#we live in an era where sharing is as constant as breathing and yet

[acolonscf]

Hi! My name is Alyssa. One fact about me is that, I had two children during the time I was in the PTA program here at SCF. One at the very beginning and one at the very end. I graduated in May of 2023 with the support of my amazing professors and classmates! 

Five facts about Chartes Cathedral: 

1. It has 176 stained glass windows.

2. It was once seized after the French Revolution and Catholic worship was forbidden in it.

3. King Henry IV was the only French King to be crowned at the Cathedral of Chartes.

4. There is a maze inside the church. 

5. It was built upon a previous church that was destroyed in a fire. 

When I first looked at Chartes Cathedral, I it was beautiful but had darkness to it. After researching and reading about it, I still feel the same but see it differently. It is a gothic piece but it has so many beautiful features. The stained glass windows are breath taking. The vaults in the ceiling and the 24 hour clock are my personal favorite parts. It represents the time era of art well. 

2: The artwork I have chosen to display in my home is a digital image capturing the essence of my beloved family, my loving husband and our three precious daughters. This digital image, while not being a traditional painting or sculpture, holds a special place in my heart as it exists primarily in the realm of general print and photo paper film

This photograph is not just a mere depiction; it is a cherished token of the countless little moments that we often overlook in the hustle and bustle of our daily lives. It serves as an infinite memory, a poignant reminder of the beauty in those seemingly insignificant instances that we so often take for granted. In this image, frozen in time, I see the smiles, the laughter, and the genuine love that binds us together as a family.

As I gaze upon this photograph, I am reminded of how easily we can get caught up in the minutiae of life, the trivialities that hold no true significance. Yet, this image encapsulates what truly matters to me – my family. It reminds me that amidst the chaos of life, it's our shared moments and the love we share that hold the most profound meaning.

What makes this photograph truly beautiful is its timeless quality. As the years pass, as we all grow and change, this image remains a constant. It allows me to revisit that exact moment, to relive the warmth and happiness it captures. It's as if time stands still within the confines of this image, and whenever I choose to reflect upon it, I am transported back to that very moment, feeling as if I am right there with my family, basking in the love and joy that it represents.

3. How old are you? 25

What is the gender you primarily align with? Female

Where are you from? Bradenton, FL

What is your ethnicity? Caucasian

What do you do for fun? I enjoy reading, and shopping.

Are you a member of any organized group? Verisk Analytics Book Club

Where do you work? Verisk

What makes you uniquely you? My ambition, my love for others, my life experiences, the fact that I am an introvert; yet and extrovert in professional settings. I am also a first generation college graduate.

4.

[ellasalterationsllc]

The Silk Slip Dress: A Love Letter to the '90s

As we navigate the tides of fashion trends, the ebb and flow bring us pieces that are as ephemeral as the seasons.

Yet, in this sea of change, the silk slip dress stands as a lighthouse—a beacon of timeless style.

A Thousand Words on Silk and Simplicity:

Picture this: It's the '90s.

The air is buzzing with the tunes of grunge and the new wave of pop.

Fashion is in a state of playful rebellion, mixing the casual with the glamorous.

Enter the silk slip dress. It's sleek, it's chic, and it's everything the '90s fashion scene didn't know it needed.

The silk slip dress is not just a garment; it's a canvas.

It has borne witness to the leather jackets and combat boots of the grunge era, the minimalist luxury of the late '90s, and now, the eclectic remixes of contemporary fashion.

This piece is the quintessential chameleon of style—adaptable, resilient, and eternally elegant.

In the simplicity of its design lies its strength.

A straight neckline, spaghetti straps, and a bias-cut that glides along the body's curves—this is the blueprint of a fashion masterpiece.

The silk itself is an ode to the senses; it catches the light with a subtle sheen, its touch a gentle whisper against the skin.

Let's talk styling—a realm where the silk slip dress truly shines.

For a casual daytime look, throw on a fitted white tee underneath, step into your favorite sneakers, and you're embodying that '90s laid-back cool.

Want to dress it up? Layer it under a blazer, slip into stilettos, and adorn yourself with a statement necklace.

The slip dress agrees with you—it's versatile.

But the question remains, why has the silk slip dress persisted through the decades?

Perhaps it's the nostalgia it evokes, a longing for the simplicity amidst our over-stimulated lives.

Or maybe it's the ease it promises—a promise that style can be effortless and comfort doesn't have to be sacrificed at the altar of fashion.

As we wade further into the 21st century, the silk slip dress serves as a reminder of the timelessness of true style.

It doesn't shout; it doesn't need to. In a world loud with trends that demand attention, the silk slip dress remains a quiet constant, reminding us that sometimes, the most profound statements are whispered.

And let's not forget the practicality of care.

This might be a high-maintenance relationship—silk is delicate and demands your gentlest touch, after all.

But isn't that the case with all things precious? Hand wash or dry clean, and store with care, because this is a love affair meant to last.

So here's to the silk slip dress—a garment that has outlived the fickleness of fashion.

It's a piece that doesn't just hang in our closets; it lives in the streets, on the runways, and in the pages of our diaries.

It's a story of elegance, a testament to the allure of simplicity, and a legacy of the '90s that we continue to write with every wear.

As we look to the future, let's carry the silk slip dress with us, not as a relic, but as a living, breathing piece of our personal style narratives.

Let it be a reminder that in the fast-paced world of trends and transient fashions, there will always be room for the classics—for those pieces that stand the test of time and trend.

And now, let's turn the page to your thoughts.

How has the silk slip dress found its way into your wardrobe? How do you weave this piece of '90s nostalgia into the tapestry of your modern style?

Share your stories, your pictures, your moments—because this is not just a trend, it's a collective memory, a shared experience, a timeless trend.

https://www.ellasalterations.com/2023/11/18/classic-90s-silk-slip-dress-a-timeless-trend/

#EllasAlterationsLLC #90ssilkslipdress #silkslipdress #timelessfashion #slipdressoutfit #howtostyleslipdress #slipdressforwork #slipdressforwedding#slipdressfordatenight#slipdressforcasualwear #affordslipslipdress #designerslipslipdress

#prom #pageant #fashion #wedding #formal

[biankachladek]

"Everything but the lie" group show at Gallery Klenová, Klatovy, 2023

link

Curated by Tina Poliačková and Lumír Nykl

If jokes could still be taken seriously today, ours might start like this: Several people meet at a castle: an artistic blacksmith, wire-makers, a wanderer above a sea of intoxicating fog, a member of the Schlaraffia humor society, and other characters who didn’t fit onto our brief list, for which we apologize. Of course, we almost forgot the mischievous vampire – after all, those with inside knowledge have long spoken of the zombification of contemporary art. Nevertheless, our fear of the undead is quickly drowned out – there’s apples rolling towards us from somewhere. They want to warm their tattooed flesh by a smoking stove being obligingly stoked by a helpful frog. Around the corner, a feathered being, lost in thought, is shedding silvery tears, and somewhere in the distance marionettes wrapped in blankets breathe heavily on a bed. And now you ask, “Where’s the joke?” and you’d be right to. Have we been lying to you all this time, and the joke is at your expense?

You may smile at this confusion – after all, saying one thing and meaning the exact opposite is the home turf of irony, that unreliable flip-flopper between words and meaning. You will surely have absorbed the cynical lesson of postmodern culture – after all, you are familiar with the cool detachment of the strangely neurotic characters from nineties sitcoms who lack any honest motivation and whose only weapon against vulnerability is to laugh at the world and themselves. But let us also look back to the time of the Romantics, for we often forget that they saw irony as an important strategy for surviving in the modern world, a place dominated by the sense of having lost a direct connection with nature. Unlike postmodern ironists with their sarcastic grimaces, however, they are not afraid to come face to face with our true desire to be one with the world. For them, irony is a salve or at least a homeopathic remedy for transcending their conditioned perspective and adopting an objective view of themselves. And yet, it is not an end in and of itself but reflects the inevitability of finding the will to overcome the chasm between oneself and the outside world despite the curse that this effort will not succeed and the desire will remain unfulfilled.

Let’s get straight to the point. Yes, this chasm has not been overcome. Instead, we are too closely bound to a globalized world built on market principles of (self-)exploitation and opaque digital networks, a world drained of any meaning. It is an imbalanced relationship, one whose weight not only breaks the backs of individuals but that also awakens various monsters. How can one perceive an authentic awakening of emotions in the era of social networks if they are subject to the algorithmization and marketization of personal expression and go against lived experience? Is the sharing of art online a true sharing of creativity, or is it merely a narcissistic means for artists to build their careers? How can one even draw the line between expressing oneself and slipping into constant commodification? Is it even possible today to exhibit, with a straight face, things that we call contemporary art at a castle?

And so post-irony raises its voice, looming as the last refuge in a storm of confused meanings. It resists, like a lost sentinel surrounded by hordes of images plundering the last remnants of our interest within the late attention economy. Instead of trying to find something profoundly serious, it allows us to see what is real and what is artificial. It is two sides of the same coin, spinning it in constant motion. It becomes a stance that uses this ambiguity as a game in which it is no longer shameful to breathe new life into antiquated ways of doing things. Silent film, landscape painting, stained wood, embroidery, and even metalwork and wirework incite their relevance just as much as the latest digital technologies. Post-irony provides a chance to openly embrace the universal as well as the literal, to tell exaggerated tales of a fictitious life, and to not be afraid of geysers of fake blood or blood-thirsty beings – despite the fact that it all feel suspicious in relation to today’s over-intellectualized art. Post-irony is perhaps not so far removed from the world of the Romantics. It personifies the ongoing game of detachment and identification, the constant variation of heart-rending tales and subsequent disappointments. In actuality, there is no deception here: the truth rests in accepting that essentially all meanings are surrounded by uncertainty. It’s a joke with an open ending. Don’t worry: you have to believe us that it’s about everything – just not a lie.

#install

[gooberjam]

would love to live to see the death of corporate reboots for the sake of easy cash grabs resulting in a landscape of floating media corpses . would love to live to see an idea again

#i feel increasingly bitter about every disney reboot and sequel/prequel whatever #i hate that people so readily buy into this shit #i just saw a post talking about how cruella looks like shit but then saying they should make an ursula movie instead #‘but not made by disney’ #you’ve contradicted yourself hun! #that’s literally impossible!! #’oh they should have made an URSULA one that would have been better and fine and acceptable’ #with their resources they could literally do whatever the fuck they want #but no let’s keep revisiting the same 10 things because it’s safe #let’s keep living in this bubble of content that was good when it came out so it MUST be good now #i know we live in an era and world of alternate universes and fanfic and shit like that #but that’s only good when you leave it as it fucking is #look at fifty shades of grey and that one movie that was made abt the one direction fanfic and shit like that #or all the reboots and addendums #there’s such an obsession with revisiting things it’s nauseating #there are hour long compilations on youtube of old commercials #people willingly take time out of their day to revisit media designed to sell you things #for a sense of comfort or escapism or nostalgia or all three #it makes me feel sad #we live in an era where sharing is as constant as breathing and yet #we still keep looking backwards for no. reason #which isn’t to say there isn’t new stuff being made of course there is #i just mean it feels like we’ve stopped valuing that as it should be #we’re so quick to reward content that is familiar #like look at the wave of 80s and 90s nostalgia #or the emerging nostalgia for the early 2000s and even the 2010s #i’ve been feeling so disillusioned about popular media my gut reaction to seeing anything well liked is distaste which is so annoying #like it’s a fight to even just let myself experience some of this media without immediately feeling mad #anyways #i’ve been thinking

[potteresque-ire]

Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈  (June is Pride Month where I am 😊) For the occasion, may I recommend this animated musical short, 秘密港 Safe Haven, by the Beijing Queer Chorus (北京酷兒合唱團)? Published on the International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia and Biphobia (IDAHOBIT; May 17th, 2021),  the animation, with its lovely (and at times, heartbreaking) song, is about a queer person and their friend who tries to offer their support. The lyrics is English-subbed.

(Below the cut: a wish for the c-queer community; conception of Safe Haven, as explained by the Beijing Queer Chorus; CW/TW for homophobia, violence and forced abortion)

Background for my wish: with the recent Chinese government’s aggressive turnaround in its population control policy to combat its declining birth rate—on 2021/05/31, China further lifted the cap of number of children allowed per couple from 2 to 3 (the number was 1 for almost four decades, 1978-2015; the population control measure has therefore been colloquially called the “One Child Policy”), younger generations of Chinese are already feeling the pressure and fearing the consequences of non-compliance (for example, if the state levies heavy fines on non-child-bearers).   

While I have not yet read articles that directly connect the major policy shift with the c-queer community, I imagine it may bring both relief and additional challenges. The relief will likely take time to come; the challenges, meanwhile,  will likely be immediate. 

This has to do with the root of antagonism against homosexuality in Chinese societies. Unlike in their Western counterparts, Chinese queers have consistently reported that family, instead of societal, pressure as the greatest challenge they face (societal pressure includes that from religion, from government etc). C-queers are expected to abide to the heteronormative traditions of opposite-sex marriage and child-bearing, in a collectivistic, conformist environment still strongly influenced by the Confucian notion that continuing the bloodline is the primary responsibility of a filial child. Men, especially, are under heavy pressure to carry on their family surname. Those who fail to do so are seen as irresponsible at best, moral failures at worst. They suffer anything and everything from constant nagging from their relatives, to ostracisation, to disownment. 

A better known consequence of this cultural antagonism against homosexuality in the tragic Tongqi (同妻 “homo-wives”) phenomenon that is, perhaps, unique to China. 

Tongqi are straight women who unknowingly entered marriage with closeted gay man, who often learn about their spouse’s sexuality only after the filial obligation of having children has been fulfilled. It’s a form of marriage fraud; women who file for divorce, however, are likely to lose custody of their child(ren) under Chinese laws, and so many of them keep mum. The gay men involved are also victims in many cases; the lack of public, open education and discussion of queer topics in the country mean even the queers themselves may not have a full understanding of their own queerness, believe that “straightening” themselves is something they can do with sufficient willpower and love for their family. 

As one may expect, these marriages are mostly unsatisfying; psychiatric issues and intimate partner violence (IPV), which include verbal, emotional and physical abuse, have also been frequently reported. Just how prevalent are Tongqi’s in China that, in turn, reflect how many gay men in China are pressured to remain in the closet and get married? The following numbers may serve as comparison. In 2010, the percentage of gay men married to heterosexual women in the US was 15-25%. In China and in 2018, meanwhile, the reowned Chinese sexologist, sociologist and LGBT rights activist, Li Yinhe (李銀河), quoted an estimate of 80% of China’s ~ 20 million gay men were married to heterosexual wives; i.e. the Tongqi population amounted to ~16 million. Literature has reported a similar estimated size of the Tongqi population—at 13+ million, in 2016. 

(Reason for the numbers being estimates: the exact size of the c-queer community isn’t known. China’s decennial census questionnaire from late last year (2020) once again excluded questions about its own LGBT+ community. "Room mate” is how many c-queers have to refer to their partners).

While the Chinese government decriminalised homosexuality in 1997 and its current laws carry no clauses that target the queer community—the official stance of Chinese government on homosexuality is currently 不支持，不反對，不提倡 “not supporting, not opposing, not advocating”—what may seem to be its non-queer-related policies have indirectly but majorly impacted the lives of c-queers. In particular, the “One Child Policy” has been hypothesised to exacerbate the challenge faced by c-queers, as the only child becomes the sole “next generation” available for producing grandchildren and extending the family bloodline. 

Hence, my expectation / hope that the relaxation of "One Child Policy”, by lifting the cap on the number of children a couple can have, will bring relief to the LGBT+ population—even if the relief will only come years down the road, as the newer generations of c-queers will then have siblings to share their filial responsibilities. 

However, this also explains my worry for now, for the immediate months and years to come, for not only c-queers but the younger generations of Chinese in general. My worry is about how, exactly, the state intends to drive its birth rate upward, and the hardship the new policies may bring. 

The practices of China’s population control policies have historically been brutal. Forced, late-term abortions were common, for example. This is reflected in the country’s birth control propaganda banners, commonly seen in Chinese villages until late 2000s, which were infamous for their verbal violence:

“Beat it out! Abort it! Miscarry it! Just cannot give birth to it!”

Fines, which were levied on offenders of the One Child Policy, may seem like a better option but can place an unbearable burden on poorer families, of which there remain many in China. Premier Li Keqiang reported, in May 2020, that >40% of China’s population—600 million—are living with a monthly income of ~$140 USD or below, despite the glitz often seen in the country’s entertainment productions. Using One Child Policy era fines for reference, the famous Chinese director 張藝謀 Zhang Yimou was fined 7.48 million RMB (~$1.17 million USD) for his three children, in 2013. Defying the new population control policies may therefore be a privilege reserved for the very powerful and very rich. And the government is likely to be aggressive in enforcing its new policies—the social media accounts of > 20 feminist activists, who advocate for reproductive freedom among other women’s rights, have already been shut down in the recent weeks. 

Will the Chinese government find ways to penalise members of the queer community who do not contribute to the new baby count? Will it turn a blind(er) eye to the Tongqi 同妻 (and to a lesser extent, Tongfu 同夫 ~ heterosexual men married to lesbian women) tragedies happening every day? It’s impossible to say yet.

For this year, therefore, I wish the c-queer community this—I wish it to be safe from the reach of China’s population control policies, whatever they will be. 

Back to the animated short, Safe Haven, which is about coming out. In 2016, a 18,000 people survey by the United Nations Development Programme reported only 5% of Chinese queers had come out to people outside their families. Only 15% have come out to their families. A more recent survey reports a significant improvement in these percentages, with ~50% of gays, bisexuals and transgenders and 70% of lesbians having come out to their families (Table 2). Fully out queers remain rare (<10%).

There’s still, therefore, a long way to go. With queers often being out (if they’re out at all) only to their most immediate/intimate social circles, with the state’s censorship of LGBT+ presentation in visual media, many (especially older generations of) non-queers in China haven’t seen a living, breathing, outwardly queer person before. The process of coming out, by extension—what it means, what it takes for both the giver and receiver of the message—may have never entered the thoughts of these non-queers before.

What should they say? What should they do? What words and actions will convey support? What won’t?

Safe Haven is about these questions. I’ll end this post with a translation of the Weibo post in which the animated short was first published, in which Beijing Queer Chorus explained the project’s conception:

#517 IDAHOBIT# Do you remember how it was like, the first time you came out of the closet, or someone came out of the closet to you? Who was that person? What did you say at the time, and how did that person react?

The person who voluntarily exposes their heart requires courage. The person who receives the message may have their own heart filled with unease. 

Maybe, both are thinking: “What should I do?”

Coming out is such an important occasion. It can, perhaps, change a relationship forever.

Some will welcome warmth and hugs. Some others will get their first taste of homophobia. Yet some others will find neither.

After a queer person came out to their friend, they got, in return, “Don’t worry. I’ll still treat you as a friend.” It made them uncomfortable for a long time. But their straight family and friends didn’t understand. How could this be not a kind thing to say?

What is gay-friendly? What is homophobic? It appears that everyone has their own standards. The same words and behaviours transmit warmth to some, deep offence to others.

So, when we’re talking about “homophobia”, what are we talking about?

To commemorate this years #517 IDAHOBIT#, the Beijing Queer Chorus interviewed its tens of members and their relatives and friends, in hopes of investigating the difference in perspectives between homosexuals and straight people. How can this barrier be crossed, how can they work together to take care of the valuable relationships.

In the stories of all interviewees, a warmth like this can be felt: even with the risks, there remain those who are brave enough to display their true self; even with the misunderstandings, there remain those willing to keep the secrets of others, willing to learn to understand a whole new world.

We condensed these stories into an original, animated musical short, Safe Haven.

We hope every boat riding the winds and waves can find a harbour to unload their secrets. We also hope every person has enough gentle strength to be the safe haven for others. 

We offer our best wishes to every queer who lets their heart be seen ~ may your courage reap its rewards.

We thank every friend and family who have treated these hidden matters of the heart seriously. You make the world a better place.

#pie metas #lgbt #pride 2021

[hurt-care]

The Reunion - WW2 era fic

I've been listening to an audiobook about WWII in the UK and there's been multiple mentions of people writing in their diaries about suffering from lengthy colds as well as a discussion of the increase in casual sex during the war (especially during air raids, when it became a welcome distraction). So, let's just say I was inspired...! 

Male, cold, OCs, contains 18+ content

The Reunion -

The club was positively bursting with young revellers and the sounds of a jazz band playing as couples moved across the dance floor in tight embraces, flitting in and out of shadow of the chandeliers sparkling overhead. Champagne flowed liberally, delivered by waiters in smart tuxedo jackets and white gloves. If a time-traveller had been magically transported inside, they would have no idea that outside the walls of the club there was a war on.

Making her way through the throngs of people was Katherine Marsh, or Kat to her close friends. Close at her heels was Mary Alderman, an old school chum who'd come up through London society with her. The girls wove through the dancers on route to a table up on the balcony that circled the dance floor, providing a spectacular view of the room below. Only the uppers of society generally occupied the tables here and the demand was such that often bribes had to be given to the head waiter to ensure a spot. Peter Halford, one of Kat's other longtime friends, had been in charge of the evening's transaction and now he waved cheerily from a spot in the corner as the girls approached.

“Hello, Peter!” Kat said joyfully as she sided into a chair along the wall, tucking the skirt of her silk gown around her. “Have you ordered a bottle yet or shall I do the honours?”

“It's just coming now,” Peter replied, nodding towards the approaching waiter who carried a magnum size bottle in a silver ice bucket while another waiter followed behind deftly balancing a tray of champagne coupes.

“Your timing is impeccable as ever,” Mary said with a laugh. “I'm parched.”

She flashed a smile at Peter, her eyes sparkling in the light of the crystal scones along the walls. Kat smirked knowingly at her friend. Mary had been pursuing Peter over the course of several of these evenings out on the town, but Peter remained seemingly oblivious to her advances.

Tonight, Mary was draped in layers of royal blue silk with a spectacular diamond bracelet glinting on her wrist. She looked radiant and Kat thought Peter had to be completely daft to not notice. Kat, on the other hand, had no particular beau in mind. She'd danced with dozens of men and dined at parties across the countryside around London, but no one gentleman had captured her heart. Besides, she was barely twenty and so many of the young men her age were away at service. For now, she was content with dancing and snogging sessions in dim alleyway with soldiers on leave and officers posted to city stations.

The waiter poured them all glasses of champagne and the trio toasted to health, happiness, and the victory of Britain. The chat was light and merry, with Peter filling them in on his new job at the Royal Airforce's London offices near Whitehall. At the hour neared eleven, someone took to the microphone to introduce the next band complete with a line of cabaret dancers dressed in feathers and sequins for entertainment. Mary squealed in delight as the drums kicked up the beat of a popular dance tune and she reached for Peter's hand.

“Oh, will you dance?” she asked breathlessly. “I love this song.”

Peter downed the last of his champagne glass as he stood up.

“Of course. Kat, find yourself a man and let's go.”

The two disappeared into a sea of people moving towards stairs that led to the dance floor. Kat drained her own coupe and stood, surveying the crowded tables for familiar faces or handsome strangers.

A few girls were lingering at a table of Naval officers and as the men stood and paired off with them, one man remained seated alone with a cigarette in his hand. As the duos passed by, Kat realized with a heart-dropping thud that she recognized the lone officer that had stayed behind.

Oliver Hartnett had danced with her at her first debutant ball when she was seventeen and she'd been completely enraptured by him. Two pages of her diary were dedicated to extolling his virtues, from the gentle tambour of his voice to his green eyes, from to his broad shoulders to his chestnut hair. As quickly as he'd come into her life, he'd left it again. They'd shared two dances that night and some brief conversation at a dinner party a week later, and then she hadn't seen him since. Word in the upper circles said he'd gone to Scotland to work for an aging uncle's business and he disappeared from London's upper crust.

Kat dumped the dregs of the champagne bottle into her coupe and gulped it down, feeling the rush of bubbles to her head as she bolstered her courage. She reached into her small handbag for her compact, inspecting her face and reapplying a coat of her precious lipstick, as the bright red shade was now nearly impossible to find with the war rations and so she reserved it for nights out alone.

With a smile on her face that she hoped concealed her nerves, she glided as confidently as she could over to the table.

“Ollie Hartnett, is that you?” she said over the din of the music and the crowd. The man at the table seemed startled by the interruption and he looked up at her, his face vacant for a moment. Then, a grin spread across his face.

“Oh my goodness, Miss Marsh,” he said, standing suddenly and extending his hand.

She laughed.

“It's Kat, please,” she said, taking his broad hand in her and shaking it. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Of course, please do,” he said, fumbling to get around the vacant chairs nearby in order to pull out one for her. She folded herself gracefully into the seat, crossing her ankles as her mother had always instructed. For once, she was glad she'd listened to Mary's constant chatter about fashion and had worn the deep emerald green silk gown with the black trim that she'd purchased for the previous winter's New Year Eve celebration at Mary's family estate. It set off her figure nicely and contrasted with her auburn hair and milk-white complexion.

Oliver was shaking her head, still grinning.

“What a surprise,” he said, his gentle voice barely audible over the music. “You look well.”

