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extasiswings · 3 years

Note

15 + buddie

15. "Shouldn't you be with her?" On ao3 here.

When Eddie is eleven, his class gets a new student. Her name is Maria Esparza and her family is from Arizona. She has dark curls that look like they would be soft to touch and a smattering of freckles across her nose and she’s so smart—always reading and forever raising her hand in class, always with the right answers—but she never acts stuck up about it.

He thinks she’s beautiful and when he gets home from the first day of school he promptly announces that he’s in love. He doesn’t understand why his mother laughs or why Sophia rolls her eyes and calls him an idiot when he’s perfectly serious.

He’s in love, he insists, and goes on believing it for three whole weeks until he gets up the courage to give Maria a flower at recess and she looks at him like he has two heads. The rejection smarts for a couple of days, but then he’s fine. So, he figures...maybe it wasn’t love after all.

Eddie is fifteen when he finds his eyes slipping too frequently to Diego Reed in autoshop, lingering on the other boy’s long, dexterous fingers, his forearms, the sharp edge of his jaw. Eddie can’t explain it, he just knows those stolen glances make him squirm, make him flush, make him feel too warm and like his very skin is too tight.

Diego steals Eddie’s first kiss two weeks before winter break, pushes him up against the back wall of the shop where they’re hidden by a truck and licks into his mouth with a confidence that Eddie can’t imagine ever having when he himself can’t even figure out what to do with his hands. But it makes his knees weak and leaves him breathless and panting when Diego pulls away with a smirk and tells him not to say anything.

It’s not love—for one thing, Eddie knows he’s not supposed to love boys, and for another, the only time he suggests it might be anything at all, Diego gives him the same look Maria had once upon a time and walks away—but it’s nothing he’s ever felt before. The next year, Angelica Phelan asks him to go to the winter formal and he gets to second base in the science lab when they slip away from the chaperones. It’s different from kissing Diego. But it’s just as good, he enjoys it just as much, and part of him is…relieved.

He doesn’t think about that too much.

Eddie is eighteen when he’s not watching where he’s going and runs directly into his future on the sidewalk. Thankfully, the only casualty is Shannon’s coffee, and after she snaps at him for not paying attention and he offers to replace her drink—well. They close down the coffee shop, emerging, startled, from conversation only when interrupted by a mildly disgruntled employee trying to lock up. Eddie walks home in a daze, Shannon’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket, and he’s simultaneously elated and terrified because it’s never been so easy being with someone, he’s never felt so seen so quickly. He’s old enough to realize that love at first sight is bullshit, but he thinks he could fall very fast.

He’s right.

They take things slow because Eddie wants to do things right, doesn’t want to risk confusing love with the heady cocktail of teenage hormones and sex. So he knows by the time he does fall into bed with her, eight months in, that he’s in love. Really in love, thinking about the future in love, factoring her into the mix when he thinks about what the hell he’s going to do with his life in love.

And then Shannon gets pregnant. And it’s too soon, he loves her but it’s too soon, and he’s terrified all over again—

He loves her though. He loves her. And she’s pregnant so—they get married. He wants to do the right thing.

At their wedding the readings are selections from Song of Songs and Corinthians.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud....Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things...

With all due respect to St. Paul, Eddie doesn’t think he knew what the hell he was talking about. Or at least, maybe he did, but he was being pretty damn aspirational and left out a few things.

Because after the wedding…after the wedding, Eddie learns a lot more about love.

Love is beautiful, yes. But love is also…trying to do the right thing and fucking up. Love is fighting and knowing exactly what to say to cut the deepest and not always holding back. Love is forgiving, but after a point finding it difficult to forget.

Or maybe that’s not love, maybe that’s just marriage. Maybe it’s a little of both. Because love endures—sure. Love endured with Shannon even when trust was nonexistent, when their marriage was fractured, shattered pieces strewn across the floor ready to draw blood if either of them tried to pick them up.

Love isn’t enough. That’s what Eddie knows. Or maybe it is, maybe love would have been enough to fix what was broken if it hadn’t been his. Shannon’s gone, so they’ll never be able to have that conversation. He’ll never know the answer.

Love endures. Eddie kind of wishes it didn’t. It would make a lot of things a lot easier.

But…it’s fine. He’s fine. Shannon dies and he locks that piece of himself away and has no plans to ever fall in love again.

Then again, God has a funny sense of humor and never seems to resist an opportunity to be an asshole, so of course…he does. Slowly. Quietly. The threads slipping through the cracks in his walls so carefully that he doesn’t even notice until they’re twined around his heart, unspooling through his blood, through his veins with every pulse. Eddie doesn’t notice.

And then he gets shot and it’s like being hit by lightning, an electric shock of clarity down his spine, rooting him in place as he meets Buck’s eyes.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

***

Eddie despises recovery.

He’s never been good at being still, at being useless, at being left alone with nothing but his own head. And maybe he’s not entirely alone—he has Christopher, after all, and Christopher is understandably a little clingy now that he’s home from the hospital—but Christopher sleeps and has play dates and spends time in his room and just in general isn’t in Eddie’s space every second of every day.

And then there’s Buck. Buck who offered to keep staying on the couch to take care of everything they needed when Eddie came home from the hospital. Buck who Eddie sent home to his own bed with promises to call if he needed help because having Buck so close after Eddie’s little realization was stirring him up, making everything a million times more difficult in his head. Buck’s still over frequently, but it’s less dangerous if he’s not staying overnight, if Eddie can’t wake up and be tempted to walk out to the living room and pull Buck into his bed. Not for anything sexual—he’s on too many medications and too immobilized for that even if it was remotely a good idea—but to be held. To feel wanted. To feel safe.

He knows Buck probably wouldn’t say no, wouldn’t think anything of it except that maybe he’s a little raw and fragile, which he is. Which is exactly why he can’t ask. So. Removing the temptation it is.

But. Being left alone with his own head is a terrible idea. He’s in pain because he lowered the doses of his pain meds so he would stop worrying about developing any dependency. He can’t sleep without waking up with screams trapped behind his teeth and the smell of blood and gunpowder in his nose. And he can’t stop thinking about Buck. About being in love with Buck. About wanting Buck. About whether he could ever have him or whether he’ll ever be okay enough to be in a relationship. About whether Buck could ever want him back or if he’ll ever feel safe enough to risk their friendship by even asking.

He broke up with Ana the second he was able to figure out how to do it without feeling like a complete dick. But he hasn’t told Buck that. He doesn’t know why.

And then there’s—

The key turns in the lock and Eddie starts, looking up from his place on the couch. Christopher is with his abuela for the night, and he didn’t expect—

“Hey,” Buck calls, stepping through the door. “I brought dinner.”

Eddie stares.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, before he can stop himself. “Shouldn’t you be with Taylor?”

—Taylor. Buck and Taylor. Which, Buck waited weeks to tell him about, hedging about why he wanted to know if it was okay to invite her to Eddie’s welcome home party. Which, Buck only did admit to when Eddie called one night at 2AM and Taylor answered Buck’s phone.

Eddie clears his throat, the question sounding a little too sharp and accusatory to his ears.

“I just meant,” he adds, softening, “I thought you said you had a date tonight.”

An odd look passes over Buck’s face.

“Isabel called me,” he replies. “She said you were by yourself, asked if I would check on you. We rescheduled, it’s fine.”

Eddie nods once and pulls the couch throw tighter around his shoulders with his good arm. A petty, possessive piece of him is pleased. That Buck’s there. That Buck would drop everything for him.

He’s always been wary of Taylor. Even way back when they first met and she was prowling around the station filming everyone and flirting with Buck. But now? Now he’s jealous, his stomach twisting at the very reminder that she has Buck the way Eddie wants him.

But at the same time…he hates that. Hates the jealousy, hates feeling possessive. Because what claim does he have over Buck’s affections? None. Especially not when he can’t even admit to loving him outside his head.

He hates it because he knows that more than anything, Buck deserves to be happy. And maybe Eddie could make him happy, but—

Even if Buck felt the same—and Eddie isn’t convinced of that, doesn’t have the arrogance to assume—what right does he have to say please, to say wait, to ask Buck to put his life on hold indefinitely while Eddie sorts through the tangled mess in his head in the hope that one day he’ll finally be ready? He can’t be that selfish. Especially not with Buck.

Buck deserves to be happy. Even if that’s with Taylor Kelly. Even if it means Eddie loses him.

He doesn’t get to be jealous.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Eddie replies quietly. “I’m fine.”

Buck sets the bag in his arms down on the coffee table.

“You don’t look fine,” he points out. “Actually, you look like shit. Isabel was right to call me.”

“I’m fine,” Eddie repeats. His heart pangs at the concern in Buck’s eyes. “Really, it’s okay—you should—you should—”

Go. Call Taylor back. Enjoy your date.

He wants to do the right thing. He really does. But the rest of the words refuse to leave his throat.

Buck shakes his head anyway. “I’m not going anywhere,” he insists. “So tell me what’s going on. How can I help?”

Eddie bites his lip. Drags his hand over his jaw before making a face. The messy, overgrown scruff is itchy and difficult to manage on his own, and the foreignness of it doesn’t help him feel grounded in his own body when he wakes up gasping in the middle of the night.

“It’s stupid,” he says.

“I’m sure it’s not,” Buck replies. “And I’m here, so you might as well just talk.”

I’m in love with you, Eddie thinks. And I can’t sleep. And I can’t shave. And everything hurts. And I just want to stop being afraid—

He swallows. He can’t say all of that. He can’t blow everything up that way.

So, he picks the easiest one.

“I can’t shave with my left hand and it’s driving me insane.”

Buck blinks. Then he laughs as the worry in his brow smooths out.

“That’s it?” He asks. “Well, that’s easy. I can do that. Come on.”

And that’s how Eddie winds up sitting on the bathroom counter with shaving cream all over his face while Buck wets a razor and steps between his legs.

His breath catches.

“You good?” Buck asks, his voice low. His eyes are soft and focused, and Eddie almost regrets everything because the proximity—god, the proximity. He’s been so cold since the shooting and Buck is so warm, heat spreading through Eddie’s body from every discrete point of contact. Buck tips his chin back and Eddie lets his eyes slip closed.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m good.”

The razor drags along his skin. Neither of them say a word, the main sound in the room the drip of the faucet when Buck rinses the razor between passes. They’ve always been physical with each other, but this sort of thing is new. Intimate.

Eddie aches.

His eyes open a crack to watch. Buck’s lower lip is caught between his teeth, and having every ounce of that focus on him is…intoxicating.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Buck steps in closer, Eddie’s legs spread ever so slightly wider. A spark of heat flashes through him and he inhales sharply—Buck’s startled enough that his hand slips and the razor nicks Eddie’s jaw.

“Shit,” Buck swears. The razor clatters into the sink. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Eddie opens his eyes the rest of the way. “It’s fine,” he assures. “What, you think I’ve never cut myself shaving before? It’s still better than I would have managed myself.”

“I’m—” Buck looks stricken, his fingers reaching out to gently cradle Eddie’s jaw only for him to snatch them back almost instantly, the tip of one faintly smeared with blood. His hand trembles.

“Buck,” Eddie says quietly. Buck’s eyes are fixed on the red smear and Eddie is sent back—

Watching his blood splash across Buck’s face and not realizing at first that it was his. Being half-delirious on the way to the hospital worrying that Buck had been hurt—

All this time, Buck’s been moving forward, pushing ahead, for Christopher, for him, for everyone, and Eddie knew he wasn’t entirely okay, knew he was fucked up from the moment in the hospital when he said I think it would have been better if I was the one who got shot, but since Eddie’s been home, Buck has seemed…better.

Maybe not. Maybe he’s been struggling to pretend as much as Eddie has.

Eddie twists around to grab the towel draped over the faucet and wets it enough to wash the rest of the shaving cream off his face, feels the sting of soap and water in the cut. And then he reaches out to grab Buck’s hand, wiping the blood off of his finger.

There’s something profane about blood staining skin. And something sacred in the act of washing it clean.

Eddie wonders if anyone helped Buck wash his blood off when he was in surgery. Taylor, maybe.

But no, that doesn’t feel right.

Buck probably did it himself. Alone.

“Hey.” Eddie squeezes Buck’s fingers. When Buck doesn’t look at him, he reaches out and curls his hand around the side of Buck’s neck, tips Buck’s chin up with his thumb to force him to meet his eyes. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m okay. No harm done.”

Buck breathes out shakily. His throat works, his face passes through a million stages—finally, his hands fall to the counter on either side of Eddie’s hips and his forehead drops to Eddie’s good shoulder. Eddie lets his hand slip around to the back of Buck’s neck, his fingers combing up through the short hairs there. He turns his head and he’s close enough to kiss the side of Buck’s, but he holds off. It feels like it would be too much. Too much when Buck doesn’t know how he really feels, what he really wants. But even just this—the closeness, the touch—is good. Needed. A balm to the itch under his skin.

When Buck turns his face into Eddie’s neck and inhales, Eddie thinks maybe Buck might need this just as badly.

“I’m okay,” he repeats, closing his eyes again as his fingers comb through Buck’s hair. “We’re okay. We’re okay.”

They stay like that for a long time. Buck’s phone rings out once, but neither of them moves to answer it. Eventually, Buck lifts his head and clears his throat roughly as he steps back.

Eddie’s hand falls away from Buck’s neck. He feels the absence keenly.

“You good?” He asks. Buck nods. His eyes are red.

“Yeah,” Buck replies. He pauses. Shakes his head. “No. But—can we just—can I just finish this for now? I want to finish this.”

Eddie watches him for a moment. Wets his lips. Then finally nods and passes over the shaving cream again.

“Sure,” he says. “I trust you.”

I love you.

Maybe…maybe eventually he’ll be braver. Maybe eventually, both of them will be free at the same time and he’ll be whole and healed, or at least something closer to it than he is now. Maybe eventually…love will be enough. Maybe.

For now, he has this.

#chapel writes #eddie diaz #buddie #buddie fic #prompt fill #911 fic

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newtonsheffield · 2 years

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Absolutely loved the new chapter of Simmering 🤩🤩.

Anthony with dyed blond tips took me by surprise. Can I have some more information on that like Kate or the other bridgertons making fun of Anthony for his teenage hair experiments please 🥺🥺

Anonymous asked:

Molly loved simmering per usual. The tension between them is strung so tight. Can we see kate teasing Anthony about his frosted tips in the future? Once they are happily together ❤ ☺ 💕

ahh bless them, then tension between them is very tight, and next week it might just... boil over

But for now, let's take a look at a another time in their lives

"You know what I can't believe?"

It was a sleepy Sunday morning, the kind of day that had so quickly become Kate's favourite. The restaurant closed, Anthony's head cushioned on her chest, his hair between her fingertips, his body thrown over hers like a weighted blanket.

"What's that?" His voice was sleepy, his bare chest warm against her legs, his lips leaving a light kiss against her sternum.

Her lips twisted into a smirk, "That's it's been two months we've been together and I haven't teased you about having frosted tips, or the fact you used to hit on me when I'd come into the restaurant."

Anthony groaned dramatically, his arms tightening against her waist, "It was in fashion."

Kate guffawed, "In the late 90's which we were not in. Oh Sweet little Anthony, how long did you have it for?"

"A while."

Kate ran the ends of his hair through her fingertips, "Well I remember seeing it twice so it was at least-"

"Fine! It was a long while!"Anthony said a little indignantly, "And it looked great."

She couldn't help it the, the laughter bubbling in her chest, the slightly thrilling feeling that if she played her cards right Anthony might just- "Oh baby, it didn't."

"It absolutely did! I was young, and handsome, and hot! You flirted with me!" He sounded so indignant, his lower lip pouting like a disgruntled giraffe.

"Well baby Kate was young, and a bit naive, and your biceps were very big." Her heart was pounding with love for him, stupid and happy, and carefree.

"My biceps are still big! I'm not going to apologise for the flirting, you were pretty, and you kept brushing your fingers against the back of my hand and honestly, I had a semi the whole time." He was nuzzling closer to her, enjoying the closeness he'd tried to keep from them for so long.

"And yet I never got a phone number." She sighed sadly, her hands tickling at his shoulders.

"I tried! I wrote it an a napkin and tried to casually drop it on your seat and your Dad gave it back to me!"

here it was, here was her chance, even though this new information tugged at her chest, "Well babe, that's probably because you had frosted tips."

Anthony let out a scoff, standing from his bed suddenly leaving her cold, "That's it!" He tugged a shirt on, jeans as well, his motorcycle jacket tugged from the floor where she'd ripped it off him last night.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to prove to you, that that looked good! Nay! Hot! And you would still fuck me with it!" and as the door slammed shut behind him, Kate couldn't stop herself from scrambling for her phone, sending out a text to the Bridgertons

You guys can thank me later.

"You don't have to do this you know." Kate hummed mildly, leaning against the doorframe, watching her boyfriend, shirtless, bowl of bleach in one hand, hesitating with the brush.

And though she'd really meant it, apparently that pushed him over the edge, He slapped the brush down on the ends of his hair casting her a defiant look a gasp of disbelief rising in her chest.

"Anthony, I don't want to hear any complaints when you look like a fucking mug in an hour."

Anthony hummed, continuing his little downward spiral, "Oh Katharine, darling, I think you'll be the one looking like a mug."

"I will, because I'll still be dating you, and you'll have fucking frosted tips. Like the whitest boy imaginable."

__________

And there they were, an hour later, Anthony towelling off his hair a grin on his face, falling as he looked in the mirror.

"Well." Was all he said, Kate desperately trying to bite her lip to hold in the laughter. She couldn't.

Happy ridiculous tears stung at her eyes as she laughed, her sides hurting, Anthony looking deeply ridiculous with his platinum tipped hair strewn over his face.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this."

"What do you want me to say? I told you it looked stupid."

"I thought you were misremembering." He said primly, "You weren't as it turns out. fuck."

Kate stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his chest, humming softly, "Teenage Kate thought it was cute."

"Any chance this Kate does?" His voice rumbled through his chest.

"This Kate thinks it's cute that you were so determined."

Anthony huffed, "Are you still gonna date me with them?"

And god help her, why was he so fucking cute? "Anthony take your pants off."

"Why? I'm sad enough without you taking pictures of me in my underwear with them."

Kate rolled her eyes, letting her lips brush his ear, her hips grinding lightly against his "Anthony do you want me to suck your dick or not?"

His pants hit the ground so fast she could barely blink.

__________________

"Oh my god! Guys! Guys!" Colin's voice boomed through his mother's house later that evening, filled with joy as he snapped pictures. "Vanilla ice Anthony is back!"

"Fuck off Colin!" But Kate noticed it didn't really have the same bite to it that it might have, when her arm snaked around his waist.

"I'll dye it back for you tonight."

"I love and adore you."

#simmering au #kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton #molly’s asks and answers

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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

Text

The Keeper’s Introduction

Here is my fic for @levihan-drabbles Fluff Friday!

Prompt: "I know I just broke into your apartment in the middle of the night but there are some bad people after my special power over alternate universes and I've decided to put all my faith on you to save everything."

They looked oddly at home, expertly navigating his kitchen. As though they had been there before. They grabbed the honeypot from another cupboard, and found a spoon in one of the drawers.

"Oi," Levi said. "How'd you know where I keep all my shit?"

The stranger waved their hand flippantly, "Oh, I'm well acquainted with your layout. It never really changes, wherever you are."

Levi had just settled in for the night when a loud echoing crack sounded in the street below.

It was well past midnight, far too late for such a racket. The sudden violence of it was almost enough to make him spill his tea. He waited with his breath held, his heart shamefully hammering in his chest. Levi prided himself on being the type who doesn't scare so easily—but one can't be blamed for being alarmed by an unexpected noise in the dead of night, can they?

The world remained mercifully still and quiet. Levi approached the open window slowly (carefully, not frightfully; there is no indignity in being cautious) and peered out into the night. The sky outside was almost full dark, saved from the pressing black by only a smattering of stars and the moon, a papery sliver of a thing hooked high over the distant rooftops. The window, open only an inch, gave entry to a gentle breeze, still balmy despite the lateness of the hour. The town was drowsy, dozing; only the occasional candle flickered in the darkness, and no sound, prior to or following the thunderous clap, could be heard.

The street, three stories below, was empty. Levi scanned the road, but found nothing unusual. The strangest thing, perhaps, was that his face was the only one peering out. None of his neighbours had deemed the explosion worth investigating.

It was, for all the world, a night as perfectly normal as any other. Levi had seen no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary might occur.

He blew out a breath. Maybe he had imagined it. He had been quite engrossed in his novel, and it was well past time for him to be sleeping. It isn't unreasonable to assume that the sound of a cat, perhaps, rattling the bins in the alley had startled his tired, occupied mind. Resolving to finish his chapter and go straight to bed, Levi gave the street one last cursory glance, and turned away from the window.

He had just settled back into his chair and picked up his tea cup and his book, when the doorbell rang.

The chime in itself was yet another oddity, for Levi received visitors only very rarely, and never at an hour so late as this.

He set down his drink and lowered the book to his lap with a frown. Better, he thought, not to answer straight away. Then they might leave without causing him any trouble—and if they rang a second time, and even a third, Levi would suppose it might be something urgent and might finally be pressed to receive his unwanted guest.

Much to his pleasure, the bell did not sound a second time. Levi waited, poised to stand, but minutes passed by with no sound at all, and eventually, mildly disgruntled now by the persistent interruptions, he settled back and tried, once again, to read.

He turned the page. Picked up his now lukewarm tea, and took a sip. Sunk down more comfortably into the plush armchair. He felt himself begin to settle. The peculiarities of the night drifted from his thoughts as he read, mind too engaged with the story in his hands to think too deeply over the strange events that had occurred.

And then, without any warning at all, a godawful shriek rent the air as Levi's window was wrenched open from the outside, the wood frame protesting with a violent screech. Levi jerked in his seat, book falling from his hands and his tea cup shattering as it struck the stone floor.

There was a person, making no efforts at all to be quiet, unashamedly clambering in through his window. Levi watched, too shocked to move, while they pulled themself over the sill and crumpled in a heap to the floor.

Levi could do nothing but stare as the intruder heaved themself up. They unfurled long limbs, straightening to their full height, and turned quickly to poke their head out of the open window. They looked left, then right, down, and most peculiarly, up, before pulling themself back inside and slamming the window closed. They drew the curtains shut, and turned to look into the room, casting their eyes about the place as though inspecting it.

They walked with a relaxed gate, seemingly unbothered by their rude intrusion. Levi couldn't be sure if they had noticed his presence, for they made no show of knowing he was even there, and Levi was still too stunned to announce it. He watched the stranger rotate in a slow circle, looking everywhere from the ceiling down to the floor. Satisfied, they slapped their hands to their hips and nodded once, and then their gaze fell on Levi, still sitting stiff as a board in his chair. The light from Levi's lamp cast half their face in shadow, glinting off the lenses of their glasses. Their mouth stretched in a wide, manic grin.

Levi swallowed hard. His courage returned to him swiftly, urging him to his feet. He faced the stranger head on with his face twisted in a scowl.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The intruder's grin only widened.

"Oh, Mike was right after all!"

They crossed to him quickly in two great strides. Levi twisted his head this way and that to watch them as they circled him. This close, Levi could better see the sharp hook of their nose, the angle of their jaw and the whiskey colour of their eyes, with strange, dark markings around their irises, like the face of a clock. He could also see the fingerprint smudges on their lenses. They wore all black, from their muddy boots up to the overlarge hood draped over their shoulders like a small cloak.

"Shitty four-eyes, answer me."

They let out a gleeful laugh.

"Oh, Mike my friend, you are a genius!" They said. And then, to Levi, they added, "Mike can sniff out you Guardians half a universe away, I swear."

Levi had no idea who Mike was, or what a Guardian was, and frankly, he didn't care. He levelled his home invader with a sharp glare. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. "I said, what the hell are you doing climbing through my window? How? I’m three stories up!"

The stranger's smile finally faltered. They tilted their head. "I did try the doorbell."

"Why did you want to be in my house?"

"Ah, well, you see—that's kind of a long story." They turned on their heel and strode into the kitchenette. Levi watched on, incredulous, as they filled his kettle with water and set it on the stove to boil. With one hand, they reached into the cupboard above the sink and rifled through the boxes until they found Levi's stash of chamomile tea, and with the other they reached for the draining board, and plucked up two clean cups by their handles. All of this, while they watched the water begin to simmer in the pot.

They looked oddly at home expertly navigating his kitchen. As though they had been there before. They grabbed the honeypot from another cupboard, and found a spoon in one of the drawers.

"Oi," Levi said. "How'd you know where I keep all my shit?"

The stranger waved their hand flippantly, "Oh, I'm well acquainted with your layout. It never really changes, wherever you are."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean, shitty glasses?" Levi tried to inject an air of disinterested anger into his tone, but the stranger’s words, said so plainly, raised goosebumps on his skin.

They chuckled. "I can't tell you how many times we've had this conversation. I'm Hange, by the way."

Hange brought the tea over to where Levi stood, and held one cup out for Levi to take. He clenched his fists by his sides instead. The tea, upsettingly, smelled perfect; brewed at the right temperature, for the right time, and sweetened with just a drop of honey. When he didn't take the cup, Hange shrugged and set it on the little table by the armchair. They spied the broken china on the floor and smirked, "you never have much luck with that one."

