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avaritia-apotheosis · 4 years ago

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Phantom Children [DP x Batman Crossover] Ch. 2

In which: Danny thinks, Talia is concerned, and we finally see Ra's al Ghul's pride an joy: the Lazarus pit

AO3 | Prologue | 1 | [ 2 ] | 3 |

---

DANNY COUNTS THE DAYS by the hours he is in the monitor room. One hour is all that he is allowed. One hour after a day of learning and fighting, of ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘stand up straighter, boy’ and ‘remember that you have feet.’ Of being handed a sword only to have it knocked out of his hand (pickitup-pickitup-pick-it-up). Of ‘here’s eight plants, only one of them is the antidote to the poison you just ingested, and you better hope you remember the difference because this is the life you live now, Danny.’ This is what you agreed to for some time in front of a few television screen.

One hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand and six hundred measly fucking seconds was all he got to see his family before he’s ushered back to his room. Dark. Barren. Windowless.

God, when was the last time he saw the stars?

He spent his multitude of ‘one hours’ simply watching. That was all he could do, really. Watch and collect snatches of Amity—of Before. Like torn pieces of an antique photograph, unable to be restored but too precious to throw away.

Talia would call him too sentimental. Danny would love to remind Talia that if it wasn’t for her and her freaky older-than-dirt dad, Danny wouldn’t even need to be fucking sentimental.

Breathe in for four. Hold for seven. Breathe out for eight.

Repeat.

Repeat again.

One more time.

There’s a voice in Danny’s head that sounded too much like Jazz telling him that this kind of behavior was unhealthy. The Jazz in Danny’s head didn’t exactly know why, though they’re both pretty sure that constantly watching your family and friends move on after your death probably isn’t good for one’s sanity. Especially since Danny isn’t really dead.

Well.

Dead-er.

He isn’t—

(family-love-mememe-why aren’t they looking harder-don’t they care-they care-for their own good-what about-happy-no-me-them-me-them).

Truth be told, Danny isn’t angry that everyone in Amity seemed to be getting on with their lives. God, he’s seen how his suppsed-death affected them. He can’t—he won’t be responsible for holding them back from living when he can’t even be sure if he’ll ever be able to return to Amity again.

(He’s seen what happens when someone refuses to move on. Hell, the Zone is full of it. It’s either you obsess with grief…or you try to rip it out of yourself entirely.)

Danny wanted them to live on. Be happy. (With him.)The FentonWorks portal remained under constant vigilance, and since Pariah Dark, most ghosts recognized Amity as his haunt and tended to stay away. With any major threats he could only hope that Clockwork would step in somehow and at least keep it contained. Tucker and Sam were more than capable enough to handle most of his regular rogues gallery, especially if Red Huntress was backing them up too.

Amity…didn’t really need Danny anymore to protect it.

(Family-happy-protectprotectprotect-what?-safe-not safe-not needed).

For all that they tried to find out, Danny, Sam, and Tucker never did manage to figure out what his ghostly obsession was. Sam went out on a limb and said Heroism which…wasn’t quite right but fit the bill well enough.

And what was the point of heroes?

To build a world where they aren’t needed.

------

There was a noticeable shift in her son’s demeanor after he learned of the true nature of his parentage. Though it should be noted that while Talia showed a photograph of her beloved to Daniel, she did not disclose his true identity as to Ra’s al Ghul’s orders. Her father reasoned that it was more advantageous for Daniel to develop a closer connection with the maternal side of his family as opposed to the Waynes—a name that would be more familiar and thus better viewed than the strange people who kidnapped him.

No; ‘Recovered’ would be the most appropriate term. Daniel was her child. Would always be her child, no matter who raised him.

Daniel was…quieter. Somber. His eyes glazed yet sharp—blue eyes bloodshot despite maintaining a regular sleep schedule. Like pit madness with neither the madness nor the pit; simply the look of rage that bubbles beneath the skin, close to boiling over yet never there.

He continued to watch his false family obsessively. Yet…he had taken to watching Talia as well. Quietly. Unobtrusively. Small glances at the corner of his eye. Contemplative looks with furrowed brows whenever he presumed she did not notice. He had even taken to meticulously check his reflection in the mirror; pinching cheeks and turning his face this way and that, cataloguing his features as if to find what parts of him was from her—or perhaps if there was any part of him that ever resembled the paranormal scientists he once called parents.

Even if the physical similarities were not there, the DNA testing—regardless of the anomalies found in Daniel’s genes—was proof enough that he was her son.

“You have been keeping with your diet regimen, yes?” Asked one of the League’s physicians. He pressed his gloved fingers against Daniel’s skin, brushing the ridges of his ribcage. Marring her son’s skin was a large, faint scars. Fractals branching across his torso like the branches of a gruesome tree. “You are still too thin.”

“Fast metabolism,” Daniel mumbled. He is sat on an examination table in their medical wing, black shirt neatly folded beside him. His figure, though not skeletal, per se, was gaunt. His ribs poking from his pallor skin, stomach still concave for a boy who ate double the portions than any other member of the League of Assassins. “I’ve had it since the accident, but it’s never gotten this bad.”

The physician hummed, jotting his notes down along side the results of Danny’s vitals. The exact numbers were unknown to Talia, standing as she was by the door, though she could infer the results from previous physical examinations. (Low blood pressure and core body temperature. Faint pulse, slight tachycardia,) “Do you have any ideas why?”

Daniel’s lips thinned, eyes darting to the side as he always did whenever Phantom was related in anyway. His face was too open; Talia needed to train him out of that. “My…” He took a deep breath. “Ghosts aren’t supposed to stay very long in the Material world. It lacks the ectoplasmic energies that helps them ‘stay alive,’ so to speak. Usually they can supplement some of this by filtering some of the ambient energy in the atmosphere to strengthen themselves—it’s why Amity was such a hotspot for ghosts because of the large concentration of ectoplasm in the atmosphere—but it still isn’t a good long term solution.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Since I’m still somewhat human, I’m able to spend way more time in the Material world and can substitute spending days in the Zone by instead filtering ambient energy and eating.”

The physician made another noise, the tip of his pen tapping against the side of the clipboard. “So I take it then that, as your other half doesn’t have access to this ‘ambient energy’ as you call it, it is forced to take what energy it needs from the calories you’ve consumed, yes?”

“Basically.”

“What will happen if you do not have enough calories to supplement this energy?”

Danny shrugged, a rueful smile on his face. “Dunno. Maybe this time, death will stick.”

Talia narrowed her eyes.

Such a thing will not happen. She had been forced to give up on Daniel once, and then later on she lost her youngest to her beloved. Never again.

This child was hers.

------

“Father, did you not say that the anomalies found in Daniel’s DNA were similar in composition to the Lazarus pit?”

Ra’s al Ghul did not pause in pause in his reading to look up at Talia. The bird shaped magnifying glass held steady above the ancient manuscripts spread across his desk, eyes focused on the words and figures carefully inked onto the page. “Yes.” He set aside the magnifying glass and gently flipped the page. “It is what strengthened my belief of the connection between the Lazarus pit and these spirits.”

Talia straightened. “With your permission I would like to place Daniel into the pit.”

Her fathered looked up, curious. “You forget what the pit does to those who are in good health.”

She placed the results of Daniel’s most recent physical exam on to of his desk. Ra’s sat back in his chair and idly flipped through the folder, reading the contents as if no different to reading the newspaper instead of how his grandson is slowly being starved by his own biology. “Well, well. This would be a problem.”

He closed the folder, a wry grin curling at his lips. “Have him ready for tomorrow. I am curious as to how the pit would affect one already half-dead.”

------

Danny is awoken by Talia sometime the next day. “Come,” she said. “You do not need to change, so come quickly.”

He got off the bed with a silent groan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Where are we going?”

“Not far. Somewhere that will help you.”

He snorted. “Letting me go home would help me.”

Talia doesn’t answer, simply waiting for him at the door. Danny groaned, combing away as much of his bedhead with his fingers as he followed her.

For the first time since being dragged to Nanda Parbat, Danny is allowed to venture beyond his small section of the compound.

He didn’t really know what to expect.

Still didn’t stop everything from being so…anticlimactic.

Beyond the steel door, normally kept locked and guarded by two of his shadow guards, was a hallway. Endlessly long with a wide pathway, lit enough by the fluorescent lights overhead but not enough to banish the shadows that clung to the stone walls. The hallway looked empty. ‘Looked’ being the key word, here. Even if he couldn’t see them, Danny would bet on his half-life that the shadows were teeming with life.

Talia led the way through the maze of twists and turns (were they underground?), a couple of shadow guards quietly following behind them.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Talia looked at him from over her shoulder for a moment, then turned away. “Have you heard of the Lazarus pits?”

“Lazarus? Like the guy who came back to life?” Neither of his parents were really religious. His dad only really Baptist in name because he was born into a Baptist family that, too, wasn’t overly strict in their religion. The only reason why Danny knew of this Lazarus guy was because of Mr. Lancer’s unit on Greco-Roman and Christian allusions.

Talia nodded, turning a corner. “The Lazarus pits are natural pools with restorative properties, capable of rejuvenating the body, healing grievous injuries, and even bringing the dead back to life.”

Danny nearly tripped over his own feet. “What? That’s—” Impossible. He ran up to Talia, wildly gesticulating with his hands. “What’s dead is dead. Resurrecting the dead goes against the natural law of the universe!”

“Well, you seem to be doing fine.”

He frowned, crossing his arms. “That’s different. I’m still dead, even if my entire existence seems like the but end of a Schrodinger’s joke.”

“Be that as it may, what I speak is truth.” She stopped in front of a door and opened it. Then, stepping aside to usher Danny in first. “See of yourself.”

Danny stepped inside, Talia following behind him, and—

Oh.

Before he even saw the pit, he could feel it. A low and steady hum reminiscent of the ghost portal. But…different. Not necessarily fainter but garbled, like hearing someone speak underwater.

The room was a large, open space, with stone walls framed by red wooden pillars. It was dim, lit only by the green glow of the pit that consumed the majority of the space. A square pool of too-clear waters and toxic-looking steam rising from the surface.

The waters felt of the Zone but…not.

“Ah, Daniel.” He nearly jumped out of his own skin. Ra’s al Ghul stepped out of the shadows behind him, hands folded behind his back. The green glow highlighted the sharp contours of his face; the shadows that clung to him only making his visage harsher. “It is good to see you.”

Danny greeted the Demon’s Head with a League salute. “Grandfather.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue despite being in English. To formal for a boy who never really had the chance to interact with his own grandparents. But Danny was told to refer to Ra’s like this, and so he did. (He was only grateful Talia didn’t insist on calling her ‘mother.’)

Ra’s al Ghul was an enigma. Centuries old yet he looked only about a decade older than his mom and dad. (Jack and Maddie Fenton will always be his mom and dad. They raised him. Loved him, in their own eccentric, science-y way. No blood test or adoption or ninja-assassins could change that). Like Danny’s still-unnamed biological father, Ra’s carried himself with theatrical purpose. Comically villainous in his attire and grand gestures, though unlike Vlad, Ra’s had this overwhelmingly intimidating presence that engulfed whatever room he stepped in.

Ra’s was a man that commanded attention as opposed to demanding it. And now, at the focus of the man’s calculating gaze, Danny could not help but stand stiff at attention.

“You’re mother was right,” Ra’s said. Danny barely restrained himself from perking up at that word. “You are wasting away, Daniel.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“Well, at least you still have that fire in you.”

Danny startled, slapping his hand over his mouth. Shit, he didn’t know he said that out loud. Out of the corner of his eye, Talia suppressed a small smile.

“You have that in common with the Detective,” Ra’s continue, circling Danny like a carrion that spotted its next meal. “That and the rather foolish notion on not properly reporting the extent of your injuries.”

“With all due respect, grandfather, I wasn’t expecting on staying here for this long.”

Ra’s gave him a knowing look. “But something is keeping you here, isn’t it?”

“Keeping my family and friends hostage is a pretty good motivator, apparently.” An insidious thought bubbled in Danny’s mind. But that isn’t all, is it?”

“I have consulted your mother and your physician as to the nature of your condition, and I have decided that the Lazarus pit would be a sufficient way to restore your health.” He gestured to the pool. “It appears that your DNA shares several similarities to the composition to the Lazarus pit.”

Danny crouched at the edge of the pit, hovering his hand above the water’s surface. “It’s because it contains ectoplasm. An impure kind, I think.”

“Will the impurities be harmful to you?”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t think so? My body can filter out the impurities just fine, it’s just that I’ve never encountered thistype of ectoplasm before. It’s so clear and—aqueous, I think is the word.”

There’s a strange glint in Ra’s eyes. Dare Danny say it, it even looked mischievous. It made him uneasy, and just as Danny made a move to step back, Ra’s al Ghul picked him up by the collar of his night shirt—

And threw Danny into the Lazarus Pit.

#danny phantom #batman #danny phantom x batman crossover #phantom children.txt

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mopeytropey · 5 years ago

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a beer buds series: chapter 10

author’s note: When I originally told my wife of the idea for this series, she immediately suggested an entire rewrite of 'a pleasant undoing' but told from Lexa's perspective. So I'm counting chapters 9 and 10 as honoring her wishes. The continuation of this series will reprise our almost strictly Lincoln + Lexa formula, but I'm not naive enough to think that at least 99% of you weren't going into this also hoping for some premium Clarke + Lexa content. (Forgive me for the deviation ... and the smut)

Timeline: essentially, we're just picking up where chapter 9 left off ...

Beer: Lil’ Heaven: Two Roads Brewing (Stratford, CT) SESSION IPA

Made with three exotic hops - Azacca, Mosaic and Equinox. Taste is of tropical fruits, specifically passion fruit, grapefruit and apricots. Finishes with just enough toasted malt character to balance.

ABV 4.8%

Posted on AO3 here, or below the cut:

:::

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“I saw you two days ago.” Lexa affectionately rolls her eyes, nevertheless smiling while accepting an exaggerated hug from Lincoln as if they are reuniting after a long separation.

“Work doesn’t count. You’ve been completely off the radar for a week, socially speaking.”

They’ve met for an impromptu breakfast at a local diner not far from Lexa’s apartment. She’s back in her neighborhood for practicality reasons, having left the idyllic bubble of Clarke’s bedroom in order to do some loads of laundry. But, it’s also a nice excuse to see her friend.

Lincoln has already procured them steaming cups of coffee and a pair of red vinyl stools at the breakfast counter that faces the busy griddle top. He is grinning at her as they sit, awaiting her response.

“I’ve just been … busy,” she says, not even able to curb the bashful smile that follows as she removes her coat and hat.

Lexa pretends not to blush, knowing full well her time spent with Clarke has superseded any other social obligations as they have begun a long overdue exploration of new and exciting facets of their relationship.

Namely sex. A good portion of her week has, in fact, been absorbed by unspeakably good sex.

“Uh-huh,” Lincoln laughs warmly. “I wasn’t even sure you two had remembered how to physically separate at this point. Thought maybe Clarke would be joining us as well based solely on the fact that you two haven’t surfaced for anything other than work responsibilities in a full week.”

Lexa sips her coffee through a growing grin to prolong any acknowledgement of Lincoln’s playful accusation.

“Morning, hon’.” A familiar waitress says in passing, leaving two menus beside Lincoln’s coffee cup. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

“Thanks, Helen,” Lexa smiles. It’s not often that she indulges in big breakfast meals, preferring her protein smoothies or avocado toast, but Lexa has nevertheless fallen into a routine of frequenting the diner as a way of establishing new roots.

In her old Brooklyn borough it had been the Chilo’s taco bar where she and Anya would meet every Friday to decompress from the work week over carnitas tacos and cheap beer. In her new portside life in Massachusetts, it’s Angie’s Diner. The coffee is palatable, at best, but the atmosphere is welcoming and Lexa has always enjoyed seeing familiar faces when forced to dine alone. Helen’s gruff, New England endearments in a seasoned, smoker’s voice, have consistently been a comforting presence.

When the woman shuffles off to tend to the other, early morning diners, Lexa turns to see Lincoln still watching her expectantly. “Clarke had some tasks at Dockside to attend to, and I really need clean clothes.”

“And, you’re functioning okay in her absence? Breathing okay and everything?”

Lexa laughs at his continued teasing, but easily concedes to an honest answer. So much uninterrupted time spent in Clarke’s company, sharing the myriad truths about their feelings, has apparently begun to bleed into her other relationships as well.

Lexa has almost always been able to leave herself unguarded in Lincoln’s presence anyway.

“I’m probably more dysfunctional when she’s around, actually.”

Lincoln stifles a laugh around a sip of his coffee. “That sounds like a fair assessment. Everything’s going as well as expected then?”

“Yeah, it’s—” Lexa tries, and instantly fails, not to picture Clarke lathered and laughing in the shower while Lexa fights to stand beneath the warm, steaming spray; Clarke pressing her against the kitchen countertops with hands roaming while the coffee steeps; Clarke cuddling into her on the sofa with the lights dim and the TV volume low “—it’s been really good.”

“Oh no.”

“What?” Lexa smiles unsurely, eyes widening at Lincoln’s grave expression.

“What’s with the hesitation?”

“What hesitation? I did not hesitate.”

“I know that hesitation.” Lincoln narrows his gaze at her, dark eyes assessing for signs of Lexa’s concession. “What are you in your head about now?”

She really needs to stop associating with people who can read her like a book.

“Okay, fine,” Lexa exhales. She flips open the worn menu, its once glossy, laminate pages now dulled from years of loyal patronage. “I’m just adjusting to the intensity of it all.”

“You’ve made a major life change. Totally normal to feel overwhelmed,” Lincoln shrugs.

“I know. You’re right. I haven’t even slept at my apartment in almost a week.”

“And, this is somehow a bad thing?” Lincoln laughs.

“No, I have absolutely zero complaints,” Lexa clarifies. “But, we’re spending literally all of our free time together—and portions of our work days, too.”

Lincoln chuckles after another sip of coffee. “Also totally normal. In the beginning, Octavia used to impose all of these ridiculous sleepover schedules—like, spending three nights a week together is the maximum, or whatever—only to completely abandon her own, dumb rule and would end up sleeping at mine for weeks at a time.” Lincoln thinks better of it a second later and warns, “Don’t ever tell her I told you that.”

The legitimate fear she can see in his eyes makes her laugh, and suddenly she doesn’t feel quite so overwhelmed. “I’ve always considered it wise not to let on that I know just how obsessed Octavia is with you.”

“Smart woman,” Lincoln winks. “So, other than acclimating to new sleeping arrangements, what is it that’s stressing you out? You think you’re spending too much time together?”

“That’s the thing—I like being able to be with Clarke as much as possible. This past week, spending time with her, I’ve felt calmer and happier and more settled than I have in ages.”

Lincoln smiles so warmly, Lexa can feel it in her chest. “Don’t you think Clarke feels exactly the same way?”

“I’m pretty confident that Clarke enjoys having me around, yes. It’s not like she’s trying to kick me out of her house or anything yet.”

“But?”

“But, I keep wondering what the long-term implications are. Because the way that everything is changing between us: it feels … significant.”

“Yeah. That’s because you’re in l—”

Lexa looks away with a groan that drowns out the rest of Lincoln’s statement, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Oh my god, please stop saying that.”

“Okay, okay,” Lincoln laughs. And then, after a moment while clearing his throat, he not-so-subtly reiterates: “But, you are.”

Lexa studiously ignores any truth in Lincoln’s playful accusation and further expounds, “I guess if anything is stressing me out, it’s not knowing if Clarke is experiencing something similar to what I am right now.”

“Knowing Clarke like I do, and having had the pleasure of a front row seat to all of this from day one, I can confidently assure you that she is right there with you. That being said, have you ever considered—I don’t know—asking her yourself instead of sitting here having a hypothetical conversation about it with me?”

“I do plan to speak with her about this,” Lexa assures an openly skeptical Lincoln. “I do.”

“I mean, you’re in the first week of a new relationship, Lex. I get it. That is usually not time that’s predominantly spent talking.”