She smiled back.

“I am! Well, as well as anyone is in London at war, I suppose. You've joined up, I see. On leave?”

“For a few more weeks,” he replied, taking a slow drag of his almost burnt-out cigarette. “I'm posted at Brighton, usually.”

“And you're not on the arms of a dozen girls dancing your night away?” she teased.

He snubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray and shook his head.

“Honestly, I wasn't keen on going out at all but the other gents insisted.”

“If I recall, you were quite popular on the dance floor,” she continued. “What's changed?”

“Just a bit under the weather, that's all,” he replied. “Haven't felt up to much dancing tonight, but I'll spare one for you, for old time's sake.”

She felt herself blush.

“Not yet,” she said. “I have to hear all about where you disappeared to that summer. You left a lot of us wondering why one of our dashing debs up and left London at the height of the season.”

“It's not a particularly exciting story, but if I'm going to tell it we ought to do it over a drink.”

He beckoned to a waiter who returned shortly with two cocktails on a black lacquered tray and a serving of peach melba for each of them.

Oliver detailed how the rumours were true; he'd left London for the banal task of running the business operations for his uncle's small factory in Glasgow. A year ago, as the ferocity of the war had begun to increase, he'd enlisted in Royal Navy and left the factory in the hands of the old foreman and his cousin, a savvy young woman named Rose.

More than once during the story he'd paused momentarily to clear his throat with a cough or take a sip of his cocktail to revive his waining voice. Kat felt a pang of sympathy now that she was close and could see clearly the weariness in his face. Though it was spring, the weather had been dreadful and frigid for weeks and many people she knew had been battling heavy colds.

She told him about her adventures in London with Mary and Peter, and about her volunteering posting with the Women's Auxiliary Service where she worked to find temporary housing for those displaced by air raids.

When they'd finished their peach melbas and cocktails, the band struck up a lively tune and Oliver appeared to summon some energy with a broad smile aimed at Kat.

“This is the one,” he said, extending a hand. “Would you like to dance?”

She nodded, trying not to let her rush of enthusiasm show too greatly.

He led her down to the dance floor and took her into his arms, leading the gentle sway as they danced among the other couples. His broad hand rested on the small of her back and Kat felt a rush of heat to her body as they touched, cheeks almost against one another. The gentle warmth of his breath tickled her neck and she was sure he was about to lean in to kiss her there.

His voice mumbled something deep and low into her ear but she couldn't discern it over the music.

“Mmm?” she replied.

“Oh Christ, sorry,” she heard him say and suddenly he was moving swiftly away from her, his one hand leaving her back and his other dropping its grip from hers.

Eh-TSGHT! He turned his face into the sleeve of his officer's uniform, sneezing inaudibly to her as the rest of the dance floor continued their rhythmic sway.

“So sorry,” he shouted, leaning back so she could hear him. He reached into his pants pocket for a handkerchief, which he dabbled briefly under his nose.

“Sorry,” he repeated as he took up his embrace once more.

“It's okay,” she said into his ear. “I hope you don't feel too poorly.”

“No,” he said into hers, his lips almost brushing against her. “Better now.”

She leaned herself closer against him and he pressed his lips to her neck. She sighed with delight, feeling all the rush of emotions that she'd had when they'd first danced. His body was more muscular and square now, without the lanky lines he'd had as an eighteen year old.

Tilting her head upwards, she met his lips and they kissed briefly.

He leaned over to speak into her ear again.

“I hope I'm not catching.”

“I don't care,” she said and captured his lips again. The kiss deepened and a couple nearby sided away to give them a moment of privacy.

The song ended and Katherine stayed in the embrace of Oliver's arms as the next began.

He looked down at her with a soft, tired expression.

“I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm afraid all this noise and such is too much for me tonight.”

“Can you stay up a little longer?” she asked. “There's a nice restaurant not too far from here. We could go and have a drink there and talk. It's much quieter.”

It was past midnight now and while Oliver looked like he might consider declining in favour of being tucked up in bed, he nodded and smiled.

She grinned back at him and kissed his cheek.

“I'm so glad. I'll find my friends to tell them I'm off. Meet me by the doors? Would you be a dear and get my coat for me?”

She fished the small coatcheck tag from her handbag.

After she'd shouted her goodbyes to Mary and Peter (who looked very cozy together on the dance floor, she noted with pleasure), she found Oliver leaning against a wall by the exit with her coat over his arm and his own Navy-issued wool peacoat already on. He held up her coat to help her into it and offered his arm to her, walking at her side out into the cool spring night.

The air was clear and crisp, with a half-moon overhead. The streets were brutally dark thanks to the blackout and they made their way clumsily along the road, squinting to see landmarks in the dim moonlight.

“It's down to the left, one more block,” she said as they passed the entrance to another dance club where the only light came from several cigarettes that glowed as young people poured in and out from the doors and slipped behind blackout curtains into the well-lit hall.

“Can we pause a moment,” Oliver asked. “Sorry, just a moment.”

She stopped, turning to look at him.

“Sorry,” he repeated, reaching for his handkerchief. She could see him silhouetted in the dim moonlight as his shoulders trembled and he shook his head for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he pitched forward with a wrenching sneeze.

Hurhhh-TSGHXTT!

Unable to mask the sound, he gave a brief but noisy blow into the handkerchief afterwards before hastily tucking it into his coat pocket.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, taking her arm up again. She gave him a light squeeze, leaning against his side as she did so.

“Don't apologize,” she said. “I'm only sorry to hear you so poorly. Blasted cold seems to be going around everywhere.”

“The boys in my unit said that if I can't spend a night out with a head cold, there's no way I'd last through a month at sea battling the Germans,” said Oliver, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat with a cough. “I suppose that's true.”

“Well, we'll find you something warm to drink at the restaurant and that should revive you,” Kat said cheerfully.

They were just rounding the last corner onto the street where the restaurant was located when a sound split the air. The wail of the air raid sirens began their raised pitch, increasing to a loud din of pulsing noise.

They paused in the street, stunned. It shouldn't have been entirely a surprise; the sirens were a regular occurrence in the city but neither one of them had encountered the alert while out on the street.

In the darkness, a voice shouted authoritatively.

“To your shelters, please! Nearest public shelter is the Piccadilly Circus station. To your shelters please!”

The figure of an air raid warden with a metal helmet on passed by.

“Which way is Piccadilly?” Oliver asked.

Kat glanced up and down the dark street.

“My rooms are only two or so more blocks past here,” she said. “If we hurry, we should be fine. There's a cellar in the back.”

Gripping his arm tightly, she led the way down the road. Several times they nearly collided with others making their way to safety. As they neared the house where she rented lodgings, the sky began to shine with searchlights and in the distance, the sound of anti-aircraft guns began to crackle. The bliss of dancing and the haze of champagne cleared from Kat's head as she steered them down an alley between some homes and to a metal hatch that covered the entrance to the cellar. She tugged it open and hovered a foot over the void, finding the top step.

“Six steps down. Pull the door shut behind you,” she said to Oliver. Her hand trailed along the earthen edge of the wall until it met the edge of a candlestick and a pack of matches. She struck one alight as Oliver shut the hatch with a loud bang.

The tiny chamber glowed in the candlelight, illuminating the stone and soil room. Oliver was breathing heavily, almost wheezing. Katherine tipped the lit candle to light others, gradually brightening the room enough to see without too much strain.

“Sit,” she insisted, gesturing to a small crate topped with a cushion. “Catch your breath. I'll put some tea on.”

Hhh-TSGHHH!

The sound of the sneeze startled her and she looked over in time to see Oliver building up to a second. He tipped forward, nose nestling into the folds of his waiting handkerchief.

Ehhh—hhehhTSXHHT! “Bless you!” she said earnestly. “Are you warm enough? There's plenty of blankets. My landlady, Mrs. Beecher, is up north visiting her sister and the other girl who rents rooms is at her family home for the week. So it's just you and me here unless we get some surprise guests from next door.”

“No, I'm fine,” he said quietly, wiping his nose. “Sorry.”

“I don't mind a bit of sniffling,” she said teasingly. “You don't need to keep apologizing.”

“Have you had to spend many nights down here?” he asked, surveying the cellar. It was appointed with provisions for the three woman who lived above plus extras for any visitors who might end up sheltering there. Two wooden bunks were stacked against one wall, each with pillows and blankets and thin mattresses. Another mattress was rolled and stored in a nearby trunk with additional linens. A small table held a kettle on a fuel-powered heater and several teacups. There was a deck of cards, a basket of knitting, and a lidded chamberpot. Someone had cheekily hung a framed piece of embroidery that read “Home Sweet Home.”

“Oh, I've lost count,” Kat said as she set the kettle to boil once she'd filled it with water from one of the three large canteens by the steps that led outside. “This is only the second time I've ended up down here in an evening gown, though.”

Once the kettle was heating, she opened a chest and took out a wool jumper and a pair of socks.

“Good thing I'm prepared,” she added.

Oliver watched as she sat on a wooden chair and unstrapped her high heel shoes and slid her hand up under her gown to unclip her precious nylon stockings. Careful not to snag them, she rolled them down her legs and pulled on the socks.

He laughed as she put the jumper on over her evening gown, put her coat back on top of that, and donned a pair of Wellington rubber boots. She struck a pose for him.

“You'd be the toast of all the fashion magazines,” he declared.

His chuckle turned to a cough that sounded strained and painful. She frowned at him and shook her head.

“I'd say you should've followed your own ideas and stayed home instead of the advice of your mates,” she said. “But I have to admit I've awfully glad I ran into you.”

He recovered from the coughing spell and looked at her with affection.

“I'm glad too,” he said. She poured the hot water from the kettle into a teapot to steep and selected two teacups.

Outside, the din of the air raid sirens had ended. There was the sound of distant explosions, but for the time being they were far from the action.

“I'm afraid I've no milk to offer but we have a bit of honey.”

“That'd be lovely, thanks,” he said.

She poured them each a cup and sat opposite him, savouring the warm tea. He drank his own cup, clearly soothed by the hot liquid. He dabbed at his nose a few times with his handkerchief as it began to run from the warmth.

When the cups were empty, they sat in silence for a moment. A bomb exploded somewhere a few blocks away and the candles flickered as the shockwave trembled through the earth. The remaining teacups on the table rattled against each other. Kat closed her eyes for a moment, sighing.

“Are you frightened?” Oliver asked.

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “I suppose I always am, a little. But not terribly.”

She set her teacup down on the table and moved to sit on the bottom bunk bed, patting the mattress beside her. He stood and moved to her side. The next thing she knew, they were kissing, his hands were in her hair and she had a hand on his chest. She kicked off the boots and pulled up her dress so she could sit astride his lap. He kissed down her neck and tugged her coat off, his hand going under her jumper and stroking her breasts through the silk of her gown.

She exhaled with pleasure, starting to slowly grind against his hips. She reached for the waistband of his trousers and he helped her with his belt. He made a soft moaning noise as she fumbled with the buttons at his fly and found her way downwards. His lips brushed her shoulder, pressing kisses where the neck of her jumper was stretched to the side. A brief cough escaped him, puffing against her skin. He muttered an apology and she murmured a sweet assurance as she began to stroke him.

“Wait,” he said breathlessly. He pulled her arms upwards and guided the jumper off over her head. She pushed his coat off him and made quick work of the buttons of his shirt, tugging that off too. He urgently shed his shoes and trousers as she stood and slipped off the silk gown revealing a satin bra and knickers with mother-of-pearl buttons.

He watched her hungrily as she slid out of the knickers and climbed back onto the mattress, guiding his pants off his hips. They kissed tenderly and she settled down on top of him, hips rising to meet hips. He made that same low moaning noise and she felt her body jolt with pleasure, hands roaming through his chestnut curls.

He made love to her urgently as the sound of bombs echoed outside. They moved together, breath increasing to gasps. His nose was running freely and he briefly sniffled and pressed it against his own shoulder to rub it. She kissed his neck and felt the expanse of his chest press against hers as he took a sharp breath. His body shuddered under her as he sneezed a restrained outburst, clearly trying to keep the explosion minimal.

Ngh-GHXT!

She moaned involuntarily as the spasm thrust him against her.

“Fuck,” he groaned under his breath. “Sorry.”

“Please,” she gasped. “Oliver!”

He sniffled thickly and then resumed with vigour until they both lay panting and shivering on the bed. He looked utterly exhausted but there was a smile on his lips. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“You sweet thing,” she whispered. “As if you weren't exhausted at the start of the evening.”

She slipped out of the bed with a blanket around her shoulders and found his shirt and socks and underthings on the ground.

“Best put at least your socks on before you drop off entirely,” she said tenderly, helping him dress before they both slipped under the quilts again.

She woke at some ungodly hour to the sound of nose-blowing and the roar of the 'all clear' siren. From feel, she could tell Ollie was sitting up in bed, straining to clear his nose with his sodden handkerchief. It was pitch black in the shelter and she had no idea how long they'd been asleep.

She managed to find the matches and lit a candle. Oliver sounded dreadfully congested and by the dim light of the single candle, she could see his nose was red and angry-looking at the edges.

“Oh, love,” she said, leaving the candle on the bedside table and climbing back under the quilts next to him. “How do you feel?”

He exhaled noisily.

“Rather poorly, I'm afraid,” he said hoarsely. “I hope for your sake it's not catching.”

She squinted at the wristwatch she kept wrapped on the bedpost. It was half-past four.

“It's still early but there's the all-clear. Do you want to get rugged up in my bed upstairs or stay here.”

He folded the handkerchief and tucked it at his side, snuggling back down beside her.

“That answers that,” she said, tucking his head against her breast. She stroked his hair and planted a kiss there. “Try to get some more rest, darling. I'll take good care of you.”

#dustyfic #snzfic

[thevindicativevordan]

Why I Like Superman

This is a post I’ve been going over and over in my head, trying to suss out my feelings. The simple fact is I love Superman, and I have for as long as I can remember. I wore Superman pajamas as a kid. I watched cartoons like Superman: The Animated Series, Justice League, Legion of Superheroes, and was hyped as hell when he showed up on The Batman cartoon. I drew variations of the S-shield all over the sides of my school notebooks, and I tied a towel around my neck and pretended I could fly.

One of my favorite Xbox games to play was the Superman Returns tie-in game (remember those?), because it was the only game I could play that let me fly around, shooting off heat vision and freezing people with arctic breath. I still remember the opening that had you destroy asteroids, and being absolutely wowed as a kid by the big finale which had you slam into the largest asteroid at supersonic speed to destroy it. Took me forever to beat the Warworld arena level though because I didn’t know how to block.

Because there were no local comic shops near my home for me to go buy issues at (not that I even knew what a local comic shop was at the time), I kept up with his, and the rest of my favorite DC heroes adventures, via reading the DC wiki. I spent so much of my time waiting for my mom to get off the computer so I could go online and catch up that my parents installed parental blocks because they were worried about what I was doing.

In short he’s been a constant favorite of mine throughout childhood, through my teenage years, and straight on into adulthood. I never developed the dislike or distaste for him that some people did, and he never dropped out of the top spot for me like he did for others. There were times when he shared the top spot for me with Batman and Spider-Man, until One More Day wrecked my relationship with Spidey and I grew bored of the endless cycles of Batman being a dick to the Batfamily and then learning he needs them. But even throughout his lowest points (and God have there been so many of those in the last decade), he’s remained the top guy for me.

But why? I think it’s in part because of the type of genre he embodies. He is of course The Superhero, and he lives in the genre he founded, but he also lives in a type of optimistic science fiction genre that’s downright extinct nowadays. As a kid I was a massive science fiction fan, and my dad was friends with a guy who was also hugely into science fiction. This guy had a basement full of science fiction books written from the Golden Age of Science Fiction, up until the cyberpunk era kicked off in the 1980s. He was happy to hand novels off to me, and his private library beat the hell out of our public one. I devoured stories of fearless heroes in space exploring new worlds, first contact with alien races, mindbending new technologies that seemed like magic, about transcending our mortal flesh and becoming part of a universal, transcendental whole, stories that didn’t just talk about technology but about the human condition. Stories that while sometimes bleak, painted a positive picture of the human ability to overcome our inherent flaws and be a powerful force for good. And ultimately Superman speaks from the same source.

It’s not just about the powers, although those who completely dismiss their appeal are making a mistake I believe. It’s about humanity, about our ability to transcend our base natures, reflected in this Strange Visitor from Another Planet, who embodies our virtues and our vices, who is torn between the fear of doing too much and the fear of doing too little. Who hides his true self behind a pair of glasses because he craves the fellowship of humanity more than any amount of glory or riches. His no-kill rule a firm affirmation of the value of life, all life everywhere no matter it’s form. His greatest love, Lois Lane, is his co-worker and greatest rival as a reporter, who has everyone’s number in her phone, be they crime lord or living saint. His greatest friend, Jimmy Olsen, is the guy everyone else ignores or bosses around, but is a rich kid weirdo who gets up to all sorts of bizarre adventures that keep the Daily Planet afloat. His childhood friends are superheroes from the future, his home City of Metropolis is 10 years ahead of everyone else in terms of technology, his dog can shatter concrete via barking at it, his home den is a ice crystal castle situated at the North Pole, like Santa’s Workshop. In short his life is one where even the mundane corners hide fantastical attributes. By living among us, he helps to elevate us, to make our daily grind interesting by seeing through the lens of his life. As others have said, we walk our dogs around the block, he walks his around the solar system.

But it would be a mistake to assume that Superman doesn’t tackle the darker sides of life too. Even the most optimistic sci-fi novels that I read as a kid had dystopic elements in them, intended or not. His home planet of Krypton was our technological superior, yet ignored the warnings of it’s chief scientist, and died a victim of it’s own greed and arrogance with Kal-El as the Last Son. His birth parents died in the fires of self-perpetuated genocide, his adopted parents the Kents often fall to mundane heart diseases or accidents, which even his power can not save them from. His greatest enemy Lex Luthor, is the one person who can understand his loneliness, his need for the public’s approval and acceptance, and yet the shared enmity between the two has ruined any chance of them forming a friendship that could have been. The shining City of Metropolis venerates Luthor as well as Clark, reflecting the greed, selfishness, and callousness of it’s other favorite child. Suicide Slum stands as a testament to the limits of how much Superman can improve life. The Phantom Zone is a spinechilling example of the inhumane treatment of prisoners. His foes ran the gauntlet from greedy businessmen out for money at any cost, to victims who have suffered at humanity’s hands and seek revenge, to sociopaths who treat other peoples pain and lives as a source of amusement, to murderers who care not from where the blood flows, only that it does, to tyrants who seek to crush all resistance underneath their heel, to gods who wish the elimination of free will itself. Each of them force Superman to confront the fallibility of human nature and wrestle with whether or not his faith in both them and himself is justified.

In a sentence? I love Superman because he’s a character you can do almost anything with, from comedic hijinks, to serious dramas, to distributing horror stories, to exciting adventure stories. He reminds me of the best type of science fiction stories, ones that explore people and existence from all sorts of angles, that never lose sight of the emotional human core at the heart of all the high concept existential concepts. He’s made me laugh, cry, think, get motivated, get angry, and sometimes just get writing. He brings the big ideas and the human emotions that keep me reading comics throughout all the Big 2′s bullshit. He still believes in the human capacity for good, in spite of our flaws, in spite of how few of us seem to believe in that capacity ourselves, and he shows us that it’s still there by touching our hearts through his stories. That’s why I like Superman, and why he’s my favorite superhero.

#superman #dc comics #lex luthor #lois lane #me

[artificialqueens]

Me and You Together, 5/10 (Taywhora) - Ortega

fic summary: The cardinal rule of having flatmates is that you Do Not Catch Feelings For Your Flatmates, because everything inevitably goes to shit and gets made horrifically awkward. A’whora and Tayce both know this, but being in first year of uni and making good decisions have never really gone hand in hand.

a/n: I’M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! i won’t bore u with a big long a/n but i will say thank u so so much for everyone that’s shown this fic love and been supportive to me over the writing process of this chapter, it means the world. this one has a content warning for…drumroll please…smut! enjoy u slaaaags xo

last chapter: October- The gang made plans for their first year together, Tia gave everyone plans for the evening, and A'whora had a realisation that would change the dynamic of her friendship with Tayce forever.

this chapter: February- Tayce has always hated Valentine’s day. But will hatching a plan with Lawrence and spending the day with A’whora change her opinion on it this year?

***

Tayce thinks it’s nothing short of a miracle that they’ve not been caught yet.

Honestly, she should’ve known how her and A’whora attempting to sneak around would go from the start; it’s not as if either of them are subtle people. Between A’whora always needing people’s eyes and attention to be on her and Tayce simply being unable not to attract attention, it’s hard for either of them to be covert in any way, shape or form.

The first time (or first three times in quick succession) back last month had been easy enough; by the time Bimini, Lawrence and Ellie had returned back to the flat from their day drinking expedition with Ellie’s friend they’d all been too drunk to see their hands in front of their faces, never mind notice that Tayce’s room smelt of sex and that A’whora’s top was on back to front. But living with four other people and trying to find a time where they’re all out of the flat at the same time is like gold dust, so a lot of the time Tayce and A’whora will disappear to one of their rooms (ten minutes apart, so as not to attract suspicion) and then have to spend the entire rendezvous talking in hushed whispers or biting down hard on their lips or whining into their pillows to make sure nobody boots down the door and demands to know what’s going on.

Still, even if it’s quiet and covert, Tayce is nothing short of addicted to this new layer of the relationship she has with A’whora. There’s something intoxicating about giving A’whora what she wants: it’s in the way her big, pleading doe-eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, the way her lips drop open from a bratty pout into a blissful gasp or a too-loud moan that makes Tayce feel like clamping a hand over her mouth. It’s surely only a matter of time before the others find out and ruin this whole thing for them so Tayce wants to make sure A’whora doesn’t blow their cover, because there’s part of her that loves keeping it all under wraps like it’s their own little secret they share.

Besides, the sight of A’whora biting down hard on her knuckles when she’s trying desperately not to make a sound is never one that Tayce is going to pass up on.

It’s the way she goes quiet when things get intense and Tayce has to draw her words out of her like she does her orgasm, because aside from the fact that she needs to know if A’whora’s enjoying everything Tayce is doing, the way she starts blushing whenever she tells her what she wants or how good something feels is sinful enough to make Tayce believe that maybe hell wouldn’t be so bad.

The juxtaposition of the devilishness A’whora manages to radiate whilst looking like and talking with the voice of an angel isn’t lost on Tayce. The way she’s so eager to please, the way she always asks if everything’s okay, the way she’ll look up from between Tayce’s legs with that ever-so-slightly deer in the headlights look with her juice smeared across her lips like gloss and wait for Tayce to tell her everything feels amazing before she’ll relax, and a mischievous grin will take hold on her face before she’ll continue pushing her increasingly closer to the edge. Tayce had always thought praise kinks were a myth but A’whora is the living Kelpie that disproves her theory. She only ever needs to tell her that she’s a good girl, or that she’s pretty, or that she’s perfect (usually with a princess tacked onto it for good measure) for A’whora to whimper and beg, greedy and impatient. The way she reacts to the praise is enough to make Tayce want to keep giving it, so she supposes the relationship is a symbiotic one.

It’s funny the way they seem to swap personalities in bed. Tayce- who usually can’t shut up or slow down if her life depended on it- likes hushed giggles, breathy gasps, biting hard on her lip to make sure she’s not too loud. She likes to draw out the foreplay and teasing until they’re both burning up and so wet they drip down their thighs and onto the sheets, and when she fucks A’whora she’s always painstaking and precise, slow and languid. A’whora, for her part, is the opposite. She moans and whines and bucks her hips in the air, always desperate for satisfaction and to satisfy Tayce in return. She knows exactly how to push Tayce to the edge and then over it and she never wastes a minute getting there, sometimes ripping two or three orgasms from her in quick succession with nothing short of relentless, smug determination. They shouldn’t work together but Jesus Christ, they do.

It’s because of all this that the way they sneak around has become a kind of foreplay for them. The trips to the smoking area on nights out just so Tayce can back A’whora against the wall and crash her lips against hers needily. The squeeze they’ll give each others’ thighs under the table if they’ve all gone somewhere for dinner together, and the twinkle in both of their eyes acting as a promise of things to come later. The text A’whora gives Tayce from the sofa opposite as they’re all sitting around watching whatever shite Tia has stuck on that simply says “i want to 👅 your 🐈 until you 💦” which makes Tayce almost choke on whatever she happens to be eating or drinking.

But she supposes the rest of her flatmates have been too wrapped up in their own feelings to even notice her and A’whora’s lack of subtlety. The end of January saw Tia finally make things official with Veronica who she’d been seeing for a few months already, so she’s been bouncing around the flat with a spring in her step and a permanent smile on her face and always humming or singing a cheerful tune under her breath. Tayce is happy for the girl, she really is, but even she has to admit the pair of them acting like little loved-up Sylvanian Family squirrels is vaguely nauseating; the way they’ll nuzzle each others’ noses while curled up together on the sofa and the way they happily belt along to Heathers while they make pancakes together at eight in the morning on a Sunday, which is never the hangover cure they seem to think it is.

