#I thought it was so cool that one of Din's support friends had that connection to the bounty hunting business

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

I just read your mando episode 1 thoughts and I’m really glad you also didn’t like the Nevarro changes like I love Nevarro and I watched the episode and was like hm… Nevarro is… boring now…

Hello there, Anon! Finally getting around to this ask but it's been on my mind. It just really, really bothers me how flat and boring Nevarro is now. I liked the appeal of a grimy, hardscrabble planet that scraped by with work by the Bounty Hunters Guild, trade, and shadier, more illicit activities. It was a fun and fascinating look into the Outer Rim away from the likes of Tatooine, and now that's gone. Now Nevarro looks and sounds like a freaking Renn Faire trying to eat its cake as some cleaned up and respectacle independent trade center, and I feel like a joke watching it.

The entire season premiere was a mixed bag of decisions and the choices made with Nevarro really damped my already low expectations. Really hope the only way now is up.

[cherry-holmes]

Glimpse of a life with Javier Peña (series)

Chapter 2

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Javi fucked up things with you.

SERIES MASTERLIST PART 3

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Word count: +2.5k

Warnings: none. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Chapter 2 is here! As always I want to thank you for your support! I hope you like this one and be ready for moreeee!🫶🏻✨ I love reading your comments and reblogs, so keep the coming✨

I’m open for requests. Javier Peña, Joel Miller, Din Djarin, Loki, BBC Sherlock, Supernatural…😏

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Work made time fly quickly. You had a lot of paperwork to do every day, and it seemed endless – spending hours reading reports and files and then translating them on your typewriter. However, something had been making the last two weeks feel easier, or better to say, someone.

Every afternoon, Javier Peña visited your office to hand you his and Murphy's daily reports. You wondered when Messina would withdraw Javier's punishment, but you weren't sure if you wanted her to do it. You didn't have a lot of friends at work since your department consisted of only one employee – you. You had some conversations with secretaries and officers during your lunch breaks, but you always returned alone to your small office.

So, when Javier visited and talked with you for at least a couple of minutes, it made you feel less isolated in the demanding work environment. The couple of days when he didn't visit because he was on a raid out of the base, you couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. You became accustomed to the smell of cigarettes and men's cologne that lingered in the air whenever he was around. Sometimes he also smelled like black coffee, and on his roughest days, even like whiskey.

It became a small but pleasant routine, these short daily visits from Javier. You'd sometimes share a funny story or a piece of office gossip, and occasionally, you'd laugh together. Those brief moments helped create a sense of camaraderie between you and the charming DEA agent.

Until one particular day, as Javier handed you the reports, he leaned casually against your office doorframe, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "You know," he began, "I've been thinking. Maybe you and I should grab a drink after work one of these days. Get to know each other a little better, outside of this crazy office."

His proposition took you by surprise. You hadn't expected this kind of invitation. Your mind raced as you tried to decide how to respond. Javier watched you intently, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite put your finger on.

You were about to say yes immediately, but you knew better than to let yourself fall into the den of the beast so easily. You had heard a lot about Javier Peña and his charming ways, known to lead any woman to his bed. And although you had been enjoying the friendly conversations with him, you didn't want to rush into anything too quickly.

You met his gaze, your own eyes locking with his. "Javier," you began carefully, "I appreciate the offer, I really do. But, I have to be honest, you have quite the reputation, and I don't want to misinterpret our friendship."

Javier's smirk hesitated, as he tried to process your response. He looked like it was the first time he'd been rejected, and it caught him off guard. He straightened his back and moved his hand as if dismissing the importance of it all.

"Wow," he said with a touch of sarcasm, "I never thought I'd see the day when someone turned down a night with Javier Peña. Guess I overestimated our connection."

His words stung, and you could see a flicker of hurt in his eyes, even though he was trying to play it cool. You had unintentionally wounded his pride, and it seemed he was determined to strike back with a hint of meanness.

"It's not about our connection, Javier," you replied evenly. "It's about respecting boundaries and not rushing into something we might regret later."

«That I might regret later».

He sighed, his tone softening just a bit. "Fair enough. I get it. I won't push," he said, his playful charm replaced by a more somber demeanor. "Let's just forget I ever brought it up. We can stick to our friendly chats. No harm done."

The atmosphere in the room grew tense, and you both lapsed into an uneasy silence. It was clear that your rejection had affected him more than he let on, and you couldn't help but feel a sting of guilt for hurting his feelings.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He didn't mean it.

"I never thought I'd see the day when someone turned down a night with Javier Peña"?

What the fuck was that shit?

As Javier left your office, he felt guilty and embarrassment for saying that. He knew his behavior wasn't correct, but the disappointment he felt really took him by surprise. He had been rejected a couple of times, he was prepared for your possible refusal. But what he didn't expect was the heavy weight he would feel when he heard you saying no.

For weeks, he had been feeling increasingly drawn to you, always wanting to be near you. He even used Messina's punishment as an excuse to visit your office, even after she withdrew it. Javier had finally come to the disconcerting realization that he was infatuated with you. So, he thought that perhaps by taking you out for a drink and even having you in his bed, he would get over it.

But as he got into his truck, he felt truly disillusioned. His ill-advised words had driven a split between you, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had ruined any chance of building something more meaningful. Javier's fear of commitment was something that never kept him awake at night, not even after everything that had happened with Lorraine. He felt genuinely sorry for leaving her at the altar thirteen years ago, but he always told himself that she was much better without him. She needed someone with a lot more commitment than he had. Now, the topic seemed to be haunting him.

He wasn't mad because you hurt his ego; he was mad because you hurt the feelings he didn't know he had.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Javier didn't come to your office again the following week. It wasn't the first time a man stopped talking to you after you rejected him. You were used to it. The moment you made it clear you wouldn't give them what they wanted, they magically lost interest in you, sometimes even resorting to calling you boring or, occasionally, a bitch.

You could sense this double standard in society. On one hand, they encourage women to freely explore their sexuality, which is great, but on the other hand, if you prefer to wait for the right time and the right person, you get labeled as "boring" or "prudish." It's as if there's no middle ground, no understanding that everyone has their own path and timing.

You had always believed in waiting for the right person, the one you truly cared about, to share such an intimate moment. It wasn't about religion, you didn't even believe on the false concept of ''purity'' or ''santity''; it was simply your personal choice.

So you thought Javier was just another man like many. It made you feel disappointed because you really liked him, but there wasn't anything you could do about it.

As you entered the office dining room, you spotted your usual group of female friends. They greeted you, and you joined them. All of you spoke in Spanish.

"Hello" you smiled as you greeted as you took your seat. The chatter at the table was lively, filled with laughter and bits of gossip about the office. These women had become your companions, and you cherished the moments you spent with them during lunch breaks.

As the conversation flowed, one of your friends, Marta, leaned in and asked in a teasing tone, "So, we've been seeing Agent Peña hanging around your office quite often lately. What's the story there?"

The mention of Javier made you pause for a moment, and you glanced at your friends, slightly surprised that they had noticed. "Oh, that," you said, attempting to play it off casually. "It's because of Messina's punishment. She made him handed me his reports."

Ana raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Messina's punishment? Come on, you were chatting for like two weeks straight. That punishment lasts only a couple of days."

You felt your cheeks flush as you tried to maintain your composure. Your friends were sharp, and they clearly had their suspicions. "Well," you began, searching for words, "maybe he did something to bother her again. You know how bossy she can get."

The women at the table exchanged knowing looks, and one of them, Maria, couldn't help but tease, "Hmm, a bad boy indeed. He must really that bad."

You sighed internally. With a sheepish smile, you finally confessed, "Okay, fine. We've been talking a lot. But it's just work-related, I promise."

Marta grinned. "Work-related, huh? Well, you can't blame us for being curious. Agent Peña isn't known for spending that much time in one place, especially chatting with a colleague."

You shrugged, realizing that your friends had seen through your explanation. "I guess we've been getting along. It's nice to have someone to talk to during those long work hours."

Your friends exchanged knowing glances again, and Maria leaned closer, her voice hushed. "Come on, spill the beans. Is there something more going on between you two?"

You hesitated, then decided to be honest. "No, there isn't. It's just work and friendly conversations. Javier is a nice guy, and I enjoy our talks."

Maria leaned in again, her tone more serious this time. "That's good to hear then, because, you know, we found out that he slept with Kelly. You know her, didn't you? The blonde one."

You paused, your heart sinking at the revelation. It didn't surprised you, but you felt a hole in your chest.

"Oh," you tried to composed yourself, "Well for them."

Sofia chimed in, her expression concerned. "Yeah, we just don't want you to get hurt. These things usually don't end well. Men like him, they tend to move on pretty quickly."

"You don't have nothing to worry about," you tell them, mixing your food but you had lost your appetite, "There's nothing between us, so Javier is free to do anyone he please."

The conversation moved on to other topics, but you couldn't help but feel a ache of disappointment and confusion. Why did Javier's involvement with someone else affect you like this? You told yourself it didn't matter, that you had your own principles and choices to stick to. But deep down, something had shifted, and you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You and Javier had crossed paths around the office a couple of times during the following days, but neither of you made the effort to talk to each other. It was a bit awkward, but nothing that you actually mourned. You had heard that he spent at least two more nights with Kelly, until apparently, as you heard from Martha, she asked him to be more than just friends, and he said no. It wasn't a surprise; he had done that to more women at work. Everybody knew him.