Lexa is saved from her sudden flush of embarrassment by the return of their waitress, Helen, who kindly disregards the red tint on Lexa’s cheeks as she orders her scrambled eggs and rye toast.

“The point is,” Lincoln continues once their orders have been placed, “you guys have this really solid and established friendship going into this thing. In my experience, that can sort of push you ahead at a faster clip than you’re probably accustomed to in relationships.” He drains his coffee, placing it back onto the counter with a dull clink. “So, what would make you feel better about the rate at which you and Clarke are headed?”

Lincoln has a uniquely comforting way of simplifying Lexa’s life. He’s so genuine and forthcoming, and she could hug him again for all his supportive logic. Instead, she takes a deep breath to clear her head and pledges to hug him later.

“I want to be up front with her about where I see this going, to determine whether or not she and I are on the same page. I want her to know that I’m—”

“—in love with her?” Lincoln grins.

Lexa punches him, with unintentional force, and regrets it only when Helen—a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls and kind eyes—glances at them in mild concern as she refills their coffee. “I would ask if he’s bothering you, hon’, but I have a feeling you’re more than capable of handling yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I deserved that,” Lincoln assures their waitress, laughing at Lexa’s menacing scowl while rubbing his arm.

“I was going to say, I want Clarke to know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else.”

“Oh, right, right,” Lincoln nods, still smiling. “See, I just keep forgetting you two haven’t already been dating exclusively for, like, six months.”

“Why do I hang out with you again?”

For all her feigned exasperation, she is instantly wrapped up in an embrace, not unlike an older brother might lovingly harass his younger sibling. “Because you love me.” He pulls her in closely for a monstrous hug—right there at the diner counter—despite Lexa’s sharp elbow to his abdomen as she playfully fights against the forced affection.

:::

Clarke emerges from her silver Saab just as Lexa ambles across the snow-dusted gravel of the marina, icy rocks crunching beneath her boots. Cars are parked at odd, misfitted angles wherever they can find space between the boats set up on large blocks in their bright white winter wrappings. Clarke is wearing her plaid scarf and bulky winter parka, and Lexa’s chest tightens with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation at seeing her again after a short span apart.

“You should have let me pick you up,” Clarke says by way of a greeting.

“It’s not a bad walk from my apartment.”

Their breaths dissipate in the air between them after briefly appearing in frozen clouds. Lexa can feel her teeth about to chatter because the air on the water is properly freezing, but she attributes the chill along her spine to the nervous energy of being near Clarke.

Clarke’s gaze narrows in judgement. “Stubborn.”

“Those in glass houses,” Lexa counters, arching her brow in a way that brings that pleasant tint of blush to Clarke’s cheeks.

It could very well be the wind; except Lexa knows that it isn’t.

“Okay can we further reprimand each other once we’re inside where it’s warm?”

Clarke’s gloved hand wraps around her coat sleeve and tugs until they are both headed towards the blue front door of the coffee shop. A welcomed gush of warm air envelopes them instantly, and Lexa’s skin begins to tingle where the harsh winds had chilled her face. There isn’t much of a line, nor is the shop crowded with other people. The moderately-sized open room is sparse with patrons, enjoying their steaming drinks under natural lighting and softly playing music.

It’s been six days—not that Lexa has been meticulously keeping track, but it’s been six days—of near-constant kissing and unrestrained touch; of perpetual orgasms and an intentionally precise exploration of Clarke’s body; of general sensory overload when it comes to redefining her relationship with her best friend. Hardly a week has transpired since they began testing the waters of this mutual attraction, which has nevertheless consumed Lexa entirely.

Maybe it’s only been six days, an insignificant length of time under normal circumstances, but it feels much more weighted than that.

Between the kissing and the touching and the orgasms, nevermind the sudden influx of unveiled honesty, she can hardly keep her head above water. Her mind hasn’t stopped spinning since that first kiss on Clarke’s doorstep, and she’s only slightly concerned with contracting vertigo if they don’t stop and address what is happening between them sooner rather than later. Lexa needs to sit in a familiar, public space in the light of day with her best friend to discuss the implications on their relationship as it progresses at full tilt.

Lincoln’s advice rings in her ears as they enter the shop: just talk to Clarke.

“Hey, strangers!” A barista greets them happily as she and Clarke approach the cash register. Her name slips from Lexa’s memory, but Clarke returns her greeting for them both.

“Hey, Morgan.”

“Oh my god, I thought you two got lost at sea or something. We haven’t seen you in ages.” Morgan is young, perhaps just out of college, with bright pink hair and a septum piercing.

Clarke’s head shifts so that she can give Lexa a strange look, which Lexa promptly returns before offering a brief smile. “Oh, um, yeah. Just busy during the holidays,” Clarke answers.

Lexa gives her order and Clarke pays, brushing off Lexa’s insistence on paying her share. In seven months, if she’s learned anything, it is not to question Clarke’s generosity. They move to a deserted sofa beside an old wood stove fireplace to wait for their drinks and begin removing their coats and hats. Lexa’s toes begin to tingle and thaw within her leather boots as the heat from the fire permeates.

The harborside shop is the same as always: natural light streaming through the windows facing the water; a smattering of locally produced art hanging on brightly colored walls; and, a handful of other patrons sitting in mismatched furniture with computers or paperbacks. Everything is the same, except for her and Clarke.

They sit closely, quickly finding small, innocuous points of contact. Clarke tucks into one end of the sofa so that her knees rest gently against Lexa’s legs. Their hands seek touch as the barista delivers their drinks, separating only briefly to accept the steaming mugs and offer their gratitude. Once Morgan leaves them to attend other customers, Lexa falls into the comfort of their secluded, sun-drenched pocket of the shop.

“It’s so cold outside. I think my feet are still thawing.”

“It feels nice in here,” Lexa responds, smiling because Clarke inches closer to her anyway and she was only outside for under two minutes as it is.

Lexa senses a buzzing from her coat where it sits beside her and reaches into one of its deep pockets to check her phone. A text from Lincoln confirms their plans to meet up later for drinks. She types a quick, one-handed response before replacing her phone and returning her full attention to Clarke.

“Lincoln,” she explains, although Clarke doesn’t look poised to ask.

“Does he miss you already?”

Lexa laughs, shaking her head. “No, he’s not nearly as codependent as you.”

Clarke attempts to withdraw her fingers from where they are slotted between Lexa’s, but Lexa tightens her grasp with a widening grin at Clarke’s dropped jaw and feigned affront.

“Are you still hanging out later?”

“Yeah, he was just confirming the time.” Lexa’s thumb smooths across the back of Clarke’s hand in a slow, repetitive arch. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Clarke shakes her head firmly. “No, this is your sacred time together—I can’t encroach on that.”

“It’s beers and appetizers, Clarke. I wouldn’t call it sacred.”

Clarke’s eyes widen dramatically. “I’m gonna tell him you said that.”

The empty threat makes Lexa smile again. They’ve always had a particular talent for banter, and the added layer of their recent sexual experiences makes it all the more delightful to trade taunts and harmless barbs.

“How was your laundry adventure?” Clarke asks while reaching for her coffee, and Lexa smirks.

“Thrilling.”

Despite her instincts to stay within reach of Clarke at all times as much as physically possible, there is also the issue of personal hygiene. In this case, it was Lexa’s growing pile of clothes that needed attending.

“And breakfast with Lincoln?”

She can’t tell Clarke how she is actually reconsidering a lifelong friendship with Lincoln because he had spent a majority of the morning brutally teasing her. To reveal that would require Lexa to also elaborate on his specific proclamations about her feelings for Clarke.

And so, Lexa tells her, “It was good.”

“You can always do laundry at mine, you know.”

“Is this just another ploy to keep me tethered to your house for longer intervals?”

An exasperated look flashes across Clarke’s face while she swallows down a mouthful of steaming coffee. “Yes. Have you not been paying attention at all over the past week?”

Lexa swallows through a grin of her own. There’s really only one, notable thing they’ve been engaged in over the past week, and to think of it now has Lexa’s face warming as she becomes acutely aware of Clarke’s proximity in a public space.

“I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.”

Light laughter escapes her as Lexa’s right hand fiddles the ribbing of Clarke’s sweater between her fingers. She is dressed in something off-white and oversized that cuts at a low vee below her neck so that Lexa’s eyes begin to wander to its shadowed opening. It’s a sweater she remembers from the time before—when all of Lexa’s cultivated interest in Clarke (including her wardrobe) was something unspoken and dutifully ignored.

Lexa remembers that Clarke had been dressed for a dinner at her mother’s house, and Lexa had been granted a chance encounter for quick minutes in which they danced around a thrumming attraction. She can feel it sparking in the air between them now, their pocket of relative privacy threatening to implode from the calculated looks Clarke is giving her.

“Busy week?” she further teases, eyeing Lexa’s blush over the rim of her coffee mug as she takes another sip.

Lexa purses her lips and narrows her gaze at Clarke’s self-satisfaction. “Exactly how much joy does it bring you to torture me?”

“So much,” Clarke laughs. She slips her fingers between Lexa’s so that they are loosely held together. “But only because you’re so adorable when you’re exasperated.”

“Flattery is supposed to absolve you?”

“Obviously.” Clarke rolls her eyes, bringing Lexa’s fingers to her mouth and brushing them quickly with a kiss.

With affections such as this, Lexa would forgive her of almost anything.

“So,” Clarke says through a sigh while bringing their joined hands to rest again on her knee. “What did you want to talk about?”

Now that Clarke has given her the floor, Lexa practically swallows her tongue in nervous vacillation. She had strategized a few, well-devised talking points during the process of cleaning her clothes, not to mention procuring some sound advice from Lincoln over breakfast, but sitting here in front of Clarke has made Lexa forget how to string together words and phrases to construct complete thoughts.

In a desperate attempt to find her resolve, she reaches for the cup of english black tea she’d ordered. Lexa takes her first sip, wishing she’d asked for a pinch more sugar but nevertheless hoping it will soothe her racing thoughts.

“I just wanted to … check in.”

Pathetically underwhelming start. Lincoln would be so disappointed. She takes another sip that is more like a gulp.

Clarke nods slowly. “Okay.”

“About us.”

“Okay,” Clarke repeats, her smile looking apprehensive at best.

“Our friendship has evolved significantly over the past week, and rapidly, at that. I just thought we should—” Lexa wavers and Clarke comes to her rescue.

“Check in?”

“Yeah,” Lexa nods.

“Okay. Are you—are you feeling okay about everything?”

Lexa begins to tangle her fingers around Clarke’s more fervently. “Things with you are almost too good.”

Clarke’s smile changes instantly, full and bright and genuinely pleased. “I feel the same. I’m actually feeling incredibly, fucking lucky, to put a finer point on it.”

“Good,” Lexa smiles, exhaling a modicum of relief. “I do too.”

“Oh my god, you had me scared.” Clarke leans back into the couch, dislodging their hands to run her fingers through her hair. “I thought you were going to say you want to date other people or something.”

“What? No.” Lexa’s breath has been lost to a vacuum of panic so that her ask is hardly audible. “Do you?”

“No! No. I’ve dated, Lexa. I’ve dated plenty,” Clarke laughs lightly, reaching for a surer hold on Lexa’s fingers. “But, you—I mean, you’re single for the first time in over three years. You must have thought about it.”

Not single, Lexa says to herself before thinking better of it and rephrasing aloud:

“Clarke, I could date a hundred women and none of them would be you.”

“Yes, I am fairly certain I’ve yet to be cloned.”

“Are you going to stop being a smartass so I can say this?” Lexa smiles in mock irritation.

“Sorry, sorry.” Clarke pinches her lips together, attentive. “Continue.”

“What I mean is, no one else would compare. I’ve never met anyone like you—this connection I feel with you, I’ve never experienced anything like it.” Lexa takes a breath, licking her lips before forging onward. “I can’t say where this is going, but I can say, unquestionably, that I have no interest in dating anyone else for the foreseeable future.”

The words leave her in a rush of honesty. It feels like she’s said too much too soon, but Clarke leans forward with a smile and Lexa interprets the gentle press of her lips as having said exactly the right thing.

“Do you think we can take these drinks to-go and finish this conversation elsewhere?” Clarke’s voice is pitched low and seductive, and Lexa senses a chill tingling at the back of her neck.

She resolves to stop doubting her honesty, if also to reconsider hanging out with Clarke in public spaces for a while until they can get their rampant sexual urges under control long enough to enjoy a cup of tea.

“Did you have a specific location in mind?” she grins in response as if the gleam in Clarke’s eyes isn’t a clear enough indication.

:::

Part 2

:::

The sex is consistently noteworthy, and Lexa had never really doubted that she and Clarke would be compatible in that way, but so is the intimacy alongside it. Lexa has never before distinguished between the two so markedly. But, with Clarke, the intimacy is so distinct. When she is coming around Clarke’s fingers, letting her watch the strains of pleasure in her face and shoulders, Lexa registers the vulnerability of being caught in Clarke’s gaze as an orgasm ricochets through her.

Ordinarily, a week into any new relationship and Lexa would still be clinging to well-practiced safeguards. She would be withholding some parts of herself for safekeeping and ultimate preservation should things go sideways.

But, not with Clarke.

She likes that Clarke watches her so carefully. The way that she feels when held by Clarke’s gaze is a kind of certain safety that Lexa hasn’t known before. She kisses Clarke fully, holding nothing back as the pulsating aftershocks of her orgasm begin to ebb. When Clarke slowly removes her fingers, Lexa bites Clarke’s lip, swallowing the soft moan that follows.

“Does this mean you want to be exclusive?” Lexa asks, still breathless, when their lips have parted.

She feels Clarke’s laughter against her face before she’s being kissed again. “Yes, you idiot.”

“Good. Because I want to take you out.”

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight. It’s going to require some planning. I’d like it to be a proper date.”

Clarke’s elation is instantly visible. “Okay. I’m going to be honest, I’m highly intrigued to find out what a proper Lexa date looks like.”

Lexa kisses her again and considers, not for the first time, if she’ll be able to stop now that she’s started. Clarke’s warm tongue and soft lips are now vital to Lexa’s existence. She craves the sensation of their mouths sliding together at random intervals throughout her days.

“Kissing you has not been a disappointment,” she says, bringing more of Clarke’s bright laughter as they shift their limbs to reposition against the mattress.

Clarke’s leg wraps around her waist as Lexa brushes stray hair from Clarke’s face where they now lay facing side-by-side. “Oh, my god, I’ll second that. I knew you would be a good kisser.”

“Did you?” Lexa smiles at the confession. She likes that Clarke had thought of her in similar ways. She had not been the only one lost in questionably scandalous daydreams over the course of their friendship.

“Yes. I may have thought about it, once or twice.”

“I had a pretty good feeling about your talents as well.”

It’s such a simple, shared admission that nevertheless makes Lexa’s heart trip in its rhythm. “And now, I think about it constantly.”

For that, she is rewarded with another press of Clarke’s lips. “Me too. I’m pretty sure I’m regressing into a terrible excuse for a restaurant manager as a result of constant distraction.”

“And the bar for your professionalism was already set so low as it is.”

“Hey!” For that she gets a finger plunged sharply between her ribs, and Lexa squirms away from Clarke’s violent tickling.

“I’m kidding. You are an elite and respected paragon of your field.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Clarke affirms with pride.

“Honestly, I was so lost in thought the other day, I dropped a six pack on my foot.”

“Lexa!” Clarke laughs, kissing Lexa again anyway. “Oh no.”

“No permanent damage,” Lexa smiles. “Can I tell you what else I really like?”

Clarke could not look more delighted. “Yes, please.”

“I really like your sweater.”

“Wait—which sweater?”

Lexa props up onto an elbow, separating their warm skin as she casts her eyes around the room before locating the sweater in question. It sits near the foot of the bed where it had been discarded moments before. “That one,” she says. “It looks really good on you.”

Clarke seems both surprised and amused by the compliment. “Come here.”

Lexa allows herself to be pulled closer when Clarke wraps both hands around the back of her neck and their limbs slot back into place. They kiss lazily as if time doesn’t exist while Lexa’s hands begin to drift along the pathways she has started to chart across Clarke’s skin.

“I like seeing you in such a good mood,” Clarke eventually tells her.

“The effect of midafternoon orgasms cannot be underrated.” The frank sentiment makes Clarke laugh again as she rests their foreheads together and begins smoothing over Lexa’s skin with the tips of her fingers. “Also, I like being able to tell you things—things I wouldn’t have been able to say before.”

“I like when you tell me things.” Clarke tucks a strand of loose curls around Lexa’s ear. “Anything else in that busy head of yours you feel like sharing?”

Three words ring prominently in Lexa’s ears, and she fully blames Lincoln’s stupid taunting for the sentiment being at the forefront of her mind. It has nothing to do with the soft, swirling blue of Clarke’s eyes, or the subtle tilt of her mouth, or the fact that Lexa has memorized the sound of Clarke’s laugh. She swallows roughly and presses her lips to Clarke’s, sealing the unspoken words between them for good measure.

She instead tells Clarke a different truth, “I’m feeling much better since we talked.”

“I’m glad,” Clarke smiles. “I feel better, too.” She runs a hand down Lexa’s arm, finding her fingers.

“I was sort of anxious to say anything,” Lexa admits, feeling brave while cocooned in Clarke’s bed despite her earlier insecurities. She had worried, yet again, about saying too much. There was always the risk of Clarke pulling away if Lexa revealed too much. “I spent at least two days debating with myself.”

Clarke’s exaggerated surprise results in Lexa’s quiet giggles. “No, you did? You tortured yourself for days with unnecessary internal debates? That is highly out-of-character, Lexa.”

“You really are a lot more like Lincoln than I ever realized.”

Clarke’s laughter somehow brings them closer together, and Lexa shifts her legs where they are staggered between Clarke’s. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And, I’m glad you finally talked to me about this. I mean, I wasn’t totally expecting you to propose in the way that you did, but—”

“Clarke.” Lexa buries her face into the pillow and clenches her eyes to stave off her creeping mortification. So much for embracing her honesty.

Of course, Clarke is endlessly humored by watching Lexa suffer and only continues her assault on Lexa’s heartfelt admission. “I mean, correct me if I’m misquoting, but you said: ‘for the foreseeable future,’ which basically translates into asking me to date you, but like, forever.”

“Oh my god,” Lexa mumbles, her face still pressed into the soft cotton of Clarke’s pillowcase.

Clarke is not deterred by Lexa’s mounting humiliation, pressing kisses full of laughter into her neck and shoulder until Lexa finally turns to face her. Using the leverage of her leg wrapped around Lexa’s hips, Clarke has since wrestled her onto her back.

“See?” she says, running an index finger down the slope of Lexa’s nose and effectively smoothing the furrow of embarrassment between her eyebrows. “So adorable.”

It’s hard to keep hold of her ire when Clarke is naked above her and straddling her hips. Perhaps Clarke knows this as well because even as she shifts imperceptibly, Lexa feels it straight through her core. Her hands come to rest on the tops of Clarke’s thighs, and though she senses a residual scowl tugging at her lips, most of her regret for being too honest has faded.

“I’m sorry for making fun,” Clarke says while her thumbs rub circular patterns on Lexa’s ribs.

Lexa has never seen anyone look less apologetic in her life. “I would be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t actively trying not to laugh.”

“No, no, I’m serious,” Clarke reiterates, although she is fully laughing now. She clears her throat, aiming valiantly for composure. “What you said was so sweet, and, I mean, in case you couldn’t tell, I sort of plan on dating you for a really long time, too.”

Lexa fights her own smile rather poorly. “Well, that’s very convenient.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Clarke nods.

It’s the perfect segue into more unrestrained fondling, more languid kisses, and Clarke seems to be on the same wavelength as she leans her weight onto her hands and begins to roll her hips. It’s easier falling into this rhythm when for six days they have perpetually cycled the same routine: intimate talks bookended by multiple orgasms that are interspersed with brief intervals reserved for sleep and nourishment.

Lexa gasps into their first kiss from their well-timed movements—the feeling of them sliding together in that way has a heated sensation building quick and low. Just the pressure of Clarke on top of her and the way her slow, purposed movements are hitting Lexa in the all the right spots, has her close to a second orgasm in minutes.

