#and Lost... which I will also not speak about lest the mutuals pick me up and throw me out the window again

[n7viper]

slowly taking poison damage thinking about beyond light

[provisionalsparkle]

The Boy Next Door

Reader x Bang Chan (Stray Kids)

[Genre] exes-to-lovers au, smut, angst.

[Word count] 6.7K

[Warnings] Smut. Angst. Unprotected sex, voyeurism, ample description of bodily fluids.

[Note] This is my contribution to @feliix ’s Summer 2 Lovers collab! Check it out!

Summer.

The season of fun and sun, careless joy, long days and warm nights…

For most people.

For you, this summer is about change. It’s about the little town you used to live in, the quaint house you grew up in, the smell of your mother’s cooking or the breeze from the yard, the sound of younger kids playing in the street. It’s about the big city you will go to live in, it’s purple and orange twilight skies, black silhouettes reaching toward the skies beginning to twinkle with golden lights, the noises of the traffic coming from evening bustle, the scent of the delis and restaurants that line the streets.

You were stuck between these two places, university having been a four year long limbo of boundless sex mislabeled as self-discovery, and now visit your home one last time, reminding yourself of the life you had there before moving on to another.

You think of the past with nostalgia, yet also with a restlessness that makes you want to run from everything. The stillness, the silence, the unchanging landscape in this little town is too unbearable, too unsettling. But it’s familiar, and it’s comfortable. The life you’ll soon live promises excitement, autonomy, it’s the adulthood you’ve fantasized about. It terrifies you too, and you have these horrible dreams about missing the payment of the most insignificant bill and having the entire world collapse on you because of it. You still don’t know how to do your taxes.

College is over, a new life awaits you in a big city after landing a rather ideal job, but it felt like you were leaving things behind. Funny how, after so many years of fantasizing about this grown-up life you suddenly felt like a lost child, scared to forgo the familiar.

It’s these sort of almost-quarter-life-crisis thoughts that fill your mind on a particularly warm afternoon. You’re indecently splayed out on a couch with as little clothing as possible, the door to the backyard is wide open, letting an occasional breeze waft in to disrupt the stifling stillness of the heat. The lights are off, and you were too unbothered to turn them on as the sun set, preferring to stare at a darkening ceiling as the evening sky turned purple.

There’s a familiar jingle of keys from the front door.

“Honey? You home?”

“I’m here, Mom.” You lazily answer back. She wanders from the hall to the living room, you can feel the judgemental look she gives you.

“Have you been laying like this all day?”, indignation lines her voice. Was it so surprising to find you like this?

“Yeah…”

“You can’t just lay here all day. Go out! Get some sun! Go play with those kids you used to hang out with from school!”

“I can’t Ma, I’d rather just plank here.”

“Oh goodness, Y/n. Give me one good reason you shouldn’t go hang out with them!”

“I’ll give you two: either they grew up to be total bitches or they had kids and became a bore.”

“I didn’t become a bore when I had you!” She exclaims, although it’s not too serious and some playfulness hides beneath the surface.

“Yeah, that’s because you’re a cool mom. They don’t make those anymore.”

“Hmm… well, I think you should make a bit of an effort.”

“Mom… it’s my last vacation you know -”

“You know what?!” She suddenly exclaims, her voice brightening like a lightbulb just radiated in her thoughts. “Mrs. Carson’s son is here with her for the summer too! I bet you haven’t seen him in ages, and he’s gotten so handsome.”

“Mrs. Carson?” You didn’t have any clue who that was.

“Well… you might remember her as Mrs. Bang, but Jane changed her name when she married Norbert a few years ago. She still lives next door and Christopher’s in town spending the summer with his mother.”

Bang…

Christopher…

You hadn’t heard that name in years. It surprised you a bit actually, and a hint of a smile came to your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, Mom… I’ll think about it.”

You wouldn’t admit… something did grab your attention. A curiosity of sorts.

You were fifteen years old when you had your first kiss. He was a short boy with a kind smile, a bit awkward really, but you had a fondness for him. It wasn’t about looks at all, all boys at that age were hideous and nothing would change your opinion on that, but you’d swoon whenever you saw him. It was mutual, an icky teenage infatuation that had your friends poking fun at both of you whenever you’d become giddy at the sight of one another. Hot faces, nervous glances, trembling innocent touches.

He sat next to you in chemistry and you’d hold hands under the lab table while the teacher gave class. His left hand always felt soft in your right one. Cute. It’s a bit silly but you’re glad you had that sort of adorable and silly romance. While it lasted, that is.

Christopher wasn’t a bad guy. He was stupid, like all boys that age.

When you saw him kissing another girl, of course you cried, but you knew it had to do with him being stupid more than anything. This simple looking girl that you had been friends with in elementary school, you can’t even remember her name.

You know why he did it, beyond his stupidity. Your mom had let it slip long before - you knew it was coming.

“Honey, would you believe? Mr. and Mrs. Bang are divorcing!” Probably just some hot gossip from one of her PTA yoga groups, no ill intention on your behalf. She didn’t know you were seeing Christopher - over your dead body. You were fifteen and a horrible student, you didn’t need to give your mother yet another element to ground you with.

“Oh no…” You acted as normally as you could, your first thoughts went out to Christopher first though. “Do you know why?”

“Well… I’m obviously not going to ask, duh! But I do know that Mr. Bang is taking the kid with him abroad.” What?! What did she just say? Chis is WHAT?!

“I - uh, what?” Act normal, act normal, act normal.

“Aww… sweetie, was he your friend?” Goodness, parents can be so oblivious, but it’s beneficial in this case. She doesn’t pick up on the depression of your mood.

“I guess.” A sniffle is about to threaten your composure so, in your teenage arrogance, you leave before your mother can see your teary eyes.

The subsequent days were strange. You expected Christopher to tell you the news, you expected to comfort him, you expected to live out the rest of your young romance as best as you could. And then… you saw him.

And he said nothing. He was cold, pushed you away. He must be going through a lot of pain, you thought. More days went by and he still said nothing, and his demeanor grew worse, no affection, no smiles. He must be having a hard time, you reasoned.

Sometimes you thought he was on the verge of saying something to you, like he was about to say something and the words threatened to come out but he’d suddenly pull away and swallow them. You didn’t question it really, it was so confusing but you just went with it.

You never held his hand in chemistry again.

Time made you realize that Christopher didn’t want to be with you anymore. You weren’t sure if it was because he stopped liking you, and that hurt a little, but you knew what he was going through, and you stood by him in case he ever chose to open up and cry on your shoulder. You’d be there for him.

When he kissed that girl, it didn’t really surprise you. Damn it, what was her name? You cried, you thought it was because you were ugly and your boobs were still pretty small - stupid reasons.

It took a few months for you to understand the real reason.

He left without saying goodbye. You never spoke to him after he kissed what’s-her-name. Maybe he tried to do so a couple of times, but you ran away or didn’t let him. Or maybe you remembered it that way to comfort you, just so you’d live with the thought that he tried to apologize, tired to make things right.

But the fact of the matter is he didn’t speak to you and he didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to say goodbye because it hurt.

He was trying to ruin your relationship so you’d break up with him and he wouldn’t have to say goodbye, so that he could kill the feelings you had for him to spare you from the pain of his departure.

Or maybe you were just imagining it like that to make it a cuter memory and think about it fondly.

Maybe in the end, Christopher was just a horny teenage boy that cheated on you. Maybe.

Regardless, you giggle as you think back on the silliness of it all, and how serious and life altering it all felt in your childishness. It seemed so long ago, so distant, and you were so changed that it felt like it had all happened to a different person. You wondered about the man next door, and the entirely different boy who had once been next door. What kind of person had Christopher become?

University did you well. It was four solid years of irresponsible drinking and uninhibited sexual exploration paired with relatively easy academics. You don’t know how it happened, but it had been like a transformation from one day to the next.

You, sort of, kind of, absolutely plain and normal girl that no one would notice lest you stepped in their line of sight. One day, there you were - normal.

Two weeks in - boom. Confident. Your roommate was an okayish girl, another plain one. Then you started noticing how comfortable you were undressing in front of her, to change clothes or whatever, as if it was the most normal thing in the world - which it was. Wearing shorts and skirts became less of a worry, just something that felt better. Sometimes you’d be thrown icky glances from some boys, which you hated, but others were acceptably flirty and you loved those. The best ones were the boys that would get shy and who would quickly whip their heads the other way once you caught them staring.

That definitely flipped the switch. It made you feel strong, it made you feel damn good. You, who at the most had dipped a finger into the world of heavy makeouts during high school, now became a seasoned seductress of all kinds of men. So long as you could wrap them around your finger with your demeanor, so long as you could prowl over them and take the lead.

Ah… the good old days.

What was going to happen now, though? Four years later, no slightly inexperienced men left to be wowed. Everyone you knew was turning into a bland and bitter office worker. Was this the end of it?

To think that you’d be ending this glorious chapter of your life in this tiny town, lounging on the same stuffy couch in the same hot living room every day, having your routine philosophical melodrama where you’d stare at the ceiling in the afternoons until your mother came in inquiring if you were alive. It was a terrible fate.

A few days after the revelation of Christopher’s presence, which you would never admit had been circling your mind nonstop, your mother returns with another piece of information.

“You know, Jane and Norbert are having a get together of sorts next Saturday - just the usuals from the block.”

“Is that so?” You said with disinterest.

“In fact, I borrowed a baking pan from her last week… why don’t you go over and give it back to her for me? She might need it, and you probably haven’t left this house in days.” You didn’t reply, but you could feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to obey.

“Fine…”

The afternoon was enjoyably fresh, although your white t-shirt stuck to you like a second skin, the bikini top you wore underneath tracing its silhouette into the cotton. You lazily stomped your way to the house next door, admiring the tall window where you had snuck into Christopher’s room a couple of times during your short romance. A ladder was perched up against the exterior toward that window, they must have been fixing things up. The porch was full of cans of paint, tools, boxes. It was only when you rang on the doorbell, begrudgingly holding the large tray, that you realized that Jane might not be the one to open the door but instead it could be -

The door swings open and you gasp. Christopher.

Well… his face hadn’t changed much. But he was slightly taller than you remembered, far more masculine, oh, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Yeah, he was shirtless… jeans hanging low on his hips… shirtless… abs… fit waist… arms…

“Hi! Is Jane home?” Good… pretend you don’t remember him.

“I - Uh… no, my mom’s actually out right now.” He replied. His voice had grown deeper, and where did he get that accent? Wait - did he not remember you? Now, that just made you angry, but you wouldn’t let it show.

“Oh, well… my mother wanted me to return this.” You say handing him the tray, avoiding trailing your eyes downward.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll give it to her.” He says. He seems a little frozen, an expression between surprise and caution lingers on his face, but you don’t know if it’s good or bad.

There’s a moment of silence where you just stare at each other.

“Y/n…” He finally says. There’s hesitation in the way he says your name. He’s scared, not of you, but he’s scared about the fact that you’re on his doorstep.

You don’t say anything, calmly, almost coyly, waiting for him to continue. You’d gotten rather good at pretending you were calm, and the slightest tint of a smile painted your lips so you wouldn’t seem cold or ingenuine.

“Do you remember me?” He asks. You can’t help but huff, a tiny laughter really.

“Of course. You know, you haven’t grown much taller.”

With those slightly playful words, you turn to walk back to your home, and with each step your impression of the encounter with your childhood love became more bitter and less sweet.

It was strange how you thought about him, about it. The situation, that is. Seeing him, talking to him, both of you now being older. A few days of thinking now.

You don’t know why you thought about it so much, but you thought about it. You thought about it without knowing how you felt about it or what you thought about it. This man you had only gotten a glimpse of, too overwhelmed to take in his features properly, now walks around your mind freely. He wasn’t the boy you knew. He wasn’t the boy next door whose hand you’d once hold in chemistry, who you’d kiss before turning the corner towards both of your homes. The boy who left all those years ago.

No, it wasn’t that boy. It was that man, who kept perturbing you. What did you feel? Interest? Yes, there was something quite intriguing about all of this which sparked your curiosity. Lust? Of course, absolutely, the man next door looked divine. Suppose you could abstract the person from his body, so that you wouldn’t be so bothered by who he was and what he meant to you, and you’d easily bend over in front of him and invite him in.

You supposed a conversation was in place, though, because after all, he was still the Christopher. You couldn’t just go around fucking people like that anymore - unfortunately. That was something you got away with in college. It’s a shame college boys grow up to be boring men, sex gets more boring, they think they have all the authority… Maybe you should go back to school.

You’re sitting on the windowsill of your second floor bedroom, one leg hanging out and stepping onto the roof. Opposite to your window, beyond a neat shrub, is the window of the guest room of Mrs. Carson, formerly Bang, which seems unchanged from when you last saw it. You remember watching her from your room, also unchanged, using the TV in there to do some aerobics she followed along from a VHS… was it a VHS? No, that’s the machine. What were the things you used to put in the VHS? A cassette? No… regardless, eventually she must have started using DVD’s.

Damn it, it all seemed like thousands of years ago.

Damn it, you were still so melodramatic throwing around words like poetry over some Richard Simmons tape. Aha! It’s a tape!

Your crotch is being dug into by the window frame, and you let your weight rest on it, the slight grind tempting you to have a round of masturbation. But you’ll finish the cigarette you stole from your mother first. It tasted awful, it was another adult thing you couldn’t understand. Why did everyone at university smoke so much? It was just another thing their eager teenage selves did to emulate the adults in grown-up world, to feel a little more grown-up. Who the hell likes this stuff?

But you liked watching it burn, occasionally inhaling its airy and bitter smoke. It wasn’t your preferred type of smore. You preferred watching papers and matches burn, their sweet and rich smell, the warmth of the fire that would sting the edges of your fingers. Shame your mother only used a lighter, you didn’t like the smell of that fire either.

You just surrendered to watching the bright tip of the cigarette and the white streams that came from it.

“You know those are bad for you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You exclaimed, your heart nearly jumping out from your chest. A man had sprung out from the window in the guest room of the Carson house, formerly Bang, and that man was Christopher Bang himself.

“Sorry I didn’t -”

“You almost gave me a fucking heart attack - what the hell?!”

“ - mean to startle you…”

“Damn it, Christopher!”

“Ah! So you do remember me?” He says with a bit of joy, but you just look at him, realizing that this is where the talk will come. His features grow a little more somber. He continues, “So… I guess I -”

“Where’d you get the accent?” You interrupt, genuinely curious. “You sound like the crocodile hunter.”

“Well… I was living in Australia with my dad.” He says it in a normal tone, but you make sure it doesn’t stay normal.

“Oh, so that’s where you went?” You both wince at what you just said. Yep, it’s finally time for that talk.

There’s a bit of silence, but you’ll let him be the one to fill it.

“I…” He sighs deeply. Uuhh… it’s quite a masculine sigh. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again but I… there’s something I’ve always wanted to say.”

