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danfanciesphil · 5 years

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L’Histoire Française (Five Years Later) (NSFW)

Happy Nearly-New Year! This is a gift that I know a lot of you have been waiting for, I really hope it lives up to your expectations. Those of you that read and loved this fic mean a great deal to me, as this one is particularly close to my heart. You deserve a treat, and here it is!

I love you all very much, and here’s to a fab 2019.

Ellen xx

(L’Histoire Française Masterlist)

(TRANSLATION OF THE FRENCH IN THIS CHAPTER)

(Ao3 LINK)

Not Quite The Louvre

June 2022

The restaurant is one Dan has never set foot in, but admired from afar, the way he might admire one of Tyler’s designer suits, or Louise’s newborn - intensely, but with an awareness that it’s very much Not For Him. He walks through the large doors that sit beneath a calligraphic sign reading ‘Gilted’, already deeply concerned about what lies beyond them. From the name, this place promises extravagance, and from the moment Dan steps inside, this is just what it delivers. A wiry, angular woman at a small desk greets him, and immediately summons a young man to take his coat. The young man is wearing a pale green suit jacket, as are all of the other wait staff, which Dan admires for its quirkiness, but is also unnerved by. Is this some new, hipster trend that he’s unaware of? Is he outdated in his plain black suit? Or is it just the restaurant trying to distinguish themselves in some way? As his coat is being dealt with, Dan peers into the dining area, noting a lot of green decoration to match the waiters, including masses of tropical plants spreading their enormous leaves and vines throughout the tables. The walls are a distressed emerald, and plastered in enormous mirrors, which also cover much of the ceiling. Instantly, Dan is gobsmacked by the opulence, and fears for his wallet, which is about to get a pummelling, he can tell.

“Do you have a reservation, Sir?” the angular lady asks, one thin eyebrow arched. Dan tugs on his own boring suit jacket; he gets the distinct impression that she can smell inferiority on him.

“Yes,” Dan replies, cheeks warm. “I think it’s under Lester?”

The woman nods stiffly, then gazes down at her iPad, which has its own pale green cover, and the word ‘Gilted’ etched on in swirly gold. A nice touch, Dan can’t help but think. The woman pauses, then taps the screen, and locks it. She nods to Dan, marginally more amiable now that she knows he’s not some imposter.

“Right this way, Sir.”

She leads him through the maze of tables, of which there seem to be hundreds, scattered across a huge ballroom with vaulted ceilings, and a mezzanine balcony, accessible via an enormous spiralling staircase. Dan swallows, thinking again of his poor bank account, which has no idea of the violent assault headed its way. The woman takes him to a four person table in the centre of the room, underneath a chandelier so large Dan is astounded it can be safe, suspended as it is above his head.

“Enjoy your meal, gentlemen,” the woman says, and Dan nods awkwardly, mumbles a thank you, and sits down.

“Hi,” Dan says as he slides into his seat, and meets the gaze of the person opposite him. “Phil’s going to be late.”

Tyler’s mouth falls open, gasping dramatically. “The scoundrel.”

“He already texted to tell us,” Teddy says, and Dan relaxes a bit. It’s warm in here, not unpleasantly so, but as Dan is already uncomfortable, it feels stifling. He can’t help but think that it would be far easier to relax if Phil were beside him. “So,” Teddy continues, his fingers lacing together on the table in front of him. “Shall we get straight to it?”

Dan freezes, hackles immediately up, sniffing danger misting off of Teddy’s words. He looks between his two friends, trying and failing, as he always does, to decipher the mischievous look in their eyes.

“What?” he asks carefully.

“Well Dan,” Tyler jumps in, suspiciously keen to answer. “I know you’re not one for deep thought, but what do you think the reason might be that your other half might have summoned us here tonight?”

“I hardly think Phil suggesting we all go for dinner counts as a summons,” Dan says, though truthfully, Tyler’s implication stirs the butterflies that have already begun awakening in Dan’s belly.

Teddy’s left hand spreads itself atop Tyler’s, rather obviously. Dan tries not to roll his eyes as Teddy’s fingers waggle, making the large, princess cut diamond on his ring finger sparkle under the chandelier lights.

“Guys,” Dan says in his warning tone, which, granted, is about as terrifying as a guinea pig squeaking. “It’s just a catch-up dinner because you guys are gonna be on your cruise over my birthday next week.”

“Mmhmm,” Teddy says, sipping from his water glass. “In a restaurant expensive enough to bankrupt all four of us with the tasting menu.”

“It’s funny isn’t it,” Tyler muses to the general vicinity, leaning back in his chair. “That what with your parents being on the other side of the world, there’s nobody whose approval Phil could seek if he were inclined to, say... pop the question.”

“Oh, no, Ty,” Teddy says before Dan can object to that loaded statement, patting Tyler’s hand. They share an amused smile. “I’m not sure about that.”

“Oh no?” Tyler asks, theatrically.

“I think if I were Phil,” Teddy says. “In place of his actual guardians, I’d turn to Dan’s closest pals. The people he’s been closest to for most of his adult life, his mentors, his confidantes-”

Dan snorts loudly, and a nearby waiter shoots him a disapproving glare. “Kim and Kanye couldn’t make it, unfortunately.”

“D-list imitations compared to us, darling,” Tyler says, grinning. He’s wearing an irritatingly smug, patronising expression that Dan is very familiar with. “Come on, Dan. The set up is so obvious even you shouldn’t be able to miss it. He’s probably pacing the pavement outside right now, rehearsing his proposal speech.”

“He’s late because he had to supervise detention today,” Dan mutters, though beneath the table, his hands wring the cloth napkin.

Luckily, a waiter approaches then, and Tyler is distracted, demanding the wine list, and a round of nibbles and G & T’s to start them off. Dan turns his attention to his phone while the waiter reels off the various gins available.

From: Dan To: Phil omg please hurry up im about to commit a double homicide x

Ten seconds later, he gets a response.

From: Phil To: Dan no fair. you promised if you ever murdered them that i could help :( im four mins away. steer clear of the silverware. xx

From: Dan To: Phil no promises x

“Darling, I know the etiquette expected from this sort of establishment is a little beyond you, but texting at the dinner table really is terribly rude,” Tyler says, giving him a level glare.

“Sorry,” Dan mutters, though he doesn’t mean it. He pockets his phone reluctantly, noting that the waiter has once again disappeared. “This place is too fancy for me.”

“I must say,” Teddy says, thoughtfully. He’s gazing around at the other patrons, clinking silver cutlery against china dishes, their bleached white teeth clacking against crystal glasses of Merlot. “I was a little surprised at the venue Phil chose to to do this.”

“To do what? Teddy, Phil is not going to-”

“Yes, I thought the same,” Tyler says animatedly, turning to his husband. “That man’s so off-the-wall in every other respect, you’d think he’d have conjured up some extravagant, personalised proposal scene in a lego version of the Eiffel Tower or something ridiculous. Not a restaurant so posh it almost makes me feel uneasy.” He sips water again. “Almost.”

“For God’s sake,” Dan near-snaps, nails pushing into his palms. “Will you stop? It’s just dinner, for God’s sake.”

Something over Dan’s shoulder catches Tyler’s eye, and the smile that spreads over his mouth is somehow both smug and excited. He leans back in his chair, and exchanges a glance with Teddy.

“Uh huh,” Tyler says.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m stupidly late I know,” Phil’s voice says at Dan’s ear. Seconds later, lips are pressed, fleeting and damp, against Dan’s cheek. “Have you already ordered?”

“Just the wine-” Dan starts to say, and then stops short as Phil slips into the chair beside his.

His boyfriend is wearing a suit that Dan has never seen him in before. The jacket is black velvet, with thin, undulating gold thread woven into swirling patterns across the expanse. It’s fitted to his long, lithe body, and hugs his broad shoulders perfectly. Phil’s hair has been trimmed, jaw closely shaven, and a haze of expensive-smelling cologne floats in the air around him. In short, he looks more delicious than anything on the menu, and Dan hasn’t even read it yet.

“Phil, darling, you look so scrumptious that it’s going to be a struggle not to leap across the table and devour you,” Tyler says with a gleeful grin.

Phil laughs politely, scooting his chair in. “Hey, Ty. Teddy. How are you guys?”

Dumbed by the appearance of his boyfriend, who earlier this morning had had to run out of the house without showering to get to work on time, Dan can only stare. He feels underdressed beside this deity. A pale, unworthy companion for someone so beautiful, in a place so beautiful to match. Dan is wearing a suit as well, sure, but it’s just the same one he always wears, black and tight-fitting, possibly a little on the small side, especially noticeable from how it exposes his ankles.

“We’re wonderful, my dear,” Tyler answers for both of them.

“I’ve been trying to get around to finally divorcing him, but he keeps distracting me with blowjobs,” Teddy says in a sigh.

At that moment, a slightly flustered waiter coughs from the end of the table, holding a bottle of expensive-looking red wine. “Y-your Rijoca, gentlemen.”

Tyler claps his hands excitedly. “I’ll do the tasting, garcçon.” He pushes his glass towards the waiter, who pours a drop in.

Whilst Tyler sniffs and sips pretentiously, Dan leans towards Phil as discreetly as he can. “You look absolutely amazing,” Dan says, still dazed. “Should I have dressed up more?”

Phil gives him a warm, fond smile which spreads, like treacle, through Dan’s entire body, until he can feel it in his toes. “Dan, tu es toujours la plus belle personne dans la pièce.”

A bunch of pink, sun-warmed flowers bloom in Dan’s cheeks. “Merci,” he mumbles. “But seriously-”

“The bouquet is divine Phil,” Tyler announces, gesturing for the waiter to fill everyone’s glasses. “Try, try. Is that not simply magnifique?”

Phil takes his glass, thanking the waiter, and sips politely. “Yeah, it’s delicious,” he says. “Well picked.” He turns his attention back to the waiter. “Um, excusé-moi monsieur, nous voudrons un boutéille de champagne aussi, s’il vous plaît.”

“Assurément, monsieur.”

“Oh? Are we celebrating?” Teddy asks in a knowing voice, chin resting atop his interlaced fingers. His eyes glimmer, though it could be the reflection on his superfluous, hipster spectacles.

“We are,” Phil confirms once the waiter has disappeared off. The three of them wait for Phil to continue, but he simply sips Rijoca, and pretends to be intrigued by the décor. Just as Tyler’s big mouth opens, clearly intent on prompting a further explanation, Phil clears his throat loudly, and opens his menu with a flourish. “So! What are we having? French cuisine can be a somewhat hit and miss. Do you think you’ll be alright finding something you like?”

Reluctantly, Dan turns his attention to his own menu, though his heart has started to thump distractingly beneath his shirt. He feels as if he might need to remove his suit jacket soon, or else rivers of sweat will begin pouring out of his sleeves. That might put Phil off whatever it is he has planned. Not that Phil is necessarily planning anything. This could, still, just be a normal, catch-up meal between friends. Where everyone is dressed to the nines for no reason, and champagne is being placed on standby, and the very air itself tastes decadent.

The menu is entirely in French, and despite the lessons he’s been taking for the past three years, and despite Phil’s steady stream of dirty talk and sweet nothings in the language, Dan cannot understand a word in front of him. Then again, even if the menu was in layman’s English, Dan doubts very much that the words would seep into his mushy brain.

“Hmm, what’s cuisses de grenouilles?” Tyler asks, peering at his own menu.

Phil hides a smile behind his wine glass. “Frog’s legs.”

Tyler shuts the menu sharply. “Right, think I’ll stick to the salade.”

“I can never resist a French Onion Soup,” Teddy says with a conspiratorial smile. “Just don’t tell my health-freak husband how much oil and cheese they pour in.”

Tyler immediately begins Googling this on his phone, which starts a quiet, whispered argument on the other side of the table. Phil turns to Dan; there’s no mistaking the hidden twinkle in his eye, unsuccessfully being held back, perhaps until the champagne arrives.

Phil’s eyebrow lifts. “Dan?”

“Y-yes?”

His heart is pounding against his chest, as if it wants to break free and launch itself onto Phil’s plate.

“What are you going to have?” Phil asks, nodding towards his menu. God, he looks phenomenal, Dan can’t help but think. In the low, warm lighting, surrounded by pastel green, Phil is a waterlily in bloom. He puts Monet’s Nympheas to shame, and Dan saw those right up close, too. “Do you need me to translate anything?”

“N-no,” Dan says, mesmerised. He swallows, quietly, and tears his gaze away. Oh, God. Is his entire life about to turn upside down at the sight of one fold of a bended knee? “I’ll just have the, uh,” he casts about the thick ivory page for something vaguely recognisable. “The ratatouille.”

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, frowning. “I think they have galettes. They’re like savoury pancakes. You like pancakes.”

“No, really,” Dan assures him, stomach roiling at the idea of attempting to digest a flappy, doughy pancake right now. He lifts his glass of wine to his lips and pours about half of it down his throat. “I’m in a, uh, tomatoey mood.”

“What a romantic sentiment,” Tyler mutters to Teddy.

“He can treasure it forever,” Teddy replies, luckily too low to be overheard by Phil. Even so, Dan kicks both of them in the shin.

The waiter returns with an ice bucket and champagne, and Phil orders for everyone in his fluent, silken French. Dan is on edge, certain now that he is about to be jumped with some monumental romantic gesture that he is entirely unprepared to deal with. It all feels overwhelming - the glitz, the alcohol, the unrecognisable, expensive food - but he tries to cling to the presence of Phil beside him, safe and comforting even gussied up as he is.

Is this how it always is? Is the proposer supposed to fire the question out of the blue, giving the proposee no time at all to rehearse or prepare? He supposes in all the films he’s seen, the woman is always totally caught off-guard by the sight of her man kneeling before her. Dan’s always been pretty cynical about this however, thinking she must have had some sort of inclination.

Before he can dwell any further, the food arrives amidst casual chatter about jobs and grievances, and Teddy and Tyler’s usual guilt tripping about Dan having “abandoned them to go and live in sin with his French lover.”

“It was three years ago,” Dan says to Teddy. “I think possibly it’s time to forgive me.”

“We should really be angry at Frenchie, of course, for snatching you away,” Tyler says, studying a tomato on his fork with scrutiny. “But who could stay mad at those chiselled features?”

“You do know I’m not actually French, don’t you?” Phil asks, though he’s laughing good-naturedly, playing with the stuffed aubergine on his plate. “And hey, without Dan there I bet it was great that you could have sex in any room of the house, before you moved into your new place, obviously.”

“Never stopped us before,” Teddy mutters and Dan throws a napkin at him.

By the time dessert is over with, the red wine has been drained, and the champagne is finally lifted from the ice bucket, Dan has almost forgotten what he’d been worried about. The wine in Dan’s bloodstream is creating a pleasant, blurred hum around their table. It even makes Tyler’s loud, boisterous chatter just the right side of tolerable.

“So,” Phil says in a louder voice than he has been speaking, and reaches to pluck the unopened champagne from Teddy’s hands. “I have something I’d like to announce.”

Instantly Dan’s heart leaps into his throat. Tyler and Teddy exchange a look loaded with something like ‘here it comes’. Phil turns to Dan, and reaches for his hand. Dan lets him take it, limply, and tries to focus on the words about to come from his boyfriend’s mouth; in the thousand ways he’d imagined Phil might do this, he always knew he’d need to remember everything he said. Phil’s always been a master of language, wielding it like a sword in the hands of a medieval Knight.

“Dan,” Phil says. “There’s a reason I wanted us all to be here tonight.”

Dan takes a deep breath. “O-oh, okay.”

“I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” Phil says, unexpectedly. “There are things I want to ask you, in the future, but that’s not what this is. You should know, by now, that I love you more than anything. I see a future for us, a long and happy future, and that’s why I think we don’t need to be swearing it to one another with rings just yet.”

“I…” Dan frowns, looking towards Teddy and Tyler. Their expressions are unreadable; they look excited, brimming with some secret thing Dan is perplexed by. “Wait, so you’re... not proposing?”

Phil smiles sweetly, and squeezes Dan’s hand. “No.” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a key. There’s a keyring attached, in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On it, Dan can see silver lettering, though he can’t read what it says. “I thought about it. I’m always thinking about it, honestly. Of course I want to be married to you. But before we splash out on a big wedding, I think it’s important for us to get to a place, individually, where we’re happy in ourselves.”

