#or maybe the setting is just too unseemly for her taste | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rocorambles · 3 years

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Know Your Place

Pairing: Naoya x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Misogyny, Abuse, Rape/Non-Con, Humiliation, Degradation, Feet Stepping

Summary: You should have known better than to believe that Toji could protect you from the Zenin forever. Once a Zenin woman, always a Zenin woman and Naoya intends to make sure you fully understand that.

Growing up as a female in the Zenin clan means you’re always expected to serve, to look beautiful. Never speak unless requested to. Never look any of the men in the eyes. Obey. Be submissive and demure.

There are thousands of rules and dozens of leering eyes ready to punish you for a single minor infraction. So as much as you hate the life you’ve been born into, you know better than to act out and bring attention to yourself, knowing full well especially now as an adult woman that the price of transgressions are too high to pay.

You’d be incredibly fortunate for the usual heavy backhands Naobito and Ogi Zenin would grace your face with when you were still a minor, for the cruel condescending words Naoya would sneer at you. Those were child’s play compared to what’s in store for you now and you shudder when you remember the images of fellow female servants who had attempted to escape only to be easily captured, clothes stripped and body laid bare for the entire clan to see. You remember the fear that would make you tremble as the men howled in laughter and jeers as they took turns smacking their victim’s ass, pawing and groping her body. You remember sobbing when you were forced to watch as fists, cocks, objects that you thought were far too large were shoved between flailing legs.

But nothing keeps you in line more than the cold dread you’d feel heavy in your chest when you’d be forced to clean out the room of one of your ex-maids, preparing the room for the next poor soul born into a never ending life of servitude. As much as you hate this life, it’s still better than being tied up and forced to be nothing more than a Zenin sex doll, used by every man in the clan until there’s nothing left but an empty husk of skin.

So you keep your head down, ignoring the cruel words and predatory gazes that follow you. You enjoy the few moments you have in the servant quarters alone with your fellow maids, giggling and whispering to each other, pretending that you’re just normal women. Those friendships you form warm your heart and you take solace in the sympathetic glances and warm brief squeezes of hands when a Zenin man is particularly harsh in their treatment of you.

Maybe that’s why you can’t keep your body still when the woman who shares the same room as you accidentally spills hot tea all over Zenin Toji. And despite how terrified you are of Toji’s hulking figure and blood-stained reputation, you throw your body in between him and your friend, creating a feeble physical shield for her from his wrath.

A part of you is together enough to vaguely acknowledge how strange it is that Toji hasn’t roared a single word yet, hasn’t laid a hand on you. But you’re not foolish enough to think this is over and you throw yourself to the floor in a degrading groveling bow, begging him to forgive your friend, to have mercy on the both of you.

You know exactly who Zenin Toji is and you prepare yourself for the feeling of his infamous sword slicing through your neck. What you aren’t prepared for is the way he lets out a boisterous laugh, green eyes glimmering in amusement when he sees the bewildered look on your face as you tentatively peek up at him.

“You’ve got guts. Tell you what. I’ll forgive you and your clumsy friend if you become my personal maid. Deal?”

It’s a rhetorical question and you stiffly nod your head, tears forming in your eyes as you imagine the rest of your life chained to Toji’s bed, stuck in the lair of a beast.

Except your life isn’t anything like you had imagined and you’re stunned when Toji barks at you to go retire to your own room and get some rest so you’re ready to keep up with tomorrow.

Life is...surprisingly normal. Well as normal as it can be in the household of one of the top Jujutsu sorcerer clans in the world. You scowl at Toji as he teasingly throws a pile of sweat stained clothes and towels on top of your head as he walks out of the bath.

“You’re getting a little stronger, little lady. I almost even felt the punch you threw at me in training today.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the slight quirk of your lips and swell of pride at his backhanded compliment.

Toji isn’t anything like the rest of his clan and it goes deeper than just his lack of cursed energy or his supernatural strength. He’s kind. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but you genuinely believe he has a good heart. Not once has he ever spoken maliciously to you. Not once has he ever laid a hand even borderline inappropriate or suggestive on you. And sure, you don’t necessarily enjoy doing his dirty laundry, cleaning his room, and making his bed every day and night, but he makes it easy to forget that you’re just a lowly maid.

He talks to you as if you’re his equal, carefully listening to you, acknowledging your points (even if he mocks you when you do say something silly or that he disagrees with). He invites you to eat meals with him. He trains you deeming you too wimpy to last long without at least some basic defense skills. Your time with Toji is one of the few moments of happiness you know and you greedily indulge.

But unknown to you, your new proximity to the black wolf of the Zenin clan has more than one eye looking at you in interest and above all, Zenin Naoya can’t stop fixating on you.

Naoya has always had a strange mix of respect, disdain, and jealousy towards the older man and he can’t help himself from wanting what Toji has, especially when the both of you look so irritatingly happy chattering away with each other as if you have no cares in the world. How dare a lowly Zenin servant look so carefree. How dare curse-less Toji make a mockery of the rest of the clan by living a shame-free life despite how hard they try to humiliate him for it.

Has Naoya ever been happy? Ever been relaxed?

He can’t remember ever laughing as hard as Toji is now in response to something you’ve said or done. He can’t remember smiling so freely like you are as you playfully slap Toji and try to get him to stop teasing you. A green eyed monster slithers inside of him and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s making his way towards the both of you.

“Aren’t you two as unseemly as usual. I know you don’t care for our clan’s reputation or rules, but really? Parading your slut around so shamelessly? That’s a new low even for you.”

It’s adorable how you scurry away, cowering behind Toji’s broad figure, fear written all over your face. And although Naoya had done this to get under Toji’s skin, he can’t help but wish the older man would storm off and leave you behind in his clutches. He wonders if you’d be this scared and docile underneath him, wonders how tight you’d be while you tremble in fear while he sinks inside of you…

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted as Toji snorts, slinging a muscular arm over your shoulder and dragging you off with him, subtly tucking you safely into his side and away from Naoya’s hungry gaze.

Usually being ignored and dismissed would rile him up more, but as he watches the two of you amble away and sees your innocent and confused face, unsure what had just happened and what’s causing Toji’s strangely touchy behavior, his appetite is whetted and you’re what he’s craving.

What he hadn’t accounted for is how protective Toji is of you. So strange for a man who doesn’t seem to care about anyone except himself. But Naoya supposes that’s just a testament for how good you must be in bed. He can’t think of any other reason why Toji would waste his time and efforts on an insignificant woman like you.

You’re never left alone long enough for him to corner. Just when he sees you by yourself and swoops in to shove you in a spare room, Toji suddenly looms beside you, green eyes sternly pinning Naoya down with a warning. And as much as Naoya would love to rise to the challenge, he knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against Toji, so he slinks away in defeat, again and again.

It only makes him want you more and he grits his teeth as he slams into one of the whores in his bed who vaguely reminded him of you if he squints in just the right way.

He supposes he should be more remorseful as the news of Toji’s death spreads like wildfire through the Zenin household. But all he can see is a light at the end of the tunnel. It takes every last bit of restraint in him not to immediately hunt you down and devour you, but he bides his time. After all the teasing and taunting you’ve put him through just one taste isn’t going to satisfy him anymore.

No, he won’t just ruin you and throw you away after a single night. He plans on dragging this out, using you, tasting you until it fully sinks in that this is all you’re good for, that he owns every part of you inside and out.

His cock twitches at your swollen face covered in salty tear streaks. You look so pathetic, so scared when he takes his time strolling into your room, kicking your roommate out and locking the door behind him. It’s just the two of you and he feels the rush of power thrumming through his veins at how you tremble and cower before him. If only you were naked and not in those dreary mourning clothes…

But he has ample time for that and he wants to enjoy corrupting you, take his time watching your downfall.

“You’re my maid starting now.”

You mutely nod, but make no move and Naoya scoffs.

“I know Toji was soft with you, but let me set expectations straight. I’m nothing like him. Now get moving.”

“But this is my room-”

You yelp in fright as Naoya’s hand grips the front of your shirt and hauls your body until you’re forced to press against his body, feeling his breath against your face as he sneers at you.

“Sluts don’t get the luxury of their own room or bed. Toji spoiled you. Now move your stuff to my quarters. The only place you’ll be sleeping from now on is my floor or my bed. Understood?”

It’s a rhetorical question and all you can do is crumple to the ground when he lets go, staring unseeingly at Naoya’s retreating back as he exits your room, the weight of your new reality crashing down on you.

Sleeping on the floor is humiliating and uncomfortable. Naoya makes it a point to “accidentally” step on you when he gets on and off the bed, rudely nudging you awake with his feet, resting his soles on your face until you’re flailing around to breathe. But it isn’t as bad as wondering when the worst is to come.

At least you’re clothed. At least your innocence is still intact. So as much as you feel like nothing more than a dog, you take it. After all, your new life isn’t so different from your life before Toji aside from your new sleeping arrangements and the headache of being in close proximity to Zenin Naoya.

It’s entertaining enough in the beginning, watching you curl up on the floor like an obedient puppy, admiring how you never talk or lash out when he literally walks all over you. He even buys you a pretty new collar with his name engraved on it linked to a leash he holds in his hand or leaves tied to his bed.

But unlike a real pet you never warm up to him, always looking at him warily, body tense and nervous in his presence. Not once do you look at him with even the slightest hint of affection or fondness you used to stare at Toji with. He supposes that can’t be helped and he doesn’t care for anything disgusting like your love. But you don’t even seem remotely attracted to him as a man and that’s something his ego won’t allow for.

He knows women can’t stand his attitude. But he also knows that at their base, all women are sluts easily swayed by his good looks. He can’t even count the number of women who’ve insulted him to his face only to end up in his bed, moaning and screaming his name and their love for his cock.

You were supposed to be no different. But your continued disinterest in him infuriates him to the point where petty humiliation isn’t enough to sate his hurt pride.

“Strip and get in bed.”

You’re frozen stiff and he sneers at you while you’re on the verge of terrified tears.

“What? I’m not good enough for you? Don’t act like you aren’t used to this. I’m sure your old master had you warming his bed all the time-”

“Toji would never!”

Even he’s stunned by the weight of his backhand hit as it makes contact with your face, by the venom in his voice as he spits out his next words.

“Don’t you ever say that name in my presence again.”

He takes a few seconds to calm his breath, the crimson of the blood trickling from your nose grounding him as he finds his center once more. But then a thought crosses his mind as that red river finds its way to your lips.

“As punishment, let’s make sure you know what your mouth’s purpose is from now on. Words are wasted on a dumb whore like you anyway. Kneel and open wide.”

It’s oddly arousing watching your tears and blood stream down your face as you choke on his cock. Your efforts are half-hearted at best, but he doesn’t mind. Not when the instinctual way your throat flutters around him as he roughly thrusts his hips into your tight mouth suffices. He can see why Toji kept you around and he groans as his hand slips behind your head and pushes you until your face is squished against his abdomen.

Your mouth feels amazing and your muffled screams for air only add to the vibrations around his shaft. It’s enough to have him spilling down your throat and he keeps you tightly pressed against him, forcing you to drink every last drop he gifts you with. And only when your throat finally stops its forced swallowing does he release you, leering down at your pitiful form heaving for breath.

The bitter taste of his seed is all you can taste, all you can focus on as you greedily inhale much needed oxygen. You pray that he’s done, but you whimper when a strong hand easily pulls you up and begins to pull off your clothing. Instinctively you try to push the invasive appendages away from you, but you freeze at Naoya’s growled threat.

“Don’t make me hurt you any more than I have to.”

You know it’s not an empty threat. You’ve seen the quite literally broken bodies of women who had resisted too much against the Zenin men, against Naoya specifically. So you limply drop your arms to your side and stay still as he humiliatingly gropes and examines you like merchandise.

All you can do is clench your eyes shut as Naoya’s hands grab your breasts, kneading and weighing them in his hands, cruelly prodding and pinching your nipples to see your reactions. All you can do is bite back a muffled yelp when he forces you onto your knees and forearms on the bed, squeezing and smacking your ass, spreading apart your cheeks to closely look at your fluttering holes. All you can do is cry into the sheets as he fingers you open, breaching both untouched openings, his thick digits stretching your tight walls apart and taking their time to thoroughly defile you, using your own slick to loosen your ass.

You try to disassociate, try to imagine that this is just a medical examination. But your fantasies are shattered when something hard and thick slaps against your inner thigh as Naoya rearranges himself behind you, rubbing the head of his cock back and forth against your dripping entrance, coating his shaft with your juices.

“Naoya! Sir, please. I’ve never...You can’t-”

Your pleas are cut short as his hand painfully strikes your ass.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re ruining the mood with your sniveling voice. Remember what I taught you? Sluts don’t get to speak freely. They only get to moan and thank their masters.”

You don’t even know if you can speak even if you wanted to, not when his cock is forced into you in one go, the thick and lengthy shaft ruthlessly tearing you apart. It fills you, stuffing you full, and you don’t think there’s even room left in your body for words. The only thing you can release is a strangled scream, eyes and mouth blown wide open, fingers clawing at the sheets as you try to remotely ground yourself as the foreign sensation overwhelms you.

But Naoya has never been a patient man and there’s a certain sense of entertainment from watching you struggle and writhe underneath him. He begins a relentless pace before you can adjust to the feeling of him inside of you, hips slamming in and out of you, heavy balls bouncing against you.

You’re so tight, so hot, so wet and he can feel a rush of power from the confusion he begins to see setting on your face as forced pleasure begins to mix in with your fear and pain. Moans and high-pitched keens are finding their way in between distressed cries and he smirks at the way your eyes begin to roll back in your head, the way your hips begin to meet him halfway, greedily pushing back against him when he teasingly slows down his pace.

He laughs at the humiliation and embarrassment running rampant on your face when you whine as he abruptly stops

“Wow you really are a slut. You fucking love my cock, don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes as you adamantly shake your head in denial, bored by your playing hard to get act. But as he admires the way your pussy lips obscenely envelop his cock, your pretty puckered hole beckons to him.

“You’re fucking filthy, clamping down on me like a bitch in heat from just a thumb in your ass. You like that? Like having all your holes filled? Maybe when I break you in, I’ll share you with the rest of the clan. Bet you’d love that. Love having cocks in every hole, using every inch of you.”

Your orgasm takes the both of you by surprise in its speed and intensity and Naoya howls in laughter as he resumes fucking you, chasing his own high with his thumb still lodged in your ass, groaning in pleasure at how he can feel the tremors of your orgasm, the way your body convulses in the aftershocks of pleasure and onset of overstimulation.

You’re breathtaking like this, fucked silly, delirious, just a warm body and toy for him to do with as he pleases and it doesn’t take long for him to join you over the edge and add to the sticky mess already inside of you.

With a lewd pop he retracts his thumb from your now lewdly fluttering hole, shoving it into your mouth for you to clean and he smiles at how mindlessly obedient you are as you suck and lick the digit clean like it's your favorite lollipop.

You grimace when he finally pulls out, already feeling his cum beginning to leak out of you and you try and find the strength in your trembling and used body to push yourself off the bed. It’s time to retreat with your tail between your legs and you want nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening in the shower, harshly scrubbing every evidence of your utter defeat and conquest under boiling hot water.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You open your mouth to speak, only to quickly clamp it back shut, remembering how your words only seemed to dig you deeper and deeper into trouble.

“You’re going to wash me and yourself and once we’re clean, you’re going to remain naked and in my bed until I’m ready to use you again. Think of it as a promotion. No more worrying your stupid little head about cleaning and laundry anymore. You’re being upgraded to my personal sex slave and bed warmer. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

You wonder if this is what it feels like to walk the plank, to approach your own death sentence as you robotically trail after Naoya’s figure towards his lavish bathroom. And as you lay in his bed that night, pristine and bare like a glorified sex doll, his broad arm possessively slung around your waist and forcing your bodies to mold together, you bid farewell to your past life, dreading what the future has in store for you.

#jujutsu kaisen smut #yandere jujutsu kaisen #naoya x reader #naoya smut #yandere naoya #tw: noncon #tw: abuse

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everlarkficexchange · 3 years

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How Katniss Everdeen Got Her Groove Back

Author: @hutchhitched

Prompt 34: Modern AU where a forty year old Katniss has shut herself off from the world from fear of getting hurt. After her sister dies she realizes how isolated she is and now wants to open herself up to love, but hasn’t a clue where to begin. Everlark HEA - the details of how they meet and what Peeta’s been up to are entirely up to you. :) [submitted by anonymous]

Ratings/Warnings: E

The room’s dark. There’s only one small lamp burning in the corner, but that makes the single candle in the cupcake brighter than it would have been if the entire area were lit. It’s a somber celebration, but that doesn’t make much difference. It’s as it should be.

“Happy birthday, dear Katniss… Happy birthday to you.”

As the last note fades into silence, Katniss whispers a birthday wish and blows out the candle.

“Happy birthday to me,” she mumbles. She’s alone and tired and feeling older than she thought she could. In the grand scheme of things, forty isn’t that many years, but the difference between her fourth and fifth decades seems like lightyears. She’s halfway (or more) through life, and she’s hiding from it.

No one could really blame her for running—not with the experiences she’s faced. Her father gone as a young man leaving Katniss, her mother, and her younger sister Prim alone with practically no income and empty stomachs that gnawed at her insides for months as she fell asleep. Her mother falling into addiction to anti-depressants and opiates leaving Katniss to keep the household together so she and Prim wouldn’t be taken by child services and separated. Her beloved sister gone in a house fire that ripped through the apartment building where she’d stayed while enrolled in med school in a neighboring state. That’s enough tragedy for any one person, and that doesn’t even count her own pain and disappointments during the past forty years.

She’s suffered plenty of both. There’ve been days when she has no idea how she continues to function, but she puts one foot in front of the other repeatedly, doggedly, hoping against hope that something will go right for her. The odds should be in her favor, but they never seem to be. Instead, she watches as the world goes by and wonders if she’s brave enough to step back into society and join the rest of the living. She’s been in mourning for long enough.

Forty. It’s a scary number, but it’s also a little motivating. With a shake of her head, she decides. It’s time. Prim would want her to be happy. She’d be furious at the way Katniss has shut herself off from everyone in order to protect herself. If there’s anything that can drive her out of her shell, it’s thinking about the disappointment that would shine in her sister’s eyes if she were still alive.

“It’s time to rejoin the living, Everdeen.”

Her voice is small as it echoes in her empty apartment, but that’s not the intimidating part. What’s terrifying is that she has absolutely no idea how to get back out there. It’s been almost a decade since she bothered, and she can’t help wondering if maybe she’s waited too long. It’s possible there’s an expiration date, and she’s past it.

It’s late, and she’s tired. Heaving a sigh, she heads to her new bedroom and plugs in the airbed to blow it up. Her belongings won’t arrive for another few days, and the thought of sleeping on the hard floor is the reason for her last minute purchase at the local department store. Shaking out freshly laundered sheets as she retrieves them from the dryer, she inhales the clean scent and tucks the corners onto the air mattress. A pillow and blanket that made the cut when she purged her possessions before her interstate move provides a tiny hint of home. Flicking off the overhead light, she closes her eyes and drifts into sleep. She counts the fact that she only wakes from nightmares three times as a win.

****

“I like that there,” she mutters to herself as she adjusts the picture on the shelf to the left of her television. It’s her favorite of the ones she and Prim took together before her sister started med school.

They’d been so happy, arms wrapped around each other and a rare smile gracing her own lips. As it always had, Prim’s grin stretches across her face, and her blue eyes snap with excitement in the image. She deserved so much better than to become a human torch because someone was stupid enough to not know how to douse a grease fire. The senselessness of it all hits Katniss again. Someone cooked dinner, and that act killed her sister. Prim, who only wanted to heal people, died because an idiot didn’t know how to make bacon and then tried to douse the flames with water.

A knock sounds at her door and shakes her out of her reverie. She isn’t expecting anyone, but a second knock convinces her she shouldn’t ignore it. It could be her landlord, and the last thing she wants is a grumpy Haymitch Abernathy yelling at her because she’s inadvertently broken some rule she doesn’t even know exists in the first place. Tossing her braid over her left shoulder, she crosses her apartment and answers the door.

“Can I help you?”

She’s surprised she can get the words out of her mouth. The man standing there definitely isn’t her landlord, and he’s not old, grumpy, or drunk like Haymitch obviously has been every time she’s seen him. The guy standing in front of her must be about her age, maybe a few years younger, and he has shockingly blue eyes which remind her of her sister’s, as well as the same ashy blonde hair that falls in a shock of curls over his forehead. She has the sudden urge to reach up and push them back, but she keeps her hands at her sides. It would be exceptionally inappropriate to grope a total stranger, even if he is standing in her doorway with a smile and a paper bag that smells something like heaven.

“I’m Peeta. Peeta Mellark. Your next door neighbor. I brought you some pastries.”

“Pasties?” She squeaks out the word and immediately wants to smack herself. She sounds a little like a mouse, while his voice makes her insides vibrate. Also, what did she just say?

Peeta does a double take before bursting into laughter. “Pastries, not pasties. I’m not into that— Well, I mean…uh… I mean, I could be, but not the first time I meet a woman.”

His face is bright red, but hers feels like it’s flaming. She can’t believe she said that and crosses her arms unconsciously to cover her breasts before uncrossing them just as quickly. She’s not sure which is worse at drawing attention to the fact that she has nipples that pasties would cover, and… Hell, she’s spiraling.

“I’m sorry,” she babbles. “That was unseemly.”

“It’s fine. Hilarious, actually.” He grins and gives her a onceover, which makes her blush even harder.

“Well, pastries make way more sense and smell a lot better. But, why?” She’s not sure if that sounds rude or not, but it’s better than what she’s already blurted.

“I’m a baker,” he offers in explanation. “Just a little welcome to the building, uh…?”

“Uh…?”

She can’t think. He’s staring at her, and it makes her extremely uncomfortable in a very peculiar way. She’s not able to name it, but there’s something bubbling below the surface. If she concentrates really hard, she could probably identify the feeling. However, that’s not an option when Baker Boy is standing there with a perplexed look.

“You are?”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. Just moved in. You probably already knew that. I, uh, thank you. This is great.”

“You’re welcome. Welcome to the building, Katniss, Katniss Everdeen. Let me know if you need anything. I always have eggs and sugar and more.”

“More?”

“Yeah. Think on it.”

With that, he disappears into his own apartment, and she’s left holding the bag. Literally.

In a trance, she crosses to her kitchen and sets the pastries down on the counter. Flustered, she pulls a bun out and sinks her teeth into a little bite of decadence that’s got to be illegal in all fifty states, Canada, Mexico, and half of Europe. It tastes so good it’s sinful. It’s doughy and filled with cheese, and she moans so loudly she wonders if he can hear her through their shared wall.

“Sweet Jesus,” she mumbles. “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time.”

She sits there with a grin on her face for a stupid amount of time before realizing she’s hungry for more, and it’s not necessarily baked goods she wants.

****

Katniss rounds the corner and smacks into a wall. With a loud oof and a screech, she flails in her attempt to stay upright and keep her groceries from falling around her. Just when she’s about to lose it all, strong arms grab her and pull her upright. Relieved, she looks up and falls into the blue pools of her neighbor’s eyes.

“Easy there,” he says with the hint of a smile. “Where’s the fire?”

She almost says, “In my pants.” She really does, but she’s made a fool out of herself enough with him already. She frees herself from his clutches and congratulates herself on remaining calm, and then she sees what he’s wearing. Which isn’t much.

“Holy hell,” she murmurs at the sight of sweat-soaked skin and form-fitting running shorts.

“Sorry. I just got back from a run.”

“I…yeah. I see that.”

She can see some other stuff, too, and it is impressive. She can’t stop looking at him. He’s absolutely gorgeous, and she’s just told herself a few days ago that she needs to get back out there and has no idea how. She did say that, and here he is. She doesn’t even have to leave her building to find an opportunity. There’s no way she’s this lucky.

“Can I help with those?” He nods at the bags she’s holding and reaches out to take the ones hanging from her wrists. He brushes her hand with his, and her insides sizzle.

“Sure.”

She’s going to seduce him. Or let him seduce her. Or get him drunk and take advantage of him. Or something.

Every single fiber in her body tingles. It feels like waking up after a decade long nap and feeling simultaneously ravenous and powerful beyond belief. As he follows her into her apartment, she scans the area and decides to just go for it. What’s the worst that can happen? Her neighbor hates her? Well, that would be terrible, but she can move. That’s how turned on she is by him. She’ll risk a broken lease.

“You can just put them there,” she says softly and runs her hand down his arm. He freezes and looks at her, and she stands her ground. Maybe she’s not thinking straight, but she wants him. Now.

“Katniss?”

She presses into him and trails a finger down her bare chest. She wipes a sweat droplet from his skin and bites her bottom lip.

“Yes, Peeta?”

“I’m not misreading this, am I?”

She wraps her arms around his neck and tips her head back. “No, I don’t think you are.”

“Fuuuuuuck,” he drawls.

Looking directly at him, she says, “I really hope so.”

“Oh, hell.”