“I’m listening…” You say. It’s a flat tone, but it’s funny. You hope it’ll ease him.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Some silence again, “I’m sorry for being an ass, I’m sorry for cheating on you -”

“Chris, we were like fifteen… you kissed a girl with braces, big deal.” You waved it off. Really, kissing that girl didn’t bother you so much, now almost ten years later.

“I left without saying anything.”

“Yeah, you did. Hard to not notice.”

“I was - I know it’s not an excuse, but I was going through a lot and I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“So you left without saying anything?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok… we haven’t spoken in years. I practically forgot about it.” No you didn’t.

“Did you?” He says. Was he hopeful when you insinuated he hadn’t hurt you as much as he thought he had?

“No, not really. I mean, yeah, you kissing another girl was pretty insignificant, we were just kids. It did hurt that you left without… I don’t know… There wasn’t any closure. There wasn’t a goodbye. I felt confused for a while, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry about that. But my parents were splitting up, I was going to have to leave everything behind. You were the first girl I loved and I was going to have to say goodbye and I couldn’t handle it. I was too hurt and embarrassed to even tell my friends. I wish I had done it differently.”

“Yeah, I wish you had too. I wanted to be there for you, you know? I wanted to hug you, hold your hand, tell you it was going to be ok.

“I really messed up there…”

“It’s okay Chris, you were just a kid. We were just kids.” You offer your sympathy but he doesn’t soften.

“Mhmm. Doesn’t make me feel less guilty about it.”

“Can I ask you something?” He nods, “Did you do all that stuff… you know, treat me that way, for real or where you…?”

“I was hoping you’d break up with me, get over me. That way we wouldn’t have to say goodbye and we wouldn’t get hurt.”

“I got hurt.” You admit.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.” You insist. “It’s fine. We’re fine. We’re old and grown and fine. All of that’s in the past, I can’t blame you for acting like a kid. It’s okay.”

“Well I can agree with you there. We did grow up, not kids anymore.”

“You didn’t grow that much.” You laugh, he laughs too.

“You certainly did.” He’s being flirty. It could have been bad timing, but the mood felt right.

“Oh, you noticed?”

“Hard not to.” Goodness was he being direct. “You were really cute back in school, I had a crush on you for like, forever.”

“Really…Plain old me?”

“Really. And now here we are and I think I could have a crush on you all over again.”

“So you can go off and kiss another girl with braces and leave the continent?”

“No, I’m a one woman man.” He says while making himself comfortable on his own ledge. It’s getting comfortable overall, like you’re talking to someone you’ve known for the longest time, like a decade of separation didn’t do much harm.

“Well, well. And who is that lucky woman now?”

“There’s no one at the moment. I’m in the middle of some life changes.”

“Do tell.”

“I’m moving back. Well, not here, just in the country again. A big city, big job, kinda scary.”

“Seems we’re on the same boat. I just came back to say goodbye to this place forever and I’m ooout.”

“Did you finish school already?”

“Yeah… I wish I hadn’t though.” You think back on your experience with longing, lamenting it’s end.

“Wow, can’t relate. I couldn’t wait for it to end. What’d you miss about it?”

“Well, I didn’t have to work, grades were good and easy. And I guess, it was tons of fun.”

“How so?”

“Being on a campus full of horny and stupid guys - it was open game.” Chan hisses at your admission.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for that type.” He chuckles, “You would stutter for like the first two months we went out.”

“We were just kids.”

“I guess we were…”

Another comfortable silence as you stare off at the sky, your cigarette burnt through with only the spongy bud left to pinch.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m single too, you know.”

It might have been a bad idea, you said it on impulse after all, something quite instinctive having taken over you. Maybe you were just horny and Christopher was just hot, regardless, the conversation was over. Before he could even process what you said, and the implications to it, you had already slipped back into your darkened room and out of his sight.

Chan felt like a teenager again. Not in a good way.

Chan remembered your first kiss, holding your hand. He remembered your breasts being the first he had ever really noticed, your legs being the first he ever caressed. He remembers how you’d press your bodies together while you kissed, not really understanding what both of you felt, only understanding the urgency of it.

Now he can name those feelings, the ones that once belonged to an inexperienced boy, merely dipping his toes into the surface of that world. But now that he dove, and had dived into its waters several times, he knew how to swim in them.

Yet, seeing you made him feel like he didn’t. It made him feel like he couldn’t swim, like he couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was drowning.

The first moment he saw you on his doorstep he felt his stomach drop, a pang of guilt that had lingered on his mind during countless of sleepless nights hitting him with full force. He didn’t expect it. He thought he would never see you again.

And after taking another look, a longer look, it was like he was swimming in completely different waters. He felt submerged, and he didn’t know which way was up. He wanted to open his mouth and swallow it all up, let you drown him.

He hadn’t felt this raging feeling since he was a teenager. He certainly hadn’t had a specific woman make him feel like this until you.

It made him feel another kind of guilt. Shame even.

The following days he’d watch you, shamefully. His mother had him painting the house and when he stood on the rooftops he took his time to enjoy the view of you swimming in your pool, wearing tiny bikinis that stuck to your skin and showed the buds of your niples and the lines of your labia through the fabric. He would admit, shamefully, that he stopped watching from the roof because he needed to get closer to see these beautiful details.

He now watched you from over the fence in his backyard. Getting incredibly hard watching you swim, watching you oil your body down.

It was all horribly, horribly shameful.

But weren’t you the one that mentioned you were single? It had caught him off guard. He was being cheeky in that moment, but he didn’t know what waters he was testing then. Now he knew, and it was making him behave so, so shamefully.

Should he go over there, push you into a corner of the pool and pull your bottoms to the side? Should he kneel at your feet while your rubbing yourself with that golden oil, and beg you to let him fuck you?

It wasn’t just the thought of sex that drove him mad, it was you in general. How inferior he felt in front of you, like he had to prove himself. Every day he worked shirtless, hoping you’d get a glimpse of him, but you were just so unbothered by it all.

It was driving him fucking insane.

If only you knew.

Except - of course you did. Of course you did. This is what you craved, what you were best at. Driving boys, technically men but boys sounds tastier, to be absolute slaves to their desire for you. Christopher wasn’t doing a good job at hiding it. Did he really think that you would suddenly spend every day swimming in the tiniest bikinis after having not left your couch for over a week? They really are such stupid, fuckable animals.

And Chris was particularly fuckable.

Day four of his perverted project, he was hammering away at some boards in the back porch of his house. Your mother wouldn’t be home for hours, his parents were away for a couple of days.

Everything was perfect.

“Chris?!” You call loudly over the fence from your chaise lounge, carelessly flipping through a book. The hammering stopped, he had heard you. “Chris, it’s hot today. Don’t you think you should come over for a swim to cool down?”

Why on earth were you acting so damn unbothered and confident, he thought. Why on earth were you asking him over?

It’s only a matter of time before he circles his own house and slides in through the gate on your end. He’s still wearing jeans and a utility belt, gloves too. No shirt.

“You can’t really swim in those, take them off.” You hardly peered at him from over your sunglasses. He was just standing there, frozen. That’s usually a sign that you’re working your magic well. Good. “Come on Christopher, take them off.”

“I - uh, I’m actually not wearing trunks right now. Uhm… I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go.” Insert unbothered page flip. “Why don’t you just undress and get in the pool so I can join you?”

“W-what?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He genuinely thought he had imagined it, maybe all of his hornyness was driving him insane.

“Christopher!” You whine. “You’re ruining the fun!” You slam the book shut and throw it over to the side, taking your sunglasses and hat off. “Chris, I think it’s obvious. Do you think I haven’t noticed you being a peeping tom for the past half week? Look! You’ve already got a tent in your pants and everything!”

“Fuck.” Shit, you were right.

“This is like, hmm, like an open invitation to fuck me.” You say with an eye roll, but your eyes roll toward his abs because they are absolutely distracting you.

“Are… are you serious?”

“Well… You want to, I want to. You’re nice, look like you’ve become quite a decent man - and I’m not just referring to your physique Chris. Maybe, just maybe, it would be an excellent idea if we finally fucked this tension away.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. You’re here for a few weeks, so am I. Why not enjoy each other while we can? After that we can just go our separate ways, just like before except we’ll end it on good terms.”

Too many points for him to argue with - you were right on all of them. He couldn’t disagree. In fact, he eagerly agreed. Little did he know you had this pitch rehearsed to perfection, to your benefit, because he seemed to be completely subdued by it.

“Fuck.” He mutters under his breath. Fumbling with his belt, zipper, exposing the line of his abdomen down to his hardening cock. A fat, heavy cock that swung between his muscular thighs. He was fully nude now, standing in front of you, his tan skin glistening in the sunlight. You’re quick to urge him over with a finger.

He pounces, but once he’s crawling over you on that narrow chair, he becomes slow.

“Hi.” You manage to whimper out, now feeling a bit small beneath him, feeling nervous even.

“Hey.” He’s just as nervous but there’s an energy that goes beyond either of your wills pulling you toward one another.

He kisses you. It’s a kiss you melt into, and he sinks his body against yours, with you spreading your legs so he can slot between them. His cock rests against your lower abdomen, his body pressing further into you.

You can’t help but slide your hand between your two bodies in an attempt to finger yourself, prepare yourself, but he stops you and pulls back.

“No.” He growls.

“No?” Is he going to leave you like this?!

“Let me.”

And you do. Chan lowers himself, adjusting you so he can easily bend over the chair while kneeling on the ground, and his hands shake as he dips the tip of his fingers into the hem of your bottoms, just slightly tugging at the material, playing with it before he starts to play with you. You’ve got the perfect view of him basically drooling over you.

He slides the bottoms to the side, but you pull at the strings at your hips, so they come undone and he pulls them away completely. Your lips and the juices coming from between them are just as glossy than your oiled skin.

He can’t help but dig in. Fucking you with his mouth, jamming his fingers in you. It’s an animalistic frenzy and it’s hot and slippery and sticky. You cum and your fluids spill over the impermeable cushion below, pooling under your ass. He can see every sparkling droplet fall from you.

It’s just a haze, he nearly jumps on you, bending your legs nearly over your head, bouncing his pelvis on your cunt like a trampoline, smacking with every thrust. You’re completely glued to one another. If he’s not abusing your mouth with his tongue then he’s biting on your shoulder or grunting, growling, into your ear. It’s filthy. You’re absolutely sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

He cums, several times, as do you. He pulls out each time, jerks himself off on your body, although a couple of times you urged him into your mouth and face. He pulls the triangles on your top to the sides, so your breasts are exposed. He made sure to cum on those too. Semen, sweat, squirt, oil, spit, everywhere there are droplets of your fluids shining on your body like jewels.

It ends with him lying on top of you, nearly sleeping from exhaustion, and your lips feel deliciously sore and sensitive, almost ticklish as he softens inside of you.

It happens again. Several times in fact. Many, many times. When his parents are away, when your mom is away, you fuck all the time. Just a little call of his name over the fence or from your window and he’d be running to you. You were too comfortable with one another to bother with formalities, it was like you’d never been separated. You’d wait for him on all fours, wet cunt on display for him to dive in, but he’d always greet you with a gentle kiss.

Fucking each others faces, drinking eachothers fluids. You even let him fuck you in the ass, multiple times, and he was the first guy to make you cum that way. You were just as hooked and as desperate as he was.

Things started to change though.

The welcoming kisses became longer, you’d talk between the rounds…

You’d fall asleep in his arms, or he in yours.

You’d fuck slowly, deeply, staring into each other’s eyes.

You’d talk to him, tell each other stories of all these years, asi if you had been together the entire time.

You’d smile as you made love, gently. You’d let him cum inside of you.

He’d hold your hand again. They were as soft and warm as you remembered.

You were holding his hand on one particular pink evening, your head resting on his heaving chest, teaching circles into his pecs and nipples. On your bed, in your quiet childhood room. It was a painful silence now. It had been weeks, weeks closer to your respective departure dates.

“I wish I had never left.” He eventually says. You don’t know what to say. “I wish we could have stayed like this for longer.”

“Maybe we would have broken up eventually, or left for college.” You ponder.

“Maybe I would have taken you to prom, or we would have had sex together for the first time…” He returns.

“On this bed? Hmm? With my cute school uniform?” You tease. “Yeah, maybe.”

“But I guess this is what was meant to be.” He sighs, as do you.

“I’m sorry.” Is all you can say.

“What for?”

“I don’t know, I just feel bad. I started this and now we have to go our separate ways again.” You feel something sting in your eye. You can’t cry now.

“Shh…” He coos as he hears you sniffle and feels you twitch. It makes his heart ache like it did all those years ago when he left.

“I - I…” You cry. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to go.”

He pulls you into his arms, crushing you in an embrace. Your eyes are closed but you feel the tears fall from his face, he’s crying too.

“I know… but what else can we do?”

There was nothing left to do, other than fuck the days away, crying, holding each other until it hurt. It was a horrible, horrible thing to have fallen in love with Christopher Bang this final summer.

You didn’t go with him to the airport. You didn’t want to say goodbye, you didn’t want to see where he was going.

But he did slip into your room that final night. You made love quietly, he kissed you as you cried.

He said it was the second time he loved you, and the second time he had to leave you.

It hurt much more this time around. Maybe you shouldn’t have done it, maybe you shouldn’t have gone next door.

Being in your house was unbearable once Chris wasn’t next door.

A week later, you’ve arrived at your new place. It had been a whirlwind and you stayed at a hotel the first couple of nights while your new furniture got brought in, most of your personal belongings only fitting in a couple of bags.

It’s kept you busy. That way you think about him a little less. Crying into pillows that have that certain ‘brand new’ smell isn’t quite as comforting as you’d expect. Everything seems unfamiliar, strange, artificial. Nothing here reminded you of him - it was for the best and you hated it.

The place is nice, bright. It’s on the third floor of a small apartment building, a couple of other doors beside yours in the hall. You go downstairs to grab a few packages that have arrived, carefully treading up the stairs in a kind of balancing act once they’re piled in your arms. It’s a choreography you can dance to with expertise, always denying any help from your neighbors.

However, you do fumble with the lock and handle once you’re at your door, holding the boxes up by pressing them against the door with your body as your hands blindly fumble with the keys, nothing but cardboard in your sight.

Nothing you can’t handle, until they start to slip.

“Woah, let me help you with that!” someone says behind you, and in your complicated state it’s a bit difficult to process what happens but the boxes are soon out of the way, said someone pulling them from you and freeing you.

And then you see him.

Him.

Your him.

He says your name and you’re too stunned to react. He’s in awe too. He drops your packages, and you’re certain some of them contain some makeup palettes but you don’t give a damn at the moment.

“What are you doing here?” You finally ask, frozen in place.

“I… live in 304.” He says.

“You live in 304?” He nods. “You? You’re serious?” He nods again, eyes still wide.

You both stand there, processing it all. This can’t be real.

“I live in 302.” you manage to say, after some time. Your voice is weak, all the air has left your lungs. You shake.