Dan’s heart squeezes. He knows that somewhere in that speech Phil said he loves him. That he wants to be married to him someday, even. But all Dan hones in on is the word ‘individually’. He and Phil have tried individually. It had been, and remains to this day, the worst period of Dan’s life, trying to extricate himself from Phil, after he’d known the touch of him, the closeness. Surely Phil cannot be suggesting they do that again - try some new-age method of spending some time apart to ‘find themselves’ before committing? Phil turns Dan’s hand over then, distracting him, so his palm faces up, and drops the key into it. Bemused, Dan brings it to his face, squinting at the words written on it.

La Cerise Galerie, 234 Lipton Avenue

He recognises the name. It’s a gallery Dan used to like visiting from time to time, smallish, and independent, run by a French couple with a passion for the romantics and the impressionists. Unfortunately, the couple, Madame and Monsieur Cerise, decided to put the gallery on the market a few months ago to go and travel the world on an extended retirement trip. They were clearly wealthy from some unknown source, the gallery just being something they did on the side. Sadly, the pretty mansionette that the gallery was in, with its white, modern, square exterior, and neat gardens, has since remained empty.

“I don’t understand,” Dan says, feeling as if he’s stood on the edge of some tall, sheer cliff in high winds.

“He never was the brightest bulb, Phil,” Tyler says in a stage whisper. “You may need to spell it out for the poor dear.”

“It’s yours, Dan,” Phil says, inexplicably. “I bought it. Well, almost. I’ve had a a little help.” Phil shoots a meaningful look towards Tyler, who lifts his glass, smiling. “You need to sign the deed for it, and I have to finalise some stuff. But it’s yours if you agree, Dan. I picked the key up on my way here. And now I’m giving it to you.”

Dan stands from his chair, making it screech across the wooden floor. He can barely breathe; he knew this suit jacket was too small for him. The key sits weightily in his palm, loaded with all that it represents.

“Phil” Dan says, shaking his head. He wants to hurl the keys across the room. “You can’t do this. This is... mad.” He looks at Tyler, who is wearing a fascinated expression, as if Dan’s reaction is a scene in a teledrama. “Ty... you knew about this?”

The room is rocking violently, side to side beneath Dan’s feet. Tyler nods, sipping wine. “Of course. Phil and I have been in the process of purchasing the place for weeks.”

“But earlier... you were hinting he was gonna propose!”

Teddy laughs then, clearly thoroughly enjoying this crazy scene as much as Tyler. “We had to throw you off the scent, obviously.”

Well, Dan thinks, they sure managed that. Dan feels utterly blindsided by this, can’t even wrap his head around something so absurd. The keys in his hand are dragging him to the floor as the responsibility they drip with mounts. Being a property owner of any description at his age is something far out of Dan’s expectation, let alone the owner of his own gallery. Carefully, as if he’s approaching a wild, skittish deer, Phil places his napkin on the table, and stands too. He holds his hands out to Dan, wary of spooking him.

“Let me explain,” Phil says, or Dan thinks that’s what he says; his heart is pounding so loudly it’s nearly drowning out the words. He takes Phil’s hands anyway, if only to ensure he doesn’t topple over. A few heads have turned towards them from nearby tables, presumably because Dan standing up and clearly on the verge of a panic attack is not the usual spectacle for a place like this. “I want you to be happy, Dan,” Phil is saying, somewhere on the horizon. “I want to see you flourish, and grow. I’m so, so grateful you decided to apply for a TA position five years ago, I truly am. But I know it’s not the path you’d have chosen, if you could.” He pats the keys in Dan’s hand. “This, right here, is what you want. I’m lucky enough to love what I do. All I want is for you to feel the way I do each morning, when you get in to work.”

Glassy-eyed, Dan just stares at Phil. He looks down at the keys in his hand again, and slowly curls his fingers around them, just to feel the cold, slim weight of them, and test out the idea that they belong to him.

“It’s too much,” Dan whispers, trying to remember the asking price painted onto the sun-faded For Sale sign in the front lawn of the gallery. Even with Phil’s additional new research-job at the University in the next town over, he’s can’t be earning enough to afford this. “We can’t afford it.”

“I loaned Phil what he couldn’t reasonably stretch to,” Tyler says then, dropping this snippet of information with far too much nonchalance. “My promotion has given me a salacious new salary. Teddy and I already bought the dream home last year, and had the big wedding. We thought about getting one of those abandoned infants from China shipped over, but on balance, this seemed more of a priority.”

“Tyler, no,” Dan says, coldly. “I don’t want a handout. I’m working full time, and I’m doing the teacher-training course. In a few years I’ll be a qualified English teacher, I don’t need-”

“Your dreams are always worth a shot,” Teddy interrupts, then reaches out, and pops the champagne. “Even if it’s just one shot, with everything you have. Besides, you’ll never persuade Ty out of it. He’s a regular sugar daddy now. Buys his way out of everything. Cooking dinner, doing the dishes, return blowjobs-”

As if to prove this point, Tyler whips out a few banknotes from some pocket in his immaculate suit and throws them into Teddy’s face. “Twenty pounds to shut your cute trap, darling.”

Suddenly exhausted from the overwhelm, Dan sits back down, heavily. Phil follows suit, watching Dan with scrutiny.

“I know it seems like a lot,” Phil says softly, one hand on Dan’s shoulder. “But it seemed… right. I was on my way to the jewellery store to get you some fancy ring, and I drove past the gallery on my way. And I got this feeling in my gut, a familiar feeling that I couldn’t quite place. So I drove on, and then I realised - it’s the same feeling I had when you walked into my classroom that first day. A kind of static buzz, exciting and hopeful. Like all the atoms around me just aligned.”

A lump, huge and insistent, aches in Dan’s throat, making his eyes water. “I won’t be able to repay you. Not for years.”

“I think I speak for Phil and myself when I say that the only repayment we need right now, is for you to give it your best shot,” Tyler says, making Teddy smile at him in that rare, fond, proud way. “Well,” Tyler corrects. “I’m sure Phil wouldn’t mind a grateful blowjob or two as well-”

“He’s right,” Phil interrupts, and Dan raises an eyebrow. “About you not needing to worry about repaying us,” Phil adds quickly, though a smirk has crept onto his face. “You don’t need to decide right now. But I thought we could go and see it after dinner, take a look at least.”

“See it tonight?” Dan asks. His full stomach squeezes and contracts uncomfortably, the ratatouille threatening to make a second appearance. “Um, w-well...”

He looks at Teddy and Tyler, now kissing on the other side of the table. He’s not sure he can take a visit to the potential property of his dreams with them in tow. Phil follows his gaze, then leans towards Dan, smiling.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll tell them seulement nous.”

They walk to the restaurant, floaty and slightly swaying from the champagne Dan had forced himself to knock back in celebration. He’s still incredibly unsure about this whole thing, and feels as if either accepting or rejecting the offer would have equally disastrous consequences. Not even taking into consideration how it would disappoint Phil to refuse the gallery, Dan can barely stand to imagine how, in the weeks and possibly years that followed that refusal, he’d slowly be consumed with regret. Phil had been right, earlier - Dan had never wanted this career path, and has only really stayed on it to be near him. But Phil’s career prospects are changing; he’s spending more and more time at the University, and Dan knows it won’t be long until he goes from Assistant History Researcher, to PhD student, to full-fledged History Professor. And then what will Dan’s excuse be for working in a job he has no passion for, with children that are more inclined to fondly mock him than listen to him as an authoritative figure?

Working as a teacher has always been a horrifying thought for Dan, if he’s honest. The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that he’ll be able to snatch time with Phil, before class and in class and a bunch of times between. The idea of patrolling the school halls without this prospect is not a fun one.

And... he has always wanted this. The cute, perfectly situated, small-town gallery. It’s a dream he’s only told a select few about, not even his parents, who would dismiss it as unrealistic. Perhaps their influence was stronger than Dan thought it had been, because never did he expect to actually get his dream, especially not like this, when he’s so young, and only because Phil’s willing to place so much faith in him.

All of this bubbles around with the champagne in Dan’s tipsy brain, until they’re at the door of the gallery, and Dan realises he hasn’t spoken a word to Phil all the way here. Their hands are joined, swinging gently between them. Now, Dan breaks the hold, reaching into his trouser pocket for the key. He looks at Phil before he inserts it into the lock.

“If I decide I can’t do it,” Dan says in a rush, because Phil has to hear it. “If it’s all too much right now, and I’m not ready… I just want to tell you,” he swallows, determined to find the right words, “nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Nobody has ever even listened to me long enough to understand that I dream about this all the time. I don’t think I really understood how much you must love me until now,” Dan confesses, feeling his eyes sting. “I don’t know if I’m quite able to accept something so…” he flaps his hands at the pale grey door of the gallery, with its frosted windows, and neat, quiet sign. “You know. But oh my God. Thank you for this. That doesn’t even begin to cover it. But thank you.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says with a small, pleased smile. “I know it’s big. And maybe I’m doing everything wrong. Maybe I should have proposed first, I don’t know.” He shrugs, eyes travelling to to the sign on the door. “But I know one day, maybe way in the future, but one day, I’ll look over and see a ring on your finger. I know it would make you happy, if I asked you. But I don’t want that to be... what defines you. I don’t want you to just be my partner, who hates his job. I want you to be your best self, and to commit to me knowing you’ll never yearn for more. No pressure, Dan, really. It’s all reversible. But let’s have one teensy, decadent little explore, try out picking which room you’d display what in. It can just be pretend, for now.”

Dan smiles, marvelling as always at Phil knowing just what to say. “Okay,” he agrees, and opens the door.

September 2022

“What are you doing here?”

Phil laughs, thankfully, and walks over to kiss him. “Nice to see you too, stranger.’

“Sorry,” Dan says against Phil’s mouth, sagging into his embrace. “My nerves are fraught.”

“Good thing I brought this then,” Phil says, leaning back and pulling out a bottle of cold champagne from the large bag in his hand. “To celebrate your Grande Ouverture, Monsieur.”

Dan smiles weakly, though the phrase makes his heart speed up. “God, don’t call it that. It’s just a small party to let people know I’m here.”

Phil nods seriously, but there’s a glinting smile in the depths of his eyes. That smile hasn’t faded for one moment since Dan announced, after just one tour of the gallery’s rooms, empty of everything but promise, that he’s going to do this. Since that night, Dan has thrown himself into getting it ready, procuring artworks, establishing a name for himself as a young curator with a new space, and it’s all led up to this. Tomorrow night, the Cerise Galerie officially opens, under new ownership. It’s currently eleven o’clock, and Dan’s been working tirelessly since 7am. He’s barely been home all week, in fact. Buffy probably doesn’t even recognise him anymore.

“Sure,” Phil says, then pushes the bottle into Dan’s hands. “Open this will you? I’ve got some plastic glasses in here somewhere.”

Dan watches as Phil sets the bag down, pulls out his zig-zag blanket and spreads it over the floor of the main gallery room. It’s a strange thing to do, probably, but Dan is rarely surprised by Phil’s peculiarities anymore. Phil finds glasses, and then produces a few cartons of Chinese food, and Dan falls in love with him all over again. They eat and drink sat on the blanket together, shoes kicked off, shirts unbuttoned, until Dan feels vaguely normal again, and much less like he’s about to burst into a million shards of stress and worry.

“It looks awesome in here,” Phil says, leant back on his hands as he surveys the walls. The frames are all simple wood, so as not to detract from the paintings within. This room shows the work of three artists, all Ethiopian by birth, who paint about their culture, their current lives in England, and their families, respectively. Dan found each artist separately, and has placed their work in one room, to see how their combined cultural experience compliments each other’s work. “You’re really good at this.” Phil lowers his eyes to meet Dan’s, still glinting. “I knew you would be.”

“Thank you,” Dan says, as sincerely as he can manage. He must have thanked Phil a thousand times by now, a hundred thousand, possibly, both verbally and… non-verbally, but he still feels he needs to stress it again. “Most people wouldn’t get an opportunity to even try. Let’s hope I don’t fuck it up.”

Phil frowns. “I don’t think you could, Dan. But you know if it doesn’t work out, it’s not your fault. This is hardly the best economy to be opening an independent gallery in. If it doesn’t take off like we hope…” Phil shrugs. “Then we’ll chalk it up to experience, and a fun adventure, and try again somewhere down the line.”

Dan nods, grateful for his optimistic practicality. Those two things shouldn’t fit together, but somehow Phil makes it work. Just then, Dan’s elbows give out, shoulders and back screaming at him to release the tension, and he flops back onto the blanket, groaning.

“You alright?” Phil asks around a chuckle, nudging Dan with his knee. “Getting old?”

“Everything aches,” Dan complains, eyes falling shut. “The stress of running my own business has aged me before my time.”

“And you haven’t even opened yet,” Phil teases, but starts to gather up the empty Chinese boxes, moving them into an empty carrier bag. “Turn over, Grandad.”

One of Dan’s eyes opens. “What?”

Phil laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges. This is a rather wonderful vantage point, Dan muses to himself. Phil is knelt up, in just black jeans and his white shirt rolled up at each sleeve. His jet black hair is starting to pepper grey at the shaved sides, which Dan adores, and tells him so frequently. He looks like a man, strong and lean, with the piercing blue eyes of a mythical sea creature, and the mischievous smile of an eighteen year old.

“I said, turn over,” Phil repeats, but this time he winks. Dan thinks about refusing, but that’s never normally a good idea if he wants to get through the night un-spanked. And yes, the idea of being bent over Phil’s knee is tempting, but as he’s got to run around an opening-party tomorrow, he probably needs to not be in pain every time he takes a step. So, Dan turns onto his stomach, intrigued already by what Phil has in mind. Phil crawls over to him then, and straddles Dan, sitting on his bum. He smooths his big hands across Dan’s shoulders and begins to squeeze and knead them; Dan is so caught off-guard by the massage that he sinks heavily into the floor, and groans, making Phil laugh again. “Good?”

“So good,” Dan says, practically drooling. “Your fingers are like wonderful knives.”

“Hmm,” Phil says. “I’m hoping that’s a positive thing.”

“Oh, it is.”

Phil keeps kneading him, knuckles working the knots out one by one, then carving pathways either side of his spine. He works Dan’s hips, the dip of his lower back, slots his fingers between Dan’s ribs and rakes over them. It’s sinfully good, and by the time Phil’s hips grind into his bum for the first time, Dan is so hard he can barely think straight.

Phil climbs off of him, and pulls Dan’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn over until he’s laid on his back again. Dan moves fluidly, easily, perfectly happy to be led by Phil’s desire. He learned long ago to trust that despite the teasing and playful build-up, Phil will always get him there in the end. Phil unbuttons Dan’s shirt, then trails his tongue up the exposed strip of skin between the lapels. He pulls the material aside, revealing a nipple, and closes his lips over it, first softly, and then biting down, hard.

Dan gasps, the sting of pain giving way to the instant tingle of blissful relief that follows it. At first, Dan had been more reluctant to experiment with the duality of pleasure and pain that Phil had slowly revealed he enjoyed. But over time, Dan has dipped his toe deeper and deeper into the waters, and discovered, to his shock, that he actually likes it a lot. Now, five years into their sexual relationship, Dan is no longer shy about his desire, and readily admits to Phil, as he found it so hard to do once, that he wants Phil to hurt him, and then kiss him. To tie him up with ropes that chafe, and then lick soft, warm lines up his neck. To bite his thighs hard enough to mark the skin, and then push slick fingers inside of him so gentle and slow that it takes hours to open him up enough.

Phil has removed Dan’s shirt entirely now, and is currently working his trousers off too. Once they’re thrown aside, he settles between Dan’s thighs, hands roaming over the bare skin on show. His fingers pinch Dan’s nipples, coaxing them into taut pebbles. His nails drag down Dan’s sides, leaving thin white lines across the skin in their wake. Dan just breathes shallowly, trying not to wriggle too much, or gasp too loudly, as he’s not been expressly permitted to do anything except lie here, on his back, and let Phil do as he wants.

“Do you know,” Phil says conversationally, as he runs a teasing, light hand over Dan’s erection, concealed beneath his black briefs. “You’re just as gorgeous as the day I met you.”

“Less cocky, I expect,” Dan replies, and Phil slaps him in the thigh for answering, then strokes the spot.

“A bit, perhaps.”

“You’re more gorgeous,” Dan blurts, at which point two spots of pink burst into each of his cheeks. “Maybe it’s the salt and pepper hair. Or just… happiness. You look magnificent, every day.”