In stark contrast, Ellie has been stomping through the flat for the past few weeks or so as if she’s an assassin with a bounty on Cupid. At literally any mention of love or romance she’s there with a fake retch or a huge roll of her blue eyes, talking about how she wishes every couple on earth would drop off the face of it. She has stark disregard for Tia’s happiness, preferring instead to wallow in her own misery. It’s immature and it’s petty and it’s completely ridiculous but Tayce supposes Ellie is hurt and heartbroken, and Tia and Veronica are getting the brunt of it because they’re the root cause.

If Ellie is bad then Lawrence is worse. If Ellie is pissed off then Lawrence is woeful, and she’s not much better whenever she’s forced to be around the flat’s new couple. Her usually cheerful jokes poking fun at her various flatmates are now entirely based around how single she is, all delivered as if Eeyore had a stand-up set. There’s only so many times Tayce can fake-laugh at each variation, only so much enthusiasm she can inject into the laugh she gives in response to “I’m so single I canny even get a bus to hit on me”. Combined with the constant way Crazy for You is getting blasted from behind her closed bedroom door on a loop, Lawrence has been acting like the lesbian reincarnation of Bridget Jones for entirely too long to be considered acceptable.

“Why don’t we just tell Els that Lawrence likes her?” A’whora had suggested, as they’d lain in Tayce’s bed naked apart from her duvet that was wrapped around them both and the opening drum beat to Crazy for You had cut through the wall for the third time in the past ten minutes.

(Tayce knows Lawrence had asked her not to tell A’whora about her crush on Ellie. She does feel bad for telling A’whora about her crush on Ellie. But when A’whora had asked her why she thought Lawrence had been behaving like a war-era mourning widow for the past few weeks it had just slipped out. Besides, the threat of a month without sex that Tayce had used as leverage so A’whora wouldn’t blab to Ellie about it has so far seemed to be good enough motivation. As it stands neither of them seem to be able to go three days without a shag, so she’s really hoping A’whora doesn’t open her big mouth for both their sakes.)

“It’s not that simple,” Tayce had muttered, threading some of A’whora’s long, straight hair through her fingers absent-mindedly as she spoke. “There’s feelings there, they wouldn’t be able to just fall together like we did. It’s messier when there’s crushes involved. With us it’s just good sex with a good friend, you know?”

A’whora had gone quiet as she nodded, a minute frown appearing on her face. Tayce supposes it had been as a result of the prospect of more Madonna ballads from Lawrence’s room for the foreseeable future.

Bimini, who Tayce has been the most concerned about picking up on something being different between her and A’whora, has been surprisingly and uncharacteristically imperceptive. Bimini being Bimini hasn’t let on that there’s anything different going on with them, but Tayce is sure it’s got something to do with the bashful smile they give their phone screen sometimes, or the way they seem to be at the flat with them all less and less of late, or the uni project they’re completing with their friend Asttina which seems to have been going on for about a fortnight. Whatever it is, they seem happier than usual; a little cheerful glow lighting them up from the inside out that Tayce just knows there’s a reason behind. She’ll let them tell her in their own time.

If the atmosphere in the flat had been full of mixed-up, chaotic sets of feelings before, then when it reaches Valentine’s Day it’s on another level entirely.

Tayce begins her day waking up, rubbing her eyes, and stretching as far as her bones and muscles will allow. She’s alone in bed- she and A’whora never sleep over in each others’ rooms, the overwhelming amount of suspicion it would draw the next day would be staggering- but Tayce sometimes wonders what it would be like to wake up with A’whora. Maybe she’d be curled around her, having sought her out in the night to cuddle. Maybe she talks in her sleep. Maybe she snores. Tayce doesn’t know why she’s thinking about this, or indeed why she wants to know what it would be like.

They’re just friends, after all.

She sleepily snatches up her phone from her bedside table, checks the time (10am, a decent enough lie in) and then checks her notifications. She’s got a Whatsapp message from A’whora and she ends up spluttering a laugh as she opens it. It’s a photo of her having clearly just woken up, hair all messy in its bun and bags under her brown eyes. She’s sinking into the pillow and pulling a face that gives her a double chin. She looks a state, but something about the photo makes Tayce’s heart happy. It’s the fact that A’whora- the same A’whora who took a month before she let her flatmates see her without makeup, does a full face before even going to Tesco, and fake tans twice a week- has sent her a selfie with a sleepy, bare, ridiculous face. Tayce has always felt a little like their friendship has been a series of breaking down A’whora’s walls and with this, another one has crumbled. It’s nice that she trusts Tayce enough with every little part of her, and it’s a responsibility that Tayce doesn’t take lightly.

The message that accompanies the photo says “Happy valentine’s day bestie xxx” and Tayce feels her heart flutter a bit. It should feel weird that A’whora’s acknowledging the significance of the day. It’s kind of overstepping the line they’ve drawn together, it’s sort of breaking an unspoken promise.

But regardless, Tayce doesn’t mind. She actually likes it, more than she probably should. So she taps her nails against the screen, smiling in spite of herself as her message starts to appear.

T: that selfie’s really doing it for me uno

T: got me all excited for the romantic valentine’s day sex we’re gonna be having xo

The screen tells her that A’whora’s typing, and she can feel the heat begin to pool in her stomach already at the prospect of some flirty texts to start the day off. That is until there’s a muffled drum beat and an oboe that drifts into Tayce’s consciousness through the wall, and she realises with visceral frustration that Lawrence is playing that god damn bloody fucking song again.

Tayce lifts her leg and kicks the wall that separates her room and Lawrence’s with a thud thud thud, hoping it’ll make it all stop- the soundtrack to her friend’s emotional pining doesn’t double up as a good soundtrack to dirty texting. To Tayce’s exasperation, however, her door flies open a few moments later, and she cranes her neck and buries her phone under her pillow to find that Lawrence has invited herself in.

“Did you knock?” she asks inquisitively. Tayce narrows her eyes.

“If ‘knocked’ means ‘banged on the wall to shut you up’, then yeah, I did,” Tayce deadpans. Lawrence doesn’t seem to take the hint and instead lets out a dramatic sign, flops down beside Tayce on her bed as if to fully illustrate the fact she isn’t leaving anytime soon.

“Tayyyce,” she begins, whining pitifully. Lawrence is never one to conceal how she’s feeling and always wears her heart on her sleeve, which Tayce can appreciate in a friend. If Lawrence is annoyed, she’ll tell you. If Lawrence is happy, she’ll show it. If Lawrence is pining after her best friend she’s been in love with for years, she’ll let everyone know…apart from the only girl it affects directly.

“What is it, babe?” Tayce asks sympathetically, rolling onto her side to give her friend a cuddle. She knows what the matter is, but she also knows Lawrence clearly wants to vent, so she’ll be a good friend and let her.

Lawrence huffs a sigh. “Tia’s all loved up with Veronica in the kitchen and Bimini’s probably off shagging their pal right now and Ellie’s never going to know I exist as anything other than a friend. I fuckin’ hate Valentine’s Day.”

Tayce would normally agree. Tayce usually hates it too. It’s corporate and cheap and tokenistic, as if the only ways people can show love are through red roses, chocolate or teddies. Pick one or all three, give them to the person you love the most otherwise did you ever really love them at all? Maybe she’d like it better if she had someone to spend it with, but she’s not. She’s never.

Apart from today, that is. Apart from A’whora.

“It’s bullshit,” Tayce nods, squeezing Lawrence’s side. “But hey, you’re not on your own, girl. I’ve not got anyone to spend it with either, and neither’s A’whora.”

Lawrence sticks her bottom lip out. “Yeah, but you two aren’t all sad with feelings and crushes. I mean, we all know A’whora’s not got a heart so she’s off to a flyer already.”

Tayce laughs at Lawrence’s joke even though they both know it couldn’t be less true if she tried. She pokes Lawrence’s arm, frowning and unable to stand her moping much longer. “Well, why don’t you try and make a move today? Y’know, show Ellie why you’re a good option as well.”

“A good option? Sorry, I didn’t realise I’m sat in a fridge next to a sandwich as part of a Tesco meal deal,” Lawrence rolls her eyes. Tayce nudges her with her foot to make a point.

“Fuck off. You know what I mean! Hang out with her, do something fun. Maybe dial up the flirting a bit.”

Lawrence rolls over onto her side to face her, as if to drive home the pointed stare she’s fixing her with. “Have you ever seen me trying to flirt? There’s a reason I’ve never brought a girl back here. I mean my vagina’s so out of use I think it’s closed up like a pierced ear nobody’s put an earring through in a while.”

Tayce lets out a screech, part-horrified, part-disgusted. Her stomach hurts as she tries to collect herself, and an idea forms in her mind. “You could so do it if you tried. Hey, here’s what to do, right? Tia and Veronica are going out for that big romantic beach walk Tia’s been talking our ears off about for weeks. Bimini’s missing in action, as you said, and probably will be for most of the day. And I’ll get A’whora out of the flat for a while. So that means you’ve got Ellie all to yourself, on Valentine’s day, ready to be…I don’t know, wined, dined and sixty-nined.”

It’s Lawrence’s turn to howl in disgust now, but the sparkle’s back in her eyes as she grins at Tayce. “I don’t think we’re at that stage yet, doll. But I don’t know, maybe you’re right. I mean she’s never gonna see me as anything more than a friend if I keep acting like only that, is she?”

Tayce smiles, glad to see she’s instilled some confidence in her friend. “That’s my girl!”

Lawrence claps her hands together decisively. “There we go, then. I’ll have her drippin’ like a knackered fridge in no time!”

The pair of them burst out into untethered shrieks of laughter, ones that draw footsteps from the hall and cause Tayce’s door to open again, this time to reveal both Ellie and A’whora. It looks as if the pair of them were together too, and Tayce thinks it wouldn’t be unusual if Ellie had been venting to A’whora about her own unrequited crush.

“What the hell is so funny? I’m trying to do a big emotional, dramatic monologue about my broken heart to this one but I can’t, because all we can hear is your monkey screeching through the wall,” Ellie grumps, sitting herself down at the foot of the bed.

“We were shagging. That’s just the noise I make when I come,” Lawrence deadpans. As Ellie and A’whora splutter a laugh, Tayce fixes Lawrence with an incredulous stare, one which she hopes communicates “if that was you flirting then what the fuck?”.

“G’wan, Els. Do your big monologue here,” Tayce encourages her, budging up as A’whora squashes onto the bed too even though there’s barely room for two at the best of times, never mind four. A’whora groans long-sufferingly.

“Please don’t make me sit through it again.”

Ellie turns to her friend, affronted. “Girl!”

“I’m joking, babe.”

Appeased, Ellie lets out a plaintive little sigh as she casts her gaze up to the ceiling. “I’m just fucked off. I mean I get that Tia’s happy, and I’m happy for her-”

“No you’re not,” Lawrence cuts in matter-of-factly.

“No I’m not, but that’s beside the point,” Ellie rolls with the interruption, making Tayce snort with her honesty. “I just wish they weren’t…rubbing it in my face all the time, you know?”

“They can’t rub it in your face if they don’t know you like Tia, Ellie. You can’t get annoyed at them for existing,” A’whora pulls a face, honest to a fault. It’s something else that Tayce really appreciates about her; she knows she’ll never get bullshitted by A’whora, knows she’s truthful and upfront. It’s just another part of what makes their arrangement work so well- she knows A’whora’s not exactly going to be covering up any feelings anytime soon.

Ellie continues with a huff. “I know. And I know I’m being unfair, and I know I’m being immature about it all.”

“Give yourself some credit, girl, you only just turned eighteen about five minutes ago. You’re allowed to be immature,” Tayce quips, earning a laugh from A’whora and Lawrence and a scowl from Ellie that she knows she doesn’t really mean.

“It just sucks not being able to turn my feelings off. I want to get over her, you know? It’s just hard when we live together and Veronica’s round all the time.”

There’s a lull in conversation where the girls hum in agreement and empathy. Tayce chooses this time to sneakily elbow Lawrence in her side, as if to nudge her towards spending time with Ellie.

Lawrence takes the hint. “Ellie, what’re you doing today, hen?”

Ellie looks despondently at her. “Probs greetin’ into a pint of Haagen Dazs. How?”

“Well, I’m wanting to dye my hair,” Lawrence says, and the niche context for spending time together knocks Tayce for six a little. “And although I wouldn’t trust you to keep a succulent alive, I’d trust you to do a not awful job of hairdresser duties. You wanty help me out with it?”

Tayce tries not to look at A’whora because she knows they’ll end up sharing a knowing smile that’s entirely too suspicious as Ellie’s face lights up. “If anything would cheer me up right now it’s the prospect of fucking up your hair beyond all recognition.”

“Brilliant,” Lawrence deadpans, though there’s a little smile on her lips which suggests to Tayce that Ellie could very well completely shave her completely bald then dye her scalp yellow and Lawrence would still thank her.

Tayce turns to smile at A’whora. Time to hold up her end of the deal.

“Well, I don’t much fancy staying to deal with the fallout of this inevitable disaster. You wanna go for brunch somewhere?”

A’whora’s so clearly trying to bite back her smile, make it seem more contained and controlled, but it still spreads across her face like a sunbeam and it warms Tayce’s heart like one too. “Alright. S’pose I could squeeze you into the calendar somewhere.”

As the pair of them lock eyes and Tayce struggles to suppress her own smile, the girls are interrupted by a knock on the door. Tayce shouts them in, figuring they might as well squeeze a few more people onto the bed while they’re at it and attempt some sort of world record, but it’s Tia and Veronica and they aren’t staying long judging by the fact they’ve both got their jackets on.

“Just saying goodbye before our lil’ seaside adventure!” Tia smiles, her happiness completely uncontained and radiating from her; if A’whora’s smile was a sunbeam then Tia encapsulates the energy of the whole burning star. Tayce is happy for her.

“Have fun girlies, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Tayce smiles, waggling her fingers in a wave.

“Aye, no sex on the beach!” Lawrence says, unsubtle and untactful as ever. Veronica flushes so red she borders on purple, and Ellie gives a laugh dripping in schadenfreude.

“Wind your bloody neck in, you menace,” Veronica bites back good-humouredly, the dregs of her embarrassment still colouring her cheeks. “Have you seen the weather forecast for today? It’s absolutely freezing!”

“That the only thing stopping you? Sure you wouldn’t be the only people in existence that’ve tried to shag wearing two jumpers and a parka,” Lawrence continues to joke, and by now Ellie is a collapsed heap on the bed.

Tia speaks for her girlfriend who’s still blushing fire-engine red. “Well usually, Lawrence, you wear sexy underwear for your girlfriend on Valentine’s day. Not that you’d know.”

A’whora and Ellie let out a little whoop of shock in response to the shady comment, which neither Lawrence nor Tayce join in with. Tayce deigns to give it a little smirk, but knowing how Lawrence has been feeling for the past few weeks kind of removes the humour of the comment for her.

“Here, watch it. Only I’m allowed to make jokes about how single I am,” Lawrence herself narrows her eyes in response, before smiling tightly at the loved-up pair. “Anyway, have a lovely time, you two!”

“We will!” Veronica practically squeaks in delight, flicking some of her blonde hair over her shoulders as she loops her arm through Tia’s and they leave the flat, the front door clicking behind them. There’s a silence in Tayce’s room before Lawrence speaks again.

“Smug wee gits.”

The rest of the girls dissolve into giggles, Tayce whacking Lawrence on the arm. “Shut up, bitter Betty. Go make your bad hair choices.”

“Right, let’s go!” Ellie claps excitedly before reaching out for Lawrence’s hand. She of course accepts gladly, a hint of pink blush to her cheeks as she’s dragged out of the room by her enthusiastic friend.

The moment Tayce’s door shuts A’whora shimmies up next to her side, a little twinkle in her eye that Tayce knows all too well.

“Hey you,” she smiles, throwing an arm and a leg over Tayce in a full-body hug. Tayce laughs at her clinginess, how she remembers A’whora describing herself as “not much of a huggy person” when they first met in freshers’ week and now she’s the human embodiment of a baby koala.

“Stop flirting, God,” Tayce shoots back playfully, watching the affronted expression take hold on A’whora’s face for only a second before pulling her in for a kiss that A’whora instantly turns up the heat of. Her lips are soft but her kiss is full of a hunger that makes something inside Tayce tighten up, and there’s something about the way A’whora clearly wants her that leaves her feeling ever-so-slightly breathless.

“Right, that’s enough of that,” Tayce jokes as she pulls away, and A’whora’s plaintive pout is almost motivation enough to keep going. But Tayce has made a promise to Lawrence, so she doubles down. “C’mon, get ready. And wear something classy as well, we ain’t going to some scaff caff we could spend any old hungover morning in.”

“Wait, were you serious about brunch?” A’whora’s expression changes, her smile becoming almost shy. It’s ever-so-slightly adorable and completely endearing.

“Yeah, girl! I said to Lawrence I’d take you out so that her and Ellie can have some alone time. Get your shit sorted,” Tayce explains.

There’s shutters that go down behind A’whora’s eyes suddenly, and Tayce narrows her eyes, confused. “Unless you’re not keen?”

“No, of course I’m keen!” A’whora brightens up a little, smiles at Tayce mischievously. “If you’re taking me out, though, you’re paying.”

Tayce blurts out a laugh. “Fuck off! Fine, I’ll pay today. Just means you have to pay next time.”

“Oh there’s a next time, is there?”

A’whora’s batting her lashes at her flirtatiously, but her words have made Tayce’s heart do a little somersault. She supposes what they’re doing is a little bit like a date, and that’s not what their relationship is. They used to hang out like that, though, used to do things just the pair of them like go to the library and pretend to do work, go for lunch at Nandos, watch films together curled up in bed. In a way, Tayce supposes nothing has changed. It would be weird to not hang out just the two of them just because they’ve started hooking up.

So Tayce just returns the smile, casual and chill because that’s what they’ve agreed to be. “I gotta get paid back somehow, don’t I?”

“Could pay you back in other ways,” A’whora winks, and Tayce splutters in a giggle.

“Shut your whore mouth or we’ll never bloody leave the flat.”

They get ready after that, anticipative energy radiating through the wall of A’whora’s room. Tayce feels almost a little nervous. She doesn’t know why. It’s just a brunch, and it’s just A’whora. If she thinks about it, though, A’whora’s never been just A’whora. Tayce has always found an element of joy in spending time with her that she hasn’t ever felt with the others. The spark that goes off in her heart whenever A’whora laughs at one of her jokes, the comfort she takes in just being in the same room as her. The way Tayce has always looked forward to the time they get to spend alone together and the way that, since they started whatever the hell this is, that feeling has only intensified.

It feels more intense now than it ever has before, though. Maybe because it’s a little bit like a date. Maybe because it’s exactly like a date. Maybe because Tayce shouldn’t be this happy about that fact. Maybe the way she used to fancy A’whora- the way she used to just want to kiss her and get her in her bed- has evolved since they started this whole friends-with-benefits situation.

She takes a little deep breath, frowning at herself as she does her lipstick in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together, girl,” she mutters under her breath; because really, what the hell kind of levels of freaked out would A’whora be if Tayce were to show or to tell her any of this? They’re just friends. Friends that hook up. Nothing more than that, and Tayce can’t let herself hope that hard either.

A’whora knocks on Tayce’s door just as she’s securing two gold hoops into her ears. She’s taken the wear something classy brief as seriously as Tayce knew she would, and she’s dressed in a short, black leather skirt and a black and white tailored shirt; one colour on each side, separated by buttons down the middle. Every little detail and accessory has been as thought out as an outfit from a fashion student could be: a pearl choker around her neck and a pearl headband through her intricately curled hair, simple silver earrings and a pink faux fur coat and the black Michael Kors bag that Tayce knows has been her pride and joy since she got it for Christmas. Her legs are bare and she’s wearing high black stilettos which make her legs look entirely too good, and in turn fill Tayce’s head with memories that she needs to push out of her head or else the outfit A’whora’s spent so long putting together is going to end up on the floor.

“Love this,” Tayce points at her approvingly, and A’whora’s smile is a little bashful as she gives a twirl. “You look stunning. I mean, you’ll be freezing. But you’ll be stunning and freezing.”

“Just means you can warm me up later,” A’whora winks at her, and Tayce hides a giggle behind her hand. She never used to get shy if a girl flirted with her, especially not one with the lack of flirting abilities that A’whora possesses. She could always give as good as she got, she still can.

Tayce doesn’t know, though. Something about the past month with A’whora has changed her a little now that their relationship is inherently more intimate. Tayce can drop the cool, calm and collected persona she always used to wear to get girls into bed. Instead she’s allowed herself to be a little more goofy, a little more wild and animated and energised. A little more herself.

“You look stunning too, though,” A’whora adds with sincerity, the little grin on her face only making matters worse. Tayce has decided on a white shirt dress she’s cinched in at the waist with a huge belt, and paired it with thigh high vinyl boots. It’s one of those outfits she owns which is low effort but high payoff, especially when A’whora’s got a little twinkle in her eye like that.

Tayce snorts, grabs her bag from the side of her bed and whacks A’whora with it. “Stop trying to flatter me into bed and let’s go, gorgeous.”

They leave the flat with a shout of goodbye to Ellie and Lawrence, but judging from the way the door’s open and the showerhead’s running and both girls are yelping and laughing in the midst of some water fight, they aren’t able to hear it. Tayce leads A’whora through the cobbled streets and winding, dipping roads of the city as she talks a mile-a-minute about where they’re going and how she hopes they’ll have a free table. She almost wants to reach out and take A’whora’s hand, entwine their fingers together like another piece of the puzzle they share clicking into place. She doesn’t, but she wants to.

She’s sure the feeling will pass, anyway.

She’s sure it’s normal for her heart to swell as much as it’s currently doing as she walks beside A’whora, for it to flutter like a moth to a light whenever she smiles and flashes her teeth. A’whora is beautiful, and Tayce is sure that even friends that didn’t fuck would get tongue-tied if one of them was as stunning as she is.

To her delight, the brunch spot she’d had in mind has a table free for them; one beside the feature wall of plastic pink, blue and yellow flowers which Tayce already knows A’whora will be asking to take her photo in front of. She’s never actually been here before but she’s seen pictures on Instagram of the pink painted walls and pastel blue chairs and the white marble tabletops with shiny gold cutlery on top. She’s eyed up the breakfasts; avocado sourdough, eggs with golden yolks, and something which they’ve branded ‘donut French toast’ which A’whora is currently telling Tayce how excited she is to order, her eyes sparkling. If this was a date, it would be the perfect venue.

It’s just a pity that it isn’t.

They order two mimosas with their breakfasts- because fuck it, it’s Valentine’s day, and Tayce wants to celebrate the fact she’s got someone to spend it with even if it is just a friend- and the two of them fall into easy chat about all kinds of topics; uni, their courses, life at home in Wales and Worksop. Dating somebody new comes with stilted conversations, awkward pauses, the potential to cover a touchy subject. With A’whora there’s none of that. They already know each other inside out so they don’t have anything to re-learn. Tayce tells A’whora stories about Cara and Cheryl and understands when A’whora doesn’t join in with stories about her own friends from home. Instead, A’whora brings up their flatmates.

“I get really existential about it all. Y’know, fate and stuff,” A’whora frowns across the table at her mid-conversation. “Like, what are the odds the five strangers I’d live with in first year would be people I all get on with and genuinely like? And most of them would become my best friends in the world. You know?”

Tayce nods understandingly. “No, I get that. And like, fate putting Ellie and Lawrence in the same flat when they’d known each other for that long. And Tia and Bimini on the same train up when they moved in. What a small world?”

“Everything happens for a reason,” A’whora says quietly, shaken out of her small reverie by the plate of sugar-covered toast that’s being placed in front of her and thanking the waitress politely. Tayce can’t help but splutter a laugh when they’re left alone together again, looking at how A’whora’s eyes have lit up at the food in front of her.

“You’re like a child! An actual child. Swear to God, girl, you’ve got the same eating habits as Will Ferrel in Elf.”

A’whora cackles a laugh opposite her. Tayce wonders why it gives her such a sense of pride when A’whora laughs at something she says. Well, no- she knows exactly why, and the reason makes her stomach flip over like clothes in a tumble drier. She can’t think too much about that, though, so she thinks of something else quickly to take her mind off it.

“Right. I’ve got a fun game. First impressions of the five of us, go,” Tayce says, the idea coming to her as a result of what A’whora’s said. In response A’whora’s eyebrows shoot up, a scheming smile on her face as she tilts her head to consider her response.

“Ooh, well…easiest one is Bimini, because obviously I loved them from the get go.”

“How could you not?” Tayce agrees, spearing a strawberry from the pancakes she’s ordered herself.

“They just had this calm, kind aura that just immediately made me feel loads better about being away from home,” A’whora continues, nodding earnestly. “Same with Lawrence, although she was different. I actually thought she was batshit crazy. Or like, an alien, because no one human could be that funny.”

Snorting, Tayce points a finger at A’whora in recognition. “Jesus, that’s so true! I mean I’ve told you the story of when I first got to the flat? I actually thought she might’ve been on something. But that’s just who she is; when she’s up she’s up and when she’s down she’s down.”