She can hear Clarke’s breathing accelerate as well, the forced puffs of air through her nose that Lexa feels against her cheeks as their kisses grow more urgent. Clarke’s hand moves first, skating down Lexa’s abdomen as she lifts her hips to slide her fingers towards Lexa’s clit. It’s been no more than twenty minutes since her last orgasm, but Lexa’s body instantly responds to the circulating pressure of Clarke’s fingers moving against her.

They are still figuring things out, learning how the other responds to physical arousal, but this—Clarke on top of her, easily working her towards climax with deft fingers and filthy, open-mouth kisses—will do the trick every, single time. Lexa could probably come with much less stimulation at this point, when brushing touches while fully clothed are sometimes too much for her to function. Never mind the visual currently hovering over her—Clarke’s bouncing chest, grinding hips, and blown pupils. An image of her fingers sunk into Clarke in this position is enough to send Lexa over the edge. Her back arches off the mattress as the orgasm rolls up her spine, and Lexa catches her breath only after Clarke starts kissing her again.

A familiar dilemma has Lexa torn between using her hands or her mouth as the tingling sensations of her own orgasm have barely begun to fade. In the end, her urgency to feel Clarke’s arousal, and see it to completion, has Lexa moving a hand between their bodies to slide eager fingers into Clarke’s folds. There will always be time later to bury her face between Clarke’s legs.

Her breath always stutters at that first touch—it’s slick and warm and Clarke groans appreciatively when Lexa extends two fingers just as Clarke sinks onto Lexa’s hand. That she is open and intimate with Clarke in a way she never thought possible has not fully registered as her new reality, and for a brief second, Lexa’s mind goes blank.

In another breath, Lexa shifts, guiding Clarke to change her position just enough that she can take one of Clarke’s nipples into her mouth. The quick suction and slow laps of her tongue produce a groan from Clarke that Lexa will be thinking about days later.

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke pants, her hips now thrusting quicker against Lexa’s hand, pressing harder against her fingers as they slide in an out.

Clarke’s arms shift, palms flat against the mattress on either side of Lexa’s head where she is still holding her weight.

“Are your arms getting tired? Do you want to switch positions?” Lexa absently moves her hand that had been massaging one of Clarke’s breasts to lightly hold her bicep.

“No.” Clarke smiles and kisses her softly, in direct contrast to the way she is currently riding Lexa’s fingers. “You’re very sweet, but I’m good.”

“Okay, good. Because I’m really appreciating this view,” Lexa grins, moving her hand again to swipe a thumb across Clarke’s nipple.

“Do you think you can—”

She doesn’t let Clarke finish, relying instead on her still-developing intuitions, and takes the other nipple into her mouth.

“Yes, fuck.”

Lexa celebrates her victory of predicting Clarke’s needs by altering the position of her hand to reach Clarke’s clit with her thumb, the result of which has Clarke nearly collapsing onto her as her elbows buckle and her hips jerk forward. Lexa finds a well-practiced rhythm after that and works Clarke all the way to climax until the movement of her hips becomes erratic and she is no longer able to string together coherent profanity.

The comedown is soft and fun, quiet giggles and breathless kisses. Clarke collapses onto the mattress beside her, arms and legs finally relieved of their tension, and Lexa curls onto her side so that she can rest a hand onto Clarke’s stomach where she lies flat on her back.

Lexa is so content, she feels like her body might levitate in a boneless mass above the bed. Clarke’s breathing is still coming to rest, and Lexa watches her hand rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

Into the greying stillness of the bedroom, Clarke asks, “Hey, what time are you supposed to meet Lincoln?”

The serenity Lexa had felt shatters in an instant. “Oh shit!” She flails about for a moment in search of her phone, having completely forgotten about her plans. “What time is it?”

She locates her phone before Clarke can answer. It’s already half past three, and Lexa’s stomach plummets. The text from Lincoln says: where you at?

“Are you late?” Clarke has come to sit behind her where Lexa’s legs hang off the mattress near the bedside table where she’d found her phone. Lexa feels soft kisses against her shoulderblade. “What did he say?”

Below Lincoln’s text is a picture of two full pints of beer sitting on a bar counter. She holds her phone at an angle so that Clarke can see Lincoln’s texts.

Lexa runs a hand through her hair as her heart hammers from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “Shit.”

More than the shame of accidentally standing up one of her closest friends, Lexa dreads the fallout of this enormous misstep because Lincoln is never going to let her live this down. Worse yet, there is a good chance that he’ll share the story with Anya, which will mean, essentially, Lexa can never again return home.

“Why don’t you get dressed and go? I can drop you off,” Clarke offers sweetly, still pressing reassuring kisses along her back.

“I’m going to ask him if we can reschedule,” Lexa decides.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Lexa answers, turning her head to smile at Clarke over her shoulder. “I don’t

really feel like putting on pants at the moment.”

Clarke kisses her shoulder cap and grins in return. “You’ll get no argument from me there.”

“Let me give him a call really quickly.” Lexa reaches for a shirt on the floor—something of Clarke’s she’d worn to bed the night before—and stands to slip it over her head. Something about calling a close friend while completely naked and still coming down from an orgasm makes her slightly uncomfortable.

“Take your time,” Clarke tells her, also rising from the unkept sheets and blankets to pull her hair back into its messy bun. “I’m going to go downstairs and reheat our drinks from earlier.” She tugs at the hem of Lexa’s tee shirt and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth on her way to the bathroom. “Do you want a snack, too?”

“Okay.”

Lexa grins, following after Clarke’s lips as she starts to move away. A soft hold on her wrist is enough encouragement for Clarke to lean up into another kiss, reminding Lexa just how shaky her legs still feel from their exertions in bed. Perhaps sustenance to replenish her blood sugar is necessary instead of relying solely on a steady drip of oxytocins.

Lexa appreciates the view of Clarke’s retreating backside even in the fading light of the bedroom as the sun has started to move towards the horizon. She runs a hand through her wild curls and exhales, preparing to make her phone call while perched on the edge of the mattress.

Lincoln answers on the first ring. “Hey, buddy. Did you get lost?”

“Something like that,” Lexa says. “Clarke and I went for coffee, and then I sort of … lost track of time.”

“Say no more,” Lincoln laughs. “It’s your turn to ditch me for a girl now, right? I hope the sex was worth it.”

The fact that she is wearing nothing more than a thin tee shirt has Lexa covering her face with her hand. “Lincoln, I didn’t—”

His laughter persists, and Lexa wonders how loud it must be within the confines of the bar. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s totally fine. Honestly, I’d be more upset if you weren’t standing me up for time with Clarke right now.”

“I’m really sorry, Linc. I can be down there in like fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t you dare.” For the first time since he’s answered the call, Lincoln’s voice takes on a serious tone. “I swear to god, if you show up here, I’m frogmarching your ass right back to Clarke’s house.”

“Okay, fine,” Lexa laughs. “Let’s hang out early next week though. Beers on me.”

“Don’t even worry about it. I’m serious. I actually ran into some people from the gym plus the rep from Two Roads is here doing a tasting—I’m good, I promise.”

“I’m going to make this up to you,” Lexa reiterates. Despite Lincoln’s assurances, her guilt does not fully dissipate.

Clarke chooses this moment to step out of the bathroom, wearing just as much clothing as when she’d gone in, and Lexa’s brain lags at the sight. Her expression seems to be asking if everything is okay, and Lexa smiles in response.

“Lex, would you stop? Tell Clarke I said hi, and I’ll see you at work on Monday. Oh, hey, ask her if she’s tried the new session IPA from Two Roads. It’s intensely enjoyable.”

“Okay. I will.” She smiles up at Clarke, who has stopped to stand in front of her after slipping into a tee shirt and sweatpants. Lexa’s hand settles on Clarke’s hip like a magnet snapping into place. “Clarke says hi, too.”

“Sorry, Lincoln!” Clarke says, projecting her voice towards the receiver while tucking strands of curls behind Lexa’s ear. “It’s all my fault.”

There is more laughter down the line before Lincoln reiterates that everything is fine and he could never actually be angry with either of them.

:::

“So, since when do you source your unhealthy caffeine intake from elsewhere?”

“Huh?” Clarke smiles.

They’ve taken up seats at Clarke’s kitchen island with their reheated drinks from the coffee shop and Clarke’s version of a snack: smoked turkey and cheddar sandwiches on toasted potato rolls with homemade aioli.

They’re both wearing slightly altered versions of the same outfit—soft tee shirts and loose sweatpants, Clarke’s cut off into shorts so that Lexa’s fingers are continuously tempted to trail across all of the exposed skin within reach.

She sips her tea and returns Clarke’s smile.

“The barista at the coffee shop seemed shocked to see you,” she clarifies. “Don’t you practically pay rent there by spending so much of your time buying their coffee?”

For a brief moment, Clarke can’t seem to find her voice. She practically chokes on her sandwich, taking longer than expected to swallow her first bite. Lexa raises an eyebrow expectantly as their drinks emit swirling strands of steam into the air between them.

“I—I could ask you the same,” Clarke volleys back, not unkindly, as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin and reaches for her coffee. “Morgan seemed just as surprised to see you there.”

Lexa bites her lip and looks away. She had asked out of genuine curiosity and confusion, and now it seems yet another bout of confessions is forthcoming.

She clears her throat. “Do you have any beer, actually?”

Clarke laughs lightly before shifting her expression into something like mild offense.

“Um, hi. My entire existence is practically centered around craft beer—do you even know me?”

“Right,” Lexa laughs. “Stupid question. Would you like one?”

“Again: do you even know me?”

Lexa starts to slide off her stool with a bright smile that belies the low buzz of nerves she is withstanding as an unspoken conversation simmers between them. Clarke is dislodging their legs from where they had sat in a close tangle at the island. “Stay,” she directs her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get them.”

Once Lexa has pulled open the fridge door, she turns to look at Clarke over her shoulder. “Do you have a preference? Lincoln was asking if you’d tried the new IPA from Two Roads.”

“Are you actively avoiding answering my question by distracting me with beer inquiries?”

Lexa pinches her lips together to ward off a sheepish admission, and Clarke rolls her eyes affectionately. “Look on the left hand side, bottom shelf.”

Lexa ducks down to retrieve two brightly colored cans of IPA before closing the fridge door and returning to the island. “Not to split hairs, but technically, you avoided my question first.”

“Okay, fine,” Clarke sighs dramatically. She takes one last dreg from her coffee before shoving it away in favor of the can of beer Lexa has just opened for her. “I was—” Clarke actually ducks her head so that Lexa can see her thick eyelashes fluttering “—I was afraid I would run into you during the, uh, when we—”

“Broke up?” Lexa supplies. She is still holding a small smile for Clarke when blue eyes finally snap up to meet hers.

It had felt like that. A relationship ending—a significant one at that. And, Lexa had been left broken in the aftermath.

“I was going to say when we stopped talking,” Clarke continues. “But, it was more than that. It did feel like a break up. And, we didn’t decide anything—I cut communications all on my own.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m really sorry, Lexa.”

Lexa is already shaking her head, part disbelief at what she’s hearing, part exasperation that Clarke has mistakenly absorbed all of the blame.

“Clarke, I know you have this bizarre obsession with always being right, but I can assure you—what happened in November was all on me.”

“I just vanished, Lexa. I didn’t even tell you why or allow you to explain anything.” Clarke’s eyes are downcast and her voice softens in unmistakable regret as she fiddles the silver tab on her beer. “I freaked out and hid away. And, it was really shitty.”

Lexa can’t help the way her mind creates distinctions between Clarke and Costia—the contrast of Costia’s distance from their relationship to Clarke’s sudden disappearance. With Costia, it had often felt like abandonment and disregard. The space between them had been a disappointment, a mild discomfort that Lexa sustained over time. Losing Clarke—and it had felt like that, as if she turned around one day and panicked to find Clarke had vanished—left her devastated and painfully bereft.

“Not seeing you was horrible. Not being able to talk to you was even worse. But, I’m glad you stepped back and took that space. It was shitty, but not because you did anything wrong.”

“I hated not seeing you, too,” Clarke admits, and they share another small smile across the kitchen island, tinged with a distant, remembered sadness.

“I couldn’t avoid Dockside, contractually, but I—I didn’t want to encroach upon your other spaces.”

“So, you stopped going to the coffee shop.”

Lexa confirms with a short nod and takes the first sip of her beer. She’s glad they’ve had this talk, but she’s also more than eager to segue out of November’s gloom that is better left in the past. She takes a cleansing breath and sets down her beer.

“In the end, I was glad you created that barrier between us, Clarke. I was miserable, and Lincoln will tell you that I was insufferable to be around, but it made me realize what a massive idiot I’d been.”

Her admission elicits an actual laugh, and Clarke shakes her head fondly. “So much for that Ivy League education.”

There’s a lot more that could be said, and it’s a much longer conversation that they will likely parse out at some point. But, today has been exceptionally good, and Lexa isn’t quite ready to lose the momentum of their good moods. Even for the sake of honesty.

“I’m a slow learner,” Lexa shrugs.

“Based on the activities that occurred in my bedroom this afternoon, I can attest to that being entirely untrue,” Clarke says, voice pitched low and taunting.

At the return of Clarke’s brazen flirting and sly smile, Lexa ducks her head as her cheeks warm. Because, despite the fact that they have spent a good portion of the afternoon swapping orgasms, she still sees Clarke as her best friend, in many ways, who she has only recently had the distinct pleasure of seeing naked.

“I’m sort of a quick study in that department,” Lexa smirks.

“I’ve noticed,” Clarke laughs. They sip their beers in weighted silence for a few beats, sharing glances as they drink, and then Clarke adds to the mounting tension by asking, “So, when do I get to hear more about this date?”

“The details of the date itself are highly classified,” Lexa explains in all seriousness, despite her stomach swooping.

“Classified, huh?” Clarke laughs into another sip of beer.

“Do I honestly strike you as someone who is going to halfass a first date?”

“You don’t strike me as a person who has halfassed anything in their entire life.”

“Correct,” Lexa smiles. She shifts smoothly along the island’s edge until she is again stood on the same side as Clarke, who accepts Lexa’s proximity with a slow-spreading smile. “You know, I could potentially be persuaded to provide a sneak peek of some post-date activities,” she offers, already moving to enter Clarke’s space more fully as their drinks are gingerly slid a good distance away.

She slowly spins Clarke’s stool just enough that she can slot between her legs, and Clarke is already leaning into the touch as Lexa’s hands curve around her jaw. The kiss is like regaining breath after being submerged under water. Their conversation on past events hadn’t been strenuous, by any means, but Lexa registers a sense of relief to have resumed their previous activities all the same.

She sinks into the warmth of Clarke’s lips and tongue, exhaling after several, languid moments. When her hands move to slide up the length of Clarke’s thighs, eliciting a distinctly strained exhale as Lexa teases her fingers beneath the cut-off edge of Clarke’s shorts, it’s abundantly clear where they’re both headed.

They make it as far as the sofa.

Lexa can’t be bothered to maneuver the stairs when there are so many other available surfaces on which to make Clarke slowly shake apart. She does so on her knees while making good on her earlier intents to spend a long stretch of time between Clarke’s legs. The last shards of sunlight are nearly gone, leaving them in golden shadows and dim light from the kitchen while Clarke moans soft encouragements and cards her fingers through Lexa’s hair. There is no rush, no urgency, hardly a sense of time moving at all. Lexa feels calm and confident, content to bring Clarke closer to release at a measured pace as she begins to gently rock against the pressure of Lexa’s tongue. Everything feels languid and slow, like running through water.

It’s not lost on her, as Clarke’s orgasm eventually echoes through the quiet house, heels pressing into her back and Clarke’s fingers threaded into her hair, that this very sofa had been the impetus for their time apart. The innocence of that encounter, as she and Clarke gave in to the comforts of shared sleep, had propelled them toward a shift in their relationship. Looking back, everything that has transpired between them since that singular event seems inevitable.

Falling asleep with Clarke that first time had been rife with implications that they would eventually end up right back here: a cozy, nondescript, weekend night spent on Clarke’s couch with nowhere to go.

The insignificance of an otherwise mundane Saturday is outweighed by the way Lexa’s mouth curves into an easy smile as she kisses the warm skin of Clarke’s inner thigh. Clarke is coming down from the aftershocks of a slow-rolling orgasm when Lexa registers a sharp uptick in her heart rate as they lock eyes while Clarke is still catching her breath.

And, this too holds weight—for all their recent honesty, there are still things Lexa has left unsaid.

“Get up here,” Clarke gently demands. Lexa complies without pause.

Clarke’s sated and satisfied groans melt into scratched laughter that dovetails with their kiss, and the magnitude of what Lexa feels is underscored as their mouths meet.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Clarke tells her some breath of time later, when Lexa has moved from the floor to the sofa at Clarke’s urging. “If this type of activity is in the cards for date night, I don’t really give a shit what the actual date itself looks like.”

They lay along the length of the sofa, limbs over lapping at certain intervals, and Lexa’s hand flat against Clarke’s stomach beneath her tee shirt.

“Good to know I can scale back my efforts,” Lexa smirks, feeling no less satisfied that she has reduced Clarke’s expectations with one, albeit exemplary, late-afternoon orgasm.

Clarke’s laughter echoes Lexa’s contentment, and her smile grows. She can feel the subtle shaking of Clarke’s diaphragm beneath her fingertips.

“This has been such a good day,” Clarke says, adding further reinforcement to Lexa’s equally satisfied mood. “I really like having your here. Have I mentioned that?”

Lexa grins into Clarke’s close gaze and presses her lips to the edges of Clarke’s smile. “Once or twice.”

“Lincoln is the kindest, most-deserving creature on the planet, but I’m really glad you stayed here instead. Just this once.”

Lexa’s contented smile slips and she nearly groans as her head falls onto the armrest. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” Clarke laughs.

“I pride myself in being reliable—no excuses. If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Especially when it comes to Lincoln or Anya.” Lexa exhales and glances up to find Clarke’s eyes. “The fact that I neglected our plans for—”

“The best sex of your life?” Clarke supplies with swagger. Lexa’s smile returns without her consent. “I mean, you looked like you were about to say: the best sex of your life.”

As laughter bubbles up from her chest, it vanquishes Lexa’s lingering criticisms about her snap decision to break plans with Lincoln. Clarke’s commentary is a reductive synopsis, at best, but also not entirely untrue. “Yes. Something like that.”

A beat of silence passes and then Clarke says, “If you’re worried he’s going to give you a hard time about breaking plans, wait until you tell him you proposed.”

She buries her face against Clarke’s shoulder to the delighted rasp of Clarke’s giggling laughter and concludes, yet again, that it is the absolute best sound in the world, even at her own expense.

:::

#a pleasant undoing #brewkru!#a beer bud series #clexa fic

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rigelmejo · 4 years ago

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Levels of Comprehension

Today I’m going to talk about Refold (used to be mass immersion approach) and it’s Levels of Comprehension page again - https://refold.la/roadmap/stage-2/a/levels-of-comprehension. Because I think even if you never glance at Refold/mia, the levels of comprehension summary idea is really useful for gauging ‘progress’ you’re making in your learning, especially if you’re trying to gauge yourself based on comprehension of a material you’re immersing in.

There’s other nice gauges - like when reading: how fast you can read a chapter, or in watching: if you go from needing to look up words to follow the main idea of the plot to no longer needing to. Or how many words you look up per page, how long it takes for you to watch an episode (accounting for how much you needed to replay scenes). But I like the Levels of Comprehension page because it gives a nice example of a possible comprehension scale.

Definition of comprehension used here - you understood the meaning of the content.

Comprehension tends to be domain specific (so your comprehension of daily life shows versus news, mystery novels versus history textbooks etc). Its normal for comprehension to vary in different domains. Its also normal for comprehension within a single domain to vary depending on the day or hour a bit. Also as you become aware of more of what you don’t know (aka you’ve learned more) you perceive your comprehension as dropping sometimes (because you now realize more of what you don’t know).

