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wrathbites · 2 years

Text

Heartbeat

His CO’s a vampire. He’s had a couple months to accept that.

Then Shepard’s suit alerts him to a heartbeat.

Characters: Kaidan Alenko, Rhys Shepard

Rating: T

Relationships: N/A, pre-relationship

Notes: vampire AU, “The Squeaky Fang” is an idea courtesy of @nightmarestudio606 ♥

Four times. He'd raised questions — valid concerns, thank you very much — about the absolute absurdity of lacking a decent plan four times. Twice more than Coats would've, apparently, and thrice less than Garrus and still here they are. At gunpoint. Aboard a hostile station. Praying to gods and spirits alike that the turians ask them all the wrong questions — or the right ones, for Shepard.

"They'll know you're lying, Shepard. They'll hear it."

"I know. But with luck, I won't have to."

Kaidan can feel said "luck" trickling like grains of sand through his fingers, pinging off his armour and vanishing through the grating underfoot. They're going to die and Shepard'll be the first to go and he can't incapacitate this many at once. They need Liara and a well-placed singularity, some slap-dash barriers, and the absolute carnage of biotic power simply let loose. They need — they need a miracle.

"There are no vampires aboard my ship," Shepard says, the picture of calm despite lying through his goddamn teeth. Except... except their potential executioners don't call him on it or riddle him with bullets. No cocked guns, no outraged hissing, no soundless grind of frowning brow plates.

Aboard my ship — because the sole vampire's aboard theirs instead. Kaidan sucks in a sharp breath, hardly daring to believe his ears. Telling no lie by stretching the truth to the point of snapping if poked at one too many times — Shepard's either batshit bonkers or a genius.

"And what about those teeth?"

Oh god.

"What teeth?"

Oh god.

"The fangs in your mouth, Commander Shepard!" the Captain snaps, and a charge goes through his men. Each and every one retrains their sights on Shepard, clawed fingers shifting, and he's going to die, accelerated healing be damned.

Oh god.

"Oh, those! Purely cosmetic, hang on, let me show you."

— And he twists the left one free of the artificial socket secured in his gumline, holding it up for all to see in its seemingly harmless, currently silent glory.

There's a long, drawn out creak of surprise from the Captain, a similar note echoed by his men and Garrus, too. Thank fuck. Thank god. Thank all things holy and not for barfights with krogan, and salarian dentists who don't ask questions.

"And the — the other one?"

"A permanent fixture, I'm afraid. A moment of youthful stupidity on my part."

They still don't shoot him. Huh. Another truth. Interesting.

"Stand down," the order finally spoken and Kaidan breathes a faint sigh of relief. They're scrutinised for a few minutes more, but the tension lessens when the Captain jerks his head and starts walking. Garrus falls into step behind him, Kaidan after him, and Shepard brings up the rear.

"Feeling uneasy, Commander?"

"Not at all. There are a dozen guns at my back this very second, and I'd much rather they're trained on me than a member of my crew."

Kaidan chances a look back to find one of the taller guards leaning in Shepard's personal space, over his shoulder, mandibles flared to show off sharp teeth and any lesser man, any human, might shy away from the implied threat. Not Shepard, though, no. He meets Kaidan's eyes and rolls his own, securing that fucking fang back inside his mouth and smirking while he does it.

They're not out of the woods yet, but seeing Shepard almost at ease is —

— Definitely not enough to reassure Kaidan they'll be walking back to the Normandy in one piece.

Garrus stops so suddenly he nearly collides with him, peering over his shoulder when he growls low and agitated. "What is this?"

"Medical scanner," Kaidan replies on a whisper, dread clenching tight in his gut. "An older model." One belonging to the texts and tests back home, a relic of obsolete technology right at home on a fuelling station built and controlled by the turians. An old machine for old grudges, no doubt implemented after the First Contact war, borrowing humanity's method of identifying vampires and repurposing it to neutralise them instead.

"Is this really necessary?"

They wave Garrus through without activating the scanner. Kaidan's of half a mind to call them on such stupidity, but the bald-faced one manning the controls fixes him with an unfriendly stare and flicks his mandibles out in a grin.

"We could always set you both on fire and see which one of you screams the loudest, human," he says.

Kaidan flexes his fingers, gravity well shifting with him, rippling just within reach and it'd be so easy to draw the heat to himself instead, give Shepard a chance to duck and run. So —

"Carry on, Lieutenant." Shepard's tone brooks no nonsense. He steps forward, stumbles, eyes going wide as his HUD pings an alert. From Shepard's suit. Shepard's.

The scanner whirs to life around him as soon as he's stationary on the platform, scanning him head to toe and back again in a thorough sweep for cardiovascular activity. He's directed ahead when it chimes green and he goes without meaning to, feet carrying him forward even as his brain stalls on the feed from Shepard's suit.

There's a heartbeat. How is there a heartbeat?

The corridor they've been led down single file branches out after the scanner, left and right, doors locked, the hatch directly above his head levered open and there's another fucking turian. Does the entire station come crawling out the vents and pipes every time a human docks for fuel, or is this the brand of welcome Shepard can expect from now on, courtesy of his Spectre status?

Minimised in the lower left of his HUD, an inhuman heart still beats steady and sure.

"Quite the party you've arranged for us," Kaidan notes, sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue.

"Only the best for the best," is the icy reply and yep, there it is, grudge come out in full swing in that tone and the gleam in dark eyes, the held breath, the unconscious lean forward as the scanner whirs to life for a second time. Shepard.

Green. Thank go —

"Run it again," the Captain orders.

"You can't be serious," Garrus snarls — only to fall carefully, perfectly still when a Striker's planted up close and personal to his face. Dark energy seethes down Kaidan's arms, a snap of his wrist snaring the turian in the vents and yanking her from her perch before she can paint a target on his back.

"I advise you reconsider this course of action, sir."

"Run. It. Again."

Too many guns — biotics won't spare them for long in such close quarters. Shit.

Another alert — elevated heart rate — and fury screams along his nerves, tearing through the gravity well as Shepard's cleared a human again, stalking forward and stepping over the turian sprawled at Kaidan's feet, shouldering between Garrus and the Captain. The rest of his men aren't bringing up the rear now — they're a firing squad. Shit shit shit.

"Uh, Commander?"

"We've passed your stupid tests. Clear my ship for refuelling and stop wasting my fucking time."

"Shepard, Shepard, Shepard. So like the rest of your species, I'm almost disappointed! Do you really think you can order me around on my own station?"

"I don't think so. I know so," Shepard replies, and lifts his hand in a warding gesture. Dark energy ignites in his palm, slamming down from ceiling to floor and halting the advance of the other turians, caging them in if the panicked chatter from the back is anything to go by. Kaidan sends their vent stalker skidding into Shepard's barrier like a bowling ball, sights her discarded weapon on her head, trusting his back to Shepard's uncanny ability to make a migraine-inducing nuisance of himself.

The tense exchange of words drops to lower tones, the barrier between them and certain death holds steady, and there, impossible but not — Shepard's heart. Still beating.

"You are a menace, Shepard," Garrus says later, much later, when they're safely back aboard the Normandy, not a single scratch to show for their troubles.

"You realise I'm taking that as a compliment, right?"

"It's not meant as one! What is wrong with you? Did your parents drop you on that odd skull of yours as a child? What possessed you to ask for alcohol after — after all of that?"

"I'm sensing a distinct lack of thanks here, Garrus. That hurts."

Garrus hisses at him, a sharp spit of displeasure that'd put the most irate cat to shame — but still curls possessive hands around the bottle when Shepard darts out a hand to steal it back.

"If you don't want it I can always gift it to Tali."

"After the numerous heart attacks you gave me back there? I think the fuck not."

Kaidan hasn't joined them in the drinking part (blood for Shepard, in a black mug he rarely removes from medbay) yet, much preferring to roll a glass full of ice against his forehead, coaxing his rattled nerves back from red alert. Listening to their bickering certainly helps, as does the contact between Shepard's elbow and his own. Still up and moving, still alive in whatever capacity he has available to him. Still squeaking that fucking fang around in its socket.

"What'd you say anyway, to have him back off like that?" he asks, wading into the conversation at last, providing Garrus an opening to down the shot he's been nursing for well over ten minutes.

"The truth, of course."

"Shepard. Answer the damn question or I'll knock your fang loose, myself."

"Rude. All right, fine, fine, don't give me that look! I might have told him I'd rip them all apart without breaking a sweat."

Kaidan blinks at him. Shepard blinks right back.

You're serious, aren't you? Of course he is, he always is. Idle threats aren't his thing. And back there, their lives in his hands and death in his words, he couldn't lie.

"Y'know what? Garrus is right, you're a goddamn menace."

"Such gratitude from you, too! I'm not so sure I like the sound of it. Quite flat in tone, don't you think?"

"Oh, bite me," he snaps back, mouth flapping before the censor between it and his brain can kick in.

And then it does.

Oh. Oh hell.

Shepard's eyebrow shoots towards his hairline, smirk slowly pulling into the widest grin Kaidan's seen from him yet. Garrus snorts into his drink first, promptly chokes on it, and all but coughs up a lung in the time it takes for a flush to creep up Kaidan's neck. A flush Shepard's eyes dip to, ever so briefly.

"I won't say no to a snack if you want to ask me again later," he says, low and teasing and stupidly, stupidly tempting. Kaidan kicks him under the table. Shepard laughs, the bastard.

"Should I be getting a blowtorch or some privacy for you two?"

"Neither," Kaidan says before Shepard can torment him any further, "it was a poor choice of words on my part."

"A bucket of cold water, then?"

"... I hate you both."

They're left to their own devices after helping Garrus wobble back to his bunk in the cargo bay — a two person job to hold him upright and walk him forward when momentum under his own power became an interesting challenge — and splitting off for the night when Kaidan bites the bullet, stopping the elevator between floors and locking the control panel with a few quick keystrokes.

A move that has Shepard retreating into the corner, as far from Kaidan as he can go without taking off through the roof like fire's after him.

"Shepard?"

"Mn."

"What was that, on the station?"

"... Are you asking me something specific, or am I to go through the various forms of bullshittery employed back there?"

He'd honestly prefer to bury his face in a pillow and sleep for a year over dancing around a vampire suddenly remembering how to be evasive, but beggars can't be choosers.

He sets his shoulder to the wall, bars Shepard access to the panel with his own body, and crosses his arms, settling in. Grey eyes briefly flick to his face without meeting his stare, but the floor's much more interesting all of a sudden. Tension gathered in his shoulders, his arms, hands likely balled into fists in his pockets. All from someone who'd square up to a krogan and headbutt them without hesitation, cackling a fair bit in the process.

Hm.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Do I?"

"Shepard. I didn't sink all those hours into reworking the shit in your suit for you to stand here and dodge what it flagged. A heartbeat. Your heartbeat. How is that possible?"

There's something he's noticed about Shepard in the few months they've served together — he doesn't fidget when uncomfortable, no, he does the exact opposite. All the conscious little movements to appear human slide away, weight settling like stone, breath falling silent, body remembering its death and going absolutely still. The only sign of life to him the tension around his eyes — closed, hiding, from Kaidan? Why? — and the pinch of his mouth.

And as much as he wants an answer, as much as he wants to understand, if it's a line Shepard's unwilling to cross —

"I don't know for certain," Shepard says, soft like he's sharing a secret, staying Kaidan's hand before he can get the elevator moving again. "But I have a theory."

"A theory's better than the diddlysquat I've got."

"We need blood to survive, just that, nothing else. It's life for humans, and we... borrow it. Steal it. Whatever you want to call it. And if it's all we can survive on, if it's our only source of energy, then it stands to reason we can control how our bodies use it. To move, fight, heal —"

"Temporarily restart your heart in a tight spot?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. I'm not well-versed in our... evolution."

"You're not taught any of this?"

"Oh, no, we should be. But my sire died on Akuze and, afterward, the few vampires brave enough to venture into a heavily guarded Alliance base to instruct a castaway Childe on the basics of coexisting with a prey species... weren't exactly fond of going off on tangents."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you're managing the coexisting part just fine."

Shepard smiles, not one of his usual grins and not a taunting smirk either. Smaller, genuine. Vulnerable? Maybe. "Thank you."

Kaidan nods, stalling on what else to say, gears already turning over more questions —

"Can you decide everywhere the blood goes? Does it affect thermoregulation? Can you lose a limb to blood loss, die from it? Is there a limit to your healing if you have blood to hand?"

— but he tucks them under his tongue, keeps them close. Shepard's moving again, shifting from foot to foot, shrugging a shoulder, working his neck like he's trying to crack it, like he's a human in need of cracking it.

Quit while you're ahead, he thinks, and undoes his handiwork. He doesn't miss Shepard's sigh when the elevator shudders back into motion, or how quick he is to bolt when the door opens, or... his pause, the aborted twist back in Kaidan's direction, rocking back and forth on his heels. Stay or go?

Stay, Kaidan wants to say, just a little longer.

Go, he thinks instead, it's late, and I've unsettled you enough.

"Alenko," he draws up short, glances back over his shoulder to find Shepard not quite doing the same. Still aiming for the sleeping pods, not looking at him, but — well. But.

