaustion, as it turned out, had merely been a taste of what was to come.

Your Wednesday at work began on a positive note, though.

Towards the middle of the day, your phone rang, making both you and Jungkook jump.

Cursing, you pursed your lips at Jungkook apologetically, and fished the device out. He nodded at you with a chuckle.

Looking at your phone screen, you realised this was a call you'd been waiting for.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m calling to inform you that we’re done.”

Your eyebrows immediately hiked up your forehead. “Wow, really? That’s great news!”

“Yeah, the cleaners will be in tomorrow morning. You can move in by tomorrow evening.”

You actually grinned. “That’s such fantastic news! Thank you so much, Mister Lin. I’ll initiate your payment later, today.”

“Anytime, ma’am. Thank you.”

You disconnected the call with a happy sigh. Jungkook squinted at you. “That sounded like a fun conversation.”

You nodded, smiling. “Our team is moving into an apartment, tomorrow.”

“Wow! You’ve been in the hotel for what, ten days now? Must feel nice!” Jungkook’s eyes sparkled.

You nodded with a sigh, shutting your eyes in relief. “Oh, yes. We’d made reservations at the hotel for fifteen days. We had to move into the apartments within this week. This feels so amazing. I’ll finally be able to prepare my own food.”

Jungkook giggled at that, scrunching his nose up. “Where’s the apartment? Hope it isn't too far.”

“Oh, no, it’s a few blocks away from here. Which is why we had to book a hotel in the first place. We needed two four-bedroom apartments on the same floor, in this specific radius, in three days.” You paused to laugh when Jungkook’s jaw dropped with a gasp. “It was a very hard find. But our agent was sharp, he did a great job.” You clapped your hands together. “I cannot wait to check out of the damn hotel.”

Jungkook nodded in understanding. “Hotels are hard. It could be a seven star luxurious penthouse, but you’d still wanna run away from it after a while.”

He seemed to be speaking from his personal experience, but running away from a seven star luxurious penthouse? You couldn’t relate. You hated your hotel because the curtains weren’t dark enough and the mattress was stiff and you couldn’t afford getting any of them changed. You also hated having to order Chinese every single day, but you also knew you’d be emptying your bank account if you got anything else.

None of this would trouble someone living in a seven star’s penthouse. But you didn’t want to make Jungkook uncomfortable by stating any of this when he was just trying to be a bit compassionate and empathetic.

“Food doesn’t bother me that much, though,” Jungkook continued after a thoughtful pause. “We’re usually either on diets or order takeout. I personally hate the mattresses.”

“Oh yes,” you sighed deeply, the kink in your upper back in absolute agreement. “I’m not really a fan of sleeping anywhere other than my mattress back at home, but hotel beds are the worst of it.”

Jungkook chuckled, nodding. “I completely understand. You remember that story I told you about lugging my beddings over to our dorm when we first moved into one?”

You nodded with a laugh. “Oh, yes. The rest of the boys were getting new mattresses, and you were busy dragging your mattress from your parents’ house. It may sound hilarious, but it’s actually very relatable.”

Jungkook looked a bit bashful as he nodded. “You know, when we first started preparing for our first tour, I had a half a mind to take it with me.”

You barked out a loud laugh at that, the mental image of Jungkook dragging a seven by four piece of bedding around and stuffing it into trailers. He laughed, too.

“Yeah, it was funny and really stupid. Half the time we didn’t even get to sleep in the bed we had taken with us, but whenever we did, I was nodding off the second my head hit the pillow.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkled as he went down the memory lane. “That one was nothing in comparison to the tours we go on now, but it was our first ever experience so it was still pretty difficult adjusting, Tour schedule is a different level of hectic, you know? You don’t have time to eat, you don’t have time to sleep. Just rehearsals and fittings and sound checks. I would fall asleep in makeup chairs,” he confessed with a chuckle, shaking his head fondly, “and when noona would wake me up, I would recall how I wanted to bring my mattress here. Such naivete.”

You smiled, nodding along. You hadn’t yet gotten to the tour discussion yet, as it was planned out for the third month of your blueprint, so all of this was brand new to you. But, at this moment you didn’t want to bring up plans and blueprints. Jungkook was compassionately being candid with you. You were becoming friends, beyond your professional boundaries.

Sighing, you decided to impart something personal, too. “When I moved to the States and got into this company, I rented the apartment with an old friend who was already living there. And it wasn’t my first time living in a house away from my parents. I’d been a university student, lived in dorms then rented apartments, both solo and shared.” Jungkook looked at you pensively, nodding with a little furrow in his eyebrows. “But when I got to this apartment, got all this brilliant furniture set up, all new and fresh, I couldn’t sleep. I missed my home.” Jungkook’s eyes softened, lips pressing down into an understanding smile. “Not the dorm, not the studio I’d been renting—I missed my childhood bed.” You exhaled, recalling all your sleepless nights. “There's this connection you build with the place you call home. I’m sure you must have started to feel this way about your dorms as time went on.”

Jungkook softly smiled, nodding as he looked into space. “Very correct. Tour life made me realise this exact fact.”

You both sat in a few minutes’ quiet, basking in the nostalgic atmosphere you’d built around you.

Then Jungkook grinned at you. “Now you’ll get to experience real Seoul life.”

You laughed. “Oh, yes. And I honestly can’t wait for it. The local markets, the grocery stores, everything. Everything here is very unlike home.”

“I’m sure you’ll love it!” Jungkook exclaimed, wiggling his eyebrows smugly.

You went back to work soon after, with Jungkook tossing in questions about your move and suggestions about what all you should do in the city, every now and then.

It was a good, productive, joyous day. You were hardly even tired when you got back to your hotel to spend your last night on that stiff ass mattress.

Thursday had started off pretty much the same, except for you guys taking a slightly early departure to spare some extra time to set your new place up after your belongings were moved.

By late night, you were all settled in two, pleasant, well-furnished, well ventilated four-bedroom apartments, next to each other. Your housemates consisted of Sana and Simon. Needless to say, you weren’t a fan. But you needed a room to build the office in and you preferred it to be under the same roof as your bedroom because you tended to work odd hours when you couldn’t sleep. Simon and Sana volunteered to share the apartment with the office and you, so you didn't exactly have room for complaint.

From getting the apartment cleaned one last time to accept you all, to ensuring none of you had left anything significant behind in your hotel rooms—you didn’t trust the hotel staff enough to not misuse it if they found anything related to BTS in one of your rooms—you had been the one that took care of it all. It was kinda on you, because you didn’t trust anyone from your team to do the latter responsibly. So, quite naturally, you were dead on your feet by the time you got into your soft as a cloud beddings at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning. Sleep pulled you in the seconds you rugged your covers up.

You were very dead on your feet when you got to the BTS dorm, five hours after you’d gotten into bed. You hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in your system for more than a few weeks, now, but man did you have a hangover.

So it goes without saying that when you bumped into someone on your way to Jungkook’s studio, your eyes were half shut. You wouldn’t have thought much of it and might have slinked away with a mumbled apology, if not for the familiar voice than greeted you.

“Good morning. Looks like you had a rough night?”

You blinked, miles away from sleep within a second when your eyes met a familiar pair of brown ones. Taehyung was dressed in the routine BTS loungewear that consisted of a pastel t-shirt that was one too many sizes bigger on him and dark sweatpants that covered his feet. His hair was the usual black and curly, mostly pulled away from his forehead with a few tendrils dangling over his brows.

Your interaction with him had been meagre throughout this week, only consisting of respectful nods of greetings and waves of goodbyes. You’d meant to ask him how Simon was doing and how he felt about his ideas being taken now, after you’d had a talk with Simon about it. But you didn’t know what you would do if he said he was hating how things were and wanted you to do something about it. So you had kept your mouth shut and watched from the sidelines as you tried to gauge Taehyung’s inner feelings by his facial expressions.

He was an extremely closed off guy, never really letting his face show what he was truly feeling. But sometimes you would catch him looking into space as if he was zoning out of his conversation with Simon. Now, he could very well be thinking deeply about something Simon said—you really couldn’t be sure with the guy. But it had you worried, nevertheless.

God. Why did Simon have to pick out Taehyung’s name?

By the time you realised you’d been staring at him for too long, he had realized it too. “Anything wrong with my… hair?” he innocently questioned, threading his fingers through the front of it.

“No!” you yelped, making him flinch. “I mean, no, it’s not that. I, um. We were moving into our apartments last night and it got kinda late. My brain’s processing things a bit slow, today.”

Taehyung chuckled at that, nodding with his teeth on display. “It’s okay. Congratulations on the move. Hotels suck.”

You sighed. “Tell me about it.”

Awkward silence hung over the two of you as you looked at the floor, at your feet, at his feet, tried to discern if his pants were very dark gray or blue, cleared your throat, scratched your ear, met his shifty eyes again—

“How…how is working with Jungkook?”

His question caught you off-guard. You looked at him in surprise. “Uh…it’s, um. It’s good. Very comfortable, very productive. It’s great, actually.”

Taehyung nodded, pursing his lips as he looked down again. “Simon has been a better listener this week. Did you talk to him?”

A weight was lifted off your shoulders on hearing that. You grinned at him with all your teeth. “Really? That is really good to know. Comforting, even. I did talk to him, yes.”

Taehyung looked into your eyes as his lips spread into a slow, soft smile. “Thank you so much for doing this for me. I thought you would think I was stupid for demanding so much, but…” He shrugged his shoulder, one corner of his lips ticking farther up his cheek. “You made it work. I feel so much better now.”

You exhaled, willing your heart to not beat so fast. It was your job to ensure they were all comfortable, this was part of what you were getting paid for. But somehow, the way Taehyung seemed to have taken it so personally made you not wanna mention the fact in the moment.

Also, he didn’t know how this wouldn’t last. You’d been giving Simon tips to handle himself professionally around Taehyung, literally every single day. It kept the wheel running, but it was tiring both of you out, immensely. Simon was out of his element and you were getting slowly overwhelmed and under-rest due to the amount of responsibilities piling on for you. You were determined to talk this out with your boss, this Sunday, and find a way out before you broke.

Right now, though, you gave Taehyung a bashful smile. “I wanted you to be comfortable and feel good about working on this project, Tae. I am constantly working out plans to better it.”

Taehyung looked at you with so many emotions swimming in his eyes, that the intensity of it almost made you wanna look away. But you didn’t. Instead, you tried to decode what any of it could mean.

This time the silence between you two was not awkward in the least. It was charged—heavy with this unknown tautness between your mind and heart and this indecipherable look in Taehyung’s eyes.

“Tae?”

The trance was broken by Jin, startling both of you.

He walked into the halfway from behind Taehyung, peering around him with a frown. His eyes widened when he saw you. You immediately bowed, always extremely cautious about being respectful around BTS’ oldest member. “Good morning, Jin-ssi.”

He chuckled at your address, insisting that you didn’t have to bow every single time. “Just the respectful good morning is fine. Did you just get here?”

You nodded, subtly glancing at Taehyung whose eyes were slightly rounded and still stuck on you. Why was he acting like you two were caught by Jin? You’d just been greeting each other and catching up!

Right?

Right.

“Ah! There comes Riya!” Jin suddenly announced the arrival of his partner on your team, cutely waving at someone behind you.

Your teammate Riya walked into the hallway after you, having walked here on her own insistence. “Good morning, Jin-ssi. Taehyung-ssi. Boss.”

You smiled at her, nodding in acknowledgement of the respect she paid. “Where’s Simon?” you questioned.

“Just here!” the man himself responded, rushing in after Riya.

You met Taehyung’s eyes, and he nodded with a meaningful look and a small smile on his lips. Your heart felt light.

The unexpectedly happy and positive start you’d gotten in the morning lasted with you the whole day, making your time with Jungkook a lot fun, and fulfilling in terms of work, too.

When Sunday came in and you received your boss’ call, her first question was about how well you were settled in the apartments, followed by how you’d handled things with Simon. You had done a decent job on the former, but the latter was gradually turning out to be a pain in your ass. You told your boss as much.

“Drag it out for another week, and then design a change of gameplan. If he really isn’t doing a good enough job by himself, it’s better if he works with someone else. This whole charade will tire both of you out. And V would be facing issues, too, if Simon’s heart isn’t into it.” Your boss had looked at you solemnly through the computer screen.

“Simon’s heart’s a bit too much into it, boss, that’s the whole issue.” You had derisively chuckled at your joke, but her words had left you thinking into the late hours of the night.

Taehyung had definitely been facing issues, you’d heard it from the man himself. And the respite he thought he’d gotten this week was momentary, because neither you nor Simon could honestly keep up with it for too long. And it was very unfair to Taehyung. This book was supposed to showcase a part of all the boys. A biography was the culmination of one’s whole life—something very personal, precious and endearing. The process of its creation should have been a similar experience for the boys, too.

You really would have to assign someone else to Taehyung.

On Monday morning, you knocked at Simon’s door at seven.

“Just this week, and then you switch,” you told him.

“Really? Oh, my God, thank you so much!” Simon cried out.

“Please accommodate him the best you can.” You sighed. “I’m too tired to give you notes everyday. Will you be able to manage?”

“I’ll accommodate him the best I can, just as you said.”

You hadn’t taken his word for it, but it seemed like the knowledge of his misery ending soon had done Simon well. He did a fair job of maintaining his professional composure, and on Tuesday, when you went in to grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen, you saw the two of them laughing about something, too. Taehyung had politely greeted you, exchanging more than a nod for the first time in more than ten days—minus that one altercation in the hallway, of course—and then immediately went back into the discussion.

He seemed to be really into it.

It made you feel a lot better.

On Friday, you and Jungkook went for a walk by the pool in the late afternoon with a cup of ice cream in your hands. He brought up Taehyung, asking how the elder was doing.

“You told me he was having some trouble with his partner?” Jungook asked, biting into a huge glob of chocolate ice-cream like a maniac and braving the brainfreeze with a straight face.

You grimaced at the sight. Then exhaled, plopping a spoonful from your own ice cream into your mouth. “He’s doing a lot better, now. It might not last, though”

Jungkook, instead of quizzing your ominous statement, nodded in understanding. “Does it have something to do with what I told you about hyung’s personality?”

You sighed. “Pretty much. We might have to change his partner.”

Jungkook paused at that. “Is there a possibility that…” He trailed off, confused, doe eyes looking at you.

You couldn’t lie to him. You shrugged. “Everything’s on the plate.”

On Sunday evening, you decided to gather the team for the call with your boss. Sending them a quick message once you all got home, you hopped into the bathroom for a long, relaxing showe.

When you came back, you stepped into your office to the welcome sight of your team occupying bean bags and chairs and spread across the entire surface area of the place.

Collectively, you all brought up Taehyung’s partner with the Editor-in-Chief.

“Why don’t you do it, Y/N?” your boss questioned you after the rest of them had briefed her with their progress so far and detailed out their future plans with their assigned boys.

You sighed. “I have been doing just as great as the rest of them, boss. It wouldn’t be ideal for me to stop working with Jungkook after we’ve been making such great progress.”

Your boss took her glasses off, the highlight on her nose glistening as her movement caught light. She shook her and then sighed. “One of you is going to have to make a sacrifice.”

Simon, rightfully, flinched with a guilty face.

“So either you talk one of your team members into doing it, or you do it yourself. You’ve got one whole week to discuss it. Tell me what you decide, next Sunday.”

You kept tossing and turning in your bed. You’d either have to force one of your team members. Or you’d have to disappoint Jungkook. Your prospects really weren't looking good.

You would like to believe you and Jungkook had become friends in these three weeks. It is impossible to remain a stone-faced stranger with someone literally relaying the story of his entire life to you. And besides that, too, Jungkook was a very likeable guy. He was a curious soul with a myriad of interests. Taking notes on literally every topic would always branch out into an enthusiastic conversation between the two of you.

Sighing as you recalled how the two of you had shared your roller-skating experience with each other just today, you shut your eyes and decided to finally go to sleep.

On Monday morning, your team members were gathered in your new office to begin with the scripting process of the biography. As you got down to comparing notes and checking off boxes, each one of you resolutely ignored the gigantic elephant in the room—that fact that one of you would not be working with the same person when this week was up.

Strangely, this forcible change of partners was weighing down on all of you not just because of how much more labour it would cost, but on an emotional level, too. Which was a very unfamiliar concept, at least to you. You never got attached to clients, knowing it would only cause hindrances when you had to criticize their work—which was why they were talking to you in the first place. You had been somewhat lucky too, in a way, because it wasn't easy for you to get attached to people.

But Jungkook turned out to be just a really easy person to get along with. You really had become friends.

This, you suddenly realised, would also mean that Jungkook would make friends with another partner just as easily.

“Guys, remember—it’s not just their story that we’re writing, it’s ours too!” you announced to your team, clapping your hands to raise their spirits as the six of them worked on their computers. “They’re the narrators, sure, but we are the writers. Use your words wherever you find fit, do not hesitate to trim, omit or add. This is what we were hired to do.”

At noon, you all ordered takeout and took a break.