Levels of Comprehension:

Level 0: Nothing You’ve just started immersing and the language is complete gibberish.

Level 1: Something The language is still mostly gibberish, but it has started to look/sound familiar. You’ve gained the ability to pick out occasional words. You still have no idea what is being talked about.

Level 2: Bits and Pieces You can recognize one or two words in most sentences, and every once in a while you understand an entire sentence. You have an extremely vague sense of what sorts of things are being talked about.

Level 3: Gist You can recognize at least half of the words being used, and it’s not uncommon for you to fully understand entire sentences. You’re able to follow along with most of the main ideas that are expressed, but many smaller details are lost.

Level 4: Story You can follow along with the majority of the ideas being expressed, but some details are lost here and there. You rely heavily on contextual inference to determine what was said when you can’t make out all of the words. When you’re not able to understand something, you often can’t tell why you weren’t able to understand.

Level 5: Comfortable You can understand close to everything, but some subtle nuance is lost. You have no trouble following along with everything that’s said, but some of the cleverness or craftsmanship of a speaker or writer may go unnoticed. When you don’t understand something, you can usually identify the cause and clarify your understanding by looking up what you missed. At this level, there is still significant effort associated with the act of comprehending the language.

Level 6: Automatic You can effortlessly understand virtually everything. Virtually no details are lost. Can fully pick up on the subtlest levels of nuance. This is the experience that native speakers have when consuming content they’re familiar with.

Chinese:

I’m usually a 4 or 5 with chinese if its a domain (genre) I’m used to. Watching Word of Honor in chinese was a bit of both - I understood close to everything going on, was pretty sure it was Wen Kexing��s idioms/poetry that I was only vaguely getting (so I could’ve looked it up if I paused), I could not appreciate the full artistic merit of how good the lines were. But occassionally details were lost (level 4) or I needed to rely on visuals to follow what was going on (again especially when people went hard on the poetic speech like Wen Kexing and Prince Jin in a few scenes).

Watching Two Souls in One in chinese has been a 4-5 - I can follow everything going on, or replay a scene for more details I missed if I didn’t catch a word. Anything I didn’t understand I could’ve looked up, but I generally just replayed a scene if that happened since on repeat I could understand it. I am almost tempted to rewatch Granting You A Dreamlike Life, because it was a 3 last time I watched and I definitely think it would be a 5 now. Also to try to watch Ancient Detective - when I first tried, it was a 3, but I think Word of Honor is just as hard to follow ‘genre wise’ so I think Ancient Detective would probably be a 4-5 now. I think reading so many chapters of Tian Ya Ke and picking up a lot of words from that novel definitely helped me with wuxia genre ‘domain’ things.

My show ‘domain’ is much better than say interviews though. When I watched the word of honor long livestream, it was definitely 3 with some 2 moments (I followed mainly what was going on, but when they talked about random off topic things I sometimes had no idea what it was about). When I see the word of honor bts short clips, sometimes I can follow perfectly (5) and sometimes I just catch the bare gist (3) like when Gong Jun talks about something not related to the show or his coworkers (I saw a clip of him talking about the game Revelations for example and I could only follow at a 3 even though I knew almost EVERY word he said... the context just totally threw me off). Also my audio domains - when I listen to audio it generally drops to a 3-4 on how much I understand.

My reading is generally 3 when its a new novel, and 4-5 when I’ve read the english translation before for context. If its a novel I have absolutely zero context for, and above my reading level, it might be a 2. In general I can at least follow the rough gist main idea though. Reading new manhua is 4-5 - manhua is low effort for me though. Reading new novels greatly depends on reading difficulty (new words) - easier novels like TTWTADSL can be a 4 as soon as I start reading, and hanshe can be a 4-5 even though its harder because I’ve read so much of it I have a very good grasp of its vocabulary and context even without a dictionary.

Japanese:

I think my japanese (somehow) is mostly 2-3 in terms of easy listening materials (musicals, plays, games) and easy reading materials (so show subtitles, game subtitles, manga). If given an audiobook or novel though I’d probably be screwed. (Ok not quite screwed... I might even do better than I expect who knows, but the idea of trying sounds HARD so I’d assume it would be at a 2 - very vague sense of what’s going on... maybe I should try with Parasite Eve novel lol).

I can definitely recognize one to a few words in each sentence, and I always have a very vague sense of what’s going on (2). “ You can recognize at least half of the words being used, and it’s not uncommon for you to fully understand entire sentences” (3) - if its a manga, or game, something with text/subtitles then yes this is true because if I can use my reading skills I can recognize much more of a sentence, often at least half (but half isn’t a lot when it comes to figuring out meaning lol). I can follow a lot of the main ideas when watching a lets play (I definitely can with KH2, but I also tried to watch someone play Persona 2 Innocent Sin which I have NO prior context for and could easily follow what overall was the main thing happening/main point discussed in all the scenes I saw). When I watched Dracula Musical I think honestly my understanding WOULD HAVE been a 2 if I knew nothing about dracula. But because I did, it was often a 4 - I could follow all the main points and story scenes and I just struggled to understand what I DIDN’T already recognize (like totally new scenes which I could follow the 3 main gist for but could NOT identify any of the specifics of the conversations).

#rant #april #april progress #comprehension #im actually surprised japanese has some vague comprehension at all at this point #i should actually try to read

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cami-chats · 5 years ago

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The Best Bathtub

Written for @tonystarkbingo

Title: The Best Bathtub Collaborator: camichats Card Number: 4049 Link: On AO3 Square Filled: K4-Kink: Bath/Shower Sex Main Pairing: Sharon Carter/Tony Stark Rating: Mature Major Tags/Warnings/Triggers: Minor sexual content, allusions to sugar daddy/baby relationship (though not actually present in the fic) Summary: Sharon is a tough Shield agent and she's proud of that, but sometimes it's nice to relax and feel pampered. Word Count: 1,649

On the one hand, Sharon loved being a part of Shield. Aunt Peggy had always been the woman she wanted to be when she grew up, and that had been an attainable dream. She'd worked; she'd trained, and she made it. She believed in the work that Shield was doing, and it wasn't easy work, but it was good. She was tired in her bones after a day of training or the end of an assignment, but it was satisfying.

On the other hand-- a more secret hand that she didn't like to tell anyone about, especially not her coworkers-- she liked to be pampered. Bathtubs so big you could fit four people in it comfortably, massages, the softest and biggest bed in the world. She liked the rich things in life. Five star restaurants, silk dresses, diamond necklaces. It all made her feel special. In Shield, she was doing important work, but she was, ultimately, replaceable. She was no Black Widow. Any assignment she was on, another agent could do. For all that she'd tried to be the absolute best, but there were people who were enhanced, and she'd never be able to compare.

But in this, in Tony's life and all the things he insisted on giving her, she was special. Tony had gotten around when he was a young adult and he'd even been in love before, but Sharon was the only one that he'd wanted to keep around for good; she was the only person he'd ever considered marrying, and so long as she was alive, she was the only person he'd be married to. Tony gave her the million dollar bathroom; he brought her out on dates to places she'd never be able to get into on her own; he bought her dresses that had been designed specifically for her, and he bought her all the accessories to match.

She felt like a sugar baby sometimes, and she meant that in the best way possible. Tony took care of her. So much of her Shield career was about making hard decisions on the fly and never having the time to weigh her options. She followed orders, sure, but out in the field, it was all on her. There were overarching goals, but all calls were hers to make. It was nice to go home to Tony and curl up with him, knowing that he not only would make all the little decisions for her, but that he liked to.

He wasn't home when she got back from a mission, so she stripped out of her clothes as she walked to the bathroom and left them like a breadcrumb trail; she'd pick them up later. She did pause to put her rings back on-- she couldn't wear them on missions, and she never knew who might be skulking around the building. Up in their rooms though, she was free to wear her engagement and wedding rings in the open.

Right now, all she wanted was to soak in the tub for two hours and feel thoroughly relaxed. Maybe take a nap while she was at it. She put the drain plug in and turned on the faucet. Just hearing the water splash against the marble made her lose some of the tension in her shoulders. She had bath salts around here somewhere, but she didn't know where they were kept while she was gone-- she knew for a fact that Tony brought them to the front when she came home. It wasn't until she picked around one cabinet that she remembered she could ask Jarvis. "Jarvis?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Do you know where my bath salts are?"

"I believe sir moved them to the bottom left of the cupboard under the sink."

Sharon moved to the sink, kneeling down gingerly because the floor was cold and she was naked. She peeked in, seeing the familiar brown packaging. "Thanks."

"You are most welcome."

She grabbed the bag and walked back to the tub, dumping some in. The dried rose petals slowly unfurled as the salt dissolved, filling the air with the smell of lavender. She put the bag in the cabinet where she was used to finding it, then walked back to the tub. She didn't really want to get her hair wet, but she was also in no sort of mood to tie it back. She couldn't do 'loose' when it came to her hair, and putting that much stress on her scalp was the opposite of what she was going for. With a mental shrug, she stepped into the tub, easing herself down. She flipped her hair so that the longer strands were on the outside, but she didn't expect for it to last. She leaned her head against the edge of it-- much taller than the standard bathtub-- and closed her eyes.

When she felt the water raise to the top of her chest, she reached forward and turned off the tap. She hummed, dipping her arms under the water. She leaned against the back again, closed her eyes, and dozed off. She was pretty sure that she didn't actually fall asleep, but it was nice to have her brain go quiet and hazy for a while.

She woke up when Tony came into the bathroom, half-undressed in a suit-- cuffs undone, tie off. His pants were still done up, but his socks and shoes were gone. He still looked camera ready. "Hey honey," he said with a smirk. "Saw your clothes out there; I didn't think you were getting back for another couple days." He padded over to the tub, kneeling beside it. While the ends of it were higher than usual, the sides dipped lower-- to what was probably a normal level. Seeing him sent a small pulse of want through her. It had been a long time.

Sharon hummed, lifting a hand for him. He caught it in one of his own and pressed a kiss to her wet knuckles. She felt like a goddamn princess, and he'd only been here for ten seconds. "I'll pick them up when I get out."

"I wasn't complaining."

She drew her hand back, and Tony's fingers followed her lazily into the water. They trailed around like Tony was testing the water for something.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful mood she'd set.

"Quite. How was your... meeting?" she guessed. Could've been a party of some sort, but those tended to run late and she hadn't been home for that long.

"Meeting," Tony confirmed. "Horrible for them, glorious for me: the usual. You?"

"Horrible for both of us," she said with a small smirk. "Information gathering is always the worst. Finding out all these terrible things and not being able to do anything about it."

"You'll get 'em one day," he assured her, reaching over to one shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. "I'm going to get changed." He straightened, then paused when she spoke again.

"You should join me." He probably didn't know that she meant sex, but she couldn't imagine that he'd say no; he'd missed her just as much as she'd missed him, and it had been a while since they'd been able to have sex (what with the mission before this ending with an injury where she wasn't allowed to do anything 'strenuous').

He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I thought you were tired."

"Cuddling with my husband doesn't require a lot of effort on my part," she said dryly.

"If you're sure."

She nodded, and Tony shrugged.

"Alright." He started to undress, dropping his clothes just as carelessly as she'd done with her own even though his were criminally more expensive. He was exactly as gorgeous as she remembered. Even the small details that she hadn't been fond of when they started to seriously date had grown on her-- like the beard. She'd absolutely hated how it looked, but she'd had to accept that Tony liked it, and now she did too.

She scooted forward in the tub, leaving plenty of room for him to climb in behind her. He did so, carefully. The marble wasn't one of the more slippery bathtub materials, but it only took banging their heads together twice early on in their relationship for both of them to be more careful. Once he was settled, she leaned back until she made contact with his chest, then relaxed again. She hummed as she sagged against him. Leaning against a warm body was definitely better than leaning against warmed marble. More give to it, y'know?

"You sure you don't just want to go to bed?"

"'m sure."

"You're a strange one, Carter," he said fondly, wrapping an arm loosely around her waist. "When I'm wiped after a meeting, you couldn't pry me off of our bed."

"That's because you go to the workshop after a tiring meeting."

"Not true."

"Pretty true," she said, but she took the sting out of it by grabbing his hand and guiding it lower on her abdomen. He hadn't touched her in any way that was sexual yet, but she was already turned on thinking about it. His fingers spread below her bellybutton were enough to get a little jolt of want through her.

"Yeah?" he doublechecked.

She shrugged with one shoulder. "If you want to. I'm just going to sit here and enjoy it, if you do. Don't expect active participation right now."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling," he said, tilting her head to one side so he could mouth at her neck as his hand slid lower. His other hand came up and cupped her breast, still under the water and therefore nice and warm. They'd had sex in the tub before, and there was always something ethereal about it because of how sensation like that felt when underwater; it was still good, just... different.

#tsbmiv #sharony #sharon carter #tony stark #marvel #fanfic #my writing

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saltmageelliexiv · 5 years ago

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Disclaimer: The story below deals with dark/mature content consistent with sexual themes, drug use, and mentions of physical abuse. Also, my writing skills are incredibly rusty, so please do not expect professional-level writing.

It was that time again; evening had began to set, the shops in the bazaar had began to close their doors, and the bars near the Red Lantern district had begun to open. While a majority had taken the path back to their homes or the inns, the remainder drifted away to the crimson-lit path. Along with common bars, bath houses, oddity shops, and even brothels were opening their doors, some even having workers stand out to draw in the eye of potential customers. Though there were a number of people who stood out in the crowds, there was one woman in particular who seemed to draw more than enough eyes in the crowd, from both men and women alike.

A statuesque woman, she stood, and walked, proudly, the sound of her heels making a soft thud against the cobblestone of the streets. She had a reputation in this part of the city, possessing many names and monikers from her profession. But to anyone familiar with her profession, she was known as ‘The Matron of Sins’. An infamous brothel madam, even running her own business didn’t stop her from conducting her own affairs, her business keeping her away from her business the entire previous night. Her hair had been pulled back into a messy ponytail, damp with water that gleamed softly in the light. She even wore a black and crimson kimono, the chest of her robes being left loosely cinched to reveal a generous portion of her bosom.

Walking through the district, she could hear the whispers and murmurs even through the loud and boisterous conversations going on about the area. Some of them speaking in disbelief of her brazen appearance, some damning her for her shamelessness. None of it bothered her, for hidden in her pockets was enough coin to sustain her business for a fortnight. Despite how disheveled and shameless she appeared, she could stand proud knowing that she had a man desiring her body so bad that he was willing to pay a small fortune to know her pleasures.

‘They damn me now and call me a shameless whore... but I could have every one of them kissing my feet in a mere minute.’

The Madam couldn’t help but smirk at the thought; confidence, or egotistical, there was no denying that she could take whatever words anyone had to throw at her. After the ordeal of walking back to her business, she was greeted with a small, modest building; dim red lighting showing through the windows, and in the front, a sign of the double sided doors reading ‘CLOSED’. It seems that no one opened up yet.

‘They’re probably still getting ready...’ The Madam let out a sigh. ‘I need a drink. And a change of clothes.’

Grabbing the handle of one of the doors, the Madam gave it a quick turn, surprised to see that no one had locked it. As she entered the building, she could already hear numerous footsteps, some yelling, and even giggles. Her hunch was correct, but she could also tell that no one sensed her presence yet.

Clearing her throat, she’d close the door behind her, locking it for safety. “If you all did something I don’t approve of, you’d better hide it now!” Though her voice was raised, the mischievous smile on her face deceived her tone. Not long after, a couple young ladies had made their way to the front door; both of them couldn’t have been older than twenty, one of them half-dressed.

“Madam, we weren’t expecting you to be back so late. Are you okay?” One of the girls took some of the bearings from the Madam; coin satchel, shoes, whatever wasn’t needed. Along with it, she shooed away the half-dressed girl, offering to take care of the woman herself.

The Madam gave a nod, groaning slightly as she made her way further into the building, examining everything she could on the way to a staircase. “I’m fine, just tired. I already bathed before I came here, but I need to change my clothes. I need to get that man’s stench out of my robes...”

Barely a thing out of place, at the very least, the business was fine during her night away; perhaps she could go out and take care of business in the evening more often. Making her way upstairs, the young woman followed right behind her, following like a duckling would follow their mother. All throughout the building, young men and women alike were fluttering about, getting their best garments on, and some even assisting others with their hair and garments.

“Let them know that we’ll be opening an hour late. They can’t be running around like this. They will fall over, or Heavens forbid break something. Meet me in my room when you’re done.” The Madam would give the command to the young woman, the woman giving a nod in acknowledgement, before running off to carry out her duties.

Escaping the insanity in the building, the Madam evaded all the scrambling men and women, managing to escape into her room. Unlike the rest of the building, this room was free of people; large and luxurious, it appeared to look more like a small apartment. A bed, bookshelves, table, desk, a large vanity and boudoir, even a stand to hang a kimono. The room smelled of decadent perfumes and incense; a pipe, small box, and bottle of rice wine rested on the table. Pulling a cushion out from beneath the table, the Madam quickly made herself comfortable, letting out a drawn-out sigh as she felt a moment of relief from all the walking she did.

‘Well, since I’m alone... might as well ‘medicate’.’

Grabbing the small box, the Madam popped open the top, revealing a small silver tin inside, a musky scent wafting from inside. Twisting the top of the silver tin, she’d give it a couple taps, pulling it off to reveal dried leaves on the inside. Taking a pinch of it, she’d set it in the pipe, placing the mouth piece between her lips. With a snap of her fingers, a small ember began to flicker at her fingertips, bringing it to the dried leaves in the pipe, taking a deep inhale. With just that inhale, she could feel the pain in her head begin to fade, her thoughts going cloudy, her body going light as a feather. She’d hold in her breath for as long as she could, before releasing it slowly, a plume of white smoke billowing from her crimson lips. The stress and anxiety were flowing away with every plume of smoke that she blew away.

-Knock. Knock. Knock.-

‘... well that didn’t last long.’

Putting out the ember in her pipe, the Madam put away any evidence of her ‘bad habit’, even going as far as cracking open a window before breaking her silence. “Enter.”

Slowly opening the door, the young woman from before poked her head in, looking around to make sure she was going to be alone with the Madam. “I apologize for my delay, everyone is relieved to hear that we no longer have to rush.” Entering the room, the young woman closed the door behind her gingerly, making sure it wouldn’t make a loud noise. “Did you need me to do anything for you, my lady?”

The Madam scratched softly at her temple; she needed to get changed, her hair was a mess, and she was too tired to tend to herself. “I would appreciate your help. Can you grab me my kimono off the stand? I’m too sore to tie it on my own. If I could get some help with my hair as well, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

The young woman gave a nod, and even a soft smile. “Of course, my lady. I’m glad to help.”

While the woman worked on getting the Madam’s new kimono on, she would work on removing her current garments. Having put them on rather half-haphazardly, all it took was a couple strategic pulls of the cloth to get it to unravel itself. Normally, the thing that would draw anyone’s eye would be the Madam’s beautiful figure, but this time, something else would be catching her helping hand’s eye; a number of bruises and scrapes that covered her body that managed to be hidden beneath her clothes. As the young woman turned around to see the Madam’s bare form, she let out a gasp, nearly dropping the kimono to rush over to her.

“My lady, you’re hurt! Why didn’t you tell me? I could have called someone to help.” She was beginning to fret around the woman, gathering the kimono back before it would fall to the floor, trying to rush over to the Madam’s side while keeping the luxurious garment in her arms.

The Madam shook her head. “No need to call me Lady in private, just call me Eliceyn. And there’s no need to call for help. These will heal in time. Besides, I got paid enough to support us for two weeks, so this is a small price to pay to keep everyone here fed.”

Eliceyn held her arms out, waiting for the young woman to help her slip her arms into the sleeves of her new garments. Despite her hesitation, she followed the orders of her boss with reluctance. Carefully putting the garment on the Madam, she made sure not to brush against any part of her body that sustained an injury, even helping her sit back down on the cushion when she was dressed once more.

