#this has been sitting in my drafts for a solid three weeks now

[crossedwiress]

the city tends to move on all the same...

[blakelysco-pilot]

All Of Me

From the Love Letters Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

Jo struggles with her response to Rosie's first letter but later finds help in an unlikely friend with shared common ground. It's his second letter back-to-back, however, that stacks her worry like wobbly apple crates, ready to tumble at a moment's notice.

Read part 2 Here Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist

October 1943

My Dearest Robbie, 

Today is Halloween, so it would be remiss of me not to wish you a Happy one. I know you won’t be celebrating; not that we are either, but it’s still heartwarming to see some of the littles in the neighborhood running up and down the streets looking for sweets. I’m saving a Hershey bar for when you’re back, so that we can share it like we always do. The leaves have all turned by now, and Prospect Park is a beautiful shade of golden hues. I’ve taken to walking with your sister, as it fills a small void in my days. She’s excellent company, and somehow always has some local gossip at the ready for when I need cheering up. I couldn’t help myself and told her the story of your bicycling disaster. Please don’t be too mad at me. I hope that by now, you’ve learned to ride a bike properly, and that poor Pappy hasn’t had to fish you out of any more ditches. Please thank him for me, because I don’t know what I would have done if he had not been there to rescue you.

If I know you at all, I know that you’ve been hemming and hawing over the weather over there, but the longer it rains in England, the better I feel knowing you’re on solid ground. I’m glad to know you’re able to find some respite in the Officers Club, even if it’s just some jazz records and mediocre scotch. Good company can make all the difference and it warms my heart to know you have that in your crew and fellow officers. I’m putting my bet in now on Nash and the Red Cross girl. Having someone is important, so if he finds that in her, I’m glad for them both. Tell Pappy not to be so pessimistic though, I’m sure Nash will make her very happy. 

Speaking of having someone waiting, I paid a visit to Harry Crosby’s wife, Jean. I thought she could use a friend, so we spent an afternoon in the city, having lunch and doing some shopping. It’s lonely enough moving to a new city, but with her husband overseas, I can’t imagine how she feels. I know how I feel waiting for you, and so she must feel it tenfold. With the holidays approaching, I’ve invited her to spend Thanksgiving with us. I couldn’t bear the idea of her spending it alone. She’s a darling woman, and I agree, we will have to double with her and Harry once you’re both home. 

Sweetheart, how you could ever think that I will not worry about you while you’re over there, is a mystery. I will worry, and miss you, every single day until you’re back home. I will be holding you to that date, Robbie, and am counting the days until we’re on the dance floor, together. Until then…

Forever yours, 

Jo

Reaching for the bottle of perfume on the dresser, Jo quickly spritzed a generous helping of the floral scent on the paper in her hand, to ensure it lasted the long journey, before folding it up and sliding it into its designated envelope. Carefully, and with a delicate hand, she addressed the letter to Thorpe Abbotts Airbase. She had received Rosie’s first letter earlier in the week, and had spent that time drafting multiple responses; all of which had ended up in the waste paper basket in the corner of her bedroom. She had spent three nights mulling it over, before deciding that she should clear her head, and write as if he was sitting next to her. Well, it was not so much her deciding as it was advice from Jean Crosby. If anyone had experience in writing these types of letters, it was Jean. And so, Jo had written as if Rosie was sitting next to her; as if he was leaning across the table and telling her the details of his latest adventure with enthusiasm, and she had written back with equal vigor. 

Picking up the letter, and her purse, she made her way from the bedroom, downstairs to where her mother was having coffee with Mrs. Rosenthal. Entering the kitchen, both women ceased their discussion to greet her, her mother holding out an envelope for her. 

“Josephine, this came in the mail for you.” 

Jo gently plucked the envelope from her mothers hand, smiling when she saw the handwriting on the front was none other than Rosie’s. Carefully, she slipped it into her purse to read once she was alone. 

“Another letter so quickly?” Her mother’s grin widened. “He must miss you terribly.”

“He doesn’t write to me that frequently,” Mrs. Rosenthal joked, sending a subtle wink in Jo’s direction. “But then again, he’s not in love with me.”

“Somehow, I think he’ll always love you most, Mrs. Rosenthal, and I’m quite alright with that.” Jo smiled. 

“Where are you off to?” Her mother asked, noticing that she had her purse in hand. 

“Off to post this to Robbie, and then to meet Jean Crosby for lunch.” 

“Oh, well then, travel safely, and let her know she’s welcome to come here for dinner tonight if she wants.” 

“I’ll let her know, mom,” Jo smiled, moving to bid her mother goodbye with a quick peck to the cheek, before doing the same with Mrs. Rosenthal. “Now, you two can go back to your gossip.”

“It’s not gossip, Josephine, if we’re talking about our children.” The older woman’s voice held a lilt to it as Jo exited the kitchen. 

“Then stop planning our wedding!” Jo called back with a laugh as she exited their home and made her way out into the Brooklyn sunshine.  

The fall air was chilly, but not unbearably so as she walked down the block to the Post Office, letter in hand and a prayer in her mind that it would reach Rosie safely. She knew that the post could be unreliable, and take time to reach those stationed overseas, but she hoped against all odds that maybe her letter would get to its intended recipient a little faster than all the rest. It was silly of her to think so, after all, she wasn’t the only woman in New York who was missing her sweetheart, but this was new to her. To both of them. Beginning a romance with thousands of miles between them. Some days Jo regretted not saying anything sooner, wondering if they would have had time before he shipped out. But, then she thinks to herself that they did have time; years together growing up, and learning the ways of each other inside and out, and for that she would always be thankful. 

A short cab ride later, and Jo was knocking on Jean Crosby’s front door. When the door swung open, Jean on the other side, the two women greeted each other as if they were old friends. A kinship that was shared in the dark times of war, but somehow found a ray of light to brighten their days. 

“Jo! I was starting to think you got lost!” Her friend teased. 

“No,” Jo grinned, red lips stretched into a smile. “I had to stop by the post and drop off Robbie’s letter.”

“Finally finished it, then?”

“I did. And just in time to reply to the one I got this morning.”

“Back to back?” Jean looked at her, eyebrow raised in what Jo could only describe as concern. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jean sighed, stopping mid way of pulling her white gloves on, to face Jo with a serious expression. 

“Well…”

“You don’t think…”

“The only time I get back to back letters from Bing, is when something bad is happening over there.”

“Jean…”

“If it came from him, he’s fine, honey.” she reached out, hand coming down over Jo’s in reassurance. 

“It’s in my purse,” Jo confessed. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Do you want to go sit and read it before we leave?”

“I suppose I’d feel better if I knew for sure he was alright.”

Nodding, Jean pulled off her gloves, and dropped her purse back on the credenza by the door, before guiding Jo further into the house.

Once settled in the living room, Jean began to step away, to allow Jo the privacy that a letter from your man overseas deserved, when Jo’s hand shot out to stop her. 

“Could you…?”

“Of course.” Jean smiled softly, settling into the sofa next to her, but with enough space not to read over her shoulder. 

Jo carefully opened the envelope, fingers trembling as she slid the paper from its confines. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned over the paper quickly, before releasing a shuddering breath of relief. 

“He’s alright,” her hand flew to her chest as the words escaped her. “He’s somewhere called the Flak House?”

“Never heard of that,” Jean looked confused. “What is it?”

My Dearest Jo,

Sweetheart, I can’t promise this letter will be as happy as my last one. What I can promise is that I’m alright, and spending the next week in the English countryside at a place called the Flak House. It’s a place used to help soldiers rest after rough missions. Jo, it’s been three rough ones, back to back, with what felt like no end in sight. I will spare you the details, because you shouldn’t have to read about all of the blood, and horrors, but I do sadly need to tell you that we lost Herbert Nash on the first mission. It happened so quickly, it didn’t register until I had my feet on the ground again. I broke the news to Helen, his Red Cross girl, and I pray that what I saw on her face, is something no one will ever have to see on yours. 

One day, maybe, I will give you the details of our third mission, but for now, I know I should be counting my blessings. And enjoying this time, because sweetheart, this estate truly is something, but the kind of something I would want to be enjoying with you. Together, in the warm sun, reading our favorite books, or rowing on the lake. The boys are enjoying their week of R&R, but I can’t find it in me to relax. Though, I suppose you knew that already. Nobody knows me better than you, Jo, and it’s a time like this that I wish I had you near. 

I couldn’t sleep, which is the reason for this letter, and I think a part of it is that I needed to make sure you knew I was alright. The other part of me, in some way, needed to get this all off my chest. I’m sorry for burdening you with these ugly truths. I’ll try not to do it often, and I hope that it doesn’t become a habit with every mission, that I’m left rattled to my core with fear. I can hear you telling me to take care of myself, and honey, I promise I’m trying. By the time this makes it to you back home, I will be long gone from my stay here, and back on base. I’m sorry for the short letter, darling. I promise the next one will be longer, and happier. Until then…

All of my love, always

Robbie

Jo finished reading, her stomach dropping as she turned to Jean, to confirm that the other woman had in fact, been right. 

“Jo, what is it?”

“He couldn’t say much, spared most of the details, but he said it was rough up there.”

“Is he alright?”

“Robbie’s fine,” Jo confirmed. “But, Herbert Nash, is dead.”

“Oh that poor Red Cross girl!” She gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in shock. “Didn’t they just meet?”

“They did,” Jo nodded. “I told Robbie I was rooting for the pair in the letter I just posted.”

“How could you have known?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sore over it.”

“I know you do,” Jean sympathized. The woman had enough sense to stand, and pull Jo up with her, knowing if she didn’t get them out of the house, her friend would likely spiral with worry. “Now come on, put that letter back in your purse, and let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

With a sigh, Jo nodded, and carefully put the letter back in the safety of her purse, before turning and following Jean towards the front door. For now, she could breathe easy, knowing that Rosie was safe. She knew that his mind was likely full of dark clouds, replaying events of the damage over and over, causing him grief and sadness; it brought with it a melancholy feeling that she wasn’t with him, and couldn’t be there for him to lean on. She knew he had his crew, and now, Harry Crosby, and she prayed that he had the sense to use that to his advantage. 

Jo was grateful that she had Jean. Their afternoon out kept her mind off of the letter that was burning a hole in her purse, and the man who was an ocean away, suffering the loss of a friend. They had stopped by the Automat for lunch, before taking the train uptown for some window shopping, and at Jo’s insistence, a new hat for Jean. By the time she had gotten back home, her mother was already cleaning up dinner. Her father was in the living room, the radio on while he listened to the nightly news. 

“Josephine, you missed dinner.” Her mother lamented at the sound of the front door closing behind her. 

“I’m sorry, mom,” Jo sighed, entering the kitchen and sliding into one of the empty chairs. “We got a late start on our lunch.”

Turning from her spot at the sink, Mrs. Harris surveyed her daughter, before promptly shutting the water and moving to sit across from her. 

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Jean and I just had a busy day is all.”

“Josephine, don’t lie to me.” She spoke with the authority of a mother who meant business, and Jo couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from behind her eyes. 

“Robbie’s letter,” she swiftly wiped away the first stray tear. “Oh mom, he lost one of his closest friends!”

Mrs. Harris let out a shuddering breath at Jo’s admission. The fear she had felt at the sight of her daughter's tears made her think the absolute worst for the young man who had become part of their family, and stolen her daughter’s heart. 

“Who was it?” Mrs. Harris asked. 

“Herbert Nash. He trained with Robbie in Texas, and he was killed on their first mission.”

“May his soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Harris made the sign of the cross. 

“Robbie said it was so bad, three flights, back to back. He didn’t say much else, just that it was too much blood and horror to share.”

“Jesus, that poor boy.”

Jo fished the letter from her purse, sliding it across the table to her mother, giving a small nod for her to read it. 

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“Just the once.” Jo smiled slightly. 

“Well, alright then.”

Mrs. Harris pulled the paper from the envelope, and then the only sound in the room was the breathing of mother and daughter, and the muffled sound of the radio coming from the living room. The pair sat together until Jo’s mother folded the paper back up, and handed it back to her. The silence was growing thicker the longer they sat there, neither sure of what to say. When Jo’s father joined them in the kitchen, the two women seemed to snap out of their daze. 

“What’s going on in here then?”

“She’s got another letter from Robert.”

“Didn’t you just get one? Is he alright?” 

Jo nor her mother missed the recognition in Mr. Harris’ eyes. Having served in The Great War, he knew what could be in any one of the letters his daughter received, and he hoped for her sake, that none of them would make her cry the way she was now. 

“He’s fine. Lost a man during his first mission, and was sent to an estate for rest.” Her mother filled him in for her. 

“Jesus, already? Didn’t the boy just get over there?” Her father looked shocked. 

“He said it was really bad, dad.” Jo spoke up, finding her voice again. 

“Well, the best thing you can do is be there for him, even though you’re far away right now.” Her mother let her hand fall to cover hers, eyes filled with the understanding of a woman whose husband had been away once before. 

“Your mother was what kept me going during the war,” Her father agreed. “I can promise you, Robert will take your words with him up there when he’s flying.”

“Go now,” her mother ushered her out of the kitchen. “Clean yourself up and write him back. You’ll sleep better tonight knowing you got your feelings out.”

She felt heavy as she stood from her chair, her legs like lead as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, numbness encompassing her until she had the door shut securely behind her. The words blood and horror swirling around in her mind over and over, like the edges of a cyclone that showed no signs of slowing down. Is that what this was? A storm that would continue to speed up, with nothing to stop it, until the last bomb was dropped, the last round fired? She wasn’t sure, but she turned the ideas over and over, words sticking together in her head as she changed for bed, removed her makeup, until finally, she pulled out the chair at her desk to begin her reply to Rosie. 

My Dearest Robbie, 

Sweetheart, I don’t think there are enough words for me to express just how sorry I am for you after opening your last letter. To lose Nash so quickly, and in such a way. I hope that it didn’t pain you too deeply to break that news to his Red Cross sweetheart, and that she is able to find some happiness again soon. Do not apologize for the length of your last letter. Every letter from you is something I treasure, whether it’s three words, or three pages. I will always reply, so long as you’ll have me. 

I’d like to hear more about the Estate you spent the week at, if you’re willing to talk about it. It does sound like the kind of place I would love to spend time with you, though, anywhere you are, is somewhere I want to be. Maybe we can escape somewhere lush and green once you return, and spend our days under the sun, with nothing but time on our hands. Until then, yes, you were right, I do wish you’d take care of yourself. I know you will, but that sometimes it takes a bit of pushing. Don’t try and shoulder the burden all alone, Robbie. You have people who will shoulder it with you; Pappy isn’t just your co-pilot in the sky. Try and remember that. 

I’d like to try and make you smile, if only for a moment. I found our mothers gossiping at the kitchen table this afternoon as I headed out. They claim it’s not gossip if they’re talking about their children; I suspect they’re plotting as usual. Speaking of your mother, try and squeeze in an extra letter for her, if you can. She misses you, though she claims to be alright with you writing to me more than her, I know she’d appreciate an extra piece of mail and to know you’re doing well. Don’t give her too much grief for the gossip, you know she can’t help it.

I’m counting the days until you’re here again, Robbie, and we can carry on as we were meant to; together. Until that time comes, I’m sending you all of my love. 

All of me, always

Jo

Read Part 4 Here

A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!

Tag List: @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @rosiesriveter @bobparkhurst @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @rowdy-redhead @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd @basilone @at-1800-hours @justheretoreadthxxs @claireelizabeth85

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

soooo…… any fic drafts we can see a sneak peek of? the world is deprived of your dylan fics right now, the last one made me actually physically blush!!

Heh heh ;)

Always nice to hear that my writing has the intended effect, I gotta say. I actually do have a little something in the drafts.... and I suppossseeeee I could share a little bit of it... since you asked so nicely and complimented me in the process ;)

I'll stick it under a read more in case others would rather wait for the full piece (can't promise a release date on that... things have been... overwhelming around here lately).

Anon is referring to Welcome Home, if you also wanna blush at some smut ;)

‘Don’t hate me.’ 

Ugh. This was a message was annoyingly familiar. You watched as the three little dots appeared. A harbinger of news you were sure was going to fit right in with today’s theme. 

‘I know it’s date night. I know. I thought with the early call time I’d be home early.’ 

You sighed and tapped to reply, ‘It’s okay.’ 

‘It’s not. That’s three weeks in a row now.’

‘It’s not your fault… and to be honest? After the fucking day I’ve had? This news comes as no surprise.’ You let your head fall back onto your office chair. Fuck’s sake. The vibration in your palm drew your attention back to your phone.

‘Bad day huh?’ 

You scoffed quietly. ‘On a scale of bad to apocalyptic? We’re sitting at a solid… sudden onset explosive diarrhea in a booth at a Denny’s while Debbie the server looks on in horror.’

‘Oh. No.😬 That’s bad.’ 

‘Yup.’

‘Can I help?’ 

You sighed again. ‘I’ll be okay. Just get home when you can ❤️’ 

‘I’ll tip the scales a bit when I get home. At least back to a more neutral ‘stubbed my toe today’ kinda bad. I promise.’ 

You smiled for the first time today. ‘Oh?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Not gonna be an easy task.’

‘That’s alright. I like a challenge.’ 

You grinned down at your phone, amused by the fact that he had already managed to pull it back from Denny’s diarrhea in front of Debbie, to Denny’s diarrhea in the bathroom stall. ‘Someone’s confident.’ 

There was a long pause before you saw those three little dots again. When you read the message, you smiled and shook your head.

‘Someone’s pretty sure they’ve got every reason to be 😈'

[combeauferre]

trust you've got time on your side

les miserables, rated t, 2.6k words

“You think I’m on top of everything?” Courf says, smiling sadly. “I haven’t even started this essay yet. The reading is impossible. You’re not the only one struggling.”

“I-I shouldn’t be str-struggling at all.”

-

Enjolras should be made for university life, and instead, he's falling behind. Sometimes he needs reminding that that's okay.

Here is my submission for this year's @drinkwithme-exchange! This is for @spicypotstickerbliss I hope you enjoy!

read on ao3

By all measures, Enjolras should be perfectly cut out for university. He’s dedicated, he’s passionate, he cares. He's wanted to study law for as long as he can remember, it's his heart and soul and life's blood. 

He's not like half the people on his course, who took law because their rich parents want them to become rich lawyers. They're not here to learn the intricacies of a system they want to tear down. 

His own rich parents want nothing less than for him to study law. If they had their way he'd be studying medicine or dentistry. Not that he would ever do something just for them.

This is the start of the rest of his life - where he lets go of everything behind him and works on all he's ever cared about. This should be a breeze. 

There’s a voice in the back of his head, his guidance counsellor’s patronising, grating voice, telling him, “you have to be sure before you enter a law degree. Becoming a reputable lawyer does not happen across a three year Bachelor's degree. A lot of people don't make it." As if he’s ever been unsure about anything in his life, as if he ever struggled in school, ever been anything less than a solid A-grade student, or ever gave the impression that he couldn’t keep up with a heavy workload.

The pile of untouched readings on his desk stare at him in the same tone as his guidance counsellor spoke to him a year ago. Between attending classes, making connections with other students, writing essays and trying to create an activism group from the ground up, reading has taken a backseat. In theory, it's the least important part of his course. He shows up to class on time, he answers questions, he readily takes part in debates. For a while, he thought he could get away with doing the bare minimum of reading, and make up for it in every other area.

But slowly, he's been finding that when reading falls apart, his classes don't make sense. His arguments have no depth. Only a week ago, a professor pulled him aside at the end of a class to check he was keeping on top of his studies; it was embarrassing. His essays have no sources, the students he felt connected with a couple of months ago are suddenly miles ahead of him, and everything has come grinding to a halt. 

In his shared living room, Courfeyrac is curled up on the couch with a re-run of the documentary series the three of them have been watching together. Combeferre is at the stove, cooking dinner for the three of them. Tomorrow, it’s Enjolras’ turn. Another thing to add to the list of things he has to do. 

Courf takes almost all the same classes Enjolras does. They read the same papers, they write the same essays. Courf takes on almost as much work in their yet-to-be-named group as Enjolras and Combeferre. Courf, who had been terrified of the law workload, where Enjolras has never faltered in his surety to keep on top of it all. Now look who’s dragging behind.

A paper sits open in Enjolras’ lap, a few lines highlighted and an essay open on his laptop. If he can just finish reading this paper, find a decent few quotes to add, maybe he can at least get a decent first draft of this essay. It’s not due until next week, he has time, surely. Although, in that time, there will be two more seminars focused on different papers, a couple of multiple-choice tests, and a meeting of their now five-member group, in which they will discuss expansion. Enjolras will explain a plan of action for the next few months. A plan of action he has yet to make.

A soft knock at the door makes him jolt up.

“Bas?”

He sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Come in.”

Courfeyrac’s face pokes around the door and they smile.  

“Gabriel says dinner’s almost ready, are you joining us?”

“Yeah,” he says, sighing, “I-I just have t-to finish something first.”

Stepping inside, Courfeyrac drops down on the other end of Enjolras’ bed.

“Which essay is this?” Their head cranes over Enjolras’ laptop to look at the paper he’s reading. “Oh, that one.”

“I-I know you’ve pr-probably already fin-finished it,” he says, sighing and ignoring Courf's amused shake of the head, "all th-this reading is s-s-so hard to get through.”

“Well, some food and a break will help, right?”

Chewing his lip, Enjolras shakes his head.

“Maybe I-I’ll have dinner in here, I really w-want to get th-this draft done.”

“Bas, come on.”