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't my heartbeat. I don't... I don't remember what it's like, to have one."

"But you did have one on the station, I saw it."

"We're fortunate the turians weren't paying as close attention to it as you were, or we'd have been in serious trouble."

"I'm not following, Shepard."

He looks at him, then. Glance fully over his shoulder just like Kaidan's doing, his face a carefully blank mask. "It wasn't my heartbeat. I was mimicking yours."

Wait, what?

"G'night, Alenko."

"Night, Shepard."

What?

#Commander Shepard #Kaidan Alenko #Mass Effect fanfiction #Wrathwrites #I had too much fun writing this and many laughs #Sunlight and Stardust vampire verse

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crowsnests · 3 years

Text

taste of certainty - part three

Fandom: The Arcana Pairing: Julian Devorak x OC Apprentice (Syran Elkas) Tags: friends to lovers; modern times au; friend group dynamic; slow burn; pining; really just Julian being Julian and Syran being Oblivious Words: 7453 Warnings: mention of anxiety, migraines, insomnia, alcohol

part 1 2 3 4 5

playlist

I see the walls that are torn and bent The tug of war in the now, not yet Holding back what they can contain Can you tell me why I feel this way?

- trust; half-alive

III. sweet hurricane

Wednesdays are chill enough workdays, usually. It’s when Miss Eirsdottir has the least meetings, so Syran gets to calmly sit at her desk, processing new proposals and arranging schedules.

Not this Wednesday, though.

Miss Eirsdottir has Syran basically assist Varya in running all sorts of errands: moving from one side to the building to the other, carrying boxes of products for her to review, making sure the interns get the right coffees for the guests in the meetings, rushing to bring important folders to the PR office, assisting in said meetings. Varya is nice and helps Syran feel more at ease with the amount of workload, but it’s still quite stressful.

Syran forgot the days close to the launch of a new product could get so hectic. Her recurring migraine starts to make itself heard.

In the midst of it all, she gets a moment to catch her breath, during her lunch break. She goes and sits outside, despite the cold, on a bench in the courtyard inside the building. As she unfurls her lunchbox – a chicken sandwich, a carrot, and a bunch of blueberries – Asra and Pasha join her at the bench.

“Well, you look like shit,” Asra says, not even bothering with formalities as he sits down and opens his ricebox. A spiced scent trails out from it.

“Thanks, feel like it, too,” Syran answers, then bites into her carrot. Her head is pounding with pain and the nausea that comes with it doesn’t make her food look all that appealing, but she’s used to it at this point. She vaguely explains the reason for her exhaustion, her two friends nodding in understanding.

“Yeah, this week is tough, huh?” Pasha looks concerned as she takes out her lunch from her bag. A clear box with pasta in it and some orange juice.

“Yeah, pre-release is hell up in management,” Syran sighs.

“Well, at least you get to have fun next weekend! It’s gonna be a blast.” Pasha winks.

Syran looks at her confused, blinks a couple times, her brain slowly moving its gears together.

Asra looks at her pointedly, mouthing something.

Syran can’t decipher it, but a light goes on in her brain nonetheless.

“Oh shit, it’s your birthday! Yeah! Can’t wait for that!”

“You and Nadi always know how to throw a good party, I’m excited,” Asra smiles, bright eyes wrinkled up in joy. He does love partying.

Pasha laughs, then goes on to describe how she’s planned this carefully, how the theme is Vintage Masquerade, or something, and how she can’t wait to see everyone’s costumes. Asra engages with her eagerly, giving advice for decorations and getting excited over the food.

There and then, Syran realises two things.

One: she has no fucking clue what to wear to something like that.

Two: she’s supposed to see Ilya today and get Pasha a present.

As if summoned, her phone goes off. Ilya’s name on the screen makes her insides squirm but she opens the text trying not to arouse suspicion.

dr. hulian - 13:12 Do you think Pasha would like this?

Attached to the message, there’s a picture of a– well, a skull, looking pretty real and being held by what’s clearly Ilya’s hand. Syran finds it a little eerie, but she can’t hold her smile back.

To: dr. hulian - 13:13 Mmmh, maybe if you decorated it a bit?

She starts eating her sandwich, itching to get a reply, but acts as if it’s nothing. She gets back into the conversation with Pasha and Asra, trying to get distracted. Asra is now suggesting he could give tarot readings to the guests for a little bit during the party, Pasha seems elated at the idea.

Then, Syran’s phone vibrates again.

from: dr. hulian - 13:16 - You mean like this? - His name is Ferdinand, by the way

This time, the skull has a thin golden scarf with an intricate flower pattern tied all around, complete with a fancy bow on top. It’s ridiculous and endearing at the same time. Syran tries to stifle a laugh.

To: dr. hulian - 13:18 - hell yeah, ferdinand looks perfect in that, love it - where did he get that, looks extremely fashionable

from: dr. hulian - 13:18 - We stole it from nadia’s bag while she went to the bathroom. I suspect mere seconds before we get punished for our crime. - oh no, she found us

Syran laughs again, this time she can’t hide it as she types a reply.

To: dr. hulian - 13:19 - Just blame it on Ferdinand! i’m sure she’ll understand

“–kay, what’s going on, Syran?”

“Huh?” She blinks up at the two pairs of eyes scrutinising her.

“Who’re you texting?” Asra looks smug, ready to pounce.

“Looks like a pretty nice convo you’re having there.” Pasha adds, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand.

Syran scrambles for a reply. There’s no way in hell she’s going to be honest with them on this, not today.

Or ever, probably.

“Just– Ran. She was showing me her dogs, back at home,” She smiles at the end, desperately hoping to sell the lie.

Pasha lights up at the word dogs, but Asra doesn’t seem convinced.

“Really? She never mentioned dogs to me,” He narrows his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, she has two mixed breeds and– and a parrot.”

I mean, it’s not as much of a lie as a past truth. Ran used to have two dogs and a parrot in her old home. Now it’s just one of the dogs, who’s gotten pretty old, too.

“That’s cute! Can I see?” Pasha eagerly leans over to glance at Syran’s phone, now sitting face up on the table.

“Uh– I– I guess–” just as Syran tries to make something up, the phone goes off again, this time with a call. Ilya’s name flashes on the display for everyone to see.

Syran just stares at it, startled.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer?” Asra suggests, teasingly.

Syran chuckles nervously, then reaches for the phone.

“Hello?”

From the other side there’s noises and two distinct voices arguing, albeit muffled. None of them talking to her.

“H– hello?” she tries again, this time genuinely confused.

“–ust for a second! Don’t get mad at me, come on–”

“–you should know better than to steal from me, Ilya,”

“Come on, Nadi– ust a joke!”

“–going to have a better excuse– this was a gift!”

Asra and Pasha lean closer to try and hear what’s going on, but Syran swats them away.

“Must be a butt dial or something,” she mutters, just as Ilya keeps talking and exclaims an apology.

Pasha rolls her eyes. “Is it my brother?”

As Nadia seems to reprimand Ilya more, Syran nods, looking confused enough for her friends to frown with her.

“– an excuse to talk!” Ilya’s exclamation gets Syran's attention.

“You’re a lost cause, Devorak,” This time Nadia’s voice is a little more clear.

“I know,” Ilya says.

When they go silent Syran tries again.

“Uhhh, hello?”

More noises. Something scrambling by the mic.

“Oh, shi– goddamn– hello? Syran? That you?”

“Yep,” She deadpans, avoiding Pasha and Asra’s eyes, “In the flesh.”

“Uh– did you– did you call me?”

“I believe you called me, Ilya,” she arches an eyebrow.

On the other side of the table, Pasha is making a kissy face and hugging herself, then mouths the word smooch. Next to her, Asra snickers. Syran rolls her eyes and turns on her seat, her back facing them.

“Ah. Right. Well, that was– not intentional. I was– discussing, with Nadia, you see.” Ilya utters, embarrassed.

“I figured,” Syran laughs, “Pretty important discussion, it seems.”

“Uh– did you hear much of that?”

Syran could barely understand, really. “Nope, mostly that Nadia’s mad about your theft.” She smiles.

“Yes, indeed. But Ferdinand and I will be okay,” He laughs, clearly more relaxed. “We fought hard and we lost our treasure, but we came out of it unscathed.”

“That’s not true–” Nadia chimes in from somewhere next to him.

Syran can’t help but laugh louder at Ilya’s theatrics this time, “Well, I’m glad you’re alive, at least.”

She is also glad that her friends can’t see her face right now, because it would be so, so, incriminating.

“So, uh, well,” Ilya continues, “Since we’re here, I was– I was wondering if you’re still on for later? For the– uh– secret mission?” Syran smirks at the way he whispers it, not subtle at all.

Suddenly aware not only of the pair of devils behind her, but also of the fact her and Ilya’s mission involves a surprise for one of them, Syran tries to not give herself away. She also probably needs to close the call, before she makes things worse for herself.

“Yep, yep, sure.” She says, quickly. “No worries.”

“Oh, great, so I’ll come–” Ilya starts.

“Yeah, work’s definitely busy today!”

“Uhm, okay, so– does that mean–”

“No, it’s fine!” Syran exclaims, trying her best to act convincingly. “Well, good luck with your– things!”

“Okay, bu–”

Syran hangs up before Ilya can finish.

“Wow,” Asra says from behind her.

Syran breathes in and takes a moment to turn back towards them, then hides her face in her sandwich.

“You two were straight-up flirting,” Pasha says, smile on her face.

Syran talks with a bite of sandwich in her mouth. “Do you even know what flirting entails? Because that was not it. That was a normal conversation. If that was flirting, then I’d be flirting with all of you. All the time. That’s not flirting.”

Cool, now she's talking way too much.

“Ah, the sweet taste of denial,” Asra sighs, dramatic and starry-eyed.

“Seriously, you guys are delusional.” Syran gives one last bite to her sandwich. “That was just an accidental dial, nothing more.”

“Yes, but why, oh, why, I wonder, was it to you? Were you so high up in his recent contacts?” Pasha squints at her, sly.

“You’re reaching. We all have a groupchat together, it could have been for any reason. You know how clumsy Ilya can be.” Syran shrugs, praying that they’ll let her live. Seriously, she does not deserve this torture. “Why are you guys so obsessed with this anyway?”

Pasha and Asra exchange a look, then they both lean back, in sync.

“Okay,” Asra states. He narrows his eyes and crosses his fingers on the table like he's a renowned detective, or something. “Let’s assume you’re right.”

“Which I am–”

“Did you mind, though?”

“What?”

“Did you mind that Ilya butt-dialed you?”

“What sort of question is that?” Syran widens her eyes, taken aback. Really, why are they so stubborn.

“Just answer, perp!” Pasha points a finger at her. Now it really feels like Syran is in an interrogation room.

“I have nothing to answer, because that is a stupid question.” She closes her lunch box with finality, looking straight into Pasha’s eyes.

“Admit it!” Asra slams a hand on the table, “You enjoy talking to him!”

Syran groans, exasperated, “Of course I do, he’s my friend! It would be mean if I didn't!”

Pasha and Asra smile at each other, “We got her, chief.” Pasha says.

“You got nothing,” Syran glares at them, “I’m going back to work.”

She gets up and gathers her things, ignoring the chorus of booos coming from her friends.

God, she loves them to bits, but they can be so annoying at times.

🂱

Somehow, she manages to slither away from the others and get back home safe.

After having sent Ilya a few explanatory texts and having agreed to meet at a cafe nearby, she finally takes a look in the mirror.

She really does look tired. Without distractions around her, the migraine is harder to ignore. She takes a relief pill and washes her ruined makeup, her face feeling cleaner. The heaviness of the day is starting to take a toll on her, she can feel it in her muscles.

When she checks the time, she realises that she’s going to be late if she doesn’t hurry up.

Quickly, she reapplies her makeup as best as she can, then throws on some clean and more comfortable clothes.

Persephone meows at her from the foot of her bed; it’s almost as if she’s smirking at her, knowing more than she lets on.

“Oh, not you too,” Syran pleads.

🂱

When she arrives at the cafe, Ilya is waiting by the entrance, casually leaning on the wall behind him. She takes a moment to look at him while he’s distracted by his phone, all perfectly styled auburn hair and dark clothes. She hates how good he looks.

(She doesn’t hate it, really, but she’ll die before she admits it.)

When he meets her eyes, a big smile sparks on his face.

“Hey,” she waves. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Hey,” he echoes, “Not at all.”

“Shall we?”

“Ah, yes, uh– should we get some coffee to go, first, since I owe you that?” He smirks, but then his eyes glance down to the side straight away. “That’s if– if you want, of course.”

“Sounds great!” Syran nods, delighted at the thought of a hot beverage in her hands.

The cafe is cozy and warm, most of the tables are filled with people chatting or working on their laptops.

As they wait in line, Ilya and Syran talk a little about their days, how Ilya’s research is driving him insane, how Syran’s boss gave her a hundred errands until late.

“Yikes, that must be tiring,” Ilya says, concerned, as they wait for their drinks.

Ilya has ordered a black coffee with a splash of milk, Syran has opted for a matcha latte. She likes coffee, but on days like this it makes her a little too jittery.