“My la--” The young woman stopped herself, clearing her throat. “Eliceyn, why did you do this to yourself? Money is not worth it if you let someone beat you; you would throw out anyone here who would do that to us. Why do you put up with it yourself?” As she continued to ask her questions, the young woman took Eliceyn’s hair out of it’s bindings, grabbing a brush that she had shoved in her pocket, carefully letting the Madam’s hair pass through the delicate bristles.

“It’s my duty to make sacrifices for my employees, dear.” The Madam closed her eyes, letting her ‘assistant’ do her job. “Besides, if I didn’t take the hit, someone else here would have. I cut off his contract here after that, and told him to look for a husband if he wants someone to fight.”

The young woman raised a brow, moving aside the locks of hair she brushed through, carefully working out any knots or tangles. “What do you mean, Eliceyn? Did he want someone specific?”

Eliceyn gave a nod, though she remained silent for a brief moment. “He wanted the new girl. The small one who we took in a month ago. The one who has been helping the others and taking care of cleaning. I told him she wasn’t available, and that he would need to pick someone, or I could set him up with someone.”

“Why wasn’t she available? If she’s not here to learn the trade, then why is she here?”

“She’s just a child. I’m not going to sell her soul to a disgusting pervert for coin.” The Madam went silent. “She was on the streets begging for coin. I felt pity; so I offered her a job, but said that if anyone tried to lay a hand on her, then it’ll be the last time they have hands.”

“I see...” The young woman continued to tend to Eliceyn’s hair, showing extreme gentleness, and care in every stroke. “I am glad to see that you care, Madam. There are not many who have a generous heart like you do. Pity you don’t let others see this side of you.” The young woman chuckled softly under her breath, smiling after seeing the softer, more protective side of the Madam.

The Madam let out a huff, a coy smirk curling on her lips. “You tell anyone about this and I’ll have you washing the floors for a week AND tending to the laundry.”

The young woman snickered. “Alright, deal.”

#My Writing #Eliceyn Birch

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shinneth · 5 years ago

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subject to future deletion

Normally I wouldn’t resort to that and I might end up being too lazy to do it anyway, but between getting sick again, dealing with some very intense verbal abuse every day irl, and the monthly burdens of the gender, I’m really not in a good place right now and I need to vent something.

It’s officially gotten bad enough to interfere with my ability to write, even though I’m at a point in my current story that I’ve been very eager to reach... and every step of the way I’m struggling to write it and I hate what I currently have and it’s taking everything in my current power to not just scrap it entirely.

Basically, I think I’m failing as a writer.

The irl stuff is actually not what I’m gonna get into because it’s really nothing new and it’ll probably resolve itself, but the side-effect of suffering that kind of negativity is that it enhances lingering negative feelings you’ve had about other things.

Namely, things you do to get away from the pains of the real world. The things you do to have fun and get some enjoyment out of life, no matter how challenging it is to be in this thing because it’s so wrongfully derided and demonized by the majority of your peers.

I try to keep telling myself it’s just because I’m still relatively very new to the fandom compared to my contemporaries, but as I’m typing this right now and listening to my favorite wrestler Shelton Benjamin in an interview, immediately I see the pit I’m starting to fall into.

Like, it’s uncanny. This is what he said as I started on the above paragraph:

“If I sit and constantly compare myself to other people’s successes, you would drive yourself crazy. Because no matter what, there’s always someone who’s gonna be more successful.”

“I need to remember where I come from; how far I’ve came.”

Basically, in the very small world of Stevidot (and to a lesser extent, SU’s fandom as a whole), despite my efforts, I feel very much like the Shelton Benjamin in a small, dedicated group of talented Stevidot content creators.

Which is to say, I’m basically a midcarder in the mix with a bunch of top-tier legends. Shelton graduated from the same group as some modern very well-known mainstream stars that I can easily associate with a very well-known and accomplished Stevidot contributor.

Shelton graduated with the likes of John Cena, Brock Lesnar, Dave Batista, and Randy Orton. At least half of those names should be at least vaguely familiar for my followers as most of them have had such great success that they’re known in avenues beyond wrestling (save for Randy Orton, but he’s well past outshined his father as a legendary wrestler who’ll never be forgotten).

I could easily say Watcher is the John Cena of Stevidot, while Platon’s probably the Brock Lesnar... sinderella0069′s the Batista. But I honestly don’t feel like I’ve done enough (or stood out enough) to even be a Randy Orton for this pairing. I’d at least give that honor to Ig just for being so active with it on Tumblr despite the wave of hatred thrown her way (even though she’s shifted focus onto Stevinel now).

Again, I keep trying to tell myself that it’s because I’m not even remotely as tenured in the fandom as any of them are.

Then I see this said in a review on a very recently-made Stevidot story...

And said reviewer has not once ever left a review on any Stevidot story of mine. Not even a follow or a favorite or a goddamned kudos. Considering I currently have an actively-updated Stevidot story going on (and a two-shot that I just did last month), I highly doubt my stuff was just overlooked.

Now, is it true that Stevidot is hard to come by? Of course it is. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a fellow Stevidot fan lament about the lack of Stevidot content while completely disregarding anything I contribute.

I know there’s one that outright doesn’t like my content based on personal taste (nothing to do with Stevidot itself, just how I execute it). There’s another big-name who shows no interest whatsoever in reading what I have to offer - and at this point I feel that’s for the best, because I have a feeling they’d hate my execution as well.

While I’ve always primarily written for myself, I also felt a great fulfillment for providing content for a niche crowd that really deserves more than what they have. I think Stevidot’s a fantastic pairing with tons of unexplored potential and should be much more readily available than it actually is. Even if I tend to not get many reviews, I keep track of the site traffic every day on my stories and I know for sure that there are people reading my stuff. Since I’m really bad at leaving reviews myself, I go out of my way not to whine about not having very many overall for my series since I’d be a huge-ass hypocrite to do so.

However.

Statements like the the aforementioned review and statements I’ve seen elsewhere by those who I know are at least aware of me are like stakes through the heart.

Because it can only mean one thing: my content doesn’t count.

I’m honestly not sure which is worse for me; being critically panned for the stuff I’ve put my all into over the past year, or being treated like my stuff doesn’t even exist.

I prided myself on contributing as much as I did for Stevidot over this past year. Quantity doesn’t = automatic quality, but I’ve got 20+ years of writing experience in, so even someone with a shit self-esteem like myself can’t just say I’m an objectively bad writer, because I’m not.

But apparently it doesn’t matter that I put in over half a million worlds in the name of Stevidot to a good chunk of the very tiny Stevidot fanbase; according to them, my contributions are irrelevant.

Is it my fault?

One thing I will admit is a detriment to my particular brand of Stevidot is that, save for one story (which happens to be by far my most successful Stevidot story in terms of recognition numbers), the rest of my series follows a continuous narrative that greatly deviates from canon as of Change Your Mind. I’m also notoriously a very verbose kind of writer - I have the tl;dr curse something fierce.

So all stories I’ve written since my main 3-act series (which ended up being nearly 200k in length on its own) have been direct sequels to that. Because of the heavy deviation from CYM, the environment of the following stories is very different and easy to get lost in if you skipped GA entirely.

Because there are so many dangling threads and new opportunities to be had after GA ended, I basically committed myself to my AU.

It’s not like anyone else is going to explore these possibilities.

Beyond that, honestly, I just don’t want to rewire my brain back to the canon status quo - not after the shitloads of character development I’ve not only given Steven and Peridot, but nearly everyone at this point has had a moment or two of really intense character growth.

I like having Peridot co-star with Steven. I like having her become a more competent and active teammate than she’s portrayed in canon (while still giving her comic relief moments). I like that I didn’t redeem the Diamonds and instead had them killed off to force our protagonists to deal with the fallout of the collapse of a mighty empire on a much grander scale than what’s going on in the actual show.

In a way, this AU of mine has helped me cope with the shortcomings of the show itself. I already went on a stupid tirade once about how the sadistic nature of my writing has basically made me no-sell whatever trauma Rebecca Sugar’s throwing on Steven and upsetting everyone else. I’m still fairly certain I’m still outdoing her in that department.

And because 100% of my passion for creating Stevidot is through this narrative I weaved, I have no desire to leave it.

So I’ll admit my stories aren’t exactly the most accessible to the average reader who hasn’t been following my work since Day 1.

Then again... I first got into Sinderella’s series completely ass-backwards at first. I eventually read it in the proper order, and like many of the great Stevidot epics, it’s canon divergent from a much earlier point in the series, so it was very easy to get confused about why certain things happened differently at first... but ultimately, I wasn’t that bothered by it because I just wanted some good Stevidot. I’d figure out the finer details later.

I really do owe this author more props than I’ve actually given - she’s one out of two readers I know for a fact have been following my series since the beginning without missing a beat. I’ll probably review her newest story sooner or later now that it’s complete.

Not gonna lie, though... when I saw our numbers side-by-side like this:

Considering they’re very similar stories (Stevidot smuts that were originally meant to be one-shots), mine is over a month old and hers is only a few days old and there’s already that big of a gap in our numbers?

It’s hard not to feel like a failure; like I did something horribly wrong to suck this bad by comparison.

I really should stress that I bear no ill will against Sinderella or any Stevidot author; this isn’t a competition, so this isn’t a matter of popularity. I knew coming into this that I wouldn’t get popular overnight; especially not with such an unpopular ship being the focus of my story.

But when other Stevidot stories get frequent reviewers that I’ve never seen once acknowledge my stories even passively, I can’t help but feel like I’ve massively fucked up somewhere. That despite all my efforts, I might as well be invisible. When they say “Oh, good thing your story is here! It’s been such a Stevidot drought around here until you came along!” to other authors after I’ve written half a million fucking words in under a year for this ship...

You know, is it unreasonable to feel that I utterly fucking failed in several ways?

I guess it’s no wonder why I’m struggling to keep writing. I still want to - like I said, I’m at a part I’ve been eager to write for a while now - but ever since I started it, I’ve just hated almost all of what I have so far (almost 8k words). And I’m really having trouble trying to salvage it.

I’m honestly not the type who’d scrap all my progress and start from scratch once I’ve gotten this far in. But maybe I’ll have to make an exception this time, because I think I finally made the mistake of trying to write while being mentally and emotionally distraught.

I thought I’d calm down once I wrote all this out, but honestly, I’m not really feeling it. Now I’m wondering if I should have just reached out to someone instead of making this, because now I’ll come off as a whiner with my pansy-ass first-world problems.

But then again, I’d be an asshole to subject anyone to my idiotic woes.

Maybe this’ll pass. I’m hoping it’ll pass. I really, really really really don’t want to lose my drive to write again. I was used to it coming and going in short and random spurts for almost all my life - then it finally came to me and stayed with me just a little under a year ago, and I’ve been desperate not to let it go because I’ve been more productive now than I’ve ever been in my 20+ tenure as a writer.

I don’t want this to go away. There’s still so much more I want to tell.

But then my logic goes... if you tell the story and no one’s there to hear it, is it ever really told?

#irl shit #stevidot #fanfiction #writing #self-esteem issues #self-worth issues #a cry for help #or therapy #or something #I probably shouldn't have made this #where did i go wrong

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audiencestudies · 5 years ago

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Marvel “Stans” and Brown’s Four Processes of Audience Involvement

“Only the most pop culturally isolated English speakers don’t know what the word “stan” means. Its origins lie in Eminem’s 2000 hit song “Stan,” about an overzealous fan, and has come to describe anyone who takes their love of a particular artist or entertainment franchise to new extremes” States Ann-Derrick Gaillot in her article, “When ‘Stan’ Became a Verb”. The term now floats around in several fan-based communities, or fandoms, for short. The Marvel Cinematic Universe has made such a great impact on pop culture with their transmedia storytelling through films, comics, and television series. Outside of the “canon” content comes the realm of fans, producing fanwork, fanart, and social media accounts dedicated to their beloved characters. On the extreme end of this practice are the engaged super-fans, or “Stans”, a term that goes beyond the simple use of “fan”. William J. Brown describes four processes of audience involvement that, when examined, can explain the practices of these Marvel Stans, and why they become so involved in this fantasy world.

Transportation

“A highly transported individual is cognitively and emotionally involved in the story” (Green, 2004), engaging in transportation described not only one’s involvement in a story, but also with the characters of a story. Green and Brown continue to describe the suggestion of “transportation into a narrative world” to describe the immersion of audiences, or how self-proclaimed Stans can become lost in a story. Transported individuals can identify with the characters, and some take this to the extreme, as evident with fanfiction self-inserts. This type of storytelling involves the author as the character itself, and several works of this genre can be found on popular sites such as Wattpad and Archive of our Own. This act exemplifies the definition of transportation, as the author is not only delving into the fictional world, but becoming involved as a character themselves. They interact with the characters, become situated in familiar, fictional, environments while establishing their own creative narrative. Individuals become cognitively and emotionally involved in the story, especially as they write from their own perspectives. Stans feel like they belong in these stories, and go to the extreme of inserting themselves into the already established events as seen in canon fandom media types.

Parasocial Interaction

“A decade after Merton’s study was published; Horton and Wohl (1956) published their seminal study of PSI. They described PSI as imaginary interaction between a television viewer and a television personality, which over time may develop into a self-defined one-way relationship called a parasocial relationship.” (Horton & Wohl, 1956) The study of parasocial interactions comes from a psychological perspective and focuses on how media personae can influence the development of an adolescents’ self-concept. People can form imaginary relationships with media personae through the consumption of media texts. Marvel Stans once again prove themselves to be an ideal example of participants in parasocial interaction, as evident by social media. Occasionally it is hard to determine whether these young enthusiasts really do think they are in romantic relationships with the characters and the actors who portray them. I am ashamed to admit that as a previous super fan back in my blunder-years, I participated in this almost creepy form of parasocial interaction, where my friends and I would create Facebook accounts for fictional characters and interact with them as if they were live, legitimate accounts.

Identification

“Kelman conceptualized identification as a process of social influence. He believed identification involves the internalization of the attitudes, beliefs and values of the object of identification by the person who is being influenced. Identification occurs from this perspective when an individual adopts the attitudes, values, beliefs or behavior of another individual or group based on a ‘self-defining’ relationship” (Kelman, 1961, p. 63). It is not uncommon for Stans to internalize the attitudes, values and beliefs as they desire the connection it provides. People can identify with media personae without any face-to-face interaction due to the adoption of behaviours. Marvel consumers can take the perspectives of the media personas they follow. Cosplayers and roleplayers use identification as a form of pleasure, they can dress up like and adopt the mannerisms of those they see on the big-screen. The practice of identification can also meet extreme ends, and as Brown mentions, sometimes in identification, one needs to forget themselves in order to become the other. If you have ever been to a major event such as Comic Con, then you are familiar with the extremes that some of these cosplayers will go to; refusing to break character, spending hundreds of dollars on costume accessories and some even extending their practice beyond the event itself, and adopting an online persona of the characters they play. Remaining in character, or identifying, shifts from being a full-time job, to a lifestyle choice.

Worship

“The most recently conceptualized and most intense form of involvement with media personae is identified as worship. Focusing on audience involvement with celebrities, John Maltby and his colleagues have explored how media consumers tend to idolize celebrity personae, even to degree that they consider such involvement to emulate worship” (Maltby et al, 2004). Stan accounts are probably the most prevalent example of celebrity worship, with some of these fans displaying religious, even cult-like attitudes towards the actors who play these characters they adore. As Brown states in his article, celebrities are sometimes given the attention and status normally given to a deity. We hear examples of over-the-top fans who worship to the point where they would kill for their idols. Thankfully, in my research I have come across no such extremes with the marvel fanatics. Three levels of worship are described in Brown’s reading with the low-levels including simple acts such as following the lives of celebrities, talking about them and finding others who share the same feelings of their favourite stars. This is evident all over the social media realm, with Stan accounts following the verified accounts of the ones they worship, retweeting and following who they follow. The medium and high levels of celebrity worship start to take on a more intense role, and become what is described as slightly pathological. Higher levels of celebrity worship can be abnormal and harmful, and this accounts for fans that go to the extreme of stalking their idols and threatening the ones who come close to the ones they love. This picture portraying Marvel character Bucky Barnes as Jesus Christ is obviously satirical, but sometimes not far from the way some fans view the people they worship.

Sources

Brown, W. (2015). Examining four processes of audience involvement with media personae: Transportation, parasocial interaction, identification, and worship. Communication Theory, 25, 259-283.

Gaillot, A.-D. (2017, October 26). When "stan" became a verb. Retrieved from https://theoutline.com/post/2425/when-stan-became-a-verb?zd=2&zi=5uphh3mk.

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komahinasecretexchange · 7 years ago

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Title : Making sense

Author : @alyssaleandra (komakaikoma on twitter)

For : @fhantomhives

Rating/Warnings : G, mentions of Hinata’s surgical scars

Prompt : for the fic - first date; for the fanart - soft forehead touch

Author/Artist’s note : I hope the recipient enjoys!! I tried to make something very gentle and heartwarming! There is an image embedded within the story.

Things are hard when the former Class 77-B ship off to real life Jabberwock Island. Unlike its virtual counterpart, it’s been abandoned for who knows how long, and it shows. There’s insect infestations to counteract, living quarters to rebuild, water sources to purify… Hinata never imagined he’d see his friends farming, but here they are with Imposter (who everyone still affectionately refers to as Togami because it’s familiar) assigning tilling duties for the week. They can’t rely on Naegi and the others on mainland to supply too much, lest they out their location to those who’d prefer to see the Remnants of Despair at the bottom of the ocean.

Hinata knows that the others are looking to him for some measure of guidance, even if no one’s said anything outright. He’s Kamukura Izuru, after all. The Ultimate of Ultimates. The one who babysat everyone’s pods until each was safely out of cryosleep and in recovery plans that mainly he (and later Tsumiki) was responsible for formulating. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s had his fair share of being an Ultimate, and he’s happy to take the supporting role to more charismatic figures like Sonia and Togami. The irony of longing for a normal life is not lost on him, but he thinks undergoing a major brain surgery, surviving a killing game, and getting spit out into a completely changed real world is enough excitement for a lifetime. He’s earned a bit of normalcy.

…So of course he’d find himself fawning over Komaeda Nagito, of all people, once things have settled down around Jabberwock. Hinata’s bewildered by it when he realizes what’s happened; it’s like an errant seed found root in his heart while he was distracted with fixing cottage roofs, then budded while he was modifying meal plans, and then the second he had a chance to breathe and check in on himself, full blown feelings had blossomed right under his nose.

It’s hard, and a little frustrating, that it had to be Komaeda, because nothing’s ever been easy with Komaeda. Hinata had nursed something of a crush on the boy when they’d “met” in the virtual world and he thought that Komaeda was just a kindhearted oddball with a pretty face. That whole thing got dashed to pieces during their time in the program once he realized there was at least a few dozen more layers to Komaeda he had yet to scratch the surface of, let alone come close to ever comprehending. It was unthinkable, for a time, that he’d ever be able to feel anything other than confusion with a tinge of what he can only describe as unease towards Komaeda. Now, though, with everyone recovering and filling in the cracks left by their past lives, he feels a bit like he first did on that digital shoreline in the beginning.

Except, no, it’s more profound this time because he feels like really understanding Komaeda is something that’s within arm’s reach for him, rather than an amorphous, far-off concept.

He can’t pretend to fully follow all of the hope-obsessed boy’s fervid ramblings about life and fate, but… nowadays, it’s almost endearing. It’s just routine enough that it’s become comforting. Like Komaeda’s some piece of music that was too dense and intimidating for Hinata to really appreciate the first time he heard it, but now he’s developed the taste for it.

It helps that Komaeda’s achingly pretty, and Hinata’s always been slightly weak for the quirky pretty ones. Even during their conflicts in the program, Hinata had to reel himself out of those serene gray eyes sometimes—really yank himself out of a few unwanted idle daydreams about the Ultimate Luck who caused everyone so much grief, and yet—and yet—Hinata never could shake the desperate desire to figure him out. He’d always thought if he could solve the inscrutable puzzle that was Komaeda, just maybe they could be on equal footing again someday.