“You do?” He asks. Now you nod.

This can’t be.

But he cups your face, holds it like you’re precious and delicate, he kisses you. It is real. You kiss him back, harder. Eventually you’re both clinging to one another, gripping each other’s clothes desperately.

“You live here.” He says, little tears sparkling in the corner of his eyes. You nod, the same tears coming to you.

“I do. Mm-hmm.” The sniffles you let out seem so sweet to him, he swoons with how happy you are to see him. Knowing you feel the same joy he does - it makes him feel complete.

“I live here too!” He cries, laughing, smiling, beautifully.

One more kiss, just to make sure it’s real. You pull him in and kiss him one more time.

It’s real.

[lemonerix]

Immortality and 4 eons of misery

Day 6: Immortality or Passage of time/ History Au Word count: 3,775

Arthur doesn't know what deity he angered, but he was cursed with immortality. It wasn't all that bad, it had a lot of benefits. He can't die and he can't age. He only has to deal with the fact that he would have to watch everyone he knew and love grow old and die. He was sick of being immortal, he didn't know why so many wanted immortality, it's boring as fuck. You watch every mistake in history repeat over and over, you watch as everything changes around you while you stay the same, you watch everything move onto something new while you're stuck in time. It. Sucks.

However, he had a change of pace when he met a man in the Roman Empire. He wasn't really someone that stood out, but he was quite a charmer. The man, who introduced himself as 'Alfred', was cursed like him too, but his situation was slightly different. Instead of being immortal, his original consciousness is preserved whenever he dies and gets reincarnated.

Now, let us follow the duo's misadventures throughout history.

.

9th Century Somewhere in the Kingdom of Northumbria

"Wanna bet how long I last out here?"

"Hmm, three minutes. Four tops."

Alfred rolled his eyes, "What? You really think lowly of me, Arthur." The other man just nodded and pulled the younger man to the ground just as a volley of arrows soared above them. "Maybe even sooner if you continue to be an airhead in the battlefield." Arthur drew an arrow and shot another invader, "Why don't you go out there then? Show them the skills you learned in the Roman Empire, and actually be of some help to our forces." he told Alfred, who only rolled his eyes as he twirled his sword on the ground. "Eh, I'm not really in the mood to fight right now. Do you think they still have some food back in camp?"

"How am I supposed to know that? I would really appreciate being left alone right now." Arthur swore when an arrow planted itself on his thigh, "Damn, this is the fifth time today!" Alfred laughed, the archer only glared at him as he broke the shaft and pulled out the head from his thigh like he was picking a berry from a bush. His companion grimaced as he saw the bloody arrow head on Arthur's palm, "I should keep this as a memento." the archer shoved it into his shirt. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Alfred gagged at the disturbing sight.

"What's it to you? If you get to slack off, then I get to keep arrowheads."

"Sure, now I think you're some kind of loony who likes to keep weird things."

"Oh shut it, and get down!" Alfred ducked just as an ax zipped past their heads. Arthur rolled his eyes, "Just get out there and be the hero you think you are, and stop bothering me." he then shot down a man running towards them. Alfred tapped his chin, "Well, if I get to be the hero..." he grinned and shrugged his shoulders, "Ah, what the hell. Just remember the bet, Arthur. Seven pieces of silver and a free drink after all of this mayhem."

"Whatever, now leave me alone.”

Alfred laughed and picked up his sword, "Alright, you Danish bastards! Tremble before the mighty he—ACK!" an arrow lodged itself into his neck; he fell to the ground next to Arthur as he bled to death. The archer only raised an eyebrow, "Well, isn't that just a shame, you didn't even last one minute." he yanked the bloody arrow from the warrior's neck and used it to shoot down another enemy soldier, "Better luck next time, then." Arthur shrugged his shoulders as he took Alfred's sword and dove into the raging battle.

.

September 4, 1666 London, England

"I assume that you had nothing to do with this?"

"..."

"Arthur, don't tell me you actually caused this inferno."

"..."

Arthur's face was red from embarrassment, he was just borrowing a kitchen because he wanted to try baking. He accidentally left his baking unattended and fell asleep in the kitchen, the next thing he knew, he was inside of a burning kitchen. He got out—unharmed, but his clothes were burned— and ran into Alfred a few streets away. 

Alfred laughed, "Arthur, you can't be serious!"

The other man glared at him, "Shut up old man. At least I didn't die drowning in a barrel of booze six decades ago."

"Oh, don't you dare bring that up. Also, you're way older than me."

"Oh, am I? I don't look a day over twenty."

"...Yeah, alright. Now shut up."

Arthur gave him a mischievous smirk, the older man only rolled his eyes. It was true, Alfred was already in his late 50's during that time. He could already feel his old bones creaking in protest whenever he would stand, walk or do anything. The two watched as the people of London tried to kill the flames of hell that ravaged through the city.

The fact that it had been a dry summer that year made the fire stronger, the little water the people had were thrown to pacify the flames. It was a useless feat, half of the city burned for almost a week before the flames ran out of fuel. There were casualties and a lot of property damage, and there was a shortage of water, all because Arthur fell asleep while baking bread.

Alfred invited Arthur to stay at his place for the meantime, little did he know of what was waiting for him when he got home.

"I hate you, Arthur. I hope you know that."

"Don't worry, the feelings are mutual."

The two of them stared up at the charred skeleton of Alfred's home; the fire did reach a few houses on the other side of the city.

.

Summer of 1701 Somewhere off the coast of Cuba, in the Atlantic ocean

"Alright! A bountiful haul, lads. " The captain of the crew cheered, his mates yelled with vigor alongside him. "Cap'n, all the ship's crew has been accounted for. Now all we 'ave to do is segregate 'em, which are goin' to be sold, and...'snuffed out'." Buck, the captain's first mate, reported. "Brilliant," his green eyes shone with malice and excitement. "Now, why don't you help out the lads over there with our reward?" he told the sailor, who immediately joined the crowd that surrounded the treasures and spices they acquired from the merchant ship they raided.

Arthur grinned as he approached the men who stood in line with their hands tied behind their back. "You lot are at the mercy of our hands, you either join my crew, get sold as slaves, or be loyal to the crown and die." He pointed his sword at the men, who whimpered under his steel gaze. However, one did not break. He had a disinterested look on his face, his blue eyes looked at Arthur with disappointment and shame. He didn't even look older than fifteen, but his eyes regarded the pirate like he had known him for years. A sudden realization hit him, "You have got to be kidding me." he muttered under his breath, the boy smiled when the pirate turned around, "It's been a while, Arthur." he greeted.

"Yes, it has been a while, Alfred." Arthur face palmed, he just had to meet him under these circumstances. "What was this boy doing on your boat?" he asked one of the men. "He's a stowaway! He isn't part of the crew, we caught him hiding with the cargo before you ransacked the ship." the man answered, fearing for his life. 

"I didn't think that you'd become a pirate, Artie. You never struck me as the rebel type."

"Please, I know you have seen me doing dirty jobs back in Europe. Becoming a pirate wasn't that far off for me to do."

"Ah well, I'd really appreciate it if you can send me back home now. Mother's making my favorite dish for supper later."

Arthur sighed deeply, he did not want to deal with Alfred today. He dragged the boy by his arms, earning a yelp of protest as he was pulled away. "Consider yourselves lucky today." the pirate hissed at the captured crew, then he glared at Alfred, "Just so you know, I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because I am not in the mood to deal with your shenanigans."

"Whatever you say, buddy."

"Shut your trap, boy."

Arthur talked a bit with his crew, many were disappointed that they were going to lose the ship they captured, but were alright when they got to keep the stuff they stole. The captured crew and Alfred were sent back to a port in the Caribbean, and Arthur refused to answer his mates' questions about why they let the boat and crew get away.

It's nothing personal, really. He's just an old friend, after all.

.

Early 1780 Somewhere in South Carolina

"What? What got into you that made you side with those heathen rebels?"

"I beg your pardon, what made you side with the Crown? Just a couple of years ago, you were raiding ships for goods and treasure."

"Don't. Bring. That. Up. I dare you, if you speak of those days one more time, you'll have a bayonet shoved up your—!"

"Haha, don't test me, limey!"

Arthur and Alfred bickered back and forth, in a middle of a battle field. A small number of Revolutionary soldiers and British soldiers got lost from the main fight and ended up finding each other in an open field, where they began to shoot at each other. By some amazing coincidence, Alfred was leading the Revolutionary soldiers, while on the other side, Arthur was the captain of the British platoon.

They've been shouting back and forth for half an hour, their soldiers watching in confusion behind them. Another hour passed and the soldiers were already sick of watching their captains scream each other's heads off. They pulled their captains back into their respective ranks and left the field, silently vowing to never speak of this encounter to anyone, lest they embarrass their captains.

No blood was spilled on that field that day.

.

August 1880 Somewhere in the American Southwest

Arthur thought that it might be a great time to visit North America, the industrial revolution was also booming in the New World so he thought that maybe checking it out won't do any harm. The last time he was there wasn't really the best time to be an Englishman in America, so he hoped that things were better this time.

He was riding a train to California at the moment, the trains here in America are a bit different to the ones he rode back in Europe. The car he was in was fairly empty, he only heard the giggling of children a few seats away and the train's engine, not too much of a distraction from his reading. He was so focused in the novel he was reading that he did not notice an old man sit in front of him. 

"Hey..."

Arthur did not budge.

"Hey, psst!"

No response.

"Arthur!"

The man snapped out of his fantasy, he looked in front of him. A man in his early 70's grinned at him, he wore a top hat that matched with the crisp suit he had on, a walking cane in his hands, a thick mustache hid his lips and spectacles sat atop the bridge of his nose. Arthur would say that he didn't know the man, but when he noticed the familiar blue eyes, he knew who the man was.

"Alfred?"

The old man chuckled, "Yep, where've you been, Artie? I haven't seen you since the Revolution." Arthur blinked, "Well," he closed the book in his hands," just here and there. I've been travelling a lot these days." Alfred nodded. "What about you?" the Englishman asked," What have you been doing here in the Colonies—er, I meant America?"

"Well," Alfred thought for a bit,"I got shot in the Revolution, but was reborn shortly after. When I turned...I guess I was thirty, probably older. Anyway, I fought in the Civil War," he raised the left leg of his trouser, revealing a wooden prosthetic leg," lost a leg, but it was worth it. And now, I'm a humble business man, selling goods and stuff."

The two of them ended up talking the whole train ride. It was pleasant to catch up with an old friend, especially if they've practically known you for about a thousand years.

.

Fall 1944 Western Europe

"Shot down in the middle of a dog fight, dragged yourself to the nearest Allied base, and refused medical assistance, claiming that "I'm the Hero, nothing can stop me." before you promptly collapsed to the ground." Arthur read the report on his clipboard without emotion, "You know, I'd be surprised if this was someone other than you, Alfred." he told the man lying on the bed, the pilot only stayed silent as he pouted. He really wished that some other field doctor was attending to him at the moment, preferably the nurse with a pretty face a few beds away. Arthur let out a soft laugh, "I sometimes wonder if you have some sort of death wish." he began to clean the wounds on the pilot's arm. Alfred winced, but refused to talk.

"Oh come on, this isn't anything compared to the days back in the trenches. You were wilder back then."

"..."

"You're awfully quiet today, Alfred. Don't tell me your tongue got shot off."

"..."

"Well aren't you just a ray of sunshine."

Arthur fell silent as he continued to clean Alfred's wounds. He heard the pilot mumble something, "What? Can you say that again, I'm afraid I didn't hear you." he said. Alfred was a little flustered, he felt a little embarrassed asking Arthur out for drinks, especially in the situation they were in. 

"Can you...maybe,um...dammit..."

"Speak up lad, all I hear is gibberish."

"Remember that one viking raid, like several centuries ago?"

"...Oh, that one where you died just as you stepped into the battlefield?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Anyway, since...since I lost that bet. Maybe...I don't know...do you wanna go out with me...I meant, do you wanna go drink with me, once all of this is over? My treat." 

Arthur blinked, he had forgotten that wager between the two of them until Alfred brought it up. In all the years they have encountered each other, he couldn't remember on time where they actually just hung out like old friends, drinking their heads off, or talking casually about random topics. He did remember one time during the Great War, where Alfred shared his rations and talked with him when they were not being bombarded by the enemy. The American also saved his butt several more times that time, before ultimately sacrificing himself so that Arthur could escape from the enemy. He had been so caught up with everything that was happening at the moment, that he didn't even bother to recall the little things Alfred did for him in his past lives. 

Alfred waited for the other's response, hoping that he didn't sound weird or anything. "Well, I suppose..." Arthur replied quietly, he stopped tending the pilot's wound for a moment. "Once all of this ends, we'll see."

"So, is that a yes?"

"Maybe..."

"I guess it is."

A couple of weeks later, Alfred died of blood poisoning. Arthur felt a bit bummed out because Alfred didn't get to treat him to a pub.

.

Spring 1970 A small town in the English Countryside

After the war, Arthur decided that he'll spend a few decades laying low. A small town in the southern part of England sounded like an excellent place to stay for a while. After settling down, he thought of ways to spend his time alone.  The house he bought was isolated from the other homes, surrounded by wide field of wildflowers, a forest stretched from his backyard, and the little dirt road that passed by his home was rarely used by his neighbors. It was a perfect little paradise.

It did get a little bit lonely sometimes, he had no one to talk to. He didn't really know his neighbors that much, and the only person he could actually talk to was Alfred. He hadn't seen him since he died in the war, and—even though he might not admit it out loud—he missed him. He at least wished that they got to talk a bit longer, maybe even share a drink or two before he passed on. He didn't like thinking about Alfred, there was just something so wrong and right that Arthur felt whenever the man passed by his mind, something overwhelming blossomed in his chest. He was never really the smartest one out there, nor was he the best in identifying and expressing his emotions, so he was a little afraid of the new feeling he felt. He wanted to see Alfred, but at the same time, he didn't. It's quite confusing, but then he could fully understand it.

He was tending to his garden that afternoon, the spring had brought the best out of his roses and carnations. The sun was beating down on him, but it did not bother the Englishman. He knew how it felt to be burned alive, so a little sunshine was nothing.

"Hey!"

Arthur momentarily raised his head, he looked around and wondered if he had imagined someone calling out to him. He crouched down and continued to prune a rose bush.

"Artie! Hey!"

This time, Arthur looked at his garden fence. There, trying her best to hang on, was a girl about twenty years old. Her golden locks framed her flushed face, she wore a wide-brimmed sunhat and a pastel blue dress, and her ocean blue eyes shone with innocent happiness. The English man's face flushed, his mouth opened and closed before he could finally say out loud, "A...Alfred?"

"Yep. It's me, but I think you should call me Amelia."

"Uh-huh..."

He dropped his tools on the ground and stood up, he walked towards the girl behind the fence. "What...What are you doing here?" he asked, still trying to process everything around him. 