“Yeah, I mean, no more tiring than any other job. Plus, I learn a lot. Miss Eirsdottir is tough, but she’s brilliant.” Syran finds herself fiddling with her hands. “Hopefully one day I get to do more of the parts that I really love, though.”

Ilya smiles down at her, handing her the drink. There’s a glint in his eyes that makes Syran feel light. “I’m sure you will.”

Finding a present for Pasha isn’t as easy as they thought. They scurry through shops, trying things, looking at clothes, bags, books, videogames, jewelry, vinyl records– they contemplate wine at some point but realise Nadia would like that more. Then they go back to books, but nothing seems right.

Syran would lie if she said she isn’t having fun, though. Despite some moments where she really wishes she could hide her blush, she and Ilya fall into a rhythm made of jokes, laughter, chatter, and comfortable silences.

It’s nice. Really nice. It's. You know. Friendship.

Eventually, they walk by a window that’s displaying a various array of scarfs, ranging in colours and materials.

Syran does a double-take and spots a muted orange one that makes her think of Pasha immediately.

“That one!” She exclaims pointing at the glass.

“Huh?” Ilya seems taken aback, interrupted in the middle of his story on how he once got his hand stuck in a vending machine.

“Look at that scarf, isn’t it perfect for Pasha?”

Ilya squints at the glass, trying to figure out what Syran is pointing at. “The orange one?”

“Yep! It looks so pretty!” Syran turns to him, beaming, “We should go see it!”

Ilya nods, smiling back.

The scarf turns out to be even better than they thought. It’s made of soft and light cotton, with a delicate golden pattern woven on the edges. Ilya seems elated, saying that she will love it, right? Will she love it, Syran? I think she will.

Syran smiles at his excitement, glad to see him happy about the choice. The clerk wraps it up in a beautiful gift box, eagerly explaining how the cotton is of a refined but durable quality, it makes for perfect everyday use, but also works really well for more elegant events. Ilya listens intently, as if he’s trying to remember all of it to then tell Pasha.

Ilya has a big smile plastered on his face as they exit the shop, then he turns to Syran and hugs her, all-encompassing. She’s startled, but she gingerly hugs him back.

“Thank you so much, seriously,” He mutters in her hair.

She really really hopes he can’t hear how loud her heart is beating this time.

It’s not a crush.

Is it?

When he pulls back, they’re both a little flustered. “Ehm– I mean, yeah. Thank you.”

Syran is still trying to regain herself from the sudden hug, but something in Ilya’s tone makes her wonder.

“Can I ask you something?”

Ilya seems a little surprised by the question, but nods nonetheless. “Sure.”

“Why were you so worried about this? Besides the regular stuff you told me, like. What are you really worried about?” More than out of curiosity, Syran is asking because she can sense that there’s still something bothering Ilya.

He blinks, eyes wide. Then he looks down, as if caught in the act.

“Well– I– to be honest, it’s been a little tough lately, and the work at the university isn’t helping. So I haven’t been able to be there for Pasha as much as I’d like.” He sighs, but Syran gives him time, sensing that’s not the whole story.

He looks at her, visibly worried now. “And. Well. Pasha and I have– not always been close. Our parents divorced when we were fairly young and we took different paths after I graduated high school. I left, wanting to get away from it all, and she stayed. I made mistakes, resented her for it. We argued a lot, eventually had a big fight, and– didn’t talk for a while after that. It didn’t feel good, but I was reckless and hurt and too prideful.”

He looks so sad Syran can’t help but reach out to hold one of his gloved hands. Then, he smiles, although a little bitterly. Syran thinks she sees tears in her eyes. Her heart drops to her stomach.

Ilya continues, “I mean, we fixed things in the past years and now that we live in the same town it’s great, but– I still feel like there’s an unspoken distance. I fucked up so many times before–” He cuts himself off, like it pains him to go on. “So– yeah, I just want us to get close again– I feel like I need to make it up to her, somehow.”

He blinks the tears away, chuckling nervously. “God, you must think I’m an idiot.”

“What– no!” Syran’s chest is tight. She never imagined Ilya had all of this inside. She knew there was some sort of situation between the two of them, but Pasha never liked talking about it much.

“I–I think you’re very thoughtful. And mature for wanting to own up to things. It’s heartwarming to see how much you care,” She continues under his cautious stare. “Look– I don’t know, maybe it’s not my place, but I don’t think you need to make anything up to her. You’re a wonderful brother and person. Look at how much thought you’re putting into this! Whatever happened, I am– I’m sure she knows how much you love her. I can see how happy she is to have you back in her life, too – well, in between all the bickering.”

Ilya laughs at her last words and she joins, happy to see him smiling again.

Then, her gaze softens. “I think you will be just fine. You are trying really hard, you should give yourself a break.”

Ilya smiles, gentle. Then, he seems more relieved. “Thank you. You’re– uh. Quite good at pep talks.”

She winks, “I know.” She can’t help but squeeze his hand a little. He squeezes back. Syran feels a little dazed and her chest feels a little tight, her and Ilya exchanging a soft gaze.

She’s so fucking gone, it’s no use ignoring it.

It might just be a crush.

Then, Ilya’s eyes widen, and he gasps. “You still need a present!”

“Oh, yeah,” Syran realises, waking up from her thoughts, “We don’t have to get it right now, though, I can always–”

“Nope, you helped me, now it’s your turn! Let’s go!”

He drags her through more streets like he’s a kid on a mission, it makes Syran laugh. They stop at various shops, once again searching for something perfect.

She can’t deny it, though, there’s a newfound feeling between them, maybe one of strengthened trust. They’re both laughing more, feeling more comfortable with each other than before.

Finally, a small antique shop catches Ilya’s eye. Syran walks back to look at the window with him.

It’s filled with various objects, old pocket watches, silver paraphernalia, old vases and pots, ragged dolls. Ilya seems enthralled by an old model ship, perched precariously on a small shelf.

“My grandma used to have one like that in her house,” He smiles, fondly. “I demanded to play with it whenever we visited, but she always told me it was too delicate to even look at, let alone touch.” He laughs. “I’d get all whiny then, but I get it now.” He turns to Syran, almost a little sorrowful.

“Some things are just too delicate to be reckless with.”

Syran blinks at him, ignoring the blood rushing to her ears. She turns to look at the ship again.

“I don’t know,” she says, “It looks pretty sturdy to me. It might not be ruined, but now it’s sitting in a dusty display.” She turns to him and shrugs. “Isn’t it better to enjoy things while they last, instead of holding back? ”

She’s not sure they’re talking about the ship anymore– Ilya’s gaze on her makes her breath hitch in her throat.

She turns to the window again, flustered. As she stares intently, she realises that there is a little jewelry display on the bottom. In the midst of overly ornate rings and delicate pendants, she notices what looks like a brooch.

“Hey, what do you think of that?” She points at it, hoping that Ilya will see it amongst all the things.

He leans over her shoulder– too close to her, it takes all her might not to wince, ignoring the butterflies eating at her stomach. “Which one?”

“The– uh– the little brooch with the flowers?” She looks closer. It seems like real dried flowers encased in resin. They’re small and of a pale yellow, with a few crimson ones, on a white background. A delicate pattern made of golden metal frames it.

Ilya gasps, “That looks wonderful! It might go well with the scarf too!”

Syran agrees, although she hadn’t thought of that. She swallows, then suggests they head into the store.

As she talks to the owner, Ilya looks around the shop, curiously admiring the various displays. The brooch is even more beautiful up close, and the shopkeeper explains to her how this is special and one of a kind. Promises that she will give Syran a good price for it. She thanks the woman, and asks if she can wrap it as a gift.

“No problem, dear,” The lady says, reaching for a little red satin bag. As she fills it with some cotton to shield the brooch, she glances up at Ilya, who’s now looking at a small display of old books.

“Those ones are almost all first editions, you know,” she tells him.

“Oh– really?” Ilya turns, eyes filled with wonder. “They seem well preserved!”

“Of course,” The lady nods, delicately putting the brooch inside the bag, “I only get the best quality things.”

Ilya laughs, then moves onto another window. The lady slowly ties the bag with a textured ribbon, “Your boyfriend’s got a good eye,” she whispers.

Syran’s eyes widen, and she starts to stutter. “Oh– n– he’s not– we’re not together– he’s not my boyfriend.” She matches the shopkeeper’s tone, hoping that Ilya hasn’t heard them. Luckily, he seems too enthralled by the various objects to notice.

The lady throws another look at Ilya, then raises an eyebrow with a sly smile. “Are you sure?”

Syran doesn’t know how to answer for a second. Then she nods, slowly. “Yeah, uh. I am.”

When they leave the shop, Syran sighs in relief. Partly, because she’s got a present she’s really happy with. And also because she’s out of the shopkeeper's enquiring gaze.

“Happy?” Ilya asks her, smiling.

Syran looks up at him, startled. “Ye–yes! Very! I really hope she’ll like it.”

“Oh, she will,” he reassures her.

As they make their way back, Ilya starts wondering about what to wear at the party.

“I mean, I love her, but what sort of theme is Vintage Masquerade? Like, couldn’t she pick something simple? I don’t know, casual party attire?”

Syran laughs, although she agrees. She has no idea what to wear either.

“I mean, you kind of got it easy, you could throw on some slacks, a shirt, and some suspenders or something. Or a vest. Those are vintage.” She shrugs. She doesn’t know much about this stuff, really, but she does like dressing up. That is, when the theme is clear and easy.

“I guess– not even sure I have a vest, though,” Ilya ponders.

“Well, hey, you’re going to have to ditch your bomber jacket anyway.”

He gasps, fake offended. “Excuse me, this is my piece of resistance! Keeps me warm and looks amazing!”

Syran laughs it off, “Sure, but– still doesn’t quite hit the mark, does it?”

Ilya huffs like a pouting child. It’s endearing. “Whatever, I’ll figure something out, I guess.” Then he turns back to Syran.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you gonna wear?”

Oh. With all the business of the day, she had forgotten to look for clothes or even think about it. Again.

“Uhmm–” She thinks back to her wardrobe. Mentally scans through her more formal things.

“Dunno– I guess I have a lilac dress I could wear? It’s kind of vintage? It’s the best I can do, honestly.” She huffs a small laugh, but the more she thinks about it the more she thinks the dress will be fine.

It’s made of a light and flowy material, with a high neck that closes with a few small buttons, leaving a drop–like window on the chest. It’s a delicate dress, but the knee-length skirt and cut are vintage-inspired, at least.

“That sounds nice,” Ilya hums. “Now we just gotta find some masks to go with it,” he sighs.

“Oh, well, we have about a week for that, at least.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ilya frowns as if he’s trying to think where he could possibly find a mask.

“Although I think Pasha said there will be an array of masks to choose from at the party? Nadia knew a place or something, I think it’s to prevent people from showing up without one,” Syran realises with a smile, thinking of Pasha’s resolve and Nadia’s attention to details.

“Well, one less thing to worry about then,” Ilya sighs. “Although I hope to find one that works with my look. I’m a man of fashion, after all.”

“You could always make one,” Syran cackles, playfully hitting his arm. “And you didn’t know what to wear until I told you!”

He laughs back, teasing. “Hey, doesn’t mean I can’t dress at all!”

Syran’s smile only gets wider. It stays like that even after they’ve parted ways.

🂱

Syran doesn’t know how she got roped into this.

It all started with Asra and Nadia inviting her out for a few drinks– sure, it’s a Friday night, what’s a cocktail going to do?

So she got ready, wore one of her favourite outfits just as an incentive to feel more like going out, and met Asra at their usual place.

Except, when she arrived at the Raven, Asra and Nadia weren’t the only ones sitting at the table. A familiar head filled with auburn hair was sitting next to them, too.

Syran joined them, all smiles and greetings, and then dived immediately for the bar– anything to escape Asra’s knowing smile, Nadia’s attentive eyes, and Ilya’s annoyingly pretty face.

The bar isn’t too crowded, but thankfully still enough for her to blend with the people around her. She leans at the counter, waiting for a familiar face to greet her. Tonight Joon is working, which makes her smile. Since she and Asra have been coming here, he’s quickly become friends with them. She orders and idly chats with Joon as he makes her drink.

“Getting the usual?” A deep voice startles her.

Oh, she really can’t escape this shit.

She looks up at Ilya, who’s smirking at her. She does feel more relaxed around him now, but there are still moments like this, where he sneaks up on her and all of her blood rushes to her cheeks. To add insult to injury, Syran’s eyes can’t help but trail to Ilya’s outfit. He’s wearing a sleek black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. She doesn’t know if she hates this more or the shirts with the unbuttoned tops.

She turns back towards the bar, “Yep. Oaxaca old-fashioned all the way, baby.”

She taps her fingers on the wood and leans a little forward to look behind the counter, where Joon is just about to hand her the glass.

She grabs it with a smile, carefully taking the first sip. “Ah– you’re the best, Joon. Thank you.”

“Anytime, dear,” Joon winks at her. She loves him, honestly, and not only because he’s nice and handsome. He genuinely makes her laugh and has helped her more than a few times when unpleasant patrons have bothered her.

“Well, good, because I’ll definitely be back for another one,” she smirks and winks back.

