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pretendingboyfriends · 4 years

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I Promise - Pt. IV

A/N: thank u for reading and pls pls pls let me know what u think so far!

Word Count: 3.1k+

Warnings: smut (unprotected sex), angst

I watched as James drove away, waving at him with a wide smile stretched across my face. I wanted to do anything but smile.

Once he was finally out of sight, I dropped my hand to my side dejectedly, my smile fading with it. I turned back to the house, wrapping my arms around myself to shelter my bare skin from the chilling breeze. The temperature had dropped significantly in the hour following James’ proposal and the air was thick with the threat of rain.

I couldn’t bring myself to walk back inside. I didn’t want to face my mother again for fear of breaking down and exposing the truth. So I stood in the yard, arms tightly around myself as it began to drizzle. The flowers that Alex had dropped were a mere 2 feet away from me and I turned to gaze at them. They were slightly wilted, like he’d picked them a few days prior and I began to wonder how long he had been home. It couldn’t have been more than a day or two considering his attire when I saw him. Regardless, he was home and he was alive and I was engaged to a man I didn’t love.

I tear slid down my cheek, mixing with the small droplets of rain pelting my face. I knelt down slowly and wrapped my fingers around the thin stems of the flowers, bringing them to my chest. Pushing myself up to stand again I decided it was time to go inside. My clothes were soaked through, the expensive velvet dress surely ruined, but I didn’t care. James would probably just replace it anyways.

I quietly slipped inside, sliding my heels off and tip-toeing to my bedroom. Mother was still in the kitchen after we had told her the news, so I tried being as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t ask any questions. I made it to my bedroom successfully, sighing out the breath I didn’t know I was holding in.

I forced myself to shower and get ready for bed despite how numb I felt. The flowers rested on my nightstand, lying limp and colorless in the dim lighting of my room. In a way, I felt a sense of empathy towards them.

Usually I would read a book before bed, but that night I just laid in bed and listened to the pattering of the rain droplets against my window, whimpering softly under my breath. I cried for hours, but eventually exhausted myself and drifted off to sleep with tear stained cheeks.

Morning came sooner than I had expected, leading me to realize truly how late I had been up. The tears had dried on my skin, leaving dry, salty trails down my face. Slowly, I dragged myself out of bed and to the washroom, doing my regular morning duties before I actually got ready for the day.

That day and for the rest of the week following it, I felt numb. I concealed every bit of sadness I felt throughout the daytime, but as soon as I resided in the quiet of my own bedroom, all of the emotions came crashing down. I barely slept and I forced myself to eat whatever I could stomach to make things less suspicious to my family.

Thomas was finally able to leave his bed, so I spent most of my days helping him recover by going on long walks and helping him with the exercises the doctor had prescribed. I wanted to tell him everything. I needed to get the weight off of my shoulders, but I also didn’t want to hurt James. I knew if I told Thomas everything, he would tell me to break off the engagement with James, but I just wasn’t sure if I had the strength to do that.

James had called a few times, asking if he could come by or pick me up, but almost every time I made some sort of excuse as to why I couldn’t. I would tell him I was feeling slightly ill or that I was helping Thomas most of the day, things that weren’t completely false but definitely not the truth.

Mother knew something was up. Everytime I avoided James’ calls or made up an excuse not to talk to him, I could feel her start to watch me closer and closer. Many times I had gotten close to breaking down and telling her everything, but I stopped myself, fearing the same outcome I had feared with Thomas. I just couldn’t tell James.

The summer sun gleamed against my damp skin as I lounged along the grass, one arm draped over my eyes to shield them from the powerful beams. There was a small, frustrated huff beside me and I moved my arm to squint one eye open.

“What?”

Alex smiled, “Just wanted to see your eyes,”

I scoffed and shoved his shoulder. He groaned, dramatically throwing himself back onto the grass like I had just body slammed him. I laughed, shaking my head, “You are unbelievably dramatic,”

“But you love it,” He retorted quickly, popping his head up from the ground to give me a goofy smile.

“Maybe I do,” I draped my arm back over my eyes, giggling quietly. I heard the rustle of grass beside me and the soft footsteps walking further away. “What’re you doing?” I asked, suspicious of his motives.

“I’m dancing,” He hummed.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, holding my hand over my eyes to shade them as I glanced around the field for him. He stood a few feet away, swaying back and forth with his arms out like he was holding someone. “Come dance with me!”

I snorted and stumbled up onto my feet, brushing the grass off of my shorts as I sauntered towards him. He stood holding his arms out towards me with a wide smile spread across his face.

As soon as I was close enough, he was tugging me into his arms and against his chest with a child-like giggle. He began to sway me back and forth slowly, viridescent eyes gazing into my own. Taking me by the hand, he quickly spun me in a circle and yanked me back towards him, wrapping an arm around my waist tightly.

“You’re pretty,” He hummed. “Shut up.”

His smile fell slightly, his expression a little more serious, “Marry me.”

Suddenly, I was staring into the dark abyss of my bedroom, any traces of Alex and our picnic spot dissolved into the depth of my imagination. I sighed in frustration, turning onto my left side and squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to fall asleep for just a few more hours.

That was the first time in days since I had been able to sleep for more than 3o minutes and it was the first good dream I had dreamt in months. It made me miss Alex more than ever. I yearned to hear the sound of his voice again, maybe even for just a moment. Sitting up in bed, I made the decision within a moment. I was going to see him.

It was crazy. I was crazy. There I was, standing outside Alex’s apartment door at 2:38 am with nothing planned to say. I wasn’t even sure if he was there. He could’ve left the country the moment he saw James propose to me nearly a week before. There was only one way to truly find out, so I lifted my hand into a fist and gently rapped my knuckles against the hardwood door.

I could feel my heart beating in my throat as I waited. For a moment, there was no sound and then I heard it. A small creaking of wood right inside the door. The doorknob began to shiver and the door was unlocked. Slowly, the door creaked open and there he was. I don’t know who or what I was expecting to see, but he took me by surprise. His short, brown hair stood up from his head like he had been frantically running his hands through it. His eyes were wide, bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in days. He wore an old pair of trousers, splotch with stains and ripped at the knee, his shirt unironed and buttoned improperly. I had never seen him this way.

