#attraction for me is largely based on personality/shared history/voice

[denpa-dere]

i'm curious about my fellow pixel fuckers and self-shippers!

[andipxndy-writes]

the side mission

fandom: alex rider warnings: none requested by: anon chapter word count: 3.1k

cross-posted to ao3

summary: “Do you want to hear a joke?” The words were probably the last words you wanted to hear over your comm right then. And yet, Alex was saying them anyway. You could easily have killed him by the end of the night. In fact, looking back on it, maybe you should have.

the side mission part 1: the main mission

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

The words were probably the last words you wanted to hear over your comm right then. Sitting in your sleek outfit at the bar, the two of you were meant to be on a simple reconnaissance mission. Information gathering. That was it. If you spotted your target and got the information that you needed, then you could get out of there at a reasonable time and maybe even get home in time to finish off your university assignments.

Those two essays were not going to write themselves, and you still wanted to get a head start on revision for your end of year exam. (History was interesting, Politics pushed your mind, and you were very glad that you took that Psychology module but it was extra on your plate.)

But Alex was still on the other end of the line, waiting for your answer. If he was sitting next to you, you probably would’ve punched him for asking that question. You were tempted to leave him hanging all night.

“Why do I feel like you’re going to tell me one whether I want to hear it or not?” you asked, sighing. You could practically hear his grin through your earpiece.

“Well, I actually wasn’t… but if you insist…”

You didn’t insist. You didn’t insist on it at all. In fact, insisting was the furthest thing from what you were doing right then. You absolutely didn’t want Alex to tell you a joke, when the two of you were supposed to be there keeping it on the down low and inconspicuous. And then something else occurred to you.

“You’re not going to tell me a stupid little dad joke, are you?”

You’d heard enough of those in classes, where you’d been distracted enough and not paid attention to the lecturer. You’d paid dearly in those lectures in the form of being called on to “explain what’s so funny” and “answer the question just asked” and for what? A stupid dad joke? A little pun?

You hated that your sense of humour was so easy.

Alex’s few moments of silence were enough to tell you that he was going to tell a dad joke, but the silence wasn’t long enough to tell you that he was going to give up on telling the joke altogether.

For fuck’s sake.

“You better not screw up this mission,” you muttered, hoping that your voice actually sounded threatening as you spoke. “This is a simple information retrieval. It’s not meant to be hard. It’s not meant to attract any trouble. Don’t fuck it up for us.”

The thing was, Alex wouldn’t be the one fucking it up for you. If anyone fucked it up, it would be you, because Alex made you laugh. He knew your sense of humour. He was the one who’d found it out in the first place. That optional module that had ended up with your two bumping into each other and sharing a lecture hall despite doing two different degrees had probably been the worst thing ever for your sanity. It was enough that you knew Alex from missions, got to know him in a professional capacity that allowed you to get the job done.

Knowing him personally both made it easier and harder. Easier, because you could read him better, and you know what he was going to do at any one point.

Harder, because he also knew you, and for some reason he liked to see you smile and hear you laugh. Something that he’d done back in lectures, and today he was (for some reason) determined to see it through in the field.

(If you got caught, he was the first person you’d kill when you managed to free yourself and get back to base.)

“I know a chemistry joke but I don't think it'll get a reaction.”

You weren’t expecting the joke. You weren’t even expecting him to say anything after your (largely empty) threat. This was one of the few circumstances where, because you weren’t exactly expecting it, you didn’t find the joke as funny as you should have. Or maybe it was because you weren’t a chemistry major — your focus was in archaeology. You’d taken that chemistry module on a whim.

(Alex’s focus was Biology and Sport Science, so really he shouldn’t have been taking that Chemistry module either.)

Either way, you considered yourself lucky, because at that moment the bartender passed you by. If you’d snorted, there would have been questions, and you would’ve been forced to explain why you were sniggering at a guy who’d just walked past you after he’d served you a pretty decent alcohol-free Sex on the Beach. (You would forever be grateful for the invention of mocktails that allowed you to feel relaxed on a job like this.)

“Joke fell flat?”

“Flatter than your arse.” You sipped casually on your mocktail to cover up the smirk that threatened to grow up on your face. You heard his indignant snort before it even came over the mic, but it satisfied you to hear it anyway.

“My arse is not flat.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’d only be so sure about your position if you’d actually spent time staring at my arse.”

He had you there. You didn’t exactly have a response to that one, so you thought it would be better if you stayed silent. He could take whatever he wanted to think from your silence — you weren’t going to give him anything and that was that. Even though you got the feeling that he was going to bring this up again later.

Whether or not Alex wanted to continue, another voice came over the comms. “If the two of you could please concentrate. You have a job that you’re supposed to be doing, and I don’t quite think this conversation helps with it.”

You wanted to say something sarcastic, something to tease about how the conversation the two of you were having was perfectly relevant to the mission (and therefore start an argument over comms about how relevant talking about the flatness of Alex’s arse really was), but then you spotted something out of the corner of your eye. Or rather, someone.

Your target. Seated at a table not far from the bar, with an acquaintance. Perfect.

Well, a little less than perfect, because you couldn’t exactly turn around and listen to them without accidentally drawing their attention.

“Target spotted,” you muttered into your comm, “but I can’t focus on them without drawing attention.”

You waited for further instructions, waiting to know how to proceed next. And yet, somehow, you knew that whatever was about to be said would still be unbelievably stupid.

You were not disappointed.

“Walk past so his eyes focus on your arse.”

You were so tempted to ask Alex why the ever-loving fuck he thought that would be a good idea. Because it didn’t sound like a good idea. It sounded like you were seriously tempting fate, flaunting yourself in front of your target and making him aware of your presence.

Then again…

“At least I’ll have an arse to show,” you muttered casually as you slid off your barstool, straightening your outfit so that it hugged your curves perfectly. More specifically that back curve, but all curves were appreciated right then.

Hearing Alex’s indignant snort was so satisfying.

Regardless, you managed to block out whatever retort Alex had to say before fixing your hair, trying to make it look… sexy. You didn’t know how that was meant to look, not really, but you tried it anyway as you swung your hips, trying to look attractive as you passed the table.

You felt a little satisfied when you felt a pair of eyes lingering on you as you headed away from your target’s table, but then your eyes were scanning for a free table. The thing about this place was the fact that tables tended to be booked in advance, and you knew for a fact that no one had booked you a table for this recon mission — neither you nor Alex had thought to ask for a table to be booked, but it was too late now.

Ah well. None of the tables had any sort of “reserved” sign on them. You might as well sit at any of them — one close enough to still overhear the conversation, and then maybe you could play around with flirting with your target from afar—

“If you’re sitting at a table, order me something, won’t you?”

You had to try very hard not to roll your eyes at Alex, or you’d look like a complete weirdo rolling your eyes at yourself. “Unfortunately, I’m not hungry enough to look like a pillock and order something I know absolutely nothing about.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy something off that menu.”

“Cub, if you wouldn’t mind letting Vixen handle this mission accordingly?”

This time you had to try very hard not to let the smirk grow on your face in response to Alex being told off. And in your codenames, no less. That meant that your handler meant business.

The group of them remained silent as you tried to listen in on the conversation going on only two tables behind you. Something about codes, about meeting with someone for information—

“What do you call a cow with a twitch?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Beef jerky.”

A little flat, admittedly (and you blamed that on the fact that you weren’t American), but it got a smile out of you. A smile that you didn’t want to admit to, because if you did then Alex wouldn’t let you live it down, and if you thought about it too much then your mask would slip, and you’d put the mission in danger.

“How does a salad say grace? Lettuce pray.”

That one was so terrible that if forced you to squeeze your eyes shut and breathe deeply through your nose. It was that stupid. You were not going to give in to the satisfaction of a laugh.

Not when you were still meant to be listening to the guys a couple of tables away from you. When you focused back on them again, they’d switched their conversation to something about women at a bar? Or maybe a strip club? Either way, they were talking about women, and it occurred to you that you hadn’t been following along enough to work out whether they were speaking on code or genuinely talking about women at a strip club.

“What did the religious mouse say when he knocked on the door? I'd like to talk to you about cheeses.”

This time, you accidentally let out a snort. Oh, thank fuck you weren’t Catholic. Your Nana would probably have a stroke listening to that one though.

When you felt eyes on you, you stilled, hoping that your snort hadn’t been too loud or attracted some unwanted attention. Instead of making a big deal out of it, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and pretended to be scrolling through messages, as though one of them had made you laugh.

You hoped they’d fall for it.

“Oh, I’m going to murder you when I see you again,” you muttered under your breath, before taking the chance to sneak a glance over at the table with your target. You didn’t care whether Alex heard you that time or not — he was screwing up this mission because he was bored and being a bit of a shit, and you weren’t going to let him get away with it when you set your eyes on him again.

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I fucking will.”

“Watch your language, mum’s on comms.”

Oh, you were really going to kill him for making you almost laugh this time.

That was when something almost unexpected happened. You heard a throat being cleared above you, and you looked up to see a waiter standing by your table. You almost thought that he was going to kick you off, or kick you out, but then you realised he was holding a tray with a single glass on it — a cocktail, beautiful and colourful and exotic.

You raised an eyebrow at the man.

“A gift from an admirer,” he simply stated as he set the glass down, and before you could say anything, he was walking away. You raised an eyebrow at the glass before you.

That drink sure did look delicious.

You were also completely certain that it wasn’t a mocktail, and you were working. You were almost tempted to push it away, not drink it, when you realised that the waited had said an admirer and you turned over to the table that you’d been eavesdropping on.

The guy was watching you. With a smirk on his face.

Ah. Fuck. You couldn’t just… not drink it.

You sent him a small, sultry smile before turning back towards your table, towards your drink, facing away from him. “He ordered me a drink.”

“…He what?”

“He ordered me a drink. This is what shaking my fucking arse at him got me.”

“I think that’s a win, actually.”

“Not if he poisoned it.”

You didn’t know how he could have poisoned the drink, considering it was brought over to you, but you were also aware of the fact that you didn’t see the waiter when he approached. You didn’t see the path he took to get to your table. You only saw him when he was already there, holding your drink for you and setting it down before walking away. Great.

And as much as Alex was joking about it, you knew that his mind had reached the same conclusions. He was thinking the same thing. You didn’t have your test strips on you, so you couldn’t check whether your drink was spiked before you had it.

Somehow, it very much felt like your mission right then depended on this.

“Chug it.”

“I’m not going to—” You breathed out a slow breath through your nose before you could get too irritated with Alex. You weren’t going to chug. You were going to sip, have a taste, see what it was like. If it was poisoned, or spiked, you didn’t want to take too much of it.

You could practically see the smug grin on his face, even if you were only getting his voice right then. Maybe you spent a little too much time around him.

Or maybe it was because you both spent too much time around his best friend, Tom.

Instead of thinking too much on it, though, you picked up the glass and took a small sip, just tasting it.

Damn, the cocktail was good.

You knew there was alcohol in it, you could taste the alcohol in it even. But it was really good, and you were kind of impressed that someone that you didn’t even know (who you were technically trying to steal information from) could pick out such a good drink for you.

“Damn, he picks well,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. Unfortunately, Alex still heard you.

“Oh, does he now?”

“Don’t you fucking start,” you grumbled under your breath.

“Start what?”

The voice was new, come out of nowhere, and yet you knew it. You knew it very well. You were meant to be listening out for that voice, trying to work out exactly what he was saying so that you could take the information back to your employers and prevent some sort of terrorist attack. Except now that voice was a lot closer than it should be, a lot closer than you expected it to be. Something had changed, and you weren’t sure whether you liked it.

Turning a little in your seat, so that you didn’t look suspicious or anything, you ended up facing the exact guy that you’d been tracking. He wasn’t exactly attractive, but you had to play up that you actually found him attractive.

“Start falling for the guy who got me this cocktail,” you responded simply, taking another sip of the drink. You paused, raising an eyebrow at him and giving him what you hoped was a sly smirk. “Although, if it’s you, it might not be so bad.”

The grin that appeared on his face told you that whether it really was a sly smirk or not, he took it as that and decided to indulge, meaning he didn’t suspect a thing. She was safe.

Or so you thought. You didn’t realise anything was wrong until a point that Alex would later inform you was “too late” — by that point, you’d been so drawn into the conversation that you were having that you didn’t realise someone was standing behind you until there was a hand on your shoulder. And the hand was firm, not letting you move.

You tensed.

The man opposite you smirked, and it was nowhere near as sly as yours had been — if anything, it was just downright evil.

You were screwed.

“It’s really unfortunate that I already knew why you were here, because you really are an attractive person.” He leaned closer to you, as though he wanted to taunt you right then. In fact, you were pretty sure that he was taunting you right then. “However, I do have a policy of not getting with people who are spying on me. I like to keep my information between myself and the people I specifically speak to.” He leaned forward, placing a hand on you knee, and you had to try very hard not to reach out and shove it off. Because putting your hand on a random person’s knee was creepy.

“Well, I would’ve liked to listen in,” you answered simply, trying to keep your voice even. Whatever you’d thought of this guy before, it was out of the window now.

“The most unfortunate part of this is the fact that I now have to find out how much you truly heard of my conversation.” He squeezed your leg a little, before letting up and moving his hand off you. “It isn’t something that I particularly wanted to do with you, but we all do what we must to ensure our businesses survive.”

That was when you felt a cold, sharp prick in the side of your neck, but before you could say anything, the world started spinning, gradually dimming out as whatever they’d injected into you started to take effect.

And even whilst you were passing out, only one thought crossed your mind:

I’m going to fucking kill Alex if he doesn’t save my arse.

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

The Magical Word of JKR

In this post, I want to point out all the inconsistencies of the world that JKR has created. Some of us had been worshiping her for so long. But JKR made mistakes, not only outside her world, but inside.

Owls for muggleborns. Sending a letter through an owl seems to be something common in The Wizarding World. But why do children with a muggle background need to go back in time and use them when they could use a phone? Why can't students use any muggle technology? I know wizards are anti muggle and magic does not allow these devices to function at Hogwarts, but why not?

Drunk portraits. How could portraits get drunk? Did artists paint vessels and digestive systems for them too? How can they bleed? They are portraits with voices and personality based on real people yeah. But they are not alive. They don’t bleed or get drunk.

The trace. Wizards under 17 aren’t supposed to do magic outside Hogwarts. But The Ministry doesn’t seem to control this by which wand did it. But by location. Since Dobby did magic in the Chamber of Secrets, and they blamed Harry for it. So, what happens with pureblood kids? They are allowed to use magic outside school because their families are supposed to, so they wouldn’t trace them. So it seems unfair for muggleborns not to be able to practice magic. Since they are the only members of their family that would do it.

Hogwarts being the only school. There is only one school in all Britain for magical people. Yet there seems to be very few students when there should be a lot. And it doesn’t make sense that Hogwarts is the only choice. Or Hogwarts, or homeschooling.

I don’t understand the population of Magical Folks. It seems little because most of the wizarding families are known. There are only 28 pureblood famous families. They even practise inbreeding, they are all related. But why is that, if the wizard gene is dominant? There are more half bloods and muggleborns than squibs. So the magical population should be as large as the muggle one, even more.

Hogwarts Houses are cool. But the way kids are sorted doesn’t make sense. They get sorted when they are eleven. Seems pretty young to me to form traits and criteria that might change as they grow. Also, let’s say 100 kids enter Hogwarts one year. They won’t be sorted equally 25/25/25/25. Because according to personalities and traits, there could be 60 Gryffindors and 10 Ravenclaws, and 4 Slyhterins, and 25 Hufflepuffs. What if one year, there are no Slytherins for example?

Also, sharing a dorm, common room and classes with people from your same house (same personality and traits) seems boring and unhealthy. Having friends with different personalities, traits and beliefs should help you grow and mature. Sometimes friendships are built between two opposite people. And separating houses, forces students to just hang out with people from their houses, not others.

Love potions. These are the wizarding equivalent of drugs. Think about it. Forcing someone to show love for you is very much like drugging someone and forcing them to do stuff against their will. Love potions can permit things like raping. Something that happened to Tom Sr. by Merope. It is horrible. Yet the wizarding world permits their selling and consumption without a problem. And what’s worse, they teach how to brew it in school to children! A potion like that shouldn’t be allowed or taught.

Azkaban being the only punishment. It seems whether you are a dangerous criminal like a mass murderer or just someone that stole something once, you get the same punishment. Azkaban. An inhumane place where dementors live, and make prisoners go insane, live their worst nightmares or suck their soul. Even characters who were under the imperius curse like Stanley Shunpike. Or even The Marauders would’ve gone to Azkaban if their animagus secret was discovered. No matter what your crime is, always the worst punishment: Azkaban.

Wizards hiding from muggles. The Statue of Secrecy in the Wizarding World seems to be important. But I may ask, how can wizards hide from muggles if they don’t know anything about them? Pureblood Wizards don’t have a clue how muggles live, behave, dress, talk. Not even Arthur Weasley who works in that Department. Yet they want to be unnoticed by muggles? For example, each time a wizard dresses like a muggle they do it wrong, using colorful clothes. Wouldn’t it be suspicious? Like even Vernon sees people in cloaks in book 1, celebrating. Also, if there are a lot of muggleborns, shouldn’t more muggles know about wizards?

It is totally inhumane to just obliviate muggles each time they see something. That spell should have some consequences in their brains. Like for example, Hermione’s parents must’ve had mayhem after their minds were modified.

Memories in pensieves are not supposed to be accurate. Memories are from our point of view. From the perspective of people who lived that memory. When Harry sees Snape’s memories or Bob Ogden’s memories, they seem to be clear. Harry can see Bob and Snape in those memories when they should be seen through their eyes, they are their memories. How could Snape remember himself, see himself. You get my point? Also, memories are subjective, not objective. We remember what impacted us the most, we forget about details we don’t care about. There are feelings involved.

Not having another education after Hogwarts. You graduate from Hogwarts at eighteen. Eighteen! And you're supposed to have figured out what you want to do for the rest of your life. Why aren’t there Wizard Universities? Wizards only have 7 years of education and that’s all. Nothing before, nothing after (unless you’re muggleborn). Seems that the wizard community doesn’t care about education that much. With only seven years of education, are you suddenly prepared for the rest of your life? I don’t think so.

Adding to the last point, wizards only teach about magic. What about math, wouldn’t they need it to count their money, or take care of their finances? What about English, spelling, grammar? Not every kid had the privilege to be homeschooled by their parents before. What about Sex Ed? I think it is important for teens that age to be careful with their sex lives.

Quidditch being the only sport in the wizarding world. Quidditch is cool, I get it. But it is not for everyone. Seems that if you want to be a sports person in the wizarding world, you only have that option. Either you like Quidditch or nothing.Shouldn’t there be other sports? In the muggle world we have tons: football, basquet, tennis, swimming, running, etc.

Love protection is not common. Lily sacrificed herself for Harry. She died for him and that love protection saved his life. Why is Harry the only one to experience it? Is it because of the prophecy? I mean Lily is not the only one who has sacrificed herself for love. Not in the story, not in History. Then why aren’t there more people with lighting scars walking around?

Why don’t wizards cure things with magic like eyesight? They have a potion that grows bones back. But they cannot cure Harry’s eyesight? And don’t say that it is because eyes are connected to the soul, that’s a lame excuse. In the muggle world, eyesight can be cured with surgery.

Hogwarts Express. Yeah, we all wanted to ride the train to Hogwarts. It is part of the experience right? But what if you live in Scotland already? Why bother traveling to London to King Cross Station to take a train if you already live there? It seems like a waste of time. Is there a provided transport for kids who live in Scotland? What about those who don't live in London? What if Scotland is nearer to them than King Cross?

Ghosts. They shouldn’t exist. It is not very well explained how you become a ghost. But it doesn’t make sense that they exist and yet many characters died and didn’t become one.

Discrimination against magical creatures. We know how magical creatures are seen in the Wizarding World. Discrimination exists. But the problem is that Jkr never does anything to fix this.Not with werewolves, not with half giants, surely not with house-elves. The only issue that the war solved was the discrimination against muggleborns.

And house-elves liking their slavery is problematic. It is saying that slavery is right as long as the victim accepts it. She created S.P.E.W and never properly addressed the issue.

The Forbidden Forest is dangerous, yet students have detention there. Dumbledore says at the beginning of each year that the Forest is out of bounds. So why would you send students to detention there, Dumbles? Also, building a school near a forest full of dangerous beasts: werewolves, acromantulas, centaurs, seems kind of risky for children. Not every child obeys the rules. Look at the Marauders spending every full moon there.

How did Hagrid come to be? Hagrid is half giant. Meaning that his father is human, his mother is a giant… Ehemm… Excuse me, but how do you have sex with a giant? That’s physically impossible. How does Hagrid exist?

Male veelas? We are only introduced to female veelas in the Wizarding World. Veelas are these beautiful women that men feel attracted to, they seem in trance by their beauty, and they are not responsible for their actions. It seems to me that JKR is saying that men should not be accountable for their actions when they see a pretty girl, because it is her fault? Pretty feminist, JKR. Also, veelas are dangerous creatures. How do humans procreate with them and have half veelas or a quarter of a veela? Are there male veelas too?

Teachers not having spouses or kids. It is a stupid stereotype that teachers are sad non social people, who are only teaching because they don’t have a choice. Like they are allowed to have social lives, date, get married and have children, right? Name one Hogwarts teacher who is married with kids. They all seem pretty single. And I get it, being single is not a bad thing. But all of them being single just because they are teachers in a boarding school? Just because it was convenient to the author? Only McGonagall married once, but her husband died a few years after.

Abusive teachers. Speaking of teachers, why would Hogwarts allow incompetent teachers that are abusive (Snape), and or are dangerous for kids. None DADA teacher had teaching experience before. And since there is no further education than Hogwarts, how do teachers get prepared for the job? Teaching is not about knowing a lot of stuff about the subject, but knowing how to treat children.

Muggle vs Wizard music. What is the difference between muggle and wizard music? I never understood that. Is it the fact that wizards play music with magic? If so, why would instruments exist? Why would they play instruments? If anyone can make a spell to produce music, then anyone can be a musician. The only difference that I find is that wizard music has wizard related lyrics. Which is a stupid difference. Wizards could write songs about muggles. Muggles could write songs about wizards.

Secret Keeper. The Fidelius Charm should be a spell to hide yourself from others if you are in danger. Period. There shouldn’t be such a thing as a secret keeper. Why? Why would someone else need to know the place you are hiding? James and Lily shouldn’t have trusted anyone with their location. Not even Sirius. Not even someone they trusted, because Sirius or anyone could’ve died and passed the secret to the others. Like, it doesn’t make any sense. And also, how could Bill and Arthur be their own secret keepers but not James and Lily?