Joon laughs, then turns to Ilya, “what can I get you?”

When Syran looks up at Ilya as she takes another sip from her glass, she notices the weird expression on his face. He’s almost frowning at Joon, but she brushes it down to his bushy eyebrows. He can unintentionally look like he’s glaring at people, when the light is right.

Then, he turns to Syran with a sly smile, “You know, I’ve never had an Oaxaca old-fashioned.”

She swallows, then puts the glass down, “You should! The ones Joon makes are god-tier.” Syran suggests excitedly.

Ilya seems to ponder on it for a second, “Mhh– but what if I don’t like it?”

Ilya’s never struck Syran for the indecisive type. But then again, maybe he just really wants to get a good drink right now. He seems to come to a realisation, just then.

“Ah– what if I tried yours?” He asks, genuine, but with a weird glint in his eyes. Syran did not expect the question, it leaves her a little dumbfounded.

“S–sure, why not–” She hands him the glass, and he grabs it, eagerly.

“Thank you,” Ilya proceeds to take a small sip from the glass, and Syran can’t help but notice that’s almost where she drank from, his lips dangerously close to the subtle stain of her lipstick.

Syran throws a glance at Joon, who’s patiently waiting for them. He shoots her a questioning look, raising an eyebrow. She just kinda shrugs.

Ilya puts the glass back on the counter, “That’s actually really really good.” He looks at it like he’s surprised.

“Told ya’,” Syran smirks.

When they get back to their table, equal drinks in their hands, Nadia and Asra are animatedly engaged in conversation. They kinda stop when Syran and Ilya arrive, turning to them with coy smiles.

Asra notices the drink in Ilya’s hand and then gasps, “Wow, she convinced you? She’s been trying to get me to drink that since forever.”

Syran rolls her eyes, “I gave up, you clearly only like extremely sweet shit–”

“And happily so,” Asra mocks her, then turns to Ilya again. “You actually like it?”

Ilya nods as if he doesn’t see what the fuss is all about, “Yeah, it’s really good.”

“It’s not as bad as you make it to be, Asra,” Nadia chimes in.

Ilya shrugs, then takes another sip. Syran can’t help but smile proudly at Asra, like she’s won an ongoing battle between the two of them.

“Well, it’s good to see you both have clearly similar tastes,” Asra says, before carefully drinking from the straw in his tall glass, filled with a bright pink cocktail. Both Ilya and Syran widen their eyes.

“Ah– guess so,” Ilya chuckles.

“Yeah,” Syran mutters, glaring at Asra. “Anyway, you guys noticed how they changed the backlight of the sign behind the bar? I actually like it better now,” Syran starts, trying to sway the conversation.

Maybe it’s not as graceful as she’d like, but it works. They all start talking about the bar and its decor, how they’ve always loved this place; time passes by and soon they’re all a little flushed and tipsy, except Nadia, who’s the designated driver for the night.

Then, at one point, Asra’s eyes trail behind Syran, and they widen in shock.

“Oh shit,” He says, crouching down as if to hide behind his drink. Nadia puts a hand on Asra’s back, concerned.

“What?” Both Syran and Ilya turn towards where Asra looked, trying to figure out what happened.

“Don’t look, you idiots!” Asra whispers, angry. “Valerius is here! Shit!”

Syran then realises, “Oh, fuck, really? I thought he didn’t come here anymore!”

“Yeah, well, he’s by the counter. Shit, fuck!”

“Who’s– uh– who’s Valerius?” Ilya asks, clearly confused.

“Asra’s awful ex,” Nadia explains, “he was an asshole and we all hate him, viciously.” She’s got fire in her eyes, and Syran knows she is mirroring it herself.

“He fucking– he cheated on me and then said it was my fault. It was– it was fucking awful.” Asra looks like he’s about to cry. Syran wants to reach for him and hug him. She knows Asra’s wound is still fresh and knows how hard it was for him to move on from the hurt.

Ilya sneers, “That’s disgusting.”

“Damn right,” Nadia adds, glaring towards where Valerius is.

“Hey, it’s okay, we can leave if you want,” Syran reaches out for Asra’s hand, trying to reassure him.

He shakes his head, sneaking another glance, “Then he will have won. Again.”

“No, he will not,” Nadia declares, “If he says anything we’ll beat the shit out of him. Fuck, even Joon will be on our side on this.”

“Nadia’s right,” Ilya adds, “Plus, I’ve dabbled in bar brawling before.”

It makes the table laugh, if a little, but it lightens the mood. It doesn’t last long, though.

“Shit– is that? Is that Lucio? Are you fucking kidding me?” Asra says, now even angrier than before.

“Oh, hell no–” Nadia goes to get up, but Asra holds her down.

“Nadi no, I just– I don’t want to see them.”

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Nadia asks. Asra nods, gingerly.

“That’s cool, Asra, we can go–” Syran starts.

“Not all at once, though–” He says, resolute. “I don’t want to draw attention.”

There’s a joke Syran could make there about how Asra doesn’t exactly blend in the crowd, with his flashy fashion and white hair, but she knows that wouldn’t make him laugh right now– clearly, all he wants to do is disappear.

“How about this,” Nadia says, turning towards Syran and Ilya, hand still on Asra’s back, “I’ll take him home and you guys enjoy the rest of your drinks. You’ve barely started these glasses, while we’re almost done. You call me when you’re finished and I’ll come back to pick you up, okay?”

“Nadi, you don’t have to–” Ilya starts, but she waves a hand to interrupt him.

“It’s no problem, really,” she smiles kindly, “You guys just enjoy the night, yeah?”

Syran looks at Asra, now clearly on the verge of tears. Whether they’re from hurt or anger, she can’t tell. Probably a mix of both. But he knows what she’s about to say nonetheless.

“Don’t worry, S,– I’ll be okay, yeah? I asked you to come out, it’s just fair that you enjoy your time. Seriously.”

Syran nods, resigned, knowing how stubborn Asra can get. “Okay but–”

“I’ll call you later, promise.”

“Promise,” Syran retaliates. A concerned frown doesn’t leave her face, even as Asra and Nadia carefully slip out the table, then towards the end of the counter, well hidden from Valerius’ attention. Syran spots Nadia talking to Joon, probably asking him to let them out through the back.

And just like that, Syran is left at the table alone with Ilya, both of them in awkward silence, staring at their drinks. Finally, Ilya speaks.

“I’ve never– I’ve never seen Asra like that.”

Syran looks at him, notices the worry in his features as he twirls the glass in his hands.

“Yeah, he tries to hide his feelings, when he can, the idiot,” she smiles bitterly; stars know how many times she’s tried to tell Asra that bottling it all up doesn’t help anyone.

“I can understand that,” Ilya looks up at her. “I hate to pry but– who’s–”

“Lucio? The guy Valerius cheated with. Also, Nadia’s ex of like–” She tries to do mental math. “Four? Years ago?”

“Yikes,” Ilya just says, taking a big sip of his drink.

“Yep– it’s– a lot.” Syran sighs, “We thought he was going to be out of our life after Nadia broke up with his ass, but– guess not.”

She inhales, exhausted only at the thought of all that happened in the past. Things were definitely messier than now. She takes another swig of her drink.

“Well–” Ilya smiles, putting his glass down, “what if we did something about that?”

The glint in his eyes is mischievous, and Syran raises an eyebrow from behind her drink.

“What do you have in mind?”

🂱

Pranks have never been something Syran thought about. Never felt the need to fill someone’s shoes with toothpaste, or hide a fake spider in the bathroom, or whatever it is that the kids do these days. She always felt bad for those people in prank videos that get visibly hurt.

But this– she didn’t mind this one bit.

She and Ilya are running out of the bar, lungs filled with laughter, as Lucio and Valerius’ screams fade behind them. They run long enough until their legs give up, and even then, they find it in themselves to keep laughing.

“Jesus– their face– priceless!” Syran heaves out.

“I told you–” Ilya adds, big smile not leaving his face, eyes all crinkled up and blush on his cheeks. “Cranberry juice always works–”

They haven’t done anything that spectacular, really, but Syran will realise this later, when the adrenaline has rushed out of her. Right now, spilling juice on those two idiots’ white clothes and making Lucio trip on his ass was enough to make her night.

“Didn’t expect you to punch Valerius, though,” Ilya grins at her, as if impressed.

Yeah, and that too.

“Me neither– I don’t condone violence, but–” Syran finally feels her breath coming back to her, “–but, god, he deserved it.”

“Sure did–” Ilya laughs with her, adjusting his coat.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, all smiles and excitement, rush of electricity that Syran hadn’t felt in a while. Not like this.

“Well–” Ilya starts, “Maybe we should– uh. Go?”

“Yeah– I could call an uber?” Syran suggests.

“Actually, I was more thinking, like– I can walk you home, maybe?” He seems almost scared to ask for a second, but then his features relax. “Honestly, I feel bad calling Nadia now and it might be good to shake the alcohol off.” He looks up at the clear sky. “It’s a nice night, anyway.”

He’s right. It’s hard to see stars from the city, but the moon is bright and beautiful.

Syran doesn’t quite know what to say, though she agrees with not bothering Nadia. She is probably busy taking care of Asra right now, and that reassures her a lot. But Syran’s house is a good thirty minutes walk away, not to mention that Ilya would have to walk back through the city for more than that.

“I– I don’t know. It’s a long way for you– and it’s late–”

“Syran, I assure you that I’ll be fine, I like walking.” He chuckles, “If anything, I know you will punch whoever gets in our way.”

Syran laughs, although a little flustered under Ilya’s endeared stare. “Yeah, I’m basically a pro wrestler now.”

They end up chatting along the way, although the cold winter wind catches up on them, but they don’t mind that much. They’re too distracted by their conversation to think about that.

Getting to know each other like this, casually, with no pressure, without inhibitions, has become natural to them. They get to talk about things that they never addressed, make jokes that seem so dumb and niche they are surprised when the other laughs.

Ilya was the last one to join their group of friends, so she can imagine he felt a little distant from everyone else at first. But it’s been over a year now, and the group feels really solid, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together with harmony.

Still, Syran always felt like her and Ilya never really got to talk much like this, just the two of them. And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way Ilya makes her feel at ease, but she doesn’t feel as skittish around him anymore.

Sure, her heart still jumps when he laughs, and any little brush of their arms makes her breath hitch, but– but– there’s not much of an excuse for that, other than she’s clearly got feelings for him.

It is a crush. A heavy one at that.

But she can live with it, she can just enjoy their friendship and not act on them.

They are close to her building when they are laughing at a story Syran is telling, of one time where she and Asra got lost in a park and thought a ghost was haunting them.

“I swear, Asra tried to act all brave, but–” in the middle of the phrase, a strong fit of pain hits the side of her head. She had managed to ignore the creeping migraine until then, but suddenly, it feels like her brain is about to explode. She holds a hand to where the pain is, eyes shut and slightly crouching forward.

“Syran? You okay?” Ilya reaches a hand to her shoulder, tone immediately shifting to heavy concern.

“Yeah– just– I get migraines– sometimes,” she mutters through the pain.

“That’s not good,” Ilya says. “We’re almost to your place, you think you can make it?”

“Ye–yeah– sorry–”

“Why are you apologising? Had I known, I–”

“Don’t want you to worry,” she utters, finally feeling like she can open her eyes a little, “I’m used to it.”

It does nothing to ease Ilya’s concern though. If anything, he seems to worry more, reaching to fully encase Syran in his arm, supporting her as they walk.

“Really, I’ll be okay,” she says.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when you’re home and feeling better,” He scoffs, his hand rubbing up and down Syran’s arm. “Don’t forget I’m basically a doctor.”

It makes Syran laugh a little, “Right, Doctor Devorak, ready to help.”

“Is that a mocking tone I’m sensing, Miss Elkas?”

“No–” Syran says, teasing, although through the pain, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Ilya laughs, then seems to hold her tighter. “Almost there.”

They finally reach her building, and she gingerly gets out her keys to open the door.

“Thank you,” she turns to say goodbye to him, “Get home safe.”

But he just stares at her. “Didn’t I say I’ll stop worrying until you’re home?”

Syran chuckles, “But I am–”

“Yeah, I meant home home. I’ll take you up–” then he widens his eyes, catching himself. “That’s if– if you’re okay with that, of course.”

Syran thinks about it for a second, but the pain is too strong to argue right now. She just nods and mutters a okay, and goes to let Ilya through before her.

Sometimes things just don’t go as planned, though.

As she’s about to follow behind him, something hits her shoulder, and hard. She turns just in time to see someone running past her, then she loses her balance and hits the floor.

The last thing Syran sees before passing out is Ilya’s hands reaching for her.

#an writes #fic writing #julianxapprentice #julianxsyran #julian devorak #portia devorak #ilya devorak #pasha devorak #nadia satrinava #lucio morgasson #asra alnazar #muriel #the arcana fic #the arcana #part 3

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msjr0119 · 4 years

Text

One Temptation

Part 10

*This series is based on The Royal Romance characters who belong to Pixelberry - AU Plot switch*

Riley Brooks moves back to New York after leaving five years prior- struggling to get by in life she wanted to go home. After getting mugged, a woman and man come to her rescue and offer her a job at their strip club. A rich business man Liam Rhys is forced to visit the club as part of his bachelor party. What will happen that night?