“I-I don’t have t-time, Jules,” he says, firmer, glaring at his computer screen. “Just b-because you can s-sit and w-watch TV all night, d-doesn’t mean I-I can.”

He reaches up to tug at his hair, scowling down at the paper.

“Th-this reading is s-so hard,” he continues, “I-I can barely get my-my head around it, an-and we have so much t-to do w-with the group, and-” he takes a few quick, sharp breaths, “I-I can’t just get th-through it all like y-you can.”

Courfeyrac sighs fondly.

“Do you really think I’m watching TV because all my work is done?”

Frowning, Enjolras looks up.

“I-is it not?”

“No.” Gently, Courf pulls Enjolras’ laptop away. “I know it’s hard, Bas, but you’re gonna burn out if you don’t take breaks.”

“I don’t have time to- to take breaks.”

He avoids Courf’s face. He has the stern look memorised, and he's sure Courf learned it from Combeferre. 

“Do you want me to get Gabi in here?”

Scowling at nothing, Enjolras shakes his head.

“I-I just don’t know h-how you do it,” he says eventually, quietly. “All I e-ever do is w-work, and I jus-just can’t do it all.” He takes a breath and picks at his fingers. “You two are on t-top of everything, all th-the time.”

“You think I’m on top of everything?” Courf says, smiling sadly. “I haven’t even started this essay yet. The reading is impossible. You’re not the only one struggling.”

“I-I shouldn’t be str-struggling at all.”

A throat clears in the doorway, and they look up to see Combeferre leaning against the doorframe.

“H-how long have you been th-there?” Enjolras asks nervously.

“Long enough,” Ferre says, smiling sadly, “Jules was a while getting you, I was worried. I should’ve known you’d be working yourself to death in here. Still.”

Blushing sheepishly, Enjolras looks away.

“Come and get some dinner,” he says, “you need to eat, Bas.”

He huffs, folding his arms. 

“Y-yes, dad."

Combeferre laughs.

“Yes, come into the living room and think about what you’ve done.”

Taking his laptop, Courfeyrac saves Enjolras' work and closes it down. They reach out a hand for him and tug him up.

“Maybe we can bring all our work out and study together tonight, yeah?”

“I have some reading to do too,” Combeferre says, guiding them both out into the living room. Grinning, he adds, “we can always swap and you can read about metaphysics instead.”

“I-it’s probably more in-interesting than property law,” Enjolras grumbles, allowing himself to be guided to the couch. A bowl of stew and couscous is placed in his hands and he sighs softly as the smell reaches his nose.

“I loved this episode so much I had to watch it again,” Courfeyrac says as they settle down on one side of him, pressing play. Combeferre sits on the other.

“Wh-why do I feel l-like th-this is going to be an-an intervention?” he asks, eyeing them both suspiciously.

Laughing, Courfeyrac links their arms.

“Well, it’s too late now, you’re stuck here.”

"I-I really am gonna n-need to go back an-and finish my w-work, Jules,” Enjolras says, trying again to squirm out of their grip.

“Nope, you’re not going anywhere,” Courf laughs, leaning their weight against him, “you’re going to take a break and you’re going to fucking enjoy it.”

Sulkily, Enjolras sighs and stops, taking a mouthful of stew.

“Success!” Courf cheers, finally settling in. 

Throughout their meal, Enjolras tries to slowly drag his arm free of the loop it’s made with Courfeyrac’s, but every time he's close to getting free, they shoot him a sly grin and clamp their arm back down against his.

"You two are children,” Combeferre comments dryly, after a solid ten minutes of practiced patience. He finishes his stew and loops his own arm through Enjolras’ other with a smirk.

“I-I’m staying, I’m staying,” he grumbles, “I c-can barely even eat m-my stew anymore.”

Combeferre releases him gently and takes his bowl into the kitchen.

“You’d better still be there when I get back,” he calls.

“He will be,” Courf shouts back with a laugh.

“I-I really need t-to get back to w-work, Jules,” Enjolras says quietly, “I-I’m so behind.”

“You work too much, Bas,” they say, kindly, “you’re not behind, you’re burning out. You need to take more breaks.”

“I-I don’t!” Enjolras insists, “If I can just- just get out of th-this slump, I’ll be al-alright again.”

Walking back in from the kitchen, Combeferre drops on the other side of him and passes them each a cookie.

“Jules is right,” he says, “you’re going to work yourself into the ground.”

“N-nothing is done!” Enjolras insists, “I have s-so much to d-do and no t-t-time to get it all d-done!”

“Well clearly,” Combeferre says, taking his hand and gently rubbing the back of it with his thumb, “working down to the bone isn’t helping.”

“You’re not even behind,” Courfeyrac adds, “you’ve done way more than me. I haven’t even started that essay, I’m working on group stuff right now, I haven’t even had time to think about it.”

“Th-that should not be getting i-in the way of your w-work-”

“Bas,” Courfeyrac lays a hand on his shoulder, “I’m managing fine. You clearly are not, you need more rest.”

Enjolras folds his arms petulantly.

"You know Jules is right," Combeferre adds, putting an arm round Enjolras' shoulders, "We're both worried about you, we haven't properly seen you in days."

"I'm fine," he grumbles, leaning into his side all the same. "I-I just need to catch up on- on this one th-thing and I'll be b-back on tr-track."

"How about this," Ferre says, pausing the documentary again, "Tonight, we just relax, we finish watching this and then we can just hang out or something, and tomorrow-"

"I-I can't-"

"Tomorrow," Combeferre continues with a stern look, "we take our stuff and we go check out that cafe you were telling us about, and we can spend the day studying there. And I'm sure you'll get more done than if you lock yourself in your room tonight and force yourself to write that essay."

Huffing, Enjolras glares between them.

"Fine."

"Good." Combeferre goes to relinquish his hold, but Enjolras rests his head on his shoulder and sighs.

"Comfy there?" Ferre asks, smiling fondly. Nodding, Enjolras' eyes slip shut and Ferre gives Courfeyrac a soft look.

"I'll get a blanket," Courf says, getting up and taking theirs and Enjolras' empty bowls, pressing a kiss to Enjolras' temple as they go.

"You t-two fuss too much," he says quietly, when Courf has disappeared into their room. "I-I would be f-fine." 

Stroking his hair, Combeferre shrugs lightly. 

"Maybe you would be," he says, "but you don't seem fine. Working yourself down to the bone isn't going to always give you perfect grades, Bas. Do you really think you would have been able to finish that essay tonight? Or would you have sat in there and stared at that paper all night and beaten yourself up about how you couldn't focus on it?" 

Huffing, Enjolras scowls straight ahead. Ferre doesn't need to see it to know the expression. 

"You know I'm right," he says gently. 

"May-maybe," Enjolras concedes. 

"So, what about," Courfeyrac says, pulling two blankets out of their room, "we get all our cushions and duvets out here and have a sleepover?" 

"I-it's already a sl-sleepover every night," Enjolras says, "w-we live i-in the same house." 

"We don't sleep in the same room, though," they reply, setting down the blankets on the floor, "this will be like the good old days, the three of us all cuddled up together, watching a movie." He throws Enjolras a smirk. "And that way, we know you won't skulk back to your room and work on your essay until four in the morning." 

"I-I wasn't going t-to do that." 

"Sure you weren't." 

"I w-wasn't!" 

"Well then it doesn't matter, does it?" Courf asks, taking his hand and pulling him down on to a blanket. "You're not missing out on work, and we get to spend time with our bestest friend." 

Enjolras can't help the soft look that comes over his face at that. 

"Y-you really don't h-have to do th-this," he says quietly. 

Courfeyrac cradles his face gently with their hands and smiles, kissing his forehead. 

"We want to." 

And then they're off again, carrying back and forth duvets and pillows from each of their rooms and making a nest on the floor in front of the TV. 

"Gabi," they say, on their second duvet run, "Will you help Bas pick out a movie?" 

"I-I don't need help w-with th-that," Enjolras grumbles. Combeferre laughs and rolls his eyes.

"Are you going to be grumpy about this all night?" he asks fondly. 

Scowling good naturedly, Enjolras considers. 

"Maybe." 

"Go on then, pick us out a movie." 

Reaching down to their TV, Enjolras pulls out their shared box of DVDs and rifles through until he finds what he's looking for. 

Courfeyrac laughs quietly and rolls their eyes. 

"You don't even know the half of it," Combeferre says as he takes The Neverending Story from Enjolras and sets up the DVD. "When we first met, this was the only movie we were allowed to watch for the first two years of our sleepovers." 

"I-it's a beautiful st-story about hope and p-perse-perseverence," Enjolras grumbles, slinking back on to the couch and huddling into Courfeyrac's side. 

"As far as comfort movies go, it's pretty good," Courf concedes, pushing a hand into Enjolras' hair and scritching gently at the scalp. 

Combeferre comes back to the couch and settles into Enjolras' other side, leaning into him and accepting an arm around his shoulders. 

Eventually, Enjolras' tenseness ebbs away and he settles back into Courf's lap, Combeferre's head ending up in his own. A "th-thank you" is almost silently drawn from his lips as his eyes slip closed. 

"Any time," Combeferre says, just as quietly, from where his head rests easily on Enjolras' thigh. He and Courfeyrac follow in sleep shortly after. 

It's early morning when Courfeyrac wakes to a gentle jostling coming from their front. Opening their eyes and letting them adjust, they see Enjolras gently trying to pry himself away from the sandwich they've trapped him in. 

"What do you think you're doing?" Courf whispers, making Enjolras all but jump out of his skin. 

"Jules, I-I really need t-to get this w-work done." His voice is groggy from his own sleep and his eyes are bleary but he doesn't let up.

Rolling their eyes, Courf whips their arms around him and they pull him back into place. 

"Don't make me wake Gabi," they say sternly. Enjolras sighs and begrudgingly relaxes back into Jules' lap. 

"You're not going anywhere until morning," they whisper, pulling Enjolras closer and snuggling back into place. 

"I-if I fail this paper," Enjolras mutters, "I'm b-blaming you." 

"Well it's a good job you're not going to fail then, isn't it?" 

Glaring at them, Enjolras settles down and finally closes his eyes again. 

"Just get some proper rest, Bas," Courf murmurs, stroking his hair once more, "in the morning, I promise I will help you with the paper."

This seems good enough for Enjolras, who rests his head back on Courfeyrac's stomach, and slowly falls back asleep. 

[apprenticestanheight]

hi!! i have a request :) would it be okay if you wrote a specs x transmasc reader where the reader gets specs to help him with a testosterone shot?? its totally okay if no tho!! have a good day :)

T - specs x transmasc! reader

hi nonnie!! I'm sorry this took a while--this one has been sitting in my drafts for a good few weeks now and I've had it written for just as long. My object permanence is the absolute fuckin' worst, however, and I, admittedly, forgot to edit this before today because of getting distracted by other projects and also getting so anxious I physically could not will myself to get out of bed multiple days in a row since you sent this one into my inbox.

HOWEVER, I did get my shit together today (started on medication for adhd because I told my dr I thought I had it and we're testing it out to see if it works for me to help with those symptoms + anxiety management wot wot) and so, here this is!! I am, once again, sorry for the delay, and I promise if you send another request in I will do my best to do it that week.

fic type - this is fluffy!!

warnings - there are mentions of needles in this

In the five years since you'd come out and the five and a half since you and Specs had started dating, you'd only asked him to help you with your weekly testosterone shot maybe twice in the three and a half years since you'd finally gotten through all of the necessary hoops and had been able to start taking it.

Normally, you could do it yourself without a hitch, sometimes a little squeamish at the sight of the needle, but that Friday you'd asked him to help because he did it a bit quicker than you did--even if by just a solid second or two--while the two of you were on a time crunch in a rush to meet Elise and Tucker. Also, somewhat, as a way to squeeze a bit more time with him out of your day because you had to work an eight hour shift from 3-11, and when you got home he'd either be reading a comic while half asleep or asleep on your side of the bed in your absence.

He agrees to your ask without questioning it, getting the shot ready while you talk to him about how work has been because you've worked a string of evening shifts for the past three weeks and have been too drained to talk about it the next day. He happily listens, occasionally commenting where it's appropriate to make a remark or agree with an opinion you hold about a coworker, though he also acknowledges that he only has your bias to base an opinion on and not his own.

"Thank you for this, by the way," you murmur as you're standing up to pull your pants down to your thighs. "I know I could've done it myself, but I've missed you a lot lately and wanted to squeeze in an extra few minutes."

That remark brings out a soft smile from Specs, given to you as you're sitting back down. A second later, you can see the debate as to whether or not he wants to give you a forehead kiss occur in his expressions before he pauses, presses a quick but somewhat lingering kiss to your forehead, one of his hands reaching up to cup your cheek.

"I've missed you too, for what it's worth," Specs says. "Elise has kept us busy with her clients and Tucker and I have kept ourselves busy with Spectral Sightings stuff, but we've not seen much of each other lately and it's been hard."

You've missed him so terribly that it hurts, and there have been multiple points in the lulls of your evening shifts wherein you've been tempted to just pick up the phone and call him. You haven't for fear of being judged and seeming co-dependent, but you're at a point where you don't care how co-dependent it makes you seem. You're allowed to miss him when you're working evenings and don't get much of a chance to see him except for in your easier mornings.

You're nodding your agreement with his sentiments as he finishes getting your shot ready. You watch the needle go in, unblinking and relatively unphased, grabbing a "fun" Band-Aid--one shaped like a ghost, one of many from a Band-Aid kit gifted to you by Tucker for your birthday that year--to place over it as the slight pain from the injection settles and the needle is removed.

You pull your pants back up and rake your hands through your hair as Specs discards the needle properly, ever the one to be cautious about how your injection needles are handled, and you're thanking him as you put your testosterone away as it's meant to be stored.

He does a bit of idle cleaning while you finish getting ready, and you wind up stealing one of his button downs to wear over a black shirt. You kiss his cheekbone as he tosses you your keys, and the two of you leave your shared house hand in hand, so full of contentment that you already know how happy you seem is bound to make Tucker fake a gag while he smiles.

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: Sun in eyes

BONUS COMIC REVIEW: 

Issue 17 mini comic: Marc Spector - The Worship of False Idols

You guys. You guys have no idea. This is it. This is the reason I fell utterly in love with Moon Knight. I'm so excited.

When I found Moon Knight (I'll get to that discovery in a later review) I just had to know who he was. I stayed up all night downloading and reading everything. 

When I got to this piece it must have been 3am and this is what made me obsessed. 

What's hilarious is that this mini comic comes at the end of a really dramatic Marc Spector heavy issue in which he's dark and angsty and violent. 

And then...You get this. This delightful idiot man that's just doing his best. 

Let's get into it! 

I wonder if this image of Marc might be what inspired Doctor Grant from the show. 

We open with Marc holding a machete and making his way through a jungle in South America. 

Narration: Long before there was a Moon Knight, there was Marc Spector. Though he wore but a single name, he operated under many guises... Soldier of fortune, treasure seeker, courier, mercenary, were a few of those guises. 

He was a man whom Moon Knight can now look back on with only slender pride - A strong man, yes, and thoroughly determined, but often a ruthless man, one who braved danger only for money. This is one of his stories." 

Such lovely narration. Painting a picture of a gruff killer for hire out for a buck and not afraid to get dirty for it. 

We see him hacking his way through a jungle and complaining the whole time. 

"Must've hacked my way through thirty miles of this green hell..." 

He had previously met with a drunken archeologist (probably at a bar) who told him about a beautiful ugly idol made of solid gold. 

He finds a clearing and there sits the idol 

He doesn't find this suspicious at all. 

There's going to be a lot of screenshots in this review. 

(flat in the dirt again.) 

The dog apparently belongs to an archeologist nearby. His wife comes out of the tent, remarking that he's probably out drinking again. (Marc's info source). 

She looks around and notices the Idol is missing. She shrugs and goes back to the tent. 

She has a busy day tomorrow if she's to keep looking for a big discovery that she thinks is very near. 

Marc wakes in a dark underground cavern. 

Now we get to watch this poor man try to think this through. 

"But I can't carry any more than I've already got.

Maybe I should substitute-take something else-something better...

No-The archaeologist in the bar said this idol is the choice one--the one that'll command the highest price from collectors and museums--worth far more than its weight in gold.

But if I leave now, I'll never find this place again. Not before those archaeologists do--and by then they'll have armed guards swarming this place... 

Got to decide now-cuz I won't be able to change my mind later..." 

Marc decides to keep the one he already has. 

He follows a draft and finds himself in a bat cave with Guano up to his calves. 

Oh Marc…Oh no…

Oh no.

Oh no

Marc no…

Marc no…stop…

Buddy…pal….Beloved hero of my heart…

I mean…He saves them. Marc isn’t as heartless as he thinks he is. Just cause he’s having a bad day doesn’t mean they have to have one too. 

And now… I give you my hero. The light of my life. My obsession. My sweet cheese. My good time boy.

Damn Marc, that’s a nice leg. 

Marc makes it back to the town. 

He staggers towards where he's staying, looking forwards to a week in bed and then cashing in his idol for the sweet sweet dough (get that bread Marc). 

Suddenly, his thoughts of rest are interrupted by someone shouting "Three Dollars American!" 

He looks over to see the archeologist and his wife talking. 

She admonishes him for taking so long to get back to the newly discovered temple....then asks him why he keeps guying the cheap plaster idols. 

Marc looks over to a stand with a man selling "Genuine Inca idols straight from the temple of the sun!"

This is Marc Spector everyone. Mercenary dark and tormented and angry and violent killing machine Marc Spector. 

The man that can’t forgive himself and that no one loves easily. A man that is hated and feared. 

I don’t read Moon Knight for the dark action. I read Moon Knight for moments like this. 

This is what made me fall in love. Not the white cape, the mental health, the DID, the religiously tortured soul, the hero that needs saving…

This man that is having the worst time and still he stumbles into the sunset because DAMN IT he worked hard to get there and he’s going to get something out of it… But at the end of the day, he’s no further along than the rest of us. 

He probably had a drink and went to bed after this. Maybe laughing to himself. Maybe laughing about all the close calls. Maybe crying a little. 

But he didn’t go back to rob the excavation site. He said “Not today. Not this time.” and went on with his life. 

And he told no one of this, because he’s Marc fucking Spector and he has a reputation. 

So I leave you with this. The best image of Marc Spector I’ve ever seen. The true meaning and mood of Moon Knight I’ve ever seen. 

This pretty much just sums up his life: 

(And somewhere, Khonshu looked at this mess and said “That’s the one. That’s the one for me. My son!”)

[s-talking]

My favorite thing about your muse and your portrayal?

This is just gonna be a positivity ask, 'cause Envy's great, but you made him and are amazing, so you get some love too (as you deserve).

There is so much blood, sweat, and probably tears that went into Envy. I have interacted with you and your OC for years now, and he's still my absolute favorite. Top of the list for damn sure. The backstory, his personality, his weird little behaviors, his appearance – and I still have no idea what the fuck a Saebom is, and that horror aspect of the unknown is solid. I like that there's so much to him that's said in volumes where he doesn't speak much if at all. The quality of attention to what his actions are, his thoughts, and world around him is the only clues you get. What's not to love about a killer with unknown as a cloak, it's like another little layer of Saebom that's afflicted him, and he's just the surface level of that overarching 'what the fuck'. He is always a surprise even when you think you understand or so much as know him, the living curve-ball, and I'm here for that suspense. A literal jack-in-the-box with a knife.

I love what's been going on between our muses, and I'm here for every scenario big and small. I always get excited and check my Tumblr when I see "s-talking has posted XYZ", especially our IM's. I absolutely love those, I always look forward to them – and I know that you don't always respond, that maybe you forgot, or Tumblr was just being a toothpick in the dick and refused to show a notification. Regardless of the aforementioned, I will always have patience and excitement for your response. Be it several hours, days, or weeks. I know that such time management stuff is something that bothers you, but know that I do not mind. I could never mind at all. I'll still be here to support you, so take all the time you need for whatever might be going on. If you at all have a Discord, you are welcome to have my username, if you're comfortable.

And lets not forget your art of this lad. Absolute fucking talent, some good fucking food whenever I see your work. I have never not been inspired by your pieces, both old and new. I still have that one you did of Saku as the main display should someone go onto my blog and see the theme. I wish I could see your process, so I understand what all goes into such extraordinary pieces.

⌘ 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐋/𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄?

truth to be told... i cannot even begin to count how many times i've re-written my reply to this ask. i've initially intended to write something wholesome & funny, something which will show my sincere gratitude for you & your kind words but, in the end, none of it ever felt really ' good ' enough. even now, as i type, i have this huge novella-sized post sitting in my drafts but i refuse to post it because i thought of something much better, something which will express me far more than mere words ever will, so here...

a big heart-felt thank you for always being here for me & not once treating me any different despite my many breaks or moments of pure silence. i've been going through a lot of heavy things these past two-three years, but knowing that i don't have to pressure myself into a plastic smile & constantly message / come online in general just to keep up good relations is a huge, huge relief, & you have no idea just how much it means to me. i sincerely cherish your patience, saku-mun, but also the many messages & asks that you've sent me ( whether i was online or offline, whether tumblr bugged out or i became distant by social means, ) but most of all, i thank you for all the kindness you've shown despite having your own troubles in life. i am flattered, & humbled, beyond words. also, the very fact you've even stashed my simple 10-15 minute doodle on your profile & kept it up for years is honestly the greatest form of flattery an artist could possibly receive from a friend. as such, it's only fair that you get a proper artwork of sakuyoru this time.

i adore you, simply. i adore your writing, your muse, your creativity & art, & just how much you've always cared for me & my own creations for so many years. this drawing is simply my own version of ardor... as well as sweet revenge for making my pale face burn hotter than the sun *chuckles *

either way, tdlr;; i hope you suffer with me now, you lil sh*t ♡ 

[jordoalejandro]

No Time To Die: One Year (And Change) Later

You know what's weird? I thought I'd written in my review of No Time To Die in the Films I Saw list earlier this year that I was considering writing up a full post with more of my thoughts about the film later on. But I just went back to read what I'd written and it's not there. I must have removed it in later drafts of the list, probably because I didn't want to pressure myself in even the most minuscule way to do some more work. Pretty smart, past me.