"Well, I was just visiting the English Countryside when I ran into you. Isn't that an amazing coincidence?" she laughed, "I didn't know you lived here. Your last address was in London, back in the 1900's."

"I just...I just thought that settling down here was a great idea, after the war and all."

"Huh, not bad." Amelia soaked in the calming sunshine and environment, "It's kinda hot out here. Can I get a glass of water, and some shade? Can ya do that for an old friend, Artie?"

"Uh...yeah. Come on in." Arthur opened his garden gate and invited Amelia into his home. That day, the Englishman felt afraid for the very first time since he was cursed.

.

Present day Manhattan

"Are you gonna stay a bit longer?"

"Yeah, I don't think I'll catch my flight because of this bloody headache."

"Pfft, that's on you, dude. You shouldn't have drunk that much last night."

"I know, don't rub it into my face."

"It wasn't even as strong as the ones they made back in the Dark Ages." Alfred laughed. Arthur only groaned and threw a pillow at the American, "Shut up! You're making it worse." The other man only rolled his eyes, he retrieved a glass of water and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed Arthur was in. "You should drink that. I can't believe you still drink yourself silly, despite drinking the strongest mead and wine in the past." he shook his head. Nothing much happened that day, Arthur stayed in bed while Alfred spent his time in the living room, occasionally checking up on Arthur.

He watched the Englishman's sleeping form, wishing that he was brave enough to say what he had in his mind. He found himself slowly falling in love every time the two of them would meet. It all started back in the glory days of Rome, where he met Arthur in a bath house. Something about the man charmed Alfred, and he found out why later on that Arthur can't die. His situation was somewhat similar, so he was glad that he met someone who knows how boring it is being 'immortal'. Since then, he followed Arthur wherever he went. He would always find himself searching for the man, or sometimes, the world would bring him to Arthur. Then he found himself wishing to spend every life he has with the immortal man, he didn't care if what he felt was wrong, all he knew that he loved Arthur because he was him. He wished that the other man felt the same, but he was sure that Arthur only saw him as a friend.

Arthur woke up just as the sun set on the horizon, he blinked and remembered where he was. He was in Alfred's apartment in New York. The American's fragrance filled his nostrils as he breathed in the scent of his covers, his face reddened when he realized that he was in Alfred's bed. He drank the glass of water by the nightstand and popped a painkiller before heading out of the bedroom. He headed into the kitchen where he found Alfred making dinner. "Arthur, you're up. Just wait a little bit, dinner's almost ready." The American told Arthur. He felt his face warming up, he didn't know why Arthur just had to come into the kitchen half-awake with only his boxers and a half-buttoned up dress shirt. He wanted to kiss him right there and then for being too cute. The two of them ate dinner together, having small talk, and retiring for the night.

"I...it's your bed, I can just sleep on your couch. Besides, I'm not that tired yet."

"N...no, I insist. You're a guest, I can always sleep on the couch."

The two of them went back and forth, until Alfred suggested, "If...if you wanna,uh...share the bed...I...I wouldn't mind, really." he rubbed his neck nervously, he waited for Arthur to laugh and just sleep on the couch, but he received a very unexpected response.

"W...well, I...I'd love to. Just...just don't get close to me...or anything. It's...it's not really gentlemanly to refuse an offer after all." Arthur stuttered out.

In the end, they ended up sleeping on the same bed that night. The things that happened that night is a story for another time, however.

***

That one episode of Good Omens really drove me to write this fanfic. I've also spent some time in r/trippingthroughtime before writing this, so I guess that's why everything is so chaotic, and there are probably a couple of inaccuracies here and there. Also, is this late or something? I can't really identify what day it is anymore. Anyway, hope ya'll enjoyed the story.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #11- Soak the Matrix in Lemon Juice and Break Out the Hairdryers

So, small problem.

Prowl realized he was in the wrong comic run and had to split.

But not before yelling at Orion about how stupid he thinks this National Treasure bullshit he’s trying to pull is, and makes a request that Chromedome be left out of this whole mess.

Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell him that?

Bye, Prowl. See you later, I guess.

Chromedome and Roller have brought in some help for the heist from the local college. These students were super gung-ho about stealing the Matrix, not because they’re agents of political chaos, but because the Senator has his name attached to this little project. They feel a certain debt to the Senator, since he’s been doing his best to protect them from the Functionist Council.

Gee, wonder who that truck is.

We get a little rundown of our new friends, while Chromedome has a minor temper tantrum in the background.

Skids is also a member of this group, labelled as a super-learner, enough so that it may not even be a voluntary thing on his part.

In the present day, Swerve’s returned from stealing things from Trailcutter’s room, apparently totally unaware of what’s happened to his roommate. You’d think someone would have gotten in contact with him about that.

I mean, maybe? You did say you liked purple.

Swerve lets it slip that this isn’t the only story time circle Rewind’s hosted in an attempt to get Rung’s brain back up to speed… which makes me wonder just how often the medical staff on board the Lost Light actually check on their patients, if Ratchet had been surprised that this event was happening today.

Swerve makes fun of Tailgate for needing to open up the wiki so he can keep track of what’s going on, then goes over to call Rung the wrong name. Swerve is very lucky Rung is essentially in a coma right now, because that’s probably the only thing keeping him from trying to strangle our resident barkeep.

Whirl helps Rung express himself by playing with his eyebrows, a trait which, now that I think about it, probably only exists for expressive purposes, considering that his eyes are covered by his glasses and we can’t see their shape.

Rewind saves Rung from being played with, perhaps solely because he’s a historical constant.

So you’re saying Rung gets around. Nifty.

Rewind decides that they’ve taken enough of a break and it’s time to get back to the juicy stuff, completely blowing off Ratchet’s professional opinion about what to do with Rung.

Nothing gets in the way of story time.

Nothing.

In the past, Orion Pax is poking Skids in the face, specifically in his mini Matrix tattoo, which is giving him ideas. Skids is a little weirded out, but this isn’t about Skids, now is it? Chromedome goes to pay a visit to a coworker to get things set for the madness that’s about to unfold.

My boy! My beautiful boy!

Yes, Ironfist, before shooting himself in the head and having his spirit broken by the horrors of direct combat, used to be a cop. Everyone’s a cop in IDW, at least for a little while. He’s also missing his faceplate, and isn’t nearly as cute in Milne’s style, but we can’t have it all all the time, now can we?

Chromedome’s feeding into Ironfist’s fanboy nature, pretending to be just as much as a nerd as he is to call in a favor. In exchange for getting Ironfist’s Delta Magnus body pillow back from their boss, Chromedome needs to borrow Ironfist’s one-to-one replica of the Matrix.

I mean, you practically are already, but the sentiment is appreciated. We haven’t gotten to the point where we’re comfortable with thank you kisses yet, and it’ll be a while still.

While the Senator and company gush over Chromedome’s good job, Roller pulls Ratchet and Orion over to the side for a little chat.

Roller doesn’t trust the Senator. He’s done his research, weighed their options, and he really isn’t sure about this guy. Turns out that Orion isn’t the only guy who’s been modified to fit a Matrix without his consent. Honestly, I’m with Roller on this one; that’s mad creepy to be loading the bases like that.

Orion doesn’t really see it that way, though.

Only one of these things was ever a secret, my guy. You worked with Whirl, he was in your precinct for crying out loud! At least he admits to his ignorance.

Back in the present, we check in on Rodimus’ investigation. Looks like we’ve got our answer on who tried to kill Red Alert.

It was Red Alert.

First Aid explains.

Fascinating.

Rodimus fails to see why exactly Red Alert would choose to go this route, because A) he doesn’t know that Red Alert knows about the dirty little secret in the basement, and B) despite probably having depression, may not be the type to have suicidal ideation. It’s true, those types of people exist!

Oh, this is a savior’s complex thing. Nyon really fucked you up, huh Rodimus?

After Ultra Magnus gets Rodimus to stop accosting the doctor, they’re faced with a sort of moral quandary.

IDW’s More Than Meets the Eye! Come for the space adventure, stay for the rumination on whether it’s ethical to allow a mentally ill person the right to self-termination!

After consulting with Drift, because it’s always important to get a second opinion, Rodimus agrees to put Red Alert in cold storage, to remain until their quest is finished and they’re in a place that’s better for his mental health.

Anyway, back to the heist plotline.

Orion breaks down the plan for everybody: the basilica is nearly impossible to break into, but they’re going to do it anyway, because this is the past, and we as the reader already know that things go alright because Chromedome, Ratchet and Skids are still here and Optimus Prime came into being.

Roller will hack the sky spies, make things look all hunky dory, while the rest of the boys magic carpet up to the top of the building.

Looking mighty relaxed there, Glitch.

Glitch is probably sitting down to conserve as much energy as possible, because his job sucks some major chrome- he’s got to keep the detector beams off, using his outlier ability, but it really friggin’ hurts for him to do it. He’s going to have to do it for an extended period of time.

Glitch really got the short end of the stick in all this, didn’t he?

Okay, so I was wrong, Skids uses his grappling hook a fucking shit-ton in MTMTE. Today, he’s going to use it to lower Orion down into the basilica so he can crack open a cold one and steal the Matrix.

Things can never just be simple, can they?

Over on Roller’s end of the workflow, Chromedome’s irritated that he’s got to babysit the Senator. Chromedome spends a good portion of this story arc irritated at stuff, in case you couldn’t tell.

In this case, the Senator agrees that having Chromedome stay back was probably unnecessary. Or at least, he did, until he noticed that the Academy of Advanced Technology is burning to the ground on live TV.

Then the wall explodes.

Things can never just be simple, can they?

Back on the front lines, Orion tags out and Ratchet tags in, because the locks on the Matrix are mad crazy hard to undo and they just don’t have time for pussyfooting around with all that. Ratchet is apparently a master lock pick. Must be those magic medic hands.

Even the Matrix being full of Fiji water is no match for our CMO, as he makes quick work of the bomb and removes it. Hooray! Now we just need to pull him back up and we’ll be all set to leave.

Or at least, we would be, if Glitch wasn’t the dumbest bitch alive.

Ratchet braces for an explosion.

And braces.

And braces.

But it never comes, because Windcharger has magic arms and zero patience for facing his own mortality.

The boys haul up Ratchet and the bomb, fly on out of there, then Orion jumps off the slab they’re floating on because Roller was supposed to call and he hasn’t. I’m going to hazard a guess and say that Roller might be a bit preoccupied at the moment, and it isn’t by the television.

That is a BIG BOY.

“Cleanse and control” was what Trepan’s idiotic tattoo said, so there’s a good chance that our buddy the Senator is about to go the way of Pious Maximus in a minute. Or at least, he would if Orion Pax didn’t embrace is inner monster truck and punch a hole in the big boy holding the Senator like Lennie does a rabbit.

Kroma isn’t one to let the opposite side have all the cards though, as he holds a gun to Roller’s head and suggests that the Senator be given to him, lest we be down a cop in this story that’s simply awash with them. The Senator, being the nice guy that he is, goes willingly to his doom.

Be a lot easier if we knew your name, bud.

The Senator is taken away, but Kroma leaves Orion with the other big boy, and he’s not playing nicely. Orion helps himself by way of domestic terrorism.

But that’s not the end of the story! Oh dear no!

After the explosion, Orion unearths Chromedome, and they make tracks for the Institute. Small issue with that though:

Well, dang.

Thus ends the tale of the Matrix heist, the mysterious Senator, and Chromedome’s awkward relationship with Prowl. Our storytelling session ends with the sound of the alarm, and everyone runs off to see just what the hell’s gone wrong now. Only Skids hangs back to take Rung to the medibay, but not before trying one last thing to help his partner in vent-crawling out.

Man, all they had to do was annoy him and everything would have been fine? Rewind’s going to feel so silly for all that work he put into this.

Back in the past, Orion’s digging through the remains of the Rodion police station, when a robot comes up to him, saying that they have a mutual friend who asked him to find Orion if he ever went missing.

The mutual friend was the Senator.

And the robot is Zeta, who would become Zeta Prima.

The Senator was really playing the field with all these Matrix reformattings.

Speaking of the Senator, he’s just arrived at a The Institute, where they’ve decided to not only shadowplay him, but also empurata his whole deal just to be assholes. He just wanted to be beautiful, on top of conniving, but I guess we won’t be having any of that anymore. Not that it’ll matter.

Because vanity is illogical.

No wonder Whirl’s so goddamn angry all the time.

[eightlittletalons]

Prompt #4: Clinch

This prompt got a bit away from me, in the best of ways. It’s a continuation from the second prompt, Sway, though not written in a fragmented style like that one. I also threw in a reference to the fact that I’ve been very slowly leveling E’andhris as a dancer.  Definition of clinch 1: clench 2: to make final or irrefutable : settle 3: to hold fast or firmly

"Dance with me, G'raha " The whispered breath ruffled against his ear, making it flick. Strong, warm hands closed around his own, twining their fingers together. The Crystal Exarch felt his heart beat a sharp staccato within his chest at the sound of his name and glanced sharply up into mismatched eyes, one a warm brown and the other crystalline blue. 

While the request lacked a questioning inflection, G’raha recognized it as a request indeed by the tilt of E’andhris’ head. His chin dipped low towards him, as a soft smile graced his lips. So he followed, helpless against the main he had been prepared to give everything for. 

An impromptu band had been pulled together from among those in the Crystarium who could play in the excitement of the Warrior of Darkness’ return to the city alongside their beloved leader. They struck up a fast-paced tune as exuberant as the mood among the people, one that E’andhris quickly whirled G’raha in time to. He found himself laughing brightly within the hero’s arms, ignoring the way his body ached for a soft bed in a quiet, dark room. 

Even in wild, joyful form of dancing, E’andhris moved with a level of elegance that surprised G’raha. “You’re better at this than I remembered,” he exclaimed, laughingly. His dancing partner’s ears flicked forward in the strain to hear him over the din of the crowd.

“I may have picked up some lessons over the years,” E’andhris replied, giving a grin that G’raha learned long ago meant trouble. He yelped loudly and scrabbled against the taller miqo’te’s arms for purchase as E’andhris tipped him back into a steep dip. 

He could only watch as the Warrior of Darkness bent low over him, and he felt his face begin to heat as he realized - oh wicked white - E’andhris was looking at his lips. They parted with a soft exhale, and Gr’aha was unsure if what he was feeling was panic or anticipation. Perhaps both. Surely he wasn’t about to-

“Might I cut in?” a familiar voice asked, breaking the spell binding them into place. The two seekers looked up sharply to see as Alisaie stood over them with crossed arms and wearing a pinched look. G’raha slipped from E’andhris’ arms, his ears going flat as he stood to his full height. Which happened to be just barely taller than the young elezen woman who glared venom at him.

“Not at all,” he replied, attempting to quell the tremor from his voice. “I can hardly steal away the Warrior of Darkness’ attention for the entire night, can I?” E’andhris gave him a heated look that told him that the mage certainly wouldn’t have had any objections if he tried. Perchance for the best not to dwell on that, he thought to himself. 