Tags-if you want to be removed from the list, let me know 😊: @pedudley @kacie-0156 @loveellamae @annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bbrandy2002 @butindeed @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @captain-kingliamsqueen @duchessemersynwalker @drxkewalker @texaskitten30 @ibldw-main @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @kozabaji @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs @whenyourheartskipsabeat @jovialyouthmusic @nz1091 @yukinagato2012 @seriouslybadchoices @rainbowsinthestorm @cordonianroyalty @dcbbw @qammh-blog @jared2612 @princess-geek @desireepow-1986 @indiacater

A/N: This part is smaller than most, the next part will be posted once I’ve finished work or tomorrow.

Warnings: Swearing, abuse.

*****

I miss you. X

Hey, are you okay? I haven’t heard from you in a few days. X

Ri, I love you. Please text back. I just want to know that you are okay. X

Can I come and see you? X

Riley sighed as she re read all the messages that she had received from, messages that she hadn’t responded to as if they didn’t exist. It had been a few weeks since she had seen him in the hotel room. Waking up the following morning, she snuck out of the room. Regretting letting her feelings get the best of her- she knew it was best to just leave without saying a word. Maybe in time, they could gradually speak- when she was sober.

“I’m going to have to get you a bucket, are you coming down with something?” Gill asked as she walked over to Riley, noticing that she was pale, as she sipped the water behind the bar and was immediately sick.

“I don’t know? It must be that seafood that we ate last night. I’ve had an upset stomach since this morning...”

“Just stay behind the bar tonight, I’ll get you a bucket in case you can’t make it to the toilet. If you need time off, just go home.”

Staying behind the bar, she was hoping that this shift would go quickly. The usual punters attempted flirting with as they always did- as much as she tried, she tried to flirt back. But the smell of alcohol was making her feel instantly ill. Bending down, she discreetly puked up in the bucket on the floor.

“Hello, can I have a scotch please.”

“I’ll be one minute...” Wiping her mouth, she placed some gum in her mouth as she slowly stood up.

“Bertrand?”

“Hello, stranger.” Wiping his finger along the bar, he looked disgusted viewing all the dust and the sticky residue stuck on his finger like super glue. He was shocked to see her behind the bar, when she first arrived back in New York City- he was horrified when Maxwell blurted out that she was a stripper.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a free country.. I’m just checking that you are okay. You don’t look okay- you look as white as a sheet. You haven’t spoken to anyone - we were all concerned about you.”

“I’m fine, shouldn’t you be with Savannah? Congratulations by the way, how is the little bundle of joy?” Providing him with the drink, she explained that it was on the house to congratulate him on becoming a father- as well as ‘wetting the baby’s head’. She knew that this day was coming, but it still hurt knowing the day that their baby arrived could have been the day that she was holding her own bundle of joy.

“He’s amazing. We are having a get together tomorrow night, you should come and meet Bartie.”

“I might do, it depends if I can get time off work or not.” He’s going to be there. Covering her mouth, that all familiar taste made its way back in to her mouth.

“Are you pregnant?”

“No, don’t be fucking stupid...” fuck. I could be. Horror was soon written all over her face, of course Bertrand would assume this- Savannah was pregnant and had morning sickness, so he was now an expert knowing the symptoms.

“I ate seafood last night, I don’t think it’s agreed with my stomach...”

“Or maybe that little rendezvous you had in Times Square has had some consequences...” Perking his eyebrows up, he knew she was in denial- if she was indeed pregnant, he knew that she wouldn’t be alone- she would have support from everyone.

“How do you know about that?” Shaking his head, everyone knew. Due to the man explaining what had happened and him being concerned as she ran off and had ignored him ever since.

“He’s worried about you, he asked if anyone had spoken to you. What is it with you and hotel rooms?” He laughed attempting to make the situation a joke rather than it being a serious matter.

“You know me B. Whenever Liam had conferences with his father, I’d stay in the hotel room with him. Leo, in Florida- when he found me. Maxwell when we all got drunk in Vegas. And Drake, the hotel before we arrived at the ranch the following day..”

“Well we are meeting tomorrow at the Hilton, midtown. Who’s next on your hotel fuck list? You could use tomorrow as an opportunity.” See her frown at him, he laughed. “I’m joking! Thank you for the drink, Ri. I hope you can attend.”

*****

The sickness had deteriorated the day after, feeling relieved she was sure it was due to the food. Getting ready to go to hotel, she was a bag of nerves. Deep down she didn’t want to go- however as Bertrand said they were practically family years ago.

Arriving at the Hilton, she was greeting by a waiter who gave her a champagne flute. Gulping it in one, it would give her dutch courage that she most likely would need to survive the whole event. Scrutinising the room, she saw everyone- as well as Drake’s family. Fuck, I forgot about them. Just breathe, Riley. Bertrand noticed her stood vacant at the threshold. Carrying Bartie over towards her, she placed a fake smile onto her face.

“Bartie, this is Auntie Riley...” Riley placed her finger into the newborns open hand- his tiny fingers wrapped around her immediately with a tight grip.

“Hey, gorgeous... aw Bertrand he’s adorable.”

“Do you want to hold him?” Riley nodded, holding the newborn- she was in love immediately. Bartie began to panic, possibly sensing that his mother and father wasn’t present and that he was in a strangers arms. Natural instinct made her coo at Bartie, before singing him a lullaby. Whilst singing- she placed the baby's head in the crook of one arm and wrapped the other arm around him- she was scared of dropping or breaking him.

“You’re a natural...are you still up for those babysitting duties?” He said with an encouraging tone of voice. Looking up at him, she smiled softly.

“Of course I’ll babysit him. No B, I’m not a natural- I’m a woman. He probably just thinks that my breasts are Savannah’s. Although if you carry on drinking beer, you could grow some man boobs...”

“I’d usually be offended with your sarcasm, but it’s good to see you smile.”

“He’s so gorgeous isn’t he? Hello, Riley.” Shifting her gaze from Bartie, she looked up at the woman. The woman who could win so many oscars with her fake attitude.

“Hello, Mrs Walker. Erm - Bertrand, I think he’s hungry- he’s getting far too close to my breasts..” Bertrand bend down to collect his son, he knew that this was probably just an excuse to remove herself from Bianca’s presence.

“Can you stop following me please...”

“I just want to say sorry for everything I did to you in Texas. Bertrand has explained about your true personality and you sound like a really nice person. I feel awful for the way we treat you...”

“I loved your son, I just wanted to make a good impression. At the time, I’d actually given up work. Who told you that I was a prostitute? That question has been lingering in my mind this whole time...”

“Liam Rhys...” Of course, it was him. That slimy bastard. “Did he give you that money?”

“No, it was from Kiara’s father.” Sighing, she really didn’t want that name to be mentioned, it was just a reminder of more heartache that she had received.

“Thank you. See you around.”

“Riley, wait!” Rolling her eyes back, she couldn’t be bothered with anymore of Bianca’s games. Not quite believing her new sincere attitude, she wanted to keep a distance- a long distance away from the woman.

“I’m so sorry about the baby...” holding her tears back, she began to struggle concealing the emotions. “You are a natural as Bertrand said, I do apologise again.”

“I’d have had our baby by now, imagine if I did. You hated me before you even got to know me. What would you have been like with your grandchild? Ignored it because you had a vendetta against its mother? Please, don’t try and talk to me again Mrs Walker...”

****

Seeing him smirking and laughing with people, the tears that she held back were now non existent. Instead anger built up throughout her body. Just the sight of him made her feel physically sick, him acting as if he had done nothing wrong. Storming through the crowd towards him, his eyes widened seeing her face like thunder.

“Liam! A word now!”

“Riley, it’s nice to see you...” swinging her fist back- this had become her new hobby especially with Liam. The scotch that he was holding was soon all over the floor- as the glass shattered the room went mute.

“How could you do that to me?” The tears that she had held in soon resurfaced and fell down her face, as her chin began to tremble she was unable to prevent all of the emotions bursting out.

“Do what?” Coming closer towards her, he wiped the wetness that was smudging her make up- not that she cared in the slightest.

“I dropped the charges, you avoided punishments because of my stupid goddamn heart. I went for lunch with you. I thought we had closure. Then I find out that you was the reason behind the Walkers hating me!”

“You went for lunch with him?” Leo walked over with Maxwell and Drake, concerned overhearing the shouting. “What have you done now?”

“He told Drake’s family that I was a fucking goddamn prostitute..”

“Ri, that was before I saw you in Starbucks and we went for lunch. I felt awful for doing that, but he is engaged anyway... we put all that behind us. We had closure...” Smirking at Drake, Riley was too emotional to realise this- Liam knew it would get under his skin that he went for lunch with her. Hoping that this little ‘confession’ would fill Drake with jealousy and rage.

“I am not fucking engaged!”

“Does it fucking matter who’s engaged or not? Does it matter what I fucking do for a living? Why can’t you all just let me live my life? I was thinking about your daughter in all of this Liam, and all you do is fucking screw me over.. continue to fucking break my heart...”

“I’m sorry. I am grateful for you thinking about Alice. Have you made a decision about the offer that I offered you all those weeks ago in Times Square?”

“Go to hell, Liam.”

*****

Maxwell followed Riley, out of all the friends he believed that he was the closest to her- the one who’s daft antics would make her smile instantly.

“Are you okay?” Knowing this was an idiotic question to ask, he didn’t know why he asked her- grabbing the ice out of his cocktail, he rubbed it against swollen hand.

“Yeah.. my hands killing though...”

“You really should quit the bar work and become a professional boxer.” Max pretended to throw some punches towards her.

“Me the professional boxer and you the professional dancer. You totally showed off in front of all those dancers in Times Square.” Doing a re-enactment Of his dance moves from that night, she threw her back laughing.

“Of course I would, they were all amateurs... when Maxwell Beaumont is around no one has a chance... so what do you think about Bartie? Is he a Beaumont or a Walker?”

“Definitely a Walker looks wise, but that can change. Hopefully he takes after his uncle’s rather than his serious father.” Impersonating Bertrand, Maxwell nearly fell over laughing. Pulling her into a hug, he held her tightly- he had missed her.

“What are you laughing about?” Leo asked, as he is put his arms around Riley’s waist and kissed her on the cheek.

“Ask Riley to show you her impression of Bertrand... I’m going to steal a cuddle from my nephew- I need to win the best uncle award.”

“How are you? I’ve missed you.”

“I’m fine, I’ve missed you too. How are you?”

“I’m good. It’s good to see you. Even when you are acting like the hulk...”

“He deserves it... what is he even doing here?”

“He paid for the venue, as usual. But I had my little input...”

“The flower arrangements?”

“How did you guess?”

“Well when you bought me flowers, they were beautiful.”

“I should become a florist? A beautiful bouquet for a beautiful girl. You deserve it. Love ya Ri.”

“Charmer... love ya too.”

****

Leo had left her alone, walking towards the bar, she ordered a drink- staring vacantly into it, she wasn’t sure why she was even here still. Drowning her sorrows, she felt like she was back at the Crowne plaza- the drinks were disappearing far too quickly.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry about what Liam did, as well as my family...”

“Don’t be. Congratulations on becoming a uncle.” Ordering him a drink, their hands touched as they both went to pay the bar man- the warmth of the touch lingered around their bodies. Quickly creating a distance again, Drake was desperate to pull her into his arms- but decided against it, especially with the mood she was in.

“Thanks. He’s amazing. I can’t wait to teach him a few things. I saw you holding him before, you’re a natural.” That could have been us, you holding our baby.

“I’ve already been told.” That could have been us. You talking about teaching our son or daughter about things.

“Don’t be drinking me under the table again, you know how one drink turns into two then into three before you know it. You don’t want a stinking hangover.”

“You know I can handle my hangovers. You don’t need to worry about my head.”

“I worry about you. I care about you. I love you.” Opening her mouth, she wanted to talk to Drake- civilly, but didn’t know where to start.

“Come on you two, B and Savannah are about to make an announcement...” Maxwell dragged the two of them towards the mini stage. Riley could feel Drakes eyes on her more than the star of the show, his own nephew.

“Riley, before the speech begins I want a private word with you. Savannah will talk and talk - so quick, follow me.” Following Bertrand, He led her to the bathroom- shutting the door, she was confused by his actions- until realisation sunk in as he pulled the object out of his pocket.

“Here, I think you should take this.”

“I’m not pregnant B. It was the seafood.”

“You looked like shit last night. Please.” Taking the test, she knew it would shut him up. Not knowing why he was insisting that she took a test. Peeing on the stick, she hid it in her bag wrapped around some tissue. Re-entering the room, Savannah gestured for Bertrand to join her on stage.

“Sorry for arriving late, I apologise if I repeat anything that has already been said. I’d like to thank you all for coming here today, our friends and family- we appreciate all the support....” the alarm went off on Riley’s phone, panicking that she was disturbing the speech- her hand was shaking as she tried to cancel it. Bertrand looked at her, knowing what the alarm was. Riley swiftly removed herself from the crowd, turning her back- she looked at the result. Covering her mouth, she wished that she had kept her legs closed- turning around she couldn’t look at the father instead she just nodded towards Bertrand hoping that he would understand the gesture. Clearing his throat, he quickly finished off his disastrous speech, knowing that she needed his support especially due to him forcing it upon her.