On the other hand, Javier was desperate to get you out of his dreams. He told himself that he couldn't put a name to what he felt toward you, but the reality was that he just wanted to accept it. He had feelings for you, more than just wanting to be with you in bed. He wasn't in love - yet - but he did feel something. Your refusal had hit him harder than he expected. He couldn't deny that he cared more about you than he ever thought he would. But he had no idea how to approach you now.

The dimly lit room was filled with the lingering scent of passion and cigarette as Javier stood by the window, staring up at the distant lights of the city. Helena, lying on his bed, propped herself up on one elbow.

"Javi, what's been bothering you lately?," Helena asked, her voice soft and concerned.

Javier turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes meeting hers. He sighed and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "It's nothing, Helena, just work stuff," he replied, trying to dismiss her question.

Helena wasn't convinced. She had known Javier long enough to recognize when something was troubling him. "You can't fool me, Javier," she said with a knowing smile. "I can recognize a heart that's burdened."

He looked at her, his guard dropping slightly. "It's complicated," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Helena knew better than to press him for more details. As she watched Javier's back, her feelings were a complex mix of desire, longing, and a touch of sadness. She had known for a while that Javier was not just her client; she had developed a connection beyond the physical, even though Javier didn't.

She felt a heartache, waves of jealousy running through her veins, knowing that she could never compete with the other woman in his thoughts. Helena understood the nature of their arrangement – she was a hooker, and he was a DEA agent. Their worlds were inherently different, and she had resigned herself to the fact that he would never see her as more than a source of pleasure and information. Yet, despite her own rationalizations, Helena couldn't help but yearn for something more with Javier. She had developed genuine feelings for him over time, even though she knew it was a one-sided affair.

After Helena left his apartment, the night grew darker, and Javier lay awake in his bed, his mind racing with thoughts of you. He couldn't deny the growing feelings he had for you, and he knew he needed to do something about it. The distraction had reached a point where he couldn't ignore it any longer.

So he had made a decision. Tomorrow, he was going to approach you. He would apologize for the way he talked to you the other day, ask you out for a friendly drink, and see where things could go. It was a bold move for him, someone not accustomed to such personal pursuits.

As he mentally crafted his approach, he couldn't help but smile at the thought of your bright eyes and the way your laughter rang in his ears during those brief conversations in your office. Javier was convinced that there was something special about you, something that drew him in despite his best efforts to resist.

In the morning, Javier waited impatiently during the usual meeting in the office. He couldn't concentrate even when it was his turn to talk about the recent capture of one of Escobar's hitmen. Finally, as they left the meeting room, Murphy approached him and patted his back.

''Everything okay, Javi?'' he asked. Javier tried to keep it cool and waved a hand like it was nothing.

''I couldn't sleep well,'' he simply said as both agents arrived at their workplaces.

Steve chuckled, sitting at his desk and starting to gather all his paperwork. ''You were thinking about her, weren't you?'' he dared to ask. Javier and Steve trusted each other enough to tease one another. They never crossed the line but considered themselves friends.

Peña looked at him with annoyance, but it wasn't deep.

''Shut up, Murphy,'' he groaned as he gathered his own paperwork but didn't sit at his desk.

Steve looked at him with a grin, knowing his partner well enough to guess his next move.

''Two weeks without seeing her, and now you'll use Messina's punishment again as an excuse just to see her? What changed, Javi?'' he mocked.

''I told you to shut the fuck up,'' Javi said as he turned back toward your office, and Steve laughed.

Javier tried to remember the words he had spent the night trying to formulate and memorize. He was actually nervous. But just as he reached your doorway, his heart sank. He saw you engaged in conversation with Diego, another colleague from the office. The sight of you two talking, sharing a moment he wasn't a part of, left him feeling like an outsider. You were smiling, and there was a slight blush on your cheeks.

But not as flushed as she was with me, an intrusive thought echoed in the back of his head. He quickly turned away, his plans disrupted, and retreated to his own desk. Javier couldn't help but wonder if he had missed his chance with you. The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him in a state of frustration and craving.

NEXT CHAPTER

[cienie-isengardu]

The OBI-WAN KENOBI TV series just debuted so here are some of my thoughts. Obviously, spoilers ahead:

🗡So far, it wasn’t bad, worked better than the Book of Boba Fett premiere episode for me but still it didn’t knock me down with any special emotions. The fact that the old, prequel cast came back for this project is my main motivation to watch it in the first place thus I won’t give up watching the next episode(s) until I see Hayden as Anakin/Vader. That is my current (and only one) resolution in that matter.

🗡Does Disney even care for its own canon? Grand Inquisitor’s death seems to contradict that. And that is really irking. 

🗡I don’t get Third Sister’s plan. She came to the conclusion that Obi-Wan is gonna save Bail’s little girl because once they were close friends / comrades. Okay. But wouldn’t it be actually smarter to keep eye on Bail and dunno, eavesdrop and track him, and then follow the man once he left Alderaan? That way Organa would lead her straight to the Jedi. Instead there is some complicated trap in the middle of the city and other Inquisitors getting in the way. Dunno, this part felt a bit weird. 

🗡Okay, generally speaking Third Sister seems like an interesting and cool looking character, especially with the unexplained yet connection to Anakin Skywalker. But also funny how other Inquisitors kept the violence under control (to the minimum) while she is like I’ll murder this man and this and everyone bla bla bla. 

🗡I get that Star Wars likes to emphasis the special relationship between child and father (and oh boy, the single father Din Djarin is pretty popular these days, isn’t he?) and okay, Leia was always Bail’s apple of the eye sure, but it would be fucking nice to see more about Leia and Breha’s relationship. I’m disappointed about this one, ‘cause it feels like Breha is the strict parent tired of Leia’s constant antics while Bail is the supportive one and you know, special.

🗡I also don’t understand Kenobi’s work, I mean, no one is angry that he is stealing the food? No one really noticed? I kinda thought it was gonna be an issue at some point, but nope? Not to mention they work in the open air, in the desert and leave the meat (?) just like that as soon as the work is over? Who the hell is wasting food in the desert like that?

🗡Owen Lars though, I like him and his guts. I guess his and Obi-Wan relationship is gonna be a pretty interesting part of the series. I hope so.

🗡Obi-Wan buried his lightsaber with Anakin’s one, that was the most emotional part for me so far. Some good symbolism to think about. But then, later he carried the lightsaber just like that, in an easily visible place, by the waist? Wearing a typical Jedi cloak? In times of purges? Eh. It's hard to call it a disguise.

🗡I’m also not sure how I feel about the fact that Obi-Wan left Tatooine and had adventure somewhere else. Dunno. I always thought he stayed there for twenty years, coming in terms with his trauma and watching Luke. I get the show needed an “action” plot but dunno, I could just watch Obi dwelling on the past and remember the missions / war experiences shared with Anakin and his character (psyche)  being explored that way. Do I make sense? 

🗡And the last but not least important let down. The veteran clone trooper begging for support. I guess it was supposed to be an emotional and heart-breaking moment, two veterans broken by Order 66, the “executioner” and victim of that day. A scene to put Obi-Wan in a good light for sure by him showing empathy for a clone and so on. But it did not work for me. For one, the marking similar to 501st Legion - maybe chosen to give a hint about Anakin? - irks me because I can’t imagine Vader not caring for his legion (the only one part of the army just his at that moment). Like yeah, his empathy is questionable right now, but come on, Vader’s Fist doesn’t come out of nowhere (oh, how I miss Legends sources about 501st clones’ personal loyalty to Darth Lord). And even if that wasn’t the 501st trooper, why would the Empire even allow veterans to be, you know, useless, when the man is still capable of fighting? I mean, only 10 years passed between Order 66 and now, so the clone was 23 years old (doubled as 46) and still could be part of the army. And yeah, the new wave of soldiers were natural born and all, but clone veterans were kept in the rank as long as they were useful or either died in the line of duty. In Legends, Cody served at least up to 19 BBY–1 BBY (The Force Unleashed), which is way past his prime. The unnamed clone does not look to have any serious injury (or did I miss it?) and mental health was hardly the concern of the Empire and it is really weird to think the imperials would let the clone retire from the army for whatever reason. Even weirder is that the clone kept his armor that is provided by the military and by logic, is military equipment. So there is no reason to allow retired clones to keep it? The Empire doesn't care for its soldiers, sure, so why let (“not useful anymore”) clone to take something that he does not even own in the first place? That scene just doesn’t work for me and I’m gonna admit, it was a bit confusing. Did the Empire suddenly give clones a chance to get out of the army instead of exploiting them to their last breath, as they used to do in Legends?

[bellsarefun]

Din Djarin/The Mandalorian Yandere Headcanons [Your Captivity]

【ｓｕｍｍａｒｙ：A few of my personal headcanons (very rough ideas) on how Din would keep you captive until you allowed him to “love you.”】

【ｐａｉｒｉｎｇ：The Mandalorian x Reader】

【ｒａｔｉｎｇ：.PG-13 — no explicit content in this part, but in later parts of this series will have NSFW content. 】

【ｗｏｒｄ　ｃｏｕｎｔ：1.3k 】

You didn’t think that would come to this, Din had been such a kind and wonderful friend. But, you had no idea the darkness that he harbored in his mind—it was like a switch flipped in him. He was possessive, overprotective to the point of suffocation, and completely infatuated with you.

You had managed to persuade him that letting you walk around the Razor Crest freely, but that was the only place you were allowed to go. He forbade you from leaving the ship unless it was with him, even then he didn’t take his attention off you for one moment.