We just stood, staring at each other in silence until finally, he took a deep breath and spoke.

“Hi,”

I felt myself relax slightly at the sound of his deep voice.

“Hello,”

“What are you doing here?” He whispered, glancing down to his feet for a moment and then looking back up at me.

“I don’t-I don’t know,” I responded, watching him closely to take in his reaction to my words. He sighed and gently nudged the door open a little wider,

“Come in.”

I stepped past him into the dimly lit room. Looking around, I noticed how bare his apartment was. It was almost as if nobody lived there. In the kitchen, (if you could even call it that) there was a small ice box pressed between the sink and a small chunk of the counter, a small, untouched oven attached to that. A table was pressed against the wall, two chairs slid beneath either side.

“Would you like some tea?” He asked as he shut the door behind him.

I turned to look at him, “Yes, thank you.”

He nodded and turned to put the kettle on. I sat at the small table, staring down at my hands in my lap.

What the hell am I doing?

Minute after minute of uncomfortable silence passed as we waited for the kettle to squeal; and when we both finally settled into our seats with our steaming mugs, the silence continued. He didn’t look at me, just staring down into his tea as he occasionally sipped from it. I couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“How are you?” I squeaked, running my finger along the edge of the table. He flinched at the question and squeezed his eyes shut,

“Don’t,”

I looked up at him as he shook his head,

“Don’t act like this is all normal when you know it’s not.”

He was right, it wasn’t normal. Nothing about it was normal. He was hurting and I had shown up at his doorstep in the middle of the night unannounced.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, catching the single tear that fell from my eye with my hand before it was visible to him.

“Who is he?”

I sniffled, keeping me face down, “I-I met him at a store a few months after you left…”

“Do you love him?”

I frowned, fingers fiddling with the fabric of my skirt, “Alex… I don’t kn-”

“Do you love him?” He repeated, his tone slightly more demanding than before.

“H-he’s sweet and he’s kind and he treats me well-”

He stood from his chair, snatching his empty tea cup from the table and placing it on the counter by the sink without a word.

“I-I think I do…”

He shook his head a little, wiping traces of moisture from his eyes, “Then why are you here?” He squints at me, lip quivering ever so slightly, “Why are you making this so bloody hard, Y/N?”

“I missed you,” I whispered.

“You’re marrying someone else, Y/N. You can’t be here. I was going to let you be. I understood that when I left there was a possibility that you would find some other chap by the time I got back; if I got back. But just because I understood that it might happen, doesn’t mean it hurts any less. It hurts to look at you right now. All I can think about is you with that other man, living the life that I should’ve lived if it weren’t for this bloody fucking war.” His tone is louder, more aggressive. “It would’ve been better if I had just died.”

“Don’t you dare say that!” I sobbed, pushing myself from the chair, making him look at me. “Don’t-don’t ever fucking say that again.” I whispered, pointing my finger up at him as tears streamed down my face. He was crying too, watching me with the same sad expression he always had when he witnessed me crying. “I thought you were dead for so long,” I choked between sobs, dropping my face into my hands.

I didn’t notice him step closer to me until he was gently taking my face into his own hands, forcing me to look up at him. I sniffled, my bottom lip quivering as I gazed up at him. His thumbs swiped across my cheeks, collecting the tears that had fallen. I opened my mouth to say something but suddenly, his lips were against mine. It took me a moment to process what was happening, but as soon as I did, I was kissing him back fervently. His arms wrapped around my waist tightly, pressing our bodies together as my arms looped around his neck.

“I missed you so much,” He breathed between passionate kisses, pushing me backwards until my back was pressed against the wall.

“I missed you too,”

My fingers slid to the back of his neck, threading through his hair and urging him to kiss me deeper. I felt his large hand grip the underside of my thigh, gently pressing it against his hip to give him easier access to grind into me. I whimpered at the contact, my heartbeat rapidly increasing and my skin virtually bursting into flames. His bulging crotch pressed directly against where I needed him most, causing me to gasp wantonly and tug at his hair.

“He ever make you feel like this, hm?” He grunted as his lips pressed along my jaw and throat, “He ever get to hear those pretty little moans?”

I shook my head quickly, breathing out a short ‘no’.

“Good,”

Soon, he was spinning me around and pushing me backwards towards his small bed as we tripped over each other’s legs clumsily. He gently laid me back against the creaking mattress, crawling over me and between my legs.

“Alex,” I whimpered, wrapping my legs around his waist and desperately kissing him.

“Can I touch you?” He asked, pulling away for a moment to look into my eyes.

“Please,”

His hands dragged down my sides, reaching the hem of my skirt and flipping it upwards, exposing my damp panties to his wandering eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” He groaned, pressing his forehead to my sternum. One of his hands slipped between my thighs, fingers gently stroking me through the moist cloth. I moaned, my hand dropping to his chocolate curls, threading between the strands and tugging gently. He pressed his fingers against me harder, lifting his head to watch my face.

“Alex,” I whimpered, “Please,”

“What do you want?”

I coaxed him back up to kiss me,“You. I want you.”

His large hands aided me in unbuttoning my blouse as I sat up on the bed, the piece of clothing discarded onto the floor, my skirt quickly following it. He stared down at me in awe, his hands gently ghosting along my bare, sweat-stained skin.

“So beautiful,” He mumbled, dropping his head down to kiss along my chest and stomach. I took his hands into my own, maintaining eye contact with him as I brought them to my breasts. He choked on a groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he massaged them tenderly.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, referring to my bra and I nodded quickly, practically begging him to. His fingers gripped the straps carefully, pulling them down and off of my shoulders as I reached behind my back and unclasped it. Just like the rest of my clothing, my bra was tossed into the darkness of the room thoughtlessly. Immediately, his mouth was around my nipple, his warm tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as small moans and whimpers erupted from my chest. He switched between both of my breasts a few times, his hands slowly creeping towards the waistband of my panties.

My sexual frustration began to build as he lazily kissed along my breasts. Whining, I desperately pulled at his shirt in an attempt to get him to take it off. He realized what I needed and pushed himself up onto his knees to properly remove his shirt. I watched him breathlessly, squeezing my thighs together to relieve some of the pressure that had built over time. As he threw the piece of clothing aside, I reached forward and began to undo his trousers.