“Anyway, thank you for all the gifts. Thank you. Thanks...” Running off stage he followed Riley who was lingering at the door- still in shock. Still not knowing how to handle the situation.

“Was I correct?”

“I need to go. I didn’t get Bartie a present I wasn’t sure what he needed. Here, just take this money and get whatever you need. Thank you for inviting me.”

Bertrand, I need your assistance. Savannah shouted attempting to gain his attention- realising that he wasn’t aware that everyone was overhearing his conversation with Riley through the microphone.

I’ll only be a second Savannah, darling.

“Riley!”

“What?”

“Tell me... I am always here for you... you are like my little sister.” Passing him the test, she didn’t care if he was touching something that had her urine smeared all over it.

“I’m pregnant. Happy?” Savannah’s eyes widened, as everyone else’s did as they all turned to face the people who were oblivious that their conversation wasn’t private and was in fact public.

“Darling... you left the microphone on. We heard everything...”

“Bertrand! You fucking dipshit....” still in shock with the result - possibly denial, she just wanted leave. This whole event had been a disaster from her point of view. As the father walked over to her, along with the others- she looked at each of the men. Fuck. This is not happening. He will want to keep the baby. Can I trust him?

“Is the baby mine? Is Alice having a sibling?”

#trr #trr fanfic #trr au one temptation #riley brooks #liam rhys #drake walker #leo rhys #maxwell beaumont #riley x drake #riley x liam #riley x leo #riley x maxwell #bertrand beaumont #savannah walker #bianca walker

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ehentha · 5 years

Text

Maldives Twitter VS Francesca Borri

Imagine getting harrassed on twitter by a bunch of people you claimed didn’t know english or have smart phones 😂

— ‎ބ̸̤̯̍̏ު̵̩͔̬͑͝ރ̴̢̝͓̅ަ̶̜̌͊ކ̴̱̮̚ަ̶̹̱̥̽ށ̸̘͒ި̵̻̘̍̆͗❓🎈 (@Burakashi) January 27, 2019

*smartphone 😫🔫

The Maldives is one of the most oppressive countries in the world. It has a constitution that makes the lives of non-Muslim and LGBT Maldivians illegal. This makes life incredibly difficult for any progressive Muslims that want to bring about reforms as well as saying anything against extremist sheikhs will get you labled an apostate. Progressive Muslims like @moyameehaa (Ahmed Rizwan / Rilwan) and @yaamyn (Yameen Rasheed) who have spoken out for Maldivian minorities, progressive Islam, and secularism have been taken away from us. Sheikhs are not safe either, as one of the only moderately progressive sheikhs, Afrasheem Ali, was also brutally murdered in 2012.

First they came for the bloggers, and I did not speak out Because I was not a blogger. Then they came for irreligious, and I did not speak out Because I was not laadheenee. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me.

— Mohamed Shuraih (@MohamedShuraih) January 27, 2019

The greatest battlefield in the war for the hearts and minds of Maldivians is the internet. Bloggers like Hilath Rasheed have been the targets of escalating campaigns of harassment and death threats. In 2012, Hilath himself barely survived his neck being slashed. This was after years of attacks against people deemed laadheenee.

Maldivian extremists have used the internet for their terror and propaganda activities. One of the earliest Maldivian extremist groups, of which Rilwan was an ex-member, called “dot” or “dotu” literally got it’s name from “dot com”. Right now there are dozens of terrorist recruitment facebook and twitter pages, telegram, whatsapp, and viber groups, and websites brainwashing Maldivians with extremist propaganda.

He made a list of “dhivehi kaafarun”. We reported his account and now he’s changed the name to “Dhivehi atheists”. But here is proof of the original name https://t.co/WvbfkKbMp1

— ‎ބ̸̤̯̍̏ު̵̩͔̬͑͝ރ̴̢̝͓̅ަ̶̜̌͊ކ̴̱̮̚ަ̶̹̱̥̽ށ̸̘͒ި̵̻̘̍̆͗❓🎈 (@Burakashi) June 16, 2018

Their latest efforts including making a list of Dhivehi Kaafarun (Maldivian infidels) on twitter (which twitter support refused to remove, the account is still active), and a telegram group called “MV Murtad Watch” (Maldives apostate watch). This has also not been removed despite even making the local news.

Maldivian extremists are free to spread hate on the internet. Especially if they use Dhivehi, a language that cannot be automatically translated. This means that the support staff of these platforms often don’t even know how to recognise hate and fear speech when it is written in Dhivehi.

Murtad Watch MV is still active on @telegram. They claim to not be making death threats.But they state multiple times the verdict for apostasy is death. After which they list pictures, names & personal info of alleged apostates. Calling stoning cruel is enough to get labeled one. pic.twitter.com/hqcOXAI0fb

— ‎ބ̸̤̯̍̏ު̵̩͔̬͑͝ރ̴̢̝͓̅ަ̶̜̌͊ކ̴̱̮̚ަ̶̹̱̥̽ށ̸̘͒ި̵̻̘̍̆͗❓🎈 (@Burakashi) January 27, 2019

murtad watch is like "these people are apostates & apostates should be killed. here are their personal info. BY THE WAY THIS IS NOT A THREAT" that's a death threat. why would police do anything? when these groups commit murder police's job has always been to cover up the murder

— 🎈Thihen Vany (@basneyheemaa) January 27, 2019

I hope I have set the scene for you. An intolerant constitution that outright bans thinking and freedom of conscience. Extremists getting away with murder, and using technology as a means of oppression in a highly connected and tech literate society while the multi-million dollar companies that run them turn a blind eye.

It’s so fucking insulting that Maldivians have to fear for their lives because of goddamn @telegram groups, but meanwhile there’s western experts writing books claiming we go gaga at the sight of an iPhone. I wish these terrorists didn’t use phones, would make our lives easier 🤬

— ‎ބ̸̤̯̍̏ު̵̩͔̬͑͝ރ̴̢̝͓̅ަ̶̜̌͊ކ̴̱̮̚ަ̶̹̱̥̽ށ̸̘͒ި̵̻̘̍̆͗❓🎈 (@Burakashi) January 27, 2019

#NowReading Destination Paradise - Among the jihadists of the Maldives pic.twitter.com/6y4E5BYQf5

— Nash (@NashNasheed) January 21, 2019

Enter Francesca Borri with the radical insight that there is only one bookstore in Male’, all the while seeming to imply that most Maldivians don’t know English.

This book was published in 2017. It is factually incorrect. There’s only an Islamic bookstore? 🤦🏻‍♀️ This author is delusional. pic.twitter.com/ngPcG5yRhY

— Nash (@NashNasheed) January 26, 2019

And that there is no local cuisine.

Page 39. “I think that the Maldives are the only country in the world where there is no local cuisine”. Okay. Now this is going too far 😡

— Nash (@NashNasheed) January 26, 2019

And that Maldivians are amazed by smartphones.

Page 53. “A text arrives and my phone lights up... there’s an ooh of general amazement because it’s an iphone and no one has ever seen an iphone here”. 🤦🏻‍♀️ Seriously @francescaborri? Starting to doubt that you were even in Male’. Btw. Tweet sent from my iphone.

— Nash (@NashNasheed) January 26, 2019

“While the rest of the world watched the Olympics, in the Maldives most people watched the battle of Aleppo. And rooted for al-Qaeda”. What? Which channel on medianet was the battle of Aleppo broadcasted on? pic.twitter.com/wSaOPpQKRR

— Nash (@NashNasheed) January 21, 2019

But perhaps most insulting is the fact that we’d give a damn about the Olympics when we could be watching football. Also how the heck do you reckon people cut up the “Battle of Aleppo” for broadcast television? Do you think they had an HBO style miniseries?

Hey @francescaborri what medieval technology do you think this Maldivian terrorist group used to post this to Facebook? A 🥥 ? Can you help decipher the strange language they’ve used to threaten my life? I’m sending this via economy pigeon. May it reach you safely. Pls send halp. pic.twitter.com/wNvYbd06kZ

— ‎ބ̸̤̯̍̏ު̵̩͔̬͑͝ރ̴̢̝͓̅ަ̶̜̌͊ކ̴̱̮̚ަ̶̹̱̥̽ށ̸̘͒ި̵̻̘̍̆͗❓🎈 (@Burakashi) January 27, 2019

You get the picture. A hastily strung together piece of orientalist trash that makes the situation worse for people suffering because of Maldivian extremists. The last thing progressive Muslim, non-Muslim, and LGBT Maldivians need is more misinformation out there. Especially not from someone with a savior complex.

How can you trust anything written in this book when it features so many blatant fabrications? Fabrications deliberately worded to make Maldivians sound like backwards people rife with extremism who can’t read and are technology inept.

98% of our population had internet access five years ago. We have one of the highest tech proliferation and device per capita stats in the world. This isn't lazy research, this is outright malicious https://t.co/slgUtYcoYe

— Naailu🎈 (@kudanai) January 27, 2019

Well I’ll have you know us Maldivians are backwards people who are incredibly tech literate. And we can read too, to the shock of the author who is currently at the receiving end of the wrath of Maldives twitter.

Finally in bookstores. pic.twitter.com/ujRIg867gI

— francesca borri (@francescaborri) November 13, 2018

Here are some of the funniest and most insightful tweets directed at this latest savior who thought they could turn a profit on the suffering of the global south. These are the words of Maldivians speaking about their own country. Listen to them.

Lmao loving how conservatives and liberals are uniting against the mostly false portrayal of our country by @francescaborri . Nobody can trash-talk Maldivians except us amirite? 🇲🇻

— 🎈Nora Nazeer ✨ (@NoraNazeer) January 27, 2019

When western "journalists" parachute in to a South Asian country and assume they know everything and that they are always right. A Frenchman, who did the same, told me after visiting Maldives that Borri "took a lot of liberty" when writing her book. As in, she made up stories. https://t.co/wnBPUZgoi1

— Junayd 🇲🇻 (@mjunayd) January 27, 2019

But you could see how it perpetuates an idea of Maldivians that’s quite patronizing, even to the extent of orientalism, right? I mean, I do agree that extremism is at a critical stage here, but surely that could have been said without this inaccurate depiction of the rest?

— Aryj (@Arrryj) January 27, 2019

So tell me, how did you come up with this shit? 👎🏻👎🏻👎🏻 I graduated in an IGSE Cambridge examination back in 2008...from my island. Got an A in English. Even starting primary school, I had access to books from authors like Enid Blyton, R.L Stein and Louis Cooper... 🤦🏼‍♀️

— ShinyShine (@ShinyShine18) January 27, 2019

Might want search Google Maps for "bookshop" next time. This book is a blatant lie at this point. Even given the benefits of the doubt, this book falls short of acceptable. Tldr: Riddled with lies for dramatic purposes. pic.twitter.com/TXycTvAzqC

— A. A. Nawaz 🎈❓ (@aanawazu) January 27, 2019

When someone from the global north decides to do a book about one of the smallest countries in the global south without much research and one that won't easily be scrutinised for the factual inaccuracies, with sweeping generalisations, this happens. Awesome thread btw https://t.co/0TKA9KmHV4

— Ahmed Tholal🎈 (@Tholman_79) January 27, 2019

Whats an iPhone? Im tweeting on my iCoconut https://t.co/RPYxQKUFDR

— Faafa🎈 (@psychofart) January 27, 2019

Actually it’s Dhonmeeha: *whips out iPhone 6S* Mordis meeha : *whips out iPhone XS Max, iPad Pro, the New Mac book Air DJI Mavic pro, DJI Osmo and 2 GoPro Hero* https://t.co/nK3ux1I7VZ

— Simbro (@aachym) January 27, 2019

(“Dhon meehaa” literally means “fair skinned person”. It is the word used by Maldivians for “white people”. And it’s true, turn a Maldivian upside down and shake them little. The contents of an Apple Store will fall out).

the "worst parts" in the book are absolute lies. are we as maldivians not entitled to be upset over them? ignore them and move along? these are "facts" written by a "journalist" in a published book. https://t.co/2mFKGEw7hn

— ˗ˏˋ 𝑅𝒾𝒻𝑔𝒶 ˎˊ˗ (@MRifgaR) January 27, 2019

for the record i'm still a bit confused about your reviews @dbosley80 but ok. at least you made it clear that you don't recommend this book by @francescaborri pic.twitter.com/DUpatyXurX

— ˗ˏˋ 𝑅𝒾𝒻𝑔𝒶 ˎˊ˗ (@MRifgaR) January 27, 2019

Love it when white people feel the need to exaggerate and look down on an entire country and reduce their entire culture and history to what they came across in a day or two lol. pic.twitter.com/olIe8jDGoj

— Alhaaves NulaaFA (@ShafaRameez) January 27, 2019

I think the verdict of this would end up like, i condemn thee @francescaborri to 1 year of internship at Divehi Bahuge Academy 😅 so that by the time she's done there she can translate this godforsaken book to Divehi so us natives could actually learn about ourselves

— Aishath Ibahath (@AishathIbahath) January 27, 2019

Just had garudhiya, baiy, theluli faiy and theluli mas. The height of Italian cuisine!