Phil’s hands pause for a moment, and he gives Dan a fond, loving smile. “No more talking now,” he says after a moment, and Dan is sort of glad. Who knows what other schmaltzy nonsense might have seeped out if he were allowed to continue. He tips his head back, and sinks into the sensation of Phil’s hands on him again, and then his mouth, against his briefs, light and teasing with his flicking tongue.

“Lift,” Phil instructs, tapping Dan’s hip.

As he raises his bum from the floor, Phil tugs the briefs down, and then all the way off. He trails one finger along the slightly curved line of Dan’s cock, then scoops the pearl of precome on his fingertip, and deposits it into his mouth. He takes Dan’s thighs in each hand then, and pushes them upwards, until Dan’s near bent in half. Practiced at this by now, Dan knows to wrap his own hands around them, and hold himself like this, so he does.

“Bon,” Phil whispers, offhandedly, and presses a kiss to Dan’s left foot.

There’s a pause before anything else happens, and staring up at the ceiling as he is, Dan can’t tell why. If he had to guess, however, he’d say that Phil was in the process of removing his own clothes, and the thought of it makes Dan ache, in the centre of his chest. It’s a struggle not to lift his head, and see the slow reveal of Phil’s naked body with his own two eyes. Eventually, Phil is back, and Dan feels lips against the backs of his thighs, making his cock twitch in anticipation.

“Ne jouir pas,” Phil says, firmly, shortly before taking one of Dan’s balls into his mouth.

He does the same to the other, and right away Dan is not convinced he will be able to follow Phil’s instruction. Phil’s tongue trails down, not going the way Dan expected, and he groans, deep and long, sensing the impending development before it happens. His cock remains untouched and flushed a deep pink, Phil’s mouth moving to areas further south. He licks between Dan’s cheeks in one unbroken line, then places a hand on each, and begins to swirl the tip of that tongue around Dan’s rim.

Dan’s face is hot, and probably bright red. Each movement of Phil’s tongue against him sparks a dozen electric pulses through his whole body, along with that delicious, hot sluice of shame that comes from being so vulnerable, from doing something ‘taboo’. If Dan turns his head to the left, he can see a painting he loved from the moment he set eyes on it, of a wild desert, over which a string of bunting hangs, displaying the Ethiopian flag, and beside it, the Pride flag.

“Fuck,” Dan lets slip as Phil’s tongue inches its way inside him.

He’s relentless at this, and saves it for special occasions because he knows Dan goes mad for it. When he does press his tongue there, he is slow and teasing, and can spend hours at it, driving Dan to the brink of ecstasy, and sometimes over the brink, if Dan is out of practice at staying in control. He highly suspects this might be one of those times.

His hips dance and shift, pushing into the feel of Phil against him, all warm wet mouth, and insistent, flicking tongue. “Fuck, Phil,” Dan moans, breathless. “Y-you’ll have to stop if you don’t want me to-”

Phil’s hand draws back and then lands with a slap on Dan’s right cheek, loud enough that it echoes around the room. He draws back to look at Dan between his thighs, lips slick, cheeks flushed. “Ne jouir pas,” he repeats. “And no talking, either.”

Then he dives back in, leaving Dan struggling and gasping, eyes fixed to the ceiling, trying desperately to think of the most non-arousing objects he can conjure up. A teapot. A wheelbarrow. Phil’s socks on the table. Phil’s tongue against his ass-

“Unngh, God,” Dan groans, and then, miraculously, and awfully, Phil moves away. There’s a smirk twisting his lips, and he reaches for the champagne bottle, taking a cheeky swig. Dan lifts an eyebrow, but dares say nothing.

“Très bon,” Phil says approvingly, then offers him the bottle. Dan shakes his head carefully, sensing a trap, and Phil laughs. “Hey, I brought it for us to share, no tricks.” Still, Dan refuses, too aroused to contemplate trying something as mundane as drinking, and Phil shrugs, setting it down. He’s in only his pants now, Dan notes, which are doing a poor job of concealing how hard he is beneath them. He climbs back on top of Dan, takes both of his wrists in either hand, and pins them above his head, smiling. “If I told you to keep your hands here, would you?”

At once, Dan nods, eagerly.

“Alright,” Phil says, leaning down to give him a slow, explorative kiss. When it’s over, he releases Dan’s wrists, and tilts his hips forwards, pressing their groins together. Even through the fabric of Phil’s underwear, Dan’s eyes roll back at how good it feels, to have some friction against his tortured erection at last. “I’m going to let you fuck me,” Phil says, as if he’s telling Dan he’s bought Buffy more dog food. “And you’re not to move your hands.”

Dan’s eyes widen. There’s absolutely no doubt in his mind that he is not strong enough to achieve this feat, but to say so might mean it won’t happen, so he stays silent. His heart races, watching as Phil finds his suit jacket a few feet away, and rummages in the pocket for a hidden bottle of lubricant. Dan wonders if he’s got any other exciting objects in there, but doesn’t dare ask.

So Dan is forced to watch, silent and unmoving, as Phil tilts up onto his knees above Dan, shucks off his underwear, and reaches between his legs to insert two lube-slicked fingers inside himself. It’s utter torture, and Dan’s eyes sting from how badly he wishes he could reach up and touch, bite, kiss, claim him. But he does none of this, just watching, mind blurred from lust, as the Adonis above him prepares himself for Dan.

“D’accord,” Phil says after what seems like centuries. “Je suis prêt. Ne bougez pas.”

Don’t move. As if that’s even a possibility, Dan thinks as Phil adjusts their positions, and then carefully sinks down onto Dan’s cock. It’s blinding, and consuming, like a meteor dazzling across his vision, obscuring everything else. Burrowing into Phil’s tight, warm body is akin to no other sensation. Dan feels sounds slipping from his mouth, feels tremors undulating through him, and still Phil engulfs him in a slow, steady swallow, until Dan has bottomed out entirely, and Phil is speared on his cock.

“Oh, for the love of fuck, please move,” Dan begs. Maybe it’s because Dan’s been so stressed, or because despite talking aloud, and making demands no less, he hasn’t actually moved his hands from where Phil pinned them. Whatever the reason, Phil does start to move his hips, in small increments at first, shifting up and down, and then gradually increasing the speed. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God.”

It’s when Phil shifts his angle, and then tips his head back to gasp, that Dan can’t help himself. His hands fly out to grab at Phil’s thighs, to feel his hips shift as he moves them. Seconds later, he remembers that this is not allowed. Despite his own flush, and the glassiness of his eyes, Phil is coherent enough to recognise that Dan has broken the rules, and grabs him by the hands, pinning them up above his head again. This time, he holds them there as his hips work, pulling Dan to the precipice of a cliff with each thrust downwards, grinding himself onto Dan’s cock. It’s Phil’s moans that throw him over the edge. It’s the flutter of his eyes, the slackening of his mouth as the tip of Dan’s erection grazes his prostate. He is a corrupted angel, fallen into iniquity, and Dan cannot bear the sight of it. He cries out as he comes, hips pushing himself as far into Phil as he can manage.

As his body slackens, the tremors slowing and stilling, Dan relaxes into the blanket beneath them, shuddering as the aftershocks ebb through him. He looks down; Phil hasn’t come - looks as if he intended to resist all along - and extricates himself from Dan carefully.

“You broke the rules,” Phil says, making Dan’s spent cock twitch again. “You moved your hands.”

Dan’s mouth is dry, but he manages, “I’m sorry.”

“Tu veux me faire jouir?” Phil asks, and Dan’s heart skips a beat, as it always does when Phil talks to him this way. Filthy and unabashed, not even a light flush against his pale skin. Dan nods, emphatically, and Phil’s smile grows wide. “Trente secondes.”

At once, Dan jumps to attention, leaping for Phil’s lap with such enthusiasm that Phil can’t help but laugh. It’s a kind punishment, really, as Phil is well aware by now how much Dan absolutely loves sucking him off. Before Phil, he’d never have dreamed he’d find it so pleasurable, but now he can’t get enough of it. Phil jokes, from time to time, that he’s more at home at floor level than Buffy is.

In the many, many opportunities Phil readily gives him to indulge himself in his favourite activity, Dan has gotten… pretty fucking good at it, if he does say so himself. He knows Phil’s tells, can switch techniques expertly just by listening to the shift in Phil’s breathing. But thirty seconds to make him come is a tall order, particularly as Dan prefers to draw it out.

Nevertheless, he does his best, head bobbing, keeping a tight seal around the girth of him, using one hand to meet his lips as he sinks down. Before he knows it though, Phil is tapping him on the back of the head.

“T-time’s up,” he says, sounding a little breathless himself. In the second that follows, Dan makes a snap decision. He continues sucking, tongue laving at him as he goes. He doesn’t bother wiping the spit that drips from his lips, and doesn’t respond when Phil taps him again, and says, “Dan. That’s thirty seconds- oh, oh merde.”

Dan can feel the give in him, can sense when he decides to just abandon that incredible willpower he has and let Dan pull him off the cliff as well. Phil plummets down into the ocean of bliss beneath, flooding Dan’s mouth with his release, and groaning loudly, his hands tangling in Dan’s hair. He swears several times in French, and then releases Dan, letting him slide off.

Dan sends him a sheepish, but pleased, look as he wipes his chin. “Sorry,” Dan says, and doesn’t mean it for a moment. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Bitte salope,” Phil says, but fondly, teasingly, and reaches his arms out wide, so Dan tackles him to the floor. “I’ll have to punish you again,” Phil says, trailing his fingers through Dan’s curls. “But I guess it can wait until after your big fancy opening.”

“Very gracious of you,” Dan says, laughing, then sighs happily, pressing lips to Phil’s chest. “I needed that. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Phil replies with a giggle. “It’s very taxing for me, obviously. But for you, anything.”

Dan swats him gently. “If you weren’t so hot and great in bed, you’d probably be a right pain.”

“Je t’aime aussi, chaton.”

In the middle of the party, just as Dan is about to grab one of the wait staff he hired and ask him why he’s been having to top up his own wine glass all night, a familiar, loud and obnoxious voice booms out from nearby.

“Mr Howell!”

Even the sound of that name is enough to make Dan shudder. In this environment, he’s simply Dan. He only TA’s at school a few days a week now thanks to PJ’s unwavering support and understanding, so most of the time Dan can forget he’s got an awkward, stern twin personality, charged with looking after a bunch of teenagers. He looks around, trying to place the voice in his mind, and failing.

Then, in the centre of the room, a young man stands between a few curious patrons, their heads turned to find out who is shouting in the midst of all the quiet, appreciative murmuring. Even staring him full in the face, it takes Dan a while to figure out who this person is, familiar though he seems. Then, his brain helpfully removes the heavy beard from the man’s chin, shrinks him down a few feet, and strips away the pyjama-like clothing, dressing him in a school blazer instead.

“Jonah,” Dan breathes, astounded. Before he can think anything more, Jonah Frank is storming over to him, a grin peering out from within the thick, unruly beard. Two impossibly strong arms wrap around him, thumping him on the back. “Oh my God,” Dan says, “what on earth are you doing here?”

“Came to support you, teach!” He releases Dan, jostling him by the arm.

“I hardly recognised you,” Dan admits, still baffled that the brawny but short kid he once chaperoned to Paris and back has somehow morphed into this stoner-dude, with long hair and a full beard. “You look, uh... nice tunic.”

Jonah laughs heartily, plucking a canapé of some kind off a nearby tray and seeming to swallow it whole. “Thanks,” he says, still grinning. “I’m at uni now, innit. Decided to reinvent myself.”

Dan chuckles, but then re-examines what Jonah just said. “Wait, you’re at uni?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Sir!”

“Dan,” Dan says, blushing. “Call me Dan, we’re not in school now.”

“Oh yeah, guess you’re right! Weird.” Jonah is looking around, nodding as if impressed, as he takes in each artwork. “This is pretty decent if you ask me, Sir. I mean, Dan.”

Dan smiles at him. “Thanks, Jonah. It was really sweet of you to come.”

“Aw, don’t be a nonce,” Jonah responds, batting Dan in the shoulder. “You’re the reason I got into uni at all! Well, you and Mr Lester, obviously.”

It’s an absurd thing to say, and Dan has no idea where to begin responding to it, so he catches a waiter’s eye and waggles his glass, indicating he needs more alcohol, stat. “What are you studying?”

Jonah grins, then clears his throat. He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, accenting himself as he says, “L’histoire Francaise!”

Dan’s eyes bulge, and he almost drops his glass when a waiter, appearing at his shoulder, begins to fill it. “Is that… are you actually?”

“I swear,” Jonah says, readily accepting a second glass of wine from the waiter. Instinctively, Dan reaches to pluck it from him again, but Jonah pulls it out of reach. “Oi, I’m eighteen! I just told you I’m at uni, remember? Keep up, Sir.”

“Oh right,” Dan says, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Jonah says. “So, where’s Mr Lester these days, then? I heard he’s not teachin’ at school anymore. Did he come to his senses in the end? Or did you scare ‘im off?”

The lack of tact in that question is so blunt that Dan sincerely hopes Jonah knows this is not the case and is just teasing him. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he does, a voice at his side butts in.

“If Mr Howell and I can survive your meddling Jonah, I think we’ll make it.”

“Ah, there he is!” Jonah cries out, arms thrown around Phil before Dan can blink. “Missed you, Sir. Uni’s got some well shit professors. When you gonna come and teach in the big leagues, eh?”

“Give it a year or two,” Dan says, aiming a loaded look at Jonah. Phil nudges him in the side, but doesn’t contradict the statement.

“Oo-er,” Jonah says, stepping back and draining his wine. “And here I was worryin’ that without me you two’d be lost!”

“Oh we are,” Phil says, smiling. “In an emotional sense.”

Dan nods in agreement, and feels Phil’s arm wind around his waist. “Classroom Nine echoes with Jonah Frank’s timeless words of wisdom… ‘when’s lunch, Sir?’, ‘how come they didn’t just wash a bit in the Middle Ages, Sir?’...”

“‘Stop flirtin’ with your TA, Sir…’” Phil adds, then winks at Dan.

Jonah laughs good-naturedly, and they chat a bit more about his Uni, what he’s studying, how it’s all going. He seems to be enjoying his first year, and not just the partying side of it, either. Dan still doesn’t believe that Jonah is there because of him - for some reason, in his last two years at secondary school, Jonah knuckled down and actually left with a decent set of GCSE’s and an acceptance to a nearby college - but he’s immensely glad that he was there to see it all happen, and in some small way, to help.

“At least now you can say it wasn’t all a huge waste of time,” Phil says once Jonah has excused himself to go and wander round the few other rooms.

Dan looks puzzled. “What wasn’t?”

“Doing the TA thing,” Phil says, nodding in the direction Jonah disappeared. “You successfully transformed the school’s most troubled student into a typical, bong-smoking uni fresher.”

Dan snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, I’m truly a marvel at my unwanted profession.”

“It’s not your profession anymore,” Phil says; he’s got a stupidly lit-up expression on his face, like he’s bursting with something Dan suspects might be akin to pride. “This is what you do. It’s what you’ve always been meant to do.”

“Well, don’t jump the gun just yet,” Dan says, mind back on how many tickets are left at the door, and if he’s going to be able to pay the caterers and still make a profit. “It’s only the first night.”

“Dan, look around,” Phil says gently, and Dan surveys the room he’s stood in, which is crammed with people, all admiring the art, talking and laughing, the wine in their hands flushing their cheeks. “This is a huge success. It’s a fantastic start to a promising career. You’ve done it.”

Dan opens his mouth to argue, but the sight of Teddy and Tyler in the corner, bickering over the meaning of the abstract sculpture Dan had fought some collector for, he closes it again. They’re arguing over what they deem is art. They’re arguing because they see different things within it, and interpret it in separate, personal ways, in just the way art is supposed to prompt people to do. And Dan’s responsible for that argument, he’s responsible for their individual reactions that caused it. He placed that art in front of everyone here, for those reactions to spill out of people’s mouths, even in the form of a snappy retort.

“You know,” Dan says in a low murmur. “I think you might be right.”

Phil leans in and kisses him, excitable and without finesse. “Je t’aime, mon petit propriétaire de la galerie.”

Dan laughs, softly, against him, drawing back just enough to dive into deep, brilliant pools of pure blue. “Moi aussi, mon amour.”

Fin.

#l'histoire française #phan #phanfic #thank you all so much!!#five years later

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meeedeee · 5 years

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Vidding Linkspam May 28, 2019

I make monthly Vidding Linkspam posts on my Dreamwidth blog. Look under the “Linkspam” tag.