Magical therapists. Healers seem to cure physical maladies or illness pretty fine, but what about mental health? And I am not talking about mental problems because of magic. Like Frank, Alice, Lockheart whose minds were affected by spells. I’m talking about mental illnesses such as depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, adhd, ptsd, trauma etc. Don’t tell me wizards don’t suffer that. What about Remus, Sirius, Harry? Who treats these things in the wizarding world?

Time Turner. Only exists for the plot. Otherwise it is useless, stupid and confusing. Time traveling confuses the mind. Also, we don’t exactly know how it works. Is it a domino effect? Do the things you do back in time affect the present? They should. Or does it create different timelines, like it is said in Cursed Child? Also, why not use time turners for important situations? For example, save important people from dying, go back to check events of a crime and see if they are true.

Veritaserum. Wizards have a truth potion and they won’t use it. They should use it on trials to take the truth out of criminals, to see if the accusants are innocent or not. They should’ve used it on each member of the Order to find out who the spy was. They should’ve used it to discover who was the Slytherin heir when the Chamber was opened. They should’ve used it on Harry when he came back from the Graveyard to prove Voldemort was back. Why would that shit exist anyway?

Incest families. Pureblood families, or at least some of them are supposed to practise inbreeding. But if you look at the Black Family Tree, the only Black-Black marriage is between Orion and Walburga. Just one. And even if this was the case, shouldn’t this inbreeding have consequences? I don’t know if it’s the magical gene or what but The Blacks and Malfoys seem pretty fine.

If you know more and you want to add them, feel free to do so. This is a critique to improve this word and fandom ourselves. Even JKR's world is cool and wonderful, it is full of flaws that we need to speak about.

[greensaplinggrace]

In a recent malarklina post you mentioned having many headcanons 👀 Care to share with the class?

So I went over some character hcs for the three of them in this post! But here are a few that are specifically Malarklina. (Some of these are set in an Immortal!Mal AU and some aren't, sorry if it gets a bit confusing).

Aleksander has a competency kink and is attracted to Alina showing off her sun powers and Mal showing off his tracking abilities.

Alina makes them both little suns that follow them around to always light their path. This is especially meaningful to Aleksander, although he'd never admit it, because he used to be afraid of the dark as a child.

Mal reminds Aleksander of Luda, and he often goes into depressive states when considering the fact of Mal's mortality. Once Alina fully grasps the reality of the situation, she often suffers from them as well. During these times, Mal tries to be there for them as much as he can, but it's a heavy burden to bear alone.

They all have difficult relationships with gender and sexuality and at one point actually end up sitting down (completely by accident, because Aleksander is allergic to emotions) to talk about this aspect of their lives in more depth.

Aleksander usually sleeps in the middle because he's a) touch-starved and b) an attention whore, but they switch it up on occasion.

Mal is the most clingy sleeper in the history of sleepers. Aleksander and Alina have both woken up on more than one occasion to Mal literally laying fully on top of them and wrapped around them like an octopus. Aleksander likes the weight and usually just snuggles in deeper but Alina has to wiggle out of the way most of the time so she can breathe.

Mal likes Aleksander with short hair but Alina likes him with long hair. This is the source of many fights in their relationship, none of which Aleksander is actually apart of.

Alina and Aleksander both like Mal with longer hair and so he's press ganged into growing it out.

Mal and Alina love every single song Aleksander hates.

When Mal pisses Aleksander off it's no sex for a day even after a dozen apologies, but when Alina pisses him off all she has to do is say sorry and he'll just eat her out right then, not a care in the world.

Aleksander is very physically affectionate, but Mal and Alina have phases of liking it and disliking it, so they have to balance a way to take care of each other's needs without pushing boundaries.

Aleksander is directionally challenged because I said so and Mal and Alina constantly have to make sure he doesn't get lost.

Kissing scars has become a very intimate practice between them all.

Aleksander keeps an obsessively clean house but Alina's paint supplies get everywhere, that paired with Mal just shucking off his hunting outfits anywhere in the house and dumping his gardening/hunting supplies wherever's most convenient means that Aleksander is in a constant state of annoyance about their living situation.

Alina makes a Rule about Mal and Aleksander fighting after Mal straight up tackles Aleksander off the side of the roof when they're trying to figure out how to replace shillings.

They all spar with each other at least once every other day. This mostly started as a means of keeping themselves sharp in case of danger, but it quickly became a bonding routine of sorts. Turns out Aleksander has a lot of information stored up about fighting. That paired with Mal's military training makes for some very intense spars as well as the rapid growth of all three of them into some of the most dangerous fighters on the planet.

@mal-zoya now has me convinced that it will take at least 500 years for Mal and Aleksander to admit they love each other.

Aleksander likes it when they wear his clothes. Alina likes wearing Mal and Aleksander's clothes. There is a lot of clothing sharing going on. It gets to the point where the only way they can tell who's clothing is who's is based on color scheme and the quality of the cloth and occasionally (but not always) the size as well.

Mal and Alina infodump all the time about their passions and Aleksander eats it up. He loves it. He thinks his partners are the smartest people in the universe.

When Alina is suffering from artist's block she goes to Aleksander for inspiration. When she's inspired she goes to Mal to create.

Mal is generally the one who cooks all of their meals because Alina will get distracted when she's going on an art spree and Aleksander will just straight up forget he's a human sometimes. But when Mal doesn't do it Aleksander does it because he has Standards and he's not about to let his partners starve to death, thank you very much.

Aleksander and Mal used to cook plainer foods in the beginning of the relationship but they both slowly shake off some of the chains of their upbringings and previous ways of life to slowly try out more elaborate and lush recipes. Alina has come home on more than one occasion to see them collaborating on a new recipe Aleksander managed to flirt/finagle out of one of the old ladies from the nearby village.

Alina likes to ride out every day and sometimes ropes Aleksander or Mal into going with her. There are lots of picnics and packed lunches in their life. When they go to an especially scenic spot, she'll sit there for hours and draw.

Mal won't ever be able to fully understand the meaning of Alina's immortality. It would be impossible to, even with many explanations and having to deal with Aleksander's own traumas as a result. But that doesn't stop him from attempting to learn as much as he can to make things easier for both of his partners.

Alina attempts to join the local ladies' knitting group in the nearby village but hates it. Aleksander, on the other hand, finds it to be the most valuable source of gossip in the village. He rapidly becomes a part of the club and returns home with boatloads of gossip by the day. Alina and Mal have no idea what to do with literally any of this information, but Aleksander certainly does. Getting involved in small town drama is, in his opinion, one of the best things he ever decided to do. Mal and Alina are beginning to think he needs some therapy.

Mal starts a little farm outside of their cottage and Alina starts a flower garden. Alina also begins to amass a small library over time, with the help of Aleksander "is this an original text?! maybe so" Morozova. Mal is not expecting to come home one day to an entirely new room built into the house and a massive collection of books lining the walls.

Alina and Aleksander will use their powers actively all day. In fact, they both get so comfortable with summoning that they just start letting their emotions affect their summoning all the time. And so Mal has a very good indicator for whether or not his partners are upset or happy based on the way the shadows and lights flicker, much akin to the way people judge how their cats are feeling based on what their tails are doing.

Also, though, Mal just feels proud that they both trust him enough and feel comfortable enough around him and in their home to feel as if they don't need to watch themselves constantly.

Alina still likes mapmaking and, after a few years of peace where she starts to get restless, she slowly begins to do it again. Every two months or so she'll go out on a long trip to map a few of the nearby areas. She quickly builds up a side business of selling her personal maps to the people of whatever town they're living near.

Aleksander eventually opens up enough to share some of his past with Alina and Mal. He especially begins to engage more with the pieces of his culture that he had to forsake in order to assimilate over the years. Alina and Mal are always more than willing to help him puzzle through a half remembered recipe or a phrase in his native tongue that he's partially forgotten. They feel honored every time he shares a small piece of his history with them.

Nightmares are a common occurrence between all of them and whenever one happens a cuddle pile of epic proportions ensues. Also sometimes they talk about feelings have some pillow talk to work through things. Aleksander will also sometimes sing them back to sleep. His lullabies are haunting, but his singing voice is beautiful, and it usually does the trick. He refuses to sing for them outside of these moments, however.

Alina adores the height difference between her and her very tall partners. She thinks its fucking stellar.

Alina and Mal start up an orphanage on many occasions throughout the centuries. Alina loves kids and constantly helps them when she can. She mourns the fact that she won't ever be able to adopt without having to watch them grow old without her.

They've all discussed having kids at multiple points throughout their lives, and they all want to do so. But Aleksander wants to wait until Grisha persecution is no longer even the hint of an issue. Alina and Mal agree to wait, largely because they want some time to think on it too.

Mal tries to teach Alina how to shoot one day and she accidentally clips Aleksander as he's coming outside with lunch. He never lets her live it down and on more than one occasion attempts to use it for sympathy points, even hundreds of years later.

Aleksander is both the big spoon and the little spoon, but he likes being the big spoon (in reality he's a knife, of course). Mal likes being the little spoon but is often relegated to the big spoon, and Alina likes being both.

Alina paints a portrait of Mal and Aleksander cuddled up in bed once and no matter how much they entreat her to burn it she absolutely refuses to do so.

Aleksander is basically a walking, talking source of illegal activity, and he can't be taken anywhere anymore without expecting some sort of crime to take place.

Alina tries to adopt a little black cat one day and Aleksander gets outrageously jealous. He spends about two months being bitter, then another two months trying to chase it off, but the creature stays with them all until it dies of old age (and he'll never admit to privately grieving it's loss, although Mal and Alina both know it).

All of their communication skills are absolutely atrocious but Alina is the best. Mal is the second best. Aleksander doesn't even rank. Over time, they get into the habit of it, though. They practice at it painfully for years until they reach the point where healthy communication becomes second nature.

Mal proposes to Alina one day (after much talk between all three of them) and they get married. A couple years later they both propose to Aleksander (after zero talk, he is suitably surprised and also maybe a bit teary eyed). They have an illegal wedding on holy ground at midnight with a bribed and essentially kidnapped pastor.

Aleksander spends an excessive amount of money on Alina and Mal. He buys them things constantly and lavishes them with gifts. Alina loves it but it grates on Mal for a time until he realizes it isn't a means of manipulation as much as a love language and a shoddy attempt at communication and expressing feelings.

Once they reach the modern world (in an Immortal!Mal AU), they all get phones and send each other the most cursed texts in all of history. The group chat is a hellspace and the individual chats are just pure shittalking. Nowhere is free.

Shopping in the modern world consists of chaotic impulse buys and the excessive waste of money. They're all each other's impulse control, but they can't always go out together at the same time, so it's usually only in groups of two. Which means that when Alina's gone, Aleksander fills the cart with sweets. And when Mal is gone, Alina fills the cart with an inordinate amount of bananas (which are new) and microwavable easy to eat meals and paint supplies and oh! look at these pretty notebooks on display!. And when Aleksander is gone the cart its legitimately just a free for all. He comes home and there's mincemeat and apple pies cooking for some reason. Mal has a new apron. The fire alarm has been replaced. Turns out they stopped at an ikea on the way back and now they have a better dining table.

Alina is the best driver of them all. Aleksander goes way too fast but he never crashes. Mal refuses to even step foot in a car for about half a decade.

Aleksander is actually the one that gets into makeup. He quite enjoys it and thinks maybe his partners need to live a little for once. They both very firmly disagree.

Alina loses the tv remote constantly and it drives Mal absolutely wild. Sometimes Aleksander will steal it just to watch Mal go into a frenzy looking for it.

Alina builds up a large following for her art (and the art of her 'ancestors') over the centuries. Modern day Alina is basically famous, but luckily nobody knows her face.

[btsficsforthehumble]

adj.: 1. Modern, unfamiliar, or different

2. Not based on or conforming to what is generally done or believed

pairing: reader x ot7

genre: college au; angst, fluff, smut, poly, ot7

Summary: You begin your first year at a prestigious university, set out on achieving your academic goals when a series of men step into your life that change the way you view the definition of love.

Part Five

Warnings: none in this chapter

Word count: 2.3k

A/N: New characters, yay! Just an fyi but I would like to start posting one chapter every week... thots?? Also, I've been thinking of adding a taglist? sksk I know it would be small but I personally love to get tagged when new chapters come out for my faves. If that's something ya'll would like comment so I know!! Alright, back to your regularly scheduled program :)

----

Literature was next. Now this? This you could handle. Always being a bit of an avid reader, you could devour a novel in one night --- and you often did. Finding the hidden meanings between the lines of text, like unwrapping a present, gave you a thrill. You were the person who could debate for hours about the meaning of a symbol in a book, as annoying as that is to everyone else.

Maybe it was the promise of escape, where you could be transplanted into another world, detached from your own, that appealed so much to you about reading. You could lose yourself, feeling the rush of the love affair or the thrill of a dangerous adventure. Coupled with your analytical nature, you felt more than at home in a literature classroom.

With this in mind, you make your way to your next class with more vigor than usual. When you arrive and take a seat, you pull out your materials and wait for class to begin.

Several minutes later, your professor walks to the podium in the front of the room to introduce herself. After several minutes of reviewing the syllabus, she explains the structure of the class. You were to be placed in small groups, to discuss the readings and write a paper at the end of the semester. This made you a little nervous --- having to rely on others to some capacity for your grade always gave you a bit of anxiety.

She began reading out the names of the students belonging to each group, so you listen carefully as to not miss your own name despite your anxious thoughts swirling inside your head.

“... Eum Hee-Young, Gal Ae-Cha, Ree Mun-Hee, you are group seven. Kim Seokjin, Y/l/n y/f/n, Kim Namjoon, you are group eight. Ok Youngsoo…” her voice fades off as you glance around the room, trying to meet the gazes of other searching eyes as your group was announced.

Your eyes meet those of a guy who looked maybe a year or two older than you, with round, wire frame glasses. His mahogany hair was pushed off of his forehead, parted to the side giving him a youthful but put-together look. He holds up eight fingers, looking at you expectedly, and you nod quickly. He picks up his belongings, preparing to move to you as you had empty space in the seats around you. As he slings his backpack over a shoulder, you scan your eyes around the room to try to catch the other member of your group.

To your surprise, your eyes meet those of the same boy you had ogled over yesterday in your calculus class, before it had started. You shyly hold up your own eight fingers, to which he gives a decisive nod to, and begins to make his way to you as well. You can’t help but notice the planes of his back as he bends down to grab his backpack, his wide shoulders tilting making them seem even larger. He is wearing a simple blue button down and jeans, but even through that you could tell his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, making him have the perfect masculine inverted triangular build.

Slightly embarrassed at your thoughts, you glance at your other partner, now close to you. His oversized yellow knit sweater swallowed him a little, but with the glasses gave him a cute bookish look. His large frame juxtaposed his cute appearance --- he was on the taller side and seemed built as well. You made eye contact, and gestured to the seat next to you for him to sit. The other boy now approaching, you both watch as he takes the other open seat in front of you.

Your group now assembled, you tune back into your professor who was explaining the first text you were to read together. She told you that it was a short love story that relied heavily on symbolism and became a prominent symbol in and of itself in movies and television. Your first assignment was to analyze the symbolism of the text, and come to a more complex conclusion than what the surface of the text presents. You could feel yourself becoming slightly excited to jump into the assignment as she explained.

“You will be given the rest of class to get acquainted with your group members. They will be permanent, bar any issues that may arise. The first assignment is due at the end of next class. While on this first assignment I will be more lenient with grading, please do your best and set a good standard for your groups. Okay, go ahead everyone,” she finishes.

At her dismissal of your attention, you glance back at your group members. The boy with glasses speaks first. “I’m Namjoon, nice to meet you guys.”

“Seokjin, or just Jin,” the other boy gives.

“I’m y/n, nice to meet you both.”

“So, what year and major are you? I’m a third year, and a journalism major,” Namjoon offers. As he speaks, he gives you both a grin that displays deep dimples on both cheeks. He was very cute, you decided. He had a nerdy charm to him, with a build on the beefy side that made you want to cuddle him.

“I’m a first year… and to tell the truth I haven’t decided on a major yet,” you admit, but give them both a smile.

“Ah, hoobae, you are lucky you are with us pros then! I’m a fourth year, and a business major,” Seokjin says with a wide smile.

“Sunbaenim, are you in calculus before this? I thought I recognized you from there,” you downplay a little. You knew he was in that class since you had spent time checking him out in it, but didn’t want to seem creepy.

“I have a recognizable face.” At this he gives a smug look, but is clearly using a joking tone. “Yeah, calculus with Yoo at nine?”

“Yep. That guy goes so fast,” you frown. “But anyways, how do you guys feel about this assignment?”

Namjoon enters the conversation again, “Honestly I’m kind of excited for it. It’s been a while since I’ve done any reading that isn’t research related, which kind of sucks.”

“That does suck. I love to read, that’s why I took this class, actually,” you empathize.

“Yeah? What do you like to read?” Namjoon leans towards you a bit, excited at the prospect of talking about reading it seems.

“Oh, um… I’d say my favorite genre is probably any type of fantasy, I like being able to be in a different world for a bit. Oh, I also like historical pieces, that stuff is always so interesting.” You were a little hesitant to share, afraid he’d judge your preferences.

“I love historical pieces. I think that’s one of the things that lead me into journalism actually, it’s basically writing history for those in the future to look back on. I just think that’s really cool.” His eyes seemed glitter as he talked about something he was obviously passionate about. You felt yourself developing a soft spot for the boy, finding his friendly disposition and slightly nerdy personality to be incredibly endearing. It didn’t hurt he was also very attractive.

“What about you sunbaenim? Do you like to read?” you ask Seokjin, whose head was oscillating between you and Namjoon.

Surprised the attention shifted to him, his eyes widened to give him an owlish look. You are really surrounded by some beautiful men, you think. What do they put in the water here? It would be normal to run across a cute guy here or there, but this is kind of ridiculous. Seokjin himself has a face that is so beautiful it looks like it should have been carved out of marble!

Focus! You have to scold yourself. The boy you were just admiring in your head is now answering your question and you are too distracted to even process what he’s saying.

“... not too crazy, occasionally I guess…” His body language told you that he was slightly embarrassed at not being as enthusiastic a reader as you and Namjoon.

“I’m sure you have hobbies that are cooler than reading then, if I was athletic or creative I wouldn’t read so much either! Namjoon-sunbaenim, I’m sure you agree,” you encourage with a smile, wanting Namjoon to follow suit in making Seokjin feel comfortable.

Thankfully, he catches on quick. “Oh, yeah, I am way too clumsy to do anything more high stakes than page turning,” He chuckles. You and Seokjin both smile at Namjoon’s subtle self-deprecation. They both were sweet, you think. Your earlier fears about working with others subside. “I guess I could say that I do have another hobby though, I actually help out at the school’s radio station for fun,” Namjoon adds shyly.

Jin tilts his head in surprise. “Oh really? I have a friend who…”

He gets abruptly cut off by the professor’s voice echoing through the room, which causes him to stop his thought.

“Hopefully everyone is acquainted now, and is ready to get to work next class. I expect good things from you all this semester. You are dismissed,” your professor says with finality.

The three of you quickly gather your things, ready to merge with the swarm of students streaming out of the door. You give them both a smile, and say, “It was nice meeting you both. See you next class!” to which they give their own farewell.

As you leave, you check your phone out of habit. It seems your intuition is right, as usual.

*Miss me yet?*

Does Taehyung really have nothing better to do?

*What exactly is there to miss?*

You hope that after your curt response he’d get the memo. This guy is such a fuckboy, you think. While you don’t know why he set his sights on you for now, you hope he gets bored soon. While you give that tough persona to him, the truth is you are more sensitive than that. The idea of being used for sex once and then discarded was unappealing, and Taehyung seemed like the type to do just that.

----

Finally home after attending two more classes for the day, which were thankfully much less eventful, you slip off your shoes and let your bag slide off your shoulder to thunk on the floor. You were tired. And hungry, apparently, because your stomach makes some concerning noises as soon as you slip your light jacket off. You make your way to the kitchen at the sound, ready to make a nice dinner and decompress.

When you get there, you see one of your new roommates sitting at the stools for your kitchen counter. This roommate was one that you had connected with immediately, drawn to her blunt but fun-loving aura. Her short stature, shorter than average, gave no warning for her and ‘gives-no-fucks’ attitude. You could tell however, that inside she had a soft heart. Even in your short time together, you had seen glimpses of it here and there.

You learned when you had met that she had moved to Korea from America last year, making her a second year at your university. Her features stood out from the crowd, with brown skin and large curls that framed her face in a halo. She was really quite beautiful. Tia, but called Bean by her friends, which now included you, made you feel welcomed to campus and you were thankful for her.

Wanting to not scare her as you walked into the kitchen, you gave her a greeting. Her head pops up from where it was buried in her phone, which had been drawing her into her own world.

“Hey chickie. Long day?” she asks. Apparently your exhaustion was pretty obvious if she could tell right off the bat. You sigh, bending over to pull some vegetables out of the fridge.

“I just want to know who let me schedule four classes on Tuesdays. They should be in jail,” you complain.

She gives you an amused look, watching you now stand at the cutting board to prepare your food. “I think that person was you, sweet thing.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. If I could go back in time and slap my past self I would,” you grown with your head tipped back. She lets out a laugh at your expense.

“Don’t laugh at me unnie! I’m going to pass away from exhaustion over here!” you try to say seriously, but can’t help but let out a little giggle. “What were you doing with your head buried in your phone, huh? Are you talking to someone?” you tease, pointing your knife at her with your other hand on your hip.

“Why, do you wish it was you?” She wiggles her eyebrows, giving you a side smirk. You knew she was deflecting, so you lift your eyebrow and give her a flat expression, waiting for her real answer. “Ugh, it’s nothing. There was just this really cute girl in my class today, and I tried talking to her but she didn’t really seem like she liked me… and I may have just been looking at her social media,” Tia admitted.

Now at the stove, stirring your dinner, you look over your shoulder to say something that would hopefully ease her anxiety. “You know that you can come on strong sometimes, maybe she’s just a little shy, ya know? Maybe try again with a softer approach,” you offer. “What is there not to like?”

She gives you a wide grin to match your own at your last remark. You both giggle, any tension in the air from Tia’s concerns gone. Dinner now finished, you grab two bowls and serve you both. You both slip into easy banter, almost like you two have been friends for years. You hope that you will be, someday.

[holycatsandrabbits]

Tollense, an original serial romance by Dannye Chase, Chapter 1

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here!

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Chapter 1

1993

Professor Liam Beyer was born a decade after the deaths of the last soldiers to fight in the US Civil War. Thus, he was not expecting to meet a Union Army veteran in his 4 o’clock symposium on the Battle of Antietam.

