#maybe one day ill bother writing out skill sets but for now its just so funny to me that uriangers like

[minarcana]

i got the first encyclopedia eaorzea for chrimby and im going thru it for tidbits bc i love lore. noted side fact of urianger 1. invented the spell to make his carbuncle summonable with amber 2. the spell to do so is so fucking annoying and involved that no one else can do it. me dragging my hands down my face why are you like this mr augurelt

urianger: [looks at the act of summoning a carbuncle] im about to make this way more complicated than it needs to be. for fun. :)

[love-and-monsters]

Fake Dating pt. 2

M Faerie X F human reader, 6,405 words

This is a part two to this story. Elwain and his human are safely in the human world, dealing with things far more mundane than an assassination attempt. Both of them are adjusting to the new life and to each other. Very fluffy, with some caretaking. I was in a very romantic mood while writing this and I think you can tell.

Content notes: mentions of parents trying to kill their child, descriptions of minor illness.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen. Why do humans like this?”

You repressed a snicker. “You’re watching it.”

Elwain didn’t even look away from the screen to reply. “You put it on.”

“I just turned on the TV. You’re the one who started watching.” Elwain made a noncommittal noise. You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I can change the channel, if you want. There’s a documentary on that I wanted to-”

“No, this is fine,” Elwain said. He hopped onto the couch next to you and curled up. “Ugh. These people know that expensive doesn’t mean good, right?”

You covered your mouth with a hand. Elwain actually, legitimately enjoying trashy reality shows was by far the best thing you’d learned about his personality since you’d started living together. The worst thing was probably that he’d grown up with servants and had no comprehension of household chores. It had taken a few weeks to get him to put his food back in the refrigerator when he was done with it, and you weren’t sure he was ever going to get the hang of doing dishes. Still. He was getting better.

“You’re still going to need to vacuum later tonight,” you reminded him. Elwain groaned.

“I spent all day at work!” he said. “I should get a day off.”

“You only had a five hour shift today. I worked seven. Plus, I have school. You don’t get breaks on household chores. Doesn’t matter how much you worked, they still have to be done.” Elwain looked away sulkily. That was an expression you were getting uncomfortably familiar with. “And you’re not allowed to do magic for it, either.”

“What? Just because you can’t use magic, there is no reason for me to be forbidden!” Elwain said.

“Yeah, sure. You remember what happened last time you used magic to clean the apartment?” Bright pink spots appeared on Elwain’s cheeks. He glared down at the couch, expression screwed up in irritation.

“I fixed that.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. You fixed the apartment. What you’re never going to fix is my trauma from walking into my apartment and finding everything covered in spiders!”

“I apologized!”

“Look, the next time you decide to enchant a bunch of bugs into doing household chores, just. Don’t.”

Elwain huffed. “They weren’t even venomous to humans! All of you are so easily frightened. They weren’t going to hurt you.”

“I think the heart attack I had upon entering my own apartment could be considered as hurting me,” you muttered. Elwain looked sour, but didn’t respond, apparently returning to his TV show. Elwain’s adjustment to the human world had been… difficult. He had no real understanding of conventional social norms and obviously still expected everyone to treat him like a noble, despite working a minimum wage job at a fast-food restaurant. Not to mention that he seemed to have very loose morals when it came to enchanting mortals. As far as you were aware, he’d never done it to you, but he didn’t seem to have any sort of restraint when it came to anyone else. Before he’d gotten his job in customer service, he’d made all of his money by charming random people off the street into handing over their wallets.

Admittedly, his skills had come in handy. You didn’t feel particularly good about it, but he had charmed the landlord into giving you the apartment for significantly less than the going rate. In your defense, there hadn’t been many options. You couldn’t stay in your parent’s house with a Fae hanging around, and even with both of you working, there was no way to afford an apartment otherwise.

It did not help that Elwain apparently found your moral crisis very funny.

“You all live by such dumb rules all the time. If you really wanted, I could probably charm someone into giving us their house, or just letting us stay there.”

“That feels morally dubious,” you said.

“Ugh. You won’t let me steal anything, you won’t let me charm people into letting us use their things without stealing them, you won’t even let me charm people into handing some things over!” Elwain flopped across the couch. “So now we’re living in a garbage apartment and I have to work at a greasy food place where customers yell all the time and-”

“It’s a nice apartment, especially considering what we’re paying for it,” you interrupted. “And if you use magic too often, people might start figuring out that something weird is going on.”

“I doubt it. Mortals are stupid.” But Elwain didn’t protest, and went to his job as usual, and didn’t steal, which was more respect for your rules than you were worried he’d show. And, really, you were glad you’d instated the ‘no magic’ rule at large, given how unpredictable the results could be.

Elwain sprawled across the couch. He had a tendency to take up ridiculous amounts of space, pushing you to the edges of the couch to avoid contact. Eventually, you got up.

“Where are you going?” Elwain asked as you walked out of the room.

“I’m going to study for a bit before bed,” you called back. “Enjoy your show.”

He stared after you until your door clicked shut. Weird. He’d seemed almost annoyed about you leaving, even though it meant he could watch his shows for longer and you would stop bugging him about vacuuming. Whatever. He’d been acting weird recently, though. Maybe you should talk to him about it. He’d seemed fine for the first month or so after leaving his home and his parents trying to kill him, but maybe he was having some sort of delayed reaction.

You buried yourself in your textbooks for the next few hours, trying to get a solid start on one of your papers. The back of your mind seemed to be focused on the little noises in the apartment, though. Every sound of footsteps or things being moved pulled your attention back to the rest of the house. Eventually, you heard the sound of the vacuum running for a while before Elwain headed into his room.

He never went back into the main area of your apartment and, buried in work, you were soon thoroughly distracted. Gradually, as you worked, your mind grew less and less focused until you were face down in your books, dead asleep.

“Wake up!”

You bolted upright. There was a piece of paper sticking to your cheek from a stream of drool. You hurriedly pulled it off. “What? What’s going on?” You blinked, focusing on Elwain’s fine face in front of you. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Your alarm was going off. I can’t believe you didn’t hear it. It woke me up.” Sure enough, your phone, which was still sitting across the room from you, on its charger, was ringing furiously. You weren’t surprised that you hadn’t noticed it, though. Your head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

“Oh. Sorry.” You rose a little unsteadily and turned the alarm off. “Thanks for waking me. Probably would have slept right through it if you hadn’t.”

“Uh huh,” Elwain said. “Did someone curse you?”

You blinked at him. He seemed dead serious. “Uh, no. I doubt it. Unless you know something I don’t.”

“If you’re asking about my parents, I would assume they are no longer concerned about me,” Elwain said. His voice was clipped, like it always was when he talked about his parents. “I don’t think they would bother to curse a mortal. If they had the means to lay a curse on someone, it would be far easier and more effective to just curse me.” He paused. “I was only asking because you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

“You do. Why didn’t you sleep in your actual bed last night?” he asked.

“Because I fell asleep at my desk by accident. Are you going to stand here and just insult me or-” You broke off into a round of thick, hacking coughs. Elwain took a step back, alarm crossing his face.

“What is happening to you?” He lifted his arms in front of him, like he was trying to ward off some kind of evil spirit.

“It’s a cough,” you said. “Have you never seen a cough before?”

Elwain lowered his arms, still looking at me like he thought you would start convulsing at any moment. “Fae don’t do that.”

“They don’t cough?” You rubbed at your chest. A significant amount of phlegm had settled there. God, your body really had to pick the worst time to get sick.

“Not like that,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sick,” you told him.

He nodded slowly. “I’ve heard of that. A mortal thing. Your forms are weak, so you occasionally fall ill. It is a sign of your small, failing lifespans.”

You considered correcting him, but decided that you had better ways to spend your morning than trying to explain germ theory to a Faerie. “Yeah. Sure. Well. I’m sick. So that’s why I’m coughing. It’s just a cold. I���ll be fine.”

Elwain narrowed his eyes. “Hmph. Well. I have work. Don’t die while I’m out.”

“I’m not in any danger of dying,” you told him. “Go head to work. Have fun.”

“That’s unlikely,” he muttered, but he left your room without protest. You closed your door after him and set about getting ready for your day.

The cold had settled into your head and chest and you could tell it was going to be bad already, even before it had come on fully. God. You could not afford to get sick.

Elwain was eating breakfast when you shuffled into the kitchen. You’d needed to absolutely cake your face in makeup to look presentable, and you saw his brows rise as he looked at you. Fortunately, the Fae at least knew how to keep their mouths shut. He just looked back at the frozen waffles he was toasting.

You snagged a granola bar and headed for the door. “Have a good day at work!” you called over your shoulder. Elwain grunted in response. The door swung shut behind you.

Work was exhausting, as per usual. It was better than Elwain’s job by a long shot, since you were working in a local candy store run by a sweet older couple, but between keeping an eye on any batches of candy being produced, sorting out customers, and having to deal with the requisite child-throwing-a-fit-for-not-getting-sweets, it was tiring. Trying to look bright and perky while being weighted down with a cold was awful.

As soon as work was off, you had class. Dragging yourself through it was a slow, painful slog. By the end, your head was fuzzy and you felt dead on your feet. Slowly, you hauled yourself on the bus and fell asleep.

Naturally, you missed your stop.

About an hour after you were supposed to be home, you dragged yourself in through the door. Elwain practically slammed into you. His hands clapped on either side of his face and he peered intently at you. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you! I thought you were dead!”

You pushed him off you and bent to one side to cough heavily until you were nearly sagging to the floor. Elwain stared at you. “Sorry,” you rasped when you’d stopped. “I fell asleep. And then my phone was on low battery and I wanted to make sure I had enough battery to use my GPS to get home.”

“You couldn’t have texted me?” Elwain drew himself up, hands on his hips. The entire situation reminded you, ridiculously, of your mom when you came home after a night out. “I was worried! I didn’t know where you were, and mortals are so ridiculously fragile-”

“Aw, you’d have been fine,” you said. “If anything, you’d be able to do more without my stupid mortal morals.”

Elwain’s expression went strange for a moment. “Are you feeling well? You seem… off.”

“I’m not feeling well. I’d like to lie down, actually.” You coughed again. “That okay with you?” Elwain was still frowning, but he stepped aside, allowing you down the hall and into your room.

You went down into your bed face-first. Almost as soon as you hit the pillows, your mind faded into sleep. Sleep came to you in fitful waves. You kept waking, coughing, rolling over and falling asleep again. When your alarm pulled you back to full consciousness, you felt thoroughly awful. The cold had settled firmly into your chest and head, gumming everything up. Your chest rasped every time you breathed in, prompting heavy coughing fits, you shivered even when you were wrapped in blankets, and your head felt full, achy, and cloudy.

The cold had apparently decided to upgrade to a full-blown illness. Slowly, you shoved yourself upright. It was hard to breathe through your nose and your mouth. Your throat stung with every inhale. Every cell of your body just wanted to pop some of the cold medicine that made you sleep and hopefully you’d wake up when it was all over.

Just as you were standing up, someone knocked on your door.

Well, you knew who. There was only one person who it could be. Grimacing, you walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Elwain. What?”

He stared at you. “I was- are you okay?”

“I’m sick. You remember the discussion was had yesterday?” you said. “Anyway. You needed something?”

Elwain looked you over. You hadn’t looking into a mirror, but given his expression, you probably looked terrible. He seemed to think you were five seconds from crumbling into a pile of ash, like a vampire exposed to sunlight. “Do I need to call 911?” he asked.

“Uh, no. It’s a cold. I don’t need an ambulance. I need to sleep for a while. Why are you knocking on my door?” you asked. Elwain’s mouth moved wordlessly. Whatever he had wanted to talk to you about, it seemed to have been completely derailed.

“I… er.” Elwain’s gaze flicked over you again. “Well. I wanted to see how you were doing. You went to bed right after you got home last night and I never saw you again. And you seem to be doing… poorly.”

“Yeah. I’m not doing great. I really just want to go back to bed.” You rubbed your hand over your head. “I feel like shit.”

Elwain hesitated. “Do you need me to do something?”

“Just go about your day. I’ll try to keep my gross self out of your way.” You slouched across your room to your bed. “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to try to get a little more sleep.”

Elwain lingered in the doorway for a few moments longer. Finally, he turned and headed into the kitchen. The door remained open behind him, and you couldn’t be bothered to get up and close it again. Instead, you buried your head in your pillow. Sleep claimed you again within moments.

Less than an hour later, your alarm went off again. You slapped at it balefully until it shut off. Somehow, it felt like you gotten negative sleep, like sleeping had made you even more tired. Slowly, painfully, you pushed yourself upright. Shivers wracked your frame. How had sleep made everything worse?

You threw on the first clothes that you could get your hands on and shuffled into the kitchen. Elwain looked up from his breakfast. His mouth opened slightly. “Good lord. Maybe you have been cursed.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “I don’t look that bad.” You did, but you’d slathered enough makeup on your face to cover most of it. Then again, maybe that wasn’t enough to hide from Fae eyes.

“You look like a walking corpse,” Elwain said. You collapsed in the seat next to him and coughed into your fist. The force of the motion made your head throb. Elwain curled his lips back from his teeth in a grimace. “Are you certain you don’t need me to call 911?”

“No. It’s a cold. I’m-” You dissolved into a fit of coughing so severe it was difficult to catch your breath. Elwain stared at you, eyes wide. “I’m fine,” you croaked.

Elwain narrowed his eyes, but returned to his phone. You didn’t know where he’d gotten it from, because he certainly hadn’t purchased it, but you’d decided you weren’t going to ask. You ate slowly, mostly because your stomach felt tender, and you couldn’t finish even half of your normal portion. After a while of picking at your food, you dumped your dishes in the sink and started gathering your items to head out.

“Where are you going?” You startled. Elwain had appeared at your shoulder, completely silent. You might have chalked up not noticing him to your cold-dulled senses, but he could sneak up on you no matter how well you were feeling.

“Work,” you said.

Elwain looked back down at his phone. “You are not supposed to leave the house if you’re sick.”

“It’s a cold. I’ll be fine,” you said.

Elwain kept looking at his phone. “If you are sick, you are supposed to stay home, both so you can avoid infecting others and so you can recover.”

“Are you reading that off a website? Where are you reading that from?” You tried to grab his phone, but he gracefully slipped out of your reach.

“I searched about human illnesses on the internet,” he said. “Your symptoms are consistent with the common cold, but they are also consistent with pneumonia. It says you should sleep and drink water until you are recovered.”

“Look,” you said. “I’m fine. It’s a cold. I’ve had them before. I will have them after this one. I know how to handle them. I’ll pop some cold medicine and I’ll be fine.” Elwain stared at you. His expression was hard to read. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll live.” You sniffed and blotted at your face with a tissue. “I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you later.”

You swept out the door, giving Elwain a wave. He stared after you, not moving until you slammed the door shut.

It was a long, slow, awful day. You could barely keep your head together. By the time you got home, your limbs were heavy with exhaustion and your mind was swimming.

You dragged yourself through the door. Your body felt like you were wrapped in a massive, thick blanket. Everything was warm and it was hard to move, like everything was stiff.

Elwain stared at you as you pulled yourself into the kitchen. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Fine,” you mumbled. “’m fine.” You slouched over the counter and leaned against it. Elwain stood, stepping closer to you. “I’m good. I… I’m good. Just… Tired. Tired. Need to nap.”

“Perhaps you should nap in your room,” Elwain said. “Not on the counter.”

“I’m fine here.” Your words were getting mushy. Why weren’t your lips moving correctly? “I’m good. I just, um. Need. Something…”

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Here, hold onto me. I’ll-” Elwian’s hands were on your waist, on your back. You felt boneless, mushy. Your limbs weren’t moving the way you wanted them to. The only thing you could feel were Elwain’s hands supporting you. Was he carrying you? Maybe. You felt like you were floating. Your head was disconnected from your body, floating. Someone was speaking to you from far away, a soothing voice. It was so soothing. Maybe you could just sleep for a bit. Just sleep. It would be nice to just sleep.

Dimly, you came back to yourself. You blinked your eyes open. The ceiling was unfamiliar, at least as ceilings went. Not that you were familiar with many ceilings, really. Looking down at yourself revealed why the ceiling was so unfamiliar. The bed was covered in heavy, dark blue sheets. Elwain’s sheets. You were in his bed.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright. You still felt bad, but less bad than you had been feeling. A raking cough escaped your chest, thick with phlegm.

“You’re up!” Elwain appeared in the doorway. He looked… frazzled? You weren’t sure the Fae could look as frazzled and unkempt as a human could, but he didn’t look as ethereally beautiful as he usually did. He looked sort of ruffled. “I was considering dragging you to the hospital, but the internet said that maybe ginger tea would actually be better, so I got you some of that.” He indicated the cup in his hands.

“You have got to stop getting all your information from the internet. Or at least I need to give you a media literacy course on identifying good sources,” you croaked. Your voice sounded bad, but it no longer hurt to speak. It just felt uncomfortable.

Elwain gave you a bewildered look and held the cup out toward you. “Drink it.” You took it obligingly and took a sip. Elwain must have dumped half a bottle of honey in it, because it was so sweet you almost couldn’t taste the ginger. You swallowed it carefully.

“Thank you,” you said when you’d finished the cup. “What, uh. What exactly happened to me?”

Elwain sat on the end of your bed. He was wearing his old cloak, the one he’d taken with him when he’d fled from Faerie. He tucked it tighter around him, fingers fidgeting at the hem. “I was hoping you could inform me of that, actually. I was quite frightened when you collapsed like that.”

“Oh, yeah,” you said. Vaguely, you remembered passing out. “How long was I out?”

Elwain glanced at the clock. “Mn. Less than an hour? You were in and out for the first ten minutes, mumbling a lot.” You had vague memories of Elwain leaning over you, expression panicked. Must have been from then. “Once I got you into bed, you fell asleep. I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or not.”

“It is,” you said. “Probably a good idea to let me sleep. Though if I ever do collapse again, please call 911.” You considered. “Well, I guess don’t call 911 unless I’m actually dying. I can’t afford the ambulance.”

Elwain nodded, even though he looked politely confused. “Is your illness getting worse?”

“Maybe,” you said. “It’s hard to tell. I think I have a fever now, so that sucks.”

With absolutely no warning, Elwain leaned forward. His face was abruptly so close to yours, close enough to feel his cool breath tickling your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Suddenly the only thoughts in your head had to do with his lips pressing to yours, his cool mouth meandering along your skin-

His forehead touched yours. His eyes closed, a little furrow appearing in his brow. “You’re warm,” he said. “Very warm.” He sat back.

You blinked. “Uh. You can do that with your hand, you know.”

“Oh? I saw the forehead one on the internet,” Elwain said, but he reached up and cradled your face in his hands. With a soft, delicate touch, the back of his hand brushed against your forehead and down your cheek. The touch made something in your chest tighten and your breath catch. “You still feel warm.”

You moved your mouth, trying to get your brain back in gear. “Uh, yeah. Fever! That’s, uh. Bad. I need, um. You remember that pill bottle in the bathroom I showed you? The one with the little red pills?” Elwain nodded. “Get those and a glass of water. They’ll bring the fever down.”

Elwain vanished for a moment and returned with a tall glass water and the bottle of pills. He watched as you downed them and sank back into bed. His sheets were softer than yours, his bed even more luxuriously plush. You weren’t sure where he’d gotten the sheets from, or if maybe they were the sheets you’d bought him, just augmented with magic. “Why did you put me in your bed, anyway?” you asked. “My bed’s not that much further away.”

“I wanted to keep an eye on you,” Elwain said. “And you do not like me coming in your room.”

“I don’t like you just walking into my room whenever you feel like it, but you can come into my room,” you said. But you were pretty glad he’d put you in his bed. Everything in his room smelled faintly floral and herbal, a smell that relaxed you. Everything was cozy.

“I am not familiar with how to deal with sick mortals,” Elwain said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No. I just need to rest.” You paused, looking toward the window. “I should probably head back to my own room, actually. You’ll probably want to sleep here tonight, right?”

Elwain shook his head. “Stay. You need to rest. I will sleep elsewhere.” He swept out of the room, cloak fluttering behind him. You stared after him for a moment before sinking back into bed. Despite just waking up, your head was already muddy again. Maybe Elwain had gotten you the pills with the sleeping medicine in them. Your eyes closed. Within moments, you were drifting away, fast asleep.

You dreamed of strange things, of hands on your face, cupping your cheek, of soft lips pressed to your neck, of kind eyes and strong arms carrying you around. When you opened your eyes to see the same kind eyes staring down at you, you were half-convinced you were still dreaming.

“Hello,” Elwain said. “You have been asleep for a while.”

You blinked. Your body did have that foggy heaviness that came when you’d been sleeping deeply. Even your discomfort from the illness seemed far away and dim. “Elwain.”

“Yes. I’m right here.” He said it more gently than a simple statement of fact, almost like a reassurance.

“How long was I out?” There was bright sunlight streaming in through the window and across the bed. You lifted a hand to clumsily shield your eyes.

“Over twelve hours. I thought you should probably sleep. That’s what the internet said.”

“Oh, man, we are going to need to get you some better resources than just ‘the internet,’” you said. “But you were right. Thanks for letting me sleep.” Slowly, you shoved yourself up into a sitting position. “What’s that?”

Elwain held a bowl out to you. “I was told that soup was good for mortal illnesses.”

You took the bowl of vegetable broth. Elwain’s cooking was usually pretty hit or miss- he could follow recipes just fine, but he also had a habit of deciding that he had a better idea than the recipe and going completely off the rails. The soup just seemed to be broth, though. You took a cautious sip. It was watery, but tolerable.

“Are you feeling better?” Elwain asked. You nodded, glancing over at the clock.

“It’s past nine,” you noticed. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I called in sick. I wanted to stay home to make sure you were all right.” Elwain looked completely serious.

“It’s just a cold. I’m fine.”

Elwain’s eyes narrowed. “You collapsed.”

“Well, yeah, but…” You trailed off. There wasn’t much you could say in response to that. “Fine. But if you get fired for this, I’m going to be pissed.”

“I will not be fired. My boss loves me.” Elwain gave a superior little sniff, nose stuck up in the air. You laughed into your bowl of broth.

When you were finished, Elwain took your bowl back into the kitchen, returning only a few moments later. “Do you need anything else?”

“I think I’m okay,” you said. “You really didn’t have to stay home to take care of me. There’s not going to be a lot to do. I think I’m mostly going to sleep.”

“Regardless. I think it is better to be safe.” Elwain looked at you from the doorway for a moment longer. “I need you.”

He left the doorway. You could hear his footsteps retreating into your apartment, perfectly steady, like what he said hadn’t made your chest tighten intensely. You sank back into his bed. His scent wreathed around you, gentle and reassuring. Oh, god. Warm feelings were fluttering up in your stomach, swelling through chest and trembling in your lungs. Worse than that, they felt familiar. How long had these feelings been lingering in the background of your mind? And now they had surfaced and you didn’t know what to do with them. Naturally, you would have some kind of emotional crisis when you were sick.

You faded in and out of dreams where Elwain’s scent wreathed around you and his gentle hands stroked your forehead and cheeks. You woke up feeling oddly melancholy.

The sounds of the TV drifted through the open door. Shaking some feeling back into your heavy limbs, you hauled a blanket over your shoulders and headed into the living room.

Elwain was draped over the couch, staring at the TV. There was some soap opera on with a woman and a man hysterically throwing themselves at each other. Elwain looked up as you padded into the room. “Is it okay for you to be out of bed?” he asked.

“Yeah. I feel better, actually.” The sleep had helped quite a bit. You still felt foggy, but the pain in your head and chest had faded. Elwain sat up, drawing his limbs in closer to himself so you could sit next to him.

“You look less… corpse-like,” he said. Before you realized what he was doing, he took hold of your face in both hands and pulled you closer to him. “You are still warm.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m getting better.” You reached up and carefully pried his fingers off your face. You were overly aware of how your fingers lingered together. “How’s your day off going?”

“Human TV is still strange,” Elwain said, turning back toward the screen. “I can’t imagine any humans really behave like this. I have never seen it.”

“No, it’s a soap opera. It’s supposed to be deliberately over-the-top and crazy. That’s why they’re fun to watch.” Elwain rolled his eyes, but there was amusement in his expression.

“Is there anything you want to watch?” he asked.

“No, this is fine.” You settled into the soft cushions, staring at the TV. As much as you were looking in the direction of the TV, most of your attention was focused on Elwain. His gaze kept flicking toward you, as if he was unable to focus on the show either. After a moment, he reached out toward you.

One of his hands settled on your head, the other on your shoulder. Before you realized what had happened, he pushed you so your head was resting in his lap. You stared up at him as he, apparently unconcerned, started weaving his fingers through your hair.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“You did this for me when I first came here,” Elwain said. “It was soothing. I thought you might like it as well.” He paused. “Was I incorrect?”

You considered for a moment. His fingers were still carding through your hair, twining strands around his fingers. “No. I don’t mind.”

Elwain continued to stroke your hair. His nails scratched lightly at your scalp. The feeling of being touched made something tremulous swell in your chest. It was a pleasant feeling, but one so sharp and overwhelming that it almost made you cry.

You lay with Elwain for a while, his hands absently playing with your hair and trailing along your head and neck. He seemed to be paying far more attention to you than to the TV. “You should take better care of yourself,” he said, stroking your bangs back from your forehead. “If you were to die, I would be alone in the mortal world.”

“You’d manage,” you said.

“Perhaps.” Elwain removed his hands from your hair and hesitated for a moment. He seemed to be struggling to speak. Then he sighed. “But I would prefer it if you were with me.”

You looked up at him. He was staring deliberately to one side. There was a faint pinkish color to his cheeks and his eyes were narrowed. “You could have left, once our deal was up. I only asked you to stay with me for the night. And yet, you helped me. There was no reason to. I no longer have my connections or any particular Faerie skills. Even the few powers that remain with me, you don’t like me using. You have gained nothing from this deal and you help me regardless.”

“Of course, I did.” Thinking about that night only brought one image to your mind. Elwain, who had nearly been killed by his own parents, looking lost and confused and abandoned. He had been cocky before, but in that moment, he had just looked forlorn and upset. He had just looked scared. “I wasn’t going to just leave you on your own.”

“You could have,” Elwain pressed on. “Easily, you could have. You could have justified it, even by mortal morals. There’s not a lot here that could kill me. As you have pointed out, I would be fairly fine on my own. But you stayed with me regardless, for no other reason than just helping me.”

“You’d just almost been assassinated. I couldn’t leave you,” you said.

“You could have. But you didn’t. And, at least so far, you have asked for nothing from me in return. To be quite honest, you’ve been almost annoying with how little you allow me to do.”

“I try,” you said. Elwain snorted. It was an inelegant noise, but somehow also incredibly attractive. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m trying to explain to you that I care about you. I want you to be well and safe and healthy because you saved me and you didn’t have to and I appreciate it.” Elwain’s cheeks flamed red. “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

You reached up slowly and let your hand cradle the side of his face. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing. “It’s strange. I’m not used to this,” he said. “My parents loved me as far as they could use me. It’s how Faeries are. But you have used me for nothing, gained precious little advantage from having a Faerie living with you. And I wasn’t used to it. I still think I’m not used to it. But I am so… so… happy. For this. For you.” He blinked his eyes open. They were hazy with emotion. “Thank you.”

It was an impulse maybe you could have resisted if you were feeling better, but you were overwhelmed with feeling and not in the mood to fight with yourself. The hand on his cheek shifted position toward the back of his neck and pulled him down on top of you. His mouth pressed into yours, tense and unyielding, then softening as he realized what was happening.

There was a moment of fumbling, while Elwain registered that you were kissing. You broke away from his mouth, but he was pressing into you again, pulling you close to him and meeting your lips over and over with his own. His tongue brushed your lower lip and his moan sounded against your mouth.

You weren’t aware of how it happened, but suddenly you were lying back on the couch with Elwain on top of you. He was kissing you furiously, his hips flush to yours. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him as close to you as you could get.

One of your gasping breaths caught in your chest, triggering a coughing fit. You rolled over, trying not to cough right into Elwain’s face. He sat back. His lips were already slightly kiss-swollen and he looked a bit rumpled. “Right,” he said, trying to finger-comb his hair back into a presentable state. “You’re still not feeling well.”

“Hold on. Give me a minute, we can keep going,” you said between coughs. Elwain pressed his lips together, but they were twitching toward a smile.

“You are admirably determined, but I think it would be better for you to rest,” he said. There was a pause. Elwain tugged on a few of the longer strands of his hair. “I take that to mean you feel the same way?”

“That I like you? Yeah.” You pulled him down so he was laying across your chest. He looked at you, eyes surprisingly wide and innocent. “When I first met you, I thought you were kind of an asshole. And you are kind of an asshole. But you’re also charming and endearing and you try to follow my rules even when you totally don’t have to. And you’re willing to take care of me when I’m sick.”

“You took care of me when I had lost everything,” Elwain said. “I only wished to return the favor.” His fingers wandered over your stomach, tracing absent patterns on your shirt. You could feel his warmth against your skin. “Usually, that’s how it works, with Faeries. Favors are given because giving means you can get something in return, and you’re always trying to leverage the deal to get more than what you’re giving.” He closed his eyes for a moment, brows furrowing. “But when I saw you were sick, I wasn’t thinking that I needed to pay you back. I was only thinking that I wanted to help you.”

You stroked your fingers through his hair. “That’s what love is.”

“Mortal love,” he sighed. “I always thought it was flimsy and weak and short-lived.” His eyes opened again and he nestled into you. “It’s much stronger than I thought. So much more than I believed. It almost hurts, but it’s a good hurt.”

You started coughing again. Elwain swung himself up and gathered you into his arms. “I’ll take you back to bed,” he said. “You need to get better. I want to continue this.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. You rested your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes. His heartbeat thudded against you, slow and steady. The feeling of him holding you swelled and ached inside you, a pleasant ache. You clung to him as he eased you into bed and settled in next to you. Your illness was all but forgotten. Everything was soft and pleasant under a heady wave of love.