Announcements: Vid Recs: Submit Your Favorite Vids http://VidRecs.com Now open. Got Recs?

Announcements: LilacEdits — If you are a video editor on YouTube you can join... If you are a video editor on YouTube you can join my Multifemale collab I just started :)

Announcements: EoV | Elements of Vidding Contest | Round One: Why We Vid Remember that contest I was tweeting about a few weeks ago? Well, it's finally happening! Join now! https://t.co/9i9jK2UBZJ

Announcements: Looking for Vidders : Calling UK/Italian Vidders Looking for Vidders I'm at the early stages of developing a documentary on Vidding. I am looking for UK or Italian based Vidders willing to appear in the documentary and talk about their passion for Vidding. As a former Vidder I want to highlight how it can be entertaining for the audience to see their favourite shows in a new way and also how it offers the artists a chance to be creative as well. Many thanks, Carlotta Montella.

Conventions: FanWorks 2019 Vidding Panels! Vidding Panels at the Fanworks Convention, Aug 2019

Conventions: Looking for vids to Vienna Teng songs! https://fairestcat.dreamwidth.org/660760.html I'm VJing a Vid Show of vids to Vienna Teng songs at FanworksCon in August. I pitched it as "Come Out and Level Up: Narratives of Resistance as sung by Vienna Teng" but I'm taking a very broad definition of "resistance."

Meta: The mentor ship of vidding communities https://twitter.com/redimine/status/1128666188454801408 The mentor ship of vidding communities, either directly or through observation, is one of those things I really like about fandom I just wanted to draw attention to today. Thanks for the help and inspiration throughout the years!

Meta; "Vidding doesn’t have the accessibility of fan art or the group mentality of fan fic https://twitter.com/redimine/status/1131206313390805000 Vidding doesn’t have the accessibility of fan art or the group mentality of fan fic. Vidding asks a lot from it’s participants and, honestly? Unless someone already gravitates towards fan vids it can be incredibly hard to draw other’s interest.

Meta: "Vidding history is fascinating https://twitter.com/redimine/status/1131216530501451776 Vidding history is fascinating; in the begging my foremothers ran collectives because you'd need up to four or more VCRs and who could afford that?! Best to drag your fellow club members into learning how to trick technology into doing what you want.

Meta: vidders who see & hear music as movement & color https://twitter.com/Bonibaru/status/1132780458494910464 Reading it made me think of @Lumi_nation and other fellow vidders who see & hear music as movement & color, hear color as music, and so on. There are many of us. We don’t often talk about it outside of con suites and panels, but we exist in our special little universes

Meta: my youtube is almost to 500 subscribers... https://legalizesupercorp.tumblr.com/post/184993271630/my-youtube-is-almost-to-500-subscri… my youtube is almost to 500 subscribers....I’ve been making videos for like 11-12 years even though I took a break for like 4 years, but I’ve been working really hard, and even though I know that’s not a lot compared to the thousands other people have, but I’m really proud of myself for getting close to the milestone.

Meta: what is the ettiquette...… for making fanvids with fanart? https://skulkingwriter.tumblr.com/post/184443576987/dnd-and-other-mostly-audio-fandoms-wha… what is the ettiquette...… for making fanvids with fanart? What do you do, do you seek out and ask permission from each the artist to use their art in the vid? Is that a thing we do? Or do we assume if it’s online it’s OK and credit at the end? Asking permission seems like the polite thing to do. It also seems… very labour intensive.

Meta: making money from fanvidding is unethical. https://vimesbootstheory.tumblr.com/post/184950631342/hi-hello-making-money-from-fanviddin… #vidding #if I see another commissions post I swom to jon #it's not your goddamn footage

Meta: Vidder Feelings https://redscullyrevival.tumblr.com/post/185061507310/vidder-feelings I’ve got a lot of feelings about fan vids, as I am to have after finishing a project, and how it’s one of the

Meta: vid_bingo | Vidding Chatter https://vid-bingo.dreamwidth.org/3441.html Recently a lot of my DW and twitter feed have been discussing the Plotters vs. Pantsers approach to writing and it made me think about how I approach vidding. Sometimes I plan things out and sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants.

Meta: fail_fandomanon | FFA DW Post 1084 - Explain a canon from a vid/AMV https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/368136.html?thread=2150748168#cmt2150748168 I think we haven't played this game for a while. 1. Someone posts a vid or AMV whether it be accurate ore misleading regarding canon content 2. People who haven't seen the canon watch the video and try to explain what the canon is about

Meta: fail_fandomanon | FFA DW Post 1086 - Explain a canon from a vid/AMV https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/368886.html?thread=2153807862#cmt2153807862 Explain a canon from a vid/AMV Link a vid and others will explain the canon

Meta: Vidding Talk at Wiscon 2019 https://morgandawn.dreamwidth.org/1657257.html There’s nothing stopping fanvids, say, from being nominated for the Best Dramatic Presentation, Short Form at the Hugos. — SamHainPress reporting from Wiscon 2019

Meta: The appeal of fanvids (post from 2007) https://emily-shore.livejournal.com/119154.html?format=light Working on my list of ten desert island vids got me thinking about what it is that I love about vids. For me, an important part of the appeal is the chance that they offer me to see through other people's eyes.

Meta: Humble Opinions on Good Vidding (post from 2007) https://vidding.livejournal.com/1032639.html?format=light In my opinion, to understand how you make a good video, you have to take a step back and not look so much at what people have done but why.

Meta:Understanding Both Halves of Your Audience (post from 2008) https://morgandawn.dreamwidth.org/792472.html I have this idea for a panel...Vidders: Understanding Both Halves of Your Audience. And it would be a vastly over-simplified panel dividing the vidding audience into two "vastly oversimplified and somewhat random but let's just play along" groups: Kinetic Viewers and Narrative Viewers.

Meta: I’m frustrated with a vid project so I’m gonna https://redscullyrevival.tumblr.com/post/184509182140/im-frustrated-with-a-vid-project-so-… I’m frustrated with a vid project so I’m gonna blab to myself even though I’ve got my outline and concept written - maybe I’ll find some vein I’ve yet to tap this time around, I dunno. .....I’m making a ToS Star Trek vid with the concept being three layers of how the women of Star Trek are often times “bad”

Missing — I know this is a really long shot, but did you... https://mollyamory-again.tumblr.com/post/184790779123/i-know-this-is-a-really-long-shot-bu… did you ever happen to see a Pirates of the Caribbean fanvid set to "Walk the Walk" by Poe? I loved it

Technical: Best editing codec working in Lightworks & Windows? https://vidding.dreamwidth.org/390754.html For vidders who work in Windows and use Lightworks to edit, what codec works best for your editing? And what software do you use to convert your various kinds of source files into that desired codec?

Technical: Keeping Track Of Your Source https://teamhousestark.tumblr.com/post/185083799421/fanvideo-makers @ fanvideo makers Especially if your fandom has a shitton of source material (say, eight seasons, lol) how do you remember what episode different things happened in? Have you watched it a ton of times, do you keep a wiki open when making videos, or what?

Technical: The Ultimate Guide to Get Started As A Vidder (from 2016) https://thedailyfandom.com/vidding-ultimate-guide/ We have done plenty of research and added our own experience as vidders to create this super guide to get you started in this wonderful fan activity. This tutorial will help both beginners with no notions of vidding and pro vidders who are looking for some complementary tips and resources.

#vidding #fanvid #fan vid

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softuris · 6 years

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nightmare on neibolt street || epilogue

beverly marsh origin story

bill + mike + richie + ben + eddie + stan

—this chapter includes mature content including blood and a lil violence ! please proceed accordingly—

🌱ART BY @mikeshoneyc0mb !! they worked so hard on the art for this series so give them a follow🌿

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By the age of 16, Beverly Marsh knew better than to continue to believe what doctors have been telling her for years. She had chronic Atopic Dermatitis, AKA eczema. But typically eczema doesn’t make your skin fall off in chunks. Beverly knew better. She was dying from the outside in.

She also knew better than to let anyone at school know. Her scars never faded, but instead got bigger. Scabs grew thicker and her patience got thinner. Long sleeves and jeans were always in style for Beverly.

Besides her condition, Beverly was normal. Her academics never suffered, and she was as social as a butterfly. No one had to know.

It was June 17, 2014 when she made her first visit to Dr. Rogan, a world renowned Dermatology. He promised to fix her, make her feel better. To this day, Beverly tries to forget what took place in that office.

Dr. Rogan was no more than a curious bastard, using Beverly like a lab rat. His tests including pooring chemicals that were unknown to Beverly on her wounds, ripping skin off prematurely, and worst of all, sewing her skin back on.

Her parents stopped sending her to school because, for lack of a better word, they were cowardly; Too scared to ask for help, to report their daughter’s abuse.

Doodling became her hobby, using Dr. Rogan’s pens to draw on her arms and legs, and anywhere to make herself comfortable.

Beverly remained his test subject for 2 years. Side effects such as vomitting, rotting skin, and sore limbs became everyday occurences by the time she was 16. Her face was dark, sunken in, and her limbs bent in unnatural ways. Beverly was dying.

Her parents became restless and unsatisified with Rogan’s work. For this they left Beverly, and moved across the country without her. Beverly was forgetting what loved felt like. She forgot the look of her face, freckles and all, without the large scars and scabs.

Above all, Beverly was naive.

“Am I pretty?” she would ask Rogan.

To that Rogan chuckled. “You’re my creation. Of course you are.”

This always left her perplexed. She wasn’t getting the answer she was asking for. She wanted to be feel better about herself with these visits, but she soon became aware she wasn’t.

Understanding why her parents left took a long time for her to comprehend. She was a monster. Scary. Even Rogan believed so, however he was the only one who claimed she still be beautiful. So she stayed.

“You are beautiful. You are my creation.”

“I made you. You are everything.”

While these words sometimes made her feel better, his abuse always left her empty.

Upon turning 16, Beverly took it upon herself to embrace the horrid: To express herself for what she was; Scary. She spent time at the parks, scaring the children and sometimes adults. However it was never enough. It never sat well.l that this was her. It never sat well that she liked it either.

Her efforts to scare everyone in her path stopped at Rogan. He scared her.

This made her upset. Beverly decided she wasn’t peak until she scared him. Made him uncomfortable. So she began seeking out the perfect plan to terrify her way out of his abuse.

———

“Beverly, darling, are you ready for your new procedure?” Rogan said, stretching the paper over the exam table for Beverly to sit upon.

Beverly nodded.

“Today, we’re going to try sewing you up with—,” Rogan paused, carting a metal cart to his side, “Non-organic matter.”

Beverly swallowed. “Like metal?”

Laughing, Rogan tapped her knee. “No no! Like synthetic fabric, my dear. Patch you up with something that won’t rot.”

He laughed again and suddenly Beverly couldn’t help the smile herself. After all, she hid a surgical knife, she has swiped from the visit, behind her back, firmly clenched in her peeling fist.

Rogan stopped laughing. “Are you ready?”

Beverly was used to the pain, but something about this in the back of her brain told her this would be the last procedure. When Rogan stuck her with the first needle, she immediately giggled. She wasn’t feel especially joyful, just full of emotions that had been repressed since she had first started visiting Dr. Rogan.

With each pluck and pulling of the needle weaving through her skin, she relaxed further, letting the pain completely disapate. Her only focus became her attempt of scaring him.

“Doctor,” Beverly spoke innocently. Her grip on the knife tightened as he looked up at her from his work on her legs.

“What is it?”

She paused. This line, these next few words would be memorable to her. The final boss.

“You might want to start running,” she spoke a little quiter, a big wide smile growing on her face.

“Huh?”

Beverly snapped her arm back around, the knife pointed at Rogan’s neck. Her arm shook as she held eye contact. “I said you better run.”

Eyes wide and fearful, Rogan set the needle and thread on the metal cart beside him, and slowly lift his hands up. “Where did you get that?”

Beverly chuckled menically. “I swiped it from my last procedure,” she hissed, pulling at the thread on the side of her neck until they snapped, letting part of her rotted neck slide out from it’s place like a puzzle piece and her head tilted from the unevenness.

“Fuck.”

“You made me the shoes....” she hissed. “I might as well step into them”

“What the fuck is that suppose to mean?” Rogan growled through gritted teeth.

“Fucking. Run.”

Rogan kicked out his legs, letting the swivel stool he sat on to carry him towards the door swiftly. In one sharp movement, Beverly slips off the exam table and starts toward Rogan, who is fumbling with the door handle.

“Scared, Doctor?” Beverly chuckles, holding the knife with furvor.

With shaking hands Rogan opens the door, and begins running through the halls of the empty hospital office. What had he done? What had he created?

Looking back over his shoulder Beverly is chasing him, her hospital gown billowing behind her with each step of her scarred bare feet. His heart was pounding, but he knew where he’d go: The front desk. It has a lock, and if he’s able to get there with time to spare he’ll be safe to grab a scissors to defend himself.

“Where you going, Doc?” Beverly sings behind him, menically. “Hm?”

He approaches the door and all but bursts through, slamming the door on Beverly before she is able to get to him. Throwing himself against the desk, he searches the desk for scissors, an envelope opener, staple remover, anything. His heart begins to slow when his fingers find a pair of green scissors but is quickly changed when he hears Beverly laughter from behind the door.

“Can’t hide forever, yeah. This is what you wanted, ahah. You did this to yourself,” she growled, pressing her ear to the door to listen for sounds of escape. “You scared yet, Doc?”

Adrenaline was coursing through Rogan. In his mind, his creation was betraying him. With sheer force, Rogan kicks down the office door just barely missing Beverly. He swings his weapon at her like an eagle, for her to swing forward as well nicking his forearm heftily. Rogan side steps away from a wall, awaiting her next strike on for her to kick right between his legs. With a loud groan, Rogan falls to the floor.

“Should’ve stayed runnin’,” she smiled, leaning over a defenseless Rogan.

Im an attempt to discuss the situation, Rogan lifts his arm, only for Beverly to pine it back to the ground, her body hovering his like a vicious wolf. “You won’t take anything else from me,” she hisses, before smiling aggresively. With quick hands, Rogan pulls at the stitches on her arm with haste, loosening the support between arm and torso. “No! No no!” she screams, scrunching her face up in anger. “You fucker!”

Rogan grabs hold of her loose arm then, and completley tears it from her torso. With a harsh inhale of air, Beverly falls to the floor beside the man she hunted seconds earlier.

“You shit!” he shouts, kicking her weak body away from his own. He sits against the hospital wall, desperately covering the large gash in his arm. Blood spills between his fingers as he sucks in another breath. He then decided to finish it. Destroy his creation. Destroy this—

Brat.

With hasty arms and rapid breaths, Rogan grabs hold of the scissors once in his hand, and staggers toward Beverly. Her rotted arm lays feet away from her, and her face is sunken in more than usual. His hurtful eyes, Rogan begins crying.

Beverly knows he doesn’t feel sympathy for her. Only his creation.

Bullshit.

As much as she wants to teach him a lesson, there isn’t anything she can do anymore. Slowly, she presses her eyes shut, bracing for the impending strike of her dcotor’s hands.

But then she doesn’t feel it, and instead hears a groan and a body falling in front of hers. Gently, she opens her eyes and see’s a boy. He is a muscular black boy, probably around her age, with eyes redder than her hair. In his hands, his mouth is bloody before he swipes his sleeve across his face. He wore a black cloak, black slacks, and white collared shirt. He was chilling, frightening, and though her heart was pounding from her encounter with Rogan, she was scared. Even then, she could tell this stranger was like her.

“Can you move?” he asked, holding a hand out to her.

Beverly just stared up at him, tears beginning to form in her own eyes.

The boy swallowed. His eyes found her arm beside her, and picked it up gently. “Is this yours?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Can you move?” he asked again, holding a hand out, and keeping the arm in his other hand. Reaching back out to him, Beverly shuddered. His hands were cold as ice, but something about him was warm. “I’m Mike,” he smiled, with teeth whiter than snow.

“Beverly.”

“Let’s get you out of here, Beverly.”

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taglist: @svsoftie @umm-whatthefuck @sadgayascendingbears @gothicbyers @strangerthanyou011 @m-m-m-max @mxckshit @hannarudick @finnyboywolfhard @sedanleystanley @heyspacecadett @tiny-tea @noahschnapp @eyeroll-uris @sophie-needs-help @jxckandrson @pigeondust

#.nightmare on neibolt street #.my writing #.beverly marsh #.losers club #halloween au #it series #it halloween au

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quartusbellum-blog · 5 years

Photo

SARA for the role of REGULUS BLACK using the faceclaim NICOLE MAINES.