“We’re all really on schedule, boss,” Riya, Jin’s partner, spoke up from her spot across the room from you. Her rounded eyes narrowed suddenly, and she winced. “Well… except Simon, but we kinda already expected that.”

Simon, seated on a bean bag to your immediate right, cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’ve been really shitty at your job, Si,” Areum, Jimin’s partner, commented, looking at Simon through her round framed glasses, her face displaying disappointment.

“He really has,” you added. “But it cannot go on like this. You’ll have to be really professional with your partner, this time round, Simon. You’ve really done a lot of damage with Taehyung. Boss won’t just pull you off the project if something like this happens again, she’ll fire you.”

Simon visibly gulped, nodding with his wide eyes fixated on you.

“So, who’s gonna take his place?” Nathan, Yoongi’s partner, butted in, prompting Sana to stop stretching. “Have you decided yet?” he asked you.

You exhaled. “Why not ask dear Simon who he wants to work with? The last time he kept protesting about the assigned choice, and I didn't listen. Maybe he’d have done better if the selection of his partner was voluntarily done by him.”

All eyes turned to Simon. He cleared his throat, looking beyond nervous. “Please don’t put me in this spot. One of you will have to let go of a month’s worth of hard work for me, as it is.”

You looked around the room. “Any one of you willing to switch?”

Five pairs of eyes turned to look at you incredulously. “No one’s gonna willingly give their research up for you, Simon,” Charlotte, the only redhead on your team and Hoseok’s partner, spoke with a roll of her eyes. “None of us.”

“Simon,” You sighed. “Choose.”

And then Simon squeezed his eyes shut and fisted both his hands to whisper, “Jungkook…maybe?”

Of fucking course.

Later that night, you had calmed yourself down enough to tell yourself that everything was gonna be okay. You could be a darn hardass professional when you needed to be. In fact, being humble and empathetic was usually what posed a challenge to you. You would very smoothly transition into working with Taehyung, you were sure of it.

You belatedly thought about how much change these past three weeks had already brought about in your nature. You were starting to show a lot more compassion than you’d thought yourself capable of. That kind of came in this job’s description, because biographies made people vulnerable, and vulnerable interviews required compassion.

You had to unlearn some of the things you’d picked up over the span of your adult life to save yourself from hurt, and also the guilt that came with hurting others. Jungkook also helped, in a way. His openness and just the overall cheerful vibe that his nature eluded made you want to be more of a friend to him than a writing guide or an interviewer.

You wondered how Taehyung would be.

There was something undeniably intense and mysterious about him. Now, you weren’t naive enough to want to “unravel” the guy’s mysteries, but you sure were irked and curious. Maybe he was one of those kinds of artists that literally lived in their art.

Back when you didn’t work in this company with this hectic schedule and had enough spare time on your hands to write, you used to pride yourself to be one of these kinds of artists, too. You lived in your stories, kept building characters up wherever you went, whatever you did. You wondered if it was something similar with Taehyung for music.

You would find out, eventually. There was no point pondering it so much.

Sighing, you turned off your side lamp and decided to retire for the night.

Your writing week was gliding past smoothly. It was just Wednesday, and you all, ahead of the schedule, were at the verge of finishing up your writing parts.

“Are we super efficient or did we sign up for a longer duration of time than needed for this whole project?” Sana questioned, typing away on her laptop.

You snorted. “Or maybe, we didn’t design the blueprint with as much uniformity as we’re required to.”

“You don’t always have to critique everything, boss,” Charlotte, Hoseok’s partner chimed in, flipping her long mane of auburn hair off her shoulder as she shot you a look.

You glared right back at her. “Uh, actually, I do. That’s kind of my job here.”

You’d been harsher than was needed, making the whole room go quiet. Only the clicking of keyboards echoed around you all for a while.

“Where’s Simon?” Nathan, Yoongi’s partner, asked after some time.

You sighed. “In his room, finishing up his writing work there. He doesn’t feel comfortable sitting between all of us because, and I quote, y’all give off really judgy vibes that fuck with my concentration.”

“That might actually be true,” Areum, Jimin’s partner, mumbled in Korean under her breath.

“Did you mail Manager Woo about the switch yet, boss?” Nathan asked you as you got up to get a refill of your coffee.

You exhaled. “Nope, I'm stalling,” you confidently confessed, leaving the office to make a trip to the kitchen. On your way back, you knocked at Simon’s door before peeking in. “You doing okay?” you asked him flatly.

Simon gave you a nod, not moving his gaze from the laptop screen. You rolled your eyes and came back to the office.

“Should one of us do it? If it won’t look too unprofessional?” Sana asked.

You wrinkled your nose. “It would look grossly unprofessional, Sana.” You pursed your lips as you sat behind your laptop again. “Fine, I’ll do it right now.”

You took a sip from your coffee, and opened your email. This was final, now — no coming back.

You were officially gonna start working with Kim Taehyung.

gimme feedback, much much appreciated!

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series masterlist

Tags: @tangledsparkles @hoefortaeshands @getmemyfries

#vantaenet #bangtanarmynet #btswriterscollective #ficswithluv #thebtstown #taehyung angst #bts angst #taehyung fluff #bts fluff #taehyung imagine #bts imagine #v angst #v fluff #v imagine #jungkook imagine #bts v #bts jungkook #*mine #f: wbcs

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naerysthelonesome · 3 years ago

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Before I Go

A Jeyna fic no one asked for.

Listened to folklore again and was cursed with feelings. I’m sorry.

Please, picture me in the trees I hit my peak at seven Feet in the swing over the creek I was too scared to jump in But I, I was high in the sky With Pennsylvania under me Are there still beautiful things?

Reyna, Jason had found in the two years he’d known her, did not tell people things about herself. And she sure as hell did not talk about her childhood. So he was surprised and more than a little gratified when she’d decided to tell him about her life in San Juan.

He couldn’t stop thinking of her now, as a happy little girl with untidy braids and a bright smile, strolling the cobbled streets with her big sister. Dancing around in the dappled shadows of the banana trees as the salty breeze blew past.

She’d told him of how she’d tried to catch a Coqui frog once, but had failed spectacularly. She gotten herself scratched up and muddied, and ripped all her clothes. Her older sister, she’d said, could be scary when she was mad, and Hylla had been infuriated at the state of her when she got back from the field. She spoke of that summer like it had been the best one of her life.

He couldn’t begin to make sense of how he felt about Reyna, but knew without a doubt that he liked the idea of spending a summer with her in San Juan. They could walk down the streets and she could point out her favorite cats, and trees, and rocks, and he’d make sure to remember every single one of them. They could spend long days with the old men playing dominoes, sucking on Piraguas without a care in the world.

But he knew these were just dreams, memories of a life long gone. Reyna barely spoke about her home town, let alone made plans to go back. Jason was not nearly dense enough to believe her life back then had been all sunshine and beautiful colours. They were demigods, and all demigods had monsters. Maybe someday, Reyna would tell him about hers.

Sweet tea in the summer Cross your heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Your braids make a pattern Love you to the Moon and to Saturn Passed down like folk songs The love lasts so long

Jason was nothing more than a ghost now. Barely even a lare, who unlike himself, could be seen and talked to. That was alright. He wasn’t here to be perceived.

He’d tried to visit his friends multiple times over the months since he’d died- to see them one last time, for just a moment of closure- but this was the first time he’d had any success.

Of course the first person he came to see had to be Reyna. He’d missed her more than he knew he could miss a person. He supposed it was because he hadn’t so much as had a proper conversation with his best friend since Juno had so rudely snatched him away. And then it had taken so much time, time he only later realized he didn’t have to waste, for his memories to return fully. All he’d had of her for so long had been a space in his heart where she should have fit. Not a name, or a face, but a feeling. He wished he’d had more time to find his way back to her.

Reyna meant more to him than he had ever told her, and familiar regret came bubbling up like bile in his throat. Wasn’t the afterlife supposed to give him peace? But how could there be peace when there she sat, thick braid hanging loosely over her shoulder, sharpening her silver dagger? She looked so beautiful in the moonlight, her breath fogging up in the cold air seeming to breathe life into his dead soul. He’d never stopped loving her.

He was glad she’d found a home with the Hunters of Artemis. For the first time in a long time, she looked free. And while it meant they wouldn’t meet again anytime soon, he was glad to know she had the chance to live a long, long life. One full of the adventures and love and happiness she deserved. A small, perhaps selfish part of him hoped she wouldn’t forget him along the way.

And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why I think you should come live with me And we can be pirates Then you won't have to cry Or hide in the closet And just like a folk song Our love will be passed on

Wanting to strangle someone that didn’t exist was a strange feeling, but one that was evoked in Jason every time Reyna mentioned her father. Neither of them had had happy childhoods or good parents, it seemed. Well, that was something to bond over.

It hadn’t been easy for Reyna to talk about him, which he understood, especially now that he knew how that story ended. He didn’t blame her one bit for what she’d done, but couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t had to make such a decision at all. The burden it seemed she would always bear was heavy, and she shouldn’t have been made to carry it at all. Not speaking ill of the dead kept getting harder by the second.

Maybe if her story had gotten better after she and Hylla had run away, his nerves wouldn’t be feeling so shot. Circe’s island should have been an escape. With its sandy beaches, and palm trees, and miles of sparkling blue ocean Reyna liked to describe in such detail. But no. All the adults in their lives had to be exploitative bastards. Reyna hadn’t sounded too angry about it though. She’d laughed as she recounted her tales of turning pirates into guinea pigs, coerced into the act as she may have been. Jason couldn’t lie- he saw the allure.

Speaking of pirates- the one’s Reyna had escaped with unfortunately hadn’t been the swashbucklery kind either. They’d been the cut-throat, cruel kind and now Reyna couldn’t stand sea shanties anymore; which was alright with Jason since he couldn’t sing anyway. The only reason the sisters had to escape with them at all had been because two upstart demigods she refused to divulge the names of, decided to blow up the island. Jason couldn’t decide whether he wanted to smack them upside the head for it, or thank them profusely for unwittingly steering Reyna to Camp Jupiter.

He hoped that here, she’d finally found a home and a place to rest. It wasn’t perfect, not even close, but she was making it hers. Reyna was already well on her way to becoming a praetor, and he knew she’d make one of New Rome’s finest.

Please, picture me in the weeds Before I learned civility I used to scream ferociously Any time I wanted

Jason often wondered how Reyna had thought of him after she’d found out about his history. There hadn’t been much he’d been able to remember about his own childhood. He’d been only two years old when he’d been given to Lupa, and all his memories of a family were little more than a blur. His home had been Camp Jupiter for most of his life, and he truly couldn’t remember another.

When he’d told her all he could remember of how it was to be raised by a wolf, she’d only looked amused. She’d simply looked him up and down and laughed. She had a cute laugh, all snorts and shaking shoulders. He didn’t always understand the things that made her laugh, but laughing with her felt so natural he did it every golden time.

He wondered if she’d had anyone to laugh with when he was taken away. Had she missed him? Every memory he’d had of her had been snatched away, but there were some people with whom you were so completely intertwined, even the Gods couldn’t untangle the strings. Perhaps he couldn’t place a name to what had been missing, but he had remembered her. Even in death, he would remember.

Sweet tea in the summer Cross your heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Pack your dolls and a sweater We'll move to India forever Passed down like folk songs The love lasts so long

What he wouldn’t give to go back and have one last Hot Chocolate with her in the Garden of Bacchus, to speak one more sentence in Spanish (Te amo, Reyna) and hear her snort at his accent, to brush her hair behind her ear once more. He hadn’t told her nearly enough times, how much he’d loved her laugh.

What he wouldn’t give to have one last chance to confess to her how he felt, with Aurum and Argentum there so she knew none of it was a lie.

But there was nothing he could give to turn back time, or build himself a different fate. They could only be together now in stories, and memories, and alternate universes. If there were any kind Gods left, perhaps in an afterlife that wouldn’t come for centuries.

Maybe he should feel sadness or loss, looking at her now for the last time. Mourn the loss of all the happiness they could have had together. He was going to leave again without a way to say goodbye or wish her well or have her look at him, but all he felt was contentment. She sat around a glowing fire, surrounded by her friends and sisters, singing soft campfire songs and telling stories of old. Maybe someday, she’d narrate their story too.

Jason finally found peace in the knowledge that his girl was going to be okay.

#jeyna #jeyna angst #they were soulmates #jason grace #reyna avilla ramirez arellano #jason x reyna #jeyna fanfiction #jason is a ghost in this one #my sincerest apologies #just assume Thalia is elsewhere #and Reyna did tell him about her childhood #because of course she did! They were besties #seven

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hawkland · 4 years ago

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Destiel fic recs/what I’ve been reading (round #2)

I promised (eventually!) more fic recs and I figured I’d better do it soon before my list to talk about got TOO long. Also I’m just bubbling to praise up an amazing fic I read last night that literally has given me a fanfic hangover this morning and I need you all to suffer with me.

Starting with that fic in question:

Aria for an Angel (84k) by anyrei, mugglerock. I hurt all over from this one and I command you to do the same.

That said, DO NOT READ if you can’t stand the idea of Cas finding love/happiness with someone else (even if the fic is endgame Destiel). Also don’t read if you can’t stand your heart being shattered by pain before being carefully put back together again. Those warnings aside, this is one of the most stunning fics I’ve read yet in SPN fandom and I’m going to rec it at you no matter what. I’ve been feeling very pissy at Dean lately, as I’m on season 12 in my complete watch-thru, and with how much Cas has been suffering and getting beaten down for, like, SEASONS now. And it got me looking for fics where Cas gets some of the TLC/love/care that he needs from someone else, at least until Dean can get his shit together. Enter Mick Davies. Mick comes to Cas for help with a case that ends up involving a Grigori, and the two grow closer as Cas enjoys spending time with someone who genuinely expresses care and concern for him...but when Dean finds out will he have to choose between the Winchesters, his found family on Earth, and his new boyfriend? And when tragedy strikes, is it too late for a second chance at his first love again?

This story is funny, hot, heartbreakingly sad and just completely wrung me out emotionally. The characterizations totally worked for me, the growth they all went through was the kind of stuff I only wish the writers of the show could pull off. There’s just...there’s so much pain and love and some good stuff with poor Sam and Mary caught in the middle of this shitstorm and I wasn’t sure I could be brought back around to wanting Cas and Dean together in the end, but the authors pulled it off and everything about this story hurts, and heals, in the best possible way.

The rest of my recs in this round-up beneath the cut.

Seek to Know You Better (32k) by ahurston. Season 15 canon-divergence—so no Empty, no rusty nail, but things are relatively calm and settled in the hunter/Winchester world. As such Dean and Cas go on a road-trip together, investigate some minor cases, and gradually open up and really TALK via a “36 Questions That Lead to Love” article Cas finds on-line. One of those fics that just gives you a happy glow inside to read; it feels very believable and the characters have a maturity and adultness to them that just feels right. The little details of all the places they stop for food while talking are a delight, and it’s just the right amount of pining (for me) before they finally get things together.

Purgatory, director's cut (27k) by runsinthefamily. THIS IS THE ULTIMATE PURGATORY FIC (well, in my reading adventures so far.) Written (apparently?) before season 8 actually aired, it takes a very different - and weirdly creative and bizarre - look at what purgatory would be like. And if Cas stuck with Dean through it all. It also posits that as a human Dean would be “allergic” to purgatory and need Cas’s grace to hold himself together...but the deeper they travel, trying to get out, the more precarious Cas’s hold on his vessel becomes. I love everything about this fic, the weird imagery, the way Dean just...rolls with everything happening to Cas and still loving him because it’s Cas, not his vessel, that’s important.

Grooming Instincts (26k) by jemariel. More wing!kink which...yeah. Gimme all the wing grooming/back massages and weird angel anatomy, please. Cas is grumpy while going through what he describes as “molting” only...it’s a bit more complicated than that. And Dean has no idea what he’s gotten himself into until Cas starts grooming him...and Kevin is able to translate/figure out what’s happened. Funny and hot and just...a yummy happy read with great bits from Sam, Kevin and Charlie for good measure.

Things that Leave Marks (23k) by thestoryinsideme. Canon-divergent from Season 9. Wherein it takes Dean three years to find Cas after getting kicked out of the bunker. And when he does, it’s apparent he’s been through a lot, and he’s not exactly ready to or certain about going back to life with the Winchesters. This was sad and sweet and fluffy and angsty in all the right ways for a comfort fic read. (Also features Cas the budding artist! I love that idea!)

Wavelength-gasm (11k) by Mumble-Bee. The fuck or die trope gets a very fun twist when it involves needing to fuck an angel in his true form. Dean certainly learns this the hard way! This rec is for all the trueform!Cas-loving freaks like me out there...I’ve certainly never seen a smut fic embrace the weirdness of it all like this one.

Drive Faster Sammy (7k) by almaasi. Speaking of fuck-or-die fics, pray for Sam in this one. He has to listen to Dean helping when Cas gets struck by one (again) and they don’t have time to make it back to the bunker—so things get kind of graphic in the backseat of the Impala.