Liam noticed the man as soon as he walked in, and not just because it was odd for a member of the public to show up for a faculty lecture at the university. No, the man caught Liam’s attention because he was distractingly handsome. Literally, Liam was distracted enough to drop his pen onto the overhead projector, causing a giant shadow to loom over the map of Maryland on the screen behind him, as if a third army had materialized there in a dense offensive line.

The man was of average height, with a slender build. He had dark hair in a short, modern cut and wore a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with a faded label. He looked like he might be thirty, which was about the age Liam was, and so Liam did not immediately assume that the man had seen action in the Civil War. But there was something faintly strange about him, just in the way that he walked, light on his feet like a dancer, but stepping firmly, without a dancer’s well-practiced grace.

“General Lee,” Liam continued, in a slightly strangled voice, “of the Confederate Army, was, of course, outnumbered, but the battle was Union General McClellan’s to lose. Had he understood how superior his force was, had he taken more risks, he might have been able to deal a decisive blow to Lee’s army as it retreated. In fact, McClellan’s performance at Antietam was part of the reason that President Lincoln later removed him from duty.”

Liam put up a transparency of a white church with peeling paint, standing alone on a grassy rise. “On September 17, 1862, 7,650 soldiers died at Antietam, making it the bloodiest day for Americans in history. Two days later, a man named Alexander Gardner took some of the first widely-seen battlefield photographs of dead soldiers. Some were awaiting burial, and some were still lying where they fell. It was very difficult at the time to take photographs of battles themselves, as the technology involved careful treatment of glass negatives, and that was nearly impossible under battlefield conditions. But the dead do not move, and these photographs were so clear that when displayed in New York, family members recognized their fallen sons.”

Liam put up a transparency of one of Gardner’s photographs, young men lying on the ground in an oddly perfect line. The unknown man looked away.

oOo

Liam had grading to do after his symposium, but he walked to the campus union to grab a sandwich first. He was definitely not expecting Handsome Unknown Lecture Man to appear out of the crowd and drop into the seat opposite him. Liam was very proud that he did not choke on his bite of ham and swiss.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said the man. “I enjoyed your lecture. My name is Kurt.”

Liam put his hand out to shake. Kurt’s touch was faintly cold. “Liam,” he said.

Kurt cocked his head slightly to the side, as if assessing him. “I know. Liam Beyer, 27, assistant professor of history, specializing in battles. Is Antietam your favorite?”

“Um— one of them. I did my dissertation on it. On McClellan, specifically.” Liam felt slightly odd about the fact that this stranger knew who he was, but of course, it was all publicly accessible information. “Are you a Civil War buff?”

“Somewhat.” Kurt leaned back in his chair. “Antietam, god. I remember Bloody Lane— that’s what they called it after. The road was sunken in because so many wagons had gone by over the years. It was like trying to fight your way out of your own grave trench.” Kurt spoke with a faint accent that Liam could not place, something that seemed to shift from one place to another.

“You talk like you were there,” Liam said, smiling. “Are you a reenactor?”

Kurt gave a sharp laugh. “No. You?”

“I’ve been a technical advisor. It’s nice to meet other people who share my strange obsession.”

“Those pictures you showed,” Kurt said. “Photography is such a bewitching art. Those boys are long gone, but remain ever present in death.”

“You know, the war helped make Spiritualism popular,” Liam said. “It was so hard on the families back home to lose contact with their soldiers, not knowing what happened to them, or when, or where. They couldn’t bear it, and turned to mediums.”

Kurt smiled, and it made his bright green eyes sparkle with amusement. “Have you ever been to a seance?” he asked. Liam shook his head. “Most I’ve been to were quite boring,” Kurt said. “But every once in awhile—”

“That sounds like a good story.”

“I’ll tell you sometime.” Liam’s brain was already far too occupied with how attractive he found this poor man, and that was probably why the sentence sounded more like a salacious promise than it really was.

“So what do you do?” Liam asked faintly, crumpling his empty sandwich wrapper. “Are you a student?”

“Not at the moment. Just a fan of history. Of battles, actually.” Kurt leaned forward a little. “Liam, would you mind if I came to your office tomorrow to talk more? I have some questions and I think you might be the one to help me answer them.”

“I— of course.” Liam told himself that he agreed solely because he liked to talk about history with people, and that it didn’t matter whether or not said people were ridiculously attractive.

Kurt smiled at him again. “Until tomorrow then.”

On his way out of the dining hall, Liam was stopped by a student with a question about an assignment on Gettysburg. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner,” she said.

“Oh, it would have been fine,” Liam told her. “We were talking about the Civil War ourselves.”

The student gave him a confused look. “Dr. Beyer— weren’t you eating alone?”

oOo

In the end, Liam decided that as he’d never dreamed up a handsome man in quite so much detail before, that the student had been mistaken and simply had not noticed Kurt’s presence at Liam’s table.

And yet. There really was something very strange about the man. Liam couldn’t quite pin it down, just that there was a disconnect between what Liam was seeing and what he was feeling about him. For example, Kurt appeared to be thirty, but Liam would swear he was older. Kurt had looked perfectly natural at dinner, but it had also seemed like he didn’t quite fit in with his surroundings. Like if you’d taken a photograph of him at the table, he would have been slightly too bright, out of focus, or without a shadow.

Kurt’s knock on Liam’s office door finally came around eleven, and Liam was, he realized, far too happy to see him again. At first, nothing about the visit seemed terribly odd. They discussed Antietam again, then traveled forward to the Somme, and then much farther back, Megiddo and Kadesh. Kurt seemed to know less about those battles, Liam noted, but he was quite familiar with things taking place after Thermopylae in the 5th century BC.

It was easy to talk to Kurt, especially about interests they had in common, and as the conversation went on, Kurt seemed to relax a bit, which made Liam do the same. The day before, Liam had thought Kurt moved without grace, but that wasn’t exactly right. Kurt had a different kind of grace, a fluidity of small movements instead of large ones, an artistry shown in the fluttering of fingers while the rest of the man kept entirely still. The emphasis on such small motions seemed to draw Liam in, narrowing his focus away from his surroundings and onto his visitor. But at the same time, Kurt had such an air of other about him, that it was almost like Liam was looking at him through beveled glass, never quite getting the whole image at once.

However, Liam’s sense of ease around Kurt vanished entirely when another student knocked on Liam’s door with a question about an assignment. That in itself was perfectly normal, but during the whole time that the student was in Liam’s office, she didn’t speak to Kurt or apologize for interrupting their conversation. She didn’t give a single look to the chair that Kurt occupied beside Liam’s desk.

When the student had left, Liam leaned back in his chair, trying to fake the calmness that he no longer felt. “All right,” he said, watching his visitor carefully. “You want to tell me why I’m the only person who can see you?”

********

READ FROM THE BEGINNING: You are here!

NEXT

Updates Fridays on Ao3 and DannyeChase.com (rated E), and Tumblr (rated T)

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous serials are for Good Omens: Mr. Fell's Bookshop and Love's Endless Light

My Carrd

[famouskittychild]

Cheeky Mandos - ...and we're off

(Sorry I had a terrible writer’s block in the past 6-ish weeks - I went from reading fanfiction and being inspired by other’s visions to “I’ll never be able to write anything like these and I’m useless” in a single day :( I’m getting back into the groove finally, so I’m hoping to post more soon.)

There will be 18+ content (in the coming chapters soon) so if you are a minor, please don't read further.

Also the characters will be quite open and relaxed about things like gender, attraction, sexual activities, relationships etc, so if you prefer your Din (and their partner) possessive and/or monogamous , this won’t be a good read for you!

***

This pairing is  Din Djarin x gn reader / tall reader.  I’m short (and cis and woman). There’s so many short (and female) reader stuff out there, I wanted to write for people on the other end of the “why is your height not normal” / "definitely female" spectrum. If I make mistakes or you have advice, or ideas you'd like to see, please tell me!

Word count: 4267

Summary: You’re an armourer and some shiny guy just showed up.

First full piece/chapter/course! In which people seem to catch things. Thoughts? Viruses? Dropped facts? Who knows!?? Also contains a dilettante’s attempt at space electronics and some barely-canon-reminiscent Mando world-building. Still no spiciness sorry, marinating is a long process :P

Rating: T for some mentions of heavier topics.

CW: Mentions of mandalorian history, playing somewhat loose with canon lore (as in, my SW knowledge is patchy. sorry.)

Author’s note: I tried to find more info but it seems like the mandalorian alphabet doesn’t have names for the individual letters so I used aurebesh (also I liked the little Dorn(e) meta in there). And sorry for the bad puns. They’ll keep coming.

Prologue

One - ...and we're off

***

You aren’t worried about taking a stranger on board, you’ve done that plenty of times before. You hope he’s willing to put in the effort himself, too, just as he promised at the assembly.

The stranger leaves behind his ship, saying a friend will come to pick it up together with whoever might want to join the cause. You spot him from the cockpit as he walks over with a repulsor pallet in tow. He stops for a moment when your droids surge past him, busy at their pre-flight tasks, before moving on towards the ramp.

All his baggage is a satchel at his hip and a small bag on his shoulder, and two large crates of weaponry. You put him up in the spare cabin, the one that had been Sal’ee’s, your former apprentice, before she went on to be a journeyman. He stands in the middle of the room, staring at the two cots on opposite sides of the room, the lockers, the fresher in the corner.

“All mine? Where will you sleep?”

You don’t understand the surprise in his voice.

“Over there” you show him, pointing at the cabin opposite from his. It’s much more lived in, some of the blankets and trinkets and pillows visible through it’s open door. “There’s a third cabin that I mostly use for storage but has more fold-up bunks in case I need to transport more people. That’s rare though.”

“Ohh.” He nods, then turns to look around his room again. “Okay. I thought all of these rooms were cargo space.”

You smile, and quickly think through your to-do list. You’ll have to rearrange your schedule somewhat but it’s not that big of a bother.

“Come on, I’ll show you around the ship.” Before he gets lost in its cavernous interiors, you might add - but you don’t. If his reaction to a separate cabin and his current ship - an old ARC170 - is any indication, he must be used to very cramped quarters.

***

Your trusty Brick, a beat-up YV 929, is armed to the teeth and ugly, just as you like it. The ship is a scavenged one, gutted from most of its original factory issue armaments, engines, and even wiring. It was perfect for your former master when she found it at a scrap heap: she wanted to rebuild it herself, deliberately piecemeal; panels sourced form here, engines from there, concealments added. She modified the inner workings of the engines so that the power lines could be redirected to a concealed forge.

That forge is your pride and the main reason you haven’t settled at a permanent place yourself. When your master retired from travelling, the ship passed to you, and you continued her mission of offering your knowledge and expertise to those of your people who otherwise had no access to an armourer.

…

The next standard month is spent with adjusting, both for yourself after getting used travelling alone again since Sal’ee left, and for the stranger who found himself a passenger on someone else’s ship. Apparently he used to live a very similar life to yours, with the exception that he was a hunter not a craftsman.

You travel together, share meals, research the places you are directed to. He joins in the effort that is maintaining the ship. Still - he is very taciturn at the beginning, keeping his words to the bare minimum. The first few days it feels as if you are still on your own aside of your droids. By the middle of the month, he progresses from short answers, through sharing information, to willingly starting to tell stories; but you know that chatting will never be his defining feature.

His armour seems to fill the spaces of the Brick’s corridors. You feel as if it’s not him who has the presence, but that set of glinting, perfectly made handwork of an armourer you already admire. Some of the pieces were sourced elsewhere, you can tell by the different shapes and designs; they seem haphazard and mismatched compared to the rest. Most of the set is the work of a single person. On those, there’s not a single uneven line, a broken curve, an edge at the wrong place. The angle of the panes of the metal, the ridges, the simplicity and elegance of them all - you have to hold yourself back from touching them, to admire them. You would give a lot to hold those pieces in your hand, to study them, to analyse them with your eyes and hands and with your tools.

You’re a master, yes. But so much knowledge was lost. So many masters gone, with their knowledge and their workshops. Apprentices became heads of Forges in the absence of the more skilled. The survivors still to this day have to piece together half-remembered lessons and forgotten details, experiment with techniques that were known before but the methods got lost as decades of civil war and occupation and murder kept eroding your heritage.

Sometimes a set of armour comes along that is just made in a way you never had an opportunity to learn. Often the person who forged them is long gone. Not the stranger’s armourer though. As far you can tell, she’s alive. Or at least was, when he last saw her. Not too long ago; though your usual method for guessing forging dates is mostly useless as it is based on the condition of the suit’s paintwork. Which he doesn’t have, so you can only guess from the small amount of scratches. You try to ask once, but whilst he’s forthcoming with general stories, he doesn’t go into details.

It’s a common theme with him. He talks about people and planets and events, and leaves out a lot - and you don’t even notice it first. Only when you try to glean information about his armour do you realize how well he fuzzes over those facts and nuances. It’s only up to the peculiarities of Basic and its use of gendered pronouns that you know his Armourer is a woman, or at least he considers them so. He doesn’t even tells you his own name, and when you ask your Elder in one of your communications, she tells you he didn’t gave it to them either. You keep introducing him as a friend, and that is the end of it for a while.

***

The visits to this first few coverts with him are… interesting. You can see him fidgeting from the corner of your eye. He always follows half a step behind and off to a side, as if not wanting to be in your way. He keeps quiet and doesn’t mix much, and around small children and droids, he is positively withdrawn. He only comes alive when he talks about his mission.

You had learned early on during your apprenticeship that keeping the helmet on is a safe bet when meeting with unfamiliar mandalorians. That led to later getting in contact with his type of believers too, despite their notorious secrecy even from the rest of the People. When you tell the stranger about that, he immediately showers you with questions, but you can’t give an answer to most of them. You never met with anyone from his particular covert, or heard of it. No name, no description seems familiar. It’s painful to watch his shoulders slump after daring to hope.

During the course of the month spent travelling, he gradually comes to be more social. He starts to stand and walk beside you. He doesn’t withdraw to the background anymore; he can actually be quite chatty if approached the right way. Droids still make him stop, though he warms up to kids in his own way. He’s good with them, at least in your opinion, though you know some would still call him aloof and distant. He isn’t a cuddler, nor does he crouch down to ask cutesy questions. He juts sits nearby them, and in that way of children having a good sense about adults, they know he’s trustworthy. They go up to him to chatter, to hand him a toy to hold, to ask him to fix a latch on their boots; than they go back to play.

He teaches you too, inadvertently at first during everyday conversations and later by his own volition, about his Way. About his Creed. It keeps throwing you off how much it differs from most that you had met before. Not even meeting briefly with people who followed the same Way as him could prepare you for the details that he does share. The degree of strictness, the loyalty, the barest bones Old Tradition beliefs and their willingness to follow them is very rare amongst the People as far as you can tell. Their devotion earns your respect.

At other times, your jaw hangs open and you can’t believe you are talking to an adult roughly around the same age as yourself, who by his own admission had spent three decades living as a follower of the Creed - not knowing about things children are thought through plays and songtime. His ignorance is so staggering, your admiration towards his unknown Armourer wavers. How could she keep so many things hidden from them? Why not talk about your own history? Your greats? Your artefacts?

About the many other who would call them vod’e, siblings?

You are an armourer, a craftsman, a person who makes a living by making things with your hand. You’re not a leader, or a scholar, or someone who decides what to tell your people. You do have a status within the community, but that is a status of service. From what the stranger says, their Armourer was a leader in every aspect: elder and lorekeeper and moral guide and more. All in one. It is something you can see developing from the old songs and histories amongst groups who take tradition more literally.

You are good at observing people, even at copying their habits to make them feel more comfortable with you, but less good at determining their underlying motives. The reason you think of him as “the stranger” even after travelling with him is because it’s so hard to figure out what drives him. There’s a melancholy to him that overrides the more typical mandalorian fight-readiness or aggression. You see how he gazes off to the distance sometimes, turning his head to the side and freezing. How he keeps to himself when he can. But you can’t tell why. Grief? Regrets? Determination to change? Planning something greater and being preoccupied with that?

He doesn’t pick fights to test you. He spars with you when you invite him to, he helps when you ask, and often even without it. He’s polite and considerate; he keeps conversation to practicalities and interesting stories, and doesn’t bother you with anecdotes or insistent questions about trivialities or your private life. He even does the dishes.

He’s deadly boring in his reliableness.

You are used to being on your toes around people all the time. When you meet a new group, it’s all unknown people. With ones you had already visited, the problem is having to remember them. They remember you of course, the ‘wandering armourer’; and surely you remember them too.

What is worse, when people stay the same but you don’t remember them, or when they change and you just can’t place them?

He becomes a good excuse after you’ve been to several coverts together. It’s interesting to notice how your dynamics change even further once you two get into a comfortable routine. You start to retreat to your forge and tools, and let him take all the attention. And he doesn’t just talk about his mission anymore, or lets little ones play around him whilst he’s quiet. He converses with people about news, about their children, about weaponry. You have more time to focus on your work.

Sometimes, people ask you what do you think of his mission. You tell them that you will follow what your clan decides, and that’s mostly true. It is something people don’t often debate, at least.

He quickly becomes a part of your everyday life. You are content with your usually solitary travels. You know that your family, your clan and your friends wait for you at home. They message you and you can find the time that suits you to message back. You don’t miss the constant hubbub of the covert most of the time. But now that you have someone that is not a droid, someone who is your equal in every aspect, on board again, it’s not even lonely anymore.

***

“So what’s up with you and droids?” you ask one day, after you got back from a covert and are safely in hyperspace to the next destination. You tinker with your astromech’s navigational systems. Poor 2-T keeps bumping into walls and crates. Again.

The stranger looks at you and your droid, than over at Mouse who for a change isn’t zooming around at foot level.

“Bad memories.”

“Gunk sat on you?” You tease. You hope it’s just something silly and not him having some sort of snobbish organics-are-better philosophy. He is quiet, and you focus on your work. He’ll talk if he wants to, that much you know already about him.

Inside the body of your astromech, a rivet from stars knows where is stuck between two circuit boards and blocks the access to a short-circuited piece of wire.

“Kriff. Toots, this will take a while, sweetie. Can’t access that kriffing panel.” He chirps back something and you read the translation on the small display. “No, it’s not that. My hand can’t fit in that small space. Let me find those pliers… should be in that other drawer somewhere.”

You search in the chest of tools, and despite your usually good organization, you can’t find them amongst the droids’ tools where their place is.

“Let me help.” The stranger’s voice beside you makes you jump. He can be awfully quiet. “Sorry. I think I might’ve put them back into the wrong drawer. I used them the other day when I fine-tuned that scope.”

He points at another drawer, where you keep your fine electronics stuff. No wonder he mixed them up. He stands beside Tootee a bit awkwardly until you find the tool.

“Here! No problem by the way. “ You turn back to him and to the droid, than have an idea. “Do you mind a bit more help? You can say no if you don’t want to work with the droid, I’ll understand.”

He doesn’t object yet, so you go back to 2-T and show the stranger the area you’re working on. You see him lean closer in your peripheral vision.

“That’s where I need to get that burned piece of wire out and install a new one, but first, I need to get that rivet out of the way.” You point at the root of the problem, than explain your plan, pointing out each part in turn. ”If you could hold those using this, than I could get here, remove this, with that tool, than have to get those bundles out of the way too, so than that wire there could come out. Easy.”

You look up at him, and his helmet is way closer than you expected. You can almost see your reflection in that black visor as it stares back at you for a second, and you almost apologize again, when the stranger starts to speak.

“Just have to hold the wires to the casing, or pull them like…” he moves his hand in the air, showing what he means.

“Hold them to that panel, there, with the pliers, so I have room to access the rest.”

He thinks for a moment, than he starts to tug one of his gloves off.

“You don’t need to take that off, just hold the pliers” you tell him, but he shakes his head.

“No, I can fit my hand in there, I’m pretty sure. If not we can try it with the tool.”

You realize that this is the first time you see his skin. Than it occurs to you that he might very well misunderstand this whole situation. You just asked him to hang his hand inches from yours in an enclosed space; inside a droid nonetheless, just after you basically told him you noticed he has a problem with them. It would be so easy to get caught up in there, to touch his hand, and hush it up as coincidence. Especially now that he took his glove off as well. He might even think that it was a careful plan of yours: have an area to work with were your slightly larger hands don’t fit but his might.

Your fingertips already tingle from knowing you can’t make mistakes. Which means you’ll probably do. He reaches between the panels and gets to the part where you got stuck. He wiggles his fingers a bit and scrapes around.

“Ha, found some wires. Are these the ones you need out of the way?”

You peer down into the quagmire of electronics, trying to find the best angle to see everything.

“Yes, those are the ones. Just hold them like that.” You try to focus on what you are doing, but after those earlier thoughts, your hands are jittery. You somehow manage to remove the obstructing rivet, than find the burned out part and replace it without accident, the stranger patiently holding things out of your way. You direct him here and there, occasionally stumbling as it’s a lot of instructions, or at least a lot of “could you please” and “thank you”. It gets particularly awkward when you stumble over the lack of name spectacularly.

“Could you pull those the other way, so they aren't that taut, please? Thank you, you. I mean thank you.”

“Din. Din Djarin.” Your head snaps up while the rest of your body freezes. “I should have told you my name sooner, but I’m so used to not telling it… and it just became more awkward to bring it up as time passed. I apologize.”

You close your mouth that of course was hanging open in surprise, than shake your head.

“I thought at first that I missed it when you said it so I was ashamed that I didn’t remember.” That did happen before, and it was one of your greatest worries about meeting new people. “I actually asked my elder. Sent her a comm. So when she told me you went nameless, I didn’t wanted to demand it.”

He doesn't answer right away. His voice is softer when he speaks a bit later.

“Thank you. For being considerate.”

You smile and try to wave it off. Which results in your hand slipping and pawing at his, still motionless and stuck in the inside of the astromech.

“Oh shucks, I’m sorry… didn’t meant to.” You withdraw your hand quickly, and start to look for your tools to cover your mistake.

He doesn’t seem bothered, luckily. You calm down, reminding yourself not to behave like you drank one too many glasses of your cousin Ree’s home-made tihaar, and finish the repair.

“You can let those go now, I’ll finish from here. Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome, any time.”

He sits back on a nearby crate and watches you work for a while, ignoring Mouse zooming around the room. You’re surprised a bit: you didn't expected him to stick around. And than he starts to ask about 2-T. How long you had him, is he temperamental, can you install a vocoder on astromechs, and why not. His tone is somewhat cautious, his voice stiff, like someone asking about a dangerous predator. You remember how you asked him about his distance with droids, but don’t want to push that question. He already told you his name today.

…

By the time you finish with the rest of the repairs, clean Tootee up and tidy around your workplace, interrupted by having to leave hyperspace and land at a spaceport, it’s the middle of the night in local time. You planned to have a nap and search out the local covert just before dawn.