Your only company was Grogu. The little one wasn’t able to comprehend the abuse you were suffering, but he provided you with a stable rock to hold on to and a hope that things could get better. The child grew to be your only other companion other than Din and the sole reason you didn’t plot of a way to leave—and Din knew this.

In Din’s eyes, this was the only way to protect you. He needed to preserve your innocence because you were the light in his life filled with bounties and danger. After a long day of work, he’d want nothing more than to cradle you in his arms and pour all of his love into you. But, you weren’t nearly ready to fully accept him and all of his intimacy just yet, so Din was forced to play the waiting game.

To him, it was only a matter of time before you allowed him to touch you, hold you, and love you. He fantasized about the day when you would throw your arms around him after a long day of bounty hunting work, your eyes filled with happy tears to see him back safe and sound. 

You on the other hand, didn’t know what to do. This was your friend, you cared about him. But, at the same time, this Mandalorian had imprisoned you in his ship and isolated you from everyone except him. You felt sick to your stomach at the thought of him touching you and you only wondered with growing dread about the wicked thoughts swirling behind his beskar helmet.

He did everything he could to get you to trust him again, it was like you now seen him as something to be terrified of. That was the last he wanted. He forced himself with great restrain to keep his hands from grazing your skin and he limited his speech when talking to you. He thought that once you cooled down to this new life, you would find that he was doing all of this for you and the little family you all shared.

However, you continued to get worse and worse. It was like you were withering away and with Din limiting how much he spoke to you, you felt like you were losing your mind. You wanted human connection with someone, anyone. The only thread that kept you from spiraling was Grogu, he was your light and your only reason to continue living. He needed you. He relied on you for safety and support. You couldn’t leave him.

Din had delivered your foot in the backroom that had become your prison. It was a meager meal of soup and a chunk of bread, nothing was spoken between you both. Grogu cooed up at you softly, shaking your knee with his tiny hands. Din stared at him then looked at you with unseen eyes that burned holes into your emaciated form.

His heart was breaking into pieces in his chest, he hated seeing you like this. You were like a flower withering away in front of him, now matter how hard he tried to tend to you.

“(Y/N), say something.” He said but your dull (E/C) eyes refused to look at him. Din was forced to take a step towards you, his fists were clenched by his sides.

“Please forgive me. Just- Say something. Anything.” He pleaded, kneeling beside the bed. You finally turned to look at him, staring him directly through his visor as you picked up Grogu from your side. He cooed up at you softly, his head burying itself into your chest.

“Let me out.” You voice was strained and raspy like you hadn’t spoken in years. Din’s head perked up from his spot, his fist clenched the fabric of his pant leg so hard he thought it would rip.

“I can’t. I can’t lose you.” He said and you simply casted your gaze towards the far wall. “(Y/N). (Y/N), look at me.”

Your head leaned against the cold wall, the sound of Grogu’s babbling noises cut through your spinning head.

“I said look at me.”

Your head didn’t budge.

“Look at me!” He shouted, his hand grabbing your shoulder. “I love you, dammit! I’m doing this for you. All of this is for you!” Your eyes snapped towards him as he shoved you back on the wall, Grogu letting out a whine of surprise and was jostled like a rag doll on your lap.

“Why can’t you see that? I can lose everything, but I can’t lose you.” Din repeated, his voice had lowered now and this was the side of the Mandalorian that you had first seen when he handcuffed you to the bed the first time.

“I can’t do this without you. Grogu needs you, (Y/N). I’m not taking a chance that you might die.” He said, his hands reached out to take Grogu from you. You pulled the child closer to your chest, shielding him from the Mandalorian’s grasp.

“You will realize it, you will.” Was the last thing he said before he grabbed Grogu from your hands, walking out of the room. Your desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as he left you in the room with a crying Grogu. You didn’t want to be left alone—even if that meant having Din with you. But it was already too late and the door to your room shut tightly, the lock turning with a sickening sharp click.

You leaned against the wall of your prison cell, the cries of Grogu ringing in your ears. Hot tears streamed out of your eyes, running down your cheeks and over your cracked, bleeding lips.

You cried for what felt like hours, your voice growing ragged and raspy from the wailing sobs that escaped your broken form. That is, until the sound of the lock untwisting and your head snapped towards the door, the figure of Din stepping into the room making your skin crawl. All at once, you were overcome with anger and disgust for him, you wanted him dead for what he was putting you through.

Din watched silently as you pounded your fist onto his chest, your loud sobs racking your form. He felt sorrow that tears streamed from your perfect eyes and for a moment, a flicker of doubt that this was right shot through his mind. But it was quickly discarded as he laid a hand on your shoulder, your body instantly relaxed into the comforting gesture.

You had tried yourself out from the lack of sleep, the crying, and refusing to eat that you bordered on delusional. So, when you felt Din’s arms wrapping around you in a tight hug—your body couldn’t help but practically melted into his warmth. He cradled you like a broken doll, gentle and careful, and while you whimpered into his shoulder, he stroked your hair tenderly.

You couldn’t remember when you fell asleep, but the coziness coaxed your mind into the inky darkness and into the land of dreams. The feeling of the Mandalorian’s strong body pulled flush against yours felt safe enough, the first time in a long time.

[honeysidesarchived]

THE LAND OF GODS AND DEVILS, a sequel.

—part ii.

word count: 9.2k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: naughty language, massively canon-divergent, roman gets his own tag because he’s a fucking nutso, canon-typical violence, established relationship that might not be the healthiest, age gap, domestic murder family. if you’re here i imagine you know exactly what he’s about.

notes: hello! it has been a hot minute since i updated, but i promise i am not dead. i just went on a real vacation and juggling two longfic projects at once is (surprise) very time consuming! but i am here with chapter two. it's a lot of roman pretending not to be jealous when he's actually seething inside (we love to see it), as well as a few little drops of intrigue. yes, i know, i TOO wanted an entire longfic about roman and varya just making out between dramatic proclamations of their violent devotion for each other, but alas, alack.

special thank you to my beta @starcrier who of course helped me proof a good portion of this, and is eternally my cheerleader and the loml, as well as @shallow-gravy who put her eyes on the very very rough draft of this when i wanted to bash my head into the top of the desk a-la-roman's theatrics. without you this chapter would not have happened!

and thank you to everyone who has read this so far! carry your throne was truly my baby and so getting to write a sequel for it is the most incredible feeling. your support means the world to me. <3

Roman did not like sharing his things.

It was perpetually difficult enough to have let Varya waltz around the club so that she might have happily enjoyed being lavished attention on (attention that was, to be kept in mind, not his)—but watching a stranger, an interloper from her past, indulge himself in her, that was excruciating. Because that’s what it was, in the end; less about his girl enjoying herself and more about people enjoying her, realizing they would never have her, that she would always be his.

So as Irina took the twins back upstairs and Roman ushered her back into the throng of partygoers, he did so with intent; Roman watched Varya wind her way from person to person, lingering at their friend Dorian—dutiful member of the press always content to show her in a good light—before she and Maxim connected.

Roman watched them. He watched the way Maxim beamed at her, the way he ducked his head to hear her say something. He laughed and rocked back on his heels a little, and when Varya brought the glass to her lips, Roman saw it—saw Maxim’s eyes dart down to her mouth, their ascent short-lived as he busied his hand with sweeping a stray curl from her face. Maxim seemed very comfortable touching Varya, he thought. Men were never comfortable touching Varya. They were either—he had found, at least—aware of her proclivity for having hands cut off or (what he could only argue was the most correct deterrent) understanding of the simple politeness that came with not putting your hands on another man’s woman.

More than anyone, Roman appreciated having the things which others could not, so that he could be envied: but this?

This was treasonous. Poisonous. Heretical. Not in my fucking house.

Puzzling yet was Varya’s willingness to let her childhood friend conduct himself in such a way. She was a greedy thing, his girl; he knew that she so loved the attention, preening and glowing under the adoration. Greedy and hungry for love. Had she always been so active a participant in the act of touching, of being touched? Even by a stranger?

Not a stranger, he reminded himself tartly. Childhood friend, the man whose father she killed. That’s two fathers now, in her ledger—her own and someone else’s. And petulantly, he thought it a bit unsettling that it was a bond he could never have with her—dear old dad was already dead as a fucking doornail, wasn’t he? No chance Varya would want to ice him for Roman a second time.

He had determined to swallow his pride (impressive, gracious, generous) and make his way over when Dorian swept in; Dorian, preening and wrapping his arms around Varya from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and making the noisy announcement, “Stealing her away, thank you!” just before he steered her past Maxim. There, the crowd shifted and scooted out of the way to reveal the birthday cake getting wheeled out on its little tray, decorated in gem tones and sparklers.

The determination to close the distance between himself and their newfound associate did not abate, even with Dorian’s well-timed interjection. As he wove through the crowd of milling partygoers, accepting compliments on his good work, he waited until he got within a foot or two of Maxim to stop. Everyone was applauding the cake. Everyone was having a great time looking at the expensive cake glimmering under the oh-so-obnoxious chandelier, but mostly he thought they were applauding his wife.

So, Roman clapped. He clapped, because the cake was out and the sparklers were fizzing and popping prettily, dancing golden light across his wife’s delighted face. He clapped, because everyone else was clapping, too. He clapped, and he flashed an all-teeth smile at Varya from over the top off the elaborately decorated cake (tasteful, not gaudy, of course).

Over the fizzing and popping, and without taking his eyes off of Varya, he said to Maxim, “Did you fuck my wife?”