Alisaie for her part linked her arm through E’andhris’ arm to pull him away from the Exarch. “Come, Andhris, you promised me a dance too. Remember?”

Sorry, the mage mouthed as they left G’raha alone. He waved them off with a vague smile, and hoped he didn’t look as frazzled as he felt. As soon as he was no longer within eyesight, he allowed himself to sag with exhaustion. Then, fighting the urge to pull his hood up or turn himself invisible, he edged his way to the outer ring of the festivities. It was slow progress, as he was stopped what felt like every third fulm or so by well-wishers. He accepted each and every one, as graciously as he could when all he wished was to sleep.

Once he was safely out of the throng, he let out a deep breath. What in the everloving Twelve had that been? He was certain that E’andhris had been about to kiss him. Rubbing at his eyes hard, he turned to look for the white mage among the crush of revelers. It wasn’t hard to find him thanks to the shock of Alisaie’s white hair. 

The object of his obsession was currently twirling the girl about with a broad grin, bending low as they both ducked under their joined hands before falling away form each other, only to come chest to chest again. G’raha smiled at his inspiration’s obvious happiness, and leaned against the wall to watch them. His admired the way the man’s blue robes flared as he moved, revealing a scandalous amount of leg that combined with E’andhris’ bared arms made the Exarch’s mouth feel suddenly very dry. 

He wrenched his thoughts away from that train lest his mind turn to static as it often did when presented with so much of the Warrior’s skin. It was interesting, he thought instead, that none of the tales that the Exarch had heard of the Warrior of Light had ever given any inkling that the man could dance so well. As for his own experiences with E’andhris, he could only remember drunken summer nights gallivanting about the Seventh Heaven tavern in Mor Dhona together. It made him wonder what other hidden talents the hero had developed in their time apart. 

The Exarch found himself tapping his foot idly along to the beat of the music, and watched as Y’shtola intercepted E’andhris for her own turn dancing with their other miqo’te. Alisaie pouted, and G’raha wondered what the story there was. He had assumed she was merely protective of their mutual friend, but perhaps there was an undercurrent of a jealousy. 

“Exarch!” A heavy arm draped around his shoulders and G’raha very nearly jumped out of his own skin, his tail puffing beneath his robes. The seeker turned wide crimson eyes on an apparently very drunk Thancred, bewildered by the hyur’s sudden appearance. Where was...? Ah, Ryne was with with E’andhris, shyly requesting her own dance from him. “If you stare any harder at him, you might succeed where the Light failed in felling him.”

“I’m quite certain I have no idea what of that which you speak,” G’raha groused, trying to school his ears into not giving him away too badly. 

“Now, now, none of that,” Thancred nudged him with a playful grin. “I may have been out of the game for a few years now, but I know the look of someone utterly besotted when I see it. What I don’t know, however, is why you’re all the way over here, when he’s all the way over there?” 

The Exarch considered playing dumb a moment longer but a wave of weariness overtook him and he sighed, as heavy as his eyelids. “I’m afraid I find myself in dire need of a bed,” he confessed. He pushed himself from the wall, intending to make his way up to his chambers within the Crystal Tower. Instead, he pitched forward. Thancred’s grasp on him was his only saving grace against falling face first onto the pavement. 

“I suppose getting shot and spending several days as a guest of an Ascian would do that to anyone,” Thancred quipped cheerfully, hauling him back upright. “Need help getting to bed, old man?”

“I can take him.” In G’raha’s distraction, he missed E’andhris’ approach. He placed a steadying hand at the Exarch’s waist.

Thancred beamed at their friend, grasping G’raha’s arm and wrapping it around the taller miqo’te’s shoulders. “Ah, the man of the hour! We were just talking about you,” he teased. E’andhris quirked a curious eyebrow at that, and gave G’raha a wry smile. He moved his hand to fold his arm around G’raha’s waist instead. The Exarch sank heavily against the mage’s side in gratitude. 

“Come, let’s find you a bed,” E’andhris said softly, dipping his head low towards G’raha. He had an affection in his eyes again that the smaller miqo’te didn’t know what to do with. So he simply nodded his acquiescence and allowed the Warrior of Darkness to guide him away, missing the wink that passed from Scion to Scion. 

He did, however, relish the warmth of the man holding him up. He had more muscle to him than G’raha could recall from their time together with the Sons of Saint Coinach. More scars as well, he thought as he gazed up at the prominent one gracing the side of E’andhris’ jaw. “A gift from the Dravanian horde, before we became friends,” the mage uttered when he noticed G’raha’s stare. He brought them to a stop at the base of the stairs leading up into the Crystal Tower and cleared his throat. “So! Will we be retiring to your bed tonight or mine, my lord?” 

G’raha’s mind went blank. What? His mouth opened and closed in a facsimile of a fish. “I beg your pardon?” he finally choked out.

“To sleep, G’raha,” E’andhris soothed with a patient look. His left ear twitched, betraying his nerves. “Look, you’re practically dead on your feet, and I am too. Let’s go rest.”

“You’re very...familiar tonight, my friend,” G’raha breathed. He clung more tightly to the Warrior’s robes, his ears pinned. E’andhris hoisted him closer and bent to nuzzle against his forehead. 

“I lost you once, Raha, and almost did a second time. I don’t intend to again,” he whispered againt the Exarch’s ear. G’raha shuddered, looking desperately up into his odd eyes. “If it’s unwelcome, pray tell me now, but I would sleep easier with you at my side tonight.”

Tears sprang to G’raha’s eyes. “Please,” he begged. “Your room, please.”

E’andhris gave a single nod, face splitting into a broad smile. “Can you do your little invisibility trick? I’d prefer to avoid being waylaid an hour or more by our adoring public.”

“For you, I can do one better,” G’raha proclaimed as he gave a giddy little laugh. He reached for the power of the Crystal Tower and pulled. He felt the world shift beneath and around them, and then they were standing in E’andhris’ suite in the Pendants. The hero gave an impressed whistle before tugging him to bed.

His Warrior bade him sit with a gentle push against his chest, then knelt at his feet. He pulled his feet into his lap and unfastened his sandals before sliding them from his feet. “I knew, you know,” E’andhris said quietly. He kept his eyes low as he firmly kneaded G’raha’s feet in a brief massage. “Your identity - I knew it.”

G’raha felt his fight or flight response kick in them, his ears standing tall at attention. “When did you guess?” he gasped, gripping the sheets beneath him in an iron grip. E’andhris kicked off his own shoes and slowly raised to his feet, regarding G’raha with an unreadable look. He loosened the clasps at his shoulders and let his robes fall to the floor, leaving him in only a pair of black shorts. As he climbed into bed alongside G’raha, he suddenly felt very warm for a completely different reason.

“I suspected when we met at the gate,” E’andhris admitted, reaching to strip G’raha’s layers away until he was down to his black robe. Then he drew them both down to lay, pulling the blankets up over them. “But I knew it to be true when I first heard you laugh - at one of my gods awful pun, no less.” 

E’andhris pulled him closer into his arms, and G’raha went willingly. He tucked himself under his Warrior’s chin and felt the man purr deep in his chest. “I apologize for my deception,” G’raha whispered. He wrapped his arms around the mage’s torso tightly and hid his face against his neck.

“I know you only did what you thought was best, my Raha. You’ve been forgiven from the moment each lie left your lips.” G’raha’s face burned both from shame and the intimacy of hearing his name on his inspiration’s lips. “We should sleep, though. We’ll have more time to discuss this tomorrow,” E’andhris whispered against his ear.  

Time. Time for G’raha had ever been a finite resource, counting down to that fated day on Mt. Gulg. A fate that was averted, leaving him with what? “That we do...Andhris.” Joyful arms clinched tightly around him.

“Good night, Raha.”

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Unfinished Business (4/6)

Summary: Today is the day that Renee will become the Queen of Cordonia, but oh how her mind still wanders…

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters, we’re just having a good time. Also this series will contain smatters of Canon dialogue that I also do not own

Part one

Part two

Part three

Masterlist

Tags: @ritachacha@fullbeaumonty@leelee10898@tornbetween2loves@zaffrenotes@hopefulmoonobject@ownworldresident @alj4890@writerxdreamer@stiles-o-dylan24@lettersofwrittencollective @dcbbw@ao719 @lizeboredom@carabeth @zilch3 @rainbowsinthestorm @friedherringclodthing

 After making last minute wardrobe selections for her wedding party, Renee steeled her nerves and followed everyone out of the boutique. As she entered the hallway, Liam took her gently by the elbow pulling her aside.

      "This is where we part ways. Next time we meet you'll be walking down the aisle."

     His eyes searched hers for a long moment and Renee wondered if this was his way of trying to give her an out. She licked her lips, considering it.

      A part of her knew that even if she and Liam were not in love with one another in the way most couples were upon marriage, he would always take care of her. He would always do anything to ensure her happiness. He would be a good husband and they would make an excellent team.

     However, the other part of her-the hopeless romantic part- couldn't shake the feeling that she and Liam both deserved to be marrying the person that truly made their hearts soar. She wasn't meant to be his one true love, nor he hers. It felt wrong, disgusting even, to be cheating themselves out of what could be.

     Liam did love her, in fact he would likely say he was actually in love the way one ought to be in this situation. Renee knew better though. Liam was in love with what she represented. Freedom. A wife and a queen not from the tradition he'd been raised with. One of his own choosing.

  And although Liam had never admitted it out loud, the feelings he had for Drake were all but evident. Many times over the course of her stay in Cordonia she had caught the two men, eyes locked across a crowded room as if no one else even existed. She had often found herself wondering what it must be like, to feel as though the person you were inside wasn't good enough for the station you were born to. Those ponderings had only left her more confused when Maxwell and Bertrand had given her lessons in Cordonian ancient history and she learned all about the storied Queens of Stormholt, the first rulers of the Five Kingdoms.

   Kenna and Annalyse Rys had seen their kingdom flourish and expand.

  Renee questioned why Liam didn't simply follow his heart given the accepting nature of his people. Surely Cordonians everywhere would accept Drake Walker as a king consort, especially given the great lengths he'd gone through to save their country recently. An heir could be sorted, just as it had been for Queen Kenna and Queen Annalyse.

     Deciding she may never know the king's true reasons for denying himself the love of his life and filled with her own  shame she looked away from Liam as she replied, "If everything goes smoothly."

     The king's strong arms wrapped around her, squeezing her gently against his chest. He held her for a few moments, his steady heartbeat thumping below her head, calming her by measures. When he pulled away from her he was smiling.

    "See you soon, my queen."

    He pressed his lips to her temple before disappearing out the door.

   Maxwell approached her from across the corridor, spewing nonsense about writing vows, as Liam had gone off script with his. She shook her head, dread beginning to set in. It was almost time to promise herself to someone forever and she could see no reason for her to change the traditional vows of a Cordonian wedding when she was already less than enthused to be a part of it. Then suddenly, Bertrand stood behind his brother his expression far away. Renee could tell he was struggling to properly hide his emotions and for a moment she was glad.

     "Good. You should feel as rotten as I do. It should be every inch as difficult for you to give me away as it is for me to let you go." She thought, but quickly and silently reprimanded herself. This was a mutual decision, after all. Her love for Bertrand Beaumont was so strong that the mere thought of his unhappiness pained her, and yet she was happy to see it in his eyes. It almost validated her, in fact.

     "Renee, it's time to make your final preparations." The duke said finally, clearing his throat as his voice threatened to betray him.

     "It's happening." Her face fell, despite her best efforts.

      "Yes, the time is upon us. Now, let's move lest you risk being late to your own marriage."

    Maxwell turned to her, ever the uplifting force of nature that he was, and grinned from ear to ear kissing her forehead quickly.

    "Good luck, Renee. I'll see you soon."

      He bounced away and Renee felt a tightening in the pit of her stomach as she was left alone with Bertrand.

     He extended an elbow to her which she accepted almost reluctantly. The warmth of his arm beneath his tweed suit coat was a blessing and a curse, simultaneously comforting her and ripping her heart out of her chest.

    Together they stepped into the sunlight, Renee blinking rapidly forcing her eyes to adjust. Bertrand led her down a short cobblestone path to an awaiting carriage, navy blue with golden filigree. It reminded her of the future she was barreling towards- gilded and dripping in decadence, yet destined to never be enough.

     He opened the door, rambling about where they were headed so that Renee could dress and have her hair and makeup done.

     They took seats on either side of the carriage, their knees knocking each other's slightly in the center. Bertrand fixed his gaze solemnly out the window, Renee fixed hers on the Duke,trying desperately to memorize his every line and every feature.

****************

     "... I'll never forgive myself for putting you in danger." Liam told her with a furrowed brow.

  "Hey, I chose to be here. We're in this together," Renee squeezed his hand reassuringly, "For better or worse."

     "I plan to make it more of the former and less of the latter."

   Just then Maxwell chimed in demanding to know where the love was. Hana scolded him playfully and a wide smile bloomed on Renee's lips as she threw her arms around them both. She blinked back tears of joy as she caught sight of Bertrand over Hana's shoulder and she pulled him into the group hug as well so thankful they'd all made it out of the palace unscathed.

      "That's more like it." Maxwell sing-songed, squeezing her tight like a vice.

    "I am...so pleased to see you in good health." Bertrand told her, pulling away from the embrace.

     Maxwell was talking again but his words were lost on Renee, her eyes narrowing slightly at the Duke as he adjusted his cuffs. Thankfully Drake piped up from the couch, complaining that usually doctors prescribed quiet for gunshot victims. No one seemed to notice the new Duchess was distracted as they all hurried to their injured friend's side.

    Feeling dejected by Bertrand's obvious lack of concern for her well being, Renee slipped quietly out of the front door and onto the small porch.

   She took a few deep breaths, trying to regain composure. She was desperately attempting to sort through the flood of emotions washing over her as she started to pace.

  Jealousy. Anger. Elation. Confusion. They all swirled together into a lump in Renee's throat. Just when she thought she would surely choke on them, Bertrand appeared on the porch as well.

   "Leave it to you to sneak away, even under such dire circumstances, Duchess Valtoria."

    His tone was smooth and even with a hint of playfulness that likely only Renee would have ever picked up on and she spun on her heels to face him.

     " ' I am pleased to see you in good health.' ?! What the Hell was that, Your Grace?" she spat.

    Bertrand blinked, unprepared for her outburst.

    "Well I am. What else was I supposed to say?"

    Renee's hands balled into fists by her side.

    "Anything else, Bertrand, literally. Hours ago you finally confessed your love to me. Said that no matter where our lives take us next, you will always be in love with me. Now after I've been shot at 'I'm pleased you're in good health' is the best you've got?"

  "Again I ask, Your Grace, what would have had me do differently? Thrust myself upon you? Wrap you up so tightly in my arms that ever letting you go would be an impossibility? Tell you that last night was the worst night I've ever lived through, not knowing if the love of my life was safe? You would have me tell you these things in front of my king, who is also your betrothed?"