His mouth captures hers in a searing kiss, and she turns off her brain. She has no intention of thinking, only feeling for the next however long. His tongue is in her mouth, her hands are on his ass, and his sweat dampens her clothes.

Peeta hoists her into the air and wraps her legs around his waist. He stumbles backward to deposit her on the edge of the countertop and rucks up her shirt to slide his hands along her waist. Frantic, she tugs at his waistband, indicating she’d prefer he lose the shorts, and he growls into her mouth when she slips them over his hips. She cups his backside, pulling him between her legs and moans against him.

“Please,” she gasps. “Fuck, please.”

He’s frenetic, all power and kinetic energy as he rolls her leggings down her thighs, baring her to him. When she bites his lower lip, he grunts and shoves his hands between her legs. He pushes inside her roughly, and she whimpers at his pace. His thumb’s on her clit, and his middle finger plunders her as their tongues tangle and dance together.

She’s got him in her hand, jerking and tugging as he swells in her palm. It’s a solid weight there, but she wants it inside her. She doesn’t have time to look. She’s too enthralled in what his lips are saying as they mate with hers.

Katniss tugs one of her feet free and yanks him to her with her legs. His shaft is hot against her slit. She begs for him with her hands and body, but he pulls back slightly to catch her gaze.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice ragged and broken. She nods frantically, and he moans in the back of his throat. “I’ll pull out. I promise.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

She’d agree to about anything as long as he gives it to her hard. Then he’s inside her, stretching her as she calls his name. He’s big enough that it’s uncomfortable at first, until her body adjusts to the intrusion and she’s aching for more. By the time she’s relaxed, he’s pumping into her with her name falling from his lips as he bites and licks at her jawline.

“Tug my hair,” she manages to instruct, and he yanks on her braid so hard her eyes water. It’s sexy as hell, and she grapples at his back in an attempt to pull him further inside her. He’s good at this, she realizes. Really good at it, and she thanks her lucky stars she’s the fortunate recipient of such a fantastic experience. He’s doing everything he can to make it good for her, and it really, really, really is.

What they’re doing is so messy, but she doesn’t care. She owns bleach and anti-bacterial cleaning supplies. She just purchased them, in fact, and she’s going to need all of them if the mess between her legs is any indication. She’s quickly losing control, fucking against him as hard as she can.

Skin slaps together, sweat pours off them both, and he nuzzles his face into her shirt. If they had more time, she’d take it off for him—maybe she’ll wear pasties next time just to blow his mind—but they’re careening toward a climax faster than she knows how to handle. She’s desperate for more friction, so eager that she rubs herself as his thrusts stutter and falter.

“I gotta pull out. I’m gonna— shit!”

He yanks free, and she catches the sight of him before her eyes roll back in her head. His skin is pink and glistening with moisture from her body. The first splash of his climax hits warm and wet on her leg, and she arches her back as waves roll through her. Her hand cramps as she contorts it. Her hips buck, and then she’s reaching for him. She clings as her body tenses and releases repeatedly.

When it’s over, she huffs several breaths before blinking open her eyes. Her t-shirt hem has fallen against her thigh, and it’s marked with his ejaculate, as is most of her thigh and stomach. He pants into her ear, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to let her go. That’s fine with her, although it surprises her how affectionate he’s being in the aftermath of a quickie in her kitchen.

“Katniss, that was—”

“Something we need to do again.”

“I think it gives new meaning to the phrase ‘welcome wagon.’”

“Because you want me to ride you next time?”

“Next time?” His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated as he realizes what she’s saying. “You want there to be a next time?”

“I’m not sure I want this one to be over.”

He flushes at her suggestion, but he’s a very helpful neighbor. Before he leaves to head back to his own apartment, he cleans up and then eats to his heart’s content. She’s pretty satiated from his visit, too.

#hutchhitched #prompt 34 #Springtime Edition 2021 #submission

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shards-of-divinity · 4 years

Text

"Bone-Weary" a WenZhou Word of Honor fic.

Summary: "A'Xu...Haven't you traded massages with a martial sibling after long hours of training or travel?"

Before he can stop himself Zhou Zishu takes his discarded sash and holds it up. “Blindfold yourself and you can do what you want to do.”

He watches Wen Kexing’s throat bob before he quickly rallies himself, flicking his fan out and cocking his head with a slow smile.

“So we’ve switched to this type of play? A’Xu, you continue to surprise me and I only want to know more. The last thing I want to do is over-tax you in your condition--”

Or, in which Wen Kexing takes care of Zhou Zishu after their impromptu swim.

(Find me here on AO3)

He forces himself not to shiver in the night air, energy depleted still from the toxin that lingers in his veins. Not for the first time, Zhou Zishu hates the nails that restrict his internal force and how long it's taking to bounce back even with the tincture he had on hand.

Pushing aside the thought, he tries to focus on his meal. The rabbit meat is stringy and burnt in places but still hot and Zhou Zishu forces himself not to eat too fast. Any food at this point would aid in rebuilding the energy he is expending to heal.

"A'Xu, you flatter me with your enthusiasm for my cooking!"

Zhou Zishu glances at Wen Kexing out of the corner of his eyes; hiding a huff of laughter at the slender fingers trying to make work of the ruined meat. As if he could feel Zhou Zishu staring, Wen Kexing's laughing eyes meet his and he leans in closer.

"If you had followed me back to my boat there would have been a much better meal for us."

"This is enough," Zhou Zishu says, ignoring the pout sent his way. How a grown man and (very likely) accomplished martial artist can look so pitiful and still have any face is beyond him.

"At least try to lie a bit better than that, A'Xu. One can only do so much with only this fire and no kitchen or spices. After the feast at Sanbai Manor--especially those delightful prawns--this is unseemly."

Zhou Zishu's face reddens slightly at the memory of Wen Kexing boldly placing the prawns on his plate as if they were close and anything other than reluctant travel partners. He takes another bite and hopes the firelight hides the color lingering in his cheeks.

"Surely with such a well trained and graceful form you're used to finer things than this poor meal. Your attempt at a disguise and demeanor can't hide the elegance in your every move, A'Xu."

Again with the excessive compliments! Zhou Zishu slowly lifts his head from his food and stares. Wen Kexing is watching him, chin propped on his hand again. Once again he wonders if the man is trying to throw him off balance, enjoys teasing him or…

Or.

The final option just isn't a possibility.

Before he can think of a reply, a cough forces its way out of Zhou Zishu and the food tumbles from his hand to the ground.

"Zhou Xu!"

As he's wracked with a coughing fit, suddenly all of his senses are invaded with Wen Kexing. His vision is full of the man's robes, he's surrounded by the scent of the river and wet hair and clothing, those things covering the faded smell of hair oils and tonics. The other man's warmth feels almost smothering as he leans in to try to steady Zhou Zishu through his coughing fit. He braces his hands on Wen Kexing's forearms, meaning to push him away but gripping tightly as he coughs harder.

Zhou Zishu forces himself upright and folds his body into a lotus pose, closing watering eyes. A second later Wen Kexing's energy flows into him and bolsters his own and Zhou Zishu ignores how compatible it feels.

"Will you follow me back to the boat now?" Wen Kexing is leaning over his shoulder too close in his ear and Zhou Zishu pulls away with a sigh. "You can't hide the way you're hunched into yourself and hurting; not from me."

"Of course, my form is so distracting to you I'm sure you've studied and memorized my every move, Lao Wen," Zhou Zishu quips back between more coughing, and there's a moment of silence between them.

"A'Xu you are shivering, soaked to the bone from our impromptu swim, and lacking energy. Please see reason?"

Zhou Zishu takes in a deep breath and turns to fully face Wen Kexing. "Who is partially to blame for my condition, Lao Wen?"

Wen Kexing sighs loudly. "Alright, alright. Let me make it up to you? On. The. Boat."

It's bone-deep weariness that finally forces Zhou Zishu to give in. In the nearly three years since he's left he's used to sleeping outdoors or in other uncomfortable places, but the excitement of his condition and last few days demand a proper rest.

He finds himself settled at a low table, a flavorful spread in front of him with heated wine. The two maids smile and sneak glances at him in curiosity as they bring more food. There's pea shoots with garlic, sweet sesame buns. Flavorful rice and tender white fish that is savory instead of overly bitter, and other foods placed before them. Zhou Zishu wonders again who exactly Wen Kexing is to just have such opulence at his fingertips, but doesn't hesitate to eat his fill as midnight creeps ever closer.

"So much better than charred rabbit, isn't it."

Wen Kexing pulls back his sleeve with extra flair as if they're at another banquet, serving Zhou Zishu first and then himself. Zhou Zishu tracks the movement, and feels the sudden (irrational) urge to bite at Wen Kexing's wrist.

There must have been something in the water, too, if Zhou Zishu can't control his thoughts.

"Who have you run into now, Master!"

Gu Xiang rises from below deck, bouncing forward; and settling herself between them both at the table. Zhou Zishu watches her face slacken in surprise while Wen Kexing smiles in amusement.

"Aiyah, it's you! Sick Dude!" She waves her finger in his face before rubbing at his cheek in wonder. "Master, you saw through the disguise and were right after all!"

Zhou Zishu leans back, smirking when Gu Xiang squawks loudly as her actions earn her a rap on the head from Wen Kexing's fan.

"Did you ever doubt me? You can see what I've always known, that A'Xu is truly a treasure."

Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes but smiles before returning to his meal. His thoughts drift between the clatter of his chopsticks against the plate, lulled by the savory food and energy of Xiang and Wen Kexing's bickering in the background.

It doesn't take long to finish the meal and round it off with fresh fruit and more wine and then Wen Kexing brings out his flute to play. The music slides smoothly from more refined pieces to local, jaunty tunes that might be more familiar in a tavern before finally returning to the Bodhi Meditation Song. Zhou Zishu watches Wen Kexing’s eyes flutter shut as he plays, and he only stops when Gu Xiang sighs and rests her elbows on the table.

“Will you only play when this dude is around?”

The music continues, only a slight curl of Wen Kexing’s lips showing acknowledgement of the question. Zhou Zishu listens a few moments longer before clearing his throat.

“You don’t need to play all night for me again, Lao Wen.”

The Bodhi Meditation Song finishes after repeating once more and the look Wen Kexing levels him with after makes Zhou Zishu’s mouth go dry. It’s too assessing before his face softens to a playful smile. “Maybe you’re right, A’Xu. I am a bit tired...let’s get settled and start out fresh tomorrow!”

...

Zhou Zishu lets himself be led below the deck where a large, yet cozy room awaits, a small desk with texts stacked neatly rests against the corner along with a room divider and a bed just large enough for two people sits at the opposite wall. Paintings cover another wall and the final holds a small window. He wonders again who exactly Wen Kexing is to have this much at hand yet pursue him so relentlessly, trailing his fingers along the finely crafted wood of the desk.

“Does my modest room meet your tastes?”

He stares as Wen Kexing rummages through a clothing chest and pulls out two sets of inner robes for sleeping. He turns and hands them out with a flourish to Zhou Zishu, who stares blankly.

“My robes are fine--”

“A’Xu, if you won’t change for your own self preservation at least have pity on my bedding. How rude to sleep in a clean bed with wet and travel-soiled clothing, not to mention the blood or did you forget so easily?” Wen Kexing is suddenly in his space again, hand on its way to his brow. “Are you running a fever?”

Zhou Zishu smacks the offending hand away, and then he and Wen Kexing are sparring again, Wen Kexing’s delighted smile growing when he twists to avoid knocking into his desk; advancing and forcing Zhou Zishu to avoid hitting the end of the bed. They come to a stop when Zhou Zishu wavers a bit and he finds himself gently but firmly pushed to sit on the low bed.

“Enough play; you need your rest if we are to continue tomorrow.”

“Who says I was playing,” he grumbles, hissing softly when pain flares down his back and the ever-present ache in his body from the nails in his chest. He watches Wen Kexing take the Glass Armor from his sleeve and produce a key, putting it inside of his desk before locking it inside.

“Alright, A’Xu. Let me take care of you. A massage imbued with internal energy should help ease your discomfort.”

Zhou Zishu pulls away when Wen Kexing tugs on his sleeve, schooling his face into something that isn’t shock. “That’s not really needed. You played the meditation song, I’ve eaten. I can sleep--”

“Come, A’Xu...Don’t you have a long journey ahead of you? Do you want your disciple to worry when he sees you in such a sorry state?”

His sleeve is pulled at again and Zhou Zishu peers into Wen Kexing’s face; taking in his wide eyes and open expression. There’s not a hint of teasing in sight.

"Haven't we shared multiple nights slumbering together under the stars? In a woodshed? Why be nervous now? Haven't you traded massages with a martial sibling after long hours of training or travel?"

Before he can stop himself Zhou Zishu takes his discarded sash and holds it up. “Blindfold yourself and you can do what you want to do.”

He watches Wen Kexing’s throat bob before he quickly rallies himself, flicking his fan out and cocking his head with a slow smile.

“So we’ve switched to this type of play? A’Xu, you continue to surprise me and I only want to know more. The last thing I want to do is over-tax you in your condition--”

Zhou Zishu’s head aches with how hard he rolls his eyes. “Will you do it or not?” he holds the sash up higher, watching Wen Kexing’s smile fade into a thoughtful look; setting down his fan and taking the sash from him.

“Despite what you think of me, I am a virtuous man. However, if it would ease you I’ll wear this."

While he doesn’t think Wen Kexing would truly violate his space, he still doesn’t want anyone who doesn’t need to see the evidence of the nails in his chest. It’s one of his most closely guarded secrets and he’s too tired for questions. He’s too tired to think of this massage as a poor idea, and leans against the wall to wait.

Wen Kexing brushes his hair over his shoulders before making quick work of putting on the impromptu blindfold. Once he’s situated, Zhou Zishu waves his hand in front of his face to make sure he truly cannot see before settling on the edge of the bed.

“Go ahead then, Lao Wen,” he murmurs, waiting and feeling oddly exposed somehow. There’s no reply and then hands come to rest lightly on his arms.

His robes are pulled down from his shoulders and pushed aside until they're pooled at his waist. Broad hands sweep along his shoulders before they begin to knead at the tense muscles, heated with internal energy and Zhou Zishu forces himself to not groan in relief. He allows himself to curl forward and Wen Kexing’s touch follows him.

There's no sound other than the light creaking of the boat and soft laughter and the clatter of dishes above them. Wen Kexing is--for once--blessedly silent, and Zhou Zishu glances over his shoulder to make sure the blindfold is still in place.

"Are you rendered speechless, Philanthropist Wen? No poetry or literature in honor of my flexibility or 'well-trained waist'?"

The hands pause on their journey, and Zhou Zishu can practically hear the smile he can't see. "I can be serious, and taking care of my A'Xu is an important task.”

Zhou Zishu settles again. He lets himself drift in the thumbs rubbing at his shoulders; Wen Kexing careful to avoid the injury and touch around it. His fingers digging into the right muscles in his biceps to help them loosen. His entire back is explored and given the same thorough treatment, even his arms; Wen Kexing learning in close enough that Zhou Zishu can hear him breathing steadily in his ear.

“‘...elegant and graceful is the lord; and fine match for the gentleman.’[1]--”

The soft words startle Zhou Zishu back into awareness. “I should have known better than to think you could stay quiet for longer than a half a dian[2]...”

A huff of laughter stirs the hair at the nape of Zhou Zishu’s neck and he suppresses a shiver. “You seemed disappointed that I didn’t compliment you earlier…” Wen Kexing’s fingers dig in deeper, the heat intensifying at the small of his back and Zhou Zishu feels restless; trying and failing to notice the new heat building in his belly and the need to arch back into that touch.

It’s been much too long if such a simple massage is drawing a reaction like this from him. He wonders what Wen Kexing would do if Zhou Zishu gave in to his body’s urges; turning around and pressing the man to the bed beneath him. Tangling his fingers in Wen Kexing’s hair and dragging that smiling mouth into a deep kiss. Rendering him breathless, but probably never silent. Would Wen Kexing battle him in his usual way for the upper hand or would he stretch out and take whatever Zhou Zishu gave him?

He thinks of pulling away his fine layers and seeing if the skin underneath is as pale yet strong as the wrist Wen Kexing flashed at him while pouring tea. If he’d laugh as much and smile while Zhou Zishu tasted the skin at his throat and trailed further downwards. He wonders what other tricks the man had hidden under the mask of elegance, and if his broad hands would take as much care exploring the rest of Zhou Zishu’s body.

Zhou Zishu’s thoughts cool down and turn to leaning back; letting his head fall onto Wen Kexing shoulder. How those soft lips would feel pressed to his own and of Wen Kexing’s hands coming forward to encircle him gently. When was the last time Zhou Zishu had been embraced by anyone? Much too long and the ache of loneliness pushes aside any unwanted arousal that he might have had.

“What are you thinking about?”

Zhou Zishu takes another breath, letting it out slowly. Wen Kexing’s hands have traveled during his errant thoughts, kneading back at his shoulders again. Zhou Zishu feels light, much better than he’s felt in months. The heat of Wen Kexing’s internal energy making him nearly boneless.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, and he hears Wen Kexing shuffle a bit behind him. “Thank you, Wen Kexing.”

“So formal when we’re like this,” Wen Kexing tsks, spending a bit more time before the energy fades until it’s barely warmer than the room around them. His fingers trail lightly down Zhou Zishu’s spine just to rile him up, and it breaks the moment. Zhou Zishu huffs and shifts forward to stand, but Wen Kexing follows; pulling his robes back up as carefully as he rolled them down.

“There, now we are done.”

Zhou Zishu stands and turns to look down at where Wen Kexing is seated perfectly; his robes settled around him as neatly as if they were at a banquet instead of in bed. His head tips back and a soft smile quirks his lips the longer Zhou Zishu stares.

“Unless you’d like more,” he laughs, reaching out and wiggling his fingers with a playful grin. “My martial siblings always said I had the most talented hands.”

Zhou Zishu shakes his head. “Boring.”

Wen Kexing’s delighted laughter rings around them. “Come now, A’Xu; laughter is also key to healing. Either way, may I remove this blindfold?”

“You’re finished aren’t you?” Zhou Zishu tosses over his shoulder, glancing back as Wen Kexing rises from the bed and removes the sash in one smooth movement. A pout overtakes the full lips and Wen Kexing is back to crowding into his space. “My sadness at not seeing more of your handsome form is soothed by the memory my hands will have of your soft skin and lovely shoulders.”

Wen Kexing tosses a lingering look over his shoulder before setting up the room divider to change and Zhou Zishu takes a deep, fortifying breath before undressing quickly.

“Come sleep, Zhou Xu,” Wen Kexing calls when they’re both dressed for bed, voice firm. Zhou Zishu steps closer and settles on the soft bed; sparing a look at Wen Kexing who looks softer than he’d think the man would in dove gray sleeping robes, hair braided over his shoulder and stretched out on his side.

“The floor would have sufficed.”

“Please, A’Xu. I would never let you sleep that way in my presence, and do you truly think I would sleep on the floor? You’re arguing just to be contrary! This bed is large enough after all and it’s for one night. Sleep.”

Zhou Zishu shakes his head but gets into the bed anyway. He glares half-heartedly at Wen Kexing’s smug smile, and rolls onto his good side; pulling the blanket over him. His skin prickles at the feeling of eyes watching him before the bed shifts and Wen Kexing rolls to face the other wall before settling down.

His last thoughts are of the piece of Glass Armor sitting in the locked drawer of Wen Kexing’s desk and the sound of the man’s slowing breathing behind him.

…

Zhou Zishu wakes feeling refreshed, blinking away half-remembered dreams of lips pressing against his shoulder and a soft smile before focusing on the soft light that stretches across the room and the gentle sway of the boat. Footsteps clatter above, likely the maids or Gu Xiang and Zhou Zishu bites back a groan as he arches his back in a long stretch. His energy feels more stable if not as strong as he wishes, and the lingering pain from both wounds is gone. He slowly drags his arm up and pushes the sleeve aside to see healed skin.

A soft sigh draws his gaze to Wen Kexing where he’s much closer than he was the night before, practically sharing Zhou Zishu’s body heat and pillow. The dawn light casts the other man in different shades of pinks and reds and Zhou Zishu is struck with the odd urge to capture him with the same reds as the flowers he painted in what feels like a lifetime ago.

He wonders about a different life, where he could completely let down his guard and confide in someone in waking hours instead of wishing while the world is asleep. A life where he is whole and able to reach out to trace the sleep-slackened face of a lover or train a smiling and eager disciple. To belong again in a place and not wander in guilt and feel a weariness down to his bones.

“I thought I was the shameless one. Here you are watching me sleep, A’Xu.”

“No one alive could match your levels of shamelessness,” Zhou Zishu quips back, his voice hoarse from sleep. He blinks, focusing on the indentations on Wen Kexing's cheek from the pillow instead of his lips.

Instead of deterring him, Wen Kexing rolls onto his side and props himself up so he’s looking down; eyes sweeping over Zhou Zishu’s thankfully blanket clad form.

“The only shame is I was denied the view of you waking. I keep missing it!”

He rolls onto his back, draping his arm over his eyes; secretly grateful for Wen Kexing waking when he did. Zhou Zishu has no right or reason to try to imagine a life that is impossible or including the man at all. Despite the short amount of time they’ve known Wen Kexing has invaded the cracks of his defenses, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it other than foolish and yet sad he’s not got enough time to see what might happen.

There's a sharp rap at the door and Zhou Zishu sits up quickly, pushing himself up from bed and moves until he’s halfway across the room. Gu Xiang opens it with a basin full of steaming water, not hiding her curiosity as she looks between him and Wen Kexing who is standing just behind him.

"A'Xiang, have you suddenly become so disciplined that you're bringing the bathing supplies so early in the morning? Are Yun Cai and Hong Lu still unwell?"

She sets the basin down and rises slowly.

"No, Master. They're well...but you did sleep longer than you usually do,” Gu Xiang says with raised eyebrows and Zhou Zishu huffs a laugh as Wen Kexing takes the basin from Gu Xiang, setting it down on the table before waving her out of the room

"How could you criticize such a dedicated servant, Lao Wen?” Zhou Zishu teases. “One who is also a cute young lady?"

"A'Xu. You hurt me...dropping so many sweet words to everyone else but me." Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes as Wen Kexing snaps his fan open and steps closer. "Besides, that 'cute young lady' is as nosy as any old grandmother."

"Maybe she's protective instead?" Zhou Zishu shrugs, turning away.

Wen Kexing hums. “‘Protective’? I think I’d enjoy whatever you’d have planned for me, Zhou Xu.”

That startles a true laugh out of him, and Zhou Zishu lets his head fall back in amusement. If only Wen Kexing knew. When he finishes laughing and turns around, Wen Kexing is watching him in a way he can’t read. Zhou Zishu would almost say conflicted and maybe even enthralled and Zhou Zishu shakes his head; setting up the room divider between them to break the charged energy in the room. Wen Kexing pushes it aside a second later.

"Not so fast, A'Xu," and Zhou Zishu steps back as Wen Kexing invades his space with a mountain of robes.

"How could you possibly continue in those old robes now that you are not wearing your disguise? I’ve got plenty more here for you to choose from." Wen Kexing begins to pile robes over his arm until the riot of colors makes Zhou Zishu dizzy.

"Alright, alright. At most I'll take these," he relents; grabbing plain robes in the softest blues, grays, and cream and turning around before Wen Kexing can do more. An irritated scoff meets his back and Zhou Zishu smirks, setting them down before putting the room divider back up.

He washes in the heated water quickly, ignoring the rustling of Wen Kexing doing the same. Zhou Zishu finishes his absolutions quickly, and emerges to see Wen Kexing standing there in deep turquoise and vibrant red.

"You look even more beauti--gallant, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing drawls, moving too close as usual and Zhou Zishu smirks back as the other man’s eyes linger.

“Here!"

He glances down at the wooden comb and guan in Wen Kexing’s hand, and takes them slowly. Their fingers touch briefly and Wen Kexing pulls away with a smile.

"Consider it a little gift."

"You're so generous, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu says, taking time to brush his hair quickly and secure it before pushing the door aside ascending the steps.

“It’s only fair after you gave me the privilege of touching your naked flesh in my bed last night, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing purrs, and Zhou Zishu shoves him aside at Gu Xiang’s wide eyes and laughter combined with the two maids who hide their smiles behind their sleeves.

“You--!”

“Won’t you stay for another meal before you leave?” Wen Kexing rolls over any reply Zhou Zishu might’ve had and his protest dies in his throat. He rolls his eyes, ignoring all of the eyes on him and shakes his head; taking in the sun’s placement in the sky. “It’s later than I want it to be; it’s best to start out now.

“I’ll see you off then!”

Zhou Zishu gives up trying to shake him off, instead handing the comb out to Wen Kexing. “Thanks for lending this to me...and everything else.”

Wen Kexing’s hand folds over his, thankfully the angle of his body blocking the gesture from being seen. “It’s rude to refuse a gift and someone’s hospitality,” he says waving his fan at Zhou Zishu like he would an unruly child. “As for the rest, I’ll always be willing to care for you, Zhou Xu.”