"Excuse me?"

"That cup. It's the one with the gold rim, right? And all the little forget-me-nots around the outside?"

Levi said nothing. Hange, irritatingly and unexplainably, for the cup was in many pieces now and the lighting was too poor to see it in any great detail, was absolutely right.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said.

"Right, right. Like I said, it's a long story. Do you want the unabridged version or are you happy with the footnotes?"

"A summary is fine."

Hange took a great slurp of their tea. "Long story short, I pissed off some very bad people, and now they are after me for my, ah—abilities."

"But why my house?"

"Mike told me where you'd be. And boy, am I glad he did! I barely made it in time. I was aiming to land right in your sitting room, but I guess my calculations were a little off…" they trailed away with a frown. Levi watched their lips work quickly, as though they were running numbers in their head. Then they stopped, and shook themselves off. "Doesn't matter now anyway. I didn't wake you, did I? World hopping can be pretty loud."

That, at least, accounted for the sound Levi had heard outside. But...

"Hange," Levi said. "You've explained nothing."

"Give me a minute, Levi. It's complicated! There's a lot of history and I already know you don't want to hear any of it. Besides, we wouldn't have the time. We'll have to leave early in the morning."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Sure you are," Hange said. "I have to meet up with Erwin, and I need you to get me there."

"Where's there? Who the hell is Erwin?"

Again, Hange waved their hand at him. "Unimportant. Look, what matters is this: I might've messed with the timeline in another universe, and that may have caused some….upset, with some very important and very powerful people. I only changed a little bit!! I met this guy, Onyankopon—he's so cool, you know? Smart as hell. He had this idea that—well, it was the base model for an airplane."

"A what?"

"Well, see, that's the thing. Onyankopon asked the same question, and I just...told him. A little bit. I went a little too deep into the mechanics of it all, and he...well he might have developed a model that works. Two hundred years before it was supposed to exist in his universe. And now the Bureau is looking for me, but I’m not done with Erwin’s mission yet and so I am putting all my eggs in your basket. I need you to get me out of this in one piece.”

Hange looked more sheepish about this insane indiscretion than they had about breaking and entering.

"You're fucking insane," he said. Hange let out a bright laugh.

"So you've told me, more times than I can count."

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He felt a headache coming on.

"You look stressed," Hange said, sounding almost sympathetic. "Drink the tea! It'll help, though it's probably a little cold by now."

"You're the reason I'm stressed, idiot."

"Sorry about that," they said, not sounding very sorry at all. "I know the circumstances aren't...ideal. I'd much rather have come to you another time and explained everything properly, but—well, I was kind of in a hurry, and Mike sniffed you out, said you were the nearest you to my location. I didn't have much of a choice."

"Who the hell is Mike? Some kind of mutt?"

"Sort of," Hange said with a grin. "He's a Seeker. It's his job to locate people like you—people like us—when the Bureau needs us. Fortunately for me, Mike isn't overly loyal to our dear overseers—his allegiance lies with Erwin, as does mine. And Erwin is decidedly less strict about most of the timelines."

Hange circled around Levi and set their hands on his shoulders. Something strange sparked there, a heat that sunk through skin and muscle and settled right in his bones. They had already ushered him into his chair by the time he shrugged them off.

"What does any of this batshit garbage you're spewing have to do with me?"

"You are a Guardian. It's your role to protect people like me from harm."

"The hell does that mean, people like you? I’m not fighting anyone to save your scrawny ass from anything. You fucked up, you deal with it. "

Hange stood up straight and puffed out their chest. "I am a Keeper. I'm supposed to keep order in the timelines. According to the Bureau, at least. Erwin has other ideas—but that's a story for another time. For now, we should rest. Like I said, we've got to leave early in the morning."

"To go where?"

"To Erwin!" Hange said brightly. "I don't have my pocket watch anymore, so we're gonna have to take the traditional route. There's no way I'll make it on my own. And don’t worry, you won’t have to fight anyone. I’ll explain it all on the journey."

"Look,” Levi said. “Can't you just...drop out of the sky whenever this Erwin guy is? I'm sure he's got his own window you can climb through."

"No can do," Hange said. "I can only hop between universes. I need my watch to move fast within any one universe, and mine took a dunk in a river, during my escape."

"Magic bullshit technology that lets you, what, teleport across the damn globe? And it can't survive a dip in a river?"

"They aren't watertight," Hange said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And they still run on batteries. Moblit is working on improving the technology."

Levi's head throbbed. He rubbed his eyes and glowered up at Hange, who was watching him with a soft smile. Levi deepened his scowl.

"What's that shitty face for?"

Hange's expression softened further. They looked at him with so much fondness, Levi felt his face grow warm.

"I've missed you, you know," they said. "Well, not you, but—you. It's been...a really long time."

"That makes no sense," Levi said. He meant it, too—nothing Hange had said to him made sense at all. It was the stuff of storybooks, fairy tales; the product of an imagination run wild. And yet, Hange's presence, alarming as it had been and frankly still was, felt oddly familiar. The warmth of their hands still rested on his shoulders. In spite of himself, Levi felt the corner of his lip begin to curl into a small, absent smile. He wrestled it back down.

Hange laughed, a light, lilting thing, and yawned. They crossed the room to Levi's small dining table and dropped heavily into a chair.

"I suppose you're right," they said with a lazy grin. "It doesn't make any sense at all. You'll just have to trust me."

"You broke into my house. You're not selling your reliability very well. And don't even think about it."

Hange looked over at him, surprised. "Think about what?"

"Putting your filthy feet on my damn table."

"Whatever gave you the idea I'd do something like that?"

Levi opened his mouth to answer, but snapped it closed swiftly as the thought, which had come to him thoroughly unbidden, fully registered in his mind. You do it all the time.

Levi pinched his eyes, staring at Hange. They sat with a curious little tilt of their head, watching him with an open, analytical look. Levi squirmed under their gaze.

"I don't know," he said. "Seems like the kind of shit you'd do."

"Like something I've done before?"

Levi flinched, and Hange smiled all teeth at him, a strange mix of impish and pleased. They propped their elbow on the table and rested their chin on their palm. "There it is," they said quietly.

"What?" Levi asked. Too eager. Hange looked thrilled as they straightened up in their chair, eyes gleaming in the lamplight.

"There are a lot of you's, one in every single universe, just like there are a lot of Isabel's, and Farlan's, and Petra's—"

"How do you—you know what, nevermind. Go on."

"But because you're a Guardian, all your you's are linked. And because you're my Guardian," Hange looked weirdly proud at this pronouncement, "it's only natural that you remember me. It'll happen a lot, I'm sure. Try not to freak out."

Levi snorted. "You say that now?"

"Would it have made a difference if I said it earlier?"

Levi mulled that over for a second. No, he supposed it wouldn’t. He’d have thought them completely unhinged either way. Instead of answering, he picked up the tea from the table and drained it in three gulps. When he looked back at Hange, they were smiling brightly at him.

"Just how you like it, right?"

"I prefer it hot."

Hange kicked their heels against the floor and shot him an affronted look. With a petulant pout of their lip, they said, " So unfair, Levi! That's not my fault."

He shrugged them off. He would never admit it to them, but he took some bizarre delight in watching Hange's tantrum. It felt all too natural. They slumped back in their chair, head tipped over the back rest to stare at the ceiling.

"Ah, you're as cruel as ever," they said. "It's good. Very you."

Hange pushed their glasses up to their forehead and rubbed at their eyes. The scene looked painfully familiar; Hange, smiling sleepily, bleary eyed in the low blush of candlelight. Only, in the image forming in his mind, they were resting against a plump, well-fluffed pillow, and their hair was down from its ponytail, still messy and falling over their face. In the image forming in his mind, Levi's own hand reached out to brush a few strands from their cheeks, and Hange turned into his palm, their lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

Levi shook his head, face a little warm. Hange was watching him again. He scowled at them for good measure, gathering up his own cup and theirs, and washing them in the sink. He let the water run cool over his hands for a long moment.

"You should rest, if you're tired," he said. From the table, Hange hummed.

"Good idea," they said. "The bed's big enough for two, right?"

Levi turned sharply to refute them, but Hange didn't give him the chance. They had already heaved themself up out of their chair and kicked off their boots, and now, with the practiced ease of someone who had lived in the house for years, they were wandering down the hall and straight into Levi's bedroom, leaving the door open behind them.

Levi dried his hands slowly on the dish towel. He looked at the armchair, big and well-cushioned, spacious enough for him to recline in for a few hours rest. It wouldn't be the first time, and he had no doubt it would be the last. And then he looked down the hallway, where Hange must have lit the lamp; warm light spilled out into the corridor, and Levi was reminded abruptly of his strange thoughts.

This Hange, they were crazy. Talking the most nonsense Levi had ever heard come straight from another person's mouth. He would be better off resting his eyes in his chair, and kicking Hange out at first light.

That was the logical thing to do. The reasonable thing. That was the desperate plea of his better judgement.

Instead, he blew out his lamp, and stormed down the hallway after them.

"You lie on my fresh sheets in your filthy clothes and I'm throwing you back out the window, Guardian or not."

#levihan #snk #my writing #aaaah I didn't know what to do for this but I ended up having a lot of fun!!!

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friendlylocalwhumper · 3 years

Text

retirement

“Adrian, how smart phones were developed. Your expert is Mrs. Langley.”

The class murmurs with jealousy as Adrian is assigned a teacher - not only is she fun and friendly, but she works in this same building. An easy assignment. Someone mutters about how he got an easy one because he’s the teacher’s nephew.

“Kristen, the politics of the nineties. You have a retired senator to interview for this one, isn’t that fun?”

The goody-two-shoes students make impressed, interested sounds, while the rest shift in their seats waiting to hear who they’ll be assigned.

“Okay, this next one will be a group of three, because the source always talks too much for one student to catch all the details.” She opens her mouth to continue, but already, kids are groaning.

“Not the one from-”

“Not the old-”

“Come on, Mrs.-”

She speaks over them, used to the complaints by now. “Sheela, Maxim, and Zach, you three have Quinn Mae. You’ll be interviewing them about-”

“The history of the magic community,” Recite the three named students in unison, one rolling their eyes, one slouching in their seat, and one clenching their jaw.

“Yes. That one’s just down the street, so I don’t want any excuses. A late assignment isn’t acceptable at this level. I want an essay from each of you. Mx. Mae will give you plenty to work with, so no copying.”

The retirement home is nice enough, all neat and studded with simple, pleasantly neutral furniture. The generic art on the walls gives an aura of charming, if manufactured peace. The deep ticking of a grandfather clock warms the lobby. A smiling lady at the front desk offers caramel candies to all who drag their feet past her.

None of it quite makes up for the walkers left lying around, or the smell of old people, or the tired sass of the caretakers walking around briskly. To a couple of teenagers, it’s the worst place in the world to be. Boring beyond measure, and the old ladies will grab you by the wrist to say something about how your hair looks, or what you’re wearing, or whether they think you’re their grandkid.

The receptionist informs the kids that the senior citizen they’re looking for is on this floor, with all the residents who don’t need supervision. “Quinn Mae is a feisty one,” She says with a fond smile. “They’re all mild-mannered, know all the right things to say, until suddenly your name tag is missing, and they’ll only give it back if you catch them with it. Smug little smile. Watch your wallets and phones, kids.”

Maxim is the only one who doesn’t smile politely at the advice and very adult-like oversharing. The three proceed into the lobby, briefly arguing about which hallway the receptionist said to go down.

“You three lost?” Says some old bag of bones on the lobby couch, wrinkly fingers wrapped around the edges of a newspaper. Thin wire-framed glasses sit low on a flat nose, hanging on for dear life. Dull white hair lies in limp curls on slender shoulders, big faded freckles spread across cheeks that have seen more sun than any other retiree that ambles past.

“No, sir,” Sheela says with bare-minimum politeness.

“Not sir,” Sasses the old person gently, folding their newspaper.

“Uh. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Not that either. Were you asking about Quinn Mae at the front desk?”

“Yeah. You know ‘em? What room’re they in?” Asks Maxim, stepping forward. His bushy eyebrows are cocked with frustration and slight amusement, as if anything the retiree says will be made fun of later.

The senior citizen gives a bare smile, a hint of a quirk to thin lips. “Room one-seven-three, young man.”

The students talk amongst themselves, eager to agree that that was the number the receptionist gave them and get away from this old person who will surely trap them in boring conversation if they linger. Off they go, down a hallway they were gravitating toward anyway, searching for room 173.

Five minutes later, they’re back, looking disgruntled. “Unless Quinn Mae’s disguised as an old lesbian couple, wrong room, old guy,” Grumbles bushy-brows.

“Not a guy,” Reminds the lobby couch-warmer. “Forgive me, you said Quinn Mae? That’ll be room one-twenty-six.”

Off they go again, the grumpy boy nudging at the girl who glances back at the retiree paging through a newspaper and pointedly not watching them go down a different hallway this time.

It’s ten minutes later, this time, that the kids return. One of the boys goes over to the front desk while Maxim and Sheela return to the old person on the couch.

“Okay. Try again, grandpa. Not one-seventy-three, not one-twenty-six. Quinn Mae. Where is Quinn Mae? We’re here from the high school, doing a school project. Old geezer probably talked about us coming, all excited, since nothing else happens here. Where’s Quinn Mae?”

Sheela’s looking at this person with white curls, wise brown eyes, and a slowly spreading, sly smile. She doesn’t join in as Maxim grills them for answers. The retiree looks over the disgruntled boy, then finally meets the girl’s eyes.

“You’re Mae, aren’t you?” She accuses.

Finally, that newspaper is folded and lowered. Quinn nods.

Just in time for them all to hear from across the lobby as the receptionist sighs and nods to the couch, informing Zach, “That’s Quinn Mae right there. They gave you the runaround, didn’t they?”

Maxim looks flustered, but Sheela speaks first. “Mr. Mae-”

“Mx. Mae, if you please.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Mx. Mae, we’re supposed to ask you about the history of the magic community.”

Quinn gives a soft, wobbly hum. They flip over the paper in their hands and run an age-softened finger over a line of text. “Young Man Found Beaten, Rescued. That’s what this article is titled. That sound odd to you?”

Sheela shakes her head. Maxim frowns.

“The article goes on to mention that the young man has magic. Mentioned, not announced as the clear reason he deserved to be beaten. When I was forty, this headline would’ve been, Warlock Found Alive, Scaring Citizens.” Approaching to listen, the other boy, Zach, winces at the word warlock. That word hasn’t been okay to use for years. “When I was your age, there wouldn’t have been a story printed in the paper about it at all.”

“Yeah. They were killed in the streets back then. No statistics on it ‘cause no one cared. We know all this,” Complains Maxim. “Times changed.”

Brown eyes scan across the teens before settling on the one who spoke. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” Replies Mae, looking wistful for a moment before they add, “Someone unintelligent. Times haven’t changed much if a person with magic is still beaten for being warlock scum, have they?”

“Language, Quinn,” Reminds one of the caregivers, pushing a cart of sheets and towels over to the service elevator.

“Oh, heavens, did I do it again? I’m sorry, Julie!” They offer her a kind, harmless smile until she’s out of sight. The teenagers catch a glimpse of the retiree rolling their eyes. “The younger ones don’t understand. I’ll forgive them for it, it’s what I fought for. The luxury to be ignorant without it costing lives.”

None of this aged-revolutionary talk impresses the kids. One of them even looked incensed by it. Quinn’s eyes, having wandered off to ponder their memories, lock onto the one who stands out from the group.

“What’s your name?”

“Maxim,” Says the one who reminds them of Major. They miss him, the old idiot. He used to cause so much trouble.

“Maxim. Do you have something you’d like to say?”

Glancing at his classmates, the young man shrugs one shoulder. “Nah. Just keep talking, we’ll get something we can use.”

“I’d love to help you all with your assignment. Your teacher informed me that you’ll fail this class if you don’t hand in an acceptable essay, each of you.” The newspaper has one corner folded back neatly that they play with slowly as they watch the three kids before them. “But I know someone who hates magic when I see them. If you want me to help someone like that to pass an advanced class, you’ll all have to do better than this. I don’t want to teach you about the history I lived through. I want each of you to study it on your own, come present what you learned to me, and show me that you have the base understanding to even believe what I’ll tell you.”

Maxim turns to leave, uninterested, ready to pay someone to write his essay for him. Zach looks anxious, mouth opening to make excuses and beg for Quinn to just tell them what they need to know to get their project done.

Sheela watches Quinn. Just stands there and waits, judging whether they’re being honest. Quinn leans back in the lobby’s couch and beams.

“You. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. The others, they have to hear it from you. I want you to retell my stories before you write anything down on paper.”

“I’d type it on my phone, no one uses paper for notes anymore,” She argues mildly.

“Fine. You’ll relay it by word of mouth, then take the notes on your phone. Do we have a deal, Miss…”

“Sheela. Yeah, that’s - we can do that. Right?”

Maxim sighs and turns back around, glaring but grumbling his agreement. Zach nods to show he accepts the terms as well.

“Wonderful,” Says Quinn, standing with all the aches of a senior citizen, but the glowing energy of someone about to do their favorite thing. “Let’s go out for a walk. We’ll start with the war and go from there.”

#whump #drabble #recovery #i had so much fun writing this!#fluff #letting quinn live to get this old is like the comfiest kindest thing i can do #characters in this verse usually die before they hit the age of 25 #but quinn makes it! and they ended up causing a lot of change in their society!#i'm proud of them they're so good #lil old quinn bullying teenagers #mine #quinn

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thedistrictsleepsalonetonight · 3 years

Text

Something Wonderful (or Jamie and Owen compete to see who’s the better boyfriend and cause general exasperation)

The world’s best boyfriend contest started one Wednesday evening and went on for two weeks, resulting in about five trashcans full of wrapping paper, a completely exasperated au pair, a bemused housekeeper, one disgruntled cat, and a small fire.

(Don’t ask about the fire, okay? Just — don’t)

Now why Jamie had been participating in a best boyfriend contest, was frankly beyond Dani’s imagination. She had pondered it, turning it over and over in her head until all the incredulous question marks were just swirling around like balloons, had even asked her girlfriend this and been kissed into distraction until all the question marks had molded themselves into little malleable hearts that beat in time to every movement of Jamie’s lips against her own, but the question remained – Why was Jamie trying to be the best boyfriend when she was, in fact, a girl?

“A woman,” Jamie informs her, dignified. “Don’t infantilize me, Dani.”

“I’m sorry,” Dani replies. “Guess I must have been thinking of last night when you asked me to call you baby, like, ten times and then kiss your face all over until you were giggling.”

“Dani!” Jamie’s voice is muffled from where it’s coming to Dani from three inches of pillow fluff, drawn out so long that she can both hear and feel the embarrassment in those two syllables. “You know that was because you never kiss my face!”

Dani hums.

“You should kiss my face more often,” Jamie continues, and now Dani can hear the added pout. It is so cute that it’s an effort not to lean over, pull Jamie up until they’re facing each other, and kiss her until they’re both lightheaded.

(Nobody said having the most adorable girlfriend in the world would be easy)

(Nobody has said it, actually. Dani checked. They should’ve. Because it’s true)

Dani falls sideways until her head is next to the pillow, and consequently, Jamie’s head. She moves closer until her nose is pressing at Jamie’s temple, and presses two quick butterfly kisses high up on her cheek. Jamie whines.

“What? You told me to kiss you.”

“Yes, but now I’m embarrassed so I can’t look at you.”

Dani rolls her eyes, tamps down the urge to just grab at her girlfriend’s beautiful face and turn it towards her. Consent is sexy and all that. Also because she is sure that if Jamie looks at her now, all red and her brows furrowed, and lips curled up in a pout, Dani will pass out from sheer adoration.

“But I want to look at the winner of the best boyfriend contest in the world.”

This makes Jamie finally emerge from her self-made cocoon. “I know you’re joking, but it is something that I’m very proud of.”

“May I remind you that you didn’t actually win? And that you’re a girlfriend.”

“That’s because Hannah threatened to call Rebecca over and have her recite the terms and conditions documentation for her latest client to both of us,” Jamie tells her. “And also, it’s the principle of the thing.”

(Dani’s theory on dealing with idiot girlfriends, a gradually growing list states that when your girlfriend is being ridiculous, it is best to just go along with her shenanigans)

Dani just mhms.

*****

The entire thing starts because of Jamie.

(Oh, Jamie disagrees. But Dani knows, just knows that her sweet, if somewhat idiotic girlfriend, was the trigger that released the stupid bullet out of the gun. It’s not that she herself isn’t partly responsible but then again, try having a girlfriend who can widen her eyes and twirl a strand of her curly hair around her finger and mesmerize you into doing basically anything for her.)

There they are, sitting in the greenhouse, when they hear Owen and Hannah come strolling in and then Jamie gets that glint in her eye, the one that reads ‘I’m the cutest motherfucker and I will fuck things up simply because chaos intrigues me’.

(Dani may be paraphrasing a bit)

The point is, Jamie winks at her, and then immediately gets down on one knee, holds her hand, and says in a most terrible interpretation of Owen’s deep, gruff voice - “Hannah, my love, my absolute darling! Would you do me the honor of giving me company as I go about my every single task in this household? It’s just that I am completely whipped and cannot bear to be away from you for even one second!”

(Dani thinks it’s a little sanctimonious, since it was only yesterday that Jamie had driven back from the village in the middle of the night because she claimed to have been missing Dani too much, but stays quiet. She is the number one expert on dealing with ridiculous girlfriends, after all)

Owen rolls his eyes. Hannah just sighs in Dani’s direction.

“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls. “I love my partner, so sue me.”

“Ooh, Dani, look who’s being an adult now!” Jamie crows, and Dani would be annoyed if she weren’t completely smitten by her girlfriend’s amusement. “We have girlfriends, Owen here has a partner!”

“That one’s actually on me,” Hannah says mildly, taking a seat beside them on the bench. “I am too respectable and mature to be someone’s girlfriend.”

Dani would make fun of the completely besotted look on Owen’s face, if she weren’t sure that she had the same expression plastered on hers most of the time while she was around Jamie.

“You’re just jealous,” he says.

“Jealous of what? You don’t see my ravishing girlfriend sitting right here?”

“Oh, not of that,” Owen waves a hand in the air. “You’re just jealous because I’m a better boyfriend than you are.”

“Wha — I — how dare you?”

Dani opens her mouth, then shuts it again. No point.

He smirks. “You’re only pissed because you know it’s true.”

Jamie rises to her feet, faces him. “I do not pick out flowers for Dani — every day — in the color of whatever she is wearing just for you to turn around and call me mediocre.”

“Oh so that’s why you give me flowers every day,” she mumbles under her breath, loud enough for only Hannah to hear and chuckle at.

“Well,” Owen retorts. “I invent pastries for Hannah. And name them after her!”

(It’s true. His little bakery down at the village now features specials such as “Hannah”, “Hannah Returns”, “Han-nah Han-yes”, “Hannah Chocolate Banana”, and one notable donut that’s now just referred to by everyone as “Generic pun involving the name Hannah”)

Seemingly at an impasse, they turn to where Hannah and Dani are sitting, but right before they can say anything, Hannah holds up a hand, says – No, and glides out of the scene, gracefully.

Dani guesses that’s one way to end a discussion.

*****

“Miss Clayton,” Miles asks her, sounding supremely curious as he peers into the window, “Have Owen and Jamie started working out?”

Distracted, she frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s just that they’ve been racing around the grounds with something in their hands for the past fifteen minutes now.”

Dani walks over to the window, picks Flora up so she can stand on the desk to see better. Two figures are indeed running around the grounds, with what looks suspiciously like signboards held in their hands.

“Miles,” she says. “Do you still have those binoculars your uncle sent over for your birthday?”

He scampers away and is back in a flash, looking through them. And then he starts laughing.

“What?”

He’s still chortling, as he hands it over, unable to speak. “Just — just look.”

It takes her a while to focus as they’re constantly running. Now magnified, she can see, very clearly the look of sheer exhaustion on both of their faces. Sheer exhaustion mingled with utter obstinacy. And then she directs it a little upwards and what she sees makes her genuinely consider banging her head against the wall until she bleeds.

Owen’s sign reads – I’m the best boyfriend in the world.

Jamie’s reads – No, he’s not.

Dani lowers the contraption and starts thinking of ways to kill Jamie.

(“Baby, you’re killing me!”

“I literally just said I’m not going to kiss you for two days.”

Jamie throws up her hands, repeats - “Baby, you’re killing me!”)

*****

“Okay, so here’s an idea, okay?” Jamie says excitedly, as they’re walking in the woods in the moonlight. “Tomorrow, you can talk about how I took you to a candlelight dinner, and we had champagne, and we danced in the moonlight to a very romantic jazz song.”

“Or,” Dani proposes, index finger in the air, “and this is just an idea but hear me out — you could actually take me to one of these fancy dates and then I wouldn’t have to lie so you can win an imaginary contest that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things?”

Jamie pouts.

Dani bites her lip.