[thr-333]

Drastic Measures- Part 16

@daminette-december2019-2020

~Deaging~

Yes I know I left a cliff hanger. Yes I know it was evil. That my friends is the point! if I cannot be an evil gremlin whats the point in writing at all.

Ao3

First < Previous

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Damian blinks awake, head groggy and with an ingrained sense to pretend he’s still unconscious. There are bird calls and the sound of the wind. He isn't at the league's base. Last he remembers he was.

Then he catches the sound of movement, not from an animal but a human. He stays still. They look around for a minute before shuffling closer to him. Foolish, they were obviously untrained and stupid. Even more so when they poke his cheek talking with soft-spoken words.

Damian grabs the wrist lightning-fast making them yelp. He surges up turning the grip into a pin and going for his sword, which isn’t there. In fact, he has no weapons. This realization makes him zero in on the person below him. It’s a girl, his age, and looking terrified. As she should be.

“Who are you?” He demands, no weapons so he presses the wrist at a painful angle.

“Ma-Marinette!” She squeaks, Damian doesn’t let up raising an eyebrow, “Dupain-cheng!”

Damian doesn’t know that name. So she can’t be a threat and she can’t be important. He lets up enough that her wrist won’t break and takes stock of his surroundings. They’re outside, a tropical area judging by the foliage. There are tire tracks, some footprints, and that's it, no other people around. 

It must be a test from his mother or grandfather, those aren’t unusual. The question is what could it be. Certainly, it can’t just be to kill this girl, Marinette. Even without weapons he could have snapped her neck long ago. Information doesn't seem to be it either she doesn't have any training in resisting pain. But perhaps she can provide a clue, maybe that's her purpose.

“Why are we here?”

“I don’t know!” Or perhaps not.

He’ll have to look around. He drags Marinette over to a tree using the vines to tie her up.

“If I am meant to kill you I can do that later, it’s harder to unkill someone,” She relaxes, “Harder, not impossible,”

She is no longer relaxed. Damian paces through the forest, the tire tracks are clear, no effort to hide them, and can easily be followed back. He takes stock of his clothing. Someone changed those. They are all ill fitting, and now that he notices so are Marinette’s. Damian looks over his person for any details missed, finding a small notebook.

None of its coded which is strange in itself since it’s his had writing. Notes, a to-do list, Marinette is mentioned several times, something about a pet store, calculations and what he’s looking for; a location. They’ll head to Alaska then, he likely had to bring Marinette considering she was mentioned. He’ll have to find out where they are and move from there.

“Where are we going?” She demands as Damian unties her from the tree, not completely unbound as they start walking.

“That's not your concern,” Damian snaps pulling her along by a length of vine.

“Well, I am concerned so-”

“What?” He hisses turning to glare at her, Marinette shrinks under it.

“Fine,” She follows along in a few blessed moments of silence,  “... what’s your name?”

“That’s not your concern either,” Damian rolls his eyes, this journey is going to be insufferable.

“Is anything my concern?” Marinette snarks, Damian squashes the smirk down putting up his serious facade.

“Walking faster so I don't gut you,”

That's an effective threat, at least for a while. Damina followed the trail of snapped branches and squashed foliage. If this was a test tracking certainly wasn't what was being tested. So what was? How quickly did he have to figure it out? And what would be the punishment if he didn’t?

“Do you know where we are?” Marinette tries again, she’s incessant that certain.

“I will soon,” The dirt was kicked up into what could almost be a road. They followed to find a proper dirt road and follow the worn path.

There's a few tracks, recent enough to be the past few days which means it wasn't just the people responsible for their situation that have come through here. It was a long walk. Not that it bothered Damian he had trained for much worse. The problem was Marinette. She wasn't tired, actually the opposite which was a problem for Damian. Pounding him with a hundred questions a minute.

“I’m from Paris,” Despite her hands being tied behind her Marinette still managed to lean in front of him, “Where are you from?”

“That's none of your business,” And so he kept trying to shut down every topic, but Marinette seemed more afraid of silence than whatever threat he could dish up.

When night started to fall they set up camp off to the side of the road. With luck, a truck would drive by at some point and he could commandeer the vehicle. Damian was willing to set up a fire but not try and hunt. Without weapons and Marinette in tow, it would be a pointless task regardless.

“Do you like pastries? I live above a bakery,” Which only begged the question of why this girl was important. The daughter of a baker? He was the demon heir and son of Batman, why on earth was he left here with her?

“I don’t care shut up,” Damian rolls over, Marinette securely fastened to a tree. 

He wouldn't sleep tonight but maybe the illusion would keep her quiet. It doesn't. And Damina is unwillingly lulled to sleep. He only realized this when he was startled awake by Marinette warning him that a truck was coming. Damian readies himself to fight as the truck slows as it approaches them. Marinette has other ideas.

“Excuse me, we could use a ride,” 

“Why are you tied up?” the driver asks looking between them concerned.

“A-a prank!” She is not a convincing liar, “Could we please ride with you?”

“Uh, sure, just untangle yourself and let's go,” Damian weighs the advantages of just killing the driver here, but ultimately deems it not worth the effort. Letting Marinette free can’t be that big a risk he greatly outmatches her in speed, strength, and skill.

Damian will admit her habitual questioning comes as an advantage as she makes small talk with the driver. Figuring out where they are. They get dropped off at the main city and from there they go to the port. It’ll be easier to stow away on a ship than a plane even if it will take longer.

“Stay quiet and follow me,” Damian warns Marinette, hiding behind crates at the dock.

Marinette nods following along closely her steps louder than his practiced soft ones. They sneak onto the boat headed for Alaska, its easy enough to stow away hiding among the shipment during the security checks.

“Wow you move like my Maman,” Marinette whispers, once the security has left.

“I highly doubt that,” Damian scoffs perched vigilant high on the crates.

“No really, she always moves silently and sneaks up on Papa accidentally,” Marinette giggles leaning back on the crates.

“Ah-ha,” Damian dismisses watching her out the corner of his eye.

“Yeah she tried to teach me but I’m too clumsy,” 

“Teach you?” Damian actually looks over, “That would imply she actually trained,”

“She did, I don’t know where but I think it was with aunt Talia,” Damian freezes.

“.... Talia?” He hesitates, looking fully at Marinette now, “What's your mother's name?”

“Hm? Sabine,”

… well… it's a really good thing I didn't kill her Sabine would have taken down the whole league

“... So it was an act?” Marinette looks over at him concerned, “Surely Sabines daughter wouldn't be bested so easily,”

“What are you talking about?”

She must know something but what?

“Hey, wanna play hide and seek?” Marinette breaks Damian out of his thoughts.

“For training?” Damian puzzles.

“No silly,” She laughs, Damian can't bring himself to feel offended as it doesn't feel like she's laughing at him, “For fun,”

Hesitantly he lets her drag him along, taking turns hiding among the crates. At first, it does feel like training, staying silent, staying still. Then when she catches him he realizes the difference. There's no pain, no punishment, nothing. Marinette just smiles.

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no taglist :P

[narrators-journal]

The most dangerous game

I know I’ve been hella dead, but I return with my usual! Stano smut! I dunno why I adore writing these two so much, but I guess I’m attached, so yeah. Ya’ll get content.

CW: Predator/prey vibes, Xeno gets chased but there’s no real big acknowledgement of it.

It was likely because Xeno had developed a persistently wonky sleep schedule that he got so many night time jobs. That, he supposed, was why he was once again out at night hunting another Vampire, despite having told his boss of his run-in with a particularly pretty vampire. However, at the moment, Xeno somewhat wished he was dealing with Stan instead. At least with him he could rely on his need to flirt and toy with him to give him away. But no, the scientist wasn't hunting Stanley, but instead a completely different vampire who was proving his dislike for hunting the blood sucking monsters. Taking advantage of how dark the night was, the human's weaker vision, and whatever ninja techniques he had learned from the internet, the young vampire had hidden annoyingly well in the thick blanket of shadows and clutter on the streets. So, the white-haired college graduate was poking around at every rock and thicket of grass or bushes along the sidewalk before the boiling irritation in his veins got to be too much and he let out a mix of a groan and a scream like a tea pot. Stomping over to one of the few flickering street lights on the road, the hunter stood in the light and dug out his knife, then used it to slash at his stomach to fill the air with the alluring scent of fresh blood. With a pained hiss and the new wet feeling of blood dripping sluggishly down his pale skin, the trap was set, and all the hunter had to do was wait for the shallow cut to work its magic. Which, didn't take long. All Xeno had time to do was get one of his metal stakes from his pocket and extend it, then he was set upon by the vampiric ninja-wannabe. However, despite his skill at stealth, the vampire was young in both a human and vampire sense. Freshly turned at a young age, he'd become a problem because he had yet to grow out of his pubescent hormones quite yet, and giving him a predatory draw and increased strength had only encouraged him to turn hard into the bad boy persona. Sadly, being a new vampire wasn't all improvements. It also meant an increased hunger and little control of your newfound strength. Which is what had led the young man to be targetted by the monster hunter association, and swiftly wiped out by a stake through the throat via Xeno Wingfield. With a grunt, the monster hunter threw the freshly dead young man to the sidewalk, wincing at the burning and itching sting bending down to yank the stake from his throat brought to his stomach. For a moment or so, he felt bad for the creature. He'd been young, and he'd let his newfound powers obviously go to his head after a lifetime diet of anime and movies, the silver haired hunter could understand his over excitement, but he also had little to no patience for dumbasses who couldn't register that they weren't in Naruto. So, his sympathy was brief, and he was soon just dragging the young creature's corpse into some bushes and calling the cleaning crew to come collect him. Then. He spoke.           "God damn, Doll. You're quite attractive when you're being lethal." Stan hummed, hopping down from his hiding spot in a nearby tree and giving the hunter a charming smile that he refused to admit brought a little heat to his face.         "Oh, so you're just gonna become a full blown stalker now? Did you follow me from my house, or was this another 'coincidental' run-in." Xeno's words dripped with sarcasm and venom, but the vampire simply rolled his glacial blue eyes,          "Actually, I'm here because I smelled fresh blood," At the mention of fresh blood, the scientist glanced down at his work shirt, spotting the tiny stain of blood his cut had left,          "Oh." He inwardly winced at how disappointed he sounded, but tried to recover with a sniff, "I had trouble luring the bastard out. It was quite the shock for me to find out that not every vampire would want to chase me down and prowl around my house for the entire fucking night." Stan simply snorted, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one before he spoke again,          "Nah, that's just my thing, doll,"         "Quit calling me doll! You have my name now, fucking quit." The vampire put his hands up in mock surrender, though his smirk didn't falter under the scientist's withering glare. For a moment, they simply stood in the cool night's darkness, the hunter with his arms crossed and dark eyes narrowed, and the vampire returning his malicious look with his own nonchalant, half-lidded one while he breathed whispy smoke from his dark mouth. Both men seemed to dare the other to say something or do anything, each looking for an excuse to make some sort of contact until the smaller male spoke again,           "Are you expecting me to run away? Because I told you the first time we met, I'm not likely to do that," He huffed, but Stan simply shrugged,           "I'm just messing with ya, doesn't matter to me if you run or not." He grinned more at the lightning fast moment of irritation on Xeno's face, but the hunter schooled his facial features back into their usual disdain-filled glare, only broiling with frustration on the inside. He hated this man's relaxed demeanor. He was a monster hunter, the tall, hypnotically pretty predator should be avoiding him at all costs. Yet here he was, needling at him as if he couldn't end him just as quickly as he had the younger blood sucker. Okay, well, not as quickly. Stanley had a good four inches on the monster hunter at least, and had a body that had been frozen at the prime of his life, toned and pruned like an artfully shaped shrub through the years into a gorgeous, powerful example of why humans were the apex predators of the world. Or, well, they were, but with his change into the more monstrous his status as the perfect predator had only increased. Stan was perfectly built to hunt humans. Not only did he have a supernatural magnetic beauty to him, but he'd been human, so he knew how humans behave first hand. He was a nightmarish wet dream. Xeno gave his head a good shake to banish those thoughts from his mind when he realized he was looking the vampire over with the hunger of a sugar baby sizing up their next piggy bank.           "Hey, Xeno," Stan hummed, but the hunter refused to look back at the man, which he simply took as a greenlight to continue, "you wanna play our little game tonight?" The hunter snorted in response, staring off into the darkness while his cheeks cooled,           "I thought you were only here to bother me, not play a game of fucked up tag," He said calmly, only looked back at the man when he heard him walking closer, only stopping when he was about two feet away, maybe within reach, a grin on his pretty face,           "Well, I thought it'd be a bit more polite to offer that rather than just asking if I could drink your blood outright." he reasoned, amused at the edge of poutiness that he seemed to sniff out through the veil of aloof indifference the hunter spoke with.            "No thanks to either offer, I don't want to be chased tonight." Xeno sniffed in response, simply adding a thicker layer of ill temper to cover how excited he was at the thought of being pursued a second time. The first time had, admittedly, given him a thrill, but he wasn't ready to voice such to the annoying vampire in front of him. However, Stan seemed to have picked up on his kryptonite from that first round,              "But aren't you curious to see what happens when you add the scent of blood to the mix?" The purr in the man's voice annoyed Xeno immensely, but the thought of maybe learning just how sensitive vampire instincts were, and how quickly one would succumb to them. Obviously young vampires are more prone to being controlled by their need to feed, but Stanley isn't a new vampire, that curious voice mused, already setting Xeno on a very likely stupid and dangerous path, It'd be immensely helpful to know just how easy it is to bring out those base urges in him. If he's going to follow you around it's best to know what to avoid so he doesn't go feral. It further encouraged, stoking the flames of the scientist's natural curiosity until he hummed,              "I suppose it would be useful for the association to know exactly what triggers a vampire to go into a frenzy of some sort. Fine." The vampire grinned at that,             "You do know that I can't promise my feeding instinct is the only one that'll come to the surface," he pointed out, making Xeno blink and raise an eyebrow at him,             "What? Why would any other instinct come into play?" turning red as Stan laughed,               "Well, in simple terms, I find you too attractive to promise that when I catch you I'd only want to drink your blood~" Xeno's face warmed up more at that, getting huffy and tripping over his words in his rush to snap at him.               "You can have a five minute head start, just like last time," he simply assured, "Just need a bit of blood, because your original scratch has closed," He laughed more when Xeno pulled up his shirt to see that his shallow cut from earlier had in fact begun to heal, no longer bleeding and instead beginning to scab over. The hunter only responded with a glare at that point as he plucked his knife from the sidewalk where he'd dropped it and wiped it off before leaving another cut along his stomach, this one a bit deeper than the first, but not enough to linger for more than a day or two. With that, Stan gave him a charming smile that showed his extending fangs, his blue eyes already getting a hungry gleam to them. So, without further conversation, Xeno took off down the street. The cuts on his stomach stung and itched more from his running, but he pressed on. His main concern was regulating his breathing and energy so that he could get as far away from the vampire as he could in his small window of time. Naturally, his plan wasn't to just run in a straight line and wait to be caught, not only would that likely be dangerous, as a vampire in a feeding frenzy was much more violent, but was less likely to fulfill the goal of bringing those deadly instincts to the surface at all. So, instead, he sought out other people, a crowded area, maybe a shop, that way it wasn't as easy for the predator to catch up to him. This is insanely stupid, that voice of reason finally spoke up, not only am I playing with fire by instigating an instinctual reaction, but I am woefully under prepared to run from Stan. He realized, filling his veins with icy terror when the weight of his situation fully sunk in, The first time we did this I barely survive on pure panic and him toying with me. If he really loses his shit and goes into a frenzy, I can't outrun him. The reality of the thought hurt, but it was sorely true. Despite all of his training as a monster hunter, Xeno had never been one for good cardio, namely in the stamina category. He relied on his wits and pure speed, not his ability to maintain those speedy response times or pace for long periods. but it's too late now, he reminded himself, thinking back to the way the vampire's fangs had extended so soon after he'd given him a fresh source of scent. Nope, he couldn't chicken out now. He had no choice but to stick to his plan and push the panic and fear aside. Instead, he simply focused on the route ahead of him and locked onto the light of a store further down the street, which he headed for instantly. The bright, artificial light blinded the pale scientist for a moment when he stumbled into the store, but he was swift to regain his barrings and dash down the aisles and through the crowds of night owls and whatnot that were still up at this hour. He knew that his five minutes had ended a minute or so before. Meaning he didn't have long before the vampire would be on his ass. So, thinking quickly, he swiped his hand over his wounds, then smeared the blood on his palm onto the tile flooring in an aisle. Once he had that down, Xeno ran off deeper into the store. He had very few places to hide. The bathroom was basically a dead end with no windows and only one door, he couldn't climb up the shelves or to the rafters in a timely manner, so he forwent that plan. Instead, he did the next best thing. leaving as distracting a trail as possible before bolting out one of the fire exits.            "Shit," he wheezed when the fire exit triggered a screaming alarm through out the store. If Stan was in there, he'd definitely know he got out now, but that only meant the scientist had less time to think of such things. He had to focus on running. So, Xeno ignored the way his legs throbbed, and his lungs ached from gulping down the cold night air. He focused entirely on getting home, or at least to a more residential area. He could feel his limbs getting heavier, threatening more and more to give out with each step, but his grit his teeth and bared it until the threat became reality and the asphalt bit into his skin. And there he laid for a few seconds, gasping for air and scraping up as much energy as he could to push himself to his feet. As he did, he glanced back down the street, and sure enough. Stanley was coming out of the alley Xeno'd run out of, his glowing blue eyes locking onto the scientist in an instant. With another curse spat out through gritted teeth, Xeno took off again. His legs still screamed from exhaustion, and now his hands stung viciously from the fall, but he kept going. He could hear Stan closing in on him, which gave him a final burst of frantic energy that carried him to at least the park near his home before the vampire finally tackled him to the grass. The scientist could only wheeze in response, letting the vampire crush against him and push his face into his pale neck with a growl. That seemed to snap him out of the exhaustion cloud, and in an instant, Xeno was squirming and forcing himself up once again. The only way he managed it was because the vampire was taken by surprise, so he was able to slip from his grasp and scramble up, but he only got a few more steps before he had to lean against a tree for support so that his legs didn't crumble a third time. Then, just as quickly as he'd gotten away, Xeno was back in Stan's luke-warm arms, trapped against his needlessly heaving chest with his fangs hovering over his jugular once more. However, he didn't bite down. To the contrary, the feral vampire seemed to hesitate for a moment, seemingly weighing his options of what to do with the hunter before settling on a choice and swiftly switching to almost slamming him against the nearest tree.           "S-Stanley!" The hunter wheezed, more surprised then anything, pushing back so that his face at least wasn't forced into the course bark and he could look back to try and see the blonde behind him. Said blonde was keeping him in place with a hand on one of his shoulders, looking Xeno in the eye and almost relishing the dawning realization that painted his pale cheeks before he used his free hand to hook into his pants and tug them down pretty roughly. Then, he was back at the man's neck, but this time he bit with his blunter teeth, sucking at the skin until Xeno's mewls and hums were pulled out and he was satisfied with the hickey he'd left. The scientist, meanwhile was a bit ashamed of how quickly he accepted the turn of events. He tried to save some face by muffling the noises bubbling in his throat, but Stan's mouth at his neck, paired with the way he ground his groin into his now-bear rear drug a few noises out. Though, it also bat back the fog of hormones and lust long enough for the hunter to realize that he was very likely to get hurt if he didn't intervene. So, he whined and reached up to tangle his fingers in Stan's messy hair, tugging at it until he finally relinquished his throat from the second hickey he was dedicated on leaving. Carefully, Xeno turned himself around with what little room he was permitted between the vampire's muscular chest and the much-less-forgiving tree. Once they were face to face though, the college graduate's brain no longer seemed to work, so, the two simply stood there, panting a bit from the chase, before he finally gave up on using words and instead simply sunk down to his knees. Keeping his eyes glued to the glowing blue pair above him as he went. Luckily enough for him, his actions at least intrigued the vampire, because he was allowed to tug his bottoms down just enough for his member to spring free, which earned him a noise somewhere between a growl and a hum. With Stan's pants down and his member now standing erect in front of him, Xeno hesitated. Should it matter if I'm any good at this sort of shit? I just need some sort of lubrication, and he shouldn't really care about anything beyond...mating, so surely he won't give a shit, right? He asked himself, puzzling over the predicament before Stan reached down to grab onto his shirt, reminding the scientist of his lack of patience. So, Xeno threw his insecurities to the wind and grabbed onto the base of the shaft so he could slip Stan's impatient member into his mouth. The vampire moaned in response, and Xeno took that as a sign that he'd bought a bit more time for himself. So, he slowed down, bobbing his head at a medium sort of pace to work himself up to taking as much of the length as he could, which, thankfully for him, was almost all of it thanks to years of speed-drinking coffee and energy drinks and eating at record speeds in college. He also found that once he actually got to moving, the embarrassment of his lack of skills faded away, and part of him simply enjoyed the groans he got out of Stan while he moved his lips up and down him at a steady pace. He simply continued to work him as much as he could until the vampire let out a little hiss and gripped onto the scientist's shirt until he pulled away and let his throbbing member go with a coy 'pop'. Suddenly, Xeno was yanked back to his feet and whirled around again to be slammed back into the tree. His pants were tugged down once more and his feet were kicked apart in rapid succession so the monster hunter only got a moment's break before Stan pushed into him. And while it hurt still, the white-haired man found that he didn't mind as much. As the vampire began thrusting into him, one hand clawing into his hip, the other on his shoulder, Xeno moaned out curses and did his best to grab onto the tree or Stan's neck to keep steady under the merciless thrusts of the blonde. It was shameful how hot his body got, but with how Stan was hitting that sweetspot within Xeno, his face back to being buried in his neck for more marks, Xeno couldn't care less.        "Mmmm, fuck! ah, r-right there, please!" he plead, tangling his fingers back into Stan's hair as he moaned, giving another lewd noise when his pursuer did as he asked, swiftly learning that doing so got more needy noises from the hormone-addled hunter. With that, Xeno lost all coherency as euphoria further fogged his mind, and soon brought him to his peak with a whine of the vampire's name. Though, Stan didn't stop when Xeno came, he just kept thrusting into him, still flooding his pale body with more and more pleasure while his hot puffs of breath tickled his hickey-littered neck. The continued rough treatment was beginning to sting, but the edge of pain only seemed to bolster Xeno's pleasure back to its peak, pushing a second orgasm from him before Stan finally grew sloppy with his thrusts and soon gave one final movement before emptying himself into the hunter. After that, the monster hunter let himself melt against the tree, relying on Stanley to hold him up because he was on the verge of passing out after that night's activities. The last thing Xeno remembered was giving a thumbs up to what he assumed was the question 'are you okay'. Then, he let his exhaustion take him into dreamland.

[ieattaperecorders]

Something's Different About You Lately - Epilogue: Borrowed Time

Life goes on, impossibly.

Read on Ao3

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Martin shifted the bag of groceries in his arms as he climbed the stairs, still feeling a bit nervous.

The dinner had been Jon's idea – his O&M instructor was covering kitchen skills, and he'd thought it would be fun for the two of them to try making something together. The recipe had sounded a little elaborate to Martin, who'd protested that he didn't cook much, but Jon promised that it wasn't beyond them. He added that Martin was ‘perfectly capable' in the kitchen anyway, and said it with such prim, knowing confidence that Martin hadn't even bothered to ask. Before he knew it, he was writing down a list of ingredients to bring over.

He supposed that was just going to keep happening, Jon telling him things about himself. It was . . . strange. Sometimes it was endearing, sometimes just annoying. Occasionally it made him feel sentimental and a little bit sad in a way he couldn't put his finger on.

The door to the flat opened after a moment of knocking, and he smiled as Jon appeared.

"Hi Jon, it's Martin," he said. He'd read online it was polite to say your name, to not assume the other person will recognize your voice. "I've got the groceries."

"I know it's you, Martin." His tone was light and a little condescending, and Martin felt heat rise to his ears. "Come on inside. You know where the kitchen is."

Martin slipped past him and set down the bag, pulling things out and arranging them on the counter as Jon followed him to the kitchen.

"The store was out of chili paste," he mentioned.

Jon shrugged. "We'll improvise, then."

"If you say so."

Jon began taking out cookware, placing things down wherever he found counter space. "Do anything interesting today?" he asked, over the clatter of pans.

"Not especially. Filled out a few applications, then took a walk," he said. "Met a really friendly dog in the park."

"Flattered that you tore yourself away to come here."

"Wasn't by choice, her owner wouldn't let me keep her."

"How unreasonable."

It was weird, not having to worry so much about money. Not that Martin was complaining of course, but there was still a voice in his head telling him he was being too slow and selective in his job search, that it was lazy of him. And he felt anxious dipping into the new funds too much.

He'd just about gone into conniptions when Sasha told him what she'd done while she'd been fiddling with Elias's computer. Embezzlement might not have been an escalation when they were already committing arson, but they could still get caught, and wouldn't a financial windfall point a lot of suspicion towards them? But she kept assuring him that it was untraceable, some hidden fund Elias had, ready to be drawn on by anyone with the account information. The running theory was that he'd been keeping it for his next identity, which . . . yeah, the less Martin thought about that, the better.

Fear of discovery aside, he couldn't deny it was nice having a buffer like this. There was space he'd never had before to think about where he wanted to be, what he wanted to do with himself. And with the bills taken care of, Jon could focus his time on recovering. At the urging of his O&M teacher (and some amount of prodding on Martin's end) he'd even started talking to a counselor every few weeks. It was ostensibly just about handling the emotions that come up with sudden, traumatic vision loss, and he doubted Jon would be discussing the more exotic traumas he'd been through. Still. It was probably good he had something like that.

They went about the business of prepping ingredients, talking idly about food, things they'd done in the past few days, updates from Tim and Sasha. Martin's initial nerves already dissolving into the steady flow of conversation. There was something comfortable, he reflected, in being around someone who was so comfortable with him.

"Would you mind--" Jon frowned, fiddling with the hob on the stove. "I've got this, I'm fairly sure. Just . . . make sure I keep the pan centered?"

"Sure."

He came to stand behind Jon, watching over his shoulder as he set the carefully oiled pan on the stove and turned on the heat. Martin was a terribly distracted spotter, his attention frequently straying from the pan to look at Jon's face, pinched slightly in concentration. There was a single bead of sesame oil on his cheek, and it made his intensely serious expression that much more charming.

Despite his concerns, Jon had the pan well handled as he heated the oil and added in the aromatics. Martin only noticed him drifting once, the flames going high on one side of the pan.

"A little left," he advised.

In a moment of impulse and bravery, Martin curved an arm around him – placing a hand on his elbow, then running it down his arm to cover Jon's hand with his own, guiding the pan carefully into place. Jon leaned back, fitting the curve of his body into Martin's and sighing deeply.

"God, I've missed this," Jon exhaled. "Just . . . cooking dinner with you. All these little domestic things."

His voice was so unselfconsciously fond. It made Martin dizzy, just how easily affection poured out of him.

In hindsight, at least part of Jon's strange, awkward behavior around Martin had been a result of him holding back, wary of letting his feelings show. He never held anything back now -- his demeanor going from nonchalant or haughty to unbelievably soft and loving at the slightest prompting. It still took Martin by surprise, inspiring so much unreserved affection in someone. It wasn't anything he'd usually associate with himself. It was strange, and lovely, and at times made him feel almost frighteningly powerful.

He leaned forward, kissing the soft skin just beside Jon's ear. Jon smiled, holding his pose for a moment before gradually returning his attention to the pan, shaking it gently to move the vegetables around. Martin kept a hand on his, now fully for the sake of touch rather than any pretense of assistance, letting Jon's movements guide them both.

"Did we cook together in that cabin a lot?" he asked.

Jon nodded. "It was one of a handful of things we could do that felt . . . well, like a date, I suppose. We couldn't really go anywhere since we were lying low. I mean, we could walk around the area, isolated as it was, but trips to the village were all short and functional. So preparing something elaborate together made an evening feel special," he smirked. "You used to get defensive, too, just like today . . . saying you didn't really cook, like you were trying to lower my expectations."

"In my defense, I never said I didn't cook, just . . . ." Not since mum left , he thought. "Not for a while."

"To be honest, we were both at a disadvantage in that kitchen," Jon continued. "There weren't a lot of modern conveniences there. The power came from a generator, and the stove was an ancient, wood-burning thing that neither of us quite knew what to do with at first. Took a lot of trial and error before we really managed."

"Sounds cozy."

"Oh yes. So cozy we almost suffocated ourselves before we figured out how to adjust the vents."

Martin smiled, listening to Jon describe the little kitchen in that place. The cabin in Scotland had supposedly been a remote safehouse the two of them laid low in, but the way Jon talked about it sometimes it might as well have been a romantic holiday retreat. He made it sound so nice that Martin once idly suggested they go see it someday. Jon had gone tense and quiet at that, had shaken his head and said softly that they had to stay far, far away from that place. That there was nothing good that happened there now.

Jon was mostly open about the things he remembered. But sometimes "open" meant he'd easily speak at length about something, and other times "open" meant he'd answer your questions with short, one-sentence explanations, volunteering nothing unless pushed. And anything about the police officers he'd apparently worked with fell solidly into the second category.

Sometimes it seemed like they might have been friends, but Jon was always adamant that no one ever try to contact them. Daisy in particular seemed hard to talk about. Martin did know about the coffin. Jon had told him in a soft, emotional voice how another Martin had stepped from his cloud of isolation to set out tape recorders calling him home, how it had been one of very few things that let Jon believe he hadn't given up on him yet. And he knew something had been different about Daisy after the coffin, some sinister force like the one that had kept them at the Institute had loosened its hold on her.

He also knew that Jon was terrified of her, that he said again and again she was too dangerous to go near. That something about her made him sad -- and, Martin suspected, guilty, though he wasn't sure why. It was a topic he'd decided not to push . . . if Jon ever wanted to talk more about it, he would in his own time.