Anyway, I had been thinking of watching the film again and writing this post. I was originally going to do it not long after the list because I had access to the film during award season but I couldn't get myself up to watch it again and so that came and went. Then I thought, maybe I'll do it for the one year anniversary of the film's release. Give it twelve months to sit with me and try again. But I didn't have free access to the film and didn't have it in me to pay for it, so that also came and went. Then, a few weeks ago, it was on one of the movie channels during a free Thanksgiving weekend so I recorded it. And it has sat on the DVR for weeks now. A few days ago, I finally decided to bite the bullet and watched it again.

The long and short of this story being: my God was I not looking forward to this. I went to see Skyfall three times in the theater. Three! That's not something I do. I barely go to the theater and only rarely have I ever seen something more than once in the theater. That's how much I was into that film. I saw Spectre twice. Despite its faults and long runtime, I went twice to the theater to watch it. No Time To Die was sitting in my house, for free, multiple times this year and I didn't touch it until I forced myself to. Off the bat, that's just not the kind of enthusiasm a Bond film should elicit. A Bond film should be like a roller coaster. You should have your blood pumping. You should be laughing. (I guess screaming on a roller coaster. It's not a 1:1 comparison. Whatever. Stick with me.) You should be thrilled. And when it's done, you should want to turn around and ride it again.

I will say this, having watched No Time To Die again, I didn't find myself blinking my way through the second half of the film in disbelief this time, at least. I wasn't hit with the same sense of, let's say, for lack of a better word, horror, that I was while watching it in theaters. I was mostly just bored. Without the shock of witnessing for the first time some of the weirdest things happening in a Bond film in the franchise’s long history, it’s really just kind of dull. Is that an improvement? It's probably a lateral move.

Okay, let me get into it. This is going to be full spoilers blazing. You've had a year and change to watch it.

I'll start by noting that the first hour of No Time To Die is actually pretty good.

I did find myself a little annoyed this time with the opening to the opening: the flashback to Madeleine's childhood. It goes on for a little while and the horror elements are cheap. But whatever. It's a needed scene and there's nowhere else to put it.

The Matera piece is a great pre-title sequence. The Spectre raid of the London lab is fine, though the Obruchev character is out of control, in both this sequence and the film in general. For 90% of his screen time he plays like a Roger Moore-era cartoonish villain and then, right at the end, he starts spouting insane racist genocidal stuff towards the Black woman with the gun who has his life in his hands. It's like the writers got to the part in the script where they had to kill him and were like, "Aw, this is like killing a clown. It's more sad than anything. I’ve got an idea: what if he starts going all racist eugenics on Nomi for no reason. Bingo. Now that's a man who deserves to be kicked into acid!"

James Bond retired in Jamaica is solid stuff, leading to the Cuba sequence which is the high point of the film for me. It really sings. The action, the humor, the music. Bond has more chemistry with Paloma than he does with Nomi or Madeleine (which is a problem given where we have to get to emotionally later in the film; he also, by the way, has more chemistry with Moneypenny in their brief interactions) and the way they work together to complete the mission is a lot of fun. This is about the hour point in the film and where it takes a downturn.

The boat scene with Obruchev, Leiter, and Ash is sloppy. Ash gives up the game almost immediately and Obruchev gives him up for no reason. But, fine, we need Ash and Obruchev to run off and we need to kill Leiter. (I mean, do we need to kill Felix? It almost feels like it's done because: why not? We're already killing a bunch of legacy characters in this thing. What's one more?) Done. Bond and Leiter's final exchanges work and it's a nice send off to Jeffrey Wright, who was very good in the role.

We head to London and the film enters a lull. Bond spends the next 40 minutes or so meeting with people, arguing with M, and accidentally killing Blofeld in what is another really sloppy scene. The whole thing is written towards getting Bond to grab him and it still doesn't work well. This section of this film has very little life to it. Just moving pieces around and setting up the third act.

Bond then goes to Madeleine's childhood home in Norway and is introduced to Mathilde. I don't think I physically rolled my eyes in the theater when this happened but mentally, that's where I was. This leads to an extended chase sequence which is fine. It looks good but isn't exactly the most thrilling.

And finally we head towards the big finale at Safin's island base. I think there are multiple things working against this final act of the film.

One: the setting. This is sort of minor in the grand scheme of things wrong with the film, but the set design feels lacking for this whole finale. It's dark concrete on dark concrete on dark concrete. You never really get a sense of the space, mostly because it all looks the same. It's just not a particularly interesting place. Even the pieces that should stand out, like the lab with the acid pools or the poison garden just look like more concrete enclosures. There's a long one-take shot near the end that doesn't feel as neat as it should because it mostly features Bond running up a dark stairwell. Oners that are really cool -- like the one that opens Spectre -- often take you through multiple places, showing a whole world opening up as the scene plays out. A better setting wouldn't have fixed the bigger problems but at least it would’ve been nicer to look at.

Two: Safin. His goals are all over the place. He mentions to Mathilde that she'll grow up on the island like he did, so it seems his long term plan is to stay on that island with Madeleine and Mathilde and produce the killer nanobots. When he talks to Bond later, he offers him the opportunity to leave with Mathilde if he leaves him to his island, so it seems like he still wants to be there even though people know he's there. Seems untenable. Even if he's lying to Bond and plans to kill him before he leaves, surely others know of his location now, too. He later talks to Bond about wanting to eradicate people in a tidier way. And wanting the world to "evolve." Classic Bond villain psychopath stuff. So maybe that's the plan. Mass extinction. Or targeted extinction based on DNA. But then moments later, he talks about his "first buyers" arriving at the island soon. These two things seem at odds with each other. You can either be a mass murdering villain, intent on killing millions to shape the human race as you see fit, or you can be an arms dealer villain, selling your weapon to the highest bidder. But you can't be selling a weapon with the power to kill anybody on the planet in any quantity desired and still think you're in control in some way of what will happen after. Unless it's just like an overpopulation thing and all he cares about is that a bunch of people die. Doesn't seem like it because he never says anything resembling that. So what's the stuff with the buyers? If that's his end goal, why lie to Bond and talk about wanting to be a god and all that? Doesn't gain him anything. And what does he need buyers for? Does he need money? For what? Is the subterfuge the point? Again, for what reason? There's no clear goal here and, by the way, no clear immediate threat.

The back half of this act is about Bond running through the lair opening blast doors so that missiles that have already been launched can destroy the base. Never mind that Bond already blew up the lab that had all of the important stuff. There's a sort of ticking clock created by the idea that Russian and Japanese forces are converging on the island and if they get there? I don't know. Maybe they'll take the nanobots for themselves? Safin, as mentioned, seems to have no further short-term plans than selling the weapon to buyers. (If that's the immediate threat, maybe the missile launching battleship that's in the vicinity could take care of those people when they try to leave the island?) Basically the question that needs to be asked is why now? Why must Bond act at this moment to stop an imminent threat? That question is not really clearly answered. It's almost like the writers just threw a bunch of different things at the wall hoping that in the chaos, you as a viewer wouldn't question too much why missiles had to be fired at that very moment. The Russians are coming. The Japanese are coming. The buyers are coming. The missiles are coming. It sort of works. I didn't question it much the first time watching, though I also had no idea what Safin's plot and motivations really were then and still don't after a second viewing.

And jumping off of all of this: why Safin? Leiter, Blofeld, and James Bond all die because of Safin in this film. What is it about this character that feels appropriate to cause all of this? He had a vendetta with Blofeld, sure, but really had nothing to do with Bond. Not that, if I'm being honest, there's really a villain I'd probably be okay with killing Bond, but Safin is essentially some random guy. He's a step above Bond being killed in a mugging gone wrong on the streets of London.

Bond films are no stranger to weak villains or vague plots, but if you’re going to kill Bond off, if you’re going to do one of the most controversial things in franchise history, these things had better be razor sharp.

Three: Madeleine and Mathilde. I'm not necessarily questioning why Bond would sacrifice himself to make sure they're safe. I get it: love. But rather why make this writing decision for the character? In the same way I look at Safin and think, "This is the guy that finally kills James Bond?" I look at Madeleine and Mathilde and think, "These were the two characters Bond gave up everything for?"

This is not entirely the fault of No Time To Die. It starts with Spectre, a film I do enjoy even though it, too, falls apart after the midway point. Lea Seydoux is a good actress, but the chemistry was just never really there between her and Daniel Craig. There are moments in Spectre where you can almost see it (staying at L'Américain and during the train ride after) but it never reaches a point where you honestly believe he'd give up everything for her. It comes nowhere close to the chemistry Craig had with Eva Green in Casino Royale, which is sort of the baseline that must be crossed for this story to work (especially given that’s where this movie starts). Spectre ends with Bond seemingly giving up his life as a spy to be with Madeleine, so it's tough (or perhaps impossible) for No Time To Die to write its way away from that, especially if this is the ending it's going for. (So maybe that says something about the ending it goes for? More on that shortly.) Where No Time To Die's fault lies is that it does just about nothing to build on the relationship or strengthen it in a way that it absolutely needs. Bond and Madeleine fight and stay separate for most of the film and then there's one scene, at Madeleine's childhood home, and essentially one Bond monologue that's supposed fix all of that and make us understand she's the love of his life. The monologue is fine, but I don't think Craig delivers it entirely convincingly and it's overall just not strong enough to get us where we need to be.

And Mathilde. Bond has very little interaction with her. What we see is cute, but nothing especially deep. For the back half of this film to work, we, as an audience, have to accept that as a father he would immediately and entirely love his child. And we do! We accept that logic on a simple biological level. That parents love their children. My complaint is not really with that. We never question why Bond would make the sacrifice at the end for Madeleine and Mathilde, but for us to actually feel something about it, you can't simply rely on that. You have to give us a deeper connection. There’s no “I love you 3000” here to really gutpunch us emotionally.

Bond films have long borrowed from other popular films of the time and there have been similar recent uses of this trope – the hero choosing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their newly discovered child – in films like Logan and Avengers: Endgame. Let's look at Endgame for a second and see why it worked for a character like Iron Man. For one, the threat was much clearer and more immediate. We established an entire movie prior that there was only one way for the heroes to win, and that was for Iron Man to snap away Thanos and his army at the cost of his own life. We knew while watching the scene that if he didn't do it then, Thanos would take the stones back and reclaim control of the universe. The hero must do X or else the villain will do Y. That's just the basics. But looking deeper, examining it from a character standpoint: when Iron Man dies, we see why it fits for his character. This is the appropriate end to Tony Stark's arc. He begins as a partying billionaire playboy who cares only about himself and, through the course of several films, becomes a hero who is so selfless, he sacrifices his own life to save the universe (and child/wife/friends). Furthermore, he has a whole separate arc about parenthood. He grows up with an extremely cold relationship towards his father, which slowly thaws, leading to an incredibly moving scene in Endgame where he's able to speak to his father and, now, as a parent himself, is able to understand him as a person even better. It beautifully sets up the idea of what you'd sacrifice for your child. Furthermore furthermore, Tony Stark is a character who cares about the legacy he leaves. When he realizes it's weapons of war in the first film, he sets out to change it. By his last film, his legacy is one of sacrifice and love, carried on by those he cared for and who cared for him.

This is just not James Bond's character. He would die for a mission, for Queen and Country, because he's always recognized himself as a tool. As something meant to serve the greater good and if he dies in pursuit of that, so be it. The saddest I felt in the aftermath of Bond's death was the scene back in M's office, where his coworkers are toasting him. You know why? Because those are the relationships Bond has fostered. Those are the people who you really believed were closest to him and if Bond were to truly die, that's the sort of tribute you'd expect him to want. Leave me a scotch and get back to work. This is why Bond drinks and womanizes and has so few actual connections. He lives a life where everything is temporary because he never knows how long he has. And it's not like this hasn't been reinforced through these Craig films. Vesper's death in Casino Royale was brutal on Bond, and his first major lesson about attachments in this line of work. At the end of Quantum of Solace, he reinforces that idea by not killing Vesper's former lover and leaving her necklace behind. Skyfall sees Bond losing his surrogate mother and ends with him recommitting to the job "with pleasure." So having Bond, near the end of Spectre and through most of this film suddenly caring about family, or love, or legacy? It's trying to jam a square peg into a round hole. It's trying to make Bond a character he isn't. Safin, while holding Mathilde hostage, says to Bond, "Life is all about leaving something behind, isn't it?" The James Bond of 24 films prior wouldn't agree to that. Why now is he a character that feels this?

Ultimately, I think square peg round hole is the problem here. No Time To Die tried to force its way to this end point.

It already had the Madeleine character from Spectre and she's going to be the woman Bond would die for, despite their relationship not feeling any more significant than any other Bond girl relationship. And Bond has a daughter now, and despite never expressing any kind of desire for offspring or interest in leaving behind a piece of himself, he's now deeply invested in that.

And Blofeld is back, despite being a weak villain. Let's jam him and Spectre back into things. (This is part of a different problem of the producers committing to the continuous storyline, making it feel like they can't abandon anything from a previous Craig film, even if it wasn't exactly working. And Spectre itself was another square peg round hole situation, as they used the organization because they finally got the rights back to it after decades, even though the Bond films had already established Quantum as the shadowy organization of the series. Trying to explain how Quantum and Silva from Skyfall fit into the Spectre organizational charts was one of the weaker parts of that film.)

And they cast Rami Malek. And even though he doesn't seem a good fit for this role, he was a hot actor at the moment, and they worked hard to get him and so they had to use him. And they had already used Blofeld and there's really no greater Bond foe, so Rami Malek's Safin will just have to be one who ends Bond.

And, most importantly, they had Daniel Craig. And by all accounts, he wanted out. And he was promised many years ago that they'd kill off the character with him so he would be 100% out. And so they just pushed forward. They pushed towards this ending: with a villain that didn't make sense for it, a love interest that didn't get there emotionally, and a plot that was not fully baked because, my God, that square peg is going to get through that round hole, whatever it takes. It’s not a recipe for success. And again, this is a huge decision. This is perhaps the boldest storytelling decision in the franchise’s history. Why are you approaching it like this?

So, where do we go from here?

Well, first, a new Bond needs to be picked. He should be in his 30s or early 40s at oldest. Someone who can carry the mantle for fifteen years. I think the most important thing the next Bond actor has to have, more than the looks or the body or anything like that, is a love for the franchise. It has to be someone who really wants the role. Look, Daniel Craig was reluctant to take the role and has said that after Casino Royale he was already looking for a way out. I honestly don’t believe he hated the role as much as many people believe he did, but I don’t think he loved it. I don’t think he saw it as more than just another job. It doesn’t mean he didn’t care, but it’s like this: these films take months and months to shoot and they can be grueling shoots. Lots of stunts, lots of travel. Then you have to start promoting it around the world for several more months. That ends, you have a little time off, and then the pre-production cycle begins for the next one. It’s the nature of a franchise. Finding someone who is up for it means getting these films on a more regular cycle. One every two years would be nice, but it shouldn’t ever go longer than three years between films. And if you have to beg the actor to return between each film until he’s mentally ready (or browbeaten down enough) to do it, you’re wasting time.

Next, you need better planning. The producers decided to make the Craig films one continuous timeline. It’s not, on its face, a bad idea, but I think too many people look at the MCU and think, “Oh, that works. We’ll just do that.” We’ve seen more franchises fail at doing this than succeed. If you want to tell a continuous story over five, six, seven, maybe more films, you have to plan these things out. They tried to wing it with these Craig films and ended up with five Bond films where we see Bond: 1. Begin his career as a 00 agent, 2. In the next week or so after he became a 00 agent, 3. Years later when he’s considered over the hill but recommits himself to the job, 4. Retiring as an agent by the end of the film, 5. Dead. What kind of arc is this? Over Craig’s tenure we see his first few weeks and his last years. We also saw his villains go from Le Chiffre, a member of a shadowy organization, to Quantum, the shadowy organization, to Silva in Skyfall, which just ignored all that Quantum stuff because who cares, to Spectre, which says actually all that Quantum stuff was important, it’s somehow related to a larger Spectre thing and Spectre is the real big bad, a super evil organization that has been planning everything, to No Time To Die, which tells us no, lol, nevermind, Spectre is all dead because this Safin dude showed up. Again, what is this arc? It’s clearly pieced together on the fly.

Basically, if you want to be like the MCU, you’d better be like the MCU. That means a strong producer (or two in this case) with a clear vision and plan. Smaller name directors you can control and who can fit your vision. And a multi year story mapped out by a team of writers. Personally, I don’t think that team should include Purvis and Wade. Look, it’s almost impossible to tell which writer is responsible for what from the outside. These movies have multiple credited writers and even more uncredited writers. But I know this: Purvis and Wade have done seven Bond films now – some of the best reviewed and worst reviewed of the franchise – and it’s enough. (For what it’s worth, their only solo credited Bond film is Die Another Day, make of that whatever you will.) They’ve had their shot. They’ve made their contribution. There are so many talented writers in this world, it’s time to let new ones take a crack at it. (I say this knowing full well the producers seem to love these two. They’ve let other people take a shot at a screenplay only to have P&W come right back in and add their magic touch to it. So my assumption is they’ll be involved in the next one, you know, to get the ball rolling with whoever the new guy is. Oh, and that first one has some level of success. What’s it going to hurt to let P&W take a pass at a second draft on this new one…)

In my opinion, I think they should return the franchise to its roots. Films that mostly stand alone. You can maintain some connective tissue with recurring side actors, maybe a recurring villain if there’s a story there, but I think the films need to get back to just being fun two and a half hour stories. Look at Skyfall for inspiration. It’s the second highest rated Craig film on Rotten Tomatoes (92% to Casino Royale’s 94%) and it grossed over $1.1 billion worldwide (almost double what Casino Royale grossed and $200+ million more than any other Bond film). I don’t think there’s any magic or mystery as to why. It's not really connected to the other Craig films. It doesn’t need to be. It’s clearly not something people were clamoring for. It’s just the right combination of a great villain, great settings, great visuals, great music, and great action scenes. There’s a strong director at the helm who has a love for the franchise and put that love into the film. (It’s when they sort of dragged him back in to do a second one that they started to run into problems.) It’s not reinventing the wheel, it’s just doing everything a modern Bond film should do. Find directors and writers with a love for the franchise and let them make their Bond movie.

We’re 25 films into the Bond franchise now. I understand there’s always the thought in the back of one’s head that something vastly different needs to be done, some new twist must be presented so it doesn’t feel like we’re doing the same thing over and over again. But that’s not really the case. Bond movies just need to execute. They need to do the job they’re expected to do and people will love them for it. You have 25 films now to reference. To look back on and figure out what worked and what didn’t. Use them. Don’t overthink it too much.

Let Bond be Bond.

[1kook]

skirt chasers — drabble iv

THIS IS A SKIRT CHASERS DRABBLE - FIND THE OTHERS HERE ! SUMMARY Jungkook was a man. A skirt chaser. He could only withstand so much torture before he broke, and seeing your gorgeous, smooth legs on display after so many weeks of starvation awoke an ancient being inside of him. WARNINGS JK POV!!!, attempted solo masturbation, k*ssing, jk’s extensive knowledge of pornos, grinding, cunnilingus, face sitting, spit kink, light choking, praise kink, self nipple play, a love for boobies, unprotected sex, use of the pull out method, i love u kink, its kinda hinted tht oc has a somnophilia kink? not rlly but tagging just in case -_- RATING m (18+) WC 6.3k this can't even classified as a drabble anymore wtf 

NOTES i have had this in my drafts since may 3. it is december 21. everyone point n laugh. anyway i very much love stimbo sc jk and i think he’s very cool so here’s a whopping 6k of the inner mechanisms of his big nerdy, college hottie brain <3

He doesn’t notice you’ve drifted off until he’s three solid paragraphs into his semester-long research paper. “Babe, can you toss me my charger it’s over…” 

 Jungkook swears he’s gonna take every single one of those stupid skirts and burn them to ashes. They had done their duty well, had given him the girlfriend of his dreams, but now they were just pushing their luck. What was once the epitome of a cute and sweet girlfriend, has now become the bane of Jungkook’s existence. He loathed them, he hated them, he could go twenty million decades without ever seeing them again because the torture they inflicted upon him was borderline inhumane. 

 Holy fuck, he knew you were gorgeous— hello, he was your boyfriend, thinking you were gorgeous was very high on the list of requirements you searched for in someone of his position —but he’s absolutely positive that you’re probably the sexiest woman he’s ever seen in all his twenty-two years. And Jungkook’s seen a lot of porn. Like, a lot. 

He can’t help himself. Before Jungkook knows it, he’s rolling his desk chair over to where you’re sprawled across his bed, skin so soft where it presses against his pillow, lips so plush, and he’s pretty sure there’s a tiny, tiny droplet of drool begging to escape from between your puckered lips. Normally, he’d tease you to hell and back for this, knows how flustered you become when he catches you off guard, but today he lets it slide in favor of focusing on something else about your dozing form. 