Maxim clapped. He clapped, too, and he stood there for a moment and blinked a few times and replied, “What?” His accent was thicker than Varya’s, and thicker than Ilarion’s had been.

“You speak English, don’t you?” Roman snipped, his words and perhaps some of his annoyance masked by the party chatter. Varya shrieked delightedly when Dorian dabbed frosting on her nose. “I asked if you’ve fucked my wife?”

The blonde cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently grateful that the attention had gone from clapping now to cutting the cake. In the corner of his eye, Roman could see Zsasz lurking—watching, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t need to intervene on Roman’s behalf. Always a good man.

“No, Mr. Sionis,” Maxim replied, talking over the din of music and laughter.

Good, Roman thought. And then: “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Fuck,” Roman bit out, “my wife?”

Maxim barked out a laugh. He looked caught off-guard by the question—like maybe he wasn’t sure if Roman was asking to threaten or offering to join their marital bed—and then he said, “You have put me in an uncomfortable position. If I say no, I am insulting my childhood friend. If I say yes, I am insulting my new boss.”

There was something about this that flared a little spike of victory in Roman’s chest. Yes, that was right—he was Maxim’s new boss. And Maxim should be nervous about pissing him off, shouldn’t he?

“But,” the blonde plunged on, “I imagine having something that other people want feels good, does it not?”

His eyes narrowed. He smiled thinly. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” he agreed, “it sure fucking does.”

There was a moment where it looked as though the other man was going to say something, his mouth opening but no words coming out, brows knitting together at the center of his forehead; but then silk and warm stretches of skin were filling up Roman’s vision, Varya having swept around to come to him, eyes bright. They’d only been at the party for a little while, but already his fingers were itching—he wanted, having stood by idly while greedy hands brushed against his Varya, and it was time to erase them all, he reasoned. Wipe her clean of them as best he knew how.

Still, she had not looked so happy in a while, he thought. Varya always beamed around the twins, practically glowing radioactive from the inside out, but it had been a long time since he’d seen her so delighted without them in her arms. And surely, this was a testament to his doing—his meticulous, flawless planning, regardless of whatever wrench Maxim Kuznetsov was trying to throw. Yes, Roman thought, he had done exceptionally, in this as in all things.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, “are you playing nice?”

“I’m always nice, kitten,” he demurred, sliding his arms around her waist and nosing the hair at her temple automatically. Every time she came around, the gravitational pull was inevitable—hands on, hands on, hands on, making sure everybody knew exactly who she belonged to. “But you can ask your little friend, if you’re worried I’ve hurt his feelings.”

He said, you can ask, but he kissed her after he said it, purring against her mouth and keeping her otherwise preoccupied; when she did pull away, still encircled in his arms, she smoothed her hand along the exposed skin of his sternum and looked inquisitively at Maxim.

Roman mimicked the tilt of her head. The blonde regarded him for a moment, and then Varya, and then smiled.

“Your husband is very accommodating, Varushka,” he told her, shrugging as if to say, and what else would he be? “I have never met a man like him.”

He felt his mouth downturn—Varushka, the same pet name Ilarion had used with her. It was one thing to accept that his wife’s twin brother would always be held in high regard in her memory, that he’d had to endure the Varushkas and the closeness that they had shared that purposefully, intimately excluded him.

“That’s because there’s nobody like me,” Roman idled, despite the venom thrumming in his veins. He was cool. He was cool and fine and totally cool. Varya hummed and planted a kiss against the slope of his jaw; her nose brushed the hollow of his throat, more than content to remain there.

But even though their exchange remained pleasant, for a second, the blonde Russian regarded him with the same deadpan, venomous gaze that Ilarion had so often. It was so close to the way his wife’s twin had looked at him, in fact, that the disdain which had been almost exclusively reserved for Ilarion himself now prickled up the back of his throat like a bile—instinctual, muscle memory.

He had seen the same look crossing the faces of the men from St. Petersburg, flown all the way to Gotham to meet their new pakhan, as Varya had put it: disdain. We’re not for you, those fleeting glances said, despite the acknowledgment in all other things that they were. What do we want with some American gangster?

He was vaguely aware of Varya and Maxim saying something, exchanging words, but their voices had dulled to the cartoonish wah wah wah of an old-time cartoon, with Varya’s occasional laugh vibrating against his sternum. Maxim waved a hand dramatically. There was ink, there; he hadn’t noticed it before. He’d been too busy inspecting the man’s stupid fucking face, trying to find the lip of his mask somewhere in there. False fucking face, that’s all it was.

And yet: Roman could not help but feel a little burn of intrigue at the sight of the inked Cyrillic letters on the back of the man’s hand.

“—stairs, my darling?”

Varya’s voice bled through the dull static that had overtaken his mind. He glanced at her, reaching up and tracing the slope of her jaw with his thumb, his other fingers splaying along the spine of her neck. Obediently, her chin tilted. She was complacent like this—docile, even; he could have snapped her neck if he wanted, dug his nails into that warm, dusky skin and watched the blood well, and she would have let him—so much so that he wondered at it for a moment. All of his hard work, all of his tempering, cupped right there in his hand; she was his.

Rather than admit to having checked out of their conversation, Roman pressed the pad of a gloved thumb against her lower lip and deferred, “Whatever you want, kitten.”

Briefly, the thought that he had agreed to let Maxim into his loft occurred. Oh, what a dreadful thought.

“Then it’s settled,” she replied. “You can stay while the party goes on, of course, Maxi.”

Maxim lifted his head, regarding them with a gaze that was no longer venomous, but playful. “Of course.”

“And you’ll leave the address of where you’re staying with Armazd?”

“If you want it, I will.” He cocked his head, smiling politely. “Goodnight, the both of you. I am happy to finally put a face to the name Roman Sionis.”

What the fuck is it with these people, he thought wearily, and with no absence of annoyance. This is just how it had been before—everyone saying things beneath the things they were saying, layers and layers and layers, piling up over each other. Didn’t any of these stupid fucking gun dogs say anything exactly the way it was?

“Yes,” Roman agreed, “I bet you are.”

With great purpose—and having determined that Varya was quite done with the evening—he planted his hands on her hips and turned her, steering her towards the doors which exited out of the club and into the hallway housing the elevator. It was her birthday, after all; there was nothing he could do except whatever it was she wanted.

“Goodnight, Maxim,” he said over his shoulder, steering the brunette in his grasp toward the door. A distressed ugh! sounded to his left, and he turned to see Dorian glaring at him accusingly.

“You get her all the time, Roman,” the journalist announced. “Surely you can spare her for a little longer?”

“Afraid I can’t,” he replied over his shoulder, squeezing Varya’s hip when she stifled her laughter. “You see Dorian, close to a year ago, Varya and I decided that we had plenty of other uses for cake to be explored on our birthdays—”

Another disgusted sound came, but it was too late; Roman was already nudging Varya through the doors to the hallway, and down to the elevator. Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was quiet; it was the one area of the building where it seemed like the air conditioning didn’t quite reach, having so many accesses to the outside, and so the air already felt a little humid and muggy.

“Oh, we forgot the cake,” Varya pouted, trailing ahead of him. She’d collected the hem of her silk dress loosely in one hand, keeping it from the floor as she wandered to the elevator to push the button. The neon red of the Exit sign cut across one side of her, illuminating her in half crimson and half shadow. It reminded him of the night he’d come back to the loft to find her covered in another man’s blood, kitchen knife in hand.

And mine, he thought. Varya Astakhova, the gem of St. Petersburg, only living heir to the Astakhov gun-running fortune, his wife.

“Darling,” she purred, breaking him out of his thoughts, “are you going to just stand there all night?”

“Maybe,” he replied idly. “Maybe I will just stand here all night and stare at my wife, hm? Who would stop me?”

“Well, certainly not me,” she demurred, turning to look at him fully now. “But you can hardly kiss me from there. And what am I suppose to do, go without cake and without your hands on me?”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Roman thought about the way Maxim had looked at him—just for that tiny split second—all of the disdain and venom welling in his gaze before it was wiped away. Your husband is very accommodating, I’ve never met a man like him. And that fucking tattoo on his hand. It nagged at him, dragged his attention away from the very, very delicious task at hand.

“Roman?”

“You go,” he announced. “I’ll be up in just a minute.”

A plush, ruby lower lip pouted out. Roman sidled over to the elevator, planting a gloved hand on the doorway so that the doors wouldn’t close, and she prompted, “What could you have possibly forgotten when all you need is right here?”

“You are most spectacular,” Roman agreed, reaching up and twisting a curl around his finger. “But it’s just a quick thing. Don’t worry that pretty head, kitten. I’ll be up in no time, and you had better—”

When he leaned in, their noses brushed; Varya hooked her fingers in the space between the buttons of his collared shirt and tugged a little, playfully, humming sweetly.

“—have this dress off,” he finished, voice pitching low and warm, “by the time I get up there.”

“And what if I don’t?” The cloying, saccharine tone of her voice belied the little spark of rebellion in her words. Roman made a pleasant sound against her mouth, a humid warmth plunging down his spine when she closed the tiny space between them to kiss him; it was entirely unhurried, and on instinct his free hand went to the small of her back, pulling her more flush against him as her lips parted prettily beneath his to sigh.

He said into the kiss, “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

“Is it a test?” Roman felt her smile. “I love tests.”

“Get upstairs,” he growled, unable to resist a final kiss. “Wicked thing.”