Zhou Zishu turns Wen Kexing’s words over in his head, the weight of them too much to analyze at the moment. He stares at their hands for a moment before stepping away. He shares a long look with Wen Kexing before offering him a small smile of thanks.

He puts the comb in his money pouch and tucks it into his sash before jumping onto the cool, morning air; Wen Kexing's fond laughter ringing behind him as they travel towards the shore.

#word of honor #shan he ling #tian ya ke #wenzhou #wen Kexing #zhou Zishu

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kajsa-writes-sometimes · 3 years

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Chp. II: Miss Amanda Pailey

The door closes behind her. A dejected sigh left her lips as she pulled the cloak closer around her shoulders. Apparently not a single soul in the entire city hadn't read about her recent fiasco. Mrs. Milligan had caught her up just as she was about to leave the house and told her that she shouldn't fear losing her job. They had always been very fond of her and what the critics wrote about her book wouldn't sway their opinion of her, but - here Mrs. Milligan made a point out of giving her hand a tight squeeze - Mr. Milligan didn't want his children to get any ideas so if she could avoid bringing her personal views into the tutoring of the siblings, they would appreciate it.

Angelina shook her head and brushed an imaginary dust pellet off her dress. She had promised not to bring up the content of her writings while under the Milligan's roof, and then Mrs. Milligan had sent her off with a big smile and a small purse containing her fee.

The Milligan siblings had been under her tutoring since the previous summer, and she had had the pleasure of teaching the little scoundrels the basics of the written language, algebra, and sewing (although the latter of the three was restricted to the sister).

The Milligans moved to the city less than a generation ago, and both the parents still bore a gruff air about them. Mr. Milligan's hands were still large and ruff from numerous hours of hard labor, and Mrs. Milligan lacked the refinement of someone who had been born into old money. For Angelina (and probably the rest of the world too) it was painfully clear that the Milligans were nothing but a good impersonation of a well-off family.

For Angelina it made little difference. In actuality, she had little opinion of her employer as long as they paid her fee on time, and didn't fire her out of fear for what being associated with her name might mean for the family's good name.

As she turned down a narrow street, the clocks struck six o'clock and she could have cursed herself had she had the breath to do so. When the first chime sounded, she spread up in the hopes that she might beat the nature of time. The fifth stroke resonated between the yellow brick houses as she turned into the stairway of her friend's pensionate.

"I'm terribly sorry I'm late," she gasped as soon as the door opened. "Mrs. Milligan insisted we talk just as I was about to leave!"

"Don't fret about it, Angie. If I didn't know you by now, I think we should reevaluate our friendship. We have, after all, known each other for eight years."

Miss Amanda Pailey pulled her into the tiny, but cozy rooms and helped her friend get out of the cape.

"I know, I know- you are right as always, my dear," Angelina said as she straightened her back.

As Amanda ordered her friend to take a seat on a light red shasilong, she pulled together a tray of sandwiches and hot pies she had bought just that afternoon. It had been almost half a month since the friends had seen eachother last and much had happened for them both.

As the two young ladies nibbled away on their dinner, they both took the opportunity to look over the other. Angelina thought her friend looked as if she was glowing: her hair looked healthier and there was only the shadow of sleeplessness in her face. Amanda on the other hand couldn't help but notice how her friend's dress seemed almost half a size too big for her frame, and how her cheekbones stood out even clearer than they should.

"Please tell me you are eating probably," Amanda said as she lifted another pie onto her friend's plate.

"Always so worried about me. I'm eating all I can."

"Don't forget I know you well, and eating all you can is definitely not the same as eating enough."

Angelina avoided her friend's gaze as she took another bite of the pie. A sweet taste filled her mouth, and a soft moan escaped her against her will.

"Is it honey glazed pork with mashed potatoes?" she asked her friend.

"Well, at that price I wouldn't trust it being pork, but yes. I got an extra in the bag, and you are taking it home."

"I couldn't possibly-" Angelina started, but she was cut off.

"And I won't take no for an answer. I'm getting married in three months and I wouldn't want my bridesmaid to look like a walking corpse now, would I?"

Happy for the easy escape, Angelina grabbed the mention of her friend's wedding to guide the attention away from herself.

"So how is it going with your Mr. Harrington?"

"We've found a church with a kind, young priest who is willing to wed us. It's just down Almond Street. You must have seen it when you go round that way. I admit it looks rather dull from the outside, but the vicar has set a date and promised that the organist will play what we ask of him as long as it's nothing unseemly."

"Have you thought about where you are going to live after the ceremony? I doubt Mr. Harrington would be welcome here," Angelina asked.

"We haven't yet, but Pete is looking for pensinates that we can afford that will let us live together." Amanda sent her friend a small smile laden with all the sadness that her friend newingered just beneath the surface.

"You'll find something, I promise," she said, but both women were well aware that she was in no position to uphold her promise.

"Now we are on the topic of the future, how is your novel coming along?"

Amanda rose from her place and took the tray out. Angelina turned her head and rested an arm on the back of the chaiselong so she could watch her friend prepare a pot of tea.

They were a few years apart, but in the eight years their friendship had lasted, it had never been a problem. In all honesty there really wasn't that much of a difference between being twenty one and twenty three years old.

The greatest difference was the fact that Amanda had been engaged to Mr. Pete Harrington for the last three and a half year, and that Angelina had only ever had the irregular fling and known the fleeting butterflies of a summer's love. Angelina knew that if Amanda had had any say in the matter, they would have been happily married a long time ago, but her aunt had insisted the young man who had claimed the heart of her niece prove that he would be able to provide for his wife before they entered wedlock.

Three years later Mr. Pete Harrington had a job that had in prestige what it lacked in excitement. After having worked at an office in town for half a year and a half, Mr. Harrington had been hired by the University. A year later he had gotten a permanent position as the head secretary of the University Enrollment Office, and although Hemwick University wasn't as well known as Oxford, it attracted students from all across Europe. With the job secured Amanda and Mr. Harrington had once more approached Amanda's aunt and she had finally given the young couple her blessing. Now it was a matter of months before the wedding, and Amanda would be known as Mrs. Harrington by the age of twenty three.

"Well, you've got nothing to say? That doesn't seem like you," Amanda said as she returned to her seat.

"I'm terribly sorry, but my mind seems to be all over the place these days," Angelina shrugged as she thought about the Duke's letter that still lay on the table next to her typewriter. "It appears that there is no one who hasn't heard about my recent flob, and half the world seems keen to remind me that I have chosen a path not suited for young women."

"I'm truly sorry to hear so, but we both know that is not what is bothering you," Amanda said and fixed a curl that had escaped her intricate hairdo.

Angelina rose to her feet and started walking in circles on the floor. Writhing her hands in front of her, she considered if she should tell her friend about her correspondence with the Duke. None of them lived under the assumption that they told each other everything, but the length of their relationship meant that they shared most things.

Maybe a light version of the truth would do? She stopped in the middle of the floor and met her friend's warm, brown eyes.

"I received a letter, you see, from a reader who wanted to tell me how much he enjoyed my work."

Amanda lifted the cup to her lips wondering where this story would lead. She couldn't see what her friend found so upsetting about a from an admirer of her work.

"And I'm somewhat afraid that I might have offended him with my reply to his letter."

"Would it be so bad if you have offended this man?"

"I fear so. He has a good reputation and if he decided to smear my book, it could end my career faster than you would need to make a cup of tea!"

Angelina made something that resembled but wasn't quite a pirouette on the spot.

"Oh, wouldn't the critics love it if I should put down my pen and return to the quiet life of an upstanding woman!"

"They probably would, but I doubt you have anything to fear. I am sure you fret for nothing, and that he will be so awestruck by the reply you send him that he'll have no time to be offended." Amanda rose and placed a hand on her friend's upper arm. "Now let's sit down and I'll tell you how the wedding planning is going. That is sure to take your mind off things."

And so the two young women once more took a seat, and for an evening some of the tension left Angelina's shoulders. As she walked home later that night, she almost succeeded at convincing herself that she would soon return to her daily life with no more interruptions in the form of handwritten letters on cream coloured paper.

The entire story can be found on Wattpad as I slowly update or by following the links in this master post

#the true story of a poor writer and her unwanted patron #kajsa writes #my writings #historical fiction #original fiction #original #oc #writeblr #writing #writblr #my writing #original writing

2 notes · View notes

bidnezz · 4 years

Text

11:45

Here on Ao3.

Pairing: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Rating: T (for language really). Workplace AU, Coworkers, Lunch Thief, Silly, Apology notes, Simon is adorable imo

Summary:

Alec’s body is still, his hand tucked into the crumpled bag before him, body heavy and cold with the realization that his pasta is gone.

He digs, quick and rushed, unforgiving to the bag he won’t be able to reuse tomorrow but that’s the least of his worries right now. His fucking pasta is missing. He removes what’s left of his lunch, staring desolately at the tupperware of mixed fruit and bag of crackers, something purple and foreign stuck beneath them.

He grabs it, a piece of paper that’s been neatly folded into fourths, opens it up with shaky fingers that he’s sure is from the lack of food in his system and not at all from the completely valid and necessary outrage he’s filled with.

Sorry! I’ll pay you back!

Was looking for some inspiration and saw a tumblr post with the prompt:

who keeps stealing my lunch and leaving apology notes?

Tuesday 11:43am

Alec stares at the digits in the bottom right corner of his computer screen, swears he can hear the ticking of a clock in his head. He wills it to go faster, knows it won’t, but tries anyways.

Two minutes is all he needs, honestly.

He thinks of his bag in the fridge. Boring, brown, and crumpled from re-use the day before. It’s the treasure it holds that has his stomach responding, begging the gods that preside over this particular section of pixels to somehow speed up time.

He’s starving, hungers for the leftover chicken pasta that graced his and Izzy’s dinner table last night. If he thinks really hard he can even taste the hint of cream on the back of his tongue, heavy and savory. Maybe that’s just his saliva. Maybe he’s died from hunger and has gone insane.

His eyes are drawn back to the screen when the numbers change with sloth-like speed and the mantra of food food food in his mind bring him to his feet, his chair protesting at the sudden movement.

Nobody notices, nobody cares but him that he’s going to lunch 15 minutes early, and he likes it that way. He prefers the company of his grumbling stomach and beeping of the microwave before the only sounds in the room are scrapes of his utensils against the tupperware and content sighs of happiness. It’s his favorite part of the day, the 15 minutes he gets to himself before he prepares for the drama and insipid tales of parties he has no interest in ever attending that his coworkers like to push on him.

His coworkers aren’t bad, if he’s honest. They’re normal for the most part, and he’s done his best to stay in the relatively good graces of almost everyone. Everyone near him, at least.

Alec doesn’t venture very far in terms of cubicles, choosing to stay contained and focused on his work. But sometimes when he’s been away from Izzy for too long he’ll feel the creepings of loneliness and a need for human interaction and he’ll drag himself down two-to-the- right- one-up until he’s peering over the edge of Simon’s desk, patient and waiting until the bespectacled boy offers him a story about his band’s gig the previous week, or wistful stories about his best friend that’s just a friend, and he’s totally not in love with her, shut up Alec why are you laughing?

So things could be worse, he thinks to himself as he reaches into the refrigerator for the paper bag and settles himself into his favorite chair with his back against the wall. He could have coworkers that are raucous and annoying, who squawk and screech when they talk. Or he could—

Thief!

Alec’s body is still, his hand tucked into the crumpled bag before him, body heavy and cold with the realization that his pasta is gone.

Sorry! I’ll pay you back!

The loopy scrawl looks elegant but does nothing to quell his rising blood pressure or satisfy the ache in his stomach. He crumples the paper, tosses it into the trash bin across the room where it belongs, and snaps his tupperware lid open to stab at his fruit with a fork that really doesn’t deserve the harsh treatment.

He’s going to find out who did this, and he’s going to…

Well, Alec is too hungry to think of what he’s going to do to them, but he knows it’s going to be bad. Very bad.

--–

11:34 Wednesday

The low hum of keyboards and the occasional mouse clicking that he’s used to doesn’t calm Alec’s racing thoughts like it normally does, doesn’t try to lull him into the dream-like trance of his peers. Most days it does, but today is not most days.

Today is the day Alec has begun to see his coworkers for what they really are. He doesn’t care if Lydia—who sits in the adjoining cubicle to his left—is pristine in her work and mannerisms and polite to a fault. Doesn’t care that she’s always polished and perfect in the coworker handbook, which doesn’t exist but really should because who steals people’s lunch? What he does care about is that he knows for a fact Lydia still has a stack of post-it notes she asked to borrow last week, a pack that has been almost completely used up to leave reminders and notes around her desk. She still hasn’t given them back, or offered him a new pack, and Alec pushes back the errant reminder in the back of his head that she offered and he refused.

Because now she’s a suspect and he trusts no one.

He stands, slowly as not to arouse suspicion, and when he passes her desk he does a quick glance around to see if he notices anything else that belongs to him on the dark wood.

As hard as he tries, Lydia is perceptive and offers Alec the same picturesque smile she always does, teeth white and blinding in the fluorescence, and Alec does his best to hold in his guilt at his mental accusation.

He’s early to the break room, earlier than usual, and he hopes that he’s rewarded with the mouthwatering teriyaki chicken and rice he prepared for today. It’s one of his favorites, and he feels his mouth flood with just the thought.

He grabs at the crisp paper bag, sets himself down in his usual chair and reaches in to find—

Money?

There’s a note with it, red paper embellished with little gold swirls that trap the $20 bill.

Sorry again mon pétit chef !

Hopefully this covers whatever I’ve stolen

I promise I’m not a bad person, just hungry!

Your food is the best. ♡

He’s infuriated. This monster is mocking him now, taking the time to doodle on apologetic notes while he savors every last bite of Alec’s carefully cooked meal. They have the time for jokes and notes, surely they have the time to bring their own damn lunch.

The only thing left in his bag is the empty, but thankfully washed, tupperware he had packed this morning. Damn it, he thinks as he shoves his fingers through his hair and heads over to the vending machine, angrily forcing the crisp bill through the slot and punching in his choices. Chips and cookies, highly nutritious and sure to get Alec through the day in a wonderful mood.

He jabs at the coin return button a few times with no response, and when he glances down he can’t help the strangled noise that leaves his throat and the anger that forms a prickle at the corners of his eyes.

Machine does not give change.

He’s never used the vending machine before, not in his one and a half years has he ever needed to. But now…

Now, he’s forced to sit at his table with a defeated sigh and $20 worth of snacks.

--–

Thursday, Alec comes prepared.

In the morning he comes in wary with his lunch held close to his chest, and he sets it down in the same spot as always. Only this time, there’s a note taped to the front of his bag, a yellow post-it note that he hopes gives Lydia a hint, whether she’s the culprit or not. “Stop eating my lunch” it reads, big bold and to the point. Just like Alec.

The day passes uneventfully, and though he’s confident nobody will be touching the cut up steak, potatoes and veggies in his bag this time, he’s still suspicious of everyone.

Simon comes over to pass him a flyer for his show tonight, bright orange and the art is drawn by my best friend Clary, she’s so amazing isn’t she? I mean it, it’s amazing artwork. You know in a few years time this will probably be worth a lot of money, like a collector’s edition or--

Alec’s ambiguous stare unsettles Simon and he adds a weirded out “Dude are you, like, okay?” before he shrugs and heads back to his own cubicle, Alec’s undecided eyes following his every movement with a sharpness he’s never needed to hone until now.

Perhaps he’s covering up, trying to extend an olive branch beyond the monetary.

Alec won’t accept, though. Won’t forgive and forget until he knows for certain that it’s Simon, and has a confession straight from the source. Why doesn’t Simon just admit that he’s been taking Alec’s lunch and apologize? Why does he have to do it in a roundabout way now that he’s been called out? Be a man, Simon Lewis. Admit your defeat, and stop eating my lunch.

At 11:45 Alec’s visit to the refrigerator is prompt and purposeful, renewed with vigor because he has no reason to believe his lunch has been stolen again. Not until he’s sat on his chair with another empty container and note, livid.

Or what?

I’ve repaid you for my trespasses.

Sorry again, mon pétit chef!

Today was especially tasty.

Fuck.

--–

Friday’s plan is foolproof, Alec smiles to himself, whistling as he steps up to his chair and sets his thermos and rustled paper bag on his desk. It’s unseemly, looking out of place and cluttered, but it’s a precaution he has been forced to take now, because he’s figured out how to get out of this predicament he’s been caught in all week.

Gone are the days he comes home, starving to the point of exhaustion because Alec really does rely on his lunch to get him through the days. It’s hard to concentrate on numbers that begin to jumble together on a flickering screen that only agitates the pounding in his temples.

So he’s decided that he’ll bring a lunch that wont spoil on his desk, something that will still be edible after 4 hours of room temperature climate. He’s testing it with his favorite soup, chicken noodle with extra chicken and veggies, his broth rich and hot filled with all the flavors that make his mouth water.

Perhaps having his food in such close proximity to him all day is not the best idea. He eyes the thermos, then shakes his head because he’s being ridiculous now. He’ll survive, and at 11:45 when it’s time for lunch his soup will still be warmed and tasty and completely untouched by him or any conspiring coworkers.

Only by the time lunch rolls around his thermos is only half-full and he’s already got cracker crumbs on his shirt because self-control is severely underrated and Alec is literally hungry all day long. So he savors what’s left of his lukewarm soup, tips his head back to drink the leftover vegetable bits and pieces that have settled at the bottom of his thermos with a grimace. It’s not the worst lunch, but it’s not satisfying and the high hopes he had set himself on this morning are shattered like the last cracker he crunches in his mouth.

At 12:40 he’s about to head back to his desk when curiosity strikes him.

Slowly, as if he wasn’t sure what would be on the other side of the door, he pulls open the refrigerator. His stomach twists bizarrely when he sees the carefully tented green paper in the spot he normally leaves his lunch. It looks oddly fitting, he thinks for a moment, like it belongs there instead of the unsightly brown paper bag he always leaves. He reaches for it, turning it over and feeling the weightlessness of it on his palm, despite how heavy it feels in his chest.

Mon pétit chef -

I’m sorry if I’ve scared you off.

Here’s to hoping Monday brings new gifts.

Enjoy your weekend.

xo ,

M.B.

Alec feels his face heat up, warmer than he’s ever felt in the confines of his kitchen with the fire high and wrapped in the air. The irritation sparks up again, and Alec doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so embarrassed and intrigued, but he knows it’s all too much to take in right now so he stuffs the note in his pocket and stomps to his desk.

He scans the room before he sits down, most people are in the break room enjoying their lunch before the hour is up. Most people except Catarina Loss, three-to-the-right-two-down, who meets his eyes with a patient smile. Alec pauses, for the briefest moment he wonders if this is his thief, M.B., but then she looks away, returns back to her work as quiet and unnoticed as always.

He doesn’t know much about her, and he makes a mental note to get whatever information he can out of Simon later without being obvious.

--–

Monday brings Alec in with hesitant, unsure steps, and he feels as if he’s walking into a bad idea.

He sets his bag down on his desk, pulls out two brown paper bags, and stares.

He would probably look insane if anyone walked by, watching these two lunch bags with such intensity he’s surprised they don’t burst into flames, but he’s early and Raj who sits behind him is the only one around at this time. Alec doesn’t care about Raj, nobody likes Raj. He’s an ass and if he wants to look at his lunch bags for 5 minutes then Raj can screw off.

Chill, Alec, he can hear Jace’s words repeated in his mind. He sort of had a panic attack at Jace’s house Sunday afternoon when he realized he had no idea what he was going to do about Monday’s lunch.

Jace knows about Alec’s lunch dilemma. Knows a little, at least. Enough for Alec’s freak out to seem a little less random and crazy.

But still a freak out nonetheless, and now Jace isn’t here to calm him down, but he’s got his affirmation in his head that it’s really not a big deal, it’s just lunch.

He snatches the offending bags, taking quick steps to the refrigerator where he sets them down side by side, one lightly rumpled bag next to an unblemished bag with the simple letters M.B. on them.

What the hell is he doing? He must be losing it. All these numbers and long hours in a stuffy office all day long are turning his brain to mush and now he’s making lunch for his thief—not his thief. A thief. A lunch thief.

Damn it!

This shouldn’t be complicated at all, this shouldn’t even be a thing for heaven’s sake. It’s just lunch, it’s not a date and he doesn’t even know who’s on the other side of these notes. He’s acting like a teenager with these silly games.

His fingers twitch, ready to reach out and snatch the bag to toss it in the rubbish along with any other stupid ideas he might have come up with, but he leaves it alone. Whatever this is, he’s being dumb about it, because it’s just food and maybe his mom would be proud or something, because Alec is feeding the less fortunate.

With a nod, Alec regains his composure and heads back to his desk, feigning the confidence he sure as hell doesn’t feel, and when he slumps in his chair it’s definitely not because of a stupid lunch bag.

--–

11:45 comes so slow Alec is surprised he isn’t bald from ripping his hair out with each passing minute that feels like an hour.

He stands, an attempt that was intended to be slow and purposeful but comes off as awkward and causes him to sway with misstep. Nobody sees, but he feels stupid regardless.

While nobody notices him in his cubicle, he sees the usual smile from Lydia as he passes her, but this time Catarina is watching him and they make eye contact on his trip to the break room. Her expression is calculated, studying his movements and he hopes to god he doesn’t trip and embarrass himself.

When he opens the refrigerator he’s disappointed to see the brown bag with the initials back in place, looking as though it hasn’t been touched. He grabs it to toss it away so he doesn’t have to take home the shame of his failed attempts at—

Alec pauses, because he doesn’t even know what he would call this. Friendship? Peace offering?

Whatever it is, he’s done with it for good.

When he lifts the bag, though, it’s light and the food inside has clearly been consumed.

He grabs his own bag and hurriedly makes his way to his seat, reaching in unceremoniously to retrieve the folded note he’s hoping is in there. He’s victorious, and he knows he looks bonkers with the huge grin on his face but he doesn’t care because he’s alone for now, and he’ll smile if he wants to. He sets the note down on the table, his eyes tracing over every letter slowly, admiring the swooping penmanship that he wants to rewrite with his fingertips.

Mon pétit chef -

Today’s gift was from the Angels themselves .

I feel very special, so I’ll answer your request.

Looking forward to tomorrow.

xo,

Magnus

He picks at his food, for the next 15 minutes, rolling the name he’s asked for over in his head, tastes it on his lips like the sweetest word he’s ever said. Magnus.

It’s impossible to get back to work after lunch, but Alec does his best, honestly tries so hard to focus on the numbers in front of him but it eludes him. So he welcomes the distraction when Simon pops into Alec’s space, typing away at his phone and half-attentive to his own story that he’s regaling Alec with.

“—and then Maureen was like ‘Oh, Simon, you’re so smart you should be the one running this place!’ and guess who walks past the office?”

Alec gives a noncommittal grunt, and that’s enough for Simon because he continues.

“Mr. Bane!” His voice is grave and he stops plucking at his phone to watch Alec’s reaction, deflates when the only response is a raised eyebrow. “C’mon Alec, work with me here. Mr. Bane,” he repeats as though that will get the point across.

Alec shrugs. Simon rolls his eyes.

“Mr. Bane is the guy who runs this place. He’s like the Sam Walton of Walmart.”

“Sam Walton Bane is a weird name,” Alec responds, his fingers tapping quickly at the keypad to his right. He’s good at multi-tasking.

Simon groans and smacks his palm to his forehead in an over-dramatic show of frustration. Simon has always been a bit over the top, but Alec supposes he has to be since he sort of owns a band. “No, Sam Walton is the guy that invented Walmart or whatever, you know the big chain? Magnus Bane is the guy that invented this place,” he supplies, though his voice comes out dejected because he’s sure Alec isn’t even interested anymore, if he ever was.

But Alec’s brain halts suddenly, his fingers ceasing all function at the mention of the name he’s been repeating all day to himself.

“Wh-What?”

“Dude, if you’re not gonna listen I’m gonna go talk to Maureen,” Simon sigh and steps away from Alec’s desk where he was leaning against it. He’s ready to leave, takes the first few steps out of the cubicle before Alec seizes his arm, tugging harshly to bring Simon back. “Ow! The hell?”

“Who did you say invented this place?” The words sound stupid coming out of his mouth, he knows that’s not the proper way to say it, it’s Simon-speak, but he doesn’t care. His brain is on auto-pilot as it tries to catch up.

“Magnus Bane,” Simon repeats slowly, as though Alec is a child.

Magnus Bane.

M.B.

Fuck.

--–

Alec calls out sick Tuesday, his head pounding with the stampede of a million questions that will never receive an answer if he doesn’t go back to work. But curling up in his bed and burying himself in all the blankets he owns seems like a better idea, and Izzy is gone at work all day so really who’s to stop him?

Wednesday follows in the same fashion, only now he can’t stop googling pictures of Magnus, and good god, the man is literally perfect. He’s so gorgeous it makes his heart feel tender with loneliness because he knows Magnus is way out of his league. Magnus works 2 floors above him—well, Alec uses the term work loosely, because when you’re the head bitch in charge, what do you even do?