Once we were both completely undressed, he climbed back between my legs, his sweaty chest flush against my own.

“Is it ok if I-?” He whispered, glancing down to where we were pressed together.

I nodded fervently, “Yes,”

After a few moments of pain from the stretch of him, Alex was finally and completely sheathed inside of me. His breathing was strained as he stilled his hips against mine, not moving until I was ready.

“Y’alright?” He breathed, watching me closely as I tried to relax.

“Y-yes,” I took a deep breath, hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck, “Move, please,”

He slowly pulled his hips back before thrusting forward with a groan. I gasped, gripping his neck tightly as he began to set a slow pace. His hands were caressing my entire body, moving from my thighs, to my hips, to my breasts. Every movement causing me to shutter uncontrollably. He pressed his lips along my jaw and neck, mumbling ‘I love you’s’ into my damp skin.

A small request for him to move faster escaped my lips and the knot in the pit of my stomach began to tighten as soon as his hips moved faster. I tried to contain the volume of my moans by pressing my hand to my mouth, Alex taking notice and quickly tugging my hand away by my wrist.

“Need to hear you,”

His arms wrapped around my waist, adjusting the position slightly to give him better leverage to thrust into me and I gasped at the change. My fingers gripped his shoulder, digging into his sweat-stained skin as I threw my head back against the creaking mattress.

I reached my high seconds later, calling out his name and clenching my thighs to his hips tightly. Moments after mine, Alex reached his own, sloppily thrusting a few times before groaning loudly and dropping his arms beside my head to keep himself from collapsing on top of me.

As my breathing returned to normal, I gazed up at him, sliding my hands up to his cheeks and guiding him down to kiss me.

“I don’t love him,” I whispered as I pressed another kiss to his lips, “I never did, a-and I never will.”

thank u to my wonderful beta readers @goldenfeelin , @queeniebish , @youflower-youfeast , and @m-ram21 !!!

taglist: @httpsmoony @summer-evening-harry

#harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #my writing #alex dunkirk #alex dunkirk fanfic #smut #harry styles

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wroughtbetwixtfanfic · 4 years

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A Place To Call Home, Ch 3.

Fandom: Rosewell, New Mexico.

Summary: A canon divergent take on Roswell, New Mexico, and the relationships between Isobel, Noah, and Rosa; later parts will shift the focus to Michael and Alex, as well as Michael and Noah. What is it like to share a body with another alien? Can broken trust be mended? Do the ends really justify the means?

Rating: M.

Tags: Canon divergence, minor character death, not really character death, body sharing, polyamory, hurt/comfort, addiction problems, sickfic, revenge, fix it, friends to enemies to lovers, lovers to enemies to lovers, Noah is complicated, cw: dubious age stuff for a little bit considering Nasedo/Noah is who-the-hell-knows how old.

Word Count: 2413

Rosa Ortecho was a hurricane.

She lived every moment as her last. Her smile was pure light, and she was every single inch the sort of person Nasedo could see Isobel falling head over heels for, especially since Rosa had dumped her junkie boyfriend and gone clean in March. Of course Nasedo had been doubtful at first. Rosa was human. Still. Rosa loved astrology and music, dancing and poetry. She was an artist, but the kind of artist with a fire in their soul. Rosa loved hard, lived hard, hated hard. Everything about her was power, fast and intense and exhilarating. It was impossible not to adore her.

Max was in love with Rosa's sister, Liz, so of course he always went to the Crashdown Cafe where Liz and Rosa both worked. And because Max went, Isobel went, too. Rosa, with her wide, dark eyes and deep laugh, had grown fond of Isobel. That much was clear. She'd sneak Isobel free fries. They'd share a milkshake that had been made a little wrong. They would look up funny videos on Isobel's phone, and play music on the cafe's jukebox while Max and Liz were distracted elsewhere. It was good to see Isobel laugh, after everything she had been through. She deserved to be happy, and it made sense that Rosa's kind-hearted, wild spirit would bring Isobel that happiness.

What Nasedo hadn't anticipated was how much he would find himself feeling affection towards the human, too. Nasedo pretended that the emotions belonged to Isobel, and Isobel alone. It was easier that way. Besides, Isobel was under the terrible stress known as 'senior year'; between Isobel trying to deal with her own internalized homophobia and school, it was all Nasedo could do to keep her held together. He couldn't take the time to look too closely at his own feelings or bother Isobel with them. Isobel's health was all that mattered.

At least, that was until a Friday night as the Crashdown.

Isobel never admitted that she went there to see Rosa. She didn't admit it that night, either. "I just need to relax," she complained. "There's only half the year left, and I've been studying for like, three days straight."

Nasedo withdrew, as he always did when Isobel wanted time to herself. The nerve-searing pain was easier to deal with, when he knew that he would be escaping it again soon enough. Sooner than he expected, in fact. It hadn't been very long when he was snapped back to Isobel, waking up in a daze; the transition was usually slower, smoother. What had happened that has caused Isobel to panic so much?

"Isobel? Are you okay?"

Rosa. Nasedo blinked, scrambling to recover. "Sorry, Rosa. I'm a total space case today."

"It's okay." Rosa frowned. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting her gaze away. "Uhm, if you don't want to go to the movies, it's okay. I just thought that maybe... Maybe we'd have fun."

What would Isobel want? He knew Isobel was falling for Rosa. He also was certain Isobel would never go on her own. But, well, Nasedo wanted to go. What harm would come from a movie? "Sure," he replied with as charming of a smile as he could muster. Rosa's eyes fluttered. "I'd love to go. Text me with the info?"

Rosa snatched Isobel's phone and entered her contact information, the frown on her face replaced by a sunny grin. "Cool. It's a date."

Their eyes met, and Rosa's grin turned shy. Nasedo smiled back, his heart racing as he left the cafe and headed home. It was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. And yet, he couldn't stop himself from feeling a flicker of joy. That was, until he got home and Isobel returned, pacing in their room as she took the body from him.

"Why did you do that?" she groaned. "I can't believe you."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I kind of am, yeah. I don't know. Things are complicated."

"She likes you and you like her. What's complicated about that?"