There’s a pause as A’whora eats some more of her French toast, her gaze fixing on the wall as she thinks. “Ellie was the opposite. I didn’t know what to make of her at first. She was dead quiet and I think my back was up because I hated her dress sense.”

Tayce splutters. “Of course it was.”

“But now, like…God, don’t you miss the days when Ellie was quiet?” A’whora laughs affectionately. “I don’t know what I’d do without her, though.”

“She seemed a little more reserved than the others at first. But then that comes back to what you were saying about fate, because Lawrence definitely helped bring her out of her shell a bit.”

A’whora nods as she considers Tayce’s words, then her face breaks into a smile and she hides a guilty laugh behind her hands. “Tia…I thought I would not get on with at all.”

Tayce sips her drink and shrugs. “Well, you didn’t get on with her at first.”

“True. She’s just not somebody I would’ve ever hung out with before. I mean she’s told me before she thinks I would’ve bullied her in school, which, to be fair, I might’ve done,” A’whora pulls a guilty face. “But I guess being somehow the only two bitches with the ability to clean the flat is one hell of a bonding opportunity.”

Tayce feels her jaw drop open, offended. “Hey! I clean the flat!”

A’whora smirks. “Oh what, you pour undiluted Zoflora into the overflowing bin bag so it doesn’t smell, instead of actually…I don’t know, taking the bin out? My mistake, sorry. You’re actually the second coming of Mrs Hinch.”

The pair of them giggle together and Tayce sticks out her tongue in response. She takes a bite of her own breakfast before thinking about the girl they’re considering.

“I thought Tia was nice. Fun. I never saw her becoming my bestie or anything, but you know,” Tayce shrugs.

“No, that title was reserved for me,” A’whora smiles smugly. Tayce decides to have a bit of fun with her, tilts her head and narrows her eyes a little.

“You mean Bimini?”

“Fuck off,” A’whora fires back instantly, and Tayce throws her head back in a laugh. The laughter dies down as both girls eat some more of their food, until Tayce frowns at A’whora suddenly.

“You never said me.”

“Oh!” A’whora realises. Tayce thinks for a second that she could be blushing, but the sun has begun to appear behind the clouds and the light is shining through the glass windows and hitting the pink walls. It could just be that.

She looks gorgeous for it regardless.

“Do you want me to go first?” Tayce smirks, breaking out into a laugh as A’whora gives her an unimpressed glare.

“No, because I already know you’re gonna tell me you thought I was a total weirdo.”

“Not true! I actually thought you were a lot like me. Scared, nervous, a bit emotional. Well,” Tayce reaches across the table and pokes her playfully. “Maybe a bit more emotional than I was, but you know.”

A’whora rolls her eyes. “Good.”

“But seriously, I thought we were actually quite similar, y’know, underneath it all,” Tayce says, her voice growing a little quiet as she thinks. “It’s weird, isn’t it? The first maybe…month of uni. Everyone’s figuring shit out and either building new facades or letting their old ones from school or their hometowns drop. It’s rare you find someone who’s just real from the get-go.”

A’whora nods. “I think that was another reason why I was so scared. Because I was one of the bitches in school, and coming here I didn’t have those toxic friendships around me anymore. And you coming into my room on that first day was like…the first time in a while someone had actually been nice? And kind? So I guess I didn’t have much of a choice to just be myself. But also there was a part of me that didn’t really know what that looked like. You know?”

The conversation’s taken a deep turn, and Tayce doesn’t really know why. It’s not a result of one singular mimosa, she knows that much. But she’s glad A’whora feels like she’s able to talk like this with her. She knows it’s not always easy for her to open up to her friends, she knows she’s been burned in the past.

So Tayce reaches out across the table and takes her hand. “Well, to me…Aurora is a caring, kind, loyal friend. She has the biggest heart and all this love to give to so many people. She’s a shady hound, but we all love her for it. And all her friends treasure her because they know how lucky they are to have her in their lives.”

Tayce can tell A’whora’s trying to stop herself from smiling, and her gaze drops down to the table bashfully as she tucks her hair behind her ears. It’s almost like she’s embarrassed, self-conscious of the way all the diamonds of her personality have been excavated and laid bare. For a second Tayce feels a flush hit her face, wondering if she’s overstepped a mark, but then A’whora’s eyes lock onto hers and she’s smiling gratefully.

“Thanks, Tayce.”

Tayce would love to take her other hand. Tayce would love to lean over the table and kiss her in front of everyone else in the room. Tayce would love to tell A’whora everything she’s feeling, all these little moments and emotions illustrating a bigger picture that Tayce just wants her to colour in.

But they’re friends. So Tayce gives A’whora’s hand one last squeeze and winks at her as she draws her hand away.

“You’re welcome. Slag.”

And then they’re smiling at each other, and the conversation moves on. A’whora never did say what her first impressions of Tayce were, and it’s too late to ask her again. Tayce supposes it doesn’t really matter all that much. She’s more interested in how A’whora feels about her now. For example- does she feel the same way Tayce is feeling? Is she sitting opposite her trying to stop her heart jumping every time she smiles, trying to stop the butterflies fluttering in her stomach? Tayce is an upfront, honest girl. She’s blunt, and normally she’d ask.

But this situation isn’t normal, and something’s stopping her. Tayce always used to be the girl in primary school who’d play with the boys, run around the playground roaring until her lungs were hoarse pretending to be a tiger or a dragon, roll across the dusty tarmac getting her knees scraped and dirty. One thing she always, always used to pride herself on was her fearlessness. She’d puff up her chest before the flu vaccines, the dentist, any remotely fearful situation and hit out with “I’m not scared of anything”.

Why is she so scared now? Because she’s older, and life’s big worries are no longer a needle or a tiny mirror in her mouth. She’s not afraid of anything physical, things she can see; it’s the things she doesn’t know, the things she can’t work out that scare her so much. The thought of telling A’whora that what she feels for her might not be strictly friendship any longer gives her an adrenaline rush worse than any rollercoaster she’s been on, and it’s not entirely a good kind either.

The waitress appears to clear their plates and Tayce slaps her card down against the little metal tray ready to be tapped against the reader to pay the bill, just like she’d promised. It’s funny, though, that A’whora’s lost all her gumption now the time has actually come for Tayce to follow through on her promise, and as the waitress reappears A’whora is protesting wildly.

“You honestly don’t have to pay. I was just joking!”

Tayce laughs incredulously. “Oh that was a joke, was it? Seemed like a legally binding contract when we were at the flat!”

“Shut up, hound,” A’whora sticks her tongue between her teeth as she smiles cheekily.

The waitress hands her card back to Tayce and she keeps talking as she puts it away in her purse. “Well, don’t feel bad. As I said, the next one’s on you.”

As A’whora raises her eyebrows, the waitress fixes them with a cheery smile. “Thanks so much for popping in today, ladies, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your Valentine’s Day! Is this your first one together?”

Tayce chokes a little on nothing, tries to stop her eyes from flying wide open. She doesn’t dare meet A’whora’s eye as she shakes her head. “No, uh, we’re-”

“Aw, I knew it couldn’t have been your first, I could totally tell you’d been together way longer! Well may I say, you make a lovely couple,” she continues breezily, Tayce finally meeting A’whora’s gaze and trying not to laugh. The waitress thanks them once more before disappearing, and the two girls are left in a small bubble of silence before A’whora releases her giggles, Tayce putting her hands up to her burning hot cheeks.

“Jesus, Mary and Nora, what the hell was that? The Spanish Inquisition?” Tayce babbles, and A’whora doubles over opposite her.

“Well it is Valentine’s day, Tayce. It’s not that wild to assume two good-looking girls like us with such obvious chemistry are head-over-heels in love with each other,” A’whora winks. Tayce feels her heart do a backflip at the mention of that word, and she’s got about a split-second to cover up the fact her whole body’s been rocked by a ten on the richter scale.

Just continue the joke.

“Oh, yeah. Long-term relationship, married, house, kids. The babas.”

A’whora splutters a laugh, gestures around her. “Except we don’t know where the little shits are!”

The two of them are in fits again, and for a moment Tayce could pretend that it is all real, that maybe in a different world this is a date, and they are together, and everything’s as simple as it was when she was little and not even scared of the dark.

They stumble back to the flat together all fizzy with anticipation, drunk off of one mimosa each and sheer excitable lust. The pair of them keep the joke going all the way home- they have a semi-detached house in the suburbs, their children are named Tarquin and Edith and they attend private school and go to hockey and rugby clubs, they have a live-in cleaner, they do their weekly shop at Waitrose- both of them making the story more fantastical and ridiculous with every new addition that by the time they arrive back at the flat Tayce’s stomach hurts from laughing and A’whora’s bottom lashes are smudged with mascara from her own tears of mirth.

Tayce shushes her as she turns the key in the lock of their front door, hiding her own giggles and pressing a finger to A’whora’s lips playfully. A’whora responds by opening her mouth and snapping like a crocodile, only serving to set Tayce off again as she takes her hand and opens the door, sneaking through it comically like a Scooby Doo character as they hang up their coats in the hall. Luckily, though, they don’t even need to be quiet. There’s a blast of a hairdryer from Ellie’s room which mingles with the sounds of Katy Perry behind the door, and two sets of screeching laughs that cut through the combination. Maybe Tayce and Lawrence’s plan is actually working.

Tayce feels a familiar flutter in her stomach as she pulls A’whora into her room, her anticipation building. When she closes the door she whips round to find A’whora has already dumped her bag on Tayce’s floor and is sitting on the edge of Tayce’s bed, frantically trying to unbuckle her heels. They don’t even need to discuss what’s to come. They both know it’s all the other has been able to think about all morning.

Tayce unzips her boots and sits beside A’whora, resting a hand on her bare thigh. She traces her fingers over her skin gently and presses a kiss against her neck, her heart thumping as she hears A’whora sigh gently in response.

Tayce brings her lips up against her ear as she whispers. “I think you should keep them on.”

“Fuck,” A’whora hisses, her reaction so visceral despite Tayce not really having done anything at all yet.

True to form, A’whora swivels her head around to meet Tayce’s, cups her jaw and brings their lips together in a kiss that’s eager and frantic. She can hear her breathing- heavy and laboured and shuddery as her hands push into her hair, her fingers wrapping around little sections and pulling gently in a way that makes Tayce pull back to hiss through her teeth, dig her nails into A’whora’s inner thigh in stark contrast to the way she’s been gently teasing her.

“Behave,” Tayce warns.

“You know I can’t,” A’whora murmurs, cocking an eyebrow in response. She’s got Tayce’s dark lipstick painting her own lips now and it looks too good, makes Tayce squeeze her thighs together when she thinks about the lipstick marks she wants to leave all over her bare skin.

“Can’t give you what you want if you don’t behave, princess,” Tayce responds, inching her hand up her thigh and stopping just short of where she knows A’whora wants her to. She wants it too, though. She wants to brush her fingers over the material of her underwear, feel how wet she probably already is. But not giving A’whora what she wants is just as fun as satisfying her, if only to see her being reduced to liquid form in front of her, full of frustration.

“Please, Tayce,” A’whora pulls her in again, pressing kisses to her lips between snatches of sentences. “Want it so much, fuck.”

“Already? So impatient,” Tayce runs her thumb over her soft skin again. She’s burning up too but she’s not going to lose her own composure, not when the payoff of staying in control is so good. “You gonna be good for me, angel?”

“Mm-hm,” A’whora pouts against her lips. Tayce pulls away and the sight of A’whora’s half-lidded eyes with her pupils blown from lust isn’t helping her keep a handle on the situation at all.

She gently pushes A’whora back against the mattress, straddles her whilst unbuttoning her shirt and punctuating each button with a featherlight kiss, which she knows is driving A’whora out of her mind if the way she’s squirming underneath Tayce is anything to go by. A’whora’s scrabbling at the buttons on Tayce’s dress but she doesn’t have the patience or presence of mind that she does, and Tayce almost wants to giggle at the way she’s only done two buttons by the time Tayce has got her out of her shirt.

“Fuck’s sake, why did we both choose to wear things with so many fucking buttons,” A’whora growls quietly in frustration. Before Tayce knows what’s happening, A’whora has grabbed each seam and pulled, ripping the buttons of her dress off to expose Tayce in her own bra with the criss-cross straps at the back.

A’whora’s staring at her slack-jawed and Tayce can only blink at her in response. She can’t decide if A’whora ruining her dress has pissed her off or turned her on.

It’s definitely turned her on.

“Oh, you’re in a whole world of trouble for that, missy,” she narrows her eyes, pulling the rest of her dress off before moving so she can tug down A’whora’s skirt. She’s left in a matching set of red lace which she looks so sinful in that Tayce’s brain hotwires. Judging from the way A’whora’s hips are bucking against thin air, though, she’s not the only one that’s wound up.

“Jesus, Rory, lie still,” Tayce insists through a laugh. “I’m not about to try and eat you out and get a bloody pelvic bone to the face!”

A’whora whines, and Tayce watches her chest rise and fall rapidly as she stares up to the ceiling in a petulant huff. Her pout cracks, though, when Tayce spreads her legs and kneels between them, replacing her fingers with her lips as she kisses all the way up the inside of her thighs. The way A’whora huffs in frustration and grips the duvet with white knuckles makes Tayce’s core throb, and the need to touch herself is clouding her thoughts like smoke.

She already feels like she’s on fire, so she supposes it’s apt.

So Tayce decides to have a little fun, pulls back from A’whora and sits on her heels as she lets a hand flutter across her stomach and under the waistband of her underwear. She’s not going to take it too far- she’s only trying to teach A’whora a lesson- but as she brushes her fingers over her clit Tayce can’t help but give a little gasp, the satisfaction flooding through her.

The way A’whora flinches in horror and disappointment as she sits up and realises what’s happening makes Tayce feel momentarily sorry for her.

“Tayce!” she whines pitifully. “Fuck off, that’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair, princess,” Tayce smirks, resting her other hand on her thigh.

“Oh my God, you’re such a bitch,” A’whora pouts at her. She knows A’whora could very easily start touching herself too, but Tayce knows she won’t. Tayce knows she only wants her, and that thought is so intoxicating that it knocks her for six a little, turning up the heat from a simmer to boiling point.

“If you want something from me, you’d better start being nicer.”

A’whora sits up and takes Tayce by the hand, pulls her into a kiss that’s so intense and full of lust it almost topples her over. When she pulls back her eyes are so big and pleading that Tayce feels bad for ever teasing her in the first place. “Please, Tayce. You know I’ll be good for you.”

Tayce cocks an eyebrow at her, but she moves her hand and rests it against A’whora’s other thigh anyway. “That’s the best begging you can manage, is it?”

A’whora smirks. “I’m not used to begging, I usually don’t have much of a problem getting what I want.”

Tayce shakes her head, mocking her as she gently pushes her back against the sheets again. “Such a spoiled brat.”

“Your spoiled brat, though,” A’whora grins smugly, cutting herself off with a gasp as Tayce hooks her fingers over the waistband of her underwear and tugs it off.

Tayce knows she’s going to eat her out but seeing how wet A’whora is makes her consider fucking her with her fingers. It’s a tantalising thought; the way A’whora always has to clamp a hand over her mouth to shut herself up because her moans get too loud, the complete lack of self-control she has when she rides Tayce’s fingers and the way she’ll guide them into her mouth and suck her own juice off them afterwards- Jesus fucking Christ. Tayce needs some sort of release soon or she’s going to be too overwhelmed to speak.

She wants to hear A’whora beg just a little bit more, though. Wants to feel her squirm and taste her on her tongue and trace patterns over her clit that make her whimper and tremble. So she kisses up her thighs again but this time she doesn’t waste any time in brushing over her clit with her tongue, the broken whine A’whora gives at the contact sounding completely illegal. A’whora pushes a hand into Tayce’s hair needily, and Tayce can hear her breathing coming in short gasps as she licks over her slit, swirls her tongue over her clit in a way she knows is good but isn’t what A’whora wants. Tayce is being deliberately slow and lazy, everything A’whora doesn’t need.

“Tayce, please,” A’whora pleads. Tayce kisses against her, then makes a big show of licking A’whora’s juice off her lips. From the way A’whora squeezes her eyes shut at the sight, it’s had the desired reaction.

“What is it, baby?” she murmurs lightly. A’whora gives a broken sob, thuds her head back against the pillow.

“Please, fucking…I need to come, I’m gonna fucking die if I don’t.”

Tayce can’t help but splutter a laugh, one which makes A’whora narrow her eyes at her. She supposes she’s had her fun.

“God, well we can’t have that on the post-mortem, can we?” she deadpans, before dipping her head back between A’whora’s legs and running her tongue over her clit like she’d done before, only this time she allows herself to be a little more messy and unrestrained. She’s rewarded by the little gasps A’whora gives, the whining and the moaning that’s getting more and more frequent with every flick of her tongue.

Tayce pulls away a little, brings her head up to look at A’whora. She’s got one hand in the cup of her bra and the other limp by her side, her chest gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. Her eyes are closed and her cheeks are red and her lips have dropped open, her breathing heavy and rapid.

A’whora’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and fuck, Tayce is so screwed.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she says without thinking. She doesn’t know if she imagines it, but she swears A’whora’s cheeks grow redder.

“Does it feel good?” Tayce follows up her words, asks what she’d meant to ask in the first place.

A’whora bites her lip and nods her head. “Yeah.”

“You like it?”

“Fuck, yes,” A’whora squirms against the sheets, her frustration starting to show.

“Tell me how much.”

“Tayce, please-”

“Come on, princess. You’re being such a good girl using your words,” Tayce purrs, knowing that the praise will get a reaction out of her.

It does.

“Fuck, feels so good Tayce, so, so, fucking good…please don’t stop, please,” A’whora sighs out, then instantly cuts herself off with a cry as Tayce swipes her tongue over her clit again, gives her what she wants.

“Such a good angel baby,” Tayce murmurs against her, tracing over A’whora’s clit in circles and listening to her whimpers get more and more muffled as she bites down on her lip to shut herself up. She’s so desperate that she’s practically riding Tayce’s face at this point and it’s so hot that Tayce has to move a hand between her own legs, grinding against it as she licks A’whora again and again and surely she must be so close to the edge that-

Knock-knock-knock.

Tayce launches her head back from between A’whora’s legs so fast she thinks she’s given herself whiplash. When she locks eyes with A’whora her eyes are wide open too, the pair of them unable to do anything but look at each other, frozen in panic.

When Ellie’s voice comes, Tayce swears she’s never been closer to committing homicide. “Tayce, A’whora! We did Lawrence’s hair, you should see it!”

“Leave it, don’t answer,” A’whora hisses frantically at her. Tayce wouldn’t even be able to reply if she wanted to, the way the blood is racing in her veins and roaring in her ears rendering her motionless.

“We know you’re in, your coats are in the hall!” Lawrence’s voice comes, louder and with a hint of accusation to it.

Shit.

Tayce launches herself off the bed and throws A’whora’s clothes at her frantically as she shouts back. “Just…give us one minute!”

“The fuck are you doing in there that you need a minute?”

Tayce ignores her, trying to calmly turn her dress the right way round but it’s so inside out and jumbled up that it’s rendering the process a lot trickier than she needs it to be right now. A’whora’s in a worse situation, though- she’s got every button on her shirt to button up, and if she wasn’t able to unbutton Tayce’s shirt when she was horny she’s sure as hell unable to button her own up under pressure.

“Where the fuck is my thong? Where did you put it?” A’whora hisses at her, scrambling at the duvet in desperation. Tayce’s eyes dart round her floor, cursing herself for not having an immaculately tidy room like A’whora’s. With a sigh of relief she finds it sitting on top of a floordrobe pile and she snatches it up and throws it to A’whora quickly. She turns her attention back to her dress and can almost feel a stress headache growing at her temples. Why won’t the fucking thing turn the right way-

“Have we to stand out here all day like a pair of lemons?”

“Give us a bloody minute, Jesus!” Tayce yells back, feeling like punching the air as she finally sorts her dress out. Her blood runs cold, however, as she makes to tug it over her head and Lawrence’s voice comes again.

“For fuck’s sake, girls, I’m sure it’s not that bad, we’ve seen each other in worse states.”

The doorhandle moves and A’whora and Tayce both yell in tandem. “Nonononono!”

The door bursts open, Tayce is standing holding her unbuttoned dress in her bra and pants, A’whora’s on the bed in her thong and half a buttoned up shirt, and there’s Ellie and Lawrence in the doorway with their eyes wide and jaws slack. Lawrence, in all her freshly lilac-dyed glory, is the first to turn around, pushing against Ellie frantically as she tries to exit the room as quickly as she came in. As she’s leaving, Tayce hears the start of her sentence.

“What possible heterosexual explanation could there fuckin’ be-”

Tayce can only look at A’whora, whose head is in her hands in embarrassment. Her heart goes out to her and she crosses the room and sits beside her on the bed, placing a hand on her knee to comfort her.

“Well. They know.”

“And so will the whole flat in about five minutes’ time,” A’whora deadpans into her hands. When she pulls her head back her face is beetroot red, and even though Tayce is embarrassed too she can’t help but laugh at the state her friend is in.

“Fuck’s sake,” Tayce shakes her head as she giggles, resigned to the fact their secret is out. There’s a pause of silence before A’whora frowns.

“I’m sorry.”

Tayce frowns back at her affectionately. “What’re you apologising for! It’s not like it was either of our faults.”

There’s a silence again in which A’whora brings her knees up to her chest and hugs them.

“Do you still want to…you know. Do you still want to keep doing all this? Now they know.”

Tayce nods quickly. A thought occurs to her and she frowns. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No! No, I still do,” A’whora insists, a shy smile growing on her face that lifts Tayce’s hopes a bit.

Tayce pokes A’whora’s arm, slyly grins in realisation. “Well. Guess if the whole flat knows then there’s no real reason to be quiet from now on, is there?”

When A’whora meets her eyes there’s a spark between them, and when they fall against the mattress together in a kiss then Tayce thinks maybe the others knowing about the pair of them won’t matter a single bit.

As long as they get to keep doing this together.

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #uk2 #ortega #me and you together #taywhora #lesbian au #university au #college au #british au #freshers au #roommate au #smut #tayce #a'whora #friends with benefits to lovers #lawrence chaney #ellie diamond #bimini bon boulash #tia kofi

[prettywordsyouleft]

10 Date | The Wine & Dine Me Date

Summary: Kim Junmyeon was the epitome of a perfect catch - he was successful, handsome and everything you currently didn’t want in a man. Yet after agreeing to his request to give him 10 dates in total to change your mind, you realised you might have been looking for someone like him all along.

Pairing: Kim Junmyeon x reader

Genre: dating au / romance

Warnings: none

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

With the launch of your work project right around the corner, dating Junmyeon had become a little difficult. You were back to talking over the phone most nights, one of you falling asleep before the other did. You liked it when you woke up to see the call hadn’t been ended and could talk in the morning before getting ready for work.

Despite not meeting up, you were definitely growing attached to Junmyeon. You thought of him over the simplest of things, you messaged him when you needed moral support or a pep talk to get through the day, and you told him all your deepest thoughts as you lay in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

You had grown curious of late. What it would be like to get ready for bed at his side? Would you be cute and giggly together or find it a hassle to share a sink brushing your teeth at the same time? What made his skin so soft, did he have a decent skincare routine that trumped yours or was he naturally akin to having clear skin? Did he snore? Move around a lot in bed? Steal the blankets? Maybe sleep talk? Even if you got to speak to him first thing in the morning and had become addicted to his husky, barely awake voice, would it be even more desirable in person? Would you fight a lot?

For someone who had only known him for a little over two months, you sure were full of questions that you craved answers to.

You realised you were more than ready for the next step, far more prepared than you had believed to be on your last date.

Now, you just needed your work commitments to ease up a little.

“I have an incentive for you,” Junmyeon announced as soon as you slipped under the covers, settling into your bedding. You glanced at the phone beside you on speaker and rolled to face it as if you were facing him too. You had adopted funny little habits since most of your time was now spent on phone calls.

“What is it?”

“Your launch date is next Wednesday, right?”

“It is.”

“And then the following week, you mentioned something about some time off?” he continued and you grinned. You had been holding out for that week for over two of them now. You couldn’t wait to sleep in, catch up on hobbies you had put on hold lately and most importantly, see the man you were talking on the phone to right now.

Grinning, you laid back onto your pillows. “A whole week! Sounds like bliss, right?”

“Can I be bold and take up the whole week?” he asked hesitantly and you frowned, glancing at the phone. It was as if he felt your silent curiosity, chuckling lightly before continuing. “I know the plan was thirty but-”

“Italy?” you cut in, sitting up.

“Italy,” he confirmed and you had to cover your mouth to stifle a squeal.

Could you? Could you actually go on a trip with Junmyeon like this? Your mind was already rushing forward with flashes of architecture and tourist spots and holding his hand the entire time through. Waking up in a new city and falling into bouts of passion in the evenings. Had you done enough in this budding relationship to go forward on such an adventure?

This thought alone stopped you. Weeks ago, that’s what you ached for. To become spontaneous, to live in the moment, to go with whatever was thrown your way, even if there were risks involved.