Oh god, he’s just called Magnus a bitch.

Magnus doesn’t know, can’t possibly know, but Alec still feels sheepish, and he ducks his head under his pillow to suffocate his shame.

Not 5 minutes later, he’s got his nose pressed to his phone as he takes in the glorious sight of Magnus Bane on the cover of some trite magazine. He looks exactly like his notes would paint him to be, Alec thinks, sighing as he scrolls to the next photo. That’s how Izzy finds him hours later, cheeks flushed and jittery, thoughts and images of a man so unattainable Alec wants to cry.

–--

Thursday is sluggish and slow for Alec, his body genuinely retaliating against him for forcing house-arrest on it, depriving it of the essential vitamins and exercise it’s used to. He blames his inability to concentrate on this fact, and when he tosses two lunch bags into the refrigerator in the morning, he holds tight to this excuse. He’s too out of it to think straight, to really deduce why he still brought an extra lunch for Magnus.

Why is he bringing Magnus lunch in the first place? The man has enough money to quit his company and live lavishly until he dies. Not that Alec wants to think about Magnus dying.

Mr. Bane, he should be saying instead. Because he really doesn’t know Magnus enough to be on a first name basis with his boss.

Little lunch-time notes from a stranger are one thing, but now that he’s wholly aware of the situation, this has to be the last of it. There has to be something against feeding your boss delicious food every day and getting flirty little notes in return, he’s sure of it.

Something stirs in his peripheral on his way back, and he sees Catarina frowning at him, though she remains silent.

He’s so lost, he doesn’t know what’s going on in this place anymore. His boss is stealing his food and flirting with him via notes like a kid, his coworkers are watching his every move, and on top of it all he hasn’t told anyone Magnus’ identity so he’s all alone in this.

By the time 11:45 comes around Alec isn’t even hungry, his mouth is satisfied with the nervous energy it’s consuming because he’s got plenty of it right now.

He opens the refrigerator to see his two bags unmoved, checks Magnus’ to make sure, and sits back in his seat dejectedly when it’s true.

There’s a noise at the door to the break room, followed by a soft click, but Alec is too preoccupied in his thoughts to notice.

He’s pushing around forkfuls of his spaghetti, jabbing his fork rather forcefully into one meatball in particular, but it does nothing to settle his nerves. He hears noise to his side, the soft tap of expensive shoes on tile, the door to the refrigerator squeaking open, the rustle of a brown paper bag with the initials M.B., and his heart races a few beats faster than normal.

“Is this seat taken?” the melodic voice questions, and Alec feels his jaw lock up, his body tense around the tupperware in front of him.

“N-Not at all,” Alec stutters. Dear lord, have mercy on his soul.

Beside him, hand grasped on the back of the only other chair at Alec’s table, is Magnus Bane, asking to sit next to him. Him, of all people.

Alec’s eyes travel first to the fingers curled around the plastic of the chair as he pulls it out, to the slender arm that connects to an equally slender but toned body and how does he even fucking know that? How can he tell what’s underneath the suit and tie Magnus is wearing?

Surely the hundreds of google images don’t factor in. No.

Alec gulps, and he finally meets the hesitant but curious gaze before him and jesus christ this man is beautiful.

“Thank you, Alexander,” he speaks, his words pouring out of him like warm honey. And Alec chokes. He chokes, on what he has no idea, but he chokes in front of Magnus Bane.

“H-How… My name?”

It sounds stupid, he sounds like he can barely string a sentence together, and Magnus watches him. He can see he’s trying not to laugh, of course he knows Alec’s name, he’s probably done his own research on his employees, and he’s obviously caught on that Alec knows exactly who he is and he wonders if maybe google ratted him out to Magnus about his search history, because the smug look is awfully suspicious.

“Would you prefer I call you mon pétit chef?”

The magical laugh makes the teasing almost worth it, but Alec is beyond mortified now, because what does someone say to that?

Magnus reaches across the table, his fingers graceful and soft as they brush along Alec’s chin to tilt it back into place. And Alec doesn’t say anything, won’t ever mention the way Magnus lets his fingers linger on Alec’s skin to anyone, or the way he feels electric in all the spots Magnus touches.

“N-No. No thank you,” he murmurs, not sure why he’s being so polite when this is clearly not a formal setting, but rationalizing it to the fact that Magnus is his boss and also so insanely gorgeous and Alec is just so average that there’s no way he can form coherent thoughts in his presence.

“Your cooking really is quite heavenly,” Magnus manages, popping open the lid to his tupperware, Alec’s tupperware, that looks so dingy and dirty in Magnus’ polished hands. It all feels so very domestic, despite Alec having never sat across from anyone so brilliant and extraordinary in his life.

Staring at him now, face-to-face, Alec thinks that the photographs and magazine covers don’t do him the justice he deserves, don’t quite capture the immortality and timelessness of his face.

“I’m glad you like it,” Alec says softly, his gaze everywhere but Magnus, because even though they’re drawn to him like moths to flame, it’s too much to bear for a prolonged period of time.

But there’s time, he hears the whisper of the words in his head, feels them stretch across his consciousness with the promise of the future.

He’s only just met Magnus, only started his silly correspondence a little over a week ago, but he feels a connection he didn’t know he was missing.

Suddenly, a questions pops into his head and passes through the filter of his mouth before he can stop it, a question he’s been mulling over for days now since he found out who Magnus was.

“Why did you steal my lunch?”

Magnus laughs, loud and genuine and Alec basks in the sound, feels it warm the shakiness in his sweaty palms still.

“Catarina is one of my oldest friends,” he begins, his eyes twinkling. “I came to visit her one afternoon for lunch and I saw you sitting in here alone, in that very seat.” Alec feels the heat rise to his face and he shifts uncomfortably at how predictable and boring he is. “I thought to myself, ‘what is this gorgeous man doing here all alone?’ And then you took a bite of your food, closed your eyes and looked so peaceful that I decided then and there I needed to try this amazing food.”

Alec balks, his mouth threatening to fall open again, but he attempts to keep his composure. Magnus looks pleased with himself.

“You could have just asked me to make you something,” he whispers, more of a thought to himself than to Magnus, but he hears it anyways and gives a low hum.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Where indeed, Alec thinks, and he takes a bite of his lunch he’s made for them today, peering up at Magnus through his lashes, watching his response as he takes his first bite of the dish. And maybe Alec’s in the wrong profession because the soft moan and euphoric look on Magnus’ face makes Alec feel more accomplished than a day filled with numbers and data entry.

The humor that their first meal together being pasta is not lost on Alec, and he smiles across at his lunch thief, wondering if he’s going to steal more than just his food.

He kinda hopes he will.

#malec #malec fanfic #malec prompts #malec fanfiction #magnus x alec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #workplace au #bidness

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poiregourmande · 5 years

Photo

under the cut, you’ll find: shyan, genderbent shyan, shyanara, maryan, styan and steshyan.

@anotherlostblogger | triangulation | ryan/sara/shane | explicit | 15k (wip) | Ryan's one of the leading crime reporters for The Feed when Shane transfers to their paper. It's only when he hears rumors that Shane is not what he seems that he decides to intervene, for better or for worse. (70s AU)

@uneventfulhouses | her lips are like the galaxy’s edge | marielle/ryan | explicit | 2k | Up, and up, and up they go, slowly. Ryan loves the view, can’t get enough of it, really, but right now, Mari pulls him in close, looking at him with those dazzling peridot eyes and Ryan gets lost, doesn’t know rhyme or reason or anything at all. “I love it up here,” she whispers. “We’re so far away from everything.” Her hand comes up to cup his cheek, thumb soft over his bottom lip. “You wanna be far away?” he asks her. She smiles, soft and sweet, lips so pink. His right hand settles on the soft expanse of her thigh, high up, where only he gets to touch. or; things get a little spicy on the ferris wheel

@uneventfulhouses | ‘cause there’s no nicer witch than you | ryan/shane | mature | 4.9k | Ryan rolls his eyes, reaching up to grab Shane’s hand, tugging him down. Shane goes. He stretches out on the blanket, right in front of Ryan and he waves his hands over Shane’s body, like he’s performing a ritual. Like in movies. Shane laughs. “What are you doing?” Ryan smiles at him, eyes dark. “Magic.” Shane laughs again, rolling his eyes. Whatever makes Ryan happy, Shane will follow a long for a bit. “Are you hexing me?” “I’d never,” Ryan says. His smile is...mischievous, a little like he knows something Shane doesn’t. or; ryan makes a believer out of shane

@sequencefairy | you’ve ruined peaches for me | ryan/steven | teen | 2.9k | Steven eats the bushel of peaches one by one. Sometimes he has one first thing, with the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, juice dripping down his wrists as he leans over the sink. Sometimes he comes home from visiting a local landmark and needs a snack. One time he takes one in his bag when he drives out to the edge of Lake Ontario and sits on a rock, listening to the waves and watching a sailboat tack in a lazy loop. On another morning, he stands again at the kitchen sink, peach cradled in his palms. He brings it to his face, inhaling the soft scent. It’s perfectly ripe.Or: A misunderstanding leads to a revelation.

@uneventfulhouses | ceiling fan | marielle/ryan | explicit | 1.3k | When she looks over at Ryan, he’s busy rolling another joint. Mari’s thirsty, hungry, but all she wants to do is smoke this, and then let him press his body against hers, let him fuck her til she aches from it, til her back hurts and her hips twinge.

@sequencefairy & @uneventfulhouses | wind me tighter than a wire | ryan/shane | explicit | 5k | “I just think,” Ryan says at lunch over their shared table, “that I kinda want him to fucking ruin me, you know?” Shane accidentally tries to inhale his La Croix. Ryan stands quickly to help him as he chokes, but Shane waves him off, setting the can down with shaking fingers. “You okay, man?” Ryan asks, all solicitous. Like he wasn’t the cause of Shane nearly drowning in far too expensive, grapefruit flavoured sparkling water.“Yeah,” Shane answers, hoarse. He feels faint and there’s a roaring in his ears that he attributes to the momentary loss of the ability to breathe. Or: Ryan’s like, “I’m just aesthetically attracted to some men in particular,” and “I don’t want to do anything about it,” and “alright, maybe, sometimes, I think about getting lovingly railed by Henry Cavill while I jerk off but who doesn’t?” and Shane is maybe losing his mind about it.

@voltairesdick | on the line | ryan/sara/shane | explicit | 4k | Ryan’s been away in New York for two weeks and he’s hated every second of it. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, since he’s over there for work, all expenses paid. Ryan's been attending meetings and pitches and meeting with producers and whatnot, stuff Shane would rather not do if he had the choice, but he’s hated it. Sure, the food’s pretty great, Ryan could eat New York pizza until it comes out of his ears. And he guesses the views are stellar, so he's had the chance to flex his photography muscles in his downtime; NY architecture is way more photogenic than LA skyscrapers and white brick. Plus, he secured loads of projects down and finalised important shit, like he was supposed to on this trip. But being away from Sara and Shane, and even their little orange furball has been miserable.

@a-slow-disaster | got nothing to lose but emptiness and hang-ups | ryan/sara/shane | explicit | 17k | “My girlfriend wants to have a threesome,” Shane tells him. “A, uh—a ménage a trois, if you will.” Ryan absolutely will not. This is not a place for such conversations, even if they were the kind of friends who have them—and they aren’t. There’s nowhere Shane could say that to him and have it be normal, but in this place it strikes Ryan as particularly unseemly.“Shane, this is a haunted prison,” Ryan says helplessly, the way you might say sir, this is an Arby’s.

@sequencefairy | and then some | ryan/shane | explicit | 2k | “I’m willing to delay coffee,” Ryan says, and rolls Shane over so he can straddle Shane’s hips. Now he gets to look down at Shane, which is also a novel situation. Here’s to the new decade and getting new perspective, and all that, Ryan thinks. He’d tell Shane about this brainwave, but Shane’s shifting underneath him and it is all kinds of distracting.“How noble of you.” Shane’s hands settle on Ryan’s hips, fingers slipping up under the soft t-shirt Ryan was sleeping in. Shane’s hands spread out against Ryan’s lower back, palms warm against Ryan’s skin.“I’m very noble, excuse you,” Ryan complains.It's late on New Year's Day and they've woken up hungover and Ryan is feelin' frisky.

@sequencefairy | walking on a string | ryan/shane | explicit | 3k | As he’s reaching over his shoulder with his loofah, to soap the back of his neck, Ryan’s thoughts stray, as usual, to Shane. Shane and his shoulders; the way they shift and move beneath his shirts. Shane’s hands; capable, deceptively-delicate, long-fingered, big enough to wrap all the way around one of Ryan’s wrists.Ryan's pining, he knows, but it's just that Shane is well, Shane.

@sequencefairy | information action ratio | ryan/sara/shane | explicit | 8.9k | “She really tied one on, didn’t she?” Ryan mutters, as Shane’s hauling Sara back in. She’s giggling and stumbles into Shane, but she still manages to hear Ryan. “I’ll show you tied one on,” she says, which is a nonsense phrase, but, for some reason, it sticks in Ryan’s brain. He can feel it burrowing into his grey matter, wonders when it will come back and what it will bring with it.He decides, later, after they're all lying in a sweaty tangle, that it was the way she said it; eyes dark and knowing, certain of the way the remark would land.The one where Ryan wants to be tied up and Shane and Sara help him out with fulfilling that desire.

@ebonybow | fall through | ryan/sara/shane | explicit | 8.3k | Ryan unlocks his phone, sliding it across the table so Shane can read the messages from Byron, timestamped twenty minutes earlier.“Sorry man, our flights are grounded because of some freak storm. Waiting to see if we can get one out tomorrow,” Shane reads aloud, and Sara pouts down at the screen. “Fuck. Sorry, Ryan,” he says, and Sara echoes the sentiment quietly, sipping from her own mug. He can smell her ginger tea from here. He clears his throat and can taste it on the back of his tongue.

#shyan #shyanara #steshyan #buzzfeed unclean #buzzfic #watcherfic #watcher after dark #fic recs

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somekindofseizure · 5 years

Text

When the Ink Dries Part X

<Conclusion. Rated for adults. Thank you @icedteainthebag, @gazeatscully and all of you for your help and support over the years (wtf?!!) it took to finish this. Hope you enjoy.>

Chapter 26

Stella had been bracing herself to enter a courthouse with the two of them for three years, ever since Scully had delivered news of their engagement. Self-preparation for this had involved two phases. One: fuck all of London for about six weeks and two: settle into the rationalization that nothing would really change. Mulder and Scully were a couple before any sort of documentation, and they would be after. Stella had made peace with it, anticipating that they might spring the actual event on her any time, that every time she came to America, it might be the one. But that had not happened.Scully didn’t have a dress. No one spoke of dates and no one had given her the address to a courthouse...until today.

“Why don’t you sleep over,” Mulder stage-whispered, leaning in beside her. He smelled of whatever he’d been chewing on the car ride over - almonds? - no, seeds, those fucking confounded seeds. “You haven’t been to our new place. It has a guest bedroom.”

“Hotel is fine.”

He hesitated, hovered over her shoulder in a particular way that men generally did not have the temerity to do. Luckily she liked him more than other men, still liked him, even if he was poised to marry the only person for whom she’d ever considered unravelling the tightly wound spool of her existence. Thankfully, circumstances had not allowed her to make such a mistake. She reminded herself to be thankful often. Forcefully.

“Why?” he pressed. He was eager to keep her close, Stella knew. On her better days she believed it was because he cared for her, was her friend. It was also possible he only wanted to be forgiven for winning. Most days, when she was feeling her cheerfully doubtful self, it struck her as strategic. One distances one’s wife’s female friends at one’s own peril, particularly if said wife has had sex with said female friend.

“I’m not sleeping in your guest bedroom,” she declared in the hushed voice required of their environment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your great aunt,” Stella said, her eyes firmly rooted on the hulking shoulders of the man in front of her in the light grey prison uniform. Mulder righted himself beside her, took a sharp inhale. The air was stiff and stale in the room, tasted of chalk. This must be as frustrating for him as it was for her - watching Scully testify on Jerse’s behalf twenty some-odd years after she’d helped put him in jail. Only fair that Mulder was distracting himself with matters of guest bedrooms.

Ed was taller than Stella remembered. Also, less nimble, the kind of man who might lose his balance trying to kill a mosquito rather than someone who had escaped notice as he escorted human beings to their unwanted cremations. His tattoos had multiplied over the years behind bars - all the faces of girls, and each one turned out to be meaner than the last. Stella and Mulder had both taken turns judging Scully as she made phone calls over the years to keep him out of or remove him from solitary confinement. But even her (arguably inappropriate) kindness had not spared him. Time had passed for all of them, but it had passed hardest for Ed. A courtroom was a very good argument for the health benefits of freedom.

Funny that Stella had always assumed they’d get married in a court and not a church. Scully was Catholic, after all, but somehow she’d always pictured herself in a skirt-suit set and a plasticky smile watching an uncomfortable hour-plus of Mulder pawing gently at Scully as she stood steel-eyed and stiff-jawed before a government clerk, her favorite skeptic allowing an indulgence of incalculable faith. It was enough of a stretch without bringing God into it, maybe.

She had kept her negativity about marriage to herself, had made a concerted effort not to spoil things. It would be unseemly considering. But she had tried to talk Scully out of this, and Mulder had tried too. But Scully was adamant right up until last night’s spaghetti carbonara; there was an uncommon amount of swearing, flame-freckled seething, tossed crumpled napkins and waiters trying not to look.

They’d relented - what else could they do? He was her potential murderer, after all, not theirs, and one supposed she was entitled to a certain amount of possessiveness on that account. Many was the sleepless night that Stella had spent cursing the people who had interfered with her plans for Paul Spector.

The worst part of hearing about the engagement had not been the news itself but the manner in which it was delivered. Scully’s lowered volume, the gentle lovers’ cadence, lips pressed against the mouthpiece, two hands surely cupping the phone. The worry, the consideration, the sizzling quiet on the other end of the line as Stella rustled up a response she thought she might be able to live with forever. The grand poetry of it all, the drama and Scully’s quietly feverish attempts to mitigate it.

Scully, neatly trimmed in burgundy, hair just so, shifted at the small cafeteria-style table where she sat with the other testifiers. As someone else stood to speak, Stella saw Scully clasp her hands in loose prayer, gaze resting on her fingernails. She had not turned to look at them since it had begun. Perhaps she was thinking of the first time she met him, trying to reincarnate the moment when she knew him only as an innocent entity. A memory that had been discounted by such drastic measures lived on uncomfortably, vividly, a spider pinned alive and preserved under glass.

And what about the day Stella had met him? He’d impressed himself upon her almost by accident. It had been a lark, something to get her out of England and keep her busy, but had turned into something she would never forget, scenes in a movie that only later seemed significant. The heavy stench of fear-twinged anger, the impressive composure of the beautiful ginger-faced detective, the nearly imperceptible twitching of her fingers at the table, the lanky male counterpart’s eventual leap at the killer’s throat. Stella had felt safe and separate from them all, even the killer; she’d ridden the experience like a seasoned surfer, keeping an eye on the two young kids desperately paddling in the frothy tension beside her. That is how she used to do things before Paul Spector had gotten under her skin. Or maybe it was how she used to do things before Dana Scully had. Sometimes, Stella was unsure which had been the bigger danger.

Stella glanced down at the skin of her bare knees and thought maybe she had unravelled a bit over the years after all.

Jerse appeared to be watching the speaker, but with a slight tilt of the head, Stella could see that he was focused on Scully. The others were guards, cafeteria workers, psychologists - but Scully was something else, someone he’d had feelings for, someone who had known him as good before evil. Mulder must have caught the look in his eye as well, for beside Stella, he gave an angry swallow, widened his legs in macho (and pointless) provocation. Stella knew that Mulder’s concern about today was the physical threat of Ed - what he might do if he were out, how his fixation with Scully might manifest into an act of violence or possessiveness. But Scully could handle her own safety well enough. Stella worried instead about the subtler effects - the nightmares, the guilt she might experience wondering who he was luring in the dusty pick-up joints of Philadelphia. Things you could not fix with a lock and key or a sidearm.

But when Scully stood and spoke, it seemed she was not worried about any of these things. Her voice was steadfast and clinical, though it carried a heartfelt quality that unsettled Stella to her core. Stella had heard the rundown of events before - years ago, when she’d asked as a matter of professionally curiosity and Scully had answered as a matter of courtesy. But now Scully spoke of the invitation to dinner and the subsequent date with a matter-of-fact tenderness. The way he seemed before “the voices” had interfered, her belief in an underlying true nature beneath his mental illness. She had been sparing Mulder the nuances back then. Stella had been just an acquaintance. But inadvertently, she’d spared Stella too. For all these years, Stella had not had to look at the inky snake on Scully’s back and think: she liked him. She’d been spared the pain of identifying with how that must have felt. To have been so wrong about someone.

Scully finished without flourish, smoothed the wool skirt at the hips with two hands and sat - still not looking back at them, seemingly alone in her moment, and perhaps rightly so, for this was her unsupported decision. Stella felt vaguely hypocritical for even attending, but then not attending had seemed wronger.

Snippets of Ed’s report cards were read aloud, brief and modestly generous endorsements he’d received over the course of the years. Mistakes here and there, but a generally cooperative nature, etcetera - no compliment as persuasive as Scully’s sincerity. They were going to let him go - Stella could feel it the way she could sense a confession coming or intuited a multiple murderer’s next attack before he actually crept up someone’s back flight of steps.

Mulder’s hand startled her as it descended heavily atop her own and quieted her wriggling thumbs. The weight of him in the lap of her skirt made the mucous in her throat thicken - was he holding her hand or asking for his to be held? He tightened his sweaty fingers around hers. There was no reason to cry. This was not her moment. Not her murderer and not her fiancé. She was in the role she’d always found most comfortable - observer. Someone to put in the guest room.

When it was over, Scully stood, looked at the floor and moved toward them like a funeral attendant in the aftermath of an Irish wake - sad, but relieved - attending to the memory of something she’d long past buried.

“That tattoo hurt at all?” he asks with a dipped clefted chin and a gleam in his eye that reminds her of her little performance in the shop. Scully is not even sure why it happened – the booze or the slow burn of the needle or the way he looked at her. It makes her look away for a second now in shyness - the fact that he’s already seen that face she makes. But she did not call him up earlier to be shy. She did not sit in a dirty dive all night with a handsome stranger all night to be shy. She did not break skin, make permanent marks she might later regret to be shy. She is too quickly running out of time to be shy.

She steals glances at him standing there across the room with his flop of dark sailor’s hair and suggestive sailor’s tattoo and she stammers through something about feeling different. This is true but she doesn’t mean the heavy handed flashart on her lower back. She supposes she might feel strange the next time she’s at the beach with her mother. Supposes, the next time, really, anyone looks there, she’ll probably have to laugh. But nobody ever looks there. And that’s why she’s here. She’s responsible. She’s a woman of faith. But she’s human, she’s mortal, she knows that more now than ever, even before the doctor’s appointment, and tonight she wants to act like it. That is what feels different.

He looms over her as he lifts the back of her shirt to peek and she actually believes he just wants a peek. He’s enormous by comparison, a monument to masculine threat. He could crush her. He will try to crush her. But she doesn’t know that now. Has no way of knowing that now as he traces the outline of the snake with his finger and tells her it looks all right. It actually seems like too much of a cliché to fear someone who looks like him, like flinching when you walk down the street past a Doberman. Every cop knows the scrawny ones can be meaner.

She likes him, has liked him from the moment he spoke to her. She considers herself a good judge of character and she feels in her soul that he is good, but she’s not looking for a soul mate. She’s in the mood for someone who’ll look at her like she’s a problem, not their problem-solver. Someone who’s not just handing her instructions and checking in. He is not a slap in the face to Mulder. He’s just not Mulder.

He doesn’t leer and he doesn’t suggest. He offers to take couches and asks her if things hurt. He’s aware of his own strength even as he displays it. It may be that none of this counts at St. Peter’s gate, but it will count for something when she’s letting a man a full foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier fuck her standing up. It will count when he tries to kill her too, but she has no way of knowing that’s what fate – God? No, not God, that’s not the God she believes in – has in store.

If she were going to stop him, she would’ve stopped him by now. But instead, she’s telling him she’s a doctor and nothing turns her on like telling people she’s a doctor. Instead, he’s holding her wrist firmly in the dance partner position, looking down at her like he doesn’t care about his bleeding infected arm as long as he’s got her. She has wanted to be needed in this way, has been wanting someone who will trade in their other obsessions for five feet two inches and a few hours of her, and she’s been ashamed of that desire. Then such a person appeared, offered himself up and she’s accepting. She feels compelled on behalf of her mortality. Funny - it’s the very thing he’ll turn out to be after.