Jamie pouts harder.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t, Poppins,” Jamie says, wrapping her arms around her from behind, and maneuvering her until she’s facing what looks like a blanket spread out in the clearing, held down by a picnic basket, a portable stereo set and bottle of—

“Is that—”

“No,” Jamie cuts in, “that is port wine. That’s what you get when you date the gardener instead of someone way, way more accomplished.”

Dani turns around, kisses Jamie until light brighter than the moon bursts beneath her eyelids, until the world shrinks to just the two of them — to two women wrapped around, into each other, to the texture of Jamie’s hair between her fingertips, the satin feel of her lips sliding against hers and the sound of her heavy breathing in the night air. Her heart skips in her chest, light as a petal floating in the wind, and she imagines it landing, very gently, in the palm of Jamie’s hand.

“I couldn’t date anyone more accomplished than the world’s best girlfriend.”

Jamie’s smile is gradual and the most enchanting thing she has ever seen.

*****

“Say what you want, but at least Hannah and I give each other distance and space.”

“Hey!” Jamie protests. “We have a very healthy relationship. We give each other loads of space.”

“You’re literally sitting on her lap.”

“While I could be making out with her,” Jamie says, like that makes it any better. “You’ll find that this is plenty space.”

Hannah sighs.

*****

The gifts are of various sizes, an everyday testament to the lengths people are willing to go to just to prove a point. They slowly take over the house, until one can’t run around a corner for fear of bumping into a large gift-wrapped box waiting to be opened by either of the two women. Flora takes it in stride, calling everyone to wherever she finds a gift lying in stealth. It’s come to a point where Dani isn’t even carefully opening the wrapping paper, like she’s been doing her entire life; she just rips it over and prepares to behold the magic.

(She will say this, though: all the gifts are things she wants, or needs. Jamie might be ridiculous, but she knows her)

All in all, it is with resignation that Dani walks to the front hall when Miles starts screaming about how everyone in the house is out to get his toe.

Owen stands beside Hannah as she kneels to pick up a tiny, but heavy looking box.

“Open it—”

“am opening it—”

“-quicker!”

“Owen!”

She gasps when she opens it, though, and Dani walks forward for a closer look at the beautiful necklace that nestles inside the velvet box.

“Owen,” Hannah sighs, her fingers hovering over the pendant like she’s afraid of touching it. “You shouldn’t have.”

He kisses her cheek. “Only the best for you, my love.”

Dani leaves them looking into each other’s eyes, only for her attention to immediately go to the door, where Jamie’s just walked in, holding a large cardboard box.

“Oh?” she smiles, arms still juggling the box. “What have we got here?”

Owen takes a deep breath, shoots the box a suspicious look. “What’s in that?”

“Oh, this?” Jamie asks, faux casually. “It’s — ah, nothing. Nothing really. Just a little thing for Dani here.”

Dani thinks Oh dear.

“You should open it,” he says.

“Eh,” Jamie replies, and Dani can see she’s trying very, very hard to not laugh out loud. “It’s really—”

“—open it—”

“—no, really—”

“Jamie!”

Jamie keeps it down, looks at all of them triumphantly. “I mean, alright. If you insist.”

Dani sits in front of the box and examines it suspiciously.

“It can hardly punch you in the face, dear,” Hannah says.

The box isn’t closed tightly, the top flaps just placed on top of each other. She opens them, rises up on her knees to look inside—

—and then Flora, who’s also been curiously looking, squeals. “It’s a kitten!”

And so it is. A tiny black thing, it had been snoozing on top of a cushion placed inside the box, and now unceremoniously woken up by noise, looks up at her, and meows indignantly.

(It would not be an exaggeration to say that Dani falls in love at first sight)

She picks it (a her, upon closer examination) up from the makeshift bed, and holds her up at eyelevel. “Baby,” she says, “I adore you.”

“Why, thank you,” she hears Jamie’s voice from behind her somewhere.

“Pretty sure she was talking to the cat.”

“Miles, you little shit.”

She leans in, nuzzles its soft fur for a second, then looks back up at Jamie. “Thank you,” she says.

Jamie’s eyes are soft. “Anytime, darling.”

*****

“We’ve never seen Jamie like this, you know?” Hannah says one night, out of the blue, as she’s cleaning up after dinner. Dani sits at the dining table, having been expressly forbidden from touching any instrument that might result in her contaminating the food. Owen and Jaime are outside getting drunk by the campfire. She looks up sharply when Hannah starts talking.

“You mean super competitive?” she asks, dryly, even though she knows what Hannah’s talking about.

“You know what I mean,” Hannah smiles. “She’s…. smitten. Charmed. Enchanted. Other adjectives I can’t quite think of right now.”

“I am all of those things,” she gushes, burying her head in her hands like an embarrassed schoolgirl. “I am…. smitten and charmed and enamored and other adjectives that I can’t think of right now.”

Hannah smiles indulgently when she finally looks at her through the gaps between her fingers.

“She’s better with you too,” she continues. “She’s dated before, of course she has but, oh, I don’t know how to say it.”

Dani rests her face on her palm, listens quietly.

“She’s not proud of who she’s been,” Hannah continues. “I think — finally, she likes who she is when she’s with you. And it is such a glory to see. She’s—”

“Content?”

“Happy.”

That’s all Dani wants, really. For Jamie to be happy. For however long she can love her, for however long she can take care of her, she wants Jaime to be perfectly, dazzlingly happy. That’s an overwhelming need that rises in her every time she witnesses her girlfriend in a quiet moment, trimming the hedges, watering the lawn or simply just lost in thought — that no matter what happens tomorrow, she wants her to be happy for that one moment in time.

(Part of her knows that she keeps focusing on the end because things tend to go wrong around her so often that it’s never been safe to rest and breathe easy, to think Yes, this is it, this is where I was supposed to end up. But she wants. She wants to believe, so badly, that this will last forever, that thirty years down the line, she would still be talking to Hannah about how crazy Jamie drives her every day.)

And she would do anything to make that happen.

“Is,” she wonders out loud, hesitates a bit, “is this what love is?”

Hannah passes behind her to pat her head, and Dani doesn’t even need the answer to her own question.

*****

She hears them from quite a distance away.

(Then again, she supposes it is impossible to not hear a man and a woman, both grown, both employed in respectable professions when they’re yelling about how much they love their respective girlfriends at a roaring fire)

She stops when she almost reaches them, curious to hear what they’ve been talking about.

“I love her,” she hears Owen announce as he raises his bottle in the air to emphasize the point.

“I know you do,” Jamie reassures him, equally as loud and passionate. “You love her like I love—”

“—Dani—”

“—yes! Dani is her name. The most perfect name in the world.”

Owen laughs in response.

“It’s true!” Jamie pokes a finger into his shoulder. “Like her mother’s a bitch but she did one thing right. She gave her daughter the prettiest name in the world.”

“You just think the name is pretty because you think the daughter is pretty,” Owen informs her.

“Oh.”

Jamie falls silent for a while, apparently contemplating the meaning of life, and Dani wants to laugh, but there’s another pressing need to hug her girlfriend that’s stronger.

“You wanna see something?” Owen asks, after a while of silence, then digs in his pocket when Jaime nods.

Dani cannot make it out from this far, but the way his hand moves, she does have an inkling of what it is.

Jamie gasps, nearly dropping her bottle. “When?”

“I don’t know!” he groans. “I’m — waiting.”

“My buddy’s getting married!” Jamie shouts, and is immediately shushed by her companion, both of them subsequently dissolving into giggles. “I’m so happy. I’m so — just — so—”

“Wha — why are you crying!”

“Because you’re getting married!” Jamie says, and yeah, Dani can hear the tears in her voice. “And because—”

“What?”

“—because that makes you the best boyfriend now!”

Dani releases the longest sigh.

*****

“Shush!” Dani warns. “You’ll wake the cat.”

Jaime blinks wide at her, and nods rapidly. “I don’t wanna wake the cat,” she says, very seriously. And then looks quickly over to where Banana is sleeping by the window and her face melts into what Dani can only describe as sheer devotion.

“She’s so cute!”

Dani gently nudges her in the direction of the bed, makes her sit down.

“You’re so cute!” Jaime says again, now looking right at her. “Almost as cute as the cat.”

“Thank you,” Dani says, enormously cheered up by this version of her girlfriend. Drunk Jamie is a riot.

“I mean it!” Jaime allows her shirt to be pulled off her frame and then lets Dani maneuver her into a more comfortable one. “Dani. Dani. Dani. Dan—”

“Yes, baby?”

“Dani,” Jaime blinks at her, solemnly. “We should bang.”

(Even Dani, who’s the self-proclaimed expert in ridiculous girlfriend shenanigans, has no response to this)

Dani cannot help the laugh that escapes her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Bang. We should bang.”

“Maybe not now.”

“Yes, now!”

She pushes Jaime until she’s lying down, and staring up at her.

“You should kiss me,” Jaime starts whining again, once her legs are aligned and she’s clearly found more pressing concerns.

Dani bends over her, kisses her forehead. Then on her closed eyelids, on both her cheeks and plants a final one on her nose.

“That okay?”

Jaime nods with her eyes still closed, and lips curled up in the widest smile. Dani brushes some hair off o her forehead, and prepares to get off the bed to change into something comfortable.

“Wait,” Jaime says, her hand fisted into Dani’s shirt. “Why are you leaving me?”

The words find their way into Dani’s heart via the hands fisted into her shirt just above her chest, wrap their arms around her heart, and press. Words are strange animals, aren’t they? Hurting and pulling and pushing and twisting until their owners are almost as battered and bruised as they themselves are. Dani searches for the right ones.

“I’m right here.”

“Sure?”

She kicks off her shoes, awkwardly, brings up her arm until she’s holding Jamie. “Yes, sweetheart.”

A minute later, Jamie will ruin the moment by sleepily declaring that she is, in fact, the winner of the best boyfriend contest. Dani will let it pass. You can’t have everything, after all.

#the haunting of bly manor #thobm fanfic #thobm #dani x jamie #this is based off of two prompts - one by @onionstealer and the other by an anon #who wanted pure fluff for both couples #id have written this sooner except festival and #yeah #either way #found family feels #also a lot of owen and hannah #owen x hannah #no editing we die like dani clayton #submission

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brittledame · 4 years

Text

Pairing: Shirabu Kenjirou/Reader

Warnings: Explicit, Cursing, Hair-pulling, Name-Calling, Hate Sex, Spanking, Slight degradation, Panty stealing, Table sex

Word Count: 7.6K

Summary: A school project brings together two academic rivals, where their dislike for one another reaches a whole new level. You and Shirabu constantly duke it out for the top grade, where it becomes an everyday occurrence to see the two scowling at and insulting one another. The tension between you two finally reaches a boiling point one afternoon when an argument breaks out.

Series: Part 1 of 3 (Part 2 & Part 3)

Shiratorizawa was a private school full to the brim of prestige and practically screams ‘money’. Inside of the sleek modern exterior, each extracurricular club ranging from calligraphy to kyūdō possessed state-of-the-art facilities. Basically, you name it and there was most likely already a club for it, with each one allocated a ridiculous amount of funding. It did help that a lot of old and new money sent their kids to the school, which unfortunately leads to uppity pricks with uptight attitudes flaunting their wealth at the drop of a hat festering the hallways.

One such uppity prick went by the name of Shirabu Kenjirou and he was the bane of your existence. He came from an affluent background, old money resulting from smart trades in property stock way back before the global telecommunications were even conceptualised. You could smell the money oozing from his pores in the form of some ridiculously over-priced Giorgio Armani cologne, topped off with his neatly pressed uniform and copper-toned hair perfectly sleek.

The part that pissed you off the most about the male, and has led to your open dislike for the asshole, was the fact that he got into Shiratorizawa solely by his phenomenal grades, never once relying on daddy’s money to get in, like most of your cohort. Meanwhile, you made every single second count when studying, not a moment wasted between school and sleep, just to hope to qualify for the academic scholarship. For a while your parents fretted that you were studying too much just to pass some school’s entrance exams, where their platitudes of ‘you’re already plenty intelligent enough, honey’ and ‘you could ace it this very moment’ weren’t enough to soothe your stressed mind.

Not even three months later, you sat the exam and low and behold, you did ace it, much to your amazement. It was a beautiful moment, witnessing your name on their admittance board not even a month later, tears of relief gathering in your eyes. The only thing that ruined your moment was the name that ranked just above yours, taking in first place: Shirabu Kenjirou. So, your well-known rivalry with the copper-tinged blonde asshole started one-sided and quickly evolved into something much greater than you could’ve ever imagined.

For both your first and second year, you shared the same class as Shirabu. It was to be expected since you were both in the same grade average bracket, but still a girl could dream, right? Much to your ever-growing annoyance you were placed in the same third year class as well. Evidently you were unable to escape his prickly attitude.

Every task, assignment and exam became a silent challenge between the two of you. Each and every time, you’d throw yourself into your studies just to wipe the smug look he gives you every time he pulls through with the top mark.

The worst part of all this was the fact that he consistently pulled high marks while balancing a sport on top of his studies. You’d have to give it to him, you honestly don’t know when he manages to fit in eating and sleeping in that hectic schedule of his.

Now to place two head-strong individuals together was just begging for trouble, especially when your little competition has reached infamy around the sprawling campus. Turn out trouble is exactly what your science teacher was looking for when she placed the two of you together for the physic unit’s partner research report about their topic of choice. You looked at her like she’d lost her goddamn mind, not sparing the equally shocked Shirabu a glance. You didn’t even bother to argue with her, knowing it would’ve ended up worse somehow if you did.

“Fuck.” You muttered, hoping four the next six weeks to pass quickly

As soon as the Ms. Nakamura dismissed the class, you marched over to his desk. Stopping directly in front of him, you perched your hands on your hips and gave him a disdainful look.

“Look, for the course of this project I am willing to be civil with you.” You place a genial hand over your chest to complete your saintly sacrifice. Looking up, Shirabu gives you a blank look, before returning to annotating his textbook with bright sticky notes.

‘What a fucking dick,’ You silently seethe.

“Whatever. Just pick a topic and I’ll start on it.” His monotone voice serves to piss you off more. You curl your hands into tight fists, resisting the glorious thought of punching his pretty face.

“Um, I think not. We’ll pick the topic out together and we’ll equally distribute the work. I don’t want to hear you bitching to your hot teammates that I’m slacking.”

Grabbing a vacant chair near his desk, you spin it around and sit on it backwards, ignoring his disgruntled look. Tapping on your phone, you open a new contact and start filling it out.

“What’s your number, dickhead?” Shirabu’s head shot up at the insult and you grin at him, shaking your phone in front of his face.

“None of your fucking business, bitch.” He bites out, forehead creasing as he glares at you, completing his signature expression.

“Well, asshole, if you somehow managed to forget already, let me remind you. We need to collaborate on this and to do that, we need a line of communication. Texting is the easiest option.” You reason. You weren’t fond of the idea of Shirabu having your number either, the ass will probably write it in the boy’s changeroom as retribution for some misdeed you’ve done.

Deliberating, Shirabu’s pen stops its furious scribbling. Heaving a great sigh, he concludes that unfortunately you were correct, but that didn’t mean he had to explicitly admit that.

Snatching your phone, he ignores your indignant shout as he taps out his phone number and tosses the phone back at you.

“Great, thanks for being a team player, sport.” You say, as you clean the screen off on the bottom of your uniform top.

As you get up and return the chair to its correct place, you trudge over to your desk whilst starting to conjuring up some topic ideas to suggest.

Peeking from under his uneven fringe, Shirabu watches your skirt sway as you walk. He loves it whenever you walk away from him, leaving him to both think in peace and admire the way your hypnotising hips move as you walk. The short purple plaid Shiratorizawa skirt left little to his imagination whenever you bent over, or a strong breeze came through. Shirabu briefly wondered how the hell you evaded the school’s disciplinary committee’s strict uniform coding monitors in the hallway because he’s sure that you’re breaking at least two of them on any given day.

The next day, you texted Shirabu the list of thesis concepts you wrote up. You were surprised when your phone vibrated in your hand, delivering his speedy reply.

Shithead: Sure.

What the fuck were you meant to do with that dry ass reply?

Now angry that he wasn’t taking you seriously, you texted him back to pick a god damn topic before you went over to his practice and caused a scene. And just like that he stopped being obstinate and picked the one you were secretly hoping he would choose; it was the one focusing on Einstein’s thought experiments how his process was adapted into modern-day quantum research.

After a few back and forth texts by that afternoon you had both scheduled a few meetups over the next few weeks for the more challenging components, such as devising a solid thesis and finding some credible academic papers to back-up your statements.

A week later found you waiting in the library, going through your homework as you wait for Shirabu’s team practice to end, hoping to make good use of some of your free time.

By the time Shirabu swept into the room, you had already gotten a good head start in the assignment. Dressed in his neatly pressed uniform and not a hair out of place, you almost suspected that he made up the excuse of volleyball practice to get out of spending anymore time than necessary with you. The asshole breezes past you, not even offering an apology or reason as to why he was late, but you could at least deduct that practice was at fault – that is if he even went.

“Well since you decided to keep me waiting for –“ You glance down at your phone, “forty-five minutes, I already started it. I’ve written both the study’s aim and objective and began devising the outline for what needs to be addressed in the introduction.” You say shortly, not waiting for him to seat himself and set up before you push your laptop across the desk and into his personal space.

Shirabu rolls his eyes at your accusing tone and started to read what you’ve written up in the shared word document. Kenjirou was mildly impressed at how much you accomplished in such a short amount of time, but he tried not to show that outwardly though, afraid your already inflated ego would grow. Grunting in agreement, Shirabu slid the laptop back over to you.

“That’s fine. I’ll start pulling some sources for the statements you outlined and start writing them up. Why don’t you start researching any recent projects detailing new discoveries and start collecting data to include?”

That last part was less of a question and more of a demand, but his usual flat tone made it hard to distinguish between the two. The lack of inflection in his voice could just about put anyone to sleep, and after sitting here for almost an hour in the calming atmosphere of the library, you were ready to start dozing off.

A sharp kick to your shin ripped you out of your thoughts, causing to to yelp and rub at the sore spot. A quick look at Shirabu’s smug face illuminated by his screen was enough to rid the last of your daze, begrudgingly returning to your work.

Two hours had passed, filled by the tap-tapping abuse of your keyboards and the occasional groan released by you at another paywall obstructing an article containing some nice data. Other than that, Shirabu was a quiet as a graveyard. You’d assume he had spontaneously passed away if not for the typing and blinking, the fucker didn’t even look like he was breathing.

What a completely boring guy with a nasty attitude. The most interesting thing about him was his unfortunate fringe, looking like he got mugged in an alleyway by a guy with no fine motor skills wielding a pair of scissors.

Plainly coloured hair, irises almost an identical shade of almost blonde but not quite there. He was of average stature, maybe a little below for the volleyball team. He was completely normal, nothing you would normally give a second glance while passing by, and yet…

You mentally shake away the unwanted thoughts conjured by the sight of his hands, or the slight flexing of his arm under the thin fabric of the uniform shirt.

Dirty little fantasies of Shirabu just snapping one day after one too many insults, throwing you over his lap and just going to town on your ass with the same hand that scored so many serving points for the elite team filled your head incessantly. The force would jostle you forward, tears in your eyes as you beg him – for what you don’t know, but you would beg and he’d wrap his strong hand around your throat, the threat of cutting off your blood flow to your brain was enough to stop your breathless begs.

Wrapped up in your raunchy thoughts, your typing ceases and your eyebrows furrow as you’re faced with the horrible realisation that you actually have feelings other than hate for the up-tight prick. The feelings were far from romantic, more likely resting somewhere between hate and dislike, but it was still the principle of the matter. Acknowledging those feelings alone felt like you ceded your part in a game that you two had unofficially started.

Fuck.

The next few weeks were going to be hell. You internally groaned at the thought.

You had no idea just how right you were, as the next few Friday sessions were almost unbearable for you since that day. After that dreadful meet up, one could slice the tension that brewed between the two of you with their bare hand, even though it was solely emanating from you.

As most horrific diseases start, it was all innocuous at the beginning. The session all started the same: witty quips and digging barbs swapped at the beginning of your sessions before silently coming to the unanimous agreement to not speak another word to one another unless it was absolutely necessary. Even then, you could feel the migraine pulsating threateningly behind your eyes at how effortlessly hot he was. The headache was quite literally the physical manifestation of the vexation you felt towards the irritating copper-haired male.

It turned out that your exasperation was mutual, Kenjirou thought if he had to sit through another session with your loud breathing or deafening clacking of your keyboard, he was going to start ripping out hair. He was at his wit’s end and he had no reason as to why you set him off so easily. Not even the over-exuberant Goshiki could elicit such a nasty comment so quickly from him, even on his worst days.

The tension mounting between you two from previous sessions hung heavy in the air, but neither of you were willing to acknowledge the elephant stampeding through the small and rarely used study room.

The irritating sound of your long, trimmed nails typing, no more like smashing, on your keyboard cut through the tension. It was enough to put Kenjirou on edge faster than any other assignment meet up. He’s had a hell of a week and while he didn’t have grueling practice today, spending it alone with you was the cherry on top.

Usually the silent and calming ambiance of the library never failed to soothe him when he’s tense and anxious, but his irritation was hitting a whole new level he’s never experienced before.

“I swear if you keep smashing at your keyboard like that, I’ll rip them off and shove them up your ass.” He seethes, hands curling into fists where they rested on the table.

Looking up, you give him an incredulous look before opening your mouth. God what Shirabu wouldn’t give to get that stupid mouth of yours to not ever open again. He’d be saving the world from one less idiot spreading their stupidity.

“That’s kinky Shirabu. This is a library, keep it in your pants and save it for the bedroom.” You tease, fluttering your long eyelashes at him paired with a plastic grin.

At the murderous look his gives you, you throw back your head and laugh quietly. You weren’t willing to face the librarian’s wrath if you broke the rules, even if you were situated on the deserted top floor in a room furthest from her station at the entrance.

Conversation stalls from there on out, with only the clacking of your keyboard’s once again filling the air, although you do take greater care when typing now, not that the asshole thanked you for your consideration.

Kenjirou watches you from his periphery as you brush your glossy hair over you your shoulder, ponytail bouncing with added weight. That stupid ass hair style that made Kenjirou want to reach over and yank –

“I know you lost a couple of brain cells playing volleyball but come on, are you really that slow?” You raised your eyebrow at him, glancing at the unfinished excel charts Kenjirou had elected to do.

Giving you an unimpressed look, he chooses not to bite, thinking he’s already wasted enough time acknowledging your existence. Kenjirou hadn’t even noticed you talking to him, he was just that used to tuning you out and hearing your annoying voice as background noise.

“Can you add a trendline to the data, so that the upward trend we mention in the discussion is clearly evident in the chart?” You carefully enunciate each word to him.

Your demeaning tone and slow talking really pissed Shirabu off this time, he clenches his jaw and expels an exasperated breath through his nose.

“I’d appreciate it if you don't address me like that ever again. A trendline on the data we collected is pointless, just a pretty line. If we generated the data ourselves, then maybe, but the studies these numbers are sourced off of don’t even have trendlines.” His reasoning is rock-solid, but he was a prick about it, so you rolled your eyes and moved on to the next section of the paper that needed sorting.

“Fine, I acquiesce. A trendline here would be rather inappropriate.” He scoffs at your formal language. This was coming from the same girl that he heard on many occasions say obscenities so vulgar it’d make a seasoned soldier blush.

Tense silence fills the void between you both. You brushed of the strange sensation of being on edge. It is true that Shirabu seems even more pissy than usual, but you’ve been dealing with his shit for weeks now, you could put up with two more sessions with the unbearable prick. Hopefully.

Focusing back on the shared document open before you, you stare blankly as you try to decipher his nonsense tables. Concerned, you quickly scroll through the rest of the discussion he had begrudgingly volunteered to complete. To your absolute horror, you noticed that your format of your portion of the discussion was utterly incongruous with his formatting.

Well shit.

While grammar mistakes and sentence structure could be tweaked and fixed within a day’s work, it would take you both at least a good day's to make the report’s content flow freely and have a singular format. Thankfully, you guys have the time to fix up his – and maybe some of your – mistakes.

“Could you not?” You say shortly, tacking on a sharp glare aimed at the bane of your existence.

“Could I not what? Use your big girl words.” He bites back, not even trying to hide his annoyance with you anymore.

“Could you please stop fucking up our assignment. I don’t know about you, daddy’s money, but I’d really like to get full marks for this.” You shoot back, angry that he had the gall to be annoyed at you when he was the one fucking up the format of the assignment.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m doing everything that we outlined in our past sessions.” Kenjirou fumed. He swears to fucking god, if he has to argue with you over the (lack of) importance of a trend line for this data set again he’s going to scream.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you miss the way his eyes quickly flit down. Kenjirou hates himself for the way his dick twitched at the sight of you inadvertently pressing your breasts together. Licking his lips, he allows you to stew over his words and watches as you reluctantly accept his logic.

It was true, you guys didn’t really decide on a true format in the initial planning phases, it seemed like a far-off issue to worry about at that moment. Well the future is now and that issue was just going to compound by the day if it didn’t get sorted out soon. It didn’t help that you hated editing papers with a passion.