Varya did pull back, reluctantly and with a dramatic, long sigh. She’d always had a thing for the dramatics. “Fine, I will go upstairs all alone,” she drawled. “Don’t keep me waiting, Romy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He stepped back, dropping his hand from the elevator door and turning around to head back to the club. The party was still in full swing; people wouldn’t even begin to start leaving for another few hours, patiently and dutifully babysat by Armazd and Zsasz (well, mostly Armazd—Zsasz was not good at being ‘patient’ or ‘dutiful’ if it didn’t include face-carving). It was like having three nannies on payroll, instead of just the one.

The door swung shut behind him. People chattered brightly over the music, lingering around tables in clustered groups. He could see at least half a dozen mobsters and their families, associates of Varya’s from overseas, socialites she had charmed and wealthy businessmen determined to get into their good graces before the weapons chokehold came into full effect.

But there was only one man he wanted to see.

Dorian Young had been smitten with Varya since the moment they’d met, through Roman—and since then, they’d been nearly inseparable. Dorian had even done her the kindness of writing Ilarion a flattering obituary. It would have been annoying, if Roman considered Dorian a threat in the least. He did not.

“Dorian,” he barked out, catching the brunette’s attention. He smiled, full-teeth and as charmingly as he could. “Buddy-mine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?” Dorian arched a brow loftily. “A favor outside of the eternal wisdom of Gotham’s madonna, Roman? How scandalous. You know I can’t resist a special in.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Roman adjusted one of his gloves absently, glancing around the room before inclining his head and taking a few steps outside of the cluster of milling partygoers. He didn’t have many concerns about being overheard, given the noise level, but it was better safe than sorry. “You have access to certain records, don’t you?”

Now two perfectly-manicured brows arched upward before Dorian cleared his throat, dark eyes fluttering in a bat at innocence.

“I’m a journalist, Roman,” he intoned somberly. “If someone were to give me access to records that were anything but public, it would be a grave and disgusting infringement on the American Privacy—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, shut the fuck up,” Roman interjected, waving his hand. “I don’t give a shit about that. How about this: you don’t use the records you aren’t able to access, and you don’t dig up literally everything you can on Maxim Kuznetsov.”

“The ex-boyfriend?” Dorian tsked his tongue. “Roman, green is not your color.”

“Hey? Dorian? Don’t be a fucking moron.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just say you’ll do it.”

“You mean,” Dorian amended, “that I won’t.”

Roman let out an exasperated noise, clapping a hand onto the man’s shoulder and giving him a little jostle that was meant to convey he wished that he could instead be strangling him in that moment. Varya would have been upset if he did. Dorian flashed him a pearly grin.

“Consider it done. Or not-done, as the case may be.” He took a swig of his drink, sucking his teeth. “Anything I should be on the look-out for?”

“Any red flags. Suspicious shopping behavior. Outgoing calls to private numbers. He’ll likely have two separate phones—one burner, one not.” Roman dropped his hand from Dorian’s shoulder. “Armazd will have his address, if you want to get that from him before you leave tonight. And—one more thing.”

The journalist looked at him expectantly, waiting.

“Not a word,” he continued. “To anyone. But especially not to Varya.”

“If you’re sure,” Dorian ventured.

“The surest.”

It was when he turned to depart the party—for real, this time; he was tired of waiting to unwrap his wife—that Dorian said, “Roman?”

A deep, calming breath. I need Dorian, he reminded himself, and V’s fond of him. Roman pulled another one-eighty. “Yes, Dorian, beloved of my wife?”

“How is Varya?” Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, really?”

The question was not one that Roman had anticipated. Why would she be anything other than great, glowing, in love with her life? Sure, the last year had been full of turmoil—but they had come out of it fine. Better than fine. Roman had gotten everything he had wanted, and Varya—well, much the same, hadn’t she?

Dorian’s prying reminded him of the way Varya’s body had stilled, the way her expression had hardened, that dark, wild look slipping into her eyes when the lights in the club had blinked on to reveal the surprise party. She’d looked frigid, the softness wiped clean from her in that split moment.

“She’s fine,” Roman replied after a minute. “I mean—she’s great. What do you mean?”

“I can’t get a good read on her. You know,” Dorian pointed out. “And she did watch her supposed-to-be-dead daddy unload a round into her twin brother while she was drugged to the gills on ketamine.”

Well, when you put it like that, Roman thought dryly.

“Some of us, Dorian,” he said primly, “are able to rise above our trials and tribulations and come out better, hm?”

The journalist smiled. He didn’t looked swayed by Roman’s words, but eventually he said, “I’ll contact you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Good man.”

It was only a few minutes from the club’s main floor up to the loft, but those few minutes felt like an eternity; stretching out, impossibly long and endless in front of him. Varya’s birthday was supposed to have been a problem-less occasion, and now he had several problems lining themselves up in front of them. Chiefly, Kuznetsov. And the rest of them, too, but mostly Maxim.

Roman tugged the gloves from his hands and shrugged the suit jacket from his shoulders as the doors to the loft slid open, the gentle ding announcing his arrival. Faintly, he could hear the classical music that Varya favored to play in the twins’ room as they slept; there would be a little speaker on the table closest to her side of the bed, so that she could rouse the second either of them needed her, but they were good babies, like she’d said; it was rare when they didn’t sleep through the night.

He tossed the articles he’d disrobed from onto the long dining table as he passed, nudging the door to the bedroom open.

“Ah,” he sighed, eyes roaming expanses of warm, dusky skin exposed to him as Varya lay stretched out on the bed, “I see we went with behaving tonight?”

“I told you,” she replied demurely, “I love a good test. I can hardly resist the challenge.” Her eyes glittered playfully, and she propped herself up on her elbows, the silk of her underclothes rustling in a way that beckoned him—his hands, his mouth. “You didn’t bring any cake up?”

A quick laugh billowed out of Roman as he sidled over, stepping out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed. “It’s vanilla, you know. Not chocolate. It would have been sacrilege, in memory of our first big fight.”

“Was it chocolate?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her gravely. “I’d never forget. Don’t you remember? You were a terrible brat to me, and then you didn’t speak to me for a week, and then you showed up with a cake—”

“Terrible brat?” She laughed, feigning insult. “On my birthday, no less.”

He grinned. Leaning down, he pressed a leisurely, open-mouthed kiss to the top of her sternum, hooking one hand in the crook of her knee to yank her down the bed so that she was more firmly under him, eliciting a playful little shriek out of her before he tugged the tie of her robe loose.

“Your birthday, yet here I am, unwrapping a present,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the slope of her jaw. He rumbled, pleased, “I’ve been thinking about you all day, you know.”

Varya made a sweet little sound. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” Roman kissed down the pillar of her throat, dragging his tongue over a faded love-bite bruise. He’d need to renew that. “Especially when you put on that dress. Admittedly, I am a bit disappointed—I was looking forward to cutting it off of you if you misbehaved.”

“For someone who spent all day thinking about me,” she murmured coyly, “you certainly spent long enough coming up here.”

Roman paused in what he was doing—his fingers hooked in the top hem of her underwear, scandalous things that they were—and glanced up at her. He was trying to gauge where she was actually at, emotionally, but true to what Dorian had said, it was almost impossible to get a read on her.

“It’s just business, baby,” he replied.

“Oh. Of course.”

“You see? I told you not to worry about it.”

“Yes,” Varya agreed, “what would I know of business?”

Roman groaned, pressing his forehead to the smooth plane of her sternum. The scent of her jasmine perfume washed over him, and even though he was this close to indulging himself (which he, above all others, deserved the most), he knew Varya wouldn’t let go of the conversation so easily.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. He let the fabric of her underwear snap back into place against her hip bone, sliding down her body to kiss down her abdomen. “Focus on enjoying your birthday,” he added, “and let your man worry about everything else, hm?”

Varya’s lashes fluttered lightly, eyes watching him hungrily as he worked his way lower and lower still.

“Ambitious,” she murmured, “to think that I will let go of it so easily.”

“Well,” Roman replied against her skin, “I suppose it’s lucky that I love tests, too. And I always—”

The thin, silky fabric of her underwear made the most delicious sound as it ripped, tearing satisfyingly. Varya made a soft, sweet sound, and he glanced back up at her.

“—pass with flying colors.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In his experience, Roman found that the best time to approach Varya about things was first thing in the morning. If he was exerting any amount of true self-awareness, of course, he would have acknowledged that “approaching” Varya about anything was not about the time of day, but rather how it was done—a skill Roman thought he had only honed in their short time together.

It was nearly ten; they’d roused late, thanks to the previous evening’s festivities—including an after-hours indulgence that Roman was more than pleased to drag out— and now Varya was chatting conversationally with Zsasz, who provided minimal noises between mouthfuls of food. It was as though her annoyance from the previous night had faded with the glow of morning, which left only the bones that Roman had left to pick.

Therefore, in a show of good faith, he let the chatter carry on for a little while before he decided to Broach(TM).

“So,” he said, sitting in his usual spot at the head breakfast table, “Maxim is funny.”

To his right, the brunette hummed and idly stirred her coffee. The gentle clink-clink of her spoon against the side of the mug was almost soothing; little creature comforts Roman hadn’t realized very often that he truly liked.

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning him,” Roman continued casually.

“I do not like to talk about boring things.” Varya’s brow was furrowed, lips pressing into a little line as she read the newspaper. “Pass me the cream, my love?”

She was feigning disinterest, but he thought she might have been listening more closely than she let on; one wolfish little ear swiveled in his direction, always.