Love Burns Its Casualties (5k) by anactoria. Beautiful and bittersweet fic set during “The End”. Present-day Dean can’t sleep, and ends up invited by future!Cas to spend what he knows is likely his last night alive with him. Features casual weed use (if that bothers you), some very hot shotgunning (if it doesn’t), and is just...a wonderfully written atmospheric story that I’ve already re-read several times. (It’s especially a good read when slightly stoned yourself. Um. Not that I’m necessarily advocating for that sort of thing, unless it’s legal in your neck of the woods. Um. Anyway...)

something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow (3.7k) by celeste9. Heaven fic, so don’t read if that’s not your thing. Also don’t read if you’re completely convinced John Winchester is an unredeemable homophobe and terrible parent all around. I, personally, liked this take a lot more as it shows a struggling but not horrible John confused about why this angel keeps popping over, asking Mary questions about what Dean will want in his little slice of Heaven. The title really describes the lovely mood of this little fic and I liked it a lot.

heaven, reconstructed (9k) by vaudelin. Another Heaven fic, more focused on Cas than Destiel (but that is endgame). Goes into what exactly Cas was doing, working with Jack to try to build a better Heaven while awaiting Dean’s eventual arrival. It’s a great fic for world-building (in more ways than one!) in the SPN universe and I like a story that explores Cas’s relationships with others beyond Dean and Sam. I’d add too that as a fan of The Good Place, I just in general enjoy stories that look at the complexity of what actually would constitute a “perfect” afterlife. So imagine Castiel as a TGP architect here if you will (I certainly did!)

The Passion of the Christ (and his angelic ex-boyfriend) (4.9k) by Bzzee. Another heaven!fic, but pure delightful crack. What happens when Dean and Cas run into one of Cas’s ex-boyfriends in Heaven’s roadhouse...who just happens to be Jesus Christ. Dean isn’t too happy with that knowledge (and neither is Judas). Just read it—heresy and all. For a crack fic it’s actually wonderfully smart and wicked.

Can't You Hear It Calling (4.7k) by imogenbynight. A “missing scene” from s8e32 (Sacrifice). Cas expects to never see Dean again once he (expects to, at least) close the gates of Heaven. As a parting gift, he takes Dean back in time to a Led Zeppelin concert...and then a motel room to spend a final night together. As a music lover, the description of the excitement of the concert (and the happy/sadness when the show is almost over) totally hit me in the feels...and it’s such angsty/beautiful smut when they get together.

You're Gonna Live Tomorrow (3k) by MajorEnglishEsquire, microcomets, orange_crushed. Cas doesn’t know a lot about being human (yet), but he does know one thing - he wants to marry Dean. Sweet, sweet happy fluff, just enjoy.

Who's Counting? (1.7k) by Annie D (scaramouche). Just some pure angel-powered delicious smut. Dean learns the hard way, over and over again, that angels have basically no refractory period.

#destiel recs #my fic recs #deancas recs #hawkland reads spn fic #destiel #my destiel recs

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Riding On

Ch3: What Happens in Vegas...

Summary: We catch up with what Fliss got up to whilst Frank was living it up in Vegas, before they both face up to the events of the weekend, because this time what happened in Vegas certainly doesn’t stay there…

Warnings: Bad Language words.

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Riding On Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 2

Just when it seems like everything’s evened out, and the balance seems serene, see the fool I’ll be, still running ‘round on the flesh rampage.

“Hey!” Fliss greeted Bonnie as she walked over to where the woman was supervising the after school club.

“Hiya!” Bonnie smiled “You heard from Frank today?”

“Yeah, before.” Fliss smiled, before she looked and Bonnie “I gotta say, that video of Simon…”

“He’s an idiot.” Bonnie shook her head “Punching his own reflection…I mean…”

“I’m not gonna lie, it’s probably the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages.” Fliss giggled and Bonnie snorted, shaking her head again. At that point Mary came running over, her cheeks pink

“Hey Lissy.” “Hey sweetheart, you ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because I got a surprise for you!”

“Me?”

“Yup!”

“Where is it?”

“We gotta go pick it up.”

“Oh, ok…bye Miss Stevenson!”

“See you Mary!” Bonnie smiled as she started to head off to Fliss’ car “Hey, give me a call…we can do lunch Sunday before the boys get back.”

“Sure.” Fliss nodded. “I’ll text you.”

With a final goodbye she headed after Mary and climbed into the driver’s side.

“Where’s Thor?” Mary asked.

“He’s at Mum and Dad’s with Rupert and Fred.” she said, “I thought after our surprise we could stay there for the weekend, use the pool and the Cinema Room…”

“Ok…” Mary looked at her suspiciously.

“I promise you’re gonna like it!”

“Just tell me.” Mary looked at her as Fliss set off driving.

“Sure you wanna know?”

“You’re as bad as Frank.” The girl rolled her eyes and Fliss laughed.

“We’re going to pick Steve up from the airport.”

Mary’s face split into a huge grin, it was a well-known fact that besides Bill, Fliss’ brother was basically her favourite person that wasn’t Frank on the planet.

“Uncle Steeby is coming to stay?” she looked at Fliss.

“Yup for a whole month. He has some work in Orlando and Tampa so he’s gonna be staying in town for a while, and then in Easter Sian and the twins are flying over.”

“Oh man!” Mary grinned, laying her head back on the seat “This is great!”

Mary’s excitement seemed to increase the nearer they got to the Airport, and Fliss had to practically hold her down in the seat as she parked the car, telling her to wait a second. Once she’d managed to park they headed into the arrivals lounge and little after 15 minutes later her brother appeared, towing his suitcase behind him.

“Hey Stack!” he grinned as Mary flung herself at him and he swept her up in a hug “How’s it hanging?” “Same old, same old!” she grinned and he let out a laugh before he placed her down and turned to Fliss.

“Oh my God!” he smiled as Fliss walked over to him “Look at you!”

She laughed “I know…” with a nod she looked down “Nothing until 16 weeks and then wham…now I feel like it’s getting bigger every day.”

He pulled her into his arms and gave her the usual bear hug before the three of them headed out to the car. On the way back to the house, Steve filled Fliss in on what exactly he was doing. The construction company he owned was in the running for a very big job in Orlando building a complete village of holiday villas not far from Lake Buena Vista. As such he was out here to meet a few people and attend the Bidders Conference, whilst also taking a look at some potential office buildings in Lakeland.

“If we win this tender Fliss, it’s going to be huge.” he smiled at her “We’re talking millions.”

“That’s great.” she smiled “You’ve really blown it up since Dad handed over the reins, I’m really pleased for you!”

“I got lucky.”

“No, it was hard work.” Fliss glanced at him.

“Frank says you make your own luck.” Mary added.

“See!” Fliss grinned at her brother. “So, would you guys move out here or…”

“I’m tempted.” he said, “As with anything, I’ll need a project team who can oversee the local suppliers and labour that type of thing, manage the schedules and what not…but our head offices will still be in Liverpool, so I’m undecided. Either way I’ll be spending a lot more time here, certainly in the first 12 months whilst it all gets up and running.”

“How does Sian feel about it?”

“She’s excited. She knows what it means to me, to the business. Obviously she realises it means more time apart as I’ll be out here quite often but…”

“Is it selfish of me to be happy about that?” Fliss smiled and Steve laughed.

“Nope, because we all know I’m the best big brother in the world.”

Fliss grinned and shook her head as Mary began to enthusiastically talk to Steve about school and University and the Girl Scout group she was in. Fliss interjected whenever she needed to but other than that she was happy to let the two of them chat away.

Once home Steve headed over to the Annex where he would be staying whilst Mary went outside to play with the dogs, Fred happy to oversee things from his spot on a chair on the large decking platform which-over looked the pool area. Steve appeared an hour or so later having showered and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, Fliss grinning at him, calling him a tourist. Whilst it wasn’t cold by cold standards, she found it chillier having grown used to the blazing heat of the summer. Steve, who had come from the chilly early spring in England, simply rolled his eyes and handed her the box he had in his hand.

“It’s a present from me and Sian.” he smiled.

Fliss glanced down and smiled at the selection box of Pukka Tea bags.

“Steeby this is great!” she beamed “I’ve been struggling to find them out here since Sian recommended them.”

She gently opened the box and glanced at the various herbal teas. There were 12 different flavours such as Peppermint and Liquorice, Ginger and Manuka Honey, Chamomile and Rose to name but a few. There was even a handwritten note inside from Sian, explaining which ones had helped her with various symptoms she felt during her pregnancy. She closed the purple and gold box and looked up at Steve, tears in her eyes.

“Hey, come on Titch!” he laughed as she fell into his arms, chuckling herself at her ridiculous tears “It’s just tea bags.” “It’s really thoughtful, thank you.” she stepped back, wiping her eyes “Fucking hormones.” Steve chuckled, rubbing her back slightly before she turned and began pulling the rest of the stuff out for dinner.

“Wanna help?” she asked.

“You really want me to?” He smirked “I’ve still not forgot the time we made brownies and set fire to the curtains at the Farm house.” “Ok, first off those curtains were rank, as Mum said when Dad came home and hit the roof, second off, they were pot brownies and we were already stoned after smoking a load! Cooking and being high do not mix.”

Steve laughed “God, poor Mum didn’t know what to do. Came home, found us both on the floor eating them, with burnt curtains hanging at the window.” “She knew we were stoned, she told me.” Fliss grinned, handing Steve a knife “Said she lied to dad that it had been her to get us off the hook.” “Well that didn’t work because Dad told me he knew full well it was us. He made me pay for the new curtains and told me that if I ever let you smoke that stuff again he was going to beat me within an inch of my life.” Fliss laughed “He was so full of shit, he never raised a hand to either of us. Never would either.” “No, but the threat was there. Even if I was 22 at the time, scared the shit out of me.”

“Thankfully we both grew up since then, huh?” Fliss shrugged, as she grabbed a chopping board to start carving up the meat for the tacos.

“Hmmm, debatable.” Steve nudged her. “Although I can safely say I haven’t done weed since the twins were born…as tempting as it was at times.”

“I can’t remember the last time I did.” Fliss mused “Was certainly before I moved to Boston.” “Frankie boy not dabble every now and then?”

“Nope.” Fliss said “He doesn’t smoke and says the last time he did pot it made him pull a whitey so he steers clear. Hardest thing he does now is Bourbon.” “Huh…” Steve mused “I had him pegged as a bit of wild one…” “He’s not.” Fliss shook her head “I mean he cuts loose when we go out, and I dread to think about the states he’s gonna be in this weekend but…” she shrugged “He’s well adjusted, sensible, level headed…can be a bit of a child at times but, show me a man who isn’t?” Steve shot her a look and she chuckled.

“So, how is he?” Steve asked. “Seems like ages since I spoke to him.” “He’s good.” Fliss smiled “His work is going well. He’s really excited about the baby.” her hand dropped to her bump. “We’re gonna start looking for houses now our landlord had said he won’t hold us to our contract. Frankie wants to move as soon as we can so he can get a nursery ready but I’m not bothered. Not like we’ll need the extra space really until a few months after it’s born.”

“You’d be surprised.” Steve raised an eyebrow “Babies accumulate a lot of stuff…” “Well, we’ll manage either way.” Fliss shrugged “Most important thing is they’re safe and happy. We can figure the rest out as we go.” “You gonna buy or…” “Hopefully.” Fliss nodded “With work and stuff now we shouldn’t have a problem borrowing now but, I don’t know, we’re going to look into it properly once Jake’s wedding is out of the way in a few weeks.”

Steve nodded and took a deep breath “You know, I wasn’t sure about you two at first, not because I didn’t like Frank, I did, I mean I do but, well, I just thought after Dickhead that you needed time to heal and find yourself again.” Fliss looked at him as he chewed the inside of his lip before he turned to her. “But then when I saw you again after your first Christmas together and then over the Easter…I dunno, you just…”

Fliss smiled and looked down, shrugging “I might have healed in a lot of ways before I met Frank but I was still broken Steeb. Finding my way in a new relationship was hard work, it was daunting…I constantly found myself automatically doing things I did with or for John…like you know the first time Frank ever stayed over, in the morning I just got up and was about to make him coffee and he was so puzzled by it.” she shrugged “that could have been so awkward but Frank…well, he didn’t let it feel that way. Simply told me to stay the fuck in bed.” “Don’t wanna know.” Steve pulled a face and Fliss laughed.

“Joking aside, I know it used to bother him because it was almost like on a subconscious level I was comparing the two of them but he never once lost his temper, not really anyway, other than to tell me to stop putting him on a pedestal for being fucking normal…his words, not mine.” she said, framing them in quotation marks with her fingers. “He just gets it. He gets me.” “You finished with the sales pitch?” Steve asked her and she narrowed her eyes at him as he laughed “You don’t need to convince me Titch, I like the guy, I just wasn’t sure you were in the right place but it's obvious he helped you get there.” Fliss smiled.

“And Mum and Dad worship the ground he walks on.” Steve shrugged “Like seriously…”

“Awww you jealous?” Fliss teased and Steve turned, pointing the small knife he was holding at her.

“Behave.” he smirked and Fliss laughed.

“I know what you mean though…whenever we argue they’re both like ‘you need to stop being so hard on him, Lissy’.” She snorted.

“Well, to be fair, you are a little bit…” Steve shrugged “Oh, I dunno, a bit of a pain in the ass at times.” “Fuck you.” she sniggered, as Steve chuckled and once again looked down at her.

“I’m glad you found him. You deserve to be happy.” Fliss smiled, and let her brother give her another hug before she instructed him to get on with his allocated job of dicing onions if they wanted any chance of eating this side of summer. Between the two of them, they had dinner ready in half an hour and the three of them ate inside at the large kitchen table. It wasn’t long after they finished that Frank Face timed. After a conversation with Mary, instructing her once more to behave, she handed the phone to Fliss who smiled at her man and excused herself for a little while so she could go talk to him in private. He told her they were off to play poker, promised he wouldn’t gamble Bean and Mary’s inheritance away, before he apologetically said he needed to go and promised he would message her later, despite her insistence that he didn’t need to keep checking in.

The siblings and Mary, plus animals migrated to the lounge of the villa as Steve yawned, desperately trying to keep himself awake as long as possible to counteract the time difference between Florida and their home in the North West of England. He ended up helping himself to a healthy shot of Bill’s 12 year old Single Malt as Fliss had an apple juice mixed with lemonade, the 2 of them on the couch, the foot stools of the recliners in front of them whilst Mary led on the rug, playing on her computer.

At one point she let out a snigger, and Fliss looked at her suspiciously.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Frank before told me to stop doing maths and do something else…so I’m googling.” she shrugged.

“Googling what?”

“Random pregnancy facts…did you know the longest pregnancy ever recorded was 375 days?”

“What?” Fliss spluttered “That’s over a year!”

Mary grinned “and the shortest was 21 weeks and four days…both babies survived.”

Steve looked at Fliss, chuckling to himself as he took a drink of his scotch.

“Woah, your heart grows bigger too…” Mary said, “and your blood volume increases by 40-50%. That’s pretty cool.”

“No wonder you get fat…” Steve mused and Fliss picked up a cushion, hitting him in the face with it.

“And your voice can change!” Mary looked up at Fliss “Says here that it can get lower…” she studied her for a second before she nodded “Talk to me…” “What do you want me to say?” Fliss asked, dropping her voice deliberately and Mary shook her head, rolling her eyes.

“You’re doing a Frank…” she sing songed.

“Doing a Frank?” Steve looked at his sister.

“Code for being an idiot.” Fliss smiled.

“You’re 18 weeks right?” Mary continued.

“Yeah”

“It says here that’s the time the baby can hear sounds…but it gets more responsive at 25-26 weeks…” she paused “Have you felt Bean move yet?”

“No.” Fliss shook her head, “but apparently for your first baby it’s not uncommon for you not to feel it until after 20 weeks.”

“Huh, they call it quickening…” Mary mused then she grinned “I can’t wait to feel it kicking you.”

“Gee thanks Stack…” Fliss looked at her as Steve let out a loud laugh

“I bloody love this kid!” he grinned and Mary smiled back.

*****

Saturday flew by. Fliss had lessons all day at the yard, Mary hanging around to help Joanne with various tasks before she herself got to ride Monty. She was now fully walking, trotting and cantering off the line competently, so when she asked Fliss if they could try a little jump, seeing as Frank wasn’t there to shit himself Fliss agreed.

Joanna set the cross poles up, leaving the jump at less than half a foot high, but it was enough for what they wanted to do.

“Ok…so…” Fliss said, nudging the ground pole with her foot. “We’re going to just trot him at this for the time being, so when he steps over this pole you have a count of one before he is going to take off. So you need to stand up… and fold forward slightly, giving him the reins. Show me.” Mary obediently stood up, and Fliss moved to help her adjust her legs so they didn’t fling too far back.

“Ok, good…” Fliss nodded. “Joanna’s gonna lead you over the first few times ok, and if you feel like you’re losing your balance then grab hold of this bit at the bottom of his mane. It won’t hurt him, I promise.” “OK, I’m ready…” Mary nodded.

“Alright…” Fliss said, stepping back. Joanna led Monty away, before they picked up trot and ran at the small jump.