Isobel stopped, taking a deep breath and curling her arms around herself. "Besides Roswell being a fishbowl full of jerks? I... I like you, too."

"I would hope so. We share a body."

"Nasedo."

He paused at the strain in her voice. The meaning of her words became clear, and he felt almost queasy. No, no, he wasn't good enough for her. He'd been in stasis for almost a hundred years total, by human years, and was practically a damn rotting corpse on top of it. "Isobel..."

"I love you. You don't have to say it to me, but I love you."

The word made him wince. She was so young, and full of so much hope and promise. He couldn't do that to her. He would never be able to hold her, to take care of her the way a real, living, whole person could. Like Rosa could. "I will always protect you," he answered, his voice gentle. "I will always be here for you."

Isobel said nothing. Thankfully, a text came through right then, the metallic chime saving them. He looked at it through her eyes, intrigued. Pirate Radio, 9pm showing tomorrow. Sound good?

"It's your choice, Isobel."

Isobel fiddled with the phone. "You like her, too. Don't you?"

Nasedo didn't answer. He didn't know how, especially after Isobel's confession. He cared for them both, in their own unique ways. How to explain that? But in the end, he didn't really have to; Isobel was connected to his mind and thoughts, as he was connected to hers, and he felt the moment she accepted the strange situation they were in. A tiny, wry smile tugged at her lips as she opened the text.

Sounds fun. I'll meet you there.

A few minutes later, another chime. Great! Goodnight! <3

Nasedo stayed quiet as Isobel went about her bedtime routine. He knew it by heart. He knew her favorite products, the order she used them in, and the exact number of uses left in each bottle before she would need new ones. He knew how hard she was working to accept the little mole by her nose, because it was part of her and she refused to take a knife to her body to please silly beauty standards. He knew the story behind every scar on her body, like the curved burn mark by her pinky finger she got when she was seven, newly adopted and ignorant of what an oven was and the fact that heat would hurt her. Her homework, in their bedroom, would be stacked just so and color coded and triple checked for any errors. The outfit she planned to wear the next day would be folded neatly over the back of the desk chair. Their bedroom window would be open exactly two inches, to let in the cool nighttime air.

Favorite things, dislikes, habits. The way she'd smooth her hair when she was anxious. Each and every aspect of Isobel's life, he had memorized. Each, he found more and more endearing as the days passed. Was that... love? Was that what love was, in the end? It wasn't the same excited, nervous feeling Isobel experienced when she thought about seeing Rosa. It wasn't the passionate fireworks that were in all of the human movies, books, and songs. No. It was quieter, calmer. They shared a connection that they would never share with anyone else, and that was... special. Precious.

Thankfully, Isobel didn't comment on his thoughts. She tuned them out, giving him privacy to mull in peace. Not that it did much good. They fell into a restless sleep, and spent the next day on edge. Isobel was refined, intelligent, elegant, proud, orderly. Nasedo was supposed to be the dauntless one. Regardless, even he found himself starting to get nervous as 9pm drew closer. He still had no idea what he was doing, but at least he and Isobel were in the same boat.

"If our parents find out..." she muttered as she adjusted her hair in the mirror. If she kept messing about, they'd be late. "God. Are we really doing this?"

Nasedo shook his head and gently took control of the body, only long enough to steer her out of the bathroom and towards the door. "They won't find out. People go to movies all the time."

Luckily, Max had went with their parents to some country club thing. Disgusting. Nasedo checked their outfit one last time before heading out; basic black blouse, dark wash jeans, black boots. Perfect. They strutted down to the movie theater, flashing a bright smile as they saw Rosa waiting by the door. Rosa blushed as Isobel held the door for her; they paid for the tickets, but went double dutch on the snacks. Nasedo watched from his corner of the mind, fascinated. In the four years they had shared bodies, Nasedo had never seen Isobel so... open. Carefree.

It was when the movie let out that Isobel's bravado faded. They were walking to the park, the streetlamps lighting up the night with a soft glow. "I want to show you one of my favorite places," Rosa said, giving them a mysterious look as she headed into the park. "C'mon."

Curious, Nasedo followed, shifting to the front as Isobel hesitated. Maybe Isobel cared about curfews and closing times, but he didn't; most human laws were based in fear, anyways, not in common sense. Rosa led them to the center of the park, to a gazebo. It was pretty, with lattice work along the sides and shining white against the darkness. Rosa twirled in the center.

"This is your favorite spot?" Nasedo asked. "Why?"

Rosa leaned against one of the posts and shrugged. "I have a lot of favorite places. Spots where it's quiet late at night. Places I can go to think. I can just exist here for a while, you know?"

"I don't know. I hate being alone."

"I'm guessing you've never had an overbearing dad."

Nasedo thought back to the Evanses, and to his own family. "Not especially. My family is more of the seen-not-heard type."

"Maybe we should trade."

"You wouldn't be any happier. They treat you like a disgrace if you use the wrong fork at dinner, or can't name three pro golfers."

"Wow, I'd fit right in." Rosa wrinkled her nose. They both laughed; Rosa sighed after, digging around in her purse and pulling out a few pens. "My dad means well, but sometimes it makes it hard to move on when he keeps treating me like I'm broken."

Nasedo watched as Rosa took the pens to the gazebo post, a blank canvas for her bleeding soul. "What are you doing?"

"Mayhem, mischief, delinquent behavior. It's how I get my highs now."

"Can I try?"

Rosa arched an eyebrow. "You? Isobel Evans?"

"Maybe I'm sick of being the person everyone thinks I am."

"Yeah." Rosa frowned, offering her pens. Nasedo picked the black one, turning his eyes to his side of the post as Rosa spoke. Her voice was increasingly bitter, upset, as she colored in her drawing. A rose, covered in sharp thorns. "It's, like, a Roswell rite of passage. One day, everybody in this town gets together and they, like, decide who you are, and that's who you get to be. Forever. End of story. Doesn't matter if you change or improve or figure out that you're not even who you thought you were to begin with."

Nasedo began to sketch the symbol of his homeworld. Three circles, connected in the middle and forming a triangle. "And who are you?"

"I don't think I know that yet. Do you understand who you are?"

"Some. Less than I'd desire."