— Junayd 🇲🇻 (@mjunayd) January 27, 2019

In Maldives we have no local cuisine to the point that when we attempted to make that shit, we sucked so much that we left it to cook for days and that is how we had rihaakuru and now we just eat that

— thikujja stan account (@ahunafu) January 27, 2019

If @francescaborri did her research properly she'd know about the dissent against extremists from Maldivians. Specially in our twitter community. I for one didn't applaud them as heroes. https://t.co/358lReKjMq

— 🎈Nora Nazeer ✨ (@NoraNazeer) January 27, 2019

At the end of the picture that sentence, is that saying the minority that speak English is rich and WHITE????

— Sharlight❓🎈 (@sjaufar) January 27, 2019

Shame these important interviews are in an a book with so many lies in it @francescaborri https://t.co/GeHpH5BU0m

— amani naseem 🎈 (@amaninaseem) January 27, 2019

Francesca Borri Vaguthu 🤝 Jaanalizam

— Threefish 🎈❓ (@three3fish) January 27, 2019

(vaguthu [“time” lol] is a Maldivian tabloid rag that primarily posts moral panic inducing “journalism” about Maldivian minorities).

Maldives has no local cuisine?!? I wasn't bothered when the author called us all extremists cause that's just typical white people racist fear mongering but NO LOCAL CUISINE?? Ive half a mind to make a thread about local cuisine & tag the author in it. https://t.co/QrpE3QPBcP

— Faafa🎈 (@psychofart) January 27, 2019

just because I am so offended I am going to write my whole masters thesis on Maldivian food

— Malsa Maaz (@malsamaaz) January 27, 2019

So fiction writers, here's a heads up. @7StoriesPress are very fond of fiction, specially investigative parody works. Ask franny @francescaborri she had the easiest of rides with that "Maldives in a Parallel Universe" work she did.

— Naif Naeem (@nAAYf) January 27, 2019

People like @francescaborri is what is wrong in the literary world, creating fake news with half truths to earn a buck. And also publishers, bookstores etc who support to push this garbage onto mainstream. Shame. https://t.co/Vi53939fLG

— p3st (@p3st) January 27, 2019

I read what was available on google because I’m not going to give a racist money - and yes, @francescaborri you’re racist.

— くたばれ🎈 (@hoshiyoshii) January 27, 2019

I’m tweeting from my iphone while I’m eating ‘Rihaakuru ‘ u know.., local cuisine. 😎 After finishing my food, I’m going to the ‘book store’ next to my house with English Arabic n international language books. 🖕🏼that’s for u ��

— Jen (@jennasym) January 27, 2019

Hello uncultured jihadi Maldivians without bookstores tweeting using rocks and smoke signals or whatever, If you have a moment, please do send a messenger pigeon with your thoughts about @francescaborri’s book to google DOT com review What’s what? Click https://t.co/822PDLTTgR https://t.co/uR1UpoAFkm

— insaan🎈❔ (@pikomonster) January 27, 2019

people are saying @francescaborri makes sense despite exaggerating some stuff. but i think her “exaggerations” demonstrate an extremely skewed, clearly orientalist perspective which entirely rescinds her entire narrative. she lacks any coherent context. what a silly woman

— xiena saeed 🎈 (@dorinbakedbeans) January 27, 2019

Thanks @francescaborri. The roasting you're receiving is really entertaining. The tweets coming from iPhones are especially tasty. Almost as tasty as our cuisine, and now I'm craving some rihaakuru dhiya. Ta Ta, gonna go have some while I keep up with this roasting.

— Nomura-sama has slain Nabith (@nabithahmed) January 27, 2019

What an ignorant writer @francescaborri is! Our school system is based on the English language since decades ago—almost every Maldivian can converse in English. Many physical+online bookstores in Male. I own an iPhone. Tweet at me and I will send you recipe for Rihaakuru Dhiya https://t.co/TA773n5PgQ

— Maahil🌺❤️🍃 (@MaahilMohamed) January 27, 2019

How long was the research period to write this book? 😂 #localtweetingfromiphone

— Azza Rushdy (@UGLY_Y) January 27, 2019

Its from a parallel dimension...on Earth 51, maldives is like that 🤪 tuna has run out of the oceans and no more rihaakuru and palms sold to dubai hence no coconut for mashuni...

— p3st (@p3st) January 27, 2019

Your portrayal of maldives as backwards and having little or no indentity of its own (except the one you try so hard to force on your readers) is proof that you wrote this on hearsay and some internet research done whilst sitting on your ass at home.

— Ahusan (aka.Jack / Pusheen) (@awhosun) January 27, 2019

Hi @francescaborri, there are about 4 main bookstores with multiple outlets in Malé and many independent ones that stock many titles in English. This tweet was kindly translated to English by a member of the minority and sent from my garudhiya baiythashi. https://t.co/iSloEziYl1

— 🌞 (@izznzz) January 27, 2019

According to the author Maldives is the only country in the world with no local cuisine. So @francescaborri should I stop researching for my PhD on, guess what, LOCAL MALDIVIAN CUISINE? Shameful. https://t.co/7gntvUeCeV

— Mo S. (@moshen81) January 27, 2019

We have many qualified people capable of producing an accurate assessment of radicalisation in Raajje that @francescaborri so spectacularly failed at. If one good thing comes of this, can it be that? Or is it only the dhon meehaa who can talk abt it w/out fearing for their lives?

— Azka (@Azka__Anees) January 27, 2019

Nothing brings Maldivians together like a good roast.

Thank you @francescaborri. It's really nice to see you get roasted by a whole country, everyone together.

— Emaz (@emaaaz) January 27, 2019

#twitter

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ragehappysecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Author: https://redvsvblue.tumblr.com

Recipient: http://aleksandr-is-probably-gay.tumblr.com

Summary: Ryan, do you want to - “...go for dinner sometime?” (Reader/Ryan Haywood)

Warnings: NSFW

Word Count: 4,215

Okay.

This is it.

Fuck it, you can perfectly well ask a guy out.

Totally.

You glance over at Ryan again and something inside you drops out – you bite your lip and look away just as he looks up at you and internally you kind of want to bang your head against a wall. It feels awkward, but maybe that’s just because you’re the only two people in the office kitchen and you haven’t said anything since Ryan walked in – unusual, yes, but you’re not sure you trust your voice with even a simple greeting yet.

“You usin’ that?” He asks, pointing to the condiments tray. You mutely shake your head and step back to let him use it, cradling your cup of coffee in your hands and wondering if he would even say yes. Hoping he would.

You get on well with him – really well. And he seems to like you, too, always sitting next to you at lunch or at least inviting you if no one else does, and you can’t help but think that maybe your easy interactions could be, well, something more. You’re not really sure how Ryan Haywood flirts but you’re pretty sure you’ve been flirting back and – oh shit, Ryan’s staring at you now and shit, did he just say something?

“What?” You ask, your eyebrows flying up.

“I said are you okay? You seem – spaced out,” He explains, waving a hand in the air.

“Yeah, no, yeah, I’m just...tired,” you say, flashing him a smile before sipping your coffee. Ryan glances around the empty kitchen and steps over to lean against the counter beside you, setting his mug down.

You should do it.

Now.

Any fucking moment.

Just fucking say it.

Ryan, do you want to -

“...go for dinner sometime?”

You freeze like a deer in headlights and Ryan coughs nervously, looking back down at his mug.

“What?” You ask, your voice quiet with shock.

“No, no, nevermind,” he mumbles, pointedly avoiding your gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“No, wait, what did you say?” You insist, turning to face him head-on. He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I thought maybe – you’d want to...go to dinner sometime? With me?”

Okay, well.

Holy fucking shit he’s actually asking you out. Holy fucking – you should probably answer before he decides it’s a no, but you need a moment to actually fucking process that Ryan goddamn Haywood is asking you out.

“Don’t have to,” Ryan mutters, and that’s when you realise you’ve spent too long not answering, staring wide-eyed at him.

“Yes,” you blurt out, wincing at how eager it seems. “Yeah, no, I’d – I’d like that.”

“You would?” He seems – surprised, almost, like you’ve just flipped his world over, and you just nod again. “Does – Friday work?”

Friday. Two days.

“Yeah.”

Ryan relaxes a little and picks up his mug, swirling the liquid before drinking some. You scoot closer to him – closer than normal, and he only smiles at you and shifts the mug to his other hand.

“You seen the new Aliens yet?” You ask. He raises an eyebrow.

“No, why?”

“Well, y’know.” A shrug. “Dinner and a film. Classic combination.”

Ryan’s eyes crinkle in the corners with his warm grin.

“It’s a date,” he says.

Ryan picks you up at home half an hour before the film starts – even walks up to your door after texting you that he’s here and knocks. It startles you out of fixing your hair and you try a grin in the hall mirror, tucking a stray strand behind your ear again before grabbing your bag and heading to the door. When you open it with a pleasant smile, Ryan’s already fiddling with his cuffs, glancing nervously up at you before tucking his hands into the pockets and smiling back.

“Hey,” you say, looking him over.

“Hey yourself,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. “You look beautiful.”

“Not so bad yourself,” you tease. “Give us a twirl.”

Ryan rolls his eyes and you laugh – he obliges, shuffling around in a circle and raising an eyebrow at you when you’re done.

“Do I pass?” He asks. You purse your lips in hard, scrutinising thought for a moment before giving him a decisive nod and pulling your door shut behind you.

“So, lead the way?” You laugh, offering your arm up – Ryan takes it easily, fondly rolling his eyes as he leads you down to his car – even opens the door and gestures to the empty seat with a flourish, one eyebrow cocked and his smile entirely too playful.

He shuts the door with a gentle thump and you take a moment to calm your nerves before buckling in – at the same time, Ryan slides into the driver’s seat and clicks his belt on, grinning at you before turning the key.

“So, where’s the plot picking up from?” He asks as he starts the car.

“All right, so, you remember the first film?”

Traffic delays you a little but that just means the condiments stalls are near-empty and the popcorn is fresh and hot from the machine – you get a bucket and a couple drinks and Ryan insists on paying even though you’ve already got your wallet out.

“You can cover dinner,” he teases as you’re walking to the theatre with your armful of buttery popcorn.

“Oh, sure, let me get the expensive part,” you joke dryly, nudging his elbow.

“That’s the plan,” Ryan says before tugging open the theatre door, stepping back to usher you in with a quiet laugh.

You find a couple of empty seats during the last of the previews, giggling quietly when you both trip over the same step and popcorn spills out over your fingers – Ryan takes your elbow and guides you into the row and you both fumbles your way into the seats, tugging the arm down between you to balance the popcorn and use the cupholder.

Ryan makes an immediate dive for the popcorn and you fight playfully for a few minutes until the film starts, and then Ryan catches your hand in the tub and links your fingers together and you’re too tongue-tied to respond. You glance over to see him looking nervously at you, a faint flush dusting his cheeks in the low light of the theatre, but when you squeeze his hand he smiles and squeezes back.

Halfway through, when the popcorn tub is sitting empty by your feet and your hands are sitting on the armrest, you disentangle your hand to yawn and stretch and oh-so-casually lay it over his shoulders – you both break into laughter moments later and Ryan shoves the armrest up so he can wrap an arm around your middle and tug you a little closer.

And it’s so nice there, Ryan pressed up warmly to your side and his fingers curled gently around your side, that you almost can’t help the happy little sigh that escapes your lips when you lean back.

“God, I’m full of popcorn,” you whine as you leave the theatre, dramatically leaning against Ryan’s shoulder and laughing when it shakes underneath you.

“I never expected to hear that as a complaint,” Ryan teases, easily wrapping an arm around your waist. You elbow his ribs and he laughs brightly, squeezing your middle as he steers you towards the doors.

“So, where are we going?” He asks as he pushes it open, gesturing for you to step forward. The warm night air breezes gently over your face and disturbs your hair – you brush it back with a hand as you flash Ryan a playful smile.

“Aw, I have to choose?”

“Well, it was your idea,” Ryan replies. “Only right that you choose.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, rocking idly on his toes as you think.

“How’d you feel about burgers?” You ask a minute later, cocking an eyebrow.

“I feel...amazing about them.”

“Even cheesy diner ones?”

“Especially cheesy diner ones.”

Dinner is, indeed, overly cheesy diner burgers and greasy chips, and it’s the best first date you could have asked for.

You’re tucked into a booth at the back, trading sips of each other’s milkshakes and stealing each other’s chips – even though you have the same order, Ryan points out in the middle of nabbing your fry – as you laugh and talk and talk and cover almost everything under the sun.

“I’m telling you, I’m telling you, next time there’s a storm,” Ryan says, swiping his chip through ketchup.

“No way,” you scoff. “There’s no way.”

“It does!”

“Ryan, there’s no way – that’s not even how rain works!”

Ryan chuckles and his eyes sparkle with mirth when they meet yours and you ignore your skipped heartbeat to -

“You liar!”