And so, it’s somewhat frustrating that it had to be Komaeda because Hinata knows by now how complicated Komaeda likes to make things for himself (and everyone around him), but it also makes perfect sense that the living science experiment known as Hinata Hajime would set his sights on the shining beacon of maladaptive coping mechanisms known as Komaeda Nagito. Since when has Hinata ever taken the path of least resistance for anything?

They aimlessly spend time together just like they did back in the program before things really went south. They do chores together, tag-team scavenging together, and spend cool off periods walking down the beach together. Komaeda still tends to fret over doing anything where his misfortune flares could pose a threat to Hinata, but they’ve managed to go unscathed thus far.

They’re sitting hip-to-hip on the sand and watching the sunset after a particularly lengthy conversation about their childhoods, when it occurs to Hinata that this is basically a date. He feels his heart kickstart at the notion and a heat creep across his face, and he’s suddenly scared to move or even so much as glance at the boy next to him, lest Komaeda be made aware of Hinata’s sudden onslaught of self-consciousness. He’s kept completely quiet about his festering feelings for Komaeda and never once dared to imply that anything between them means any more or less than what he has with everyone else on the island. He’s shy, sure, but he also just isn’t certain of Komaeda can handle that kind of information. He can practically see the spiral that would unfurl if Komaeda were to confront the reality of knowing that someone cared for him.

“Oh, sorry, did I say too much? Ahaha… I never know when to stop talking…”

Hinata’s ears tune in to the sad note in Komaeda’s voice, and he realizes he’s been spacing out. “No, no! I just got lost in thought, sorry about that.” His throat feels tight, and there’s a dozen things he wants to say but doesn’t know how to. “Um… Komaeda?”

“Yes?” Komaeda tilts his head, attentive.

“I was wondering if… well, if you wanted to—to come over to my cottage tonight?” It’s funny, really, the way everyday words rattle up his ribs and get stuck on his tongue like they’re something profound or difficult, given everything else he’s been through by comparison. It’s funny and embarrassing and so normal that it would make Hinata laugh if he weren’t preoccupied with not humiliating himself in front of Komaeda right now. “Just to… I dunno, hang out. Maybe we could… watch one of the movies that Asahina-san sent over for us.”

Komaeda’s eyes widen just a little as he processes this invitation before relaxing back to their usual calm state. “Hinata-kun, aren’t we hanging out already? Or am I mistaken?”

“W-well, yeah! But this is…” Hinata’s voice drops to a fragile murmur, “…different.”

“Different? Hmm… I see.” Hinata isn’t sure what it is that Komaeda sees, and that makes him nervous. The slightly taller boy stands up and dusts sand off his bottom. “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

And he smiles, framed by oncoming nighttime and high tide, and Hinata’s heart stutters. Okay, cool, he accepted it without being weird. Even if I didn’t really explicitly call it a date or anything. God, my collar feels tight right now. He tugs at the offending collar and tries for a casual smile. “Cool. Cool.”

They follow the road back to the inland.

Silence transpires, and in the bit of quiet, Hinata takes note of Komaeda’s hands swinging gently at his sides. Hinata’s never thought about the idea of holding them before, at least not in public, but once it crosses his mind, he can’t stop thinking about it. How would Komaeda react if he just… went for it? Would he be startled? Angry? Beyond that, how would it feel? Would it be clammy? Soft? Would it feel good? …Well, the hand closest to him is the metal one, so that’s irrelevant.

A past Hinata might have been content to let the idea remain as just an idea, but the Hinata now knows that if he wants something, he should probably chase after it without sweating the details so much. He reaches out and takes the mechanical left hand into his right. It takes Komaeda a moment to notice, due to a lack of nerve endings.

“Oh…” he says faintly, too caught off guard for much else.

“Sh-should I not…?”

They’ve both stopped walking so that Komaeda can stare down at their point of contact. He’s yet to put on any kind of discernible emotion about it. “No, it’s okay. It’s—nice. But it’s scary, too.”

“Scary??” Hinata’s grip loosens, prepared to drop the other boy’s hand and forget he ever tried.

“Because it’s so nice.” Slowly, carefully, internal mechanisms work together to tighten Komaeda’s hold on Hinata so that the connection isn’t lost. “It’s… hard to not wonder when my luck might strike again. And I know you have luck now, too, somewhere inside of you… But…” He shakes his head and dismisses the thought. “Never mind. Let’s get going.”

Hinata wants to protest and prod Komaeda into finishing what he was saying, but the gentle pull of Komaeda’s hand takes his attention by the reins. He hasn’t rejected Hinata, and he isn’t running away. That small realization fills Hinata with relief that he didn’t know he was hoping for. His step feels lighter as he catches up to his friend’s side.

Hinata sets up a tape on an old CRT that Souda put together, sits on the floor with Komaeda, and immediately finds himself regretting suggesting a movie. It’s impossible to focus with so many things weighing on his mind and the subject of his inner turmoil right next to him.

As if sensing Hinata’s thoughts, Komaeda leans against him, so warm and tangible on his shoulder. It seems he’s equally unengaged with the movie before them. “Hey, Hinata-kun. Would you mind telling me that you hate me?”

“…Huh?” The odd request catches Hinata off guard. “Why on earth would I ever say that??”

“It’d be the greatest comfort to me right now. The bad luck of being hated by you… maybe it’d make everything even. Maybe I could enjoy being at your side like this a little longer without fearing what might come next. But I’m too much of a coward to actually try to make you hate me anymore.” He outstretches his right hand, flexing and relaxing the muscles. Even as he talks of being hated, he nuzzles closer into Hinata’s shoulder, as if afraid Hinata really will say he hates him. “I used to try so hard to invite disaster in my life when things were going too well. It scared me so much to enjoy the quiet moments. It scares me even now, to be close to you and have your friendship. I always tell myself that I need to stop being selfish and push you away for your own good, but… then I see you every morning, still alive, still smiling, and my greedy heart can’t help but want to bask in you.”

He shifts and makes direct eye contact with Hinata. As frank as he can be at times, Komaeda always tends to direct his gaze elsewhere during conversations. His hand, or his feet, or just somewhere in the far distance. It always makes him feel unreachable. But this time, his stare is open and earnest. “After everything that happened, I wonder what my standing with luck even is anymore. I died in the program… but then I was alive. But then I had the apocalypse and my own horrible actions to clean up after.” He reflexively rubs where metal and flesh meet on his left arm. “So in the end, was that all good luck or…”

And Komaeda cuts himself off, like he’ll never find an answer unless he just takes action already, and he leans into Hinata and brushes trembling lips against a dumbstruck mouth. His eyes are rife with a dozen conflicting emotions, as Komaeda often is, but this time it feels as though one wrong move will make him burst and everything will come spilling out unfiltered. His eyes widen in something akin to surprise, as if he wasn’t in control of his own actions. Before Komaeda has the chance to overthink things or run away, Hinata catches him by a jacket lapel and pulls him close. He uses his other hand to wrap gently around the back of Komaeda’s head, reveling in soft white curls, and pulls their foreheads together.

“Do you feel them? The scars, I mean.” Hinata pulls his short bangs aside. “Sometimes I forget they’re there. But they remind me of everything we all went through… that we’ve seen hell and death and everything in between, and we’re still here. In the grand scheme of things,” he gestures between them, “this isn’t going to be what ends the world. …At least, that’s what I think.”

Komaeda’s quiet, for a bit. He inhales like he forgot to breathe. Then he breaks, and laughs, and laughs. His eyes water from the force of it. “Aha-hahaha! Hahaha! Ha…” He holds Hinata for support, and Hinata holds him back. Once the fit has passed, he sniffs and straightens up, face still slightly quirked with hysteria. “Perhaps—perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s arrogant to think luck cares that much about what makes me happy. Maybe it never cared. I’ve been wondering about that lately. It’s a scary thought.”

On the surface, it’s a pessimistic notion, but for Komaeda to yield to the idea that, to some extent, things just happen and that he should do something that makes him happy without psyching himself out of it for once, is the kind of paradigm shift Hinata expects only a virtual death and rebirth could have brought about. “Luck never cared about what any of us wanted. Not just me. And maybe it’s giving luck too much credit to say that it’s what brought me to you.” Then Komaeda does something unexpected—tilting his chin upwards at a pretty angle and kissing the raised skin of Hinata’s forehead scars. “But whatever did, I’m glad for it. I’m… unspeakably glad that you’re still here after everything, Hinata-kun.”

It’s always a toss-up with Komaeda on whether or not his penchant for saying really vulnerable things will embarrass him. This ends up being one of the times where it does, and he flushes a bright red and looks away, direct eye contact finally too much for him. He’s nearly confessed to Hinata once before, but that was ages ago in the program, under far different circumstances. Perhaps this is the first time Komaeda’s ever been really honest about how much Hinata means to him. No wrapping it up in vague non sequiturs about talent and hope. Just, “I’m glad you’re here.”

It’s more powerful than a typical confession in some regards.

“Me too. I’m glad you’re here, too.” Hinata feels his face burning as well, but he tries to will himself to remain cool. “…This feels pretty dumb to say now, but I was trying to ask you on a date earlier. So, uh, this is a date. …If you want it to be. I feel like, after… y’know, everything, we need things like this. Normal things.”

Komaeda smiles genuinely, and fondness bears down on Hinata full-force at the sight. “I figured that was what you were trying to get at. It’s really funny, Hinata-kun, when I look at you and think about how your sheer will power broke us out of the killing game and probably saved us all, and yet you can’t even ask someone out without being absurdly awkward about it. I think it’s something I like about you.”

Hinata burns more furiously but can’t find the words to retort, instead opting to fold his arms and stare at the ceiling. “W-well… yeah. Those are two totally different things!! Maybe if lives were on the line, I could find it in me to ask you out a little more tactfully…”

“Hmm, I see, so saving lives is easier than trying to date me, huh? I suppose that’s fair…”

“Hey, you…” Hinata snags Komaeda’s jacket lapels again and pulls him close. The banter ceases, and the two enjoy a normal date, like they deserve.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanart #fanfiction

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spectral-musette · 7 years ago

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I just finished reading Thrawn: Alliances by Timothy Zahn, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, as expected.

If anybody was holding back because they hadn’t yet read Thrawn but they’re still excited or curious about the Thrawn and Anakin or the Thrawn and Vader team up, there’s not really any need. Alliances stands alone very well.

(some spoilers to follow, both for the novel itself and references to the end of Rebels)

I wouldn’t even say that Season 3 of Rebels is necessarily required viewing to read Alliances, though it does set the scene. The novel picks up shortly after the finale of S3, so there are some Rebels spoilers, but fairly old ones (I mean, you could probably deduce that Thrawn doesn’t capture the Ghost crew at the end of S3 by the fact that a S4 exists, right?)

It also confirms that Vader stepped back from the pursuit of Kanan and Ezra at the end of S2 because Palpatine tugged on the leash and smacked him with a rolled up newspaper. Vader is fixated on Thrawn’s inability to capture the Spectres at Atollon, going so far as to suspect that Thrawn might be a Jedi sympathizer. Ironically of course, this isn’t completely untrue. Vader knows that Thrawn had been a willing ally to Anakin once, and that the two had parted in mutual respect at least, if not tenuous friendship. It’s just that Thrawn’s sympathies don’t necessarily dictate Thrawn’s actions.

On some level, Vader is asking the same question that the reader might be asking (and I’ve asked as a reader many times): how can Thrawn, a keenly intelligent, charismatic person of some degree of principle, serve Palpatine, who is clearly very evil? Vader’s ongoing question is whether Thrawn’s first loyalty is to the Empire, or whether ultimately he still has a higher loyalty to the Chiss Ascendancy. And in the deepest, most hidden part of Vader where Anakin still lives, does he want the answer to be the latter?

The two time periods are completely intermixed. The effect is a little like flipping channels between an episode of Clone Wars and an episode of Rebels (albeit one featuring only Imperials). But it’s done in such a way that the interconnected storylines unfold simultaneously, with the reader getting just the right amount of information at the right time. It’s well done and basically effortless to follow along with. The chapter breaks often feature dramatic narrative parallels between the two stories.

TZ’s narrative voices for Clone Wars era Anakin and Padme are both very well done. Anakin is delightfully pissy and competitive with Thrawn, and the way that the two characters find their footing as allies highlights the fact that they’re both brilliant, just in different ways. We’re used to seeing characters like Pellaeon (or even Eli Vanto in Thrawn) being quite outpaced by Thrawn’s machinations. Anakin (and Vader) is perfectly capable of following, he just tends to attack problems in different ways, and Thrawn periodically goes along with Anakin(Vader)’s more aggressive solutions.

Padme’s adventure on her own is entertaining as well. She spends a bit of it rather stuck, stranded and waiting for Anakin to show up as reinforcements, but it didn’t come off as too damselly to me, just that she’s biding her time and planning her next moves.

Thrawn spends about 5 minutes with the two of them before he’s totally convinced that they’re a couple (despite their protestations to the contrary), which he clearly already suspected just from the way Anakin talked about Padme anyway. I could’ve done with a little more romance – Anakin and Padme’s dramatic reunion is pretty dampened by “let’s not make out in front of the blue guy” (he knows anyway, so why bother?). Not that I don’t appreciate the romance that I was given; I just would’ve liked a little more.

And TZ’s handling of Vader’s point of view was interesting. Anytime Vader is forced to recall something that happened to him as Anakin, he internally refers to his former self as “The Jedi”, avoiding the mere mention of his name as much as possible. He doesn’t even tell Thrawn that he killed Anakin (as he told Ahsoka at Malachor), merely repeating that Anakin Skywalker is dead. It rings very true to the character and the state of dissociated identity that he should be in at this point, still a few years before he discovers that Padme’s son is alive.

My big question as a reader was, of course: will Thrawn figure out that Vader was once Anakin Skywalker? Spoilers, naturally he does. But where we pick up the story, he seems to already suspect strongly enough to very deliberately namedrop Anakin and set verbal traps regarding their past adventure. It all reads very well, but I’m still left wondering what Thrawn’s first clues were. How do you look at Vader, and think, ah yes, this must be the passionate, reckless golden adonis I once met? You can’t really say it’s that Vader appeared as Palpatine’s apprentice right after Anakin’s death, because Vader’s appearance coincides with the deaths of the majority of the Jedi Order. I don’t doubt that Thrawn could figure it out, but I would’ve liked to know when it first occurred to him.

And because Thrawn treats Vader, in some respects, how he treated Anakin, Vader has moments where he tends to act in a slightly, marginally more Anakin-like fashion around Thrawn. There are moments when the troops in the First Legion expect a reprimand from Vader that never comes. And the moment that Vader chooses to hold back from Force-choking Thrawn shows that on some level he still wants to prove himself Thrawn’s equal at his own game of tactics and observation and intellect rather than merely cow him with a display of dark power. Ultimately it’s fleeting though - Thrawn finally accepts Vader’s insistence that Anakin is dead, and we know that they won’t share a stage again before Vader’s redemption and Anakin’s (final) death.

The story also makes a Nature-of-the-Force statement by telling us that, to Thrawn’s knowledge, Force Sensitivity manifests in the Chiss only in very limited ways. That is, the Chiss navigate deep space via the precognitive abilities of Sensitives, but that Force sensitive Chiss are only gifted with precognition, only female, and that their sensitivity fades over time. I’m feeling…skeptical about this. It’s possible that Thrawn’s knowledge of these matters is limited (he admits that it’s pretty secretive), or that Chiss culture is actually shaping the experience of the Sensitives? Maybe precognition is the only skill they’re encouraged to develop? Maybe it’s only tested for in girls? Maybe the girls are permitted to retire from their stressful careers as navigators when they reach a certain age and live normal lives? We’ve seen Jedi knights from dozens of species, and while different Jedi certainly seem to have different gifts, we’ve always been led to think that this just varied by the individual, not that there were definite species-specific limitations.

This does clarify the fact that Thrawn’s pilot/navigator in the Clone Wars era storyline who never appears on page is in fact a little girl or a young woman. (What did the story look like from her point of view? How curious she must’ve been about Anakin! What is her dynamic with Thrawn like?) And so, at the end of Rebels, with Ezra Bridger and Thrawn cast blindly into Wild space/The Unknown Regions by the Purrgil’s hyperjump, this actually is a situation that Thrawn is relatively familiar with – he could presumably help Ezra figure out how to navigate via the Chiss method? And, if they end up in Chiss territory, Ezra could open up the horizons of the Chiss navigators to Jedi abilities they’ve perhaps always had but never developed? The idea of Ezra trying to train a herd of tiny Chiss girls in Jedi teachings is somehow pleasing. It’s an interesting seed planted here, and I would love to see what it flowers into, if things go in that direction.

Another interesting suggestion is that, because the Force sensitive Chiss navigators are called “sky walkers”, Anakin’s family name could’ve originated out in the Unknown Regions near Chiss space. Perhaps some precognitive Skywalker ancestor had a brush with the Chiss, and either took the epithet for the navigators as their surname, or, conversely, gave their surname to the profession. Or it could just be a coincidence.

I’m a little confused about Thrawn’s initial response to Anakin’s name. Either Anakin translated his surname into the trade language (which doesn’t make sense), or Thrawn already understands much more Galactic Basic at this point than he lets on (likely).

And I was pleased that, I’m pretty sure, Outbound Flight remains mostly canon-compliant. I know it’s not canon, but I’m very fond of it, and so far I don’t think anything in either Thrawn novel contradicts it in a major way.

And, as an aside, though I really enjoyed the Thrawn and Anakin dynamic, I can’t help but wonder what a team up between Thrawn and Obi-Wan would’ve been like. I don’t think that Obi-Wan would’ve felt intellectually threatened by Thrawn’s personality in the way that Anakin did. I also think Obi-Wan would’ve been much more curious about the Chiss, in contrast to Anakin’s single-minded focus on the mission/saving Padme, which Thrawn might’ve been quite wary about. I’m not really sure how I think they might’ve gotten along, only that the collaboration of two of the greatest tactical minds of the Star Wars galaxy must surely be a thing to witness?

On a note totally unrelated to the actual content of the book, I HATED the way that the matte dustcover of the book felt. I literally made blackberrycreek carry the book through Barnes and Noble for me. I read it with the dustcover off (not unusual for me), and I wasn’t pleased with the white-on-white binding either. I suspect that they were trying to evoke the white grand admiral’s uniform or something, but it just looked cheap to me. Anyway, that dustcover felt terrible, and also the B&N exclusive sticker was murder to remove and left a nasty adhesive residue, what the heck, go back to gloss, Del Rey.

#long post #book reviews with spectral musette #spoilers #truly this is very long #it kinda got away from me

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haynr · 6 years ago

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all blog info below the cut,

apologies now to my mobile users

RULES

Before we interact you must…

have a properly displayed muse

have easily accessible posted information regarding your muse in a section or page

have easily accessible posted rules / guidelines in a section or page

for AU’s, you must have posted information regarding your muse within the fandom universe in its own section or page

make sure I am following you

cut threads

I Won’t

roleplay sex, generally. there may be a few exceptions, but keep the standard that i probably won’t. sexual content, perhaps, if all muns involved are over 18. If we do, it is with the understanding muses involved will be aged up appropriately.

tolerate any sexual advances toward myself ooc

roleplay inserts

always follow back, nor will I follow personals

tolerate pressuring, be it to rp in general or consistent pestering to answer threads

answer everything in my inbox. It’s not often I ignore asks, but I won’t answer something if it violates my rules. If I have difficulty answering something, I will privately message senders or make public inquires about anonymous messages.

follow everyone back / interact with everyone, even if you technically follow all my rules. i’m selective.

Please Don’t:

reblog meme asks. I don’t mind this so much, but it keeps things cleaner when they’re moved to a new post.

reblog inbox answers for non starter memes. examples would be mun opinions and the like but extend to headcanons and other writing. violators will be asked to delete the post and may be blocked.

reblog threads you are not a part of. warnings will be given to violating rp blogs, but personals will be instantly blocked.

reblog personal posts, especial images of myself. violators will be instantly blocked. this means anything tagged ooc.

force ships with me. I am a p easy going shipper, but I will be a bit more restrictive with Hayner. most of it has to do with his muse in general. he’s not thinking about romance atm. if it comes up in plot, great. if it doesn’t, you’re more than welcome to put it forward, but please do not expect me to go along with it. on that note, don’t expect me to always agree with your interpretations of my muse in ships. ideas and suggestions are fine, your own take is fine, but i cannot stress enough, please do not push hcs.