“Get ready to fold!” Fliss instructed Mary, as she approached the pole. Doing exactly as she was told Mary leaned forward as Monty took off from the ground and landed perfectly after the jump. Mary sat back up and looked over her shoulder at the jump then to Fliss who gave her the thumbs up.

“Woah, did you see that?” Mary grinned, and Fliss nodded.

“Sure did!” she laughed. “Go again?”

Mary nodded eagerly and Joanna laughed. “Well done kiddo!”

They repeated this 5 or 6 times more before Fliss asked Mary if she wanted to try on her own. Never one to back down she nodded so Joanne unclipped the line and Mary trotted Monty around in a circle before she came at the jump.

“Ok, sit up and look straight between his ears at where you’re going.” Fliss said “Don’t look down…” Mary approached the jump and Fliss held her breath, but needn’t have bothered. Monty, ever the pro took Mary over the poles easily and stopped a few strides at the other side, Mary letting out an excited yell.

“I did it!”

Fliss gave her a huge smile.

“Can we film it and send it to Frank?”

“Damned straight we can!” Fliss grinned, “Do it again.”

She pulled her phone out, filmed Mary once again jumping and then turned her phone off, slipping into her pocket as Mary rode Monty back over.

“That was amazing!” the little girl was beaming ear to ear.

Fliss nodded “Yeah, it was. You did really well Stack. You wanna walk him off now then and we can feed and go home?” Mary nodded as she turned Monty away to let him walk around the outside of the paddock. With a smile she grabbed her phone and sent the footage to Frank. He replied a few minutes later with a load of wide mouthed emojis accompanied by the words “Jesus Christ, what did I say about keeping all 4 legs on the ground?”

“Oh hush Sailor!” she replied “She loved it. Now don’t forget I want a photo of you and Greg in those suits before you go out.” “Yes ma’am…now by my watch it must be nearly 6pm there. Take Mary and Bean home and get some rest.”

Rolling her eyes she responded about him being bossy to which he replied he was entitled to be as she was carrying his kid. A few more jokey messages were shared before Fliss promised to go home and Frank said he would talk to her later.

They grabbed a pizza on the way back and once more joined Steve for dinner, the 3 of them sitting in Bill’s large cinema room later watching Avengers-Age of Ultron. Before it had finished Fliss fell asleep, to be woken by Steve at the end of the film, Mary laughing at her as she groaned and stretched out.

“Sorry!” she grinned and Steve snorted.

“She falls asleep all the time.” Mary laughed “Frank said the baby is like a parasite, sucking all her energy.”

“A parasite?” Fliss snorted indignantly, her hand falling to her bump “You hear that Bean, that’s your dad saying that. Rude…”

“He isn’t wrong though.” Steve laughed. “Sian used to refer to our two as the bloodsuckers.” Shaking her head Fliss stood up and looked at Mary, “Bed, come on. You’re out with Roberta tomorrow.” “Anywhere nice?” Steve asked Mary.

“Just to the beach.” came the reply. “I haven’t seen her in a while so we’re gonna go watch the surfing competition. Roberta likes the shorts the men wear.”

“Sure she does.” Steve smirked, laughing.

“Some of them are brighter than Frank’s shirts.” Mary mused, causing Steve to laugh harder.

They bid him goodnight, getting ready for bed before Fliss tucked Mary in and went to the spare room. She fell asleep not long after but was woken early Sunday morning with a desperate need to pee. Once sorted she text her phone to find a very drunk text from Frank, declaring he loved her and couldn’t wait for Bean to arrive and for them to get married. She shook her head, glancing at the time, it was almost 4 am meaning it was 1am in Vegas. Smiling as she replied half asleep herself, telling him to maybe think about drinking water instead of any more alcohol, she turned over and closed her eyes.

***** Frank sat dumbfounded, his entire body rigid as the person next to him in the bed let out a sigh, and then a deep groan before a head emerged from under the covers.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Frank exhaled and let out a groan as Simon looked at him “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Well, technically this is my room, jerk.” Simon said, blinking “What year is it?

“You scared the shit out of me.” Frank took a deep breath “I thought…”

“You thought you left with the blonde?” Simon peeked up at him “Nah, man. Mind you, wasn’t for her lack of trying. She was all over you. Eventually you told her to fuck off. You were quite rude actually.” Frank let out a sigh, his head falling back against the head board.

Simon sighed turning over, before he peered under the covers. “For the love of- Frank you’re naked.” “I’m aware of that.” Frank groaned.

“Fucking hell…” Simon grimaced, before he rolled out of bed “I’m going for a pee. Put some clothes on.”

Once Simon was in the bathroom he climbed out of bed, his head still spinning as he found his clothes in a pile on the floor. Shoving on his boxers and shirt he looked around the room to see an empty bottle of Jack Daniels and a pizza box on the table.

“Where the hell did we go?” He asked Simon as he walked back into the room. “Don’t ask me.” Simon looked at him, falling face down on the bed. “I know we took Greg back to your room…”

“We did?”

“Yeah he was wasted.” Simon nodded, rolling over as Frank flopped back on the bed. “He could hardly walk so the bouncers asked us to take him out of the club. We threw him in your room then…we must have gone back out…hang on…”

With a herculean effort, Simon pushed himself up and found his phone. After a brief scan his eyes widened and he snorted.

“Look.”

He turned the phone round to Frank, who saw a selfie of him and Simon in front of a face down Greg in the hotel room. Simon then began to flick through.

“Oh, ok so we went to a liquor store…” he turned the phone round to show Frank a blurry photo of a shop front “Don’t ask me why I took that and oh my god!”

“What?” Simon pressed play and a load of cheering and singing hit their ears as they watched footage of a small man dressed as a leprechaun dancing in the hotel foyer, Frank on his knees in front of him, laughing.

“I literally have no memory of that…at all.” Frank shook his head.

“Looks like we called Bonnie as well…” Simon snorted “If this angry text message that I got at 3 am is anything to go by.”

“Oh fuck.” Frank hastily reached for his phone, which really didn’t have a lot of battery left, and he hastily scanned his calls. There were none to Fliss, but he had sent her a message. According to her reply she’d been up to use the toilet, so that was ok.

His phone illuminated then with two messages. One from Fliss asking him if he was hungover, as he deserved to be, and another from Greg asking him where the fuck he was. Deciding to reply to Greg first, as he could picture the man stressing he tapped out a quick reply informing him not to worry, he’d be back at the room as soon as he’d managed to dress himself, which at the moment thanks to his head was proving a little difficult, before he replied to Fliss saying he was indeed hungover and he needed to crawl into a hole and die and as ever, reminded her he loved her.

No sooner had he sent it, she was calling him.

“That was quick…” he mumbled, before answering it. “Hey, honey…” “So, wanna tell me exactly where and what you were doing that requires you to get dressed before you go back to your room?” Her voice was steely.

Shit. He had sent the messages to the wrong people.

“Lissy, it’s not what you think.” He instantly began.

“Oh, you have no IDEA what I’m thinking!” her voice grew louder

“No, listen…I’m with Simon.” He chuckled.

“You think this is funny?” She sniffed and Frank grimaced.

“Baby, stop.” He sighed “Look, we ended up back at his room and I passed out here. That message was meant for Greg as he was asking me where I was. Instead he now has a message saying I’m hungover to fuck and that I love him.”

She was silent and he could hear her on the other end of the line rustling something before she spoke again in a quiet voice “So you weren’t with anyone else?”

“No, Sweetheart I wasn’t. Why would I want to be huh? Most beautiful girl in the world waiting for me at home.” At that Simon let out a retching noise “God you make me want to puke, Adler.” “Oh fuck off Si you dick.” He shot back.

“Hey, Fliss.” Simon leaned over to speak down the phone, grabbing Frank’s wrist to stop him moving it. “Now you, Bonnie and me have all seen Frank nekkid...”

“I swear to God I’m gonna punch you in a minute.” Frank mumbled, jerking his arm out of Simon’s reach and pushing him so hard he rolled over and fell off the side of the bed. Frank let out a laugh as Simon groaned and a hand appeared in the air, flipping him off.

“He knows about you and Bonnie?”

“Apparently so.” Frank mused

“So anything else you wanna tell me about what you got up to? Other than naked spooning Si?”

Frank laughed “We found a dancing leprechaun.”

“A dancing leprechaun?” “Yeah, in the hotel somewhere.”

“Standard.” she giggled “So, are you ready to come home now you’ve spent the last few days acting like overgrown frat boys?

“Yes, I’m more than ready to leave Aldrich Whitaker behind”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“My alter ego for last night. He’s a trust fund ass hole.” Frank grinned.

There was a pause before she replied, snorting “Whatever.”

At that point his phone gave him a bleep to tell him he was dangerously low on battery power. “Look, baby, my phones gonna die. I’ll call you when I get it charged ok?”

“Yeah, sure, hey Frankie, I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.” She apologised softly.

“It’s okay, I’m not surprised after that message.”

“Yeah but still…” she paused “Can I blame the hormones?”

“If you want.”

“In that case it was totally them.”

He chucked “ Hormones or not, I love you.”

“Love you too sailor”

With that his phone cut off and he glanced down at it, the screen blank as the power had gone. He dropped it on the bed, before leaning back again, his hand against his forehead.

“I’m NEVER coming to Vegas again”

“Oh you not fancy it for your Batchelor party then? Simon teased as he threw Frank a bottle of water from the mini bar.”

“The fuck I do.” Frank shook his head.

*****

“I’d like to say I’m surprised but…” Bonnie shrugged as Fliss snorted, taking a drink of her apple juice from the carton as they walked back to their cars in the setting sun. They’d had dinner at one of the beach bars and stayed simply chatting for half an hour or so, but now Fliss was now ready to head home, shower and bunker down for the rest of the evening until Frank came home.

“I knew he’d end up paralytic.” Fliss said, watching as Mary wandered back towards them, huge ice cream in her hand. “Stack that’s bigger than your head.”

Mary shrugged, handing Fliss her change “It’s good though.” “Mint choc chip?”

“Yup.” she grinned, taking a huge lick. “When’s Frank back?”

“He lands into Tampa in about 4 hours.” Fliss looked at her “Why, you fed up of me already?”

“No, just thinking how peaceful it’s been without him annoying me.”

Fliss grinned and Bonnie gave a chuckle.

“Hey, did you tell Bonnie about you jumping Monty?” Fliss asked.

“Oh, no…” Mary turned to the woman, enthusiastically telling her all about it as Bonnie listened, Fliss walking alongside them, her hand rubbing her bump. She was just thinking about how nice a nap would be right then when Bonnie’s phone went.

“Sorry Mary.” She muttered, frowning at the number. “Hey, Lisa?” Fliss attention turned to Bonnie and she watched carefully as she spoke to Jake’s fiancé, her eyes flicked to her “No, no why…what’s…oh, ok…yeah…”

She cancelled the phone call and instantly tapped at the screen.

“Everything ok?” Fliss frowned.

“Yeah, I just need to check something.” she said. Fliss glanced at Mary who looked at her, shrugging.

“Here…” Fliss handed her the keys to the jeep “Go open the car…” “You know if you want me out of the way just ask.” Mary rolled her eyes.

“Ok I want you out of the way.” Fliss looked down at her. Mary snorted and took the keys, wandering off the 50 yards or so to the jeep. Fliss watched her climb in the back, the door staying open and her legs dangling out of the side. “Bonnie what is it?”

“Nothing…” Bonnie said, far too quickly as she looked up at Fliss. Fliss frowned.

“Bonnie…”

“Honestly, it’s nothing, just something Lisa told me about on facebook so…” Bonnie stuttered slightly so Fliss narrowed her eyes.

“Stop bullshitting.” Fliss said, holding her gaze “What the fuck’s going on?”

“Look, I’m sure it’s not what it seems…” Bonnie sighed, holding out her phone. At those words Fliss felt her heart sink as it could only mean one thing, and she took the phone with a tentative hand. She looked down at it and could see that it was a photo and from the logo in the bottom right hand corner it was from the official club page that the boys had been in on Saturday night.

It showed Jake, Greg, Simon, and a few others that Fliss didn’t recognise but that wasn’t what Bonnie had been referring to. What she had been talking about, as Fliss could clearly see was the background of the shot, which showed Frank with a blonde woman. Her arms were round his neck, his hand was resting on her lower back and their faces inches apart.

“Like I said, I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation…” Bonnie said, but Fliss wasn’t listening. She was busy flicking through the other photos and then she came across another of Frank, the same girl perched on his knee.

She felt sick.

“Sure, perfectly innocent…” Fliss swallowed, handing the phone back to Bonnie, her voice sounding detached. Bonnie looked down at the snap now displayed on the screen and she took a deep breath.

“Look, Fliss, Frank loves you…he was probably just drunk and…” “Touching up some whore that’s sat on his lap.” Fliss shook her head “Save it Bonnie, I gotta go.” “Fliss…”

Fliss turned away from her, the tears stinging her eyes as she headed to the jeep. Taking a deep breath she wiped her eyes, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Are you ok?” Mary looked at her.

“Yeah, fine…just tired and hormonal.” Fliss shot her a smile.

“We can watch a film when we get back.” Mary suggested “Just chill out?”

“Yeah, yeah we can.” Fliss trying to quell the sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with Bean.

Had Frank really cheated on her? She would never in a million years thought he had it in him to be unfaithful, and she was desperate to believe Bonnie, that there was some perfectly innocent explanation for it all. And maybe, just maybe with the first one she could. It could have been taken at a bad moment, when they were just talking to one another, Frank being friendly…but then again why would they have their arms round one another. And as for the second one…the same girl was sat on his fucking lap with her arm looped round his shoulder.

And he looked perfectly comfortable with it.

She rubbed her bump again and Mary looked at her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine sweetheart.” she nodded, painting a smile on her face before turning the key in the ignition. “Let’s go home.”

******

Frank sighed as they all trudged through the arrivals lounge, rubbing his eyes. He was ready for a shower and collapse next to his girl, he felt like he had aged a decade over the last 3 days. The rest of them looked just as bad as they headed to the waiting car, Simon’s phone reminding Frank he needed to turn his on to.

“Oh, shit…” he heard Simon groan “No, that’s not…he didn’t…I swear…”

He glanced at Frank who stood still, watching and leaning on the door frame, his own phone in his hand as it started up.

“Yeah, ok…love you…see you soon.” Simon swallowed and cut the call looking at Frank.

“What is it?” Frank looked at him, a cold feeling washing over him “Has something happened to Lissy or Mary? Or the baby, please tell me no…” “No, nothing like that but you need to call Fliss.” he said, “Frank, there’s photos of you and that blonde chick on the club facebook page. Someone tagged me and Greg in them, Lisa saw them and Bonnie and…” “Photos of what?” Frank frowned “I didn’t do anything…” “There’s a photo that makes it look like you are…and one of her on your lap.” Simon said and Frank swallowed, his stomach churning.

“Oh fahk!”

“Just get in the car.” Greg looked at him from where he stood at the other side. “Call her on the way, we’ll back you up…it’s a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine.” Jake assured him.

But it wasn’t fine, because no matter how much Frank tried, or how many messages he sent, Liss wasn’t picking up or replying and when he saw the photos, he could understand her being pissed. He would be if it was the other way round because they looked bad. The drive home seemed to take forever, and when the car finally rounded the corner onto Frank’s road they all offered to come in as well and help him explain, but he shook his head, knowing full well if he did that she would feel backed into a corner. No, this was his own dumbass fault. He’d face up to it and talk to her, make her understand how he’d told the girl to back off…she’d listen, she was reasonable.

The house was quiet when he entered and he walked through to the lounge where Fliss was sat on the sofa, her knees bent up beside her. She glanced over the back of the couch and he could see she had been crying, which made him feel like even more of bastard than he did already.

“Lissy, honey, I swear…” “You know, when I asked if there was anything you wanted to tell me, maybe I should have asked if there was something you should tell me” She sniffed, uncurling her legs and standing up and Thor’s ears pricked up from where he had been laying on the rug.

“Listen, those photos, they’re not…” He shook his head. “I told her to get lost, honestly I swear to you.”

He moved towards her, his hands dropping to her hips but she pushed him hard in the chest, stepping back.

“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“Sweetheart, I swear to God…”

“I don’t wanna hear it Frank.” she shook her head, walking past him. “Where are you going?” he asked, “Lissy, you can’t leave. Please, sweetheart…” “I’m going to bed, but let’s get one thing straight. The only reason I’m not screaming at you right now and storming out, slamming the door behind me is because of Mary.” she spoke calmly, too calmly for the anger which was radiating out of every inch of her body. She looked at Frank, her eyes watering as she shook her head, turning away. “You can take the couch.”

“Lissy…” “Frank…just stop.” Her voice cracked, and with that she left the room, Thor trotting behind, the bedroom door clicking behind her.

Frank stood, rooted to the spot, debating whether or not to follow her, before he decided not to. The last thing he wanted was to anger her that much she stormed out, or worse, she got so stressed something happened to the baby. No, she’d set the boundaries so he decided to respect them, and turned instead to the couch, sinking down onto the cushions his head in his hands.