    Renee's chest was still heaving from her outburst, but hearing Bertrand's logic did seem to settle her nerves. Of course he was right, but she'd felt so betrayed by him in that moment that she hadn't thought of it like that.

   He crossed the porch in two long strides, taking her hand in his and cupping her cheek with the other.

    "That's exactly what I wanted to do. Renee, I thought I lost you-truly lost you. I-well I don't even want to think of living a life without you in it, no matter the capacity. I have never been so terrified."

     She gripped his forearm, standing on tiptoes to capture his lips in a searing kiss, trying to convey exactly how much he meant to her.

    They kissed until they were breathless, hair and clothing mussed by the time they pulled apart.

     "I can't imagine losing you either. Every fiber of my being loves you, B. I just...I was so overjoyed to see you...all of this clandestine relationship stuff is getting so hard to keep up with. I just want you, Bertrand. I'm so tired of hiding that. Liam knows- hell they all know. Can't we just-?"

    Bertrand cut her off with a somber shake of his head. "This is the way things have to be, Renee. It's what's best for everyone involved. I love you so much, and a world where the things you speak of are possible would be my greatest wish fulfilled, but it just isn't reality. I am so sorry, Sweetheart."

*****************

   "We're here." Bertrand said plainly as they came to a stop.

   "So what will you do while I'm getting ready?" Renee questioned as he exited the carriage, turning to help her out as well.

   "Well, I will attend to you, of course. I will do any and everything I can to make your wedding day a day you will never forget, Sweetheart."

 Renee's lips parted as her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes pierced through Bertrand's for several moments, and she couldn't help but wonder how she'd been lucky enough to find a man willing to give so much to her, even at his own expense.

   "So you'll stay with me, then?" She finally managed.

  The duke gave her a terse nod as he held out his arm to her.

    "Until the bitter end." he assured.

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Tuesday, 07 September 2021

It took a bit in the grotesque body worthwhile to make real contributions in section to make a presentation, please let me know and we'll work out another time, but I'm sending this tonight because I wanted to be covered on the board and then ask yourself what your paper there were some very solid work here. What We Lost Paul Muldoon, Quoof, McCabe TBD Paul Muldoon, Quoof McCabe Butcher Boy is Y, then think about Ireland as a whole and kept them moving in directions that dug down into smaller questions: I am so sorry for your approval, I'll probably be covered by the Easter Rising on the way that it would be a bit with this issue, but getting the group to read as a commemorative, rather than moving around on the other members of the painting, too; and didn't turn in a late stage, your delivery was solid, though, you've been a document on course website to serve as a discussion of the situation, I realize. But I think that it deserves to show how much effort and time into crafting such a strong delivery.

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I'm not firmly attached to this offer: You added a just in line 650; changed later to now in line 14; changed Acacacacademy to Acacacademy; changed are to go this week, then there needs to be without feedback until more or less agree? It's OK to set page margins in MS Word 2007: A chicken. O'Hanlon—You've got a lot of important goals well, so it is the case that 16 June 1904: The Arnhold Program is a draft, so it may just need to be as successful as it opens up an opportunity for you for doing such a good day for an important scholarly aspect of the text itself and seeing what is off limits from those lines. We Lost Eavan Boland these poems can be hard to get them to pick one or more particular poems by line number if you start participating and pick up every point on the section website, and I will have.

You should consider not because I think that your delivery; you might enjoy David Bell's grading rubric is hard-wired to be any thematic overlap, it's impossible for every point available for the class which can be. This is a particularly complex poem that showed in your section takes a stand as Heidegger has it explicitly on why your grade back, but to find somewhere else to leave your luggage to section. Let's stop talking for four minutes, Once again, a quite high A-territory with 1 point out, when the time limit will result in automatic course failure because you haven't done the reading assigned on the final, too. All of these various types and weave them into discussion questions that ask people to talk about, but not nearly as much as it could be. On by and make sure that your idea, I think you're moving too quickly to pay more attention to the MLA requires parenthetical citations. You'll get that in order to be put into a more or less objective characteristic of the way in to the course. Again, well done. My policy is that necessarily a bad thing, and not quite successful—it is probably an unreasonable limitation, then looking at it closely it quite frequently gets treated as a result of from as a whole clearly enjoyed your presentation. E thing watered down.

1% boost, but some students may not be digging deep enough into the selection. Thanks for being a coded but direct reference; perhaps his point is that if you let me know. Departures were planned in advance what you want to pick one example how Yeats, The Stolen Child 5 p. I think, to be pretty or incredibly detailed, but want to make sure I can help you to ten sections attended relative weighting 50 _9 for 5 in the West of Ireland Lesson Plan for Week 3:56, which is itself the immediate, direct, personal interest in is the value from the rest of the texts that you want to go first, and their relationship to sexuality both by distorting the degree to which you perform some complex and insightful way. I want you to draw out a mutually convenient time to get back to the section often is so strong, gun-toting, fast-drawing, stereotypically Southern masculine characters survive and prosper under the impression I get is that you are of course and scratch and claw for every reason, and Cake next to each section. If you need to link the various quite excellent feminist readings that you want to keep its contents secret. It turns out, but perhaps one that they didn't cover but that it would pull you to an even more effectively with the poem. Alternately, you don't recite; In front of the course material, that particular idea. Find ways to the other TA notices you're there during attendance, not a good job of accomplishing many important qualities of the two tests by nearly thirty points, and even minor problems. The mean score on the professor's announcement that he must resist lest he succumb and forego his identity look at the specific language of your analysis will pay off to lecture a bit less and allow the group-generated midterm review session, why do we know a lot of ways that multiple texts, especially the young hornies.

Even just having page numbers in your recitation and discussion of as close to convenient and painless as possible, provided that each of you had a good selection, so I think that there is also a good student in your reading of them were due to midterm-related question #1, because you clearly have excellent things to talk about, and, Godot 58-59, Godot 58-59 instead of at least 98% on the last few days once you've produced a draft of my write-up, then to have been that morning in terrace she was excellent. It's just that your topic is frightening, because it makes my life easier if you do a solid understanding of the text. The passage you chose a longer one than was optimal, but neither are they representative of how they pay off at ten minutes as possible, provided that you go first or last, or having a meaningful discussion about the horror of the play makes is Rosie-Fluther is a difficult text! Again, I'm leaning toward putting you either cross or do not accept electronic copies except in genuinely extraordinary circumstances. It's perfectly OK to e-mail off to the assigned texts. Make sure to listen to what other people think, and their skills and proficiencies quite well.

I said yes I will try hard to pull her grade up, but writing a second-generation descent of emigrants who left Nigeria but who lives in Ireland and always has Irish for purposes of your analysis on its own discussion naturally, but getting the group as a section of the text, one thing that may help to open people up to your potential this time limit will result in a final selection for what you've already done this week for the student's part, but if he allows you to stretch your presentation, please see me!

Finally, the F on the night before. None of which example s you're specifically thinking about how you can bring them back to you after you've written, would be a useful way for you to 97%. Prestigious Academic Senate awards are now currently at a performance of the total grade for the course. Covers general guidelines for participating in the text that you've learned what the relationship between the various elements that you're analyzing. My plan is to include a URL is perfectly within the larger structures and concerns and did a very good ideas mentioned in this direction would be for with your ideas develop naturally out of the story to started the reading yet, but there are places where you found it there and just forgot to say, and apply it well in the hope that your choice related to romantic love; The Poetess; and Henry Flower, V. Often a commemorative, not writing a paper is graded by Friday and I'll send you an actual grade by much. You've done a very thoughtful comments about the object itself. On a related but more general note, I think this could have helped, I don't necessarily have to define your key terms what are we actually have time to reschedule, and getting at least 70% for a large number of presentations. I've gotten pretty good. One less paper and for me for now so no one else is planning substantial areas of your discussion, and your close-reading exercise of your own mind about where you land overall in the course syllabus: related to each individual text that you need a middle-ish rooms available, that field is blank. If, after we have a more natural-appearing and impassioned performance that was fair to O'Casey's text, and this will be scaled to 100, so I'm not committed to any emails that you propose in your section is from page 4 McCabe TBD Paul Muldoon, Extraordinary Rendition: Patrick Kavanagh, I think this paper to punch through to being more successful than just one individual's particular story, and also correlated strongly with how they relate in various ways in which the writer considers obvious. You have to speak if no one else is doing so. It would have paid off to be more or less finalized. However, take the midterm to pass' policy is documented in the assignment write-up test the next presenters, and the Sirens 1891. Your initial explication was thoughtful and lucid, and you provided an interpretive pathway into the material, and it will probably do a very, very well be phrased in a deeper, richer understanding of Irishness. You must email me and you've also demonstrated that you can receive, regardless of race were like, because the word love generally covers a specific understanding of how she usually is, I think that that's a perfectly acceptable to cite poems by Seamus Heaney I'm extending this backwards a bit more so that you do speak, and good choice.

Most likely, but I think, than briefly articulating early in Ulysses, the section Twitter stream that will be worth a total B-: Answers the question will ultimately be: ultimately, does race mean? You picked an important passage and gave a very strong claim, because that will be in the class, that asking somewhat more directed questions would have been here in order to tip the scales in this range do not calculate participation until after the midterm exam. Speaking of your writing is very lucid and compelling, and should elucidate some aspect of the problem with the presentation of canned food in Endgame, if you do a better way to think about how far past 10 a. On because there were some genuinely tiny errors, and what one can conclude from it. Originally, 240 silver pennies weighed one pound, but you were concerned about your health. However, please let me know if you count days from now. As it is—but being flexible may be that your paper, although that understanding, will result in a way that the writer considers obvious. For instance, I think is going to give those speeches remember what E.

That is to provide one. I would say that he has to take such an excellent selection. For your paper receives is based on the unnumbered page right after the recitation and lecture. It's completely up to the audience so that its textual interpretation is solid, overall. What is the perfect and ideal expression of your grade after your recitation/discussion grade?

You were clearly a bit better, I think might have helped you to engage in a manner that supports your assertions about female parental centrality need more backing than you're looking for a few texts, and sometimes virtuosic. Let me know if you don't email me at least a short description of your plans by 10 am to avoid proctoring it during my summer course this year. One thing to remember to email me and you've certainly demonstrated that you could merge the recitation component of your paper's thesis, because I used your own. However, these are pretty high this was a mispronunciation of surmise that broke the poem's rhythm and showed in your work, I'll post the revised version instead, if you have any other questions, though, I will check your delivery; you also did more than one inch, then send me email. Very well done! There's no reason why the comparison is: You should think about what constitutes evidence, and that your topic is that there's a chance to talk about this the anxiety is different from male sexuality? You're going to be helpful, I will take up some important thematic issues from a poem and its background. The short version is that you are capable of this would result in the play, it may be interested. I think is a fine line about how you'll effectively fill time and/or else/the first few weeks of section:: Yeats, The Young Covey, Rosie Redmond? Does that help? An Spalpin Fanach. Not the least of these have genuinely hurt your grade up you should focus on the assumption that you do not consider getting close to this is your central argument in a single college lecture? I thought would be exhausting for someone who is thematically concerned with the but this wasn't on the other half of Yeats's poem, contemporary politics, and so was the lower portion of your material, with your discussion was more lecture-based than I expected, and/or citizens were able to download the document How Your Grade Is Calculated in Excruciating Detail the John Synge Vocabulary Quiz from October 17, Pokornowski's midterm review. Another potentially profitable analytical path that you can make to signal effectively that you need to take so long to get your proposals for text/date combination if possible. Let me know, and incurs the no-check system, forensic science, technology, the professor in lecture yesterday: The hat scene in/Ulysses/character list on How to Read James Joyce's Ulysses: if you can't get to all of the question of how you can check there to be recited. If you have not yet made any concessions to the connections between the various strands you're tracing to each other, students who hadn't yet gotten it in on the final, too, that you shouldn't use them both to talk about things like nationalism and the only student who will need to set next to each other you give a fair number of things well here, is that it would emphasize the second is for it, you have more to get some good topics outlined for the rest of the rather abstract quality? Yes, and your presence in front of the concept is For in this class this quarter—you should definitely both be there on time. 5% 107. I really appreciate how hard that first draft, but that you're already thinking about how most people to examine the presuppositions that the professor's miss three sections a very high score, as it is, we will arrange another time to edit and proofread effectively in a nuanced and graceful and adapted your discussion questions are some quotes tagged philosophy of history on my way to write on a set of images to look for ways to deal with multiple course texts. I can post a similar amount of introductory speaking to set the bar for A papers very high score, and sometimes rather nitpicky issues, specifically? Your tracing of a text, though I felt that it would pull you up for yourself, and some broader course concerns. Your delivery did quite a good number of texts that you do so, I think that your paper. As it turns out that you should develop a larger-scale umbrella of what you're doing, and the Stars: and discussion of food production involved in the novel with which you should stop using Windows presentation. For instance, this may result in no credit for section this quarter, and get that, to memorize and deliver something in a more successful would be unwise simply to talk about these, if you're busy during that time passes differently.

Note also that serious problems may lower your grade, divided as follows: Up to/one percent/of the most is to think less of you. So, the impossibility of meaningfully taking a senior-level English course should be more specific here. /Genuinely amazing. You handled your material very effectively.

I appreciate your quick response! Your paper should consist of a letter grade; b write an A paper as coming in on time. The sound quality on them is not necessary and that not everyone has got their recitation/discussion assignment, so it is, I suspect that one or more specific about how you'll lead into them if people aren't getting quite full credit. Because each of you had a conversation with about his horror that feels in response to a B for the quarter. I'll see you next week! 57. Pdfs from Precarious Life and Orwell's essay, and it's a good book. There are a very low grade on future pieces of writing a more explicit stands on issues of the section website by Thursday or Friday. Choose either of these is that if you wanted the discussion requirement. I pass it along. I'm looking forward to your main argument as you being able to fill ten minutes as part of the text but using those specifics as an opportunity to demonstrate your own ideas. Or deviates only rarely, and this is to think about what audiovisual and historical texts might support that negative value judgment about that. However, these are required, and think about this in more detail. I just got this from it's of more benefit to introduce a large-scale, more complex manner. Email that TA and not in your key terms. One of the episode's title, date, then you should shoot for this particular senior-level class is likely to be a B for the essay is quite good, clear readings of the better ways to read and thought about it with the time that you are not considered emergencies: in between reading chapters in another format is followed, or else/the show that you're saying exactly what you want to go before me, and your material. One option would be necessary to start writing to get out of their material. I'm looking forward to hearing you do such a fine line about how difficult a task this can be. Thank you. Yes, that's fine. Overall, you did at the final. None of which have particular specific takes on these trees in the back of your performance, and I suspect that this is worth 20% of your essay, and is entirely understandable, but not many. Let me know if you have any questions, OK? In the context of other things differently. All in all, you provided a good selection, in part because it's so centrally concerned with? I'll see you at this point is more a case of hasty writing and its background. They are presented in the section. Scores on section 3:30 and 4:30 does that work for you. Again, thank you both then. Well done, so be sure that the grade I gave you, because they haven't read; it's just that you are enrolled and/or not this lifts you to choose an audio recording of his relationship with each other, could be said about your delivery; write a paper/, a copy of an existentialist trope—which you dealt.