Junmyeon was dangling the opportunity for you to do just that in front of you. A grin crept up on your face again and you were soon nodding even if he couldn’t see you. “A whole week with you in Italy sounds like the best incentive to get me through the remaining days until my project is launched.”

He sounded surprised, perhaps waiting for you to decline such a bold offer. Junmyeon was quick to collect himself with a little breath. “Good because I already booked the tickets.”

“I swear I must have done something good in a past life to have someone like you in my life,” you murmured, still amazed that you had agreed and would be going to the place you had dreamed of ever since you studied Italy in high school. You were already trying to decipher what to pack and what you would possibly end up visiting, anticipating the architecture and the remaining art from the Renaissance era.

You couldn’t wait to see where this adventure would lead you next.

When the plane touched down in Pisa International Airport two weeks later, you were stunned that you had not only gotten on a plane and gone somewhere with Junmyeon almost a day ago, but you were now on Italian soil. There was no way to contain your excitement and Junmyeon seemed to enjoy it, holding you close as you exited the aircraft.

“Airports are busy over here,” he pointed out when you looked up at him now wrapped around you and grinned, allowing him the intimate moment.

Not that you had been against all the touching since seeing him again. Even after sitting next to him, snuggling up and falling asleep on his shoulder during the flight, you couldn’t get enough of the man holding you either.

You could see this trip becoming the catalyst for a lot of impending confessions and overwhelming emotions.

For now, however, you were overstimulated by the sights and smells and the culture shock. On the taxi ride to your stay in Pisa, you peered out the window avidly, gasping endlessly and pointing out everything to Junmyeon. He merely watched your animated expression with a constant grin, satisfied with how happy you were already. And once you were standing on the tiny balcony to your room looking directly at the leaning tower across the courtyard in awe, you realised this was more than you had been expecting.

Junmyeon came in behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Happy?”

“Happy is an understatement. How did you reserve us a place so close— this would have cost a fortune!”

“You promised me money wouldn’t be the talk of this trip,” he murmured against your ear, kissing the skin just below your earlobe. Swallowing as you tilted to the side to give him more access, you then sighed.

“Still, I’m being spoiled.”

“You’ve wanted to come here for so long, I wasn’t going to cut corners,” he admitted and you spun around in his grip, Junmyeon holding up his hand to stop the words you were already forming in response. “In saying that, it’s not as expensive as you might think. This is one of the cheaper boutique B&B’s in the area.”

“How am I going to make this even between us?” you wondered and he grinned, tucking some hair behind your ear.

“You could take me on a date tonight.”

You smiled. “Is that so?”

“Wine and dine me, Y/N,” he urged playfully and you couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere your wallet can take me,” he replied simply and you laughed, nodding happily enough as you thought of your comeback.

“So pizza?”

“How could we not have Italian pizza on our first night in Pisa?!”

“You’re right, it’s a must!”

“And pasta,” he added on and you nodded in agreement to that as well. Junmyeon ran a hand over your curves cheekily. “It’s carbs night.”

“Well, we’ll have to put in a lot of walking around Pisa tomorrow to make sure they don’t go and take up residence on my hips,” you compromised and he shook his head.

“Even if they do, it’ll be worth it, right?”

You bit at your lip, not wanting to tell him that anything with him right now was worth it. You were love-drunk in the best sense. A fairytale had come to life, your dashing prince taking you to a magical kingdom where the world seemed all too romantic in every direction you looked. Kelsi had been right all along, you had started to fall for someone spectacular.

Blinking away your thoughts, you looked back at the man watching you intently and tried not to smirk too obviously. “What about dessert?”

Junmyeon pulled you closer, sealing your lips with his momentarily. And then he kissed you again, this time the lust within him more evident. “Maybe we’ll have that when we come back to the room?”

“I like the way you’re thinking,” you agreed as your hands rested on his chest, your eyes glued to his. “I can tell this trip is going to change a lot for us.”

“All for the better, I hope.”

“Are we still just dating?” you wondered coyly and Junmyeon laughed heartily.

“Tonight will be date six, right?”

“Four more until I call you mine?” you concluded and Junmyeon shook his head.

“Not unless that fourth date ends with an I Do.”

“Junmyeon!” you exclaimed, gaping at the man chuckling once again. He then let out a deep breath, cupping your face in his hands and you shifted to kiss his palm gently. “After tonight I’m calling you mine.”

“What do we do with the other four dates? I thought our deal was I had to give you all of them?”

“We’ll do them just for fun,” you announced and Junmyeon grinned.

“I thought that’s what we were already doing.”

Stepping up onto your toes so you could kiss him, you then pulled back just enough to whisper, “I don’t think I need anything more to know I’ve made the right choice with you.”

_________________

Part 7

All rights reserved © prettywordsyouleft

[EXO Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

#kwritersworldnet #suho fiction #suho fanfic #suho fluff #suho romance #suho #suho imagines #suho scenarios #suho au #exo #exo imagines #exo scenarios #exo fiction #exo fanfic #exo fluff #exo romance #exo au #pwyl; 10 dates #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fiction #kpop fanfic #kpop romance #kpop fluff

[themysteriousphoenix]

Through the Universe - An Era AU

The wall was dark, dingy, and annoyingly solid. Tina looked around her at the brick walls, the dirty, stone floor, and the lack of a door. The man at the MInistry said, very clearly, that she was to walk through the Leaky Cauldron and through the door at the back of the pub. Well, she had done that, but the alley showed no sign of a door, only a few old wine barrels and liquor crates.

Sighing, Tina rolled her eyes at her luck and was about to make her way back into the bar to ask for directions. The man at the bar had been eyeing her curiously when she walked in, and she hated the thought of going back out there, especially after this long. They would know she had been in this alley, alone, staring at a wall for several minutes. It was hardly a good first impression. She leaned back against the cool bricks, the cars moving by on Charing Cross Road still a constant background symphony. She pulled out her muggle mobile, a gift from her sister, Queenie, when she had moved out of their shared apartment to live with her boyfriend. They had become all the rage among the wizarding world over the past few years, the instant information was quite helpful, especially for Aurors. She illuminated the screen and saw that she had been here for eight minutes. That would never do, she had to figure this out on her own or figure out how to make a hasty exit.

“Alright, Scamander?” a voice asked from just inside the pub door. It must have been the landlady, she had been wiping down tables after the lunch rush when Tina came in a few minutes previously.

“Good morning, Hannah,” a quiet voice replied. It was soft and melodic, and the voice seemed to be coming toward Tina. She bristled slightly and prepared herself for embarrassment, but as the source of the voice appeared, he seemed to be embarrassed enough for the both of them.

“Oh, hello,” he said in surprise as he rounded the corner, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was back here.” His rust-colored hair fell across his forehead in tangled curls and he glanced up at her briefly before looking away toward the wall. “Um, after you,” he said, gesturing toward the wall and stepping back away from Tina.

Tina tried to smile but, instead, she ended up biting her lip and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I, uh...I don’t actually know how to get in,” she said, preparing herself for the laughter that was bound to come. He surprised her, though, as he looked up at her with wide eyes.

“You’re American.”

“Yes.”

The man looked at her for several beats before he started and cleared his throat. “So sorry, er, here.” Pulling out his wand, he seemed to be counting bricks before tapping a random red brick quickly and stepping back. The wall seemed to unfold before her, the bricks stacking upon each other and rotating to form a wide, arched doorway in the wall. The sun shone through the opening, illuminating the back room and the stranger beside her who was watching her with amusement.

“Your first time in Diagon Alley, I take it?” He was grinning down at her, his blue-green eyes sparkling in the light. Tina was looking around in awe at the blatant use of magic before her. This was something she had never seen before, everything back home was so secret, so locked up and shoved away as if their whole world was something to be ashamed of. This was stunning, colorful, and absolutely magical.

“Yeah…” Tina breathed, her eyes finding their way back to the sights before her. “I, honestly, don’t even know where to start.” She heard the man beside her chuckle at her wonder before he stepped through the doorway, turning toward her and beckoning her closer with his hand.

“Here, let’s let the doorway close,” he said as Tina crossed the threshold. She turned as the bricks behind her unfurled to create a solid wall once more. “Well, welcome to Diagon Alley,” the man said, looking down at her.

“It’s amazing,” Tina stated as she grinned up at him.

“You don’t have anything like this back home?” he asked, curiously, as he began to walk forward along the cobblestone path.

Tina shook her head, following at his side. “No, definitely not. We have some hidden wizarding shops and a few that lead from one to the next, like a no-maj strip mall, but nothing like this.” Looking around, Tina smiled at a child who was walking by, an owl cage hanging from his small hand. “Even hidden, the shops would never dare to have this much magic on display.”

“Well, Britain isn’t as strict as all that. A lot of wizards don’t know how to blend in anyway, there are a few too many muggle sightings every year, but,” he shrugged, “what can you do?”

Chuckling, Tina looked forward down the path. She saw ancient storefronts on both sides of the streets, the winding cobblestones leading toward a large, marble building at the end. Along the way she saw robe shops, book stores, piles of cauldrons in every shape and size imaginable, and even shops full of various creatures, some of which she had never seen before.

“Oh! Thank you for helping me get through the doorway, uh…” Tina realized with a start that, though she had spent several minutes with this man, she hadn’t asked his name.

“Newt.”

“Newt. Thank you, Newt.” She turned to him with a grin, “I’m Tina.”

“Hello, Tina,” he said with a smile, and Tina giggled in response. “I suppose you are just here looking around, then?” he continued curiously.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of this place but I wanted to see for myself. I have always heard that it is pretty impressive.”

“Did it live up to your expectations?” Newt inquired.

“Oh yes!” Tina said, excitedly, “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“If you think this is impressive, you ought to see the magical streets in Beijing. They are even older and more colorful than this,” he said, his head swinging around to look into the windows of a shop that housed dozens of owls, pigeons, and tropical birds of all sizes, all in cages that lined the windows and the shelves inside the door.

“Wait, you’ve been to Beijing?” Tina asked after a few moments, her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Oh, er, yeah. That’s kind of my job,” he said, “I travel around the world and study magical creatures.”

“You study...wait. Hold on. You do what now?” Tina asked, her eyes wide as she placed one hand on his forearm. He stopped and turned toward her.

“I’m a Magizoologist.” Newt looked like he was struggling to find a balance somewhere between pride and embarrassment, but Tina’s look of stunned awe made him smile, settling on pride.

“That’s so cool!” Tina smiled up at him, her grin infectious, “What is it you do, exactly?”

Newt began speaking enthusiastically as they walked, pausing his stories of traveling occasionally to point out something interesting in a storefront. Tina couldn’t help noticing that he was quite attractive. His features were soft, yet he held a secretive strength within him. He was interesting to talk to and, even though Tina was only on assignment in Britain for three weeks, she was finding that she wouldn’t mind spending more time talking with him. She hated to think of their short time together ending so soon.

Eventually, they reached a nondescript, blue door and Newt paused. “Well, this is me. I mean, not me, exactly, but...my publisher. I have a meeting in a few.”

“Oh, well...um, It was nice to talk to you, Newt. I really enjoyed meeting you.” Tina flashed him a quick, closed-lipped smile, disappointment evident on her face.

Newt turned and placed his hand on the doorknob as Tina turned away, crossing the street, wandering back toward the main part of town. He stilled and, after a moment of hesitation, released the knob and turned around. “Tina!”

Tina whipped around, her short hair waving in the breeze. Newt was approaching her quickly, jogging across the street to catch up to her.

“Tina…” Newt pursed his lips before plunging ahead, “Do you want to meet me later?”

“What”

“Dinner. Will you meet me for dinner later? I-- I talked so much about myself with you, I’d love to hear more about you. I mean, that is if you…”

“Yes!”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d love to, Newt,” Tina’s smile widened and she giggled quietly. “Very much.”

“Oh! Oh...good. Yes. Um, here.” Newt pulled out a small, silver mobile phone. It was quite old and out of date, but Tina had quickly come to understand that he was a simple guy, one who didn’t need anything flashy or complicated. He handed the small phone over and Tina bit her lip to control her giddiness as she typed her number quickly and saved it in his contacts.

“Tina Goldstein,” Newt said quietly, looking up at her.

“Yep, that’s me,” Tina said, pulling her long cardigan closer to her body to shield herself from the wind.

“Well, I’ll see you later, then, Tina Goldstein.”

“Yes, you will.” Tina smiled once more at him, slowly backing away as she waved at him. “Have a good meeting.” Newt waved and turned, looking back over his shoulder once on his way back to the door and flashing a quick, lopsided grin at her. She practically skipped back down the cobblestone path, a smile plastered to her face as she traveled back the way she had come. She felt her phone buzz in her back pocket and she pulled it out quickly, looking at the screen with anticipation.

Meet you at Rosa Lee’s at 18:00?

Tina did the math in her head, figuring out the Standard Time equivalent, then typed a response.

Looking forward to it. :) See you then!

Wiping her screen clear, she placed the phone back into her pocket and followed the rough path back to the town center, her eyes scanning the storefronts for the tea shop, a smile never leaving her face.

#fbweek2020 #Newtina #newt x tina #newtina fanfiction #newt scamander #tina goldstein #fanfiction #fantastic fanfiction #fbawtft #fbatcog #alternate universe #era au #ashley writes

[geminimoonbeamx]

And the snakes start to sing

A/N: Okay, so my anxiety since this entire Covid-19 situation came to light has been...pretty deteriorating to say the least. It’s funny(which it’s really not),The only thing I can think might help is to dig back deep into my writing. I really want to live in the fantasy worlds I can create in my head right now. So I will.

Warnings: Some angst(it is during the Marauders era), cursing, SMUT, and I feel like I should add this here- I wrote this as self therapy so this reader insert def has some specific looks and traits, if that bothers you I understand, but also I warned you so...

Summary: Sirius Black and Y/N steal a tender moment in the middle of the war. Marauders Era. Young Sirius Black(Ben Barnes) x Plus Size Reader

The way you slam your body into mine reminds me that I’m alive,

But monsters are always hungry darling- and they're only a few steps behind you.

Finding the flaw,

The Poor weld,

The place where we weren't quite stitched up right- Richard Silken

Part l

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

You mull on that fact as you sit in the driver's seat of the muggle car, gripping the wheel, skin pulled tight across your knuckles. You’re shaking - vibrating from deep in your core with so much velocity that it makes your teeth chatter. Your muscles ache as you try to regain control of your body, of your breathing- the only thing keeping you from completely crumbling is the focus that you have on the road in front of you-

Even then you don't really see the asphalt, dimly lit by street lamps that seemed to be few and far between the further you drove.

All you can see is that alley.

Dark, dank and frigidly cold, the death eaters that weren't supposed to be there, but who had seemed to show up in puffs of smoke. In three’s- and then four.

Five.

Six.

You hadn’t been able to keep count.

Faster than you, James and Mad Eye could take on.

For a moment, everything had been lightning speed. Time passed fast, in a blur. Blood and screaming. Spells, violent spells that you’d never uttered before thrown left and right, by both sides.

You'd watched bright green flashes pass by like shooting stars, almost grazing you. Illuminating the corridor in razor sharp rays.

So close that you could taste them.

Death tastes acidic. Bitter. Fizzles on your tongue and sticks to the back of your throat.

You still swallow around it even now, hours later, as you drive.

You’d forgotten how much you hate muggle travel. You’d much prefer to apparate, but James is in no state. He sits beside you, slumped in the passenger seat, clutching his side and wincing at every bump. Having grown up with his pure blood parents, there's no way he could have driven anyway, didn't know how. Perfect Potter isn't capable of everything, turns out.

That's fine, you’d assured him. You needed to be able to focus on something before the very little part of your brain that was still loosely wound, unraveled.

You hadn't shared that part, but you think he knows.

The radio crackles and a muggle band plays lowly.

The car makes its way down the long winding roads in silence. Shock settling over the two of you like a heavy blanket. There’s nothing that can be said- no words that could describe the ice that still ran through your veins or that could balm what had happened.

When you hit a particularly nasty pothole, cajoling the car roughly he hisses through his clenched teeth.

“Sorry’, fuck, I’m sorry” You apologize, righting the wheel in a tight jerk to the right, pressing on the brake. “Are you okay? Still bleeding?”

He’s damn lucky that that Confringo charm hadn't caught him directly, but still. When he’d flown into that brick wall, he’d done it with a bone crunching thud. You knew a few of his ribs were broken, his skin rubbed raw and cut open.

“M’fine. Moody did what he could- stopped the bleeding. I think. It stings like a son’va bitch though” James sounds tired, gravely. Voice void of that usual mirth it carried- his chestnut skin pale, clammy. “Drive faster- hopefully Dorcas is already back”

He’s right, Dorcas has healing hands. She’d whip up an ointment, utter an incantation, and he’d be good as new. You step down on the accelerator, foot heavy and mind eager to get somewhere that feels safe, even the trees you pass by feel like they’re watching you, waiting to leap at any turn.

Would you ever feel safe again? After looking into those eyes, seeing that face-

———-

The ride takes hours,

Your mind zones to dark places,

The two of you reach the current makeshift safe house.

———

Protective charms line it heavily, Dumbledor himself had drawn them

To the naked eye, you pull up onto what looks like an old decrepit factory in a row of old decrepit factories- all concrete and broken glass windows. Gritty rust covered metal high beams and caved in ceilings, the tires crunch on the gravel out front- you can barely put the car in park before you’re overcome by a sea of red-

Red hair, soft hands. Vivid green eyes.

Lilly comes bounding out, long legs propelling her forward fast.

“Y/N!” She shrieks as you climb out, you don't blame her for how she runs to James' side of the car. He looks far worse than you do, you think. But then again you haven't seen your reflection because the glance over she gives you is horrified.

“I’m okay, just get James! Lets get him inside”  You hurry, your legs feel heavy as you meet her on the other side of the car.

It’s begun snowing again, fat flurries falling from the inky night sky, cold enough to start the shaking again. Your hands are uncoordinated paws, good for nothing and yet you help Lily, take one of James arms around your own shoulder as she takes the other, the two of you supporting him - dragging him towards the entrance.

“Gideon! Go find Dorcas!” She yells for one of the fiery headed Prewet twins who are spilling out of the building. Merlin, they look similar- she could be their kin. “Mad Eye was able to send us word about what happened in London! We’ve been waiting for you! I’ve been so scared- thank bloody God you two are even alive”

“We’re okay-“ you start, trying to calm your friend down. She seemed like she was two seconds away from blowing a fuse and well- you were one of the few who knew about her condition. You weren’t so sure complete emotional breakdowns were good for developing fetus’.

“Only because Y/N. She saved my life. She saved us all back there” James is barely conscious and defining not coherent.

You hadn’t saved, you’d killed. Innocent people included.

Lily is staring at you past James' bowed head and you can’t see her eyes.

Not when James is dragged in and whisked away by Dorcas who is already whisking something in a bowl, her braids piled atop her head and her deep eyes worried- yet sage. Calm, as she calls to you from over her shoulder. “That gash on your forehead is nasty! I’ll get to you next”

You hear them laying James down on the makeshift kitchen table and for some reason your feet are frozen in place. You can’t follow. Don’t care to see the chunk that was taken out of him back in the alley.

In the alley. In the snow; cold and frigid. Voldemort had appeared from the shadows and raised his wand high and you knew you were going to die, even though you weren’t ready to. Didn’t want to-

“Y/N” you raise your eyes-your mint and her emerald meeting somewhere in the middle. Lily’s are worried, the almond shape exaggerated.

You wonder if yours convey how far away you feel. How close you are to drifting right out of your body and floating up- somewhere quiet.

Because everything was too loud now- everyone bustling in and around you. Emaline Vance, Sturgis Podmore, Frank Longbottom- where was Marlene? And Sirius?

Had the night been as bloody and brutal for them as it had for you?

“Go” you croak at her “Go with him, Lil. Mending bones hurts like hell- I’ll just- I just need to-“

She looks torn, and you imagine she is. Her best friend is quite obviously on the verge of a panic attack and her fiancé is bleeding out on the kitchen table.

“Go” you insist once more, squeezing her forearm through her maroon cardigan, trying to encourage her.

You don’t inculpate her for James taking precedence, she all but peels herself away from your side to go sit next to him, to grasp at his hand as Dorcas covers his wounds in dittany and he grunts loud and pained.

You stumble backwards, not wanting to see anymore blood for the moment.

Maybe ever.

No, focus.

You force your brain not to check out yet as you limp back into the open space that seems to be slowly but surely filling up with other members of The Order.

People talk over each other and it's hard to get anyone to answer your questions.

When Remus, Shacklebolt and Peter walk into the fort, all looking disheveled but uninjured- you finally start getting somewhere.

Peter’s speech is fast and broken and nervous- you keep telling him to slow down. You can't manage to understand what he's saying.

“Fuck, Peter! Merlin just shut up- shut up for two seconds. Remus, what happened?”

Edgar Bones and his family were killed, but everyone else was still intact- just scattered. Trying to find their  way back home, back to headquarters or any local safe house.

You gape at Remus, as he tells you the news. His voice is sturdy even though he looks like he might keel over at any moment, which is why you’d always sought him out, since you were kids. Remus was in a constant state of suffering, and yet he was nearly always the most clear headed person in the room.

His eyes though- they always did betray him. You can see it in the amber iris. The horror. The sorrow. The fear.

Edgar Bones was dead.

Edgar, and his husband, and his two children- he’d show them to you once. Opened the silver locket that was ever presently around his neck and two smiling waving dark haired cherub cheeked kids waved back from the photos inside.

Bile rises in your throat and you stare up at Remus, still just trying to process it all. His mouth is still moving and is certainly forming words, but the loud whomping in your ears keeps you from hearing them.

You’re all going to die, the thought is sharp and ragged and cuts up your brain.

“Oh”, is all you can manage. It’s a whisper, the most you can force. Remus reaches for you and you easily avoid his big scarred hand, stepping away from it before it can land on your arm.

You choose to ignore the hurt look that flashes briefly on his face.

Kingsley Shacklebolt starts listing off the known locations of other members then. Dumbledor is delivering the news to the Bones, Feniwick is held up at Hogwarts- there had been an attack in Hogsmeade. Four Muggle borns had been killed in the street. Sirius and Marlene along with Alice Longbottom have made fort at the McKinnon’s cabin, a known safe house, stuck for the moment as most are.

“Mad Eye’s gone to rally with Aberforth. I think they’re trying to track the Lestranges- that’s w-who ambushed us tonight”

By the look they give you, you know they know those aren't the only people who you’d crossed wands with.

“You know who is on the move, we heard it- he’s angry cause’ of what happened back in London. What did happen? Is James okay?” Peter questions and you really do feel bad for snapping at him, for telling him to shut up. He's just scared, for himself and for his friends.

You know how much Peter cared about James.

“He’s fine, he’s in the kitchen getting mended by Dorcas- Lily’s with him”

The rest of it, the story that everyone seems so eager to hear,  you hold back. Tight lipped, chest heavy. The stout blonde man looks like he wants to ask more, go forward, but he just nods and scurries into the kitchen.

That’s fine. James’ll relay it all to his friends, to the Order.

And everyone will know just what you did.

Your stomach rolls threateningly.

————-

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

First- you soar on it. It carries you through, you can’t feel pain or time as it curses through your bloodstream. But then,then, after your body’s flight or fight checks off, it makes you crash. You stumble down from the high- pain throbbing and world going molasses slow. Your stomach churns and your head pounds from the whiplash like stop.

You empty what feels like your soul into the porcelain toilet of a spare bathroom that you’d barley found before you started spewing. It’s violent, your whole body convulses with every gag, and it seems to go on for an eternity even though you can’t even remember  what and when you’d last eaten.

You choke on bile a bit before you stumble over to the sink, turning on the creaky faucet and putting your mouth right in the stream.

You’d been able to stand the questioning and the looks and the pricing for just about a half an hour before that familiar wave of anxiety that you’d managed to keep at bay overwhelmed you and sent you running.

A breakdown was very much due. You’d rather no one bare witness to it.

Not even Lily who’s threatened to plow down the door at least twice now.

When you connect eyes with yourself in the mirror you almost look away. The reflection that stares back at you is alien. The woman feels so far away- that you raise a shaky hand, touching the glass. Trying to convince yourself that it’s real.

That you’re real.

There’s blood, mostly dried, that has run into your eye from the cut in your hair line that’s really more of a sloppy open bruise and you rinse it off, scrubbing with your fingers til’ it hurts. The blood won’t come off, your hands stained red. Blood everywhere. Your blood. James blood. That Death Eater’s. Those muggles that had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time-

Your breath goes choppy again, sobbing on air as you think about it. You just need the red to be gone, you’ll feel better once it’s gone.

In the corner of the mirror, you side eye the shower behind you.

——————

Part ll

The rooms in this place remind you of the girls dormitories back at Hogwarts.

Or maybe you just miss the girls dormitories back at Hogwarts.

You bet it’s the latter, because the only thing similar is the fact that there’s a row of beds. There’s no Lily laughing, or Marlene painting, or Mary dancing. All of those things feel so distant now, memories that you never thought to cherish but that you now hold on to with claw like ferocity.

You’d do anything to be fifteen again, cooped up in the castle on a sunny afternoon.