He did as she asked. “He has an interesting tattoo on his hand.”

“I did not notice.”

“No?”

Varya finally tilted her head to look at him, dark eyes inquisitive. She didn’t ask what it was she was thinking, not right away; instead, she waited, did that thing where she let him sit in silence, maybe in the hopes that he’d fill it with his own chatter. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

“Romy,” she said sweetly, setting the paper down and resting her chin in her hand as she gazed at him, “won’t you just ask me what you want to ask me?”

There was no room to stop the irritated noise that came out of him at her words. He scoffed and settled more comfortably in his chair, lifting his chin a little and watching her.

“Or we can play the little game,” she acquiesced, as though she were speaking to a particularly tedious child. “You don’t really care about Maxim’s tattoo. You just care what I think of him.” She fluttered her lashes. “Hm?”

“No,” he replied tartly. “I’m curious about the tattoo.” He paused. “And also what you think of him.”

“I think he is boring.”

“Well, I could have told you that.”

A smile curved her mouth, delicate and fine a gesture as gossamer spread across those soft, Renaissance-features. That painting of her that had been done in the ballroom of the Astakhov mansion was still around somewhere, wasn’t it? Not that he needed a painting when he had the real thing, but maybe he’d hang it in the foyer, as a reminder to anyone who just happened to pass by.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Roman continued idly, “this man of yours—”

“My man, is he?”

“—is just one more obstacle to getting what I wanted. How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out that you put his daddy in the ground?”

“If,” Varya replied. “And what do you mean, obstacle?”

Another scoff came out of him. “Varya,” he chided, voice welling with a patronizing tone, warm and buttery, “come now.”

“Roman,” she replied. Her tone mimicked his. “Explain it to me like I am five.”

“I know the oh-so-omniscient lords of St. Petersburg and Moscow are dragging their fucking feet because they don’t like me.”

“You are trying too hard.” She settled back, dipping a bit of cream into her coffee and stirring again. Clink-clink. It offered him no comfort now; it had become a way for Varya to dismiss him. Don’t you see, Roman, how busy I am? “They are like cats. If you try too hard to gain their affections, they will balk and bolt. They hate being coddled, except by a woman. It’s terribly outdated, but what can you do?”

“I’m—” A sharp, incredulous noise came out of him. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to the lot of them!”

“You see? That is already too much.”

“Well, I don’t want them to like me,” he managed out, feeling the bubbling frustration rising up in him. “I couldn’t give a shit if they like me or not. I want them to accept that leadership is changing hands and they have a new boss to answer to, now.” He leaned forward, forearms rested on the table. “And I know Daddy Astakhov liked to brand his things, hm? So what’s Maxim’s tattoo mean?”

Varya leaned forward, too. “I do not know,” she replied evenly, “and I wish you would stop bringing that man up in my presence.”

“I can’t very well erase him from the conversation completely when I’m inheriting his business.”

“My,” she snapped out viciously, suddenly, “you are inheriting my business, Roman.”

It was just a split second. It was only a split second of venom welling up in her expression, suddenly so wicked that not even Roman was shielded from it; it was worse, now, than it had been before. Those times he’d seen the switch inside of her flip had been under great duress. Was this duress to her, now?

Women, Roman thought, watching her smooth dark hair from her face and collect herself. Perhaps motherhood had not made her soft, but rather emotionally volatile. He couldn’t afford to look more hysterical than his wife, so he waited—with great patience and grace, he thought—for her. She cinched the silk robe at her waist more snugly.

“You know that I am happy to do so,” she continued, as though she’d not just bitten his head off in front of Zsasz, “and that I have no problem with it. I just want...” Now, her voice trailed off, and she skimmed the pad of her index finger along the rim of her coffee cup before she picked up the newspaper again, as well as the red-ink ballpoint to her right. “I want it done right, that is all. And if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

A buzzing sound vibrated from the marble hallway leader to the elevator. Roman was waiting for Varya to issue her apology (which she was certainly going to do), and Varya wasn’t looking up from the newspaper.

“Who could be coming so early?” his wife idled, spurring on that molten-hot frustration inside of him as she continued to avoid the topic at hand. “Not someone you called on, Romy?”

The buzzer was the last thing that Roman wanted to think about, let alone deal with. He had much more on his mind; Varya’s elegant dodge of his questions, and—most importantly—her blatant dismissal of his concerns about their current timeline. She was all well and peachy over there, wasn’t she, drinking her coffee and reading her paper and not doing him the courtesy of looking at him?

She had always been a needler, Roman reasoned; she had always had a wild, stubborn streak in her. He’d watched her sit and push Ilarion’s buttons for an entire dinner, once, just to see him get to the edge of snapping at her. She was good at it. He liked it about her, liked watching her do it; might have even made a past-time out of the whole sport of it. How quickly can my little viper unravel a man? Place your bets, gentlemen, time ends when the idiot’s screaming his fucking head off in a public place.

And he would have been foolish to think that she never did it to him.

“Zsasz,” she said, without looking up from the paper, “be a darling and get that, won’t you?”

Zsasz, who had been sitting at the far end of the table watching all of this unfold the way a man might watch a trainwreck happen, moved to come to a stand. Roman barked out, “Stay,” and the movements stilled considerably, immediately. It was satisfying, at least, in an exchange which had been everything but up until then. He turned his gaze to the brunette on his right.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he said tersely. He gestured to Zsasz. “Sit.”

The blonde did. Roman could feel Victor’s eyes darting between them.

“Oh, darling, you are spoiling my morning.” Varya set the newspaper down on the table and smoothed it out primly, the thin paper edges fluttering between her fingers. “Why would you ever say such a silly thing?”

“Varya.”

“Surely you do not mean to.”

“V,” he snapped.

“Well, I do not know what you want me to say,” she replied after a minute, leaning back in her chair to finally look at him. “My father never deigned to share his operations with me. It was always ‘what a tedious child you are, Varvara’ this, and ‘since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved’ that. I mean, the man spent most of my life quoting Machiavelli at me. Do you think he told me what all of his little art projects meant?” She shrugged, picking her newspaper up again, ignoring the second sound of the buzzer. “You could just ask.”

The irritation spiked high and hot in his throat. Of course, he could just ask. Of course, he could, but he was the fucking boss, which meant doing things like asking an employee what a stupid fucking tattoo meant were below him. He replied tersely, “Why don’t you figure it out for me? Clerical work and employee management is your forte, after all.”

Varya hummed. It was a prim, musing hm, the sound she made when he’d said something she found to be particularly annoying. “If you wanted me to personally manage Maxim,” she demurred, glancing at him through dark, sooty lashes, “you only had to say.”

Somehow sensing this particular phrasing was not going to go over well with Roman (it wasn’t), Zsasz said, “Can I buzz ‘em up?”

“Yes,” Varya replied.

“No,” Roman insisted.

“Romy, there’s a guest.”

“I’m not through with you,” he snapped.

“I’m gonna buzz ‘em up,” Zsasz announced.

Roman felt the frustrated note rising in his throat, strangling it before it could quite make its way out of him. His jaw set; his eyes followed Zsasz on his way out of the main room and toward the elevator to—presumably—let up their guest (intruder). He drummed his fingers against the top of the dining table and said, “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Darling.” Varya leaned forward, elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together and cradling her chin atop them. She looked awfully pleased with herself, the little snake, that gigantic stone sitting on her finger. “If I knew what the tattoo meant, I would just tell you. Why not? I could tell you what the word is, but that is hardly ever what the tattoo actually means.”

Darling, she said, as though she hadn’t just snapped her teeth at him moments before. Roman sucked his teeth. Yes, it was very reasonable, he thought; Nikita had always cherished his son over his daughter, had always anticipated Ilarion taking over the business, as Varya had framed it—and even once, Ilarion had confirmed himself. He wanted you and only you, Ilya, and that’s why you couldn’t look at him when he died. That’s what she’d said, and the memory of that night—of Varya, needling the person she was closest to in the world, weaned from venom and taking so much pleasure from inflicting it on someone else—reminded him that there was still much about his wife left to be unearthed.

And it would be an unearthing. Roman had no doubt that it would be a graveyard he would be turning over, full of skeletons—not just a closet.

From the other room, the sound of an infant’s cry drifted down the hall. Varya’s gaze flickered to the space over Roman’s shoulder, behind him, and she came to a stand.

“I will ask, if you would like me to,” she told him, coming around the table and smoothing her hand along his shoulder in what was supposed to be a peace-making gesture. “But I don’t think there is a reason to bother yourself with the detail.”

He felt his mouth press into a thin line. Fine, he thought, fine, the tattoo isn’t a big deal. But what about everything else? “This is all taking a long time, V.”

“I know.” She paused, and then softened a little, all of her button-pushing and needling having dissipated for the moment; Varya leaned down and kissed his temple, and then the top of his cheekbone. “These things take patience, you know. It is not just a—used car business we are inheriting. There are processes, formalities, the like. The men have to know they can trust you.” She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with dark, inquisitive eyes. “You just have to trust me, Romy.”

Roman sighed. I do, he thought, turning his head to look at her. Don’t I?

Of course, he did. She was his wife, the mother of his children—and Roman hadn’t even wanted kids, not really. Not until he realized how much they, by proxy, made Varya belong to him. There was nothing quite so devoted as carrying someone’s child, was there? So yes; he did trust her, in the same capacity at which he supposed a man trusted a relatively-domesticated panther on a chain. Maybe just a smidge more than that. But enough to expect she’d bite off someone else’s hand, and not his.