There were other things, things closer to home for Martin that Jon had hesitated over. Once while he was recounting the events of those years he'd paused mid-sentence. Stammered that it wasn't all supernatural in nature and some of it may still happen, and was he sure he wanted to know everything? Martin imagined Jon thought he was being subtle, but it wasn't a hard guess.

He told Jon not to give him the date. It was obviously going to be within the next couple of years, there was no spitting out that apple of knowledge. But he didn't want to be able to mark it on his calendar.

It shouldn't have felt like news, that his mum was going to die soon. Shouldn't have been the uncomfortable weight in his chest that it was. She was ill, of course it was coming, it had been coming for a while, hadn't it? But maybe that was the problem. It had been ‘any day now' for such a long time, ‘any day' had stopped feeling like a reality. And he still wasn't sure what to do with this information, if it really changed anything. Should he try to get some sort of closure? How did you make the most of the time you had left with a person who refuses to see you?

Martin hadn't asked Jon how much he knew about his mum, that just wasn't a conversation he was eager to have. But the careful, hesitant way Jon talked around the subject suggested . . . something, at least. Just like how the gentle, quiet tone he got when he talked about the Lonely told Martin more than he really wanted to have explained.

There was only one thing Jon flatly refused to tell him about, and that was whatever Elias had done to him on the day of the Unknowing. When pushed, Jon had gone quiet for a while, then said he didn't remember. It had been a lie, and a bad one, and both of them knew it. But it was clear there was no point in asking for more.

"You like pizzelles, don't you?"

Jon's voice snapped Martin to the present. With a last squeeze of Martin's hand, he turned off the flame, moved away from the stove and over to the pantry.

"Um, dunno?" Martin said, pulling his thoughts back together. "Never tried them."

"Really?" Jon frowned, pausing halfway to the cabinet door. Then he shrugged. "Well, no matter. You will."

Martin rolled his eyes. Jon spoke with so much more authority than anyone deserved to hold over another person's cookie preferences, and he couldn't help feeling contrary.

"No. You stepped on a butterfly last week and set off a chain of events that forever changed my feelings on pizzelles, I hate them now."

"That's all right," Jon said, popping open the plastic package and arranging the cookies on a plate. "If you don't want these, there's also canned peaches for dessert."

"Oh, don't you dare --"

Jon snickered, picking out a broken piece of one of the large, thin cookies and holding it out, just short of passing it into Martin's mouth. With an annoyed grunt, Martin leaned forward, taking a bite.

Damn it. It was really, really good.

---

Jon sank into the couch, pleasantly full and a little bit tired. He leaned back and listened to the sound of running water coming from the next room.

Martin had insisted on doing the dishes, on the basis that Jon had done "all the real work" of cooking. He wasn't sure that was true, but didn't argue. Just asked that he leave everything in the drainboard when he was finished so Jon could put it away later. He knew he'd be frustrated for hours if the dishes weren't where he expected them to be.

There were so many frustrations in his life now. His O&M instructor had promised he'd learn new ways to move through the world, that in time the frustrations would be fewer and fewer, and he'd find himself capable of nearly everything he'd done before the loss of his sight. Jon believed her, but it didn't make the prospect of getting there any less daunting. Nor did it make the learning process any easier.

The worst were the things his instructor would never understand, that no resource or guidebook would mention. The dread that gripped him when he became disoriented and found a door where he wasn't expecting one. The phantom tickles on his body that prompted him to pat himself down for spiders again and again.

Still. He was alive. The others were freed from the institute, and he was there with them, to struggle and to mourn and to continue on.

A part of him would always fear it had been a mistake. That the Web, or the Eye, or some other power still had plans for him that would reach apotheosis someday. Maybe he saw the fear as vigilance, as though something was waiting for him to feel safe so that it could rip that security from him. And as long as he never allowed himself to be truly, entirely at ease, that day would never come.

Irrational, perhaps. But it was so hard to tell anymore which irrational fears were truly irrational, and which would one day manifest with teeth and claws.

Even if nothing ever came for him, they had only bought the world some time. One day, maybe soon, someone would figure it out and attempt a ritual again. Maybe there would be others out there who would catch it in time, postponing the end over and over, forever. Or maybe someone would do it next week, and Jon would be plunged along with everyone else into unspeakable suffering until Terminus claimed them all. He could follow Gertrude's path if he chose, devote his life to stopping rituals at the cost of everything he cared for. Even then one could slip past him, come from someplace he hadn't been watching, or had been made not to notice. At some point he was going to have to find a way to live with that knowledge.

He'd work on it. But for the moment . . . .

The sound of running water stopped. Jon smiled, scooting to make room on the couch, feeling the cushions sink and shift as they took the weight of another person. With a hmm that came out with more whine to it than he'd wanted, Jon found Martin's arm and tugged it towards him. With a quiet laugh, Martin obliged, leaning into him and resting his head against his chest.

"Better," Jon arranged their limbs more comfortably. Martin's hands were still cold, and he smelled faintly of dish soap.

"Glad to hear it."

Jon knew Martin found it amusing, how clingy he was. The first time he'd commented on it had been profoundly embarrassing. Part of it was just the way Jon was, but he also remembered the days after the Lonely. The skittish, uncertain moments of contact, the times when Martin stiffened at his touch but whimpered when he pulled away. The other days, when they could barely let go of one another, when Jon would plant himself beside Martin or wrap his arms over his shoulders, and he would relax into it, sighing with release. Both of them too grateful for the fragile miracle of each other's touch to consider breaking contact.

This Martin didn't remember those days, and if he ever sensed anything desperate or reverent in the way Jon clung, he didn't comment on it. Still, even if he found it funny, he didn't seem to mind how ardently Jon held on to him.

Jon moved a hand into the space between Martin's shoulder blades and scratched down his spine, the particular way he used to like. Jon felt him shiver with pleasure under the soothing contact, and a powerful warmth spread through him.

"God . . ." Martin whispered, "you really know everything about me, don't you?"

Jon snorted. "Hardly. In a very real way, we barely had time to get to know each other. And when we did, well . . . it was close by necessity. It was intimate, and intense. But there's still a great deal I've no idea about."

"You were never tempted to use those powers of omniscience to look inside my head?"

"Constantly," Jon said, with great seriousness. "But I never did. I promised."

Martin went quiet at that. Maybe Jon's reply had been a little intense, or maybe Martin hadn't actually realized that looking inside his head had been a possibility when he'd asked the question as a joke.

"Oh," he said eventually. "Um . . . good?"

"I have picked up a few things," Jon continued, speaking with quiet and fond admiration. "For example . . . I know you'd like a pet, but your landlord won't allow them so you keep plants instead. You can't say no to panhandlers. You have a favorite hoodie that you only wear when you're sad and need the comfort. You like old, careworn furniture, and rainy days, and sitcoms that were made before you were born. You're kind to people who aren't kind to you, but you never forget the unkindness."

"Wow. Okay," Martin made a soft noise, shifting in his arms, voice tight and quiet. "Okay. Y-You're, uh, probably going to kill me if you keep that up, you know."

"Trust me, you've survived worse."

He felt Martin move a little higher, slotting himself beside Jon and giving him a tight squeeze. Jon grinned as the breath was pushed out of him, all twenty-four of his ribs contracting at the assault.

That was another difference, one of dozens of subtle changes Jon couldn't keep his mind from analyzing. Martin wasn't ungentle, exactly. But he hugged Jon more tightly, shoved or poked him when he was annoyed, whereas the Martin in his memories had held back a little. Been more mindful of his strength, as if wary he might handle him too roughly. It had been subtle, a thing Jon hadn't even noticed until he had something to contrast it against.

It made sense, he supposed. The other Martin had seen Jon limp back to the institute with fresh wounds and new scars one too many times. This one didn't have to have those images in his head.

There were some things that were lost between them, Jon knew that. Memories too small and simple to explain, questions he couldn't ask anymore. Moments they would never share, both good and bad. But there was also so much they had gained. This Martin hadn't had an easy life, not by any measure. But he hadn't had to watch helplessly as the people around him died or disappeared or became monstrous. Hadn't been lost in grinning corridors, or attacked by Hopworth's hooligans, or made to feel the heat of the endless tenement fire. And for that, Jon was so, so grateful.

"You look thoughtful," Martin commented.

"Mmm," Jon sat quietly for a while sifting through his thoughts before speaking. "We should go to a movie sometime. When I'm up for going out out."

"That sounds less fun for you than me . . . ."

"Depends on the movie. I could listen, even without description. And I'd enjoy being with you," he said. "Or maybe a concert? Though I don't really know what sort of music you like . . . ."

"Really? There's actually a blank spot in your catalogue of Martin trivia?" he said sarcastically. "Surprised it never came up."

"You only ever used headphones at work," Jon bristled, feeling oddly defensive about it, "and we obviously couldn't bring our devices to the cabin. Too traceable."

"Hmm," there was a teasing smile in Martin's voice. "Don't know if I want to tell, now. Feels like I've got a secret."

"Oh, except . . . there was one song? I don't know the lyrics, but you used to hum it all the time in the cabin."

"What was it called?"

"I didn't actually ask. It sounded nice, though. Maybe we could listen to it together. . . "

"How'd it go, then?"

He hummed the tune from memory. It came easily to mind, connected as it was with images of Martin sipping tea or wiping down a countertop, a bright, easy smile on his face. After a moment, Martin burst out laughing.

"That's -- that's from a soap commercial!"

". . . What?"

"Floors and doors, walls and halls, Liquid Lather cleans them all," he spoke-sang along with the tune. "It was probably just stuck in my head."

Jon frowned, mildly disappointed. "Well. It sounded nice when you were humming it, anyway."

"God. If you want I can serenade you with an insurance advert sometime."

"No thank you."

"Or we could listen to your album from uni," he pushed, the satisfied smile in his voice growing.

"Thankfully we never recorded anything," Jon grinned ruefully, "so that's lost to time."

"Bet you could still sing some of it."

"Try me the next time I'm not expecting to live through the night."

Martin made a displeased sound at that, but said nothing.

"I'm sorry that you always have to come over here," Jon said. "I should probably be making more of an effort to get out of the flat. But it's so much still, even with a guide. I can do it if I have to, but I can't relax."

"C'mon . . . you know I don't mind, and even if I did it wouldn't be something to apologize for. You're going at your own pace."

"Suppose I'm just impatient with myself. It feels absurd, I've walked through a London warped by unfathomable terror, but now ordinary city life is overwhelming. I think I never understood how many people there are on every block until each one became another unpredictable factor to be aware of on my way to the damn corner store," he sighed. "It may be a while before I'm up for anything like a concert."

"It's alright," Martin gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "I'm good at waiting."

For a moment Jon's mind went to a dark, creaking bedroom, air heavy with dust and thick with terror. It's all right. I'm good at waiting. The same phrasing, almost the same tone. Maybe it was to be expected, little parallels like this. Given a person's linguistic habits and enough time it was probably inevitable, but every time something like it happened it floored Jon in the most wonderful way. Some small but meaningful part of the man he loved reflecting and echoing back at him.

If the world didn't end, if he didn't dissolve into spiders or die at the hands of some unfathomable terror, Jon swore someday he'd find the words for how moments like that made him feel. And if he had any courage left in him, he'd tell Martin about it.

"Though, as long as we're talking about that," Martin said, "I've been thinking . . . ."

"In general?" Jon teased.

"Sort of. I've been reading some stuff about adjusting to vision loss? And I know this is fast – well, maybe not fast to you – but it seems to me like it's probably easier, especially at first, if you've got a sighted person staying with you . . ."

He felt himself breathe in sharply, and Martin's words came faster, his tone careful.

"Not - not to do everything for you, of course! I know you can do things yourself. Just to make little things easier, and – you know, that aspect aside it – it might just be nice –"

"Yes," Jon said decisively.

"Because it isn't really just the vision thing – I mean, it's alright if you do need help but it's also alright if you don't – but there's other reasons – "

"My answer is yes."

A faint laugh came out of Martin and he slapped Jon's chest lightly. "Stop agreeing and let me finish."

"Sorry."

"I'm not suggesting moving in. That would be too fast, at least for me," he said. "I'd want to keep my own place, and I'd probably still spend some time there."

"Of course," Jon nodded solemnly. "Perfectly reasonable to want some space of your own."

"Yeah. But if it works for you, I thought I might get a bag together, y'know, just sort of stay for a while? I – hell, I wouldn't, uh, mind the excuse to cook more dinners with you? And I slept better than I had in a while the night I stayed over here."

"So did I."

"I just think it might be nice. If you think so too, of course."

There was a pause as Jon waited, not sure if Martin had more to say. After the silence had dragged on for a while, he spoke up. "Am I allowed to say yes now?"

Martin laughed, nodding against Jon's chest.

"Then yes. I'd be very happy to have you stay here with me."

"Cool. Cool . . . " Martin exhaled. " . . . I love you."

"And I love you."

"More than I'll ever know?"

There was a teasing smile in Martin as he echoed the words Jon had said to him back in the tunnel. Jon was quiet for a moment.

He'd meant those words when he'd said them. It hadn't been a romantic turn of phrase. He'd confessed his feelings in that moment with the understanding that Martin would never be able to see how deep they ran. That he could tell Martin he loved him, but he'd never be able to show him that. He wouldn't have the chance. He found Martin's cheek with a hand, turned his face towards him, then bent down and kissed him, once.

"No," he said. "Not if I can help it."

[crystxlclear]

sudden desire

chapter six: previously on: chaotic stupid

part seven of sudden desire

prologue / one / two / three / four / five / masterlist

in which two best friends won’t admit they’re in love so decide to have a baby together instead.

pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)

word count: 8.2k (oh yikes)

warnings: no beta read, brief mentions of pregnancy i guess?

author’s note: this took me weeks to write oh my god

Coraline hasn’t told anyone about Marcus’ offer. Not even Loren, when they’d met for the first time in months, when her boyfriend finally got a night off work to look after Maisie. Not even when they’d drunk too much wine and her head was so fuzzy that she probably would have told anyone anything, if they’d asked. She’s not even sure where she’d start. 

Coraline has never been the best at keeping secrets. At least, not her own, and definitely not when she was younger, and she’s always wondering whether that’s why the media seem to think she’s easy prey for their rumours. It never seemed to bother Scott; he was the same, so open and willing to talk about anything and everything with anyone who asked. But it’s different with Marcus. He’s private by necessity but he’s also private by choice, too. She wonders if he’s always been like that, if before the heartbreak he’d told her about occurred, if he’d opened up to people. If what had happened to him had made him closed off. He’s never seemed like a closed book before (and, hell, maybe he isn’t, maybe he just doesn’t want to relive those times; and he doesn’t have to tell her anything, anyway) but he’d opened up to her after he’d made his ‘baby suggestion’. And all she can think of now, since he’d recounted the stories, was that those women - the ex-wife who’d claimed he was too ‘nice’, who’d claimed he was too ‘clingy’ and ‘needy’, and all that utter bullshit, and the one who’d left him for another man, left him alone in D.C. without a single person to lean on - must be completely insane to think that he isn’t good enough for them. Marcus Pike is too good for anyone, she thinks. He’s the best person she knows. Marcus Pike makes Coraline want to be a better person. They didn’t end up ordering takeout that night, like they always did. Coraline had found herself reaching to the back of her cupboards, searching blindly for some ingredients she wasn’t even sure she had, just for him. Marcus loves breakfast. Like, he really loves it, she’s come to find. And at any time of the day, really. And there’s a diner he frequents; it’s near his office, on the other side of town, tucked away just out of Cora’s reach. Though, he has taken her there once before - just after they first met, when she’d tagged along with her older brother to the FBI debriefing, to check his gallery was secure; she’d thought it was a date, until he’d prefaced his offer with an insistence that it was ‘just as friends’; Marcus had spent the whole time raving about the pancakes he ate every Friday — a treat for a long week’s worth and a change from his usual burger and fries — how he’d found the place by accident and it was part of his daily routine, now, until Coraline had given in and let him order for her, since he knew the place better than she did - most of the time, they see each other when it’s late, when he’s already been for his almost daily pancake-fix and she’s collapsed to the sofa with her legs draped over the armrest. They haven’t been back since, though she’d jump at the chance if he ever asked again. Coraline may be a pretty awful cook, and she may not be able to make pancakes as good as the ones he likes, but surely it’s just the sentiment that counts. He’s spent far too many evenings eating greasy Chinese food at her behest, insisting that he’s fine with it, because it makes her feel better. It’s the least she could do. She’d spent an hour making perhaps the world’s worst pancakes - even as Marcus insisted that she didn’t have to cook for him, that they could just order pizza or something if they wanted a change - pancakes so bad that she’d had to drench the damn things in syrup just to disguise the odd sour taste that somehow tinged every mouthful. Marcus had eaten it without issue, even as she’d apologised endlessly for her dreadful culinary skills and insisted that he didn’t have to eat them if he didn’t like them. They’d made him smile, though. And it melted away the last dregs of awkwardness between them. That was the pancakes’ purpose. It didn’t matter that they were utterly terrible, borderline inedible and a little lumpy. 

But, when Monday rolls around and her older brother, Daniel, comes to her with his regular insistence that she brings that ‘nice FBI agent she’d made friends with’ to their weekly dinner at his house, she took him up on the offer, for a change. She’s never asked because she’s always assumed he would say no; they weren’t dating and it was a little weird. Surely an invite to weekly family dinners was something couples did.

She always ignores Daniel, used to the persistent insistence to ask him. Relenting — finally — comes with the sense that she feels as if she owes him now, though. To make it up for her dreadful pancakes with Daniel’s wife’s cooking, which was always amazing. To make up for the week of unforgivable ignorance. To help them move past the ill-thought-out offer of a baby. She’s sure he’ll still say no, when she calls him on his lunch break, when she knows he’ll be sat at the counter in that same diner, enjoying that brief moment of time away from paperwork. Their lunch breaks line up, those rare and all-too-rare moments when they have time to relax, the tension in their shoulders owed entirely to their morning workloads melting away at the soft sounds of the other’s voice. 

His voice is pleasant, like it always is; Marcus Pike’s voice is like serenity to her, all gentle and familiar, and, this time, he sounds amused when he answers the phone. “Well, this is a nice surprise.” His voice crackles through the phone. The reception in the diner is terrible - it’s the only thing he ever seems to complain about - but she can still make out the sound of the smile in his voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Marcus.” Coraline hums, shoving the last of her laundry into the washing machine, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m calling with an invitation.”

“An invitation?” He ponders, musing over the idea. “To one of those glamorous celebrity parties you’re always telling me about?”

She scoffs. “Oh, you wish, Pike. It’s an invite to my brother’s for dinner. Incredibly glamorous, I know.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments. She almost regrets asking. She does when he replies. “Are you sure?” He questions. “I’m not sure-”

Coraline nods as if he can somehow see her through the phone. “I’m sure,” she insists, “Besides, Daniel and Kimmy want you to come.”

“Coraline, I don’t know-”

“Marcus, don’t make me beg.” She chuckles, but it’s a nervous chuckle. She knew he would say no; that’s why she hasn’t asked him, to avoid this awkward conversation between them when he was uncomfortable and looking for a subtle way to turn her down without hurting her feelings. “Please.”

There’s another pause as he lets out another muffled laugh. His tone is teasing when he speaks again; she can practically see the smirk as he sips his coffee. “And what’s in it for me?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, stifling a giggle. 

She could think of a lot of ways to repay the favour. 

Cora pushes through the onslaught of entirely… inappropriate thoughts, especially to have about your best friend and offers up the most innocent of offerings, though her voice slips to find that low, rumbling register reserved only for the discrete. Mundane words tipped in something intriguing. “I’ll never make you pancakes again.”

“Deal.” He snaps far too quickly through the phone. 

Her mouth falls open. “Marcus,” she gasps, mock offence in her voice. 

There’s silence for a moment. “Sunshine,” Marcus calls out through the static, like he’s sure he’s actually offended her. Like he could ever do that. “I thought your pancakes were great.”

Even a lie sounds like the truth coming from his lips. 

“Damn right they were,” she insists. 

When she lies, even when it’s laced with laughter, it sounds like one. She’s glaringly aware that’s a complete contradiction, given her job.

“Pancakes- real pancakes, diner pancakes- on me for a month.”

“Tempting.”

“...Two months?”

“Fine, fine. If you insist.”

The rush of breath that escapes her in relief is so embarrassingly loud, she’s sure he can hear her. She’s glad he’s not there, watching her, so he can’t see the wide, uncontrollable, entirely tooth-filled grin that splits across her face; she’s sure she looks maniacal, sat in her trailer on set, covered in thick dustings of fake mud from that morning’s scenes. 

She’s never been more thankful for the solitude of a phone call before. 

“I do insist. I’ll pick you up at five.”

Amusement, again, peeks through in his tone. She’s sure he’s eating pancakes — those blueberry pancakes with mountains of ice cream — because they’re the only thing that makes him happy like this, especially on a heavy workday. “In that super-fancy car of yours?”

She’s had her car for twelve-years. But it’s even older than that, fixed up by her father in his garage for what seemed like years. It’s an old run-down black Camaro from the seventies that she’s had since she was sixteen; far too trusty and sentimental to let go of, driving her cross-country from LA to DC without a hitch those six-months ago. It lives in the private parking lot down the street from her apartment complex, tucked away, out of use most days, because the traffic of DC is far too heavy in the mornings and it’s easier to walk or take the Metro instead. Weekly nights spent at Daniel’s on the opposite end of the city gave her an excuse to pull her car from its designated parking space and navigate the busy streets to the comforting hum of the engine.

Coraline knows Marcus loves her car, as much as he jokes about it. It’s evident in the way his face lights up when he sees her sat there, parked down the street outside the FBI headquarters; his smile illuminated by the harsh street lamps overhead, cutting through the darkness alongside the bright nearby office lights and flickering neon signs that cast stained glass shadows on the sidewalk. He’s watching her as she taps her fingers in time to a song she doesn’t recognise on the radio. 

Marcus ducks into the car with a ‘hello’ lingering on his lips and ducks to kiss Coraline’s cheek; it’s a friendly gesture that lingers, not unfamiliar as a display of friendly affection between them, but still swelling that giddy sense of happiness in her chest like it’s the first time. 

“I brought the beer.”

Coraline glances over at him warmly as she starts up the car. The engine rumbles to life, almost sounding unhealthy. She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder a little, fingers falling down his arms. 

Marcus had insisted he bring something; a repayment for dinner, for Daniel and Kimmy inviting him over. She’d insisted he didn’t need to — neither of them would mind; they just wanted to meet the lead in so many of Coraline’s stories, for real this time — but then he’d insisted that he had to, that his mother would never let him live it down if she found out he forgot his manners and turned up without a thank you gift. So she’d told him to bring beer (not wine, definitely not wine, for Daniel’s sanity’s sake). And he’d obliged. 

Not just that cheap beer, either. But the expensive kind, the kind you could only find in certain places if you were looking for it. He’s spared no expense. 

He doesn’t need to impress them, though. They already like him well enough, on the basis of Coraline’s endless stories. 

“Is what I’m wearing okay?” He questions as he smooths his hands over the front of his suit jacket. “I didn’t have time to change.”

He’s still wearing his work clothes — somehow still relatively undisturbed even after hours of the paperwork he’d been half-complaining about to her the night before — yet he still looks great. He’d probably look great in just about anything. Coraline looks entirely underdressed next to him; just blue jeans and a white shirt, and the thin golden pendant her mom had given her the night before her wedding hangs against her chest. She doesn’t wear it much anymore, not since the divorce. But Marcus had seen it the other day, while he was waiting for her to finish getting ready, perusing the expanse of her drawers, intrigued by the jewellery that hung from a stand. He’d said it was beautiful - with the delicately carved bird in the middle, surrounded by flowers - and she found herself reaching for it every morning since. 

She’s not sure why. She just likes to wear it, now.

“You look great.” As always.

He scans what she’s wearing, casual and, as the wheels being their customary groan when she sets the car in reverse. “It’s not too much?” He’s shuffling awkwardly, hands tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket. Is he nervous?

She watches as he moves, shifting slightly in his seat; she’s watching from the corner of her eyes, half her focus on Marcus, the other on pulling out onto the busy road. He’s staring straight ahead, out at the car ahead of them, like the license plate is somehow the most interesting thing in the world right now. His brows are furrowed. The air between them is thick with anticipation and it’s like something has changed; for good or bad, she’s never sure with them anymore, not these past few months, but his hand is gripping his knee and somehow everything seems heavy again. 

He’s met Daniel before, it’s not that. Briefly, sure. But that couldn’t be it. He’s usually so relaxed and laid back, especially around her, never worried about making a joke or goofing off. She doesn’t like seeing him like this.

She reaches over and squeezes his hand; he steadies himself and tilts his head towards her. Her smile is warm and bright and comforting, and the gentle brush of her fingers over the hand that grips his knee relieves the inexplicable anxiety that has strangled him from the moment she’d invited him to dinner. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what it means, what any of it means. Why things are suddenly so different between them after six months of being nothing but friends. 

Why he, for some godforsaken reason, thought suggesting they have a baby together was a good idea.

Did he really want that? 

Either way, he’s pretty sure Coraline doesn’t. Not with him, at least.

Cora hums, eyes dropping to herself and the wrinkled jeans she’d fished out from the back of her wardrobe. “Least you made an effort.”

…

Daniel Meyer is seven years older than Coraline. He’d always been fiercely protective of his younger sister when they were growing up; not in that abrasive, overbearing and destructive way, the way when your life is governed strict and rigid, but Daniel Meyer didn’t take kindly to people hurting his sister. Growing up, he helped her deal with things - the bullying in high school, the heartbreak of her first breakup - so it only seemed fitting that, when she’d moved to D.C., the same place he’d called home with his family for eight years, that he would do the same. That’s how their weekly family dinners were born, from his insistence to help his younger sister settle into her new home, in a new city she barely knew.

For the longest time, Scott Meyer was public enemy number one to him. Sometimes she wonders, now that it’s all over, the divorce is final - now that he’s out of her life for good - if he still is. Or if they’ve really all moved on like she thinks they have.

The second they arrive at his front door, greeted warmly by the smell of pie and a grinning Kimmy, wearing an apron and slightly flustered, looking just as welcoming as always. Her blonde waves - the waves Coraline has always been so jealous of - are pinned up haphazardly out of her face, half-spilling down her back from the clip that tries to hold it in place. 

“Good evening.” Her voice sounds like a song, light and sweet, and her smile is even wider than usual as she glances between her sister-in-law and Marcus, who stands a little behind her, radiating that familiar confidence that Coraline is used to. The half-hour drive had relaxed him enough that, now he’s met with Kimmy’s friendly face, he’s the one that’s comforting her, with a gentle hand on her back and the silent reassurance that things will be okay.

Coraline is mostly worried about him. She's still not entirely sure he wants to be here. She doesn’t blame him. 

Kimmy leans forward and kisses Coraline’s cheek in greeting, the usual gesture. 

“This- well, you know Marcus.” Cora ushers towards her best friend beside her when she pulls back.

“Marcus, of course!” Her face lights up even more. “I’ve heard a lot about you since we last met.” Kimmy’s tone is amused. Her eyes waver towards Coraline, a knowing look in her eyes. 

“It’s great to finally meet you, for real this time.” 

Kimmy’s eyebrow quirks up at Coraline for a moment, the hint of a smirk as Marcus introduces himself, that same FBI Agent-trained surety tipping the edges of his voice, before she finally ushers them inside. It’s starting to get cold; the evening chill is creeping in from the river beside the house, reaching out towards them. Coraline is glad she’d tossed a coat onto the backseat of her car before she’d left and Marcus tugs his suit jacket tighter around himself. “Come in before you both freeze to death.”

The house is alive with the joyous yet shrill screams of children. Coraline’s nephews, to be exact. It always is. Every night. Every week she turns up and they’re running around, playing whatever game they deem fit that evening. Half the time, Coraline gets pulled into their games, whenever she’s not helping Kimmy in the kitchen (which isn’t often, because she’s hopeless at it). Of course, today’s no different.

The two of them are darting around the living room, screaming bloody murder as they wear themselves out; Finley, the oldest, is chasing Elliot, his curls falling haphazardly over his eyes. She can’t tell what they’re yelling about - she never can; it’s just a tangled mess of screamed words - but Elliot is giggling so much that he has to stop every couple of minutes to catch his breath. Finley stops with him, pulling himself from their games for a second to wait as they both regain their composure and carry on. They wear themselves out before dinner and then everything seems to go off without a hitch.

Cora hangs her coat on the hooks by the door and kicks off her sneakers, and Marcus follows suit with his jacket and dress shoes. He looks to her for guidance, that immediately understandable hesitation of being in an unfamiliar house, and this silent agreement settles between them as she sweeps her way into the living room. Her footsteps were light; so light, in fact, that she reached her nephews without disturbing them, startling Elliot when she scooped him up in her arms and spun him around. He complains at first, ducking his head away as she tries to kiss his cheek, letting out the most dramatic and exaggerated noises. Eventually, he gives in and curls his arms around her neck, pulling her close for a second, before he starts to kick again, restless in her arms. 

Finley takes to wrapping himself around her right leg and suddenly the three of them end up sprawled out and giggling brightly on the carpet.

Marcus watches from the doorway. He thinks she’ll be a great mom someday. It’s the little things she takes in her stride.

“Hello to you too, Cora.” The low, amused voice of Coraline’s brother, Daniel, comes from inside the living room. 

“Hey there.” She’s still giggling. She can’t help it. Finley and Elliot unhook themselves from her and each other and resume their endless laps of the couch. 

Daniel stands over her with raised eyebrows. His tie has long-since been discarded and he cuts a casual figure as he cradles the youngest of the Meyers, Piper. She’s only six months and the smiliest baby Cora has ever seen. Usually, she’s asleep by the time Coraline arrives, either cradled in her father’s arms or tucked away in the crib upstairs; today, her legs are kicking back and forth and her hands are fisting into his dress shirt. She’s restless - she knows sometimes that she is, that when they finally cradle her to sleep, it’s best that they leave her or risk jolting her awake for the rest of the night - but she’ll let her wriggle around in her arms for hours if it means catching up on the time she’s missed with her niece all those nights she’s been asleep.