She was angry, upset and she had the right to be and like he had said in the car, in her position he knew he would feel the same. She needed to sleep, calm down enough so that they could talk and he could explain, get her to listen to him. And then she’d see that it was a huge misunderstanding, even if she remained pissed at him for having the girl so close in the first place, which, ok, he shouldn’t have done but fuck…the thought of cheating hadn’t entered his mind, not once.

He swung his legs up, rubbing his face over his hands. She’d believe him. She had to, because if she didn’t, then had no idea what the fuck he was gonna do.

**** Chapter 4

#riding on #frank adler #frank adler x ofc #frank adler x original female character #frank adler x oc #gifted #gifted fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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sun-spice · 3 years ago

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@themagnuswriters is apparently doing a fic appreciation thing? Have I got that right? I've been busy as fuck lately so I haven't had the energy to properly appreciate the stuff I've been reading, but I do happen to have an old rec list in my drafts that I'd forgotten about. If I have the time I might do another one with some more recent stuff and maybe an additional nsfw reclist :)

List under the cut, word counts and completion statuses are probably out of date.

the sword of damocles by penhaligon | post-160 apocalypse averted, hurt/comfort | 89k, ongoing, T | minor JonMartin

Summary: Martin interrupts Jonah's ritual. That doesn't mean their problems are solved.

Jon, Martin and Basira set off to deal with Jonah once and for all after the ritual is interrupted. To make matters worse for them, however, the Fears now know of said ritual and are each determined to pull it off themselves. Stunning prose in this one, I love how penhaligon builds up small moments of suspense.

where there's a will, we will make a way by bubonickitten | S4 time travel fix-it | 107k, ongoing, T | minor JonMartin

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Late series time travel fix-it with communication between the characters. Some development on minor characters as well, which I love, and lots of relatable hard conversations <3

An Cailleach agus an Fear Sidhe by Drowsy_Salamander | urban fantasy, fae au, witchcraft | 30k, ongoing, T | JonMartin, Martin & Sasha & Tim

Martin moves to join a witch coven consisting of Tim and Sasha. The three of them have to pick up the slack protecting their town, previously lacking witch presence, from the fair folk. Meanwhile there are people in the town who know more than they're letting on.

Loving the dynamic between Martin, Sasha and Tim so far. The exposition and worldbuilding is well delivered and the beginnings of a mystery start to drag you in. What do Jon, Daisy and Basira have to do with everything? What is Jane Prentiss hoping to achieve?

A Home For What Loves You by TheWrongShop | canon divergence, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance | 66k, ongoing, T | JonMartin

Summary: Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.

Jon and Martin are trapped together in Martin's apartment band later have to live together in the archives. Communication? Among archive staff? More likely than you think.

What Once Was Mine by dieanywhereelse | reverse time travel fix-it, dramatic comedy, safehouse fic | 29k, ongoing, T | S1 Polychives, JonMartin, found family

Summary: The Scottish Safe house gets a few visitors from the past. Jon and Martin get a chance to set things right.

In which future Jon and Martin are actually somewhat well adjusted after averting the apocalypse and dealing with Jonah. They get an opportunity to help past versions of themselves and their dead friends to get where they are with (hopefully) less pain. Love this au a whole bunch, it's one of my all-time faves! Really well thought-out with some great character dynamics and some adjusted monster!Jon.

Moth Song by Siarven | time travel fix-it, dimension hopping, hurt/comfort, found family | 76k, ongoing, M | minor JonMartin

Jon accidentally travels into the S1 of an alternate universe and tries to set things right. He's a mess, and has a breakdown, but he talks with his friends and together they start to work it out.

I'd Be Under the Sea but You Hold Me Above by Write_as_Rain | mer au, hurt/comfort, fast burn romance | 14k, completed, T | JonMartin

Summary: As a fisherman working under Captain Lukas, Martin has learned to keep his head down and fade into the mist. He does his work, walks further down the path Peter has laid before him, and if members of the crew occasionally disappear, Martin has learned not to ask about them. Has learned to stop caring at all.

At least until the crew pull up something strange and wonderful and impossible, tangled in one of the fishing nets. Something that Peter means ill.

No, Martin doesn't... care. But maybe he can save it. Maybe they can save each other.

A Few Small Repairs by Mad_Maudlin, shipwreckblue | canon divergence | 138k, completed, M | minor JonMartin

Gertrude shot first, killing Elias and all of the staff of the Magnus Institute who where in the building that day. Jon somehow survives and is taken in by Gertrude, Gerry and Mary at Pinhole Books.

Meanwhile, Martin, Sasha and Tim are some of the surviving staff trying to pick up the pieces after the strange 'fire'. But wasn't Gertrude supposed to be dead? What is up with this new Institute director?

the garden of forking paths by bibliocratic | post post-apocalypse, time travel, dimension hopping, angst with a happy ending | 50k, completed, T | JonMartin, minor found family

Summary: Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

Poignant and bittersweet but with a happy ending. Really well written!

youth dipped in folly by evanescent_jasmine | pre-canon divergence(?), bittersweet | 27k, completed, M | GerryOliver

Summary: In 2012, Oliver meets Gerard Keay and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can finally save somebody.

He’s wrong.

A Reel for the Watcher by RedCytosine | period drama (early 1900s), fae au | 50k, ongoing, M | JonMartin, minor found family

Summary: Martin Blackwood, in need of employment and out of options, takes a clerical position in Scotland at Castle Magnus, working for the enigmatic Lord Elias Bouchard. He expects it to be glorified paper-shuffling, but what he finds instead is much more sinister. What secrets lurk in the castle library? Who plays the wild music that haunts his dreams? And why does a strange horse wander the lakeshore each morning at dawn?

TFW you wake up from a long nap and have no idea where you are by forgetfulmachine | time travel fix-it, fluff, found family | 33k, ongoing, G

Summary: Jon gets sent back to mid season one in the middle of his coma. Tim, Sasha, and Martin help him through his emotions and stopping the Unknowing. There's a lot of fluff along the way.

Thistle and Weeds by ajkal2 | time travel hurt/comfort, disability | 6k, ongoing, M

Excerpt: “Jon,” Martin says. “Are you alright?”

Jon’s head lifts, turns toward the sound. He’s shaking. His teeth are bared, a flash of white against his dark skin, but it’s not a smile. There’s something- His eyes, they don’t look right-

His mouth opens, jaw trembling, and he says “Martin?” The bright overhead lights gleam off the blood pouring down his face. His eyes are black, empty sockets.

for a firmament by supaslim | two works | canon divergence, transformation horror, recovery | 31k, completed, T

Series summary: There is beauty in destruction. There is art in becoming.

In which Jon becomes the Archive, and the Archive becomes Jon.

Wonderful monster!Jon with some amazing body horror and mental illness recovery themes. Moved me to tears!

A Break in the Clouds by Ash_Rabbit | time-travel, fluff and angst, pre-canon | 22k, ongoing, T | Jon & Original Elias

Excerpt: “I’m eight.” the kid sniffs as if eight was any different from four, maybe not an unspeakable horror then, just a regular horror. “And I heard that the Magnus Institute deals with-” his little nose scrunches, cute. “-spooky things.”

“Do you have a-” he cracks a grin, and then rethinks it as small hands tighten against their burden.”-spooky thing to deliver?” gods he hopes not, it’s bad enough when adults walk in and lay out all of their baggage, but for a child-

“There’s a spider in this book.” the kid says solemnly, raising his textbook sized parcel. “It ate Evan Pritchard.” a bloody fucking Leitner. Of course an eight year old would find a murder spider book. “This seemed like the best place to bring it.”

Seen, Unseen, Unsung by bluejayblueskies | character undeath, canon divergence, memory loss, End!Tim | 50k, ongoing, M | JonMarTim, Tim & Danny & Sasha

Summary: Tim wakes up from the Unknowing with a blank slate where the Institute had been, Danny sitting at his bedside, and a man with too many eyes haunting his dreams.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fics

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thorne93 · 4 years ago

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The Stars Made Us (Part 4)

Prompt: In this world, you’re one of the “lucky” ones who got a soulmate, but what if the universe gives you more than you bargained for?

(Prompt challenge – You live in a world where your soulmate can write on their skin and you will get the writing on your own and vice versa. Where they can wash away the ink on their own skin, however, the writing is forever scarred onto your skin until you meet face to face)

Word Count: 2578

Warnings: angst and language throughout

Notes: This was supposed to be for @sorryimacrapwriter and their challenge like a year ago, I think? I still loved the prompt though and have been working on this story for quite some time. This aesthetic was made by @dontshootmespence, thank you so much! Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes, couldn’t have done it without you, as well as @carryonmyswansong and @arrow-guy and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

Also, I’ve never really liked the whole soulmate AU thing idea, but this felt so right and it was amazing to write. I hope y’all love it too!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You ran a private practice and as soon as his name showed up on your skin, you immediately made arrangements for your patients to see other local colleagues of yours. You told your parents where you were heading and why. You packed several suitcases, since you weren’t sure how long you’d be gone, and you took off.

You would’ve preferred to drive, to have your own car when you got where you were going, but you needed to see Charles, and you needed to see him now. He was in trouble and he needed you, so plane it was.

The entire plane ride, you were bouncing your leg, nervous. You were excited that you’d finally see him, meet him, put a face to a personality. But you were worried, if you were visiting him, it meant he needed help, and you had no idea what could possibly be wrong.

In the back of your mind, you even wondered if maybe he’d reject you. Maybe he’d take one look at you and disappointment would wash over him and he’d never want to see you again. You hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but maybe he was over the idea of a soulmate. Maybe he’d met someone.

After fighting the airport, grabbing your luggage, and hailing a cab, you were finally actually closer to Charles. Closer to meeting him. Closer to saving him.

Your leg kept bouncing as you gave the address to the taxi driver. He glanced back at you before heading away from the airport. Your stomach was in knots, your nerves vividly alive on every part of your body. In one way, the driver couldn’t go fast enough. In another, he was speeding along way too quickly.

You’d dreamed of this day for years. You two were closer than anyone in your life. He was the first person you went to when you had good news, bad news, sad news, a rough day, a great day. He could make you burst out laughing from just a few words in a text message. He could move you to tears with a letter on email.

So why, now, after all this time of wishing you could see him, touch him, hear him, were you nervous?

It was only right to be nervous, you had no idea what to expect.

And that expectation was completely shattered when he turned into a driveway with large gates. You saw a sign that said Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, but there were weeds grown over it. You frowned.

You were at a school?

The taxi rolled down the drive until he reached the front door of what looked to be a mansion. You paid him and he got out to help you with your luggage. You hoisted your purse on your shoulder before taking in the expansive building in front of you. You took a deep breath and walked up to the front door and knocked with a heavy knocker.

Twenty seconds later, the door opened and you met a tall man with blue eyes and glasses. You wondered if this was Charles. You didn’t feel as if you knew this person though. He didn’t seem familiar.

Your brows knitted together for a fraction of a second before you cleared your throat and said, “I’m looking for Charles Xavier?”

“Are you… a parent or a student? School’s been closed down for a while now we aren’t taking--”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, a slight laugh coming out as you glanced down at your hands. “No, I… I’m his soulmate?”

“His...ah, right, I remember you,” he noted softly before opening the door to let you in.

“He’s mentioned me?” you asked, half for clarification and half to hear it again, just to know he’d been talking about you was a good sign.

“Yeah, a few times.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, shaking your head as you looked around at what was clearly a mansion. “This used to be a school?”

“Mhm. All the brightest kids, gifted--”

“Gifted, like, geniuses?” you clarified.

“Well that and--”

“Hank, who’s here?” a British voice called down the expansive staircase. A man with long disheveled hair descended the stairs, a bathrobe hung loosely on his form, covering up dirty pajamas. A drink was in his hand and you cocked your head to the side.

This man -- he felt entirely different from Hank. His aura. His vibe. No, Hank was most certainly not your mate. But this… destroyed man was.

You didn’t think he’d be British.

“It’s, uh, well,” Hank started but he glanced at you. “You should probably tell him.”

“Charles, it’s me,” you said as you took a step forward, laying a hand on your chest. “I’m Y/F/I.”

He narrowed his eyes at you as he took a seat on the stairs. “I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?”

At first, your heart felt like ice until Hank leaned down and whispered, “Don’t take it personally, it’s the alcohol. He’s--”

“Drunk 24/7 and I love it,” he said before taking a sip.

“No,” you said angrily. “No, this isn’t how we’re supposed to meet,” you stated, determined as you marched over, and up the stairs. “See these?” you growled, pulling your sleeves up, but there was nothing there -- no name, no scars, no address. Nothing to symbolize your past ten years of communication. “Where...where did they go?”

“If you’re referring to the scars that are supposed to be there, don’t bother. If we are mates, they disappear when we meet, it’s how it works, this grand universe,” Charles said, making a show out of the air, waving his hands about. “So, let me get this straight, my name and location showed up on your arm and you just took off, destined to meet me?”

“Yes, that’s what soulmates do for each other,” you reminded adamantly. “We’ve been in contact for ten years. That was before you suddenly vanished on me,” you scowled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I break your heart?” he asked, leaning forward, his blue eyes captivating. Right now they were infuriating, and heartbreaking, but crystal clear nonetheless. “Well that’s life,” he spat before getting up. “Hank, see her to the door. I don’t want any guests. Thank you,” he said before waving, not looking back as he ascended the stairs.

You turned around and faced Hank from the stairs, mouth open. “What… what happened to him?”

“Where do I start?” he asked with a slight scoff.

“Well, I guess a year ago. That’s when he stopped talking to me.”

“A year? You haven’t been in contact for a year?” he inquired incredulously.

“No,” you said clearly before frowning. “Why? What happened a year ago?”

“Everything.”

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

You stared down at your arms, slightly saddened by the fact that your arms no longer had the scars on them, the little reminders, symbols and markers that was Charles. You suppressed a sigh just as Hank offered you a drink.

“Would you like anything?”

“No, thank you. So, what exactly…. He didn’t tell me anything,” you explained. “He told me goodnight and then... he was gone. I thought he was dead.”

Hank made a face and perched an eyebrow as he stood behind the desk, leaning against a bookshelf. “He might as well have been.”

“What do you mean?”

“We built this school, the labs, this whole place... then, just after the first semester...

There were protests. People didn’t want the school. It’s privately funded, and they didn’t like what it provided, what it stood for. Eventually we had to shut it down. He lost everything. Erik, Raven... his legs--”

“His...legs? What happened to his legs? He was perfectly fine.” Your tone made it evident you were clearly in the dark on a lot of things.

Hanke eyed you, the realization settling over him. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

You frowned.

He sighed before rounding the desk to sit down next to you. “We were in Cuba, uh, with the CIA, trying to stop this guy, he was trying to start a war. Long story short, the war kind of started, and a bullet got lodged in his back, paralyzed him.”

The news of his sent you reeling. He was paralyzed? You had no idea how to take this.

“So how can he--”

“Walk? It’s a serum I created.”

“You’re a doctor?” you asked, pleasant surprise in your voice.

He gave you a half smile and a small laugh. “Not quite, more of a scientist of all trades. I take just enough to keep myself balanced... but he takes too much. I tried easing him back... but he just couldn't bear the pain, the voices. The treatment gives him his legs... but it’s not enough, and it makes him lose his powers. He's... He's just lost too much.”

You shook your head. “I’m sorry, powers?”

“Well, yeah, his telepathy,” he reminded, as if you were supposed to know. Suddenly, realization dawned on him. “He didn’t tell you that either, huh?”

“No, I suppose not. I had no idea he has… telepathy?”

“Yeah, it’s his mutation. Mine is turning into a blue beast. That’s why I take the serum, but I take just enough. He overdoes it…”

“I can’t believe he has a mutation, and he didn’t tell me,” you said aloud, astonished. It was more to yourself than to him.

“That’s why the school was shut down, it’s a school for mutants, and some people were protesting so badly it became unsafe for the students.”

“So the sign for gifted youngsters meant mutation, not…” you said, trailing off.

“Yeah, it’s kind of his dream to teach mutants, help them,” he informed.

“Well, I knew he wanted to teach. I mean, he told me about becoming a professor but never….” You bit your lip. “Just how much has he not told me?” you wondered, again, it wasn’t exactly directed at Hank.

“I’m not sure,” he breathed softly as he eyed you. You think he felt sympathy, maybe pity for you. You thought you and Charles knew everything about each other. Guess you were wrong.

But it’s not like he was a racecar driver and you didn’t know it. He was a mutant, he had telepathy.

“So this… telepathy, how does it work?”

Hank started to shake his head, seeming uncertain. “You may want to ask him that yourself.”

“I don’t really think he wants to see me right now,” you muttered, feeling utterly dejected.

You’d built this up in your head for years. You knew you’d meet him when he needed you most, but you thought it might be moral support, maybe to help him if he got in an accident in the hospital. You dreamed of meeting him forever, since the night of your 18th birthday.

Now when you found him, he was a drug dependent mutant who clearly had lost most hope in life.