“Fine,” is what he said, and the word still came out a little petulant. “I will. I do.” Reaching up, he snagged her wrist when she started to pull away, keeping her in place. She watched him expectantly.

When he didn’t say anything—just watched her, gauging her—she prompted playfully, “Are you going to scold me?”

Roman pressed the pad of his thumb to the pulse point on her wrist. His eyes narrowed. “I ought to, vicious girl. You just can’t resist pushing a button when you see it, can you?”

Her pulse jumped pleasantly under warm skin, whether by the term vicious girl or his touch, he didn’t know. It seemed that storminess had passed as soon as it had arrived; and though she hadn’t yet uttered the words I’m sorry, he almost preferred her like this. Coy.

“You would be bored, otherwise.” Her eyes glittered, mischievous. “Don’t you think?”

His fingers stayed curled around her wrist, but she didn’t try and pull away. Watching the flutter of her eyelashes, the way the corners of her mouth quirked upward in a smile, he felt nearly won over. How tedious, Roman thought, that even when he was irritated with her, he found her endearing. That’s amore.

“Don’t goad me,” he warned, and Varya smiled dreamily at him.

“I love you,” is what she replied, and then leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Let’s never fight again.”

He dropped his grip from her wrist and she stepped around his chair, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her as she started to the sound of babbling infants. The one or two cries that had roused her initially had melted down into baby-chat. Roman was reminded, once again, that they had a nanny on the payroll for seemingly no reason.

“Varya,” he called, taking the newspaper from where she’d left it on the table, “I mean it.”

Her voice drifted from down the hall: “Of course, Romy.”

The sound of the nursery door opening echoed, and then Varya’s voice; saccharine-sweet, honeyed and muffled by distance. He glanced over the front of the newspaper, but it was impossible to focus on the words—what did they matter, anyway? He didn’t give a fuck about what was going on in Gotham. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger, Russian, potentially radioactive amalgams of different fish that seemed to be stalling on a deal that should have been up and done with already. Not to mention, one of those fish breaking off of the nightmare-fish and showing up, unannounced, sporting tattoos likely administered to him by Nikita Astakhov himself?

These things take patience.

Roman suppressed a scoff. Like he didn’t have patience. He’d been the most patient. Varya had dragged her feet for about a month after they’d put Ilarion in the ground, but after that, things had typically moved fast—the engagement, the twins. Everything except the thing Roman had been waiting for since the beginning. Of course, he’d never anticipated inheriting the business himself and had only gone into the whole thing wanting an exclusive deal, but now he knew better. He knew what was owed to him. He knew what belonged to him.

The elevator door down the main hall dinged. Roman didn’t bother stifling the sigh that wanted to come out of him; it was only ten in the morning, who could possibly need him and for what? He pushed the chair back from the table and came to a stand, sucking his teeth and prepping what he thought could only be the tranquil expression of a man ready to murder before Maxim stepped inside.

He blinked. The tranquility fled his face. Zsasz trailed in after him, looking uneasy. There was something about his expression that didn’t sit right with Roman, the hard lines of the blonde’s face setting him even further on edge. Would his suffering never end?

“Oh, Maximillian,” he greeted, keeping his voice the pinnacle of lazily annoyed. “Clocking in for work a little early, aren’t we? Over-achieving?”

“I am an early riser,” the blonde acquiesced. He looked genuinely apologetic, the fuckhead, in Dolce & Gabbana, no less. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“A big wager to make, first day on the job.” Roman trailed Zsasz with his eyes, watching the blonde pace around the far end of the table. What had gotten into him since he’d gone to buzz their guest up? Idly, he sat back down at the table, resuming to glance over the words of the newspaper he couldn’t have given two shits about.

And he said nothing. He instead enjoyed, immensely, the act of letting Maxim stand there in silent uncertainty. It was probably almost a full minute before Maxim cleared his throat, prompting Roman to set his newspaper down with a sigh, as though it were very troubling that he had to stop this thing he didn’t even want to do.

“If you’re here to play catch-up with Varya, she’s busy today,” he deadpanned, turning his gaze reluctantly to where Maxim stood. “And every other day. Generally, I think it would be safe to assume she’s much too preoccupied to assist with whatever problems you might have; that type of work is beneath her now, you know.”

“I am sure being a mother and wife is more than enough to keep her busy,” Maxim agreed soberly.

“And transitioning the business in my name,” Roman replied pointedly.

The blonde shrugged, smiling a little. “Of course.”

He felt his eyes narrow. He leaned back in the chair, interlacing his fingers while his elbows rested on the armrests of the chair. It was impossible to figure out what it was about Maxim that Varya might have liked; the man was painfully well-mannered and non-confrontational, which Roman knew wasn’t her style at all.

Never mind that Varya had not once said that there was a romantic interaction between them. That didn’t matter. He knew how men looked at his wife, and Maxim had been a little too comfortable touching her for there to have been nothing at all.

“But, I did not come here to speak to Varya,” the Russian continued, taking a few steps toward the table. “I actually came here to speak to you, Roman.”

Roman blinked. Well, that wasn’t what he expected.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“I wanted to come and see if you were free today,” Maxim elaborated casually. “I was Nikita’s man. Now, I am yours. It only seems right I get to know you better.” He gestured with his hand. “I know you have more than enough help around here, and I was tied up in Turkey before, but...”

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line. He saw no trace of yesterday’s venom in Maxim’s face, no indication that he was trying to be sarcastic or pull some kind of joke. Instead, Maxim’s face looked completely open and earnest.

“You’re here to ask me on a fucking lunch date,” he began, “and not Varya?”

“Varya,” the blonde replied demurely, “is not my boss.”

Huh, Roman thought. He swept his gaze over Maxim scathingly, and then looked at Zsasz, who remained unreadable. Well, wasn’t that just the most unhelpful thing? It did feel nice to hear Maxim say it, even if Roman would rather see him crying or begging or bleeding out.

“I’m busy today,” he replied after a moment, turning his attention back to Maxim. “But you can swing by the—”

“Maxim.” It was Varya’s voice. Roman turned to look at her. There was no baby in tow. This wouldn’t have been unusual, if Maxim had been a stranger; she tended to keep the twins as far out of reach of people she did not know as much as possible, nested away for safety. But Maxim had been her childhood friend, hadn’t he?

“Good morning,” Maxim greeted her warmly. “I was just asking Roman if he would—”

“I know what you were asking,” Varya interrupted. “You overestimate yourself, showing up to your boss’ home unannounced, don’t you think?”

Maxim looked about as lost as Roman felt; the sensation that he’d stepped into a fever dream very suddenly was washing over him. He looked at Zsasz. The blonde gave a little shrug, as though to say, Why the fuck would I know?

“Varushka,” Maxim ventured after a moment, “you know I did not mean...”

“I don’t know anything at all,” the brunette replied coolly. “You should have called ahead.” She paused, and then added purposefully: “Temka never showed up unannounced.”

Roman found himself in the very strange position of feeling...bad (?) for Maxim, standing there a little helplessly, the poor thing. Varya’s words had gutted him. He could only assume that she was referring to the blonde’s father when she said Temka, by the look on his face, and that—

Oh, you wicked thing, he thought, affection welling up inside of him as he looked at Varya, you know just how to unravel a man. Sticking a salted hot-poker straight into his grief-wound, aren’t you?

“I am sorry,” Maxim said after a minute. “I did not mean to be so thoughtless.”

“The transgression is not mine to forgive.” Varya swept around Roman then, sitting back down in her seat. She looked at him, expectant. “Roman?”

“Me?” he asked.

“It is as Maxim said,” she replied. “You are his boss, not me.”

He waited to see if there was some kind of strange undertow to her words, but he could find none; just Varya waiting, expectantly, for him to excuse Maxim’s showing up without having called ahead. It was odd, and he couldn’t figure out why it was that she was acting like this toward Maxim now—had it been the Varya is not my boss comment? Was she trying to make up for their little spat?

It was commonplace for nothing to be straightforward, with Varya. This was different.

“So,” she continued primly, turning to look at Maxim now, “apologize to your boss.”

“I am—” Maxim stopped, like he didn’t want to do it, drawing Roman’s gaze to him. Quite suddenly, Roman thought he knew exactly what his wife was doing; putting the blonde in a position where he’d have to put good faith behind his words. Varya is not my boss, he’d said, but did that matter if he couldn’t even apologize to Roman?

He finished, more smoothly now, “I am sorry, Roman.”

Roman beamed. “Insolence forgiven,” he replied, all thoughts of his disagreement with Varya gone now. He reached over the table, snagging her hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across the back of her hand. “As I was saying—I am busy today, but you are welcome to swing by the club later this evening. Before midnight. We get busiest just before the witching hour.”

Maxim ducked his head. “Of course.”

Varya’s nails skimmed Roman’s palm. She didn’t look up when she said, “Was there something else, Maxim?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then,” she replied sweetly, “have a lovely afternoon.”

A moment stretched where the blonde looked a little unsure, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Of course,” and excused himself down the hall. Varya circled something in the newspaper with her red-ink pen, her other hands still interlaced with Roman’s.

“Mr. Zsasz,” she began, “did you let Maxim up?”

Zsasz looked at Roman. “I didn’t,” he replied after a minute. “Armazd did.”

“Hm,” came the reply, even as she noted something in the margins of the paper.