You go to the galley to have a bite before turning in, and the stranger - Din, you remember, although his last name is less clear - is cleaning up some dishes. There’s another bowl in the middle of the small table, covered by a plate.

“That’s for you, if you’d like to have it. Used up the last of that spice mix we got” he tells you as you enter. You sit down and stretch your legs out one side. As you take the plate off from the steaming bowl, you think about how nice it is to find warm food on the table and not having to cook your own all the time.

“Thank you.” You pull the bowl close and take the spoon that he put beside it. You swirl the soup - it looks very good: clear broth with lots of veggies and other fillers in it - and gather your thoughts. “So ummm… I want to ask something before it gets awkward again.“

He finishes piling the bowls and cups and sits down on the seat opposite. You blurt the question out before you might change your mind.

“What was your name again? Din, that was clear, but the rest… sorry but it sounded something like “jarring”?”

He chuckles, and it’s a clear sound even with a vocoder, no snort or sigh to distort it.

“It’s Djarin. Dorn-jenth-aurek-resh-isk-nern. Djarin.” You nod, a bit embarrassed, and he continues. “Don’t worry, you aren't the first to ask. Probably not the last either.”

“Thanks for being patient. I’m not the best with names, to be honest.”

He tilts his head.

“Is that why you are always so focused when someone introduces themselves? I can ask them to repeat their names for me too if you want to, than both of us can try to remember them.”

You blink at him.

“That’d be…” Unnecessary, and don’t bother, and it’s not your job, you think - but stop yourself. That would actually help. No shame in accepting it. ”That would be nice. Thanks.” You are good at a few things, like making things with your own two hands. Not gaping when something surprises you, or remembering faces or names, any names, not just people? Nah.

You tuck into your soup, and the two of you sit in companionable silence. You wander if Djarin sits there because he wants to, or if he’s waiting for more questions from you. You asked a lot from him during the last few hours, and he was really kind with all his help and telling you his name and not being bothered when you misremembered it.

You are halfway done with your meal when he stirs. He leans forward with his lower arms on the table, and takes a deep breath. You wonder what his question will be - you commit to answer whatever it might be. He deserves that after today.

“So you asked earlier about me and… droids, right?”

Your hand with the spoon stops in the air. You weren’t expecting this question, at all.

“Yes…” You want to say he didn’t have to answer. But you already told him that. You’re sure he remembers that too - since he brought the topic up again. “Yes, I did.”

He shuffles on his seat a bit, and looks out to the side like he sometimes does. You lower your spoon and eat, letting him gather his thoughts.

“When I was a kid… I don’t know how old you were then, but during the war. The Clone wars.” You nod, understanding what he’s getting at, and he continues. “We were… the place I lived came under attack. Some separatist battle droids. Mandalorians saved me.”

You swallow your soup. That was the shortest possible description of someone having their entire life and probably everyone they knew ripped away from them and finding a new way of life for the decades to come.

“I’m sorry” you say, because really, what else is there to say. He nods, and gazes off again. Than he shrugs his shoulders, as if he wants to shake the weight of the past from them.

He gets up, and walks around the table on his way out. He stops beside you for a moment and hesitates, and you almost turn towards him to ask what he needs when you feel him squeeze your shoulder. Than he straightens and steps away.

It’s warm where he squeezed it, and you remember how long ago it was that someone touched you.

You need to talk to your friends asap, and hug at least some of them. He turns back from the door.

“Get some sleep before dawn, all right? Have to be sharp to remember all those new names.” You don’t see him wink but you’d bet he does behind his visor. You scrunch your nose at him and pout before smiling, and he dips out of the galley.

Your hand is still hovering in the air, holding the spoon, while you listen to his footsteps getting more distant as he walks down the corridor to his cabin.

It’s just your luck that you don’t need your wits the next place. It’s only two people with the same, simple name and you met both of them before.

[creeksidestories]

Little Stories While a large family history project can be quite daunting, it isn’t my only option. I’ve been quite successful telling “little stories”. They could be something as simple as the story behind a particular family heirloom, a special recipe or a family tradition. I was inspired by a book I read some time ago when we lived in Tampa. The book, Ybor City Chronicles, was written by Ferdie Pacheco. He grew up in Ybor City before going on to become known as the “fight doctor” taking care of boxing champ Mohammed Ali. Ferdie stated up front that these are his memories then pulls you into a collection of little stories about the people and cultures found in this diverse community. It’s a delightful book and hard to put down. Following his lead, my little stories are mostly about family and friends who have been part of my life. I’m focused more on describing their habits, foibles and interests. Most are based on my memories but are backed up with sources when I can find them. Other story options include the stories of things. A good place to start is treasured Christmas ornaments and decorations. Use Day One to photograph the item and include a paragraph or two describing where it came from and what makes it so special. These little stories make great blog posts. Blogs not only are easy to use, they can even deliver your stories to your family. Blogs are also very search-friendly. They can attract cousins trying to discover more of their family history. What do I do with these little stories? Most are written using the Day One journal app. I have Day One on my iPhone and iPad. It allows me to publish selected stories to my personal blogs while maintaining copies in Day One. As my collection of little stories grow, Day One makes it easy to collect, arrange and publish them using Day One’s book printing service. While Day One is free to use, for my purposes, the premium version gives me even more tools to make capturing my stories even easier. Premium costs $35.00/year but it gives me unlimited journals, unlimited secure cloud backup, unlimited photos, videos, audio recordings, drawings and voice-to-text transcription. Premium also makes it possible to email content to my journal and scan documents to PDF using the app’s scan camera. The book printing feature also requires the premium version. Even better, I’m not restricted to just words. Day One on my mobile devices makes it easy to include photographs, video clips, dictation and even drawings. This is just a bit of the many useful Day One features just waiting to help you capture, document and share your stories to family and friends. Take a test drive and see for yourself.

[amydancepants-peralta]

the shape of you 

(aka, Jake and Amy’s first night *together*, post-Mac) - rated NSFW. 💗

the shape of you 

With her fingers gripped around the base of a washcloth Amy Santiago wipes her bathroom mirror clear of all remaining condensation, casting a discerning eye over the reflection that stares back at her as she drops the towel into the nearby hamper.  

It feels like it was only yesterday - but realistically, had been close to six years ago - since she had stood in this very position and prepared for her first date with Jake.  It was a lapse of time that felt as though it had passed in a blink, and tonight there was a part of Amy that longed for the simpler times; when her biggest concern had been how to style her hair, second only to which of the two recently purchased dresses she should wear.  

(Her final decision to wear her hair down, based purely in the hope that Jake’s fingers may end up running through her curls, had clearly been an excellent one - and one that she definitely thanked herself for making later that evening.)

She still remembers the nerves she’d felt that night (that kind of thrumming that seems to run through your veins when you just know you’re on the verge of something amazing), remembers the feeling of the kiss he gave her outside the restaurant.  The way the scent of him had filled her senses as he moved closer, pushing her gently against the exterior with careful hands on either side of her hips.  The scratch of the brick against her lower back until his hands moved between her and the stone, simultaneously protecting her from harm and drawing her into his arms.  The soft sigh she’d let out as their tongues brushed up against each other … the way her body felt like it was melting into his embrace.  

It was the kind of kiss that made Amy forget all the rules (made her forget anything other than how hard her heart was beating against his ribcage) - the kind of kiss that confirmed for her, even if she wasn’t completely ready to admit it - that this thing between them was more than just ‘like’.  The rest, as one would say, is history - and while Amy knows that her and Jake’s love story may never compare to the works of Austen or Brontë, theirs will always remain her favourite.  

And now, two toothbrushes live in their holder by the sink, her perfume sits comfortably beside the same brand of cologne from that evening, and a series of colourful turtle decals are stuck to the side of their bathtub (supervised from above by the requisite rubber ducky).  Clearly, a lot had changed - but the one thing that seems to have made a return appearance from their first night together, is the kaleidoscope of butterflies that have taken up residence in her stomach.  

Tonight was Date Night for her and Jake - their first since she’d given birth to Mac close to seven weeks ago - and in true Santiago style, Amy had spent what free time she’d had over the past few days researching the topic of postpartum sex.  Standing in front of the mirror now, with her favourite black lacy underwear hiding underneath her robe and far too much awareness of the dark circles under her eyes, Amy was - for the first time in her life - regretting all the studying she had done.

It had been hard not to get lost amongst it all - articles on episiotomies (a side effect of childbirth that, thankfully, she had managed to avoid), scores of medical advice on when is the right time and endless testimonials from other new mothers, most talking about their total loss of sex drive or lack of primal response to their partner’s advances.  And even though logically, Amy knows that there is little to no chance of that happening to her and Jake (their sex life pre-baby, by all accounts, had always been healthy - especially so during her pregnancy), it had been enough to plant a seed of doubt in her mind - one that seems to have flourished into something far greater as the hours wore on.  

It had, after all, only been a few weeks ago that her underwear had been made of mesh, and housed icepacks to aid the healing of her nether regions.  Even less since her bra had needed to fight for space amongst the lactation pads that held court, replaced on the regular as she and Mac tried to figure out some kind of routine when it came to feeding.  For a while there, the sexiest thing that either her or Jake could say to the other was ‘you keep sleeping, I’ll take this round’; and now there was a dress hanging in their wardrobe that was a size larger than normal, and a set of stripes on her stomach that remained a constant reminder that things were not as they used to be.  

Amy’s hands fiddle with the contents of her makeup bag, toying with the curved edge of her favourite shade of lipstick as her mind continues to race.  It was insane, to think this way: and if Jake’s attentiveness to her since giving birth to Mac was anything to go by - his clear attraction to her at all stages of their relationship, actually - her doubts were going to be unfounded.  

It had, in fact, only been three days ago that both she and Jake had miraculously woken up before their son … and sleepy morning cuddles had turned into a heavy makeout session, evolving into something a little more before Mac’s indignant ‘I’ve just woken up’ cry filled their apartment and pulled everything to a stop.  (Their plans for this evening had been made that very afternoon, with both of them agreeing that perhaps a little bit of ‘Mommy and Daddy time’ was needed.)  

Deep down, Amy knew that the bond that she and Jake shared was stronger than anything either had ever known - but the doubts still lingered all the same, and there was only one person she wanted to talk about them with.

As if on cue, “Amy Santiago!  Date time!  Time to date!” cuts through their previously quiet apartment, and Amy grins into the mirror as she hears her husband’s keys land in the bowl next to hers, finally returning from dropping Mac off at Grandma Karen’s for his overnight visit.  Already, she can feel the tension begin to leave her shoulders, calling out a greeting in return as she listens to his footsteps move around their kitchen.  

Their home seems strangely quiet without Mac’s presence - largely, because Jake wasn’t singing or talking out his actions as he went, like he did so often when carrying Mac around - and she’s just about to call Jake into the bathroom when his singing voice begins to float down the hallway.  

“I think we’re alone now …” the somehow still familiar melody of the 80s song builds in volume as Jake makes his way towards her, and Amy lets out a giggle.  It’s a song that a 10 year old version of Amy, resplendent in some version of taffeta, would have absolutely danced to at a cousin’s quinceanera.  And while her younger self might be disappointed that her husband didn’t turn out to be a version of Magnum P.I., the Amy that looks back at her in the mirror today, laughing loudly at the man walking towards her, knows that there couldn’t ever be a man better for her than Jake Peralta. 

(Moustaches are overrated, anyway.  They’re a treasure trove of crumbs, and leave you with a permanent pash rash.  Great in theory, but a little morning stubble is much more enjoyable.)

His smile is beyond bright as he passes through the bathroom door, a glass of wine held high in each hand as he hums the last few bars of Tiffany’s greatest (and perhaps, only) hit.  “Hey babe - wow, good lord you are gorgeous.”  

Feeling the tip of her ears heat up at Jake’s statement, Amy smiles at her husband through the mirror, busying herself with a tube of mascara and quickly changing the subject.  “How did Mac go?”

Moving further into the room, Jake leans in to drop a kiss to Amy’s shoulder before placing her glass of wine on the counter.  “Uh, it seemed to go okay?”  Leaning his weight against the wall beside him, he takes a sip before continuing.  “Is it weird how much I missed him, like, the instant I closed Mom’s front door?”

Pulling away from her reflection, Amy turns to face her husband with an understanding grin.  “Not at all.  I felt like a part of me was missing the second the two of you left an hour ago.”  Shrugging, she gives him a sheepish look.  “Almost texted you to bring him home immediately, coz I wasn’t sure I could actually go without seeing him for a night.”

“Okay, yeah.  That makes total sense, because I literally almost turned the car around twice.”

“Ugh, we really are just lovestruck parents, aren’t we?”

“Oh, absolutely.  But, I have to say … I’m also really glad we’re getting to do this.”

Amy’s responding smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and the knots in her stomach tighten as she notices Jake pick up on the difference.  

His gaze is careful, holding onto the silence for a beat.  “Ames?”

Her fingers fiddle with the lid of the mascara, lifting and dropping the wand exactly the way she’d been taught not to do, and suddenly all the words she wants to say have jumbled up at the tip of her tongue.  Leaning forward, Jake stretches out his hand to reach for her wrist, and she drops her cosmetics back into the bag without hesitation - the need for her husband’s reassurance too strong to ignore.  The warmth of his palm, tied in with the coolness of his wedding band, is a welcome distraction from the uncertainty running through her mind.  

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

Amy nods, knitting her eyebrows as she lifts her shoulders in a self-conscious shrug.  “I … might have spent a little time the last couple of days, researching into what sex can be like after having a baby.”

Dropping his bottom lip slightly, Jake nods in understanding.  “It wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t.  But, babe … you know that we don’t have to do anything like that tonight if you don’t feel ready, right?  We can just go to dinner, and fall asleep on the couch if you want to.” 

Squeezing his hand, Amy is quick to nod in response.  “I do know, and I also know that I’ve been looking forward to tonight.  Like .. a LOT.”  Throwing a wink, Jake squeezes her hand in kind.  “I just …”  Pulling her fingers out of Jake’s grip, Amy pulls the already closed lapels of her robe tighter.  “There are still so many things happening to my body that I don’t have a lot of control over, and I can’t help but worry a little that it’s only a matter of time before …”

“Before?”

Amy’s chin falls to her chest, folding her arms in front before resting her weight against the bathroom sink.  Despite all of the reasons why she knew these fears to be irrational, they weren’t showing any signs of going away - and if there’s anyone that can help clear her mind, it’s Jake.  Slowly, she raises her head to watch his reaction.  “We’ve always had such a great relationship when it comes to being open and affectionate, and the sex - well, you know how good the sex is, but … I don’t know, what if .... what if things happen, and that changes?”

Jake’s reply is so quick - so factual that it makes her heart quicken at the simplicity of it all.  “Then we work at it.”  Pushing himself off from the wall, Jake comes to stand in front of Amy, tipping one finger underneath her chin and lifting her face towards his.  Bright brown eyes stare into hers, so full of sincerity she wants to cry.  “We grow, and we change with it.  There’s nothing that we can’t overcome, Ames.  Nothing.” 

It’s everything that she already knew to be true, but felt far more authentic when coming from her husband.  She’d felt a little ridiculous to be saying any of it, but it would seem that even the securest of relationships needed a little reassurance now and them.  Trying her best to ignore the tears that are threatening to fall from behind her eye, Amy raises her brows.  “You really think so?”

“I know so.  Babe.”  His hands move smoothly, wrapping themselves around her waist and locking at her lower back.  “You’re my best friend, the greatest person I’ve ever known - and the most sexiest, might I add - plus, the mother of my child.  It’s just not possible for any single universe to exist, where I won’t love you forever.”  Leaning in, Jake rests his forehead against hers, taking a deep breath.  “We’ve had to overcome so many obstacles, and nothing has beaten us.  You’re the love of my life, Amy Santiago, and there is literally not a chance that anything will ever change that.”

It’s all it takes for the threatened tears to begin to fall, and Amy tries her best to blink them away as she stretches onto her toes, lifting herself up to meet Jake’s lips for a kiss.  “I love you, Jake.  And I’m sorry for all the crazy talk, I just - ”

“Ames.”  Jake interrupts, a solemn look falling onto his face.  “I’m always going to want to hear how you’re feeling.  I know you’d do the same for me, and I don’t want you to think there’s anything that you can’t tell me, okay?”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Amy affirms with a kiss, sighing softly into Jake’s mouth as it deepens.  It’s felt like so long since they’ve been able to do this - to just stand and kiss for no other reason than to be close to one another.  His eyes are glazed by the time she pulls away, and it’s enough to spark a tiny fire in her heart, and so she leans in for another.  

Jake’s voice is muffled slightly when he speaks, waiting for a break in kisses to speak.  “We’re going to be late for the restaurant if we’re not careful.”

In what is perhaps the easiest decision she’s had to make in a long time, Amy tightens her grip around Jake’s neck, pulling him in for another hot kiss before whispering against his supple lips - “Fuck the restaurant.  And please, fuck me.”

She feels Jake’s hands grip her butt in an instant, digging in as he lifts her with ease.  Her legs wrap around his waist, a move that has been done a thousand times before but tonight feels so new, his responding moan sending a wave of shivers up and down her spine as he shuffles them towards the doorway.  

There’s a crib half adorned with muslin wraps and a colourful play mat on the floor near their bed for Jake to dodge, but he moves their joined bodies with a practiced ease, never pausing to adjust his grip until Amy can feel the softness of their pillows beneath her head.  

The smile he gives her as he hovers above is so soft, the adoration clear as she moves to shove his hoodie from his shoulders.  It falls to the floor as his nimble fingers work on the knot of her robe, letting the silk slip through with ease, and Amy can feel her heart begin to race as the material falls away.  She knows that it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before - between marriage and motherhood, there literally isn’t a part of her body that Jake doesn’t know like the back of his hand - but she’s still conscious that the bra is a little tighter than it used to be, and the softness of her post-birth tummy remains.  

And then Jake sighs, his eyes raking over her body as he whispers, “You’re so goddamn sexy, Santiago,” and suddenly, Amy doesn’t feel like a new mother with formula in her hair and suitcases under her eyes.  Suddenly, she feels like a woman - a beautiful, desirable woman who somehow managed to capture the heart of the sweetest man to ever walk the earth.  His hands wrap around her waist, lifting her middle towards his as his legs slot in between hers, and the feeling of her husband’s passionate kisses is something that Amy never wants to go without again.  

It doesn’t take long before the rest of their clothing has landed on the floor - a sense of urgency to their movements is something they’ve gotten used to, now that the likelihood of being interrupted has become so high - and it isn’t until Jake begins a trail of kisses down Amy’s jawline that she takes a calming breath.  She feels giddy, like it’s been far longer than seven weeks since they’ve been able to be together like this (eight, if you counted the last time they had sex before Mac’s early arrival), and the feeling of her husband’s hard dick nudging against her thigh was making her crave more, and she wanted it NOW. 

The scent of Jake washes over her as his head dips lower - same as it did all those years ago, only now the scent felt less like cologne and more like home - and her fingers dive into the curls of his hair as his tongue circles the outside of her nipple with the careful consideration of a man who has watched her wince in pain some early mornings.  His teeth scrape along the underside of her breast, the feeling of his breath hot against her skin as he moves to her left to repeat.  With her free hand, Amy traces the length of his back, holding him close as her fingers run over the dips and scars that she knows oh so well, feeling her hips thrust up instinctively towards her husband as his reverent kisses move further down her body.  She can feel the warmth of her arousal pooling in her folds, and it genuinely feels as though she might combust if something doesn’t happen soon.  

Jake lifts his head on the way down, the desire in his eyes obvious as he settles himself at the end of their bed, caressing the outside of her thighs as they settle on his shoulders.  His voice is gruff, the rough sound of a turned on Jake making a welcome return to her ears, and Amy grins.  “Okay, babe?” 

Her heart is racing with both anticipation and nerves, but Amy nods anyway.  She knows that things might be a little different (pushing a tiny human out of your body kinda has that affect), but she also knows the way she’s feeling right now, part of her might just fall apart completely if she doesn’t get to feel Jake’s mouth work it’s magic on her.  

Thankfully, he doesn’t make her wait any longer. 

He starts by rubbing the tip of his nose against her clit, a slow and deliberate up-and-down motion that ends far too quickly, looking up at her with a devious grin as he turns his head to place a tender kiss on the inside of her thigh.  Amy huffs in dissatisfaction, narrowing her eyes in silent reproach, only to throw her head back into the pillow as Jake immediately relocates to where she needs him the most.  His gentle tongue sweeps over her clit with each kiss, lapping up her arousal as the tip of his finger circles her entrance.

“Ames,” Jake whispers, and if it wasn’t for the feeling of his voice vibrating against her over-sensitive body, Amy would swear she’d imagined it.  “Ames, look up for me.”

His fingers, now moving in a circular motion around her folds; are making it very hard for Amy to concentrate on anything right now, and it takes another breath or two before she can lift her head.  Jake smiles as their eyes lock, holding her gaze as he speaks.  

“I love every single part of you, Ames.  This right here?”  He pauses, dropping a kiss on just the outside edge of where she’s craving him before looking up again.  “It shows me how much you want me.  How much you want to be with me, and it's so hot, it drives me crazy.”   His tongue flicks out, drawing a long, thick line against her folds, and her pelvis arches up towards his touch as his fingers slowly enter.  “You’ve literally spilt yourself open to give birth to our child, and you’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”  Carefully, they begin to pump in and out of her, settling into a gentle rhythm that sets all of Amy’s nerve endings on fire.  “You’re a goddess, Amy Santiago.  And I love you more than I can say.”

“I - unhhh! - I love you too,  Jake.”  Her reply is breathless, broken in two as Jake’s tongue returns to her clit, settling into a pattern that increases in intensity - the way he does whenever he knows Amy is about two seconds away from losing all control.  Her left hand travels down until her fingers are running through his hairline, holding him in place with her gentle grip.  

“I’m never not going to want you, babe.”  His breath is hot against her skin, the tiny stubble of his five o’clock shadow ticking her inner thigh as he deviates to place a series of kisses before leading straight back to her centre.  There’s a slight crook to his fingers now, as they continue to move in and out at a steady pace, and it’s enough for both of them to moan their assent.  “So good, Ames.” 

“Oh god babe, right there - yes!”  Jake’s mouth returns to her clit, suckling on her nub as his tongue continues its assault, and its all Amy needs to feel before her mouth falls open in ecstasy, a silent scream of satisfaction falling short in her mouth as her right arm flails up to grip their metal headboard, desperate for something to ground her before her entire body begins to convulse.  It had been so. long. since she’d been able to feel like that … so long since there hadn’t been anything between them, and she’d (almost) forgotten just how damn hard it made her heart race.  

(From his position at the base of the bed, Jake wraps his hand around his erection and gives himself a few solid strokes at the sight of his wife in post-orgasmic bliss, already certain that the image is going to stay in his memory for a long time to come.)     