It’s the soft curve of your hips from where you lay on your side, smooth legs tucked close to you, and that goddamn pleated skirt giving you absolutely no protection from the eyes of the world around you. Luckily, he made sure to lock the door to his room when you came over today. And he’s almost positive Taehyung isn’t home anyway. So there’s no potential roommate to see you here, cuddled against Jungkook’s teddy bear, blue lace panties tucked between your folds. 

They were his favorite. 

Adorable and soft, and he knows that particular style— the cheeky kind —is your preferred style, because it’s the one he sees almost every time the two of you fuck. Seamless, because you hate when they tug against your skin, and baby blue simply because it was your favorite color. He can’t recall the last time they had been so exposed like this. 

God, how many times had this same situation occurred? You dropping by to encourage him to do his homework, before eventually falling asleep and leaving him to his own devices. A lot of times, Jungkook guesses, because each and every time you wake up and nab one of his protein bars from the stash by his bed. Jungkook’s gone through four boxes in the last month. 

But how many times had this happened with you in a skirt? Never. This was a rarity. 

As the year progressed and yours and Jungkook’s relationship reached new levels of intimacy and adoration, Jungkook is sad to say the skirts had begun appearing less and less. It was winter and, unlike the furnace that was Jungkook’s body, he’s pretty sure you were a cold-blooded reptilian at this point, always leeching off of him for warmth. So since you couldn’t stand the cold, the skirts slowly faded into the background, replaced by Jungkook’s second favorite: the leggings. 

He was no complainer, Jungkook respected your decisions! He wasn’t going to pressure you into wearing those cute tiny skirts he loved so much just because it fueled some PornHub-esque fantasy in his brain, especially not as a harsh winter descended upon you and the days became colder. He would not risk a sick girlfriend in the name of a horndog daydream. 

But holy mother of pearl, Jungkook was a man. A skirt chaser. He could only withstand so much torture before he broke, and seeing your gorgeous, smooth legs on display after so many weeks of starvation awoke an ancient being inside of him. 

Sure he’d seen them every time you guys fucked— duh. But this was not the same. It was different, seeing the tender skin of your inner thigh when he knew you weren’t trying to, your skirt stuck between you and the bed as you shifted about. It was different, knowing he could so easily have you, just flip up the skirt and tug your underwear to the side, not having to worry about fighting your leggings or skinny jeans down your legs. It was different and it was good, so painstakingly good, to have you in the skirt, but the worst part was Jungkook couldn’t even do anything because you were fucking sleeping. 

He’d subconsciously pictured you like this for weeks, sprawled out on his sheets in the flimsiest clothing and ready for him to just slide right in, but Jungkook was a good boy—you’d told him as much just last week when he’d paid the bus fare for that ragtag group of teenagers, smiling up at him like he was your entire world. Was he sometimes a little too mean, a little too wild? Yes. But at his core, Jungkook lived for your praise. He couldn’t just stomp on that title you’d so lovingly bestowed upon him, a title he’d worked hard for since! 

Furthermore, even if Jungkook wasn’t a good boy, to touch you in your sleep just seemed wrong. You’d mentioned in passing once that you wouldn’t mind as long as it was him (“I’m yours,” you had purred at some party, hand crawling down his abdomen, “your doll, remember?”), but Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to when you were so vulnerable and just… not there. It wouldn’t feel right to use your body when you weren’t awake, and no amount of encouragement from you would change his mind. 

So he does what all good boys do and prepares himself for a quick, self-administered handfuck. 

Sue him, his girlfriend was hot!

It’d been a little over two weeks since the last time the two of you had fucked, and it was mostly his fault; clinicals and research papers had practically consumed what little free time he had in his schedule. And if Jungkook remembers correctly, he wouldn’t be that lucky this upcoming week either. Something tells him your period was approaching. 

Jungkook doesn’t know what type of sorcery you’ve done to him, but in the time you’ve been dating, it’s become increasingly more and more difficult to nut without you. Whether that be fucking you, listening to your voice, or just imagining your pretty face in his head, you held a monopoly over Jungkook’s libido, one that he feared you’d never let go. 

He had years stacked on years of browsing PornHub and Brazzers, can recall experiencing some of the craziest orgasms of his life while watching some girl get fucked. All things come to an end. Ever since he started dating you, not even his favorite video could make him hard anymore. Oh, how the great have fallen. 

But with your blue panties before him, his cock hardens by the minute, nearly doubles in size when you move about and sigh a heavenly sound. Frankly, he doesn’t feel bad jerking one off to the thought of you. You were his girlfriend! He knows that you know that you’re the main character of all his right-handed adventures, and you’re not going to be mad at him for jerking off to you now. In fact, Jungkook imagines you’d be mad if he’d woken you up just for some frenzied quickie. This way, he’s blowing off some steam and you’re getting an extra ten minutes of napping. Everyone wins. 

He’s barely tugged himself out of the confines of his sweats when a soft mumble of his name has his soul leaving his body. “Kook?” 

“Baby,” he exhales, immediately tucking himself back into his underwear before moving closer towards you. You roll onto your back, skirt useless as fuck, he thinks, as it sprawls around your waist. “What’s up?” he murmurs, voice gentle, a hand carding through the nape of your neck because that’s how you always wake him up. Jungkook would be a liar to say it wasn’t one of the best feelings in the world. 

You say something, but it’s a mess of gibberish and too quiet for him to understand, before turning on your side again and shuffling closer to him. Jungkook smiles, runs the tips of his fingers over your cheek, before moving to caress your back, massaging some feeling back into your muscles. Some more mumbled words, but this time he deciphers them as something along the lines of “c’mere.” 

He chuckles, ducking down to kiss your cheek. “Don’t wanna interrupt your nap, baby,” he hums. “Go back to sleep.” 

You whine in protest, suddenly catching his hand in yours. “Please,” you sigh, eyes fluttering open, but they’re unfocused as you gaze at him. Jungkook clenches his teeth. Technically he should be working on that twelve page research paper, and even just trying to jerk off right now would have been a huge setback. Crawling into bed with you, where you’re so sinfully laid out for him to take, would completely offset his plans until tomorrow. He had to be a responsible student here. 

“I really gotta finish my paper…” he says, trying to let you down as gently as possible, flashing you an apologetic gaze. He thinks he has it in the bag, and your extended silence almost has him rolling back to his desk, when you suddenly snap into action. 

“But what about your dick,” you murmur, and Jungkook chokes. 

“My what—?” he splutters, voice a little too high. 

You say nothing, craning your neck to release a series of cracks, soft huffs leaving your lips. Jungkook’s on edge the whole time, eyes following the movement of your neck, the hypnotizing expanse of skin that bares itself to him. “Saw your hand down your pants,” you say, eyes blinking open, and though they’re droopy with sleep, at least you can hold them open this time. 

Jungkook laughs nervously, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck in embarrassment. “You saw that?” A soft hum. He wants to die. “Ah, baby, don’t worry about it. Know you’re tired, so just nap,” he sighs, caressing the back of your head once again, and he thinks he’s finally convinced you so he lets his guard down. 

You moan softly, and he’s almost entirely sure it’s one of those waking up types of sounds, the ones you make when you’re stretching around the bed in the morning. “Want your cock.” 

Jungkook swears he’ll die, right here, right now. 

He groans, lowers his head to rest on the mattress. “Jesus, fuck, baby,” he huffs, has to count to ten to will the stirring of his slowly hardening cock away for the second time that day. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re half asleep, please.”

You ignore him, the hand that had been wrapped around his wrist tugging him closer. You barely succeed, muscles still so weak, but Jungkook humors you and rolls his chair right beside your head, where he ducks down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Noooo,” you whine when he draws away too quickly. 

A laugh blossoms in his chest, and Jungkook proceeds to rain down a series of kisses on your pretty face before he can stop himself. You melt under his touch, his affection, and Jungkook adores the way your body is so soft and pliant like this, back arching towards him after he places a hand on your waist. 

“Come here,” you urge, voice a quiet plea. So soft, so needy. 

Jungkook malfunctions for just a second before he’s clambering over you on the bed, manhandling your body until you're both on your sides, facing each other, with you pressed tightly to his chest. Even with your hands brushing up and down his back in the way that sends every nerve in Jungkook’s body tingling, and your leg thrown over his hip, some stupid part of him convinces himself you’re just cold, trying to warm up after walking around campus in that tiny little skirt all day. He cuddles you as best as he can. 

And even with his dick twitching in his pants and his caveman instincts yelling at him to thrust up into your inviting core, Jungkook remains as professional as someone in a relationship can be when in bed with their lover. He’s so stuck on his self-control that he almost doesn’t hear the snort you muffle against his neck. 

“What are you doing?” you laugh, reaching up to pinch his cheek. Jungkook blinks, eyes wide like a doe caught in headlights. “Are we gonna fuck or what?”

He chokes. He doesn’t even try to muffle his reaction like other times, because the way you’re looking at him and the heel you press against the back of his thigh preoccupies his thoughts instead. Your hands are still tracing along his back, melting him with your dainty touches. “Baby?” you question after he’s been silent too long, distracted by the way you use that hooked leg to tug your bodies closer. 

“You… you’re still asleep,” Jungkook says, though it’s definitely a question. 

You scoff, a smile curling around your features. “Mm, definitely not asleep,” you tease, and shift to push him onto his back, wiggling on top of him until those baby blue panties are pressed against his quickly hardening member. “Why? Wanted to touch me when I was asleep?” you continue, and Jungkook’s eyes nearly burst out of their sockets. 

“No!” he exclaims, hands clutching your hips in alarm. He can tell he surprises you, because your eyes go wide for a brief second. “Never…” he mumbles afterwards, looking away from your imploring gaze. “Only like you when you’re awake.” 

You sigh, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek that makes his heart flood with adoration for you. “You’re a good boy, Jungkook,” you say back, just as quietly. “A blueprint for the perfect man.” Another kiss, this time against the corner of his mouth that makes Jungkook’s hands twitch against your sides. 

A soft moan tears itself from his throat, fingers digging into your hips as you slowly roll them against him. The heat emanating from your core seeps past the thin barrier of his sweatpants, makes his cock twitch in his boxers. He knows how it feels inside of you, has your body memorized like the back of his hand. But it’s in moments like these that he finds himself aching for you, desperate to feel the fluttering walls of your pussy, the pitiful whimpers that fall from your kiss swollen lips. And, well. The skirt makes it all too easy.  

He places two hands on the backs of your thighs, runs them up until he’s pushing your skirt up over your waist. You pull away from his lips with a sneaky little smile, pointer finger stroking down the side of his face lazily. “Mm?” you tease, leaving a coy little peck against his mouth. “Now you wanna touch?” Jungkook rolls his eyes, snaps his teeth at your wandering finger when you draw it too close to his mouth. The giggle you let out is so damn precious, makes him want to put you in a glass case and never let anyone else touch you. Coincidentally, it also makes him want to rail you into the mattress until you cry. 

“I’ll fucking ruin you, doll,” he settles on murmuring, subtly pushing you down against him. A soft giggle. Jungkook knows it’s your favorite nickname, even if you won’t admit it. He's the only one allowed to call you it, something about his intentions being pure or whatever, he’s not really sure. Anyway, you’re still so cute and soft on top of him, blinking slowly and prettily, so he’s dragging it out a bit, hoping you’ll become more alert in a few more minutes. 

As sleepy as you may be, you never miss out on a chance to rile him up. “As if, doll,” you retort, his nickname for you rolling off your tongue seamlessly. It sounds heavenly, sparks this weird emotion in him that he never considered before. Him, a doll? No way. But there’s something about the sweet lilt of your voice, the starry-eyed gaze you level him with, that has him throwing all reservations aside. Put him on a shelf and call him Barbie, because he would be anything you wanted him to be. 

Anyway, Jungkook’s sappy thoughts last all of two seconds before he’s rolling you over, successfully trapping you beneath his body. “Oh, so scary,” you feign, hands fluttering to clutch at your chest. 

He glides his hands down your body, let’s them trail over your hip and down the side of your thigh. “Don’t get sassy with me,” he warns, thumb peeking beneath the hem of your skirt. Jungkook really wants to burn the piece of fabric this time, because after all that time it spent torturing him with its halfhearted attempts at covering you, it chooses now to do it properly. 

Hands are thrown around his shoulders, the overwhelming scent of your perfume and body wash tickling his nose when you pull him in for another kiss. “Or what?” you purr, irises swirling with lust. “Gonna use your manly man strength to hold me down?” 

He shushes you with a kiss, slow and languid just how you like. Your taste is familiar, feels like coming home, so Jungkook can’t be blamed for getting too carried away. It starts gentle— it always does. But then a tiny mewl gets stuck in your throat, the following moan swallowed by his tongue, and Jungkook nearly loses it. He nips at your bottom lip, waits patiently for you to open up for him, and when you do he wastes no time diving in. Your tongue against his is slick and wet, makes the most lewd sound. Your little sharp intakes of air fill the gaps, shuddery breaths that Jungkook takes as a good sign. 

He strikes while the iron is still hot. 

It’s amidst your lazy kissing that he secures his hands around your waist, two reassuring squeezes thrown your way before he’s abruptly rolling onto his back again. “Kook!” you squeal, clutching at the front of his shirt. A pouty frown paints your face, sleepy eyes narrowing him with a rather unimpressed look, tainted with the barest hints of confusion. 

Jungkook grins, reaching back to yank his pillow out from beneath his head. “On my face,” he commands suddenly, and you snort. 

“What?” you ask a little incredulously, leaning back to level him with an even more lost expression. “Since when do we do that?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Since I decided twenty seconds ago,” he answers rather bluntly. You still don’t look too convinced. It’s not a position the two of you have ever tried. You’re a little on the sappy side, always like to look at his face while you fuck, hold his cheeks in your palms, kiss him sweetly. On the one hand, Jungkook totally gets it; he’ll proudly admit that the sight of your orgasming face paired with your fantastic tits have done him many favors these past few months. 

However, Jungkook is a lover of head. Giving or receiving, it’s very high on his list of sexual acts and whoever invented oral deserved all the praise in the world. Not only did you look drop dead gorgeous with his cock in your mouth— tears trailing down your cheeks, drool clinging to the corners of your lips —but you also looked absolutely sexy receiving it. 

Kinda. 

Probably. 

Okay, so maybe Jungkook can’t really say, considering he always has a hard time catching a glimpse of your face when he’s down there licking and slurping your clit like a madman. Which is what leads him to this exact moment, an experiment weeks in the making. Jungkook has a theory that needs to be tested. “Please ride the fuck out of my face,” he tries, hoping the polite tone will win you over. 

He’s met with an eye roll. Still, you’re kinder than you let on. “Okay,” you give in, and Jungkook will remember your heroism for the rest of his life. “But only because being on top is empowering.” He just barely contains an over-enthusiastic fist pump into the air, settling on a rather modest smile that has you leaning down to kiss him again. You reach for the zipper on the side of your skirt. “Just let me—“

“The skirt stays on,” he says quickly, hand on your wrist to stop you from removing his most favorite article of clothing. 

“Baby,” you say, giving him a rather serious look. “It’ll cover your face.”

“It won’t,” he urges, reaching for the buttons on your blouse instead. Jungkook has had one too many encounters with tops like these, and has long since learned not to tear them apart like a crazed psycho. As much as he loves the sound of your buttons scattering across his bedroom floor, he can’t say he’s too fond of the scolding he inevitably gets afterwards. Anyway, the shirt comes off and so does your bra, leaving your tits in his face, tiny skirt on your hips. “Get up here,” he murmurs, ushering you up his body until your knees are pressing into the mattress right above his shoulders. 

If it was up to Jungkook, he would have just grabbed your hips and shoved his face against your pussy. Luckily, it’s not, and your common sense shines through just in time. “One sec,” you say, and then finally, finally, the blue panties come off. 

And then it’s just Jungkook and your glistening pussy. 

“Holy fuck,” he groans, taking the opportunity to wrap his arms around your thighs. You squeak when he pulls you closer, hand instinctively reaching for the front of your skirt to hold away from his face. The view from here is heavenly, just your swollen clit, gorgeous tits, and shy face. 

The muscles in your thighs are a little stiff. Or maybe you’re just nervous. Jungkook isn’t sure, all he knows is that it takes one encouraging tug for you to finally sit on his face. He doesn’t even register the surprised gasp that leaves your throat because he’s too busy tasting your pussy from an all new position. And it’s absolutely amazing. 

Something about the position, having you carefully poised above him, does something to Jungkook. He likes to think he knows your body inside and out, knows what makes you melt and what makes you scream. He knows just how to lap at your cunt until you’re cumming, and how many fingers it takes for you to really feel it. But it’s like having you in this position changes all of that, rearranges all the tidbits of information Jungkook has spent months collecting. 

(Jungkook is a meticulous man; he’s got a near perfect GPA right now that was the direct result of his carefully crafted note-taking techniques. Whether or not he abused the power of his perfectionist learning abilities to master the mechanisms of his girlfriend’s libido was no one's business but his own.) 

One kitten lick against your swollen pearl makes you buck forward, clit brushing against his nose. Jungkook can’t remember you ever doing that on the first lick. “O- oh my—,” you cry, all airy and whiny. Your hand is pressed to the wall behind his bed, the other bunching the front of your skirt just above your mound. He’s rather happy to learn that, just as he’d hypothesized, this position does give him a better view of you. 

He’s graced with the sight of your face, twisted up in pleasure. It’s the stereotypical eyes squeezed shut, lip caught between your teeth look. But there’s something different about it knowing that he’s gotten this reaction out of you with his mouth alone. 

Jungkook quickly repositions you over him, tugging you back until his tongue is lined up with the front of your slit. You’re so warm down here, make him feel like he’s drowning with your heady scent alone. Tentatively, he lets his tongue dip between your folds, the very tip nudging your swollen clit. A moan tears itself from your throat, the hand that had been flush against the wall suddenly jumping forward to bury itself in his hair. “Oh- oh, fuck,” you shiver, hips jolting forward once more. 

You taste good on his tongue, the arousal that coats your lips is sticky and sweet. When he laps his tongue along your folds, quivering hole to stiffened bud, you let out a sob that resonates deeply within Jungkook. And also Jungkook’s cock, which stirs beneath his trousers in excitement. What was once the focus of his mission, a quick handfuck to sedate himself before finishing his research paper, has long since been forgotten. It’s for the greater good, he tells himself, blinking up at you from between your thighs. 

Eye contact lasts for exactly three seconds before you’re looking away bashfully, the fist clutching at your skirt trembling against your tummy. You’re so fucking pretty, Jungkook’s heart can’t take it. 

And so he sets out on a mission to make you cum as soon as possible, abandoning his slow kitten licks in favor of suctioning his lips around your clit. “Kook,” you wail, tugging at his hair. Whether you do it purposely or not, Jungkook is a little shocked by how good the pain feels. It’s not an emotion he can ponder long, because then you’re using that same grip in his hair to tilt his head backwards, jerkily moving over him. 

It’s rough and sudden, the buck against his face, but Jungkook loves it. The drag of your pussy against his lips, the wet glide of your juices smearing across his chin and Cupid’s bow. It all feels so good, and the fact Jungkook is getting a front row seat to the absolutely torn look on your face is just the cherry on top. 

Jungkook has seen you make a lot of faces. He’s seen you shiver and drool as he nails you into your bed. He’s seen you sniffle and sob as he slowly fucks you in a rose petal filled bubble bath (a six month anniversary special planned by yours truly). He’s even seen your mirrored reflection fall apart as you bounced away on his lap in front of a mirror. 

He’s never seen you like this before. 

Needy and desperate, moaning his name softly, practically humping his face in your greed. Tiny skirt clutched against your waist, tits bouncing as you hurriedly grind against him. He has half the mind to burn this scene into his eyelids for the rest of his life. 

He’s given up on doing anything with his tongue, simply sticking it out for you to do as you wish. Normally, he’s not a huge fan of letting you do things yourself. After all, Jungkook was your boyfriend. Making you cum was his job. But you’re moving so fast, so frantic, in your mission to cum. So Jungkook sits back and lets you go to town on his mouth as a series of moans spill from your lips. 

And then something unforgivable happens. 

Jungkook will admit it: he’s staring at you almost a little too dreamily, heart eyes and all. He thinks you’re fucking hot, taste like heaven and have these absolutely delicious boobs bouncing up and down. He’s a little distracted by your glorious figure that he doesn’t notice one crucial bit of information. 

Your hand. 

The desperate need to cum has your muscles weakening, thighs moving at a latent pace, and, much to Jungkook’s horror, hands trembling. It’s your own pleasure that lets the unimaginable happen: your skirt flutters down. Your grip on it loosens and before Jungkook knows it, the sight of your pretty face and nice tits are gone, snatched away before his very eyes. Even your wet cunt is impossible to see, his world suddenly shrouded in darkness. 

Leave it to Jungkook to foil his own horny plan with, well, his horniness. If only he wasn’t so hopelessly in love with the image of you in skirts. Maybe then he could bask in the beauty that was you riding his face. 

He acts fast, reaching for the material before he can miss out on anything. But the angle is weird, and without Jungkook’s hands holding your hips, you’re left weakly rolling forward instead. And he’s not the only one frustrated with this turn of events, your face quickly returning to its normal composed form as you level him with a frown. “Everything okay?” you pant. 

Everything was not okay, but Jungkook isn’t sure how to tell you that without ruining this delicate moment. So he tries to show you with actions instead, releasing the skirt he’s got in his fist and letting it flutter over his face again. You giggle. “I told you so.” 