Pausing, Rosa leaned to glance over Nasedo's shoulder. "What is that?"

"Just something I've drawn since I was a kid."

Goosebumps formed over Nasedo's arms as Rosa's breath moved along his neck. Isobel sensed the flicker of distress from him, and moved to take control again. In the nick of time, too. A cop car drove by, slow, forcing them to scamper out of the park before they were caught. It was, Isobel would later admit, a thrill. Enough of a thrill that she finally seemed to get over her shyness, happily chatting about the movie as they walked towards Rosa's home. Everything was fine until they got one street away.

"You don't have to come with me the rest of the way," Rosa said as she stopped underneath some trees, standing safe in the shadows. "I mean. Aren't you afraid that somebody's gonna see us?"

"If I'm being honest? Yeah, but that has nothing to do with you. My parents would freak out if they knew I went out on a date with a girl."

"Was this a date?"

Isobel stared at Rosa. Rosa didn't seem angry, or grossed out or anything. More... tense, inquisitive. And, maybe, a little hopeful. That tiny tinge of hope what what bolstered Isobel's courage. "Do you want it to have been?"

"I think so. It's just... I've never done this before. With a girl, I mean. And it's the first time I've liked someone since I've been clean. I'm not sure I know what I'm doing."

"Would it make you feel any better if I said this was my first time, too?"

Rosa smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, it helps."

They walked the rest of the way to the cafe, each lost in thought; Nasedo kept his senses open, watching for trouble. The street was empty. They were safe. When they got to the door, Rosa turned and wrapped Isobel in a hug. Isobel froze for a split second, then hugged her back. "Goodnight, Rosa."

"Goodnight, Isobel."

Slipping into the cafe, Rosa locked the door behind her and headed in. She paused, turning and glancing at Isobel over her shoulder. She smiled again, and gave them a wave; Isobel and Nasedo both felt their shared heart beat faster. Then she was gone, vanishing into the diner and heading to the apartment above it.

For a moment, Isobel didn't move, her hand pressing against her chest as she sucked in a long, slow breath. Rosa's parting smile was stuck in her head. Despite herself, she couldn't help but smile, too. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"Yes," Nasedo replied, desire and dread mixing together in his chest. "We are."

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mintypothos · 7 years

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KingBurr night time shame posting

So in skype with @badromantics and @narwq I kind of came up with an entire canon era fic idea for KingBurr? Bc Alex wanted some KingBurr and I am nothing if not a fount of hastily constructed fic ideas. It spawned an RP so honestly my job is done. But here’s what I wrote anyways

It was total chaos. Burr knew that sharing a command of soldiers with Hamilton could end no other way, but somehow he hadn't expected this. It was a very small command, a scouting party at best and a way for Washington to satisfy Hamilton's undying thirst for command with little danger to his safety.

Hamilton was left quite safe, in the end. Burr on the other hand, the one left in charge of babysitting, was considerably less so. Before he could even draw his pistol, Burr found himself yanked off his horse and summarily dragged off, kicking and screaming, by a trio of camouflaged redcoats. In the chaos of the scuffle, no one noticed. Burr saw the nearby patrol burst onto the scene, putting a swift end to the battle. By that point, however, a thick gag was wedged forcefully between his teeth and Burr could do nothing but struggle and curse his godforsaken luck.

“Hamilton”, they addressed him as, after Burr was thoroughly restrained, forced to ride sidesaddle with legs tightly knotted and hands secured to the saddle-horn. “We've heard you talk too much,” They laughed, joking about the gag thoroughly leeching every bit of moisture from his mouth. It took Burr more time than he'd like to admit before he realized.

They wanted to capture Hamilton, not Burr. But they had Burr, who was the wrong man, and their mission was already a failure. They were also making their way as fast as possible to the nearest British-controlled harbour, speaking of a “Delivery for the King”, of all things.

In short, Burr was in a very unfortunate position, and it was all Hamilton's fault. As usual.

The situation became even more unfortunate when Burr found himself pushed to a kneel before the king himself. Burr was almost too tired to care, after an extremely unpleasant voyage and still tied up like a thanksgiving turkey. His only consolation was that the gag his soldier captors were so fond of was lost sometime during the ocean crossing.

“Well, don't just leave him trussed up like that! Someone, untie this poor man.” Somehow, the first reasonable, intelligent words Burr heard came from the mouth of the man who ordered this fiasco. That knowledge did nothing to prevent the sigh of bliss when his raw, reddened wrists were finally relieved. For a moment, he forgot who he was in the presence of, licking at the painfully irritated skin and blowing gently. Pale, carefully manicured fingers slid suddenly between lips and wrists. Burr flinched back.

“No little one, allow me. It was my subjects who have caused this, after all.” Burr was seized by pure panic- everything coming together at once. King George the 3rd, the tyrant America was trying to free itself from, gently guided Burr's hands to his lips. At that moment, Burr was certain that his heart had stopped for good.

The hold was gentle, patient even. It might as well have been made of the strongest iron, Burr did not dear break it. There were guards behind him, guards that the King could order to run Burr through at the snap of a finger. Instead of doing so, the King carefully began to lick striped down Burr's bloody, raw wrists. The warmth of his mouth was uncomfortable, but the coolness as wet skin met air felt amazing, the accompanying breeze of gentle breath almost heavenly.

Burr pointedly did not forget this time, who he was kneeling in front of. He stared down at the ground, resolutely, trying not to feel too thankful at the relief. This was the man responsible for Burr's position.

“Oh, and by the way,” the King gave one last, long swipe of tongue along the bloodiest patch of skin, before placing Burr's hands back to his sides. “You aren't Alexander Hamilton.”

Burr had been expecting this moment. Regardless, his stomach dropped out and the buzzing feeling of pure panic took its place. “No, I'm not, your majesty.” Burr spoke on autopilot, his mind completely, utterly frozen. “I attempted to inform my guard of this mishap.” The excuse spilled from his lips. Burr was not a babbler, but he couldn't think. This was where he died.

“I'm not Hamilton,” He told them. It was a good day since his capture, Hamilton was no doubt seen to safety. They wouldn't let him go, but he could escape while they formed some counter plan- one that would never work with just the few of them.

“Nice try, Hamilton. We knew you were put in command of that party. And look, you're in officers dress.” They scoffed.