Amy’s left hand digs into Jake’s hair as she comes down from the high, her fingers carding through the messy half-curls in that way that seems to relax both herself and her husband every time.  “You’re always going to want me?”

His gaze grows soft, and after leaving another kiss against her thigh Jake raises up, the comforter around Amy shifting slightly as he moves towards her.  The familiar feeling of his bare skin against hers calms Amy’s to no end as Jake hovers above, all the love in the world shining in his eyes as he leans down and presses his lips to hers.  “Always.”

Shifting slightly underneath her husband, Amy moves to grip his hard cock in her hand, following the length of his shaft with her palm as Jake moans above her.  She watches as his teeth dig into his lower lip, biting down harder as she increases her pace, and she tightens her hold before releasing him completely as his hips lift slightly away.  

“Don’t wanna come until I’m inside you,” he whispers, pulling her in for the deepest of kisses before settling in-between her thighs and lining himself up.  Amy feels herself tense up, the tiniest sliver of apprehension remaining as her legs widen slightly, and Jake rests his weight on his forearms above her before entering just the tip, pulling out and waiting for her cue to return.  

Lifting her pelvis in invitation, Amy holds onto Jake’s gaze as he enters another inch inside her; holding for a moment this time before pulling out completely, returning again with another longer stroke.  It’s something that he’s never done before, but was actually the perfect way for Amy to feel reacquainted, and as he repeats the process inch by inch, she gradually feels the last tendrils of tension begin to fade.  

Finally, their bodies are hard up against each other, and Amy can’t help but let out a heavy breath as the intimacy of it all envelops her.

“Hey.”  His thumb traces her cheek, following the contour of her cheekbone, and it’s definitely not the hormones that are going to make her cry.  With eyes so soft Amy could almost dive into them, Jake gives her a tender smile.  “I’ve missed you.”

Amy’s hands trace the subtle lines along his arms and shoulders before resting on either side of Jake’s neck, dipping her fingertips into the base of his hairline as she returns his smile.  “I’ve missed you too, babe.  I love you.”

Jake responds with a kiss, the press of his lips against hers so loving and familiar that Amy cranes her neck to chase for more when it ends.  He gives her a knowing smile, nudging the tip of his nose against hers before diving in for another, moving his hips in careful thrusts as his tongue sweeps gently against hers.   

Logistically, Amy knows that the feeling of togetherness and completion is what making love is all about - but still, as Jake moves above her and she finds her body responding to his steady rhythm, she finds herself overwhelmed by the emotions washing over her.  There were times as a new mother when her body had not felt like her own - like she was merely a walking vehicle for any and all of her son’s needs - but laying here with Jake, feeling all of the other parts of her body awaken at his touch, made her feel so alive. 

In her husband’s arms, Amy feels incredible like an irresistible woman, like the goddess he’s always insisted she is.  And, most importantly - she feels loved.  

Jake’s pace increases, his crazily sexy eyes locking onto hers as he lets out a breathless moan, and Amy feels her lower body instinctively lifting towards his to meet his thrusts.  “Oh god, babe … you feel incredible.”  Amy’s shoulder blades dig into the mattress as she presses her chest against her husband’s in response, elongating her neck and letting out a satisfied sigh as Jake dips down to lick the sweat off her skin.  

It’s his breathless version of her name a moment later that makes Amy break out into a grin, tightening her grip around his lower waist and digging her fingernails into his butt.  Jake takes the cue, speeding up again as Amy’s legs tighten around him, sinking her teeth into his shoulder before shifting her weight and rolling him onto his back.  

The movement makes his cock slide almost completely out of her, a situation Amy is quick to rectify, throwing him a sly grin as she sidles down.  Jake’s teeth sink into his lower lip as their bodies join back together again, a reaction to the sensations that Amy finds herself mirroring, stretching out her spine as she flips her hair back and settles her weight on her husband’s thighs.  

It was a moment just like this that she had been afraid of - being in front of her husband in all her naked glory, highlighting all the newly marked curves of her body with no chance for cover.  But one look at his face - at the sheer amount of adoration and attraction she finds there, made it clear that when it comes to being loved by somebody like Jake Peralta, there was never going to be anything to fear.  

And so she moves, clenching the muscles in her upper thighs as she rises and falls, dipping her pelvis back and forth so that she can really feel every part of him.  Jake’s hands fall to her legs, fingertips digging into her soft flesh as he moans beneath her, sliding up to her stomach as she leans forward to rest one hand on his chest.  He grins up at her, tracing gentle circles against her skin with his thumbs as he pumps his hips up to meet her every time, and maybe this is the hormones but Amy swears she’s about to either laugh or cry.  It’s only taken a moment, but one smile from her husband, and all of her apprehensions are gone completely.   

Amy feels the stretch of her ribcage with every staggered breath she takes, gripping Jake’s lower legs from behind as she sets their movements into a steady rhythm.  “Babe … Jake.  Ohh, I’ve missed this.”

She lets out a moan as she feels Jake’s hand slide up her slick skin, moving towards one breast and cupping her there, carefully circling her nipple with his thumb while his other hand moves to replicate on the other side.  It feels incredible, her husband’s touch - especially when coupled with the feeling of his erection inside her - and there’s a breathless affirmation of the same bubbling out of her throat when his hands move to her lower ribs, holding her steady as he lifts his back off of the mattress and pulls Amy in for a kiss.  

It’s sloppy, the messy kind of kiss lovers give each other when their bodies are moving at too steady a pace for it to be anything but, but Jake takes the chance to bend his knees behind, silently encouraging Amy to lean back slightly as her own legs stretch out behind him.  She can feel the pulse of blood rushing back to her upper thighs as her feet join together behind Jake’s back, holding him in place as she leans against his knees and lifts her pelvis up and down at this new angle.  It’s perfect - it’s tantalising, especially once her husband’s skilled fingers reach down to play with her clit - and it’s definitely going to make her come.  

“I love you so much, Ames.  I’m so lucky to have you, you don’t even know,”  Jake’s voice is strained, a surefire sign that he himself isn’t far away from completion, and Amy cannot resist the chance to lean forward - looping one arm around his neck and puling him in for another kiss.  She loves this man, with everything that she has, and it’s the thought of what they have together that finally pulls her over the edge, crying into his mouth as her second orgasm of the night washes over her.  It’s clearly all that Jake has been waiting for, the sound of his own moans mixing with Amy’s as he makes one final push towards release.  

It takes a while for either of them to disentangle themselves from their upright position, their mixed gasps for breaths the only sound in the room until Jake pulls himself out of his sex-induced haze, covering the section of Amy’s neck he has access to with kisses as she lets out a satisfied sigh.  Her legs tingled (as did some other places), and part of her cannot wait to write her own (highly positive) account of postpartum sex on the forums she’d visited earlier in the week.  But there was something she wanted more than that; and as Jake falls back onto the mattress below she follows suit, tucking herself into the juncture of his neck and shoulder - and just like that, things were exactly as they should be again.

There’s still a latent note of exhaustion in Jake’s voice when he speaks, but his tightened grip around Amy’s naked body begs her not to move as he turns slightly to glance at the clock on her nightstand.  “You know, if we moved quickly, we could probably still make our reservations … just blame it all on a flat tire or something.”

Sighing into Jake’s chest, Amy shifts impossible closer before shrugging her shoulders half-heartedly.  “We could … or, we could order takeout.  Eat, talk, have more sex … whatever.”

Twisting his neck slightly, Jake ducks his head down to meet Amy’s lips with a chaste kiss.  “It’s official.  My wife is a genius.”

In an hour, there will be an extra blanket laid out on top of the bed, and Jake and Amy will alternate cartons of takeout as they talk about everything that’s happened over the last two months.  It’ll be another hour before their meals have been cleared away completely; another again before Jake lifts his head off of his resting place on Amy’s abdomen, leaning in for a kiss that definitely leads to Round Two.  They’ll end up sleeping the rest of the night away, curled up into each other’s arms as they relish the silence - yet already dreaming of picking their son up in the morning and looking for all the ways he might have grown during his one night away.  

But for now, Amy will rest in her husband’s arms, basking in the feeling of his fingertips as they trace lazy patterns on her bare skin.  Change, after all, is inevitable.  But the world that she and Jake have built - for both themselves and their family - is strong enough to take on anything.  

And truthfully, that is all she will ever need.  

[heli0s-writes]

DEADCRUSH

Summary: Deadcrush, a game played based on the question “what historical figure would I want to take on a date if they were alive today?”

A/N: 4k word count because I can’t be brief about anything. Also mentions age difference, and questionable internet humor. Also now with Part 2! Oh my god and Part 3!

Bag of Tricks One-Shots Masterlist

It’s in the middle of receiving a blow to his jaw when Bucky hears your voice whistle through the air above him.

“No way!” You’re yelling, “That’s sick, Peter!”

He glances up for half a second to see you swinging against the New York backdrop, left hand raised and entombed by a thick knot of webbing from Parker who’s launching you and himself across the skyline. Bucky dodges another fist and by the time he’s knocked out the thug trying to get fresh with him, you’ve already finished your trajectory and bowled over a cluster of bodies. The ground’s cracked where you made your descent in the distance, and Parker lands softly next to you.

“Come on!” He cries, pitch rising, “You picked Rasputin!”

You respond with a maniacal giggle. “He’s Russia’s greatest love machine!” With a flick of your wrist, you condescendingly scoff. “Dude, Anne Frank? She was twelve.”

“Rasputin was like a million! And insane! Anne Frank is close to my age, at least. And this is entirely hypothetical—I'm imagining a future with her where she’s older than me. I think we’d totally get along, I read her diary and everything- I mean, we’re so close! Fine--” Parker crosses his arms.

“Marie Curie.”

Your eyes catch Bucky looking and you give him a wide smile and a small wave before you pivot back to Peter. Bucky’s brow furrows even deeper before he turns and heads towards Steve who’s winding down at the end of his own fight. Kids are fucking weird, he thinks a little bitterly, as you and Parker squabble on in the distance.

-

In the middle of dinner, as he’s twisting a ream of spaghetti onto his fork, you and Parker stand on the balcony eating what looks like a whole baguette smeared with jelly. Through the glass door, Parker crunches into it before handing the baguette off to you. He’s gesturing wildly and brushing crumbs off his suit.

You take a bite too large for your mouth and the crust crumbles down your chin, chased by a dribble of jelly. You level your palm and start measuring Peter’s height much to his indignance, and Bucky has to turn around before he loses his appetite completely. He hears your laughter muffled through the door. Your hand is clasped on Parker’s shoulder in an attempt to hold yourself up.

You’re a funny one. Always joking and cheerful. You’ve been a part of the team for the past six months and you’re closest to Parker both in demeanor and in age, but sometimes Bucky finds you up late at night and the two of you sit at the table over a cup of tea.

You show him inexplicable and strange images from your phone and try your best to explain to him why the frog is on the unicycle and what the hell “yeet” actually means. Once, you showed him a video about twerking but when you jokingly proposed that you might teach him instead, he nearly knocked the table over by jerking up, ready to take off.

It always ends with joyful tears in the corners of your eyes.

It makes him a little bit angry with himself because he really has no right to even be talking to you. Cryrosleep aside, he’s almost old enough to be your father. But when your laughter lights up the room, it burns those harsh thoughts from his brain.

He’d never admit it, but when he’s awake after tossing for hours, he hopes you’re in the kitchen.

The door swings open and in-between mouthfuls, Parker is baffled, “Who is that?”

“Ancient poet.” You answer, popping a finger in your mouth, “My girl! Island of Lesbos. She definitely knew how to...” You waggle your eyebrows, make a V-shape with your fingers, and lewdly run your tongue up and down between them. Bucky thinks he sees you looking at him, but he feels himself flushing at your comment and pretends like he’s enthralled with spaghetti.

“Dude. Stop it.” Peter moans.

-

In the middle of movie night, another showing of Mary Poppins, you and Parker once again tuck away into the corner of the Stark auditorium with a shared blanket and chatter vehemently. Bucky doesn’t know which is more irritating—Van Dyke’s terrible accent, or the fact that the two of you are attached by the hip today.

“Marilyn Monroe!” Parker whispers.

From the corner of his eye, Bucky watches you contemplate your reply before leaning in impossibly close to Peter. The young man’s jaw clenches as his eyes widen like saucers. He shoots Bucky a look, as if catching him eavesdropping.

“What!?” Peter shrieks.

The entire room turns to look at the two of you. You clamp your hand over Peter’s mouth, bury your face into the side of his head.

“That’s the safest one!” You say.

“No! No, it’s definitely not safe!” He responds back, voice cracking slightly and pushing your face away when your hair tickles him. “Gettoffa— God! Are you serious!?”

“Okay, what the hell is this conversation?” Natasha pauses the movie and leans over the back of the recliner.

Peter pulls the cover over his face and you start giggling again.

“We’re talking about our DC’s.” You finally admit, pausing enough to calm yourself.

“DC’s?” Steve questions.

“Dead crushes.” There it is again- that little look you send his way. He thinks three times is at least one too many to be just a dream.

“Dead-what-now?” Sam is incredulous.

“You guys have never played this game before? You know, pick one person from history who you’d take out to dinner if circumstances made it possible.”

Peter pokes his head out, “And look, please tell her that all of my choices are perfectly reasonable! Anne Frank? Marilyn Monroe? Marie Curie? She picked Rasputin! And not because of that weird old song.”

You scoff because Boney M is a fine example of industry-bottled pop music and beat Milli Vanilli as the façade of genuine artistry by miles.

“Rasputin’s a bit dark, isn’t he?” Steve shakes his head.

Sticking your tongue out at him, you land your gaze on Natasha with a sly smirk.

“Who would you pick, sexy international Russian spy? Let’s get a peek into that gorgeous red head of yours.” She licks her lips at your overt flirtation and flips her hair over her shoulder.

Bucky folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair he’s on. This was your game—saddling up to people with effortless compliments and humor, reading a personality so well and maneuvering yourself to fit just right into their expectations. Who else could be so forward with Natasha, joking or otherwise? Who else would suggest teaching him how to twerk? Fuck.

Natasha mulls the question over for a second, “Stalin. I’d take him to dinner. And then to his grave.”

There’s an exasperated sound that escapes your lips. “Okay, that’s not really how the game works. This is not supposed to be a political commentary- it's a genuine display of … attraction!”

“To corpses.” Bucky mutters.

“Okay, that’s dark.” You and Peter exhale in unison. The giggles that escape both of you as you start calling “jinx” on each other before wrestling on that tiny fucking sofa chair makes him bite back a growl. From the couch to his left, Steve notices.

-

In the middle of pouring scalding water into a plain white mug, Bucky feels a tap on his shoulder.

“No.” He greets the finger. “Nope. Steve. Goodnight, jerk.”

“You’re actin’ like a kid, Buck.”

Bucky huffs as he sets the kettle back down with a clatter on the stovetop.

“No.” The problem is that I’m not the kid, Bucky scolds himself for even having the thought surface.

Steve half-heartedly sighs because Bucky is so smitten it’s almost painful to watch. It’s obvious to him and the rest of the team that the two of you dance around each other under the pretense of professionalism, but he knows that the laughter coming from down the hallway late at night is more meaningful than a work relationship.

The first time Steve had seen Bucky lean into a friendly touch was when you had placed your hand on his back, steadying yourself as you fixed your shoe. It was such an offhanded gesture, and Bucky tensed briefly before holding out his arm for you. You didn’t realize his intention and took his entire vibranium hand with a firm squeeze before waltzing off, leaving him to gaze after your disappearing trail. That was three weeks into Bucky’s time at the compound, and your fourth month. It opened Steve’s eyes to a possibility he hadn’t yet entertained.

Steve thinks part of how easily you had infiltrated Bucky’s stonewall demeanor is, in fact, your age. You were right on the cusp of balancing maturity and immaturity, often teetering into the immature waters out of habit. You stayed up late for no reason, played video games for hours, ate all sorts of odd meals with no care for your health, and always gladly shared anything that made you smile. It was infectious. You lacked the exact type of self-awareness everyone else had that made them so careful with Buck— and he let you slip through the cracks effortlessly.

It’s your childlike happiness that’s done it for Bucky. Even though it’s now become a point of uneasiness for his friend, Steve is thankful that you’re exactly how old you are. It’s helped him more than harmed him so far.

Bucky takes a sip of his peppermint and lemon tea and leans against the counter. Steve watches with amusement as his shoulders tense when your chortle bounces into the room. You’re telling Peter goodnight as he heads back home to Queens.

“Hey!” You call, “Sunrise tomorrow?”

A faint affirmation is heard before Parker’s whooping whips faintly in the distance, swinging away. The front door closes and you pop into the kitchen wearing nothing but a swimsuit cover-up, full of diamond-shaped holes. A tiny pink bikini peeks out from underneath the pattern. Bucky averts his gaze because the women of his time did not dress like that and he’s not even sure looking in your direction is legal.

“Night swimming?” Steve asks with a smirk at his friend, who turns around to hide the red creeping up his cheeks like vines.

You nod eagerly before opening the pantry and grabbing a box of Oreos from the top shelf. Tucking one into your mouth, you crunch through it and swallow before closing the pantry door and placing the container under your arm. Crumbs fall down your chest and you curse under your breath as you swipe bits of cookie from your top, oblivious to why Steve suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

“Hey me and Double-P are gonna watch the sunrise on top of the Chrysler building tomorrow- you two wanna come? He’ll swing you right up! It’s fun! I’m gonna make breakfast!”

They both shake their head and you mutter something about their loss for a free roller coaster and good view. Bucky and Steve follow your path out the door and hear the patter of your feet before you crash into the deep midnight water with a tremendous cannonball. They watch as your head breaks the surface of ripples before you lean back and squirt water from your mouth like a fountain. Music surges from the outdoor speakers— a seductive Latin Pop tune with hints of reggaeton. You float over to the pool’s edge and throw another cookie in your mouth, bopping along to the groove enthusiastically, shoulders winding to the ebb and flow of water.

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve urges, motioning his head to where you float lazily, watching the moon, nodding to synth beats and timbales drumming. “Forget age… she woulda been your kinda girl back in the day.”

Bucky swallows and turns to his steaming mug, “There were no girls like her back in the day.”

-

It’s in the middle of his nightmare when Bucky jerks awake and smells buttered toast and coffee. It’s still dark out, only four-something, but he stumbles to the restroom and brushes his teeth anyway. When he arrives at the kitchen, you’re standing at the stovetop wearing athletic shorts and bunny slippers. There’s a frilly orange apron tied neatly to your waist, covering a shredded crop-top, and you’re flipping a hearty slice of bread with an egg in the center.

“Hey Sarge.” You smile, “Help yourself to an eggy. Yolk’s runny and dippable, just like God intended.”

He shakes his head no because he knows you’re preparing it for Peter, but sits down on a stool anyway, leaning over the counter to watch you with interest. When one piece of toast cooks, you move to crack fresh pepper and sea salt over another. You also slice tomatoes and rinse fresh basil leaves, tunelessly humming the whole time. When you stifle a yawn with your shoulder, Bucky squints at the tell-tale blue bags under your eyes.

“Again?”

You rub your neck with a guilty smile and take a sip of water, “Got stuck on the internet… reading about… I can’t even... I know I started with Kennedy… but the last browser is bee swarming and royal jelly...”

He laughs when you go off on a rant about how bees communicate with each other, even demonstrating for him something you called a “waggle dance”, and he’s not sure if you’re just making shit up or not but it’s cute as hell when you bend your elbows and shuffle in figure eights on the tile.

“So then, me— a bee— would show you— another bee— this dance… and then you would go find the yummy flower! And did you know bees would dance with excitement depending on how convinced they are about the quality of the flower!? They get excited!” You repeat the same figure eight this time accompanied by elbow flapping and happy buzzing. The sound vibrates between your teeth and sizzles over your lips.

Bucky’s laughing so hard he has to put his face in his hand. Finally, you settle down.

“Now your turn.” You tease. He shakes his head defiantly, eyes still brimming with amusement.

You pour him a steaming mug of coffee and slide it next to his hand with a small smile. There’s a strange light in your bleary eyes as you bite your bottom lip.

A flush suddenly sweeps across your cheeks.

“What?” Bucky asks, taking a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste as it rolls down his throat.

“It’s stupid...it’s nothing.” The awkward laugh coming from your throat makes Bucky shuffle in the stool, wary and slightly concerned. Before you can continue, Steve pokes his head in and announces he’s going for a run and asks you to save him some breakfast when he gets back. Bucky checks the time on the microwave. Almost five.

Something dings on the bar counter and you move to grab your phone, frowning and placing your hands on the ruffles against your hip. A disappointed noise sputters from your mouth before you tear off the apron and turn off the stovetop with a quiet fury. “He cancelled!” You cry, disappointment darkening your features. “I made all this crap!”

Bucky looks over the countertop arrangement of perfectly crispy thick multigrain toast, shiny fried eggs, tupperware containers of tomato and shredded basil, and two thermoses of coffee and juice. Your shoulders slump as you place your hands on your hips and lean back to pop your neck and crack your knuckles. You pick up the trash can and kick off its lid, placing the edge of the gaping dark maw against the counter, holding your arm out to sweep the food in. Your generally pleasant features are stained by a scowl.

He forgets how impulsive you can be.

“Wait!” Bucky yells, reaching across the counter. “I’ll go. I’ll watch the sunrise with you.” When you stare at him in surprise, he quickly glances around the countertops, “Let’s not waste all this. You worked really hard on it.”

A squeal escapes as you drop the trash can and clasp your two hands together in a cheer. “Bucky. You are…” you suck in a deep breath and hold your hands over your heart, “just the best. My number one… Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the one-oh-seventh.”

His heart leaps just a tad as his former title rolls off your tongue almost wistfully. Bucky opens his mouth to ask you what you mean but you’re balancing two containers of foil-wrapped toast, another one of tomato slices and the thermoses are hanging precariously on your middle fingers. Bucky leaps from his seat and takes the food from you, leaving the thermoses in your hand.

“To the roof, Sarge!” You smile, leading the way. He follows closely behind and raises his eyebrow curiously when you keep looking back at him every few steps.

It’s in the middle of biting into the most heavenly piece of toast he’s ever had that Bucky hears you giggle shyly. You’re rarely bashful— usually too sharp-tongued and unfiltered is how most people would describe you. It’s why your best friend is Peter Parker: boy genius, mile-a-minute-mouth.

“What is it?” Bucky’s teeth crunch against the crisp brown edge, the bite of egg sliding over his tongue.

You’re leaned back on your palm, brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as you chew pensively on a slice of tomato. The sky is a blackened bruise behind you, disappearing into the balm of a soft, glowing orange.