“I brought Marcus.” Cora points towards Marcus as he leans against the doorframe, watching her with fond eyes. She tilts her head back to look at him; he’s smiling and she wants to reach for him. She reaches for Daniel’s extended hand instead, pulling herself up from the floor. She groans uncomfortably, her back aching a little. “Marcus, you’ve met my brother, Daniel.”

Coraline reaches out for her niece; that brooding feeling swells bright and burning again when she takes her, cradling her close into her chest, and she can’t help but glance up at Marcus as Daniel moves to greet him - just barely acquaintances but familiar enough to avoid those awkward initial introductions. He’s watching her, still, as she says ‘hello’ to her niece and gently rests her cheek against the top of Piper’s head. It’s like they’re both wrapped up in that moment where it’s just the two of them - all too fleeting, cut short by Daniel’s greeting and the persistent shouting of children - but it feels lovely. Even if this moment is all they’ll ever get.

Coraline savours the moment with her niece because it’s rare and often fleeting; her, Daniel and Kimmy’s schedules are crammed tight with work and unavoidable commitments and that weekly dinner is the only time each week they can spare to see each other. If Piper is asleep, then Coraline won’t get to say ‘hi’ to her niece. It’s an unfortunate consequence of their careers.

“That’s Elliot-” She points her finger at her smallest nephew. “-and that’s Finley-” Then to the tallest of the two. “-and this… this is Piper.” She bounces the tiny baby lightly in her arms, turning her body so Marcus could get a glimpse at the small smile that pulled at Piper’s lips as her small fist grabbed at Coraline’s shirt.

She’s already told him about them all before. He knows their names. But this is the first time he’s ever met the kids. And it’s somehow maybe the most terrifying thing he’s done in a long time, including that one warehouse shootout his team found themselves in a few weeks earlier.

He feels overdressed and a little ridiculous, just stood there, looking like a lost puppy in the entryway, in his suit and tie. Unsure what to do with his hands or his eyes, or what the hell to say to cut through his quiet. He usually brought a change of clothes to the office if he knows he has somewhere to be but, somehow, in his blind panic at the idea of meeting the family, he’d forgotten to grab anything to change into. And that ease in meeting new people, that effortless skill he’d built up over years of practice, the perks of the job, just seems to have melted away the second he stepped into the house behind Coraline, under the well-meaning scrutiny of Kimmy. This is all normal for her - this weekly routine she’s fallen into - but it’s unfamiliar territory for him. 

It almost feels like something it isn’t. Meeting the family. That point in a relationship when you first realise things are serious. Only this isn’t a relationship. And he’s already met Daniel and Kimmy before, even if it was briefly, and while he was working and distracted with planning a stakeout. And Coraline. Always Coraline. But something about her smile just commanded attention, back then - it still does - even when she tries to blend into the background. Once he noticed her. Sat alone at an empty conference table, comically-oversized name badge pinned to the front of her dress, her lips curling up a little as she sipped the sour FBI coffee.

Everyone else had passed the glass-walled room without even a second glance. 

He, on the other hand, was convinced he’d just seen a ghost. She’d almost startled him, breath leaving his chest. An utter cliche. 

Marcus had recognised her face from TV - though, admittedly, he wasn’t really up-to-date on pop culture, definitely lingering a couple of decades behind, age and time catching up on him, spare time buried beneath a mountain of paperwork to distract himself from Teresa and the unfamiliarity of D.C. - but he always remembers thinking she was pretty. Really pretty. But he always finds it a little embarrassing how much she a hold over him that day, how he’d had to take a second to psych himself up, talk himself down from that nervous ledge he was staring over, before he even thought about entering the room.

It’s weird, looking back, thinking how much has changed. But the changes keep coming, thick and fast, and sometimes it becomes less and less obvious what they are anymore.

“Marcus.” Daniel reaches out a hand for him to shake. He shakes it graciously and says his hellos. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That’s the second time he’s heard that today. Coraline rolls her eyes a little. It’s not the first time she’s heard it, either. It almost makes Marcus laugh but then she smiles again, half-concealing a grin, and he forgets what he’s thinking about for a moment.

But then he wonders what she tells them about. Whether those stories are good or bad, whether they paint him in colour or in black and white.

With Coraline, he figures it’s probably the brightest landscape of technicolour, regardless of who she’s talking about.

“I’m glad Cora finally asked you to come.”

“Well, you talk too much. I didn’t want to bore him.” Cora shrugs, her full attention on Piper. 

“More like scare him away.”

He’s not sure she could ever scare him away.

“Finley is terrifying,” she admits with a giggle but she seems distant. She looks up to raise an eyebrow at him again. Her words are slow, almost drawn out. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get out while you still can.” It’s meant to be light and joking, and Daniel laughs at her words. Given the way she’s looking at him, he’s not sure.

She just keeps looking at him like there’s no one else around.

She can’t help it. She keeps trying. It isn’t working.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Daniel insists as the boys rush past Marcus; he has to step out of the way to avoid them, smiling as they manoeuvre around him and race out of sight into the back of the house. He smiles fondly as they pass. “They’ll calm down in a second.”

“You hope they’ll calm down.” Coraline jabs her older brother in the ribs playfully. He chuckles as lightly as he can but it's obvious he’s tired; his shoulders slump and his eyes linger closed a little longer than normal, Coraline notices. He’s been working flat-out at his gallery every day, then running home to help with the kids. And Piper is a restless baby - difficult to get to sleep which means that, if she’s asleep when she arrives, she can’t say hello for risk of waking her up - so, unless Daniel or Kimmy are holding her while the house is still alive and humming around her, she refuses to fall asleep. “I think-” She looks towards Marcus. He’s inched closer into the room, now, but he’s still lingering like he needs to be invited in. “-you’ll just have to get used to it.” She hums.

“I’m still not used to it and they’re my kids,” Daniel grumbles, almost to himself. 

“Piper seems okay with it.” Marcus points out. He watches as his best friend cuddles the tiny baby close to her chest. 

Piper’s looking up at Cora with the brightest eyes. They’re Coraline’s eyes - Daniel’s too, he assumes - that light emerald green that sparkles beneath the warm living room light. Her mouth is in an ‘o’ shape, fascinated, as she stares. She looks utterly transfixed by her aunt’s face as she carries on their idle, gentle conversation, lightly bobbing her up and down, cradling her softly to sleep. Her eyelids were drooping, sleep gently pulling her in. She’s humming gently, whenever she’s not speaking; Marcus isn’t even sure she realises she’s doing it. That it’s just some subconscious instinct inside her, telling her to sing to the baby so she can sleep. She’s drawing gentle circles on her back through her onesie. Slow, idle circles that slow the wriggles and the kicking of his legs, lulling her off to sleep ever-so-slowly. 

It’s like she’s a natural. She knows exactly what to do every time; with Piper, with Maisie. It’s like second nature and there’s this even brighter glow, brighter than usual, when she settles into the role. She takes it all in her stride and seems to forget the world around her just for a moment. 

“How do you do that every time? Can you come and do that every night?” He jokes. But he doesn’t seem to be entirely joking. 

She hums. “Perhaps-” She rests her cheek against the top of her head as lightly as she dares without disturbing her. “Perhaps I’m just a superhero.”

The yells of kids echo through the house, the hammering of feet pounding against the wood floor. Kimmy’s muffled exasperated calls for quiet come from the kitchen, falling on deaf ears as the boys continue to charge through the back of the house. 

Coraline catches her brother’s gaze. “Go and help.” She’s noticed the way he’s been watching his daughter anxiously, worried that she won’t fall asleep through all the noise and excitement and the gentle hum of Coraline’s made-up song. “I’ve got her,” she insists. 

“Are you sure?”

Piper is slowly drifting off to sleep, even despite the noise. Just at the warmth of her aunt cradling her and the gentle hum of her sweet voice lulling her asleep. “I’ve got her,” she repeats. “Go and help Kimmy.”

Daniel’s shoulders slump in relaxation. He mouths a ‘thank you’ as he jogs from the room, calling out to his sons to stop them from charging around, insisting that they wash their hands and settle down for the sake of their sister. 

Now, it’s just Coraline, Marcus and a half-asleep Piper left alone in the living room. 

The tension in the air is thick and heavy for a moment. 

“Marcus, you’re staring,” she points out. She’s not even looking at him, just can just feel the weight of his kind gaze and it sets her heart racing at a hundred miles an hour. “I’d let you hold her-“ She says as he steps a little closer; now Daniel is out of the room, he’s relaxed. It’s like, without him there, he can pretend it’s just the two of them and Piper curled up content against Cora’s chest, even despite the yell of children’s voices and the unfamiliar surroundings. “-but, if I did that, we’d never get her off to sleep.”

“It’s alright,” he whispers, “I think she’s happier with you.” He settles beside her.

Coraline’s thumb brushes over Piper’s cheek and the baby smiles a tiny smile, eyes still close and fisting her hands tighter into the white material of her shirt. There’s a blissful silence that settles between the three of them — just for a moment — when she looks up at him beside her, watching the pair of them sway gently to a seemingly silent song. The weight of the moment engulfs them like a tidal wave. 

“Marcus-“ she breathes out, barely loud enough for him to hear. But he does, in the relative silence, and the way she says his name rips the air from his lungs, like the first time she’d surprised him the day they’d met. Her green eyes are wide and wild and she’s looking between him and Piper like they’re the only things left in the world. 

They could do it.

He knows what she’s going to say, if she had the chance. If Daniel hadn’t returned, calling out to them that dinner was ready.

They could do it. He knows they could, she knows they could. They could have this fleeting moment for as long as they both live. Their own little version of paradise, together. No matter how terrible the idea seems to be, they could. But Coraline knows she can’t stay in that world forever. It’s temporary and, as much as she wants that, all day, every day, for herself and not through someone else, she knows she can’t let herself get too in over her head. 

Still, Marcus really does think she’ll be an amazing mom.

...

After much persuasion — and the promise of candy after dinner — Finley and Elliot finally settled down long enough for them to eat. Coraline had set Piper down to sleep in her crib upstairs, lingering perhaps a little too long to marvel down at her only niece, wondering what it would be like if she was looking down at her own daughter. 

She knows it’s a hopelessly bad idea. That the feelings will catch up with her and pull her under again. Sometimes she just can’t help it.

She returns with that fake smile Marcus has become a pro at noticing. She looks wistful, longing in her eyes, disguised by the small smile that takes over her face when she slides into the seat at the dinner table beside him. She smooths out her shirt and jeans, wrinkled from the baby. Another smile, an assurance that Piper is okay and sleeping soundly upstairs, and the conversation moves on to mostly idle chatter, and Daniel asking Marcus questions about himself. Coraline keeps shooting her brother glances whenever he asks a new question that almost seems too personal. He doesn’t mind one bit, though.

Marcus finds Coraline’s free hand under the table and squeezes at some point. She doesn’t want him to let go. 

“Auntie Cora?” Finley asks, leaning his chin on his hand to stretch across the table. His questioning call of her name breaks through the idle conversation they’re all having, like he’s demanding all their attention, and not just Coraline’s.

It steals a moment of quiet between them all.

“Nephew Finley?” She replies, mimicking his stance and the curious, furrowed-browed expression on his face. 

“When are you going to have a baby, like Piper?”

It’s a loaded yet completely innocent question on his behalf. He’s merely a curious five-year-old with no ill intentions, and no reason to believe it’s anything other than a normal question; Coraline doesn’t even flinch, even when Kimmy scolds her son sharply and insists he eats the rest of his dinner. Though, Marcus still sees the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Instead, she just smiles and laughs that brightly enchanting laugh, tilting her head to the side in response to her nephew as he sinks back into his chair and pokes at his potatoes.

“Well, I don’t know,” she replies truthfully, “Soon, maybe.”

Marcus almost thinks her eyes waver towards him but it’s so quick that he reasons that, perhaps, he’s seeing things. 

“Soon?” Daniel catches up with her words. “You seeing someone?”

“Oh-“ Coraline swallows thickly. She shakes her head. “No, no, not at all. I’m just- optimistic, I guess.”

“I’m sure there’s someone out there for you,” Kimmy poses.

Coraline hums. Marcus doesn’t see the way her gaze trails towards him. “I’m sure there is.”

...

The rest of dinner passed without any more questions on the matter, Finley’s attention switching towards Marcus instead. He was persistent, firing questions at him across the dinner table like he was leading an interrogation, but Marcus kept answering just as enthusiastically as the first time. He’d skirted around the facts a little - it wasn’t exactly a great idea to tell a child, seemingly without a filter, that you were an FBI agent - but the whole exchange had been wonderful. Coraline was sad to see it finish when Kimmy announced the boys could have dessert and they'd leapt from their seats to race towards the cookie jar. 

Marcus had offered to help Kimmy wash up as a thank you but she’d brushed him off, and, eventually, he’d resigned to the living room with Daniel. It had taken Coraline months to convince Kimmy that she should let her help clean up, there was no way she would have accepted Marcus’ offer immediately.

Instead, it’s just Coraline and Kimmy, working in tandem to clean the dishes, while Daniel spends time with the kids after a long day at work, and pulls Marcus into their conversation like an old friend. 

“I’m sorry about Finn. He’s-” Kimmy shakes her head as she sets another plate down in the drying rack. “He’s been going through one of those... phases lately.”

“It’s fine, Kim, truly.” Coraline sets a couple of dry plates down on the counter and turns to smile at her, before carrying on her job. Sometimes Kimmy jokes about how ridiculous it is that they use so many plates since Piper was born. “He’s just curious,” she insists. “And he makes everything a little more colourful.” 

Kimmy chuckles. “That he does.” She washes down another plate. “So, Marcus is great.” She hums, changing the subject towards her with a quirk of an eyebrow and a small, knowing smirk on her face.

Coraline smiles. Though, it’s more to herself than Kimmy. “He really is, isn’t he?”

“Are you two… y’know… is there anything there or-?” 

“Oh, no! No, no. We’re just-” Friends. “Just friends.”

“Well-“ She quirks an eyebrow at her sister-in-law. “-maybe you should? Just see how it goes. One date at a time.” Kimmy’s suggestion is as innocent as Finley’s question over dinner. She doesn’t understand the weight it holds. And she doesn’t expect her to, anyway. They’re close but just barely close enough. “Things might surprise you and it’ll do you good to get back out there again after, y’know-“

“No, we-” She shakes her head and turns to finish putting away the plates in the cabinet. In the quiet, she hears Marcus laugh from the living room. It’s one of those whole-hearted laughs, when his head lulls back and his eyes screw shut and crinkle at the corner. She wonders which one of them made him laugh like that, or what made him laugh like that. She hopes Daniel hasn’t pulled out the picture albums; he’s worse for that then their parents. But, since Daniel had made his fortune as an art buyer, eventually to the point he’d made enough to buy his own art gallery, a year ago, Coraline should have known that he and Marcus would get on. They had a lot in common. She’s so glad he likes him, though she can’t imagine a reason why he wouldn’t. “Friends. Friends.”

There’s another silence and she can feel Kimmy’s eyes burning into the back of her head. She turns to see the tail-end of a raised eyebrowed glare, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, you never know unless you try, Cora.”

“There will be no trying,” Coraline insists, jabbing Kimmy in the side with her nail. She grins and lets her blonde tresses fall over her shoulder. “Of any kind. He doesn’t see me that way.” She finishes. 

“Do you see him that way?”

Another pause. 

“No.”

Maybe that’s a lie. 

Maybe Kimmy knows that. 

Maybe Marcus knows that. 

Coraline isn’t sure whether she knows that, though. 

“Sure about that?”

Coraline scoffs and turns to continue packing dried, clean plates into the cupboards. “You’re worse than Dan, sometimes.” 

“Oh, I take offence to that.”

“Shut up and finish the dishes.” Coraline chuckles, crossing her arms and scowling at the lack of crockery left to dry. 

“Just don’t write things off so quickly,” she insists, “It might surprise you.”

...

Daniel and Kimmy had tried to persuade them to stay for drinks late into the evening. The boys were shipped off to bed at the usual time, complaining that they wanted to stay up instead, as usual. But Marcus has work in the morning and Coraline has a long string of interviews; the idea of a late-night sounds less than ideal, her eyes already stinging at the idea of staying up any later than they had it.

Instead, they’d make their excuses and leave, ducking away into Coraline’s car with an exhausted groan. The boys had run wild right up until they went to sleep, nagging Coraline and Marcus to play with them every five minutes, even as Kimmy and Daniel insisted that they settle down and get ready for bed. It’s still late when they leave, though. D.C is eerily quiet as they weave through the roads, small crowds of people scattered through the repeating streets of suburbia.

The car ride home is silent of their voices. Not that uncomfortable silence, from before, when things had been awkward between them and neither of them were sure where the other stood. But that kind of satiated, happy and, admittedly exhausted, silence that pools over them. The low hum of the car engine and the radio is persistent in the space between them. Marcus keeps stealing glances over at her as she drives; he can’t help it, but he doesn’t think she notices, her eyes far too focused on the road ahead of her. And, if she does, she doesn’t mention it. Just keeps letting him glance over at her as the street lights illuminate the gentle angles of her face.

He’s glad she never mentions anything. He’d be too embarrassed if she did.

Instead, she’s lost in the music. That blissful flicker of emotion that crosses her face when she hears a song she likes, when her eyes light up at the sound of one of her favourite songs. Her radio is always tuned into some old rock station - he has no idea what it’s called, it’s usually just a continuous loop of different songs cut with the low gravelly voice of a man who sounded like he’d smoked one too many cigars - and most of the songs are the same songs she’s playing on her record player when he arrives at her apartment and she’s dancing around the kitchen while she cooks. He recognises a lot of them from his college days, songs he used to play with his band. It makes him feel old, sometimes, when she tells him they’re songs she spent her teen years with, even though there aren’t too many years between them. 

It’s I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing that plays now; she’s a sucker for those objectively-cheesy rock ballads. They’re her mom’s favourites, too. And, maybe he won’t admit it, but Marcus has heard her favourites enough to count them amongst his, now. Maybe he just likes the way they make her smile. Coraline is humming along, her fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the top of the steering wheel idly as her eyes follow the road ahead. Every so often, a flicker of neon tints her in colour when they pass a takeout, the only things still open and busy. The curve of her profile and each curl of her hair is highlighted in red.

It’s these moments of distracted bliss, when everything seems to exist without a care in the world, that he likes the most.

It never lasts long enough.

He insists she just parks in the garage she usually uses, by her apartment building, and he’ll walk her home. She protests - because of course she does - offering to drive him all the way home instead, but it’s dark and even in this quiet, well-off part of town where the streets should be safe, you never know who might be lurking. Maybe it’s the things he’s seen and heard of in the FBI - everything he’s seen during his training, heard through whispers and stories in the office - but sometimes he can’t shake the simple action of making sure someone is safe. 

It’s still silent between them as they near Coraline’s apartment complex. That short two minute walk down the quiet, tree-lined street that sparkles with chains of fairy lights. It’s lethargic and lingering, each step heavy with the weight of something that echoes through the quiet neighbourhood.

“Cora, I’m sorry.”

It comes out of nowhere and it worries her. And Coraline has absolutely no idea why Marcus is apologising to her. As far as she’s concerned, he hasn’t done anything wrong. At least, not that she knows of. 

“For what?” She questions, brow furrowing up at him as they walk. Their hands keep brushing but she doesn’t have it in her to move her hand away.

“I had no right to drop the baby bomb on you like that,” he admits. He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck uncomfortably. When his hand drops, his fingers brush against her knuckles. “I’m sorry if I made you feel trapped. It was a terrible idea. I should have thought-“

“Yes,” she blurts it out before she can stop herself. She’s not entirely sure she’s thought this through. But she can’t help it.

“Yes, what?”

“The offer.” Her whisper is loud in the suddenly-stifling silence of the street. “If it’s still on the table- yes. I’ll have a baby with you.”

“Coraline-” He gulps and stops dead in his tracks. They’re outside her gate, now. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“And you won’t.” Coraline insists. She steps closer to him, sea-green eyes staring up at him with heavy expectation. He’s the one that suggested it. He’s the one that had laid in bed until the early hours of the morning, losing precious moments of sleep as his brain swam with questions, wondering whether he should suggest this to her in the first place, or if it was an awful idea. But, somehow, he can’t seem to convince himself that this is a bad idea, that he should just let her down easy, now. It’s seeing her with Piper, seeing her with Maisie, seeing how she lights up around them. 

If he can make her that happy, every single day, why the hell would he turn that opportunity down? 

Besides, he’s pretty sure it would make him equally as happy. He’s thought about having kids since he was just a kid himself. And god knows the world seemed to have it out for him when it came to love, things aren’t happening any time soon; he can’t really think of anyone better than Coraline to have a baby with.

And, as much as Coraline knows how recklessly stupid the whole idea is, she can’t bring herself to want anything more or less than this. Than him. “It is a terrible idea, y’know?”  She finds herself insisting, blinking up at him with those beautifully-wide eyes.

“Truly awful.” 

“And there are a hundred different things that could go wrong.”

“Hundreds.”

“But-“

“But-“

“Maybe we should… try? Maybe just for a little while. See what happens.” 

“Maybe we should.” He exhales long and deep out of his nose. “Maybe…” He tilts her chin up towards his with one finger and suddenly he’s kissing her. His fingers brush her jaw, curving up towards her ear and brushing into her hairline at the nape of her neck. Even the soft touch of his hand against hers as they walked was driving her insane but this, this is on another level.

It’s more than the first time they kissed. Less of a brief touch of lips, more of a wave of relief flooding through them both, unfamiliar feelings surging up inside them. This kiss is full of urging anticipation. She’s pulling him closer to her before she can stop herself, their chests flush, lips and hands strong and insistent against each other. 

The fumble to her front door seems like the most practised thing they’ve ever done. Familiar when it shouldn’t be, even as they bump into things on their way.

taglist: @wheresthewater

[a-duck-with-a-book]

REVIEW // Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle, #1) by Jay Kristoff

★☆☆☆☆

So I’m very late to the party, but I just finished reading Nevernight by Jay Kristoff I had such high hopes for this series based off of what people recommending it had told me and what I read about it before picking up. Dark fantasy? Check. Strong leading lady? I’m here for it. Gays? It’s literally my only personality trait. Sign me up. Unfortunately, this book fell flat in all those categories. It reminded me a lot of Sarah J. Maas’s Throne of Glass, which made me take one point off of to begin with simply for making me think of Maas’s writing. Overall, I just found the book to be too predictable, with bad writing, exposition, and pacing, and too many parts that just made me ~uncomfortable~.

In case you are not familiar with this novel, Nevernight tells the story of Mia Corvere, a girl who lost her family when she was a child after her father was convicted of treason. When the book begins, she is 16 years old and embarking on a journey to join the Red Church, a school for assassins, so that she may one day be able to avenge her father’s death. Along the way she meets a bunch of forgettable characters whose names I can’t be bothered to remember and is taught by the most fearsome killers in the Republic. Here she gains many valuable skills, like how to survive being poisoned, how to fight, and how to get big boobs.

+ Side note: by chapter 3 three I started picturing Mia as the crow guy from RWBY and I could not shake that for the rest of the book

I had many issues with this novel that I will try to summarize in some sort of coherent fashion, but to be honest this book sucked the will to live out of me so I don’t know how much energy I can put into this review.

// image: official cover art by Jason Chan //

FOOTNOTES

The footnotes were probably the most jarring element of the book for me, and, unfortunately, there’s a lot of them. Their function seems to be twofold:

they are the form of most of the world-building, explaining several customs, the history of the institutions and peoples Mia meets, and the mythology followed by the people of the Republic.

they allow for the narrator of our story to interrupt with comical one-liners or cryptic foreshadowing

In my humble opinion, both of these are unnecessary and stupid. The interruptions come off as crass and immature and make the other more textbook, boring exposition come off as a joke, especially when it is dealing with sensitive or serious topics. There is one that explains this brothel called the Seven Flavors, which the footnote explains refer to “Boy, Girl, Man, Woman, Pig, Horse, and, if sufficient notice and coin was given, Corpse.” Now, on its own, this passing mention of pedophilia, bestiality, and necrophilia could very well contribute to the world building and tone of the novel, but when placed side by side with the childish, joking tone of the “cue the violiiiiiiiins” or, regarding the acoustics of a room, “…they were, as it happens, exceptional. Falalalalalalaaaaaaaa”, come off as way too light-hearted for the topic at hand. Maybe I’m being way too sensitive, but I’m pretty tired of authors using serious topics as off-hand remarks as a lazy way to make their world daker and grittier. Plus, these footnotes were just so incredibly cringy that I would recoil from second-hand embarrassment every time. They resemble the things I wrote when I was 14 and trying (and miserably failing) to be funny. Also… there are way too many of them. While at first I appreciated the attempt to deepen the lore of the story (I’m a sucker for world-building), after a while it became evident that the author was just forcing information down our throats without taking the time to actually weave the lore and background into the story itself. It came off as a very lazy way to force exposition.

OVERLY FLOWERY LANGUAGE

This story is BRIMMING with similes and metaphors, like every other sentence is some overly complicated way to describe something that could have been presented in three words. When you include so many metaphors/similes/etc., they begin to lose power. They should allow the reader to extrapolate more meaning and emotion from a sentence, but if the book is bursting at the seams with them, they become increasingly ordinary, to the point of losing all of their luster. One prime example appears on page 30:

“It was a bucktoothed little shithole, and no mistake. Not the most miserable building in all creation. [here there is a footnote about some other inn/brothel] But if the inn were a man and you stumbled into him in a bar, you’d be forgiven for assuming he had—after agreeing enthusiastically to his wife’s request to bring another woman into their marriage bed—discovered his bride making up a pallet for him in the guest room.”

So first of all what the fuck is that supposed to mean? That whole paragraph is a fever dream. Let’s begin with “bucktoothed little shithole”. Bucktoothed? Really? What does that mean. Please, someone explain to be right now what a bucktoothed building is. Is it uneven? Is it awkward? Is it half-finished? Is one side longer than the other? Did they do a bad paint job that only covers on side? Are the windows askew? Is the door too big for its frame? We already know from the paragraph above that it is “disheveled” as well, so why the need for another weird phrasing of its appearance? We then move on to that whole JOURNEY of a sentence, where the inn is compared to a man being cuckolded. That is the most insane tale-can you imagine running into someone in a bar and that story being the VERY FIRST thing that runs through your mind??? I know I’m focusing way too much on this stupid paragraph, but basically what I am trying to get at is that even though we spend half a page talking about how bucktoothed and disheveled and cuckolded this building is, we get no actual physical description of it. Imagine if Kristoff had just written that it was a run-down, ill-kept building that looked as worse for wear as its owner did. Done, one sentence. Great. Let’s move on. Instead, we spend so long reading these absolutely batshit descriptions that ultimately tell us next to nothing. Flowery language is placed over actual context. You may think that a description this long and complex means that this inn is a significant or recurring setting in the novel. Nope. It’s not. Mia leaves and that’s that. The reason that I’m focusing so much on this objectively irrelevant paragraph is because it is so representative of the biggest issue I have with the writing in this book. There are so many unnecessary comparisons that function only to make the author feel clever rather than add anything to the story at all. It’s very à la 2010s Tumblr.

THE (IN MY OPINION, BAD) WRITING

For the first half of the book, we are constantly being TOLD things rather than being SHOWN things. With the exception of one of the teachers cutting off Mia’s arm, we rarely see the ruthlessness that the assassins are so feared for, but we hear about it in nearly every other sentence Where are the consequences? I think this book would have been way more enjoyable if there were actually consequences to the characters’ actions. The inclusion of the weaver and the weird vampire guy completely remove any tension regarding the fate of the central cast. When Mia had her arm chopped off, I was shocked, and pleasantly surprised. How was she going to overcome this unexpected obstacle in her training? Then a couple pages later, its reattached with absolutely no lasting consequences. All of the initial tension and shock value of the loss of Mia’s arm is entirely removed because of the two incest-y siblings. Their entire purpose for existing is just to undo all damage to the main characters. Then suddenly, out of the blue, Mia is willing to take on a ton of consequences and completely throw away her chance at becoming initiated in order to avenge her family just to save Tric from receiving like one punishment??? Like why?? As an aside, the only moment I truly enjoyed was when Ash fucking stabbed Tric to death. I assume that when the reader’s favorite moment is one of the central characters’ death, it does not bode well for their reception of the book.

THE THEMES

TW: rape-y subjects

The author seemed a little too keen to include rape and sexual assault in his story. Mia withdrew her consent in the sex scene in the very first chapter, and even if you read it as consensual (which I do not), it is described as incredibly unpleasant on her end. Tric is the result of a rape, which is brought up several times throughout the story. Further, Mia is constantly facing harassment from men. I understand that this is frames the idea that the world she lives in is misogynistic and ruthless, but there are other ways to push that idea through other than constantly putting in her in those situations. As in, this didn’t need to be the ONLY way we explored this subject. Beyond the uncomfortable propensity for sexual assault, I also very much disliked the sexualization of the 16-year-old main character. Oh. My. Gosh. Mia is CONSTANTLY sexualized. Every single damn character makes comments about her body, how hot she is, how much sex she potentially has. It is so weird and uncomfortable. I feel the need to reiterate that she is SIXTEEN. There is, however, a focus placed on the power Mia can gain from seducing her targets. Girl power? Not to me, really. The issue I have with this is the idea that a woman has to be overtly sexual in order to be considered powerful. This is something that we can see in many female assassins and supposedly powerful female characters in fiction (like Black Widow) especially those written by men. Now, there is nothing wrong with using one’s sexuality as a weapon, and I’m certainly not saying that a strong female character cannot be sexual, but the idea that a sixteen-year-old girl is shown having her body painfully modified tp be more desirable, and in a graphic sex scene with another character, in order to for the reader to read her as liberated and powerful does not sit well with me. I don’t really feel like this aspect of her training should be relevant to the overall story. I wish the time that Kristoff had dedicated to hammering into our heads that Mia is a femme fatale to developing her Darkin powers instead. The way she is written now feels more like she is a faux strong female character written for a male audience.