It’s a quick rundown of events, some of which she’ll be forced to mention later to law enforcement or doctors or both. She’ll glare and ask them what that has to do with anything as they jot down her perfunctory details. There are some she doesn’t give. That she reaches for the hem of her shirt two seconds into the kiss, feels his tongue touch her nose when she sloppily backs away to get it over her head. That he unbuttons her pants as she runs her hands over his chest and his stomach, makes shapes across it with her mouth. They look for cause and effect, these medical doctors and detectives - she knows because it’s how she normally thinks too. But the system is working in reverse. The moment his hands graze her ass over her underwear – simple briefs, work underwear, investigate-the-Russian-mobster-underwear – is when she realizes she’s wet. The moment she drops his pants and puts her hand over his erection is the moment she hopes she’s wet enough. Effect is what she notices first.

It’s been a very long time. This might hurt a bit, she tells herself, and gets wetter.

He takes out the condom of his own will but she insists on being the one to put it on him, stares, buying time, as she rolls it down his shaft. It could stop here, she thinks. She could still wake up tomorrow not feeling a bit of regret or the urge to confess, still go into work and not duck from Mulder’s gaze, but it doesn’t occur to her that she could still avoid waking up concussed in a hospital, and that ought to be a fair oversight.

She brushes the infected pinupped bicep by accident, but when she does so, an evil little smile appears on his lips. Blood as permanent as ink itself smears beneath her hand and there is something beautiful about it or something perverse, something she doesn’t take the time to put her finger on because he’s a very good kisser and he can span the entire width and length of her torso with two spread hands, and now he is lifting her with those hands, tossing her up like a lost princess, starting to carry her toward the bedroom. Just think - Dana Scully, a princess.

“No, here,” she says and so he backs her into the wall as she squeezes her thighs around his thick body. He shows her with various little touches that he’s willing to take this step by step, but if he does, she’ll lose the nerve, and if she loses the nerve, she knows how she’ll wake up feeling nothing tomorrow morning, because that is how she has woken up many mornings, and she doesn’t think at the time that it might even be worse than waking up in the hospital. “Fuck me here.”

And then he gets a look in his eye that makes her not care whether there is a tomorrow, not that she has reason to wonder (no cancer moves that fast, has that glib a sense of timing). It’s a look that says he’s going to ravish her, take her and at the same time sacrifice himself. It is the look that will haunt her when she’s bandaged and stitched, when she hears of him going to prison, when Mulder makes his stupid, insensitive quips about ass tattoos.

He fucks her with her bra clasp digging into the wall, her underwear pushed to the side, his upper body curled over her like a cobra as he tries to kiss her neck and stay inside her at once. She lodges her fingernails in the plates of his back lest he drop her, listens to the sound he makes as they penetrate his skin, feels his dick go so high inside her that she’s sure despite all knowledge of anatomy that he’s occluding the base of her throat.

For the moment, with his cock stiff and wholly inside her, she is the threat, the overpowerer. He’s awed by it, grateful for it, and - she’s sure - fearful of it.

“You can do whatever you want,” she orders, “I want you to.” She hears but barely feels her shoulder blades bruise the wall, any remaining sense she has left sliding out her ears onto the paint job. He holds her waist very still to the wall as he thrusts upward into her and she tilts her head toward the heavens to moan. Her eyes burn and her hips ache and she will laugh in a few minutes when he holds her sweetly and still offers to sleep on the couch after giving her a pounding like none she has experienced.

“Come for me, Dana,” he begs and she clutches at his hair, presses her open mouth to his jaw, uses her tongue to try to reach him when she’s not using it to swear, digs her heels into his backside for leverage, consistently pressing the full weight of his hips into her body and she lets herself slide into the deepest, slickest, hardest home plate she’s ever come across. Or at least that she can remember coming across. It has been a very long time. As of tomorrow morning, that won’t be true, but then a lot of things won’t be true anymore.

He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that can save him but the reason she is doing it is to save herself.

The decor was sleek and dripped in silver grey, an unslept-in bed at hip height. There was a photograph of a naked woman in a carnival mask on the wall opposite, the figure’s seductive pout leering over the edge of a dressing-room-style vanity mirror. The room looked like it belonged in another home - a distinct departure from the oaky, slightly inexplicably Asian-influenced-Americana couple-who-hikes aesthetic of the rest of the townhouse. Sleek and sexy and cool. Nobody’s great aunt would have slept there.

“Hope this is all right,” Scully said behind her, leaning against the doorjamb with pantyhosed feet piled one on top of the other.

“Fine, more than fine.”

“Thank you for staying.”

Mulder’s sports announcers prattled on in the master bedroom down the hall. The bedroom Scully should be in, would be in by the end of the night.

“I wanted you to be close tonight,” Scully said, punctuating the statement with the kind of breathy chuckle that stood for self-criticism. The days of their holing up in hotels with platonic devotion for a weekend were long gone. Now, Stella stayed in those places alone and Scully visited for dinner or shopping - a pair of regular friends. Scully no longer came to London - Stella’s request - and she did not generally make admissions, however innocently voiced, of wanting her close.

Stella spotted a bronze-brown silk robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

“Pour moi?”

Scully smiled, nodded and Stella grabbed it, turned her back to Scully as she exchanged her clothes for the robe with as much modesty as she could. There was a brass-edged glass bar cart in the corner, fully stocked with red wine and whiskey - the place was a veritable theme park in her honor. Stella resisted the urge to tease and instead took advantage, tweaked two glasses in one hand, opened a bottle of Macallan’s and poured. Anyway, there was no way to know if the room had been decorated for her because it was meant to court her visit or because there was no one else’s visit to court. They were solitary people, all three of them. It was part of the reason they had held onto each other the way they had.

Scully stepped fully into the room for the first time, rolling from heels to toes like a soft-footed doll in stockinged feet.

“Sentiment get to you?” Stella inquired as her drink pooled, syrupy, in the bottom of the lightly dust-coated glasses. She lightened her tone to a mild taunt in order to refract any impression of flirtation. “Whenever we visit Ed Jerse together we sleep under the same roof?”

“Something like that,” Scully murmured, untouched by the sarcasm. She had known Stella too long, had developed an immunity to it. Sometimes people could say they meant nothing by their sarcasm; with Stella, something was always meant and yet one had to be able to take it in stride. It was not one of her best tendencies but she had never been able to control it.

She handed Scully a glass sympathetically, gestured for her to sit on the bed. Stella sipped and Scully gulped...

“You all right?”

Scully’s eyes began to water. She looked at the ceiling, preemptively tightened the skin near her eyes with her fingers. Stella came and sat beside her.

“Do you think it’s wrong, what I did today?” Scully asked.

“You know I don’t see the world that way.”

“But do you feel like…”

“You’ve a good heart, that’s all.”

“I remember when you first told me I was good, do you?”

“Not really.”

She’d always thought it. It was rare for her. Usually she suspected people of things, even when she liked them. Scully stared at her, chewed her lip until it was practically blue.

It would pass. It would pass. It would pass. They had more practice letting it pass than anything else. But this time, it didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stella said finally and she meant it.

“You don’t really want me to marry him.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you marry him.”

“You don’t care if it means you’ll lose me forever.”

“What do you want from me, Dana.”

She’d said it quickly, not meaning to, was immediately angry with herself for doing so. But Scully’s shoulders softened, some long-suffering secret released.

“You sent me back here for my own good, didn’t you? Because you knew about William. Not because you wanted me to go. I need to know.”

That was three years ago and in that time Stella had gotten the hang of her being gone. This was no time to undo that, not with an engagement pending.

“I sent you back because I couldn’t do it anymore,” she said methodically.

“You couldn’t do it every minute of every day-”

“No - not with anyone-”

“But you could do it sometimes.”

“What does that matter?” Stella said, her voice rising into the tight part of her throat like a trapped scream. Fighting with Scully was like fighting with a teenager sometimes - ridiculous and yet impossible to come out on top. Stella always had the urge to tell her not now, you’re tired, you’re emotional, and yet, there was always a devastating honesty to Scully’s behavior when she was being influenced by such feelings. “You want something constant, that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. But it doesn’t mean I need everything to be constant.”

Stella’s head ached - she shook it, rubbing her temples, sipped her whiskey.

“I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” she said, sorry that she’d come here.

“I’ll stop,” Scully said. “It’s been a long day.”

Stella drank. Yes, a long day. Scully was tired, emotional, deserved a pass.

“Can I lie down?” Scully asked.

“It’s your house.”

“It’s your room,” Scully said and Stella couldn’t help but smile a little.

She let the Scotch burn the back of her throat a bit as Scully scooted back on the bed, dropped herself into the center of a stack of white linen pillows, put her buttoned-up wrists by her ears.

Stella lay on her back until the remainder of her anger dissipated into the plume of Scully’s perfume. Stella pictured Scully dressing, powdering this morning, pretending to herself it was like any other day. She turned onto her side, placed her hand carefully in the center of Scully’s sternum, carefully avoiding the structured brassiere swell on either side. A warm heartbeat patted at her palm.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable in these clothes?” she asked.

“Deeply.”

“Want to go change?”

Scully shook her head no.

“May I?” Stella asked as her hand drifted button by button down the front of Scully’s shirt. “I won’t touch you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Scully said.

Stella half-smiled, flicked the front clasp of the bra, dragged the side zipper down Scully’s hip and finally rested her hand dutifully on the comforter next to Scully’s still wool-crepe skirted, nyloned thigh.

“I’m still deeply uncomfortable,” Scully said, face turning toward her, the malted, woodsy scent of alcohol drifting on the air between them. A forest, an orchestra pit full of string instruments, hollow and waxed and just removed from velvet cases. “I am actually more deeply uncomfortable than before.”

“Sorry.”

Stella held her breath, her nipples hardening against the silk of the borrowed robe as Scully licked her lips at her, breathed with her whole body so that her open blouse slipped from her chest to her sides.

“Want to kiss me?” Scully asked.

Goddamit.

“He’s down the hall.”

But she was salivating, tasting Scully, the memory of her. It had been years. Scully slithered out of her clothes, shedding them like snakeskin, looking new as she lay back down on the pillow.

“I dare you,” Scully whispered.

Stella brusquely threw a knee over Scully’s opposite hip, straddling her as the golden robe slipped its knot. She shook it down off her shoulders, let it fall to her thighs. Her chest rose, naked and weighted by her heart as she dipped forward toward Scully’s face.

Scully caged her ribs with two hands, traced the black and white tattoo on Stella’s body, draping a finger this way and that in the shape of the rose.

The door was open. He would hear them. It would be a betrayal greater than any Stella had ever committed. But she could feel her entire body sinking toward Scully, melting at the heat of her. Muscles trembled, spine withered like an end of summer plant, hips rolled, changes Stella assumed would be imperceptible but Scully’s body moved in response to each one.

She reached down, took Scully’s chin in her hand -

And in a flash of Scully’s eye contact, it all made sense.

“He knew you were going to do this,” Stella said, measuring her surprise.

Scully gulped. Nervous.

“You can live in London, come and go as you please...”

Stella tensed, probably would have moved away but in a burst of effort, Scully reached for Stella’s neck, pulled her close so that she could speak directly into her ear.

“I need you.”

Stella closed her eyes, trying to process the enormity of what was being asked of her but paralyzed by the scent of Scully’s skin and hair and mouth so close.

“I don’t know,” Stella said, her pores sucking up Scully’s skin like the air. She was drowning in her.

Scully’s heart beat faster, she’d begun to sweat, and rightly so. She was gambling with her future - all their futures. Stella wanted to be angry with her but it was impossible. Impossible not to lift her mouth to Scully’s, just briefly enough to leave some of her shimmery gloss on Scully’s lower lip. She paused long enough to settle, to let herself enjoy the certainty of a decision having been made. Sometimes she thought this was the best thing about sex - the rare moment of knowledge, of conviction, of committment. She could not agree to whatever Scully was asking of her, some sort of future promise, but she could agree to right now. The moment would come and go, and in a few minutes, when they were having sex, she would have other ideas about what the best thing about sex with Scully was. With other people, this was often not the case.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” she said. “I’m going to make you pant and swear and moan and we’ll see if your fiance will come down the hall.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said. “But either of you cries, I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.”

She covered Scully’s body from the palms of their hands to the tips of their feet, slipped her tongue into Scully’s mouth before either of them could ruin it by saying anything further.

Chapter 27

He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it until he saw it. He had agreed to it without reservation. It was even possible to interpret it as having been his suggestion. But still, he could not be absolutely sure how it would feel. And if he was going to live with it, he needed to see it with his own two eyes at least once. It had always been him or Stella, not both. He’d only shared her once - the first time - and the second time they’d tried had ended in disaster. They’d all kept things separate, Scully in her actions - he doubted she had ever been unfaithful to him when they’d been a couple - and he in his mind. He’d approached his memories of that night with the chastity of a priest, resisted even thinking about it until Scully had made this recent proposition. It was not an unpleasant memory to relive but still, it was a memory.

And now he had arrived at the reality. Stella’s mouth suckling Scully’s nipple in a room wreaking of Scotch and women, her arm’s well-hewn muscles spasming as they worked on Scully beneath the weight of her body, four rounded thighs swathed in a pond of flaxen silk. Scully’s skirt and nylons had been discarded near her ankles, and one of her hands was cupping Stella’s jaw, the other raking up her back. He had waited until he could hear Scully from down the hall, which meant that he had waited until things were very near the end, too near to undo - he could not have stopped them now if he begged. It was a scientific experiment, a matter of proving to himself he could handle what he’d feel.

What he felt when he stood in the doorway to the guest room was hard. Superman fucking hard.

He watched for as long as he could stand it, cleared his throat when he couldn’t stand it any longer. Stella pulled back and sat on her haunches with a well-well-well sort of expression on her face, hair whipping like a blonde gauntlet over her shoulder as she held Scully deep-breathing beneath her palm.

“Come here,” Stella said. He stepped up to the side of the bed, resisting the urge to look anywhere but her eyes. They turned bluer when she made love. Of course - he’d only seen her with Scully. He wondered if they did the same when she was just having sex. “I’m very impressed.”

“With my middle-aged hard-on or my open-mindedness?”

“Both. Have a drink, you might need it.”

She gestured at the friendly half empty glasses left gawking and scandalized on the nightstand. Scully took his hand, squeezed Stella’s thigh with the other. She was in no mood for banter.

“Finish me.”

“You talking to me, honey?” he asked with a slow smile. “Or your girlfriend?”

“Both of you.”

Mulder picked up the glass and sipped - just a bit because he was old enough to be negatively impacted by substances at such critical moments - and then he tipped the glass at Scully’s chest, poured it over her body from navel to neck. She gasped, body rolling like pavement over a growing root. He sat on the bed and leaned to kiss the tip of her drunken shoulder.

They settled in on either side of her, Stella’s breasts nestled beneath her armpit, his dick wedged against her opposite hip. His arm slid under Scully’s back, his hand pinned by Stella’s trembling belly as she arched it into the hollow of Scully’s waistline. Stella playfully hooked her foot over his leg in the space between Scully’s spread calves.

“So wet,” Scully murmured and he wasn’t sure if she was talking about herself or the stamp of Stella’s body on her hipbone, but either way it made him desperately want to fuck her. He settled for a kiss, first on the mouth and then the side of her neck the way she liked as she turned her mouth to Stella.

“Shall we make her come now?” Stella asked without looking at him. Scully’s little ovular fingertips dug into his skull.

“You want to come, honey?” he teased in her ear, and Stella said something similar in the other, each talking to her as if they had her to themselves, but revelling in the knowledge that they didn’t.

Scully gave a feverish nod yes to all the questions she was being asked, hot tears of simultaneous need and something else - relief? - dripping from her tightly shut eyes. This would not just be the conclusion of a steadily built orgasm, but the proof that her love could carry them all, that she could have the life she wanted but feared was too much to ask.

Their arms draped Scully’s body in the shape of a V, two pageant queen sashes - one ivory, one olive - as they reached inside her together. Stella’s finger was slender and deft against his, leading him sportingly as they found a rhythm they could both live with. Scully hooked her elbow around Stella’s neck, put her hand on Mulder’s cock.

“Dana,” Stella whispered.

The sound of her so-rarely-uttered first name made him ache like a dirty word. He writhed naked against her thigh, and across from him, Stella’s head hung loose toward Scully’s shoulder as though it might unhinge from her neck. Scully held the center with ease, the flexible crux of an unwieldy machine.

“You’re both so incredibly beautiful,” he said.

Stella thanked him in that a spare, sweet tone she sometimes used but which every time sounded like someone else, and Scully told him to shut up in a voice that sounded exactly like her. Everything slid, slithered - the hand he had wrapped around Scully’s waist bathed in their combined sweat, the whiskey sheen tanning Scully’s chest as she curled it this way and that between them, dipped her tailbone to grind against their hands.

“Good girl,” Stella purred, composed enough even as she gripped Scully’s hip tight between her thighs,. “Good -- girl.”

He lowered the hand up between Stella’s belly and Scully’s waist, bent his knuckles to be of use. Stella found them as she rolled her clitoris from Scully’s hip over his knuckles and back down, delivered a soft fuck from her lips.

Scully liked it too.

“We’re going to -- take such good -- care of you, Mulder,” she said.

It happened soon after that, the two of them in swift syncopation, Scully moaning and swearing liberally as Stella held her breath, her lips frozen open in the shape of an O. There was a rush of tension and release, sore, slick fingers, wet hair sticking to skin like a sacrament, baptizing a long night to come, and maybe, a new reality.

Chapter 29

The sequence of events was not identical but it was close. A questionable interaction with Ed Jerse that she stubbornly stood behind, come hell or highwater. Stella’s seduction (she had, admittedly, played more of a role in that this time), the precise feminine touch combined with the loving enthusiasm of Mulder’s involvement. And finally, waking up in a bed with him, snoring like a Golden Retriever beside on one side, while Stella’s side was a cool evening desert, bereft of the musky morning jasmine scent that should have been wafting over her shoulder.

Twenty years and somehow she had still not got it right. In some ways she felt they had all been through everything, moved the pieces around in every configuration that existed and she’d landed on a new one, one she knew she wanted best, one in which she knew she could make them both happy. But in other ways, she felt as though she’d been standing still ever since that night, learned nothing, come nowhere.

And more than anything, she was angry at Stella for letting her feel that way. The least she could have done was stayed, told her she hated the idea, rubbed her temples grouchily over a cup of inferior tea while Mulder flipped pancakes. Was that really too much to ask from someone she had known and loved so long?

And in place of that tiny bit of consideration, she’d left a little gift box.

“Sorry...xo” said Stella’s haughty half-script on a prismed, torn-off piece of paper she’d turned into a card.

A hasty unwrapping revealed a shiny little ivory-colored porcelain replica of Big Ben. A delicate and expensive version of something you’d get an an airport. Its base stood in the center of a small dish.

“What’s that?” Mulder grumbled, squinting one eye open. He’d lost some of his voice, left it in one or both of their bodies.

“Stella left us a wedding gift.”

“She left it? You mean she’s not here?”

Scully didn’t answer, so he took the object from her and looked closer.

“It’s a ring holder,” he said. “What does that mean?”

Scully slammed it on the nightstand hard enough to get some satisfaction but not hard enough to crack it. She knew that at a later date, she would cherish this object as the only connection to their union that Stella condoned. She had Mulder had not exchanged any rings - she was no more a jewelry person than she’d been when Mulder had first bought her that Elvis thing and then second-guessed himself. But maybe they should, maybe they would. Maybe she had clung to all the wrong ideas she could have about herself, let all the wrong things slip away into the unlived version of her life. She flexed her fingers over her forehead with a groan.

“She’ll come around,” Mulder said gently. “Let me get you some coffee.”

He was only gone a minute when she heard him calling her name from the kitchen. She joined him, expecting to be shown the spectacle of an ant problem or a pretty bird sitting outside the window or a strange neighbor out to get the mail in a funny outfit - he looked hard when he was aiming to cheer her up. Instead, the presentation involved a brown paper bag on the table, the oven-y smell of bagels hovering, and Stella... leaning against the counter in the rare odd wrinkled t-shirt, lips pursed, arms folded under her breasts. Scully clung to Mulder’s bare back for protection.

“She came around,” Mulder said.

“Isn’t that getting old?” Scully demanded of Stella, stepping forward, and Mulder sat down, pulled the bag of goodies over. He hesitated to open it in a sudden bout of manners, waited for Stella to answer her.

Stella dipped her head for a deep look at the ground, as though checking to see if she’d stepped on something. Her arms did not uncross.

“Yes,” she said finally with the bluntness Scully imagined she applied to a cold case re-opened and placed unwelcomed on her desk.

“It’s childish, Stella. I asked you a question, all you had to do was answer it,” Scully pressed.

“You asked me a question while I was taking your clothes off -”

“Because I thought if I combined it with sex, you’d be more likely to unders -”

“You thought I’d be more likely to say yes. Is there any behavior more childish than that?”

Scully opened her mouth, made a couple of sounds that didn’t turn into words.

“You’re right, Stell...” Mulder chimed, “Is what Scully is trying to say. She has trouble with that sometimes.”

Scully swallowed her pride, realizing only then that she could let go of both her disappointment and her anger. Stella was still there. They were both there.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Stella nodded matter-of-factly, uncrossed her arms.

“Eat a bagel and re-ask the question clearly and while I have my wits about me.”

Chapter 30

The neighborhood was full of cobblestone and good bones, svelte-faced buildings painted in aristocrat white, noses in the air as people swept past with briefcases, the damp winter wind whipping chilled hair in their faces. Scully hugged herself tighter in her long black coat and little white dress, swayed from side to side as she picked a wave of red from across her forehead. She looked too perfect for this stuffy old courthouse. She also looked nervous.

“She’ll be here,” Mulder said.

Scully smiled close-lipped, dusted the chest of his jacket, tightened his tie and lied to his face.

“I’m not worried.”

When she looked at him here on the courthouse steps, she saw him as he once was, young and bitter, eyes that looked perpetually impressed and a smooth-lipped mouth that looked forever disappointed. She saw their son, the short exchange Stella’s cleverness had allowed her to have with him that day in the park. She saw all the close-calls, the times they should have been parted from one another forever and yet somehow found their way back. They were, as a couple, simultaneously inevitable and a miracle. They were each other’s something old and time itself, their something borrowed.

And Stella - though she’d met her just a few years after Mulder - was still her something new - and that’s how Stella liked it. It was part of the allure of her and the problem of Stella Gibson. She liked to maintain the shiny, silvery lacquer of mystery, and Scully knew Stella worried today would tarnish it. She had considered Scully and Mulder’s offer very carefully, very sensibly, then delivered her answer as she tore bread from the inside of a bagel, a calm voice but a tear in her eye, an embarrassed smile, a mellow-limbed embrace - joy. But there had also been signs of anxiety that day and ever since. It didn’t upset Scully, it only worried her that it might upset Stella. Along the way, Stella had become something else besides the shiny new toy, she had been for some time.

She moved in closer to Mulder as they waited, let her nose rest against his Adam’s apple, a small concession to the robust unflappability she was determined to show off today. She did not want him to feel his presence meant less to her - it was just that, in this current incarnation of her life, she worried less about losing it. He was sturdier these days, took his medicine and jogged and read novels rather than nonfiction and conspiracy theory websites. He less apt to disappear on her or on himself.

“Maybe we should have stayed at her place last night,” she said. “Reviewed things.”

“All she has to do is show up, what’s to review?” he remarked casually but through it Scully could see he was more concerned than she was. “You tried her phone?”

“Three times.”

Him too.

“I could go to her place, make sure everything’s okay?” he offered.

“No,” Scully said, her face stoic but her fingers slipping up and down his tie. The gesture brought him back to the moment and he smiled. His eyes were greener than usual here in the English afternoon.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mulder? There’s no part of you that would be relieved if we didn’t pull this off today?

He took her chin in hand.

“I’m sure, baby. We’ll do it another day if she can’t make it. Something must have come up.”

What he didn’t say was: we could do it without her. Because he wasn’t sure that he could. It was almost perfect, him and Scully alone. Almost, except that at the same time, always teetering on not-at-all. Stella’s involvement made it possible somehow, even when she was physically apart from them, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. They seemed to need her to survive each other. And as stubborn as he was about not needing people, he was also too old, too experienced not to admit when he did.

Suddenly, Scully smiled and he saw Stella getting out of a black cab in a wooly grey dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen. She turned to pay the driver through the window, at first glance betraying nothing but her usual charmed confidence, although upon closer inspection, he could see the way she was gripping her leather clutch with nerve-wrecked white fingertips.

“See? She’s here,” Mulder said and twirled a length of Scully’s hair between her shoulder blades.

She kissed him briefly on the lips and in a moment Stella approached, tapped their cheeks with her own, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

“Sorry I’m late. You look lovely. What are we doing afterward?”

“We’ll go get you a stiff drink,” Scully said dryly with a tweak to the neckline of Stella’s sweater dress, playing as she’d done moments ago with Mulder’s tie. An excuse for contact, a doctor’s emotional temperature-telling.

“Drink, yes, maybe several,” Stella said a little more gently, as though she too had merely been awaiting the doctor’s call to feel better. A malady that eased by benign diagnosis. You will not regret this, I will not let you regret it, Scully tried to communicate telepathically as she looked Stella over, but couldn’t quite rein in the eye contact necessary.

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a flask on her,” Mulder said.