I am very excited about your portrayal of this character! Not only have you given life to the plots hinted at in the skeleton, but you’ve threaded new layers of meaning into Regulus’ story. I can’t wait to see them explored on the dash!

ooc details

Name: Sara

Age: im a fandom grandparent

Pronouns: they/them

Activity Level: I’m around every day and enjoy making a mess of things in game

Other: No triggers though my character might end up triggering others. I’ll make sure to tag.

Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that the themes of this game may include triggering elements. I also acknowledge that my character may be harmed, coerced, or even killed (with player’s consent) during paras/events or may cause harm to or kill others during paras/events. Yep here4themess

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general ic details

Name: Regulus Arcturus Black

Age: 19 | January 23rd

Ships: Regulus is rather aromantic in manner so a romantic is unlikely. Even still, I’d be happy to try any ships, any nonromantic ships etc. Warning: please read the whole app prior to seeking a ship with Regulus given that any sort of romantic/nonromantic/sexual ship might contain triggering experiences.

TBH my dream ships are probably more found family/family oriented… polyamorous with an asexual asshole who is a little skew?

Gender/Pronouns: publicly Regulus is still he/him but there will be a blending and fucking up of pronouns as Regulus explores and comprehends her gender (likely ultimate ending but nonbinary is also possible). This is different then how i sometimes write trans characters because in this game one aspect of her narrative will be the concept of growing up and understanding she can be who she wants to be. Even if Regulus knew from a young age (which not all trans people do), Regulus would have innately rejected the idea because of the pride his mother has(d) in having the two heirs at a cost. This became even more pressing when Sirius left his role as heir and it landed to Regulus–suddenly Regulus’ choices shrank even more. Its only in death that she has started to comprehend that there are choices now.

So pronouns will be flying ALL THE WAYS but mostly reflecting how the character is presenting EXTERNALLY to others. FC will remain static but may not be used all the time due to the lack of stable presentation.

For this app He/Him were used exclusively as up until perhaps the past year Regulus presented exclusively as he/him.

Headcanon for transitioning Attisgalli Corrective Draught.

Face Claim: please provide two face claim options.

Nicole Maines

჻ ჻ ჻ ჻

bio questions

Please note, while this game is “canon” up until the start of the Wizarding War it does not stay canon and it’s quite divergent at the start of the game.

biography:

The Black Family is too old of a family line not to have gotten… muddled (never muddied) in the past. It shows on the family tree in little notations (a dark red swirl like an ink blot on their shoulder for vampire) or in burn-marks where a person used to be (for scum of the earth traitor). Sometimes, Regulus’ mother sniffed when explaining this, certain family members couldn’t do what needed to be done.

A little pruning never hurt anyone–not any more then a little cultivating did.

Regulus and Sirius Black might have been half brothers but that was simply the most prudent action their parents could take to make absolutely certain the bloodline continued. Sure, children that shared both parents blood would have been ideal but with Druella only providing girls and Orion not providing any… Walburga Black was always very good at problem solving. Perhaps the only problem she failed to solve was her eldest son Sirius–or maybe she almost fixed it with Regulus.

If Sirius Black was loud and brash and bright–Regulus was the opposite. He was a late talker and when he did start talking it was almost always a last mumbled as a last resort. It wasn’t that Regulus wasn’t intelligent but that he struggled to organize his thoughts and provide them to others–something that continued through childhood, through Hogwarts, and beyond. He preferred chess and finding patterns within potions, charms, and even Quidditch to social obligations.

Prone to being misunderstood when he did attempt to make friends (he wasn’t threatening that girl, he was warning her so she wouldn’t be hurt), Regulus over values any and all friends or family he has. As such, any disowning, death, or friendship breakup has been taken incredibly personally. Its no excuse, and Regulus knows that now more then ever, but the need for connection and purpose helped drive his passion for Voldemort. Regulus believed in what Voldemort was fighting, becoming a Death Eater would provide a structure that Regulus knew he would need outside of Hogwarts while learning how to manage the Black family vaults and investments, and there was a social aspect, too.

For all that Regulus was good at strategy and understanding how seemingly fragmented pieces of information fit together: he was too slow to understand what Voldemort’s real goals were and what they ultimately meant for his family (and the wizarding world, but his family, of course, was paramount). Regulus Black never woke up one day and started believing muggleborns were ‘okay’ or that his innate belief system was wrong. He woke up one day and realized that the few people he cared about were in danger in a way they did not, could not, understand.

The vampire blood was easy to get, although he hardly thought it would work. He had long since been in the habit of visiting Narcissa and feeding the prisoner James Potter. Adding a fail safe into James’ layers of memory charms was not easy but necessary. Most likely, even with the blood, even with over a month of planning, Regulus was certain he was going to die.

Which he did. It just didn’t stick.

It’s been almost a year since then and Regulus isn’t sure if it was the potion, the vampire blood, the way he died, or if he’s finally just turning into his mother’s child in ways he never wanted to–but Regulus Black can’t seem to get a grip on his emotions, or his tongue, the way he used to. In some ways, though, its a relief–like finally being able to peel off an ill-fitting skin for something new.

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my character is:

Please Provide the Following

A Belief that is Wrong

Please Describe a Belief your character has that is wrong. It can be something we, as players, know is wrong (ex. prejudice against werewolves ). Alternatively: How is your character lying to themselves (and how is is it shown externally).

Regulus has always had something about organization and if he thinks about it too much even he would have to acknowledge that it’s a lie. But Regulus generally doesn’t pay that much attention to the reality surrounding these habits, only the relief it brings him. His clothes are always pressed–even in his closet of a space with the Radical Alliance. The robes are cleaned, and charmed pressed, and hunt up in a very specific order. His bed is exactly one inch from the left wall. The trunk he keeps things in is under the bed and must not touch any of the posts or the wall. He keeps things perfectly separated inside the trunk. He counted the flur de lis on the carpet between his and Sirius’ bedrooms over and over and over again as a child. He can tell anyone how many panes of glass are in the windows at Hogwarts and even differentiate between wings of the castle. These habits (because, of course, that’s all they are, all they will ever be) didn’t start out so all encompassing but as Regulus grew up, as life became more complicated, choices too limited, finding ways to control it (even illogical ones) seemed to be the only answer.

If things are clean enough. If things are the right number. If he stops counting at the right moment, if he taps the right pattern : everything will be fine. There’s arithmancy in everything, he tells himself, because life has always been more bearable when he believes it to be true.

Job

Is Regulus Black Doing Anything? He isn’t sure, really. Certainly he doesn’t have a job–he’s never worked a traditional job a day in his life! He’s no longer a Death Eater. Can he continue to look after his family’s finances if he is, in a sense, dead?

Does he want to be alive? –Regulus wonders this sometimes, believing it not to be any sort of suicidal ideation but a simple, obvious question. Should he be alive? The answer is no.

Does he want to be–he doesn’t know.

As far as anyone knows (particularly Remus but also Marcus and Narcissa), Regulus Black has no job and is doing nothing but trying to pour his scrambled eggs of brain and impulse control back into some semblance of viability. Underneath that, Regulus Black is trying to pour his scrambled eggs of brain and impulse control back into some semblance of viability…and remember just what his next steps were supposed to be regarding the horcrux.

ooc questions

Writing Sample:

He’s at the stairs. Not the grand stars at the front of the house that fork and twist along the side of the foyer–but the back stairs. Servants stairs his mother would hiss if she saw them except none of their family have ever employed household staff.

House elves are bad enough, his mother says in his ear and Regulus jerks, expecting to feel her breath on his cheek but–nothing. Its nothing.

“I’ve food for the prisoner.” He says but its pointless because no one is listening. No one has been listening since Peter Pettigrew. Since Dumbledore. Since James. It is a mistake but they haven’t realized it yet.

He’s stood too long, frozen above the narrow staircase with a silver tray. Someone will see you–the thought hisses through his mind and Regulus knows, suddenly, with a clarity he’s been lacking: its not real. It’s not a part of this. A dream? The idea s fleeting and wilts under a brush of light as the curtains behind him are pulled open.

“Then go ahead, darling.” Narcissa says.

The memory jerks, skitters, speeds up.

“I’ve food for the prisoner.” He says. “I’ve food for–”

Regulus is down stairs and the food is gone, shoved to the side. The lip of the tray is pressed into his ankle but Regulus ignores it because–James.

“Listen to me,” Regulus is saying. It’s strange, like none of this is real because he can’t feel any of it. The words fall from his mouth because where is his tongue? His wand is tight in his left hand, the swirls carved into its handle cutting into his palm. He should smell blood, he thinks.

There’s nothing, though. The room is bleary with weak autumn light from a small window about ten feet above them. There’s a bed but James isn’t allowed to use it. He’s on the floor. Regulus is on the floor. No, he’s straddling James–James can’t move during this or else–or else.

James tenses under him and Regulus grabs a fist full of James’ fraying robes. “This is serious.” The robes are too tattered to bruise when Regulus’ jerks them. He can’t strangle James (and wouldn’t even if it would be a mercy)

“Why should I?” James, the fucker–it had been a month and he still had that smirk except there’s blood at the corner and this time (not the first time) Regulus can feel his stomach growl at the sight of it.

“It’s important.” Regulus has his wand pressed at James’ temple and his mouth brushes James’ cheek when he leans in to whisper. “You’ll thank me later.”

Regulus Black has never been good at mind magic.

When Regulus wakes up, he tastes salt water and bile.

Exploration:

Please share three things you’d like to explore. This could be a character changing sides, darker themes, or basic fiction tropes.

Family Lines: I think this game provides a particularly interesting set of circumstances regarding possible family lines. First there’s Narcissa and her condition–how did that happen? Possibly Regulus, trying to manage his life post cave and fucking up again ( or maybe it was a blessing?) I like to headcanon that maybe Alphard was a vampire and thats where the blood came from (open to other options). Speaking of, how has Walburga doing? And then there’s, of course, Sirius and all the brother’s baggage which is made even more complicated as (if this set up is accepted) Regulus sort of used Sirius’ best friend as a last will and testament–not that James remembers it yet. Last, … does Regulus even count as a live anymore and if not who has inherited ?

A Family Curse: The Black family has never exactly been known for its cool head and steady hands but Regulus, for all his somewhat muffled anxieties, has mostly stood out as awkward but not particularly memorable. In fact, it’s safe to say without his last name (and grades) Regulus probably wouldn’t have gotten much notice at all. That has largely changed now, although Regulus has trouble pin pointing why and how. There are a lot of factors, many of which no one else knows, and Regulus should care about that. He should be highly concerned–but those concerns evaporate before he can even generate a game plan to consider addressing it. Most seem to assume that its just Regulus taking after his mother. TLDR I’m interested in seeing what information he drops (likely not entirely clearly) without thinking it through and how the changes in demeanor and method impact both those who grew up with Regulus Black and those who didn’t. Don’t worry about wangst, I’m much more interested in throwing weird or intense tings at others then have Regulus mope.

Choices mixed in with all of that, Regulus has found himself well and truly on his own about making choices for the first time in his life. Sure, Remus might have ideas on what he should do, and Sirius, and Marcus, and Narcissa—but all of them have different goals, different expectations of what Regulus could do and in the end, Regulus doesn’t have to do anything. At the onset the only thing he does know is that he must do something about the horcrux…but how? When, where, and why? I want to see how different interactions with various characters might influence those choices and how Regulus handles managing his own reigns ow for better or for worse.

Gender: its so easy to boil gender and trans experience into one narrative but so often things are far…messier then that. Regulus is a character who hasn’t felt the ability to think overly hard (or pursue if he has thought of it) alternatives to gender even if the Wix Community at large is accepting (people turn into frogs, after all). This game provides a unique chance to explore gender through the lense of a character who is learning and failing and not overly confident (or overly feminine) but genuine in that (at least) if nothing else. Also, does being a vampire effect Attisgalli Corrective Draught?

Extras:

Anything else you’d like to provide?

#quartusbellumaccept #marauders roleplay #lsprg #hp skeleton #hprp

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neutralasneutralcanbe · 5 years

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Puzzle pieces

The world is like a puzzle.

Pieces slot in together in orderly disorder, chaotic links between people and objects and places and creatures until all that can be seen is a woven tapestry

of pieces all slotting perfectly together.

One tug of one piece can pull the entire structure down,

but even as it falls it is reforming, mid air,

spinning and turning and linking, fitting in,

finding belonging.

The worlds edges chafe against mine.

My puzzle piece juts out, just slightly wrong, from my eyes (too much eye contact, too intense, like im seeking to understand a soul instead of listen, that I want to be so present that I work myself into the tilt of people's heads and the way their mouths move with words and emotions) to my hands (twisting, turning, a piece of thread, a necklace, a charm, wiggling through the air in abject happiness and excitement, energy bunching up in the gaps between wrist bones and under fingernails begging to be released in a flush of flapping movement) to my feet (rocking rocking rocking constantly back and forth, tapping over cobblestones in a pattern that settles the rolling waves in my head, directing the energy down into happy hands that trace the insides of pockets, spinning and jumping as the energy spreads through veins and lights up my being) and the world sees it. The world takes it in, tapestry hung just out of reach as I jump for it, too twisted up with gazing, bemused eyes (naivety too childish, constant movement too jarring, scrutiny too exhausting, too rigid and too soft).

But that's alright.

My own woven blanket lies here down with me, twisted together of the things that I love, friends and family that look into the twirling being of strange energy, and smile instead of frown. The things i have laid claim to, the books that quiet the storm in my head, the music that reaches into my bones and releases the rippling energy, the magic that I pour myself into, surrendering what I can to it's calm.

It may not look like much from up there, but from down here it is all I could ever hope for. The breeze through my hair, laughter ringing through my ears and my chest, energy beneath my fingernails as I wind the thread ever tighter and dig them into seams in pockets. The soft escape of movement and calm that wind together and burst apart.

Even twisted puzzle pieces have their home.

#poetry #written word #autism

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writeanapocalae · 6 years

Text

Jotober Day 22: Wood That Holds Memories

WARNING! This contains the murder of children. It was highly inspired by Haunter and The Orphanage so it contains ghosts and bones and possession issues.

She’d done everything. Everything that she could think of, to appease them. She’d worn the clothes, played the games, gone through the things that they would have done in their lives. Nothing made them happy. She’d spoken to them but only Abigail would respond to her and even then it was hard to understand through her broken English and broken jaw. She hadn’t learned much about what to do, how to get them to leave her alone.

She was trapped in the house, with them, and they were not kind. She didn’t know when she had last slept but she did notice that if she was alone for more than a minute she would find herself waking as a door slammed or their young laughter flooded the halls or a wad of paper hit her in the face. She didn’t know when she’d last eaten either, surviving off of canned fish and pickled vegetables as all of the fresh food rotted and molded before her eyes. She felt older, as if they were affected her as well, as if she was aging too fast, running in the direction to join them.

She touched the pendant that the priest had given her when he’d heard she was moving into this house, wrapped around her neck on a leather cord. It didn’t look like something a priest should have, a small humanoid shape made of wood and wrapped in colored thread to make skin tone and clothes. She was certain that it was to protect her, though they were still plaguing her. She couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be to not wear it.

She made her way through the house, lighting the candles, the same way she had the last three nights, not knowing what she could do differently than she had been. There was no electricity in the house anymore and the water that came out of the taps was thick and slimy. She was filthy and there was blood on her palms and knees from where she’d fallen in their games, in their chases, in her attempts to make them all happy.

“Bns,” was what Abigail had said, “Fn’m. Bns.” but she didn’t know what that meant at all.

She looked at the clock. The face had been shattered but the old hands were still moving. It was almost midnight, almost time. She didn’t know what she was planning to do to keep them entertained through the night, though she did find a pile of children’s books in a trunk in the attic. She could read those to them at least.

She picked up a book which must have been out of print since well before she was born. It had a series of beds on the cover. It was meant to help children go to sleep. She leafed through it without enthusiasm, unsure if the book would even interest the spirits. But then there was an illustration, towards the back, of switch being pulled, of a secret entrance, leading down and down into darkness.

She dropped the book and checked the time again. She still had three minutes. It wasn’t much.