“I'm serious. My name is Aaron Burr, Hamilton and I were both put in command, I was to supervise him!”

They laughed, all of them, uproariously and entirely unnecessarily. “They also say you're small and talk a lot. Give it up, Hamilton, you're meeting the king whether you want to or not.

They were convinced. Burr couldn't say anything more, or they would likely gag him again. So Burr stopped protesting. There was no point, his fate was sealed.

“Yes,” the King's lips quirked up in a wide smirk, utterly confident. “Would you give me the honour of your actual name?”

He looked down at Burr like her were an errant child. Burr felt like an errant child, his heart beating a jackrabbit rhythm. “My name is Aaron Burr.” He swallowed audibly. The order of his death sat somewhere behind the King's false angelic smile.

“Ohh, Aaron Burr? I've heard of you.” Something cold tapped underneath Burr's chin. The King's sceptre, unforgiving, chilly metal. It pushed up at the underside of his jaw. Burr followed the motion automatically, not about to wait for more force. “Quite accomplished in your own right, and very intelligent from my reports. But they never mentioned how cute you were.”

Burr flushed, sudden warmth conflicting with paralyzing fear and morphing into a roiling, uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He didn't answer- couldn't. “Oh, you like compliments?” The King's smile turned ever wider, white teeth flashing behind red lips. From Burr's perspective, they seemed sharp. Ready to eat. “That's precious. And settles it.” The King straightened, removing his sceptre from Burr's chin and twirling it idly. “Guards, please escort our guest to our prepared rooms.”

Burr was hauled to his feet, numbly. He couldn't feel his body and he certainly couldn't feel his emotions. It was too much. “Gentle! What are we, animals?” The King reprimanded. Miraculously, the guard's hold became softer, waiting for Burr to straighten himself.

“Wait,” Burr croaked, finally finding his voice. “What do you mean, 'settles it'? What rooms?” The answer felt obvious, but just out of his grasp. Burr couldn't think straight.

“I thought it was rather clear,” The King teased, suddenly leaning far too close into Burr's space. He stepped back instinctively, or tried to, but the guard behind him stopped the motion with a firm hand to the shoulder. “I can't be letting you go, not after all this work, but you are useless as the bargaining chip I intended Mr. Hamilton for. No offense my dear, but Washington wouldn't hand over a single horse for you. He's frustratingly practical outside of his few blind spots.” The King paused to roll his eyes, as if the tactics of General Washington were akin to a bickering sibling.

“I..” Burr trailed off.

“You probably thought I would have you executed? The thought did cross my mind.” Something danced behind the King's eyes, and for the first time, Burr knew it wasn't his impending death. Somehow, it felt worse. “But snuffing your life out would be an absolute waste. And your blush is simply adorable.” Burr stuttered, despite the situation. “No, I think I'll just be keeping you.”

The world stood still. No one else existed, just Burr and his thoughts. Then, reality came rushing back. “Keep me?” He parroted.

“Yes, absolutely.” The King nodded, and then gestured at the guard behind Burr. “Please behave for my royal guards, they're just there to do their jobs. I'll let you settle in for today. I'm sure it's been a long, tiring trip for you.” He lifted his fingers and waved them in dismissal. The guard tugged at Burr's arm, grip gentle, but firm and insistent. Burr allowed himself to be lead. His mouth moved, trying to shape some kind of objection or argument. But nothing came.

The King was keeping him, and that was apparently that.

#fic #kingburr #honestly what am i doing #for the record this was written days ago im still doing those prompts do not worry

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operawindow9-blog · 5 years

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What’s missing from our list of 2018’s best TV?

As we wind down 2018, our best-of coverage continues with the following question:

What’s missing from our list of the year’s best TV?

Kyle Fowle

There’s hardly reason to argue with almost any year-end list these days because of the sheer number of good TV shows out there, but I’m genuinely surprised that HBO’s High Maintenance didn’t make our list. The second season of the HBO run keeps with the anthology-esque spirit of the show, but it goes deeper in ways surprising and touching. So, there’s still the random characters that populate New York and The Guy’s life, but what’s different this time around is a narrative through-line involving The Guy’s ex. That character arc, one of pain and jealousy and moving on, adds so much to a season that’s already achingly honest. Add in the fact that one of the year’s best episodes—“Globo,” reckons with the election of Donald Trump, and the completely indescribable feeling of moving through the world on the morning of November 9, 2016 in a smart, poignant, and stirring way—and you have a season of TV that’s more than worthy of any year-end list.

Myles McNutt

It’s difficult for an established reality show to make it into a best of TV list: Beyond the fact that critical conversation privileges scripted programming, reality shows are built on iteration, and that feels less novel or memorable when we reach the list-making time of year. And I’m part of this problem, because I failed to put CBS’ Survivor on my own list despite the fact that its fall cycle has been absurdly enjoyable for a show in its 37th—not a typo—season. Yes, the David Vs. Goliath theme is profoundly dumb. No, I couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened during the season that aired in the spring, so 2018 wasn’t all great for the series. But something about the alchemy of casting and game-play has created a season with a succession of satisfying twists and turns, reminding us that although we may not instinctively think of it as list worthy, a reality show 18 years into its run can still create some of television’s best drama and comedy. (I’ll never hear the name “Natalie” without laughing now.)

Eric Thurm

Making reality TV really pop is an artform: There are hundreds of hours of interactions to film, comb through, and precisely edit into a narrative that will make sense, delight viewers, and feel just slightly off, like humans hanging out too many years in the future to quite make sense to us. So every year, I become more and more impressed with the reigning queen of the genre: Vanderpump Rules. The sixth season is one of the show’s best; over half a decade in, Vanderpump Rules remains an examination of fame, misfired charisma, and the terrors of tenuous social status that would put any 19th century novel to shame. Whether it’s Jax Taylor maybe falling in love with his reiki master Kelsey while his relationship with Brittany Cartwright festers like an untreated sore, Stassi Schroeder’s then-boyfriend creating a new god tier of social faux pas by grossly hitting on Lisa freaking Vanderpump, or the slow-moving car crash of James Kennedy ignoring the “best friend” he was clearly sleeping with (not that anyone else cared), Vanderpump Rules remains mesmerizing. The cast of past, present, and future SUR employees are stuck with each other forever, and it’s incredible. It’s not about the pasta; it’s about dread.