“Who says I haven’t,” and she handed Mulder her little bag. “Here, just a second.”

She smoothed her dress, checked the backs of her earrings. Perfume stabbed the air and committed Stella to memory with every flick of her wrist, every twist of the neck.

“I hate weddings,” she said. “You know that right?”

But Scully was not fooled by the mask of Stella’s comfortable complaints. She busy staring at Stella’s body, trying to place the odd feeling of deja vu and then -

“I remember this dress.”

And for the first time that day, Stella steadied, really looked at her, let her eyes rest there in the cradle of Scully’s gaze. Her cheeks colored pink a little and her eyes deepened, the greyness of them taking on the hue of brushed denim, the deep hint of indigo.

There it was, the something else Stella had become, her something blue.

It was one of Stella’s great weaknesses that being told she was loved made her want to cry and not in the so happy tears are falling sort of way, but rather in the way of someone falling to pieces. There was only one way she could handle it - in the passive elocution. There were people, mainly men, she’d known over the course of her life who’d somehow learned and observed the rule. One of them had probably taught it to her in the first place.

“You are loved,” her father used to say, or her favorite uncle, or her late-mentor at the academy. “You are missed,” Mulder would sometimes tell her on the phone. But Scully either couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to it. She was restrained in the frequency of her expressions of affection but not in the manner or delivery of them. She gave her love actively, when given.

So of course she remembered the dress, the thing Stella had been wearing that first time.

“Yes, I thought you might,” Stella said, allowing Scully to believe that she’d done it on purpose. She had not consciously thought of that day this morning when she reached for it. But admittedly, there could be no coincidence in such an action. She had dozens of outfits that would have been suitable, in fact two others she’d bought expressly with this day in mind.

“My, you do look lovely, darling,” she added, tingling with warmth as she looked Scully over. More ethereal and yet more solid all at once. “What is it about white that makes a woman look like a new person?”

Actually, all of it was new to Stella except Scully - she was the only thing familiar about this willingness she felt, the generosity of spirit. She was not pretending to be pissed off for having been asked to do this. But really she was self-conscious about not being pissed off. It would have been more comfortable to resent being here, would have felt more herself.

Inside, there would be waiting to do, the collective and similar but varied anxieties of twenty other strangers pledged to do this same thing this same day. She and Mulder would bicker amiably, tease about who was going to be fucking whose wife later. Scully would hold her head high, pretending to be above it all, threaten them with moving entire affair to a church, but secretly be glad she’d done it here, in the shadow of all the petty tragicomedies of bureaucracy. They all three were creatures of the system, and they were also its rebels. That included Scully. Sweet, silently subversive Dana Scully, who was sneaking her hand into Stella’s palm, the other already tucked deftly and permanently into Mulder’s elbow.

It had been Mulder’s idea to configure it this way. He’d said it made sense because then she and Scully would be able to visit one another longer. And it would make it easier for her to move to America if she ever wanted to join them there. She had marveled at the breadth of his spirit, his confidence and his love, had been glad she’d fucked him the previous night. But she’d also panicked. She had only just returned from possible escape minutes before.

Scully had hedged when she heard it and fidgeted, twiddled her fingers and smiled shyly as she admitted to approving of the plan. They each took turns making sure Mulder was in his right mind. And ultimately Stella agreed to it because she wasn’t sure any other way would feel binding enough, would serve to remind her that somewhere, someone expected something of her. And if she didn’t feel that, well then what was the point of being involved at all?

Courthouses could be jarring settings for ordinary people but they were familiar to her, and this one in particular. She’d come out of them over the course of her career in all manner of states - furious, indignant, satisfied, vengeful, victorious - all three of them had. When she came out of this one on this day, she would be no more and no less than... married. No one was changing their name. But hers would be a little different because it would be signed on a piece of paper beside Scully’s, with Mulder’s below as the “witness.”

He would get Scully with his morning coffee every morning. She would get her on vacations, on special weekends, and, somewhere she had never in a million years expected to either get or look forward to getting - on paper.

The law would be involved, black ink and clerks, a mess to undo if needing undone. And the fact of all this did, at moments, make her want to run. But what did Scully deserve if not that? Her momentary fancies of flight, her panic. That was worth more than her love, it was more than she had ever been willing to entrust to anyone else.

Overhead, a couple of birds scattered noisily from the ancient stony doorway. Mulder and Scully watched them in tandem, eyes arching from here to there with expressions of matching surprise and gratitude.

“Are those pigeons or--?” Mulder asked, and Scully tightened the lobster clasp of her fingers. “Doves,” she said. “Mourning doves.”

Stella squinted and smiled alongside them in the breeze. For once, for the moment, there was nothing for any of them to mourn.

The end

#wtid #myfic #stella and scully #xfiles fic #the fall fic #thank you all for being a part of this

104 notes · View notes

ehstarwar · 4 years

Text

the gentler gamester is the soonest winner (4/4)

“Dr. Skywalker, you have two PhD’s. I think the scanner, a widely used form of communication, is well within your capabilities.”

He humphs unceremoniously at this. When he finally turns to face Rey, he’s wearing a sly grin that usually means danger, but Rey has learned that some things are better left unexplored.

Rey gets some unexpected help from an unexpected source.

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 2k

Read on AO3

Notes: please accept this chapter as an apology for last chapter. i do it for the reylos (´ｖ｀)

Chapter 4: when the battle’s lost and won

The thick, fraying carpet gave a repulsive squelch beneath the soles of Rey’s rain-boots. She doesn’t know how it’s possible for so much rain water to have made it down the hall and into the professors offices, but she’s thankful for the protection of her walmart-brand rain boots regardless.

The rain outside was quickly turning into a wintery mix as night drew closer and Rey wanted to make it back to her apartment as quickly as possible. This was the last stop for the semester, picking up her final project results from Dr. Skywalker’s office. She knew the grade already, had for the last couple days, but his notes did occasionally provide some much needed insight.

Her attempts for him to send it to her via email had been quickly vetoed with a succinct:

No. =P

Sent from my iPhone

It was hard to resent a man who used outdated emojis and brought her expensive coffee on occasion, so she chose to let it go.

Dr. Skywalker’s office was in a perpetual state of disarray, but it had a nice homey feel to it. Rey had spent her fair share of course verbally sparing with Dr. Skywalker in here; enough to be comfortable opening the door and heading in.

“Hi, Dr. Skywalker,” She says, peering over the mountain of paperwork to see him.

“Rey! You braved this weather just to get you final back?” He asked, not looking away from his computer screen.

“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d just emailed me, like I asked.”

“I would’ve had to use the scanner.”

“Dr. Skywalker, you have two PhD’s. I think the scanner, a widely used form of communication, is well within your capabilities.”

He humphs unceremoniously at this. When he finally turns to face Rey, he’s wearing a sly grin that usually means danger, but Rey has learned that some things are better left unexplored. She eggs him towards her visit.

“So… my final project. Do you have it… somewhere?” She asks.

“Oh, yes,” He looks at a stack of papers roughly 2 feet tall, pulling out a packet from the middle section, in a stunning display of balance and perception. She’s also learned not to ask Dr. Skywalker more questions than necessary. “But first I’d like to discuss your performance this semester.”

Rey frowns at this. “My performance?”

He nods.

“Was it unsatisfactory?”

“Of course not. You’re one of my top students.” Rey would prefer to be The Top Student, but she’ll settle for this.

“Okay then; what about my performance?”

“You had so much energy leading into this semester, but it seemed to plateau after the midterm. Were you unhappy with your score? Or maybe with another class even?”

Rey wasn’t unhappy with her score on his midterm; it was an A- and she agreed with all the points he knocked off and even appreciated his input going forward. Rey wasn’t unhappy with any of her other classes, either. A mix of A’s and one lowly B (curse you BioChem II), but was overall happy with her academic performance.

Her unease and general displeasure the past few weeks stems from the Event She’d Rather Not Talk About, as she’d taken to calling it.

Alternatively, Ben.

Maybe she didn’t know him that well; maybe she spent the majority of their relationship dreaming about pushing him out of a seat that was hers; maybe he was right when he said that it wasn’t okay for them to get together. Maybe all of those things were true, and Rey accepted this.

But it sill hurt.

She’d spent the rest of the weekend moping about it, refusing to like a stupid meme Poe shared with her on insta. By Monday, she was still in the dumps, but decided that no man who could kiss her then leave her within the span of 10 minutes was deserving of her tears. Even if that man had lips that tasted like pure sin and hands she could still feel the ghost of on her hips.

She had purposely come to class barely on time for the rest of the semester, to breeze past him, not sparing him a second glance, and sit in her officially-official seat in the back. She definitely didn’t stare at the back of his head and ruefully realize that the one opportunity she’d had to feel his hair beneath her fingertips had slipped away.

Rey had thrown herself into her schoolwork, using this lack of a significant other as an excuse to be the best student possible. Even if her social life (the minuscule one she had) had to suffer because of it.

“No… I just wanted to focus. Put my head down, petal to the metal, other clichés like that,” Rey says.

“So no problems? Not even… socially?” Dr. Skywalker was many things. Brilliant, charitable, occasional areshole. Subtle was not one of these things.

“I met your nephew. But I think you knew that.”

“As a matter of fact, I did!” He looks like the cat that caught the canary and Rey is beginning to think that is a set up of sorts.

“What did Ben tell you?” Rey asks, afraid of the answer but still desperate to know.

“My nephew is not one for over-sharing, if you can imagine, so you can imagine my surprise when three weeks ago, I receive an email from him. It takes him about… four paragraphs to get the nerve to casually tell me he’s met a student of mine, and another two for him to casually ask how you are.”

Rey’s heart drops.

“What did you tell him?” She asks too quickly, earning a pointed stare from Dr. Skywalker.

“I told him that if he cares about you enough to email me, one of, if not the, people he hates the most, he should man up and ask you himself.” Rey frowns. She’s not sure what she’d expect him to tell Ben, but that just seemed so… rude.

“Surely there was a better way to phrase that.”

Dr. Skywalker observe her for a moment. “You think I was too harsh?” He asks.

“Well… yes. Ben was just being nice. You should’ve taken it as a compliment that he emailed you at all. That was… probably a big step for him.” Rey is sure she’s pouting, even if she’s not sure why.

“Hmmm… I agree.” At that, Dr. Skywalker checks his watch, then hands Rey her final, notes and all, without anything further.

“So… that’s it?” She asks, tentatively taking the packet.

“That’s it.” He’s turned his attention back to his computer screen and Rey feels like she’s being brushed off.

“Okay, then. Well… have a good holiday. I guess I’ll see you in January.”

“See ya round, kid.” He says as she leaves his office.

Rey will have plenty of time to pick apart this interaction and let her mind spiral with this particular form of oddness from her mentor much later. Preferably when she’s back in her warm apartment, face mask on, wine in her hand, and safe from the winter storm that brewing out side. She makes it about twenty feet from Dr. Skywalker’s office when that plan goes down the drain.

Sliding in front of her on the linoleum floor, is a dripping wet, out of breath, dressed in black Ben.

He stops a few feet away from her, and Rey is in such a state of shock that words aren’t forming right now.

“Rey,” He says. God, she’d forgotten how good that voice can sound. He walks towards her until she can feel his heavy exhales of breath on her face.

“It is,” Ben lifts his wrist to check his watch, “5:04pm. All final grades were submitted online at 5pm.” He says this with such determination, and Rey cannot fathom as to why.

“Okay..?”

“I finished putting everyones grades in about twenty minutes ago.”

“Congratulations?”

“Do you know what that means?” He asks her. If she thought she was confused by Dr. Skywalker’s odd behavior before, it is nothing compared to what she’s feeling now.

“I don’t know what that means, Ben. Care to enlighten me?” Her words are harsh but she’s a little fed up with this family’s shit.

“As of four minutes ago, I ceased being your superior in any way.”

“Well… good for you, I guess.”

“It also means that I can ask you out. On a date. With me. If you want.”

Rey’s body goes rigid. Realization dawns on her like a tidal wave and she feels so utterly stupid for not realizing it sooner. She stares at Ben for a few moments (mostly because she can), taking in his giant, brooding form, that she’s never liked quite as much as she does in this moment. Ben clears his throat and she realizes she’s been quiet for too long.

“Yes!” She screams. “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you. Yes, yes, very much yes-”

Ben is kissing her with a ferociousness that takes away Rey’s breath. His lips are still so surprisingly soft, and his hands still so magnificently large as they up her cheeks. The kiss is tender and sweet, yet hot and desperate all at the same time, and it makes Rey feel more justified in her moping since their last kiss.

Her hands rest on his chest and his forehead goes to rest on hers as they catch their breath. Someone, she doesn’t know who, starts breathlessly laughing, and soon enough they’re both clinging to each other to keep their knees from giving out.

“You ran all the way from the Fine Arts building?” She asks, lips brushing against his on every syllable.

“Yeah.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“Luke emails me that the girl I’d be too stupid to loose out on was in his office.” Rey can’t help the grin she thinks will permanently be on her face.

“He’s a very smart man, your uncle.”

Ben hums in disagreement, “You’re smarter.”

He kisses her again, slowly this time, like he’s mesmerizing every nudge, every slide, every movement they make together. It isn’t until an all-to-familiar chuckle pierces the silence that Rey or Ben look up.

Rey’s cheeks instantly redden, just like Ben’s ears.

“Just don’t do anything unseemly in the shop!” Dr. Skywalker shouts as he exits the building. Rey drops her head to Ben’s chest, feeling comforted by the deep rumble of laugher she feel there. He wraps his arms around her then, and she doesn’t care that he’s wet; she’ll hold him as long as he holds her.

“Ben?” She says, muffled by his chest. “I’m really glad I stole your seat.”

Rey doesn’t have to she his smile to know it’s there. “Me too.”

“Excuse me, but I think you’re in my seat.”

Rey whirls around, feeling very dramatic in the large, leather chair that probably cost as much as a car. She sees a very welcome sight; Ben, standing in the doorway, in a pristinely cut suit, wearing the comma-shaped cufflinks she got him for his last birthday.

“Now you have the guts to tell me to bugger off.” She jokes.

“Did I tell you to move, Ms. Niima?” He asks teasingly, using his best Professor Solo voice.

“No, I don’t believe you did, Professor Solo. Or is it Dr. Solo?” Rey asks, sitting up straighter. Ben comes around the large oak desk, depositing another cardboard box filled with books older than the university on it.

“I think I’ll make a special exception for you Ms. Niima. Can’t have a big-whig Lead Engineer of Resistance Enterprises, calling me something so… stuffy.” They’re both grinning at each other now, liking this vanilla role-playing too much.

“What should I call you then?” She asks.

Ben suddenly grabs Rey’s legs, picks her up, spins around and deposits them both in the chair so that she’s seated comfortably on his lap.

“I think you can just call me… fiancé. For now, at least.”

Rey doesn’t think she’ll ever get over the way his eyes sparkle when he looks at her like that. Like she’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen and that he’d fight the whole galaxy just hold her like he’s doing now.

“That sounds perfectly acceptable. You can just call me your seat thief.”

#reylo #ben solo #adam driver #kylo ren #rey #daisy ridley #ben solo x rey #kylo ren x rey #rey x ben #sw #star wars #fan fiction #my work #ao3

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gveret-fic · 6 years

Note

Supercorp: "Lena, there's no time to explain but your answer to this next question could very well determine the fate of the universe: Can I have a smooch?"

The whole universe narrows down into a fewburning points of awareness in that moment. The delicate pressure of four of Kara’sfingertips against her arm, the pinkie too light to feel at all; that direct, earnest,somewhat wild eye contact that feels precarious but utterly unbreakable; theslightly elevated breath between them, escaping from barely parted lips, cooledby the distance and setting fire to Lena’s nerves—it’s as if time freezes justthen, Lena’s life flashing before her eyes like in a cheap TV drama, teeteringright on that treacherous margin between fantasy and reality. Truly the mostridiculous, farfetched, over the top manifestation of blatant wish fulfillment.

Of course Lena says, “Yes.”Of course her voice breaks on that single most monosyllabic of words.

And Kara’s face lights up. Like it does whenpresented with enough dinner to feed an army. Like it does when a family she’srescued is reunited, unsteady and shivering but strong and whole. Like it doesafter a very good, wholehearted, unselfconscious sort of hug. “Thank you,I—I’m sorry we—Thank you, Lena.”

She brushes her fingers over Lena’s cheek,grazing over her lips; a brisk, confident motion, almost impersonal. Lena’swhole body throbs. Kara tips Lena’s head back with that same efficiency,knuckle and thumb trapping a triangle of warmth between them against the skinof Lena’s chin.

Lena’s lips part as her eyelids slide closed,involuntary, helpless with anticipation. Kara lets out a breath, and Lena hearsit, crisp and ragged against the pulse in her ears, but she feels itmore than that: against her lips; slipping warm and ghostly past.

Kara is close enough to kiss. Not byaccident, not by some goofy happenstance. Kara Danvers is close enough to kissbecause that’s what she’s going to do.

The first touch isn’t much of anything atall; an experimental, simple press of lips, that same workmanlike approach. Itsends a thrill from Lena’s scalp right down to her toes. She closes her lipsagainst Kara’s, a hint of a taste she knows could burn her down. Karawithdraws.

Lena tries to tilt her head, thoughtlessly chasingafter that thrilling contact, but Kara’s grip is light, gentle, and unyieldingas ever. Lena moans.

Kara doesn’t mind, though, maybe. She mustn’t,because then she’s back, head angled and another implacable hand cupping Lena’sjaw and that hot, controlled, impossible mouth.

Lena closes her eyes, and allows herself tobe engulfed.

When Kara pulls back, dragging Lena’s breathalong with her, she almost looks like she’s blushing. But then—no, she isn’tblushing, she’s glowing, emitting very literal light and warmth tomatch the way she’s lit up Lena’s body.

She flares hot and blazing for a moment,yellow, almost red, like fire, and she grins at Lena even brighter than the sun,and then she’s gone.

It wasn’t really a kiss. It was the best kissof Lena’s life, the best thing in it, likely, but it wasn’t real. Oncethe sparkly pink haze settles down and Lena’s nerve endings stop sparking likelivewires, she realizes it right quick.

Kara didn’t kiss her because she wanted tokiss her. She kissed her because, for whatever cruel but likely karmicallyjustified reason, she needed to. She even said so, right from the outset.

This wasn’t a real kiss. Real kisses don’thave a purpose, serve no function other than pleasure, the expression of affectionand desire. This was a kiss to save the world.

Cold. Calculated. Utilitarian. Perfect for aLuthor.

It’s an alien virus, Kara explains. She’dcontracted it three weeks ago, and ever since then her powers hadn’t workedright. Until last night.

Lena refuses to beat around the bush. “Whya kiss? Why me?”

“Well, um, the only source we’ve foundfor this thing is in an ancient text in a language that’s no longer inuse,” Kara struggles to explain, gesturing stiltedly. “We’veconsulted this planet’s, I mean, the leading alien linguists worldwide, but wecould only really translate some rudimentary instructions for a treatment.Luckily, there were also illustrations, and they were a bit more, um.Explicit.”

“Explicit… kissing?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Kara laughs nervously.“I can show you. If you want.”

“I’d appreciate it. And any informationyou can spare on this virus.”

“Oh, yeah! I bet you can help. Don’tworry, it isn’t transmittable to humans. I would never expose you to somethinglike that, Lena,” Kara says intently.

Lena softens. She knows, of course she knowsby now that she and her wellbeing matter to Kara, but the reminder never failsto warm her. “I know,” she reassures. “But, to my secondquestion…”

Kara grimaces, avoiding eye contact. “I’msorry. That was asking a lot, wasn’t it? I probably shouldn’t have donethat.”

She had been braced for something like this,certainly, but Lena still finds herself struggling to conceal bruised feelingsand crumpled hopes. “You shouldn’t have?” she asks carefully.

“I really wasn’t trying to—to takeadvantage,” Kara bumbles, wringing her hands in an absentminded fidgetthat might well twist steel beams. “I’m not—it’s not—sexual.” Thatword in hushed tones, like a primary schooler. Like a straight girl. “Ilove you, you know? I don’t like using you. It’s just, the world was kind ofliterally in danger, and I needed a quick fix…”

Lena remembers fingers at her chin, directingher head about, hot breath on her skin, a frozen moment of searinganticipation. Quick fix. “I see.”

“And you—you—” Kara’s fingertipsturn white from digging into her other hand, a grip that would tear through concretelike paper. “I don't—I can’t say why. J'onn—the minute J'onn read thewhole thing, he took me aside and, um. He was pretty sure it had to be you. Andby pretty sure, I mean very sure. More like dead certain. He had that intensebut considerate look, you know?”

Lena is quite convinced she doesn’t.

“It doesn’t mean I—it doesn’t meananything,” Kara says a little pleadingly, offering the words like acomfort. The shitty, jagged, barbed wire sort of comfort that lodges in theheart of hopeful idiots and tugs.

Lena swallows down all the pieces of herheart and falls back on a businesslike demeanor, her most rudimentary façade. “Therewere extenuating circumstances,” she says with a magnanimity she doesn’tfeel. “I understand.”

Kara’s face twists again, and then lifts. Shefinally meets Lena’s eyes. “It won’t happen again,” she vows, quietand certain and clearly embarrassed.

Lena wants to reassure her, wants tocontradict her, wants to grab her stupid beautiful face and kiss her again.

Instead, she nods. And Kara relaxes.

It happens again.

Lena is fiddling around with a particularlystubborn spreadsheet when Kara crashes into her office, injured and bleeding, waversfor a moment, and crashes into Lena’s desk. Her paperwork goes flying.

“Motherfucker!”

“Hi, Lena,” Kara gasps, trying valiantlyto pick herself up. “I think—I think I need some help.”

Lena walks around the remains of her desk togrip Kara by the arms. One of them is painted red from a wound in her side.“You don’t say.”

“I’m so sorry to ask this of youagain,” Kara says, ragged and sincere. “Lena. Feel free—feel free tosay no.”

Lena laboriously wrestles Kara onto her feet,drags her over the couch and shoves a Capri Sun in her hand. “Of courseI’m not saying no. You’ve left a trail of blood all across my office floor.”

“Whoa! Did I?” Kara looks aroundand jumps a little, as if the freely bleeding gash in her side is news to her. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Youscared me.” She sees Kara open her mouth and holds up a finger. “Uhp!Don’t apologize.”

“Thank you, Lena.” Kara says itlike a sigh, and deflates along. She looks—bad. Gray around the edges.“I'm—I swear, it’s not that—it’s not that I want to kiss you, Ijust—”

Lena’s breath hisses sharply through herteeth. It’s one challenge after another today. “Kara,” she says,sweet and dangerous. “Shut up, would you.”

“‘Kay,” Kara says so immediatelyand in such a small voice that despite everything, Lena can’t help smiling.

What can she do, she really is in love withthis doofus.

They meet just a little off center, Kara blurryand uncoordinated, her lips grazing Lena’s chin with Lena almost getting amouthful of nose. It feels almost… exploitive, kissing Kara like this,something unseemly in sharing a moment as vulnerable as a kiss with her alreadyso defenseless. Supergirl, dragged down from the sky and into the arms of aLuthor.

But Kara braces her hand around the back ofLena’s neck, and she dives into their kiss with the sort of magnetic,energizing fervor that Lena is endlessly mystifies by but which seems to comeso naturally to Kara, and—as their lips fit together, like seven differentkinds of magic, she once again begins to glow.

Kara draws back slowly, and Lena watches withlidded eyes and wavering breath as Kara’s skin knits back together, her eyessharpen, her whole being shimmers; Lena’s half expecting a wind, summoned outof nothing, to gently blow away her hair.

I did that, Lena thinks, and maybeglows a little, too.

“You’re really good at this,” Karabreathes, lips still red and glistening. She sways closer, thumb tracing a carefulhalf circle across Lena’s throat, eyes fixed on her mouth. All at once, shedrops her hand and leans away. “Not that I like—”

“Yes,” Lena cuts her off sharply,irritable at being yanked so unceremoniously back to earth. “I know, thankyou.” She softens, against her better judgment, sweeps a loose curl ofgolden hair off Kara’s glowing shoulder. “Stay safe.”

“I will. Thanks to you.” Kara iswearing her dopey, blissful post-kiss smile. Post-power up, Lenacorrects herself. As Kara hasn’t yet failed to mention, it has nothing to dowith the kissing. “My hero.”

Lena watches her shoot up into the sky, ablurry, shimmering dot, the imprint of her thumb still burning against Lena’sthroat, and tries very hard not to let those parting words sink all the waydown to where they want to go.

Kara sends her scans of the alien texts.Scans of the alien illustrations, too.

Explicit is indeed an apt word for them.

None of the beings depicted have anythingparticularly analogous to human genitalia, but the intent is quite clear.Unambiguous, but tasteful, in a way. There’s a certain tenderness to them. Itseems obvious that this is an embrace between two (or more, it’s reasonablyhard to tell) individuals who care for each other. Certainly on the… classierend of deeply outlandish erotica.

It also seems apparent why the DEO had deemedkissing to be the less risky option.