She grabbed a candle and sprinted down the hall, her legs feeling like toothpicks, ready to shatter from the pressure, from the constant pacing and preparations. She slid down the turn and hit the wall with her bruised hip but kept going, not letting herself fall. She could reach the closet. She could make it there, before the children came for her.

She’d seen it on her first day in the house but hadn’t thought much of it. She’d completely forgotten about it when the house claimed her, only a few weeks later. It was such a minor detail.

She threw the door open, hearing the pitter patter of little feet on the stairs, coming down, ready for her. She could hear their laughter, their gossip, though they only ever talked about people that had died before.

She pushed the clothes to the side. There was no lever, no secret lock, but there was a trapdoor under her feet.

She heard her name being called, could hear the children start their search for her. She closed the door.

“I’m hiding!” she called out to them, forcing her voice to be chipper, “See if you can find me!”

That got all of them excited, their little voices erupting in giggles and shouts. They all loved hide and seek. It didn’t get her closer to her goal, but it got them to not stare directly at her for some time and now, it would give her at least a few minutes.

There was no handle and she had to dig her own nails into the groove between the wood, scraping her knuckles raw in order to get any form of grip. She lifted it and it slipped but she shoved her foot into the crack. She opened it the rest of the way and found an old rickety staircase going down into a secret basement.

Lighting her way with the candle, she took the steps carefully, closing the trapdoor as quietly as she could behind her. It didn’t look like much, just a boiler room, but it was in a terrible place for one. There were the bones of dead rats in spaces, a boiler that she knew need to be replaced, the fuse box, and a door on one wall, which had a small glass window set in it. Next to the door was a hook and on that hook was a ring with a single key on it.

She glanced through the window but there was mildew growing over it, making it hard to see through. She could make out a shape on the opposite wall, some form of furniture.

She unlocked the door.

Everything went silent. The sing song search of the children was gone and she hadn’t even realized that she could hear it. Cold air hit her from the room, making the quiet seem alien and terrible. It felt like the house had sighed and was no holding its breath. The flame didn’t flicker, didn’t move, just sat still on the wick. The wax didn’t dare fall.

She stepped into the room.

The thing against the wall was a bed, the bare mattress yellow and black from rot and mold, bowed terribly. There was a stain on the floor as well as whatever fluids had soaked through the material had pooled on the floor below. There was a bucket to the side, which should have smelled, but there was no smell in this room, just as there was no sound or heat. Not even her breath left condensation. The bucket was covered in black mold, which climbed up the cement wall and branched out like a tree of poison.

The door and the walls around it, were covered in scratch marks, the tiny nails of children, scrambling to get out, screaming and digging and ripping at the wood, unable to get far. There were the left over scraps, pieces of nails torn from the cuticles, littering the floor beneath it.

In the center of the room, asking her to open it, waiting for her, was a large black box. It wasn’t locked. It was just sitting there, just waiting. She didn’t want to open it. This room was evil. The box would be more so.

There were clothes in the box, a few dolls and small toys, all beautifully organized. The clothing had been washed and folded up nicely, stacked one on top of the other. The further down she went the older the clothing was, starting from the nineties and going back to what must have been the 1800’s. There were tears running down her face as she set them down on the floor beside the box, one at a time. The children weren’t coming for her, they wouldn’t enter this room. They would never enter this room again.

Under the clothes were letters, in different hands, and she skimmed a few of them before piecing it all together. They were all suicide notes, all of the father’s of these children, who had dragged them down here and locked them away, knowing their actions and not being able to stop them, wandering the house in a mad panic, wanting to stop, tearing themselves apart as they starved their children to death in the basement. At the end, after the children were no more than skeletons and sinew, they were given back to themselves and they had all taken up the remains, had all added to the box, as if it were some sick tradition, before killing themselves upstairs.

And under the papers were the bones. She was sobbing now, not that she could hear it, her tears adding to the box. She could feel eyes on her as she gathered up the bones in her skirt, the candle set to the side ages ago. She took them all and, when she turned, she saw all of them, standing there, watching her, stoic and quiet, just waiting to see what she was going to do with them all.

“It’s alright,” she said, surprised that her wobbling voice could carry to them. “It’s all going to be alright. I’m going to take care of you.”

@anhathaway @ill-write-when-im-dead@stargeek727@crazybunchwriter@detectivesebcas

#jotober #jotober2018 #inktober #writing inktober #inktober2018 #my writing #horror writing #horror writeblr #suicide #child death #i should write something happy #wrieblr

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kokkoro · 6 years

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you and me (were meant to be) (1/3)

Her name is Clarke and she likes coffee and it takes you half a second to decide you like her.

or the ‘i just met you but there’s this couples contest on campus rn and all my friends are busy and you’re just sitting there reading on the quad, pls the prize is a Technivorm Moccamaster KBT 741 and my coffee machine broke last week and im dying pls i need my coffee’ au

(aka the couples competition au) (on ao3)

If asked you would say you were bribed. Or blackmailed. Something dramatic like that. Except you don’t even like coffee and the last time someone tried to force you to do something you didn’t want to do they ended up with a fist to the face and a bloody nose. What you do like though are pretty blonde girls in loose button-ups and tiny jean shorts and backward snapbacks, so in hindsight there really was no hope for you.

So you say yes, and it's this wobbly cracked thing that stumbles from the tip of your tongue in two pieces that’s only halfway out your mouth by time she’s pulling you to your feet.

“Come on,” she says, urging, her lips halfway to a grin and you’re already lost. “The competition starts in ten and we still haven’t signed up.”

You’re pulled from your spot in front of the library and into the thick of things without warning and she doesn’t let go of your hand in what you assume is a precaution against losing you to the droves of people congregating on the quad. This is what you imagine a stampede to feel like, the cacophony rattling and your breath lodged just below your throat, but you focus on her hand and everything thins. It’s the beginning of October, right when the chill of oncoming autumn is contested only by the sun’s last attempts at summer, but you know it more commonly as homecoming week.

There’s stands with food and drinks and the art students have dragged out displays and people crowd in a manner that makes at least some semblance of sense. Clubs and various organizations shout to be heard above the ruckus of the radio club, vying for the attention of the incoming freshman who wander through the chaos like lost souls in the styx.

You see the queue for the line by the practice field. It’s not long, but the sun’s in your eyes and Clarke turns the hat on her head to block it. She fiddles, lifting and shifting until it rests the way she wants it. It sits a little askew, her blonde hair ruffles and curls.

“Have you done this before?” she says.

You look away only to settle on a burly young man attempting to rip his shirt off, and you turn back to focus on Clarke. That’s also a terrible idea, so you shift to watch the line steadily move forward. “Gotten drafted into a couples competition by a stranger? No, I haven’t.”

“Enjoyed the festivities I mean.” Clarke says, and the small smirk she wears means your attempt at humor went better than planned. “Did I drag you away from something important?”

“Not particularly.” You’d actually be apart of it if you hadn’t been coerced into delegating the task to Anya. She had said you needed a break. Really, you think she just gets off seeing the freshmen's faces when they meet you for the first time and are lulled into a false sense of security. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it amusing in some ways.

“Good.”

The silence picks up, interspersed by the low chatter of the couple in front of you. The girl giggles, tucked into the side of her boyfriend and he bends to whisper something into her ear before pressing his mouth to the side of her head. She swats at him playfully, but her retaliation doesn’t last, her arms wrapping around his torso.

“Why me?” you ask softly and Clarke brows scrunch, confused, so you squeeze her hand and repeat: “Why me? Surely you’d have a better chance with someone else.”

Clarke snorts and looks ahead, standing briefly on her tip-toes to peer around the people in line in front of you, tilting the bill of her hat back. It’s another second before she says, nonchalant, “And be utterly heteronormative? Please. I didn’t spend my high school years struggling with my sexual identity to stop here.” She glances at you and maybe you’re imagining the way her eyes dart to your lips. “Plus all my friends were busy.”

Your heart thuds, a quick one-two beat, and you feel lost. It takes a second to pull yourself back. “What makes you so sure?”

“About what?” Clarke says with a slight smile.

You watch her watch you. “Me.”

“A hunch?” she says, raising her shoulders in an innocent shrug. “Am I right?”

She is. God, she is. Your eyes dart to her lips--to her eyes and the faint flush dusting her cheeks and you swallow before tearing your eyes away, but she lets out a small laugh and you’re right back to where you started.

“You have rainbow pin on your bag,” she points out, her voice soft and unassuming, and you look down despite knowing what you’ll find. You completely forgot you had that. “I figured the odds were in my favor. But if you’re not comfortable with, uh, this… thing, I… No hard feelings, really. You don’t have to do this.”

You move another pace forward, tugging her gently forward with you. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. “I want to.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, a grin slow to form on her lips. She squeezes your hand and you feel it light a fire in you. “Then lets kick some ass.”

You’re still staring at her by the time you make it to the front and the guy behind the table at the sign-in tent can’t keep the wry smile from his mouth. He taps his pen against the plastic fold-out table. “Welcome to the annual Official Unofficial King and Queen Competition. . .ladies,” he says, and Clarke scoffs quietly next to you, her thumb passing restlessly back and forth across your knuckles. “Here to sign up? You’re just in time. Names please.”

“Clarke and Lexa,” Clarke supplies easily, and the guy mmhmms as he scribbles chicken scratch onto a ledger. You catch Clarke eyeing the impressive coffee machine up for grabs, this superfluous monster of a machine that you’d swear could sooner do your taxes than make you a cup of coffee.

“Nice to meet you, Clarke and Lexa,” he says, peeling off two stickers from a roll by his right elbow and holding them out to you. “Stickers where we can see ‘em, alright? You can leave your belongings here is you want and the competition starts in five. All couples should be by the platform on the practice field by the start time, you know the deal. Good luck guys.”

You take yours somewhat awkwardly, stuck to your index finger, unsure of what to do with it until you see Clarke place hers on the sleeve of her button up, patting it down with this small determined look on her face. You place yours on your stomach, over the loose white tee you’re wearing, and then hand over your bag for safe-keeping.

Clarke takes your hand again a second later like it’s already a habit, threading your fingers together and wiggling, and you allow yourself to be led. From what you can see, the practice field is set up accordingly. There appears to be what seems like an obstacle course made out of some of the old football equipment set up at strategic points on the field. Even the few rows of bleachers have already started to fill out with spectators. They’re either friends of the competitors or those with down time during the festivities and looking for a laugh.

You’re not unused to the attention though it’s hard to not find it a tad unnerving. This is nothing short of a spectacle, meant for entertainment and the emotions and thrill competition brings, perhaps at the expense of your pride. You’ve learned from experience not to let it get to you. It makes you impulsive, a little bit reckless, and that’s not something you are. But now, as Clarke leads you up onto the platform and the adrenaline begins to prickle to life under your skin, you let it. You have a feeling you’ll need it.

The group of couples line up in a row and you and Clarke find a spot near the end of the line as one of the last few onto the stage. She sticks close, her arm around your waist and this small determined grin on her face as she scopes out the competition, looking up and down the line appraisingly. Watching her drowns out the noise, the persistent chatter of the other competitors and the far off white noise of the people filling out the stands.

Confidence looks good on her.

She snaps out of it the second someone tests the microphone and the sound blares loudly, her arm tensing around your waist. A few boos and curses issue out from the stands and your host, a tall, bright eyed man with shaggy hair and a slight beard, laughs. He shakes it off, tapping the microphone one more time to make sure it works as intended, before spreading his arms wide.

“Welcome!” his voice booms over the speakers, voice low and powerful, and the crowd erupts into cheers. You can feel the sound in your chest. “To the annual official unofficial Polis U King and Queen Competition!”

The man takes a moment to bask in the noise, scanning the crowd, smiling as random onlookers take notice of the commotion and try to find seats among the madness. “Today, these young lovers will seek to prove their worth in three grueling tasks for the right to become this year’s top couple. So sit back, relax, pick a favorite, they’ll need all the help they can get.”

“Are you ready?” you hear Clarke mutter, just barely over the noise, and you dip your head, angling towards her. You try not to look at her, but she turns to you then and your world seems to crumble, leaving nothing but the sight of her looking back at you.

“I was born for this, Clarke,” you tease, and her lips stretch into the widest grin.

“--first,” the hosts voice cuts through your self induced fog and you look back up and out over the crowd, trying to ignore the way Clarke holds you tighter. “Let us weed out the weak.”

A stagnant pause hangs over the training field

“Contestants!” the man continues, and there’s a certain satisfaction you find in the way a few of the men in line jump at the words that travel over the loudspeaker. “Spread out before you is an obstacle course designed to test your physical limits. Men, and women,” he corrects quickly at the sight of you, “must carry their ladies safely all the way across field to the end. But the catch,” he motions to a helper down on the field and they quickly toss up a brightly colored beach ball, “is that this must as well.”

“You are allowed,” he continues, “to use this ball to knock the other competitors ball out of their hands. You may not tackle, hit, or otherwise hurt your fellow competitors, but besides, be one of the first fifteen couples to cross the finish line and you’re through.”

Clarke pokes you in the side as you and the other competitors are herded off the platform and down onto the field. “How fast can you run?”

“Fast enough,” you say.

“I say we book it. Let the rest fight amongst themselves.”

You fight back a smile as you watch her out of the corner of your eye, taking a knee once you arrive at the starting line. You brace your hands against the grass and Clarke clambers onto your shoulders, her touch light against your back. When she finally settles, hands on your head, you hook your arms around her thighs and try to make sense of the extra weight. “Ready?” you say, tilting your head back and tapping her leg to get her attention. From the look on her face, you have an inkling she might be afraid of heights. “on three, two, one--”

You stand and Clarke’s grip tightens on your hair briefly, fingers tugging a bit at the strands, before the tension relaxes. She gathers her bearings, legs clenched around your shoulders, feet hooked on your sides. Any tighter and the circulation to your arms might cut off, but she takes a moment to center herself.

“I’m good,” she says, a bit too quickly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

She holds out her hands and one of the event staff tosses up a blue beachball that she catches just barely. She lets out a slow breath, nodding to herself, and clutches the ball to her chest.

You find your place behind the line, watching the others settle in beside you. Some look lost. This palpable apprehension that seems to take hold in their eyes. They won’t make it twenty feet, you’re sure. The tall dark man with the broad chest and the small firecracker of a woman on his shoulders not ten feet down from you, however, is another story altogether.

Everything drowns away the second the countdown starts over the speakers. You feel kind of stupid, but there’s a pretty girl with her legs around your neck and everything else seems to fall away in comparison. She’s warm. Not to mention probably more embarrassed about this than you. Or at the least that’s what you find yourself hoping the second the countdown reaches zero and you bolt off as fast as you can towards the finish line.

Only to make it two feet before someone comes running at you from the side with a yellow beachball.

You manage a strangled “Clarke,” and she turns.

There’s a split second you take to brace yourself and Clarke is just as fast. She meets the impact head on, leaning in with her weight as you lurch to the side. The resulting impact causes the couple to jerk back and without the necessary balance they topple to the ground.

The crowd roars.

“Motherfucker,” you hear Clarke huff under her breath, and you try and fail to wipe the smirk from your face.

It’s awkward running with someone on your shoulders, you realize. You’re scared she’ll fall off, but if the numbness you’re beginning to feel in your arms is any indication as you step through a rows of tires spread out past the twenty yard-line, you think she’ll be okay.

You hear a chorus of shouts among the cheers from the stands and the slightly unnerving laughter behind you, but you don’t look back, keeping your focus on putting one foot in front of the other. You stumble out of the last tire and Clarke’s free hand is quick to tangle itself into your shirt to keep herself upright. It rubs roughly against your collarbones, and if nothing else it reminds you to breathe.

“Lexa,” she says a little breathlessly, releasing her hold. You feel her shift to glance at the commotion behind you, and you’re not sure if she’s scolding you or warning you as you sprint headlong into a barrage of standing football dummies.

They’re placed close together, which is good for you if a bit ridiculous to think about. Blue, red, yellow, red, blue--they pass in a blur, knocking against your elbows and Clarke’s knees. Somewhere to your left you have a feeling someone is close behind and when you burst through the thick of it you feel a little disorientated. The other couple overtakes you, taking advantage of your sudden stupor, and you know that means the others are not far behind.

You don’t remember the rest. It flies by as you attempt to gain back what you lost, unaware of much besides Clarke urging you on and the finish line not ten yards away. You come in second and you don’t realize you’ve finished until Clarke’s gleeful yelp, too focused on getting back the air you lost in that last made dash. She drops the beachball unceremoniously in favor of wrapping her arms around your neck and it only makes it harder to breathe. The sudden stop in forward momentum and the enthusiasm of Clarke’s excitement however, is all it takes to cause you to trip.