“You were my deadcrush back in the day.” You mutter, hiding your lips with the tomato. Bucky stops mid-chew and freezes completely, unsure if the confession is just another trick his mind is playing on him. Maybe a breeze in the wind just sounds like your voice. “Not to make this weird…” you supply almost fearfully.

“Oh…”

“I mean— you know, it was totally normal. All the girls either liked Captain America or Sergeant Barnes.” You stuff the tomato in your mouth and reach for another just to busy your hands. Bucky’s face heats up like the morning, and he takes a sip of orange juice to calm it down.

“Sure,” you ramble onward, tomato flinging around between your fingers as you gesture back and forth, “I mean, most of them liked Cap— golden lion boy and all—hero’s journey kind of thing… I guess I felt, closer to you.”

You exhale deeply, “When you first came to the tower, I thought I was dreaming. Can you imagine? I felt like I was in the sixth grade.”

His brow furrows as he ponders your question. “Is that why you’re so nice to me?” It slips out before he can catch it, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“Probably at first,” You admit with a little shrug, “But eventually the schoolgirl crush thing went away, and I started liking you way more. Genuinely, y’know? Not under the thumb of a paltry, fleeting thing.”

He forgets how unexpectedly introspective you can be.

The tomato in your hand is only a shimmer of juice on your fingers now and you reach for something else to occupy yourself lest you become reduced to just weighing your hands together out of nervousness. You pause when Bucky asks, shocked, “You l-like me?”

Then, a smile, against the warming backdrop, he thinks you look like something out of a painter’s imagination—a delicate page from Steve’s notepad. A gentle breeze picks up your lashes, makes you squint a little.

“Yeah. I like you a lot.”

How does someone say such a heavy thing so easily? Bucky turns hot all over, heart beating too fast from your statement and the coffee made too strongly. “Thank you.”

You laugh and throw your head back for a second before shaking your hair wildly and sitting up, as if you’re discarding something. Light bounces off your cheeks as you catch your breath and take the coffee thermos from him. “You’re welcome, Bucky.” Then, softer, “Look.”

A streak of yellow opens up the sky in the east, melting away the ink around it into flames of blood orange and cerise. Still twinkling are the stars entrenched in deep blue further away.

“I’m not dead anymore.” He states plainly. “I can’t be your deadcrush if I’m not dead anymore.”

A chortle escapes- snorts and scoffs and not at all what he expects when you push your hand to your face and laugh in such a way that he might for a split second find it unattractive. But he doesn’t. He finds it so truly endearing that his heart swells like clouds over the morning sky.

A part of him quiets with the settling feeling of disappointment. Your silence gets swirled around in the next bitter mouthful of coffee and Bucky kicks his heel aimlessly against the concrete rooftop. To his left, you scoot a little closer, reach over and take the thermos from his hand. Your fingers linger, and then you put the container down.

“Bucky,” You say. His name so sweetly rolls off your tongue he can taste it—spun sugar and molasses in his mouth. It’s orange and yellow and blue behind you. Your eyes glisten with promise, as sure as the sunrise.

“You can want things, like love.”

It’s so forthright it punches the air right out of him. Before he knows it, you are leaning forward with a smile, planting a tender kiss on his cheek as he stares on open-mouthed and in awe.

And then, you break the moment with a yawn covered by your hand and groan as fatigue slips over like a blanket. “Oh fuck, I am beat, Sarge. Why’d you let me stay up so late?”

He only smiles before he puts his hand over yours for just a moment. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll help you clean up.” But the moment changes again, and he finds himself crawling past the containers of egg and toast, nearly knocking over the juice to hover over your mouth.

Coffee and cream linger between hesitant lips. Then there is a feverish clash-- you, clambering to sit up, to match him in enthusiasm-- him, bold enough to meet your surge with two large hands. He snakes them around your waist, crushing your torso to his.

Your fingers create a separation between your stomachs as you ruck his shirt up, gripping his chest and back and digging into his shoulder. A sharp breath escapes before he comes to snuff it out, licking your mouth, sucking on your tongue.

“Jesus.” You mutter when you break away for air, eyes still closed, “God. Okay. This is happening.”

Bucky laughs and sits back, places his hand on your bare thigh, shaking his head. “I—yeah, well maybe not here.”

“Yeah- yeah, of course… I .. get so caught up.”

He laughs again, because he knows. It’s why you haven’t slept all night, why you made a feast for just two people watching a sunrise, why you ramble on about the most mundane things but somehow still enrapture him, and it’s why he likes you. Your cheeks burn when the first ray of sunshine shoots over the tree scape.

A ding next to your hand catches his attention—a text from Steve.

You peer at it curiously before opening the message. Bucky looks too, and sees the image of the same sunrise he’s witnessed, but over the familiarity of the East Side sprawl.

A second message appears, Steve grinning, Peter winking.

A third one with a single, cheeky question: You and Buck doin’ good?

Bucky slips his shirt back down his golden torso while you tap out a furious response, groaning at the way you’ve been set up by your friends. Before you can send it, he takes the device from you and places it face-down on the roof with a smile. “Are we?” He asks, suddenly shy. “Doin’ good?”

Quietly, you nod.

In the middle of a second kiss, Bucky knows he’s done for. He’s falling hard and fast and can’t stop.

In the middle of a third kiss, you’re there next to him, all smiles and wonder as the two of you plunge together.

Part 2

[d3-iseefire]

Through A Glass Darkly Chapter Two

Bilba sat curled in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner of the common room, arm draped across a knee as her eyes scanned the file in her hand. A large stack of nearly identical folders, along with two smaller piles, sat on the table in front of her, all stuffed to the brim with paperwork.

Beyond that, the room opened into a wide airy space, lined with windows to allow in natural light. Tables and chairs were scattered throughout, many occupied with other patients reading, doing puzzles or quietly talking. Orderlies and staff moved about them, sometimes stopping to talk to a patient or escort them to and from the room. A few of them looked her way, but none attempted to approach. Dr. Chambers had made it clear she was to be left alone.

She returned her gaze to the chart she’d been reading, but had barely managed to read the same line four more times when someone slid into a chair across from her. Irritated, she looked up, prepared to send the clear, and concise, message that whoever was bothering her was deeply unwanted.

It was Blondie, and the sight of him caused her brain to short circuit.

He’d taken her advice. He was clean shaven, hair neat and trimmed, and wore a freshly laundered t-shirt along with the requisite sweats and slippers. On anyone else, they looked non-descript but, on him, they became a fashion statement.  

“So, Celeste,” he started. “I wanted –”

He trailed off as she raised her fingers and pressed them together along with a sharp, “shush! Masterpieces don’t talk, they exist to be admired.”

The corner of his lip twitched, and he shook his head in exasperation. Then he folded his hands in front of him and proceeded to stare at her, in silence.  

This time, it was Bilba fighting back a smile, even as she bemoaned the discovery that he had a sense of humor. She didn’t want him to have a sense of humor. It was bad enough that he was unfairly attractive.

“I changed my mind,” she stated flatly. “Don’t shower. You’re distracting.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re so busy in here you can’t afford to be distracted?”

“Exactly.” He reached for one of the folders, only to pause as she slapped a hand onto them. “Anyone ever teach you that nosiness is a vice?”

He didn’t pull his hand back. “Anyone ever teach you that sharing is a virtue?”

Confident, and very self-assured. If asked, Bilba would have insisted she didn’t have a so-called perfect man in mind, or list of traits she considered desirable in a partner. She had no time for such things. Now she was quickly realizing that not only did she apparently have a list, but Blondie was rapidly checking every box.  

“What are you doing?” he asked, nodding at the graveyard of dead trees.

“Reading,” Bilba said dryly. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Not at present,” he said easily as if she’d just asked him about the weather. “What are you reading?”

Bilba sighed. She knew she should get rid of him. Insult him until he left, or give him the silent treatment, or just threaten to track down his car once she got out and set it on fire. Instead, against her better judgement, intelligence, and all sane reason, she found herself shutting the folder she was reading and offering it to him.

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by her actions, her or him.

Granted, she was really bored. She’d always been more of a “shoot the thing in the face until it stops trying to kill you,” and less of a “risk death by a thousand paper cuts doing research” type of person.

Blondie flipped the folder open and frowned at the contents. “Patient records? Isn’t this a violation of privacy?”

“They’re all old, and dead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I like history,” Bilba lied. The upper floor had been shut down for decades following a fire, and it was only recently that the hospital had started renovating it. Whatever the construction had awakened must have predated the fire, or been killed by it. It narrowed her search down a little but, given the place was one of the oldest operating asylums in the country, it was still looking for a needle in a haystack.

Blondie frowned. “Haven’t they ever heard of digitizing?”

Bilba wholeheartedly agreed. Her life would be so much easier if someone had thought to transfer the paper files to electronic media and added a search function. As it was, she was left to scour boxes of crumbling, records with next to nothing to go on. Later, she’d head out to see what she could find about the four teen victims but, until this, it was doing her best to not die from pure boredom.

Blondie pointed at the folders she’d separated out into smaller piles. “What are those?”

Bilba studied him for a few seconds and then leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Figure it out yourself.

That should keep him busy for a bit and give her time to continue her own research.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you treating me like an irritating child right now?”

Bilba shrugged. “Are you acting like one right now?”  

He grumbled something unflattering under his breath, before dragging some of the records she’d organized over to start flipping through. He finished surprisingly quickly and moved onto the other group. Once he was through them, he leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “You’ve separated them based on whether or not they died at the hospital. You also appear to have some interest in any record of violence, either done by them or to them.”

Bilba scowled. “You’re not allowed to be smart.”

He crossed his arms, which caused his biceps to bulge in a way that almost derailed her brain again. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Bilba crossed her own arms to mock—mimic him, and glared at him. “You’re not allowed to be pretty, and funny, and smart, get it? You can have one, maybe two, but not all three.”

This time, he pursed his lips and looked away for a second to poorly hide a smile. When he looked back, his face was sober, but his eyes still showed clear amusement. “You’re in luck.” He spread his arms out to encompass the common room. “If I had any intelligence at all I wouldn’t have ended up here, would I?”

There was a hint of bitterness in his voice that Bilba found relatable. The life of a hunter hadn’t exactly been what she’d wanted, but sometimes life chose for you and there was nothing you could do about it.

“You weren’t stupid,” she said, surprising herself. “You were resourceful. You’re lucky you weren’t murdered yourself.”

He leaned forward, eyes suddenly alight with some unknown emotion. “You see there?” he said. “That’s the second time you’ve acted like you know something about me, about my case.”

Bilba rolled her eyes. “You’re reaching.”

“I’m not.” His voice was intense, and it really shouldn’t be giving her butterflies in her stomach, but there it was.

Bilba bit back a sigh and reluctantly admitted the truth. She was wildly attracted to him and didn’t see it calming down anytime soon.

“You asked about what I saw in the sewers.”

“Curiosity,” Bilba said, her tone bored.

He shook his head. “No. You asked if I saw anything unusual, out of the ordinary, and when I described those puddles you didn’t seem surprised.”

“You’re basing this off my not being surprised by their being giant piles of disgusting in the sewers?” Bilba asked, incredulously. Blondie was like a bloodhound on a scent for heaven’s sake.

“And now, today,” he continued, ignoring her, “you say I’m lucky I didn’t die along with my father. Why?”

“Because it’s common sense,” Bilba said sharply, irritation setting in at his refusal to just let it go. “Someone knocked you out, tied you up and murdered your father. I doubt they were planning to pat you on the head and let you go afterward.”

“I don’t believe you,” he challenged.” What do you—"

He cut off as Bilba got to her feet and gathered up the folders. “I get it. You’re stuck here, and it sucks, but grasping at straws isn’t going to help. You’re making something out of nothing. You need to let it go.”

The light in his eyes dimmed, and Bilba wished the sight didn’t send a shard right through her. It went against everything she was and believed in. She existed to help people, not hurt them.

Problem was, she’d already hurt him. She’d given him hope, or some semblance of it, when there was none to be had. It was already over for him. She couldn’t save him because there was no longer anything to save him from.

“If you did know something, would you tell me?”

Bilba sighed in exasperation. She curled her fingers into the manilla folders she held until they crumpled under the pressure and then went and stood over him where he sat.  

“What good would it do?” she asked quietly, looking down at him. “I can’t help you. Nothing I know, or don’t know, can help you, do you understand? There’s no magic password, no key that’s going to open the gates and let you out. I can’t help you.”

“At least tell me I’m not crazy.”

The words were low, and edged in exhaustion, and despair.

Bilba hesitated, and then shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

He frowned. “For what?”

For not being here, Bilba thought. For not being able to save you, for a whole host of things that weren’t her fault but that she’d carry the guilt for anyway.

She shook her head again and left him sitting behind her.  

It was better this way, she told herself firmly.

Better to kill the hope now before it had a chance to grow any further.

He’d been lost long before she ever arrived, and there was nothing she or anyone else could do about it.

 ***

Fili skipped dinner.

He just…couldn’t do it somedays. Every day, it was the same. Same clothes, the same food, same useless therapy sessions where no one believed a word he had to say. The same white walls, the same people, and the knowledge that no matter what he did or said…it would never change.

Not unless he was suddenly declared competent to stand trial, and then he’d be sent to prison to start it all over again, just in a different place.

He wasn’t insane, but the endless repetitiveness might well drive him to it one day. There were days he couldn’t bear to stand at the window, looking out at the world he’d been locked away from, picturing his family and friends going about their lives while his was just…stopped.

Permanently.

He wandered the halls, trying not to think of what he’d lost. People had described him as dedicated, driven. Busy. There had been scholarships. College. A bright future with a career he’d been looking forward to.

A fiancée.

All of it gone in the blink of an eye.

It made him want to scream sometimes, in anger, in desperation.

In despair.

Fili rounded a corner and stopped with a frown as he realized he didn’t know where he was. In front of him, the hall was lined on both sides by doors into what he assumed were offices. He swore under his breath. Patients weren’t allowed in staff areas without permission. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to get here without being seen.

He started to backpedal, hoping to get back without being caught. He’d just rounded the corner when, behind him, a loud explosion rang out. Instinctively, Fili dropped to a crouch, heart racing in his chest.

He spun around and leaned forward onto his hands to peer around the corner.

At the far end of the hall, one of the office doors appeared to have exploded from within, showering the hall with bits of broken wood and debris.

He heard a low groan, and a dark shape he’d dismissed as part of the debris moved against the opposite wall. It resolved itself into a person, pushing up shakily onto their hands and knees.

Dark hair and a slim figure registered, and recognition hit.

Celeste.

She was wearing jeans, a dark t-shirt and a leather jacket. She pushed up to her knees, swaying in place, and Fili’s eyes went back to the door. Had it exploded as she’d passed it?

He got to his feet, and started to go to her, only to slow as a large figure stepped into the doorway of the office. Fili vaguely recognized him as one of the doctors at the hospital, an older, graying man with a formidable presence. Fili had never interacted with him personally but had heard from others that he had a reputation for being hardnosed and no nonsense. He wasn’t the most well-liked doctor, but he was apparently well respected.

As he watched, the man strode across the narrow hall, yanked Celeste up and completely off her feet as if she weighed nothing and began to strangle her.

“Hey!” Fili broke into a run toward the two.

The doctor’s face turned toward him, and Fili froze mid-stride without making the conscious choice to do so, as if some primal force had yanked him to a stop.

The doctor’s face was…wrong. An ashen, sickly gray with dark splotches as if mold had started to grow on his skin. His eyes were a dull white, no pupil or iris visible, and he had some sort of thick, black liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

Without warning, he released Celeste. She dropped to her hands and knees, gasping for air.

The doctor made a strangely jerky turn and stumbled back into his office. Behind him, Celeste struggled to her feet, only to immediately buckle again and start to fall again.

Snapped out of his paralysis, Fili lunged forward the last few feet and barely managed to catch her before she slammed into the laminate tiles. This close he could see wood chips and dust coating her body and several small scrapes dotting her skin where it was exposed. He looked at the shattered door incredulously. Had she been thrown through it?

“Help me up,” she mumbled, words slurred. “I have to--”

She grabbed onto him, struggling to get back up. Her eyes were unfocused, and her legs kept buckling so much that Fili ended up dragging her arm around his neck and sliding his around her waist to support her.

He looked into the office, just in time to see the doctor open a window and, without so much as a second of hesitation, leap out.

Fili gaped, and a chill ran over him. He didn’t remember taking stairs in his wanderings, but he knew that offices were on the upper floors of the building. Fourth and fifth at least.

Celeste struggled to get out of his grasp, but he held her easily and lowered her to the floor as her legs gave out. “It’s too late,” he told her. “There’s no way he survived that.”

Celeste swore, her words slurred. Then her eyes suddenly rolled back in her head and she slumped in his arms, head lolling back against his shoulder.

Footsteps pounded along the hall and several staff members rounded the corner before skidding to a stop. Fili saw their eyes dart to him, Celeste and the broken door and a sinking feeling settled in.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said weakly.

He could see they didn’t believe him, just like they hadn’t believed him the last time. Cold washed over him as he realized that he was most likely about to be falsely accused of murder.

Again.

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765585/chapters/54399856

[firsthopemedia]

Wall Street, October 1929 FIRST HOPE FINANCIAL http://firsthope.biz Claud Cockburn, writing for the "Times of London" from New-York, described the irrational exuberance that gripped the nation just prior to the Great Depression. As Europe wallowed in post-war malaise, America seemed to have discovered a new economy, the secret of uninterrupted growth and prosperity, the fount of transforming technology: "The atmosphere of the great boom was savagely exciting, but there were times when a person with my European background felt alarmingly lonely. He would have liked to believe, as these people believed, in the eternal upswing of the big bull market or else to meet just one person with whom he might discuss some general doubts without being regarded as an imbecile or a person of deliberately evil intent - some kind of anarchist, perhaps." The greatest analysts with the most impeccable credentials and track records failed to predict the forthcoming crash and the unprecedented economic depression that followed it. Irving Fisher, a preeminent economist, who, according to his biographer-son, Irving Norton Fisher, lost the equivalent of $140 million in today's money in the crash, made a series of soothing predictions. On October 22 he uttered these avuncular statements: "Quotations have not caught up with real values as yet ... (There is) no cause for a slump ... The market has not been inflated but merely readjusted..." Even as the market convulsed on Black Thursday, October 24, 1929 and on Black Tuesday, October 29 - the New York Times wrote: "Rally at close cheers brokers, bankers optimistic". In an editorial on October 26, it blasted rabid speculators and compliant analysts: "We shall hear considerably less in the future of those newly invented conceptions of finance which revised the principles of political economy with a view solely to fitting the stock market's vagaries.'' But it ended thus: "(The Federal Reserve has) insured the soundness of the business situation when the speculative markets went on the rocks.'' Compare this to Alan Greenspan Congressional testimony this summer: "While bubbles that burst are scarcely benign, the consequences need not be catastrophic for the economy ... (The Depression was brought on by) ensuing failures of policy." Investors, their equity leveraged with bank and broker loans, crowded into stocks of exciting "new technologies", such as the radio and mass electrification. The bull market - especially in issues of public utilities - was fueled by "mergers, new groupings, combinations and good earnings" and by corporate purchasing for "employee stock funds". Cautionary voices - such as Paul Warburg, the influential banker, Roger Babson, the "Prophet of Loss" and Alexander Noyes, the eternal Cassandra from the New York Times - were derided. The number of brokerage accounts doubled between March 1927 and March 1929. When the market corrected by 8 percent between March 18-27 - following a Fed induced credit crunch and a series of mysterious closed-door sessions of the Fed's board - bankers rushed in. The New York Times reported: "Responsible bankers agree that stocks should now be supported, having reached a level that makes them attractive.'' By August, the market was up 35 percent on its March lows. But it reached a peak on September 3 and it was downhill since then. On October 19, five days before "Black Thursday", Business Week published this sanguine prognosis: "Now, of course, the crucial weaknesses of such periods - price inflation, heavy inventories, over-extension of commercial credit - are totally absent. The security market seems to be suffering only an attack of stock indigestion... There is additional reassurance in the fact that, should business show any further signs of fatigue, the banking system is in a good position now to administer any needed credit tonic from its excellent Reserve supply." The crash unfolded gradually. Black Thursday actually ended with an inspiring rally. Friday and Saturday - trading ceased only on Sundays - witnessed an upswing followed by mild profit taking. The market dropped 12.8 percent on Monday, with Winston Churchill watching from the visitors' gallery - incurring a loss of $10-14 billion. The Wall Street Journal warned naive investors: "Many are looking for technical corrective reactions from time to time, but do not expect these to disturb the upward trend for any prolonged period." The market plummeted another 11.7 percent the next day - though trading ended with an impressive rally from the lows. October 31 was a good day with a "vigorous, buoyant rally from bell to bell". Even Rockefeller joined the myriad buyers. Shares soared. It seemed that the worst was over. The New York Times was optimistic: "It is thought that stocks will become stabilized at their actual worth levels, some higher and some lower than the present ones, and that the selling prices will be guided in the immediate future by the worth of each particular security, based on its dividend record, earnings ability and prospects. Little is heard in Wall Street these days about 'putting stocks up." But it was not long before irate customers began blaming their stupendous losses on advice they received from their brokers. Alec Wilder, a songwriter in New York in 1929, interviewed by Stud Terkel in "Hard Times" four decades later, described this typical exchange with his money manager: "I knew something was terribly wrong because I heard bellboys, everybody, talking about the stock market. About six weeks before the Wall Street Crash, I persuaded my mother in Rochester to let me talk to our family adviser. I wanted to sell stock which had been left me by my father. He got very sentimental: 'Oh your father wouldn't have liked you to do that.' He was so persuasive, I said O.K. I could have sold it for $160,000. Four years later, I sold it for $4,000." Exhausted and numb from days of hectic trading and back office operations, the brokerage houses pressured the stock exchange to declare a two day trading holiday. Exchanges around North America followed suit. At first, the Fed refused to reduce the discount rate. "(There) was no change in financial conditions which the board thought called for its action." - though it did inject liquidity into the money market by purchasing government bonds. Then, it partially succumbed and reduced the New York discount rate, which, curiously, was 1 percent above the other Fed districts - by 1 percent. This was too little and too late. The market never recovered after November 1. Despite further reductions in the discount rate to 4 percent, it shed a whopping 89 percent in nominal terms when it hit bottom three years later. Everyone was duped. The rich were impoverished overnight. Small time margin traders - the forerunners of today's day traders - lost their shirts and much else besides. The New York Times: "Yesterday's market crash was one which largely affected rich men, institutions, investment trusts and others who participate in the market on a broad and intelligent scale. It was not the margin traders who were caught in the rush to sell, but the rich men of the country who are able to swing blocks of 5,000, 10,000, up to 100,000 shares of high-priced stocks. They went overboard with no more consideration than the little trader who was swept out on the first day of the market's upheaval, whose prices, even at their lowest of last Thursday, now look high by comparison ... To most of those who have been in the market it is all the more awe-inspiring because their financial history is limited to bull markets." Overseas - mainly European - selling was an important factor. Some conspiracy theorists, such as Webster Tarpley in his "British Financial Warfare", supported by contemporary reporting by the likes of "The Economist", went as far as writing: "When this Wall Street Bubble had reached gargantuan proportions in the autumn of 1929, (Lord) Montagu Norman (governor of the Bank of England 1920-1944) sharply (upped) the British bank rate, repatriating British hot money, and pulling the rug out from under the Wall Street speculators, thus deliberately and consciously imploding the US markets. This caused a violent depression in the United States and some other countries, with the collapse of financial markets and the contraction of production and employment. In 1929, Norman engineered a collapse by puncturing the bubble." The crash was, in large part, a reaction to a sharp reversal, starting in 1928, of the reflationary, "cheap money", policies of the Fed intended, as Adolph Miller of the Fed's Board of Governors told a Senate committee, "to bring down money rates, the call rate among them, because of the international importance the call rate had come to acquire. The purpose was to start an outflow of gold - to reverse the previous inflow of gold into this country (back to Britain)." But the Fed had already lost control of the speculative rush. The crash of 1929 was not without its Enrons and World.com's. Clarence Hatry and his associates admitted to forging the accounts of their investment group to show a fake net worth of $24 million British pounds - rather than the true picture of 19 billion in liabilities. This led to forced liquidation of Wall Street positions by harried British financiers. The collapse of Middle West Utilities, run by the energy tycoon, Samuel Insull, exposed a web of offshore holding companies whose only purpose was to hide losses and disguise leverage. The former president of NYSE, Richard Whitney was arrested for larceny. Analysts and commentators thought of the stock exchange as decoupled from the real economy. Only one tenth of the population was invested - compared to 40 percent today. "The World" wrote, with more than a bit of Schadenfreude: "The country has not suffered a catastrophe ... The American people ... has been gambling largely with the surplus of its astonishing prosper

[starkerisendgame]

so I just learned TODAY that RDJ was trained in classical ballet, and we all know Tom was too, so what about a rom howney au where rob is a principal dancer and tom is a freshly promoted coryphee (member of the corps de ballet that gets a solo because they're particularly talented) and he gets to work with rob and he's starstruck because rob is a LEGEND and rob thinks he's so adorable skskjjdjhfjk sorry i just really love ballerina!aus

Alright! After fucken weeks of research and delving into more ballet porn than I’d ever presumed to watch, I finally managed to fulfil this. Once again, two parter. Because you all keep requesting detailed prompts and I fucking love it and have no self control.