Cold comfort, however, when Lena feels atrisk of losing herself entirely.

It becomes a sort of deranged, destabilizing,electrifying routine.

The feeling of rightness when their lips fittogether, Kara’s tongue in Lena’s mouth, her hand warm and rigid in Lena’shair. The indescribable rush of witnessing firsthand the magical transformationof Kara recharging, as she shines with power and energy and delight, andknowing Lena was its catalyst. Going home alone, slipping into her neatly madebed with a vibrator and headphones and trying her very hardest to imagine anyfucking thing else as she comes.

Lunch the next day, with Kara no longer tryingto convince either of them that this won’t happen again, with the tension ofthe mutual knowledge that it will, that it has to, that neither of them feelsabout it the way that they should.

The unspoken,unavoidable new closeness between them, awkward and strange and exciting, reshapingtheir relationship in ways Lena can’t yet articulate, and absolutely wouldn’t,if she could.

It goes on, and Lena adjusts. She’s quitegood at adjusting. This is just another type of longing.

They stop waiting for Kara’s powers to fadecompletely; Lena would rather not see Kara bleed if she can help it. They mightshare a kiss every four or five days, now: in between meetings, at the end oflunch, early in the morning through Lena’s apartment window. If this arrangementbegins to resemble something Lena knows very well the name of, if she hasstarted relying on it like she does on her weekly therapy sessions, if sheneeds to change batteries much more frequently nowadays—well. She tries not todwell.

It’s been two weeks since their last kiss, arather unusually long while. Kara is starting to look a little pallid, but shedoesn’t mention it, and Lena doesn’t push. It isn’t that kind of relationship.

Not the kind of relationship where peoplecommunicate, Lena thinks darkly.

But then Kara tells her a bad a pun, and laughsat her own joke, lighting up all on her own—

Whatever kind of relationship this is, Lenawill take it, and thank the stars for being gifted the opportunity.

Lena receives Alex’s alert during herpost-all nighter power nap. She rides the DEO car in an unpleasant combination ofgrogginess and sharp alarm, and arrives at the military proving grounds just intime to see a gray shape pick up a red and blue figure and throw her right outof the sky.

Kara slams straight into an old concretewall, sliding down in a shower of debris.

The green dot that’s likely J'onn rushes oneof the assailants up above, the black dot that must be Sam bodily dragging twoothers through the air. Lena wrestles out of her heels, chucks them aside and headsfor Kara in a dead sprint, only pausing to cower away from a rain of shatteredglass.

She doesn’t spare a glance upward, not whenKara is small and immobile and so unnervingly earthbound. As unnatural as afalcon laid out on its side in the middle of the road.

Lena struggles to her knees beside her in herstupid tight fucking skirt, palms Kara’s dusty, bloodied face. If only they’drecharged before this, none of this would have happened. “Shit,”Lena mutters, tasting bile in her throat. “Kara. Come on. Come on,darling. Look at me.”

She smoothes away Kara’s hair, rubs vigorouslyover her shoulders, her chest. Kara’s eyelids flutter, head lifting bypainstaking degrees. “Mrrm,” she mumbles, like a big, injured, capedcat. “Oh… Hey, beautiful.”

Lena lets out a wet gasp of a laugh.“Thanks, charmer. I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

Lena bends forward, eyes already slippingshut when she’s halted by a palm to the face.

“Nooo,” Kara moans, feebly rollingher head side to side. “No no no. Nuh uh. No way.”

Lena bats the hand away, annoyance and anxietyclashing. “Kara, what the fuck? You almost died up there. Please.”

“It’s not fair to me,” Karamumbles.

“It’s not fair to you?” Lenarepeats incredulously.

“It’s trizvialising my feelings,”Kara explains, equally earnest and absurd.

“Wh-what?”

“’S Alex says.” Kara shakes herhead again. “’S not healthy.”

“Well, I don’t think getting beaten to apulp is very healthy for you either!”

Kara keeps stubbornly shaking her head, thenlets it droop down against her chest. Anxiety rises thick and suffocating inLena’s throat, but when Kara lifts her head back up, there’s a new clarity inher eyes.

Kara wipes her nose on her forearm, smearinga bright streak of blood across the right side of her face. “I can’t kissyou anymore,” she says plainly. “Because, I figured it out. Why it’syou. Of course it’s you. Lena. I’m hopelessly in love with you, you know.”

Confession done, Kara sags again, a superheroshaped balloon leaking air. Lena can see her own fingers bunched in Kara’suniform, white-knuckled and pushing hard to keep Kara propped against the wall,but she can’t feel them at all. A bright, impatient, staticky feeling hasovertaken her body.

Her voice bubbles up out of nowhere. “Kara,you fucking idiot.”

Kara blinks at her sluggishly. “Wuh?”

“You shitty… fucking… jerk!”

“Nooo, I’m nice!”

“You are not nice! You have beenkissing me stupid for weeks and telling me it meant nothingto you!”

“Well, I—I was lying!” Kara proclaims.

Lena ignores her entirely. “And I wentalong with it, again, and again, and again, like a self-destructive piece ofshit, soaking up every little scrap of misplaced affection, because I don’tthink there was ever a time when I wasn’t pathetically, desperately in lovewith you.” She lets go of Kara to muffle a sob in her hands, and Karaslides down a couple of incongruously comical inches before catching herself onher elbows. “God.”

Kara laboriously pushes herself back up,reaches for Lena with clumsy hands. “Shh. Shhh. C'mere.” Kara pullsher closer, makes uncoordinated attempts at wiping the tears off her face,settling her hair. Lena can feel it get messier. She leans into the touch. “Lena.Lena. Don’t cry. I am a stupid idiot jerk, you’re right.”

A sniffly sound of outrage escapes Lena. “No,I’m not! You are the most incredible, courageous, brilliant woman in thisuniverse! Don’t you ever say that to my face again!”

“Uhhh…” Kara’s stupid wonderfulface makes a stupid wonderful little O. “Okay.”

“I love you so much,” Lena sobs.

Kara is nodding vigorously now. “Minetoo. Me, me too. Allll so much.” She grimaces, stops nodding. “Lena,I think, I’m a bit cun—concussed? Maybe?”

Lena laughs a little hysterically. “Abit! Yes.” She wipes roughly at her eyes, grips Kara by the shoulders,takes in a noisy breath through her nose. She’s going to have to do thisagain. “Shit. All right.”

“Sorry,” Kara tells her, for themillions infuriating time these past months.

Lena fixes her with her sternest look, Lillianflavored. “I’m doing this because I love you, got it?” She would giveher a shake for good measure, except Kara is a solid slab of granite and alsoterrifyingly hurt.

Kara’s grin blooms wide and goofy andbloodstained: perfect. “Really? Cool,” she says, and Lena kisses her.

She tastes like dust and blood and the saltfrom Lena’s tears. Tastes like fear and pain and heartache—but triumph, too,and determination, and love. Love. Kara loves her. Kara loves her, and thiskiss—this fake fucking kiss that has a function, that isn’t real, this will betheir last. The next one, the next one is going to have no purpose at all. Thenext one will be decadence, self indulgence, hedonism epitomized.

Vow made, Lena opens her eyes to the nowfamiliar glow of a well-kissed Kara. Kara, whose reinvigorated arms around herare currently the only thing keeping Lena from dropping fifty feet onto theasphalt below.

Seems even a fake kiss is enough to cause abit of spontaneous, unconscious flight. Quite gratifying, really.

Lena licks her thumb, rubs at the dryingblood on Kara’s face and wipes it off on her shirt sleeve. “Go get 'em,”she says.

Kara giggles. “Yeah.” She glancesdown. “Um. I’ll just, put you down first.”

She tightens her hold around Lena’s waist,gently floats them down. Kara’s hair settles around her like a halo. She letsgo of Lena with a last lingering touch and steps back.

“Actually, you know what?” Karaturns back sharply, snakes an arm back around Lena’s body and cups the back ofher head in the other. “Not yet.”

She kicks off and they soar once again,spinning once, twice in the air as Kara nudges her nose against Lena’s andlaughs, short, exuberant, and captures her lip in a kiss.

Their previous kisses had been characterizedprimarily by either control or disorientation. This—this is nothing like that. Light,and honest, and focused; this kiss is pure exploration. Lena gives into it,like a solution blending with another, molecules fitting into each other’sspaces, unpredictably increasing density.

Kara draws back and laughs again, a warm explosionthat can’t be contained. “Did I get that right?” she asks.

Lena can do nothing but nod.

How Kara can misunderstand her so completelyfor months and then read her mind in an instant is beyond her. But she lovesher. And finally, she can show her.

So she does.

#were you expecting silliness? well here's some angst #supercorp #my fic #warning for blood injury and bad communication #Anonymous

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tervacious · 5 years

Text

Since Everything is a Feminist Dissertation Imma blog about Shane Dawson’s palette for a minute

Nine times out of ten when you make a statement and end it with BUT, you have outted yourself as a hypocritical ass who should have the ovarios to say what follows the BUT without the opening statement. Maybe this will be true for me too.

In agreement with most radfems I totally think the cosmetics industry is a clusterfuck of male entitlement and wealth being siphoned away from girls and women to men and male CEOs, etc etc, and I also think the sheer amount of product and time involved in placing thirty-five different products on one’s face to achieve a “natural” look is insidious and a perfect exemplar of what misogyny functions like on a daily basis, BUT

I’m a survivor of an extreme fundie xtian cult that controlled female behavior by emphasizing conformity, femininity, modesty, and lack of adornment/personality. I did not like this even as a small child because I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel. Which means I was a totally normal little girl who didn’t like being controlled and who fought back at every opportunity.

Which might explain why I’m a goth. I’m also an artist, and I’m on this planet, as are you, for a very tiny amount of time, and if I want to spend a fraction of that time adorning myself and wearing lots of black eyeliner, by the goddess I’ll fucking do it. And there’s nothing radical or feminist about that, any more than there’s anything inherently radical or feminist about not doing it.

I have a single small dresser drawer filled with makeup, and I’ve been eyeballing it recently because I should really pitch out and replace about 80% of it for age related reasons alone.

And thus we come to the Conspiracy palette by Shane Dawson x Jeffree Star, and also the mini palette, Lorde help me

Jesus christ, look at that.

I only buy one eyeshadow palette at a time and use it until it is gone or falls apart into dust. The current state of the beauty industry is such that they are pressuring women and girls into buying palette after palette, some of them enormous, some small, but a grown-ass woman owning stacks of these things is not unusual anymore. And new ones are coming out constantly-- to the point where there’s a whole part of beauty YouTube devoted to “the anti-haul”, in which people announce which makeup thing they will NOT be buying. This is a sorry state of affairs, there’s no way around it.

I don’t collect makeup because that’s silly. It’s a huge waste of money. I watch otherwise sensible women hoarding vast numbers of eyeshadow palettes, and they use only one or two colors and that’s... just sad? Apply that to the vast quantities of makeup products, to your lipsticks and glosses, to your pencils and correctors and corrector palettes and concealers and blushes and highlighters and contours and powders and foundations and primers and mattifiers and setting sprays and mascaras and a bunch of others things I forget, add a pile of false eyelashes and I don’t know, eyebrow merkins or some shit, and that’s what a well-appointed makeup afficionado is supposed to have in her arsenal. And all those things can’t be just one-- you have to have multiples, for reasons. But I honestly think the eyeshadow obsession is the worst, which is strange coming from me, because I adore eyeshadow.

And yet in spite of this I have a black stand-alone eyeshadow pan, and one large palette that is cheap, made in China, not great but with a lot of weird colors in it, so I use that one when I bother, and a few pots of glitter. My plan is to use it up or wait until it’s too old to use safely, and then pitch it/repurpose the case for something (it is literally the size of a laptop with a huge mirror in it so I can think of something), and get a new palette. I only buy one at a time, and use it until it’s gone. You know, like a rational person.

At first I’d decided when the time comes I’d get the Jawbreaker palette and mini, by Jeffree Star, because I loved the colors, but now I’ve changed my mind, because Shane Dawson’s not only has a case that matches my aesthetic, it also has awesome colors and, most importantly, BLACK. I use black eyeshadow alone or to set my eyeliner, so I’m devoted. And while all of these palettes have too many neutrals for my taste you can always use those for some kinda detail, and the Conspiracy Palette is my jam. It’s really gorgeous. Not gonna lie.

The documentary he made about the making of this palette is interesting on multiple levels-- there’s the process itself, which I didn’t know shit about until now. There was the portrayal of his relationship with Jeffree, which was interesting and often pretty funny, and touching. And from my chronic can’t stop writing feminist dissertations POV, the way women are the target of this business and yet completely sidelined was a real eyeopener. Let me just mention this one part:

In the final episode when the palette is assembled, each pan glued into the box and then the box boxed up, there’s a song with a woman singing about how she’ll never be Prom Queen. Shane is walking through the assembly line, emotional, because this is his project coming to fruition. Jeffree is with him, and Shane starts crying, and Jeffree comforts him. The song is clearly meant to be something Shane feels.

But the scene is of dozens of women, none of whom will be prom queen, none of whom are about to make millions of dollars on cosmetics, in white coats and hair protectors and goggles, busily assembling a beautiful object, which one suspects only a few of them will be able to afford for themselves though I can’t swear to that, it’s possible they are paid well, the place is unusual, Jeffree makes all his product in the United States, and I’m not inclined to jump to conclusions. But they are anonymously and busily working, putting together this thing, meant for women, and no woman really had any functional input into this project at all. This was, as everyone was joking, Shane and Jeffree’s baby. A baby. You know, the thing a man can never have.

I appreciate film making that reveals truth, even if it wasn’t intentional.

So other than that there’s not much to say. You can watch the epic thing yourself on YouTube, it was entertaining (and good for me because I need to opt out of some of the heavier shit I’m always buried in, yet one more reason I fucking QUIT MY JOB and am now FREE,) but if you want a look into the way the business works on the indy end of the spectrum, not the old timey Cosmetics Corporations but the new one that Jeffree Star basically spearheaded and upturned large chunks of the old business model, I think this documentary is a good one for understanding exactly how marginalized women remain in a business that ostensibly is directed at us.

The reason I think women like watching men like Jeffree and Shane and whoever else do these things is because it aids and abets the lie that wearing makeup is all a choice women make. The men are choosing, because men have zero pressure on them to do these things. Women are taught to have affinity with men and to ignore their lack of affinity with us. These bits of entertainment are a great brainwashing reinforcing device, to get us along for the ride, to hop in the car we never ever get to drive. And none of it is intentional, which is the best part. As smart as Shane is, the joy of being male is you just take things, casually, as your birthright. You’re totally entitled to make a nine-hour epic following your friends and family, unapologetically, put it on the internet, and get accolades, including the one I’m writing right now. You’re entitled to dictate the facts as if they contain a great truth. You can be totally unaware of the impact your decisions have for the greater bad. You can think you’re helping your sister-in-law through her crisis created by the very culture you are responsible for while mocking the women she blames for making her feel bad. This set of films is a monolithic treat for a radical woman to confront. And I hope, since there’s truth hidden in plain sight throughout, that a lot of other women and girls will see it too. Will notice the few females scattered throughout the film, consulted in the most cursory way, knowing they have to perform or they’re replaceable. I’m an Old, and used to seeing the real world, which has looked like this all my life. I don’t know what a fifteen year-old will see.

Tati Westbrook also released a new eyeshadow palette last week I think, and since people think if she puts out a forty-five minute video she’s talking too much, she naturally did not film a massive docudrama showcasing her Eyeshadow Palette Journey or whatever I could imagine her saying. Thus she was very much overshadowed by something that won’t appear for sale until tomorrow. I have no doubt she’ll do well, but will she make twenty million dollars? Will she do as well as she could have if she were a man?

Should anyone, off of what is essentially bullshit? Pretty, gorgeous bullshit? Of course not. That’s the actual feminist conclusion, it doesn’t matter if a male or a female is profitting off of, essentially, the insecurities and desires for cool new things and to be hip and liked and looked up to, which all of us have to some extent in some arena. I’m not immune to it either, ain’t lying again. It’s always an unseemly pleasure to have someone half my age ask me what I’m wearing and where I got it. Capitalism has conditioned all of us to associate material things with social acceptance and admiration, and if you are a materialist person like I am, that association comes very easily.

Anyway, that’s it, that’s the bit. I have no doubt this thing will sell out in approximately two hours, which will happen without me because my old eyeshadow palette still works.

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bigfrozenfan · 6 years

Photo

My all-time favorites fan art - part twentyseven - Agnarr/Iduna Special

King Agnarr and Queen Iduna in younger years

I guess many fans asking themselves how Agnarr have met his Queen and how they felt in love to eachother. There is hardly to find any art work about this theme and this one seems to be a rare example how it probably looks like.

It's summer in Arendelle, the dawn has broken and the sun sets slowly, the moon and some stars are be seen and young Agnarr and his Iduna are standing on the balcony of the castle. They are enjoying the fresh air from the coming night and Iduna leans on him with a happy smile. She's the first time in Arendelle and they haven't married yet. It looks like a dream have come true for her.

I really would like to hear what the are talking to eachother in this intimate moment, if they are making wedding plans, what Agnarr has promised to her, or just maybe if she's asking him whereto they will ride out this beautiful morning...but wait...there's a lot more below.

The pictures radiates so much feeling and love, are so emotional and intense. Really amazing! I love them and there should be a storyline in Frozen II about the past of them!

Art by corosuke-kansai Title 1: “Summer of Arendelle” Title 2 (picture below): "I want to be with you forever"

http://corosuke-kansai.tumblr.com/post/176988683037/summer-of-arendelle

I have been in contact to the Artist and i've got the permission to use his art work for this post. The artist has drawn more pictures of the relationship between Agnar and Iduna, take a look!

The artist is - as far as I can judge - the only one so far who deals with the history of Agnarr and Iduna in his works. In my opinion this would have a great potential for an illustrated fan fiction!

I'm not very good at writing stories, especially not with conversation and describing feelings, facial expressions, small plot details, etc., but I would have ideas about that already. I've never written a fan fiction before or any story at all and maybe one or the other of you can help or make a little story out of it. Anyway, i'll give it a try now.

The following story is based on the time before the birth of Elsa and Anna. Imagine the following idea: The small kingdom of Arendelle, maybe 20 years ago, before the story of Frozen begins - a Frozen PREQUEL so to speak!

The story begins with a short review of the kingdom and how it came into being (1). The actual story then begins with Agnarr, perhaps with his coronation, and his diplomatic travels and trade relations to allied countries. On one of these journeys he meets the future queen of Arendelle, Iduna (2). Agnarr falls in love with her at first sight and since he sits alone on the throne of Arendelle, he plans to take her as his wife - of course only if she feels affection for him. Iduna doesn't suspect anything of this yet, but is ready to accept his invitation to Arendelle. It can't hurt to get to know an important new trading partner of her country up close and personal, and he is also very gallant and very attractive. But she doesn't let it show - not yet anyway.

On the long ship voyage - the ship is fully loaded with important trade goods, which Arendelle urgently needs - the two get to know each other better. They talk about themselves and the peculiarities of their countries. While Iduna talks very reservedly, Agnarr raves about the beauty of the fjords in Arendelle and begins very carefully courting her. Now that ship journeys take a very long time and even for a big three-master it is not without danger to defy the wild sea, this voyage becomes quite turbulent for the two of them. When the ship finally lands in the port of Arendelle, Agnarr is greeted with cheers by the population, everyone is glad that the not entirely harmless journey came to a happy end - Arendelle obviously loves his king. Iduna is very impressed by the sight she sees -- Agnarr really hasn't understated it! Arrived at the castle, duly picked up in a magnificent carriage, the two are greeted respectfully by Kai and Gerda, Agnarr's most reliable servants. (3) Iduna is assigned the best suite and on Agnarr's instructions every wish should be fulfilled and Gerda should also take care of the new wardrobe, which is appropriate for Arendelle's climate.

The king then left Iduna with the words "My Lady, ya forgive, but unfortunately I have to take care of important government affairs for a while. You may move freely and every wish of yours shall be fulfilled." Iduna answers with a slightly astonished expression on her face and bends before the king, "Your Majesty, Sire, you are too kind. Thank you." She hesitates a little bit and then continues with "I would like to have a small request, however. I noticed the pretty city with its beautiful roofs and imaginative doors when I arrived in the carriage driving past. Could I also take a walk there". Agnarrr smiles and replies "But of course...you are welcome to have a look around there. If you already like the city so much, you should see it at the Yule-Fest, all inhabitants lovingly decorate their doors and facades with Christmas decorations and make gifts for the children. We have such a special tradition here at the castle. I will instruct Gerda to accompany you and show you everything. Please do not hesitate to express any special wishes." Iduna nods happily and smiles back "You must tell me about your traditions in Arendelle on occasion, Your Majesty, Sire. All this sounds very interesting and is new to me. There is no such thing with us".

While Agnarr has to take care of the most urgent government business, Iduna now has the opportunity to look around the castle and the city. Gerda accompanies her and carries a basket with her for a few small errands. Iduna takes the opportunity and has many conversations with the inhabitants. In this way she learns more about the king and everyday life in Arendelle. They visit several shops and finally end up at a stand where a large and strangely dressed young man loudly praises his goods. Iduna, turns up her nose, leans towards Gerda and asks quietly "What stin...smells here so obtrusive?” She looks up and reads "Oaken's summer sale" on a large sign above his stand, and on a slightly smaller sign next to it "with sauna". Gerda grins and replies in the same whisper "Oaken is a well-known city trader and offers something, let's say, something solid.” As they strolls past the stand, Oaken with a trained eye immediately recognizes that Iduna is new in town. "My Lady!" and a little quieter in Gerda's direction "Hello Gerda.", "May I offer you my speciality of the house?" and he holds out a large glass of a yellowish cloudy liquid with separated fish heads to Iduna. Iduna involuntarily takes a step back. "Lutefisk! Freshly pickled only last year". Iduna, somewhat perplexed, puts on a crooked grin and says "Thank you, but no thank you. I'm not quite comfortable today...". That's the keyword Oaken was obviously just waiting for. "My Lady, I can help against that", pulls out a small bottle from under the table and says in the chest tone of the conviction "A miracle cure against all kinds of discomfort... from my own production". Iduna slowly realizes that she can't get away without buying something. But Gerda saves her from the situation "My Lady, it's already late and I have to do my errands there in the shop". She winks at Iduna. She nods understandingly and says goodbye friendly but definitely to this obtrusive dealer.

As they continue, the two inevitably pass Oaken's Sauna, from which it steams strongly. Suddenly a young man with his upper body naked appears behind the small window and waves out. Iduna opens her eyes wide and quickly turns away. "There's a...", Gerda laughs, "That's Oaken's other specialty and the young guy in there is his partner, as they say." Iduna opens her eyes a bit further and her eyebrows move up in amazement. All of a sudden Gerda recognizes what she has just said out loud and opens her eyes in shock and presses her hand in front of her mouth, while Iduna asks "He is his... wait, WHAT?!", "Oh, My lady, please excuse my unseemly mouth, please don't listen to me, that was a little careless of me to talk about something like this in your presence." Gerda sinks down a bit and is very angry about her faux pas. But then her face brightens up again and she happily turns to Iduna and says "My Lady, I've got something, I'm sure you'll like it!". Iduna is grateful for Gerda's mood and they both enter a small shop where it smells beguiling. "My Lady?", Gerda watches amused as her companion takes a deep breath and lifts her head with her eyes closed. "Hmm...?" She opens her eyes again and looks around curiously. "What is that, Gerda?". Everywhere artfully manufactured small....yes, what exactly...little stones lie in the displays. Some of them piled up as small heaps, in the most different colours and forms. While Iduna is still looking around, Gerda talks to the seller and has her basket filled almost to the edge. After she has pushed two bank notes over the counter she quickly steps back at Iduna's side and asks astonished "My Lady? It seems you don't know any chocolate", a few seconds pass, "Chocolate...". Iduna repeats this strange sounding word quietly to herself. "Would you like a taste, my lady?" First she looks at Gerda, then at the basket with all the delicacies, she nods slowly but surely and carefully fishes one of the brown pieces with her fingertips. She looks questioningly at Gerda, who only nods in agreement. Slowly Iduna pushes the chocolate into her mouth and closes her eyes. In this wonderfully sweet moment she realizes that she could die for chocolate.