It’s much like crumbling, undignified and maybe a bit embarrassing. You manage to land somewhat on your butt, leaning heavily on your left arm with Clarke draped over your right shoulder and half in your lap. She’s laughing though, this bubbly thing that’s more a snort as she tries to pull herself the rest of the way over your shoulder. To little success. You try to help her and she nearly elbows you in the face.

She rolls off eventually, somersaults onto her back in the grass, her head near your thigh. She’s red in the face, hair wrestled free from the hat that had tumbled off just moments ago, and her chest heaves in gulps of air under her nearly untucked up button-up, but her smile -- god, her smile.

You lean over, blocking out the sun, breath coming in much more manageable intervals and wait for things to settle. Around you, a few more couples come running in and they’re careful to keep clear of the both of you. It’s a hard won break and you’ve earned these few moments of respite.

It’s a moment or two before Clarke finds the wherewithal to move, taking one last deep breath before propping herself up on her forearms. She smiles at you this time, little bits of grass in her hair, and it’s almost as if you’re the only thing that matters to her.

Standing, you brush the dirt from your palms on you jeans, and you pretend you don’t notice the way she watches you. Casually, cautiously. The curiosity in her eyes is hard to mask and you don’t think she cares. You bend to pick up her hat, smacking it against your thigh to dislodge the bits of dirt and grass and when you offer her your hand there’s no hesitance when she takes it.

“Thanks,” she says, finally back on her feet. She’s close and her words are soft and you give back her hat wordlessly. She flexes the bill until she’s satisfied with the feel, and you brush a few blades of grass from the strands of her hair. The grin that captures her lips is slow and soft like honey, and you’re surprised by the way it has you yearning. “What a way to kick things off, am I right?”

“I don’t do things moderately,” you say, tilting your head and taking the time to observe her back.

She looks up at you, amused. “Neither do I.”

Clarke turns the hat around in her hands, fiddling with its weight that she’s so suddenly taken by. You see the decision she makes then though. How it begins with this little nod and the determined set to her lips, and how it ends with her hat on your head.

It’s the moment you realize you want to know what it’s like to kiss her.

You’re herded back towards the other side of the field before you have a chance to really think about those thoughts. That doesn't mean you let go of Clarke’s hand even though the opportunity presents itself. You quite like how she twines her arm with yours and the gentleness she has as her thumb passes over your knuckles, soothing. It’s unconscious, like breathing, and so is the small peck you press to her temple as you wait--offhand and it surprising even you. You pull away, pretending to focus your attention back on the emcee.

The problem with that is, you find you only half pay attention. The announcements are background noise compared to the softness of her touch and you have to wonder if she’s aware of what she’s doing to you. It’s a tragedy then, that Clarke lets go of your hand long before you’re prepared for it and you look at her in mild confusion as she slips her fingers from yours. She gives a small shake of her head, brows knit adorably as if to ask what’s wrong, and you find it’s hard to voice the truth.

You watch as she accepts a blindfold from one of the event staff as he makes his way through the remaining couples and there’s no hesitation as she goes about securing it round her face, blocking her eyes. When she lets go it slips down over her eyes and this low laugh escapes you before you have a chance to reel it back in.

She looks at you disappointingly but lets you position her in front of you as you go about untying the knot she made.

“This is--” you give a generous tug and it holds tight “--quite the feat you’ve managed here, Clarke.”

“It’s tougher than it looks,” she says. You can’t see her eyes, but you can see the smile that curls the ends of her lips.

“I’m sure,” you mutter back, struggling for a few more seconds until the knot gives and you’re able to pull the fabric free.

You keep Clarke close as you reapply the blindfold to her eyes, laying it gently across the bridge of her nose and over her eyes. You secure it with a simple knot, careful to avoid getting the strands of her hair caught in the tangle.

“Everything feel okay?” you ask, running your fingers through her hair a few times to tame the mess you made. She doesn’t bring attention to it and you drop your hands from her hair before they betray you and they drift down to her lower back.

“Fine,” she says, and her head turns towards your voice. “It feels fine.”

You smile and it’s something you’re glad she can’t see. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Your hand near her back stays where it is, too content with the contact as your are. The other however, doesn’t move from your side. It’s a simple thing to forget to mention.

She hums, even though you’re sure she’s rolling her eyes at you from behind the blindfold. “Four.”

“Good guess.” You watch her lips curl into a grin, only vaguely aware of her left hand as it finds the fabric of your loose shirt and holds on. But you are all too aware of the feelings it ignites in you. “But no.”

Clarke huffs, though she looks unbothered by the development, stepping in closer so that she’s just shy of touching you. She smells like too much sun and the warmth it settles in you simmers just below your skin. If Anya could see you now, you’d never hear the end of it.

“Do you trust me?”

Clarke shrugs, leaning forward so that her nose bumps your shoulder. “Sure,” she says, the word muffled by your shirt. “I trust you.”

The noise over the microphone drowns out the words you don’t get to say, and Clarke picks her head up from where it was tucked against you. Her eyebrows furrow, concentrated, and you figure you should do the same.

There’s seven items down by the stage about a hundred feet away and while you and the remaining fourteen couples had rested and prepared, the event staff had taken the time to litter the open space with a new set of obstacles. Still mostly random football equipment (and a couple blow up halloween decorations) it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll have to guide Clarke through it by word alone.

You lead Clarke to the starting line, keeping hold of her hand until the emcee announces the countdown to start. When you let go, she looks a little lost without a tether to you, but there’s no time for reassurances as the air-horn sounds and the chaos erupts once again.

“Clarke--”

She locks on to your voice immediately, sight trained in your general direction. Among the slew of other voices, you wonder how she managed it, but she wastes no time in moving towards you. Her determination is to be admired at the very least.

“Clarke, slow down.”

“Not helping,” Clarke says in return, voice strained and arms outstretched, but she heeds your suggestion. “We don’t have forever, Lexa, where am I supposed to go?”

You take quick stock of your surroundings--the other stumbling couples, the tires and football dummies and random beachballs--and come to a quick conclusion. Just because you can’t lead her through it yourself, doesn’t mean you can’t walk it with her.

You stand in front of her, counting your steps until you can’t move forward anymore, a large blue football dummy blocking the way. “Six steps forward,” you call back to her. “No--no,” and she stops, “--no turning, just forward.”

Clarke huffs, but starts back up immediately, careful to keep in a straight line, and you get out of her way. She stops a bit short of the dummy, but for the most part you’d consider it a success. “Now what?”

“One big sidestep to the right,” you reply, and then you start all over again.

There’s a process to it, an almost rhythm that the two of you settle into as you make your way through the makeshift course piece by piece and Clarke listens intently. Without touch it’s a slow careful pace. By the time your feet away the crowd is a constant stream of shouts and you struggle to be heard over the chorus.

The moment she picks up the stuffed animal by the stage, the first sound of the air-horn blaring out across the practice field, and she tugs down the blindfold to see the evidence in her hands, the realization is slow to come. But when it does, it’s all consuming.

Clarke looks to you with wide disbelieving eyes and then back to the toy in her hand and lets out a little scream. Her body buzzes with energy, high off the feeling, and hurls herself at you, arms cinched around your neck and pulling the air from your lungs.

You stumble a few steps back, your right hand reaching up to stop her hat from falling off your head while the other finds its place around her waist. It keeps the two of you upright in the rush that follows. It doesn’t temper her excitement, however. In fact, it heightens it, and she bounces on the balls of her feel while her hug reaches bone breaking levels. You feel as if you’ve run another mile, but you consider the reward worth it.

“Clarke,” you say, and it's breathy from the air you can’t seem to inhale and she pulls away still holding your hand.

She studies you for a moment before shifting her attention to the field as the other couples snag the remaining items to qualify them for the next round. There’s a fire in her eyes and it burns when she turns back to you. “I think we can win this.”

You exhale and it escapes quietly among the noise, but you watch her and it’s her windswept hair, flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Her breathing comes in long steadying inhales, as if she’s collecting all the courage there deep in her gut. You wonder if that’s how it works; through sheer force of will.

“Does that mean you doubted me before?” you say, teasing, and she tugs the bill of the hat down over your eyes. Warmth floods to your chest and a smirk is quick to steal your lips. You clutch her hand tighter, but when you tilt the bill up again, she’s not looking at you anymore.

It's the moment you feel most lost in her.

You have this odd sense of dread when a small part the field is cleared in front of the platform and the staff hands out blindfolds to the remaining contestants. Clarke offers to tie it for you, slightly smug, and you decline the offer only because having her hands in your hair sounds like the beginning of a disaster. You wait until the last possible minute though, when they’re leading Clarke away and suddenly you find you’d rather be staring at the inside of a black cloth than watching her walk away from you.

It’s a bit dramatic to think, yes, but it feels like the truth.

You don’t quite know what’s going on but you let yourself be led, pliant as someone places you in an indeterminable spot on the field. The wait isn’t long though and you’re thankful. It's hardly a minute later when the microphone crackles and the man’s familiar voice picks up over the speakers.

“This is it, ladies and gentlemen. The ultimate test. The couples must find their way back together. Without sight, without sound. Only touch.” the crowd ohhhs and wolf whistles and you roll your eyes behind the blindfold. “You have five minutes. Good luck.”

The first hand you hold is large, calloused, and the touch lasts no longer than five seconds before the both of you let go and move on. The second is smaller, slender, and it makes you pause. Your mouth opens slightly, but you remember yourself, closing it before anything has a chance to make it out. They hold you too tight and it takes them a moment to realize you’re not holding them back.

The third… The tips of their fingers finds your arm--the point of your elbow, fingers cold and hesitant. they trail down the inside of your forearm and it feels like forever, but when she folds her hand into yours, her thumb brushing softly over your knuckles, you accept it gently.

Something in you flutters, right there in your chest. High and light and it’s a bit like losing the ability to breathe. Like having the wind knocked from your chest, but carefully, and how it fills again, softly. So you step in closer and breathe in, pressing your lips softly to her temple.

She squeezes your hand tighter and that’s the end of that.

(somewhere off in the stands you hear a few people cheer and it’s enough to quirk your lips against her skin)

You don’t know how long you stand there, but it's probably barely minutes, and when you get the okay, you hook a finger around the blindfold and tug it down. Clarke’s eyes are the first thing you see. Blue and a hint of sun. She raises your linked hands into the air, a triumphant gesture, and you can’t help but laugh when the crowd seems to agree.

The both of you, along with the two other couples who passed, are herded up onto the stage once things settle. Clarke tugs you, your linked hands hanging between the two of you, as she bounds up the steps with you in tow. The grin hasn’t left her face since the little show-off down on the field and it only grows under the attention. You’re the first up onto the stage and you move down to make room for the others.

The emcee starts with the couple closest to the steps. You recognize them to be the couple you saw at the beginning. The fire is still very much evident, but there’s a softness in the way the man has his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder, her body tucked comfortably into his side, her arm slung low around his hips. He catches you watching, and the knowing smile and quirked brow he shoots back at you makes you feel just a tad self-conscious. But there’s not much to look at besides Clarke, and the time it takes to succumb to that notion you already feel like you’ve proven his point.

So you don’t deny it, idly tucking a wayward strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear. At least not to yourself.

“And who have we here?”

The suddenness of the words surprises you and you turn your attention to the emcee and the microphone he reaches towards Clarke. There’s not an ounce of hesitation on her face.

“Clarke,” she says, and you can tell she’s enjoying this far too much. “This is Lexa.”

“And how long have you two been together?”

Clarke pulls a little away to look at you, amusement stretched wide across her face, carried in the apple of her cheeks and the grin she tries to fight off and the words just kind of fall out your mouth. “It feels like forever.”

The emcee laughs, nudging you with his elbow. “Is that good or bad?”

“Definitely good,” you reply, still focused on Clarke and that almost awed look she’s giving you.

“Do you think you have what it takes to win?”

You acknowledge him finally. “Yes.” There’s no hesitation in you either.

“What do you think?” he boasts, turning to address the audience. “Who should take home the coveted title?”

A mess of noise surrounds you, rising up, and it’s hard to make out heads or tails of anything. But what you can hear are chants of ‘kiss, kiss, kiss,’ echoing from the stands and its metronome is a steady beat amongst the growing chaos.

Satisfied with the reaction, the emcee turns to you and the other couples, grinning. “Well, you heard the crowd. Who’s first?”

The couple at the opposite end doesn’t wait, the small woman taking hold of her boyfriend by the collar of his shirt and dragging him down. He doesn’t seem to mind at all, smiling against it and pushing back when the surprise wears off and the reaction from the stands is immediate.

There’s whistling and hoots from friends in the stands and a middle finger courtesy of the girl wrapped around her boyfriend, but from what you can discern from the energy, it’s all in good fun.

The second couple, a tall, shy young man and his equally tall girlfriend, share a soft kiss that ends far too quickly for the audience's liking, but the girl laughs, hands cupping the back of her boyfriends head and leaning in again to peck his flushed cheeks with a quick, thankful kiss.

It’s when the noise dies down again that you realize there’s no one left but you.

Before you can comprehend it, Clarke takes you by the hips with such bravado you momentarily lose your train of thought, eyebrows wiggling in an attempt at alleviating the sudden tenseness she must feel in you. There’s a lopsided little tilt to her lips, but she waits for you, the crowd silent and watchful, and if you weren’t sure before, you are now.

You probably love her and the craziness of that thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You cup her cheeks in your hands, and you feel more than hear the soft gasp she takes. You’d swear you could feel it under the tips of your fingers as you lean in, all slow and tortuous, noses touching first. Her breath fans across your mouth, uneven and a little bit nervous. Or perhaps that’s you, because you’re sure it’s her who closes the last few centimeters like she can’t take the thought of waiting a second longer and the cheer that erupts from the crowd is lost somewhere in the mess of your mind.

Maybe, you think. Maybe she’s just as breathless as you.

#clexa #clarke griffin #lexa #this was supposed to be stupid/fun and without stress but then it turned into a project #cc au #its basically all done tho so updates will be on sundays

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halfbloodrp-blog1 · 6 years

Photo

The Eidolon Takeover

It's been a couple of weeks now since the eerie message was carved into the fallen tree outside the borders of camp. The campers have been wary and attentive and increased border patrol to keep camp safe from what they predict will be an oncoming attack. They never expected the fight to be inside of camp.

Over the weeks, Eidolons, dangerous and rare creatures have attached themselves to campers entering Camp Half Blood with special help from powerful evil magic users to get past the border. The monsters have been quiet till now and able to get past detection of the satyrs and nature spirits. But the time has come for them to attack.

By sunrise, Gegeines will have their way to the borders of camp to trap the campers inside their own home. The half bloods will be confident the monsters won’t be able to enter. That is, until some of the campers begin to act strangely. The Eidolons have taken over the bodies of half the camp and are now looking to attack and kill the rest. The worst part is that this is only the second step that Gaea’s old followers have for taking down the demigods. First, the mortals are kidnapped for an unknown reason, second the Eidolons seek to weaken the demigod ranks. Will the camp be able to survive before the end?

Dates: January 21st-27th (Canonically just on January 21st)

*** Sign up semi-REQUIRED! See below for more details and rules…

Rules:

All rules of the RP apply for this event. This includes the starter ones!

Non-event threads will be HIGHLY discouraged, but not prohibited only for the benefit of any new members that come in that week.

What’s happening?

Defeating the Eidolons: Make sure to read the bestiary for information on the Eidolons and the Gegeines. Apart from a powerful charm speaking child of Aphrodite or the pheromone abilities of children of Eros, demigods will discover only STYGIAN IRON can be a weapon used to take an Eidolon out of someone or something’s body. The Stygian Iron sucks away their essences, weakens them and forces the Eidolon out. However, this still requires that the camper injure another Eidolon possessed camper with the Stygian Iron weapon. Remember, only some demigods can use Stygian Iron without burning themselves by touching the iron. This information is available on the gods and cabins page AND the stygian iron section of the vocab page but also are listed as such: children of Hades, Hypnos, Hecate, Persephone, Thanatos, Erebus, Nyx, Eris and Akhlys.