I am open to

multiple threads

duplicates of other muses (i do not rp duplicates of my own muse, but I usually have other muses in the fandom which I will be more than happy to interact with there, no twins etc)

shipping, though I will be highly selective, possibly exclusive. I will not instant ship, but I don’t mind developing our muses’ relationship privately over DMs.

mutli verse and/or polyshipping as befits all the muses and muns involved

rping toxic relationships of any sort, will be tagged accordingly and placed under cuts.

angst and/or triggering threads, though I would prefer to discuss the thread and tagging beforehand

crack threads

select AUs

ask/tagged initiated threads/starters but I ask for some warning if they are not from a meme or other prompt

responses of any length, so long as it is enough to reasonably work with for the pace of our thread

group threads

generally questionable plots. regardless of whether or not I approve of such practices ooc isn’t usually relevant. this is fictional, exploration of an idea– not a real-world execution of that idea. Feel free to DM for details.

Please Also Note:

I do not require length to be matched and may not always match partner’s length. I will respond as much as I feel I am able to or that I feel is necessary.

If my response is inadequate, difficult to respond to, or otherwise distasteful, FEEL FREE to ask me to redo my response.

Understand that my selectivity will depend on my comfort level and that I am not obligated to explain myself.

I tag all my threads as “thread”

I tag my partner’s url

if partner’s url changes, I will tag both old and new urls for the first response then only the new url going forward.

I generally tag triggers as “trigger tw”. same with general cw’s. i’m not the best with tagging, so let me know if I should watch for stuff in particular

my activity is generally a joke, but I’m constantly lurking, so feel free to drop a message

I am incredibly anxious. It doesn’t matter if we have late night conversations for like a month straight i will still be afraid to talk to you every. single. time. so always feel free to come whack me on the head or smth

while I can be very laid back / crack-ish, I do prefer to explore darker themes and my thread responses are much more serious than I come off as.

Blacklisted / Ask to Tag:

food

nsfw (for general safe scrolling, just let me know what your tag is since t simply wont show not safe for wombats content anymore)

“little space” related

“daddy,” “mommy,” etc

literally anything in this vein. in the vaguest, most removed sense. idc what you tag it. either let me know or just tag it “jade don’t look” whatever.

in fact feel free to tag any and all of these as just “jade don’t look” or some variant.

a/o/b related

anything pregnancy related

vivid depiction of sensory / memory alteration (particularly in images, but not excluded to)

unreality (also especially, but not limited to, images)

Of course I can’t require people tag these, but I will most likely not follow you if your post these regularly and do not have some warning which will be picked up by blacklist applications.

In regards to the sensory alteration, I mean things like seeing/hearing/etc things that aren’t there, mis-remembering or outright tampering with memory, etc. It’s kind of situation to situation on what gets me, but when it does it tends to hit me pretty hard. If you have any questions about it, fire away! [ example text post ]

On unreality, this somewhat relates to the above, I use this as a catch all phrase for images, vivid descriptions, and most especially videos/gifs of things that basically don’t behave or seem to behave as they should. Sometimes, I’ve seen these things tagged as “trippy” and the like, but they those posts tend to be too…idk how to put it. Extra? What tends to get me is when things are going fairly linear and then suddenly go for a loop. That’s not the greatest description, but here’s a few posts that have triggered me the worst that I’ve slowly gotten used to. There are also things which should seem fine or normal but aren’t. If anyone has a better description for this, by all means let me know! example posts [ one ] / [ two ] / [ three ] + a weird image that also gets me for some reason. hmvent is actually a blog I use to store things that trigger me so I can slowly get used to them or try and figure out what it is / why these things get to me.

META

Hayner is a young lad who resides in the sleepy Twilight Town. He is described as “impulsive and determined, and is always looking for a new adventure. He is bold to the point of recklessness…He gets bored easily during uneventful times… also easily angered/irked…thirsts for some kind of recognition…” During the events of KHII, he is 15, the same as Roxas/Sora. He has deep brown eyes, dirty blond hair and is a bit tall and, while still skinny, muscular for his age. He is the leader of his quartet trio including Pence, Olette and Roxas himself.

While he does have parents, he’s rather distant from them. While he does receive support from his folks, they were just never really there. Because of this, his loyalties lie greatly with his chosen family, his friends. He considers it his duty to help, lead and, if needed, protect them, even if he’d never admit as much even to himself. If any of his actions or ideas end up hurting someone he cares about, he takes it very much to heart, often beating himself up about it for weeks and weeks after.

Hayner, despite his hotheadedness and brashness, is a very observant leader. His tough guy act, while not entirely based on this, is partially to build himself up, make other less inclined to pick fights with him and his friends. Whether or not this works out, however, is certainly debatable. He also does his best to incorporate his friends’ wants and needs– or at least what he perceives these as– into his plans.

As oblivious as he may seem, he is quite mindful of the people around him. Whether it’s picking out the shady figure on that street corner or this one, or noticing some random kid’s not having a good day - he sees a lot of it, but often it doesn’t strike as a huge priority. He thinks things through a lot more than he’s credited for, but unfortunately, he doesn’t go through the whole process before starting his plan of action.

Hayner also isn’t exactly the most social person. He is outgoing and nice to people out of politeness and giving people the benefit of the doubt, but as a whole he’d much rather just stick with his friends. The only exception to this has been Sora, as he feels a “familiar vibe” about him, and therefore is also open to his circle of friends.

A couple more misc hcs below:

Is a very exceptional swordsman (at least with the training swords). However, his skills do not seem as outstanding compared to that of Roxas and other more major characters.

As much as he hates school, his best subject science. And although one would think he’d be a good athlete because he is competitive, he actually doesn’t have good PE grades because he doesn’t try if he doesn’t have to. The only way to get him to really participate is to make it a competition.

MORE WILL BE ADDED MARCH, 2019 TO INCLUDE SPOILERS FOR KH3

AU Info will be added shortly.

#mobile rules #about blog #psa

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helenamayhathaway · 7 years ago

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can you write a barista au plsplspls :D

Pretty sure this has been done many times before but I’ll do it

Frank is daydreaming, he’s always daydreaming. Surrounded by the smell of roasting coffee and the quiet hustle and bustle of the city outside which leaks in from the door, it’s prime atmosphere to get lost in another world.

He’s not exactly a bad worker, because he’s a very mechanical person when he’s on the clock. His body is aware of how to take an order, how to make it, but his mind isn’t on this plain of existence and it never has been.

He mans the register, hearing Ray complain about something behind him as he pours heaps of caramel syrup into the blender.

“Kaitlin,” the girl says when he asks her for her name. Sometimes he finds himself in the middle of doing things without remembering he’s started them. Frank considers this name in his head and stews over any of a thousand different names to spell it on her cup. Katelyn. Kaitelin. Kaytelin. Kaitlyn. Frank settles for “Ka” and then makes a scribbling shape so that it’s not spelled any one way or another.

Another one walks in. This one’s name is Bryan. Or maybe it’s Ryan. Consonants are always getting lost. He scribbles something that resembles neither names. He could ask him to repeat the name, but he doesn’t really care that much. What’s the worst that’ll happen. They’ll post a picture of their misspelled name on Instagram with a dramatic face and a few people will laugh while other people will see the picture and think “damn, and I thought his name was Toby.”

Another face walks in, who surely has another name that belongs to him.

“Gerard.”

An old mans name, Frank thinks to himself. He enters the guys drink into the computer, before grabbing the cup and trying to remember the name he’d given. Gerald? Jared? It had that G sound in any case. Frank writes simple “G” followed by his normal scribble and hopes this is close enough.

More names walk in, it’s the morning rush after all, so everyone is getting their coffees before work One guy rushes in, clearly late for work, so he should be ordering coffee in the first place. Frank doesn’t pay any of these people any mind. Adam. Delaney. Wallace. Sam. Something that sounds like Tron but that’s definitely not his name, unless his parents were a big fan of 80′s sci-fi.

It’s a regular day at work. Tedious, boring, and much the same as it always will be.

***

Today, Frank is contemplating quitting and joining a band. This is his usual daydream. He’d be pretty great at it, he’s sure. They’d be some sort of hard metal band and he’d be the best goddamn guitarist to grace this side of New Jersey and at least a month. But someone else would replace him after that month and he’s still be good but he’d be second best.

“Gerard,” says the man who’s face that name belongs to. Frank recognizes the peculiarity of the name and remembers writing it on a cup just yesterday. It’s no “Kyle” or “Chris” or “Dan” or John,” all of which he hears thirty times a day at least. “Gerard” isn’t a common one, and the boy is a lot younger than someone you’d expect to be called Gerard. He actually makes a point to look at the face and notes it’s probably the same one. Most customers are featureless in his eyes. The guy had had hair probably. And he thinks he remembers a nose. Maybe a couple of eyes. Yeah, this could be the same dude.

He scribbles the name on the cup, and he thinks he might actually have gotten it right this time. But he doesn’t notice or care that much.

***

“Gerard,” the man says, and Frank’s memory pulls up something. The same name that had ordered coffee yesterday, and the day before it. The features, they are definitely the same. He actually got a better look yesterday, so now he remembers the face. And it’s the same order as well, so it must be the same guy. Most people tend to look alike, but this guys face, name and order are distinct only because they remain the same.

Brown eyes, triangular eyebrows, pale with black hair. This is the face who belongs to the name “Gerard.”

***

Frank is taking the order of his fifth “Sarah” today when he sees a familiar face waiting behind her. Sarah is scribbled on her cup, and then the man walks forward. He gazes at the menu like he’s going to order something different, which he does not, before he orders.

Vanilla Latte. Simple. Not something that’s hard to make like the iced frappuccinos that a majority of high school age girls order.

“For Gerard?” Frank offers instead of asking for the mans name. Gerard, as Frank is want to call him given that it is his name, blushes. Frank smiles, because he got it right. Usually it takes him several weeks to memorize the names of his regulars, but it’s the ones with names like Gerard’s. Not necessarily weird names, but atypical ones. Sawyer, who orders a caramel macchiato. Candace, who just orders a plain coffee and pours the sugar in herself so she knows it’ll be right.

***

It takes about a week but Frank starts to recognize Gerard the minute he comes into the store, and has his order all ready to go before he gets to the register.

“Hey, Gerard,” Frank says, before giving him his total.

Gerard is bashful, and normally doesn’t say much, but he smiles at Frank whenever he gets his order. He even gives Frank that friendly head nod when he leaves in response to Frank waving him goodbye.

***

Three weeks pass before Gerard actually makes anything resembling conversation towards Frank.

“Frank, right?” Gerard asks, reading Frank’s name tag. Frank is required to wear a name tag, however, whenever a customer uses his name directly, it gives him the heebie jeebies, because it’s gross being called by your own name by a stranger while you’re at work. But when Gerard uses his name, it doesn’t feel that weird, because he’s one of Frank’s regulars. Gerard isn’t exactly a stranger, but he’s also not a friend either. He’s a friendly almost stranger. So Frank doesn’t mind having his name used by him.

“Yep,” Frank confirms for him.

***

Eventually, seeing Gerard in his store is expected. He gets coffee about four times a week, sometimes five. Occasionally he’ll walk in with a big folder in his hand, which Frank longs to know the contents of, because he doesn’t know anything about his customers aside from their names and coffee orders.

On one particular day, Frank decides the mystery has gone on long enough, “what do you actually do, Gerard? I see you so often but don’t know anything about you.”

“I’m, uh, an artist,” Gerard says, awkwardly, and he rubs at his neck in the way that he often does when Frank talks to him. He’s an anxious guy, who doesn’t seem to really relate to people very well, but he’s a nice dude in any case.

“Whoa, what kind?” Frank asks, suddenly interested. There’s a line of people behind Gerard, waiting to place their orders, but Frank ignores them. Sometimes he just enjoys talking to his customers, especially Gerard, who he would say is easily his cutest.

Gerard’s got those big brown eyes which call attention to his dark hair. He’s one of those simply dressed but fairly fashionable types, with longer hair that could be washed more frequently than it is, but it’s what Frank’s come to expect of him, so he wouldn’t change it.

“Cartoons,” Gerard says, “I, uh, I do some, like, background work for cartoon.”

“Cool,” Frank says, and he actually means it, it’s not just the canned small talk he makes in order to get better tips.

Gerard smiles at him, before he walks on, so as to let the next person place the order, because he doesn’t want to hold up the line, even if Frank wants him to.

***

Frank’s conversations with Gerard become increasingly longer. For a barista to be talking to their customer for any longer than about a minute with a line forming behind them is a lot, but sometimes Frank will talk to him for upwards of three or four. He likes talking to Gerard. It’s as simple as that. He’s cute, he’s sweet, and he’s interesting.

Frank learns that Gerard has a brother, that he lives only a few minutes away. He learns Gerard’s a coffee addict, though he wouldn’t have needed to be told that.

Eventually, Frank decides, the three to four minute conversations he has with Gerard simply aren’t enough for him anymore. Most of Frank’s friends are coworkers, Ray, or Pete. Frank needs to branch out a little more.

On one particular day, about four months after Gerard first stepped into his store, Frank decides he’s had enough of the blurbs of information the two of them share.

“Hey, Gerard,” Frank says, when his favorite customer walks in. Gerard looks especially pretty today, he’s got that shadow on his chin indicating that he didn’t shave this morning, and his hair frames his face cleanly. He’s got his usual black jeans, paired with a simple T-shirt and one of his many black coats over it. Gerard seems only to own black coats. Leather jackets, jean jackets, moto jackets, trench coats, all of which are black.

The two of them share friendly conversation, Gerard telling Frank about a band he’s never heard of, which is impressive since Frank prides himself as having an encyclopedia sized knowledge of music.

Frank writes Gerard’s name on his cup as usual, but today, instead of just that, he also writes his phone number.

Gerard walks away after a few minutes to let the next customer order, and that’s usually the end of their conversation until the next time Frank sees him. Frank is used to it, and he doesn’t mind it. Frank has a job to do, and so does Gerard, even if he would like to talk to Gerard for the entirety of his shift.

Today, however, Gerard catches Frank’s attention after a customer places their order and before the next one steps up to the register.

“Is this yours?” Gerard asks, pointing to the phone number, and Frank nods nervously. This is where his dream is either made or breaks. He might even lose his favorite customer if he misread the signs.

Gerard bites his lip, but smiles, and Frank feels relief wash over him at the look of it. It’s one of Gerard’s normally bashful smiles whenever Frank compliments him or pays any type of attention to him really.

“I’ll see ya,” Gerard says, smiling at him before he walks towards the door and out into the city outside.

#Anonymous

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storytaeme · 7 years ago

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sun & moon – vmin

Taehyung had never liked the sun, always steered clear of it, until he found its presence within Park Jimin.

vmin week 2017 – taehyung x jimin

❧ Elements: Fluff | College AU, Shy!Taehyung

❧ Word Count: 5,266 words

❧ A/N: I binge wrote this in two hours so I apologize for quality! I like this concept because I love turtles and I really love quiet Taehyung who finds happiness in Jimin. Merry Christmas, all!

Despite his love and admiration for the vast universe and its grand schemes, Taehyung didn’t like the one thing that his earth revolved around—the sun. It perhaps had been a little strange for a child to say such a thing that his family, especially his grandfather who adored the sun for the care and nurture of his strawberries, had grown concerned.

It wasn’t as if it was anything personal. Taehyung was just… sort of afraid of the sun.

Most children welcomed the blistering heat and the light that rained down upon the streets and illuminating the city. They loved the sun because, the longer it remained in the sky, the more time they had to play outside. While other children could be found constructing skyscrapers in the sandbox or chasing after one another in the open park, Taehyung used to hide behind his mother’s legs.

Even as he grew older, Taehyung tended to shy away from things that shone too bright to be natural—his mother’s diamond ring, the glistening vase in the hallway, stove in the kitchen that had flames licking up its rings when switched on. He wasn’t quite sure why either, but he had the penchant to steer clear of them. It was perhaps the reason why he eschewed the spotlight, choosing to blend into the crowd of students in his high school and then university instead of competing to stand out amongst the rest.

It wasn’t as if he was overwhelmingly underachieving—no, Taehyung was rather smart in fact. His curiosity had always led him onto paths never ventured upon, placing him in the midst of other intrigued minds in the subject of science. Taking up oceanology had been an easy decision to make. The immense blue abyss was untouched, filled with millions of wonders and mysteries that could sate his ceaseless interest.

However, best of all, whenever he dived deep into the oceans, he could stay far, far away from the light.

The moon—on the other hand—was easy to love. To avoid the presence of the sun, it was easy to fall in love with the lady in the sky—or as she was so often referred to as. The moon is sweet and mellow, a calming existence in the night sky that threw light upon the town. He spoke to the moon sometimes, spoke of his dreams and current fascinations. The moon always listened quietly, glowing a little brighter whenever he talked as if it was listening. Taehyung loved the moon. The moon was good, the moon was safe.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He leaned against the windowsill, letting his legs dangle over the ledge. It used to scare the bejeezus out of his flatmate to find that Taehyung could prop open his window and sit without a care to face the moon on clear nights. But he had done it so many times that the other boy chose to ignore the oddity of such behavior and instead chose slumber over anything else.

She shone silently in the sky, bidding Taehyung a good night.

“I don’t know why,” Taehyung murmured earnestly, “I think something may happen soon. I’m not quite sure what, but it feels almost life-changing. Do you think I’ll find a new specimen? The professor said that I’ve been on progress with my tracking for the turtles. They hatched the other day and most of them made it alive to the sea. The others—” he paused “—you’ll take care of them, won’t you?”

Of course, the moon never responded and it was fine. Taehyung could take the silence as its answer nonetheless.

“I should be heading to bed, I have to go to a study tomorrow as a subject. It’s kind of nerve-wracking even though everyone does it,” Taehyung laughed quietly, “but I’ll put up with it. I can’t stay with the turtles forever, I suppose.”

He glanced up at the beautiful satellite. It said nothing, yet its presence was everything.

“Wish me luck,” he whispered one last time before slipping back inside the comfort of his room and closing his window.

The sun would be out soon.

Taehyung had always been content with the way he was, strange tendencies and all. He didn’t think anybody else minded it all that much, not if it didn’t interfere with their own lives. Taehyung understood that. It was a man-eat-man world in spite of all the talk of sharing is caring. Goodness never lasted very long in the day, Taehyung preferred the solitude of nighttimes.

It wasn’t as if he had expected some huge epiphany to crumble his world to pieces, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to fall so fast, so deep for someone he barely knew.

The man’s name was Park Jimin.

Frankly, Taehyung had been a little frightened of him at first. He had greeted Taehyung with the most blinding smile, radiating so much happiness and enthusiasm that the other boy felt intimidation creeping into his bones. The instructions had been simple enough and Taehyung followed them suit. Sweat was collecting at the back of his neck because he hadn’t expected the experimenter (Jimin) to stick around. His attendance was sort of there. Taehyung couldn’t avoid it.

“You did very well for the biology trivia,” Jimin noted, flipping through his results. “Sorry,” he suddenly blushed, looking a little timid that Taehyung almost found him sweet. “I’m not supposed to be looking at individual results, but you’re just really impressive.”

“I’m a biology major, oceanology concentration,” Taehyung stated simply.

“Oh, that’s really cool,” he smiled that smile again. The bright one, the one that had Taehyung’s fingers trembling a little. “So you like the sea, huh?”

The other boy nodded shyly, knowing that people always asked these kinds of questions out of politeness rather than genuine interest. “Yeah,” he answered simply, keeping it at that. That was safe ground so he wouldn’t end up rambling too far and end up being boring like others had deemed him. People were kind of scary when they were mean.

Jimin blinked at him, looking almost puzzled. “So, um, what do you do in your free time?”