Also; Robert is a principle dancer/premier ballerino but also largely a teaching figure. I don’t know, I’m just so attracted to the fact that Robert is undoubtedly a role model/leader figure to everyone he meets and I couldn’t resist the fact that such a status is basically an open invite into D/s porn.

I’m so used to Starker there may be the odd slip up between names. Idk, slap me. Or not, I’ll enjoy it.

[P.2][Promo + Moodboards]

Robert had first heard of Tom Holland when he was gorging himself on wine and glazed fruits, laughing with his colleagues and friends about some reminisced story of humour. Their table was one of high honour, central to the floor and surrounded by others of similar status, and the words reached his ears from a table of prima ballerina’s to their left, voices flush with wine and loud to his senses.

“Did you see the boy, Aly? So cute! He is so small, but he moves like the water already. I am glad for my age and to be female; he will be stealing the stage soon enough”.

“You’re just soft, Lola. He’s ten; we will be old and reduced to back-dancers and teachers by the time anything comes of him. If anything comes of him. Our world is more cut-throat than even a butcher house”.

It intrigued him, but only in the general way that life and its instances did. Talk of young dancers was aplenty and everyone believed their little cousin or their younger sibling had the promise of a premier ballerino. By the time he donned his coat and staggered for his awaiting car, still flushed with laughter and clinging to Chris, the name was forgotten.

But it had risen like a ghost several times after, in the coming years. Like Robert himself the boy was a prodigy, talented and charismatic in a way that set him apart in a world so full of prospects. Your dancing meant nothing if you did it with the blank face of a corpse.

Robert had never seen the boy dance personally, but somewhere after his twenty-fifth birthday, when the boy was fifteen and blooming into a reputation, Chris shoved a phone under his nose and demanded he watched the footage.It was crisp, taken on a professional camera and was of a brightly lit studio, the reflection of the tripod and its monitoring figure noticeable in the mirrored walls.

Tom Holland danced in a way not unlike what people described of Robert. Fluid, passionate, emotive, perfect. It was enough to make Robert focus, to watch the elegant way the boy moved from wall to wall, feeling as well as hearing the music. And then it ended, and Robert’s life continued with nothing more than a modicum of respect for the boy chiselled into place.

Until now.

Robert had worked every day since the age of two to carve this place for himself in his chosen world. He had given broken bones, sleepless nights and every shred of his dedication to this career. It had rewarded him in kind; premier ballerino roles in every offer since the age of twenty and even a teaching role at the American School of Ballet; a prestigious and reputable educational dance facility where none other than his own friend now sat on the Board.

It was how the situation - and Tom’s name - had arisen. Robert could deny Chris nothing and only arched a brow when he heard about Chris’ plans for his latest performance. Robert was fresh back from Rome and a week-long performance of The Snow Prince and despite the desperate call for rest, was eager to learn of his next routine.

“The Love Born of Summer? You soppy fuck” Robert remarked, scanning the title of the file that Chris slid across the table to him. He sat back, arching a brow at his friend, who looked abashed. Good. Chris was a terrible romantic, for all his crappy history with lovers. Performances like Giselle and the god-awful Nutcracker were Chris’ favourites.

Robert did quite fine with romantic performances. Ballet was not an individual art, and the close proximity and the intimacy that came with dancing was easy to Robert. It was part of why he was so good at what he did. The fact that most of Chris’ troupe were attractive was simply an easy bonus.

Robert considered it as he stroked at the trimmed lines of his stubble, gaze sliding from Chris to the many art pieces that lined the walls of the office space. The Love Born of Summer was a largely romantic piece; based loosely on several other classics. As per standard, two star-crossed lovers endure a perilous and heartfelt journey into a romantic end.

“The routine isn’t all that different to the first time you performed it. I’ve worked out a few hitches here and there, and I’ve made it more…Dramatic. Intimate. Y’know, since you’re so fond of dancing like you’re fucking” Chris sighed, as though the words pained him despite their amused lilt. Robert could not argue his own statement. After all, what was ballet if not a sensual thing?

And what was romance, if not a sexual thing? At least for him.

“And pray tell, darling. Who am I dance-fucking this time, hm? Is it you and your biceps? I have so missed them around my thighs” Robert purred, eliciting a delightful blush that started at Chris’ ears and dipped all the way beneath the alarmingly low V of his shirt. Chris and Robert didn’t dance together half as often as they used to, with their new responsibilities, but Chris was undoubtedly one of Robert’s favourite dance partners.

Robert oft missed their time together, and here and there a brief touch of longing for their previous intimacy would linger. But Chris’ husband Sebastian was downright delightful and whilst they had their chemistry together, Robert knew that himself and Chris were better suited to a platonic love, couple-y though they might act.

Robert was a lavish lover and he ate life like a sweet dessert, forever roaming in search of new tastes and new experiences. Insatiable, no matter how ‘full’ he felt of his memories. ‘You live life like a dying man’ Chris had once told him, laying naked together in bed in Paris, the rush of their evening performance now a low ember in their veins.

“Actually…And this is the part I expected the real argument to happen…I’m bringing in someone new” Chris breathed out, tentative and braced. Robert’s brow hitched higher in alarm. Chris was a creature of comfort and familiarity. New was not something he delighted in. It was part of why they worked better as friends.

“Pending, of course, your approval. He is my primary choice, but I do have a second prospect. My first pick, however…He’s good. Good enough that he just got accepted as a full time student here. He comes with recommendations from Paris and Greece. Young, but…He reminds me of you”. The last part was said almost wistfully, and Robert was overcome with the urge to flick him between the eyes and say I’m not dead yet, you moron.

“My. Your face is shoved so far into this new one’s ass I almost forgot you prefer to bottom” Robert sighed, rising gracefully to his feet and aiming for the coffee maker. He could feel the heat of Chris’ blush from across the room. During their time together they had shared the positions, neither too strict on preference. With Sebastian, however, Chris was exclusively the bottom. Robert had asked about it once, seated on their couch with Jeremy snug between his thighs and half-snoring, the group drunk on dark red and bourbon.

Sebastian had simply smiled slyly and lounged back, thighs falling apart to reveal the sizeable bulge at his pelvis. Robert had mocked and coaxed and eventually Sebastian had stood, striding over and unbuckling his belt to push Robert’s cheek to the firm flesh there, howling with laughter at his sputtering. Chris had been the same colour as the wine by the time his boyfriend had returned to his seat, and Sebastian had forever been nicknamed Pony in honour of the beast between his legs.

“Spit out the name, then” Robert coaxed, before Chris could lecture him on biding his tongue. It was wasted breath anyway; Robert’s silver tongue and sense of humour was practically the baseline of his entire personality.

“Tom Holland” Chris replied, voice distant as he opened the file and begun to pour over it, already back to business. It was why Chris was on the Board and Robert was merely an honorary teacher. Robert nearly poured the coffee over his hand and not into his cup at the name, frowning as he turned.

“Isn’t he like…Fifteen?” He questioned, head tilting as he lifted the hot liquid to his lips with a soft sound of approval. He liked his coffee as black as his sins, with just enough sugar to chase away the bitter taste. Chris looked up, appearing perplexed.

“He’s eighteen. He’s ten years your minor” Chris pointed out, and Robert wrinkled his nose. He was no stranger to working with children; some as young as aged six. But such a young partner for a romantic piece? It settled oddly on his bones and he cocked his head further. His youngest partner for a romantic piece had been twenty-three, a snarky Russian girl who danced like it was a fight to the death.

“He’s young” Chris agreed, leaning back and crossing his arms thoughtfully. “But hes good, Tony. When I said he reminds me of you…This boy went to Greece at fourteen with the Troupe de Ballet. He’s toured America at sixteen. I’ve seen him dance in person. It’s…An art. Truly. I know he’s young, but his style…He’s made for it. And you two? Together? It would be iconic. An undeniably beautiful act”.

Chris had that look in his eye, as though he were seeing the answer to life. It quelled any argument that Robert might have had, little though it was. Chris was so passionate about his work, about ballet. And when he set his respects to a certain person; Robert was all but helpless to agree. And so he did, sipping his coffee and looking thoughtful for a moment.

“I will watch him dance. If I feel like we will work…We will work” he agreed, lifting his coffee up and to safety when Chris rushed him for a hug, tight and loving. The force of it lifted Robert to his toes and he wrapped an arm low at Chris’ waist for balance, thumb stroking the corded muscle that lay over his hip.

“The things I do for you” he sighed, as though put upon, but his smile was too broad too be contained.

Tom Holland arrived the following Monday, the hallways of the school alive with vibrant speculation and chatter about the new-comer. ‘He’s prettier than any girl’ he heard one boy say, striding down the hallway with a friend. ‘I’ve heard that he’s going to be world-famous soon, and that he’s almost as good as Sir Robert’ squealed a girl, lacing her pumps so tight that his own ankle twinged in sympathy.

Robert had elected not to research the boy, in order to have a fresh opinion. He vaguely recalled the odd snippets he had seen. From what he remembered the boy was rather small, but lithe. Dark hair. Brown, perhaps. Or a dirty blonde? He remembered elegance and passion in his movements, but no specific details.

He had commanded that the boy perform in room A:13, a very specific location, for it was conjoined to a secret viewing room. Robert had converted it himself, utilising an old storeroom and its neighbouring closet to create a double-mirrored set up that allowed for secret observation. Robert liked to watch how people moved when they were unaware they were being watched.

Chris had admitted the boy had no idea that he was doing a performance yet, or that he was working with Robert. Potentially, Robert had reminded him. He had slipped inside the hidden room whilst Chris had gone to fetch the kid, and was scrolling mindlessly through his phone when he heard the door snick open, the echoing footfalls in the studio.

He looked up.

The boy was slender, somewhere between tall and short. It was hard to tell, really, when his only comparison was how he looked besides Chris, who towered above almost every man. Lithe and with a practised grace. He stepped lightly, twirling this way and that as he looked around the room. Robert tried not to look, really, but it was impossible to miss the slender calves, the supple thighs. The ass that curved out, lavish and thick, like a girls’.

And his face. Even from afar, Robert could see the beauty. The smooth cheeks and the browbone. The line of his jaw and the milkiness of his skin, all topped with a thick, generous mop of neatly brushed curls. The boy was talking to Chris, too quiet to hear, but pleasant, by the look on Chris’ face. After a short conversation, Chris stepped away, back through the doors, and the boy was alone.

Chris entered besides Robert as the boy sunk to the floor, liquid in his fluidity. He begun to stretch his legs, and Robert was loathe to turn his gaze away. “I told him to practise alone, first. That I would come back for him in fifteen minutes”. Wise, Robert had to admit. Without prompting, many students left alone would merely pick a perch and play games on their phones. Tom, however….

Tom folded himself in a perfect half, cheek resting on the floor, toes in a pointe. He must’ve done some stretching beforehand, because the flexibility was flawless, easy. It was all Robert could do to turn back, to nod approvingly at Chris. “He seems dedicated” he remarked, leaning against the wall-hold as he watched.

“I’d dare say as much as you” Chris sent back, and Robert gave a wry smile. You got nowhere without dedication, in this profession. Nowhere without blood, sweat and tears. Robert himself had cracked bones and torn skin to show for his skill. He looked back to Tom, who was stood now, using a handrail to balance on one set of toes, the other leg stretched in a perfect vertical to his side. Robert almost lost his breath.

The boy stretched for ten of the fifteen minutes, moving around the studio as easy as breathing, as fluid as water. He was frighteningly flexible, and agile to boot. They watched in silence for the most part, bar the odd murmur of approval from Chris. And then the boy shifted, shedding the tiny, zip-up hoodie that he’d been wearing. It revealed a pale, pink bodysuit, the light grey, tiny shorts that stretched for dear life over..

Robert cleared his throat, and watched as the boy pulled a phone from the hoodie, scrolling quickly. It turned out not be a break, however, but a search for music. The piece was some classical rendition of a pop song, though Robert couldn’t place it. The boy re-set it, and the music paused for a time, long enough for Tom to take position in the middle of the room.

Bowed, of sorts. One leg stretched out behind, arms extended to the side, body arched elegantly, head ducked. He paused there, breathing, taut. And then the music begun and Tom let himself unfold like a spring flower. It amazed Robert, how easily the boy captured attention and compliment. The world was stuffed full of dancers. The list of ballet names endless and overflowing. To stand out was near impossible. These days it relied on where you performed and whom you knew. What strings you could pull.

And yet.

Tom moved as they his body belonged to the music, floating through the room like sound. Robert found himself enthralled, lost as Tom danced. Closer, in snaking patterns. The closer he got, the prettier he became, Robert realised with a sinking lament. Far away beauty became undeniable, clearer. Wide eyes and thick lashes that framed them like kohl. A slender body, lithe with sleek muscle.

Closer, he danced. Spinning in pirouettes and transitioning to graceful tour en l'airs, spine straight and landing with impeccable balance. The boy’s slow, seductive extension into an arabesque left Robert gripping for purchase, hand closing around a riding crop nearby. They were common use in ballet, like spirit meters to a builder.

Chris cast him a sidelong glance, but remained silent.

Closer, closer. The boy sped up as he danced, in time to the crescendo of the music, whipping from position to position, movement to movement. Robert realised belatedly that the boy was heading straight for them, a series of spins and extensions bringing him to them.

The boy twisted gracefully, hitting the railing with perfectly timed momentum grasping the bar with both hands. It brought him face to face with the double sided mirror and the boy paused there, panting for breath with wide, curious eyes. As the boy heaved for air he slowly, slowly tipped his head, staring unknowingly into Robert’s eyes.

Then a trembling hand reached up, slow and cautious, fingertips dancing briefly against the glass, as though touching Robert’s face from the other side. And then he was gone, back to the middle of the room.

Robert tipped his head, watching the boy fall to rest, and thwacked the crop against his calf, nodding once. “I will take him” he announced, turning away from the mirrored wall. Chris hastened to slide past him, striding ahead of him through the corridor to the studio entrance, where he pushed through. The boy was standing, stretching out a leg slowly in a perfect, 180 penché.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Tom. I just had to-” Chris’ voice was cut off by Tom’s startled gasp. Robert could see his eyes were brown, now. Light and like honey. He was devastatingly pretty up close and in person, eyes blown wide and his mouth open, dark pink lips in a pretty, perfect circle.

The boy pitched forwards, balance shot and arms flailing. Robert, already halfway through the door, beat Chris to lunging forwards. He fell to his knees, sliding across the polished floor and wrapping his arms around Tom’s torso as the boy came down. He was vaguely aware that this was some sort of Dirty Dancing shit, but arms closing around a slender, trim waist, he couldn’t care.

The boys palms hit the floor and he went lax in Robert’s grip, head tipping back to look up at him in astonishment. ‘Pretty’ Robert could only think, gazing back at him. He let the boy go slowly, allowing him to slide off his thigh and onto the cool floor. Above them Chris stood gaping, clearly unsure of where to continue.

“You’re - Oh my god. Why are you - You’re Robert Downey Jr” the boy mewled, looking equally delighted and distressed. Robert arched a brow, slow and sarcastic as he shifted, elegantly switching his legs to the side. He became vaguely aware of Chris joining them in sitting on the floor, and spared a moment to be amused by the scenario.

“If we’re going to be working together, you should pay heed to your balance. I’m too old for dramatic Swayze style slides, these days” he quipped, and took pleasure in the way the boy fumbled again, seemingly at a loss for words. He was used to the odd starstruck fan, the whispers and the excitement of the younger dancers. The awe. But this? Losing in ability to simply move in his presence?

“Working…?” The boy wheezed, moving from hands and knees to sit cross-legged before him, fingers wringing nervously in his lap. It was then that Chris got his swing back, casting Robert an accusing glance, as though rendering the boy useless was his motive.

“I…May have no been entirely honest, when I invited you here” Chris admitted, and Robert delighted in a scandalised gasp, feigning horror. Tom gave a brilliant, dazzling grin, glancing at him in delight before looking back at Chris, curiously. “You are here to perform, I didn’t lie about that. But you will be performing a duet. With Robert”.

Tom looked like he might pass out.

“With…But he’s…And I’m just…”

“Extremely talented” Robert cut in, leaning back on his palms. “And I would be honoured to work alongside you”.

Tom’s breath hitched loudly, and for a brief moment Robert was concerned that he had actually swallowed his tongue. But then he wheezed out a breath and Robert relaxed a fraction, lifting a brow. He was used to the minor freak outs of his colleagues. The panic of working alongside an idol, but.

“Keep going, kiddo. You’re doing wonders for my ego” he purred, and watched how the milky, pale skin went a violent shade of pink. Frankly, the kid was a sin personified. Chris had to know this was a bad idea. Robert had no filter and no shame. He had to know this kid ticked all of his boxes.

Or…Perhaps he did, and this was some kind of cruel and unusual punishment for all the stress. Or perhaps this was the promised revenge for that time Robert was convinced that peppermint would make blowjobs more interesting.

“I don’t understand” the boy whispered after a moment, chewing at his lower lip as he looked between them. Robert wanted to draw him in, to smooth the furrow set between his brows. Chris merely offered one of those soft, open smiles.

“I’d like you and Robert to be the two premier ballerinos of my performance at The Royal House of Dance. If you accept, you will star alongside Robert in The Love Born of Summer. You as Peter and Robert as Tony” he explained softly. Tom blew out a deep exhale, eyes still wide. He looked at Robert for a long moment, gaze thoughtful.

“I…I mean, of course. Yes. I accept” the boy rushed out after a moment, leaning forwards in his excitement. Chris beamed, clapping his hands in delight and reaching out to slap Robert on the shoulder. He had his star duet. His beautiful act.

“Amazing! Right! Well, I have some paperwork that I need to sort out, and I need to confirm your names for the venue and the marketing department, so. I’ll let you two sit for a bit. Have a chat, ask questions, that sort of thing. I’d say we’ll be ready to begin practise say…Friday?” He asked, looking between them as he pushed himself to his feet. For all his height, he unfurled with the same poise as any other dancer.

It was Monday today, which gave them three days to settle. Three days for Tom to get antiquated with the school and with Robert. And for the vice versa, though Robert knew his night would likely be taken up with a generous helping of bourbon and his fist.

Tom bid the man a soft goodbye, still all shy smiles and scrunched up in delight. Robert wanted to squeeze him, but he settled for pushing to his feet, suggesting that they talk whilst they stretch out. He expected the boy to protest, to say he was already warned up. He didn’t.

“Yes, Mr. Downey” the boy murmured obligingly, and shifted to his feet, copying Robert in beginning with a simple set of leg extensions. Loathe as he was to admit it, the words sent a tingle down his spine, and he folded over slowly, touching his palms to the floor in the hopes of hiding his reaction.

“Why do you speak funny?” He asked after a moment, and he could see from the corner of his eye the way the boy startled, looking across at him owlishly.

“…Funny?” The boy repeated in confusion, folding over to match the pose.

“Yeah, like, this kind of funny” Robert replied, mimicking the lilt of his voice, the dip in pronunciation, his nose scrunching. Tom giggled across from him, cheeks blaring pink once more.

“That’s…My voice. I’m not American” Tom responded, his voice pitching into a perfect, northern accent, not unlike Robert’s. The older man snorted in amusement as he straightened, and begun to stretch his arms. He resolutely did not face Tom, but the mirror-lined walls made it hard not to see him at all.

“So you can speak a full sentence” he remarked, and delighted in the way the boy curled in on himself shyly, gaze dropping to the floor. God. Adorable.

They talked as they stretched, snippets of conversation and getting to know each other. Tom, as it turned out, was a huge fan of Robert, had been since he was a boy, and he even apologised when Robert quipped about feeling old. He was insufferably sweet.

Chris came back somewhere after an hour, clutching a thin stack of papers in one hand, and a tray of coffee in the other. There was the usual paperwork for now enrolments, and the usual for performances. Safety papers, payment agreements and the like. Robert signed them all with practised ease and an artful flick of his wrist.

Tom read over each sheet carefully, the tip of a tiny, pink tongue caught between his teeth. Chris patiently explained each one, and the process took another hour. By which time Robert was suitably dying of boredom, entertaining himself by prodding Chris now and then.