Clayton Purdom

Aw, come on—am I the only person who thought Maniac was one of the year’s best? Well, apparently. Cary Joji Fukunaga’s 10-parter was far from perfect, but it aimed admirably high, wrangling spy action, elven fantasy, late-capitalist malaise, intense family dynamics, corporate psychotherapy and more into a freewheeling caper across several levels of reality. It also got career-best comedic performances out of Emma Stone and Justin Theroux and a fine, sad-sack turn from Jonah Hill. And Ben Sinclair! Not all of its ideas stuck, but it was messy, smart, and light in a way I’d love to see more sci-fi attempt.

Dennis Perkins

I’ll admit, I was worried going into the new, Mary Berry-less (not to mention Mel- and Sue-less), Great British Baking Show era, but I am pleased as rum baba to say that this enduringly endearing and delightfully stressful baking competition series has marched on just as sweetly. Sure, there’s a lingering bitter aftertaste to the great British baking show schism that led to those departures, but not on the Great British Baking Show itself, which rides remaining judge Paul Hollywood’s gruff charms alongside new judging partner Prue Leith and celebrity goofballs Noel Fielding and Sandi Toksvig without missing a trick. The key ingredient to this series’ success has always been the utterly generous heart that goes into every episode, and Fielding and Toksvig, if anything, seem more emotionally invested in the fates of the contestants they have to expel, one-by-one, from the show’s famous tent. And if Hollywood and Leith continue the necessarily merciless judging of soggy bottoms, overworked and under-proved doughs, and the occasional collapsing confectionary disaster, they, too, provide warmly constructive criticism rather than the traditional reality show scorn. A series—as the departed Berry was wont to say—“cram-jammed” with delights, The Great British Baking Show remains one of the most cozily exciting TV experiences going. [Dennis Perkins]

Alex McLevy

Maybe it’s the curse of distance that comes from being released way back in January, or maybe it’s simply a victim of the era of Too Much TV, but I’m bummed out to find the Steven Soderbergh-helmed Mosaic failed to crack our top 25. The miniseries is everything you could want in superlative television: a sharply nuanced and well-written mystery, performed by a coterie of uniformly strong actors at the top of their game (longtime character actor Devin Ratray deserves to be getting award nominations for his star turn), and an ace director brilliantly shooting and editing the whole thing into an intriguing puzzle? It’s the one thing I have felt comfortable recommending to anyone all year long who’s asked me what great show they should check out, regardless of individual tastes, and sadly, not a single person to date has responded with, “I’ve already seen it.” (Feel free to ignore the accompanying multimedia app as an experimental lark on Soderbergh’s part.) You’d think an HBO series from an Oscar-winning director wouldn’t need underdog-status championing, and yet here we are. Give it a watch if you haven’t yet—and odds are, you haven’t.

Caroline Siede

Come on you guys, Netflix’s Queer Eye gave us two full seasons and a special in 2018, and we couldn’t even give it a spot on our list?! I get that it can be hard to stump for reality TV when there’s so much great scripted stuff out there, but Queer Eye at least deserves a special award for being one of the most unexpected joys of 2018. The new Fab Five offered an updated spin on the early ’00s Bravo original, emphasizing self-empowerment, confidence, and empathy along with styling tips and home makeovers. Karamo used his vague “culture and lifestyle” assignment to deliver some really thoughtful therapy sessions, Tan invented a whole new way to wear shirts, Jonathan established himself as an instant icon, Antoni put avocado on stuff, and Bobby did five times as much work as everyone else while getting barely any credit for it. Whether we were bonding over tear-jerking transformations or mocking Antoni’s complete inability to cook, Queer Eye was the rare cultural unifier based on something lovely and uplifting, rather than dark and depressing. I’m guessing we’re still going to need that in 2019, so it’s a good thing the show has a third season on the way. Until then, I’ll just be rewatching A.J.’s episode on a loop.

Lisa Weidenfeld

I watched and loved a lot of TV this year, but it’s possible Wynonna Earp is the show I looked forward to the most, and also the one I wish I was seeing on more best-of lists this December. It’s a Western, a procedural, a Buffy descendant, a horror comedy, and probably a few other things as well. But mostly it’s fun. Its wildly entertaining third season was the strongest yet, and featured a potato-licking mystery, a Christmas tree topper made out of tampons, and one of TV’s sweetest ongoing romances—the usual stuff of great drama. The show’s mythology keeps expanding into an ever larger battle between forces far more powerful than its scrappy team of heroes, but it’s the writing and character work that make the show shine. Wynonna may be tough and merciless in her pursuit of victory, but it’s her sense of humor that keeps her human and compelling, and the bond between her and sister Waverly has provided a grounding emotional force on a show with an increasingly complex central plot. There just aren’t enough shows on TV that would work a Plan B joke into their heist sequence.

Vikram Murthi

Even correcting for James Franco’s involvement, which might put people off for legitimate reasons, it blows me away that The Deuce didn’t crack AVC’s main list. David Simon and George Pelecanos’ bird’s-eye view of the inception and proliferation of the sex industry in the United States represents some of the most mature, compelling television of the year. Simon’s detail-oriented, process-focused approach comes alive when examining a side of American culture that functions as a metaphor for everything: gentrification, the rise of cultural conservatism, urban renewal, late capitalism, and, most potently, the filmmaking process. This season, Simon and Pelecanos pushed their subjects toward broader freedoms that quickly revealed themselves to be traps in disguise. Not only does all social progress come with a price, but also it’s limited to those pre-approved by those controlling the purse strings. Yet, Simon and Pelecanos never forget that the tapestry of human experience is neither exclusively tragic nor comprehensively optimistic. Some people discover happiness, and others lose their way. Rising and falling in America has always been a permanent state because social environments and political context circumscribe life-or-death choices. It’s been a decade since The Wire ended, but its worldview lives on through Simon’s successive work: everything’s connected, follow the money, and bad institutions fail good people every damn day.