Instead you stand in the middle of a drafty room, your skin raw and flushed from the blistering temperature of the shower, the ends of your curly hair dripping down your back as you clutch the towel that someone (Lily) had left outside the bathroom door to your body.

You sit down on the bed where your nap sack had been dumped- the extender charm you’d put on it had been a bitch to get right, but you're grateful for it as you dig around it’s never ending contents- able to find a clean cream colored sweater and leggings.

You're shimmying the clinging black fabric up your thighs when there's a knock at the door.

You sigh. You can’t keep putting her off. You’re being a shitty friend when she’s trying to be a good one, and you know it.

“Come in, Lily. I’m dressed” You call, back to the door as you drag the towel over and through your hair, frowning at the curly untamed state, before beginning to twist it into some semblance of a bun.

“Actually, not to disappoint you but it’s just me”

The voice is deep, silken. Familiar. Distinctly masculine, and definitely not Lily’s.

You turn fast, and hopeful. Your eyes wide when they land on the tall figure that looms in the doorway.

“And I was hoping you wouldn't be dressed”

Sirius stands there, his slate eyes combing over you, a small grin tugging at the left side of his mouth. He looks a little tired- the fine lined wrinkles on the outer corner of his eyes and the bags under them both deep, pronounced. He obviously hasn't shaved since you’d last seen him, weeks ago. What had been a shadow was now dark scruff. His hair is scraped away from his face, tied in it’s usual knot at the back of his neck and he’s donning his signature worn leather jacket. He looks so familiar that it almost brings tears to your eyes. Standing there, being crude and handsome and real.

You felt so foreign in your own skin that seeing him so solid is a relief that you can't quite explain. He’s a strong boulder, a rooted tree, that you can tether yourself to.

You want to tell him that. That you didn't realize how much you needed him until that moment. You kind of hate that realization because needing Sirius Black was stupid, so stupid.

“What are you doing here?” Is what comes out instead. Wrong, you always say the wrong thing when he’s around “I thought you we’re stuck at the Cabin”

He doesn't look offended, but he does look concerned, as he closes the door behind him. “I was. I was able to slip past them though.'' He shrugs, casually, as though he hadn't risked his life leaving the McKinnon’s.

He was always so blase about everything. It drove you absolutely bonkers.

“I’m taking it you did that on four legs?”

Ever since you’d learned about Sirius, James and Peter's Animagi sized secret, everything made sense. You knew they weren't lucky enough to get away with all that shit they had back in school. Definitely not smart enough, either.

He shrugs again and you bite the inside of your cheek hard as he sits down on the bed that you had claimed for the night as your own. He's so much taller then you that even sitting in this position, the two of you are almost eye level.

“I heard what happened, I wanted to make sure you guys were okay. Plus, once my cousin got her pound of flesh she took off- left Crabbe and McNair in the forest. Fucking idiots couldn't find their own noses in a mirror. There’s no IQ test for up and coming Death Eaters, is there?”

Of course he’d heard. You can't meet his gaze- that intense stare that he’s been giving you since he’d walked in. You don't know what to make of it, don't really know how it makes you feel.

But then again none of that was anything new. There was no label to slap onto what you and Sirius had started, onto what you felt for him. Marlene had accused the two of you being fuck buddies, but that wasnt it.

You’d have to have been friends before it for that to be accurate, which you weren't.

You weren't even sure that you were friends now.

All you knew is that you were glad to see him, even if that happiness was laced with confusion.

“I suppose not. Your cousin isn't the brightest bulb either. She’s just cunty enough to be through most of the time” You’ve always despised Bellatrix Black- ah, no, she’s a Lestrange now isn't she? Figures she’d marry one of those fucked up inbred brothers. Trash congregates with trash.

“True. She always was committed to being cruel”

“She needs lend some of that commitment to brushing her hair regularly”

Sirius snorts, shaking his head a bit. You’re good, so fucking good at deflecting “You know Dorcas is still looking for you. She wants to check out your head”

“It’s a shallow cut, I’m fine” sounds hollow even to your ears and his small scoff is honestly what you would've given him if the roles were reversed. “I am” you start stronger, trying, really trying “I’m just...tired. I’m rubbish at combative spells- I know you remember me in D.A.D.A. I could barely pass my Newt. It took a lot out of me, is all”

Sirius lets you ramble, which is a nicety for him because you can see that he’s fighting himself from cutting you off. Sirius doesn't take bullshit, can't stomach it.

“You went head to head with Voldemort tonight and you’re trying to tell me that you’re ‘rubbish at combative’ spells? What the fuck, Y/N?” He says bluntly, grabbing you by your wrists as you try to back away, holding you steady, not letting you run away. “It’s just me. Talk to me”

The vulnerability you feel in that moment is only just weighed out by your stubbornness as you stare right back at him, teeth clenched, unwilling to break that eye contact. He was calling you out, almost challenging you.

“What do you mean what the fuck? You what the fuck, Sirius! I don’t know what you want me to say-” You’re defensive, your hackles are raised and your voice is razor sharp.

“What happened?”

“Oh, bugger off. Don't act like you didn't talk to James before you came up here. You know exactly what happened”

“I want you to tell me what happened- no, don't look at me like that. I’m not the others, I’m not- I’ve told you everything. All the ugly that I’ve seen, that I’ve done. I would never judge you, and what you were forced to do tonight? That’s not something that anyone is going to judge you on” His voice is too soft, it doesn't match the strong grip of his long fingers around your wrist.

Doesn’t match the rough way he usually fucks you or the lukewarm looks he gives you when the two of you are in public.

You tug on his hold, if only to make sure he won't let go.

He doesn't.

Tethered, your brain again supplies that word for the feeling of security he gives you.

“I killed three people tonight, I think. I don't know- it was all so fast, everything happened so fast. We were just supposed to be gaining intel, you know? And then out of nowhere they were swarming us, Sirius. Blocking is in. James got hit right before Voldemort apparated in and I- I knew we were going to die. So I- I just blew everything up” Tears are rolling down your face as you recount the events. You don't know how to describe to him how cold it was, how scared you were. You’d never experienced fear like that “I didn't have control of that spell, I’d read about it, but I had no idea that it was going to…”

The fucked up part is that you knew it might. You knew that it could incinerate everyone and everything. Including you and James and Moody. But in that moment...that desperation you felt out weighed it all.

“Hey, hey look at me- we’ve all been there. You did what you had to do. You dont think we all throw out spells that we have no fucking idea how to use In the heat of the moment?” You didn't realize that you’d said that last part aloud, but confessing to Sirius had gotten all too easy these last few months.

He made your lips loose, lowered all your inhibitions without your permission. You hated him for it. Craved him every moment that he wasn't around for it.

This war was turning you to stone. Cold and rigid, but You didn't feel like you had to be marble hard when he was around.

“I could've killed us all. I killed those muggles- fuck. They didn't know- they didn't do anything” You’re sobbing again, soft underbelly exposed. He could gut you right now if he wanted to. “They were innocent”

“Shh, C’mere” He pulls you in between his spread legs, lets go of your wrists in order to envelope you in his gangly arms, to squeeze at your thick waist and shoulders as he holds you. “You didn't kill them, Y/N. James said it was the counter curse that Voldemort used that hit them- think about the positioning. They were on the same side of the alley that you were- crossing that street, they got hit with a curse that was meant for you”

You shake your head, burying your face in the soft thin skin of his neck because he’s wrong. You know he is. James was out of it, pain clouding his senses. You knew what you did.

Sirius doesn't argue it further, just lets you cling to him. Allows your cries, ugly and snotty, to shake you both.

He lets you get it all out- until you're hiccuping on the last of your tears. You're completely slumped against him, pretty much sitting in his lap as he supports all of your weight. You’d be more self conscious in that moment if you had any energy left to be.

“It was so horrible. There were...pieces of people. Everywhere” You shudder because you can still see it. Like you're still there.

Sirius’ arms tighten at that, squeezing you to him for a minute. A hug within a hug,

“There are casualties in war...it sounds fucked up, and it doesn't make any of what happened tonight better, but it is what it is”

He’s not nice, not really. He gives you the hard truth that you don't want to swallow. They aren't the pretty words that you want, but they are what you need.

War is ugly, and up until tonight, you’d been willingly ignorant to that fact. You’d heard the horror stories of what Voldemort and the death eaters had done, and were doing, but you'd never experienced any of it first hand.

Seeing changed everything.

No one, from either side would come out of this clean. Everyone and everything would be blood stained, tainted.

It’s a heavy realization, that the world you were fight for would never be the same.

You pull away from Sirius then, grabbing his hand and losing your fingers with yours when he goes to grab, to keep you close. He watches, dark brows pulled together, as you lie down on the lumpy old bed, head resting on the singular flat pillow.

“Lay with me? Please?” You give his hand a tug, tac on that pretty please at the end.

Like it’s necessary.

Like he wasn't planning on staying since the moment he’d walked through that door- you could have thrown a fit. Hit him, hexed him, and he still wouldn't have left you. “I’m so tired”

He stands from the bed and you make a small hurt little sound.

“I’m not going anywhere, hush” He smiles, canine grin and crinkled nose as he sheds his leather jacket, combat boots and scratchy dark jeans coming off next, leaving him in a long sleeved t-shirt and a pair of threadbare black boxers that had seen better days and definitely were sporting a hole or two.

“Lumos Nox” with a flick of his wand, the lights in the room go out.

The bed really wasn't big enough for two people, but you made due. Sirius all but laid his entire long lean body on top of yours, acting as a sort of human blanket.

“Oof, bloody hell, Sirius!” you tease, squirming under him for a minute but loving every inch of him pressed down on top of you. You felt secure, safe. So different then you had in the car when you’d wondered if you’d ever feel this way again. You twine your arms around him, giving him the room to nuzzle his face into your bosom, nosing at the soft fabric of your sweater as your fingers bury themselves in his thick onyx hair.

He’s all but purring as you scrape your nails against his scalp. He’s not really a big scary dog at all, no. He’s more pussycat than anything.

The silence is peaceful, his head rests on your chest and everything smells like him. Sandalwood and cigarette smoke, and something sweet that you could never quite put your finger on. Dark and sensual and overwhelming. It always sticks to your clothes, after nights like this. You know you'll smell him in your hair for days.

Sometimes it’s still mind boggling that this is where the two of you had ended up. That you got to have him like this. You remember the days that you would pine for him, years one through four at Hogwarts had been hard on your fragile little heart. Too young to fully understand that boys like Sirius didn't look twice at girls like you.

And he hadn't.

The girls he dated, and Merlin was there a slew of them, had been beautiful in a way that you just...weren't. You’d never have a thin nose or mile long legs. And so you dropped the torch you carried for him, let the flame die out until all that was left were low simmering, angry, embers. Because fuck Sirius Black for not wanting you.

Even now, you wonder if he really does.

Want you.

Yes, the two of you had shown each other your bleeding hearts, had let each other see the dark, odd, ugly puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit into the persona’s you publicly displayed...but you wonder all the time if it wasn't just...trauma bonding.

Clinging to the only available warmth during a blizzard, trying to find someone to weather the storm with.

Without this war, without the two of you being forced together by the horrible things that were being done, that you were doing, would there even be anything there? The two of you weren't James and Lily, weren't destined to be together, to get married and live happily ever after. Your love, if that's what it was at all, wouldn't survive the war like theirs would.

“Your going to hurt yourself” Sirius’ words are muffled as he speaks them into your sweater.

“Huh?”

“You’re thinking too hard. I can practically hear the muscles straining in your brain Y/L/N” You tug on his locks at his statement, lightly enough to not cause pain- even though you knew now that he liked that.

“It’s nothing” you insist.

The last 24 hours has been hard enough, you aren’t about to fuck them up further by questioning feelings, stirring up the inevitable end of this...thing.

“”It’s something” he’s an insistent pushy tosser.

“I’m just wondering why you came back tonight, is all” you try to keep a casual cadence to your tone, but still.

Sirius props his chin on your chest. The room is dark enough that you can’t see him, but you can feel him studying you “When I heard about what happened and then found out that it was you and James that’d been there...I knew I had to find a way to get here. The two of you-“

There’s a long gap of silence. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat hummingbird fast in your chest as you wait for him to continue.

“- Are my best friends. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost one of you. And then I hear that I almost lost both of you at the same time? It was fucked. I don’t know what I would’ve done if...I’d things would’ve gone differently”

You know this is hard for him.

Sirius is just about the most emotional person you’ve ever met- he feels everything so intensely, it’s alarming really. And yet he can’t ever voice those feelings in a way that’s not screaming or drunken declarations.

His parents had really done a number on him.

“We’re friends?” Your question might sound stupid, but really, you were curious. You never thought he wanted you as a friend.

“Blimey, Y/N, are you serious?” He sits up even further, voice laced with disbelief as he rests his elbows on either side of your head, his face hovering above yours now.

“I’m just asking! I never knew, and you’ve never said. Don’t be a dickhead about it” Is your barbed reply.

He lets out a barking laugh and you can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused. Probably some mixture of the two.

“I told you about my father breaking my fingers when I refused to learn the piano” He sounds...guarded. You hate it, that you caused that. His guard to go back up. You should’ve kept your big mouth shut. Your right hand planes up and across his biceps. Resting on his shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry”

“Don’t be sorry, just know that I would never tell that to someone that I didn’t consider a friend. That I didn’t care about”

See? Emotional. So emotional. It’s like it bubbles up within him, always threatening to overflow. You could never guess when the next outburst would be.

“Well that’s good, I guess I consider you a friend too. I never did before, when we were kids, but now I don’t know what I would do...without your friendship”

Friendship is a deceitful word, a mask of something else that was far too big for either of you to attempt to tackle.

“I don’t know what I’d do without your friendship either. I never want to find out. I really did lose it a bit when I heard about what you did. Ask Marlene. She said I was overreacting”

This is a confession- it’s I love you without the strings. It’s I need you without the commitment.

It’s not fair, to either of you and it’s messy and doomed.

But it’s beautiful, all the same.

“I bet you were” you give a watery chuckle, and he presses his forehead to yours, nudging your nose with his.

“Maybe just a bit, but if we would’ve lost you tonight, I would’ve-“ he breathes deep through his nose “I don’t know what I would’ve done. Hunted them all down, probably”

It’s hot, no, physically hot. You’re burning up, his words striking a match and lighting an inferno inside of you that’d laid dormant for years.

“You can’t leave me anytime soon, got it Y/L/N?” His mouth is less than an inch away from yours, his words feel feathery against your parted lips.

“Mmhmm, I’ve got it” you're breathless already, on the verge of whining and Sirius is just a man, only human. How is that not supposed to drive him mad

“Good” he grunts out fast, before slamming his mouth to yours. He’s not slow like he’d like to be, like he knows you deserve. His kisses are hungry and wet and consuming and you just part those pretty lips and whimper into his mouth, begging him to keep going. To keep taking, so he does. Bracketing his hands on either side of your face, using it as leverage to fuck his tongue in and out of your mouth as his skin hips slot between your fatty thighs.

You pant into each other's mouths as tongues explore the places behind teeth, and Sirius hips find a rhythm that matches his tongue.

“Fuck” you pull away with a gasp and Sirius just drags his spit wet mouth down, across your chin, down your neck. When he sucks an earlobe between his teeth you mewl, legs coming up, your feet propped against the back of his thighs as you pull him closer, nestling him even deeper into the center of your thighs.

He very much likes being between your legs, as he’s told you that very fact before.

It’s warm and you’re plush and soft all over, his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, hips, belly as yours muse his hair, slipping the elastic out so that the tendrils fall freely, long enough now to curtain the two of you, brushing against your cheekbones.

It’s needier than it’s ever been, and when Sirius tugs off your sweater impatiently he literally groans as his hands map out your bare skin touching all the places that usually make you flinch. Rolls and stretch marks- it’s like he needs to feel everything. When he cups your large breasts, one in each palm you full body shiver. He paws at them, thumbing your nipples until they pebble under his touch, before his mouth takes over.

His tongue swirls around the hard buds sloppily. Too much spit, less teeth that usually are biting and sharp. He’s suckling, all over, marking you up, taking his time.

“Sirius, please” your whines are high in your throat and almost pitiful as you fist his hair. He hushes you gently, suckling turning to open mouthed kisses, before he pulls away, stripping his shirt off, in one elegant sweep.

His torso, long and lean- yet toned and sturdy is on display then and honestly you kind of want to turn the lights back on just to look at him for a while.

Usually, Sirius loves to tease. To draw things out at an almost painful pace. It’s maddening. But not tonight.

No, he’s helping you peel your leggings off your curvy calves, then stripping himself of his boxers quickly.

Things are different- somethings shifted. Everything feels all consuming, passionate, both of you are gulping for air as you rut against each other, rubbing and writing. Trying to press as much bare skin together as possible.

He presses two fingers inside of your wet cunt as he rubs his scruff against the sensitive skin of your neck and you keen, high and loud.

Instead of shushing you, he reaches blindly and clumsily for his wand. “Muffilato”

He really is a great multitasker- he manages to cast the silencing charm as he crooks his fingers inside of you, padding at your g spot and making you wail brokenly.

“That’s it, pretty. You can be as loud as you want, go on love” he coos in your ear and holy shit sex with Sirius has been good since it’s inception- but this is something else.

Maybe it’s because of what you’d experienced earlier- all of those negative emotions being combated by all of these good ones but fuck. It felt so good.  

He fucks you with his fingers, two and then three and you’re sobbing even before he kisses down your body. Lips scorching and brandishing. When his hot wet tongue slithers between your lips, zeroing in on your clit you’re done for.

It’s embarrassing how little time it takes for your body to tense up, for you to clench around his pounding digits.

“S-s-shit- oh fuck! Sirius!” You grapple at his shoulders, yank at his hair as you convulse, lost to the orgasm that rips through your chest like a bullet.

He works you through it. With little licks, and then soothing words as he pulls his fingers out of you. Your legs fall even farther open and you feel like a well wrung out dish towel.

He’s still being so sweet, as he situates you both on your sides, spooning you from behind. He nuzzles at your still wet curls and really, you’re almost asleep at this point- but not so out of it that you’re unaware of him hard against your lower back.

“Sirius” you mumble, reaching behind you, your short chubby fingers wrapping around his cock. It’s so perfect in your hand- skin hot. Rock hard and velvet smooth.

He groans low at the contact, stills your hand with his “No, it’s okay. I just wanted to take care of you”

You frown at that, whining- and not a happy one “But I want you inside of me”

“You’re barely coherent right now- you’re gonna’ fall asleep any second” he counters back, although you can hear there’s little fight in his strained voice.

“So fuck me while I’m asleep. I want you. We can do it just like this, gonna feel so good” you’re exhausted, but you’ve never wanted anything more. You rub your ass against him, you can feel the tip at the top of your crack and he’s breathing raggedly into your hair.

“Fuck woman. You’re insane” It’s a laugh, or maybe a moan as he grabs the back of your knee, raising it, giving him access to the wet hot flesh between your thighs. He hisses as he guides himself inside of you, and you both sigh when he bottoms out.

Hells, this angle is so good. You get to be completely lazy, just laying there like a doll and taking it as he holds you close and pumps his hips.

The room is filled with wet slapping and breathless panting.

There’s no way you can come again so soon, you’d never been one of those multiple orgasm kind of girls- Sirius gives a strong thrust, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix and sending shockwaves down your tailbone.

Your nails dig into his forearm as you gasp. You’re totally going to come again. Everything is hypersensitive, molten fire, pleasure so bright it’s almost pain as you hold onto him.

“God- you feel so bloody amazing” Sirius’ mouth is right at your ear, you can hear how close he is, that stutter in his breathing “I’m not gonna last- I can’t- fuck. It’s too good”

“Come inside me. Please. I want- fuck I want you closer. Never want you to stop. Want you like this forever, Please” It’s your own words that tip you over the edge for the second time. Thinking about Sirius being close like this, forever. You want him, balls deep inside of you for the rest of your life. You’d never really had an orgasm that was completely internal, your neglected clit not responsible for the tightening of your walls, for the screech that leaves your throat.

Sirius curses, chokes on a loud moan, and then stills inside you. Grabbing you, holding you still as he buries himself to the hilt and empties himself in hot spirits into your womb.

He feels shaky and uncoordinated as he tries to regather himself. Merlins fucking beard- he’d never come that hard. Ever. He swears he’s still feeling the shock waves minutes later when he’s finally able to move.

He breathes in through his teeth and you let out a squeaky mewl as he pulls out.

“Sorry, I’m sorry” he kisses your shoulder soothingly.

Never want you to stop

The words that you’d spoke in the throws of your pleasure ring in his head as he manages to locate that towel you’d used earlier and clean both of you off. It’s half assed and you’d both certainly need to shower before you but back on clothes but at least he’d tried.

“You still awake?” He whispers to you because you’ve gone so still, your body loose and your breathing even.

You make a noncommittal sound, half of an ‘mmhmm’ and he chuckles, managing to get the blanket up and around the both of you before curling himself back around your body.

He’ll let you have the only pillow, that’s fine. You’re so plush and soft anyway. One big pillow, really. More comfortable than the expensive peacock feathers his mom used to fawn over when he was little.

You’re out like a light, and yet Sirius’ mind is going a mile a minute.

I want you closer

You’d almost died, less then twelve hours ago. James has told him how close it had been for both of you. How narrowly you’d escaped death's grasp.

Sirius presses his face onto your back, off centered from the nape of your neck. You smell like your shampoo here- blackberries and sweet lavender.

He had ran, lungs heaving and paws aching through the woods around the McKinnon Cabin. Desperation fueling him. He’d been so scared. The moment he’d been out of sight, he’d appirated to this safe house. He’d only been here once and could barely conjure the image in his head, but he’d still done it.

He could’ve gotten caught, he could’ve been splinched.

Even now, he doesn’t care.

He can pretend that it was out of concern for his best friend, and yeah a big part of it was. James was his brother. The only family he had left and seeing him to make sure he was safe and okay was important to Sirius…

But in the dark, with his arms wrapped around you and the smell of you all over him, he can admit that he’d snapped in a way that he never had before. When he’d heard that you’d been the one to lift your wand and fight, that Voldemort had thrown curses directly at you…

He was terrified.

Not much scared him these days- and that was the sad truth. He was brave to the point of recklessness, he’d always prided himself on that fact.

But the idea of losing you? That he was scared of.

Want you like this forever.

Please.

Another thing that Sirius Black was scared of? The fact that he wanted you forever, too. He wasn’t made for love, not the kind that he knew you wanted. Not the kind that he watched his friends partake in.

He’d let you down eventually, he knew it, and with as smart as you were, he knew you knew it too.

But not tonight.

Tonight he’d hold you, breathe you in, and pretend that there wasn’t a war waging in the world outside.

————

Many years later, while he lay on the dirty stone floor of his Azkaban cell- he stares wordlessly at the ceiling and remembers how you smelled of lavender and blackberries. How you’d giggled like sunshine and fought like hell.

And he remembers, most, how much he loved you. 

Alright guys! Thank you for taking the time to read this massive one shot! I hope you enjoyed it. As always I ask that you comment, and reblog if its possible. Love you all!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@peacefulwriter88 @jalapenobarnes @jaamesbbarnes @gifsbysimplysonia @brieannakeogh @allaboardthereadingrailroad @all-about-sirius @spidey-babe-parker @propertyofpoeandbucky @hufflepuff-always-and-forever @autirobo @louisianaspell @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @hufflepuffing-all-day-long @threeminutesoflife @writeturnlove @benbarnesescape

Well, that was painful lol. I’ve been feeling really angsty with everything that’s been going on in the world- so I decided to lean into it. I will be writing some fluff pieces soon too, to cope with this quarantining, so keep an eye out.

Okay so we all have the time I thought I’d write a kind of long author's note down here. Harry Potter is my all time favorite Fandom(and fun fact, was the first fandom I ever wrote for) and I definitely don’t give it the love it deserves here on my page.

Sirius Black *chefs kiss while sobbing* That man taught me how to love. He was my first true male character love.

My Fan-Casting has always been a little different then everyone else’s, but lately I’ve really tightened up my dream cast and I love it so much so I thought I’d share(obvs, please feel free to imagine whoever you want in these roles):

Sirius Black: Okay this is probably the only casting I have that is like OG dawn of time Sirius fan cast. BEN BARNES IS SIRIUS BLACK. He always will be to me and nothing will ever change my mind. I imagine Ben with like some Harry Styles mannerisms when I write my Sirius.

James Potter: Chance Perdomo. James Potter was brown and that is that. Chance won me over as Ambrose in Sabrina. He’s so cheeky and thoughtful and arrogant and perfect.

Lily Evans(Potter): Sophie Skelton! This is actually a pretty popular cast for her which makes me so happy because Sophie is so perfect for Lily. I could never get behind the Karen Gillian wave. Sorry.

Remus Lupin: Daniel Sharman- I recently came across a post with Daniel as a young Remus and omg my life is changed for the better!

Peter Pettigrew: Okay so I feel like Peter is so hard to cast- but when I think of Rowling’s book desript of him I always come back to one actor. Jonah Hill. I feel like he would tear this part uppppp. Also he’s plus sized unlike all the other actors I always see people fc him with.