Back in the castle there is a lot of activity and all sorts of servants scurry here, carry something there and are in full working zeal. Gerda makes her way to the kitchen apologizing and Iduna stands a little undecided in the big hall, watching the silent hectic. It doesn't take long and King Agnarr walks down the stairs, directly towards her. "My Lady. How was ya day? Ya've been on the road a long time and I very much hope ya enjoyed it in the city". Iduna nods enthusiastically and starts telling stories as they stroll through the castle. At some point they step onto the balcony overlooking the fjord. For a while there is silence and except for a few birds there are no more noises to be heard from below. They both lean against the veranda and enjoy the peaceful view. After a while Iduna lowers her head and quietly, almost inaudibly asks "There is another reason for my presence here in Arendelle, not only because of the trade relations...isn't there, Your Majesty, Sire?". Agnarr quietly breathed in the cool evening air and looked up. The first stars were already visible at dusk. Finally he said "Yes", he turned to her, she lifted her head and looked at him. "My Lady...or may I just say Iduna to you?", she nodded slowly, already suspecting what he would say. "Iduna, I want to be honest with ya...with you. Since I first saw you there, in your country, and since our first conversation, when we were alone...I was...", he faltered. Then he looked up and they gazed directly into each other's eyes. Seconds passed. He took a deep breath and finally asked "Would you like to stay here in Arendelle? Forever? At my side?" She held her breath, trembled slightly all over her body, but held his gaze. "You felt it, didn't you? That I fell in love with you". She nodded barely audibly. Again seemingly endless seconds passed. Then she surrendered to her feelings and leaned against him. She looked out at the fjord, felt his warmth and his arm, which lay tenderly around her, remembered every little detail, every word of him since they met. She smiled as she quietly replied a single word, "Yes."

To be continued...?

---

I know, the story sounds quite clichéd and sometimes a bit pathetic. At a certain point I couldn't stop writing and suddenly certain peculiarities of Anna occurred to me and I thought to myself, she must have it somewhere ;-) Well, it's just an idea of mine. After translating the text from German, I only corrected it superficially, so it may still contain mistakes. The most difficult thing for me in English are the noble forms of address, I hope I did it right.

What do you think?

Notes/footnotes: (1) Keyword trolls and Agnarr's ancestors as link to the picture in the book of trolls (2) here one could already now go into possible predispositions of Iduna to magical powers, of which Agnarr, however, does not suspect anything yet (3) here perhaps a possible hint that Kai and Iduna are somehow familiar?

#frozen #agnarr #iduna #fanart #fanfiction #my fanfic #frozen prequel

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bubblesthemonsterartist · 6 years

Note

PROMPTATHON: Obi goes looking for his mother, and Shirayuki (of course) comes with. Shirayuki gets some tastes of Obi's past. Obi's not sure what he expected to find (or not find), but it sure wasn't this.

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

A/N: I decided to tease this scene from future Noble Lines chapters because this prompt has gone unanswered for far, FAR too long and I am determined to clean out my ask box.

Content warning: Mentions of abuse. Everything kept below the cut not so much for explicit content, but spoilers.

The carriage clatters around them, cobblestones testing the workmanship of hinges and Shirayuki grips her hands together tighter. Each bend in their journey brings a crash of stone to wheel to box, rattling her teeth and the possibilities flitting around in her brain so fiercely that one conclusion is just as elusive as another.

What if he was taking her to his house? Did he have one here? If not, was he taking her to an inn? It wouldn’t be so untoward to assume. Just because he didn’t come to her room to make his claim last night doesn’t mean he… couldn’t. Whenever he wanted.

Shirayuki glances at him out of the corner of her eye, assessing, and he’s- he’s very large. Not just in height but the broadness of the shoulders, his clothes doing little to hide the lean strength that would be much greater than hers should he test it.

Shirayuki unclenches her hands, smoothing them down the folds of her skirt.

Zen had- he had promised that Obi was a good man. A kind man. A man that wouldn’t… press his advantage just because the law said she belonged to him. But back in Tanbarun, she had known far too many men called “good” and “kind” by their peers. They were the type that sent their wives to her apothecary in the middle of the night. A fall down the stairs here, a run in with a cabinet door there - each and every limp and bruise and sprain shielded by a bashful smile and a claim of clumsiness.

Shirayuki has no way of knowing if Obi is of their ilk. Or if Zen was capable of telling the good men apart from those with only good faces. All she knows is that she upset him. Somehow. Someway. And she wishes to make it right, but each second lived in uncertainty clutches at her heart, grabs at her throat until she cannot breathe.

“Where are we going?” she finally asks out loud.

Obi’s face is illuminated only through the slats between window and curtain, bars of light keeping him more hidden than not and she- she should be nervous, being in a closed carriage like this with a man she knows little of. She is nervous. But he’s- he’s her husband. This stranger is as close as family now, and there’s no one - no Prince nor King nor common man - that would find fault in their closeness, their privacy.

He turns towards her and her eyes drift up to the scar that touches his forehead.

“I wanted to show you something,” he says, voice strange. “About me.”

That does nothing to calm her. If anything, it makes the space feel tighter. “You could just tell me!” she laughs, voice high. “I’m a good listener!”

A smile twitches his lips, lopsided and bordering on fond. “Zen told me.”

The cabin lurches suddenly, the carriage coming to a stop, and she yelps, tumbling forward. It all happens so quickly: Her hands stretch out before her, too little too late, wide eyes latched to bench opposite as she falls towards it. Her body coils, flinching already, preparing for the blossom of pain of her face meeting the sharp edge-

Only for it to not come.

Warmth grasps ahold of her forearms, firm and gentle, and in the stillness of the moment, it takes her a couple of seconds to realize that she is no longer falling. Heart still pounding, body still half expecting the crack of skin to wooden base, her eyes flutter open slowly, tentatively, to reveal golden buttons and black wool mere inches from her face.

“Uhm,” she manages, breathless, the warmth flexing against her, and oh- Oh. Those are. Obi’s hands. Holding her.

Face burning, half wanting the world to swallow her whole, her eyes drag up the row of buttons to the peek of skin above the tie of his cravat. Past the chin and lips and well-shaped nose, she finally meets eyes wide and round as two gold coins.

“Are you-” his voice gives out a little - maybe he needs a lozenge? - and he coughs to clear it. “Are you alright, Miss?”

She stares mutely for a beat too long before their closeness registers. Jolting, she pulls back, Obi’s hands dropping away so quickly that he might have been burned.

“Uhm,” she says again, so intelligent. “Y-yes. Just fine. Thank you.”

She’s not looking at him, so she cannot match the expression to make sense of his voice when he replies, “Anytime, Miss.”

Swallowing, Shirayuki looks around the carriage, confused. “We stopped,” she says, and really. She’s smarter than this. One day she’ll prove it to him. “What- what happened? Why have we stopped?”

He’s peeking out the window when she feels brave enough to look at him, and the grin on his face doesn’t exactly look… happy. “We’re here.”

Before she can ask where ‘here’ is, the driver opens the door, letting bright midday light pour inside.

“Come on,” he says, already halfway out. “This should answer your questions.”

Frowning, Shirayuki watches him jump down, turning towards the carriage with a fools grin and hand extend.

Against her better judgement, she reaches out. Takes it.

And ignores the way her arms still itch maddeningly beneath her clothes.

~ ~ ~

The neighborhood she spills out into is quiet, idyllic. As close to the peacefulness of nature as one could get in the midst of a Capital. Little trees dot the side of the road, the walkways free of debris and overgrowth. Narrow townhouses press up tightly against one another, each painted in more festive colors than the next, curtains pulled open wide to reveal scenes of ladies taking tea or bent over embroidery. A few seem empty, windows open only to let in the early spring air after a long and hard winter, but Obi is not leading her to any of those.

The house he approaches is a few seasons past due for fresh paint, all the curtains closed up tight against prying eyes. And all at once, Shirayuki’s heart knocks hard against her ribs once again.

“Is this yours?” she asks.

Obi glances over his shoulder, his mouth trembling like she said something funny, and doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes hold of the knocker and raps three times.

Not his, then.

It doesn’t take long before the door shudders, opening by half to reveal the confused face of a girl slightly older than herself. She’s dressed simply, black dress accented by a starched white apron, and Shirayuki doesn’t even get the chance to catch her eye in greeting before the girl’s mouth goes slack.

“I’m sorry for not sending word ahead of me. Everything has happened so quick,” Obi begins, his voice soft with the admission, and this- it is definitely not his house. “But I was hoping that she would see me without notice.”

“Of- of course!” The maid stutters, eyes drifting from him to her then back again. Maybe aware that she is gaping, her gaze drops like a rock to the ground. Opening the door wider, she says, “Please. Come in.”

The house may have some veneer of faded beauty on the outside, but on the inside, it is as if it has been lost in time. Fine paintings of flowers and little fruit shaped figurines wilt under the weight of dust, long abandoned cobwebs floating from fine glass lamps. The silver tea set and silverware, too, has turned, unused and unkempt for too long on their displays, and the intricate wallpaper depicting a garden party in the midst of summer peels a little in the corners.

Shirayuki sneezes.

Obi glances down at her, frowning, and Shirayuki casts him a little apologetic smile. “It’s the dust,” she says, voice low in case the lady of the house is close enough to hear.

His frown deepens, glaze sliding off her and to the maid gesturing for them to take a seat on a mouldering sette. Shirayuki takes it, and sneezes again.

“There certainly does seem to be an unseemly amount,” he says pointedly.

The maids shoulder round in a wince. “The lady of the house says she prefers it thus.”

Shirayuki’s forehead wrinkles, glancing around them. Somehow, she doubts it.

Obi presses on, voice dropping to a low hiss. “Just because she has no room to complain doesn’t mean it should be kept in such a state.”

“It is only me and the lady, my lord,” the maid replies, her voice thick with apology and a hint of weedling. “We were going to do a thorough cleaning now that Spring is here.”

Throat working like a dog chewing down a growl, Obi asks, “Has he not been sending allowance?”

There’s so much going on that Shirayuki doesn’t understand. So many words that are passing over her head and she- she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t know why, but she is filled with the strange desire to be angry with him. To be filled with the comfort of righteous discontent and set on the path to fix it.

“He sends enough to keep the lady in comfort,” the maid finally responds.

Obi’s lips are pressed tight and there’s a rage along the line of his shoulders. “I’ve taken a position as a messenger to the second Prince,” he says, finally, and the girl starts. “I’ll ensure more funds be sent soon. In the meantime, I’ll come when I can. I look forward to this house becoming more… habitable.”

The maid starts. She shakes her head, sputtering a protest. “My lord!“

“Lylette!” a voice floats from somewhere up the stairs, halting their conversation. The words are stilted, carefully carving Clariness from an accent Shirayuki cannot recognize. “Lylette, who is it? Has someone come to call?”

Shirayuki’s eyes drift over to her husband, but Obi has gone stock still, eyes frozen on the stairwell.

At the top of it, a woman, rail thin and wrapped in a dressing gown made of patterned silk hovers like a ghost. There’s something strange about her, something sickly that has nothing to do with the way her black hair hangs unfashionably loose and glossy down to her waist.

“Yes, my lady! Just a moment!” the maid calls, rushing up the stairs with a strange sense of urgency. When Lylette reaches her, hand taking the small fingers that just peak from beneath the lady’s heavy sleeves and leading her down the stairs, Shirayuki finally sees it. The way that the white of her eyes never end, instead of enveloping the iris and pupil in a milky film. “We have guests-”

Her smile is a beautiful thing that is hidden away mere moments after it bloomed, her free hand raising from the railing to shield her mouth. “Oh my,” she breathes, navigating the stairs with a graceful ease. “It’s been such a long time. Who is it?”

Obi hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved. So much so that Shirayuki had temporarily forgotten he was even there, but he does now, his voice gentle but loud enough to be heard. “It’s me.”

The woman stops on the steps, her painted lips parting in shock.

“It’s Obi, mother.”

#bubbleswrites #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obiyuki #noble lines #no more attempts at schedules #i shall attack this ask pile until it's done #so i can work on my long stories again with reduced guilt #lol

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vibrantstillness · 6 years

Text

Prompt #16: Bond (Makeup)

The little ring turned around, around, around, the sparkling gemstone set in its delicate band throwing rainbowed hues as it went. Michishio had heard of diamonds, but hadn't had the opportunity to see one until now. Now, she had one of her own and the promise that accompanied it.

She wasn't sure how she'd be received when, quite stubbornly, she'd requested an engagement ring for a nameday present. After over a sennight insisting she didn't need anything and her nameday ought not be celebrated, her fiancé had abruptly turned the tables on her by insisting their friends might be offended if they discovered she'd had a nameday to which they were not invited. Were namedays such important events here? She suspected he was merely pushing her buttons, something he'd become distressingly adept at, but couldn't discount that he might be right. Even now, nearly two years in Eorzea, she encountered little customs and quirks of culture that caught her by surprise. She'd acquiesced, grudgingly, and penned invitation letters on the condition that gifts were not to be brought by anyone, and attendance was not at all expected.

Several guests had ignored her request and brought gifts anyway. Dunrai, a member of the militia and sometimes-cooking-instructor, had brought an absolutely mouthwatering Steppe dish he referred to as Buuz... Although that was less a gift and more the act of a consummately considerate guest. Miyasuke, her employer... friend? She pushed the thought away. No, that was arrogant to assume. Her employer, with whom she was on friendly terms, had brought a flower vase whimsically crafted to look like a subspecies of mandragora. Some time earlier, she'd also gifted Michisio with a wall lantern surmounted by a jauntily perched porcelain otter. The Raen was never quite certain if it was Miyasuke's tastes that ran towards the unapologetically cute, or if she'd somehow divined Michishio's did.

She held her hand up to the lantern now, wiggling the ring back and forth to throw sparkling motes of light. She was being stupid, and she didn't care. She was alone, she was allowed. Wearing such a flashy thing perfectly suited the loud, at times ostentatious culture of Eorzea and it seemed to the Easterner almost pompously immodest. Were not weddings to be quiet affairs between friends and family? And yet, she felt she understood the tradition. It would be inexcusably shameless to go boasting over such a thing, yet if she were not permitted to shout her happiness then her finger would do it for her.

A sudden weight of disgust settled into her gut. Had she just excused herself of showy pride? She had. Too long spent in Eorzea had begun to subtly erode some of her more delicate sensibilities, a trend which was beginning to worry her. Already she'd begun to speak her mind too freely and too often, lulled into brazenness by those around her. She would wear the ring, it was custom. But she would stifle any unseemly pride it tempted forth. It was... a mark of association. Yes, that was alright. Pride had no place in her heart. It was a fine thing from a fine man. But wasn't thinking of her fiancé as fine a little arrogant in itself? To think somehow, she'd been chosen by - was worthy of - a man a cut above others?

Michishio sagged in her seat. It was late, she was tired, and her mind was beginning to run in circles. Besides, she'd practically thrown herself at him from the start. Or had she? His constant teasing and suggestive comments might have just been a joke, or they might have been testing her responses. She'd hardly been free from pointed comments and leading phrases herself, though for her half, it was most definitely to take his measure. Was he the slovenly lecher he strove to present himself as, or something nobler? Their friendship had begun, bizarrely, as a long and wary mutual circling and sounding-out of each other's intentions. To Michishio's pleasant surprise, he'd shown himself a considerate gentleman. A considerate gentleman with a most regrettable sense of humor.

A considerate, gentlemanly, vulgar, foolish, brave, clever, loudmouthed, maddening, handsome idiot to whom she was engaged to be married. Maybe he was still awake. Maybe he wanted tea. She sprang to her feet and padded over to the counter on the far side of the room. She didn't really care if he did or not, to be perfectly honest. He was getting some.

#FFxivWrite2018 #Michishio Sakanoue #FFXIV RP #Mateus #Dunrai Dazkar #Miyasuke Ietada #Garren Alder

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smuttbunnie · 6 years

Text

The Devil wears glasses

Member: V

Genre: Smut / Angst

Series: The Moon Child

Theme: Halloween

Part: 5 / {pt.1} {pt.2} {pt.3} {pt.4} {pt.6} {pt.7}

"You moronic ass" Jin scolded, Taehyung sharply drawing a breath through his teeth as his advisor tightly pressed a cloth against his bleeding wrist.

"Your brilliant plan was to take the dagger - the royal dagger designed to protect the royal bloodline at all costs, which was specifically forged to overpower and fatally wound a vampire - and slice your wrist open with it."

"Good plan no?"

Teahyung hissed in pain as Jin pressed unnecessarily (and passive aggressively) hard on the wound. You winced with second-hand pain, instructing your master to keep pressure on the cut. The King wasn’t doing well. He had lost too much blood, and Jin could already see a fever setting in from the poison. The advisor cursed, angry and frustrated with his own ineptness.

How could he let this happen to his sire?

"I'm getting the royal Physician."

Taehyung groaned loudly and tried to get up, but Jin quickly pushed him back onto the bed.

"I'll be fine, you don't have to get that deprecating prick," he grumbled.

"You've lost too much blood, and the knife was laced with poison. You are most certainly not 'fine'."

"That's an exaggeration, it was just a scrath."

"You almost bled out!"

“When you put it that way it sounds so dramatic."

The advisor bristled. "Insufferable bastard" he mumbled under his breath before urgently turning to you.

"Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I'll lock the door whilst I'm out getting the royal physician so no one can get in. Do you understand?"

You quickly gave him a nod and the man hurried to the door. He paused for a second, worriedly looking towards your master, before exiting the room and locking the door behind him.

You stood for a moment in the middle of the room, cluttered and overwhelmed. It felt like a gravitational force was pulling you to the floor, and no matter how much you told your legs to move, they wouldn’t. Your body was numb, and your head scrambled for something to do.

Taehyung's groan willed you out of your stupor, and with a shaky breath you forced yourself move. The prince's brow was covered with sweat, and his breathing was haggard. He looked awful...

You quickly ran to the bathroom, grabbing one of the cloths and dipping it into one of the basins with cold water in it. Moving back into the bedroom, Taehyung was trying to stand up, but was too disoriented to find his balance.

Almost falling over, you rushed over in a nick of time, catching him and helping him back onto the bed. The King tried to resist, but finally lied down in defeat. It surprised you how weak he had become.

"You're seeing me in quite an unseemly matter," he grunted. "But then again you always see when I'm unseemly."

"…Are-are there times when you're seemly?"

The king laughed, hoarsely replying through his chuckles;

"Are there times when I'm seemly? Haha, aaaah maybe not huh?"

You flushed, embarrassed. Not knowing what to say, you said the wrong thing again. You tightly pressed the cloth to your chest, and a fluttery nervousness trilled through you.

"C-can I sit? Sit-sit next to you I mean."

He blinked a few times, uncertainly glancing at you. Giving you a weak smile, he nodded and you carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. Figgeting with the damp cloth for another second, you ignored the loud thumping in your chest and moved closer to your master.

You raised the cloth, hesitating to glance at Taehyung before gently dabbing his forehead. He sighed with relief, the fabric cool against his burning skin. Blurrily looking up at you, your brows were furrowed in focus as you wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“You’re having a sudden change of heart” he meekly mused.

You froze, your grip on the cloth tightening. Sudden….it was sudden. All of it, all of this. Your feelings had gotten all mixed up along the way, and you needed something to straighten them out. You looked up with a sense of need, words urgently falling past your lips;

“Why? Why did you…why would you do that for me?”

He held your gaze tensely for a moment, before reaching up to tug you closer by your wrist. You were caught off gaurd, but didn’t pull away from the King’s grasp. His eyes searched for something in yours, desperately trying to find familiarity in their depths.

You felt breathless. It was a profound and vulnerable moment, where in a second you felt you knew the prince more than you did the entirety of you stay here. There was a sense of understanding you felt, that maybe you were more alike then you realized.

Who are you Prince Taehyung?

Just as his majesty opened his mouth to say something, a key turned in the lock and a man with greenish hair in a black coat burst through the door. He glared down at the King over the rim of his glasses, an arrogant smirk settling across his lips.

"Well well well, don't you look like shit."

***

The dress was loose and comfortable on your body. You wiped the last of the dry blood from your neck, looking at yourself in the mirror. Jin had thankfully allowed you to change after the physician saw your bloodstained dress and thought the blood was because of Taehyung.

Then he learnt the blood was Taehyung's, and the situation got even worse.

"You know I always say, if you want to get into a woman's undergarments, just bleed all over her. That ought to get her all hot and bothered."

"I did it to protect her you arrogant bastard."

"Right, my apologies mister knight-in-shining-armor. You're protecting her just swell now that you’re bed-ridden and wounded."

"Why you incolent, little f- Ouch!” Taehyung cried out as Yoongi stuck the needle in his skin. He looked up in mock surprise, a very unapologetic and smug smile slipping onto his lips.

"Oh sorry, did that hurt? My hand must have slipped."

"I'll personally see to it that you're beheaded" The prince hissed, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. Yoongi skillfully stitched up the cut, and if you didn’t know better you’d say he was enjoying it.

After bandaging your master's wrist, he rummaged through the black, leather bag he had brought with him. Removing a small, wooden bowl he mixed various liquids from oddly shaped vials, adding crushed herbs and strange powders to the concoction. Seemingly satisfied, he handed it over to the King.

"Drink up buttercup."

Taheyung threw the doctor a hateful glare, raising the bowl to his lips. He had barely taken a sip when his eyes widened and he spat it out again.

"This is revolting!"

"You didn't ask for sugar."

"I didn't know it was bitter you sadistic prick!"

You nervously stood there, wondering if you should offer to get the King something to make it taste better. He must've seen the look on your face, because he awkwardly cleared his throat before reluctantly gulping down the foul-smelling medicine without another complaint.

The doctor grinned, thinking to himself that things might have become much more interesting in the castle since the last time he was here.

“You drank it all, good boy! You deserve a gold star~” the physician sarcastically cooed.

“I despise you with every fibre in my being.”

“As affectionate as always your ‘majesty’.”

Jin had brought you a new dress, and told you it was alright to go clean yourself up. You hadn’t taken too long but you assumed your master would be asleep by now because of the exhaustion. Jin and the physician seemed to be discussing something when you entered the room but stopped when they noticed you.

They were probably talking about you.

“So, I hear you’re a moonchild. We haven’t been properly introduced yet.”

Introduced? You looked to Jin for help. You weren’t usually “introduced” to others. Your previous masters used to show you off like a collectable, or refer to you as a pet. You never had the luxury of speaking for yourself.

“Are you mute or what?”

The advisor’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything you quickly spoke up. “U-um, please excuse me, I’m Y/N,” you said bowing before the man.

“Finally, a proper greeting! Why does no one ever bow before me?”

You could see Jin rolling his eyes out of the corner of your vision.

“Min Yoongi, Royal Phycian and apparantly the royal ass-kisser of his majes- oof! ”

The advisor elbowed him hard in the side, cutting his comment short and giving him a warning glare. Yoongi coughedt and readjusted his glasses.

“Pleasure to meet you Y/N.”

You could feel your face flush with heat. A pleasure? Did he just say it was a pleasure to have met you?

“Y-you don’t have to say that Doctor, please I couldn’t possibly, um-” you stammered, feeling the need to apologize to him.

Jin placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, giving you a sympathetic smile. “It’s alright” he whispered, the physician giving both of you a confused look. For a moment it seemed like he would say something about it, but something more important caught his attention.

Swiftly removing and checking a pocketwatch from his jacket, he swore before rushing to pack up his bag.

“Sorry, I’d love to stay and gossip some more about our spoiled princess, but I’m late for an appointment.”

“You mean prince.”

“Do I really though?” With a flourish of his coat and a flash of his smug grin he was gone. The poor advisor sighed, turning to you apologetically.

“Please excuse him, he’s a bit much to handle. You must have been quite flustered.”

You shook your head, wondering if you could speak your mind, or if that would be a bit presumptuous of you. Jin picked up on your thoughts and smiled encouragingly. “Go ahead.”

You were very grateful for his words.

“M.. More than that, I was shocked. I didn’t know the King could be so, well… Childish.”

Surprise flitted across his face, and you hastily interjected;

“Ah I didn’t mean to insult the King I just meant that-”

“No it’s alright,” he chuckled. “I’d prefer it if you could speak frankly with me.”

Jin looked at your master, a sorrowful look glazing his eyes.

“The royal physician knows how to push the prince’s buttons. Whenever Doctor Min is around, he acts more like he used to…”

“Used to?”

The advisor glanced at you, smiling. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was the sort of smile you put on your face when you thought about better, happier days that were long gone. You knew it well, because you wore it a lot.

“I met him when I was young. At the time he was only a child, but his skill to rule had been cultivated from the moment he was born.”

He walked to the side of the bed, fixing the covers and removing the strands of hair that clung to your master’s face.

“The King was a very different person back then.”

Prince Taehyung as a child… You had never imagined it, but suddenly you were very curious to know what he looked like when he was younger. Did he have that stony face back then? Or did he have the round, shining face that all children seemed to have when they were innocent and carefree.

“Was it a good different?”

Jin smiled fondly. “I’m not sure. He did some stupid things, and had a knack for causing trouble.”

His smile fell and you felt your heart fall a bit along with it. Such a tearful look did not suit the busy-body advisor.

“But… He knew how to laugh back then. Not the laugh he uses today. The type of laughter that made his belly ache and tears gather in his eyes. He used to find the stupidest things humorous.”

You clutched at the material of your dress, your vocabulary frustrating useless when required to provide comfort. What do you say? Does the King know how sadly Jin gazes at him when he’s asleep? How he worries?

What kind of a person were you to cause the uptight and respectable Jin to make a face like this?

“Y/N… It’s not a very exciting story - of how I came to be the King’s right hand man but…”

He turned to you, and it was the first time Jin didn’t look composed. Not even in the slightest.

“Would you like to hear it?”

~To be continued

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