It takes more willpower than he’d like to admit to pull away from your wet folds, pulling off with a lewd sound that has you biting your lip as you gaze down at him. “I told you so,” he mimics, a little mean but you don’t take it to heart. “Hold your skirt up.” 

You hum, the grip on his hair loosening as you push away his dark locks instead. “Mmmm,” you hum. “No.”

“No?” he repeats, actually really scandalized. Okay, so he’s a little spoiled when it comes to you— it’s not his fault! You made him like this, conditioned him to think that you would always give into his every whim because you were just so sweet and considerate and wanted him to be happy. And Jungkook also wants you to be happy, and in his opinion, being happy right now means having him fuck your pretty brains out for ever getting sassy with him. 

“I don’t listen to men,” you tease, followed by a cute little nod, skin still a little warm from your looming orgasm. Jungkook takes advantage of your tiny moment of weakness, and strikes like a viper.

A girlish squeal leaves your lips, hands stretching outwards as he knocks you backwards onto the mattress. “Jungkook,” you gasp, sprawled out artfully, beautifully, over his sheets now. He doesn’t waste a second longer, crawling over your body until you’re a shivering mess beneath him. 

Hand against your throat, the other blindly reaching for the front of his sweatpants. “What is it, doll?” he drawls meanly, reveling in the way your eyes roll back when his newly-freed cock lands against your slit. A choked gasp leaves your throat, lashes fluttering wildly until Jungkook loosens his grip. 

You’ve done a nice job riling yourself up, lips squelching wet and loose when he runs the tip of his cock along them. Your knees are pulled up for him, spread perfectly for him to fit between. You’re so good for him, Jungkook feels a little bad for how hard he’s going to fuck you now. 

The sympathy doesn’t last long.  

Once upon a time, you had been the epitome of a cute and sweet girlfriend. Had picked him up from class, encouraged him to do his homework, wore these cute little skirts around campus. Deep down inside, Jungkook knew everyone else was jealous of him— you were just so pretty and cute, a girl straight out of everyone’s dreams. 

Until he sunk his horny claws into you. Jungkook will be the first to admit he spends a little too much time browsing porn sites— he’s a man, cut him some slack —which had never caused him any problems before. Even when the two of you were just friends (pining ones at that), you had never seemed even remotely affected by his extensive pornographical knowledge. It was a known fact among your friend group that Jungkook’s best friend was his right hand. 

But then, of course, you started dating Jungkook and it was like a save file of all his horniest fantasies was downloaded directly into your brain. Which leads him to this. 

“Spit in my mouth,” you shiver, got these huge, watery eyes pointed his way. His cock twitches. 

There’s a little groan that tears itself from his throat when he leans forward, cock sliding along your folds, to grasp your chin between his fingers. “Open,” he commands, and you do. Your lower lip quivers, tongue pressed against it as you wait for Jungkook to spit down your mouth. He can’t say he regrets letting you peek through his porn stash, not when it leads to this, you whimpering at the hot glob of saliva he shoots down your throat. “Filthy,” he pants, memorizing the movement of your throat when you swallow like the good girl you are. 

Before he can write another twelve sonnets about that dazed look on your face, he’s roughly grabbing at your thigh. You whine, limbs so pliant beneath his touch, letting him hike your knee over his forearm as he tugs you closer. “Fuck,” he groans, reaching down to align himself with your quivering hole. You’re still so wet, make the most lewd sound when he sinks into you. Not that Jungkook really hears it, the sound of your strained moans practically drowning everything else out. 

“Fuck,” you cry, one hand clutching at his forearm, the other toying with your breast. It’s a magnificent sight, and Jungkook is suddenly feeling a little cocky when he realizes he’s the only one who gets to see this. It’s this presumptuous nature that fuels the first round of thrusts into your cunt, fast and full. He makes sure you feel every inch of him, tip to base, as he pistons his hips forward. “J— Jungkook,” you pant, back arching beneath him. 

You take it so well, walls sucking him in every time he draws back out. “I’ve got you, doll,” he moans, hiking your leg further over his shoulder. Every roll of his hips has your tits bouncing back and forth, lower lip as well with the dopey, open-mouthed look you got on for him. And the damned skirt that got him here, fucking you with a punishing pace, sits perfectly around your waist. He has half the mind to take it off for you, briefly wonders if it hurts, but just looking at it reminds him of about thirty-seven pornos he’s seen. So it stays on, works alongside your lovestruck face to actively rewrite all those pornos anew with you starring in them instead. 

It sure helps when you start your usual mindless babbling. “I love you,” you gasp, face screwed up in pleasure. “I- I love you so much.” 

He’s contemplating doing a study on you and your weird mid-fuck confessions. You do this a lot, and while Jungkook doesn’t mind, it sure does leave him curious. “Love you too, baby,” he says anyway, repositioning his arms so he can hold your waist with both hands. 

“Really?” you ask, voice so whiny, eyes brimming with tears. From emotion or your need to cum, Jungkooks not sure. (Hence the need for a study!) 

Another brutal thrust that has you moaning loudly. “Really,” he reassures you, glancing down to watch his cock sink into your hole as he picks up the pace. Your arms are practically limbless, and his stomach is beginning to feel tight. The end was soon. “Love your pretty little face.”

Another whine, your fingers pulling at your pebbled nipples. “M- My pretty face?” you whimper, blink these long lashes up at him. They make Jungkook go a little mad, bring on a wave of jackhammer thrusts that cut your moans into choppy little cries instead. 

“Prettiest girl I know,” he groans, not once stopping the movement of his hips. You’re quivering like a leaf beneath him, your entire body locking up as Jungkook guides you toward orgasm. “A fucking doll, baby— so beautiful for me,” he praises. 

It’s exactly what you want to hear— secretly, Jungkook hypothesizes that you’re a little bit of an attention whore —crying out when he slows to a grind against you. Each roll of his hips has him rubbing over your swollen bud, leaves you trembling until you’re eventually unraveling beneath him. “Oh- Oh, fuck— Jungkook—“ you sob, writhing beneath him as you cream his cock. 

Your tits look amazing, nipples stiff from your arousal and all the attention you’d been giving them. Your features soften, gasps framed by your pillowy lips. As Jungkook has said before, your pretty face was the most dangerous weapon. 

He manages a few more pistons of his hips, mostly for reputation sake, before he’s eventually pulling out. His right hand, once the sole hero of his solo sessions, makes a valiant return now as he jacks himself off over you. It takes a few harsh pulls of his cock until he’s spurting his jizz over you, painting your tummy and your tits in white ribbons of cum. You flinch, a tiny whimper leaving your throat at the mess he makes. “Fuck,” he groans one last time. 

When it’s over, you have the audacity to shyly pull down the front of your skirt. As if your tits aren’t out and about, but Jungkook pretends he doesn’t see it. Instead, he channels his energy into peppering your face in kisses. “Best girl,” he praises, even though he knows you hate the nickname. “My beautiful feminist queen.” 

A pinch against his cheek. It hurts like hell, but he endures it for now, still very much in love with your performance today. “Get me a towel,” you huffily ask, uncomfortable with the jizz sticking to your tummy, as if he didn’t spit in your mouth a few minutes ago. 

His research paper is waiting for him at his desk, the materials he’d spent weeks collecting waiting to be typed up. But his girlfriend is so soft and sleepy, asking him to stay for another nap. 

There was never a choice.

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[senlinyu]

I didn't realize how through you were! Damn, so alpha? Beta? I thought betas was all writers use. What's the alpha job?

It really varies a lot from writer to writer, and for me, from story to story. Depending on the fic, my stories have zero beta, one beta, multiple betas, alphas and betas. It really depends on how seriously I'm taking the story and how eager I am to just be done with it. =P One-shots usually get between zero to one beta, I'm pretty casual about them unless I'm being experimental and want feedback and advice what I'm trying to do. Multichaps it can kind of depend on what I think a story needs, or where I think my writing is weak.

With Let The Dark In, I have a beta and alpha, but its a fairly flexible alpha-ing situation with this story. My beta, @simplifiedemotions goes over each chapter and looks for typos, spelling, grammar, and nudges me to be more descriptive since I am prone to being overly terse, and also calls me out when I use repetitive language, which is a bad habit of mine. I usually send her a chapter three or so days before I'm planning to post it, so she has time to look it over, send it back, I can make changes, and then she can give it one more run through after that. When I have more than one beta on a fic, I tend to waterfall it, I've usually done a couple of test betas with each person, and based on how they work, I will send a chapter out in order from who will make the biggest edits, to the person who is the most hawk-eyed about things like consistent formatting, quotation marks pointing in the right direction etc. Different betas have different strengths, and I try to work with them in a way that doesn't interfere with each other. I usually don't have betas working in the doc at the same time, it just hasn't worked well for me. Betas generally don't know the full plot of the fic, so if they have questions, something isn't clear, doesn't make sense, etc they can ask me which helps me gauge how my set-up/foreshadowing/etc is.

Alphas on the other hand, know the plot, they know the character arcs, and all the twists and turns and anything I'm hinting about etc. Their focus is more plot structure, chapter structure, character development, etc. I chatted with my alpha, Jame, months ago about the story and what I was planning for it, and she knows the general plot, but she's been busy and hasn't had a lot of time to sit down and go over chapters. She's not actually reading the fic currently, although she alpha'd the two latest chapters on a technical level, because they were action heavy chapters and I hadn't written any action scenes in over two years. But, I've just finished writing what I consider the "set-up" for the story, and so now she's going to read through all the chapters I have, both published and drafted, and help ensure the foundation is solid before I move forward into the next act, and until she's done that I'm not sending out anymore chapters to be beta'd. I try to give her at least a week, so she can read it, think about it, and then give me feedback that's first impression and then further analysis.

But it really varies from writer to writer, and also depends on what the particular story needs.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Wrong Number, Asshole - A Bakugou Katsuki Soulmate AU

All Parts

Part 18:

“That’s pretty much all I got from him,” You sighed, picking at your fingernails. “That he doesn’t want me to know because other people talk bad about him.”

“That’s...” Selene trailed off, seemingly just as lost for words as you were.

Your best friend was making tea for the both of you, bustling around her kitchen as you spoke. Truthfully, you were thankful she invited you over. You didn’t think you could process this information by yourself.

You’d been going back and forth over it all day, trying to decide whether or not it was your place to share what you knew with Selene. You wanted to keep sacred the trust Bakugou had in you, but on the other hand, the longer you thought about his words the more worried you became. Deliberating on it further wouldn’t help you, but maybe talking about it would?

Either way, you just decided to cut your losses. Maybe a stronger woman could’ve kept this too herself and been fine, but you simply weren’t her.

“Yeah. I know.” You responded, falling back against her couch, and slumping into the armrest. “I have no idea what to do with that. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I can’t come up with any scenario that’s good.”

“Yeah. I can see that.” She nods, bringing your mug over to you.

“It’s just- I can only think of two reasons why that’d upset him so much, right?” You sip your tea. “One- he’s just being overly dramatic about it, but honestly, considering Bakugou’s reactions, that doesn’t seem to be the case. And two...”

You wrung your hands nervously. Selene only sat down next to you, a hand on your shoulder urging you to continue.

“Or h-he’s a bad guy. A really bad guy.” You spoke, suddenly sick to your stomach. “Like, a criminal or something. I mean, that’s the only way right? He said people talked about him, a lot, using his name, and then said I could look him up and find bad things, so that has to mean he’s like comitting crimes right? That he’s probably not good, and he’s got a record, because why else would anyone talk that badly about him, so much to the point where it’s synonymous with his name, if he didn’t do something horrific?”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, curling your arms protectively around them. Saying all of this out loud made you feel sick, but you truly couldn’t think of another explanation.

“Maybe...” Selene tried, but she seemed to be coming to your same conclusions as well. “Yeah. That’s- I can’t think of another reason either.”

“Yep.” You admitted defeatedly.

Silence fell over the room as you sipped from your mug. You tea was piping hot, nearly boiling, but it didn’t make you feel any warmer. You were cold, and you couldn’t stop your fingers from trembling.

You wanted to believe he was good, and you still sort of did from your personal interactions with Bakugou- But if looking up his name would show you a record of all his past actions, and if he was ashamed of them? Then how good could your soulmate really be?

It made you sick to think about. You’d wanted to save people and help them and do good your entire life- you didn’t think you’d be able to handle learning that your soulmate didn’t feel the same. That he hurt people instead.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Selene slug an arm around you, pulling you into her side. “Maybe- maybe it’s a misunderstanding, you know? Have you tried talking to him again about it?”

“No. Can’t.” You pull your phone from your back pocket, opening your messages to him. “Look what he sent me this morning.”

“He sent that at 5? In the morning?” Selene asks. “That’s.....”

“Suspicious.” You huffed, grabbing your phone from her and turning it off. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

“Y/n,” Selene lays her head on yours, squeezing you close to her. “I’m sorry. I-I know you were excited about him.”

“Yep. I was.” You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You know what’s even worse though?”

“What?”

“I-I think I meant it when I told him I’d like him anyway.” You confessed quietly. “Even if I did find out he was bad, I-I’m not sure I’d stop talking to him.”

Selene didn’t say anything, only pulling you even closer as you sniffled.

If thinking about Bakugou’s words made you feel sick, your own feelings made you downright nauseous. You truly didn’t think you’d be able to stop talking to him- you were already far too attached.

You couldn’t explain it either: why you already felt so, so, tied to him.

All you knew was you’d been waiting your entire life to be as happy as Bakugou made you. All you knew was that the sound of his voice made your heart jump and settle at the same time. All you knew is that your soul was finally being completed- and, selfishly, so, so, selfishly you weren’t sure you could ever give that up.

Selene leaned forward, grabbing her TV remote off the coffee table in front of you.

“Don’t. Please.” You sighed. “I love you, but I really don’t want to watch your trashy reality shows right now.” 

“I’m not, I’m not, don’t worry,” She knocks her shoulders lightly into yours. “Just local news for background noise.”

You groaned.

“What?” She asked, looking at you a little strangely. “Did Bakugou give you a problem with the news now, too?” 

“No, this- it’s not about him.” You rubbed at your eyes tiredly. “I still have that project remember? I usually watch the news for inspiration, so it just reminded me of it ‘sall.” 

“Oh, okay. You want me to turn it off?”

“No, it’s fine- it’s already on.” You curled into yourself just a bit more, voice tired and depressed as you felt. “Might as well just watch the hero stuff just incase I suddenly, like, get divine inspiration or something.”

“Oh my- you make it sound like you’re doomed!” She nudged you playfully. “C’mon, Y/n we can watch it together. You never know, maybe both of our single brain cells can think of something.” 

You just huffed a laugh, taking another sip of your tea and focusing on the TV.

On screen was another disaster scene, except this time in Jaku City. The city was decimated- buildings were turned sideways, smoke and fire were billowing, and loud explosions could be heard. There was another tar monster, but this time it was a lot larger than the one in Hosu. It was a black, twitching, fluid mass of poison that sucked up everything in it’s path, and seemed to be resistant to almost all attacks. 

There were multiple heroes on the scene, but it was all the same top pros you’d been seeing for what felt like years now. You recognized Deku, Shoto, and Uravity all working together, attacking and regrouping in the fray. It didn’t seem like they were making any progress, though. 

“Top pros have been working to stop the threat for hours now, but almost no progress has been made,” A reporter suddenly stepped into the frame, face visibly anxious. “They’ve been at it since early in the morning, but there has been virtually no change since they first infiltrated the hideout....”

You zoned out. You didn’t know who you were kidding, you couldn’t get anything done. Your brain just couldn’t seem to focus on anything but your soulmate. 

—/—

Bakugou still hadn’t texted you, and it’d been three days. You’d check your phone almost constantly, hoping and praying for even a single buzz, but it never made a difference.

On the fourth day, you texted him.

You don’t know what made you send the last two texts. You couldn’t explain it, even to yourself- but something just felt wrong. 

Bakugou hadn’t missed a single text from you since the very first day you contacted him. He might’ve been angry, and harsh, and volatile, but he was consistent. Even if he’d complain the entire time, he’d answer you, he always did. And if you didn’t contact him first, then he reached out to you. Either way, he was always around for you.

But not this time. 

Days went by and your texts stayed unread. There was a pit in your stomach, one that was steadily growing by the hour, and by the end of that week you felt like you were gonna cry. Every second was spent worrying, you couldn’t focus, and your school work was suffering. Nothing seemed to make you feel better. You weren’t sure when you let him burrow so far into your heart, but he was there now, and there was no use denying it. 

Your earlier questions about who he was, and whether or not he was good, seemed to fade entirely. You just wanted to hear his voice again. You just missed him. The ache you carried with you became a solid thing- sitting cold and heavy on top of a heart that had just learned how to be warm and weightless. You hurt, everywhere, and all you wanted was for him to be okay. 

Your phone was never far away, in your hands or pocket every second of the day- even when you fell asleep. But it didn’t matter. You phone never rang no matter how much you willed it to.

-/---

lmao this is kinda short,, but the original draft was wAY too long so i had to split it ahaha

[kiingocreative]

The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

.

.

.

I often feel that it took me thirty years to write my first book, No Pain, No Game. Not because I was physically writing it for that long, but because finally publishing my first novel felt like the culmination of three decades of bad writing, half-finished novels, random short-stories and a million mundane diary entries. It took that long to experiment with my craft, hone my skills, and master the fear of putting my work out there for all to see.

Exaggerations aside, it actually took me three years to write No Pain, No Game, from typing the first word on an otherwise blank page to having a fully-fledged, ready-to-publish novel. Those three years consisted of mostly undisciplined writing, sitting down to work on the story as and when the urge arose, sometimes not looking at it for weeks on end, and only getting back to it when inspiration hit. Only when I got serious about publishing did I put in the hours consistently, whether or not I was in the mood for it. The whole experience felt like not so much like long distance running, but more like a slow, often sluggish stop-start stroll, with a heart-pumping sprint at the very end.

I came out of having published the book revved up from adrenaline, soaking in the momentum, fretting for more and ready to do it all again. Out came the laptop again, the rush to get the first draft over and done with and the mad rush into editing-land.

It’s a Marathon, Not a Sprint (and not interval running, and not a slow leisurely walk)

The thing with sprinting, however, is that if you do it for too long, you quickly run out of breath and I soon learnt that maintaining that level of effort over time was unsustainable. Somewhere in the middle of editing my first draft, I hit a wall.

A big, fat, hundred feet high brick and mortar monster of a wall. I never saw it coming, and I face-planted right into it. For weeks after that I couldn’t look at my manuscript or social media, and I had to take a proper break from it all to restore.

The break gave me a chance to introspect and take stock of what had happened. It felt to me that, if I wanted to keep on writing more books (which I did) I had to pivot from my disorganised style of writing to a more committed endeavour. There’s nothing wrong with a leisurely walk, or random bouts of interval running, but I realised it wouldn’t give me the kind of results I was truly after. I had to look at writing as a marathon, and build the sort of stamina and endurance I needed to do this many times over without burning out.

From Dilettante to Disciplined Writer

When I think back to writing my first book, I wonder if there’s some truth in the saying that ignorance is bliss. Because I was less focused on the outcome at the time, I was better able to enjoy the ups and downs of the process, especially because I only sat to work at it when I felt like it. I was also mostly unaware of the mountain of logistics that come with writing and publishing a book, so I’d be able to see the distance I’d covered, without worrying about the miles that still stretched ahead of me. Yes, ignorance was, most definitely, a little bit like bliss.

Reminiscing on her own experience, author Shamika Lindsay says that, with her first book, ‘the process felt so different and [she] almost felt the pen gliding across the paper but with [the sequel], it was like pulling teeth’. In fact, she adds, starting to write her second book from scratch felt like ‘such a chore and [she] was just so eager to complete it because [she] felt like it took so much from [her] to write than the first book’.

For R. G. Tully, author of the Ardamin series, who put greater emphasis on the editing stage when working on his second book, the process also took longer and wasn’t always enjoyable. ‘The editing grind was exactly that, a grind’, he confesses.

But you have to do it whether you like it or not, because the only way out is through. There are, fortunately or unfortunately, no shortcuts. Fortunately, because it’s the very act of going through that arduous journey that makes you a better writer in the end. And unfortunately, because there can be times it’s just not all that pleasant.

You’ll be surprised the amount of distractions that manifest themselves when you desperately need a reason not to work on your manuscript — it’s actually quite spooky. Treating writing with discipline, organisation and professionalism is exactly what will prevent you falling off tracks, and what ultimately gets the work done. And that’s the difference between a published book and one that’ll sit indeterminately unfinished somewhere in your archives.

A Tough Act to Follow

Unfortunately, there’s still a little bit more to writing your second book than just great discipline. Even when you’re able to get yourself to follow through and show up for your craft, giving your first book a literary sibling can come with its own challenges, especially because you have something to compare it to.

And it’s not only you, but your readers too, who will be expecting certain standards from your writing, especially if it’s a series. Though it shouldn’t come in the way of writing the book you want to write, the relationship of trust you’ve built with your readership through your first book still needs to be honoured, and this can cause certain amounts of pressure.

‘I felt a little pressure to keep the same feel about the story’, R. G. Tully says, ‘and to include more from my secondary characters, give them a little more depth’.

Stormi Lewis, author of the Sophie Lee trilogy, puts it simply: ‘It was a little hard to decide how to exactly start [with the second book]. At first I was worried and became overwhelmed because so many loved the first one. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I had to step back and come to terms that they loved it for being unique. And the only way I could stay true to the story and give them what they really wanted was to focus on the story and not so much about what I thought they wanted for the second.’