At your silence, he rolled his eyes so hard you were scared they may get stuck – although he deserves at least that much for all the shit he’s given you over the past three years. He turned back to his work and went back to ignoring you.

Oh well, two can play at that game. You didn’t want, nor need, to talk to the prick anyway.

Shifting your restless legs under the table, you accidentally kick Shirabu in the shin, earning you a dirty look. Enjoying the ugly look of his face, you give him a sickly-sweet smile.

“Oops, my bad, Shirabu. I’ll sure to be more cautious next time!” Topping off your act with some obnoxious batting of your eyelashes.

“Do it again and I’ll wipe that look off your face real fast.” He sneered back at you.

Ignoring all common sense, you played with the idea of what exactly he meant by his threat. Most likely nothing sexual and most definitely involving a punch. But that doesn’t stop you from briefly entertaining a short sexual fantasy involving the two of you fucking in his chair.

Damn, these thoughts have been getting more frequent and out-of-hand recently. If they became anymore of an issue, you may just have to see the on-campus therapist about your obvious undiagnosed nymphomania.

True to your nature, you decide to grab the metaphorical bull by the horn to see how hard he bucks. Adjusting your posture again, you lean your elbows on the table as you uncross your legs and again hit his leg stretched out under the table.

You could practically hear Shirabu’s restraint snap, a dark expression taking over his face. He jerks up and out of his chair and proceeds stalks towards you, a dangerous glint in his ochre eyes.

‘Oh shit, I might have actually overdone it this time. He’s going to fucking kill me.’ You were frozen in place, not even breathing as he towers over your seated form. You mentally said your goodbye’s to family and friends. They wouldn’t be shocked to find out that you met your end due to pure pettiness.

You were expecting at least a slap, maybe even a gut punch, so when he grabbed your arms and hoisted you onto your feet, you assumed the absolute worst. Unexpectedly, he backed your body against the table, his hips pinning yours against the hard edge, making it dig harshly into your back.

You gasp as a calloused hand grabs the back of your exposed neck, the other moving to your waist. He pulls himself incredibly close to you. You're sure there isn’t an atom of space left between the two of you now, feeling every inch of his body pressed up against yours.

He bends down and breathes softly into your ear words that set off a blaze within you.

“I warned you not to try me today and yet you kept on pushing me.” His low tone sent shivers down your spine.

Hands flat on the table, you shove yourself up against his hard chest even more, meeting his dark expression head-on.

“I figured you were all bark and no bite, so what’s the harm?” Ignoring the sharp edge of his previous words, you kept making digs at him. You already made peace with the fact that you may die at the hands of the unfairly attractive man before you.

Snapping, Shirabu grabs you by your tie, pulling you upwards and meeting your lips in a fierce kiss. It honestly was more teeth than lips, but you’d take whatever he would give you. Lust quickly replaced shock as you reciprocated the kiss, giving back as much as he gave you.

Never one to be one-upped, you both furiously made out against the table. Eventually you reluctantly conceded to him, pulling away gasping for breath to fill your aching lungs. While he didn't look as effected as you, he still panted as he caught his breath.

Lips kiss-swollen from the hard kiss he gave you, he gulped at the mussed up look of your uniform from the short make-out session. The sight alone was enough to spur him back into action. You met his lips half-way, hands flying up to bury themselves into surprisingly soft hair.

The kiss was more than just that, it was a battle of wills. It was another challenge set before you both, another one added to the extensive list of trials. It tested who had the guts to resolve the unresolved sexual tension building between you both.

Fingers digging into your soft flesh, he easily hoisted you up onto the table, slotting himself between the space made between your open legs. The kiss picks up intensity as he throws in a few nips at your bottom lip, while you lightly bite at his tongue invading your mouth.

You gasp at a particularly harsh bite at your bottom lip, drawing back to give the self-satisified male a scowl.

“Oh? Is this the reason why you’ve always been so short with me. It’s cute that you don’t know how to act around your crush.” Your teasing words make the male between your legs tense up.

“I’d rather bite off my own tongue than date you, bitch.” He goes to kiss you again. It was the only thing that got you to shut up, which he very enjoyed.

“Who said anything about dating, dearest? My, my, so you have been thinking of me.” You laughed and gave him a belittling look.

“The only thoughts I’ve had about you involve either shutting you up or fucking you senseless, so make of that what you will.” He grits out between clenched teeth, not willing to give you that inch he threw out to you like a lifeline.

If he was going to go through with this, he at least wanted you to know exactly what he wanted to get out of it. Nothing more, nothing less.

You consider him under hooded eyelids, gaze sweeping up and down his clothed torso. Well at least he wanted the same thing that’s been haunting your waking thoughts for the past month. You weren’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth that's for sure.

“Sure, I mean you could try, but I doubt that you could even a moan out of me.” You said languidly, setting up another challenge. Now all he had to do was pick up the gauntlet.

Words igniting a fire within him, his lips tipped into a lopsided smirk. You had no idea what you just started and he was more than happy to show you the consequences of your bold actions.

“Oh, I assure you, I’m not going to stop until I hear you screaming.”

The room you occupied was situated on the top floor, at the end of a long corridor of empty study rooms exactly like this one. It was highly unlikely that the elderly librarian at the entrance would hear what was about to go down. It was also unlikely any snooping students would come across your study room on the neglected floor.

You fully expected him to pull you into another bruising kiss before fucking you but it seemed that the stupidly hot bastard was just full of surprises today. Instead, he pulled you off the table and turned you to face the chair he had previously occupied. With the hand placed at the nape of your neck, the other moving to your opposite side of your waist, he pushed you down to lie against the cold tabletop. Though definitely not for your benefit, he pushed aside any stray bits of paper out of your way to prevent them from creasing.

You gasp as the pressure he applies onto you forces the breath out of your lungs, pressing you hard against the unforgiving surface. Hands scrabbling for a purchase to help you establish a counter force to push up against him, he bends down and breathes softly into your ear.

“Look at you so pliant for me, I could get used to this.” His smug tone made your blood boil. That bastard was going to milk this situation for all it has and you have no ground to stand on to refute him when you were planning on doing the exact same.

“You know, your nasty attitude destroys that pretty boy stereotype you have going on.” You retort. You weren’t going to take his bullshit laying down – metaphorically speaking.

Fed up with you running your mouth, always talking but never saying anything of substance, he hastily loosens his tie. Without warning, he shoves a bundle of fabric into your mouth, quickly moving his fingers away from teeth that would gladly bite down onto his precious setting tools.

Trying to voice your anger, you squirm in his grasp with muffled nonsensical words leaving your mouth.

Kenjirou marvels at the sight of your stuffed mouth, words finally muted and wide eyes that were angry at his action. If he knew this is all he had to do to get you to shut up for more than two seconds then he’d gladly do it again.

Kenjirou couldn’t help but wonder if your cheeks would also look like that if he’s shoved his dick between your plush pink lips but he saves that thought for another day. After all, he had at least half a year left to put up with your bullshit.

Pressing his hips against your ass, he revels at the feeling of finally having you under him, squirming and all. Deciding not to draw this out anymore than he already has, he smoothly grinds his slowly growing erection into the cleft of your ass obscured by ugly purple plaid.

Unsatisfied with the lack of friction, he flips up your skirt to reveal lacy panties. He thought it was a bit risqué to wear them at school but who was he to complain about the lovely gift.

You gave a muffled shout when he snapped against the waist band against your hip. Tempted, you considered trying to kick him in the shin again somehow in your position. The thought dissolved into nothing as he lightly smacks your ass, causing you to jolt forward more in surprise than in pain.

With the absence of any complaints or irritating whinging, Kenjirou weighed the plump flesh in his hand, grinning to himself when he hears you moan at his curious squeezing. He wondered what other delicious noises you’ll make under him.

Well there was only way to find out.

Winding his hand back, his hand came down with a loud ringing smack, hard enough to leave his hand pleasantly tingling. The pink imprint of his hand on your ass was going to be burned into his mind for a long time, a wave a heat rolling through him and coalescing in his groin.

Again, you jolt forward at the impact, nails scratching at the acrylic lacquer of the tabletop, unable to find purchase. While you could feel the poor skin pulse dully with pain, pure arousal flashed hot and bright within you. If you had ever thought spanking would be something you were into, you’re pretty sure Shirabu was one of the worst people to discover along with, always the one to abuse any situation.

The next time his hand came down on your ass, you mistakenly tensed, causing the pain to shoot through you ten-fold. You wince at the sensation of him hitting the exact same spot over and over again. You were sure the spot would be rouge red by this point, but the pain didn’t take away from the pleasure you derived from his rough treatment.

Mixing things up, Kenjirou bites his lip as he aims a smack right at the apex of your thighs, close enough to your core that the vibrations of the hit ripped a lewd moan from your lips, much louder than the rest. Blood rushing down to his already engorged cock at your noises, he knows that he could easily get addicted to your bent form. You enjoying the spanking was just a fun bonus for him.

“I should’ve guessed you were into spanking. It fits the ‘good school girl’ façade you’ve got going on,” Shirabu hums, throwing the words back into your face. Leaning down, he breathes into your ear, “I could really get used to you like this beneath me. I have such big plans for you.”

Shivering at his low tone, your mind whirled chaotically with half-baked ideas of what exactly he had in plan for you. Honestly, as long as it ended up with his dick inside of you, you don’t care about the rest. You were always opposed to the saying ‘It’s not the destination, it’s all about the journey.’ And this situation was no different to you.

Kenjirou slides your panties over your ass and down your legs, half tempted to chuck them across the room just to see you panicking over locating them after this. On second thought… He shoves the offending piece of lace into his back pocket, as a present for himself putting up with you.

His hands bracket you bottoms of your ass and smooths his thumbs over the soft pink flesh. Kenjirou watching them slightly jiggle in the palms of his hand, admiring the rosy tinge he painted them. Kenjirou firmly decided that the flesh looked much prettier painted pink by the very hand that slammed balls over the side of the net with shocking force.

Fingers gliding over the cheeks and trailing downward, he makes contact with your wet lips. Mildly surprised, he runs a slender finer between them, gathering your juices.

“Look at how wet you are for me. I bet I won't even have to prep you, your greedy hole will probably just suck me in.” He states, rubbing his finger slowly -torturously - over the entrance of your hole.

You whine through your makeshift gag and buck your hips against his fingertips, hoping for them to dip in deeper. The pad of his crooked index finger dipped shallowly into you a few times from your efforts. Kenjirou was greatly amused at your efforts, deciding to hold his fingers in place for you to try and fail to fuck into yourself.

“Look at how desperate you are, it’s honestly pathetic. I expected so much more from you.” He tutted.

The flash of anger fizzled and died before it took root, much too distracted by him inserting his entire index finger in without warning. While you had explored yourself on more than a few occasions, mapping out sensitive flesh with your fingers, the feeling of his much longer and slightly thicker finger inside of you was incredible.

You whimper at the slick feeling of him moving his finger in and out of you, occasionally curling against the spongy tissue, seeking for the bundle of nerves that will make you scream. Slotting in another finger and him twisting them simultaneously had you panting and clenching your eyes at the full feeling from just the two.

Feeling your walls tighten and quiver around his finger as he crooked them a few times, he doubled down to find your erogenous zone before he fucks you. It only took another finger and few moments of scissoring them deep inside of you, indicated by your abrupt gasping jerk.

Licking his lips, he rubs his fingers harshly against the soft area, committing to memory the muffled breathy moans and whimpers that dropped from your panting mouth. Dick twitching, hard and painful within his tight slacks draws him out of his mind. He withdraws his saturated fingers from your sopping hole, briefly abandoning the sensitive spot for now.

Slumping, you simultaneously miss and despise his fingers fucking into you, hating that he found your G-spot quicker than you’d anticipated. The prick was too smart for his own good, the asshole probably knew more about female anatomy and orgasms than you did with biology being his best class.

The rustle of his pants being undone pulls you back to reality. Oh god this is really happening. Your breath picks up, anticipating the next move the bitter setter will make next.

The sensation of something long, hot and rigid, his dick you assumed, rests between your still stinging cheeks. His fingers dip back between your lips and gather more liquid arousal. Kenjirou ignores your groan at the odd feeling, preoccupied with smearing your slick over his dick, taking his sweet time.

One hand on his cock, guiding the tip to sit at your entrance, with the other placed for support on your hip. Tense, you waited for him to just slam on in, not anticipating him to draw out the moment. You hated the way that you squirmed at the thought of his dick being so close but so far away from where you wanted it most.

“You better hold onto the desk. Once I start, I’m not going to stop until I hear you screaming.” He said, smug tone and all ringing loud and clear.

You huff indignantly at his statement, as if to say: ‘Sure, whatever you say, asshole.’

Rolling his eyes, he tightens his grip as he starts to insert himself inside of you. Obviously taking pity on you, he graciously chooses to glide in at a decent pace. The breath was punched out of your lungs as he completely sheathed himself inside you, hot and throbbing. You try not to violently shiver around him because you couldn’t bare the thought of inflating his already unhealthily enlarged ego.

Dropping the niceties, as if there were any with Shirabu involved, he slid out not a moment later and slammed back on in, loving the sound of his skin smacking against yours. Sloppy sounds of your fucking fill the air and frankly you’d be pretty grossed right now if your brain didn’t reside in your pussy that very moment.

Fucking you from behind, Kenjirou grabs a fistful of shiny hair and harshly rips back your head, hot breath cascading over perspiring skin.

“You take me so well, like you were made for me. Maybe I should fuck this hole of yours again sometime.”

In retribution, you clench down as hard as feasibly possible, hoping to knock him off of that high horse of his. The grunt that rings in your ears pacifies your ire, but the unexpected resistance doesn't stop him from trying to fuck up into you even harder.

Pardoning his attitude, you loosen up for him, more so for your own pleasure than his. He doesn’t hesitate to pick up his unforgiving pace, pumping in and out of you like a sex-crazed mad-man. Eyes rolling into your head, you felt the tip of his thick dick kiss the entrance of your cervix, which paired fantastically with the friction his thick cock made against your quivering walls.

Moaning around the tie as he furiously fucks you from behind, you can feel the piece of fabric become saturated with your drool. He seemed to appreciate the sounds you made, hands tightening around your hips and starts to seek out the highly sensitive spot hidden somewhere inside of you.

Every time he slid out, he’d readjust his angle with only the tip still in before slamming back on into, waiting for the moment he found his target. The pain of the table cutting into your stomach is buried underneath the pleasure Kenjirou relentlessly delivered to you.

An idea flashed in Kenjirou’s mind, a cruel one, but not too cruel as revenge for all the shit you’ve put him through. Unknowing of the feral grin on his face, you continued to moan as his dick fills you so perfectly, suddenly jolting when you feel his warm lips against your throat. You let out a squeal and clenched down hard around his length when you feel his teeth bury into the soft skin. Manicured nails scratching small divots into the desk as he sucks the bruise deep into your skin.

You grit your teeth when you feel him release your skin, the spot already feeling sore at the rough treatment. You could tell from the position that it was too high for the uniform’s collar to hide and wearing a scarf in this summer weather was way too suspicious. That motherfucker probably planned that; you silently fume as he smirks against your perspiring flesh.

The worst part though was when all conspiring thoughts of retribution were wiped clean from you mind as your entire nervous system is struck by lightning. You cry out loudly at the sensation, to which Kenjirou huffed under his breath, muttering out a quiet ‘Thank fuck’ that went unacknowledged by you as you tried to recuperate from him hitting your G-spot with the force of a tank.

Kenjirou greedily ate up each cry leaving your lips as he continued to hit the sensitive nerves with deadly precision. The sight of you writhing underneath him was enough payment for the annoyance he’d suffered through at your hands the past month. But it was the feel of your walls clutching at him tightly and your delicious moans that was the true reward for all his patience.

The wet squelching noises of your furious fucking was enough to make you blush, which was hilarious thinking about it. Not even four weeks ago you were ready to jump the table and non-sexually choke him out with your tie – and now he was railing you with his tie as a makeshift gag.

Ah, fate truly was a bitch.

Thrusts becoming frantic, you knew that Kenjirou was nearing his end and you would swear bloody vengeance if he finished and left you high and dry. It turns that promise would be for naught. Shirabu reaches around you with his still slick covered fingers and rubs furiously at your clit, giving it a few good squeezes, rightfully assuming you loved the rough treatment. And that you did, you bucked wildly in his grasp, moans hitting a whole new pitch as you unravel quickly under his dual ministrations.

The arousal that had been sitting hot inside of you, seemed to snap and unleashed upon you an orgasm that had stars sear into your eyelids, eyes clenched tightly as the sensation threatened to drown you in it. What felt like pure electricity coursed through your veins, feeling as if Shirabu’s dick had just sent you to a new dimension, brain liquefying inside of your skull.

Behind you, Kenjirou seizes up as he feels you tighten up considerably around him, delivering him to his peak as well. His pace slows as his hips stutter, unleashing his load within you. Even completely incoherent, you shivered at the feeling of him feeling at you, not able to muster up and ounce of disgust at the feeling. That should’ve been the moment that you knew that you were truly fucked; you were completely wrapped around Shirabu’s long pretty fingers.

Limbs trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm, you laid there limply as he pulled out. You felt a bead of sweat drop down your brow as you weakly collect yourself together, drawing yourself up on shaky arms. The sensation of thick globules of Shirabu’s cum slipping out of you was enough of a distraction to brush of the intense stare Shirabu aimed at your leaking hole.

Leaning back, Kenjirou fights down the flush on his cheeks from watching his cum slowly dripping out of you, feeling hot under the collar from both the sight and from the mind-blowing orgasm. Shuffling back, he cleans himself off with a clean tissue in his shirt pocket before tucking himself back into his boxer briefs and pulling up his pants.

Slumped against the table, you felt like a wreck, both inside and out. Dick rearranging your insides aside, you were happy that Shirabu deigned for you to orgasm instead of leaving you a begging mess, which was a very likely move for the bastard.

Your jaw felt sore from how full your mouth was with his tie crammed in. Pulling out the wet article, you tossed it onto the table in his general direction. Kenjirou looks at the crumpled fabric with disgust. Weirdly, he doesn't complain as he gathers some tissues from his bag to wrap the article in until he can get it cleaned.

Choosing not to question his sudden pacified attitude towards you, you pushed yourself up on weak arms. Kenjirou laughs at your struggle, not at all intimidated by your nasty glare.

“Asshole.” You mumble under your breath.

You make quick work of cleaning yourself up too, feeling weirdly exposed bent over and naked from the waist down whilst a fully clothed Shirabu almost looked bored, acting as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out.

Your skirt slides back into place as you stand upright, shortly followed by more of his load trickling out of you. Pinned underneath his burning stare, you refused to give him an inch and fought back the tremble that threatened to overtake your body at the odd sensation.

“Alright, now sit down. Let’s finish this project before I leave and you have to finish fixing up the format by yourself.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

It seems the bastard wouldn’t even let you properly clean up first before diving back into the assignment.

“Really. Now get your lazy ass up, you’re creasing our data sets.”

Not willing to reveal how flustered you were, you downplay your disgust at the feeling his cum drying on your thighs and stiffly walk over to your chair, trying to spy your panties somewhere on the ground, but ultimately found nothing. You could have sworn that Shirabu smirked at your searching looks, but a second glance showed you his normal bored expression.

Sticking your nose up in the air, you start discussing your plan on how to fix the minor issue of formatting. Shirabu gave lackluster nods at your prodding, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. You did your best to push through the sensation of the sticky mess drying between your legs, internally fretting as to where your panties may lie. You're pretty sure that you'd perish on the spot if a staff member found them.

Thankfully, it took only half an hour before Shirabu beat a hasty retreat, quickly placing all his stuff neatly into his bag and intent on walking out of the room without another word. The fucker wasn’t even going to say goodbye to you.

Shifting in your seat, you start packing up. Eyes wildly darting around, you didn’t notice him pausing in the open doorway.

Glancing over his shoulder, shooting you a dastardly smirk, Kenjirou savours your infuriated expression before turning away and walking off. Slightly confused, you squint as you try to make out an odd-looking lump in his back pocket. At the sight of familiar lace peeking out of his slacks, your eyes widen in shock and indignant rage.

“That bastard.”

Edit: I fixed an incongruity with a bit in the end scene, sorry to anyone that picked it up!!

Notes: We need more Shirabu content so here I am delivering some extremely self-indulgent content. I made Shirabu a dick but I made reader a bitch towards him and he strikes me as the type to hate stuck up people. Hope you all enjoyed!

#shirabu kenjiro x reader #shirabu kenjirou #haikyuu!! x reader #x reader #Shirabu x you #haikyuu reader insert #shiratorizawa #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! fic #haikyu!! x reader #haikyu!!#shirabu kenjirou x reader

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teacupfulofstarshine · 4 years

Text

living in the real world (ain’t it fun) CHAPTER 5

cw: panic attack, mild angst, brief nonspecific mention of car crash/injury mention

word count: 2721

chapter one // chapter two // chapter three // chapter four // read it on ao3!!

“This . . . is a problem I hadn’t considered,” Thomas says, squinting at his car. It’s a small model, built to seat a maximum of five, so the amount of people won’t be an issue. It’s the existence of the people that poses a threat.

“It makes sense logically,” Logan says, even though his hands tighten white-knuckled around the straps of his backpack. “We cannot be seen or heard by other people, but they can feel us when they touch us. Additionally, things that we touch do not immediately become imperceivable, with the exception of the clothes in which we manifested. If we use the seat belts installed in your car, someone may happen to glance into the backseat and realize that the belts are buckled with no one there.”

“But we’ll be there,” Patton argues. “We will be in the car, and we are not riding without seatbelts! What if Thomas gets into an accident?”

“Thomas is a safe and cautious driver. The likelihood of an accident is minuscule,” Logan says. “Also, we are not real. I doubt that a car crash would seriously impact us.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Patton says, shoulders pushed back, a challenge in his voice. “If we get into an accident and one of us gets hurt? What if it hurts Thomas? We already know that if one of us gets hurt, everyone else can feel it. What happens if you break your arm, or your leg, or your neck? Will that injury translate to Thomas?”

Logan flinches, and Thomas steps in between them. Patton’s face is starting to shine a strange red-and-purple combination, which Thomas interprets as angry and anxious. (Smad, his mind supplies, and he chances a quick glance in Roman’s direction to see him stifling a giggle. He knows where that thought came from, he supposes . . .)

“You both make good points,” Thomas says. “Patton’s right about the injuries, and Logan’s right about not letting you guys get spotted by other people.”

“So what do we do?” Logan asks. He’s staring very intensely at Thomas’s shoulder, rather than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not uncommon for people to seat belt stuff into their cars, right? If they’re worried about it breaking?” Thomas pulls the trunk open and lifts out the picnic basket and reusable shopping bag of Logan’s experiment supplies. “If you guys sit with your legs spread and put this stuff in between your legs, it could probably be reasonably argued that I’m just trying to keep stuff from spilling all over my backseat.”

“Genius,” Patton says, and his face glows a deep yellow with happiness and pride. “That’s perfect, kiddo!” He reaches up and ruffles Thomas’s hair. Thomas grins, leaning into the touch. Logan smiles at him, gently rocking back and forth in place, and Roman huffs out a soft laughing noise.

“Alright, guys, into the car,” Thomas says, pulling the door to his backseat open. “Go on!”

Patton and Roman insist on sandwiching Logan in the middle seat. “The smallest person goes in the middle so that the bigger ones can bracket them safely!” Patton insists.

“I am not that much smaller than you,” Logan grumbles, swatting at Patton’s shoulder. “I do not have to be in the middle! There is far too much human contact here for my liking.”

“It’s not that far, Logan,” Thomas says, turning the key in the ignition. “We’ll be fine, yeah?”

Logan continues to grumble, crossing his arms and hunching in on himself. Thomas very deliberately does not mention that Logan’s actions make him look even tinier than he already is. (It also makes him look more adorable.)

Normally, Thomas is a cautious driver; he’s not really in the habit of making extraneous payments to insurance or the hospital or the mechanic. Now, with three of his sides squished into the backseat and muttering to themselves (as though he can’t hear their every word ringing loud in his mind, they’re pieces of him, everything that they say is known to him even if he can’t directly hear it), he bites down on his lower lip and checks his mirror once, twice, three times.

“Are you actually gonna drive?” Roman asks, leaning forward and bumping his forehead against the headrest of the passenger seat. “Cause there wasn’t really a point in fighting about seat belts if we never actually go anywhere.”

“Hush, you!” Patton hisses, smacking his shoulder. Roman whines and slumps back against the seat, loudly complaining about his injury. Thomas just smiles and shakes his head; the barely-there sting of Patton’s smack is already fading off his left shoulder. It wasn’t a serious injury at all.

He takes a deep breath, shifts the car into reverse, and pulls out of the garage. Roman reaches up from the backseat and clicks the garage door opener to close it once they’re safely in the street, and Patton reaches forward to yank him back into the backseat. Thomas just shakes his head, wondering if this is what his parents dealt with when he and his brothers wouldn’t stop fighting in the backseat.