Ryan only breaks down into more laughter as you dramatically lean back against the booth and gesture vaguely to an invisible audience.

“I – I - ” you give up and just toss your hands in the air, mock-glaring at Ryan as he smugly sucks on his straw.

“I hate you,” you declare.

“I had you for a moment,” he teases. You squint harder and he leans forward to touch your nose with a fry.

“Fuck you,” you says before you go to catch the chip with your teeth, relaxing when Ryan lets you have it.

“Remind me why I agreed to this,” you mumble around potato, leaning forward again to grab your shake.

“Because I’m pretty,” Ryan jokes.

“You’re on thin fucking ice, Haywood.”

Ryan pouts. Your mock-stern expression falters.

“Thin. Ice,” you mutter, fighting back a smile. Ryan breaks into a wide grin and sits back, casually crossing his legs.

“Oh, then you won’t want to hear about the hail, then?”

“No.”

“Because it’s really quite interesting - ”

You sigh into your drink and Ryan bites his tongue to stop his laughter – you collapse into giggles a moment later at the absurdity of the whole night.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you laugh, glancing up to see a faint flush rising on his cheeks, and he lightly kicks your foot under the table.

“I’m lucky I’m here,” he says, his gaze fixed meaningfully on you.

“...tryin’ to be all smooth now?” You tease. He rests his elbows on the table and cocks an eyebrow.

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.” You shrug one shoulder and force yourself to keep the eye contact even though you can feel a fierce blush already spreading up your neck. “Wouldn’t hurt to try again, though.”

You insist on paying for dinner, and when you’re outside afterwards, between diner and car, you notice the pretty swirl of stars painted across the sky, sweeping over your heads like a sprinkling of fairy lights.

“Whoa, look,” you say, halting Ryan with a hand on his wrist, head tipped back to gaze up at them. “Stars.”

Ryan makes a noise of agreement and steps closer, his chest warm against your shoulder. You don’t let go of his wrist. He doesn’t pull away.

“They’re pretty,” he murmurs – you glance over to see him admiring them as well, his eyes tracking over the spread of sparkling dots.

“Yeah,” you breathe, tearing your gaze from the reflection of them in his eyes to the real things. They’re ever so pretty, not blocked by clouds and smog for once, twinkling brightly in the deep blue of night.

“Think there’s any constellations hidden in there?” You ask with a quiet laugh, turning to look back at him and -

And Ryan’s still only inches away and he’s looking at you with something caught between awe and desire in his eyes and if you squint you can see the reflection of the streetlights in them and it knocks all the breath out of your lungs. You turn a little more to face him, the stars above forgotten in favour of the stars in his eyes.

Ryan curls his fingers through yours. Lifts a hesitant hand to hover over your cheek.

You swallow thickly. Shift to press your jaw to his palm.

Ryan worries his bottom lip for a moment. Sucks in a breath. Opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out. Tries again. Starts something in the softest, quietest voice you’ve ever heard from him.

“Can I - ”

“Yes,” you breathe, and his eyes flick down to your lips and back.

You think for a moment he’s going to waste more words, more starlit seconds, but he just nods ever-so-slightly and closes his eyes and you meet him halfway.

It’s gentle and – firm, and warm and god, you never want to pull away.

His scruff catches against your chin when you tilt your head more – when you sigh quietly through your nose he becomes a little bolder, his thumb skating over your cheek and holding you closer.

He pulls away before you can figure out where to place your hand, and it only takes one beat for your eyes to meet and another for you to curl your fingers around the back of his neck and pull him in for another.

Ryan drives you back and parks in front of your place and – and after quiet, hesitant questions and unhesitant answers, he ends up walking inside with you.

Only minutes later, what starts out as a lull in conversation ends up with his lips on yours and it’s so easy to melt into it, to sink into the sofa and tug him in for more – and he responds so readily, eagerly opening his mouth against yours and planting a hand on your thigh.

“Wow, putting out on the first date?” You tease, chasing it with another addictive kiss that muffles his attempt at a response.

“I’m a cheap date,” he replies eventually, squeezing your thigh. He presses a kiss to your lower lip and his eyes flutter open to meet yours, wide and startlingly blue in the white light of the living room.

“Do you - ” he asks, trailing off with another suggestive squeeze.

“I never start what I can’t finish,” you quip, and he laughs into the next kiss, nodding as his other hand drifts up to your shirt.

You take his hand by the wrist and urge it up under your shirt, smiling at Ryan’s surprised noise as his fingers brush over your bra – a moment later, they’re dipping under the fabric to trace at sensitive skin and you gasp into his mouth, your hand falling away to fist his shirt as he rubs in slow circles around your nipple.

Ryan doesn’t linger around your chest for long, chasing the tingles his fingers send down your body and dragging them down to your jeans, pausing for a moment before unbuttoning and unzipping them – you moan quietly, encouragingly, and he slips his hand into your jeans to press over your underwear, his fingers still cold against your clit even through the fabric, and your little jump makes him chuckle.

“Cold,” you mutter, and he hums thoughtfully.

“Let me fix that,” he says, and curls his fingers so the tips press up into the wet spot you can feel forming there, cold against everything and this time you let out an involuntary little squeak that he cuts off by pushing a knuckle against your clit.

Ryan’s other hand stays warm on the back of your neck and your tongue goes clumsy when he withdraws his hand to slide it down under the panties, two fingers pressing over your clit and rubbing in a slow circles that makes you moan shakily against him. His teeth tug at your lower lip as his other hand skates down to fondle your chest again, easing up under your shirt and the bra to brush the edge of his nail over a nipple. The touch sends a warm shock through you and your hips jolt against his hand – god, you can feel yourself growing wetter, enough for his fingers to slip in it.

“God,” Ryan breathes, breaking the kiss to chase the flush spilling down your throat with his lips – you crack open an eye to see the visible bulge in his jeans, and the knowledge that you’re the cause makes you hot all over in a different way than his fingers, which have definitely warmed up by now.

“Shit,” you pant, shifting to rock up against his hand – Ryan rumbles into your skin and a finger slides down to tap over your hole.

With your nod, it gently pushes in, and just that little bit of stretch is nice, especially paired with the gentle rubs of his other hand. Although at this rate, you’re not going to last long, tension already building in your flexing thighs and behind your navel and Ryan seems to know this, doesn’t waste much time fingering you in favour of grinding against your clit, rubbing in firm, fast circles that have you trembling in no time.

“Fuck – fuck,” you breathe, hips rolling jerkily up into his hand.

“That’s it,” Ryan whispers, planting another kiss on your lips.

You think he might say something else, perhaps your name, but you don’t hear it over the rush of blood in your ears, your quiet moan breaking into a sharper noise as you come, greedily bucking up into his fingers and shuddering at the relentless pleasure that radiates through you, chased by his eager fingers until it sharpens to oversensitivity and you’re trying to escape it, whimpering a little when you push at his wrist.

Ryan obediently slides his hand out, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he wipes his fingers on his shirt and drags you in to crush your lips together, removes his hand from your chest to grasp your shoulder instead.

“Mm, fuck, gonna let me return the favour?” You pant, kissing back as good as you can and boldly reaching over to rest a hand on his abdomen – it jumps with his sudden inhale and your hand sweeps down to his crotch, resting over the very obvious erection trapped under the zipper.

“Don’t have to,” Ryan breathes, breaking the kiss to groan when you squeeze.

“But I want to,” you say. He takes another look at you and nods, his cheeks flushing when you deftly undo the button – the zipper takes a couple tries but when you drag it down he shudders rewardingly and tips his head back against the sofa.

He’s hot under your hand, already making a wet spot in the fabric when you palm him a little – by the way he twitches at just that, he’s already past ready. You decide to take mercy on him, watch how his chest stutters with his breath as you ease down the waistband to take him out, wrapping your hand around his cock and giving him a slow stroke.

“Fuck,” he spits, hips twitching up – you grin and lean in to kiss the underside of his jaw. His throat moves with his swallow and, well, you’re in a good spot to start making hickeys, so you scrape your teeth over his skin and listen to the rumble of his pleased groan in his chest.

Ryan’s unafraid of touching you, now, running a hand through your hair and holding you in place as you bite up another mark halfway down his neck, panting out your name. With his appreciative groan, you stroke a little faster and swipe your palm over the leaking head to smear pre-come down the length, slicking him up before easing into a rhythm that matches the rise and fall of his hips.

“Shit, shit,” he breathes, fucking up faster into your fist and you can feel how close he is just by the twitch of him against your palm, more pre-come beading at the tip and his little choked-off moan when you tap over the slit.

You’d urge him on if you weren’t busy grabbing his chin to turn him to kiss you, messy and off-centre but it doesn’t matter because seconds later he’s moaning openly as he comes over your fist, some of it landing on his shirt but mostly dripping down your knuckles in hot globs.

Ryan whimpers when you try to pull away, so you gladly keep your tongue where it is and work on coaxing out all his little shivers with your hand, stroking until he starts to soften and goes oversensitive and winces at your touch. Still, he shifts to kiss you better, nipping at your lower lip and not making any move to tuck himself in yet.

“Need to wash my hand before this dries, Ryan,” you laugh against his lips, holding your hand carefully away from any clothes.

“Sorry,” Ryan pants, pulling back to glance at your come-slick knuckles. One side of his mouth drags up in a lazy smirk and he playfully leans forward to lick your finger. A startled laugh bubbles out of you and he jokingly pulls a face as he leans back against the sofa.

“Salty,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“Shocking.”

Ryan chuckles and you let him kiss you anyway – softer, chaster despite what you’ve just done, his lips against yours and his hand resting over your pulse-point.

You’re reluctant to leave but you do, eventually, dropping one last peck on his kiss-swollen lips before you part to go clean yourselves up – you direct him to the guest bathroom and retreat to your own to wash the come off your hand and fix your clothing, quash the thrilled giddiness filling you practically to the brim. You can’t help grinning at yourself in the mirror, at that just happened.

When you emerge again, Ryan’s already in the kitchen, pawing through a cupboard and flashing you a grin when you walk in, an amused smile on your face.

“What are you looking for?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow. “Post-sex snacks? Man, I didn’t think I knocked that much out of you.”

“No,” Ryan agrees with a laugh, his tongue sticking out between his lips as he peers in the cupboard. “Lookin’ for hot chocolate.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I believe you promised TV?” He asks, glancing at you. His smile falls a little. “Unless – oh, uh, unless you wanted me to – leave - “

“No, no, I – I don’t want you to leave,” you say all in a rush, taking a hesitant step closer. “Not, uh, not if you don’t – want to.”

“You sure?” Ryan asks quietly, his fingers twitching against the counter. “Because I can, it’s not – if I made things awkward - “

“I had an amazing time,” you interrupt, closing the distance between you to nudge his shoulder with yours. “I’d – like to continue it. Tonight. If – yeah.”

Ryan nods slowly and swallows audibly, his eyes flicking up to you again.

“I’d love to,” he says quietly. A beat passes and you smile – when he returns it, the tension practically dissipates, melting back into the easy rhythm you’ve been in together all night.

“Hot chocolate’s in this cupboard.”

“ - and anyway, that’s not even how you do that!”

“Well apparently, it’s how they do it!”

“It’s wrong!”

“I mean is there technically a right way to - ”

“Yes! Yes there is! That’s why there’s a manual!”

“Okay, okay, but improv, right?”

“No!”

You break into laughter as Ryan tosses his hands up in exasperation, a smile plastered on his face despite his frustration. The TV got forgotten somewhere along the line and now you’re deep into Ryan’s college past, and you’re almost surprised that he’s got just as many dumb stories as you. You figured quiet nerd Haywood would have less involvement in all of that, but it turns out the theatre off-hours are just as crazy as the rest of campus. Except their type of trouble is jury-rigging their laptops up to the expensive theatre recording equipment and driving the techies – and Ryan, apparently, insane with their inexpertise.

“Wow, theatre’s wild, man,” you say through a giggle, fighting back a yawn. It is way past your usual bedtime and you’ve gone through two mugs of hot chocolate each but only now is the exhaustion hitting, making you lazy and dopey as you talk.

Without preamble, you scoot along a bit to rest your head on Ryan’s shoulder – Ryan jumps in surprise but settles easily enough, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing his cheek to your hair.

“You’re totally about to fall asleep, aren’t you?” He asks through a laugh.

“No,” you lie.

“Mhmm.”

“I am – completely awake. And weren’t you going to tell me about uh – vodka and a cauldron?”

“Oh god,” Ryan says, a yawn threading through his voice. “Yeah, some idiots decided to make their own fuckin’ - potion.”

“And?”

“And it involved – an obscene amount of alcohol. I think there was – vodka, whiskey, Scotch?, definitely rum, definitely beer – some sort of white drink that was disgusting – ”

And he talks, and you mumble responses, and with the deep rumble of his voice and the warmth of his body up against yours, you’re – content. Happy. Definitely asking him for a second date. And definitely making him pay for dinner next time.

But for now, you listen, and think about the greasy burgers and the fluorescent diner and the way the stars sparkled in Ryan’s eyes before he kissed you.

Neither of you make it to the end of the story.

It’s perfect.

#Ragehappy #redvsvblue #aleksandrisprobablygay #rhss17

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