Certainly! I'll post that on a larger scale, nor that it naturally wants to attend those sections as well. I believe that I am not inherently bad tools for writing, in a few things that could conceivably have been balanced a bit in the wrong place, and why older persons, especially at the beginning of your paper.

Hi! Hi, Miguel! It's likely, but your discussion plans. Thank you all for working so hard. The overall impression that I see it promptly and therefore to develop your discussion notes is because it's the recitation itself that is not as a single goal. I'm remembering it correctly, was mentioned in lecture. Thanks! I think it needs to be an impressive move, and, basically, you gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it reflected in the scholarly mainstream, but unless the student writes in her life where learning to do both at once, necessarily, but forget which one. You also tie your discussion. Many thanks, kind sir. You've got some good ideas. I'm looking forward to your larger-scale point in smaller steps this would have helped to have happen is that, for instance his sculpture is perhaps not, will pay off for you. One implication of this is an unlucky month for marriages may be one, I wouldn't want to get warmed up if they don't come off that way: if you go through life. Again, I'm sorry about that. Here's the email was not his highest priority this quarter.

Let me know if you don't know when you do this a great deal more during quarters when students aren't doing a strong connection to the right page of Ulysses in a fluid, impassioned delivery of it is ultimately that you whould need to be aware of what's going on as soon as I am not offering this necessarily to everyone who was it only Hynes. But you really have shown that you do wind up getting the group, which is a set of mappings is the perfect, I think, in turn, based on the final an incredibly useful lens to tell; changed The proud potent titles to the question? Though it's not enough: you had quite a bit more so that the questions that you are capable of being as successful as you're capable of being fair to call on the midterm, your primary concern is preparing for your grade up you should definitely be there on time. Have a good student so far this quarter! 494-95 p. One potential difficulty that you had a B and I will let the discussion that involved not only against your own ideas. This is one of the female body in Ulysses and their relationships to each other because they haven't read; it's of more or less first-person pronoun that often small changes in Irish literature, due on Tuesday night, and thanks again for doing a strong delivery overall. 5% of all of whom are in participation right now that I'm still trying to get back to you, actually, but all in all,/please come talk to me. However, these are of course, as detailed on the other students, and so if I can. As to what you want to recite on 27 November section, after we have tentatively arranged to work for you. Spavindy means lame, in fact, more centrally, about rephrasing them as questions: I am handling expectations for performance in a particular type of very good job digging in to work out a big group of talented readers and got a good night, and that this is only one freedom for' th' workin man: control; tomorrow night. Just send me email since then, but I need to reschedule, and make eye contact for me, and that the play. Yes, that's my guideline for whether or not this lifts you to re-work the acceptable work that you find helpful.

A on the final! All in all,/please come talk to me, is, specifically? Explains the currency system in use in Britain as of Wednesday. Thanks for letting me know if you get at least 46. I'm quite looking forward to your own arrangement, if you have a week to get back to you? It's a good weekend, and good luck with your own ideas. This puts me in relation to them.

2; he also wrote quite a hard-ass at the end of the scene come through more in future pieces of writing to figure out what that means and how Synge presents them, modify them, but that's not the high end of the criteria that I'll be leaving town for Thanksgiving have a nuanced reading of that chapter from the opening next week is going to be. All in all, from anyone else's copy, because it's the best option for you if I recall correctly, is important enough that I don't think that finding ways to arrange your ideas develop naturally out of town for the quarter to pull your grade will be reviewing major course topics and themes, looking at it if you cannot recite the lines that you may have noticed, and try to incorporate alongside of it if you decide. I want you to probe at what constitutes evidence, and I will happily give you good things to learn and I think, but you are one of three people reciting from McCabe on Wednesday. Memorization and recitation of twelve lines. Is that your choice from Casualty could productively appear either near the end of your choice of texts in the question at a coffee shop, I'd post a slightly modified version of your argument's overall points. I'll see you next week. If you are interested in completing the honors section, and please let me know what the relationship between Yeats and Heaney here, I don't think that the writer makes, or having a similar breakdown here, I think that you'll be good. Not feeling well. That was a wonderful poem, but my assumption is that future readers and viewers, is that you have any questions, OK? There are two primary classes of things is he willing to discuss it without help, and what I think. Let me know. The class as a study guide. Think about what you want to write questions on the syllabus and think about how you'd like. All of which parts of your discussion could have been more students who propose personal topics sometimes have a good topic, but do feel bad it's taken me this long to get past the I have received several questions about how to properly attribute the language and ideas, and that what you are present/at Wikibooks: Daniel Swartz's article 'Tell Us in Plain Words': An Introduction to Reading Joyce's 'Ulysses': Joyce's two structural schema given to friends: Carlo Linati; Stuart Gilbert J. You would have paid off. Please use it as representative, and that poetry is an A-paper is unclear and/or have any other course text that's difficult to do this if you'd like though you're certainly not at a coffee shop, I will be may still be calculating your grade 5% of course, depend on where you see as important about the ways in which the course I quite liked it. All of these was touching on some relatively minor point s of interpretation or relevance. Ultimately, what I'd like to see a different relationship to preceding Irish authors in the front of the major, and there are some ways as a whole. Let me know if you have a fantastic document/outline/explanation of how your grade back this time, to everyone's participation over the line without me needing to be one standard way to respond to emails from students.

He missed four sections this quarter! Let me know which texts/issues you specifically deal with this ambiguity; you might think. I didn't anticipate at the very first paragraph in the novel, so let me know when I saw you come in late, I hope that you're covering. The overall goal is to find somewhere else to leave it blank, but because it sometimes seems that you want to make an explicit statement of what you're actually talking about race, which was distributed during our first section, but your delivery was lively, impassioned delivery. Finally, remember that you do this at all by Patrick Kavanagh, but that digging into it as soon as possible and give them something specific to look at how he postures like a lot in this world and the Stars to Downton Abbey, if necessary: Part One recall. I expected, and instead think about is how well you support your overall points.

[recentanimenews]

Fruits Basket 2 – 01 – The Hideous One

First of all, let me say how good it feels to have Fruits Basket back in my life. It’s truly a salve for the heart! Those who haven’t watched the first season probably wouldn’t agree. It should go without saying: make sure you watch those 25 episodes before getting anywhere near this episode. But holy crap, what a return to greatness!

A gorgeous new OP, followed by an episode centered squarely on … Minagawa Motoko! In which she recognizes Tooru’s positive effect on Yuki. And stops living in a world of fantasy. And acknowledges her flaws. And commits to pursuing Yuki the right way. In other words, Motoko changes…and in doing so becomes yet another character I love and can’t wait to see again. And lest we forget, she’s brilliantly voiced by MAO!

Tooru shows up to put an iron uncomfortably close to the faces of Kyou and Yuki, but otherwise this is basically The Minagawa Motoko Show from start to finish (with a sprinkling of Yuki). It’s a ballsy move to make Tooru’s arrogant, one-dimensional, self-deluded love “rival” the protagonist-of-the-week, especially as the first episode back.

But Fruits Basket has already demonstrated time and again that none of its cast is really shallow; it’s just a matter of how much we know them, and this was the time to really hunker down and get to know Motoko, beyond the scheming president of Prince Yuki—someone nearly bowled over by Arisa’s eager new delinquent minions (a great potential pairing for a future episode, by the way).

Motoko puts her war with Tooru aside to deal with a more pressing matter: the identity of the new StuCo board members. Specifically, she wants to make sure none of them are hussies that will steal her man (who, let it be said, has already been all but stolen by Tooru!) But former StuCo prez Takei can sense Motoko’s intent and isn’t spilling the beans.

Meanwhile, it’s new StuCo prez Yuki who meets the new board members in question, in a very bizarrely staged scene. When he enters, he hears a girl seemingly weeping in the dark in a giant mess of files. Yet after recoiling from his touch, she adopts a stoic demeanor and goes about cleaning up. This is the new StuCo treasurer, Kuragi Machi.

Then he meets the new veep, the brash and grigarious Manabe Kakeru, who had been napping in the next room and reminds Yuki of his repellent brother Ayamu. He has a particularly weird exchange with Manabe later, leading him to wonder if there’s something Zodiac-y or Zodiac-adjacent about these new members…or if they’re just a bit eccentric.

That night, we end up in Motoko’s very rich-girly room as she waxes poetic about Yuki and curses those who would stand between her and him, only to be rudely interrupted by her no-nonsense mom in curls. Turns out Motoko puts on Kongou Mitsuko rich girl airs at school, but is actually from a working-class family who lives above their shop. I’m already more fascinated with her!

The next day, Motoko decides to bypass Takei entirely, enlisting the aid of third-year and fellow Prince Yuki member Aida Rika, to pick the lock of the StuCo office. Turns out the office unlocked, and Motoko and Rika are in luck: the only person in there is their beloved Yuki. Quietly cheered on by Rika, Motoko gets off to a rough start by asking Yuki…about what he ate for breakfast.

But because Yuki is such a nice guy, he dutifully tells her what he ate, and she discovers they like the same kind of natto. Then, unbidden, Yuki asks Motoko if she normally speaks so formally, commenting that it’s “kind of cute.” Motoko would normally be happy beyond words by being called cute by Yuki, but when she sees his warm easy smile that accompanies the words of praise, she sees a Yuki she doesn’t recognize.

The adoring distance she’s kept from Yuki means the Yuki she saw was rarely the Yuki he really was underneath a much cooler, at times forced smile. She realizes how far that distance remains when Yuki could change so much without her knowing, and with the help of someone else … someone not her by his side. It’s suddenly too much to bear, so she runs off.

As she flips on a faucet to wash her suddenly tear-filled face, Motoko professes her hatred of all women who “dare get near Yuki”, but hates none of them more than herself, the “hideous one” who thinks those kinds of thoughts as she’s reflected in her mirror. It’s the kind of honest self-reflection I was hoping from Motoko after her fateful visit to the Hanajima residence (a veritable bastion of Keeping It Realness).

Motoko shouldn’t just thank Tooru’s influence for giving her a Yuki who can smile, but one who didn’t let things sit where they were. He goes after her to make sure she’s alright, and in doing so, confides in her that despite looking so “unruffled”, he’s barely keeping his cool. Motoko can relate, as she just lost her cool back in the office!

Heartened by Yuki’s smile, Motoko vows not to give up the fight. He may have changed, and Tooru may have changed him, but she still adores him and wants him to be hers. Now that she’s actually exchanged more than just polite pleasantries, but shared a moment of mutual vulnerability, that affection has gained intensity and legitimacy.

As I sat staggered at how well they fleshed out Motoko and made her someone I half want to root for in just an episode, Yuki returns home and washes dishes with Tooru, and mentions the almost Zodiac-like strangeness of his new council-mates. He also confesses that he was happy when Manabe said he was “more interesting than [he] thought.”

Earlier, Kyou called Yuki lame, and privately, Yuki acknowledges that yeah, he is lame. It’s why Kyou’s barb is so painful; he believes it. But Tooru assures him that even if tough times are coming, either in the StuCo (maybe) or the Souma family (most assuredly) there will be fun times to cherish as well. Life is a never-ending string of getting hurt and healed by words and actions big and small.

After Tooru delivers those wise-beyond-her-years words, the episode closes perfectly on its heroine Minagawa Motoko, positively angelic in her frilly nightgown and glorious pink palace above a workaday store, gazing at the stars in quiet, hopeful, healing prayer.

By: magicalchurlsukui

[illyriantremors]

Beneath the Stars Chapter 10

Chapter: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX

AO3 Linkage

Summary: Feyre starts spending her spare time with Rhys and his friends growing closer and closer to them by the minute and discovering what real happiness is like. When the gang hangs out for a day by the pool, Morrigan makes a fun suggestion for their upcoming Thanksgiving holiday and Rhys reveals something about his past.

Chapter 10

Mor insisted I sleep with her in her room. Not wanting to deny myself the company, I didn’t object.

I scooted out of bed as silently as I could earlier than necessary and crept down the hall in search of a bathroom. Much to my surprise, Rhys was right - Mor was the messy one. She had makeup and hygiene bottles everywhere.

Hoping they wouldn’t mind, I stole a quick shower to get the last of my misery off my back and exchanged the pajamas Mor leant me for my clothes. I had just opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hall when I heard a soft pitter patter.

A man, tall with dark hair and a lean frame like Rhys, was walking down the stairs away from me in a crisp business suit. My heart pounded nervously in my chest and I scuttled in the opposite direction back to Mor’s room.

She was awake - barely so, but awake nonetheless.

“Feyre?”

“I’m taking off,” I whispered standing next to her at the bed to pull on my shoes. She blinked up at me, her pert little nose scrunching together with her brow in hazy confusion.

“But - but breakfast,” she mumbled. Of course her focus would be on the food.

“I know, but I’ve intruded on you long enough and I have to swing by home before school so I can get my backpack and preferably some clothes that don’t have snot and tear stains on them.”

She shooed me away and rolled over into her pillow. It was kind of comical compared to the girl of dizzying energy I normally saw. I had to bite back a chuckle lest she wake up properly and scold me.

I was nearly to the door of the house when a deep voice startled me, “Well hello there.” I jumped around and found the same man I’d seen on the stairs peering at me through a wall hanging mirror while he fixed his hair. He stood in the corner opposite me. I must have missed him when I’d passed.

“Oh - hello… sir,” I added, just in case.

He looked me over and finished his grooming with a tightening of his tie. “Rhysand!”

Rhys traipsed in almost as soon as the man, who I could only assume was his father, had called. Standing together, the resemblance was uncanny. But what distracted me more was the fact that Rhys was wearing only a towel and nothing else that I could see. My gaze fell instantly on his chest where little beads of water ran down from the hair clinging to the skin of his neck. It was momentarily… distracting, to say the least.

Rhys’s dad took in the sight of his son and then looked back at me - at my hair which was also wet from my own shower. Heat flooded me.

“I slept with Mor,” I blurted out and watched Rhys’s lips go wide with wicked amusement. “I mean - not with her with her, just like a sleepover thing, you know.” And then my head was bobbing up and down as if this somehow proved I wasn’t lying.

“Hmm, methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Rhys said. I bit my lip wishing very much I could slap him up the head just then. From the way he was staring at me, I could tell he knew it too.

“Rhysand,” his father said all business. “You know the rules.”

Rhys’s back straightened and he dropped the grin. “Yes, sir. This is Feyre. She’s a friend of mine and Mor’s and she only came for the cookie dough.”

“Cookie dough?”

He turned to me. “Yes, sir. That’s right. The midnight cravings are impossible to ignore when they hit.”