Escaping Camp & Fighting/Healing: It will be impossible for the demigods to escape camp on land because of the blockade of Gegeines outside the borders. However, the youngest and weakest will be helped onto a docked trireme ship for safety while the fighters fight and the healers try to heal inside the defended infirmary building. The ship will sail off a little bit but will remain close to camp so others in smaller ships or canoes can catch up and make their way over to the large, safe trireme. They will not be able to sail very far for the fear of water monsters.

OOC Info:

Only our very oldest members will remember The Fog event. This is very similar in that the demigods will be forced to fight one another. Unlike The Fog, however, the demigods will not be their worst selves. The Eidolon is a monster possessing the demigod that will force the demigod to do their bidding but will also be able to read their mind and tap into the possessed demigod’s unique skills and talents.

You must SIGN UP your muse to be a POSSESSED DEMIGOD before the event! If you don’t sign up your muse, they will automatically be one of the fighters, healers and unpossessed demigods trying to stay safe. To sign up a muse or muse(s) to be possessed simply send the main an ask or IM with the muse’s full name. (For example, possessed demigod: John Doe) The limit for a mun’s possessed demigods is 2 for now. We may open it up for more before the event begins.

Any questions, please send a message to event coordinator Dany on Discord or simply send a message here to the main.

List of Possessed Demigods:

The following muses have been confirmed and signed up to be possessed demigods for the event.

Mila Ziminova

Ivy Morgan

Leia Griffin

Bella Kemmerich

Jasper St.James

Mallory Jensen

Grayson Abbot

Anneliese Garrett

Harper Rhiding

Aspen Schnee

Reuben Valencia

Danny Martin

Blue de Laurant

Phoenix Saunders

Guinivere Fairchild

Abigail Van De Berg

Avi Melrose

Rhysand Locke

Harrison Reid

Dominic Luna

Isla Cortland

Leo Martell

Clyde Moon

Brianna 'Bambi' Macon

Trixie Carpenter

#hbrp:event

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yeoldontknow · 7 years

Text

Did You See?

Author’s Note: lord i am so glad someone requested Jongin fluff so i could make up for the torture that is Mourning Air. this is a gift for @kpopandlock and i hope hope hope i have done this justice. romance comes very hard for me unless theres chapters of tension and build up, so i hope this makes every Nini stan swoon just a tiny bit <3 enjoy loves!

Pairing: Kai x Reader

Summary: every day, you fall a little bit more in love with your best friend, Jongin. everyday, you ache for him. everyday, you miss all the signs of something he’s been trying to tell you.

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3,068

Nini[2:06 AM]: you up?

Y/N[2:08 AM]: yeah why

Nini[2:08 AM]: are you hungry?

Y/N[2:10 AM]: !!! diner run? :)

Nini[2:11 AM]: i have a better idea ;)

Y/N[2:12 AM]: better than 2AM waffles?? D:

Nini[2:13 AM]: promise to keep an open mind

Y/N[2:14 AM]: nini it’s too early...or late idk to be open minded~~

Nini[2:15 AM]: ok then be spontaneous

Y/N[2:16 AM]: what are you suggesting

Nini[2:18 AM]: cheesesteaks

Y/N[2:18 AM]: im not fucking cooking at 2 in the morning, are you high

Nini[2:20 AM]: nooo let’s go GET them i know an amazing food truck in philly

Y/N[2:21 AM]: are you driving?

Nini[2:21 AM]: as long as you DJ

Y/N[2:22 AM]: come pick me up~~ <3

Nini[2:23 AM]: that’s my girl! be there in 10

True to his word, Jongin arrives ten minutes later looking too put together for what you think is just a night drive. He stands in your doorway, bright smile making you feel like you’re ascending dawn, grey hoodie and running pants matching with a casual, attractive air of non-effort. You want to comment on this, tell him he's overdressed and making you tumble into a state of longing, but before you can speak, he leans over to kiss your cheek and whisper in your ear.

‘We’re taking the scenic route.’

This is nothing new for him. He's said these same words to you hundreds of times on different occasions, sometimes even in metaphor, but tonight it feels different. Tonight, his breath hovers over your ear a little too long and it takes all your willpower not to press your cheek to his. You know you're alone in this sentiment, know that these feelings are one sided and must remain this way for the benefit of your friendship. But still, tonight, these words make you want him more.

The highway is empty as you drive, chasing the moon and stars with your headlights. You watch him, studying the way he seems to glow in the night, and think he never really looks as relaxed or as serene as when he's driving. With one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, fingers dancing in the cool night air, his face is placid and happy, eyes bright and filled with hidden laughter as he drives. This is when you really see him, truly see all the vulnerable parts of him, when he's pensive and assumes no one is looking; when he's alone with you.

Mirroring his position, you stick your arm out the window and find yourself falling into the moment, collapsing into it. You've never felt closer to him than right now, driving on the interstate for a spontaneous cheesesteak run. You've never felt more alive than in this moment, as the state Pennsylvania sign passes you by. Beside you trees and trees and trees pass along the river bank, and you're glad he chose this route. You're glad he wanted the extra time with you and no one else, not even other strangers on this secluded road. You're glad that he wants you, even if it's only like this.

Eventually, you fall asleep - not a truly deep sleep, just dozing softly, hand still catching the wind as your head lulls to the side with parted lips.

You are asleep and so you don't see it. You don't see the way he turns to look at you, your skin shimmering as the first glimmers of the sun start to pour over your face. You don't see the way he smiles, admiration of you beginning to eat away at and melt through him. You don't see him reach for your hand as it rests on your thigh with loose fingers, and the way he pauses just over the palm. He ghosts over it, molding his hand above it as though he were miming the hold, before pulling it back to the gear shift. You don't see him clutch at it, holding it and pretending it is your skin.

You don't see him tumbling with you.

Nini[1:33 PM]: you going to jongdae’s thing tonight?

Y/N[1:35 PM]: idk maybe. i have to see if i feel up for it

Nini[1:37 PM]: pllssss!! youre never really up for these things and i need you with me tonight

Y/N[1:40 PM]: why tonight of all nights? lmao youve gone to so many parties without me

Nini[1:41 PM]: because tonight i just don’t want to be without you :)

Y/N[1:42 PM]: this is not a reason

Nini[1:43 PM]: excuse me, it’s the only reason that matters

Y/N[1:44 PM]: you know i get shy at parties

Nini[1:46 PM]: jongdae and i will be there

Y/N[1:48 PM]: and if it were just you two it would be ok - it wouldnt even be a party~~ it's other people nini :/

Nini[1:50 PM]: i’ll be with you the whole night i promise :))

Y/N[1:52 PM]: youre not going to take no for answer are you :c

Nini[1:52 PM]: nope :D

Y/N[1:56 PM]: fine. ill meet you there ugh

Nini[1:58 PM]: thank you duchess! i'll make it up to you! <3

Y/N[1:58 PM]: you better

Jongin finds you the minute you enter the crowded house, his hand seeking yours and threading your fingers together as you push through the door. You know he’s already drunk, though you don’t know how long he’s been here. Like usual, his body is craving contact after only a few drinks of alcohol. Typically, he keeps you close by so he can touch your skin and soothe his bleary ache for affection, never allowing you to wander too far out of reach. Always this is born out of trust, you think. He knows and trusts you enough to take these things from you, expects them to be freely given because the language of your relationship dictates it.

Always, he does this and doesn't see the way hope brims over and leaks from your pores. Always, he doesn't see you swoon.

‘I'm glad you came!’ Jongdae shouts over the music as he hands you a drink. ‘You literally never come to my parties. This is such a nice surprise.’

‘This one persuaded me,’ you concede, tilting your head in Jongin’s direction. He’s distracted, eyes scanning the room with a wide smile offered to everyone but you. Seeing this makes your heart sink a little, knowing that, at some point, even if he doesn't mean to, his promise to you will be broken.

It only takes an hour.

After leading you around the room, squeezing your hand as you talk through your shyness with others and whispering that he's proud of you, he leaves your side at the first notes of his favourite song. For a few minutes, you watch him dance and sing, jumping and moving with an ease that makes you envious. When he laughs, his mouth becomes a glorious circle, head cocking back as though he can't contain the force of his joy. When he sings along, his eyes close in sheer delight at being young and being alive.

You find this all too beautiful and too heartbreaking to look at. It only makes you want him more.

So you turn and go out to the yard, hoisting yourself into the fence rungs to sit and drink, taking small sips of whatever is in your cup so you don’t get drunk. It's quiet here, perfect for thinking and longing and wishing on all the stars you can count.

Your back is to the door, so you don't see it. You don't see the way Jongin searches for you the moment the song ends, biting his lips and furrowing his brow in worry. You don't see the way he smiles, awed and moved by the way you hum to yourself as you stargaze. You don't see him lean against the door, eyes turning up to the same star and filled with hopeful wonder.

You don't see him wish that you were his.

Y/N[6:33 PM]: come over

Nini[6:35 PM]: mmmmm why? movie night?

Y/N[6:36 PM]: if you want. im making your fave tho, so i thought id ask

Nini[6:37 PM]: CHICKEN????

Y/N[6:40 PM]: lmao yes and if youre a good boy ill even let you help me cook

Nini[6:41 PM]: excuse you i am always a good boy

Y/N[6:43 PM]: you abandoned me at the party last weekend. that was very naughty ;(

Nini[6:45 PM]: i told you i was sorry :( and i didnt really abandon you. dont say that :(((

Y/N[6:46 PM]: THAT WAS HOW IT FELT NINIKINS

Nini[6:48 PM]: im so confused like youre upset with me but youre using my nickname and i ?????

Y/N[6:49 PM]: i was upset but im not anymore its ok bb. are you coming?

Nini[6:50 PM]: yeah be there in 15?

Y/N[6:52 PM]: ok. bring wine please

Nini{6:52 PM]: you got it duchess <3

You leave the door unlocked for him, an open invitation to your home, your heart, your life. When he arrives, he’s carrying your favourite red wine and a small chocolate cake he acquired from a bakery along the way.

‘I want to feel like I’m contributing,’ he murmurs with a bashful smile.

‘Aww,’ you coo, taking the cake from him and tapping his cheek. ‘I would have let you cut some broccoli but this is much better.’

He lingers behind you for a while, watching the way you cut and stir and manage time in your kitchen. It bewilders him, a little bit, the science of cooking becoming something of an art beyond his comprehension. This is the one thing you can hold above him, the one skill you have that he doesn’t, and you are too proud to admit that you sometimes use this to be close to him. Tonight is an example, how you decided to make chicken only because he said he would come over. How you decided to even consider it because he would be here and near you and doing exactly this: pressing himself behind you to watch and share your air.

After several minutes he moves away from you, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it with a content, placid expression.

‘Where’s that speaker I got you for your birthday?’

‘In the bathroom by the sink.’

He disappears and comes back seconds later, holding the black rectangle in his hand as he syncs it with his phone.

‘We’re going to listen to some music and you’re going to relax.’

You scoff, flipping chicken in the skillet. ‘I don’t need relaxing.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he says firmly. ‘Even the way you said that was tense.’

Setting the spatula on the counter, you turn to face him with a cocked eyebrow. ‘Now who’s the tense one?’

He doesn’t bother to respond to this. Instead, he hits play and soft soul music starts to play from the speaker. Sighing, you turn back to the stove and attempt to make yourself look busy. This was done on purpose. He knows that soul music feels like it belongs to you in some way, like you’ve claimed it as the sound of your blood.

What he doesn’t know is that the sight of him dancing to Otis Redding will hurt you, hurt you in a way that would make your heart feel as though it were bleeding. He doesn’t know that the sight of his hips swaying to the rhythm would make your breath catch, pausing at the sight to admire and memorize it before continuing with a quickened pace. He doesn’t and cannot know these things, so you keep your back to him in order to protect yourself. Because now, you think, you cannot possibly want him more.

Your back is to him, so you don’t see it. You don’t see the way he approaches you, eyes hungry and arms outstretched to hold you in the them. You don’t see the way he reaches for you, hands coming to rest atop your hips like he’s claiming you the way you’ve claimed the music. When he starts dancing with you, moving your body with his as he presses himself tightly against you, you don’t see the way his lips part to exhale against your hair. You don’t see the way his mouth hovers above your ear for too long, tongue desperate to lick against the lobe. You don’t see the way his eyes roll back in his head as you push against him, lightly, teasingly, and the way his fingers twitch to run themselves beneath the band of your shorts. The way they yearn to sneak beneath the band of your underwear to press, and touch, and stroke.

You don’t see the way he finally, truly, believes he is losing control.

Nini[1:40 AM]: are you up?

Y/N[1:43 AM]: yeah why - MORE CHEESESTEAKS?

Nini[1:44 AM]: can i come over?

Y/N[1:44 AM]: are you ok?

Nini[1:45 AM]: i need to see you

Y/N sent a photo

Y/N[1:46 AM]: see! it’s me!

Nini[1:46 AM]: no. i need you see you. please.

Y/N[1:47 AM]: jongin youre scaring me. whats going on?

Nini[1:48 AM]: please say yes. just say i can see you. i just need you.

Y/N[1:49 AM]: yes babe yes the door is unlocked

Nini[1:50 AM]: on my way

Five years. You’ve known Jongin for five years.

Four years. You’ve loved Jongin for four years.

Never have you seen him look like this. For years you’ve watched him stumble into and out of love with anguish, grace, and pride, and still he’s never looked like this.

He’s in your doorway and he looks like he’s gasping, swallowing whole mouthfuls of the air to catch his breath and to catch your scent. Hair has fallen into his eyes, his wide eyes that look at you as though they’ve reached their limit or found something - they’re fixed on you so completely you’re starting to feel naked beneath the gaze. There’s suffering happening beneath his skin. He’s fraught and fighting with something and you’re scared, you’re scared because you feel he brought the air of change with him and it’s making you vulnerable and uncomfortable.

He rushes into your house but doesn’t sit. His feet carry him in nondescript patterns around your living room, pacing in an almost frantic way.

‘Jongin,’ you whisper loudly, trying not to startle him out of his panic. ‘Jongin, what is going on?’

‘I reach for you,’ he blurts out, turning to look at you as though he’s had an epiphany. ‘I reach for you all the time and you never see it.’

Your brain muddles over these words, toys with them and breaks them apart to try to understand them but comes up empty and confused.

‘You reach for me?’ you ask, breathless though you don’t know why. Something is happening, and your body is in on it first, making you lose faith and trust in the air and yourself.

‘I reach for you,’ he repeats. ‘Something happens in my day, and I reach for my phone to tell you. I crave food at two in the morning, and I reach for you to come with me. I watch you cook, and I want to touch you, so I reach for you but you don’t see me. I am always reaching for you, and I need you to see me.’

The words rush out of his mouth like they’ve been waiting to be released for years, like he’s practiced them hundreds of times and now that he’s finally saying them he can’t wait to get them out.

You’re facing him, and now you see it. You see the way his hands reach out to you as he approaches you, coming to cup your face gently and cradle it as though it were treasure. You see the way his eyes bore into yours, filled with love and lust and longing. You see the way he is breaking, shattering beneath his desire and how his breath is coming too quickly to really keep him alive. You see the way the world is spinning but you both are still in this moment, learning to reach for one another.

‘Do you see?’ he asks, softly with a trembling lip. ‘Do you see why I needed to be here? To hold you?’

You close your eyes and nod.

‘Don’t do that,’ he whispers.

You open your eyes and make to speak, but his thumb softly swipes over your bottom lip and tugs it gently down to luxuriate in its plumpness.

‘Don’t close your eyes,’ he clarifies. ‘ I want you to see.’

Eyes open wide, you watch as he lifts your chin upwards and presses his forehead against yours, taking the moment to breathe together. You watch as he slides just out of view and presses your lips together, your body suddenly warm with the contact and wetness pooling between your thighs. Keeping your eyes open, you let him kiss you, gently and full of purpose with a warm mouth and a soft tongue. Your eyes roll back just slightly as your hands fist in his hair, tongue pressing against his in time with your hips. His hands slide down your back to fist in the hem of your shirt, pulling it up as he moans, loudly and without shame, as his fingers touch your hot skin, and you see.

You see how you both took the scenic route to get here, to this moment. You see how having him in your arms makes the world brighter. You see how kissing him like this makes the world move slower.

You see how badly you need him. You finally see how deeply he loves you.

#kai x reader #kim jongin x reader #kai fluff #kpoptrashtag #kai scenario #exo ff #exo scenarios #exo #exo fanfiction #kim jongin #exo au #kim jongin fanfic #kim jongin fluff #exo fluff

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