“This… is not what I expected,” you finally said.

Hank said nothing but offered a sympathetic half smile.

“Well, so how do I fix him?” you asked, taking a deep breath. “He lost Raven, and Erik… Wait, how exactly did he lose them?”

“That fight, in Cuba, it was against another mutant. It was to save most of humanity, but for Erik it was a vendetta. Erik killed the mutant and asked some of the team to join him. Basically if you’re not with Erik, you’re against him.”

“And what does he stand for?” you wondered. Charles had mentioned meeting a man named Erik, and he said he was like him, but more of a lost soul that he was going to help. You thought he meant mentally, psychologically, not fighting in an actual war.

“He wants the mutants to be the super race, he feels they’re superior. He thinks the humans, if they ever found out about us, that we’d be targeted.”

“And Charles? How does he feel about it?”

“He has faith in humanity. Yeah there would be some groups that didn’t like us, but he feels ultimately that we could get along peacefully. Well… he did before the protests.”

“So what exactly is this school for, then? I know it’s mutants but what does that mean? Why would someone protest it?”

“Charles wanted a school where mutant kids, kids just discovering their powers could come here and learn to control them safely, to exercise their powers, to understand the full range of their powers. He ultimately wanted it to be a blended school of humans and mutants, but we barely got started with just the mutants before it was shut down.”

“That’s awful,” you breathed quietly, frowning. “Who closed the school? Was it Charles or was it the government?”

“Charles ultimately decided. He just felt the kids would be safer to go back into hiding. Here they knew where we all were, so they could come and harass us… It was only a matter of time before someone else stepped in though.”

You were trying to keep up with everything, with all the news. “And Raven? You said he lost her too, what happened?”

“She left with Erik. She’s got an incredible gift, she can change herself to look like any person and sound exactly like them. She’s unique and quite fascinating. She ages rather slowly. But she got tired of hiding. Her natural state is blue skin and fiery red hair, of course this is off putting to some, namely humans. So she thought it would be in her best interest if she joined the side where she might not have to hide any more,” he explained. There was a sadness, but an understanding to his voice and you couldn’t help but think that maybe they were closer than just friends.

“She was his best friend, right?” you asked, wanting to be sure. At this point he’d left out so many details maybe Raven and he weren’t all that closer or they were closer than what he’d said.

Hank nodded. “Practically siblings,” he commented.

“I can see how that could devastate someone. And this Erik fellow? They were close?”

“They were becoming that way, yes. He and Charles trained a lot together, became friends.”

You frowned, thinking. “So what do I do for him? I mean, how do I… make him feel better?” you wondered. If anyone would know it would probably be Hank who appears to be the only one who’s stayed by his side.

He laughed, clearly amused. “If I knew the answer to that, I don’t think you’d be here. I think I’ve done everything I can keeping the mutants and anti-mutants away. And also giving him the serum… Past that, I couldn’t tell you what gets him out of bed in the morning.”

You pressed your lips together. “Could you show me to his room? I’d like to talk to him.”

“Sure,” he said with an air of concern. He probably wondered if he would even talk to you.

He got up and you followed him from what had appeared to be a study, back to the entry room, up a stairway that split in two, turning left, then walking down a long hallway to the last bedroom on the right.

Hank knocked on the door, waited a second then cracked the door. He peeked in then turned around and nodded at you. You nodded once before he stepped out of the way and let you inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#the stars made us #charles xavier x reader #charles xavier fic #charles xavier #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange fic #stephen strange #hank mccoy

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hellchilde · 4 years ago

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The Thing With Feathers

wow it feels like ten million years since i posted a real fic

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xiǎo Xīngchén, Song Lan | Song Zichen & Xiao Xingchen, Xiao Xingchen & Xue Yang | Xue Chengmei

Characters: Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan | Song Zichen, Xue Yang | Xue Chengmei, Wen Qing

Additional Tags: Disabled Character, Blindness, Blind Xiǎo Xīngchén, Lack of Communication, Established Relationship, brief scene with blood, Recreational Drug Use, (but it's just weed), Alcohol, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Reincarnation Vibes

Words: 8970

Summary: Sometimes, all you need to throw your life into sharp focus it to stumble over a dying criminal in the street and let it consume your life.

Or: Xiao Xingchen finds Xue Yang injured alongside the road and the rhythm of the carefully constructed life he has with Song Lan no longer seems entirely stable.

It happens when he's walking home from class.

This time, the reason for Xiao Xingchen's loss of vision is not so noble or meaningful. Sometimes things happen for a reason, but sometimes things just happen and it's shit luck and you have to make due with the cards you're dealt. Sometimes you're too young when your vision deteriorates to nothing, but at least that means you don't have to see their pitying looks in the encroaching darkness. But sometimes, there is a good man who is there for you and can help you pick up the pieces when your life changes too quickly for you to deal with. That is a spot of good luck, because this man is someone you love and could picture a life with, even if it's not the life your parents had intended, or the life you set out to start back when the possibilities were endless. This time, Xiao Xingchen learns the lines of Song Lan's face with his fingertips before his sight is completely gone, and lets him reshape their lives to accommodate this unforeseen obstacle to what could have been a story of happily ever after.

With a white cane in hand and a determined set to his face, Xiao Xingchen walks the increasingly familiar path between home, subway, school, subway, home. Never did he plan on learning a new language in his late twenties, but that language is braille, and he refuses to be totally helpless in a world designed against him. Audiobooks help, but he can't listen to them while he walks, has to stay vigilant with his remaining senses or let himself be pummeled by people who won't see him. Shame the onus has to be on him. So it might be dark, but maybe it's not, when he trips over something and sprawls inelegantly, embarrassingly to the ground. His cheeks and ears are burning, he dropped his cane but finds it quickly. Stupid, stupid, he should have felt it.

He reaches back to feel what he tripped over, and feels fabric, flesh. He gropes his way up, increasingly concerned when the person doesn't move or make a sound, and he smells blood. Then finally he feels the blood, sticky and warm but cooling, and is worried he is feeling a corpse until he feels the chest rise and fall and hears the wheeze of breath. He snatches his hands away, worried, and scrambles for the phone in his pocket. It has a voice-to-text option, and that makes up for the lack of buttons. He's never had to dial 9-1-1, and he thinks his voice on the line to the operator is nervous and panicked. He can't even tell her for certain which street he's on, except that it's five blocks from the campus where he had class.

That must be enough. The EMT's arrive and take stock of the situation, and they reassure him, and when he asks them if he can ride in the ambulance, they agree without too much argument. The ride to the hospital is horrible, though, because he has no idea where he's going or how far away and every turn makes him motion sick. He still doesn't consider leaving behind the man he found. The emergency room is chaotic, but one of the EMT's spares the time to lead him out to the waiting room, and someone eventually gets him some water.

“He's in surgery, and then they'll be admitting him for observation,” one of the staff says to him. He's already given his report to the police, explained his innocent side. He's not a suspect for what appears to be a violent crime, but they took his contact information. Otherwise, Xiao Xingchen doesn't know much. “You don't know him, so … you can go home if you want. I'm sure he would appreciate the kindness of a stranger.”

“Were you able to find an emergency contact?” he asks. So far, he has been the only visitor present.

“No,” the staff says. “Don't worry, the police are looking into it.”

“I would prefer to stay with him,” Xiao Xingchen says, because he does always try to be noble, even without a sword in his hands.

The staff member, maybe a nurse or a receptionist but probably not a doctor, reaches out to touch his hands where they're clasped protectively around his cane. He makes a face because he wouldn't have accepted the touch if asked permission, but at least it's kind. “You're a good man,” the staff member says. “We'll help you to the waiting room near where he'll be resting.”

At some point, someone gives him a sandwich wrapped in plastic and a cup of coffee. The sandwich is ham and soggy, but he eats a little of it, and the coffee tastes old and watery. At some point, Xiao Xingchen sleeps in his chair. At some point, someone informs him that the man made it through surgery and is sleeping. At some point, Xiao Xingchen awakens to the feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket.

“You didn't come home,” Song Lan's voice says, strained. “I was worried.”

“I'll be home soon,” Xiao Xingchen replies. “I have to make sure he made it through. I'm the one who found him, it's my responsibility.” He doesn't like the hospital, which is cold and antiseptic, and his chair isn't comfortable. He's still going to stay. He has to, even if he has to rely on the kindness of strangers to find the bathroom.

Song Lan sighs, too familiar with this side of him. “Call me to come pick you up,” he says quietly. “The hospital isn't far.”

Xiao Xingchen says goodbye and hangs up and only resents a little that the offer makes him feel helpless. He rubs at his eyes, which feel gritty and sore, and locates the remains of his soggy sandwich to at least get something in his stomach. He listens to the sounds of the hospital around him, beeping machines and ringing phones and quiet voices and people rushing by in non-skid shoes. He seems to be politely ignored, or perhaps forgotten, but he doesn't know how long it's supposed to take until he learns what happened.

At some point, another member of staff approaches him and sits beside him, clearing her throat softly. “I have some news, Mr. Xiao,” she says, accented Mandarin. He tries not to be insulted that they think his English isn't good. “The police have found out the identity of the man you found. Apparently … he's wanted for murder, and some other crimes. He works for some very bad men.”

Xiao Xingchen frowns, the information hard to take in. A criminal? He saved a criminal?

“You did a good thing,” she continues. “They'll bring him in to face justice. They wanted me to thank you.”

He manages to nod, trying not to reveal how shaken he is by the news. Why should it bother him so much? He doesn't know this man and has no connection to him other than finding him mostly dead on his walk to the subway. And yet he still feels betrayed. He did something good, he saved a man, and he turns out to be a criminal. It doesn't feel fair, but so little in his life feels fair.

His intentions have been to stay until the man wakes up and introduce himself, get to know him, but he no longer wants that. Instead he digs out his phone as soon as the nurse leaves and dials Song Lan's number to request a ride and pulls himself to his feet, legs feeling stiff from a long night spent in an uncomfortable chair. He still has that feeling that he should at least peek in on the man that he saved, but then, what's the use in that when he hasn't peeked at anything since his vision gave up on him?

It doesn't take very much help from others to make it down to the front of the building and out the doors – the elevator had braille, and the flow of traffic was relatively logical. He takes a breath of fresh air and stands by the curb to wait for Song Lan, his cane clasped in his hands. He hasn't bothered to ask the time, but by the temperature outside and the birds and the angle of the sun he can feel on his skin, he guesses it's midmorning. He's been out all night. No wonder Song Lan was worried.

He hears the car, and the door opens, and there's Song Lan's voice instructing him to get in. He reaches out to feel the edge of the car door and then climbs inside, settling gratefully into the familiar passenger seat to let Song Lan pull away from the hospital.

“Did he wake up?” Song Lan asks after a few moments of silence.

“I don't know,” Xiao Xingchen replies, collapsing his cane back down to make more room in the footwell for his legs. “They told me they found out who he was. A criminal wanted for murder, with mob connections. I didn't want to stay after that. I'm sure they'll arrest him.” He's still not sure how he feels about that. Bad, bad, like there's rocks in his stomach.

Song Lan thinks about that, his driving much smoother than that of the ambulance, mindful of not taking the turns too quickly. “Well, it's a good thing he's off the streets,” he says at last. “And good that you didn't let him die. It's best that he faces the consequences of what he's done.”

Xiao Xingchen nods and chews on his bottom lip, turning towards the window to feel the sun on his face. He's tired, more tired than before, and he thinks he'll sleep all day even if it'll totally throw off his sleep schedule. He feels depressed, for no reason he can put a finger on. How had he been the one to stumble on that man?

He takes Song Lan's help here and there to get inside, finding it reassuring to always reach out and find him there, and then they are safely behind a door and he finds the bed and collapses into it. When he wakes up again, Song Lan is stretched out beside him, breathing deep and even in sleep. Xiao Xingchen sighs, rolls over, and scoots unobtrusively out of bed to find the cigarettes he has hidden in a corner of the closet in case of emergency. He secludes himself on the fire escape to smoke in peace and rub his temple while he attempts to figure out what he's feeling.

He hasn't figured it out by the time he's finished one cigarette, and he has just enough self control to cut himself off after one, then retreats back inside to at least pretend to do some work.

The next time Xiao Xingchen hears about Xue Yang (which is the name of the man he saved, that murderer and mobster and … rapist, for all he knew) he is on the news. He emerges from their bedroom one morning in search of the coffee pot and some breakfast, and Song Lan actually has the TV on, a rare occurrence this early in the morning.

“... released from City Hospital this morning, in custody of the police,” the reporter says. “Xue Yang has known connections with alleged crime lord Wen Ruohan, and charges against him include murder, arson, assault, armed robbery, and fraud. Yang will be facing these charges in a court of law, following investigation into the listed charges, and is currently being kept in custody at an undisclosed location. Yang was found two weeks ago by a civilian on the street following a vicious stabbing, supposedly an attempt on his life carried out by a rival gang. The investigation into Yang's attack is still ongoing with no suspects.”

Xiao Xingchen feels his face fold into a frown, and he steps forward until he finds Song Lan, letting him press a bowl into his hands and starting to eat without really tasting.

“I guess he can walk now,” Song Lan comments with a dry voice.

“What does he look like?” It doesn't matter. Xiao Xingchen still wants to know, to satisfy some perverse curiosity about that evil man he happened to save from bleeding out on the street.

“Like a punk,” Song Lan says. “Like a smug little punk. Like he's going to get away with all of it.” He sets his bowl down and leans in to kiss Xingchen's cheek, running his hand over the other as if he can smooth out the frustration there. “Don't listen to too much of this. I'll be back tonight.” And then he leaves, the sound of his footsteps circling the kitchen island, pausing to pick up his coat and bag, pausing to slip on his shoes, and then the sound of the front door.

Xiao Xingchen takes a few more bites of the food – it's oatmeal, and it's alright, but it's not the way he would have prepared it – and the news is still on in the background, now on to some other story that he cares less about. He puts the bowl down and goes for coffee next, still half the pot left and soy creamer set out nearby. Thoughtful. Song Lan takes care of him.

He doesn't follow the direction. He gets his tablet and sets it up to search for this Wen Ruohan guy. He doesn't keep enough track of the news to have any idea about organized crime, but once his tablet understands what he's asking of it, it pulls up some articles. The text reader's voice renders the shocking events dry and bland, but at least it's something. It makes it sound like Wen Ruohan has fingers in pretty much every bit of crime in the city, maybe further out too. Not surprising that a criminal like Xue Yang would take up with him, do some of his dirty work. The top of the pack never lets that kind of thing touch him. That's why they can't make anything stick when it comes to bringing charges against him. The movies get that much right.

His next search is for Xue Yang himself. Most of what pulls up is the recent stuff about him being in the hospital, the stabbing, the murder charge they want him for this time. Few of the articles he finds come with image descriptions, so if there are pictures, he doesn't know what they are. He can access the public parts of Xue Yang's criminal record. People keep getting his name wrong, calling him “Mr. Yang.” He listens to the text reader list the dates and bare-bones facts of the previous charges. Some of them he had been arrested for, served time. Others seemed to disappear too quickly.

When Song Lan comes home, he is still on the couch, bent over his tablet, hair uncombed and falling over his shoulders and still wearing the loungewear he had put on that morning, which doesn't really count as clothes. He startles when he suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder, too wrapped up in what he had been listening to and thinking about to pay attention to the sound of the door opening or Song Lan saying his name.

“What are you … oh,” Song Lan says, and Xiao Xingchen feels the presence of him reading over his shoulder. “I see you didn't follow my advice.”

“I wanted to know more,” Xiao Xingchen says, feeling oddly defensive. He switches the tablet dark so Song Lan can't read over his shoulder. “Maybe he's a smug punk, but I saved him. I want to know what kind of man I saved.” Why he's weirdly obsessive about this, he still doesn't understand. Why he wants to know more of these dark details. It isn't like it gives him a thrill – well, not a good thrill, that would be kind of sick. It isn't like he's ever even interacted with Xue Yang. Except that he spent a good portion of one day covered in his blood and waiting for him to wake up at the hospital, and for some reason that made it feel like Xue Yang owed him something.

Song Lan sighs so it stirs the hairs on the top of his head, then pets them down again. Not the first time Xiao Xingchen has forgotten to comb his hair, especially on days he stays in. It's a worried kind of touch. “Will you please turn it off for a little while for dinner?”

Xiao Xingchen considers being contrary and refusing, but his stomach rumbles as a reminder that he only broke away long enough to eat some pickles and crackers in a lunch that required minimal effort but could hardly be counted as real food. He submits, then, pulling Song Lan's hand down from his head to kiss his inner wrist. He rises to his feet to follow Song Lan to the table, sits beside him and takes the prepared plate. Song Lan must have guessed some of his mood that morning, because a couple of the dishes are among his favorites from this particular restaurant.

That softens him, and he feels a little bad for considering being contrary or brushing off Song Lan's worry as being patronizing. Guilty, even. Doesn't Song Lan have enough to deal with without his boyfriend being bratty? It's the unfortunate truth of their circumstances that Song Lan shoulders more of the financial responsibilities, more of the housekeeping, more of the cooking. Xiao Xingchen does what he can, and he's gotten to be a pretty fair hand at cooking even without being able to read labels. It's still more for Song Lan.