Secondly, Mia is fully written as “the plain-girl-who-is-actually-pretty”. This whole trope bothers me IMMENSELY. YA is full of girls who are described as plain, forgettable, or ugly while their physical descriptions are just the dictionary definition of conventionally attractive. It seems like a way to market off of girls’ self-consciousness while still being able to market the main character as a hot heroine in official art. And there is, of course, the issue of Mia’s boob job Readwithcindy (just “withcindy” now!) did a whole video about this so I won’t get into it much just to repeat what she already said, but I agree that the idea of a 30-something year old man including this completely unnecessary detail regarding the sexualization of teenage girl, who we have ALREADY seen in a rape and being sexualized by other men in the story, made me really, really, uncomfortable. I highly recommend you go watch her video, as she touches on this in way more detail. [Cindy's video

RATINGS

Worldbuilding: ★★☆☆☆

A lot of thought obviously went into the world-the mythology, society, and politics are well-thought out. But the way they are introduced is annoying and bland. It seems like the author put a lot of effort into constructing this world but realized a lot of it would be left out of the book, so he crammed it into footnotes instead.

Tone and writing style: ★☆☆☆☆ for first half, ★★★☆☆ for second half

The tone of the first half is all over the place, like it doesn’t know if it should be dark and gritty or comical and immature. Footnotes and character dialogue ranges from lighthearted and crass to seeped with themes of torture and sexual assault. It is jarring, to say the least, and often feels like the author doesn’t take these ideas of rape or violence seriously. There are so many instances where the scene is tense or gritty, and Kristoff is actually writing it pretty well, I’m enthralled and on the edge of my seat, and then Mia or some other character (or the footnotes) throw in some stupid comment or make the same “Mia is such an asshole lol” joke for the billionth time and completely ruin the mood of that scene. The second half of the book moved much faster and was helped with way better writing, but it really did not do enough to make up for the horrendous structure of the first half of the book.

Pacing and structure: ★☆☆☆☆

The first half of the book really drags on. Once we arrive at the school, there are constant jumps in timeline, marked with periods when a thousand things happen all at once and the plot moves forward at a dizzying rate, and others when the characters just seem to be going about their daily lessons.

Concept: ★★★☆☆

I found the overall idea of the books to be very interesting, even though it is certainly not the most original or unique concept for a YA fantasy book. The issue is that the potential is squandered with a poor execution.

Characters: ★☆☆☆☆

I truly did not care about any of the characters. The token mean girl, the bumbling nice-guy-who-is-definitely-the-love-interest. too many of the characters just sat nicely within their tropes, doing nothing much to pique my interests. I think my favorite overall was Mister Kindly.

[iloverubberduckiez-blog]

Partners- Reader x Hybrid!Maknae line

A/N: Don't know if ill write more and make a Lil series or keep this as a drabble

WC: 4k

Warnings:Fluff, possible smut if i continue. 

Rated: PG 13 i guess

After another long day at your shitty desk job as a secretary, you were on your way out when you get stopped by the department head.

“Hey Y/N, I'm glad I caught you!”

You inwardly groaned. All you wanted to do was to go home to your beautiful hybrid who you knew would no doubt whine about you coming home late. 1000 bucks says Mark was here to tell you that you would be delaying that peace a little longer.

“Mark please I am tired and I already worked two hours over today”

“Sorry Y/N. I have to stay too. We are expecting some big shot from the main branch and you and I get to personally oversee all things pertaining to him when he gets here. He’s gearing up to take over HQ as the new CEO”

“Oh my- No way.”

“Yup. Jackson Wang”

“Damn. well, he is super hot so I'm doing it for him, not you. When do we need what?” 

“He doesn't get in till next week so we will have time to prepare. Just letting yo know you can pass on the DRASS project to Amaya.”

“What no way that project is mine, it's literally all I've worked on for months-”

“And I know you were super excited to fly back to Kenya to help those people and see it through. I promise you will get full credit but We need this, trust me Jackson says he wants to pick his personal team from within the company. If we do well enough this will be the push we need and could select us as candidates.- You have a hybrid right? well, I have a family of five, and having extra money in the bank whether it's just a bonus for this or a whole new position will help us both and you know it.”

“okay” You relented with a sigh taking the folder from his hands.

“You should rest up this weekend so that we can meet up a little early next week to go over what needs to get done and how we can prepare for everything.”

“so i can go home now?”

Mark chuckles and nods. “ Run along, give your boy a hug from me” Mark kisses your forehead as has been the norm and walks away with a small wave towards his own car.

Leaving the office you groan after seeing the traffic. It was going to be a slow crawl in the car for like an hour before you make it back home.

“Y/N!” You didn't even unlock the door before you were bombarded with the full weight of the handsome hybrid you share a home with.

“Where were you? I was waiting for you for so long. I got us dinner but its all cold now” His voice a little muffled as he spoke into your hair.

“oh what did you eat?”

Taehyungs tummy growled.

 “I didn't. I wanted us to eat together because i got Lasagne, your favourite.” His tail which was wrapped around you as he had hugged you fell to the floor in sadness.

“I’m so sorry Tae.” You looked up to find his ears flattened on his head as his arms drop from your shorter frame. 

Taehyung’s eyes meet yours as he feels how your guilt seems to seep through and he gives you his beautiful signature boxy smile before picking you up and carrying you into your apartment.

“It’s okay Y/N we can reheat it.”

You kiss him on the check and go into your room to change into something comfortable before joining Tae back in the kitchen and sitting on one of the stools.

“Wine M’lady.” Taehyung poured two glasses and reached for your hand leading you to the couch.

“c’mon it will take a while to heat nicely in the oven.”

You nodded and followed him hi sat first then pat his lap. You looked at him questioningly.

“First my favourite meal and then expensive wine? It's not my birthday Tae.By the way this wine is like 1922 grade $400 bucks stuff how in the world did you get some?”

Taehyung chuckled.“I just wanna sit and cuddle with you and have a nice evening together plus you smell like a squirrel.”

You caved and snuggled beside Taehyung instead of on his lap but he just pulled you closer to him nuzzling your hair and drawing little patterns on your arms.

You inwardly facepalmed, of course, Tae’s sensitive nose picks up on all the people from work and apparently most pungently your intern who had sent his Squirrel hybrid to give in some documents to you halfway through a meeting - “I can go take a shower-”

“No don't go please i just missed you a lot today is all.”

“ You sure? Nothing else? Nothing bothering you?”

“Nothing at all.”

It was not nothing.

Taehyung had spent the better part of the morning crying his eyes out after overhearing your conversation to Seokjin. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, in fact, he was going to come and give you a hug good morning but what he heard made him stop dead in his tracks. 

“He’s a beautiful Calico cat Y/N, i think that it could be a good match for you. You did say you had always wanted a cat right? well this is your chance and he will dote on you hand and foot- you work too much honestly when do you take time to read and breathe?”

Tae robotically walked away tail tucked in between his legs and retreated to the bathroom He didn't bother with the rest of the conversation he was just numb. He turned on the shower but made no other moves towards actually showering. All he could think of was that maybe you were trying to replace him, that he wasn't enough for you or maybe that he was just too much and you didn't love him anymore. He heard you knock on the door announcing your departure for work but he couldn't bring himself to respond. After crying for what felt like hours Tae looked at his phone. You had sent a message.

“Tae,

Had to leave early,U might not have heard me in the shower.Take care. Y/N”

Taehyung felt morose. No “I love you” or cute emoji. He sighed and went to your room. Laying on your bed he snuggled up to one of your pillows and managed to fall asleep. It ended up only being a nap as Taehyung woke around an hour later. Eyes still puffy and with a sniffle, he sat up determined and decided to do something special for you.

“Hey Hyung”

“What do you wan- Is Y/N Okay? Did you start a fire again?”

Taehyung deadpanned. “Hyung that was one time!”

“Okay, what's wrong little brother?”

Taehyung whined. he felt the beginnings of tears stirring up again.

“come over. Hoseok has a day off today. Or do you just wanna talk to me?”

“I’ll be right there”

Yoongi sighed rubbing his fingers over his temples. Hoseok was currently now consoling his little brother who after regaling his story managed to upset himself and break down into full-blown tears again.

“I knew something was up I *Hic* didn't think she, we would ever be apart” 

Yoongi sat on Taehyungs opposite side and pulled him into a hug after wiping some of his tears.

“It’s just a big misunderstanding okay she is just working really hard she’s not trying to abandon you.”

“Hyung you don't know that. Easy for you to say because you have Hoseok- Hyung.”

“And it's only because of her that I got adopted by him remember? She wanted us both but she didn't have the means to look after both of us so she called all her friends willing to take a hybrid on and then she said that she was sorry she couldn't do more but at least we would be able to see each other. She’s the reason we can still talk, see each other despite being separated, and hang out.”

Hoseok nods, “She got an extra bed in your room too for Yoongi to come to stay over whenever he wanted and she gave him the spare key remember? I don't even have a spare and I've known her longer-”

“she likes us better” Taehyung and Yoongi snapped to Hoseok at the same time.

Hoseok laughed. “well glad to know where I stand. I wouldn't hold it against you if you moved now, she earns enough to support you now...so if-”

Yoongi smiled “You would be hopeless without me and you know it.”

Hoseok scratched behind Yoongi’s ears and with a smile, he began “Well if you want my advice on this-”

“We don’t,” The hybrid brothers said again in unison.

Hoseok rolled his eyes and mumbled about getting something to eat and calling Seokjin to figure out what was going on.

Yoongi’s heart was aching for Taehyung. He wanted nothing more than to see his beautiful smile again.

“Y/N likes Lillies why don't you buy her some and like welcome her with those and some chocolates or something when she gets home?”

Taehyung sighed. “I thought about that but it feels too simple and like something anyone could come up with.” His eyes glazed over to the Tv where a couple was horseriding on a ranch. Immediately Taehyung lit up.

” That's it!”

“Tae we can't buy a horse ranch, even with all three of us chipping in”

“Not the ranch Hyung. Y/N likes this special wine that you can only get at a few places. If I get her a bottle and cook her a fancy dinner she can remember why she only needs me.”

Hoseok came back to the living room.

“oh, I have a bottle from the last time we went to the ranch as a group the chateau right? I was gonna wait for her birthday and surprise her but you can have it Tae,”

Taehyung glomped Hoseok in gratitude.

“cant breathe Tae”

“sorry.”

Yoongi stood up scrolling on his phone. “what did Soekjin say?”

Taehyungs smile dropped and his face morphed into nervous worry. Yoongi placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder expecting bad news from the way he reacted.

“He is out of town for the weekend. Some big trip so I could only leave a voicemail. It’s probably nothing. Anyway, you should go on and get dinner ready for Y/N before she gets home right?”

Taehyung brightened a little and skilled nodding. Before he left Yoongi said he should probably order food so he doesn't poison you or set the place on fire. He left feeling optimistic and hopeful that he could mend things with you. He wanted to help take better care of you he promised himself.

You woke up to the smell of burnt pancakes and Hot chocolate. Following the scent, you found Tae in the kitchen attentively staring at the pancake until a small ding went off on his phone. Shutting off the timer he placed a layer of batter where the last pancake just lay and set the timer again. You watched him fondly before he plated this one and poured honey over it. Putting the plate on a tray with the precut fruits and hot chocolate his ears went up as he sniffed the air. Turning around he saw you in the doorframe.

“Y/N...i-i made breakfast” He hastily grabbed your hand and led you back to you room tucking you in, before rushing out and bringing the tray with him.

Your heart swelled at this blessing of a man in front of you and he watched with rapt attention as you cut off a piece of the pancake before placing it in your mouth.

“How is it?” His ears sagged over his head expecting rejection.

“I can make you an omelet instead if you-”

“Taehyung it's the best pancake I’ve ever eaten.”

He buried his face in your pillow at your praise, tail wagging happily. You offered him a strawberry and a piece of the pancake and he hummed happily.

After sharing breakfast together you spent the day spring cleaning together before spending the rest of the day on a movie marathon. On Sunday You were both invited to game night at Hoseoks and You and Tae were a dynamite team as usual with Yoongi coming in to troll Hoseok much to his displeasure.

“I look forward to working with you further Mr wang.” you held out your hand. Jackson laughed and gave you a hug instead. 

“No way just call me Jackson. I’ve been friends with Mark forever so any friend of his is a friend of mine, also you come at a right recommendation, which is surprising cos he can be a bit of a downer.”

“I’m right here you know!” 

“I’m so grateful for you for doing this at such last minute. i know it was a lot to organise in the given time frame Y/N.” 

“Not at all, Mr wa- Jackson.”

You all stayed in his office with some comfortable banter before going home.

Taehyung called over to you and began to advance happily towards you before he stopped and sniffed you strangely. You wanted to ask him what the problem was but your phone chimed. it was Soekjin- he was calling you. You declined the call because you remembered you needed to tell Tae what was going on so that you could get his opinion on things.

“It might be urgent, if he keeps calling you like that. Go see what your human friend wants.”

“Do you not like Jin? Since when? Tae what’s-”

“You’ve been talking a lot to whoever lately and you smell like a new scent and a hybrid and I feel tired so I’ll probably just go hang out at Hyung’s.”

“No wait Taehyung I’m not trying to have secrets or hide anything from you but there is something important I need to tell you.”

Taehyung huffed and went to go sit down as you took his hands in yours. He looked like how you found him 2 years ago a wounded puppy with eyes full of love and brimming with sadness.

“Things are a bit crazy at the shelter and Jin needs help in housing some of the Hybrids temporarily. Some can go to other shelters but some need a more... loving environment, calmer without the more violent hybrids sharing with the weaker type ones. I offered to take two of them in while he figures everything out. I know its a lot and if you don't want to, we will just stay just us but if Jin is overcrowded he’s at risk of getting shut down and then they could all end up on the streets I-”

“It's okay.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“It's just temporary, right? I can understand that we shouldn't let anyone be on the streets if we can help.”

“really? you’re fine with this?”

“It’s...I will be able to deal with it. But I want strawberry cake and I’m not sharing”

“Of course Tae. Guess I should call Jin and tell him the great news!” You chirped and went to grab your phone. You didn't notice the sheer rejection that he tried to hold in.

Jungkook and Jimin stood behind Jin. The latter holding Jin’s shirt as he explained some of the pills he had brought along for their nutrition and bringing along some bags with groceries. You reached to take it and Jungkook took them all in your stead silently trying to minimize eye contact with you.

“Thank you Jungkookie.”

Embarrased, Jungkook stuttered out. “I-Its the least I can do after you are being so kind.” You practically melted and pet the Muscle bunny softly at the base of his ears and he stomped his foot a little and grinned showing his toothy smile.

Jimin, not to be outdone, said he could help you pack everything away and let go of Jin who was trying to remain them of something that they were tuning out in their silent contest to impress you. You tried to place a jar on a shelf too high and fell back into JK who caught you and placed it up for you instead. Jimin began whining that he could have done it for you but he was busy with the things in the fridge.

Taehyungs loud sneeze broke up the rowdy lot of you.

Jungkook gripped your waist in fear and stayed behind you as you faced Taehyung. Jimin in shock had hit his head on the shelf of the fridge and tried to catch some of the items that threatened to spill out.

Tehyung seeing Jungkook’s hand on your waist had yanked you out of his grasp and began scenting you and sending a snarl their way.

You sighed. This was how Taehyungs been acting ever since you started the project with Jackson. Pretty much anything could set him off but you felt bad because you should have been more understanding of how this may look in his eyes.

“ Jin, Rabbit, feline”

“Tae, Longtime! Sorry if we woke you. this is Jungkook he's a black Holland Lop and Jimin is a calico cat.”

“I’m Y/N’s Siberian husky.” Tae said to the other two before looking back to Jin.

“ I was awake- Hyung i was finishing the laundry for the new...guests.”

You spun around in his arms to face him. Petting his ears as he cooed into your touch “Aww Tae I told you I’d manage it”

Jin’s ringtone killed the silence and he dashed out telling you to call if any problems arose.

Thereafter you got the boys settled into Taehyung’s room. With a sigh you went and faceplanted into your sheets only to have Taehyung come and crawl beside you. After half an hour when you tried to get up Taehyung just grumbled and  held you tighter.”

“Tae i have to go to”

“work I know” He said with a sigh reluctantly letting you go. 

“Today’s a chilled day we will be done early. Besides, you guys can use this time to bond and make friends.” At his whine, you kissed the top of his head. “ please? For me, try?” 

Six weeks later all of you have somewhat of a comfortable rythym in the household. On a day off you decided it would be fun to go to the beach. Jimin offered to pack a picnic for everyone and Jungkook and Taehyung were moody on the drive over because they didn't think of it first. You had also told him since he was so helpful he could sit in the passenger seat and Jimin spent the whole ride grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Once there you were happy to let the boys wander off to their heart's content after setting up your belongings under a beach umbrella.

Jungkook had other plans. He worked very hard on his physique and although shy he still remembers the first time he came back shirtless from a run and found you on the couch. You tried to hide it but He knows you checked him out and you were definitely attracted to him the way your eyes hungrily racked over his body. Since that day he would be on the lookout for any golden opportunities to be close to you. Honestly, Taehyung had it made. You were kind, smart, hardworking, and breathtakingly beautiful. So often he dreamt of you as his and he knew the others thought the same. Officially though he was still a foster, Jimin had reminded him that morning and their place here wasn't secured so Jimin said he was gonna up the Ante. At first, Jungkook ignored him and went to shower but when he emerged to the sound of you praising Jimin for coming up with such a cute and thoughtful idea, He knew he needed a plan of his own. 

Taehyung excused himself for the bathroom and Jimin was looking around for the cooler box. He decided to go and check in the car leaving Jungkook alone with you. This was his moment. He stripped himself of his shirt and innocently asked if you would come to the water with him. He rationalized his need for an escort being that he was not used to such big crowds of people and thus managed to convince you out of your sundress to reveal your bikini and guide him by the hand towards the water.

Jungkook was Jungshook at the two-piece and how you looked in it enjoying the view until some guy came out trying to talk to you. That snapped him out of his daze and he flung you over his shoulder and bolted into the water trying to shield your body for his admiration alone. You were having a ball of a time and Jungkook got to stay near you and hold you claiming to save you from sharks if you found any.

Jimin had stomped away to the car and after retrieving the cooler box which he was pretty sure Jungkook was supposed to carry happily bounded to the store to get ice for the drinks on the way back. He also spotted a local artist doing caricatures and thought to remember to bring you over later for a couple picture together. He knew you weren't a couple but Jimin was smitten for you. He was slightly confused as to why Tae didn't have a romantic relationship with you, or at least you weren't his mate so he still had a shot. The only thing in his way now was the little maknae and his cute bunny-like stupid smile and ‘helpful groping’. Jungkook certainly wasn't shy in trying to subtle scent you when you were distracted anymore, not like how it was when they first arrived. No, they had gone from not trying to interfere with your and Tae’s relationship to wanting their own with you, a romantic one. The mystery now was why arent you and Taehyung together? Was it because he was a hybrid or was he just not the right guy? did you reject Taehyung before? Did you get rejected by Taehyung and now he regrets it and wants you back? Jimin didn’t care he wanted you and that was final. Even if you never returned his feelings even just being by your side could be enough for him, enough that he could get over sharing your affection with Taehyung after all he was the first even if he hates to admit it.

Taehyung almost dropped the Icecream cones in his hands.

 Its been so long since you two had come to the beach, in fact, the last time was when Yoongi had hinted at you two being an adorable couple. Taehyung had gotten you ice cream to share and you had some dribble down from your mouth to your chin. Taehyung did it before his brain was able to process the action, he licked a stripe from your chin to your lips lingering for a second before placing a chaste kiss there. You were embarrassed, to say the least, and Tae hid his own embarrassment by getting up to toss a ball back to a bunch of kids playing volleyball. When he came back he noticed you with some of Yoongi’s cocktail and the two of you managed to finish the jug just between the two of you. Later at home Yoongi and Hoseok took to the twin beds in Tae’s room and you pulled him into your room. Tae had discovered you were really handsy and although he wanted you so badly you were both too drunk to do more than sleep after a sloppy makeout session. The next morning you had woken up first and Left some water and ibuprofen with an apple by his side. His morning wood making him panic in short horror prompting a quick cold shower. While he discarded his clothes he saw your underwear that you had slept in still coated in fragments of your arousal, on top of the laundry hamper and grabbed it as he stepped in the shower. It was the first time he had taken your underwear.

Yoongi had told him then to let you bring it up- the idea of you guys figuring out what you want moving forward as it was clear to him and Hoseok that you two were lusting after one another but was it anything more? Taehyung was in the midst of figuring out his feelings for you and what everything meant and how things were going to be different but you came in the apartment with breakfast goodies in tow. You managed to still look effortlessly beautiful in the morning and Tae was so happy that you got him his favourite things for breakfast from your waffle house.

“Tae, I’m so sorry about yesterday i was super drunk”

“I was drunk too Y/N its fi-”

“No it’s I'm sorry can we just forget this all happened i don't want to loose you Tae I love you. Can we move on please?”

Taehyungs heart shattered across the floor but he nodded and to put insult to injury you kissed his cheek before scolding Hobi for drinking The hot chocolate you meant for Taehyung and yourself.

“I’m sorry lil bro. If you wanna stay with us we can share my room, i have a double bed and Hobi can-”

“Its okay Yoongi- Hyung. I can keep it together for now, ill give it some time and if that doesn't work I’ll confess and we work from there. For now, her loving me is enough, even if its just friends. This love and adoration from her is enough.”

It’s Not Fucking Enough. Not anymore. That was then when he had you all to himself, No new boss keeping you at work always hugging you, No Bunny, no Cat. No it was war now, and Tae has just about reached his limit.

[boxoftheskyking]

Something Good, Part Eight

In which the children learn some things

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

---

Wei Wuxian lights three lamps and spreads his discarded curtains on the wooden walkway outside the servants quarters. The cultivators at Cloud Recesses retire at nine, leaving a good three hours for servants to work in the main areas, cleaning and mending and tidying with no bothersome children or late meetings to interrupt them. It’s actually a little fun—the laundry yard is far enough from the sleeping quarters so they can be a bit loud, singing and laughing while they work. The servants try to sleep by midnight if they can in order to grab three or four hours to rest before fires need to be lit and breakfast started.

The Lan Clan rules have quite a lot to say about setting aside the proper number of hours to sleep. These rules don’t seem to apply to the servants. Wei Wuxian wonders sometimes who knows what actually goes into running a place like Cloud Recesses. Does Lan Xichen? Lan Qiren? Has Lan Wangji ever stayed up late and seen the flurry of work in his beloved library? But they are all such diligent students, they’d never stay up so late. Cultivators. So studious in topics of importance, so clueless about everything else.

Sometimes—though he tries to avoid it—he thinks about the servants back at Lotus Pier. Yunmeng has no such rules about sleeping and waking hours, and Wei Wuxian remembers many late nights entertaining guests, holding silly sword tournaments in the training yards after a few jugs of wine, even Jiang Fengmian holding discussions with other sect leaders that ran long into the morning. When had their servants cleaned, swept, repaired the things broken by careless bursts of spiritual energy? He’d always thought Madam Yu’s servants to be so cruel, extensions of her fury and rigidity. But maybe they were just tired.

In any event, he hasn’t slept a full night since he lost his golden core, so he doesn’t mind much. 

After a lot of thought, he’s decided that the children’s play clothes won’t be robes but rather a version of a laborer’s shirt and trousers. He’s only got one full set of clothes himself, but he’s picked apart the seams and laid out the pieces as a pattern. If he can figure out how to make children’s versions, then he’ll be able to stitch his own back together. If not, well, Madam Xiao likes him now. He can come up with some story to justify running up to her in just his sleeping robe. He’s kneeling in it now, bony knees sticking out at odd angles and night breeze raising gooseflesh on all his exposed skin.

He doesn’t think of warm hands on his neck as he bends to his work. He traces around each piece with charcoal before cutting them out. By the time the sky turns purply-grey with sunrise, he has a neat little stack of various sized patterns, each set rolled into a dusty blue cylinder. 

It takes another week and a half of spare hours during lessons and after dark to make a full set of clothes and another week to improvise adjustments to hems and inseams. He finds himself saved by the addition of drawstring belts, and while they hardly look tidy, he ends up with an army of midnight colored miscreants that he’s quite proud of. 

The little ones are the most delighted—only a few months or years out of shirts and trousers themselves. The older children are uncomfortable initially, so used to the many layers of robes and sashes that they’ve been wearing. Wei Wuxian asked Wen Ning whether he wanted a set of play clothes, as he’s practically an adult himself. Wen Ning’s deep bow and “It would be an honor to wear clothes made by Wei-qianbei” made Wei Wuxian blush and threaten to dump him over the waterfall.

He’s a bit disappointed that Lan Wangji leaves for an important council before he’s finished—he’d rather have liked to show off his new skills. But politics are politics, and the rumor among the servants is that he’s visiting with the family of his betrothed.

“But who is it?” Wei Wuxian whines at Madam Xiao as he helps her fold a set of bedsheets. “Surely if anyone knows it’s you.”

Madam clicks her tongue and takes a swipe at his head. “I don’t bother myself with the noble family trees. At my age you’ve seen so many cultivators come and go, so many weddings and funerals, it hardly pays to keep track of it all. Sure, won’t she need to eat and sleep and relieve herself just like the rest of them? We’ll all get to know her better than Young Master Lan himself does before too long.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, though there’s something inside him that flinches, like picking off a scab when you haven’t finished healing beneath.

With Lan Wangji gone, the juniors have fewer classes. Lan Xichen teaches a few here and there, which is surprisingly enjoyable to watch. Wei Wuxian can tell he doesn’t spend much time with children so young, and he finds his delighted smile and swallowed laughter somehow gratifying. It’s not right, and it’s dangerous to start thinking yes, these are my children. Aren’t they clever, aren’t they funny? My children. But his command over his own mind has always been tenuous at best.

The result of all this means that Wei Wuxian has many extra hours with the kids in their new play clothes. He’s taken a few day trips down to Caiyi town, not bothered by the impropriety of junior disciples running about in trousers. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing shameful about being dressed like a farmer or a laborer. One day he found himself exhausted from hustling them all down the mountain, so he asked a few of his new friends in the Caiyi market if they’d mind taking on a few apprentices. The day turned into a highlight for the children—some learned to make delicately spiced pork dumplings, some wrapped sticky pastries for customers, some sanded down slats of wood for chair building, and some tried their hand at painting cleverly stitched kites. Su Meiling has declared she is going to be a carpenter when she grows up, and Wei Wuxian finds himself hoping that she will. 

He wonders if his new life would have been less jarring if he’d been allowed to learn more as a kid—to truly befriend the townsfolk of Yunmeng instead of drifting in and out as the benevolent gentry. On darker days he almost wishes Jiang Fengmian had never found him and that he’d grown up as he deserved on the streets of Yunping City. It hurts to imagine never knowing Jiang Yanli or Jiang Cheng, but if he’d never had that artificial sense of nobility, his fall from grace would have truly meant nothing. 

The walk from Cloud Recesses to town and back is unsupervised by anyone but him, so he takes the risk and teaches his charges little songs as they march. He makes up funny tunes about rabbits and sets his favorite Lan Sect rules to music. When the clothes are done he stays up at night figuring out rhymes for “silence” and “forbidden” and “floppy-ears.”

“Little, little rabbit, oh! Up the mountain you must go Grass is sweeter up the hill Salty seaweed makes you ill! Rabbits, rabbits, time to run Up the mountain one by one Quick, before the sunlight ends Run and run to meet your friends!”

After Lan Wangji has been away for a full week, Wei Wuxian gets a bit bolder. He’s had a number of days now running the children around the back hill, teaching songs and some basic hand-to-hand combat.

“But Wei-qianbei,” Ouyang Zizhen had said. “Once we are fully grown cultivators we will have swords. Why would we need to know how to fight without them?”

“Ah, Zizhen, but what if some clever demon takes your sword from you? What if you are cursed and your spiritual power is locked away? Don’t you want to be prepared, so you are not caught off guard? And after all, your Wei-qianbei has neither a sword nor spiritual power. Don’t you want to know how I can protect you if something dangerous comes?”

Zizhen had hung his head and nodded, embarrassed, but after a hug and a one-on-one lesson in punching his good nature had returned.

Today, Wei Wuxian decides to push more boundaries. He’s created a stack of talisman paper woven through with spells. First, a spell that imbues the whole paper with the same qualities so it can be cut into smaller pieces without disrupting its power. Second, he’s added what he calls a safety lock, which prevents the paper from being used for anything overly powerful or damaging. The last character he’s added makes all of the power of this stack of talisman paper subservient to one specific piece—a piece he keeps in preparation for any coming problems.

The activity of the day is to make papermen. He passes out the paper and lets each of them cut a little stack of figures in whatever shape they like. Some are standard—one round head, two stubby arms and two legs—while some have long hair or funny pointed feet. Lan Jingyi’s have rabbit ears.

“All right, juniors. Now take your brush and ink. You are going to take one paperman and give him an action. This might be to walk or to run or to do a somersault or anything else. Do not command him to hurt anyone—I don’t need to tell you that! Make your command simple and write it in the middle of your paper.”

He goes around to help the younger ones with their characters. Lan Sizhui has chosen “Dance,” while Lan Jingyi has chosen “Climb.” 

“All right! Now you have your commands ready. Focus your energy and take some full, deep breaths. What you are going to do is think very hard and clearly about your paperman. Imagine that he is you. Imagine what it feels like to be as small as he is, as thin. Imagine that you are your paperman, and imagine standing up.”

At first, nothing happens. Then Wen Ning’s paperman stands up from the ground. Everyone around him gasps and cheers, and as he blushes and hides his face, his paperman falls back to the dirt.

“Very good, Wen Ning! But you all must focus on your own papermen. Come now, quietly, focus.”

One by one, a few little cutouts rise to stand. When about seven of the eleven look at least partially alert, Wei Wuxian instructs them to focus on their commands.