The nearest park is only five minutes away, but Thomas quickly realizes that that would be a bad idea, to put it mildly. That park is frequented by children, families, and couples almost constantly, and is almost always teeming with life. “Bad idea,” he mutters, pulling past the park. “I know I said it wouldn’t be very far, guys, but I think I’m gonna have to amend my previous statement. Is that okay?”

Logan makes a disgruntled noise, but when Thomas starts to put the car in park he shakes his head. “It will be fine, Thomas. I will endure what I must for the sake of science.”

“There’s another park that’s further away, but it’s old and abandoned. Lots of run-down fields, and it’s surrounded by an old forest. It’s probably haunted as -”

“Language,” Patton mutters preemptively.

“Heck,” Thomas finishes, “but that also means it’ll be empty. We can roam around freely.”

“Sounds good,” Patton says. “I think that’s gonna work out just fine! What do you think, kiddos?”

“Sounds good,” Roman says, pushing his hair back off his face. Logan just nods, and as though he thinks Thomas won’t catch it in the rearview mirror, he slides his hand between the seats and flashes a thumbs-up sign.

“Great,” Thomas says. He presses on the gas pedal and heads past the playground.

*~*~*~*~*

The road to the old park is narrow, two-laned, and framed on either side by trees. At night, especially in the winter, the road is incredibly creepy. The trees reach up like skeletal hands, and even now Thomas is perpetually petrified that one day, they’ll reach down and snatch his car off the road and throw it like a child with a broken toy.

He doesn’t have such fears in the summer, when the skeletal branches are wrapped in soft, leafy green shrouds. The sunlight dapples the pavement, and Thomas watches the way the patches of sunlight scatter across his dashboard as his car rolls down the road. “Roman,” Logan says, voice pained, “please refrain from distracting Thomas with flights of fancy while he is driving. What will happen if the car is run off the road?”

“I’m sorry!” Roman whines. “I can’t help it!”

“You can, and you will,” Logan mutters angrily. Patton makes a soft shushing noise to them, and Thomas flexes his fingers around the steering wheel. His gaze shifts from the pattern the sunlight makes to the other car approaching him along the opposite direction of the road. He steers a little farther away from the median line, towards the shoulder.

They pull into a rundown parking lot, macadam overrun with cracks and weeds. The car rattles over the uneven pavement, and Thomas winces as Roman smacks his head against the ceiling. “Are you guys okay back there?” he calls.

“Fine,” Roman mutters, rubbing his head. Something uneasy tingles in the back of Thomas’s mind. “Can we get out of the car now?”

Thomas slides neatly into a parking space that’s outlined by faded off-white paint. “We’re there.” Roman climbs out of the car without taking his assigned bag with him, leaving Logan to scoop it up while Patton deals with the picnic basket. Roman yawns and stretches backwards. Thomas hears an audible crack in his spine and feels a similar relief in his own back.

Logan slings the backpack over one shoulder and hoists Roman’s assigned bag over his other one. “You okay, Lo?”

“I am alright,” Logan says. “I will be sufficient to carry these things to the experimental site. It is not far.”

“How do you know that?”

“You have been to this park before, have you not?”

“I have . . .”

“I know that you have. I am your logical functioning, Thomas. I also encompass your memories. I was examining them in the car, and I have discovered a place that I think will be suitable for our purposes. We will not be disturbed, and we will not disturb others. It is rare that other people frequent this park, and I have selected an ideal spot.”

“You’re sure this will be okay?” Thomas says. Logan nods, flicking his hand up in a complicated sort of summoning gesture. Another blue light schema appears in front of him, displaying a random string of numbers that somehow makes no sense at all and perfect sense to Thomas.

“I have run the calculations, Thomas. We will be perfectly safe. We must go and begin the experiment now.”

Logan shifts the bags in his arms, and the schema disappears as he heads off across the park. Patton turns to Thomas, smiling. “You ready, kiddo?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Thomas sighs. He feels a tugging burn in the pit of his stomach, and he looks up to see that Roman has set off across the park. He’s getting farther and farther away, and Thomas quickly picks up the pace to try and catch him.

As he gets farther away from the car, closer to Roman and Logan, the tugging burning wrongwrongwrong feeling increases. He turns to see if Patton is lingering, but Patton is right next to him, bouncing along and humming the theme to a cartoon he’d been watching this morning. Thomas reaches the curb and almost shrieks when he tries to step up onto it. He’s running into the invisible wall again, just like last time, but he feels different.

It feels as though there is a fire lit in his stomach, licking up the sides and curling through his intestines and esophagus. He’s all but choking on the feeling of wrong wrong wrONG WRONG YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG SOMETHING IS WRONG YOU HAVE TO TURN BACK NOW YOU HAVE TO GO BACK -

Thomas stops, coughing and pressing a hand to his throat. “Thomas?” Patton asks, crouching next to Thomas (when had he knelt on the curb?) and placing his hand on his shoulder. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Something’s - something’s wrong -” he chokes out, clutching at his chest. “Logan - Roman - where, I - they can’t - they have to - please, please -”

“They’re coming,” Patton promises. “They’re coming back now, I'm calling them.” Thomas flicks his eyes up and barely manages to notice that Roman and Logan are pressing against the air like they’ve just run into a concrete wall. Patton flails his arms around, and they start coming back.

“Please -” Thomas chokes, and it feels like his fear has solidified into a golf ball and lodged itself into his throat. “Please -!”

Someone touches him, and Thomas flinches. “It’s okay,” Roman murmurs, and the hand on his shoulder begins to gently massage the back of his neck, where a tension knot is almost surely forming. “It’s okay, Thomas. Your prince in shining armor is here, and I promise that I will protect you.”

Another hand, this one gentler and cooler, on the side of his neck, moving to his forehead and his cheek. “Thomas, you are having a panic attack. You must breathe deeply with me.” Thomas stutters out a hyperventilated gasp, and Logan exhales.

“Thomas,” he says softly. “Please list five things that you can see for me, right now.”

Thomas gasps, and Logan presses his cool hand against his forehead. “Thomas,” he says. “Five things that you can see. I know it is difficult, but please try. This is a grounding technique that will prove beneficial.”

“Um - uh - I - wh - c - curb?”

“Good job. Four more. You can do this, Thomas.”

“P - pants.” His hands curl up and ball the fabric of his pants into fists.

“Three more.”

“Uh . . . uh . . . p - pavement.”

“Two more,” Logan says. His voice is shaking slightly, but his hand is steady and grounding on Thomas’s face. “You can do it, Thomas.”

“Sky,” Thomas manages, flicking his gaze up.

“One more,” Logan says. Thomas’s eyes skitter around the sky until they land on the branches framing the sky in his field of view.

“Th - the - I - tree.”

“Good job, Thomas. Excellent. Now, four things that you can feel. Tactile stimulation, not emotions.”

“Your hand,” Thomas manages. “On my forehead.”

“Good. Three more.”

Thomas manages to list three more things that he can feel (the wind in his hair, Roman’s hand on his shoulder, the rough surface of the macadam against his knees). He lists three things that he can hear (Logan’s voice, guiding him through the panic attack; birdsong in the trees; Patton’s worried breathing behind him). He lists two things that he can smell (the cologne Roman had spritzed on himself in the bathroom this morning; the picnic lunch that’s sitting next to Patton). He lists one thing that he can taste (the lingering taste of his toothpaste from this morning).

“Good job,” Logan says. The tremor in his voice is gone, if it was ever there to begin with. Thomas isn’t sure that it was real; he may have imagined it. “You have successfully made it through this panic attack.”

“What happened?” Roman asks. “Are you alright? We hit the distance limit wall, and we turned around and you were on the ground. What happened?”

“I - I’m not sure,” Thomas says. “I . . . one minute, I was fine, and then I saw you walking away, and . . . and suddenly it was like my heart was lodged in my throat and I couldn’t breathe. It was like, if I didn’t get you right next to me immediately, I was going to throw up or die or - I - I don’t know.”

“So now we know there are physical ramifications to our distance limit,” Logan says, pulling up his schema.

“And emotional,” Patton shudders. His eyes and freckles are fading from purple back to their normal cheerful brown. “I . . . I can’t quite explain it, kiddo, but there was some kind of emotional component to that breakdown you just had that - I don’t know who it was, but - but it wasn’t me. I felt it, but I wasn’t controlling it, you know? It felt like someone else seized control, and I was just being pulled along for the ride.”

“Who else could take control from you?” Thomas says. He’s still breathing a little too heavily for his own comfort, but Logan is patting a four-seven-eight on his thigh with his free hand. “Aren’t you the seat of all my emotions?”

“I’m your heart, Thomas. I’m at the core of a lot of your feelings, but not . . .”

“Anxiety!” Roman scowls. “That foul villain, he must be somewhere!”

“He cannot be here,” Logan says dismissively.

“And why not?”

“Because if he were here, he would have to abide by the same distance limitations as the rest of us. It is almost impossible for him to have followed us all this time without being seen.”

“I guess you’re right,” Roman grumbles.

“Shall we proceed with the experiment?” Logan says. His eyes gleam brightly, more than just the reflected light of his schema. “The more information I gather, the better handle we gain on the side effects of our presence in this world.”

“Let’s go, then,” Thomas says, pushing himself to his feet and pretending his knees aren’t shaking a little. “Knowledge is our most powerful weapon, right? Isn’t that a thing people say?”

Logan looks like he might combust from pride and joy. He settles for happy-stimming so vigorously he nearly falls off the curb.

#starshinewrites #living in the real world (ain't it fun)#ain't it fun!au #thomas sanders #platonic tlamp #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders

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idontknowwhatyoumean · 4 years

Text

lbotw countdown day 1

@lbotw-countdown-event

I’m very late but oh well. Thanks for organising this event!

22 August 2020

Prompt: Bromance

Summary: Alec and Lily in a Coffee Shop!AU

—

Quote that this prompt reminded me of:

“Sleep, Lily,” Alec said, gently. “I’ll watch the doors.”

—

It was early in the morning and already the coffee shop was filling with rather quickly with disgruntled businessmen and bleary-eyed college students all waiting in line for their daily shot of caffeine. It was Alec and Lily’s shift, as it was most early mornings and late evenings, and Lily manned the cash register as Alec brewed the drinks.

They were an efficient team, and morning rushes weren’t too much of a problem for them; Lily was a had been working at the cafe for a rather long time and Alec was particularly good with remembering the drinks and making them quickly and accurately. They had the same shifts for a while now, after they had managed to get past the initial awkwardness and frostiness that came with not understanding the other’s particular brand of humour and contrary personalities. Lily was playful and cheeky, but she could also be serious and earnest, and sometimes she was both; Alec hadn’t been able to figure out when she was what for the longest and that threw him for a loop. Alec, on the other hand, had amused Lily to no end with his socially awkward nature the first time they met and it was only after witnessing his blunt tendencies that she began to respect him as well.

And now, well, now they were pretty good friends. Really good friends, if Alec was being honest with himself.

“Hey, Alec!” She called out, and Alec could already hear the mischief in her voice. “One order of pure black with a dollop of annoying blond and on the side!”

Translation: Jace and Clary were here. And probably Izzy and Simon too. Alec suppressed a groan as he completed the last few of his orders and peeked round the counter to see the line. Unfortunately, the early morning horde had thinned out and there were only one or two regulars in the shop. He could spot his siblings crowding up the front of the counter, no one else behind them. Surprisingly, he couldn’t see Simon, his sister’s boyfriend.

After confirming his fears, he dipped back behind the row of large coffee machines, hurrying to escape his siblings. He loved them, truly, and was grateful for their presence in his life. Except during his work shifts. Somehow, his and Izzy’s constant presence and teasing of Jace during his work shifts at the art supply store next to Garroway Books during Alec’s Junior year of high school had backfired on him. Upon Jace’s quitting of his part time job at the art supplies store (thanks in part to him and Clary starting to date and the large number of new workers and customers Jace had managed to attract during his tenure as art supplies salesperson) and Alec’s employment at the coffee shop to pay his share of the bills, Alec and Izzy’s tradition had evolved into Jace and Izzy’s tradition of disrupting another sibling at his place of work.

The payback was not fun.

“Hey Alec!” Jace hooted at him from beyond the counter. “Oh, come on. Izzy, can you believe this guy?”

Alec tuned out his sister’s response as hands even moved quicker than normal to brew Clary’s favourite daily beverage. He could already feel the tips of his ears flushing red and cursed how the empty the coffee shop was at the moment. His siblings, no matter how cheeky and disruptive they could be, normally toned down their teasing and loudness when there were more people. Alec would gladly take on twelve more elaborate six word coffee orders if it meant not dealing with the teasing.

“You’re so dramatic,” Lily laughed at him as she came up to him, eyeing the takeaway cup of coffee in his hands. “And here I thought that was Magnus’ thing.”

Alec wordlessly passed her the cup, only to be dragged by her out to the front.

“Here you go,” Lily smirked down at Clary, who looked a little embarrassed at Jace and Izzy’s antics.

She grinned up at both her and Alec. “Ahhh coffee, my love. Thanks, guys.” She then leaned forward towards Alec in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m sorry about these guys. They overheard Simon apologising about not being able to meet for coffee and decided it was only their duty to accompany me instead.”

“And where is Simon?”

“Oh, he has an early meeting with his band.”

“And how nice of you to join us, big brother,” Izzy said, her arm propped up on the counter and giving Alec the most innocent gaze that Alec definitely didn’t believe.

“Or rather, how nice of Lily to bring you out here,” Jace cut in. “Is your brain getting stale from all the caffein you’ve been inhaling all day?”

Alec rolled his eyes at them. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Payback, brother mine,” Jace grinned at him and Izzy laughed.

“Just wait til you get a job, Iz,” Alec muttered.

“Oh thanks for the concern, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure to get some part time work at an office or somewhere. You might let your guard down in an obscure art supply store, Alec, but I know you wouldn’t do anything if I worked somewhere else. Jace was just unlucky.”

Alec didn’t really have anything to say to that. “Okay, okay, now that you’ve had your share of fun embarrassing me at my place of work, why don’t you go run off now — ”

“No way, don’t make them go! This is too much fun!” Maia, one of the few regulars still in the coffee shop, chimed in. She lifted her large cup to her lips to hide her smile at Alec’s subsequent glare.

“Don’t you guys have school or something?” Alec pleaded, casting a glance at Clary.

“Yes, yes we do,” she said, hooking an arm around Jace’s and leading them out the store. “Come on guys, we can come see him again next week or something.”

—

“Thank the angel,” Alec muttered as he retreated sulkily back behind the coffee machines. Lily followed him and Alec turned an eye on her. “And I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t help much either.”

“Of course,” she said breezily. “Why would I turn down such prime entertainment for no good reason? Oh don’t look at me with those disappointed blue eyes.”

Alec turned away from her just as the front door opened with a ding and Lily left to tend to the order. From what he could hear of her sultry “Well, hello”, he could deduce that the customer was hot. From her next “well of course, we can help you with that, you delicious peanut-butter-and-Jem sandwich”, Alec knew who it was and what his order would be.

Alec took several steps towards the cash register and was right. Jem Carstairs was standing at the counter, waiting patiently for Lily to package up two boxes. Will Herondale (Jem’s best friend? boyfriend? Alec was kind of unclear) was waiting behind him.

“Hello, Alec,” Jem greeted politely. “How have you been? How’s Magnus?”

Alec had heard of Jem and Will, and their friend (girlfriend? Alec was also unclear) Tessa, though he didn’t know any of them them well. They had been in the year above him at school, a close, exclusive group, and Alec wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. And there was also the fact that Alec and Izzy had almost gotten into a fight with Will back at the start of middle school when Jace had been adopted by the Lightwoods instead of moving in with his aunt and uncle and cousin Will. It had been complicated back then.

“Hi, Jem, Will,” Alec greeted back. “I’ve been fine. And Magnus is as magnificent as ever.”

Jem and Will traded secret grins at that, accompanied by a teasing (or at least, Alec hoped it was teasing) eye roll from Will who commented, “Oh, I’m sure he would love to hear that.”

“Ah, here you go with your snacks, Brother Snackariah.” Lily had packaged the two boxes into a bag and was holding it out for Jem. He took it was a smile, thanked her and left the the cafe.

“Ah yes the diamond Jem Come-and-stare never fails to disappointed,” Lily sighed.

“He’s nice,” Alec agreed mildly.

“Oh, I forgot,” Lily complained. “You’re with Monogamous Bane. Boring.”

Alec laughed at her expression. It had been things like this — Lily’s deadpan, serious teasing — that had been difficult for Alec to tell whether she meant it as an insult or a joke that had initially roused so much defensiveness from him. Not to mention that he had met her as a friend of Magnus’ even before they started working together and she and her group of friends had all teased Alec the same way, which Alec had definitely not appreciated.

“Oh,” Lily blinked up at the cafe clock. “It’s almost ten. Well, you have to get going to class. Unless… you want to spend the rest of the day with the amazing me?”

Alec shook his head and suppressed a grin (Lily shouldn’t be encouraged). “See you later, Lily.”

“Oh, boring.”

—

It was raining lightly when Alec came in for his evening shift. He didn’t have an umbrella with him and so had to brave the storm with only his backpack and was incredibly thankful that he hadn’t needed his laptop that day.

Lily gave him and his damp clothes a raised eyebrow as she drawled out a greeting over the counter. “Had a little date with the rain, Lightwood? Tsk tsk, I know a little someone who would be incredibly jealous someone else got to tousle those ‘silky smooth’ locks of yours.” She gestured to the

“Hello to you too, Lily,” Alec said. “Do we have any spare towels?”

“In the back.”

Alec stepped into the backroom, dumping his bag by the door and grabbing one of the towels to dry off. By the end, his hair was fluffed up by the towel, sticking up and in a general mess. Alec attempted to flatten it down to its usual state, to no avail, and he quietly resigned himself to his fate, reaching over to take his staff apron and putting it on.

When he came out the backroom, he was greeted by Lily’s peals of laughter.

“Oh, Alec,” she grinned. “Your hair.”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Alec grumbled, taking refuge at his usual spot. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

She shook her head. “Wow, aren’t you lucky your siblings aren’t here right now.”

That thought was just dreadful and he groaned.

“Don’t worry, they aren’t,” she told him. “And get moving. You’re just in time for an order of sugar-free vanilla latte with two shots of expresso.”

And Alec was whisked into the normal bustle of the shop’s evening fans. The coffee shop didn’t serve any heavy food or drinks, only a few cakes and pies, so it wasn’t as popular at that time of day when most people were looking to get dinner. Unless your dinner was cake.

“Don’t look now, Alec,” Lily called. “But there’s a special someone here to see you.”

Alec knew that tone.

He took the few steps that separated him from Lily’s place at the cashier and his heart gave an absolutely embarrassing start at the sight of bright eyes and a loving smile. Unbidden, his own lips lifted into what he was sure was a sappy smile as well.

“Well, Magnus,” Lily grinned. “What would you like to order?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Magnus said flippantly. “Maybe a mocha. Maybe a surprise. Oh, but definitely that hottie standing next to you.” And he dropped Alec is glittery wink.

Alec could definitely feel his face heating up a little — even after two years, he wasn’t quite used to Magnus’ flirtations — and the heat worsened at the sound of Lily’s reply of “oh, we can definitely do that.”

“Lily!” Alec noticed, for the first time, the small group of people standing behind Magnus. Raphael Santiago, Lily’s closest friend, somehow managed to look appalled whilst sporting a grumpy scowl. “We do not encourage Bane’s disasters.”

“Oh, then I suppose we can’t help you, Magnus,” Lily told him serenely. “I suppose you’ll have to find your own way to wooing Alec here.”

“Lily,” Alec chided, exasperated.

“Yeah, let’s move on so the rest of us can get an order,” Ragnor complained from his spot at the back of the group, next to Catarina who just smiled indulgently.

“Well, why don’t you surprise me with a drink, Alec?” Magnus smiled at him.

“Leave it to me.”

Truth be told, Magnus was a total coffee snob. He could be very picky about his coffee and usual only drank from the most artisanal of coffee places. He mostly only stepped foot in a regular coffee shop when he was either meeting friends, or wanted to see Alec.

“There’s that sappy smile of yours,” Lily commented, sidling up to him, a sticky note in her hand. “Here are the rest of the orders. I’ll handle Raphael’s.”

Raphael was kind of difficult to please. Alec knew, more or less, how to deal with him in person, but his coffee order was something he didn’t have much confidence in. Ragnor and Catarina, on the other hand, had extremely simple order (plain and strong tea and coffee respectively).

They worked silently together, experienced hands moving quickly through the motions, and Alec felt happy.

#lbotwcountdown #yes the ending is really lousy #I'm not good at endings #or writing in general #but it's fun when it isn't driving me mad :D #not beta'ed #malec

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x-btsmfanfics · 5 years

Text

The Choreographer

Jungkook x reader - poly! bts x reader in future chapters.

Summary: You are the assistant choreographer for BTS. You are responsible for teaching Jungkook the choreography for his new solo number. The tension becomes too much.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Thigh riding, unprotected sex, expletives, forbidden affairs.

Pt. 1| Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | Pt. 5 | Pt. 6 | Pt. 7

Word count: 4.5k

“Okay, once again. 5, 6, 7, 8…” you said and watched Jungkook as he performed the combination you had just taught him.

“That part needs to be sharper!” you called out over the music. “Again!”

Jungkook let out a disgruntled sigh—one that was all too familiar to you. Having been brought on as the assistant choreographer a little over two years ago, you had gotten to know each of the members and their mannerisms fairly well. You could tell he was getting frustrated.

Jungkook, out of everyone, was the most hard on himself. He always wanted to be perfect, especially for a solo number like the one he was learning. He also didn’t handle constructive criticism well. But for all of that, he really did work hard, and he was a phenomenal dancer.

Mildly irritated, mostly with himself, he repeated the movements, that time flawlessly.

“Good, good,” you praised, and he flashed a handsome smile. “I think you pretty much have it down. Just keep practicing that one move to make sure it stays sharp. I think we can move on to the chorus.”

He stood behind you to watch as you demonstrated the next bit of choreography. His eyes widened slightly when you did the last move—a sensual body roll that ended in a hip thrust.

Jungkook was no stranger to moves like this. Sensuality was peppered throughout the choreography for several of their songs. The lead choreographer liked to add these moves every once in a while to pay service to fans.

After you demonstrated the full sequence, you went through the moves one by one. He watched as you demonstrated the last move again. You thought you saw him subtly lick his lips in the mirror and glance at your ass. It was probably just your imagination, though. You brushed it off.

It was Jungkook’s turn to try. You gazed at him, trying to remain expressionless as he completed the moves. After he tried on his own, you went through the combination again in unison. He danced flawlessly.

“Okay, moving on,” you said. “You get a prop for the next part.” His eyes lit up. They all loved when they got to use props, even if it was just something simple like a chair.

Since the next bit was a seated dance, you walked over to pick up the folded chair that was leaning against the studio wall, but Jungkook, ever the gentleman, grabbed it and carried it over for you, sitting it in the center of the room.

“I only brought one chair,” you confessed apologetically. “I looked and I couldn’t find another one in the studio, so we’ll have to take turns.”

“It’s fine,” he replied nonchalantly, still a little out of breath from all the dancing. He moved out of your way and took his place behind you once again so he could watch as you demonstrated the next sequence. One particular move had you with one leg up on the chair, bending over with your ass towards him, before quickly snapping your hips forward again so you were upright.

It was no accident that you wore your tightest, most flattering leggings. The ones you couldn’t wear panties with because they would display every seam of any fabric underneath them. You secretly hoped he was looking, and liked what he saw.

“Jesus, I don’t want to kill them,” he joked, thinking of how his fans would react to seeing him do this maneuver.

“Are you uncomfortable with this move? We can alter the choreo,” you replied. When you first came up with the dance, you purposely pushed the sensuality a little, just so you could see where his comfort level was before offering a safer alternative. You were pleasantly surprised when he declined.

“I actually like it as it is.”

You went over it a few more times than was really necessary. That time, you thought you caught a glimpse of him biting his lip in the mirror. You smirked to yourself, hoping it was true.

You couldn’t deny your attraction to the youngest member. The way his body moved was captivating, and he was very easy to talk to and joke around with. But you also knew that he had no time or freedom to see someone, and any scandal could seriously jeopardize both of your careers, so you kept your feelings private. Jungkook was off-limits. Idols don’t date. You were just friends, and you knew better than to try anything. Still, you treasured moments like this, where you could be alone with him, watching him dance and admiring his body.

You stopped your thoughts in their tracks before you could get too carried away. ‘Do your fucking job’, you said to yourself under your breath.

“Okay, your turn,” you told him once you had finished breaking down the moves for him.

He went through the movements pretty well. It was unfair how sexy his tight, toned body looked dancing to your choreography. As you suspected, he pulled off the raciest moves looking like an absolute Adonis. You felt yourself getting turned on at the sight.

“I think I have it, but I’m getting tripped up on the one part,” he mentioned. “Can you go through it again with me?”

He hadn’t seemed like he was struggling at all, but you obliged. The notion that he may have just wanted to watch you again crossed your mind, and your heart beat a little faster. That thought, combined with the memory of how his body looked performing the hip thrusts made you lose focus for a moment, and you noticed a familiar sensation making its presence known in between your thighs. You were more than a little wet. You hoped it didn’t show through your leggings as you danced.