This was strange, right? Taehyung wasn’t quite sure what the normal procedure was for these studies. But he finished his portion and Jimin had debriefed him of his activities. He had expected to be told to leave but there the man was, sitting on the table he had used earlier, making conversation. It would only break social norms, however, to interrupt him and ignore his question, so Taehyung humored him. “I intern with a sea turtle conservation organization.”

The boy’s eyes lit up like fireworks again, almost sparkling if Taehyung looked closely. “Oh man, really? Damn, that sounds really cool. You do like field work and stuff right? Beach must be nice this time of year too.”

Taehyung wasn’t quite sure how to escape without sounding rude. It wasn’t as if Jimin was unpleasant—no, he was rather almost ten times more agreeable of a company than the rest of the university and his classmates. But there was an uneasiness in his heart that nagged at him. He wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad, but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. “It’s good,” he replied, “and yes the weather is quite nice.”

There was an ensuing silence afterwards in which Jimin shifted with his clipboard awkwardly. It was a nervous tic, Taehyung guessed. “Right, yeah,” he coughed, “that’s great. I hope you’re liking it.” There was a thick wall of quietness once more in which neither of them moved nor said anything. “So, uh, yeah, you’re basically done. Thanks for coming in!” Jimin chirped, clapping his hands together and grinning again.

Thump, thump. Taehyung’s heart was being particularly loud that day. “No problem, I hope my data comes in handy.”

Jimin beamed, seeming almost giddy all of a sudden, “Yeah, it definitely will! Glad you could come in. I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s not necessary,” Taehyung said instead, halting him and watching the joy slip off his face. It was almost heartbreaking and Taehyung almost felt regretful. “I can find my way out, I’m sure you have to start processing so I don’t want to keep you.”

“Nah,” Jimin shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s been a pretty long day and lonely too. Kind of sad to just see people come and go.” His laugh was a little strained and Taehyung found that it didn’t quite suit him, but he wasn’t in any place to say anything. “Sorry,” he apologized again when the two o had been quiet for long enough. “You probably have places to be and here I am just rambling. Um, you’re free to go, yeah.”

Taehyung offered a weak, sympathetic smile, “Sorry to hear, I hope the rest of your day goes well though.” The guy brightened again—it seemed like it didn’t take a lot to do so. “Good luck with your experiment.” Then he was bolting out of there.

The second time he had met Park Jimin was actually the time that Taehyung had found sort of a friend in someone else. Sure, he had a few friends he could rely on, but he wasn’t the most social butterfly. It was in the cafeteria and Taehyung had been in line to swipe for meals when he spotted Jimin and his friend—or rather, they spotted him.

“Taehyung!”

He jerked his attention away from his phone to find Jimin. At first, he didn’t recognize him. Not until he smiled. His sweatshirt was a bright, mustard yellow and the color complemented the blonde of his hair.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” Jimin said. His name had escaped him at the time, though the face rang familiar. “Jimin, I was the student experimenter for your study last time.”

“Oh yeah,” he said dumbly, unsure of how to respond.

“So, uh, you got any extra meal swipes?”

That was how he ended up squeezing into a table in the crowded dining hall with the two of them—Jimin and his buddy, Jeongguk, who was apparently two years younger than them but was working in the same lab as Jimin.

“More marine biology, huh?” Jeongguk asked, mouth full of his burger. Taehyung nodded and spooned more rice into his mouth. That way, he could avoid talking and finish his food quickly. “That’s pretty neat. I considered it once too, but turns out I’m pretty bad with anything water-related.”

The two were easygoing, engaging him in their conversation from time to time. Taehyung did feel comfortable around them, but wasn’t sure of his place in their interaction. Things took a turn when Jeongguk had to leave for basketball practice, thanking Taehyung for the meal before taking off, which left Taehyung alone with Jimin.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” Jimin asked quietly, his gaze downcast.

This time, Taehyung really did feel remorseful. “It’s not that, I’m just… I’m not very good with strangers. I know it comes off as cold sometimes but I really don’t mean to do it that way.”

“Ah, I see,” Jimin nodded, processing this into his brain, “that’s cool. I don’t mean to push, I just tend to open myself up too fast to people so let me know if I make you uncomfortable.” That was a sweet sentiment. Usually, when Taehyung told people that, they tended to brush him off or give up on him entirely. But Jimin seemed as if he wanted to make the effort to get to know him.

By the end of the meal, they had traded numbers with Jimin promising to text him soon to hang out and treat him for a meal. True to his word, the boy had sent Taehyung a message that same night. With Jimin’s easygoing nature and Taehyung’s attempt to be welcoming towards him, they became fast friends.

An odd pair the two made. Taehyung would join Jimin at times whenever he hung out with his friends or keep him company in the lab, while Jimin would visit him in the library, gracing him with steaming cups of tea to keep him going during exam week. It was a mutually beneficial relationship and Taehyung—Taehyung liked it. He liked Jimin.

It was odd really. Jimin liked to pull Taehyung out of his shell during the day, keep him busy with activities that had him grinning from ear to ear—the kind of grins that Jimin adored pulling out of him. “You look nicer that way, very cute,” he had complimented with an innocent grin. Taehyung’s heart had skipped a beat, but he figured that his biology was a bit wonky with the indigestion.

But it happened again and again and again. Taehyung who had once upon a time loathed the sun so ended up spending the majority of his time out in it. Jimin would tug him out of his room whenever he had been cooped up studying for too long to take a break in the park, sharing homemade sandwiches the blonde had prepared to keep Taehyung sane and well-fed. Other times, Taehyung would take the initiative and invite Jimin to places he’s wanted to visit, like the aquarium the other day.

Jimin—he was different. Different in the best way possible. Jimin listened when Taehyung talked about his interests, especially the turtles. He never interrupted and always absorbed everything so intently, never once missing a detail. It was almost impressive how much of it he could remember.

“How do you remember so much of it?” Taehyung had asked once.

The boy had only tilted his head curiously. “Well, it’s something you’re really passionate about, right? I want to make sure I know what I’m talking about. Don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.” He had said all this before delivering a playful punch to Taehyung’s arm.

Taehyung wasn’t sure how to describe it, but Jimin’s presence always had his stomach warm as if he were full and his heart nearly bursting with happiness whenever they were together. His professor who worked with him in the lab told him that he was perfectly healthy and insisted on Taehyung telling him who’s gotten him all worked up. Taehyung had smiled shyly and told him that it was no one right before Jimin came knocking to pick him up. Safe to say, his professor had a very strong hunch.

He was content with where they were and what they had. It was a good dynamic and the two’s personalities fitted each other very well. But perhaps the world had other plans for them. The sun was no longer an enemy of Taehyung, rather a reminder of a good thing he had in his life.

Jimin was that, he supposed. That was what terrified him about Jimin at first. He rivaled the sun. His rambunctious self and his brilliant smile. Every inch of him radiated warmth and happiness, sunshine and brightness oozing out of his every action. Taehyung couldn’t help but draw the uncanny comparison and, when he told Jimin that, the boy had only laughed with pink dusting his cheeks.

“I look like the sun?”

Taehyung had nodded, expression too serious.

“That’s nice to hear, I think? Is that a compliment?” Jimin questioned with an amused smile dancing on his lips and mirth glittering in his eyes.

“Not sure,” Taehyung muttered honestly.

“Well, if I’m the sun then does that make you the moon?”

It would make sense. Polar opposites present on different wavelengths and time periods, yet coexisting all the same. “I guess so, I like the moon,” Taehyung rolled his shoulders. Jimin knew that Taehyung liked talking to the moon, mainly because the information had been involuntarily offered to him when he barged in during one of those nights of cloudless skies. He hadn’t questioned in and instead had told Taehyung to scoot so he could converse with the moon too.

“Hm, you kind of give off that aura,” Jimin nodded, stroking his chin in feigned deep consideration, “that calming sense. It suits you.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung said, returning to scribble in his notebook.

“Not sure if that was a compliment,” Jimin teased next to him, bopping the other’s nose with his pencil.

Taehyung crinkled his nose in distaste, “It seemed like it.”

“I don’t think I could ever insult you, Kim Taehyung. You’re too precious, too special.”

He ruminated over that thought for a second, before saying, “There are many moons in our solar system, but only one sun. I think that phrase fits you more, don’t you think? The moon only visible on earth due to the sun.”

Jimin looked taken aback by the answer, plump lips parting and eyes widening. “H-hey, don’t put it that way.”

“It’s just science,” Taehyung shrugged, paying it no mind and shifted his gaze back to his homework.

Silence blanketed over them. It wasn’t the kind of comfortable silence that Taehyung was used to, but rather it left him fidgeting. “You know,” Jimin started again, “I think it’s cool that the earth hasn’t seen all sides of the moon, but the sun has. The way the moon appears to the earth depends on the sun, right? I think—I think it’s nice that you only show me these sides of you and no one else. There are dozens of other stars in the galaxy, but you make me feel more special than I am. “

That sentiment, his words, had left Taehyung stunned. When he turned around to face Jimin, the boy was already burying his face back into his book—burying it a little too deep if you asked him. But the pink of the tips of his ears seemed to be enough of an indicator of his expression at the time. Taehyung had smiled to himself, patted Jimin on the back to thank him, and went back to work.

“You’re going where?” Jimin whined, twisting around on Taehyung’s bed. He had flopped onto the sheets an hour ago after he came back from his research assistant position in one of the professor’s lab. Being a psychology major, he had been tasked to developmental studies, which included working with children. So many children.

Taehyung had just informed him that he wouldn’t be able to make their weekly Friday Movie Night at Hoseok’s place. It was a thing that Jimin and a few of his friends had started, but Taehyung had been pulled into the group when he befriended Jimin and had participated in it ever since.

They had a week-long break coming up and, while Jimin had anticipated spending more time with Taehyung and his other friends outside of school, Taehyung had already prepared other plans.

“Busan to work with the aquarium there on the breed, rescue, protect project,” Taehyung said as he finalized the last details of his trip. He had booked all the transportation while accommodation had been provided by the organization.

“But why,” Jimin protested petulantly again, flipping over to create enough noise and catch Taehyung’s attention. “It’s break, we should be resting, having fun!”

Taehyung chuckled, “I don’t have time this summer and I promised to volunteer there again before I graduated, so spring break it is.”

“Taehyung,” the boy pressed again, a weak glare. Taehyung could practically read the internal moral dilemma Jimin was facing. On one hand, he really wanted to beg his friend to stay in the city for break and spend time with him, but on the other, he couldn’t really pull him away from his duties in saving the turtle population in South Korea.

“You can come if you want to, you’re from Busan, right?”

Jimin pouted, “Yeah, but—” cue the sigh “—wanted to spend time with you around here, stuff ourselves stupid with food.”

Taehyung’s lips twitched as he padded over to his bed and dropped down next to Jimin. His friend turned to face him, cheek squished against the pillow. “Sorry, Jiminie.”

“Can I really come though? Would I be volunteering too?”

“I’m sure they’d like an extra pair of hands,” Taehyung nodded, “if you’re interested.”

The boy pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling for a moment to contemplate the offer. “You always talk so highly of these things, I kind of want to see it for myself. See whether you’re only all talk and no action.”

Taehyung knew it was a harmless jab. Jimin could be blunt, but he could also be a little indirect with his intentions, especially if it were a sweet gesture he tried to mask as indifference. “Yeah? I can email them if you want.”

He huffed, “I guess, yeah. Sign me up. I’m down.”

“You don’t have to, you know? We can always hang out when I come back,” Taehyung smiled at him.

Jimin frowned, “No, I want to see what you hype up all the time. It’ll be productive.”

“Alright,” Taehyung agreed, “it’s set then.”

The weekend that spring break hit, Taehyung and Jimin hopped on a train to Busan while others prepared for a week of relaxation and lots of karaoke and drinks. Jimin had whined the entire time there that they were missing out. Taehyung did feel a little guilty that Jimin was spending time with him there and offered for him to come back. “It’s not too late,” Taehyung swallowed, “I mean, if you change your mind. It really isn’t a big deal.”

Jimin was always fast to pick up on Taehyung’s emotions and remorse was practically leaking out of him at that point. He had immediately softened, clamping his lips on his mewling. “You know I’m just messing with you right?” His voice is quieter, gentler, as if he was trying to get his point across cautiously. “I do want to do this, want to spend time with you doing what you love. I’m just kidding around okay, I promise.”

Taehyung still looked a little doubtful, but nodded. “Okay.”

The other boy was instead flooded with guilt that his best friend was swamped with the same emotion. He took Taehyung’s hand and held it tightly in his. “I promise, Tae, I really want to do this.”

His smile nearly had Jimin exploding. “Thanks, Jiminie.”

Taehyung listened closely to the instructions from the staff and was easily welcomed into the team. Jimin, on the other hand, was a little bit lost and had to ask Taehyung more than a handful of times for clarification. “I’m so in over my head,” Jimin muttered, and before Taehyung could drop another apology, he had inhaled sharply. “I got this, I can do this.” Taehyung had bit back his smile.

The two worked tirelessly in the heat of the sun, relocating nests and jotting down data about the creatures. It was admittedly fun and Taehyung was relieved that Jimin looked very accomplished with whatever activities they were assigned to for the day. It was amusing at times to see him struggle at something Taehyung was so deft at. Like looking into an alternate universe even. Jimin had always been good with people and interaction, while Taehyung stumbled over his words and sometimes even his feet. But this time around, Taehyung had the upper hand and was lending it to Jimin to help him get through the week.

“Taehyung, Jimin, you’re on night survey,” the head staff tasked before moving to the next one.

Taehyung could see Jimin visibly swallow his groan. It was their second night in a row of night survey. Although the workload was lighter for tonight, it was still a post-day shift. Jimin didn’t work too well with things after the sun sank down on the horizon. However, he had sucked it up and followed Taehyung’s lead without complaint—to which the man was grateful for. Jimin helped him weigh the turtles and mark the nests, taking down information for the organization to process.

When they were done, they settled on the porch of the house by the beach. The wind was cool and bristled through their thick, tangled locks. The atmosphere was serene and peaceful, had them feeling at ease yet at the same time restless. Neither of them had the desire to sleep despite their full schedule of activities the next day. They instead sat side by side, shoulders touching and knees bumping together, on the stairs.

“Thank you,” Taehyung murmured under his breath, his voice so quiet it was almost carried away by the wind if Jimin hadn’t been paying close attention to his friend.

“For what?”

“For being here,” he fiddled with his clipboard. A nervous tic he had picked up from Jimin. “I know it’s not the best way to spend your break, it’s a lot of labor work, but I’m—grateful you’re here with me.”

Jimin nudged his shoulder teasingly, “Come on, it’s not that bad. Can’t believe you call this hard work. It’s not that much. I can still keep going.” As if to prove his point, he flexed his arm and poked at the hard bicep.

Taehyung giggled, shoving at him playfully. “Nice try, I heard you complaining all the way back this afternoon,” he noted.

“That was earlier, I’m good as new now,” Jimin scoffed, “it’s called a fast recovery.”

“We all know you’re weaker than that,” Taehyung jabbed right back and Jimin stuck his fingers into Taehyung’s side to elicit a yelp.

Jimin sighed, breathing in the salty sea air. “Really though, it’s no big deal. I’m enjoying this and I’m glad I spent my break with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. This—” he gestured to the empty beach and the crashing of waves in the background “—this is your world. I think I just took a huge step in it so I’m happy. I’m glad that I got the chance to experience what you really love.”

The slightly younger boy flushed at that, ducking his head shyly and biting his bottom lip. Whenever he was with Jimin, he ended up smiling until his cheeks hurt. There wasn’t a time when they were together that Taehyung didn’t laugh, didn’t grin until his face muscles were aching. He was glad that he had met Park Jimin, had welcomed him into his life.

“You’re—really something else,” Taehyung hummed.

“Is that an insult?”

“I don’t think I could ever insult you,” he echoed and Jimin laughed, poking fun at how he was tossing his words right back to his face. “And I mean it, thank you. I’m really glad you’re here with me.”

Jimin blushed slightly at the sincerity in Taehyung’s voice. “Stop it, it really isn’t a big deal.”

Taehyung shifted closer, leaning his head on Jimin’s shoulder. “It is to me,” he whispered.

“You’re my best friend, Taehyung, and the most wonderful person I know.”

The boy looked up then and found himself staring at Jimin’s gorgeous side profile. His best friend was beautiful with the kind of loveliness that rivaled even the prettiest gods and goddesses. Couple his looks with the sweetness of his nature, Park Jimin was a force to be reckoned with.

And Taehyung had reckoned with it many, many times. Had reckoned with his emotions and feelings, strange shifts in his moods that pointed out the obvious signs. Attraction to Park Jimin was common, but the way his heart fluttered and his stomach churned, the way his heart would skip two beats instead of one, and how his chest inflated with affection whenever they were together, were clear signals of what he felt towards him.

Without much thought, Taehyung had absentmindedly tipped his chin down a little and placed a gentle kiss on Jimin’s cheek. He stayed there for a millisecond or two, before pulling away shyly. He knew that Jimin had whipped around to face him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

“Taehyung—”

“Sorry,” he blurted out, squeezing his eyes shut and balling his hands up into fists, “s-sorry. I just—I’m sorry. That was bad, I should’ve asked first. M’really sorry.”

“Taehyung,” Jimin repeated and Taehyung was still trying to regain some semblance of understanding over what in the world just happened. What was he doing? Why did he just risk their friendship over the tiny blip of his emotions in the grander scenario of their relationship? He was an idiot. “Taehyung,” he called again, “look at me.”

Taehyung licked his lips, another nervous tic, and did as he was asked. Jimin was looking at him with shining eyes and an almost sad smile on his lips. His heart fell at the sight and he wondered whether he had truly ruined this beyond repair.

“I’m not mad,” he quickly said, “I’m not. I’m just surprised is all.”

“Y-you’re not?”

Jimin’s teeth caught his bottom lip. “I’ve—I’ve wanted to do more, but I didn’t have the guts to make that first move. Guess I’m the coward huh?”

“What do you mean?” Taehyung asked with furrowed brows.

“I mean, I like you—a lot. I figured that I could wait it out, see if they would fade if you find someone else, but… it’s not that easy,” he breathed, throat moving as he gulped, “you always make me smile stupid, laugh until my stomach hurts, and—every time I’m near you, I feel like my entire body is going to combust from how much I adore you.”

“Jimin,” the younger whispered, eyes blown wide.

Jimin’s gaze flicked up to meet his. “Can I kiss you? Properly?”

“Like—”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

And there it was. Jimin leaned forward and his warm breath first touched Taehyung’s cheek before his lips captured the other boy’s. They were a little dirty from the sand, and the air was a little humid despite the breeze, but it was the perfect moment. Taehyung could hear Jimin’s rhythmic heartbeat, the sweet sound of life thrumming a beat inside his soul. It was a beautiful sound, the best sound that he wished he could bottle up and listen to for days on end.

But he had Jimin and he never needed to keep things, never needed to try and savor it, because he had the real thing right in front of him.

Taehyung never did quite like the sun as a child. It was heat that rained down and dried up one of his favorite plants, it had scorched his skin and left him with a wretched sunburn, and it meant that Taehyung had to get up in the morning to go to school. The sun had never been associated with anything good.

But Taehyung loved the moon and all its calmness and lack of calamity. It was present in a time when he felt most at peace with himself and the world. She was there to listen whenever Taehyung needed an ear, was there to glow whenever he needed a little bit of light.

However, the two coexisted all the same. Taehyung had to learn to love the sun for the moon could not exist without it in the sky. Once upon a time, it had been a feat to accomplish, but with Jimin by his side, it was a luxury he could afford.

Jimin was like the sun after all. Bright and warm. A presence comparable to a necessity. He was beautiful and radiant, always shone somewhat more vividly than everything else in Taehyung’s life. Jimin was the epitome of goodness in his world.

And Taehyung loved Jimin, so he could learn to love the sun too.

#bts #taehyung #jimin #vmin #vminweek2017 #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #vmin scenarios #vmin fanfic #vmin fluff #alkwerjakler iM SO TIRED #BUT MERRY CHRISTMAS

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