“This is your first time making papermen, so it may help to perform the action along with them. Try to imagine yourself as a little piece of paper, running or climbing or stretching as you’ve instructed.”

At first, only two are moving. Wen Ning’s paperman bends into one perfect kowtow after another. Surprisingly, little Sizhui is the next most successful, his little man rising to spin and dance around the clearing. Over the next fifteen minutes more stand and begin to move. Those who are unsuccessful are frustrated, but Wei Wuxian gives them each a squeeze on the shoulder and lets them play with the others who are running and jumping and dancing along with their paper avatars.

“Yes, well done! Look at them go!” he cheers, swinging Jingyi around as his little man climbs the nearest tree. It falls back to the ground after about a minute, but nothing can discourage Jingyi’s grin.

“It feels so odd, Wei-qianbei!” Yao Hualing cries as her paperman does a series of stretches. “I feel like I’m in two different places at the same time!”

“Yes, that means you are successful, A-Ling!” he cries and drops a kiss on the top of her hair.

He has an armful of two ten-year-olds when the rest of the children suddenly fall silent and stand at attention, papermen falling to the ground. He spins back around, dropping Zizhen and Lan Ting to the grass. He looks at the ground, following Jingyi’s paperman as it finds and begins to climb a set of luxurious red robes. He sees familiar set of boots leading to white and sky blue robes, though he hesitates to look Lan Wangji in the face. 

When he finally does, he’s almost gratified to see red in his cheeks and down his neck, his fists clenched at his side. And next to him, elegant face turned to the children, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise—

“Jiejie!” Wen Ning cries. 

Wei Wuxian feels all the breath leave him as he sways on the spot. He reaches out for Lan Ting’s shoulder to steady himself, his other hand flying to his abdomen, down low where the scar tissues sits, twisted and ugly and still sore.

Wen Qing looks over the crowd of messy children dressed as servants and then, finally, meets his eyes.

Part Nine

[mamacleo]

Personal from Mom: the Good Bad Day

CW/TW: Physical distress leading to medium-duty progress, change, adaptation, and growth. Also spiritual stuff. CW: Really damned long. Sorry. I know, it's a chore, but if you follow me and Callie, you know how deeply layered a lot of this stuff is. Nothing extraneous is in there, though, I promise. You know I love labels. Like my winter distress, once called the Winter Monsters, now referred to (for accuracy) as the winter terrors. People who've known me since way back when have seen me struggle with labeling myself. They would tell me not to, and I couldn't really phrase it at the time, but what I needed to say was: no, please, don't ask me to redefine myself according to your perceptions of validity. Please accept that I am like this and help me work through it. So I want a label for the kind of day I am having today. I've been getting them more and more often without my having to try. For lack of anything catchier, I am labeling it a Good Bad Day. The word order is important! It means that there is also such a thing as a Bad Good Day, but they aren't the same. This isn't a gripe day, but this girl is just reporting. I think it's one of my bad pain days, one of those where all the weed in the world won't help. Maybe not that bad, but you may have read my description of the pain at its worst: it literally feels like each and every nerve-laden cell in your body is trapped in a vise and being crushed. Chronic pain sufferers know this day. It's that day where you cannot imagine making yourself move, yet you have to get to the bathroom SOMEhow, and ain't nobody gonna fix your coffee for you. So you do. You wake up in negative spoon territory and somehow you do it, even if "it" comprises only going to the bathroom. Now, I do have an emotional alarm clock, two actually, and their names are Adorable and Rosie. As I told my beautiful bride today, Adorabe gets this look when she realizes when, like today, only one hand is busy, and look old lady, I don't CARE if you're laying on it, I KNOW you got two hands. Let's see the other. Every morning she runs in to wake me up and get attention, and even if it irritates me some mornings, she always wins me over. Rosie comes in next for her morning affection, and...that's the start of a Good Bad Day. I'll sum up because Constant Reader knows the details. There's the pain, and the pain brings weariness. Today's promised partly-sunny day in the 60s is now just the latest in a long couple of weeks of chilly cloudfests. I'm starting to get really tired of them. We're broke for a few days and we need a couple of things. (Luckily not immediate necessities, but.) Things need picked up a bit, but there's no energy for it. I wanted to grill today, but can't see it happening. . And yet, my mood is good. Not just agreeable, but positive. The progesterone, which my love calls my "chill pills," have become the last piece in a 60-year puzzle. Callie and I remembering us joking around last night, some silly humor and some bawdy humor. Me promising that if I feel up to it (I will), I will redesign some pages for her. Realizing that, you know, it's weird, but I actually LIKE bird and squirrel videos for cats. Having a couple funny observations and sharing them. Getting to pet the outside cat, Buddy, when I brought him his breakfast. Adorable is right next to me, napping. My writing skills are in great form today, and I said a couple of things that I felt were more well-written, more helpful than before. Having people reach out just to share this or that with me privately. Feeling content because yesterday, I redefined my purpose in life, and the situation in which we live, in a way that is both rewarding and helpful to my beloved bride. Because that redefinition might not have happened without the exact right intervention at the exact right moment by my pearl, my girl, myErie (Because this is important at the end, I'm gonna sum up what happened that was so bad, Erie had to call. An issue I thought was settled turned out not to be, and that was moving to Cleveland, my girl's home town that she

misses so much. There were levels of significance to it that I just plain couldn't see because of my privilege, but the Chauvin trial brought them all to the front for her. My episodes can be weird. In this case, everything was emotional, and there were some severe conflicts involving resisting some selfish motives while trying my best to look out for her. The emotional issues involved for me triggered my BPD, of course, and the bottom dropped out and I had a really, monstrously bad episode. I isolated badly and was so overwrought, Callie thought I was going to leave. Erie intervened, made perfect sense as always, and sat with us on the phone while we worked through it. Like that, everything is right again. I say again: I will walk in front of her in case of bullets.) , responded to my plea to adopt me (to get his food!) and he asked me if I wanted to be his daughter fo real. And I said yes. So really, my breath left me and I was alive with fear and hope at the same time, and I said: "Thanks, mom." She was more than okay with it. And...Mom has a mom. Mom didn't know how much she needed a mom until one day, this powerful soul, this woman namedLinda , said the exact right thing at the exact right time...and out of nowhere, the urge, the *need,* to say this knocked at the door and took my breath away. I don't exaggerate. The last time I felt this was when my Pop,Greg And yes. She really is a mom. She really is my mom. Just thinking about it takes my breath away again. I waited my entire life, wanting a mom who never existed. And then... See, she said a thing to me that struck me hard for two reasons, and it was not long after I transitioned. It was a picture of modeling a bodice dress and looking happy, and she said, "You have a powerful strength that I'm not sure you even see yourself." It struck me hard because she is not the first to have said this, and she and the first person to say it, when I was 19, are not the only ones who have said it. I capped that and kept it so I would never lose it, and in the hopes that one day I could show it to her and say, hey, I see it now. I'm living it now. It gets amazing sometimes. The other reason it struck me so hard was that, and if she wants to talk about this I would love her to, when I reads those words, I felt something. The other day I talked about the gestalt and the lack of physical distance, and how items and artifacts can be conduits for spirit. The internet is the same way. Someone's words on the screen can be a conduit for your spirits to connect, and I felt it at the time and knew it was a different one than the other spiritual connections. The thing she said, others have said to me, but the thrill that took my breath away was that I could feel her faith. The boss who said that to me when I was 19, he had an expression that was, now that I reflect on it, quite possibly the trigger, THE moment, that things turned around. Because he was the first person to express faith in me. I mean, really, upon examination, I remember people encouraging me, but he was the first one to express faith in me. Damn, I wish I could find him and rock his world. That was what Linda said, too. Across the miles, I felt her faith. Yes, mom, I am going to say it right out loud in case I'm not being clear: you made a difference in my life. I called you mom, and that was where it started. You made my hope grow. (ASIDE: Ahh, it is NOT one of those pain days after all. Hallelujah for herbal medicine.) (Edibles hate it when you talk shit about them and get you back.) So it is a Good Bad Day. Things would probably, ordinarily, make me grumpy today, but I feel content. For today, at least, things are consonant. Nothing is bothering me. I have redefined what I saw as a coming traumatic struggle into the opportunity to guide both of us into a new and more exciting life. We are surrounded by love. The day is gray, but there are sunny days coming. We want for nothing. We're having a handfasting in two months and family will be here. In September, I'll be able, finally, to legally change my name,

and we'll change hers legally at the same time. On top of all of this, I am confident now that the 40 years in the desert is over. There is a sea change happening. You can see it in the resistance against the worst of it by the majority of Americans. The awfulness reached its worst and shocked every decent American, and the people who drove it have lost their credibility outside anyone in their sewing circle. Their influence is now waning. There are good years coming, and much to look forward to. I feel happy, and that's the weirdness that set this all off. Everything is in balance. Of course there will be bad days again. I'm still mentally ill and while it's under as much control as it can be under, it's not under total control. But I'm okay with that. I know they'll happen, but they make the sweet times sweeter. My beautiful, wonderful Lilith, you will be rewarded for all the good you do. I love you. I love our life. I love being who you need. I will do more to be who you want. Mazel tov!

[docholligay]

DO WE WANT 2,200 WORDS ON REI’S PERSONAL GROWTH IN EPISODE 23 GOD I HOPE SO

So one of the things that comes up over the course of these four episodes is Rei and her personal growth as manifested through her Senshi power. This also comes up in earlier episodes, so I’ll be drawing from them a little bit, too. (Also Minako being a manipulative troll) 

Rei is a pretty standoffish and grumpy member of the Senshi, and I really love that PGSM gives her the space to be that. She’s been working on a lot of this youma stuff alone, because that’s how Rei is used to doing things: Alone. She’s spent most of her life alone, and life has taught her that to rely on anyone is a mistake. It takes time to unlearn that, and I really appreciate that PGSM allows her the time for that. 

Usagi powered up in the last episode by learning the shocking truth that she can be really fucking selfish and self-centered, and I love that it works as an aspect of her power but not Ami’s evil, because apologizing is one thing, but that doens’t make everything right, right away. Why should it? And so we have the genius of “Fuck your friendship mittens” even though USagi’s power-up magically heals the mittens as well just to remind us all that we are in a Sailor Moon joint ANYWAY, this is about Rei, and how Rei needs to grow. 

Rei’s problems aren’t are the same as Usagi’s and it’s a mark of the quality of PGSM that it allows each of the girls to go through their own growth in order to power-up. It’s not just a leveling up, it's a better understanding of how to be a team member, the ways in which each of them can greater contribute to the whole. It’s an important part of teamwork that I think gets glossed over oftentimes, that to really be in harmony with each other we have to change the ways we’ve done things. If you do this portrayed in media, it’s generally only in a romantic setting. The idea of a group of magical girls having to grow and change to fit each other isn’t that common. 

Admittedly the title of this episode is a little fucking crackers, even more so when you consider that it is in fact literally what happens here: Rei sings to get her power-up. That’s nuts. That’s wild. Why am I holding this up as a paragon of character development?  Because, as with all crackers things that actually work, it’s not about Rei singing at all. It’s about her learning important object lessons that the leader of the senshi has to convey through on the ground knowledge, because Rei won’t fucking listen to a thing she says. 

(It’s actually hilarious how little the senshi listen to her given that they think she’s the actual fucking princess. Rei wouldn’t go after the youma, Usagi wouldn’t fight Ami, like I need PGSM background that’s just Mina swearing about how SHE IS LITERALLY THEIR SUPERIOR WHY DID I EVEN BOTHER WITH THE TOY R US CROWN IF THIS IS WHAT I’M GETTING) 

And admittedly, this first lesson I’m about to point out is the less important one, but it is the more hilarious one: Mina told Rei to leave her the fuck alone and she won’t. The fun way of thinking about this is that Mina knows Rei has feelings for her even if Rei doesn’t quite know that yet because our darling and beloved Rei hino is a little bit of a repressed sunflower. Mina knew that Rei would, in no way, listen to Mina or keep her promise to leave Mina alone and stop following her. Mina knows a dumb lesbian when she sees one, and she can see the writing on the wall, but if at least for this moment, she can teach her: Fucking listen to me. 

Now the less fun way (for most of us, but not for my evil ass) is to remember that MINA IS GOING TO DIE. She knows this. No one else knows this. Mina has a vested interest in getting everyone’s shit together before she fucking dies, and has no interest in anyone’s pity. For all she knew Rei was never going to listen to her, no way no how, there has to be a small part of her that hoped Rei would. Because Rei getting closer to her is a mistake, no matter how much Rei wants it. Mina is distant for a reason. There’s no benefit in letting anyone get close to her when she knows that her Narratively Convenient Illness is going to claim her sooner rather than later, and I admit that I LOVE THIS SHIT. People covering up their illnesses to try to spare those around them is a trope I fucking feast upon like a fat Roman emperor with a grape. However annoyed I get with the conclusion to this whole fiasco, AND I DO, I love that I got a little bit of this delicious angst. 

That isn’t to say that MIna really spends a lot of time beating around the motherfucking bush

The absolute shade that she has going on here, the way she says “that sure surprised me” and Rei of course takes it personally from Mina in a way that I’m not sure I think she would from anyone else, because she respects Mina in a way she doesn’t anyone els eon beyond her being “the princess” A lot of people wonder where I get this idea about Mina being the leader and specifically Rei being the second in command, and it’s pretty much here in PGSM that all of that arises from, although given my general feelings on Rei I admit it may have come of its own accord eventually. 

Rei takes that role as leader so seriously, and she feels in her heart that’s why she’s a fuckup, because fucking USAGI powered up before her, before any of them, and how is she meant to be leader, when she’s failing so hard? Her immediate lead in for Rei is that Mina will think her shameful, that she should say Rei is shameful, and you know what? Mina fucking does it, ebcause she does not have time for this shit and she is not here pat heads and make everyone feel better. She’s working on a tight timeline, and I LOVE that she doesn’t hesitate before saying “Yes, I was going to say that you’re shameful, actually.” And then she points tot he fact that awakening is a problem of the heart (which is what we’re going to get into with what she needs to learn) and without telling her what she’s lacking as leader, simply tells her that, she is lacking. 

Mina’s not going to leave her to twist in the wind here, even if it feels like it--her grand plan for Rei Hino with all of this is coming down the hallway just shortly--but I like that she doesn’t spoonfeed the answer of “You can’t do all this shit alone (she said, doing everything alone, Mina you hypocrite) and you have to learn to ask for help. That’s how you become leader” because Rei wouldn’t learn anything from that. Rei reacts to asking for help like a cat to a fucking spray bottle. She wants nothing to do with it, and while, yes, this is a bit of goofy way to cast the idea she can trust her team and ask them for help, I think it still manages to be effective. 

AND THERE IT IS, HER MASTER PLAN. This is particularly hilarious given the fact that we know Rei fucking hates karaoke, and so maybe that particular aspect of it isn’t exactly for Rei’s edification so much as MIna’s amusement, but there we are. 

AHAHHAHAAH oh Mina how I fucking adore you. 

Anyway, Rei goes to go sulk in the batcave over Mina’s challenge, is beleagured and thrown to the ground in a definitely unnecessary and highly dramatic sense, and then, the worst thing that could ever happen, happens. SHE IS FORCED TO ASK FOR HELP. 

I want to give full credit to the actress who plays Rei here, because she makes the absolute awkwardness of this, the way this is like pulling teeth for Rei, so clear. This is the Fareeha Amari experience of asking for help. Usagi is the only person she knows that can help her with this, because I feel like mad karaoke skills don’t necessarily get a lot of play over at the shrine, and you can tell this is just killing her. She never expected to have to ask this kind of help from anyone, let alone Usagi, who is immediately thrilled and runs to her aid. (It must also be noted that Rei stays in this exact dramatic position on the floor until Usagi gets there, Rei, my god, please, you lesbian bowl of porridge, Mina is not wrong and you desperately need to pull it together) 

Even when Usagi gets there, her body language is so stilted and uncomfortable, this is so foreign and almost frightening to her, which was pretty much exactly Mina’s point: It’s easy for Rei to fight, easy for her to curse, but it isn’t easy for her to put herself in a place of vulnerability, in a place where someone can say no or otherwise reject her, leave her out on her own, which we all know Usaig as no intention of doing, which was also, I think, why Mina chose this exact mode of torment. She’s setting Rei up for success. 

Rei expects so much of herself at all times, and is so used to being alone in the world, and its really very striking the way she reacts to this entire thing. Rei, you’re singing for children not letting someone die on the battlefield. 

But of course we get around to the day, and Usagi gives her what I think Mina always knew she would, the reassurance that not only would Usaig help her, but that Usagi genuinely wanted to and enjoyed helping her, and also that it brought them together as a team. Usagi knows, really for the first time with Rei, that she’s trusted, that they are doing this together, and it reaches Rei, too, in such a way that we actually see her tear up: 

I’ve thought about this a lot over the times I’ve seen this episode, but I think what I finally land on for Rei and her tears is that sense that she’s been holding back so much aand being so strong for so much of her life, and maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t actually have to be literally all of the time. Maybe she’s allowed to get help, and to face things with people who care about her, and this is something she’s been able to do on the battlefield, but really not translate into her real life, and here Usagi and Mina have really woked ina  tandem that Usagi didn’t even know was happening to show Rei that her life is not just her own, and that she matters and that when you have a real team, help is expected. 

And then rei sings a deeply overserious song for a group of seven year olds but I will get into that in detail next post. 

ANd then that trust is immediately reciprocated by Usagi, who goes to fight the youma on her own and simply mouths to Rei that she will go on ahead and Rei can come afterwards. It isn’t as if Rei has ever particularly been unrelaiable in a fight, but I think given the exchange they just had, there’s definitely a sense of it having greater weight here, where Usagi would be delighted and surprised when Sailor Mars shows up. She knows she can trust her, and Rei knows that she is trusted, and that they are part of a far greater web than she ever assumed was possible in her life. 

And with that, in the battle: 

The deal with PGSM is that there are largely your finest cheapest MS paint special effects, and none of us really care because the senshi are people. BUt even with the finest cheapest effects the emotional impact of this moment really hits. It’s done in slow motion, and you can really see on her face the realization that her power has grown within her, that she has known grown as a person and as a soldier, and there’s this look of competence and of self-assurance that runs through her every movement. It’s just something that was shot and done in a really compelling way, and given that this whole episode has really been devoted to Rei’s growth (with a mamoru B-plot, to extra assure we don’t care about anything else) I’m glad they gave it the emotional gravitas it deserved. 

MIna, as ever, gives her effusive praise, immmediately after saying “But there’s a lot more you have to do.” this inclusion is only for me to profess my love for her and that’s all I’m sorry. And also for Rei to finally get what I’ve taken over 2,000 words to say. 

And then the most perfect ending to an episode ever, Rei re-asserting that she is still the same grumpy gus, and just because she trusts Usagi doesn’t mean she’s going to put up with the horseshit Usagi loves. THERE IS TRUST BUT NEVER KARAOKE >:( 

[crystaljins]

By its cover | 06

Characters: Hoseok x Reader

Word count: 5.8 k

Synopsis: Your annoying little brother Jimin accepts a dare and summons a demon into your living room. There are multiple problems with this. 1) Demons are the most hated species on earth. 2) That demon happens to be Jung Hoseok, the most popular guy on campus 3) The fact that Jung Hoseok is a demon is his biggest secret and 4) Jung Hoseok hates your guts. You’re in for a wild ride. Demon!Hoseok, magic-university!au and enemies-to-lovers!au

Notes: This is another of those parts that I was really looking forward to writing. Actually a lot of revamping happened to the fic during the writing of this part- parts got smushed together or deleted or rewritten. The pacing is probably quite fast in this part as a result- I think it’s like three different parts combined into one. I still like it. I didn’t want this fic to be too long, yaknow? 

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Part 6: Realisations

You awaken the next morning to find a rather distressing email from your least favourite lecturer had been sent out the afternoon before. It is a reminder for an upcoming practical exam, in a measly 2 days time. It’s a barrier exam- those who do not pass will not proceed with the course. You feel anxiety claw your heart the more you read- one-on-one assessment of a set of magic skills that almost seemed designed to make life difficult for you as a witch. You know your lecturer has been gunning for you to be kicked out since you first registered and he realised he would be teaching a witch for an entire semester. You know without a doubt he’s going to use this exam to his advantage and that knowledge and reminder of your impending doom essentially ruins your morning. You had been looking forward to a lazy morning with Hoseok and Jimin. It is a Saturday and since you had been oddly tired as of late, you had been hoping for a sleep-in and then a lazy day lounging around the house. You think that maybe the stress of the past week and attempting to conceal all the bullying from Hoseok is the cause of your constant exhaustion and you’d been hoping the weekend would be a good chance to recharge. You know Hoseok wants to go to some party in the evening and Jimin has an all-day dancing workshop so you had intended to make the most of your day in. No doubt you would feel the drain from being at the party like you have every other time you’ve left your house and so the morning off was to be your sanctuary, your time for some rest and recovery. But now, anxiety twists your gut and claws at your heart. Your day has been ruined and there is no fixing it.

You are distracted as you prepare breakfast for your house’s occupants. Hoseok approaches with a yawn and begins slicing fruit. Since Jimin will not wake up until you go and knock on your door, it is just the two of you. It feels oddly domestic, standing beside him in the kitchen. He hums a soft melody and bumps his hips playfully against yours as the two of you move about the kitchen. It warms your heart but nothing can soothe the angry bees swarming in your stomach. You blame your distraction for the way you scream as loudly as you do when something brushes your ankle.

Gazing down with your hand clasped to your chest, you are expecting a bug but instead it’s some sort of thick... cord. Barbed at the end. You follow its course to see it’s attached to Hoseok. It’s a tail- he has a tail and currently it’s wrapped around your ankle. At your surprise, Hoseok grins and his teeth are suddenly more pointy. You hadn’t really looked properly at him before now and so the little stubby horns poke just past his messy mop of hair on either side of his head had escaped your notice.

“Hoseok, what...” you begin, and his grin widens.

“Normally I drink a potion every morning to conceal these.” He waves his tail at you to punctuate his point. “But since it’s just us today, I didn’t drink the potion. It has all sorts of nasty side effects- I get phantom pains and nausea and honestly I get the worst headache at the end of the day. So today’s my day off from all that!” He declares joyfully. But then his expression darkens just a fraction. “Unless... my appearance bothers you?”

You have regained your breath by the time he finishes explaining but to your dismay he interprets the way you have gone pale as disgust at his natural features.

“Should… should I have taken the potion?” He asks, hesitantly. “I thought maybe you seemed off this morning, but I didn’t think-“

“They’re cute.” You blurt quickly. Hoseok flushes and so do you. That was so not what you intended to say. Still, you’ve already blurted it out, so you might as well follow it through. “Your horns. They’re cute. Kind of like how a pixie’s ears are cute.”

Hoseok stares at you disbelievingly and to your surprise his face nearly turns purple. He quickly looks away with a flush and you see that he’s trying to conceal a smile. It makes you smile- you didn’t think it was possible to fluster Hoseok and yet who you are. Hoseok seems to remember that you’d been a little off in the lull in conversation though.

“So then what’s bothering you?” He asks, looking up at you. He’s genuinely confused, and it is your turn to hide your face. You turn your attention to where you were beating the eggs into an omelette for Jimin.

“I just have a prac exam coming up that I’m a little stressed for.” You say, hoping your tone sounds dismissive and uncaring rather than awash with the nerves you feel. Hoseok’s expression softens, and he leans forward. He takes the bowl you had been aggressively whipping at from your hands and sets it on the counter away from you. He then steps and slides his hands onto your shoulders. He’s hugging you but in awkward stages as if he’s testing for a reaction- first he tugs you towards him and when you do not resists he slides his arms so that they are wrapped securely against you and then finally he tilts his head so that his chin rests comfortably atop the crown of your head.

“It’s that lecturer, isn’t it?” He asks, and you feel the vibration of his question against you. You aren’t sure why but the warmth and security of his embrace drains all the tension from you. You find yourself falling limply into his hug. You let your face rest against the centre of his chest and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath you. You had thought your entire day was ruined with the knowledge of the impending exam before you but somehow Hoseok’s warmth chases that all away into the deep recesses of your mind. All you can focus on is the soft, clean scent of your laundry detergent and the underlying scent of his skin beneath that. He smells sharp but sweet and you inhale deeply, feeling like the scent reaches to the base of your ribs.

“Yeah.” You admit in an exhale. You shift slightly, pulling away and as you do your eyes meet his.

You aren’t sure what it is, but something passes between the two of you, like a charged electric current. You had been absolutely exhausted as of late but suddenly every part of you feels awake. You blink up at Hoseok and feel your breath catch in your throat. You aren’t sure what triggers the feeling but just his proximity and his warmth and the look in his eyes is overwhelming. Something magnetises your gaze towards his mouth. His lips are slightly parted- you can feel each breath that escapes through them and your heart starts to beat a little faster. Hoseok seems to feel it too and is perhaps uncomfortable with it because he abruptly pulls away and clears his throat awkwardly. You both turn your attention to making breakfast once more in an attempt to cover up the sudden tension that hovers in the air between you.

“You’re gonna nail it.” Hoseok finally says, breaking the silence. His voice drifts over to you over the sizzle of the omelettes on the pan and you glance over your shoulder to find him watching you. He’s abandoned cutting the oranges and just leans against the counter casually with a half-smile on his face. “You’re gonna be the best healer there ever was, I can feel it in my bones.”

++

Hoseok’s encouragement leaves you feelings renewed enough that after breakfast you retire to your room to practice the complex spells rather than watch Jimin and Hoseok bicker over whatever FPS game Jimin is obsessed with as of late. You are hoping to get at least an hour of practice in before you have to take Jimin to his dance workshop.

Hoseok’s encouragement was perhaps misplaced, however. To your immense frustration, your magic store seems to have depleted immensely. You don’t know what’s caused it, and you don’t notice it at first. As a witch, it takes a lot of magic usage to tire you out- it is part of why your lecturer is so jealous and spiteful towards you. But two healing spells in and you find you are panting with exertion- sweat beads at your temple and drips down your neck. It’s worrying. Perhaps because you’ve been so tired lately, your magic store has depleted too? Or perhaps you are ill- apparently there are viruses that attack a creature’s magic store and deplete it like a parasite. But those illness are rare and only a misuse of magic can result in coming into contact with such pathogens. A simple flu or cold could explain it but something tells you it’s more than that.

Still, you barrel ahead, continuing to stubbornly practice, ignoring the way each spell slowly becomes agony like you are trying to lick honey from the bottom of a jar and your tongue is not long enough to reach. At some point, you sit down on your bed, promising yourself a minor reprieve before trying once more. You must fall asleep because the next thing you know, you snap awake in your car.

Beside you, Hoseok is driving. Disorientated, you sit up abruptly, and Hoseok starts, nearly veering off the road in surprise.

“You scared me!” He cries. The car jerks forward in a sudden stop. You look around.

“I scared you?” You ask, near hysterical. He frowns and nods. It then occurs to him why you are so distressed.

“You were sleeping.” He says suddenly. “But Jimin had to get to that dance workshop and I didn’t want to wake you because you’ve seemed so tired lately so I just thought that I’d…”

He trails away and you understand where you are- you’re outside Jimin’s dance studio and Hoseok had just been about to pull away from the kerb. Touched, but still a little disorientated and afraid, you realise Hoseok must have just carried you into the car rather than wake you. It is concerning that you had fallen into a deep enough sleep that such a journey didn’t wake you after a few measly spells that on a normal day would be as strenuous as a light nap for you.

“I have been a little tired, lately.” You admit, and the statement is punctuated with a yawn. Hoseok glances at you, fidgeting with the brim of the hat he uses to conceal his horns from any nosy person who might choose to peer into your car.

“Maybe you’re getting sick? You’ve had a really rough week, though, so it’s no wonder.” He suggests sadly. “Let’s give that party a miss, if you’re feeling tired, hey? We can spend the night in and watch a movie or something.”

You nod your agreement, but the entire car ride home you are distracted. You have been more tired than usual, and while previously you wrote it off as stress from bullying, it has been going on for a lot longer than that. Probably since…. Probably since the soul-binding happened. The realisation dawns on you slowly, and with horror you count back the dates mentally and you realise that it matches up. You’ve been tired since summoning Hoseok. You just hadn’t noticed because you’d been so busy with class and you’d been dealing with Hoseok and assumed you were emotionally exhausted. But then when things had gotten better with Hoseok you had written off your exhaustion as spending more time out of the house then usual. You hadn’t really had an excuse to use your magic much since most of your prac classes this semester did not involve strenuous spells… Why is a soul-binding leaving you so tired all the time?

“A penny for your thoughts?” Hoseok asks as he pulls off the highway into your neighbourhood. His tail waves back and forth thoughtfully. You panic, for a moment- Hoseok would be devastated if he thought the soul-binding was affecting you negatively. You resolve to contact your father secretly about your concerns when Hoseok isn’t thereto overhear.

“Just worried about that exam.” You lie quickly. Hoseok frowns.

“I see. Maybe I could help, somehow?” He suggests, his eyebrows wrinkling together as he contemplates how he could aid you. You find yourself smiling despite the distress of your realisation.

“You can help me by being you.” You say genuinely. Hoseok laughs in surprise.

“Do explain.” He urges. You shrug and lean contemplatively back into your seat.

“Just that I’ll probably feel much better after a night in with you.” You tell him dismissively. Since the moment that Hoseok decided not to hate you any longer, you’ve been constantly open about how much you enjoy his company, and normally he smiles and indulges you, but to your surprise he just gives you a long, unreadable stare as he pulls into your driveway.

“Hey…” He says suddenly, as you both get out of the car and walk towards your front door. You look at him a little sleepily, and he glances away. “About this morning…”

You look at him, confused, and he looks away.

“It’s nothing.” He finally says with a sigh. “What movie do you want to watch?”