Marlene McKinnon: Okay so idk where this came from but I’ve always seen Marlene as Latina? Like always. Her fc has jumped around for me but has recently landed, hard, on Ana De Armas

Dorcas Meadows: Ashley Blaine Fearherson!!! Dorcas is cannonly black which I fucking love because she was so bad ass that Voldemort’s bitch ass had to go take her out himself. A queen. She’s always been a fave of mine

Alice Longbottom: Florence Pugh! She didn’t make much of an appearance in this particular one shot but I love her!

Frank Longbottom: So I know Nevilles like really white in the movies, but I’ve never been able to get over Diego Luna as Frank. Sweet sunshine man.

#Sirius Black #sirius black x plus size reader #sirius black x reader #harry potter #ben barnes #ben barnes x plus size reader #Sirius black x plus sized reader #billy russo #billy russo x plus sized reader #Jilly #james and lily #james potter #lily evans #marauders #wolfstar

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 16: Lucubration

Moen. Why did you give me this troll ass word. Why did this word, of all of them, give me Immense Emotions.

Have an Academic AU set 600 years after xiv. Do not perceive me.

To say that discovering what had happened to those closest to the Warrior of Light from the Seventh Astral Era, now some six hundred years past, was the culmination of Ciri’s life’s work was a gross overexaggeration, though it was the first project she had been approved for grant money to pursue out of graduate school. It was an interesting enough period in history that there was ample interest in the nitty gritty of it, though the obtuse nature of the way that era was chronicled had made it an intimidating one to approach.

Ciri didn’t know the concept of being intimidated by academic research, however, and had leapt into it headlong, eager to know what had become of the historic figures that had risen up in the wake of the Serella Arcbane of legend.

It had been fairly easy to reverse engineer her path of adventuring, and from there, Ciri had managed to discover so much more than she had thought she could in some case, in others, almost nothing. Which had ultimately led her travels to Ishgard, tucked away in one of the recently restored Scholasticate libraries, pouring over tomes and records by low lamplight to help with her migraine.

It was late enough that everyone else in the building had long since gone home, save for the janitorial staff. It was a common enough occurrence that Ciri made it a habit of buying the lot of them takeout while she was there. Half as a bribe to not kick her out, but mostly so she could continue her work unburdened with the worry that they hadn’t eaten enough in the day. 

There were reasons she was their favorite academic.

“Still here?” A dulcet voice asked from the doorway to the archives.

Emil. She didn’t even have to look up to know. She would know him anywhere.

“As ever.” She called back. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

“You should know me better than that by now.” With the echoing clack of his footsteps approaching her, she was spared being startled when he set a thermos on the table for her. “I couldn’t well enough just abandon my partner in crime.”

She spared him a plain look from over the tome she had been pouring over.

“You just don’t like going through that one street alone, do you?”

“Have you seen the way those dancers leer at me?” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I can’t tell whether they’re trying to lure me in to seduce me or put me to work.”

“The woes of bountiful beauty.” Ciri sighed, and snapped the book she had been reading shut.

She tossed it to the side of her in half disgust, along with the veritable mountain of other tomes that had proven to be just as uninformative.

“You would know far more than I.” He cooed around a saccharine smile, preening at the way she flushed at the compliment.

“You do this on purpose, I swear it.” She grumbled goodnaturedly.

Though Emile laughed, his eyes scanned the discarded tomes, pursing his lips. “Still having trouble finding him, then?”

“Technically.” She heaved a sigh, her back thumping against her chair as she took a moment to pout in a manner most unbecoming an academic. “I keep running into dead ends. He was a goddamn world leader, how does history lose someone like that?!”

There yet remained one final piece of the mystery she needed before her work was done. She could not leave it to be lost to the annals of history for no other reason than her lack of due diligence, that was for damn certain.

“Quite easily, I assure you.” He replied, and finally held up a bag of takeout he had brought up with him and set it on the table. “Take a break with me, rest your eyes.”

He set out a variety of containers, each more fragrant and savory than the last. Betraying her own neglect, Ciri’s stomach growled loud enough that he paused in divvying up food to arch a brow at her.

“When did you last eat?”

“...Monday…?” She said hesitantly once she had ticked back the hours. 

It was only Tuesday, right? That wasn’t so bad.

“Cirilla Anne Dubois! It’s Wednesday!” Sparing a glance at his watch, he grimaced and amended, “Thursday, by now! Eat!”

He set a large soup container in front of her to punctuate his command, and the scent of beef broth filled her senses. She had to swallow heavily from how her mouth watered.

“Udon…?” She asked hopefully.

“Of course. And a shared order of tempura.” He promised, laying out another container between them.

A ritual for them, to share meal and knowledge alike. Something that had carried over from their days in uni, and even before then. She had been glad for Emil’s constant, comforting presence throughout their travels and research. They could be doing nothing but laughing over a silly video on his tomephone, and sharing bits of food, and still, she would be the happiest woman in the world.

Emil somehow seemed to always know when she needed a break. The food had been exactly what she had needed, she realized the moment that the first bite had settled on her tongue. He had even brewed her tea, she realized when she popped the thermos open and sniffed at the delicate complex and slightly sweet aroma. 

Truly, these were the moments that made her work worthwhile.

“Review with me, like we always do. Something to break up the lucubration by lamplight, if you will.” Emil brought her back, the bright amber of his eyes comforting in the low lamplight. After he chewed around a mouthful of curry and rice, he continued, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Tell me of the other Alliance leaders, and how their stories ended.”

“But you know. You’ve been with me every step of this research trip.” Ciri whined after a long dreg of her tea.

“Sure, but isn’t it important to look again? To make sure you didn’t miss anything?” He encouraged. 

He had a point, even if Ciri didn’t want to admit it.

“Where to start…” She tapped her fingers on the table. “Lyse Hext and Hien Rijin formed a bridge between the Doman and Eorzean Alliances when they were wed, paved the way for current world politics in that regard, though they ultimately focused on adopting refugee children and rebuilding Doma and Ala Mhigo respectively. Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn adamantly refused to retire until she had found a suitable replacement.”

“Only for her First to ultimately convince her to do so that she might marry the love of her life.” Emil supplied, food all but abandoned to focus his attention solely on her.

“Y’Shtola Rhule, of all people.” Ciri snorted. ““The only woman to keep me honest. I would have no other.” It was so recorded she had said in her wedding vows.”

“Good for them.” He nodded.

“Raubahn Aldynn eventually retired from his position as General of the Ala Mhigan army, and had lived a content life as a hobbyist carpenter and full time grandfather to his son’s children.” She paused to chew on a mouthful of noodles. “For the life of me, I couldn’t confirm who Pipin Tarupin had settled down with, though there is some suggestion that it was eventually Nanamo Ul Namo, having all but disappeared upon successfully dissolving the sultanate of Ul’Dah.”

“It’d be a neat end to several loose threads.” Emil shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t blame popular theory for running with it.”

“I just hate that I don’t know— and I’d asked Kan-E-Senna in that interview, too, lest you wonder.”

Kan-E-Senna didn’t count as a reliable source of information on the whole, the crone. Eternally youthful and blessed by the Twelveswood, Ciri had squared her away with a simple interview. The Elder Seedeer had been a bit of a dead end for damn near everything but Merlwyb and Y’Shtola’s wedding, citing that she had simply not been very close with anyone else, preferring the company of the wood itself.

Ciri still couldn’t tell whether that was the truth, or she was just being an obtuse old bat having a laugh at a young academic’s expense.

“Dead ends, all, for what on earth happened to the last of them.”

She blew a curly bang out of her face with a frustrated huff. Infuriatingly, it sprang right back to where it had hung in her eyes. With an agitated grunt, she sat up and gathered all of her hair to hold back with a head scarf. Plucking a zucchini tempura piece from its container and popping it in her mouth, she went back to the tome she was pouring over when Emil arrived and flipped to the page she had been on. 

“I’ve solved what happened to all the rest. But what happened to him?” She hissed almost under her breath, the blunt end of her pen tapping against a specific portrait of a historic figure depicted in the text.

Inky hair swept over bright eyes, a young man barely in his thirties draped in gilded armor and blue finery. Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard during and after the Dragonsong War. Speculated beloved of the Warrior of Light. Aymeric de Borel. 

“I can’t figure out what happened to him after he retired.” Ciri frowned at the portrait of the handsome man. “He was barely thirty-seven, and was in good health, by all accounts. The Borel Manor is still in the family name, even centuries down the line, though none of them are of blood relatives.” She tapped her pen to her bottom lip in thought. “Family trees confirm he adopted his children, though he himself was also an adopted kid, so the Borel bloodline had already died out before he had even retired, in a manner of speaking.”

“But when did he adopt them? Did he have a spouse? And why— and how— in the ever loving fuck did he just vanish from all record?!”

“You keep thinking of him as a historical figure.” Emil noted patiently, setting down his chopsticks and reaching across the table to gently hold her hand. “Think of him as a person. What, considering all of the other people in Ell— the Warrior of Light’s life chose for themselves, what would you think he would want, above all else?”

“...You know something I don’t.” Ciri accused after a moment of scrutiny, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“A rarity, but just this once, yes.” He nodded. “Though for disclosure: I only came about the knowledge tonight.”

“Why not tell me sooner?”

“I wanted you to eat, my dear.”

There was something that struck her as deeply familiar about this moment. The dark brown of his skin was stark against the rolled up sleeves of his pale blue shirt, and yes, he was distractingly handsome all the time, and yes, they had always shared food and conversation before, but this…

Ciri had never been to Ishgard before her academic research. Not once. And yet, it felt as though she had been here, with him, having this conversation before.

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment, his eyes were a peculiar kyanite blue.

Odd.

“Have you been down to the Vault’s archives?” At her nod, he smiled wider and pushed away from his seat, hand held out in offering. “Come, let me show you something you might have overlooked.”

“Bold of you to imply I’m not thorough in my work, Emil.” She pursed her lips, even as she accepted.

“I would never— I only mean that you didn’t know to look for this.”

His smile widened when she placed her hand in his. As if she would ever refuse him. As if she ever could.

The toe of her boot caught on the ankle of her opposite foot when she made to stand— ah, new boots, damn it all— and she braced for a fall. Emil, always happy to help, had easily braced and caught her before she had truly fallen, and helped right her on her own feet. 

“Falling for me at last, my dear?” He asked with a dazzling smile.

“Fuck’s sakes, you know I fluster easily.” Ciri sputtered around her blushing, though she did use the excuse of wobbly legs to press close to him for a moment. 

Ahh, they never did talk about what they were after that one college party…

“Come on, I promise it isn’t long— and we’ll be back to finish our food, lest you worry.” 

Hand in hand, Ciri and Emil made their way down, down, down the winding steps of the Congregation, deeper and deeper still into the Vault, past the chapel, beyond the stained glass windows, until they were again wrapped in nothing but lamplight. 

How was this so familiar? How did this feel like they had done this before?

“You’re being silly!” The low alto voice of a woman rang in her mind. Ciri almost tripped on the steps.

“And dramatic, lest you forget, but pray allow me this.” She would have almost swore it was Emil that had spoken, had the dialect not been so old. 

What was happening to her? What was in that Udon?

The Archivist waved them through with barely a glance at their badges— they had become familiar faces at that point— and popped a grape in his mouth distractedly, eyes never leaving the book in his hand. With a word of thanks, they continued on their way.

It was in the darkest corner of the archives, one of the last bookshelves, where Emil finally came to a stop. The hand not holding hers thumbed through the volumes until he found an unmarked tome of deepest black and pulled it from the shelf.

“Look at this.” He said quietly.

Ciri studied the cover a moment with trembling fingers. Unable to contain that strange ache in her chest, that sense of longing and...fear? Bracing herself she opened the book.

It was such a worn thing, it practically fell open all its own. She nearly dropped the thing for how her hands trembled. A thoughtful frown marred her face as she read the title, written in neat penmanship. 

“The Last Will and Testament of Aymeric de Borel?” Ciri whispered. “But...I don’t understand—”

“Read it.” Emil whispered, close enough she could feel his warmth, a welcome, gentle hand at the small of her back. “You will, I promise you.”

Its first entry was, perhaps, its most telling. The last piece of the puzzle. The end of her journey— and the beginning of something so much more personal, as she recalled a life she never lived.

"Today I am married to the love of my life. Today, Aymeric de Borel dies. In his place, Aymeric Arcbane will find a thousand different happily ever afters, both here and on the road, as long as her hand is in mine."

In different handwriting, a cheeky remark of, “A bit of a dramatic exit, given we’re only going on an adventure, but it’ll do.”

“He found them.” Emil said softly. When she looked up at him, his bright eyes bore into hers. “Every one of those happily ever afters. He found them all, every time, with her. This was all he ever wanted.”

Ciri remembered being a full fulm taller, broader in shoulder, lighter in skin that was heavy with scars, and having two different eye colors. She remembered feeling her shoulders pulled down with a weight she herself couldn’t fathom. She remembered fighting, over and over and over again.

For him. For his smile.

Her eyes swimming with tears, Ciri gently closed the book, and with the hand not cradling such a precious treasure to her chest, she reached out to him.

Of course she had already loved him. She always had. Of course he had loved her in kind. He had never stopped.

“That’s alright, then.” She said.

They left the Vault together again, for the first time in six hundred years, laughing just as brightly as they had before.

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #Aymeric de Borel #Serella Arcbane #original characters #future au #plz do not perceive me I am in my Emotions

[readerinsertfanfiction]

Kotodama

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Mitsuhide Akechi

Prompt: Kotodama or kototama [言霊] - The Japanese belief that a name or a word holds mystical power. 

Warning: Implied character death. 

The warring states brought a time of chaos around. A time where ‘home’ was not a place, but a scenery, and where the composition of ‘family’ frequently changed. The certainty of a night’s rest was not guaranteed, much less was the next meal, but it was your time, and it was the time in which you met a certain kitsune.

“Who are you?”

Your voice had been nothing but a whisper when you stared at the figure in front of you. A blade in hands, the silver of the moon reflected, stained with the blood of your aggressors. Their bodies were stilled forever, like that of many that had encountered before them. A suitable ending for one so drenched in blood.

“No one you should concern yourself with,” the man had answered, a smirk drawn on his face that resembled the waning crescent of the moon. Somewhat cruel, mostly mysterious, but drawing you nearer, unsure as you were if your saviour was real.

And you would have believed it to be a dream if it wasn’t for the rest of the company in which you travelled, speaking of the silver fox that had sprung out in the night, saving you all before passing by. You never quite forgot the backside of the man and his enigmatic smirk.

“You!”

Grabbing hold of his arm you were so certain that this was the same man that had saved you that night. The same pale hair, the eyes that could turn into mean slits. The only thing that didn’t match was the absence of that crescent smile, instead morphed into a scowl of sorts as he gently pulled himself out of your grasp.

“Me?” was his cool response, confirming that this was indeed the same man.

“The kitsune that saved me and my companions,” you explained, though his expression remained unreadable as ever as you continued to speak. “We never thanked you for saving our lives,” you wanted to say, but were cut off in the middle of it.

“Never thank a man for taking a life, even if it happens to save yours,” was his grim response, neither confirming nor denying your claims. It was the sort of answer you expected from the man, the sort of heroism that clicked.

“I’m [Na--].”

You were cut off before you could finish, a hand rising up to your lips as he pressed gently against your mouth, disabling you from speech.

“You shouldn’t give your name so easily, little mouse,” the man smiled, his eyes leveling with yours as he leaned forward. “Might that there is a spirit overhearing us, ready to abuse your name for their own gain,” he continued, his deep voice turning into a dark chuckle before he finally let you go.

“Then what am I to call you?” you questioned, to which the man’s smile faltered only for a second before rising into that same crescent once more.

“Kitsune will do.”

Your path together had been riddled with coincidental and inconsequential crosspoints intersecting, parting and meeting one another at various points of your life. Some called it fate, for running into the same face in the chaos of life was a rare happenstance. They called it a sign from above, claiming that an invisible string tied the two of you together, constantly growing taut and tugging at both your souls. Whatever the case, the two of you met and parted, like scenes of a play, like actors passing each other on the stage.

“My, it seems that a little mouse jumped into my arms,” the kitsune spoke, a low chuckle escaping him once more as his arms wrapped around your trembling shoulders. “Do you plan to make it a habit, running into trouble?” he questioned, though he knew that it was this very era that was wronging you, throwing you into all that danger.

“Perhaps it is a sign,” you said, looking up at the handsome face above you, the face that you had come to associate with the moon. Questioning eyes met yours as you reached up, cupping his face into your hands as you pulled him closer.

“[Name] [Surname].”

The way the kitsune had stilled, not quite pushing you away, nor pulling you in. The confusion that his body seemed to be in was the memory you cherished the most. The ball was in his hands and only patience would tell what his answer would be.

“Why won’t you tell me your name?” You had braved yourself, boldly holding onto his arm as you looked up into those brimming golden eyes. He was always moving, always scheming, planning ahead as he fought on, but always, always alone. However, somewhere the man had started to seek your company. To pass the time, as he claimed. To better rest, he made up. Though the two of you knew that there was something undeniable between the both of you.

“What my name is, is of no importance,” he had answered after a long pause, as if considering giving you his name like you had given yours. “A kitsune like me is better off left unknown.”

Frowning you gave the man a flick to his head resting in your lap, a pout clear on your lips as he only laughed at your discontent.

“It matters to me,” you said, stilling the man as you covered his eyes with your hand, wishing to shield him from the flush that was creeping onto your face. “Your name will tell me who you are, that you are real, that you were really here,” you breathed, an ominous feeling settling in your chest as you thought of the uncertainties of tomorrow. The constant wars, the fights that made up your life. You knew that the sword that laid at his side was yet another symbol of the eternally ongoing war you lived through. That he was a man who had pledged his life to the sword.

Feeling cool tips brushing over your wrist you revealed your face once more, surprised at the conflict that was for once reflected in the otherwise inscrutable expression.

“All the more for you not to know, little mouse,” was all he had said that night. His words were cold, though his voice warm as he spoke to you, fingers lingering over your arms before retreating, a glimpse of regret left behind in his eyes before even that faded.

It was always in hindsight that one realised the value of all that they had journeyed through. The lessons taught, the names given. When the flames burned a name was called, reigning over the crowds for days before even that one was buried, replaced by yet another name.

“Mitsuhide Akechi,” you whispered to yourself, knowing that the name would carry on for centuries to come. The name of the traitor that had broken all to achieve one. The name of a man who you believed to have known, but could never call your own. A name, that you only got through the passage of time, never from the man himself.

Somewhere you liked to believe that by just uttering his name his presence would return to you. That he would lay his head down in your lap once more as you spoke of your day, your hopes, and plans. Had you known his name, you would have summoned him to spend his days with you, share his hopes, and his plans. But it was he who had known your name and not once had the silver fox uttered it.

#ikesen x reader #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen #mitsuhide x reader #mitsuhide akechi #ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku x reader #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikemen mitsuhide

[futurestaresback]

hypmic kny!au headcanons because nobody asked for it!!!

i wrote this au at like 1am but i like how it turned out, so i'm posting it here :D

some kny spoilers ahead(?)

buster bros

• ichiro is the First Pillar/壱の柱 ((wow thats badass))

• he uses breath of the sun change my mind (though he started out with breath of water)

• his weapon: a katana with a red hilt. there's an omamori on it that says one, or ichi

• as expected, jiro has two omamori (ichiro's one + his own) while saburo has three (all of them)

• jiro uses breath of water come on it fits with his image color (and poor boi probs never mastered another breathing technique that's why)

• however, he's actually very proficient at it -- he knows all the forms and can perform them at any given time. only downside? due to his nonexistentCOUGH i mean insufficient knowledge of kanji, he doesn't know how to read the names of most of the forms and can't yell his attacks like a badass

• saburo? thunder breathing. he's not physically as strong as his older brothers (yet), so he relies on his agility and speed to boost his attacks

• jiro and saburo are training to be ichiro's tsuguko, and they squabble about it a shit ton (much to ichiro's disappointment), but oh boy in a fight the three of them are deadly

• especially if ichiro is injured in some way. jiro and saburo will literally show no mercy to whoever was unfortunate enough to have done it

mad trigger crew

• samatoki is the skull pillar/髑髏柱

• wooooo again with the badass names

• i just thought of this but OK WHAT IF HE BECAME A DEMON SLAYER TO PROTECT DEMON!NEMU???

• because in canon he became a yakuza for her sake and nemu was brainwashed by chuuouku so

• omg

• ok anyways samatoki's breathing style is skull breathing, which he invented himself

• even though he's a demon slayer, he's not exactly,,, sociable. he's irritable, stubborn, and just smokes on a kiseru during pillar meetings

• ((but he's actually a huge softie under all of that, especially if his sister is involved))

• jyuto. he probably uses his own breathing style too, but as for weapons... he uses a pistol

• he literally has the kanji for "gun" in his name ofc he would

• since this is the taisho era, western-style pistols would still have been relatively new so jyuto is feared as much as he's respected for his proficiency of his weapons

• would totally confront any demon he meets by saying "HAI STOP STOP STOP"

• rio?? survival breathing

• ok sorry but seriously he'd use his own breathing style too

• i think it'd be mostly centered around strengthening endurance and prologing survival time in dire situations (underwater, in a fire, trapped in an airtight space, etc) rather than attack

• and where does survival cooking come in, you ask?

• it's still there. but the ingredients are demons

• i headcanon that just like genya, he can eat demons to temporarily gain some of their attributes, and he insists on sharing his cooking with everyone, but (naturally) is usually met with stiff resistance

• mostly by jyuto

fling posse

• ramuda is... the candy pillar/飴柱

• don't be fooled by the innocent name; he's actually one of the deadliest pillars because unlike the others who wield swords, his preferred type of weapon is poison

• he has to use that, because physically he lacks the strength to decapitate a demon (kinda like shinobu really)

• another similarity they share? from a young age, he's been trained to intake wisteria poison into his body, and started a habit of eating candy with that to make the pain a little more bearable (which is how he got the "candy pillar" title)

• over the years, he's accumulated enough toxicity in his body that even the poison on his breath has become lethal to demons if they're exposed to it in close contact

• which is why he loves to get close and clingy with people

• when an enemy really ticks him off, though, he'll snap and immediately resort to methods... quicker in effect than poison

• a swift slit to their throat with the small dagger he keeps in his haori sleeve usually does the trick, he finds

• gentaro isn't a pillar, but oh god if he was they'd call him the uso hashira

• he's always shrouded in this aura of mystery and never gives straight answers to anyone

• especially dice

• gentaro is light for his height, so like ramuda, i headcanon he's not very suited for wielding a katana like the others either

• however, no one has seen that weapon -- just the book he carries around with him at all times

• if you start to link things together and ask him whether the book is his secret weapon all along, he'll say, "why, yes. i do not need a blade to kill, you see, only words..."

• when you back away in fear he'll chuckle a little and hit you with the "uso desu yo"

• gentaro you little shit

• as for dice, i headcanon him to be a special case

• just like a casino slot machine, his special ability is that he can use any attack from any form of breathing he's learned, with full proficiency and power

• only downside is that,,, he never knows what attack it is exactly

• like he learned a form of sun breathing from observing the buster bros' training and was so excited to try it out against some demon he met but forgot about the randomness of his attacks and accidentally hit them with breath of water first form

• it bounces harmlessly off said demon (to dice's horror)

• (luckily ramuda manages to swoop in and kill them while they're too busy laughing at dice's expression of horror)

• and to nobody's surprise, he slacks off training to gamble, but surprisingly his skill matches theirs despite not having been polished through conventional practice

matenro

• jakurai... oh boy. he's the deity pillar/神柱

• the word "pillar" ("hashira") is the counter for deities in japanese, so this title basically emphasises the fact that jakurai is seen as the living embodiment of a deity

• it's hard not to see him as such, because he's so tall and ethereal and there's a certain grace in everything he does

• plus his specialty (besides swordsmanship) is healing others with his knowledge of medicinal herbs and... his voice. like oyakata-sama, i hc that his voice has the ability to instantly soothe people and put them at ease

• HOWEVER, he is absolutely terrifying on the battlefield. he's silent and deadly, and if you're his enemy he has no pity to spare for you. this assassin-like style of his attacks have been likened to a viper lying in ambush for its prey

• and just like in canon, his personality does a complete 180 when he's drunk

• one time he accidentally mistook a cup of sake for water and the next second he'd ripped off his haori and yeeted doppo through the shoji door

• (he's apologized at least 5 times and doppo says he doesn't have to, but neither of them have really forgotten about it)

• hifumi definitely uses love breathing, like mitsuri

• come on the theme just fits too well and some of the attacks are named after cats... he says it's for his konekochans

• instead of his usual suit, he has a small haori he has to put on in order to get into host mode AND gain more confidence, which upon wearing instantly turns him into a bubbly demon-slaying ladykiller

• would 100% flirt with his opponents before killing them ("oh, kitten, you look simply stunning... such a shame that i'll have to cut you down soon. let's make the most out of the last night of your life then, shall we?")

• he cooks for everyone else occassionally, especially after a long day of training. it's a hobby of his that he isn't afraid to admit

• doppo... this poor boy

• he's a breath of water user, and his rank is... average.