Once you finish demonstrating a few more times, you collapse back on the chair, out of breath. The sun was starting to go down, and the studio was dim—only illuminated by a single row of overhead lights in the back of the studio. You didn’t care enough to turn the rest on.

“Let’s take a break, shall we?” you ask. “You’re catching on pretty quickly, so I think we can afford to take some time.

“Okay. I’m tired of listening to my track anyway. Care if I change the music?”

“That’s fine,” you replied as he switched the Bluetooth speakers over to his phone and put on his playlist. It was a collection of softer, slower songs, which served as a nice contrast to Jungkook’s own upbeat one that had been playing on repeat during the practice.

“Nice,” you mentioned.

“Sorry, what?” he shouted, and adjusted the volume down so he could hear you.

“I just said that the music was nice,” you clarified, and saw him smile softly to himself. He loved when others liked his taste in music.

You watched as he was still breathing heavily, shirt damp with sweat and clinging to his toned chest. He ran his fingers through his hair, exposing his forehead, closing his eyes, and heaving a sigh. He looked so sexy. A familiar sensation made its presence known in between your legs again. You blushed at your thoughts, catching yourself again. You needed to get some air.

“I’m gonna grab a water. Be right back,” you say, standing up.

“Get me one, please!” he called out after you as you headed out of the practice room, and you give a thumbs up in reply.

You walked over to the break room and opened the fridge to retrieve two bottles of water. You leaned down to rest your head against the freezer door as you lingered in front of the open refrigerator, trying to cool down. Whether from the dancing, or from the desire currently coursing through you.

“Fuck,” you muttered to yourself, noticing that your leggings now had a damp spot at the seam between your legs. They were a dark slate gray, so luckily it wasn’t too visible. You should have worn panties.

‘Pull yourself together,’ you think, as you walked back into the room, only to find that Jungkook has stolen your seat. It was the only chair in the practice room.

“Here, now move it,” you said, tossing the water bottle to him. He catches it in one hand, before opening it and drinking deeply. He doesn’t move.

“Seriously, that’s my seat,” you muttered, exasperated.

“Not anymore,” he taunted.

“That’s what you think,” you said, and sat on his lap, facing away from him, careful to position yourself so that he couldn’t feel how aroused you were. You pretended you were trying to squish him so that he would move, but really, you were just eager for an excuse to feel his body against yours. He was strong, and your weight didn’t bother him enough to make him want to get up.

You snatched the water bottle out of his hands and held it above your head.

“Move, or I’m dumping this on you,” you threatened.

He poked at your ribs, trying to tickle you so you would drop the bottle. You squirmed on his lap, unwilling to yield. He leaned forward to try and reach the bottle, causing his chest to rest against your back. You were getting more aroused being pressed up against him like that, and you kept having to to readjust your position so that he couldn’t feel how wet you had become.

He tickled you again, which made you squirm once more in his lap, and your ass inadvertently bumped against the front of his jeans. He let out a low, barely audible grunt on accident.

You were surprised to feel that he was semi-hard. You both pretended not to notice. The thought of him being turned on by you, plus the fact that you had just brushed up against his sizable package made your heart beat faster. Images of him filling your pussy with his cock filled your head for a brief moment. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, and you should get back to teaching him the dance, but your lust got the better of you, and you wanted to enjoy the feeling of his chest against your back for a few more moments.

If had any inkling that you were aroused at all, he hid it well. He was still play-fighting with you, flashing his bunny smile as he kept trying to reach for the water bottle, poking your ribs when you wouldn’t let go.

He moved, opening his legs to a 45-degree angle for better balance, and your left thigh slipped in between his. You quickly shifted your weight so you didn’t fall, sitting entirely on his right leg. Laughing, he grabbed at your ribs a few times to distract you while he lunged once more for the bottle.

In his efforts, however, he bounced the leg you were sitting on rather violently. The sudden jolt caused you to lose your balance. You dropped the water bottle, placing your hand on his knee to brace yourself. His hands went to your hips to keep you from falling to the floor. You landed hard on his leg, the soaked crotch of your leggings slamming forward against his muscular thigh, right where his bare skin showed through the rip in his jeans. The sensation of his upper thigh rubbing so forcefully against your cunt radiated through you.

“Oh, fuck,” you let a breathy moan slip out past your lips before you could stop yourself. You hoped to every god in existence that he hadn’t noticed, but it was too late. There was no way he could have missed it.

“Oh!” he said quietly, suddenly halting his movements.

“Oh, shit! I mean, sorry I…,” you started. You tried to find something, anything to say that could help you save face, but you were at a loss for words. You realized there was nothing that could reasonably explain away what had just come out of your mouth, or why you were so wet, still pressed up against his skin.

He leaned forward, expecting you to continue speaking, but the motion caused you to press into his thigh a little more. You bit your lip and it took everything in you not to react more. He noticed you becoming more flustered.

You didn’t know what to say. A thousand thoughts raced through your head. Like how you could lose your fucking job if he reported this, and how stupid you were to risk your career just to feel him for a few moments.

You knew you should leave immediately, but you were frozen in place. Mortified, you turned to look at him over your shoulder, searching his face for any clue to what he was thinking.

He swallowed hard and stared at you. You stared back, unsure of what to do. Neither of you said anything for a few moments. It was silent, save for the soft beat of Jungkook’s playlist in the speakers. The air between you was thick, heavy with tension. It was impossible to know what he was thinking as he stared at you. His face was completely stoic.

You became painfully aware that you were growing even wetter, still planted firmly on his quadricep, but he made no effort to push you off him.

Instead, ever so gently, he applied the slightest bit of pressure to the front of your hip bones, guiding your hips to roll back against him. You could feel his growing erection against your ass. His expression didn’t change, but his breath hitched when he felt you on him.

He switched the direction of the pressure he was applying with his hands to the back of your hips, causing you to rock forward and press your most sensitive area against his thigh once more. Tingles washed over your body as your clit rubbed his leg.

He rocked your hips back again into his own arousal. He held your gaze, searching for any sign that you may not be okay with this, but found none. Only a desire for more.

He rocked you forward again, this time more firmly, pressing your hips down so that he could feel just how wet you really were. He raised his heel off the ground, flexing his muscles and pressing his leg up into you harder, before sharply dropping it back down, slamming you into him once more The sensation finally caused you to break eye contact so you could lean your head back, letting your eyes flutter shut as a soft moan escaped your lips.

Encouraged by your response, he began rocking your hips back and forth in time with the music, flexing his thigh under you. Each time he rocked you forward, your clit rubbed against the seam of your leggings. Each time he rocked your body back, your ass pressed firmly against his cock, which had become fully erect.

“Fuck,” he groaned, burying his face into your neck. His movements were slow and steady. You could tell he was savoring it.

You couldn’t fully wrap your head around what was happening. You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing really, or why, but here you were in the practice studio, silently writhing on Jungkook of all people. The man that you were explicitly forbidden to touch.

Not to mention that you were still fully clothed. You hadn’t even kissed him, or held his hand. You hadn’t even said a real word to each other aside from a couple whispered expletives once you started, neither of you wanting to verbally acknowledge what was taking place. Still, you were both enveloped in the sensation of your bodies moving in unison, grinding up against each other in the chair.

You had no idea what he was thinking, or how he would react the next morning at practice, but you stopped caring because fuck, it felt so damn good, and you could feel a familiar heat building up deep inside you.

“Shit…oh, fuck,” you whispered. He whimpered quietly, pressing his cock against you a little harder. The pace was painfully slow for you. Leaning forward and bracing both hands on his knee for balance, you started rocking back and forth on his thigh a little faster and more forcefully, eliciting a loud moan from him.

You looked up at your reflection in the mirrored wall of the studio and saw Jungkook staring at it, watching the image of you aggressively riding his thigh. He locked eyes with you in the mirror, his gaze intense. Suddenly, he moved his hands from your hips, sliding one up to gently squeeze one of your breasts, and the other snaking down inside the waistband of your leggings. You gasped at the feeling of his deft fingers on your clit. His strong arms pulled you into him so your pelvis was firmly pressed against his erect cock. He bucked his hips rhythmically, grinding his erection against your ass over and over.

His left hand let go of the nipple it had been fondling, and moved to grip your throat. His right was still down the front of your leggings, fingers circling your clit. You felt his labored breaths against your ear, hearing soft grunts every time he rocked his hips into you. You closed your eyes to focus on the sensations taking hold over your body, trying not to think about the reality of what you were doing, or the dangerous consequences should you be caught.

His fingers had slipped inside you, moving in tandem with is hip thrusts. You opened your eyes again to watch him in the mirror. His forehead was pressed against your shoulder. His biceps flexed as he moved his fingers in and out of your pussy, hitting all the right spots. His thick, delicious thighs bounced slightly with you perched on top.

“Oh god,” you gasped, “I’m gonna….” Before you could finish the sentence, the first waves of an orgasm washed over your body, causing you to writhe all over him as a loud moan escaped your lips. He helped you ride out your high for a few moments, before picking you up and spinning you around so you were straddling his lap, facing him.

He crashed his lips into yours, sucking at your bottom lip, and running his tongue along it. Moaning into your mouth, he grabbed your ass firmly with his hands and continued moving you back and forth forcefully over his cock. Your hands went to work undoing the buttons on his shirt so you could feel the smooth skin of his chest. His lips moved down to your neck, where he started sucking and nipping at the skin there. You were sure he was leaving marks, but you didn’t care.

When grinding was no longer enough for him, he stood up, wrapping your legs around his pelvis and walking over to the mirrored wall. Your back slammed against it forcefully, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, kissing his neck. It was so hard to hold back, but you knew you had to be extremely careful not to leave any marks. Nobody could know about this.

Holding you up with one arm, he used his free hand to slide your shirt up over your body and tossed it to the floor. He pulled down your sports bra so he could access your nipple with his mouth.

“Fuck,” you moaned again. You had already come on his thigh, but you were ready for more.

Jungkook allowed your legs to drop from his waist so you could stand. Not wanting to waste any time, he dropped to his knees, grabbed a handful of fabric on either side of the seam, and ripped your leggings at the crotch to access your pussy. He ran his tongue along your slit, briefly tasting you while he unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down slightly to finally free his erection. Your hands tangled in his hair to try to press him further into you, but he switched tactics yet again, picking you back up off the ground and bracing you once more against the mirror.

You felt the tip of his cock against your wet pussy, practically begging for entrance. He paused his movements for just a moment to look at you, silently asking for permission. You leaned down to kiss him again, moaning into his mouth, giving him the answer he needed.

His left arms hoisted you up to get a better angle while his right slowly guided his cock into you. You felt it stretching and filling your pussy. He was bigger than you anticipated, and he went slowly so he didn’t hurt you. Once inside, his right arm moved to help support your weight, and he slid his cock almost all the way out, before slamming you back down onto it. He moaned loudly and repeated the motion over, picking up speed.

You had never been fucked like this before, up against a wall, legs wrapped around him as his strong arms held you, hands gripping your ass firmly and digging his nails into your skin. You kissed him passionately, nipping at his lip, tongue dipping into his open mouth as he pounded you with such force. It was fucking wild.

He kept fucking you hard with reckless abandon, neither of you saying a real word to each other. Both understanding that you were violating many different rules, but too wrapped up in how fucking good it was to stop.

Eventually, you could tell Jungkook was getting close. Worried his legs could give out at any moment, he moved away from the wall and you both sank to the floor, your body sprawled out on the hardwood, and his on top of it. He took both of your delicate hands in one of his strong ones and pinned them above your head. He wrapped his free arm around your waist so he could thrust into you with more leverage, and sank his teeth into your shoulder to muffle his loud groans. His movements sped up, and you could feel another orgasm building. You could tell he was almost there, too.

He slammed his cock into you just right, and you bucked your hips up. Your muscles tensed around him as a second orgasm rocked your body, and you bit his shoulder to muffle your screams.

“Oh, fuck!” he gasped, your orgasm triggering his own. He didn’t pull out in time, too consumed with the sensations taking hold of his body. With a loud groan, he finished inside you, filling your pussy with his hot, wet cum. He thrust into you a few more times, lost in the throes of his own orgasm, before collapsing on you, panting heavily, utterly spent.

It took a few moments before the cocktail of chemicals coursing through his veins started to ebb, and he realized what had happened.

“Oh no! Shit!” He exclaimed, removing himself from you and finally breaking the silence. “Oh, shit. What the fuck did I just do?!” He gave you a panicked look. You were hoping he was referring only to cumming inside you, and not everything else that had taken place.

He lifted his body up and sat on the floor beside you, causing you to miss the warmth of his chest. You sat up and reassured him that it was okay. You had an IUD, and had been tested to make sure you were clean after your last partner. He heaved a sigh and relaxed a bit, mentioning that he was also clean so you didn’t have to worry.

The air between you two was a little awkward. You were both still coming down from your high, and wrapping your head around what had just taken place, not quite sure how it happened. You looked down at your ruined leggings. He noticed them, too. His palm rubbed his forehead, shutting his eyes tightly as he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Oh god. I’m so fucking sorry. I really don’t know what came over me,” he said, softly hitting his forehead against his palm a few times. It was as if he couldn’t believe he had actually given in to his urges.

To be honest, you couldn’t believe his actions, either. But you weren’t put off. You were utterly impressed. You had no idea he could be that…wild. Still, you both knew the seriousness of what you had just done.

“Nobody can know about this,” you whisper. “I could lose my job.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promised, and you trusted him, knowing full well that if a scandal involving him ever got out, it would likely be much worse for him than for you.

You sat in awkward silence for a little bit, and caught a glimpse of the scene in the mirror. You both looked completely disheveled. You were missing your shirt. Hickeys and bite marks littered your neck and chest. Your leggings had a massive hole in the crotch. Your pussy was still exposed, and beads of Jungkook’s milky cum was starting to drip out of it. You closed your legs in embarrassment.

He noticed, and got up to find something you could use to clean up with, zipping his jeans back up in the process. You were jealous that his clothes were still intact. He looked relatively normal, aside from the flush across his cheeks, his obvious sex hair, and the dark wet spot you had left on his jeans.

As he walked out of the practice room, you briefly wondered if he was just going to leave, too mortified to face you again. Getting up to fetch your shirt, you tried to figure out how the fuck you were going to navigate this situation now.

He came back with several napkins from the break room, which he offered to you. You graciously accepted, and quickly wiped the cum that had started dripping down your thigh.

“Um, I also thought you might want this,” he said, holding out his hoodie. You tied it around your waist, and it hid everything well enough that you could probably at least drive home unscathed.

“Thanks,” you mention, not looking him in the eye.

He stood beside you, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt for a bit, before finally speaking. “So, that just happened.”

You let out a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, it definitely did.”

“How do you feel?” he asked, sincerely.

“Honestly?” you asked, and he bit his lip. “Pretty fucking good.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, and grabbed your waist, pulling you into a kiss. This time, it was sweet and tender. He broke it off only to fully embrace you. “That was fucking unbelievable,” he breathed against your neck.

“Yeah it was,” you sigh, happy he acknowledged it, and thankful the awkwardness was over. You wondered if you would ever be able to touch him like this again after tonight, finally realizing how late it had gotten.

“Shit! We stayed two hours past our rehearsal time. I have to get home,” you said. As you pulled away, you sensed his disappointment.

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asks.

“Please do.”

You leave the studio together, Jungkook carrying the folding chair that served as the catalyst for everything that had just taken place, before loading it into your trunk.

Since the two of your were no longer inside, you couldn’t risk anyone seeing you kiss goodbye, so you settled for a handshake.

“Sorry again about your leggings. I’ll pick you up a new pair before rehearsal tomorrow if you tell me where you got them.”

You thanked him, and told him the store and your size. You open your door and climb into your car, wondering if things would be weird between you two from here on out.

“Maybe I should buy you a few backup pairs, just in case. We still have rehearsal again tomorrow,” he mentioned, a smirk playing on his lips before he shut the car door for you.

‘Well,’ you reason, ‘I’m probably going to get fired for this. Might as well deserve it.’

#jungkook #jungkook smut #bts smut #jeon jungkook #thigh riding #jungkook x reader #kookie #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #maknae thighs #golden maknae #bts sex #sex with jungkook #riding jungkook's thighs #thigh kink

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wellamarke · 4 years

Note

It's been raining for 4 days and we're under a flood watch. Has it ever flooded at Fitton Farm?

Do you know, I think it has!

•••

“I’ve found the hole where the rain was coming in,” Arthur called down, voice only just audible on the ground over the rain thundering on - and through - the roof of the barn.

“Found it, or made it?” Douglas yelled back from the foot of the ladder.

“No, it was there before. I’ve just made it — easier to see.”

“Terrific,” Douglas murmured. “Down you come, then. It’s no use – we’ll just have to patch it when the rain’s stopped.”

“If it ever does,” added a bedraggled Martin, who was raking the best of the hay further from the corner of the barn that was more or less underwater. His progress was impeded slightly by Talisker the farm cat, who seemed to think his rake was a lively and interesting toy.

Arthur began the descent from the ladder, hurried along by an odd sort of creaking sound from the direction of the roof (up).

“What’s that?” Martin asked, looking up. Talisker took advantage of the stationary rake and sat down firmly on top of it.

Douglas followed his gaze. “Ah,” he said, with the peculiar kind of calm that came from the acceptance of fate, “Do you know, I do believe that’s the rest of the roof giving way.”

•••

Though he would certainly never admit to having over-exaggerated, Douglas did later concede that it wasn’t quite the rest of the roof that had collapsed, but rather the beam adjoining the one that had already gone, a few slats and the rough bit they’d patched on last summer to cover an existing hole. It amounted to one-third of the barn being laid open to the elements - which were currently pouring down in torrents - and a number of homeless and rather disgruntled animals.

Plus one slightly bruised Douglas, who had used his moment of clarity to twist Arthur’s ladder and push him nicely out of the way, only to fail to move even one step of his own volition.

“Thank goodness for Gerti,” said Arthur, wrapping his arms around the cow’s neck. “Douglas saved me, and she saved Douglas.”

“Yes, and she was the only one with enough presence of mind to not need saving herself,” said Carolyn, in a clipped tone that was undercut slightly by the towel she slung over Douglas’s shoulders.

Martin coughed. “Talisker and I were perfectly fine.”

“Well, but Skip, you two were under the bit where the roof was already gone.”

“True,” Martin allowed. “Good old Gerti.”

She bobbed her head in recognition, at least of her name if not the praise. Douglas grinned, and patted her flank. Truth be told, it was all a bit of a blur, but he gathered that at the crucial moment, as the other animals skittered sensibly to the other end of the barn, Gerti had instead approached and knocked him clean over, sending him sprawling out of reach of most of the debris. Between them, he and Gerti had intercepted one panel, but it was the old rotten one they’d tried to patch, so most of it was water-weight.

Absentmindedly, he removed the towel from his shoulders and used it to rub her down. Carolyn tutted.

“Right. Look alive, boys,” she said. “I’m not leaving anyone in that death trap of a barn overnight. Toby can stable with Hamilton, that ought to at least be entertaining, and some of the more docile girls might as well go in with the sheep. As for the others...”

“I’m sure Brill wouldn’t mind having a sleepover,” Arthur volunteered.

“That demon pony? Certainly not. She kicks.”

“Demon pony?” The wound to Arthur’s heart was evident in his voice. “Mum, she’s not, she’s lovely.”

“She doesn’t mean to kick as much as she does, perhaps,” Martin said mildly.

“Don’t side with Arthur, Martin, it doesn’t become you. Anyway, I’ve thought of a solution. Take the tractor out of its shed and put the other cows there.”

Martin was immediately alarmed. “But the tractor...”

“Can rust merrily in the sun for all I care, if this blasted rain ever stops. Go on, shift the metal monster, will you.”

“I haven’t got my driving gloves.”

“Oh, for— Martin. Go. And. Move. That. Tractor.”

Martin headed for the shed, still not looking pleased at the thought of his beloved tractor languishing in the rainstorm. The others set about dividing the cows into categories of ferociousness, with Arthur still spouting alternative plans.

“We did work it out that all the animals could fit on the ground floor of the house,” was his latest ploy. “Maybe just a couple of cows...”

“I think not. Right, then... Arthur, you wrangle that lot over to the tractor shed and have Martin help you settle them. Snoop and I’ll take mine up to the little barn. Douglas, frankly I’m not sure why you’re still here. Get yourself inside and put the kettle on.”

“I can help,” he protested.

“Yes, thank you. By having tea ready for us when we get in.”

Shivering with the combined effects of being drenched and slightly in shock, Douglas attempted to look dignified and sorely used as he ambled up to the farmhouse. A few of minutes later, from the kitchen window, he watched the three bedraggled figures returning, squelching their way across the thick mud. The kettle sang merrily from the stove, and the rain poured on.

“You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer,” Douglas remarked solemnly to Talisker the cat, who was licking herself dry over by the door. “Because the winds would find it out, and tell your cedar floor. Emily Dickinson, that. She forgot to mention what would happen to the roof.”

#cabin pressure #sorry this took a couple of days to get to hehe #is it still raining????#fitton farm #my farm now #long post for ts

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arthurjdrake · 4 years

Text

Painting By Numbers : Lydia & Arthur

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Arthur & @inspirationdivine SYNOPSIS: Arthur and Lydia are hired to restore a painting, little do they realise what else comes with the canvas. TW: None

When Arthur had received a rather cryptic call from Fran about the possibility of restoring a painting she couldn’t outright name that had unfortunately been damaged in transit from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, his interest had immediately been piqued. There were countless in their collection - a great number of masterpieces and to have a chance to stand near to any one of them for any brief period of time would be an honour. Let alone to add in some small fashion to a legacy that had been revered and deified across the centuries. Apparently, it was such an important piece there had been a second specialist called in to aid in ensuring the job was done to the highest quality.

They were scheduled in for a week possibly more or work on this piece which had been placed in a moderately sized climate-controlled workshop attached to the gallery for any such necessary works. What Arthur hadn’t anticipated after swiping in with his ID on the reader and walking past a couple of security that were apparently an attaché to the painting was to come face to face with the one and only primavera. “Holy shit,” he breathed, the words hushed in reverence as he looked upon the intricate and detailed masterpiece that rested on a stand. Lifting his glasses up for just a moment to admire the piece with his natural sight before returning them to the bridge of his nose with a shake of his head, mesmerised by the piece. “Been a while since I’ve seen one of you…” he whistled under his breath, Fran hadn’t been joking about this one being important.

It wasn’t altogether uncommon for art restorers to collaborate on a piece together, although this was certainly the first time Lydia had collaborated with someone in White Crest. She’d heard of his work before, this Arthur fellow, and had only heard good things. So the call had been entirely welcome, although she wished she’d had a few more details as to the nature of the piece before she had arrived. Lydia stepped into the workshop and set down her bag by the door, before walking over to where the gentleman was that she was supposed to be working with. “Good afternoon. You’re Arthur, am I right?” she asked, offering her hand to shake as she turned to face the painting he was admiring. “Oh, wow, this is a beauty.”

Arthur was completely taken with the piece, it wasn’t often these days he could stand in the same room as something so magnificent. So Arthur was going to take all the time he could to appreciate this piece of work. That said, at the sound of footsteps approaching Arthur turned smoothly and smiled warmly at the woman approaching, “and you must be Lydia, I think we’ve spoken a little online yes?” he greeted in kind. Taking her hand to shake it, though the action while meaningful was brief to minimise skin-contact with him soon retracting his hands and tucking them into his pockets. It was hard to explain to people the excessive heat that seemed to radiate off him at any given time that was exceptionally noticeable on contact so it was easiest to try and minimise it if possible. “It’s stunning isn’t it? Have you seen a Botticelli before? It’s been an age since I’ve stood in front of one.”

“Yes, I believe so! You recommended the lighthouse as a viewing point. You were entirely right, by the way.” Lydia took his hand ever so briefly, thinking little of the warmth she felt ever so briefly. She turned her attention back to the painting, breathing deeply. Oh, you could see the Leanan Sidhe inspiration in this piece too, woven in to the inherent beauty of the piece. “Never for me to work on. I’ve seen one or two in private collections, recently.” She frowned as she heard a faint buzzing sound. “Oh, this is the worst part of summer. Insects get everywhere.”

“I did, yes,” Arthur’s grin brightened considerably to hear that she thought it was a nice place to go, “quite a vista up there wouldn’t you say? And rather peaceful with the waves rolling in.” But their respective attention turned to the masterpiece in the room. “No, I’m not sure that work of this calibre typically graces White Crest’s shores… But in this instance I suppose primavera has come to treat us both.” He stepped aside to where a few sets of gloves were placed alongside the necessary tools for the gouges that seemed to have taken out a fraction of Zephyrus’ face and Venus’ robes. He was pulling on a pair when Lydia spoke and he looked up “bugs? I didn’t notice anything when I came in… And I know Fran is particular about making sure this room is controlled to the best of her ability. Do you think it will be an issue?”