Xiao Xingchen finishes up his pad see ew, wipes his mouth clean, and gets up to drape himself over Song Lan's lap. His chopsticks clatter lightly on the edge of the plate, and then his hands settle on Xiao Xingchen's waist. Xingchen feels a smile spread over his face, and his hands slide into Song Lan's hair, and he leans in for a kiss.

Being intimate like this has changed. As his sight faded, his other senses sharpened. In some ways it's useful, like being able to so distinctly smell the differences between spices, but his skin is now also more sensitive. Every touch, every brush of lips or teeth, has the potential to be overwhelming. It had caught him off-guard at first, the sheer electricity of it lighting him up more vividly than any lit room. It had been intense enough to scare him, and hence to scare Song Lan, and since then his touches had grown increasingly light and gentle, wary of startling him again. Or perhaps it is that Song Lan is no longer so certain of sharing himself with someone who can no longer see him. He has never been the most touchy-feely person, and Xiao Xingchen wouldn't blame him if the shine of their relationship had faded by now. Occupying that strange liminal space where he was part caretaker, part boyfriend – that can't be easy.

So how can Xiao Xingchen ask for that firmer touch, the way they could get so carried away with each other the way they used to when they were younger and more carefree? What right does he have to demand even more?

He still kisses Song Lan wild and reckless, soft lips and sharp teeth catching at Song Lan's mouth, kissing the flavor of Thai food off his lips. Song Lan sighs against him, hands slipping up under Xiao Xingchen's oversized cardigan and the t-shirt underneath, circling against his waist. There are calluses on his fingers, just rough enough to feel, and at least while they're kissing Song Lan isn't protesting. Xingchen squirms slightly, trying to get his hands to slide down, as if he could wiggle them down. They stay where they are, though Song Lan's grip tightens, starting to dig into his skin.

Xiao Xingchen breaks the kiss to pant softly against Song Lan's lips, only now realizing that he has one hand tangled up in his hair, the other pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of Song Lan's heart beneath his skin. His own heartbeat feels like it's echoing that beat, knocking up hopefully against his ribs. Maybe this time … maybe this time it would work out. Maybe this time he could somehow convey the kind of attention he was craving, and maybe Song Lan would be amenable to fucking his brains out.

Sure enough, Song Lan shifts his grip, finally down even if it is over his yoga pants, cups his ass and stands up with him clinging koala-style. Xiao Xingchen has no intention of letting go, pressing kisses into Song Lan's jaw, his throat, over his lips, wherever he can reach, his arms settling around Song Lan's strong shoulders and his back arching to press closer against him. This is better, this is closer to what he wants.

Song Lan deposits him on the bed, doesn't drop him, just setting him carefully on the mattress like fine china. But still he crawls over him, whispers kisses into his skin, teeth scraping lightly down his throat. The light touches make Xiao Xingchen gasp and writhe, his skin feeling so oversensitive that he can't even stand still wearing his clothes. Song Lan hovers over him, on his hands and knees, still barely touching him except for the brush of his lips.

“Zichen,” he breathes, needy, eager.

Song Lan pulls back, and Xingchen can just weather the feeling of being watched, breathing and trying not to feel self-conscious beneath the weight of Song Lan's gaze. His fingers are still in Song Lan's hair, twisting and trying to pull him back down. He bears it for a few moments, then stretches up to try and find his lips.

But before he can make it, Song Lan's hand takes his own, unpeeling his fingers from his hair and kissing his palm before pressing his hand to Xingchen's chest and sitting up. The gesture has an air of finality to it, and Xiao Xingchen can't help it, he covers his face with his hands. It's like being blind has erased any ability he had to control his expression, and he can only imagine what his face is doing right now, because it certainly feels all twisted up and hurt and mad and frustrated.

“I'm sorry,” Song Lan says, because he isn't good at reading people but he isn't blind, and he sounds regretful. “I'm sorry, it just wasn't...”

Xiao Xingchen rolls away, taking a moment, then sits up, his back facing Song Lan. “It's fine,” he says, as though merely saying the words will make it so, and he knows his voice sounds too tight. “It's fine,” he repeats. He wishes there was a switch in his body that he could just turn off, rather than having to sit with the coiling warmth still lingering in his stomach, refusing to dissipate just because Song Lan is no longer touching him.

He feels Song Lan touch his hair lightly, then the shift of the mattress as he stands up. The ensuite shower turns on shortly after, and entertains the vindictive thought of forcing his way in and pushing Song Lan up on the shower wall and just...

He doesn't know what. Song Lan had already made his “no” very clear, and Xiao Xingchen has no intention of crossing that particular boundary. He knows there wouldn't be any coming back from that. Taking care of himself feels equally out of the question. It's not what he craves, and doing it alone feels empty.

He goes to clean up after their dinner, finding some comfort in scrubbing off the plates and plunging his hands in the soapy water. It doesn't perfectly redirect his energy, but it takes the edge off. Then he steps out to the fire escape again, retreats, cowardice. The cold, damp wind slaps him in the face, and he takes a lungful of the foggy air, pressing his back into the wrought iron to feel it dig in.

He should tell Song Lan. There are things he should say, explanations, verbalizing his desire and upset and love and frustration. How it feels to be treated as an invalid, even when Song Lan does it so soft and gentle. Song Lan will tell his part too, the part where his desire can't always keep up with Xingchen's and that particular quirk where touching makes his skin crawl, where he treasures Xingchen and wants to protect him by wrapping him up tight in bubble wrap, kept and sweet and placed high on a shelf never to be touched.

He kicks the fire escape, just to make himself feel a little better, and wedges himself in. He should have brought his tablet. He could have done more research. Without it, he just listens to the sounds of the city at night, traffic and ambulances, someone singing, a baby crying in the distance. He lets it all flow and melt around him, lets his body relax into becoming the ambient temperature of the fog, cold and misty and amorphous.

By the time Xiao Xingchen retreats back inside, his thoughts are as cool and calm as the air outside. He slips into bed, fitting into the space behind Song Lan, slotting in, his knees in the crook behind Song Lan's knees, his cold nose tucked against the back of his neck. Song Lan smells clean, and Xingchen feels sorry for earlier, silly for letting himself get carried away. He's happy here. He is happy.

That thought circles his brain as he drifts off to sleep.

Time passes. Xiao Xingchen dials back his research to what he thinks is a normal amount of interest. There is always news to follow – Xue Yang seems to be at the same time the media's darling and their favorite villain. The tabloids keep commenting on how he looks, calling him angelic and sweet-faced while at the same time condemning him for what seemed like an ever-increasing number of crimes. Song Lan quickly learns to simply leave him to it, and in return Xingchen can moderate himself so he doesn't lose entire days to sitting on the couch and burying himself in news and police reports.

Life is pretty much normal. There's a routine, a rhythm, comfortable and familiar. Xiao Xingchen further adjusts to life in a world that isn't built to accommodate him, his steps ever more certain on his path. He can visualize his future stretching before him, and none of it looks bad. No surprises, no tragedy. He figures losing his sight is bad enough to fulfill the quota for drama for this lifetime.

Xiao Xingchen listens to the trial when it starts. From what he can tell, this is apparently very fast, but he doesn't know enough about the American justice system to confirm that. There's plenty of media coverage on it, but despite their efforts to highlight the most exciting parts, the trial itself seems to be fairly dull, nothing like the TV shows. That doesn't decrease Xiao Xingchen's interest, but it does help to prevent him from focusing too much on it.

Song Lan has a launch party for work. Xiao Xingchen doesn't know enough about computers to know what it's really for, some piece of software or another, something Song Lan has been working on for months. It's a cause for celebration, and while Xingchen doesn't relish the need to dress up, he lets Song Lan help him with it. Most of his wardrobe is in interchangeable shades of neutral, white and black and gray – he made sure of that before his sight was gone. But it's better to be safe than sorry and accidentally choose something inappropriate or clashing. Anyway, he knows Song Lan quietly enjoys dressing him, making sure he looks nice. It suits the same part of his personality that's so good at the nitty-gritty details of code, a fierce, strict streak of perfectionism.

Xiao Xingchen has no doubt that they make a sharp picture when they arrive. He left his cane at home, since it would be too cumbersome in a party setting, and thus holds Song Lan's arm to navigate their way inside. It's a club, it smells like a club, alcohol and bodies and several layers of perfume and cologne, and there's music playing with a low bassline that reverberates in his ribcage. It's probably dark, which means that people will be asking all night long why he's wearing his dark tinted glasses. Hopefully sticking close against Song Lan's side will decrease the need to explain.

Parties like this are always a little awkward. Xingchen is friendly and willing, but he doesn't speak the same language as these technology prodigies. Maybe he could have wandered and found other partners of Song Lan's coworkers, but he was always wary of losing track of Song Lan in an unfamiliar place. And Song Lan is good, he's considerate, but sometimes he gets so wrapped up in whatever conversation he gets involved in that Xingchen falls by the wayside despite being attached to his arm.

It's still fun and interesting to be out of the apartment, chatting with people, picking canapes off the trays, accepting the drink that Song Lan passes to him. It's one of the fruity ones that he likes, but strong enough that he can taste the alcohol under the juice. He's playing the role of arm candy tonight, but he lets it be fun, lets himself be the sweet and sparkly juxtaposition to Song Lan's dry, serious demeanor. Song Lan's coworkers forgive him easily when he doesn't know the more technical details and humor him by talking about other, more accessible topics.

Inevitably, though, they turn back to talking shop, and Xingchen tries to follow but it all starts to sound like gibberish. He sighs and ceases to pay much attention to the conversation since they're not really paying attention to him, and he sips his drink, wishing the music were better. Though, of course, the inevitable result of sipping a drink all evening is that he has to use the bathroom. Xingchen realizes it with some dismay. There's no good way to bring it up without sounding like a complaining toddler, but he doesn't even know which way to point himself to find it if he were to just wander off. So he just … waits. Song Lan will have to go eventually as well.

Except the situation is steadily growing towards urgent, and Song Lan shows no indication of breaking away from his conversation, focused the way he can get sometime. Xiao Xingchen starts to fidget anxiously, hoping to somehow telepathically convey what he needs. Unfortunately, he doesn't magically develop psychic powers. He's inches from giving in to the embarrassment of asking to be escorted to the bathroom when he feels another hand on his free arm.

“Hi,” a female voice says, one that he doesn't recognize. “Song Lan, do you mind if I borrow him for a minute?”

Xiao Xingchen could curse, and desperately hopes that Song Lan makes up an excuse to keep him from being pulled to another conversation with strangers. He can't focus on being friendly when his body is screaming at him. He feels Song Lan look up in surprise, finally breaking from his own conversation.

“Oh, right, of course,” he says, gently taking Xingchen's hand from his arm to pass him over to the woman. “Xingchen, this is Wen Qing. She's a doctor and a friend.”

“Alright,” Xingchen says, voice cracking, shooting Song Lan what he hopes is a desperate look before Wen Qing tugs him away. He's panicking, he thinks he might die, he wants the earth to swallow him up. He clears his throat and touches Wen Qing's hand, her pace never slowing. “I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, but...”

Before he can finish, she pulls him through a doorway. Their footsteps turn echo-y, and he feels a glimmer of hope. She continues pulling, then places his hand on what feels like the handle of a urinal. He makes a sound, desperate still, and feels for the edges of the porcelain before letting go of her entirely so he can relieve himself.

“You looked like you were suffering over there,” she says, only far enough away to give him the space he needs to get the job done. “I know how Song Lan can get too intense in his conversations and forget the world around him.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, shooting a small smile in the direction of her voice. “Unfamiliar places are always a little difficult, especially without my cane. I hope it wasn't too obvious.”

“Not to the tech nerds,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder to help lead him over to the sinks after he gets his slacks fastened up. “They might be geniuses, but they're oblivious to any kind of subtlety. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Xiao Xingchen says again, washing his hands and then relaxing a hip against the sink. He isn't in a rush to go back out to the music he doesn't like. “So you're a doctor?”

“Cardiac surgeon,” Wen Qing clarifies. “I normally don't get to see below the belt. But don't worry, I'll remain professional.” It sounds like she's smiling too. Xingchen isn't surprised to find that she's friends with Song Lan, with that dry kind of humor.

“I wasn't too worried about it,” Xingchen says. “Do you come to a lot of these things?”

“A few. I was dating one of them for a while, made some friends. They keep inviting me, and the appetizers are good, and every once in a while I get to help somebody's poor boyfriend find the bathroom.” He feels her pull his jacket straight, adjusting his collar slightly. “So. Been together long?”

“Since college,” Xingchen tells her. Maybe she isn't very close with Song Lan, to have not heard the story before. “Actually, we met in the airport when I arrived in America. I was so lost and overwhelmed, and he stepped in to help me find my way in a new country and a big city. It was just a happy coincidence that we ended up going to the same school while he was getting his graduate degree. And then from there, it's basically just history.”

Wen Qing laughs and touches his shoulder again. “Somehow, I doubt it's 'just history,' but we can leave it at that, if you want,” she says. “That's very sweet. I'm just glad you look as lost by all their talk as I am. Do you smoke?”

“Ah...” He doesn't want to lie, but also isn't sure about how likely it is his answer would get back around to Song Lan.

“Doesn't matter,” she says quickly, taking his arm again to lead him out. “Come hang out with the wives. We're all the wives, regardless of gender.”

Together, they wind through the party, past snippets of conversation and a speaker rolling out bassline in waves. Wen Qing pulls him out of a door, and the sound of music is dampened. A comforting cloud of cigarette smoke wafts around them, and there's a soft hum of conversation.

“Hey, wives,” Wen Qing crows. “I bring fresh blood.”

“One of us,” someone chants, and Xiao Xingchen grins and gives an irreverent salute.

The wives are apparently the company he was craving. He no longer has to pretend to understand or be interested in the technobabble, and instead he can pluck crackers smothered in cream cheese and prosciutto off of the platter that they stole from the catering staff and sip from the bottle of wine that they had also stolen. He can listen to one of them chatter about a thesis project on Emily Dickinson and steal drags from cigarettes and blunts passed to him. It's closer to the way he and Song Lan operated in college, parting for their own friend groups before drifting back together, and the wives are closer to the kind of people he would choose for friends, free to be bohemian while their significant others take advantage of the tech boom and bring home the bacon.

Xiao Xingchen hasn't bothered to check the time on his phone, but it feels late by the quality of the air and the conversation. They've stopped talking about anything of substance, and he's leaning on Wen Qing's shoulder. He's a little drunk and a little high and feeling soft and easy. Song Lan's touch doesn't even startle him when it comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Let's go home,” he suggests in a low murmur, and Xingchen peels himself up. The wives moan and complain, and someone reaches for him, fingers catching on the edge of his jacket with a soft cry of, “Chen-chen, don't leave us!”

Xiao Xingchen gives his goodbyes and makes his promises to stay in touch – his phone is full of their phone numbers. He leans on Song Lan to make their way out and down to meet their car. They slide into the back seat, and their hands find each other on the seat, fingers folding together in the most intimate touch Song Lan would allow in public.

“Time's it?” Xiao Xingchen asks, sleepy and smiley and soft.

“Close to one,” Song Lan replies. He sounds a little drunk too, and his thumb runs over the space between Xingchen's thumb and index finger, fitting into the hollow. “Did you have fun?”

“Mmm,” he hums and smiles more. “They were nice. Wen Qing was helpful, and you know how useless I am when you talk shop.”

“I should have known you'd get along with them. I should have introduced you earlier. I'm sorry you were bored with me.” He snorts softly. “Chen-chen.”

Xiao Xingchen's giggle is significantly less dignified, but at least it's not too loud out of consideration for their poor driver. “You know I can't help if they think I'm cute!”

Song Lan doesn't protest, but he doesn't have to. They're back home, and he thanks the driver, and comes around to help Xingchen out of the car and back into their building. They're quiet due to the late hour, so the sound of the keys feels like it echoes in the still night air. Xiao Xingchen lets himself inside with a sigh of relief and kicks his shoes off, and opens his mouth to suggest they go to bed only to have Song Lan's lips and teeth and tongue providing an effective gag.

Song Lan backs him against the wall in the entryway, and his hands span Xingchen's waist, broad and solid. Xingchen can taste the alcohol in his breath, but he probably tastes the same. His head spins, his stomach flips, feeling simultaneously over- and under-fed on those canapes, but thrilled with possibility. The kiss is rough, with teeth, not like delicate good morning kisses or gentle good night ones that he's gotten used to. This kiss demands, and expects him to answer – and so he does.

Xiao Xingchen moans into it and grips back at Song Lan's shirt, returning the kiss with equal fervor. Sleep is no longer on his mind. Instead, he has to get his hands on Song Lan's skin or he might just evaporate. He tugs until he can get Song Lan's shirt out of his slacks and he can slide his hands underneath, flat against the skin of his stomach. His skin is warm, solid, and he can feel the frantic rate of his breathing beneath his touch. It feels like a dream, like it's so much that it can't be real, and at the same time it's so real, so perfect, everything he wants.