“Okay. I think I’ve fried your brain enough for today, Tom. You can go ahead and call it quits. I can get this paperwork filed tonight, and you can show up at any time over the next three days. Have a walk around, chat to people, that sort of thing. We’ll begin the real work on Friday, when I’ll introduce you to the performance and my ideas”.

Chris left them from there, parting ways with a firm handshake for Tom and a familiar, tight hug for Robert, leaving the two alone as Tom dipped to one knee, scooping up his hoodie and his phone. Robert lingered for a moment, shuffling where he stood. Tom looked surprised to see him, when he stood, shrugging carefully into his hoodie.

“I’ll be here tomorrow around noon, for practise. If you want a familiar face” Robert offered, extending his hand. Tom looked surprised once more, eyeing his hand carefully before reaching out. In contrast to his, Tom’s hand was tiny. Long, slender fingers, unmarred by callouses. Tom was rather petite in general, Robert noted. Erring more on just under ‘tall’. But he was no more fragile, muscles coiling under his smooth skin.

He had a firm grip, too, and he avoided Robert’s gaze as they shook hands. Robert found it rather endearing, and he left the boy there, spinning on his heel to march steadily out to the parking lot. He needed a drink. And some lube.

Tom found him on the Tuesday. Or rather, Tom did a neat face-plant into his chest, on the Tuesday. Robert had been striding the hallway, heading for his usual studio space when a barrage of red and blue had come from the corner. Robert ha just enough time to lift his phone out of the way, allowing his sternum to take the brunt.

“Oh my Go- Aw, no. Mr. Downey! I’m so sorry!”.

Ah.

“A curious method of greeting people. A British custom, is it?” Robert teased, tucking his phone away as Tom took a step backwards, rubbing at his jaw. The boy huffed a laugh, delicate and high, and Robert took a moment to observe him. He wore royal blue shorts, lined with a bright red. A matching, cropped gym shirt stretched over his chest, though no skin was bared, thanks to the high waist of the shorts.

Tom accompanied him to the studio, tucking up in a corner with his phone and observing as Robert begun to stretch. They talked idly, easily. Tom asked questions about Robert’s career and his ballet past, and in return answered whatever Robert could throw at him, from his preference in herbal teas to his favourite move.

Robert caught the boy staring several times, with a poorly concealed hunger. It was not the same feral expression of lust as most, but a quiet thing. Deep and glittering in those whiskey eyes. Robert was shameless to admit that he stretched for longer than he normally would, folding and bending in exaggerated ways. The boy tracked each movement. It was flattering. Exciting.

“And you’ve no qualms about a romantic performance with a man?” He asked as he dove forwards into a slow handstand. He went into a pointe position and bent one leg steeply, holding his weight. Tom was no less attractive from odd angles, he found.

“I…Should hope not? I mean, it would be rather hypocritical of me, as a gay man, to object to a homosexual romantic performance” Tom pointed out. It was only Robert’s elbows that saved his face from an unfortunate meeting with the floor, and it was his turn to eye the boy in astonishment.

“A valid point” he replied easily, and moved along to question the boy’s preference in music. He couldn’t deny the way his mind whispered, though. Dark and dirty things that he tried hard to ignore, putting extra effort into pushing his body. Contrary to the things his mind brought forwards, he was not a predator. Nor a creep. The boy being gay meant nothing.

Tease though he would, Robert was a man of respect and dignity. He stopped at any sign of discomfort, and his hands never strayed from safe bounds. Close friends excluded, of course. With those and their tolerance of his personality, drink nights oft suffered wandering hands and crude remarks. From all sides.

Tom didn’t ask if it bothered him. He had no need. Robert had been proudly out as a pansexual man since his early days of performing, and had never bothered to hide or diminish his sexuality. He had a preference for men, though his lavish appetite was not limited. He had several remarkable relationships with women in his past, and his love extended to all.

Tom wandered away before Robert begun to dance, reluctantly admitting that he ought to find Chris. He lingered in the doorway, though, half-twisted to watching longingly as Robert settled into his beginning position. Robert met his gaze in the mirror and winked wolfishly, his chuckles drowned by his music as Tom went a fierce shade of red and practically leapt from the room.

Sebastian came strolling in, some three hours later. He carried a takeout bag of food, and a large bottle of water. “There was an honest to God twink in Chris’ office” he announced as he entered, and Robert’s laughter made his landing wonky.

The bag contained a generous helping of beef salad, with a low-fat muffin as dessert, and Robert ate as he listened to Sebastian rave about the tiny, pretty little thing he’d found curled up in Steve’s office chair.

“No boy has any business being that adorable” Sebastian pointed out, and Robert agreed around a hearty mouthful of baked good. They lamented it at some length, comparing poetic on Tom��s eyes and voice and ass before Robert decided practise had been done enough today, and so had gossip.

“Can you even dance with a boner? Is that possible?” Sebastian asked loudly, as they headed for the door, swinging it open to reveal a rather embarrassed and stunned looking Tom on the other side, one hand extended for the door. Robert made no effort to hold back his howl of laughter as Sebastian’s shoulders slumped.

[i-write-sometimes-blog]

My love, My life (Rey x Reader)

Request: I know your probably getting a lot of requests so if u don’t want to do this then I understand but is it possible if u can do a request where the reader proposes to Rey at the end of the ROS battle and a wedding afterwards? Thank you! by anon

Words: 1,214 (I’m really trying to write longer things)

A/N: So, here it is I just wanted to say that I didn’t make an “actual ceremony” because I don’t know how and also didn’t want to involve religion here because there are a lot and I didn’t want to exclude or something so that’s it. It’s so short but hope you like it, it is pure fluff. (I took Ophelia’s dress as reference but white)

You won. It was over. The long fight was finally done, no more battles, no more hiding, no more fear. The Resistance had defeated the First Order, the galaxy was safe.

The battle have been tough and it had cost many lives but it have been worthy. The dark sky lighted up with the colors of the Resistance. 

On your way back home you felt peace for the first time in way too many years. Felt free to live the way you wanted, a chaotic mess of emotions running in your head. People around you were in the same trance you were, it was unbelievable but in a good way, there were people laughing and cheering around, all of them inpatient to celebrate the new big day in history. But even though you were more than happy there was someone inside your head, someone you loved with all your heart. You were yearning to see Rey, she had been inside the Sith temple for too long and all you could do was hoping she was fine.

Soon you were back in Ajan Kloss, the Resistance base, to see the most delight view: the entire Resistance in joy, people greeting each others as the soon as the ships landed, some of them getting their wounds treated but smiling, most of them hugged. You passed through to the dense vegetation just enjoying the odd feeling of victory, then you catched your friends celebrating next to the Millennium Falcon, you saw Finn and Poe hugging tightly and you smile for yourself thinking how much those two loved each other. Chew noticed you and extended his large arms to you as he wrapped them around you, roaring at you.

“It’s good to see you too, Chew” you told him. Then Finn looked at you, he and Poe came to you to hug you as well.

“Y/N” he doubted “I need to tell you something” he said, the look in his face made your heart dropped.

“Okay” you told him

“It’s about Rey” He said “When we were coming back… I felt something…” he tried to explain and it started to hurt as you figured out what he was saying.

“Guys” said Poe as he softly kicked you with his elbow, making you turn your face.

There she was, covered in dust, some bruises in her arms and in her face. She stood there for a moment until she saw you, tears starting to form in her light brown eyes.

“Rey!” you called out rushing towards her. You pulled her into your embrace, you hold her as if you were going to lose her and you felt her strong arms pulling you even closer. Hot tears ran down your face as you buried your face in the curve of her neck inhaling her sweet scent.

Then finally you broke the trance you in to look at her face covered in dust and some blood, tears clearly visible in her soft cheeks.

“I thought you were dead” you murmured her as more tears made their way out.

“I’m fine” she said cupping the side of your face, she lead you to close the distance between your lips in a soft kiss. Enjoying her soft moves your mind drift away to a new life, a life you wanted to share with Rey by your side, and pushed by the euphoria of the moment you decided to ask a risky question.

“Rey, I love you” you said broking the kiss and smiling at her. Rey smiled back at you, a light blush lying in her face while you kept her secure in your arms.“I have never loved another person with as much intensity as I love you” you confessed looking her in the eyes. “Moments ago I thought I had lost you forever and I realized I don’t even want to think about what life would be like without you. So, I found the solution for that”

“And what is it?” asked Rey, a beautiful smile curving her lips.

“Marry me” she gave you a tiny laugh and some tears formed in her eyes.

“Really?” she asked you her face a mix of happiness and unbelief. So you let go out her embrace and got down on your knee holding her hands in yours. Your action attracted the sight of those around you.

“Rey of Jakku” you told her trying to control yourself for crying. “Will you marry me?” 

“Yes, of course” Nodding she answered you and helped you get back on your feet as she pulled you in a passionate yet delicate kiss. The people around you clapped and congratulated you both for this new step in your lives.

******

Months later you found yourself standing next to the love of your life as the priestess recited the ceremonial words. Naboo was the ideal place for the wedding, full of life and color, it warmed your heart seeing how much Rey loved the green planet. Most of the Resistances attended, everyone wanted to join the celebration. 

But you only had eyes for Rey, she looked beyond beautiful in her silky dress, its clear material remembered you the first time you saw her in her usual white clothes, her smooth brown hair undone lying delicately on her shoulders made her pretty features light as she gave you the brightest smile when she said the words “I do”

Then the priestess turned to you with the same question.

“I do” you answered without a second guessing smiling with all you heart at her. The priestess continued then.

“You have kissed a thousand times, maybe more.” she said gently “But today the feeling is new. No longer simply partners in battle and best friends, you have become now wives” the sound of that word filled your entire body with joy. “and can now seal the promise with a kiss”

Taking Rey’s hands you leaned to meet her lips, the priestess was right, it was a whole new feeling, it felt softer than ever, more loving and sweet, the very first kiss as wives.

You heard your friends applauding and cheering, the you broke apart to meet Rey’s gaze, smiling you two walked the aisle with her hand firmly secure in yours.

“May my wife grant me this dance?” Rey told you later that afternoon

“Of course, my sweet wife” smiling you took her hand and followed to the center of the richly decorated room. A soft melody rumbled through the air, you held Rey close to you and moved with the rhythm of the music, keeping your gaze focused on your beautiful wife you remembered the long way from the beginning to this happy moment and it was all worthy, you thought, you would do it again if it means you got to be by Rey’s side.

“Y/N” her sweet voice took you out of your mind.

“Yes?” you asked 

“I love you the most in this entire universe” she told you with her gaze full of genuine love.

“And so do I, Rey” you said giving her a short but sweet kiss as you kept dancing, knowing that you could live a happy life with her and she would now have the family she always wanted.

[dweemeister]

Be Water (2020)

With American professional sports largely sidelined due to the COVID-19 pandemic, ESPN has found itself with few events to air. In response, the network pushed several documentaries to air earlier than scheduled – most notably the ten-part series The Last Dance on the 1998 NBA Finals-winning Chicago Bulls team (the series, controversially, was made in conjunction with Michael Jordan’s production company). Premiering last January at the Sundance Film Festival and later picked up by ESPN as part of its long-running 30 for 30 series of sport stories, Bao Nguyen’s Be Water initially does not seem to fit within the scope of 30 for 30. This is a sanitized documentary on Bruce Lee, the Hong Kong-American martial artist best known for four internationally acclaimed films – The Big Boss (1971), Fist of Fury (1972), The Way of the Dragon (1972), and Enter the Dragon (1973) – completed shortly before his accidental, tragic death. But Be Water treats Lee as a sort of crossover figure: understanding of cinema and television’s power, an admirer of the likes of Muhammad Ali, but a martial arts practitioner first and foremost.

Bruce Lee is someone that I hypothesize many Westerners have heard about. But their knowledge about his martial arts philosophies is probably consigned to motivational quotes posted on social media feeds shorn of context; and it is likely that few have seen any of his films (for the record, of Lee’s films, I have only seen Enter the Dragon in its entirety despite having family members who relish kung fu cinema). Be Water – which relies on interviews (all heard, new and otherwise, off-screen alongside archival footage) with Bruce Lee’s family, friends, and business partners – is an ideal entry point for Bruce Lee novices if the viewer can withstand the film’s nonlinear structure in its opening half-hour. For Lee’s ardent fans, Nguyen’s documentary does not contain revelations of character or career that they are not already familiar with.

Born in San Francisco in 1940 and raised in Hong Kong as a son of a towering figure of Cantonese opera, Lee took roles as a child actor in Hong Kong’s movie industry. When not working in a movie studio or in school, Lee – a self-described “punk… looking for fights,” – led a gang of child delinquents named the Junction Street Eight Tigers. After a ghastly beatdown, his parents suggested he learn martial arts. The sixteen-year-old Bruce studied Wing Chun (“kung fu”/ “gung fu” is a Cantonese umbrella term for Chinese martial arts) with the famed master Ip Man. Ip personally taught less than a dozen students, with Lee his most famous pupil.

Be Water is silent about why Lee joined a street gang and why, as a teenager, he would find the thrill of violence so gratifying. As the son of a wealthy and well-connected father, is there something the young Bruce wanted that could not be provided by wealth or family? A part of his violent childhood stems from the reality (unmentioned by the film) that some of his bullies were English – Hong Kong was a British Overseas Territory (a designation held today by places such as Bermuda, the Falkland Islands, and Gibraltar) from 1841 to 1997. Did his early experience with white racism inform how he would later approach college life and the entertainment industry in the United States? The racism that Lee faced was not exclusive to America, and Nguyen treats Hong Kong like a cultural haven for Lee – even though, for his childhood self, it could be anything but. Hong Kong in the post-World War II years before the British handover was a contradictory place that embodied – as Lee himself would through films – a merger of Western and Eastern values. In Be Water’s first half, the Hong Kong that educated Lee and gave him child actors’ work is present, but not the one that pummeled and haunted him.

Targeted by a Hong Kong triad, Lee’s parents sent him to live with his older sister in San Francisco in 1959. Later that year, he moved to Seattle, started his own martial arts academy (teaching Jun Fan Gung Fu, his own hybrid creation), and enrolled at the University of Washington in 1961. In Seattle, Bruce Lee found friends and students representing a patchwork of America’s diversity, including his future wife Linda Emery. The two married as many states (not including Washington state) kept anti-miscegenation laws, soon deemed unconstitutional by the United States Supreme Court, in their books. In contrast to the portrayal of the Hong Kong of Lee’s childhood and teenage years, Nguyen’s documentary finds its voice as Lee is in America.

Be Water is most fascinating when Lee must contend with racism – something that ESPN, as an entity, has been loath to discuss no matter the sport they cover. When we hear about Lee’s desire to introduce Chinese culture through his martial arts pedagogy, it is juxtaposed with his social awareness and revulsion towards widely-held stereotypes of Asians. Footage of Bruce Lee’s blissful family life and his controlled, masterful physicality is intercut with Fu Manchu-bearded villains from poorly-conceived serial films and Mickey Rooney’s performance as Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961). Through most of Hollywood history, Asian males have been emasculated, “r”-mangling speakers who have never been the center of a film’s attention, embodying a villainous “yellow peril”, and too often portrayed by white actors in yellowface.

While playing the sidekick Kato on ABC’s The Green Hornet, Lee’s insistence to the writers to give the character more dialogue (the capable Kato is a silent character in the early episodes) runs into resistance. After auditioning for the lead of ABC’s Kung Fu, we learn, through an executive’s interview, that Bruce Lee is rejected for David Carradine because of his accent supposedly being too difficult for American audiences to understand. Be Water, showcasing Bruce Lee’s private frustration and the testimonies of his friends and executives about American film and television’s scruples towards Asian actors and characters, draws an unflattering portrait of the past and present Hollywood. Perhaps that racism is not as explicit nowadays, but it persists on American screens small and large. These practices and perceptions that shape the industry push away Asian actors from breaking through in Hollywood; Lee was fortunate enough to have the moral support of Golden Harvest producer Raymond Chow in order to make his career-defining films in Hong Kong (including Lee’s global blockbuster, Enter the Dragon).

Nguyen’s film spends more time on Lee’s film and television career than one might expect from an ESPN-aired product, but the film shares some sporting insight. That we learn of Lee’s sporting and political admiration for the outspoken Cassius Clay (who changed his name to Muhammad Ali after his conversion to Islam) is profound. Lee studied Ali’s mobility through repeatedly watching footage of his bouts, noting how the boxer would move in ways benefitting his fighting style. Some clever intercutting between Lee and Ali displaying their talents in their respective arenas reinforces Be Water’s credentials for sporting interest. One sees their personalities emerge through their athleticism – whether for moviegoers or fans of combat sports.

Bruce Lee’s personality – confident (sometimes to excess) and winsome – attracts the camera’s attention. Whether that camera produces a still photograph, home movies, or commercial film, that star power (a term Lee would bristle at) is evident. It has contributed to his posthumous mythos that the film – made in conjunction with his estate, down to the fact that his daughter, Shannon Lee, narrates her father’s diary entries – sustains. In that respect, Be Water suffers from the same problems that plagued ESPN’s The Last Dance (a great television series, but a poor documentary).

Nguyen, upon reaching moments when he could pull back the curtain’s rungs, elects to preserve that mythos. Lee’s fiery personality – borne from his childhood and the racism he endured in America and Hong Kong – is never examined, along with any of his personal indiscretions. Any introspection that Lee engaged in when he sacrificed his dreams to open martial arts schools across the United States in favor of a film/television career is ignored. Be Water even disregards the differences in cross-Pacific perceptions about Lee – of whom a Hong Kong newspaper once derided as, “the ultimate Mid-Pacific Man”. This may be an American production, but Lee’s Hong Kong years are integral to understanding his appeal and there is not enough effort here to delve into those formative years. Nguyen is on the cusp of remarking on Asian-American belonging – of not being “enough” of one or the other – but leaves that thesis incomplete.

Those who have never had the pleasure of watching Bruce Lee in a film or even in his famous 1965 screen test might want to start with Be Water. For those more knowledgeable in martial arts and/or kung fu cinema, if you do not mind being in Bruce Lee’s magnetic presence – albeit posthumous and through a screen – for 104 minutes, Bao Nguyen’s film is worth seeking. As for myself, fitting into neither of those two categories I have drawn up, this will help me prioritize Bruce Lee’s filmography whenever the opportunities become available to view the rest of his films.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, click here.

[thefederalistfreestyle]

Just over four years ago, a friend messaged me asking if I was free the next day. I hedged. They then clarified that due to a travel scheduling mix-up, they had a spare ticket to Hamilton at the Public. I was then free as of an hour previous.

I'd been excited about the show since I'd first heard about it, since Lin-Manuel Miranda was clearly an extremely talented creator and I'd grown up being interested in revolutionary history (both American and French) and also Alexander Hamilton in particular. On top of being drawn to the themes of both that period of time and Hamilton's life, it was just part of being a New Yorker and having it be local history – hell, during my teen years, I spent one summer in an interactive murder mystery afternoon tea theatre (we couldn't afford dinner) play performed in Schuyler Mansion.

(I was an Anti-Federalist. Sorry, Alex.)

(For what it's worth, I was also the murder victim.)

The Hamilton run at the Public had sold out far too far in advance for me to know what my schedule would be in order to purchase tickets, so I'd resigned myself to not seeing it. But then all of a sudden, there I was, halfway into previews. It turned out that Javi was on that night – his very first night performing the role for an audience. Lin was, by deductive reasoning, somewhere in the house with us. There were no reviews. There were no recordings. It was all completely new.

Two days after walking out of the theater, I created a new tumblr because I feared that the commercial theatre scene might not understand this weird, whip-smart, heart-full show about things that I loved and I wanted to hype it the fuck up as much as I could. I'd been using tumblr for a whole three months (and it would take me about another year to figure out how to use the ask box), but I went full-on white man and acted based on what I wanted to be rather than what I had proof of already having accomplished, all so that I could shout this show to the rooftops and do my small part in getting ground support going.

I honestly also didn't want fans of the show to end up with some whack-ass cutesy fandom name and, well, to the founders go the spoils.

It was clear within a matter of months that this weird musical didn't need my help. But I wanted to keep shouting.

Subject matter aside, it's rare that I've seen a more tightly crafted piece of theatre, with every single note and word and tiny movement and detail of design telling a story with power and clarity, often on multiple levels. It spoiled me for a number of shows that I saw in the following months, with entire bars' worth of wasted lyric space and messy dramaturgy and unrealized potential. The brilliance of all of the artists involved was inspiring to me as a professional.

But as for the story itself: it was a legitimate turning point in my personal journey, accelerating my way around a curve toward my eventual first return to my birth country and the fullness of my own experience as someone from somewhere else. I entered the theater hoping for a good show, and I exited it with something reverberating inside of me in a new and powerful way, some shared frequency discovered.

Hamilton isn't the entirety of musical theatre or of "diverse theatre" (whatever the fuck that means), and nor should it be. I hope to hell that people keep pushing for the Hamilton effect to increase the size of the pie for everyone rather than for it to be a swirling vortex that attracts new resources but sucks them all into itself. I hope that space is held for those whom the show causes pain, whether by reason of inclusion or omission, and that a wider chorus of voices is amplified to sing out.

For me, however, the energy of creation and questions of legacy resonated. And my mind was blown by how simultaneously traditionally inspirationally and yet slyly subversive the show was. The United States of America has none of the creation myths of older peoples or nations. What we have instead is relatively recent politically history that has been mythologized and enshrined as our national civic religion. Hamilton declared that the manifestations of these nationally worshipped figures, whom our streets and schools and cities are named after, are to be found in the faces of people of color and immigrants. Hamilton made it so that you can't worship the flag, as so many like to do, without worshipping these people.

Of course, people's powers of compartmentalization are pretty strong, so there are those whose walls inside are so strong that a popular musical will never be enough to topple them. Or who put themselves in rageful opposition to the show for all of these very reasons. Hamilton isn't going to save a country or the world. But the show has still turned out to be an amazing force, and I do believe that that force pushes for good.

All of which is to say: it's been a joy and privilege to be able to experience this phenomenon with so many of you. While I stay largely hands-off in my larger internet life for the sake of my sanity, it's been amazing to have even just this glancing connection with more people than I ever would have imagined. If I had the time and energy to keep up this unpaid second job that I haven't been able to spin onto my resume yet, I would. But as time has passed, I've been having less and less space for this, and I wanted to bring this leg of this wild ride to an end in a satisfying way.

I'll be working on cleaning up tags and otherwise making this a place that you can come back to get your fix of the first four years of this show's history, through Lin's returning as Hamilton in Puerto Rico. There will be a couple of summary posts as the waves of updates are completed. But the regular postings from MC Publius have reached the end of their run.

So thank you for the past four years. And maybe see you on the other side.