For others, the comparison can be more inward-facing, like author Tara Lake, who admits that writing the second book in her series has been a challenge, because she’s ‘struggled with comparison of the self: past Tara had a lot more time to devote to writing, present Tara has much less time with [her] kids being home full time from school during much of the pandemic’.

For others still, some of that pressure can be self-imposed. When writing her second book, Freya McMillan shares that ‘[she] put a huge amount of pressure on [herself] as [she] wanted it to be meaningful in a particular way to honour [her] dad, who died a few years ago. Once [she] stopped doing that, it was much less challenging to write’.

It Ain’t All Bad.

I do want to pause here and add that not everyone faces such challenges. There are authors out there who launched into writing their second book with more ease than the first.

Sabrina Voerman tells me that ‘[her] second book came a lot easier to [her] than [her] first book. The idea hit [her] so hard and fast that it took [her] aback, and [she] could do nothing but write it’, and the entire novel was written in a matter of weeks, whilst her first book took years to finish.

Same for Trevor Wiltzen, who says that writing the sequel to his first book went smoothly, greatly helped by the fact that ‘[he] wrote the second book immediately after the first, [so he] knew the characters really well’. He admits he ‘found it very freeing and really enjoyed the process’.

Even Stormi Lewis, who struggled at first, adds that ‘once [she] got started, [she] was fine’ and that ‘[she] felt the writing was solid and [her] best book yet, simply because [she] really got to develop more of the characters and the story’.

As with everything, we must then conclude, there will be as many types of experiences as there are writers out there. So how can we best prepare for what’s to come?

A Chance to Grow

Performance coach Tony Robbins says that the quality of our lives is intricately linked to the quality of the questions we ask ourselves on a daily basis. So if we need to face something that’s outside our comfort zone — starting again from scratch on your second book for instance — is it a punishment or is it a gift? Is it a curse or an opportunity?

I’m tempted to think that the level of discomfort that can come with writing your second book is a gift, because it gives us a chance to grow.

It’s a chance to take everything we’ve learnt from doing it the first time around and take our learnings for a spin to see if it makes the process easier. It’s an opportunity to improve, to work at our craft in new and wonderful ways.

It’s both daunting and incredibly exciting to face a brand new story — or a different side to the same story for those writing series — and to dare to plunge into the unknown of where it’s fated to take you. It’ll see you grow and evolve as a writer and, in turn, you’ll get to watch your writing morph into something more mature than it was before.

I say look at your writing like you do the passing of seasons: different times will have different qualities, different characteristics, different feels to them. You live and learn through each of them, and gather a wealth of experiences that eventually inform who you become. Maintaining the discipline to write through every single one of them is what will ultimately give your work all its depth and substance.

All it takes is that first word on the page.

And the second.

And the third.

And all the words beyond that.

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

You Are Of Their Ilk - Sequel to ’You Need Tending’

[1] [2] [3]

Part 4

[Masterpost]

[The last time I updated this fic was back in JUNE?! Somehow?!! Anyway I kept trying to force myself to switch to WY's point of view, but I wrote and discarded a solid three or four drafts that were all just awful. And then of course I had to take a break from every project to write for the Big Bang, which meant that this one got pushed even further to the back burner. And then when I finished my BB project I said I was gonna take a little break while I finish up my semester and organize my flight back to the States for the holidays - I don't know why I thought I could ever sit around and NOT write. Anyway I thought last time that I was going to switch to the kids' points of view again like YNT, but that didn't work so here's about 6k more of Lan Qiren trying to be a good uncle/dad 🥺]

--

As it so happens, Wei Ying is, in a word, rambunctious.

If there has been another child such as him in the recent history of the Lan, Lan Qiren isn’t aware of it, and he’s more inclined to think that that’s by virtue of the Lan children’s natures rather than that there’s information being hidden from him. He has, after all, been quite involved with the children over the years thanks to raising Xichen and Wangji. Despite the both of them being kept somewhat aloof from their peers, they had still been expected to interact with the other children from a young age, to get to know those they would one day share their classes with.

Surely if there had been such a wild child in the children’s home or in any of the nuclear families who raised their children themselves, Lan Qiren would have known.

Wei Ying quickly proves himself to be even more unruly than Lan Qiren had first anticipated on their return trip from Yunmeng, and most days he finds that he can only be grateful that he’s been given permission to handle the boy’s education and upbringing entirely on his own until he’s deemed fit to attend the group classes. He’s not entirely certain what others might do to a boy so seemingly dedicated to creating chaos, but knowing how staunchly Xichen and Wangji are monitored any time they leave the house, Lan Qiren knows it wouldn’t be good. Or healthy.

He’s actually gaining quite a lot of new opinions these days on what constitutes a healthy childhood. The fact that some of them are seemingly in direct opposition to some of the Sect precepts is a secret he holds close to his chest and gives no hint of to anyone else.

Not that there’s anyone he would tell. Lan Qiren is, somehow, more isolated than ever. Between juggling his duties as Acting Sect Leader, checking on Xichen’s academic and cultivation progress regularly, and raising Wangji and Wei Ying, there just isn’t time for him to have even the passing acquaintanceships amongst the members of the Sect that he had once tolerated. He misses them now, much more than he would have ever expected while suffering through hours of small talk and cups of tea he didn’t care for.

It would be easier on him, probably, if he could bring himself to be as stern as he once was with his nephews. Sharp reprimands still dart to the tip of his tongue and he has to constantly focus on ensuring his tone isn’t too harsh. He must monitor himself just as rigorously as he monitors the children in his care.

But all it had taken, in those first few weeks of adjustment, was one impatient, frustrated demand for Wei Ying to just be quiet for Lan Qiren to feel so sick with himself that he couldn’t even continue the reports he was signing.

Wei Ying had gone still, and quiet, just as he’d asked.

For days.

He had also begun hiding food under his bed, and a little bundle of clothes beside the pilfered snacks. Wangji had come to inform him of the little horde one day with a frown on his lips, hands hesitating through the necessary signs, and when Lan Qiren had gone to investigate he’d felt sick all over again.

‘In case I have to leave’ Wei Ying had explained in a tremulous tone when Lan Qiren had questioned him – gently – about the stash. ‘It’s always better to be safe than sorry. A-Die always says so, even when A-Niang laughs at him.’

Lan Qiren still has to stop and breathe as he remembers the look on the boy’s face, the way he hadn’t quite raised his eyes, the way his hands had twitched at the hem of his little tunic in clear anxiety.

So – it may be easier to be stern, but Lan Qiren knows very well now that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he made Wei Ying fear him like that, or if he were to give his nephews a reason to believe that his new levels of tolerance and visible affection for them are in any way temporary, or dependent on their continued good behavior.

He loves Wei Ying. He loves this boy with all the strength he loves his nephews, and the thought that any of them could grow to doubt him or to lose their trust in him makes him want to scream. And so he gently corrects Wei Ying but he doesn’t stifle him. Wangji watches his companion with those hawk-like eyes of his and he slowly, slowly begins to unfurl again. He’d been a flower when he was younger, blooming happily for his brother, his mother, for the people who showed him gentleness. He’d smiled, and he’d cried openly, and he’d bitten quite a few people that Lan Qiren couldn’t say he liked very much either. And then Madam Lan had died, and Wangji had closed himself up, all the delicate petals of him withdrawing and curling inward, encased in an icy shell of grief that he refused to allow to thaw.

Wei Ying is beginning to pry him open like an otter with a reluctant clam, and Lan Qiren would by lying were he to say he isn’t enjoying watching the process.

Time slips him by as he works himself to the bone to maintain the standard of work required of him in each area of his life. He can’t give the elders anything new to find fault in, nor can he let his new behavior with the children slip into old patterns, and so he hardly notices the seasons changing. Or rather he does, but he doesn’t really consider what it means.

He watches the boys play together in the first thick snow that blankets the Cloud Recesses in the autumn. He hurries Wei Ying to the healers when the boy proves himself so thoroughly unused to the snow that he grows dangerously ill, and Lan Qiren nurses him back to health anxiously – with Wangji a silent and very serious little nurse at his side for every hour of Wei Ying’s recovery.

The winter that follows drags on and lingers as it always does this high in the mountains. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to enjoy it, necessarily, but he doesn’t complain except on particularly biting mornings. On those days Lan Qiren allows the child to climb into his thick outer robes and snuggle in for their morning lessons, and eventually Wangji builds up the courage to request the same. By the time spring arrives, it’s just as common as not for Lan Qiren to deliver lectures to two lumps of boy in the front of his robes, and he is thoroughly grateful that no one ever comes to observe his tutelage of the two of them.

Spring thaws the ground and melts the snow and Wei Ying is allowed to venture outside again when he isn’t in danger of becoming injured by the cold. Lan Qiren keeps him under close watch and prevents him from causing too much trouble – or at least trouble that others can see. When it’s only him with his nephews and his ward, he allows them the freedom to play as children should, and Wei Ying invents all manner of games that seem to do mainly with running and yelling. Lan Qiren begins ordering medicine to treat his headaches from the healers, and he doesn’t make him stop.

The meaning of it all hits him rather suddenly, though, when the height of summer is upon them and Wei Ying is more comfortable than ever in his antics – and Lan Qiren is reminded by the teacher of the youngest group of disciples that it’s time for Wangji and Wei Ying to join their peers when lessons begin again.

Lan Qiren thinks about the ways he’s found are best to teach Wei Ying and…balks at the thought of urging the boy into a classroom.

The thing about teaching Wei Ying, Lan Qiren has come to learn, is that the boy is exceedingly bright. He’s quick and eager to learn, his brain like a sea sponge. He finds everything interesting, and he’s eager to face challenges with the unending good cheer that Lan Qiren knows is inherited from both of his parents.

But he doesn’t sit still. He paces around the room in unending loops while he recites his mathematics because the movement helps him remember. He asks questions about the seasons and animals and the world around him while balancing on his head with his feet against the wall. He climbs into Lan Qiren’s outer robes – even though it’s no longer cold enough to warrant it – so he can listen to his heartbeat while Lan Qiren teaches him basic anatomy for the beginnings of his lessons on present moment meditation. Wei Ying frequently interrupts him to ask questions that pique his interest, whether they directly relate to the subject at hand or not. Lan Qiren has grown so used to it that he hardly notices the intrusions anymore, simply answering Wei Ying’s questions to the best of his ability before returning to his original train of thought as if uninterrupted.

Lan Qiren thinks now of the strict expectations of the group classrooms, and he understands instantly that he has utterly failed Wei Ying, as both his guardian and his sole instructor.

“They will require more time.” It’s a stain on Lan Qiren’s already tarnished reputation, but he doesn’t care. He is exhausted, he would do much better (in some ways) to have the boys all out of the house and being educated by others, freeing up his schedule for the unending task of running the Sect well. But he finds, suddenly, unexpectedly, that he doesn’t trustanyone else to teach the boys how they need to be taught.

Wangji, after all, is a model student in every single way – but he still can’t speak, and there are few in the Sect who have had the patience or inclination to learn to interpret his hand signs. There are even fewer who know to look for the minute changes in his expression and posture that convey at least half of the meaning of what he’s trying to say. He will not be able to participate in a group class with the degree of conformity required, and Lan Qiren refuses to see his nephew – or his ward – punished for their differences.

“You were only meant to teach them until the age at which they can join the others,” the instructor says with very mild reproach. “Withholding them now could damage their relationship with their peers, especially as they are already so isolated from other children their age.”

Ah, of course. One of the latest criticisms since Lan Qiren had brought Wei Ying home. For Wei Ying’s sake, he’d kept him separate from the other children. At first, it was because the boy was nearly feral. Wangji was too attached to him to see the problem, and Xichen too kind to ever comment on it, but there had been no hiding that Wei Ying had raised himself. While Lan Qiren privately thinks it may have benefitted the other children to have seen that there are people who do not always behave as expected - and been made to learn that these people still deserve respect and kindness - he hadn’t wanted to subject Wei Ying to any possible negative reactions. It had been particularly important when he’d still been so fragile around the edges, so sure that his time here would be limited because of his own faults.

And then it had been winter, and dangerous for Wei Ying to spend time out of doors even to travel to the group children’s house to play. He and Wangji had had each other for companionship anyway, and they’re clearly happy with being inseparable, and so Lan Qiren had seen nothing wrong with the arrangement.

He had been, perhaps, the only one. Rumors had begun to circulate, despite the rules against gossip, that he was attempting to hide his inferiority. That Wei Ying was too much for him to handle and so he just let the boy run utterly wild and was attempting to hide it from the Sect out of a misplaced sense of pride. Unwilling to admit that the elders were right, that he was a failure, that he was in over his head. People had begun to criticize him, even to his face, for squirreling his – no, the – children away and therefore stunting their social growth. Lan Qiren had let it roll off him as easily as any unfairly harsh criticism from the elders, of course, but now he knows that his chickens will soon be coming home to roost.

“I understand,” Lan Qiren says with a bow, and a fresh wave of tension in his shoulders. “However, I cannot in good conscience recommend Wei Ying or Wangji for the group lessons at this time. I will revisit the matter again in the spring. I will ensure they are prepared to enter their second year of courses with their peers so that they will not fall behind.”

Lan Qiren makes his escape then as quickly as is polite, and he returns home to check on Wangji and Wei Ying, unable to shake the feeling that their time together is now much more limited than he had previously been prepared to acknowledge.

--

To appease his critics, Lan Qiren unbends enough to allow the children to begin finding playmates amongst their peers. Though it means more strain on him, he begins to schedule himself time in the afternoons to take Wangji and Wei Ying to the children’s hall during the leisure hours and supervise them from afar as they attempt to find ways to join the others.

It is, to put it succinctly, a disaster.

“Don’t talk about A-Zhan that way!!” Wei Ying screeches one day at the top of his lungs, and Lan Qiren expends a whisper of qi to tamp down the headache beginning between his brows. He looks up from the crop report he’s been attempting to read for the last shichen to find that the situation is worse than he’d feared – he’s too late to intervene before two of the attendants who watch the children are hurrying over to hold Wei Ying and his target apart, Wei Ying’s hands balled up into little fists and blood just beginning to drip down the other child’s nose.

It is, unfortunately, his responsibility to mete out the necessary punishments for both children.

The offending party – a young boy named Zhao Luo, the child of outer disciples – is assigned an afternoon of handstands for speaking cruelly and bullying others. Wei Ying is assigned the same number of handstands as well as copying the rules dealing with correct conduct two hundred times.

Lan Qiren attempts not to feel guilty when Wei Ying looks at him like he’s been slapped.

He cannot play favorites. All his care and regard has gotten for Wei Ying so far is a black mark on his already tenuous reputation amongst the elders and teachers of the Sect, and Lan Qiren knows now more than ever that he’s been neglectful in his duties to teach Wei Ying not only the things he must know but also the ways he must navigate his life in Cloud Recesses. His love for the boy has blinded him to what’s required of him as his caretaker, and he knows that it will hurt to correct this oversight but in the end Wei Ying will be better off for it.

Safer.

Lan Qiren just wants his young charge to be safe, above anything else he may want for him.

Wei Ying completes his punishment. Wangji makes his displeasure for his friend’s punishment known in the small, quiet ways that he has, but Lan Qiren does not indulge his younger nephew’s tantrum on Wei Ying’s behalf. He begins to teach Wei Ying more about how to carry himself properly. When he had first arrived, Lan Qiren had thought it a great triumph to have taught the boy how to eat with utensils and at a speed that wasn’t thoroughly alarming, let alone rude. He had thought himself a fine teacher when Wei Ying had stopped alleviating his boredom by sneaking out to play on the roof or in trees and had instead learned to tell him when he felt the need to move so that Lan Qiren could see to it that he played properly.

Perhaps, Lan Qiren thinks grimly, the elders were correct in accusing him of an excess of pride in his teaching accomplishments.

As the autumn bears down on them all far too quickly, Lan Qiren finds himself almost too distracted to have the time to grow guilty over the negative shift in his relationship with both of his young charges. Lan Xichen is a help to him as Cloud Recesses begins preparing to receive the Great Sects (and the local Lesser Sects) for a massive discussion conference, but Lan Qiren is wary of putting too many burdens on his nephew’s shoulders. He has so few years of childhood left, and already his status as the Heir is beginning to drive a wedge between himself and his classmates, who have begun to treat him not as a peer but with the awe and respect he is due as both an exceeding talent and their future Sect Leader. Lan Qiren wishes for Lan Xichen to enjoy the few years of childhood left to him, and so he shoulders as much of the planning as he can, in addition to his typical duties of running the Sect, teaching the children, and ensuring that his own discipline doesn’t stray too far from his already-mediocre abilities.

By the time the delegations begin arriving, Lan Qiren finds himself so exhausted he can’t even recall greeting the visiting Sect Leaders when he returns home from the welcome feast. He certainly can’t recall if he invited anyone to his quarters for tea afterwards, which is why it’s thoroughly startling to find his table occupied when he opens the door.

“Lao Nie,” he greets, too tired and startled to bother with his friend’s proper title, particularly in his own home. His gaze swings over to the other side of the table and he has to blink to make sure he’s seeing things correctly when he spots both Wangji and Wei Ying sitting ramrod straight across from the Nie Sect Leader, both of them watching the mountain of a man in their home with no attempt to hide their distrust. “Wangji, A-Ying – you are to be preparing for bed, it is nearing hai-shi.”

“Ah let them sit there a little longer, Qiren,” Lao Nie waves him off with his usual wild grin. “Look at how stern they are! As much courage as any Nie in both of them to look at me like that.”

Lan Qiren knows a losing battle when he sees one – is extremely well-practiced in spotting them, actually – and so he just sighs and turns to boil a pot of water for tea while Lao Nie peppers the boys with questions, all of which go unanswered. It doesn’t stop Lao Nie from laughing his booming laugh after some of them. Lan Qiren can only assume he finds the boys’ silent judgements to be decent entertainment. Perhaps Lan Qiren hasbeen keeping them close to him for too long – they’ve picked up at least a few of his habits, not all of them for the better.

“If you two are going to remain, then you may serve Lao Nie tea,” Lan Qiren instructs, never one to miss an opportunity for instruction. Wei Ying in particular is in need of practicing his budding skills in the gentlemanly arts, and so it is him who carefully picks up the pot and serves the tea with only a few minor hiccups.

“I was wondering why you weren’t returning any of my personal letters,” Lao Nie chuckles around the rim of his cup once it’s safely in his hand and no longer being sloshed about by Wei Ying. “Now I see that someone’s been awfully busy raising the next generation – and a spare.”

“A spare?” Wei Ying asks, because his curiosity is insatiable and occasionally (read: frequently) chooses to rear its head when Lan Qiren would very much prefer it if he wouldn’t ask what’s on his mind.

“An extra,” Lao Nie explains with another grin. “I don’t know if a third child was really necessary Qiren, you’ve already got the two.”

“Wangji, A-Ying, go prepare for bed,” Lan Qiren instructs in his tone that means he expects no arguments, and this time they both stand to go. Or rather Wangji stands to go, and he takes Wei Ying by the hand to drag him along, though neither of them look happy about it. “What are you doing here, Lao Nie?” Lan Qiren asks once the boys are in their room. As is his wont, Lao Nie’s joking fades instantly into a more serious attitude as he looks him over. Lan Qiren sits straight under the scrutiny, despite how badly his shoulders want to curl inwards.

“I meant it – you haven’t been replying to any of my letters except the official ones. I was getting concerned, you know you’re prone to overworking yourself.”

“I have duties to my Sect that cannot be ignored –“

“Your duties to your Sect begin with taking care of yourself!” Lao Nie shoots back instantly, the opening steps to their usual dance. Lan Qiren will insist that he has duties and responsibilities. Lao Nie will encourage him to loosen the ties that bind him by using the sanctity of his physical and emotional health as a smokescreen to encourage him to live the same hedonistic lifestyle that Lao Nie so enjoys, despite the both of them knowing that such a lifestyle wouldn’t suit Lan Qiren anyway.

Though the moves are familiar and well-worn, hardly worth repeating again, Lan Qiren steps into his place in the dance, as he always does. “That is untrue and you know it, at least in the way that you mean it. I eat, I sleep, I meditate. I take care of my body well enough to attend to my duties, which is all that is expected of me.”

Lao Nie sighs heavily and knocks back the rest of his tea as if it were liquor and pours them both another cup. Lan Qiren accepts and drains his mechanically, his friend’s frustration with him sitting against his skin like poorly-spun wool. Another place in which he is deficient. Lan Qiren quiets the melancholy thought with an effort.

“Don’t let me keep you from your sleep, then,” Lao Nie finally grumbles ill-naturedly. “You look like you’re hardly getting any as it is, let alone enough of it to be healthy. We can talk about your…situation tomorrow.”

“There are meetings tomorrow,” Lan Qiren replies. He lists sideways ever so slightly but corrects it before Lao Nie can notice his slip-up. “And after the day’s discussions and banquet are over I must see to the children-“

“Who’s the new one?” Lao Nie cuts in, despite his assertion that he would leave him to sleep. “Don’t tell me your brother had a secret child at the same time as Zhan’er that you’ve only just discovered. That kid isn’t a Lan.”

“A-Ying is a member of this Sect,” Lan Qiren defends instantly, sympathetic fear spiking through him. Wei Ying has shown anxiety too many times at the thought of not being recognized as a Lan for Lan Qiren to let the slight pass him by, even when Wei Ying isn’t present to hear his legitimacy brought into question. “He is a Lan, by agreement if not by blood, which youshould understand better than anyone -”

“Alright!! I’m not trying to say you can’t claim the boy, Qiren, I’m trying to make sure you’re not running yourself into the ground trying to please everybody by doing so!”