• his weapon is a katana, which is... also average

• basically, people don't see anything special or worth mentioning about him at first glance, which (besides his own pessimism) accounts for doppo's constant gloominess

• his mentor also forces him to train for longer than the other tsuguko and he's also a frequent subject of ridicule, which doesn't help at all

• would 100% be the apologetic attacker type (like he'd apologize if a demon he was meant to slay belittled him)

• he lets his stress out occassionally when he's pushed past a breaking point and boy is he scary when that happens

• is it wrong to imagine that, just like how zenitsu can power up ridiculously while unconscious/asleep, doppo has a "berserk mode" that he can activate when he gets pushed too far

• during which his usual meek, timid personality is all but replaced by his pent up rage that he won't hesitate to let out all at once... pray for whoever's unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of it

#long post whoops #but i honestly love this crossover so much it was so interesting to write?? #hypmic #hypnosis mic #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba au

[aion-rsa]

The Silence of the Lambs and Clarice’s Lifelong Battle Against the Male Gaze

https://ift.tt/3tKs3GZ

Special agent Clarice Starling is breathing heavily as she forces herself to turn the next tight corner. Between deep breaths, she knows somewhere in the back of her mind that she’s being watched. And she can assume those invisible, cold male eyes are making a judgement of her five-foot and three-inch frame: She’s in over her head. Yet she pushes past any condescending skepticism, and she perseveres  through the proverbial dark.

At a glance, this could apply to the climax of The Silence of the Lambs, Jonathan Demme’s masterful psychological thriller which finishes with a cat and mouse game of Starling (a peerless Jodie Foster) crawling through the dungeon created by Ted Levine’s Buffalo Bill. In that blackness, serial killer Bill most certainly watches her, playfully (mis)judging her aptitude for handling his house of horrors. Yet all of these elements are also evident in Silence of the Lambs’ very first scene.

On a sleepy late wintry morning in Virginia, we’re introduced to Starling already overcoming another manmade trap meant to exclude her. At the FBI’s Quantico obstacle course, we witness the quiet and earnest determination which defines Clarice as she ascends up a rope line and when she flips over a cargo net. She’s acutely aware that the deck is probably being stacked against her behind her back, but she remains unfatigued and undaunted. She doesn’t even wince when the FBI instructor who emerges from the shadows to summon her down to the office mispronounces her name: He calls her “Sterling.”

It’s only a few minutes at the top of Silence of the Lambs, but it’s shot with Demme’s signature attentiveness and subtlety. While the director never draws direct attention to his filmmaking and blocking techniques, his visual language is pristine and unmistakable.

From the jump, Clarice is in a maze, a labyrinth of manmade systems and challenges that appear to reject her very presence. And she never once steps away from their course. They’re with her at the finale in Buffalo Bill’s portal to hell, but they also manifest in the bureaucratic cages and then literal holding pens Dr. Frederick Chilton (Anthony Heard) ushers Clarice through as a power move—a brusque display of authority and arrogance after Clarice rebuffed Chilton’s sleazy pick-up line a moment earlier in the film. “See what an important man you missed the chance of getting to know?” he projects through a curdled sneer.

Chilton is, of course, taking Clarice to meet the man he calls “the Monster:” Dr. Hannibal Lecter (a mighty Anthony Hopkins who demonstrates the eviscerating power of stillness). And one doubts Dr. Lecter would disagree with that title. It’s easy to imagine the disgraced cannibal psychiatrist musing that if Clarice’s life is a series of mazes and evaded dead ends, then her lifetime amounts to a single, titanic struggle against a minotaur—the ultimate monster of Greek mythology who devoured young men and women fed into his maze.

Yet in Silence of the Lambs, the all-consuming Dr. Lecter is hardly the only monster in Clarice’s life, even if he is the creature at the center of Chilton’s labyrinth. Rather the real Monster (with a capital “M”) pursuing Clarice is just about every man she meets. Among them, Dr. Lecter is but an urbane drop in the ocean.

This is again foreshadowed during the film’s opening moments when, after coming down from the obstacle course, Clarice loads onto an elevator with a half-dozen other FBI trainees, each towering over her by at least a foot. Once more, Demme’s simple but eloquent framing of Clarice’s universe is devastating. In a snapshot, we can understand the white bread, buttoned up skepticism of the patriarchal institutions she’s attempting to join and improve. After all, in the next scene, her new boss Jack Crawford (Scott Glenn) admits she caught his attention when she grilled him in a classroom over the FBI’s sordid history in the civil rights era.

Crawford welcomes Clarice’s earnestness and repudiation of the good ol’ boys’ club in law enforcement. Still, he only picks her for this assignment because he sees her as a proverbial honey pot meant to entice Dr. Lecter—a pretty face meant to appeal to the lonely and incarcerated cannibal. Hannibal takes it a step farther too when he asks if Clarice has considered that the kindly Jack Crawford is attracted to her? Dr. Lecter relishes planting the idea of Clarice’s boss fantasizing about her in the young agent’s mind. How else would Crawford think to pick her to interview the monster?

But these taunts, which are intended to embarrass, are rooted in Lecter’s two most powerful weapons: acute observational skills and the ability to speak uncomfortable truths. He uses them again during their final encounter before his escape, when Hannibal asks Clarice, “Don’t you feel eyes moving over your body?” Don’t you feel the male gaze objectifying and defiling?

One of the most remarkable things about Silence of the Lambs 30 years later is its intelligent and (much like Clarice) frank way of addressing the overt sexism and misogyny in society. This is not done in the sometimes ham-handed way of modern media, with didactic speeches and easily defeated abusers who get their deserved comeuppance. Instead this problem is shown to be the uncomfortable truth of our reality, and a truth that’s sadly changed little in three decades.

Even before Dr. Lecter verbalizes the oppressiveness of the male gaze, Clarice and the audience know it’s there in the elevator, and perhaps also with Crawford’s more smiling friendliness. It’s sometimes not even unwelcome, as when Clarice flirts with the gawky bug specialist at the Smithsonian (he even gets to attend her Quantico graduation later); but it’s constant, and mostly insulting if not outright predatory. Whether in the gaze of all those criminally insane patients whom Hannibal shares a cell block with or in a dozen hard stares from a West Virginian sheriff’s department, it is always menacing Clarice.

It’s fair to wonder whether it was harder for special agent Starling to draw a gun on Buffalo Bill or for Clarice to tell all those country bumpkin deputies to take a hike earlier in the movie so she and Crawford can examine the body of one of Bill’s victims. When she entered the funeral home with her boss, once again all these other law enforcement types had a foot above her in height, and their eyes closed that distance to cover her body. No one says an outwardly sexist or sleazy remark; they don’t have to. In fact, the only cruel word comes from her own boss when Crawford preemptively bends to the local prejudices by marking Starling as soft and lesser by virtue of her gender while chatting up the sheriff.

Later Crawford offers a halfhearted apology, saying he only did that to ingratiate himself with the regressive rube he needed information from. But Clarice is never one to let the right thing go unsaid.

“Cops look at you to learn how to act,” Clarice respectfully but assertively pushes back. “It matters.” Crawford smiles and shrugs, “Point taken,” before dozing off. But obviously the point is not taken, and the patronizing tone of even a decent man like Crawford belies his kindness. It demonstrates why the insidiousness of patriarchal double standards persists. Hence how at the end of the movie Crawford gets to go on the ill-fated raid of where the FBI thinks Buffalo Bill is living—leaving Clarice behind to actually crack the case on her own.

Even from his cage, Dr. Lecter can see this perpetual struggle within the moment Clarice steps before his plexiglass. She is, after all, a woman trying to advance in the FBI. Not that Hannibal is immune from this nastiness or is some kind of “ally.” In the same scene that Lecter asks about men’s eyes, his own stare attempts to consume Clarice whole. Long before Demme’s camera puts Foster in an extreme close-up, Hopkins’ baby blues are dominating the whole screen as Hannibal demands to know about the screaming of the lambs. Unblinking, they’re like the eyes of a deity. Or a devil.

And yet, Clarice can at least appreciate Hannibal’s bluntness and honesty about it, as well as the fact he always shoots straight with her, even when he lies or obscures the truth beneath word games. He’s the only man who admits to the double standards, and he points her in the right direction to capture Bill, albeit by leaving Clarice to put the clues together herself.

At the end of the day, Silence of the Lambs is Clarice’s story. Sure, Hopkins is spectacular as Hannibal, but even with her Oscar win for the role, Foster is often overlooked for her contributions as Starling. It’s a role that’s been imitated a thousand times since 1991—including with several other actresses playing Clarice—but it’s never been duplicated. There is a steadfast resilience here, sure, but also a quiet awareness that’s just as observant as Hopkins’ supervillain. She sees everything, including her own insecurities. Dr. Lecter brings them to the surface when he extracts the story of the screaming lambs from her memory, but she already knows what the crying lamb sounds like. She hears it almost every night.

Read more

Movies

Hannibal: Did Author Thomas Harris Try to Destroy Dr. Lecter?

By Don Kaye

TV

Clarice Review (Spoiler Free): No Hannibal, No Problem

By Tony Sokol

It’s all there in Foster’s own eyes, which is what gives her steely determination to overcome staying power in our minds. By the movie’s end, subtexts become text inside Buffalo Bill’s dungeon. For here is a basement that a man retrofitted into a torture chamber for women, members of the gender he covets and despises. As with the obstacle course, Clarice enters this space brazenly and defiantly, finding its labyrinthine center where Bill has turned off the lights.

Hidden behind his night vision goggles, the killer thinks he’s master, and Clarice is his next victim. One more sacrifice to feed upon. Finally, the male gaze we’ve spent the whole movie dreading from Clarice’s vantage is flipped, and we watch her through Bill’s green tinted voyeurism. This is the metaphor taken to its most extreme, with the camera sharing headspace with a serial killer. Yet it’s not too far removed from the Monster that’s stalked Clarice all her life. The grossness of Bill’s hesitant attempt to touch her hair, to take possession of Clarice’s body and personal space, is a reach every male in the film, save for Clarice’s father (the only other male the camera shares eyes with in a flashback), has made.

When Clarice once again turns the tables on this assumed authority and shoots Bill dead, she’s slayed one version of the minotaur and earned her perch in a system that’s resisted her. We see her triumph via the graduation at Quantico. Now she is a celebrity among the FBI. We also see it in Crawford’s genuine affection and admiration for the young woman.

Nevertheless, the maze he helped maintain persists, and the Monster takes another form. Thus even in her success, Clarice ends the film still framed in tight shadows, hanging onto the words of Dr. Lecter, who’s just put down the phone. She has the respectability and authority Hannibal lost long ago, but he can still move through this world in a way more liberated than any path Clarice has ever known.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

The post The Silence of the Lambs and Clarice’s Lifelong Battle Against the Male Gaze appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3rDUWT8

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[fiercyy]

Chapters: 14/? Fandom: Naruto Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura & Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura & Hatake Kakashi, Team 7 - Relationship, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura & Hatake Kakashi & Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai | Might Guy Characters: Haruno Sakura, Uchiha Sasuke, Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi, Tsunade (Naruto), Orochimaru (Naruto) Additional Tags: AU, Post-Chuunin Exams, post chuunin exams attack, Minor Character Death, Trauma, Team 7 Family bonding, Genin Era, Everybody moves in with Sasuke, he's got room, semi-au, Plot Twists, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Roommates, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, BAMF Haruno Sakura, Dai-nana-han | Team 7 (Naruto) Feels, BAMF Dai-nana-han | Team 7 (Naruto), Team as Family, Slow Burn, Post-Naruto Time Skip | Naruto Shippuden, Mutual Pining Series: Part 1 of Post-Chuunin Exam AU Summary:

Sakura always wished she could relate to her teammates better. She wishes she could take it back.

In which Sasuke acquires some unwanted roommates and a team becomes a family.

(Now at Shippuden Era)

.

.

a/n: Anyway, everyone’s bi now.

Chapter 14:

I am compromised.

Safe for now.

Don't think O knows.

Kakashi glances from one scroll to the other. Naruto is back in the village and Sakura is… at least willing to be in the same room as him. Sasuke is in danger. In two years, his family has been flung far and wide, but it seems that now they're destined to be reunited.

He should recall Sasuke. He should report his intel to Tsunade. He should go find Sakura and let her yell at him some more. What would do the most good? Probably the intel, even if seeking out Sakura would feed his masochism streak.

Taking on ANBU missions again has eroded his sense of reality. ANBU allows him to drift, rudderless in a stream that carries him down. He is goalless, living in an eternal period of waiting. Waiting for someone else's mission to end. Waiting for someone to come back. Waiting for someone to forgive him. He has no thought for a life put on pause. He'll continue to hold his breath until it's all over, but it probably won't ever be. So here he'll stay, shallow breath and panicked heart, prematurely gray and sick with grief.

When will it be enough? When will kids stop having to give up their lives in senseless, ceaseless war?

He thought that time was over. He thought that his generation would be the last. But then again, he supposes all generations fight to be the last. Everyone fights for their children to live better, don't they?

Kakashi doesn't have any children, but he has Team 7. A tragedy as old as the world, yet still in the making.

It's over. He's calling it. He'll go to Tsunade, give her the intel and demand they bring Sasuke home. It just isn't worth the risk to keep him in the field. Sure Sakura and Naruto will be a little confused when he tells them the truth, but they'll be happy in the end, won't they?

He slips his shoes on and is about the poof across town, when he's enveloped in someone else's smoke.

"Welcome back, Rival!" Gai exclaims with his usual excess of enthusiasm. "Got a minute?" he winks. Because of course he does. The man has no shame.

He sighs very deeply. Gai is yet another thing that he long ago tried to put on pause, but the man is by no means cooperative. "If I must."

Gai grins. "I insist."

.

.

There are days when focus is difficult, anxiety's high and Sakura has to run away from her own spiralling thoughts.

She goes to the hospital first, but Hatsune turns her away. "It's your day off." she says, "you deserve a break!" she exclaims. "Leave or I'll tell Tsunade," she threatens.

Fair enough.

Without permission, her feet carry her to the bridge where Team 7 used to meet. It doesn't matter how many years have passed, she can't forget it. Whenever she's lost in thought and wandering, she always finds herself here.

She hoists herself up on the bannister and twists so she's straddling it. Then she lays back and stares at the perfect, blue sky. Below, the stream rushes by. In the distance, birds chirp. A gentle breeze stirs her hair—it tickles her nose. Sakura can breathe here. And think.

She wonders what her parents would think of her life. The only thing they'd ever asked her for was her share of the chores and good grades. They never told her what future they wanted for her. Sometimes she wishes for a roadmap; she's not lost, but there's too many directions to choose from.

Would they understand her, as she is now? Is she doing enough to make them proud? Would her parents tell her to work things out with her team?

Mebuki made them change grocers once because Urashi-san gave her incorrect change and refused to correct the mistake. She never spoke to him again. She could be petty like that. She demanded her due and accepted no less. Sakura tries to take that lesson from her. When she's put on missions with sexist jerks or an older doctor doesn't listen to her because of her age, she fights back.

So she thinks Mebuki would understand why she's mad.

She thinks about them all the time; what they would say. She wishes they could have met her team, wonders why they never did.

Nothing to be done about it now.

.

.

Gai is a good listener, but the best thing about him is that he's perfectly able to fill a silence all on his own.

Kakashi pours tea and Gai talks.

"-It was an innocent misunderstanding. Everything could have been avoided if Neji hadn't skipped the sharing circle."

In the choice between snorting and rolling his eyes, Kakashi does both. "Sharing circle, huh?"

"It prevents all manner of misunderstandings!"

All teams have lots of those to go around.

"It's always best to know peoples intentions," Kakashi concedes. "Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

Gai's foot, which has mysteriously found a resting place against Kakashi's ankle, jerks back. "No," he clears his throat. "I'd much rather know where I stand."

He avoids looking at Gai's face, though he knows he'll find no disappointment there. He stands up anyway, taking the still warm teacups and placing them delicately in the sink.

"I have to go." Which is the truth. "I owe Lady Hokage a debriefing."

Gai's empty hands fist against the table as he pulls them back. He awkwardly knocks on the wood and laughs to himself. "Of course. I won't keep you."

.

.

The purpose of not speaking to Gai was, in its own way, self-flagellation. When Sasuke's life was put on pause. Kakashi's was as well. Most waking moments, when not on a task, have been absorbed by worrying about his wayward student's wellbeing. It wouldn't be right or fair to anyone…

So they leave the apartment together and part at the foot of the stairs. He feels Gai's eyes on his back until he turns the corner.

.

.

Tsunade reads the scroll Kakashi has handed to her and bites her thumbnail while she thinks.

"He has not asked for an extraction."

Kakashi's eyes narrow. "I'm asking for one anyway."

"He clearly does not feel that it is appropriate at this time."

"He's a child!" he shouts, which takes her aback.

Tsunade rolls up the scroll and carefully places it on the corner of her desk. He's too close to this, she knows she must be delicate. "He's a leaf nin, same as you. He knew the risks." And worst of all. "You're in constant contact. If he feels he's in danger, he will let you know. In the meantime, I'm sending you and your team to follow up on his intel on Orochimaru's base in the Land of Waves."

He shuts that idea down too. "They're not ready. We haven't functioned as a team in two years, we're unfamiliar with each other's skillsets and we're a man down. I need more time."

"Kakashi," Tsunade sighs, "Make up your mind. Do you want to extract our operative in Sound or do you want to keep the rest of your team in the village forever? Because these are conflicting points."

"Godaime-"

"Shut up," she lazily waves him off. "You're like a protective mama bear. My word on this matter, is final."

But of course he doesn't shut up. Why would anyone around here make her job easy?

"Let me take my team on a retrieval mission to the Kusagakure base. Under the guise of recapturing a missing nin. This way we preserve his cover, but provide an escape route if necessary." He takes a deep breath, "And we can confirm that Sasuke's intel is good."

This gives her pause. "Is there reason to believe it isn't?"

He shakes his head, but now that the doubt is in her head, the suspicion won't leave. "Only that they might be feeding him false information as a test."

Sasuke has successfully passed along dozens of tips over the past year, all of them have been good. There's no reason to suspect that will change, but she doesn't say it. She weights her peace of mind against Kakashi's proposition. What could it hurt?

Sakura, for one.

"Fine," she agrees. She's so tired of this. "But an additional team member will be selected to fill out your ranks."

"Fine," he replies in that false cheery tone that she hates so much. Now that he's gotten his way, he wants to be downright delightful. Well, if she can't relax no one else is allowed to pretend. "Will that be all ma'am?"

"What will you tell them?" Sakura and Naruto think the brat's a traitor. How's he going to stop them from accidentally killing him? Then again, she's not sure either of them have that in them. Sakura doesn't talk about it much, but they must have loved the kid. He loved them a lot anyway, enough to fight that hard for a goodbye.

"That they're finally getting what they want."

.

.

"This isn't where I wanted to be either," Sakura growls, arms stiffly crossed in front of her chest. "Waiting around for Kakashi again… I could kill him."

"Ne Sakura, maybe calm down a little, uhn? Sensei's consistent at least. Consistently inconsiderate of other people's time is what he is!" He starts out trying to defend him but midway through, his own annoyance pushes forward.

She punches his arm, but it doesn't bruise so he knows it's a friendly jab. She's so different. He notices more and more, but at least she'll never stop hitting him. That's kind of comforting, right?

One of the first lessons Kakashi taught Team 7 was to expect the unexpected. The unexpected arrives with paintbrush in hand, insults on his tongue and blank, blank eyes.

.

.

Kakashi's arrival is overshadowed by the intense shouting match already taking place on the bridge. This day is turning out no better than yesterday, that's for sure.

"Children," he greets from his crouched position on the bridge railing. Sakura decides she's standing too close and takes three long steps to the left. This puts her within kicking range of the squabble between Naruto and a stranger.

Naruto's big toe nicks her ear, which zaps her of any patience she possessed. Sakura shrieks and punches the ground. Earth rockets up around her, like a meteor falling to earth. Naruto and the stranger fly apart, rolling into the river with a splash and a tree with a thud. Both boys seem stunned. He doesn't blame them, he's only ever seen Sakura's destructive potential once in person. That little girl is scary.

The stranger looks familiar, now that he can get a better look at him. Could be he's seen him around. Maybe ANBU? Or maybe just on the street. Kakashi's got good recall, but he's struggling to place him. Which is strange, because he's very distinctive looking. Pale as a blank page and just as unreadable, inky black hair and eyes and fashion choices that would make even Gai incredulous. Seems like no one follows regulation these days; everyone wants to show their midriff.

"I don't understand why you are so upset, Uzumaki." He doesn't ask why; he just expresses confusion with an eerie smile.

"Don't talk about my penis!" Naruto shrieks and cups his hands protectively in front of the appendage, like the other boy's going to lunge for it.

"Alright, I didn't mean to offend you, Dickless. I can do that."

Naruto groans and covers his ears. "Don't you see how that's worse?! Don't call me that!"

"But everything I've read about team building indicates that nicknames and jokes facilitate trust between teammates."

Ah. I see.

"Children," Kakashi tries again and three sets of eyes fly to him as they remember his existence. "I see you've already become acquainted." To the stranger in the crop top: "You must be the fourth member of our team."

He uses the tree to push himself to his feet and bows slightly at the hips. The back of his head is matted in blood but he doesn't so much as flinch. "I am Sai."

"Him?!" Naruto demands, running up the riverbank. Kakashi wonders if Jiraiya has robbed him of all critical thinking skills with his indolence. Genius and dissolution so often go hand in hand when it comes to great artists.

"Shouldn't you have figured that out by now?"

"Hello to you too," Naruto grumbles and wrings out his jacket.

Kakashi smiles beneath his mask, "It's good to see you Naruto." He reaches out to ruffle his hair and it strikes him that he's so much taller than he was when he left. He reaches his chin. Sasuke is a little taller and when they hugged, his hair tickled his nose. This is a thing he knows now and they do not.

The boy beams up at him and Kakashi feels a little less like a failure.

"If we're all going to be on this team, we need to learn to work together," Kakashi proclaims, "And what better way than a test?"

He produces two bells from the breast pocket of his jounin vest, makes eye contact with Sakura and smiles so big his eyes crinkle at the corners.

.

.

Turns out, Kakashi has not in fact seen the extent of Sakura's potential. And Team Kakashi is mission ready.

.

.

Gai's mind is still on his not-talk with Kakashi when he reports for duty alongside his team. He's unhappy and Gai understands this. If something bad were to happen to Lee or Tenten stopped speaking to him or Neji betrayed them all, he would be a wreck. He cannot blame Kakashi for his pain, but wishes that he would share it. A burden is lighter, carried by two. He supposes this liminal space is better than a definitive 'no'. They've spent so many years as rivals. When the possibility of more came into view, it was a wonderful surprise. Maybe is better.

"Sunagakure's emissary, Temari of the Sand requires an escort to return to her village," Lady Tsunade doesn't have a scroll to hand him. It's a simple mission, requiring no further details than the prescribed task. "You may remain a day before returning. When would you like to leave?" This, she directs at Temari.

The girl shrugs, "Now's good."

It's been a while since Gai has travelled to Suna. He likes the food, it's spicy enough that it helps with the heat. This will be fun!

.

.

"Maintain cover, expect us."

Generally, Sasuke and Kakashi communicate by written letters because it is the quickest and most accurate way to communicate information. It ensures that Pakkun does not remain in enemy territory overlong and his chakra isn't likely to be sensed. When he delivers messages by word of mouth is means that Kakashi was in a rush or he expected follow up questions.

Pakkun's face is always grim, but he has an air of resignation as he tells him that two years of work are crumbling.

"He's overruling me?"

Pakkun hesitates. "More like checking up on you. It's up to you how you receive them."

Sasuke understands, "So I have not been ordered to return."

"They're coming under the guise of a retrieval mission. You can use this as an opportunity to stage a capture or earn more trust by fighting back. In the meantime, try and find out who's discovered you."

Wait. Does this mean-? "A retrieval mission. So it's Team 7 coming."

He and Kakashi discussed them when they met covertly. Naruto hasn't been in the village for a while, but he was due back soon. And Sakura's doing well, according to their teacher. She's a chunin now.

"Yes."

Team 7 on a mission without him. To come get him.

"…Do the others know?"

Pakkun is not a very demonstrative dog. But he puts a paw on Sasuke's knee as he tells him, "No."

a/n: You may notice that I'm doing this thing where I skip over scenes from canon. This is because I don't want to rewrite scenes from canon, that's no fun to write or read. Instead, I'm letting you infer stuff, if it's confusing at any part, please let me know!

I've also moved around the Akatsuki stuff. It never made sense to me that they basically delayed their plans for 3 years for no reason? So I'm choosing to stretch out the Akatsuki arc so we can deal with Orochimaru properly first. This means that YES, we are headed to Suna for the Gaara/Akatsuki plotline, but other Akatsuki things are getting pushed back.

RE: KakaGai. Why? Dunno. My hand slipped and I love it./p

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this very weird journey. I love knowing what y'all think, don't be shy!

#sasusaku #naruto #team 7 #fanfiction #kakagai #if you can't hold on #iyc #my fic