“No, I doubt it does, and certainly not on display that often.” Although Lydia knew first hand now that the inhabitants of Harris Island were sometimes older and much richer than one might assume. Or, thinking of Mercy, that they were more than eager to steal things that weren’t hers. “Do you have the report of what previous work was done on this piece?” She asked, slowly beginning her own analysis of the piece. Previous layers of paint and repairs - the back of the canvas revealed so much, like careful repairs to tiny tears. “I certainly hope not. I know Fran is meticulous, but… it is irritating. Can’t you hear it buzzing around?”

“No, it’s quite a gift. I just hope those that do get to see it can truly appreciate it for what it is,” Arthur remarked tilting his head to look once more at the figures poised within the frame. The classic Botticelli style apparent within their stances and the lengthened stature of their bodies delicate yet bold in its portrayal of the scene of Venus’ garden. “Yes,” he picked up a bound set of plastic wallets. “According to this the last restoration work done on it was around 1978 to restore the colouration of the paint which had darkened considerably over time.” He set the folder down once more, a small furrow appearing at his brow as Lydia drew his attention to focus on the buzzing. It was only when he moved nearer that he heard it, “oh dear… that’s not good.” He squinted wondering if he might be able to see what was making the noise but nothing came to view “can you see anything? I can hear the blighters…”

“I’m sure they will. How can you look at a piece like this and not appreciate it?” Lydia replied, reaching behind her to tie her hair back and out of the way so they could work. She picked up the plastic wallets, flicking through them to see what varnishes had been used and which had been removed. At least the last restorer had been meticulous in their notes, leaving a long trail of clues for Lydia and Arthur to follow up on. "I haven't the faintest idea where it is," she replied, as she heard something buzz right close to her ear. Lydia rubbed the back of her head. She froze, her fingers hovering over the skin just behind her ear, where her skin was swollen. "That horrible insect has bitten me!"

“You would hope so, unfortunately not everyone has the patience art often requires - particularly in this day and age.” It was a shame but not so many people wanted to walk through a gallery and few cared for the interpretation and meaning behind the pieces often put up on display or so he’d found. “That’s strange…” he remarked looking around and trying to spot the blighter, it was at Lydia’s exclamation that Arthur saw the bright emerald green critter just over her left shoulder. “There!” he tried to wave it away from her but it was faster than he’d anticipated, dipping mid-air out of the course his hand had taken and flitting behind him. Turning around to try and spy where it might’ve gone his eyes pivoted around the shop finding nothing but thin air. “That’s strange I was certain it was-- it was--” Arthur frowned, not realising the creature he was looking for had blended in with his own hair a mildly perplexed look crossing his features as a mildly disorentating sensation started to overcome him.

“Hey sweet pea, are you alright?” The woman speaking sat on a stool, holding a paintbrush in her left hand and easel in her right. She was tall and willowy, greying hair tied in a tight bun. She’d been painting, but not all of it was on the canvas in front of her - she’d painted her thighs, the easel, the window by which she sat. The girl she talked to glanced in the window, to find herself amongst the park scene her mother had been painting. It was dark out, so the windows were a mirror. Unlike her mom, her skin glowed. Where her mother had brown eyes, hers glowed blue, her teeth glinted pink, and her wings fidgeted uncomfortably. It was Lydia, still acne ridden as a teen. She held a loaf of bread in her hands, that she was slowly chewing.

“Mommie, I’m so hungry.” Her voice was plaintive, confused. Her stomach felt so heavy and thick, but her body still growled for more. She felt queasy with that gnawing, terrible hunger.

“Your father will be home soon. He’ll explain, my dear. You’ve just started early.”

“Started what early?”

Lydia’s mother stood up. She didn’t share her daughter’s ears, nor eyes, nor wings, but in so many other ways they were spitting images. They held themselves the same, and while Lydia’s hair was made of pearl it was undoubtedly her mother’s colour. Her mother smiled, cradling Lydia’s face in her paint covered hands.

“You know your father can explain better than I can. You’re being so brave, my dear. Just one more day, and he’ll help you.” She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, and Lydia hugged her gratefully.

Her mother staggered, and Lydia’s stomach felt less queasy.

“Oh non, pas encore!” the view followed a disgruntled man in his mid-fifties dressed in a sapphire blue tunic, black breeches and muddied riding boots as he swung down from the back of his mount who pranced with nervous energy. The moon sat high on the horizon illuminating vast farmlands otherwise deserted at this time of night as he walked towards the stone cemetery.

A group of three or four alghouls perched around the dug up remains of a grave busy stuffing their faces with decaying flesh and bone. The man turned moonlight reflecting off familiar features: Arthur, but older, black hair streaked with grey at the temples and a braided beard as he trudged into the space a familiar axe engraved with runes drawn from the scabbard on his back and a confidence of having done this several times before.

“Ça suffit,” the blade glinted in the moonlight before with a crunch it lodged in the neck of the first alghoul and dislodged with a forceful kick the other three hissing in anger and lurching back in surprise at the assault as a second swing had the head cleaved clean off leaving it twitching on the ground. How many times? They never learned.

The alghouls gnashed circling, but kept their distance taking the time to try and flank their prey. But as the second and third darted forwards, the axe was swung again, cleaving one clean through the shoulder near its neck causing it to wail inhumanly and topple ass over teakettle into a nearby set of rocks. But the third was faster, latching on to Arthur’s shoulder and biting down with razorlike teeth and ripping away with a bloody chunk of flesh drawing out a pained cry as he jabbed the tip of his axe forwards to pry the creature loose and shove it away staggering back panting with the effort. The second was trying to right itself, but limped from the tear of the freshly sharpened blade and where it tried to dive forwards Arthur side-stepped and grunted as he drew the axe back and down dispatching its head that rolled to a stop near another grave.

The scene played on, assailants taking swipes out of one another until a bloodied Arthur seemed to come to a conclusion and where he stood in the middle of the cemetery flames erupted around his body. A living pyre of flame and heat in the silhouette of a blazing gold and orange bird soaring up amongst them that had the two remaining alghouls screeching and trying to turn their eyes away as they stumbled, blinded. Using this to his advantage he lunged forwards, and two more heads were added to the pile as the flames died away leaving Arthur alone once more bleeding but alive in the middle of a graveyard. Exhausted, he dropped to his knees besides one such grave touching the piled stones carefully. “You’re safe… I’ll protect you.”

Lydia crumbled to the floor of Fran’s workspace. It wasn’t that the bite hurt, but it was the feeling that she had left something in the other room, although she never had. Something was missing. Unlike memories that faded over time, crumbled, but this was a sudden, sharp loss, something she couldn’t identify. The more she tried to remember, the more she tried to chase whatever it was she’d forgotten, the more she found something else. It sat in her head jarringly. Whatever it was, definitely not hers.

She saw it through his eyes. He was tall, his axe glinting in the moonlight. Lydia recoiled as he charged through the monstrous beasts, slashing into their necks without flinching. She remembered how the adrenaline had charged through him. She could smell the rain and mud as he worked, methodically. Lydia recoiled as she remembered the sharp pain in her shoulder. She - or he - was surrounded, the beasts readying to draw their last breath. She remembered weighing her options, both not what those options were until her skin burned, and erupted into flames. What followed was exhilarating, terrifying. Nothing like Lydia had never seen nor heard of.

Lydia blinked away the memory of the gravestones uncomfortably. “What was that? Did you see that? The man in the graveyard?”

Arthur wasn’t sure how he managed to stay standing at Lydia staggered and fell, perhaps it was the strange sense of fulfilling nourishment that seemed to have filled him as he blinked out of the strange vision that felt so achingly familiar. Away from a place that felt like home to the rather jarring appearance of a painting on a stand and Fran’s workshop.

How had he forgotten about that? No, he hadn’t forgotten… Or had he? There was a keen sense of something missing and yet in such a vast catalogue of memories who could say for certain? He’d forgotten many things over the centuries. His mother and father’s faces lost to the river of time. Yet this felt like an acute and sudden loss and the more his mind chased after whatever it was that felt as if it had been taken the more his head started to ache.

His hand went to his temple rubbing it at the throb and thinking back to the little girl and the painter. “See what? The little fae girl and her mother… She was painting I think,” his confusion muddled his mind enough that it didn’t catch up to what he was saying or who he was talking to. But Lydia’s own statement made him freeze for a moment, searching back because there were many graveyards but… “No... “ he said uncertainty lacing his tone, “what man? What graveyard?“

“What fae girl?” Lydia asked, standing upright sharply. What did he knew about fae? He was just some random art restorer. Except that he wasn’t in any sense of the word, if he knew what fae were. So now the question was how he knew and why. Nosy humans and monstrous hunters knew what fae were as much as every other species, but those were the ones that concerned her. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m misremembering. Do you think… Can you hear the insect? Do you think it bit you?”

The sudden change in demeanor was alarming but the more Arthur thought about the memory and looked at Lydia the pieces seemed to fit together. “I saw you I think…” there was still doubt in his voice but he could distinctly recognise certain symmetries between the girl in his memory and the woman before him even if other features didn’t match at all. But then again fae glamorous were powerful “and your mother? She was a painter too.” But if he’d seen that… Arthur’s frown deepened at her mention of being bitten, a hand going to rub at the nape of his neck in discomfort at the situation they’d been placed in. It was only then that he felt it, the little bump “oh that little bugger” he cursed his eyes widening in alarm at the dawning realisation. “What was he doing, the man in the graveyard?”

“There’s no way…” Lydia swallowed. Except that he was right. She didn’t remember much of her mother, or rather, she chose to forget as much as she could of the human woman who had withered throughout her teen years. She’d been a painter. Lydia still had some of her paintings, hidden in the deepest recesses of her home. “Whatever you think you saw, you’re… surely you’d have to be mistaken. How might you ever see such a thing?” Her stomach turned as she danced too close to a lie. She looked up to him, with deep concern. “Let me see,” Lydia said, stepping behind him hesitantly. “You have two bites. Another… there. The man in the graveyard, he was fighting. Ghouls, possibly?”

The denial earned a crease in Arthur’s brow, “but I remember it… Like it’s right there.” It was strange and perplexing to apparently have someone else’s thoughts at the very forefront of his mind. Like a strange intrusion of privacy that he had no right to view and yet they were stuck right there as if they were his very own. The song and dance Lydia - if she was this fae girl in his mind was understandable, but what was more concerning was what she might’ve seen. “Magic for one. Or a bloody magic bug.” He didn’t protest as she stepped around, pulling the collar of his shirt down and tilting his head forwards. His concern rose at the news he’d been bitten not once but twice, “what? Oh bloody hell…” He stepped away, scrubbing a hand through his hair eyes bewildered at the prospect of revelation by something so simple. What were the chances? They were both in it now. He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil starting to scribble a rough artistic impression of an axe with ornate filigree embedded on its metal turning he held it up. “Was he using an axe? Double headed? Like this?”

Magical insects. Lydia, in theory, knew that they existed, but she’d never been bitten by such disgusting creatures before. She shuddered, grossed out as he grabbed a piece of paper. Peaking over his shoulder, Lydia nodded, her mind going the same way Arthur’s was. She twisted her ring around her fingers as she watched him sketch the piece, cogs clicking into place. He knew something about whatever she had remembered, in the same way that she recognised his own vision’s description, if perhaps not in its entirety. Lydia had spent so much time with her mother when she’d been a child. “Indeed. I also felt an immense fire. Was he, perhaps, you?”

“Ugh,” he grimaced at the thought of being bitten by something foreign and unknown, in the name of Frigg, he hoped there were no magical diseases that could be contracted like that. That’d truly suck. His hand rubbed the little bump uncomfortable with the thought and the other thoughts that weren’t his own rolling around in his head. Perhaps it would have been smarter to play dumb, act like he knew nothing but there was a quiet kind of excitement that came with finding someone else… Someone unique. And her mention of burning well, Arthur huffed as he looked down at the sketch. The question was posed and Arthur lifted his head paper held gingerly as he tried to mentally compare the little girl he’d seen in a reflection to the woman standing before him now. “Perhaps, but I guess that answer would depend on whether you were the fae girl I saw.” Quid pro quo was a funny sort of deal after all. The fact she hadn’t bolted was a pretty telling sign in itself. “But... yes. I think you saw one of my memories… Just as I saw one of yours - you said you were bitten earlier didn’t you?”

“Which is an answer in itself, is it not?” Lydia smiled. “Fortunately for the both of us, neither of us appear to be human. Although I must admit I have no idea what you might even begin to be. You don’t think there are others, do you? I don’t know how to search my mind to find missing memories. Most are just remembered at the most inopportune times, when you smell something or hear something that reminds you of them.” Lydia sighed deeply, sitting down on a nearby work bench. “I hate this. I didn’t really mean to come here today to intrude on your past.”

“Well, sometimes there’s a joy in being mildly cryptic” Arthur smiled a little bashfully raising a hand to rub at a patch of skin just behind his ear in mildly erratic nervousness. “Apparently not… Which I suppose makes this uhhh- beneficial? I don’t make a habit of typically sharing that- well, my secret with strangers.” The claim to not know earned a quiet huff of laughter as the paper was set aside and he clasped his hands together bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m… well, what some would call a phoenix. But I’ve been called a great many things over the centuries. Messiah, miracle worker, wiseman. It’s funny watching people trip over themselves trying to label what they don’t understand.” His smile turned into a mildly bemused expression as he thought on the question, “I don’t recall seeing any more… You said I had two bites? So it must have bitten both of us twice… And I guess taken and then transferred a memory with each subsequent bite.” His expression softened into something more amicable, “nor did I plan to intrude on yours. But I suppose we’re here…” His eyes glinted amicably as he processed the information, “but I guess we find solidarity in the strangest of places don’t we?”

“No, I don’t either,” Lydia replied, running her finger over the bite on her own neck. Imagine if he’d been a warden. Lydia pushed away the thought abruptly. That was more than enough considering of her death today. It was just a memory, not even the ones she valued so highly, of her terribly human mother. Who would have almost certainly died not long after he’d seen it. So why did her heart ache for the loss of it? Lost in her own thoughts, she almost missed his initial description of himself. Lydia raised her eyebrows very high as he described all the names he’d been given. “I imagine I’ll stick with phoenix, if it’s all the same to you,” Lydia chuckled. She kicked herself off the table, and back on to standing on her feet. “At least it is solidarity.” She smiled weakly. This memory wasn’t hers, and it felt like he’d been robbed of them. She might as well return them. “You were speaking in french. The moon was out, but it had rained recently, you could smell the wet dirt of the farmlands. There were monsters digging through graves. That you fought with that axe. One bit you…” Lydia pressed her hand to her shoulder, to show where he’d been hurt. “But you beat them. You were looking at a grave, and promised that you’d always keep them safe. It meant… The grave meant a lot to you.”

How many more memories would he lose? If not to magical creatures and parasites then simply to the ebb and flow of time. Had it not taken enough already? Arthur couldn’t even recall the face of his mother, or his sister or his brothers… Did he have one or two? There were only ghostly outlines of indistinct people with dark hair and kind eyes. Was that right or just his imagination? He’d never know. At least with more recent events he had a little longer with which to keep the memories. He listened to Lydia speak trying to place the thoughts of where they might fit. French was hardly distinct nor was the act. “I’ve protected too many graves…” a wan look crossed his features but the nearest he could place it was “maybe 12th century at a guess… Our gravesite was always being ravaged.“ Thinking of the memory he had Arthur folded his hands, pressing them together before he spoke in turn. “You were a teen standing near a windowsill with some bread… Your mother was painting… It was beautiful. But you were hungry… She said your father would help when he got home and then she hugged and kissed you. She didn’t look very well though…”

“Twelfth century? That’s… beyond belief. What a difficult memory to lose.” Lydia said softly, her eyes creased with empathy. That disappeared the moment he started describing what he had seen. It was as if a cloud had descended over her. “She would have died not long after that.” Lydia shook her head abruptly. She knew what he could not - that her mother’s hug had been what sustained Lydia. That just being around her had been enough for Lydia to unknowingly and unwittingly drain the life from her. No kiss required. Her father should have known better - her siblings had all taken years to control their hunger, and while growing up in an Aos Sí had protected her well, he should have never let her mother around her for so long. He should have never had children with a human to begin with. His love had killed her better than any knife. “There’s no need to dwell on such things. If you see the insect, let’s crush it before it takes any more.”

“I’d lose it eventually anyway,” Arthur admitted, his expression a little more misty than it perhaps was before. “There’s not much to be done for old age, hm?” A touch of humour in the face of a sad reality. “Oh… I’m sorry-- I didn’t realise...” it was his turn to look apologetic after all how could he, a glimpse of a moment of fractured time that didn’t belong to him, “I’m sure you miss her a great deal.” After all, what child didn’t miss their parents in some capacity? Not that he knew anything of Lydia’s life but the fragment seemed to show a good home with kind people. He grew quiet after that, clearing his throat a fraction “you’re right… It seemed to be coming from near the painting originally wasn’t it? Perhaps that’s where it was hiding.”

“All the same,” Lydia replied, looking into his wet eyes with concern. “I do not wish to discuss my mother, if I’m honest. It was a long time ago. She was not as good a mother as she could have been.” In that she wasn’t fae. In that she had never deserved to be a fae’s mother. Lydia’s heart felt tight all the same. She looked around, wondering if she might spot it wandering along on a surface. She picked up one of her big books, walking around with supernaturally silent steps. Lydia walked half way around the room before spotting it, a big bloated beetle resting against the table. Using her enhanced strength a little too keenly, Lydia smacked it with the book, and it squelched against the counter. “If nothing else, it’s dead.”

“Oh…” Arthur echoed unsure quite how to follow up a comment like that. So he chose to not say anything, sometimes it was better that way. Instead, he helped in scouring the room searching for any sight of the thing that might’ve been responsible. But ultimately, Lydia served the final blow, squishing the bug under a finer points to art book. “Well, at least it won’t be an issue for anyone else… I wonder how many other people it’s done this to.” It was a little disquieting but at least it was dealt with. “I suppose now that that little fiasco’s dealt with… Shall we get to work on this painting?”

“I hate insects ever so much. Which I realise is ironic considering my own beetle anatomy, but eurgh. Keep them away from me. At all costs.” Lydia shuddered at the corpse remains of the insect, squelched on her book. She looked up at Arthur with a smile. “Yes, let’s!” As she picked up her tools to start preparing to remove it from the frame, though, she couldn’t shake the memory of fire bursting from her body. Well, his. That quiet graveyard, and the ones he wanted to protect. He wasn’t fae, so… “Thank you for not pushing on the matter of my mother,” Lydia said softly, before turning all of her thought to their work, and enjoying the pleasant company of the ancient gentleman beside her.

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh quietly at the irony presented and while he could recall the reflection of what she had looked like, he couldn’t help but wonder what she actually looked like behind the glamour. His head tilted a little in acknowledgement, “you’re welcome. I understand some things aren’t the sort of things you want to talk about with strangers you’ve only just met.” He opened a small collection of tools attention focussed there for the time being. They’d need to file the gashes down and repaint from there and he had so many questions he wanted to ask. “I doubt you get much opportunity to not hide your true form do you?” Arthur remarked after a little while of working “I can only imagine it must be tiring… Hiding what you are day in and day out, it’s rather impressive. The capability of fae glamours… I’ve always wondered - does creating them get easier with time?”

Lydia nodded in response to his comment, and let sleeping lions lie. It twisted her stomach enough to just think about her mother, let alone have someone else know it. They worked in quiet for a moment before Arthur interrupted. “It is like maintaining good posture. After a while, it’s second nature to hold that tension in place. It requires thought, but I’ve worn this same face for decades. Same wrinkles around the eyes, pock marks, venation. It’s like putting make up on.” Lydia shrugged. “How does it feel to have lived so long?”

“Huh,” he mused thoughtfully, “it’s something I’ve always wondered… I’ve never really spent much time around many fae considering I know most of your kind prefer to stay in your own communities…” Arthur looked back to the painting considering the work “you think you’ve seen the breadth of what lies on the spectrum of the supernatural and yet there’s always so much you find out you don’t know.” He resumed working, hands moving in slow methodical strokes as he worked the groves down wondering how best to answer a rather loaded question. “Honestly it really depends on the day, some days it’s exhilarating - especially when there’s a new discovery or invention… Other days it feels like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders… It’s easier to begin with - when you don’t remember and life is just… life.”

“We often do, but not always,” Lydia agreed. “Then again, I hadn’t been too sure Phoenixes really existed until just now. Even for us, separating fact from fiction can prove challenging.” When he worked on the canvas, she didn’t, so that they weren’t applying tension unevenly, and didn’t want to knock each other. She focused on the solvents, the paints, setting things up for each next step. “That sounds like an intense existence. I am so old to so many here, but I am a child to my peers. My age compares nothing to yours, and yet it’s hard to imagine another three life times after this.”

“We’re a more inconspicuous type than most, I’ve never met another one of my kind in all the time I’ve been alive” Arthur admitted his brow creasing a little with the admission. How many were out there really? Who could say for sure. “It can be. Considering we have to restart our lives from scratch each time…” His smile grew a fraction, a knowing look passing his features “it takes time but you often end up coming to terms with it eventually… It’s different though - a sustained life and existence over that extended period you know? Fo rme it’s just like someone hitting reset every century.”

“That seems to me to be rather lonely,” Lydia said softly, listening to him curiously as he talked about his rebirth. She could not imagine. “There are many, many things one can get used to with enough experience, I suppose,” Lydia replied, trying to imagine it. Dying and restarting life afresh, over and over. She shed her name with frightening frequency, but she still remembered her past, and did not let go of those she loved. She wondered what Deirdre thought of it, people who died and lived over and over, with each new rotation of the clock. She had such interesting perspectives on death.

“It is, but you learn to move on, you have to or what’s it all for in the end? Plus I often meet people along the way that make it worthwhile. Like today I made an unexpectedly new friend.” Arthur smiled at her, eyes creasing kindly even if there was sadness with the admission. So many lives had flickered in and out of existence. So many friends gone and lost to the trial of time. But today he had made a friend, and in his mind that made today a good day.

She didn’t reply to that. Being Fae was fundamental to her identity, being part of the fae, that she couldn’t imagine being without them. People were fine, but fae were best. They deserved to be around each other. Lydia’s heart ached for people like Jared, and Regan, who had lived without other fae for so long and had ever so clearly suffered it. Lydia grinned back at him. “Boticelli and bugs sure have a way to bring people together, I must say.” She winked, and turned back to her work, cheerfully.

“Who knew?” and so the afternoon drifted on, light chat intermingling their progressive work in restoring the damage done to the painting. It would take around a week to complete but in good company Arthur was happy to take the time to do a job right, plus, if he’d made a new friend out of today’s shenanigans then there was nothing really to complain about. Maybe bugs weren’t so bad after all?

#p: lydia #painting by numbers #para #// NEW FRIENDS

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oneletteredwondered · 5 years

Text

You know that AU where the sides are actually real and ‘play’ their own characters but exaggerated? Yeah that but “Can Lying be Good”.

“Are you sure this is a bad idea?” Deceit looks up from the script he’s been reading over Patton’s shoulders to look at the others. There’s a few smiles given his way and Roman’s boisterous laughter.

“Of course Sir-Lies-a-Lot! It’s the best time to introduce a new character to the scene!” Roman laments dramatically, tossing an arm over Deceit’s shoulder which Deceit promptly shrugs off. He catches sight of Thomas smiling fondly at them all, clearly used to these antics.

“As ironic as it is for me to say this,” Virgil starts to say, putting his phone down for just a moment. He catches Deceit’s eyes to make sure the other is listening.

“Don’t worry about it,” He says. Deceit twists up his nose slightly. When the others told him they wanted to introduce him to the video series, he laughed. A laugh that quickly died out as he realized they were serious. He’s not sure if he’s honored or annoyed that Virgil suggested him to be the first of the “darker” aspects introduced.

“The fans are going to-” Virgil cuts off his statement, a look of sudden clarity comes over him. Deceit raises an eyebrow to his silence.

“Oh god the fans are going to love you it’s going to be annoying how much they love you ugh,” And with that, Virgil flicks up his hood and resumes playing on his phone. Deceit merely pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not sure what the fans will really do. He’s a far sight different than the others and though he’s not the nicest of sides, this script does paint him more.. less nice.

When Roman originally talked him through the script and maybe even potential plot lines, he couldn’t deny, or try to in any case, that playing the more villain role seemed fun. He may not always be the bad guy, but there’s a certain thrill with watching the others squirm. Still there’s only so much fans can take.

“Virgil has a point. Even when he played a more antagonistic role there were a select number of fans dedicated to his character,” Logan informs him. It doesn’t make him feel better. He doesn’t want to be hated necessarily, even if he might enjoy playing the antagonist. He lets out a sigh and glances down at his feet, well, he would if he could see his feet.

Patton looks up at him. He’s wrapped himself around Deceit’s legs happily, practically sitting on his feet and hiding them from sight. If Deceit were to try and walk he’d surely fall over. Patton lets out a soft giggle and nuzzles his leg comfortingly. That also doesn’t make Deceit feel better, but he does give a small smile in return.

“Don’t worry,” Patton whispers conspiratorially as he holds up an old cardigan. Deceit dutifully wraps it over his shoulders, a wave of his hand changing the rest of his outfit to match the puffball padre in almost exact likeness.