You let Hoseok pick the movie in the end- you are too tired to sort through the many options you have. He picks some sappy romcom, probably because he thinks you’ll like it rather than any desire to watch it yourself. And on a normal day, you would but you find yourself so exhausted that you begin to nod off not even halfway through the movie. By the time the credits roll, you are out cold.

You rouse slowly, the sound of a love ballad playing softly in the background. You flush as you realise the position you are in- you have a crick in your neck and your back aches from being hunched over and it is because you are so securely wrapped around him. He must have found the movie boring too, because he too is asleep. His head lolls against yours and you feel each puff of breath from his light snores stirring the loose hairs of your forehead. One of his arms is thrown around your shoulders, so that you are tucked comfortably into his body. His tail is wrapped snugly around your waist and from this angle you can’t see the tiny little horns he has.

For a second, you are so warm and comfortable and sleepy that you consider tucking your head into his chest and allowing yourself to doze off once more. But then your common sense kicks in, and you know that Jimin could come home at any moment. It would not look good if his older sister were cuddling a demon who only recently broke up with his longterm girlfriend on the couch. So reluctantly, you begin the reluctant process of untangling yourself from Hoseok. It is difficult, as tired as you are, to move without waking Hoseok. Luckily, while he is curled tightly around you to the point you think he must have been using you as a personal teddy bear, he is also a deep sleeper, and you manage to free yourself with only the slightest disturbance to him. Once you are free, he murmurs softly and rolls so that he is sleeping more comfortably on the couch.

You get to your feet to find Jimin at the door, glaring at you. You both have a stare off for a few moments, and it is Jimin who breaks the silence.

“Can you, like, keep that sort of PDA out of common living areas?” He whispers furiously, gesturing to where Hoseok naps on the couch. You glare back.

“It wasn’t PDA!” You protest back, also in a whisper. Jimin rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest.

“Do you even know what PDA means? You were cuddling, on the couch, in a public space. That is the literal definition of PDA!” He abandons the whispering act and says these words aloud but when Hoseok starts to stir, he drops back to a whisper. “Wait… does this mean you like him?” He asks suddenly, like he has just had a very horrible revelation.

To your surprise, the answer does not come immediately and easily like you expect it to. Instead, your face flushes hot, and you feel a burning sensation flush through your whole body without consent.

“W-what?” You ask, completely thrown by this line of questioning. To your horror, you find your mouth is still unwilling to cooperate and hasn’t just answered the simple ‘no’ that Jimin’s question requires. Jimin leans forward, examining your face.

“You heard me. Do you like him?” He jerks his thumb at Hoseok for emphasis. You follow his gaze to where Hoseok is still peacefully sleeping. You are still unable to answer, for some reason. You feel like your tongue is tangled but you also know it shouldn’t be this hard to answer. You feel a sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach- it really shouldn’t be this hard to answer.

“It’s not that hard a question.” Jimin voices your concerns aloud. “Yes or no. Do you want to date him? I personally wouldn’t mind if you did, he’s not that ba-“

“I do.” You say suddenly, and the realisation hits you like a rock the same instance the words slip involuntarily from your lips. You feel like a meteor filled with horror, anxiety but also giddy butterflies has just slammed into the side of your head and your eyes nearly water with the force of it. You like Hoseok. You like him a lot. You like his silly sense of humour, his warmth, his kindness. You like the way he smiles and the way he laughs and you like how he can be surprisingly sassy at times. You just like him. Too much for the short duration of time you’ve been spent together. Too much, considering the history the two of you share.

Jimin’s jaw drops, and he points at you accusingly. He gasps dramatically and you glare back.

“I knew it!” He declares wildly. “Well, I guess you have to thank me, Noona, because thanks to that whole dare thing you got a boyfriend out of it. Make sure at your wedding you credit me and the dare you said was so stupid-“

He cuts his sentence short when he realises the menacing way you advance towards him.

“Noona,” He says slowly, hesitantly, his hands up to show he means no harm. “L-let’s not be too hasty- put down the spellbook, Noona-“

++

Hoseok awakens suddenly and is instantly disappointed to find that he is cold. Not because the temperature in the room is too low. He is a demon and he does not get cold very easily, and someone had thoughtfully tucked a blanket over him at some point (it was probably you because Jimin, at the height of his mischievous teenage years, would be more likely to draw on Hoseok’s face or dip his fingers in warm water so that he would wet himself). No, he is disappointed because the cold he feels means that you are no longer curled tightly into his side. He knows he fell asleep with your body resting against his and your head tucked into the crook of his neck. He distinctly remembers the sensation of your soft breaths and the steady, even beat of your heart being enough to lull him into a sweet slumber. So while he cannot quite pin the exact reason why, the fact that you weren’t in the same position when he woke is disappointing. He knows he should be concerned that he is feeling this way so soon after his recent breakup, particularly after the incident this morning where he had definitely almost kissed you. He should feel remorse at how comfortable he had been curled up against you but it is easier to just shove those thoughts aside and not think too deeply about them. The day your dad gets back (hopefully with a way to break the soul-binding) draws near and it’s scary to think what will happen once you are no longer confined to a 20 metre radius of him. Will you avoid him, throw him aside? Will you continue to be friends? He shakes the frightening thoughts off and pretends he hasn’t been having them, like he’s been doing for the past month.

He hears the sound of a ruckus upstairs but is unconcerned with it- it is probably you and Jimin fighting. The two of you bicker like nobody’s business and if he wasn’t aware of the fact that every night you stay up late to make a yummy lunch for him or the way Jimin will carefully cover you with a blanket if you fall asleep on the couch like you are prone to doing, he may have thought you hated each other. The thought makes Hoseok smile, and he sits up with a satisfying stretch that cracks all the joints in his body.

He hears a buzz from his phone. He had left it carelessly on the coffee table when the movie began, and he shifts out from underneath the blankets to look at the screen. It is lit up with a notification.

He feels like everything in him freezes- like all the warmth and colour has suddenly been sapped from his being. Demons, with their close affinity with chaos and fire, rarely feel cold but Hoseok feels like he’s just plunged into a bath of ice water. Because the sender of the text that glares mockingly up at him is none other than his ex-girlfriend.

He hasn’t had the heart to change the contact info for her on his phone. Perhaps a part of him is still holding out that things will go back to what they are. Either way, the words My love <3 imprint on his eyes and he squeezes his eyes shut. It takes him a second to gather the courage to unlock his phone and read the contents of her text.

She wants to meet. In person. Hoseok wants no such thing- particularly not after the stunts her supposed friends have pulled with you this coming week. He doesn’t think Yeri would have put them up to it, particularly since she seemed rather intent on just forgetting that the whole year-long relationship never happened, but he still can’t help but think slightly less of her for keeping the kind of company that thinks it is acceptable to bully you. Still, he can’t bring himself to just ignore her text, and so reluctantly he texts her your address. He doesn’t want you to know about this meeting, for some reason, and he can comfortably get to the front lawn while you are inside without the barrier restricting his movement. So he tells Yeri to come meet him later in the night when you and Jimin would probably both be asleep. That gives him the rest of the night to stew in discomfort and despair, to lament over the fractured relationship and wish that he could return to napping with you wrapped comfortably in his arms.

He debates taking a glamour potion, to conceal his horns and tail for Yeri’s comfort, but he feels oddly spiteful. He can’t help but recall that you had gone so far as to call his horns cute, and a morbid, masochistic part of him wants to see how Yeri would react to his true form. He waits until the ruckus upstairs has ceased and it sounds like you and Jimin have settled in for the night before he creeps to the front door. It creaks as it opens but he doubts the sound it loud enough to disturb either of you.

On your balcony, the family cat glares at him with one eye, as if it knows what he’s doing is stupid. In an attempt to win its love and approval, he creeps over it to gently pat it. The soft rumble of a purr begins to reverberate beneath his hand and it calms him to the point he almost feels prepared as the headlights of Yeri’s car brighten your front yard.

She gets out of the car and she is as heartachingly beautiful as he remembers. She strides gracefully over to him, looking disdainfully around her surroundings, before her gaze lands on him. Her face goes soft, sad, and in a moment of weakness, Hoseok almost drops to his knees and begs for her to take him back. Then her expression changes into one of disgust as she sees the tail and horns he had not bothered to conceal and the reminder of what went wrong between them is like she is digging a scalpel into his exposed and sensitive heart.

Yeri is hesitant as she comes to stand beside Hoseok on the porch. She goes to pet the cat, and it regards her lazily as she scratches behind one ear. It then rolls onto its back, exposing its stomach to her- a pose Hoseok recently learnt was a death trap. She goes to scratch its tummy, and he grabs her wrist.

“He’ll bite you.” Hoseok explain, refusing to look at her and hoping she doesn’t notice the way the tips of his ears flush red at the feeling of her wrist beneath her fingers. She nods awkwardly, and withdraws her hand.

“Hoseok.” She says softly. His heart used to billow with a sort of euphoria whenever she called his name, but now the sound of her voice just incites a deep, sad ache at the base of his chest.

“Why are you here?” He asks, almost bitterly. He occupies the nervous energy he feels in his fingers by tapping a rhythm into his thighs.

“I… I wanted to see you.” She confesses, and he wishes so dearly that her words didn’t affect him but they do. Because he’s missed her and he wanted to see her too.

“You could have.” He points out. She glances down, ashamed, and nods.

“I know. I was just… I was shocked, was all. I was seriously…” Her voice cracks. “I was really thinking that you were the one and then it turned out you had been lying to me for a whole year.”

“I never lied.” Hoseok protests. “You never asked me what species I was!”

“Not saying anything is the same as lying because you know I wouldn’t have dated you if I’d known what you are!” She argues back, and Hoseok snaps his jaw shut. He feels like she’s slapped him.

“So what?” He demands, hoping the hurt he is feeling doesn’t come through in his tone. “You know now and you ended things. Are you here to rub it in? Or perhaps to tell me about whoever that guy was I saw you with at Namjoon’s party?”

Her eyes go wide and she glances away guiltily.

“You saw that?” She asks softly.

“Yes.” He answers coldly. “Now tell me. Why are you here?”

“I… I want you back.” She softly admits. “That other guy doesn’t matter- I was just trying to distract myself, but all I could think about was how he wasn’t you Hoseok.”

Hoseok almost laughs in bitterness- why does she have to say these words now? Close to a full month later? When it is too little, too late? If she was going to change her mind, couldn’t she have done it before he endured a month of trying to recover from a brokenheart. She takes Hoseok’s silence as permission for her to continue.

“I love you enough, to forget what you are.” She says, and her words are almost sweet. “As long as you keep hiding it, we can be happy together! I’ll take you back, alright?”

It’s funny. A few weeks ago, those were the only words Hoseok wanted to hear. He already intended to spend the rest of his life hiding who he really was, so if she was willing to love him despite his demon heritage, then didn’t that make her a selfless, caring, kind girlfriend? Wasn’t that testament to just how much she loved him, if she were to overlook the fact that he was one of the most reviled species in the world just because she wanted to be with him?

But it’s not enough, Hoseok realises. A month ago, it would have been. It would have been enough that she would love him in spite of what he was. But suddenly, he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want her. Doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life knowing that the love of his life is disgusted by who he is and is overlooking a massive part of who he is just to be with him. That’s not love… that’s selective blindness. It’s tolerating each other at best. How could he be with someone who doesn’t want all of him?

He knows what’s triggered the change in his attitude, too. He realises it with disturbing clarity- it’s you. You are the reason he’s not satisfied with going back to Yeri while she closes her eyes and pretends not to know what he is. Because he knows what it feels like, now, to have someone accept him for what he is. He knows what it feels like to spend a day free from the side effects of the glamour potion and not feel ashamed or guilty for not taking them. He knows what it feels like to not live in constant fear that you will learn the truth and throw him away in disgust. Most people wouldn’t have put up with him. They would have outed him. They would have resorted to dangerous techniques that could have hurt him to try and break the soul-binding. They wouldn’t have welcomed him into their home, they wouldn’t have agreed to help him keep his secret. They wouldn’t have bent over backwards to protect him, to keep his feelings safe, once they learned he was a demon. And he has so many people in his life who are willing to sacrifice so much for him, but most of them would not even give him the time of day if they knew his true identity. But you would and you have and you continue to do so. So he can’t go back to Yeri, because he’s tasted what true acceptance feels like and he doesn’t want to go back into hiding, to hiding himself behind a mask. And she’s not what he wants anymore. What he wants, he realises with fear and elation, is you. To go back to that moment earlier in the day, when you had been sleeping against him, completely unguarded despite the fact that his tail, a feature that most people think is disgusting and horrifying, was wrapped tightly around you. He wants you, and the warm, happy days spent in your company, he wants you and the afternoons where the house is noisy as you and Jimin bicker, he wants you when you smile when he spends time with you because you secretly love that he enjoys your company somuch. It’s only been a month, such a short amount of time and yet you have become such an integral and vital part of his life so quickly that it scares him.

“I think you should go.” He finally says, his voice soft but final. Yeri’s eyes go wide with shock.

“What?” She asks, disbelievingly. Perhaps she hadn’t thought that Hoseok would refuse. And why would she? She’s beautiful and popular and kind and she’s offering to stay with him even while knowing he’s a demon. What other kind of person would do that?

But it’s not enough.

“I think you should go.” He repeats himself. “I’m sorry, but that’s not enough.”

“What’s not enough?” She demands, tears pooling in her eyes. “Hoseok, I love you. How is that not enough?”

“I… I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hiding.” Hoseok admits, his voice raspy. “I loved you too… and a month ago I would have taken you back. But I don’t want to be with someone who can’t love all of me. I don’t want to be with someone who is just going to pretend the parts of me they don’t like aren’t there.”

“And you think you’ll find someone who will?” She asks, shrilly. The words hurt, but Hoseok does not lose his temper because he knows it’s just cause Yeri is upset. He’s hurt her and perhaps in the morning she will regret her harsh words, but he still won’t back down. Yeri looks around like she’s registering where she is for the first time. “This is that girl’s house, isn’t it? The one that Jihye and Bonghee say you’ve been hanging around? Is this because of her?”

“Don’t talk about her.” Hoseok says, and for a moment he is so furious his eyes unintentionally flash red. Yeri’s eyes go wide.

“Hoseok,” She says slowly. Hoseok inhales deeply, summoning control and patience from deep within him.

“It isn’t because of her, Yeri.” Hoseok says. “We just… we want different things, you and I. We grew apart and I think… even though we loved each other, we need to know when it’s time to say goodbye. And that’s now. So goodbye, Yeri.”

Without his consent, a tear slips down his cheek- he’s cried so much, because of her, but he has a feeling this will be the last tear shed because of Yeri. Yeri, too, seems to recognise that she’s done, because she nods her head, though tears dribble down her cheek.

“Right.” She says, her voice choked. “Ok, then. I’ll just… I’ll just be going then.”

And then he is alone on the balcony, and suddenly exhausted from all the revelations and the conversation he’s just had, he steps towards your front door, ready to sleep.

The light is on inside, and Jimin glances over at Hoseok from where he’s been playing some late night video game on the main television without your knowledge. Jimin stares wide-eyed, and Hoseok stares back.

An silent agreement passes between the two of them, not to speak of this encounter, but it is interrupted by Hoseok’s phone going off. Confused, he looks at the contact icon.

It’s your father. Your father is calling him.

[gwiiyeoweo]

Cor comes down with the flu, and he feels his dignity burn up along with his fever. Noctis helps, until he doesn’t.

Pairing: Cor & Noctis Rating: G

‘Ridiculous.’

The sun shines, the birds sing, the Crownsguard train outside in the tepid spring weather with their grunts and clash of steel. There’s no reports of terrorism, no alerts of Niflheim breaking through the King’s Wall, no little princes going missing or injuring themselves. For once, like an ill-begotten miracle that occurs only once every few centuries, everything's right in the world.

Which makes it all the more infuriating.

‘Absolutely ridiculous.’

Cor sits at his desk, a rare thing as of late when all he’s been doing is running across the borders of Lucis to run missions and manage their military posts. As expected, his time away from his office resulted in the backlog of papers and documents that have turned themselves into piles then into mountains. Granted, they’re not imperative, as they’ve been allowed to catch dust and stains where he’s left them in his desk drawers and filing cabinets, and half of them are saved as digital copies to be accessed through his computer, or phone and tablet should he need to.

But it is not because he is doomed to his office for the rest of this perfectly good spring day that sours him. It is the way his skin feels feverish yet his muscles quake before the onset of hypothermia, how his fingers feel stiff and his joints ache (and not from the scar tissue that tightens his hands). It is the way his lungs fill with cotton and leaves his nose a red burning mess, that same fire clouding and stuffing the front of his brain, and he knows it is not from the spring allergies Gladiolus suffers from. It is the stifling weight of the blanket hugging around his shoulders, pulling both his body and mind down as it pools at the foot of his chair, the once plush leather now feeling like bricks and cement.

Because Cor Leonis, the Immortal, the Marshal, has found his match in the common flu.

He can’t even bother to go for the cup of coffee at the corner of his desk — having long gone cold several hours ago after the first and only sip — because his body, despite spending nearly his entire life training and honing every muscle, feels like dead weight to him. His mind, addled with heat and fog, isn’t much better, but he at least has enough coherency to understand how salty he feels. It’s been years since he’s been struck down with sickness, and the most recent illness he can remember spans at least six years ago, when he and Clarus spent a drunken night raiding Regis’ mini fridge and got food poisoning because no one thought to throw out the king’s expired dairy.

It’s not even winter, for gods’ sakes, and he received his flu shot like the good government official that he is, and yet —  

Here he is, slumped over his desk and buried in a thick blanket, fingers barely holding onto a pen when he’s shown unparalleled finesse with his katana. If he could just somehow cut down the virus bombarding his systems like he could through daemons and magitek soldiers, Cor would offer his thanks to the Astrals above and offer them a gift or two at each of their altars.

But alas, he doubts they’d care for him right now, and the only one deserving his gratitude today is Noctis, the first to discover how utterly disgusting Cor had felt this morning.

“Wow, you look like shit. No offense,” Noctis had said, stopping by the office to drop off a folder at Regis’ request. Without so much as a warning, he had reached across the desk to press a cool hand to Cor’s forehead, and the man barely had the will to keep in his sigh of relief at that. Noctis always ran a little cool, something about poor blood circulation keeping his fingers cold or maybe the uncontrolled magics and elements that roiled within. “Hot damn, Cor, you’re burning up — wait, are you… Are you sick?”

And Cor had never entertained that idea until Noctis pointed it out because the concept was — and still is, to be honest — utterly preposterous, but the facts had proven otherwise. The aches, the chills, his throat; the signs had all pointed themselves to the culprit. Noctis had been quick to rummage through the closet, ignoring Cor’s silent look of ‘don’t you dare make a mess’ and shucking some odd books and supplies here and there.

“And just how did you know that was there?” Cor had asked, raising his eyebrows in suspicion at the blanket Noctis held up once he shook the dust off it. He had felt the rasp of his voice grate against his throat, and he had hoped his words didn't come out as awful as they felt. He had received no response except the cheeky grin Noctis sported while he carefully draped it over Cor’s shoulders. Noctis had given him a few sympathetic pats and a sagely nod, as though he were some expert in legendary warriors catching colds, then quietly left him to his devices and paperwork, shutting the door behind him with the most silent of clicks.

It's been half an hour since then, but Cor is immensely grateful for the blanket. The aches have fully nestled themselves now, as if the realization and acceptance was all it took for his body to acknowledge the sickness blooming forth, and he's confident that no more work will be done today. He's barely made a dent in the reports that require his attention and write-offs, not to mention there's reports of his own he needs to type up, but he knows where his limits are and his limits have drawn themselves here.

He wants to get up from his desk and make for his room, skipping the infirmary entirely because his pride does not want to go to the medics and ask for a bottle of flu medicine just to birth gossip of the Immortal being taken down by a little cough and runny nose. The second he braces his arm on the desk to push himself up, he immediately retracts that idea. Because nope, his joints are suddenly raging at him to stop and slink back into his chair.

He does just that, no protest back, and wraps the blanket around him a little tighter, going so far as to tucking his face and arms inside the cocoon. He wonders if he can even make it to the sofa, let alone the door, or if he's doomed to his desk for the foreseeable future.

Just as Cor is about to resign to his fate, he hears his door click open and looks up to see Noctis slinking in. There's a thermos and a mug in his hands.

"Nice look, Marshal," he says, tone entirely too amused and expression likewise.

Cor thinks he probably looks the part, all wrapped up to his nose in a blanket, hair perhaps a mess and his face a sad drooping thing. He has a brief notion to untangle himself and flip the bird at the Prince, but that requires effort. Instead, he narrows his eyes and shoots a glare.

Which, doesn't do much but elicit a soft snort from Noctis.

"Not gonna work when you look less like a scary lion and more like a cub." Noctis sets the thermos and mug on the desk, away from the papers and folders organized neatly into hefty stacks. "Made soup and some tea."

Were it Regis instead, Cor would have rejected them in a heartbeat. But he knows that Noctis is capable when he wants to be, proving himself through his various part-time jobs around Insomnia, like his time at the small family-owned diner off Sprohm Avenue. Noctis sometimes likes to show off his skills and lessons, whipping up little recipes he's learned here and there; and while they always pale in comparison to his advisor's concoctions, they have their own merits and charm. At least Noctis could learn how to cook, while Regis would set the entire kitchen on fire by just touching the stove.

"Think you can eat?" Noctis whips out a spoon in a show of blue sparks and taps it against the thermos. "It's Iggy's recipe, dagger quill soup with extra garlic. He said it should knock the flu right outta you."

Cor wrinkles his nose, making no show to untangle himself from his blanket. He enjoys Ignis' cooking when it presents itself, has no doubts about the quality and taste — not like he’ll be able to taste much of anything anyway — but knowing that Ignis knows of his… predicament does not sit well with him. Not that the young man is a gossiper, but somehow news would no doubt make their way to Regis or Clarus, and they’d jump at the opportunity to heckle and tease him like the ravenous jackals they are.

Impatience, it seems, gets the better of Noctis, who already starts peeling away at the blanket, just enough to get an arm out. He unscrews the cap, steam rushing for release; and sure enough, Cor can smell the potent brew of garlic and herbs stewing in the soup — which says something, considering his nose is as congested as Insomnia’s streets at the five o’ clock rush hour. Noctis gives him the dignity of feeding himself, thankfully, and nudges the spoon into Cor’s hand.

“Meds after the soup.” It’s less of an order and more of a fact set in stone that Cor will take the medicine after the soup. Noctis fishes a bottle out of his pocket and sets it down on the desk with a resounding clack as if to drive his words home. He tosses a glance at the mug. “With the tea.”

Cor thinks the tea probably tastes vile, but he’ll hold onto that for when he crosses that road. He takes a spoonful of the soup and tries to stomach it.   

 “Reduced to this useless pile of limbs.”

Somehow, Noctis had managed to help him out of his seat and to the sofa, leagues more comfortable to his aching body, though the soreness is a constant reminder now. His throat isn’t so bad, but it obviously likes to keep talking to a minimum with how hoarse he sounds.    

“You’re surprisingly dramatic when you’re sick, y'know that?”  

And it is how Cor has his head perched on Noctis’ lap, the young man patting his chest in a slow tempo with one hand and playing a mobile game with the other. Cor lets himself doze off here and there, the medicine quick to work its way through his system, but actual sleep evades him. He’s comfortable, or as comfortable as a man whose body feels like its freezing in the flames of hell can be, and safe within the walls of the Citadel. To be honest, there may be no place more safe than at the side — or lap — of the Prince, whose weapon mastery and arsenal of infinite weapons and explosive magic could potentially decimate a small army.

But his subconscious did not like being sick and believes falling asleep in such a state means death. So try as he may, Cor is probably not getting much until night rolls around when he can down something far stronger and potent, preferably a bottle strong enough to clear his system of the flu overnight, thank you very much.

He’s lucid again when he hears a phone chime and feels the hand move away; whatever it was, the notification demanded both of Noctis’ hands. “If you’re texting someone about me —”

“I’m texting someone about you.”

Cor groans. There goes his dignity.

“Who.”

“Dad.”

He groans again.

Then hears a camera shutter. He peels open one eye just in time to see Noctis’ phone screen. A selfie.

A selfie of Noctis holding up a peace sign and Cor looking god-awful, wrapped up in a blanket and resting his head on Noctis’ lap.

“Noctis.”

“Yeah?”

“Had it not been for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered you.”

Noctis chokes in his fit of laughter, and it’s almost enough to make Cor crack a smile. Almost. Because Regis is going to give him hell for this, and he’s already steeling himself for the endless lines of wisecracks.

“Traitorous prince,” Cor mutters, closing his eye and turning his head to the side. Thinking about it won’t stop the pounding in his skull, so he temporarily lets it slide. “No loyalty to your people.”

Noctis, trying to placate him, returns his hand to Cor’s arm and resumes his pats. “Sorry.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m not.”

 “This is all your fault,” Noctis wheezes out. He’s in bed — been in bed for the past two days at the Citadel, to soothe his father’s worries by keeping close — and buried under two layers of blankets and soaking through the sheets underneath him. He shoots a dirty look at Cor, who sits in a chair he pulled up to the bedside and swiping down the screen of a tablet.

“Ah, yes,” Cor says in a tone so dry it rivals Leide’s deserts, not even glancing up from the e-mail he’s reading, “revenge is a dish best served cold. Or as a flu.”

“Traitor.”

“I am not sorry.”

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a returning citizen in Mount Phoenix:

                                       Park Aryeh, who is also known as Leo;                                                        a 22 year old son of Brigit.                                    He is a writer and dance instructor at Zero to Hero.

FC NAME/GROUP: Park Jimin/BTS CHARACTER NAME: Park Aryeh/Leo AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 22/October 13, 1995 PLACE OF BIRTH: Busan, South Korea OCCUPATION: Published Author, Poetry Blogger, Dance Instructor at Zero to Hero (Leo) HEIGHT: 5’9 WEIGHT: N/A DEFINING FEATURES: Fingers often covered in paper cuts and/or scorch marks, almost never seen without a notebook or journal and a pen, always has his laptop on hand, pastel pink hair

PERSONALITY: ARYEH Some people jokingly refer to others as afraid of everything. Aryeh literally is. His fears are broad, ranging from fire to abandonment to social interaction to the dark. He finds it difficult to make friends and spends much of his life alone. It doesn’t usually bother him; he’s more or less gotten used to it. Even when he makes close friends, he doesn’t often speak his mind. Preferring not to cause any kind of conflict, he mostly sticks to what others want to hear if he has to speak at all. Only those extremely close to him will get to hear his true unfiltered thoughts. This often makes him extremely persuasive, when he is willing to draw on his wordsmithing abilities. However, he generally chooses not to; what would be persuade someone to do, anyway?

Since his run-in with some overzealous fans, Aryeh has become even more shy and withdrawn. He holds interactions with other humans to be the scariest thing, the thing that causes him most anxiety. He more often communicates silently when he is able to, or simply speaks in few words when he must. Having a complete or extensive conversation with Aryeh is almost unheard of, and wherever he goes, he does so with as little face to face communication or conversation as possible. It is possible to have an entire interaction without hearing a single word from this shy demigod.

LEO Leo is everything that Aryeh is not. His hair is black (a high-quality wig), his clothes are stylish, his posture is good, his mannerisms are charming, and his eyes are lined in thick black eyeliner. He unabashedly loves to dance, and he is willing to dance just about anything. He’s fun, he’s flirty, he’s willing to try almost anything once. When someone needs help, Leo jumps in to help however he can. He fears nearly nothing and he’s never afraid to act or speak. This persona draws on his wordsmithing powers to become persuasive and charismatic when he wants to be.

HISTORY: Once upon a time, an average man charmed a goddess. He met her in a library and commented on the book of poetry she was reading. The two became fast friends, and then fast lovers, and then the woman disappeared. The man thought nothing of the short affair, that was what college was for after all, was it not? But then nine months later a baby appeared at the door of his dorm, bearing a note containing a love poem and signed Love, Brigit. The man knew right away it was the woman he had met all those months ago. But to suddenly have a baby, and in school nonetheless? It was all he could due to take care of both, though he somehow managed it.

Flash forward through his childhood, and the boy called Aryeh turned out to be the most cowardly of lions. Try as he might, his father could find no cure for his son’s anxieties and fears. His son was merely afraid of everything. The boy had very few friends, and most of the ones he did were fellow artistic souls. Aryeh’s one outlet was his poetry, but there were times when the poetry was an outlet for something bigger and darker, and the boy often burned that poetry. It was too strange, too dark, too morbid for him. The older he got, the more often Aryeh ended up keeping the pages scratchy handwriting that came from the painful fits of torment. Most of the time, when he wasn’t afraid, he was happy enough.

Flash forward again, and the boy was now in university himself. He was studying to become a nurse, and maybe one day a doctor. Maybe he will open his own clinic, or publish books of poetry, or own a bookstore or- but his dreams were cut short when he receives news one day. His father had died in a car crash. The ever present poetic muse cried Murder! Foul Play!, but there was nothing to prove that any of it was true. Cars were now on Aryeh’s list of fears, and he could no longer afford to go to school while working to support himself. While going through his father’s belongings, Aryeh found a single love letter, written from a woman named Brigit to his father. It mentioned a place known as Mount Phoenix, saying it would be a safe place for their child should he ever need it. And so to that island he went.

Fast forward once more, and Aryeh has left that island he once called home. University life wasn’t suiting him and he had more than enough poetry to fill books upon books. It called to him much more than medicine ever really had. And so he had bound up several of his poems, taken the work to a publishing company, and not so long after that his book of poetry was published. The book took off, becoming somewhat well-known. The small following it had gathered clamored for more. Aryeh’s poetry blog exploded, leaving him with more fans and messages than he had ever known what to do with. The boy lived in fear of ever meeting an obsessed fan, though he knew his paranoia to be unfounded; after all, he didn’t have any fans like that just yet. Nobody thought that highly of his work. Except then a few people started to. His first and only encounter with a few obsessed fans left Aryeh wishing for a safe haven, and the boy returned to his old home at Mount Phoenix and opened a bookstore, seeking peace and stability. Perhaps here he would be left alone.