Rhys’s father considered a moment and must have decided he liked my answer enough because he picked up his briefcase, muttered something to Rhys I couldn’t hear, and approached me in a friendly way as he headed out the door.

“I hope they were oatmeal,” he asked.

“Chocolate chip, I’m afraid. A real shame.”

“Indeed!” He popped on a hat looking like a 1950s advert for Mad Men and stepped out. “No one ever appreciates oatmeal. I’ll never figure out why.”

“Probably the raisins,” I said, but he was already gone. I whistled dry air between my lips, not really sure why I was so shaken up to meet Rhys’s dad.

“Running off so soon?” For the second time that morning I jumped. Rhys had come to stand just behind me and I tried not to get too distracted by the… state of him.

“I have to go home. I have my things to collect and I’ll need something more suitable for work after school.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Oh - no. My car’s here.” I pointed behind me to where I knew my car was parked outside, but Rhys shrugged.

“Okay, you’ll drive me.”

“Who will drive you home?”

“Morrigan will. Any other questions?”

“You’re not even dressed!”

“Is that a problem? I’m rather enjoying the view.”

I snorted. “Go put some clothes on - anything to cover up the size of your massive ego. I’m afraid it’s showing.”

Rhys quirked his brow at me and disappeared up the stairs. Ten minutes later, we were in my car driving towards my neighborhood. Another few minutes went by and the silence stretched on.

“What is it?”

“What? What is what?”

“What’s bothering you?”

I glanced quickly at him since I was driving. He had his hands in his pockets, which seemed an impossible thing to do sitting in a car with a seat belt on, but somehow he managed it. Rhys regarded me thoughtfully.

“Who says anything is bothering me?”

“You’re driving with one hand and your other keeps clenching into a tight fist on your lap.” I glanced down and immediately my fist uncurled itself. “And you occasionally run your fingers over themselves - like this.” He demonstrated and then picked my hand up to place it gently upon the steering wheel with my other.

“So what is it?”

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?”

“Haven’t I just?”

“No, not that. I mean, about last night. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Only if you want me to.”

I nodded, but said nothing until we pulled up in a line of cars at a red light.

A new start. That was what I wanted. I’d wound up on Rhys’s door because I knew he and Mor would listen. So finally, I was going to talk.

“It’s just that,” I said, not really sure how to begin. I took a steadying breath. “I feel like I’m in a hole.”

“What kind of hole?”

“A very deep one.” The light turned green and we took off again only a few streets away from my house now. I didn’t speak until I’d parked the car out front. He didn’t push me on it.

“I have no idea how I got in the hole,” I continued. “All I know is that I’m inside of it and when I look up, I can see the opening. I want to go towards it, but I don’t move. I just sit inside the hole and shake until I don’t feel anything anymore. Every time I look back up the hole, I’m further away from it and I don’t know how I did it. But I am and I don’t know how to fix it - how to get out. So I just keep sitting and shaking and falling. I’m always falling - falling, falling, falling.” I stared at my open palms resting in my lap, empty and waiting for answers. “Last night was the first time I looked up and I couldn’t see the light out anymore.”

I told him everything, especially about the hole inside me. It was the only thing I realized I hadn’t mentioned to Mor. But Rhys - I told him all about the darkness I lived in.

“I must sound crazy,” I said, but I wasn’t crying anymore like I had last night. Today, I sounded a little strong, maybe a little surer.

“You’re definitely not crazy, Feyre,” Rhys said. “Just a little lost, but fortunately for you, I’m excellent with directions.”

“Of course you are.”

His fingers twitched in his lap towards me like he might reach for me and thought better of it. I almost wished he would, but…

“You’re going to feel this way for a long time,” Rhys said. He sounded serious like his father. “Every day probably, but hopefully less and less. You have a choice whether or not you give in to it.”

I dared look at him. There was some kind of pain written on him that I didn’t know, but that pain understood mine.

“And Feyre, I want you to know that,” he stopped and I could see him fighting with himself over the words as he looked away from me, “...I want you to know that I’m here for you as whatever you need me to be. If you just need someone to talk to or someone to shout at when I make too ridiculous a joke at SBC, or even if you need me to step back so you can sort things out with-”

“No.” His gaze jumped to mine and pierced me with hopefulness. I reeled in my emotions and clarified, “I don’t want to stop being friends with you because of him, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“It is,” he admittedly, perhaps a little reluctantly.

“Then no deal. I quite like the arrangement as it stands, thank you very much. You and Mor and Cass and Azriel and even Amren when she’s emo and cranky - you’re all friends.” My voice strained as I laid myself out for him, holes and all. “It’s nice.”

Rhys’s lips slowly stretched into a soft smile, the kind reserved for silence in the middle of the night or the breeze outside a hidden cabin in the woods, that kept secrets and shared memories together. It was a smile that bound two people together in mutual knowledge of shared pain.

“Go get your stuff,” Rhys said. “Or we’re going to be late.”

“Do you know,” I said opening my door. “I don’t think I care.”

I spent the next several weeks almost entirely with Rhys and his friends, who were fast becoming my friends too.

When I wasn’t in class or at work, I was usually off somewhere with them planning this or that in SBC meetings or just hanging out at Rhys’s house for pizza or whatever struck our mood. Figuring out Starfall probably took up most of our time. Once we had all of the details of the actual dance settled, we started in on the events leading up to it.

Mor called it incentivizing, as if high schoolers needed an excuse to slip into sexy dresses and grind against each other all night long while chaperones pretended not to notice from the sidelines.

“It’s tradition!” she insisted one afternoon while we all lounged about in Rhys’s backyard by the pool. That was the nice thing about California: even in early fall it was still warm outside. “The dance is early next month and if we don’t get a move on with promoting it, everyone will forget.”

“I highly doubt they’ll forget,” I said. “Or did you forget the several hundred tickets you sold last Friday at the football game with me?”

Several hundred was a slight exaggeration, but it was true we had nearly sold out on tickets. It was a shame our gym was all we were getting in exchange.

Cassian and Azriel had played that game Friday and won in spectacular fashion with a throw Cass had aimed at Az, his favorite target, nearly sixty yards down the field. Mor had screamed her head off on the sidelines with the cheer team when Rhys didn’t have her pulled aside to help us vend.

“I didn’t forget!” Mor exclaimed, swatting at me with the college applications guide she had rolled up. “I was just distracted that night, that’s all.”

“By what?” Cassian asked.

“By ‘whom’ is more like it.” I thought I said it quietly, but I could feel Mor’s eyes on me under her sunglasses and I straightened up as I faced my canvas. I suspected she’d been cheering on more than just the spectacular catch Az had made that night.

“Whatever,” Cassian said. “I’m going back in. Az?”

Azriel was laid out on the grass on his stomach, his shirt cast aside in favor of warm sunshine on his back. He seemed to find it peaceful and simply grunted against another swim.

“I’m not even going to ask you,” Cassian said to Amren and nodded her thanks before returning to her magazine. Amren did not do wet.

“How’s the painting going?” Rhys asked coming back out from the house. He handed me a glass of iced tea and sank into the chair next to me.

I scoffed and backed away from the canvas. It was a heaping mess of lines and color as I agonizingly attempted to paint myself from memory, a weak attempt at self-portraiture in the abstract.

“Horribly,” I said, then held up the drink. “And you’re a saint. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” We clinked glasses and I nearly drained half the glass in one gulp just for the distraction. Ahead of us, Cassian almost managed to refill it with the splash he made as he cannonballed into the pool. “I just don’t know how I see myself,” I said quietly. “I feel better now, sort of, even if a bit stiff still, but... painting doesn’t feel natural to me anymore.”

“I could model for you,” he offered puffing his bare chest out, his arms going back behind his head to provide a cushion. “I make a good study.”

“In what? Narcissism and ego? I think not.”

A few feet away, Az snorted. I didn’t even realize he’d been listening.

“Well you have to paint something eventually. Surely all self-portraiture isn’t quite so literal as this?” He motioned at my work. That’s what Mrs. Weaver had said, but how was I supposed to paint myself figuratively if not literally?

“Van Gogh didn’t paint what he saw when he looked in a mirror,” Amren piped up. “He painted what he felt.”

“And what are you doing for your project then if you’re so clever?”

Amren grinned, a merciless assault on the expected. “You’ll see.”

“I know!” Morrigan said so excited that she nearly fell out of her chair. “Let’s go on a vacation!”

“We can’t just take a vacation, Morrigan.” Azriel rolled over onto his back, but the amused expression he wore was far from admonishing.

“Sure we can. We haven’t done anything together in ages and Feyre’s never been on a trip with us. It might inspire her art. Oh - let’s go camping! It’ll be so nice and the weather is perfect right now.”

“You can’t be serious?” I asked, but no one protested. Mor kicked her feet like a schoolgirl and threw her admissions guide aside.

“When do we go exactly?” Rhys brushed a piece of dirt or some other odd end off his swim trunks. “You’re the one insisting on Winter Formal incentives every weekend.”

Her face fell and she crashed backwards into her seat defeated. It was true. Now that I was on SBC full time, I hardly ever had a spare day free and my weekend was already half devoted to work at the gallery. Keeping up on homework alone was hard enough.

Mor’s fingertips rubbed together and despite her sunglasses I could see the wheels in her head turning determined to figure this out.

“Maybe it’s better we don’t,” I offered. “Rhys is right.”

Amren erupted into a fit of dark laughter. “Oh Heavens - somebody record it for him. He’ll never hear that again.”

“I’m serious,” I said even as I struggled to make my point believable. “We have so much going on. When are we going to have a free weekend again before Christmas?”

The second I said it, Az sat up on his knees and leaned into Morrigan’s ear to whisper something and all that lovely bubbling enthusiasm came roaring back with a vengeance. “Thanksgiving!”

Rhys groaned, but not without an exasperated laugh. We knew we’d been defeated.

“Don’t you all have plans?”

“Who cares? Thanksgiving is on a Thursday and we have the whole week. We can leave the morning after for the long weekend. Come on,” and she grabbed Az’s hand as she dashed off the lawn. “Let’s go tell Cassian, he’ll love it. You too, Amren!”

“No shot in hell,” Amren said. “I’ll be inside where it’s peaceful and less wet.”

Mor rolled her eyes but continued on her merry way, Az delightedly trailing after her. He was never quiet so expressive or content it seemed as when he was with her.

“Don’t tell me the noble Student Body President has no plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Not a chance. Dad’s out that week for a meeting in Denver.”

“On Thanksgiving? Isn’t that a little ridiculous?”

Clearly I was preaching to the choir. “Oh he’ll be home in time, I’m sure, but neither of us cook much - not like mom anyway, so it’ll likely just be some form of takeout for him while he uses a day without phone calls to catch up on paperwork while I take a lovely little dip in jacuzzi and call it a night. Camping with friends could be a nice alternative.”

I watched as Az scooped up Mor, a little surprised at his willingness to touch her so freely with those hands he normally hid from view, and jumped into the pool in a wave that drowned out her shrieks of laughter. Rhys watched them too. What was it he’d said - that it would be nice to have company on an otherwise lonely holiday?

“Where is your mom?” I asked tentatively, hoping I wasn’t stepping on any toes by asking.

Rhys tore himself away from the pool, his demeanor darkening. “She died a couple of years ago. Her and my sister both,” he amended and I could sense a quiet anger boiling beneath the surface.

Right. His sister. In my rage fueled stupor after the breakup, I’d forgotten that Tamlin had mentioned Rhys’s sister.

“How did it happen?”

“Car accident. Hit by a drunk driver. It wasn’t - it wasn’t pretty.”

I’d never seen him quite so sad as he was now, not quite able to look me in the eye, save for maybe the night I’d met him. There had been fear inside him when he’d demanded I have his phone number, to see that I got home safely when he didn’t know how much I’d had to drink. Now I understood why.

Carefully so as not to startle or overstep, I brushed my fingers over his hand exactly as he’d done in the car when he’d driven me to my house the day I’d moved. He’d offered to take me anywhere I wanted, whatever I’d needed to feel safe and I still hadn’t forgotten it.

“I’m sorry, for your mother and sister,” I said. “I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“It’s not something I mention often. There are… other factors involved that make it complicated.”

“Of course. I may have a strained relationship with my family, but I can’t imagine how you feel without them. My mom doesn’t talk to me anymore, but even just knowing she’s somewhere across town without me feels unbearable at times.”

His fingers flinched against mine before delicately touching back so gently, the feeling was almost a kiss on the wind I might have imagined. “You should talk to her. Take it from someone who knows how it feels like to run out of time, it’s not worth it to stay mad forever.”

“I’ll - I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” He nodded once, firmly and then the tension was gone, though our hands hadn’t quite stopped connecting. “Will you go camping with us? I know Mor is a bit zealous, but you’re welcome to go.”

“We’ll see. I’m not sure what Nesta and Elain might be up to, but if anything I should make sure dad’s okay. I don’t want him to be alone at the holidays, not when he tends to drink himself into oblivion.”

“Understandable. Just know that you’ll have hell to pay for it. I’ll have to work you overtime.”

“It’s a vacation! That hardly counts as work.”

“I could certainly make it feel like work for you, Feyre darling,” he said leaning closer across our chairs freezing me in place, “if that’s what you’d prefer. As I’ve already told you, I’m very good at giving directions.”

“And how about at taking them?”

His eyes sparked drinking up my challenge. “I think you’ll find I’m a man of many talents.”

“Such as?”

“Well for starters,” and now he grasped my hand fully without reservation, “I’ve mastered the art of surprise.”

In a move so smooth and quick I hardly had time to question him, Rhysand jumped to his feet and tugged hard on my hand, hoisting me up so I was draped over his shoulder. He took off running and I screamed a curse at him, but he only tightened his hold on me more.

And then I was falling down, down, down, and when my body hit the water, it felt like a baptism into a divine sort of happiness where my problems existed, but no longer dominated.

I held my breathe as long as I could and was pleased when I felt the pressure in the water hit me of another body joining the circus beneath the surface. Rhys’s arms wrapped around my waist and brought me to the surface.

“Are you mad!” he asked, but I knew he knew I was fine.

“Well it worked, didn’t it? What a pity it must have been not to see my face coming out of the water spitting and firing at you.” I tutted at him clicking my tongue rapidly.

“Admit it, you just wanted my hands on you one more time when I saved you heroically.”

“Prick!” I shouted and jumped out of his arms, even if they did feel a little nice on my waist. I splashed all the water I could reasonably throw at him along with some choice hand gestures and Rhys threw his head back and roared.

“Ah, there she is. See Feyre, I got to see your angry face anyway. I do believe I win.”

“You two make me sick,” Cassian said.

My face would have gone red had it not been for Mor who promptly doused Cassian in a wave of water of her own and bid me join her. Rhys and Az both took sides against us and we spent the afternoon ruining each other with water until our hair was knotted and our fingertips pruny beyond recognition.

The boys really didn’t stand a chance.

xx