It feels like Song Lan needs this as badly as he does. With hands tight around Xingchen's arms he pulls him away from the wall, further into the apartment. Xiao Xingchen assumes they'll go to the bedroom, to the bed as usual, but he finds himself bent forward over the couch instead, the familiar fabric under his fingers and the back digging into his stomach. Song Lan presses against him, rubs against his ass, pushes his shirt up and runs his hands over his back. Xiao Xingchen lets out a shaky breath and pushes back against him, just as demanding and desperate.

Finally, finally Song Lan reaches around to get his slacks unfastened, pushes at them impatiently, and locates the zipper to shove it down. Xiao Xingchen squirms to help get them down his legs and winds up with them stuck around his knees, but at least it's some relief. Song Lan seems to think that's enough; his fingers grip into the flesh of Xingchen's ass, squeezing and massaging and spreading. He pants into the couch cushions, his breath coming back hot and wet against his cheeks and the sensitive tip of his cock bumping up against the back of the couch in a way that isn't altogether pleasant but at least it is some sensation. He's hard, he needs it, his skin feels like it's sparking with heat at every brush of Song Lan's fingers.

He remembers with some despair that they don't have any lube in the living room and is just about ready to straighten up, drag Song Lan back to the bedroom so they can do it properly. Then he hears something tear and feels slick fingers slide against his ass. Song Lan came prepared. Such a good, thoughtful boyfriend, even if it is frankly out of character for him to anticipate sex like this. When it happens, if it happens, there's so much delicate kissing and foreplay and it's consistently in the bed or the shower where they're prepared. But he can't even speculate on it, Song Lan's fingers feel too good, pushing the lube inside him fast, impatient. He wants to spread his legs but he's trapped by his slacks and can only pant helplessly against the couch cushions.

Thoughtfully, Song Lan's clean hand reaches down to brush his hair out of his face, tracing the line of his jaw. The fingers inside him spread once more, then slide out, and that's all the warning he really gets before he feels Song Lan's cock press steady and inexorable inside him.

The sound he lets out would be embarrassing under any other circumstance, low and broken and wet. It's been long enough that he almost can't handle the stretch. It's almost too much and makes him choke. His knees feel weak. His spit is making a wet spot on the couch cushions. Song Lan still doesn't stop, not until his hips are pressed flush against Xingchen's ass. His breath is coming heavy now, ragged. He's thoughtful again when he pauses to let then both get used to it, his hands resting on Xingchen's hips, one of them tacky with drying lube, and he pets soothingly at one hipbone like Xingchen is a skittish horse.

Like that, Xiao Xingchen remembers that he's supposed to breathe, and he takes a deep, shaking breath before letting it out loudly, and he can feel it relax down his spine. Song Lan pets him again, approvingly, then eases out of him only to slam back inside. Xiao Xingchen chokes on another cry, and that seems to encourage him, the pace rough and quick.

Time ceases to exist. Xingchen can't see, obviously, but the pleasure feels like starbursts of color in his mind. The apartment is very quiet, except for the wet slap of skin and too much lube (Song Lan was always careful like that) and their labored breathing, punctuated with moans and whimpers punched out of Xingchen's throat. It is so rough, he knows he is going to be sore, aching and remembering this for days. But it's so good too, Song Lan's cock stretching him and hollowing him out, making a space inside him. He's so hard it hurts, and his own cock is leaking. Song Lan's hand reaches down to cup it protectively, preventing it from smearing over the back of the couch. The pressure is maddening without friction to go with it, and Xingchen sobs out his pleasure, trembling and pushing back on him.

When he cums it's a punch to the gut, fingers white-knuckled against the couch cushions and a cry ripping out of his throat. His heart feels like it's hammering so hard that all he can hear for a few moments is the whoosh-whoosh of his heartbeat. But he realizes quickly that Song Lan has felt it. He drapes himself over Xingchen's back, fucking him hard and fast, racing towards the end. It must crash into him too, because he grunts and transforms into a heavy, shuddering weight, pressing him into the couch, his cock twitching inside.

Time still doesn't really exist. They might stay draped over that couch for hours, for all Xingchen can tell. His ass is sore, he can barely breathe, he's going to have bruises where the couch is digging into his midsection, and he feels like he hasn't been this happy in months. It's not just the sex – though, to be fair, the sex is amazing and a big part of it. It's what comes with the sex. He feels connected to Song Lan like this, special, needed. And then, taken care of, because eventually Song Lan straightens up and helps him up, drops down to help him work off his shoes and slacks so they can walk back to the bedroom. His arm supports Xingchen around the waist because he's for surewalking with a limp right now. He helps him get his shirt off and brushes his hair back over his shoulder and kisses his cheek, so sweet.

Xiao Xingchen makes to go to the bathroom. He still smells like smoke and wine and sex, and Song Lan won't want that in their bed. But before he can pull away, Song Lan pulls him back in close, nuzzles his hair and kisses him again in a way that makes his heart feel soft and warm, honey in his chest. He lets Song Lan lead him to bed, even though he has the distinct sensation of cum slowly starting to leak out of his body.

“Here, keep it in,” Song Lan rumbles low, curling up behind him and pressing his fingers into Xingchen, pressing it back inside. Xingchen sucks in a breath, his body feeling oversensitive and raw but good. It's not too much. Then there are some sounds behind him, and then he feels Song Lan's cock press into him again. That is almost too much, and he makes a small sound, not sure if he could handle a second round.

But it's not to fuck him. Song Lan settles, their bodies pressed close, fitting perfectly. Song Lan's nose presses into his shoulder, and he kisses there a few times. Without too much preamble, they fall asleep.

The next morning, of course, they are stuck together. It's a little disgusting, but there isn't a thing that Xiao Xingchen would have changed about the night before. He stirs a little, then makes a sound of complaint, his body protesting the movement from the waist down. Song Lan wakes up next, and Xingchen can practically hear his grimace when he remembers the position they were stuck in.

He's as careful as he can manage when he pulls away from Xingchen's body, pressing a gentle hand to his arm to indicate he should stay still. There are some bathroom sounds, water running, and then Song Lan returns with a warm, wet washcloth to gently wipe him clean. Xingchen has to bite his knuckle; his ass feels raw, sore and swollen. He can feel precisely how hard they went. He still doesn't regret a moment.

Song Lan treats him soft and sweet that morning, brings him breakfast in bed and combs his hair. They're both quiet, Xingchen because he's hesitant to say anything that will break the spell, and Song Lan because he seems exhausted from socializing so much the day before. Sometimes it's harder than others. Then to recuperate, he's quieter than usual, minimizing his interactions, sometimes even with Xingchen himself. Xingchen doesn't take it personally, and usually uses the time to indulge his own inner introvert and work on his own projects.

Nothing wrong with that, except that they continue to not talk about it. Xingchen can't make the shape of his desire into words, the way Song Lan's touch lights him up, the way he craves the desperate way they came together after the launch party. Song Lan's touches feel apologetic, half guilty, wary of pushing too far, like he's afraid of his own attraction. They haven't had to navigate anything like this before, where before they were coasting on instinct and now the waters feel choppy.

Xiao Xingchen finds it a welcome distraction to turn to the trial. There's no shortage of material – Xue Yang continues to be the media's darling or scapegoat by turns, sometimes both in the same article. He figures out how to find the best news channel to listen to what he can, certain amounts of testimony from witnesses and arguments from lawyers. He thinks its a small blessing that he himself was such a useless witness when it came to the stabbing incident, so he hasn't been called to court. In any case, that's how he first hears Xue Yang's voice, surprisingly young, always irreverent and teasing, even when he's supposed to be taking the court show seriously.

And it really does seem like a show. The prosecution is fighting as best they can, but the defense is barely working at all, their questions lazy and confident at the same time. The judge doesn't seem in any kind of hurry to help the prosecution when the defense steps out of line. Everything is played to the media like a huge circus, and everyone is marching towards a foregone conclusion.

Then, as quickly as it started, it's over. The media coverage disappears overnight. It's not old enough to be old news, but that's how it's treated. Xiao Xingchen has to search and search to find anything about the conclusion, and all he can find is basically a footnote stating that a settlement was reached, which sounds frankly preposterous. The charges against Xue Yang included murder! He hadn't thought it was possible that a settlement could be found against a potential murderer, especially when the prosecution had brought witnesses and evidence galore. It feels profoundly unfair, a sincere lack of justice, and he wonders how natural-born Americans feel about their supposed “justice system.”

His dissatisfaction with the finale of the trial makes it hard to put it all behind him. He struggles with sleeping and focusing on his projects and his studies, he's snappish and short-tempered and withdrawn from Song Lan. Even if Song Lan asked what is troubling him, he has no confidence that he could articulate it to any understandable degree. So Song Lan can't help, and Xiao Xingchen doesn't know how to help himself.

It's on a random day when Xingchen hears a knock on the door. That's unusual – Song Lan left for work, but he would have texted if he forgot his keys, and Xingchen doesn't think they're expecting any deliveries. He debates just leaving it, pretending he's not home, but the knock comes again, more insistent.

Heaving a big sigh, he picks himself up from where he had been lounging, attempting to read and feel somewhat productive but mostly just feeling listless. It crosses his mind that Song Lan might have gotten it in his head to do some kind of gesture, getting him flowers or something – not that flowers aren't thoughtful, but he thinks the gesture is now lost on him since he can't see them. He doesn't think he brushed his hair this morning, but this delivery man will just have to tolerate him looking a little messy. He finds the door and opens it, trying to put a pleasant expression on his face.

“Hello, can I help you?” he asks, and waits for a response.

None comes. He waits a few moments, then frowns. Was something dropped off? He considers bending to check for a box, but there's a feeling rising, a prickling feeling on the back of his neck that tells him he's being watched. But if there's someone there, why aren't they speaking? Why aren't they telling him why they're there? Belatedly, he realizes this might be some kind of burglar who could take advantage of him. He doesn't have a weapon, but there's an umbrella in the stand next to the door and knives in the kitchen, and though it's been years he still has his martial arts training. How much that will help, he doesn't know, he hasn't even attempted to fight anyone even to spar since he lost his sight, and he doesn't think running through the exercises and stretches in the morning will really help if someone actually attacks him.

Whoever is at the door still hasn't spoken, and it's making his nerves go haywire, his heart pounding even though he hasn't even moved. Maybe he's being stupid and getting freaked out over nothing. Maybe there's no one even there, and there's no reason for his skin to feel nervous cold/hot. “Hello?” he says again, this time significantly less confident, his voice giving out halfway through.

There's another few moments of silence, then a wild cackle, not an attractive laugh at all. It feels familiar, somehow, though it's not until Xue Yang speaks that Xiao Xingchen recognizes him.

“Wow. I guess you're real, huh?”

#xiao xingchen #songxiao #song lan #the untamed #mdzs #fanfic #my fanfiction #cql

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resinatingbeauty · 4 years ago

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Real Talk Time (#RTT) - My Messages to all “Baby” Witches / Anyone Discovering Their Spirituality

•When it comes to magick, if it feels right you’re doing it right. You won’t know if it feels right if you don’t do it. A lot of us fall victim to the obsession that is part of the process, in my opinion, of realizing your potential as a witch/magician/wiccan/magick user of any sort, that is the compulsive consumption of all things magickal or new age/occult related. You begin building this collection of books, accumulating supplies, candles, symbols, accents for your altar-all this time reading and searching for things to perform spells and rituals that you never end up performing because of all the time and energy put into accumulating ..stuff.

The irony being is there is nothing inherently magickal about stuff. Magick is not a tangible thing, it’s a spiritual thing. The reality is you don’t need much stuff at all to manifest your desires and intentions. You don’t need to have the equivalent of the Library of Congress filled with books and texts about magick spells, invocations, rituals, etc. either. Don’t get me wrong, knowledge is a great thing, knowledge is power, but balance is a very important fundamental concept in all new age/occult/pagan traditions and if all you’ve been doing is absorbing and not performing then you’re missing out on what makes magick worth doing- doing it. Just do it *itnsert angry Shia Labeouf motivational meme here*

The problem with the over consumption of knowledge is the lack of experience to go along with it. If you’re moving constantly through various texts, chances are you haven’t taken the time to act on what had been written. Magick is about finding your connection to the universe, finding that perfect balance of confidence, humility, understanding, and inner peace that allows you to be just so in tune with yourself and everything around you that you truly, without a doubt, feel a part of it- not just a little part, but a BIG part- big enough to move mountains. What one author says to do may be contradicted by another even in the same vein of thought, but that’s them. You have to find what works for you. Once you find it, never let it go. Elaborate on it, because you can do no wrong spiritually, so long as you aren’t, you know, committing mass murder or persuading others to do it a la Jamestown.

•Those elaborate and intriguing rituals sound great until you do them (or not). I am admittedly guilty of this, as I truly enjoyed the textbook style of Donald Michael Kraig’s writing on Ceremonial Magick (highly recommend Modern Magick any edition to anyone interested in that kind of thing) and good old Aleister Crowley who could turn a mundane love spell into something out of an HP Lovecraft novel (I’m sure it’s intentional), but the wonderful imagery these texts would form in my mind couldn’t, nay, wouldn’t be manifested into reality because, quite simply, I don’t have the kind of attention span or space for that kind of thing, and I ultimately found that I don’t need all the props and paraphernalia to manifest my magick. This also goes along with my first message about accumulating stuff. While there is more than enough reason behind all the symbols, tools, and objects we utilize as spiritualists, the chalice is just a pretty cup to those who aren’t inclined to use it as such. Rituals obtain power through the repetition, focus, and energy put into them, not the objects used to facilitate this process, though these objects help maintain that focus or visual, they are not sources of magick unto themselves. The talismans I create are not magickal themselves, they were made into talismans through energy transfer and intent, the ritual is in their creation, my own essence flowing into them through my hands as they work. If you aren’t the type of person who regularly goes through these grandiose measures and thrives in the complex and detailed who also has the time to devout to several hour long invocations for regular cleansing, keep it simple. Unless you’re that kind of person, chances are the more complex it is the less likely you are to do it. While you’re researching and visualizing these rituals in your mind’s eye like a movie, ask yourself if that type of thing is something you have the time, space, and attention span for (I know I don’t.) Any magick is better than none.

Now, some rituals are supposed to be complex, intricate workings that are intended to work off around a high level of energy and commitment (think exorcisms / banishing rituals, summonings or invokations etc). Crowley and Peter Carroll (another of my favorites) openly wrote about long, sensual, demanding rituals where trance states induced by drugs, sleep deprivation / sensory deprivation, hypnosis, and other means were incorporated into rituals, but they aren’t exactly a requirement.

In the same breath, anyone who criticizes how you perform a ritual (unless you’re asking for assistance or experiencing adverse affects) is full of shit. If you have channeled the energy and focus toward your intent, you will manifest results. Period. It doesn’t matter if you focus your altar around summoning Lillith, make the necessary offerings, draw the sigil, etc., if you’re actually thinking about what you’re going to have for dinner on March 3rd, you’re probably not doing it right. I don’t know you, however, you may have great success completely detaching yourself from your purpose- whatever works for you.

•Don’t fixate on labels - fixate on bettering yourself and your connection to the universe. There’s a lot of elitist internet witches and what not around, but hear me brothers and sisters, they are nothing but psychic vampires trying to throw you off your game. “My Book of Shadows is bigger than yours” is only relevant if you give a damn. I sure as hell don’t. I’m not impressed with lengthy resumes of spells and rituals performed over the last twenty years. If you choose to keep a Book of Shadows, its primary purpose should be reflection, allowing you to correspond your craft with reality and for you to look back at and troubleshoot or reiterate. It isn’t a badge of honor. The choice of keeping one is also entirely optional- though recommended, some do better performing their piece and setting it aside until the see the results they desire. Unless your spells affect me (or I ask you about your work) , you do you and I’ll do me. The only important thing is that you do so for yourself, you do so because it feels right and natural for you to do so, and you do it for the betterment of yourself and all of us who have to live in the world you have directly influenced. Whether you’re a “baby” witch, a cape wearing pointy hat toting broomstick bombshell, a woods witch, weed witch, green witch, black witch, voodoo priestess, magician, chaote, occultist, necromancer, reiki practitioner, shaman , level 300 Geodude- we are all working toward the same goals, one way or another. Regardless of what you choose to identify yourself with or what system/rules you choose to follow, we need to build each other up, not put each other down. We have the major indoctrinated religions doing that for us.

That is all.

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years ago

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Riding On Ch3: What Happens In Vegas...

Warnings: Bad Language words.

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N: Imma still running from @sweater-daddiesdumbdork and I won’t be stopping at the end of this either…As always, thanks to my unofficial beta @icanfeelastormbrewing for the usual inputs and opinions. J Chapter Song: Trouble Loves Me by Morrissey

Series Materlist // WIYPT Masterlist

Just when it seems like everything’s evened out, and the balance seems serene, see the fool I’ll be, still running ‘round on the flesh rampage