Before long, Aryeh’s quiet and peaceful (and lonely) life began to dissatisfy him. He was a published author with a popular blog, he had opened his own bookstore, he had hobbies and passions, and yet holding a simple conversation with a stranger could overcome him? His myriad fears were still keeping him from doing things he loved? Why? So the boy left the island once more, though this this time with a much bigger purpose in mind: To become the person he had always wanted to be. So he took up residence somewhere he had never been and adopted an alter ego, one he called Leo, and kept up the persona until it finally satisfied him. Even if Aryeh couldn’t do things because he was afraid, Leo was never afraid of anything. He spoke his mind, he pursued things that interested him, he even flirted with strangers. The brilliant shell became popular in his new home, though the boy inside was still as full of fear as ever. At least now he could try out the popular catch phrase.

“Fake it ‘til you make it.”

PANTHEON: Celtic CHILD OF: Brigit POWERS: Despite being filled with fear of his godly inclinations, Aryeh uses his alter ego Leo to practice the martial arts and smithing aspects of his inheritance that he had always feared so much. As it turns out, Aryeh is quite good at martial arts and rarely ever loses a match or fight. He has always delved deep into the poetic and medicinal abilities that are indicative of his mother. His persuasive abilities, when he chooses to use them, are on a higher level than most and make him incredibly charismatic. He is also highly skilled in medicinal arts as he has a vast knowledge of medicine both modern and natural and knows what to do to heal or take your pain away.

STRENGTHS:

Physical Strength ~ Aryeh possesses above average strength and coordination thanks to his mother’s martial arts skills

Wordsmith ~ He is extremely good with his words, though he stumbles over them when speaking to someone new; however, his writing (especially poetry) is beautiful and moving and likely to inspire emotions in its readers

Medicine ~ Aryeh has both talent and education in medicine and physical healing, so he knows just how to set a bone and what medicine to take for most kinds of pain or illness

Alter Ego ~ His alter ego Leo makes the most of Aryeh’s strengths and powers and he isn’t afraid to use them

WEAKNESSES:

Crippling Anxiety ~ Aryeh is afraid of almost everything and has trouble doing anything or talking to anyone he is not familiar with; this is especially relevant to fans who approach him with a little too much excitement

Clumsy ~ because of his anxiety, Aryeh often makes silly mistakes such as tripping over his own feet and stumbling when he’s not focused or stuttering over his words, etc.

Darkness ~ not only does he have a fear of the dark, but Aryeh also is tormented by a poetic muse so powerful and dark that it can send him into bouts of depression; these bouts don’t last long though, especially after Aryeh has gotten the poetry out of himself

Artsy Fartsy ~ paintings, art museums, people who can paint (or other styles of traditional visual arts such as watercolors) are the one thing (other than poetry) that can break him out of his shell; his other love, creating a terrible trifecta with his love of poetry and paintings, is dance. Though he loves all kinds of dance, his favorite is ballroom. He does, of course, appreciate all and every art, but those are his favorites.

[lilbooktopus]

Cursed: The Hunter Inside 

Author: Casey Millette Synopsis:  Cursed: The Hunter Inside tells the tale of Aldor, the son of a hero called Rowan, who leaves his hometown to start on an adventure of his own. He seeks his renown, slaying dragons and traveling to dangerous land with a band of men to retrieve a weapon of immense power, Haran’s Stone.

Date Started: January 26, 2018 Date Finished: January 30, 2018

First Impression: This novel is riddled with grammar errors and misspelled/unnecessary words that are impossible to ignore even if this is just an ARC. (Case in point: You don’t need to go far. Look at the promotional poster/cover. “A league of friends will become heroes in the faces of monsters.” It should have been “in the face of...”. It’s an idiom, look it up.) Moreover, it’s not just the typos. It’s the flow of the story that makes me wish this could have been edited further. 

Book Talk:

Inconsistent Tone

I was imagining this is set in a medieval Europe setting but then someone says “Oh my gosh”.

Bad Prologue

This section should have introduced an event so significant that it will later affect the whole plot. The only effect of the prologue to the whole story is Aldor losing his father and the town being peaceful since then. Too peaceful, in fact, that Aldor soon becomes bored with it and leaves to seek his fortune.

Unbelievable Survival Skills

Aldor is able to survive mortal wounds and journey for two weeks (duration of travel from Dagon to Alyeth and vice versa). By mortal wounds I mean rotting arm oozing with pus, so bad that the muscles are peeling off, and torn skin and muscle at the back from twenty lashes. Note that these wounds have been described to be fatal by the author herself. She made sure we know the intensity of each. When you do that it is impossible to ignore the consequences bought by each injury. Things like these tend to fester and cause blood loss, fever and delirium which would stop anyone from being able to travel for a few days, much less for two weeks.

Plus, whenever the protagonists are in a tight spot, for some reason, they immediately figure out riddles and puzzles! Or maybe it’s just the fact that the riddles aren’t challenging at all... Like the puzzles that lead to Philosopher’s Sto--- I mean Haran’s Stone.

Lazy Descriptions

One rule often invoked when it comes to writing, especially in fantasy settings as this, is show, don’t tell. “Oddly Viking-like” to describe a large man is one of the laziest I could find here.

There was also “elf-like”. Nothing about the way the character was described made me think of an elf. I was thinking more of a hobbit especially when Willcome’s feet was described as having fur-like hair on his toes.

Bad Phrasing

Here comes one of my favorites, in which Aldor is in love with a horse. Like, in love:

“There was one animal in particular that had stolen his heart. Its name was Dawn, a massive, black horse. As Aldor walked through the market, admiring all the goods, he beheld the animal of his dreams. Every time he entered the stables, a trickle of cold (sweat) seemed to douse his sense(s) when(ever) Dawn would look him in the eye. Slightly wistful, Aldor kept walking.”

There are better ways to admire horses. I know you’ve read LotR as some characters in your novel are so similar to the ones in JRRT’s books (Willcome = Tom Bombadil/Radagast?), I think Shadowfax was described well enough without sounding like anyone was in love with a horse… er, romantically. For other examples, see Harry Potter admiring the Nimbus Two Thousand and the Firebolt.

Shallow/Inconsistent Characterization

There is no depth to any of Millette’s characters. Everyone has one trait. Example, Aldor is too heroic, Keira is… to heroic. Gregory is too sarcastic. Oh maybe not one trait each, as everyone is also stupid. And please stop making other characters say about another “You’re too kind to a fault” or “too heroic for your own good” without even enough instances to make them conclude that.

Also, there will often be instances that characters get motivation to do things from an as-of-then unintroduced character/event. Example, Dale’s morale is often boosted by the mention of "Ace”. Gregory’s distrust towards a guardian is from a wizard destroying his family. But the reasons behind these motivations are not introduced beforehand. So imagine my confusion when Gregory starts to spout unfounded accusations at Willcome. I went like, “How could you say that?” Or when Jasper yells “Ace wouldn’t want you to do that!” or something like that to Dale, I was thinking, “Who the hell is Ace?” And the worse thing is, these mystery people/reasons don’t ever get explained. How are we supposed to sympathize with a character’s anger or sadness or joy when we do not understand where it’s coming from?

Why is every girl in this book, namely, Keira and Marie, want to “be brave” aka go slay things? And “being brave” is always equated to manly stuff, like, slaying things. Keira is insufferably stupid, not brave. She calls people who make plans before they charge at live, fire-breathing dragons cowards, and charges straight into the beast despite having zero battle skills! She jumps right in front of every danger without thinking, without preparation, without capacity to do anything! And the author seems to glorify acts. Keira also throws a knife straight to a bad guy. Do you have any idea how hard it is to throw a knife with a path? Or to learn how to wield a sword?

Both Aldor and Dale claim to not be team players but instantly makes friends with everyone.

Instalove

Oh how I hate instalove. For some reason, Aldor and Keira fall in love with each other without even enough interaction except going to a dragon’s lair together, in which they don’t even learn enough of each other to even be friends. And Aldor claims he is not the friend-making type.

Stuff I didn’t bother to classify

Search Party - The king sends a search party (with him in it) the very night Aldor and Keira slays a dragon as if he expected the task to be done so soon

Keira’s knowledge of the terrain NEAR THE DRAGON’S LAIR despite her being cooped up in the castle for basically forever

The king allowing his daughter to join suicide quests despite knowing she doesn’t have an ounce of training and telling Aldor to protect her. I mean, I was pretty sure the king hates Keira secretly and is actually planning to feed her to the dragon because there can’t be no other reason to let someone so ill-equipped near a dangerous beast! And with a stranger! And then you let her go on a quest everyone calls a suicide mission!

The shortcut out of the desert and back to Alyeth that Dale knows, which, for some reason, he did not bring up when they were travelling from Alyeth to Haran’s Desert

Everyone saying they are willing to die for Aldor, a guy they have never been on a quest before the one they’re banding up for

Bringing weak teammates. By that I mean everyone. All everyone does is complain about the heat, the lack of water, the traps, all the hardships

No one took “suicide mission” seriously even though they kept on throwing the term around

Aldor being melodramatic about everything, how these people depend on him, how he broke his promise to protect Keira, how something as beautiful as Keira lies broken at the foot of a dragon, ashes on her long lashe---- GEEZ, YOU’RE BATTLING A DRAGON AND YOU HAVE TIME TO NOTE HOW LONG HER LASHES ARE?!?

A lot of useless characters and events. Or maybe they aren’t entirely useless. Maybe they will appear on the next books but the way they are tied to the rest of the novel is not seamless.

Final Verdict:

Sadly, this book seems like it was written in a hurry although I think I’ve read she has been writing this since she was twelve and she’s sixteen now... I didn’t like it from the very beginning up til the very end. It wasn’t neat, tone was bland, characters weren’t memorable at all. I don’t see the point of the plot. Needs major revision aka plot overhaul. Total rewrite. 

Rating: ★ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ (0.9 out of 5)

[korea19-fan-blog]

The Way Internet Brokers and Agents Kill Petroleum Deals and Oil Deals As Intermediaries in Trading

Overzealous and Misguided Joker Broker Types and Agents Are Often the Biggest Obstacles in Successfully Closing Deals or Making Money in Oil Trading

A. THE AVERAGE BROKER/AGENT INTERMEDIARY TODAY, FAIL & EARN NO INCOME

According Studies, primarily due to the central role the Internet has played international trading, the true market for those intermediaries or middlemen from the global'secondary' market trading continues to be falling fairly quickly lately. Quotes from these specialists and reports from seasoned dealer, assert the year 2000 has been the final"good year" for its intermediary in the business enterprise. Kamal J. Southall, by way of instance, asserts that"after 2000, the critical mass of brokers and traders who were ill-informed and poorly trained, as well as of fraudulently applied offers and scams, reached the point that real end-buyers manufacturers and suppliers simply stopped responding [to intermediaries] except in exceptional cases."

Southall estimates, Citing another specialists' calculation, that out of some one million individuals currently trying to make it as brokers or trade intermediaries in the world,"maybe no longer than 1% gets the training and ability required to close a bargain... [meaning ] the overwhelming majority, are investing , [hence] prices are falling... and much more importantly, [oil traders are] being scammed - sometimes hugely"

In point of fact, the general consensus among experts, is that previously, before the current advent of the predominance of the Internet in international trading when facsimile and telex trading were the supreme medium for the business, there had existed a reasonably robust and viable market, although small, for the intermediary agent. Such that it was rather common for an intermediary to occasionally get to a contract closing stage and to close deals and earn at least reasonable commission incomes. But that there has NOT been such an intermediary market lately for some years now, since the new Internet era. But rather, that such a market for the intermediary has essentially been dead for all but the most skilled and experienced intermediary in the market today - killed in part, though by no means completely, by the preeminent use of the Internet medium by the Internet trader and intermediary.

In short, the new reality of today is that while, in the days before the Internet, the average broker, agent or other intermediary or 'middleman' involved in international trading generally and successfully closed deals and earned decent income with at least some modest frequency, quite to the contrary, such broker or agent or other intermediary who operate in this current Internet era, on the other hand, hardly closes any deals or earns any income in the business any more.

And what factors account for this phenomenon - for the fact that these brokers and other intermediaries generally make no sales or income in this Internet era? .

B. MAJOR REASONS ACCOUNTING FOR THIS

There are many factors which account for this. Briefly summed up, they range from the dramatically increased number of scams and fraudsters in the business, made much easier by the shield of anonymity provided by the Internet, to relative lack of proper training, skills or knowledge in the fundamentals of the business prevalent among the modern class of brokers and other intermediaries as a result of the easiness of requisite qualification for one to become an Internet"agent" or intermediary, to the element of the increased pervasiveness of"The Joker Broker" mentality and behavior among the Internet-era brokers, agents & other intermediaries. However, all these various causative factors being duly considered, perhaps the single, overarching, most paramount consideration accounting for the woeful failure and inability of the modern broker and the intermediary to successfully do business, could simply be subsumed into this one central theme and be summed up as follows: the use of, and reliance upon, badly flawed and erroneous methodology, rules and procedures for oil deals on the part of the modern class of intermediaries in doing business - a class of intermediaries that is often typically notorious for being particularly untrained, misguided and uninformed as to the actual and proper way of doing the business.

Most unfortunately, frequently the end result of the above reality, is that by largely relying upon and using such misguided and badly flawed methodology and procedures in doing business, such brokers and agents, who are notorious, as well, for often being overzealous, self-consumed and desperate to find a buyer or make a quick commission at all costs, essentially become, themselves, actually the biggest obstacles to themselves and fellow brokers and agents in successfully closing deals or making money in the oil trading business!

C. THE BASIC WAYS MISGUIDED BROKERS & AGENTS BECOME THE MAIN OBSTACLES

Broadly speaking, there are a few basic identifiable major ways in which this rather awesome phenomenon of the modern overzealous and misguided Internet broker or agent constituting an obstacle in successfully doing business, frequently manifests itself.

USE OF BADLY FLAWED & IMPRACTICAL METHODOLOGY AND PROCEDURES IN DOING BUSINESS

But, probably the most impactful but pervasive way and manner in which the overzealous and misguided broker/agent intermediary frequently constitutes himself (or herself), whether intentionally or unintentionally, into a crippling obstacle, rather than an aid or facilitator, to successfully doing petroleum deals or closing one, is basically by their use of methodology and procedures which are badly flawed and erroneous, unrealistic, unreal, impracticable, and oftentimes downright pie-in-the-sky like and comical.

A classic example of that, is the frequent resort by many Internet brokers and agents to use of the arcane procedures such as the 'LOI,' 'ICPO,' 'NCND,' 'BCL,' etc., in doing business. According to many respected experts and seasoned practitioners in the trading field, the employment of procedures such as these by any supplier or intermediary, is virtually an automatic marker which immediately gives away the user as a trade amateur or intermediary and a failure who not only lacks the requisite training or knowledge of the proper trading procedures, but who apparently has never successfully closed any deals, and never will. In deed, to a seasoned buyer (or the agent of one), getting a sales offer from a supplier or agent which opens with such terms and procedures, is typically a clear marker which automatically sets off an alarm bell in such a buyer's head, spelling danger and potential doom to the buyer. As one expert put is,"In fact the existence of a number of these conditions are regarded as indications of Advance Fee Fraud, by educated players and regulation enforcement."

This is how an intermediary who admitted to being a failed Joker-Broker with a prior record of a string of failures, but who later acquired the proper training and became a reformed broker, and is now a successful multi-deal closer, sums it up, writing in the jockerbroker.com website:

"When a bargain starts off with'send ICPO With BCL or Soft Probe, NCND and IMFPA,' that really is'broker language.' The ones that understand broker language understand exactly what this means:'I'm a joker broker. I don't have any real product for sale, and I don't know anyone who has any, so I want you to give me an Irrevocable Purchase Order with your full financial details disclosed, so I can run around with your order and your money in my hands, looking for product, and the next thing you see will be your company and banking details exposed to the whole world, running around unsecured on the Internet between thousands of other joker brokers.' "

Fundamentally, the primary reason that the use of such procedures are generally viewed by experts as badly flawed and improper, and as often constituting the biggest obstacles to many a broker or agent in successfully closing deals or making money in oil trading business, is rather simple: those procedures and methodology are simply inappropriate or unworkable and impracticable, pure and simple! They are inappropriate and unworkable within the context of the real world of business environment in which they are trying to operate or do business. And consequently, because those procedures and methodology are of such nature, they invariably fail, and inevitably never work. Why? Basically, because suppliers who receive such stupid procedures from intermediaries or potential buyers, being already sickened by those kinds of procedures, just can't be bothered to reply to them, while similarly, the end buyers won't be bothered with replying to equally stupid and sickening offers from sellers. In consequence, the result is that the only people supposedly 'trading' are merely the misguided intermediaries passing around make-belief 'deals' from one misguided intermediary to another, essentially consisting, for the most part, of shoving around the usual inappropriate or unworkable procedures like the 'LOI.' 'BCL,' 'ICPO,' and unverified 'POP.'

In deed, say Some experts - most of whom often characterize these procedures in derogatory terms like'dangerous,''impracticable,''misguided,' and'misused' - many a time even the intermediaries, themselves, who employ these terms and procedures are fully well aware that they have not been able to close a deal in months, even years, of using these badly flawed terms and procedures, and probably never will. But yet, these experts add, these intermediaries will not admit that these methods are flawed and have not gotten them any deals in the past, and each new intermediary in the'broker series' just continues, any way, to pass the flawed copied methods down the unending'daisy chain,' from one broker/agent intermediary to the other in their make-belief'deals' and'trading.'

SO, WHY DO THESE JOKER BROKER TYPES INTERMEDIARIES STILL PERSIST IN USING THESE FLAWED PROCEDURES, NEVERTHELESS?

Given the central reality we've just sketched above to the effect that these procedures and methodology are often inappropriate or unworkable, and that they invariably result in failure and no income on the part of the Internet intermediaries, a major curious question of immense relevance, is this: Why then? Why then is it that these Internet intermediaries generally refuse to use the correct oil deal procedures but plunge ahead, any way, and still engage in doing business using precisely those same badly flawed and unproductive procedures? Or, to put it another way, what forces or interests apparently impel them to keep conducting business that way, any way, such that, in effect, by conducting business that way, that precise role that such intermediaries play generally makes them, whether wittingly or unwittingly, a prime obstacle on their own path, and on the path of most other intermediaries, in being able to close deals or to earn income?

THE ANSWER? The basic reason, in a word, is largely related to the personal financial self-interest of the intermediaries, and the desperate selfish desire on their part to quickly land a real supplier or secure a commission income by any and all means whatsoever.

Many insightful experts and keen observers have noted, for example, that many of these arcane procedures being employed by these Internet intermediaries (the LOI, ICPO, BCL, NCND, etc), are actually usually not initiated or required by the principal traders (i.e., the buyer or the seller) involved in the business, but are merely the personal inventions and initiatives of the overzealous intermediary types created, designed, improvised, and used largely by them to gain for themselves some undue control in the trading process, and, most importantly for them, to avoid "circumvention" by other intermediaries in a deal, and, thereby to create or justify getting paid a commission income, themselves, in a deal.

THE ILLUSTRATIVE CASE OF THE USE OF THE LOI BY OVERZEALOUS INTERNET SELLERS & INTERMEDIARIES

A good case in point for illustrating the above point, is the frequent resort to the use of the so-called "LOI" (Letter of Intent) by Internet agents and intermediaries in initiating trade offers. The use of the LOI (Letter of Intent) document is a central procedure common among many present-day Internet brokers and intermediaries, and some sellers, as well. Basically, these brokers and intermediaries would frequently demand that any intending or interested buyer should first present the LOI document in showing and initiating an interest in a trade offer or making a purchase. And, according to such intermediaries, intending buyers should do so because, they say, by signing such a document at the very beginning of the selling process and handing it over (through them, of course!) to a supposed supplier of a product, that gesture, they claim, constitute a great demonstration of legitimacy of interest on the part of the would-be buyer, and would be showing that he (she) is "serious" about making a purchase.

Yet, except for these Internet traders and intermediaries who habitually persist in using these procedures, virtually all credible and respected experts in the industry point out - and, to my knowledge, no credible sellers or buyers, or even intermediaries, dispute this fact or have proven otherwise - that this document is essentially a legally worthless, meaningless, and even dangerous piece of paper, which is of no legal force or effect whatsoever, and is legally nonbinding and absolutely unenforceable upon any of the relevant parties involved in a deal, whether it be the signer of the document (the buyer), or the seller to whom it is given, or the intermediary.

Which, again, logically evokes the original question, WHY? Why then do these Internet traders and intermediaries continue to use or insist on prospective buyers using the LOI procedure in initiating their trade deals and offers, even though it is not only an absolutely worthless procedure that is of no real effect or legal meaning to any credible buyer, but essentially constitutes a major obstacle to a serious intermediary in ever being able to close a deal, and even though this document squarely falls under the infamous category of the kinds of procedures that are, in the words of Davide Papa and other respected experts on the subject, so"dangerous, inappropriate, impracticable, unworkable and mistreated," that"anyone trying to conduct business with these kinds of intermediaries [who utilize them], will also be not able to close a deal or collect a penny in commissions, however long they exchange to get or how hard they try." ?

The answer is that the Central clue simply lies directly in the reality imbedded in this statement by Toby Winson, a keen analyst of the issue, in his essay titled, the"Joker-Broker-Land":"More than 95 percent of the time, the LOI is composed by a broker, not from the vendor, also, for the most part, these agents have cut and pasted information they got from different agents. Thus each one the conflicts and mistakes in the [LOI] are duplicated and pass[ed] and from joker into joker."

In other words, invariably, these intermediaries insist and persist in using the LOI and other similarly ill-fitted joker broker type documents (when, in fact, all rational reasons would dictate otherwise), mainly for reasons that are simply selfish and somewhat personal and have absolutely NOTHING whatsoever to do with wanting to do good, legitimate, successful business or wanting to attain any level of wholesomeness relating to the business, itself. Nor anything having to do with the securing, preservation or"security" of the legitimate interests of the supplier involved in the deal. But, rather, have everything to do with their own personal, selfish financial self-interest and agenda, and with their own obsessive concern with landing for themselves a legitimate supplier and/or buyer of a product and for earning a commission.

The point Is that the evidence is strong that often times, many overzealous, super ambitious, aggressive brokers and agents, especially the obscure or scam-oriented ones, who represent themselves as sellers' agents or mandates mostly through Internet connections or communication, or perhaps claim to be the authentic crude Sellers, themselves, apply the LOI just as an instrument to immediately"corner and box in" a potential purchaser to commit to a deal deal together directly upfront. That's, to commit prior to the potential buyer might possibly need that they supply their enterprise profile or reveal him something concrete to show that they actually representare, legitimate vendors. Therefore such intermediariessellers or sellers, would persistently need the potential buyers rush and issue them an LOI straight upfront allegedly as evidence that they're"serious" about making the purchase. And, because for the intermediary himself, what he uttered as the most critically important thing for him is that, by getting that LOI record submitted and signed to him (presumably to the intermediary's forward transmission of it into the assumed"seller" of this merchandise ), the intermediary himself and NOT always the supposed provider or vendor - will have fast"cornered and boxed in" the potential buyer and procured his devotion to the intermediary, even though not to the purchaser.

Many A moment, particularly in a situation involving a supposed vendor who's a counterfeit vendor or does not really possess any primitive in hand however, or a unscrupulous aspiring vendor's broker or agent who really hasn't obtained a primitive provider (vendor ) however, buyers might issue a supposed'seller' that an LOI simply to learn that there isn't any vendor on the opposite end. This occurs a good deal in scenarios in which you've got a hungry or overzealous broker or facilitator who's still trying hard to acquire a real provider, also by withdrawing this LOI in an unsuspecting purchaser, this facilitator will devote the buyer to the broker or facilitator just for him to begin hustling to locate a seller or provider.

C. SECOND BASIC WAY IN WHICH SOME MISGUIDED BROKERS & AGENTS CONSTITUTE THE MAIN OBSTACLE

There Is another fundamental significant way where the new job of the overzealous, misguided Internet agent or broker as a hurdle to successfully conducting business, often manifests itself. And that's the pernicious effects frequently caused by the occurrence of the lengthy run or series of agents, brokers, and middlemen frequently involved with the procedure, with a lot of them undercutting each other.

Many a time, the provides Presented through an intermediary to get an oil deal, could include a long chain after a second of a lot of men and women who go by different names, for example"broker,""mandate,""agent,""facilitator." However, what's worst, is that, partially as a consequence of the virtual absence of any goal requirements for eligibility for wearing the mantle of being a"broker," or"agent" or"middleman" in the transaction now, and also the ease of entrance to Internet trading, for example Internet intermediaries generally often work in a climate of small or no guidelines or criteria whatsoever and of no or loose integrity, where the"dog eat dog" mentality appear to prevail - a climate where every agent, broker, or support, being just selfishly concerned with only his personal profits and self-interest, is always attempting to undercut and fortify another in deals. Therefore, frequently resulting in the eventual detriment of ALL the parties included with an offer, as ALL of these as a whole, rather than only 1 party or another, always end up the winners because NO bargain whatsoever is needed with any purchaser.

To Be Certain, the problem of an intermediary Possibly being"circumvented" by another, or with a leader, is a valid problem entirely worthy of concern and focus by any means involved with a trading bargain, more notably in a oil deal that's an industry that's very notorious for being a hotbed of daily dreamers and unscrupulous gold diggers that aren't particularly noted for their excellent integrity, higher instruction or schooling, or fantastic personality. Absolutely and so! On the other hand, the fundamental point to be made here is that valid concern about potential circumvention shouldn't always be permitted, but to degenerate into obsessive paranoia which should cripple producing all advancement in a bargain, which there is, really, a more appropriate and effectual way and approach by which all-important'circumvention' problem could be addressed and could almost eliminate the potential for circumvention of any intermediary at a offer.

For Our current purposes here, what's pertinent to notice is that the characteristic phenomenon of having a lengthy chain of many individuals as intermediaries at a bargain, every egotistical, distrusting and suspicious of another and reluctant to collaborate and return desired information to another, frequently presents deep and insurmountable difficulty, basically producing the intermediary, himself, the significant barrier and barrier to exercising a deal or final one. Principally, if such occurrence rears its unfortunate mind at a bargain, it seriously slows down the supply of data, or perhaps brings it into a complete block, thus completely ineffective and ending any chances of getting any offer. What's more, the matter of'commission fee splitting' arrangement grows more extreme and furiously controversial in these scenarios, because the majority of the intermediaries from the chains, gripped with fear, selfishness, frustration and private greed, tussle within the matter of that group takes just how much or what share of their literary"commission" - a commission that is, at the first place, only a figment of everyone's imagination at the stage because nothing is to be, and nothing can, in reality, everbe at the conclusion, after all that bare sound and hype is completed!

This Type of situation would occur even if, and where, a Deal appears genuine and promising and complete with all of the components of being possibly profitable. Therefore, a valid buyer may require a merchandise and need the agent or broker who brought him the bargain to present certain vital info, or to authenticate it. But since the purchaser, or the intermediary, needs to go through a very long chain of several hands before he can find the required data - a difficulty that, incidentally, a trained, seasoned and self explanatory intermediary could easily fix by setting up a'step back' arrangement - it shortly makes the bargain unable to proceed forward and the purchaser to eliminate trust, or destroys trust one of the prosecution and the intermediaries involved with the agreement, thus effectively killing the offer.

D. OTHER BASIC WAYS IN WHICH SOME MISGUIDED BROKERS & AGENTS CONSTITUTE THE MAIN OBSTACLE

Additional Basic ways that the new job of the overzealous, misguided Internet agent or broker as a hurdle to successfully performing business, often manifests itself, would incorporate the following:

1. Display of Unverified Material with No Due Diligence

This Is one of the most infamous hallmarks of this'joker broker' class agents and brokers who generally operate on the Internet now - they typically present provides,'SPA' contracts, and'deals' that lack any VERIFICATION at all, or one upon which any DUE DILIGENCE was completed because of their validity, genuineness or inherent value or worth, if any at all. Thus, since these intermediaries can send hundreds, even tens of thousands of email offers concurrently to a number of traders, with almost none confirmed or perhaps verifiable, one big outcome of this is that, at the aforementioned words of one specialist,"Suppliers can't be bothered to reply to dubious purchase offers or requests for quotes. Similarly, the end buyers won't reply to equally stupid offers." And thus, causing a failed marketplace, with no prices generally shut by the majority of intermediaries, nor some commission income being got by any!

2. Deficiency of Knowledge of Product:

Often, The intermediary who comes offering a'deal' or pose a'SPA' Contract type, woefully lacks some working understanding of the oil product or market he (or she) purports to be selling - things like the normal excellent specification of this item, or its current cost in the world market, the manufacturing capability of crude for a nation, and the like (not to talk, obviously, of getting knowledge of the correct methodology, principles or processes of their business). Certainly, how do you promote a product that you knows nothing about? Many times, the stark ignorance of this intermediary is shortly exposed when this intermediary gets requested certain fundamental, basic questions from the curious buyer or his representative as well as the volatility comes back, typically after a few days of inaction, with something such as,'I've sent your questions to my seller, and I'm waiting to get seller's reply'!

Or, worse Still, a purchaser whose curiosity about an offer may have become triggered in The deal, may put a telephone call to the intermediary needing to Ascertain if he's knowledgeable about particular facets or details of this Product or provide the intermediary purports to advertise as it is Been proven an experienced dealer might find a reasonable assessment Of the seriousness or genuineness of a provider or the deal he is Peddling by simply'feeling the pulse' of the provider or his supposed Representative via a mere phone conversation. But being The ordinary Internet intermediary often lacks the requisite Understanding of the oil product he wants to advertise (not to Talk of comprehension of the principles and processes of the world of Global commerce, usually ), much more frequently than not, the Intermediary losses the chance to cultivate the vital confidence and Credibility factor together with the purchaser through mere presentation of Understanding of the item or offer that he purports to advertise. To get more detail click 할인 코드