Danette Chavez

Although the show’s title addresses a certain demographic, Dear White People has so much to say beyond calling out the oblivious and privileged. Yes, Justin Simien’s adaptation of his 2014 film of the same name wears its politics on its sleeve, but they’re right next to its heart. The show is much more a winning coming-of-age dramedy than it is a polemic, and even then, it’s still miles ahead of most college-set series in both style and substance. Simien’s created his own visual language to capture both the intimacy of the relationships among the core cast, as well as the microscope they’re under as black students at an Ivy League school. And I really cannot say enough about the dialogue, which crackles and informs. Season one had such a moving coming-out storyline, made all the more so by DeRon Horton’s vulnerable performance; the new season follows Lionel’s adventures in dating and dorm sex, with hilarious and poignant results. Really, the whole cast should be commended, from Logan Browning, who provides a wonderfully complex center as Sam, to Antoinette Robertson, who may have given the series’ best performance in season two’s “Chapter IV.” Dear White People still makes a point of punching up—at racist and sexist institutions, tangible and otherwise—but many of its most extraordinary moments have come from characters like Sam, Gabe (John Patrick Amedori), and Reggie (Marque Richardson) recognizing their personal foibles. Thankfully, Netflix has already renewed Dear White People for a third season, giving you all a chance to get it together.

Gwen Ihnat

The odd Amazon sitcom Forever had a lot to say about the monotony of monogamy and marriage: Can you really stay with someone happily for the rest of your life? (Or afterlife, as the case may be.) With anyone but Fred Armisen and Maya Rudolph cast as that main couple, Forever might have slowly slid into bland drudgery. But the two gifted comic actors injected a lot of life into the monogamy question, aided by a spirited supporting cast including Catherine Keener, Julia Ormond, and Noah Robbins. Sure, there are some days when you want to talk to anyone but that person sitting across from you at the breakfast table. But who else would discuss with you, ad nauseam, banal topics like the perfect way to spend a half-hour, or the best way to sit in a chair? The standalone episode “Andre And Sarah” makes achingly clear how much finding (or not finding) that person who makes you shine steers the path your life will eventually take, all in a mere 35 minutes.

Allison Shoemaker

While I’d love to praise one of the many things that aired this year that I’m sure to revisit in future—someone else is going to mention Wanderlust, Salt Fat Acid Heat, and the dazzling Jesus Christ Superstar Live In Concert, right?—I feel compelled to bring up a program I’m almost certain I’ll never watch again. It’s unlikely that when HBO snapped up The Tale at Sundance this year, the network was thinking of the benefits of the pause button. Yet it’s a benefit all the same. The debut narrative feature from documentarian Jennifer Fox follows a fictionalized version of the director (played by Laura Dern) as she re-examines a traumatic childhood experience she’d filed away in her mind as loving and consensual, managing to be both gentle and almost unbearably upsetting all at once. Dern’s simple, seemingly relaxed performance belies the nightmare which fuels it, and that pause button may prove invaluable to some—it certainly was for me. The Tale is a film which seems to demand that you witness, rather than merely watch it. Should you need to walk away for a minute, it’ll keep.

Noel Murray

I know, I know: At least once or twice a year someone tells you about some cool animated series you should be watching, and talks about how trippy and ambitious and strangely deep it is. But guys, trust me: You need to catch up on Cartoon Network’s Summer Camp Island. Only half of season one has aired so far (20 10-minute episodes, mostly non-serialized), with the rest of the first batch reportedly set to debut before the end of the year. It’s a show parents can watch with grade-school-aged kids or on their own—a treat for animation buffs, and for anyone who enjoys a the kind of surrealism that’s more adorable than upsetting. With its snooty teen witches, dorky monsters, and never-ending parade of anthropomorphic clothes, toys, plants, and foodstuffs, Summer Camp Island is like a weird old Disney cartoon crossed with an ’80s teensploitation picture. And it is glorious.

A.A. Dowd

Mike Flanagan is a Stephen King guy. You could guess that from his adaptation of Gerald’s Game and from the news that he’s doing King’s Shining sequel Doctor Sleep next. Or you could just watch his work and marvel at how plainly influenced it is by the author’s, at how well it captures that signature King touch—the division of perspective among multiple characters, the interest in history and trauma, the graceful juggling of timelines. There’s much more King than Shirley Jackson in Flanagan Netflix take on The Haunting Of Hill House. The miniseries didn’t scare me as much as it seemed to scare a lot of my friends and colleagues—while well-executed, its jolts were mostly of the familiar James Wan spirits-slithering-up-walls variety. But I loved the intricacy of the storytelling, the way Flanagan moved fluidly from the childhood scenes to the adulthood ones and back again, mapping the entwined lives of these damaged siblings to suggest the way that our past and present remain in constant conversation. (It’s memories, of course, that are really haunting the Crain family.) In the end, I found Haunting Of Hill House a better, more spiritually faithful adaptation of It than the real one from last year. Guess that makes me a Mike Flanagan guy.

Erik Adams

The contents of The Big List demonstrate that it’s a great time for television comedy of all stripes: Animated, musical, workplace, detail-oriented genre parody, surrealist examination of the agony and ecstasy of existence. And while I would’ve liked to have seen some notice for the humble charms of NBC’s Superstore or a nod to that episode of Joe Pera Talks With You where Joe hears “Baba O’Riley” for the first time, I’m surprised that we didn’t heap more praise on another Michigan-set cable show co-starring Conner O’Malley. Like Myles with Survivor, I’m willing to accept that I’m part of the problem: Detroiters didn’t make my ballot’s final cut, despite all the hearty laughs, shoddily produced TV commercials, and General Getdown dance routines (“He’s a general—he’s the best”) the Comedy Central series gave me this year. Sam Richardson and Tim Robinson’s love letter to their shared hometown will always be powered by the stars’ explosively silly onscreen connection, but season two did some stellar work at fleshing out their characters as individuals, whether it was Sam reuniting with an ex to record a sultry grocery-store jingle or Tim (loudly) grappling with the family legacy of Cramblin Duvet Advertising. If nothing else, these episodes proved that when it comes to comedic news anchors, sometimes the inspiration for Ron Burgundy outstrips the legend himself.

Source: https://tv.avclub.com/what-s-missing-from-our-list-of-2018-s-best-tv-1830979080

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