Lan Qiren takes a deep breath in to rein in his temper while Lao Nie grumbles through pouring him a fresh cup of tea. They sit in silence for long enough that exhaustion blankets the flare of his temper, and when Lao Nie speaks up again it’s with the decidedly smug air of a man who knows he doesn’t have to actually say “I told you so” to make his meaning known.

“You’re tired - get some rest. I’ll get you out of the afternoon meal so you can have a few minutes to yourself, alright?”

Lan Qiren is well aware that whether or not he agrees is irrelevant. Lao Nie has always done as he pleases, and though his focus used to be on Qingheng-Jun, without his old friend to banter with he’s taken to bullying Lan Qiren around in recent years. Not that Lan Qiren minds – as a boy he’d always admired Lao Nie, had wished to befriend him as his own person, rather than as the younger brother doomed to be dragged along on every excursion to get him out from underfoot of the Sect. He usually tries not to become too focused on the fact that it had taken his brother’s complete betrayal and withdrawal to earn him Lao Nie’s friendship.

“Yes, alright. The boys will be at the children’s house tomorrow to be looked after, I would appreciate a reprieve from company.”

“Then you’ll get it. And Mingjue and Huaisang will be at the children’s house too, I managed to drag them along with me this time. I’ll make sure they play with Wangji and this A-Ying, alright? Relax for once, Qiren. You work far too hard.”

Lan Qiren offers no reply to this. It’s easy enough for an outsider to walk in, see the results, and make a judgement, but Lan Qiren has been quite careful not to let on the amount of scrutiny he faces from the elders. It’s easy enough to tell him to relax without knowing the weight of their stares on his back. But Lao Nie means well, Lan Qiren knows that, and so he thanks him as he lets the man out into the evening, and he stands there for a long few minutes in slightly melancholy contemplation of his life. A thump from Wangji and Wei Ying’s room draws him from his thoughts, and so he goes to check on them. Wangji is already asleep in his bed, the hour for rest having already come. Wei Ying, on the other hand, is half-under his bed, his backside and his legs poking out from under the wooden frame as he wriggles.

“A-Ying?” Lan Qiren says softly. “Where are you going?”

Wei Ying stops his wiggling and stays there for a moment or two before he reluctantly pushes himself back out from under the bed, hair and sleep clothes rumpled. Lan Qiren sits on the edge of the bed and holds his arms out in cautious invitation; he’s grown more distant than before, and he worries that it means the beginning of the end of his hopefully-healthy relationship with his nephews and his ward that he’s been working so hard on. He knows he likely doesn’t have a right to ask for or offer Wei Ying affection, but the boy practically flings himself up into his lap to pull his robes askew and climb inside them. He’s nearly getting too big for it these days. Lan Qiren toys very briefly with the idea of simply wearing larger robes to allow Wei Ying to continue the habit for just a little longer.

“Am I an extra?” he asks once he’s safely in the dim warmth of Lan Qiren’s robes, face nearly invisible without some contortions to get a proper look at him.

“A-Ying, Nie-Zongzhu is a man who says many things he doesn’t think through properly. He is from a different place, and therefore he and his people behave differently. He doesn’t have anything like the Lan rule to consider our speech carefully before speaking, and so he frequently doesn’t think at all before he says what is on his mind.”

Wei Ying hums and curls his hands slowly into fists in Lan Qiren’s underrobes. Curl in, clutch on, release. Curl in, clutch, release. “An extra is something you don’t need,” Wei Ying finally mumbles. “He said you have Xichen-ge and A-Zhan already and I’m not nece – ne-ce-ssary. He maybe didn’t think before he spoke but he also didn’t say anything that isn’t true.”

“I disagree,” Lan Qiren replies, falling easily into their usual pattern. He and Wei Ying disagree quite frequently, actually, though never on important things. It’s more that Wei Ying enjoys trying to find every loophole or forgotten possibility that has ever existed in the world, and Lan Qiren is frequently the one who must attempt to curtail him and bring him back to the realms of the possible. Their back-and-forth is as familiar as breathing by now. “It is true that I have raised Xichen and Wangji, and that you are my third child to raise. It is true that Xichen and Wangji are both heirs to the Sect, and that a third heir is unnecessary. But that doesn’t make youunnecessary. You are the only Wei Ying that I have, and I think that is verynecessary.”

Wei Ying makes fists in his robes a few more times as he digests this new viewpoint and considers his own feelings on it. Lan Qiren had spotted this particular habit early on, and has done everything in his power since to ensure that Wei Ying doesn’t lose it – he’ll need that strength of opinion when he goes to the group classes.

“Can I call you Shufu?” Wei Ying asks, seemingly apropos of nothing. Lan Qiren blinks in surprise and then looks down, drawing his robe aside enough to see Wei Ying’s silver eyes peeping up at him from somewhere around his ribcage.

“Why?”

Wei Ying looks away perhaps guiltily, watching his own hands rather than Lan Qiren’s face. “Xichen-ge calls you Shufu. And A-Zhan has a special way he moves his hands when he asks for you, it means Shufu too, doesn’t it? I want to call you Shufu. I want to be family, too.”

Lan Qiren is, quite frankly, amazed that Wei Ying still manages to find ways to make his heart ache this fiercely in his chest.

“You must call me Master Lan, A-Ying,” he admonishes gently despite the way it sits all wrong in his mouth. “Out of your parents I truly only knew your mother-“

“Jiujiu then!” Wei Ying cries, beginning to sound desperate. “Please I don’t want to be separated, I want to be a family!”

Lan Qiren glances at Wangji but his nephew is thankfully still sleeping through Wei Ying’s upset. Their emotions are so attuned to each other’s that Lan Qiren is nearly surprised that Wangji hasn’t sensed Wei Ying’s distress even while deeply asleep and woken to come to his rescue. Lan Qiren closes his robe again tightly and wraps his arms around Wei Ying’s trembling form, warm and safe and held between his numerous layers as he cries. Lan Qiren rubs his back and tries not to let the soothing gesture lull him to sleep as well.

“We will not be separated,” Lan Qiren says when Wei Ying has quieted down to miserable sniffling. “You should not allow Lao Nie to upset you so, A-Ying, what he said has to importance here. I decide whose family you are, and where you will go. You will not be forced to go anywhere you do not wish to go, no matter what others may say. You were not born to me, but you are mine now, alright? No matter what you call me, and no matter what happens in this life, you are my family.”

Lan Qiren isn’t entirely sure where the reassurance comes from. He’s told Wei Ying similar things before in the early days after his arrival, when his anxiety was at its peak and he was terrified of being pushed out onto the streets again on his own. But he hasn’t had the need to reassure him thus in so long he’d nearly forgotten how fiercely he feels about it. Wei Ying is his, and while Lan Qiren knows that he’s everyone’s second choice – or third, or fourth – he can be assured in turn that he is Wei Ying’s first. Wei Ying, too young to truly remember his parents these days, too close to him to long for any other parental figure, will always choose him first and run to him. For comfort, for guidance, for instruction, for food, for shelter, for help.

If only there were anyone else in the world who could see the way Lan Qiren treasures such an unexpected gift, rather than seeing Wei Ying as an obstacle that stands between him and things that they deem more important.

Lan Qiren sits there with Wei Ying curled up against him for a while longer, but eventually Wei Ying wiggles in the way that means he wants to escape the stuffy confines of his robes and so Lan Qiren loosens his grip to let him squirm his way out. Wei Ying stands on the bed beside him scrubbing at his face and eyes, and Lan Qiren helps him rearrange his clothing and hair to sleep comfortably.

“You must still call me Master Lan,” Lan Qiren says quietly as he helps Wei Ying settle into his little bed. “But…during this conference, with all of these other Sect Leaders visiting, I will gift you with a ribbon like mine, Wangji’s, and Xichen’s. You’ll wear the inner-family ribbon. It will mean you’ll have to continue to change your behavior as I’ve been teaching you to show the same restraint that Xichen and Wangji do, but no one will ever be able to doubt that you are my family again. Will that help?”

Wei Ying’s eyes fill up and turn glassy, so Lan Qiren quietly mops up his tears with the edge of his sleeve. Wei Ying nods and curls his entire body around Lan Qiren’s arm, hugging tightly with all of his strength. Lan Qiren’s heart aches again, and by the time he leaves the boys’ room to go to his own, he can’t help but sit on the edge of his bed to cry a bit himself, as well. He knows that soon everything will have to change. He can’t hang onto Wangji and Wei Ying forever, just as he couldn’t hold Xichen forever when he had still been young enough to carry with him everywhere he went. They’ll have to grow up, and Lan Qiren will have to step back to allow them to do it. But for now, he’ll take any amount of criticism or exhaustion or extra work if it means he’ll get to continue being the first one to witness their triumphs and their joys.

He makes a mental note to place the order to have a cloud plate fashioned for Wei Ying’s ribbon first thing in the morning, and with Lao Nie’s admonishment to sleep and take care of himself ringing in his ears, he puts all other thoughts aside to get some well-earned rest.

[lalainajanes]

This completes column #2 on my bingo card, the square was “Eager Backstage Groupie”

Another Shot of Courage

 Saturday, May 1st, 8:16 AM

Caroline wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in the little black dress she'd worn to Kat's birthday party, with a headache and a foul-tasting mouth. She's sprawled in the middle of a very large mattress, so the first thing Caroline does is explore. She stretches her arms out tentatively, expecting to poke someone (hopefully an unobjectionable someone) awake.

She appears to be alone, and Caroline relaxes into the fluffy pillows. She wiggles experimentally, satisfied when her bra and underwear dig into uncomfortable areas and gives in to the temptation to burrow under the duvet.

She just needs a minute to regret her life choices before she confronts them. Caroline sighs, stretches, and her fuzzy head begins to clear, memories sharpening.

And yikes.

Can she stay in her self-made blanket fort forever? A lot of her conduct last night had been highly irrational, some of it downright hypocritical. She is a public relations professional, highly sought after. Her clients pay many pretty pennies for her services.

Had she seriously mauled Klaus Mikaelson in one of the trendiest clubs in LA?

Caroline tugs down the blanket, intent on confirming her suspicions, allowing her to look around and study the room with new eyes.

There's a brick fireplace at the end of the bed, a wide armchair in front of it – not particularly revealing. Her eyes flick to the left. There's nothing, but dark curtains pulled tight over a wall of windows.

When she looks to the right, there's a smoking gun. Well, kind of. It's a drafting table, an easel, and shelves featuring paintbrushes, haphazardly stacked sketchbooks, and a bunch of other things that Caroline doesn't currently have the brainpower to identify.

She considers slipping out of bed and checking to see if those curtains cover any kind of door. She thinks it's logical to assume so. She's only been to Klaus' home a few times, tries to insist they meet at her office. She's never ventured far beyond the kitchen and living rooms, but it's a Spanish-style bungalow on a sprawling lot. Why wouldn't he have a walk out into the yard from his bedroom?

She discards the idea with some regret. Running away without a word is a coward's move and would probably backfire. Klaus is still her client, whatever psychosis had gripped Caroline last night, and it's not like she could dump him via email at this point. He's got a huge movie coming in three weeks, and they're flying to London tomorrow to begin the premiere tour. She could probably pass it on to another publicist, but she'd still be on the hook, would have to coordinate her plans long-distance.

Selfishly, Caroline hopes that's not necessary. She'd hate for someone else to reap the benefits of her hard work.

She heaves herself into a sitting position, wincing when her head throbs. Her stomach seems solid, with no hint of queasiness, so that's a plus. Caroline tosses the covers aside, shifts until her legs slide over the side of the bed. She catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror through the open closet door and cringes.

She'd done an excellent smoky eye last night, and it's migrated all over her face. She doesn't even want to consider how long it's going to take to detangle her hair. She decides she can wait a bit to hunt down Klaus, stepping forward and twisting the knob on the closed door. "Jackpot," Caroline mutters, walking into Klaus' bathroom. There's a stack of towels on the counter, and she figures it won't hurt to take a shower.

She'd had her tongue in his mouth and had apparently kicked him out of his bed, so what's one more presumption?

Friday, April 30th, 10:47 PM

In the VIP lounge Kat had rented, elevated above the main dance floor, Caroline waves away a shot of tequila. She'd had one during the birthday toast, wine at dinner. Had just ordered an overpriced cocktail. She's pleasantly tipsy but needs to pace herself because she can't get too drunk tonight.

Besides, Caroline and tequila have a complicated relationship.

Kat boos her, a few of the other girls joining in. Caroline laughs, "I know, I'm boring. I have a million things to do tomorrow to make sure I'm ready to live out of a suitcase for weeks."

Katherine scoffs, "Just make Klaus buy you anything you forget. What good is a guy who's hot for you and makes big fat superhero movie paychecks if he won't buy you pretty things?"

They've discussed this a bajillion times. Caroline has actually run away from this exact conversation, shouting nonsense syllables, with her fingers jammed in her ear, as if she and Katherine still fight over Barbies and who gets to wear dress-up trunk's best princess dress.

Caroline still can't resist arguing – it's a character flaw. "He's my client. That's it."

"Oh, please. Men in this town bone their clients all the time."

"That doesn't make it okay!"

Usually, this is the part where Katherine tries to convince her that Klaus is dying to be boned – her words, not Caroline's – but she gets distracted, squinting across the bar. Kat's lips curl, expression growing sly, "It appears my argument is moot."

Um, what? Katherine's literally never backed down from an argument in the twenty-plus years they've been friends. Puzzled, Caroline turns, trying to see what caught Kat's attention.

The club features several VIP lounges, each located at the top of a short staircase and decorated with wide velvet sofas and crystal chandeliers. There's an attendant who keeps booze and food flowing. It's clever – the sofas are inviting and squishy, tend to force people close together. The chandeliers ensure that anyone who happens to take a picture can get a decent shot, and the free flow of liquor has lowered the inhibitions of at least half a dozen celebrities, resulting in photos that send the gossip blogs into a tizzy as soon as they hit the internet.

When Caroline spots Klaus across the way, a redheaded model sprawled in his lap, she's immediately fuming.

"Looks like he got tired of waiting," Kat drawls. "Wanna reconsider the tequila?"

"Katherine. I love you. But zip it."

Katherine makes a face but leaves Caroline alone, turning to another one of their friends and asking a question. Caroline takes a deep breath, counts to ten.

She'd busted her ass to make him appear family-friendly enough to land the movie with the very PR-conscious studio that had netted him the big fat checks Katherine had just been crowing over. He's jeopardizing that on the eve of the most significant press tour of his career.

She looks over again, leaning forward. The redhead's moved away, she's sitting at Klaus' side, and they now appear to be merely engaged in conversation. Caroline does her best to think like a photographer – is there an angle that could make the scene look tawdry?

Probably not. So really, Klaus isn't jeopardizing anything.

Caroline's anger doesn't cool at the revelation.

She's so screwed.

She's on her feet before she decides to be, stalking down the stairs. She hears Katherine yelling borderline lewd encouragement at her back, but Caroline knows better than to take her advice.

She's marching over to diffuse, not inflame.

Hopefully.

Saturday, May 1st, 9:01 AM

She finds Klaus in his living room, asleep, his legs hanging awkwardly over the arm of a too-short couch, his torso twisted so awkwardly that Caroline's back twinges sympathetically. With the confirmation that she had stolen his bed, more of Caroline's irritation fades. The shower had helped, as had the bottle of water she'd guzzled and the three Tylenol she'd popped.

She takes a seat on his coffee table, setting down her second bottle of water. Caroline reaches out, shaking his shoulder gently. "Klaus," she murmurs when he begins to stir. "Wake up."

She could probably leave him to sleep. Klaus' stylist will handle most of his packing; he's borrowed a dizzying volume of outfits and accessories for Klaus to wear on this trip. The announcement won't come for another two weeks, but Klaus is shooting a Dior cologne ad once his press obligations wrap. The brand had requested he start wearing the newest line. Caroline had attended the last fitting, and she'd had a hard time keeping her blatant ogling under wraps.

Klaus looks good in ratty jeans, in a suit tailored to his measurements? Just about anyone attracted to men would have struggled not to appreciate the sight.

That's how Caroline had justified letting her emails pile up that afternoon.

She'd been a little worried about her control slipping on this trip, once they were alone in the hotel, and Klaus dropped the shiny, press-perfect façade he's learned to maintain. Caroline had designed that mask to appeal to the broadest possible audience. Doing interview prep has unfortunately only emphasized how much more she likes Klaus without it.

Klaus stretches, eyes fluttering open. "Good morning," he murmurs, voice husky with sleep. "I hope you slept better than I did."

Caroline winces, "Don’t you have a guest room or two you could have shoved me in?”

He smiles lazily, “You were quite insistent on touring my bedroom.”

Her eyes slam shut, face heating, “And that is why I don’t drink tequila unsupervised,” she grumbles.

He laughs, sitting up, his legs bracketing hers. He reaches for her water bottle and helps himself to a sip. Caroline leans back, fishing the Tylenol out of the pocket of the hoodie she’d stolen from his closet. She’d needed something bulkier to hide the fact she hadn’t been able to convince herself to strap her bra back on. “Do you want these?” she asks, rattling the bottle.

Klaus shakes his head, “I’m not hungover. I didn’t drink at all, and you stole that shot of tequila that was meant for me, remember?”

Ohhh no. She’d forgotten about that. She’d stolen his and the model’s.

Which, in hindsight, goes a long way to explaining what had happened after. Caroline’s problem with tequila is that once she starts, she has a hard time stopping. It heightens her usually non-existent impulsive streak, leads to sub-par decisions.

Occasionally, tequila does make her clothes fall off.

Caroline buries her hands in her face, wishing she hadn’t tied her hair back. She’s mortified, probably growing splotchy. “I am so sorry,” she mutters.

Klaus sighs, tries to tug her hands away. Caroline resists, tensing her muscles, wishes she’d gone with her first instinct and fled out the backdoor. He rests his hands on her knees, squeezing, voice dipping into coaxing tones. “No apology necessary. I’m not the least bit upset.”

Unfortunately, Caroline’s totally up to the task of being upset enough for the both of them.

Friday, April 30th, 10:53 PM

Once the attendant in Klaus VIP area confirms that he does know Caroline and lets her up the stairs, Klaus has managed to increase the distance between his body and the model’s. He seems pleased to see her, grabbing her hand and tugging her to sit next to him on the couch.

Close enough that they’re connected thigh to shoulder.

The model, whose name Caroline doesn’t particularly care about, is less welcoming. She glares daggers at Caroline’s hand, still enclosed in Klaus’. He makes polite introductions. “Genevieve, this is my publicist and very good friend, Caroline Forbes. Caroline, Genevieve. She’s a friend of Kol’s.”

Klaus’ younger brother is also an actor, still firmly in the throes of his wild child phase. Caroline finds him entertaining, despite her best intentions, but he’s known to delight in making her job more complicated. She glances around suspiciously, “Is Kol here?”

Klaus gestures vaguely to the dance floor. “Somewhere. He dragged me out to celebrate a pilot he booked, then disappeared.”

Hmm, that could lead to disaster. Caroline wonders if she should shoot his publicist a text as a professional courtesy.

Caroline smiles at Genevieve sharply, “So sweet of you to keep Klaus company.” It’s mean, but Caroline wonders if Genevieve has somehow heard about Klaus’ Dior deal through the grapevine. Maybe she’s aiming for a co-starring role – Caroline’s read the treatment for the commercial; it’s supposed to be streamy.

Oh, good lord, High School Caroline has somehow time traveled and taken over her body.

Genevieve pastes on an equally fake smile (at least Caroline’s not the only one regressing). Before she can snipe back, a silver tray is set in front of them, two shots resting on it. The attendant catches Caroline’s eye, “Can I get you anything, Miss?”

Klaus interrupts, squeezes her hand in an absent apology, “Sorry, there must be some mistake. I ordered a water.”

He’s contractually obligated to maintain a ridiculously chiseled body. Caroline’s got a reminder in her phone to order him a pile of celebratory spaghetti after his press obligations are officially over and he can relax for a few months.

The attendant’s eyes flit to Genevieve in confusion, “I…”

“I cancelled that,” she chirps, sliding her hand up Klaus’ arm. Genevieve leans in, tone lowering to what Caroline thinks is supposed to be a seductive level. “Figured we would toast.”

Caroline catches it because she’s practically plastered to Klaus’ other side. “Who toasts with tequila?” she asks. “Other than creeps at bars, I mean.”

Had Caroline not been well acquainted with Katherine Pierce, she might have been intimidated by Genevieve's attempt at a lethal glare.

Caroline stares back, reaching blindly for the first shot. She tosses it back, then the second, fighting the shudder that wants to wrack her frame through sheer willpower alone.

“Bitch,” Genevieve mutters, standing and flouncing away.

It’s petty, but Caroline savors her win.

Klaus is staring at her oddly, a touch concerned. “Maybe we should get you some water, love.”

Saturday, May 1st, 9:04 AM

“There were more shots when I got back to Kat’s party,” Caroline moans. “I’m going to kill her. She knows my weaknesses.”

“While I am reluctant to defend your irritating friend, she did seem rather intent on her fun. It was her birthday, wasn’t it?”

Caroline nods, “Yeah. And Kat’s always been firmly convinced that she should get to do whatever her little black heart desires on her birthday.”

“She did insist I ensure you get home safely. I’m afraid you were rather reluctant to supply your address.”

She sighs, finally dropping her hands. “Honestly, I just moved into a condo. I might not have remembered it.” That’s the less embarrassing option. It’s probably more likely that tequila drunk Caroline had crafted a plan to seduce Klaus, and step one entailed getting invited to his house. “I know you said not to apologize, but I obviously put you out. I’m supposed to babysit you, not the other way around.”