“I’ll help you not be me from right here.” To prove his point, Patton hugs Deceit’s legs almost making him fall over more than he was already prone to. Patton apologizes and laughs, and to make it worse, Deceit copies his laugh almost perfectly, which prompts Patton to keep giggling, so Deceit keeps copying him.

“Are you finished?” Thomas asks but he’s laughing too.

“Sorry Thoma-llama, guess I got caught in a giggle fit there,” Deceit says in a scary mockery of Patton’s voice, complete with an exaggerated shrug. Virgil has to smack a hand to his mouth to stop his snort but Patton lets himself keep giggling for a little while longer.

Eventually they calm down enough and begin to run through the script together. Thomas records his lines first, though Not Patton interjects to give Thomas the proper scare. Then Roman goes next, being even more dramatic than he usually is to play up his character even more.

When it’s finally Patton’s turn, Roman is there with the script as well, talking on and on about feeling the emotions and really getting in character.

“Well heck Kiddo I think I’m already in character don’t ya think?” Not Patton interrupts after a small tirade. Roman blinks at him a little dumbly at first, looking up and down between Actual Patton hugging Not Patton’s legs and trying to figure out exactly who said it. Deceit can’t help the curl of a smirk that crawls on his face at the confusion he’s caused.

“Anyway!” Roman says loudly. The show must go on.

“We wrote this with Patton in mind, so if you have an ideas on how to make it more.. not Patton..?” Roman leaves his statement like question open and hanging in the air. Not Patton huffs and takes the script, looking over the first few lines and stage directions. He glares down at it, then looks at Roman with a deadpan look on his face as he takes a bold red pen from out of no where and begins to scribble on the script, all without taking his eyes off Roman who looks mildly offended.

“First of all, we do not ‘pop in’ instead of rise up.” Roman opens his mouth to contradict but he’s unsure of Dee is saying the truth or twisting it.

“And Patton, darling, how exactly would you feel if Thomas called you any variant of father?” Not Patton looks down at Actual Patton, and Actual Patton breaks into an ear slitting grin at the mention of being referred to as father. So Not Patton makes a note in the script to not be excited by being told ‘papa’s in the house’.

It goes on for a bit, going back and forth and re-writing without changing too much, till eventually Not Patton is desperately trying to convince Thomas that lying isn’t always a bad thing. Truth be told, Dee himself doesn’t always think lying is the best thing, and there’s Patton, rubbing his leg reassuringly from below, to remind him that it’s okay.

Of course Deceit loves his true entrance, the dark chuckle, the dim lights, oh he feels every bit villainous and it’s glorious. He almost breaks character calling Thomas a ‘foolish dummy’ but manages to push through.

Then comes the worst scene of Deceit’s life.

He hadn’t questioned it before, just accepted, and now he regrets that as Patton does ‘rise up’, right underneath him, and causes them both to fall on their butts.

Virgil is the first to break, sputtering into laughter that he tries to muffle in his hoodie sleeves. Patton is a very close second, doubled over on the ground and trying to breathe but he can’t. Deceit is doing his best to not be embarrassed at the blunder.

“That was amazing!” Roman cheers and wipes a tear from his eye. It takes far too long in Deceit’s opinion to get everyone back under control to finish the line but the momentum is ruined. Every time they even get close to the point where Patton is supposed to rise up, someone breaks into giggle. The first time it’s Thomas.

“Sorry sorry, I can’t do it seriously anymore,” He stops his laughter by covering his mouth.

The second time it’s Patton, unable to full stand because he’s just losing it. Deceit can’t help it either, snickering into his cape. They take a small break after that one.

They get so close the next time but Roman snorts at the last second, which makes Virgil laugh again.

The time after that is the worst, because Patton actually manages to hold it together, long enough to rise up, directly under Deceit in such a way, that Deceit ends up sitting very unstable on Patton’s shoulders.

“Beware the combined powers of Skewed Morality!” Patton shouts and this time it’s Logan who ends up stuffing his tie into his mouth to keep from bursting into giggles. Deceit blinks down at Patton with scared wide eyes but Patton only looks up at him with sparks of joy. Getting down is the hard part and Deceit will not admit that Roman really did need to help him down with hurting either of them.

It takes two more tries before they get it right. Deceit can see the strain of Patton trying not to laugh as he tells Deceit that he’s “in his spot”. To be fair, Deceit has to stuff his own cape into his mouth after Patton tells him a cheerful and plain “bye!” when he sinks out from his own debut.

Patton says the rest of his lines with a smile, Dee curled around his legs an exact mirror of their positions from the morning portion of filming. Virgil goes next and then the end credit scene is thought of and Deceit well, he’s not all that apposed, especially not for a little improve.

“Well since I’m here, I might as well present to you a couple musical puns based all around Deceit,” and if those words and the action he does with it doesn’t make Patton or Roman light up with excitement he doesn’t know what will. He rattles a few off the top of his head, just having a little fun.

“Lies and Dolls, Lying King, Fibber on the roof,” Oh he’s not even sure if the camera is still recording, but he’s having too much fun seeing Patton and Virgil try not to laugh, Roman and Thomas smiling proudly, and that disgruntled look on Logan’s face as the word play keeps coming.

“Jekyll and Lied, totally not partial to that one, Willy Wonka and the Alternative Factory,” He’s being too much, too dramatic, but it’s worth it. He rattles off a few more before he’s at his wits end.

“The Un-Truthers,” Based on the other’s looks, that one might need to be explained.

“The Producers,” he clarifies.

“I think that was my strongest one. That was fun, this was a fun video, I’m so glad I did this,” And Deceit has just enough time to walk off camera before cackling his heart out. He’s only saved by someone else laughing with him. He’s huddled a little, some patting his back and someone else hugging him from the side. There’s also Thomas smiling at him fondly still. He had his reservations before, but maybe, if they wanted, he wouldn’t mind joining them for this experience again.

#deceit sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #polyamsanders #fic #my post #what is editing #who is she never heard of her #TAKE MY GARBAGE

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spilledkauffie · 5 years

Text

College Boy

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader Word Count: 2.4k T/W: Fluff / angst / lil spicy? A/N: Because my semester starts tomorrow + I just finished season 1 of SPN, again.

“Dude,” Dean huffed in a disgruntled fashion as he slid farther down in his chair, displaying the sheer boredom he was experiencing, “this is so lame. Where are the college girls?”

“The kind you’re looking for...probably don’t read,” Sam glared sarcastically at his older sibling, “so they’re probably not here, this is a library, Dean.”

Dean tossed his head back, with a groan of frustration and dissatisfaction, while Sam turned back to the research books he had scattered out across the wooden tabletop. It was a familiar setting for him, especially given the fact that it was his alma mater. If he was honest, he still found himself missing it from time to time, the quiet, late night studying, notebooks filled with ink, even sitting in classes. There was also someone he found himself exclusively missing, but he tried to quickly push that thought aside…it'd been over a year.

“Aren’t there supposed to be hot librarians?” Dean asked in the utmost sincerity, while peering around for any girl he could find.

“Dean,” Sam dropped his shoulders and cocked his head, having had just about enough with his brother’s comments, “there are no-“

“Hey, Winchester!” Your voice came from behind Sam.

Slightly startled, Sam and Dean quickly turned to look over their shoulders, knowing it typically wasn’t good when someone addressed them by their last name. They quietly watched you walk around the table, their heads following your movement as you came to stand across the table from them. A mildly stern look appeared on Dean’s face as he played it cool while wondered how you knew who they were. Thinking of a good first question, Dean opened his mouth to talk first; Sam beat him, though not very impressively.

“H-hey, uh, Y/n hi,” Sam half smiled, eyes sparkling at your familiar face.

You, yourself, couldn’t help but feel the pull of a smile on your own lips at Sam’s gaping mixed expression, partially shocked, somewhat happy and slightly nervous, as he got up to hug you. Dean shifted in his seat, sitting up more properly with a subtle smirk and side glance over to Sam, now very curious of your appearance and his brother’s bumbling reaction.

“Wh-what’re you doin’ here?” Sam asked, pulling away and sitting down again, hand nearly missing the arm of the chair.

“I’m a year behind you,” you set your backpack down with a light thud in the chair across from Dean, “remember?”

When you tilted your head at the end of you sentence, Dean perked his eyebrows, now unable to hide his smile which was filled with assumptions about you and his brother. Sam ducked his head and laughed shyly before looking up to you.

“That’s right,” he pointed his pencil towards you lazily, not even lifting his hand from the book it was resting on, “you were always so jealous of that.”

“Yeah, still am,” you blinked slowly, quirking an eyebrow, and pulling the corner of your lips up into a soft smile.

Sam swallowed nervously, nodding as his eyes dropped from your lips to follow the silver chain of your necklace and its trail, down passed the base of your neck, to your collarbones. You had your zip up hoodie opened low enough to make Sam remember how much he wanted you, but the fabric of your tank top cut off the viewing pleasure and left the rest of your body to imagination as you always did. Sam’s lips parted subtly when you pushed your palms against the top of the back of the chair across from him, leaning in a bit closer. Dean now decided to make his presence obvious by turning to Sam, clearing his throat with a “please explain” expression.

“I’m so sorry,” you shook your head with a slightly embarrassed smile, reaching your hand across the table, “you must be Dean?”

“Yes ma’am, lucky guess,” Dean said, giving you his best killer smile as his hand met yours.

“No guess needed,” you sighed crossing your arms where you stood, looking between them momentarily, before settling your gaze on Sam, “you Winchesters have the most gorgeous eyes, must be a family thing.”

Dean tilted his head cockily, his way of saying thanks. While Sam was in the middle of getting completely lost in you all over again. He swore he felt his heart skip a beat when your eyes met his. He thought back to the nights you’d come over to study with him, just the two of you. You were usually the first to fall asleep on the couch with a book in your lap, sleepily snuggling yourself against Sam as he sat on the end of the couch, still hard at work. He always made sure you were comfortable, throwing a blanket over you, and staying close. There were even a few times he fell asleep, head resting on your lap and when he’d wake up you were reading while combing your fingers through his fluffed hair.

Neither of you had ever gone further than those little intimate moments that came at random. Sam never had the courage to ask you out, afraid of ruining the friendship. And you only wanted him to be happy, even if that meant never confessing your feelings for him because he never expressed his. There was definitely tension when Sam explained he was leaving with his brother out of the blue. You’d kept his number, often wondering...,but never acting upon your thoughts, assuming he’d long forgotten about you.

“But anyway, I’m just here to grab a few books,” you finally broke the silence, bringing Sam back from memory lane, “mind watching my stuff?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Sam was quick to answer, nodding.

“Thanks,” you almost whispered, turning away.

Sighing to himself when you walked away, Sam couldn’t keep his eyes off you. He had missed you so much since leaving, seeing you again was a reminder of just how much he longed for a normal relationship, ideally with you. For a moment he wanted to go back to the late nights, this time with more than just accidentally falling asleep on the couch together. He suddenly wanted to tell you how he truly felt and the sway of your hips only encouraged his desire for something more intimate.

“I meant watch that stuff,” you turned around playfully, pointing at your backpack.

Sam, again, ducked his head to hide the slight embarrassment making its way up to tint his cheeks red, raising the pencil in his hand, “yep, got it.”

You giggled at his reaction and turned the corner to find your books. Sam shook his head, with an amused smile as he returned to the pages in front of him as if your conversation was nothing new.

“Dude!” Dean exclaimed, causing Sam to instantly look around nervously, still afraid of the head librarian that used to yell at him for making you laugh too loud in that same place, “did I miss something?”

“What? No,” Sam avoided eye contact.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice was like an integrating parent with slightly different motivation to find out who you were.

Lightly tossing his pencil into the crevice of the book’s spine, Sam turned to his brother, annoyed with his questioning and assuming tone. Giving him a “what do you want to know?” expression.

“Who is she?” Dean asked, happy with his work.

“She-she’s,” Sam stuttered trying to find the right words to describe you. The girl I’ve had a crush on since she started college with me? The girl I think about when I can’t sleep? The only girl I want. None of those seemed to do you enough justice.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam settled on, leaving it vague.

“Uh-huh,” Dean clicked his tongue, leaning back, “Sammy boy did alright!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam quickly corrected, not wanting anyone to think of you just in that way, especially his brother, “we were honestly just friends,” his tone dropped to a sigh, “nothing more.”

The silence between the brothers was filled with anticipation for Dean and reflection for Sam.

“But?” Dean blurted out again, causing his little brother to slump in his chair.

“But what?” Sam snapped, surprisingly quiet, “she’s the one that got away I guess, it’s fine, we weren’t, I didn’t-“

Dean was thriving off the discovery of Sam’s number one crush and now being able to tease him relentlessly about it.

“Whatever, I’m going to find another lore book” Sam stood, brushing off his brother, “watch her stuff.”

“Sounds like that’s your job, buddy boy,” Dean relaxed back into the chair, planning on never letting it go.

Roaming for the right book, Sam spotted you down one of the isles. Chuckling to himself, he saw you struggling to reach a book from the top shelf. That image alone brought back memories, he also couldn’t help but notice part of your lower back peeking out from under your hoodie when you reached for the shelf. Relentless, you tried over and over again.

“Need some help there?” You could hear Sam’s smile.

Looking over your shoulder, still standing on your tip-toes, you perked an eyebrow, “don’t you know children shouldn’t be left alone in the library?” You nodded over to Dean.

“Hah, yeah tell me about it,” Sam agreed, coming more than comfortably close to you, to grab the book you were reaching for, “you know, I’ve uh, I’ve missed you a lot.”

You brushed your messy hair behind your ear, watching Sam take a step back, placing both of you in either sides of the isle, and against books.

“I’ve missed you too, Sam,” you admitted, “actually a lot lately. It’s kinda spooky seeing you so suddenly.”

“Really?” Sam smirked, about to tease in his gentle tone, “you’ve been thinking about me?”

You tossed your head back with a smile, head resting against the books behind you, “you haven’t changed Winchester.”

Sam laughed, looking down, your needed book still in his hands. The silence between the two of you was calming somehow, not tense. Though Sam could feel his heart racing. The way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him under the dim library lights.

“This- uh, this is gonna sound stupid-“

“Sam, I don’t think anything you could say is stupid,” you gave a soft tilt of your head.

“Well, I- I don’t think I got to tell you before I left, mostly because I was scared it’d ruin our friendship, uh, but,” Sam stuttered nervously, “I think I still love you.”

You crossed your arms and looked down, “and you feel you can tell me this now because tomorrow you’re just going to be gone with your brother?”

Your words knived Sam, but he knew you had a valid point. And it might not have been fair for him to tell you, just to leave you. You looked up, and quirked your lips, as if debating with yourself.

“Sam, I was head over heels for you,” you smiled to yourself minorly embarrassed, “but I didn’t tell you because I always wanted you to be happy, and I figured I’d get in the way of that. And sure enough when Dean came along, you were free to go; because you didn’t know.”

“I could’ve been happy with you,” Sam said, voice a little broken.

“But he needed you,” you glanced over to Dean, “I think you need each other.”

You stepped closer, taking Sam’s hand in both yours. He followed your gaze, when you looked up to meet his. There was a moment of stillness. You tilted your head endearingly, bringing a hand up to caress his jawline. Stroking his skin smoothly with your thumb as you looked him over. Knowing you were going to miss him, you placed a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“But I’ll still love you,” you pulled back.

Sam’s chest rose and fell with a whirlwind of emotions going through his head. He felt he had one last chance to let you know.

Tossing the book in his hand to the nearest bookshelf, Sam mindfully pushed you against the books behind you, caressing your face in his hands with a passion you had always imagined in him. Dipping his head, allowing your lips to meet.

Out of some natural instinct, you reached your arms up, squeezing his bicep with one hand and running the other through his hair, settling at the back of his neck. You felt small, yet safe when he wrapped an arm around you, bringing you flesh against him.

It was a fantasy come true for the both of you, until you pulled back for a breath. His forehead pressed against yours as you both caught your breath.

“And I still love you,” Sam said, “no matter where I go.”

You nodded, feeling a tear slip passed your eyelashes. Trying to gather yourself, you sniffled. Sam pulled back to look at you, wiping the tear from your cheek with his thumb, you leaned into his touch. Not wanting to lose it, but knowing you had to.

“Better go back before Dean gets suspicious,” you suggested, exhaling.

“Yeah, no, yeah, you’re right,” Sam ran a hand through his hair and picked up the book you had needed, handing it to you.

“Thanks,” you said, holding it close to your chest as you headed back.

Dean was looking to the left when you returned. He smiled, looking between the two of you.

“It was really good to see you Sam,” you said, looking up to him, “you have my number if you’re ever in town again.” You looked over to Dean, “or if you guys need a place to stay,” returning your gaze to Sam, “I’m still on my own these days.”

Nodding with repressed tears, Sam tried to smile, avoiding the look his brother was giving him.

“It was nice to meet you, Dean,” you picked up your backpack from the table.

“Hey, you too,” he winked, shamelessly.

“Sam,” was all you could say, hugging him once more, “take care of yourself for me.”

“You too,” he responded, before you kissed his cheek.

Taking one last look, you headed for the library door, knowing if you looked back you wouldn’t leave. While Sam sat back down, combing through his hair and clearing his throat.

Dean smiled at his little brother, as if waiting for him to say something.

“What?” Sam said, not looking over.

“Oh nothing,” Dean raised his hands with sass, “not like I saw you making out with your sweetheart behind the book, in the isle that is almost directly in front of me.”

Dropping his head, Sam just sighed.

“Yeah,” Dean placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, “you’re never living that down College Boy.”

#spilledkauffie #sam winchester #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester fanfiction #spn #spn x reader #spn x you #spn x y/n #supernatural #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader #Supernatural fanfic #jared padalecki #spn fluff

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mst3kproject · 4 years

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K16: City on Fire

There are several movies called City on Fire, as well as at least two books and a band (of course there’s a band). All are more recent and popular than the 1979 film that made it to MST3K – which made it really hard to find bonus material for this week. I ended up having to do like I did for Cosmic Princess and throw in a bunch of nonspecific KTMA stuff. I swear I try, guys.

It’s a big day in wherever the hell this is, which you may have noticed is what I say when there’s a lot going on in a movie and very little of it is interesting. The fire chief is about to retire and buy a yacht. A local celebrity, Diana Lautrec, has come back to town to officiate the opening of the new hospital, and the (married) Mayor Dudley is hoping to rekindle his relationship with her – nor is he the only one. There’s a water shortage and the politicians don’t want anybody to know just how bad it is. And Herman, a disgruntled former employee of the Manson Refinery, has decided to take revenge on his boss by blowing the whole place up. Will they be able to get everybody out before the hospital burns, too?

MST3K did a number of 70s made-for-tv disaster movies and they’re all fucking boring. Avalanche introduced all the characters and situations and then just threw them under the snow. SST: Death Flight piled on disaster after disaster and none of them were interesting. City on Fire starts off very, very slow, but once it gets going it’s actually the best of the MST3K disaster movies. That’s really quite sad in itself.

Not that it’s good. While there is stuff here that’s actually tense and compelling, there’s also stuff that should be tense and compelling but is actually terribly dull. A firefighter dies saving a kid from a burning building, and it’s at best mildly interesting. A major contributing factor is that when the firefighters were introduced, we saw that one was The Token Latino and… well, this is a 70’s movie. Poor bastard may as well have been wearing a red shirt. The only emotion I felt during this sequence, besides mild surprise that those auto CPR belt things are older than I thought, was desperately wanting somebody to deck the nosy-ass reporter (more on that later).

Most of the actors in this movie are pretty okay. They’re bland-looking people playing bland characters, doing their best with what little they’re given. Unfortunately, there are also a couple of child actors who are just insanely bad. The best performance given by a child in this movie is that of the girl who nearly dies of smoke inhalation, and that’s unquestionably because she never says a word. Her brother speaks all his lines in a histrionic I didn’t steal no bike neither! voice that makes you want to slap him.

The stunts and music are so overblown they are often downright comical. We are treated to several scenes of people stumbling around engulfed in flames and I know that shouldn’t be funny but it is. Slow-motion of men falling to their deaths also shouldn’t be funny… am I just a terrible person? Things blow up for absolutely no reason. When the refinery goes up there’s an entire building that just explodes and if they said why I must have missed it. Later, laundry explodes. There’s a bin of sheets and it goes kaboom like somebody put a bomb in the bottom of it, which is probably exactly what the pyrotechnics people did. Why the hell would laundry explode?

An earlier, smaller fire, which serves to establish how thinly-stretched the city fire department already is, burns down a couple of blocks of apartments. The production had enough money to actually build facades they could set on fire here and for a main street we see later. This much looks quite good. In shots that are supposed to show the whole city in flames, however, it’s just random reddish lights in the sky and more than anything else it’s like we’re watching a particularly spectacular aurora. Those are the night shots – the daytime ones are much worse, with a completely motionless cloud of smoke apparently painted on to the shot.

They did a number of things very right, though. The final sequence, as everybody hurries to evacuate before the hospital starts to burn, is quite tense, and we’ve gotten to know the characters just well enough to be worried for them. The sound of the fire helps a lot. It’s an awful, visceral jet-engine roar that’s hard to listen to and reminds us what a primal, terrifying force a fire can be. Another really nice moment is the use of a literal canary to show that they’re getting low on oxygen. The writers trusted the audience to already be familiar with the concept of a canary in a coal mine, so it’s not as in-your-face as it could have been.

Some of the best and worst things in City on Fire come out of its themes. For all it’s a crummy made-for-tv disaster movie, this is a film that has something to say. Most of it’s pretty heavy-handed, but it seems earnest enough, and it’s the failure of theme more than anything else that ruins the ending. This is a movie about selfishness, and it draws this thread through several storylines: the reporters, the various men who claim to be in love with Diana, and the actions of Herman, who by the end has lost everything but his selfishness, and clings to it until his last breath.

The predatory nature of the press is one of the first running ideas that comes to the audience’s attention. At the first fire we have an asshole trying to interview a hysterical mother who does not yet know if her daughter is alive or dead, and I still wish somebody had punched him. There’s a photographer who takes pictures through Diana’s hotel room window, and is rewarded with scandalous shots of her and the mayor. Even while half-dead on a stretcher he delights in an opportunity to threaten her with them. The anchorwoman at the news channel positively revels in the scenes of carnage while whining over her own wrinkles – her underlings worry more about her drinking affecting her work than they do about the destruction going on all around them. These people, out to get a ‘story’ at any cost, are at best an annoyance, and at times a very real obstacle to firefighters and doctors who are trying to save lives.

Just about all the major adult male characters we meet are or were in love with Diana, and resent her for not returning their feelings. Besides the mayor there’s the head doctor at the hospital, and Herman, who went to school with her and has always felt scorned despite giving the impression that he never actually tried to talk to her. All these men selfishly feel they have some kind of ‘right’ to Diana’s attention and sneer at her choices, even as she insists that she married for love. The idea that it doesn’t matter what they think of her decisions, or indeed that she has any right to make decisions at all, never seems to occur to any of them. Diana comes across as a person who is just doing her best to be happy so honestly? Fuck those guys.

The mayor’s selfishness, connected to his ambition to become governor, is probably supposed to be what caused the movie's titular disaster. We’re told that he allowed the refinery to be built, that he cut corners in the construction of the hospital, and that he hid the true extent of the water shortage, and those things definitely made the situation possible. But he’s just a corrupt politician, no better or worse than any other, and there would have been no disaster if not for Herman.

After losing his job at the refinery, Herman could have just gone home and given his wife the bad news like a reasonable human being. Instead, he ran around turning dials and switches all over the complex with absolutely no thought for the consequences. It’s true that he wasn’t trying to burn the place down but he definitely didn’t try not to – and we never see the slightest sign that he’s sorry about any of it.

After the refinery explodes, Herman hangs around at the hospital and does his best to help, but guilt plays no part in this. He just wants to be praised for his heroism, and to have a chance to get closer to Diana. This is contrasted with other people who have behaved badly but go on to do heroic things. The head doctor was a jerk to his girlfriend at the beginning, but he’s nothing if not dedicated to his job and is the last to leave the burning building. The mayor does his best, and if that’s mostly because he’s in this mess with the rest of them, well, he still saved lives, so no judgment. Diana never even thinks about leaving while there are still people in need of help. These selfish people are capable of behaving selflessly.

Herman’s motives remain selfish to the end – the only thing he’s thinking about at the moment he dies is the revenge he’s planning on Diana for supposedly spurning him. His ending is actually deeply unsatisfying, because he is never held responsible for his actions. At the end, nobody ever knew that the whole thing was his fault, and we’re told very firmly that nobody ever will.

The ending is unsatisfying in other ways: the anchorwoman’s drinking is never dealt with properly, and there seems no point to the bit at the beginning with the head doctor and his girlfriend. Nor do we see whether this has had any lasting effect on the mayor and his ambitions. In a story that’s all about selfishness leading to disaster, we really ought to have seen some of these people try to explain themselves. City on Fire is fairly involving once it gets going, but it doesn’t so much end as it just stops.

#mst3k #reviews #city on fire #70s #i reference star trek

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