Klaus laughs, his knee nudging hers. “I haven’t needed that for ages, as you well know.”

He has a point – Caroline likely wouldn’t have agreed to take him on if he was still indulging in public drunkenness and paparazzi punching. When she’d first met with Klaus, it had been out of curiosity. She’d made a comfortable living from her client roster, did not need to take on the project of a difficult actor.

Klaus’ bad behavior had been a few years in the past, and he’d just come off a run of festival darlings and had produced a surprise hit sci-fi drama. He’d been frustrated by the doors that remained firmly shut to him, had laid his ambitions on the table.

Caroline had been intrigued. While she’s excellent at her job, but it’s always easier to work her magic with clients who are willing to dive into the work. Klaus’ talent was undeniable; she’d thought he could be a household name with the right opportunity. She’d agreed to take him on, and three years later, it’s paid off.

Caroline tugs the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over her hands, eyes on the frayed trim. “I was mad when I saw you last night, and that wasn’t fair. You’d set you were resting up for the press tour, but it’s not my business if you changed your mind.”

“Did you think I was resuming some bad habits?” Klaus asks. “I know that particular venue has a… reputation. Probably why Kol picked it.”

Caroline sneaks a glance at him, trying to gauge how he feels, but he’s not giving much away. “No, not really. I trust you. I wasn’t thinking super logically.”

She has to admit, at least to herself, that she’d been jealous. Caroline’s going to have to think about how deep that goes, if the feelings that had slapped her in the face last night will prevent their working relationship from being effective. What if Klaus meets someone? Will she be able to plant sneaky tidbits about how happy they are, scour the gossip blogs for rumors that could become issues?

“You? Not thinking logically? However could that be?”

She glares at him, though she knows his teasing is good-natured. “Some of it was the booze. I totally wouldn’t have hauled you onto the dance floor without it. And I wouldn’t have… well, you were there.”

She’s not up to list her transgressions. If Klaus hadn’t been drinking, then his memory of her wandering hands, her flirtatious comments, and heated invitations should be crystal clear. Caroline had been drunk, and she’s having a hard time not dwelling on the kiss – which, to be fair, Klaus had enthusiastically participated in – that she’d initiated.

“I was there. I have no objections to anything that occurred last night, save perhaps wishing you’d been sober.” Her head snaps up, eyes widening in shock, and Klaus laughs incredulously. “Surely you must know of my interest in you, Caroline.”

She’s suspected, but she’s also well aware that Klaus has no shortage of offers. Last night is proof of that. Caroline has always assumed that take one of them, at some point, and his flirtatiousness with her would fade away. She’d dated an actor or two when she’d moved to LA after wrapping up college. Caroline had been working insane hours then, trying to claw her way past the other assistants at the agency where she’d worked. Her exes from that time period had been quick to move on once they realized she wasn’t willing to center her universe around them.

“Interest can be fleeting.”

“It’s been three years.”

“You never made a real move.”

Again, Klaus counters quickly. “You’d not have accepted, and then you’d likely have pawned me off on someone else.”

Yeah, he’s got a point there. “I’m your publicist.”

“I have no objection to mixing business with pleasure. If you do, I suppose I’m willing to suffer a less competent publicist.”

“I’m beginning to suspect you’ve been plotting.”

Klaus shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “Perhaps a bit. I’ve always been entirely honest with you, I merely prevented a situation that would lessen the time we spent together until such a time as you were ready to consider me in a romantic light.”

“That’s a lot of words to confess you’ve been trying to flirt me into submission while flashing your hot body at every opportunity,” Caroline grumbles.

Klaus’ smile widens, dimples now visible. “It seems to have worked. Assuming that you meant the things you said to me last night?”

“I…” she hadn’t been expecting him to ask her that directly. She should have been – Klaus is skilled at choosing the best way to catch someone off guard. Caroline glances away from him, eyes catching on the clock across the room. Crap. She has so much to do. “I have to go,” Caroline tells him, standing up.

His eyes narrow,  and his head tips to the side, like he’s searching for a sign of weakness. Both telltale indicators that Klaus is gearing up to argue. Caroline holds up a hand, “I know, okay? This looks like I’m running away, and technically I am, but this is not the time to begin that mixing you mentioned. We’ve both worked too hard to risk screwing up the next few weeks. Did you read your contract? The fines for non-compliance are no joke.”

“Now is not the time,” Klaus says slowly. “Meaning?”

“We table it now. I’m open to a discussion later.” Three weeks is plenty of time for her to sort out where she stands, right? Caroline never sleeps on flights anyway.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I want a timeline. I understand that you feel obligated to ensure this press tour goes smoothly, but you can only use it as an excuse until it’s over, love. I’m prepared to be persuasive.”

“What, do you want me to schedule something on your calendar? Maybe set an agenda?”

“No need to be so formal. Just agree to have dinner with me once we return. Here, if you’d like, so we don’t risk inflaming the tabloids before you’re ready.”

“You seem awfully sure that this is going to go a certain way. So eager to fire me?”

Klaus gets to his feet, and Caroline sucks in a nervous breath. Sitting across from each other, he’d been a reasonable distance away. Now, with both of them standing in the narrow gap between his couch and coffee table, if one of them breathes too deeply or shifts deliberately, they’ll be plastered together.

She’s tempted despite knowing she’s right about the timing.

Klaus rests his hand on her waist and turns them so Caroline could step back if she wanted to.

She stays where she is.

A tiny smile curls Klaus’ lips and his hand moves, pressing her closer. “As much as I enjoyed your more… explicit ramblings last night, I must confess my favorite revelation was when you confessed to just how long you’ve had them.”

Caroline, not for the first time, curses tequila’s wretched existence.

Wednesday, May 5th 2:20 PM

The meet and greets are going to kill her.

Caroline had thought they were a good idea when she’d poured through the itinerary the studio had sent over. Inviting popular bloggers, auctioning off tickets for charity, allowing fans to enter random draws – it’s great PR and provides the opportunity for viral moments, while also controlling the environment.

Caroline’s leaning against one of the walls, unnoticed, eyes on her client.

A lot of eyes are on her client, some of which irritate Caroline more than others. The two teenage girls, trailed by an exasperated dad, who’d both burst into tears when Klaus had smiled at them? Totally adorable. The nerdy college student who’d grilled Klaus about his character’s comic backstory? Kind of a pain, but Klaus had done his homework, and Caroline had been impressed.

And annoyed. Excessive preparation is very attractive and unhelpful at this juncture of the press tour. Caroline’s already begun to reconsider what they’d agreed to, wonders if knocking on his hotel room door on the last night would be such a bad thing.

That line of thinking might be overly influenced by the scene in front of her.

Klaus is speaking with a woman in an afternoon inappropriate silver dress. Caroline’s sorely tempted to have her escorted out by security. She’d slipped a key card into the back pocket of Klaus’ jeans within 90 seconds of meeting him.

He’s handed it back, said something that made her laugh. They’re still talking.

Klaus glances up, eyes landing on her immediately. Caroline hastily tries to soften her irritated expression lest he guesses its reason. Klaus smiles, subtly tips his water bottle in her direction. Silver Dress invades his personal space a little more.

Ugh. It’s gonna be a long three weeks.

[lovesick-feelin]

Willex with 42 and 27 please!

Another anon also requested 42, so this is for both of you! Enjoy :)

Send me prompts! | Read on AO3

27. Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.

42. Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

“Alex?”

“Hm?” Alex squints at the blinking cursor on his screen. Gray’s poem is part nostalgic love letter to the school at which he spent his formative years, part lamentation on the cruelty of a cold contemporary society that young boys must enter upon reaching adulthood. Does that sound too pretentious? No, wait. This is for Professor Lessa’s class. Does it sound pretentious enough?

“Alex.” A nudge at Alex’s shoulder finally manages to tear him away from the screen. Willie’s face is touched with an endearing mixture of fondness and concern, his video game controller limp in his hands. Someone has turned the string lights on above them on Alex’s bed. The room is dark. When had it gotten dark outside? Alex frowns. He’s not nearly close to being finished with his first draft. He switches back to his tab on JSTOR. He should have enough sources by now, right?

There’s a sudden touch to the side of his jaw and before Alex can react, he finds himself being kissed. His heart gives a pleasant flutter, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself lean into it. This thing he has with Willie is still new, but Alex has a sneaking suspicion that kissing Willie is never not going to give him butterflies.

Willie pulls away far too soon, and Alex blinks his eyes open slowly, feeling a little dazed. “What was that for?” he asks, and Willie shrugs.

“Just wanted to,” he says. “Also, you’ve been working for, like, three hours straight. You need a break.”

Working. Alex’s gaze snaps back to his laptop, still sitting in his lap. “I gotta finish this first,” he says, already scanning where he left off in his last paragraph. “I need a first draft.”

Willie sighs. “Alex, you told me this wasn’t due until, like, next week.”

“Okay, but why wait when I can finish it now?”

“Because,” Willie says, taking Alex’s face in his hands and turning it to face him again, “you could be doing this.” He kisses Alex again, less chaste this time, and Alex’s mind is once again pleasantly blank. He reaches up to fist a hand in Willie’s shirt --

-- and almost succeeds in dropping his laptop on the floor. “Shit!” Alex grabs for it quickly, making sure he hasn’t accidentally deleted anything. “I just - no. I need to finish this.” He hears Willie sigh next to him and Alex’s stomach tightens. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, voice a little higher than he’d like. “I know this is boring for you, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to --”

“Alex.”

“I just, like, what if I forget about it? Or I don’t have time to revise a draft and I just have to turn in what I have? If I fall behind, I’m never going to catch up, and then my dad will --”

“Alex.” Willie’s quick fingers appear in front of him, saving Alex’s changes in Word before reaching up and snapping his laptop shut. He puts it down on the desk next to Alex’s bed. “It’s okay.”

Alex shakes his head, unable to look anywhere but his hands in his lap. “It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m being a shitty boyfriend.”

“No. Nope. Uh-uh.” The mattress dips and shifts and suddenly Alex is pinned against the back wall with his lap full of Willie and wow, this is new. Willie’s hair falls from where it’s tucked behind his ear, tickling Alex’s nose. His weight is solid but not heavy, seated across Alex’s legs with his knees bracketing Alex’s hips, and suddenly Alex can’t remember what he was panicking about if only because he can’t form a single coherent thought.

“Hi there,” he manages, and Willie smiles, reaching with the hand that’s not braced against the wall to tip Alex’s chin up with one finger, locking their gazes together.

“Listen to me,” he says, and Alex is helpless to do anything but that. “You are not a shitty boyfriend,” Willie continues. “You’re actually, like, kind of an amazing boyfriend. You’re really cute,” and here he plants a kiss on Alex’s nose, “and really smart,” a kiss at Alex's temple, “and I’m telling you to take a break because I care about you.” Willie sweeps the bangs away from Alex’s forehead and kisses his hairline with so much tenderness it aches. “You’re, like, insanely ahead on your work. You’re allowed to give yourself a break. You deserve it.”

Alex nods dumbly, finally regaining enough motor control of his limbs to reach out and rest his hands on Willie’s hips, sweeping his thumb across the stretch of bare skin where Willie’s shirt has ridden up. “Okay,” he concedes softly, meeting Willie’s gaze and earning himself a brilliant smile as a result.

Another second passes before Alex remembers a crucial detail about their current situation, which is that his recently acquired boyfriend is fully sitting in his lap. “So, uh,” Alex offers lamely, “this is new.” He squeezes Willie’s hips for emphasis, and Willie laughs.

“Sure is,” he agrees. “You don’t mind, do you? I can move.”

“No!” Alex blurts, almost embarrassed at how quickly he responds. “No, no, um. This is - this is good.” He lets one of his hands skate up Willie’s side under his shirt, priding himself on the way Willie’s breath catches. “This is, like, really good,” Alex murmurs, meeting Willie’s eyes again, their noses almost brushing.

Willie catches his bottom lip with his teeth, pupils so blown that his eyes almost look more black than brown. “Noted,” he says, voice low and so dripping with want that Alex finally breaks, lunging the short distance between them to catch Willie’s mouth in a searing kiss.

The marks on his neck are still fading a week later when Alex turns his first draft in for Professor Lessa’s class. It’s worth it.

[a-rose-by-any-other-doctor]

the stakes are high, the water’s rough

Hey everybody! Don’t mind me posting basically all of my bingo prompts during the last week of submissions 

So I wasn't entirely sure if we needed to post a fic for the ‘free space’ but this has been sitting in my drafts for a month or so, so I figure why not? @doctorrosebingodistribution

Read it on ao3 Here

"I think I'll skip the rest." The Doctor said mostly to himself, rising from Amelia's beside and moving closer to the bright glow of his unraveling timeline. There were things that came before this that he would rather not repeat. 

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Every cell in his body was desperate to see Rose again. But to see her and not be able to talk to her? To only look on as all those happy memories were unwritten? That would be worse than dying. 

He stepped into the glow, not knowing what to expect. 

The sensation of falling jerked at his navel and the light around him slowly faded to black. He fell face first into the dark, letting his eyes slip closed. It made no difference. Everything was dark and silent, aside from the air passing around his body and whipping past his ears. 

The feeling changed and suddenly, he felt weightless, hovering in place as everything stilled around him. 

Then his body jerked and he hit something solid, pushing the air from his lungs with a wheeze. 

Wait a minute. 

He was supposed to be dead. Well, not dead so much as non-existent. He was supposed to not be. 

A breeze drifted past his nose, carrying with it the scent of dirty fryer oil and that general funk that skips acquired after years of use. 

If he could smell, that meant he had to exist still, in some form. 

I smell, therefore I am? he joked, forcing his eyes open to confront the rather rough pavement he'd been dropped on. 

Weird. 

He pushed himself up and tapped it a few times, testing the thickness and relative density. It seemed to be just normal British pavement. Probably from somewhere in London, judging by the smell. 

He finally, finally, opened his eyes and glanced at the brick walls on three sides. Some sort of alleyway, then. Nice of whatever dropped him here to tuck him out of the way. 

The alley wasn't overly interesting but something about this space seemed oddly familiar, like he'd been here before but was now looking at it from the wrong angle. 

He turned his attention to the mouth of the alley that seemed to lead out to a relatively busy street. It was dark out, but he could see a street and a row of shops across the way. Those could at least help him get his bearing on the year. 

One of the doors behind him slammed open and the Doctor startled, spinning around as quickly as he could, his free hand diving into his coat for his sonic. But every muscle in his body froze before his fingers could close around it. 

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Rose Tyler- Rose Tyler- snapped, letting the door swing shut behind her and crossing the distance between them before he could even process what she'd said. "Come on, we need to run, whole building is about to explode."

And then she did exactly what he'd expect her to do, except he'd never thought she'd do it to him again, she grabbed his hand and ran. 

His clumsy feet struggled to keep up with her, his mind too caught up in its near worshipful chant of Rose to actually focus on anything but the point of contact between him that was making him feel more alive than he'd felt in ages. 

They crossed the street and stopped at the entrance to a different alleyway, Rose turning to look back with an expectant look on her face. It was only then that he realized what bolting she'd come running out of. 

Henricks. 

A relatively tame explosion rocked the building, making the windows implode and sending flames shooting out in their place. But so long as no one had been inside, no one would have gotten hurt. Honestly, it was a better job than he'd done when he'd blown up Henricks. 

Rose gave a little cheer and turned to him with a rather sly smile. "Hi. I'm Rose."

The Doctor woodenly shook her hand but didn't give his name, carefully studying her face, trying to figure out what exactly was going on. 

Her clothing was different, but otherwise, Rose looked exactly the same as she had when he'd first met her. 

Something had to be horribly wrong. “You blew up a building.” He said slowly, trying to process it. Sure, they’d blown plenty of things up while they’d been traveling together, but he’d never realized that she’d been paying close enough attention to blow something up by herself, let alone in such a controlled way that minimized harm. 

She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand and pulling a rather familiar leather wallet out of her pocket with the other. “Rose Smith, I work for Torchwood. “Smith.” He repeated flatly, his mind racing as he tried to process that on top of everything else. Was the metacrisis around somewhere? Was that why her last name was Smith instead of Tyler like it should be? Or had he ended up in another parallel universe that somehow had a Rose whose last name had never been Tyler? Or, the most horrific thought of all, had she married someone whose last name was Smith? Like Mickey. 

It wasn’t that he hated Mickey, he was just very attached to Rose and rather invested in who she entered into romantic relationships with (preferably only with him). But then again, there may not be a version of him in this universe for her to be with. And in that case, Mickey was definitely not a horrible option. But he knew that Mickey would never really help Rose thrive. They held each other back. 

Maybe that was why she was out here in the early evening, blowing up buildings. “Yes.” Rose flashed the contents of the wallet at him and he wasn’t surprised to see the psychic paper nestled inside. He could see the credentials she wanted him to see and a bolt of pride shot through him, she’d gotten quite good at using the psychic paper, hadn’t she? But psychic paper meant that she was his Rose, in one way or another. He just had to find out if the metacrisis was here or not. And if he was, run as fast as he could before he had to watch them together. That kiss on the beach had been heartbreaking enough and he wasn’t nearly masochistic enough to want to repeat the experience. “Why did you blow up Henricks?” He asked, trying to look at least a little scared like he imagined the average human would be.

“You’d never believe me if I told you.” She replied, walking further into the alley she’d pulled him into. 

Come to think of it, wasn’t this where he’d parked the TARDIS when he’d blow Henricks up? Interesting.

He chased after her, surprised by the Volkswagen bug waiting for her, painted a shade of blue so close to the TARDIS that it made his chest ache. He still didn’t know what had happened to his ship, but he couldn't feel her so it was safe to assume she’d stayed in their original universe. Or she was gone but he wasn’t willing to accept that. “Try me.” He said, stepping between her and the driver’s side door.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him. “Alright, there was a relay device on the roof that was transmitting a signal that brought plastic to life. There’s an alien lifeform on this planet that intends to use relays just like that one to take over the entire planet in,” she looked down at her wristwatch. “Four hours? If my info is correct. I’ve got to find a way to stop them before then or an awful lot of people are going to die. Problem is, last time I dealt with Autons, my mate had this anti-plastic stuff that fixed the problem pretty quickly. And I haven't got that. But Torchwood is refusing to listen to me so I’m on my own for this and I have no idea what to do, but I have to do something. Probably going to die in the process, actually.” The Doctor gaped at her. And she laughed. “See? I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.” “But I do!” he insisted rather quickly, his volume startling them both. She’d said she was alone. That had to mean the metacrisis wasn’t here. Whether he’d arrived before the metacrisis had been created or sometime after his death (and oh the Doctor did not want to think about that) didn’t matter. Rose needed help. And he had never been able to say no to her. “Then get out of my way. Got a planet to save.” She grumbled, but the Doctor didn’t move an inch. “Rose.” He said softly, giving her name as much weight as he could manage, hoping that would be enough. That he wouldn’t have to rip down every wall he’d constructed after he’d lost her the second time to convince her of his identity. She blinked up at him and then understanding blossomed on her face like a sunrise chasing away the dark. “Doctor?” She asked, fear warring with the hope in her eyes. He grinned at her, that old smile that made his eyes crinkle in the corners. The one he only really ever gave her. The one that felt foreign in this body because he’d never done it before. “Rose Tyler.” 

Rose stared at him for just long enough that he’d started to worry that she didn’t believe him. But then she blinked and a tear slipped down her cheek. His hand came up automatically to brush it away and then his arms were full of a sobbing Rose Tyler. And as much as he’d always hated seeing her cry, this might be an exception. Because she was warm and real and she smelled exactly like she always had. She pulled back suddenly and sort of patted? The front of his jacket and his arms, almost like she was feeling for something. “You regenerated again.” Did she sound upset about that? 

“It does happen sometimes, yeah.” He swallowed nervously, suddenly wishing with everything in him that he could just turn back into his last self. He should have known she wouldn’t be happy about him changing, she’d even asked him not to change when he’d been shot by the dalek- “Were you alone?” She asked, looking at him like she already knew the answer. He nodded, reeling from the direction she was going. He hadn’t expected her to ask that.

Her expression fell. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have been there. That doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you should go through by yourself. ‘S like being sick. Need someone around to make you less miserable. And keep the pilot fish away.” she added with a little, teasing smile. His jaw dropped and he couldn’t seem to pick it back up. She- but no one- 

“Doctor? Are you alright?” He wrapped his arms back around her and crushed her to his chest, unable to put into words just how much it meant to him that she cared. That he had been so unspeakably lonely since he’d regenerated. That the last person he’d seen with those eyes had been her, because anyone else would have been wrong. “I missed you.” He finally managed. “I missed you so much.”

She hugged him back, her fingers digging into his shoulder blades through his jacket like a life line, anchoring him to her and proving that this was real. He was actually here with her and this wasn’t just a dream. “I missed you, too.”

The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, three little words that she deserved to hear and he was desperate to say, but until he knew when exactly this was for her, he couldn’t. If this was all before the metacrisis, he’d have to give her up again. For the sake of both universes. And he knew that if he said those words to her, she’d never be able to let him leave her with the metacrisis all those years ago. It would create a paradox that would rip them apart all over again and possibly destroy both universes in the process. 

“So.” He started, pulling back from her and rubbing his hands together. Anything for that little bit of distance between them. He promised himself that he could tell her the truth once he knew when all this was for her. And that he would stop putting her current expression on her face. He knew it hurt her, him pulling away like this. But he just needed a bit longer, and then he could explain. “What’s this about Autons?”