“Were you apologizing for your tantrum, just now?” Roman asked. He would puzzle out why Armazd letting Maxim up was worthy of a hm later. Now, he could see the hint of a smile ticking the corners of Varya’s mouth upward, but she did not sway from whatever it was that had captured her attention in the news of Gotham; instead, she circled something absently.

Varya said, “Did you find it a suitable apology?”

He considered. “Well, I would have liked it better if you’d made him cry.”

“It would have spoiled my appetite,” she demurred, folding the newspaper primly and coming to a stand. “I am taking the twins to the park with Irina. And Zsasz too, if you’ll spare him. I won’t be back until late afternoon.”

“Late? Then you’d better come here, wife.” Roman tugged on her hand, watching her expression warm when he said wife. Once, he might have squinted at loaning Zsasz out to her. Now, he didn’t mind; especially if it gave a peace of mind that she and the twins be that more secure. “So that I can get my fill of you before you’re gone.”

The brunette laughed, letting him tug her down onto his lap. She carded the fingers of her free hand through his hair and brushed their noses together; it was all glowing affection, now, warmth buzzing under her skin.

“Oh, darling, now I want to leave quicker, and more often,” she murmured, “so that you’ll never have your fill of me.”

Roman supposed that was how she’d gotten him in the first place. Hooked him with being inaccessible, with being coveted—as if she had always known he was not a man could resist something considered off-limits—and now that he had her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He’d seen the way that others looked at her, and by proxy him; with want. With envy. Bruce Wayne could eat shit.

“Roman,” Varya said, “I want you to be careful when you are around Maxim.”

He paused, pulling back to look at her a little. She smoothed her hand over the slope of his collarbone affectionately.

“You are right,” she continued. “When Maxim finds out what I did—if he does—he will be angry about it. He is used to being the right-hand man, you know. Do not...” She glanced down, looking for the words. “Do not give it to him so easily. Make him work for it and prove himself to you.”

Tracing the lines of her expression—soft, concerned—Roman dragged his thumb across her wrist.

“I told you, doll.” He planted an affectionate kiss to her wrist. “Don’t worry about these things. I’ve got it perfectly under control.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know you do, Romy—”

“Then stop this fussing,” he interjected mildly. “You’re spoiling your very charming apology. You know I love a good public humiliation. Which park are you taking the twins to?”

The dark eyes of his wife swept over his face for a minute, contemplative and impossible to gauge, before she smiled at him warmly.

“The one just a few blocks away. It has the most shade. Mr. Zsasz, won’t you bring the car around?”

And just like that, things were back to normal. Varya swept away to busy herself with getting ready and loading the twins, and Zsasz went to pull the car around, leaving Roman at the table for a rare moment of peace. Soon enough, he’d have all the information he needed from Dorian, and he could well-and-truly mitigate Maxim Kuznetsov as a problem, and everything would be back on track. He could bet money Varya didn’t think he’d had the foresight to dig up information on Maxim—it wasn’t his style to get his hands dirty, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.

Roman sighed, quite pleased.

Back to normal.

[chaoticowlpost]

To New Friendships

Before the fic starts, I just want to tag @nourix-png because they’re so supportive and sweet and I love seeing their name in my notifications so here’s the update you asked for <3 (also check their account out because they have amazing art <3)

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

“Hello, Draco,” Harry said slowly, not yet sure of what to make of the other child. “I’m Harry.”

Draco took a pause before straightening himself in his seat and said, “Hello, I’m Draco.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He let out a laugh at Draco’s mistake and felt himself warm a bit towards the other boy when he noted his embarrassment through the light flush that covered his cheeks.

Harry’s mom ruffled the other boy’s hair before sending them off to Harry’s room with Harry leading the way while Draco trailed behind him. Once they arrived, Harry closed his door and they both took a seat on the beanbag chairs that were scattered on his floor.

While Harry practically flopped himself onto the red one, Draco sat carefully on the adjacent blue seat, wobbling a bit as he sank down into the material.

“So, you’re Draco.” Be cool, Harry, You’re the older one here so you have to look impressive. 

“I am,” Draco nodded before letting his eyes wander around the room. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

“What?” Harry asked, feeling confused. 

“You don’t like me.” It was a simple statement, one that was said with only the barest hint of a frown. “You could just ignore me and do whatever you want, if you like.”

Guilt washed over Harry, and he suddenly felt bad about his initial greeting with Draco from earlier. Especially after his mom warned him about the problem in their family.

“No,” Harry shook his head, because it was true. “I don’t dislike you. I just wanted to see my friend.”

“Right,” Draco nodded. “I’m sorry you can’t see him because of me.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, realizing that Draco misinterpreted what he meant. “I just... didn’t know we had guests over.” There, Harry thought. Nice save.

“I’m sorry for-”

“Stop apologizing,” Harry panicked, unsure of what else he could say to make the blond forget how he acted just minutes ago. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

“Right,” Draco nodded, still looking unsure. After that, an uneasy silence settled between the two, and Harry was already regretting giving in to his mother so easily. 

“Do you know the hand clap game?” Harry asked, although he was pretty sure that the other kid didn’t. His Uncle Moony taught him.

“No?” Draco responded, his eyebrows furrowing. “What’s that?”

“Here, I’ll teach you,” Harry said, excited at the prospect of getting to play it with someone else other than Moony, who kept winning against him. He began teaching Draco every step of the actions.

“-and then after each round, you have to add another clap at the end,” Harry instructed, repeating the game slowly as he taught Draco.

“And if one of us loses?” Draco asked. 

“I dunno,” Harry shrugged. “My Uncle Moony normally chases me and tugs my ear.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Draco said excitedly. Harry quickly agreed and they began playing. Naturally, Harry was majority of the time in the beginning as Draco was still prone to confusing the steps but, apparently, the kid was also a fast runner.

“I got you!” Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around the other boy so he couldn’t escape. Draco slumped and gave in as Harry tugged on his ear, pink from all the other times he lost.

“One last,” Draco insisted for possibly the tenth time. Harry didn’t mind; this was fun. Except Harry, still high on all his winnings, made a mistake while counting and clapped one too many times.

“Ha!” Draco cheered triumphantly, grinning wide. “I win.”

“That’s not fair!” Harry protested, pouting. “I’m tired from all the running.”

“Or maybe you suck at counting,” Draco teased. Harry narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, flicking the other boy’s head before bolting away.

“Hey!” Draco laughed, getting up to run after him. They went on like that for a while since they were both beginning to get tired, meaning they paused their game every few seconds to take a breather, because that’s how these games work.

“Be careful,” Harry heard his mum say as she walked in the room. Both he and Draco stopped running to greet her. Once she left, Harry shot back up and began bouncing on his bed.

“C’mon, you haven’t caught me yet,” he taunted the younger boy.

“But your mother told us to be careful,” Draco said warily. 

“We are being careful,” Harry huffed, but Draco still looked hesitant. He didn’t want his new friend to be uncomfortable, so he decided it would be better to give in. “Or we could just watch the telly.”

“The... what?” Draco asked, tilting his head a bit to the side.

“The telly,” Harry repeated, gesturing to the black screen that was placed above a high drawer. He knew, of course, that not a lot of wizards had them because it was a Muggle invention, and it could be hard to get them to work in magical houses.

“I was wondering what that was,” Harry heard the other kid mumble, more to himself than to Harry, which made him grin.

“There are loads of channels,” Harry bragged, grabbing the remote. “Follow me.”

He dove under his blanket, holding it up so that Draco could follow him as they crawled through the dark space until their heads were peeking through the bottom end of the cloth, facing the TV.

Harry fiddled with the remote and turned it on before facing Draco, excited to see the awe on his face when the light of the TV filled the room.

“Are they trapped?” Draco asked worriedly, looking at the screen with wide eyes.

“I don’t think so,” Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “My parents said that they’re just acting, and everything is recorded. Like a photograph.”

“Oh,” Draco murmured, still staring at the bright screen.

“Look, this is my favorite channel,” Harry said, flicking to the one that showed a cat and mouse chasing each other.

“Kneazles don’t look like that,” Draco commented.

“It’s a cartoon,” Harry explained. “They’re animalat- animini?... drawn animals.”

“Oh,” Draco nodded, not paying any attention to Harry’s little slip up. 

He and Draco sat there and flicked through the various channels until the sky was dark outside, interrupted by a knock on the door while they discussed whether the animated mermaid in the movie was accurate or not.

“It’s time for dinner,” Harry’s mum called through the door before they heard the sounds of her footsteps fading. They both crawled out from under the sheets and went to follow the Potter matriarch. 

The dinner was a chatter-filled one. Both Lily and Harry were excited to ask about Draco while the kid in question was happy to learn about Harry’s life as well. 

Once dinner was finished, Lily began taking out the dishes while James finally caved and started asking Draco a bit about himself and his family until the little blond boy stood abruptly, gathering his plate before marching in the kitchen.

“Here you go, Mrs. Potter,” Draco said, looking up at her as he extended his arms, trying to reach high enough to place it in the sink.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she cooed, wiping her hand to run it through the boy’s head. “If only my husband and son could learn a thing from you.”

Harry, feeling indigent, gaped at the two from his seat while Lily threw a pointed look in his general direction.

“Go help your mother, Harry,” James shrugged, picking up the paper and straightening it out for him to read. 

“But Mr. Potter,” Draco said, standing in the entryway that connected the kitchen to the dinning area. “You’re her husband. Shouldn’t you be helping her.”

This time, it was James’ turn to gape while Lily cackled loudly from the kitchen. “He has a point, dear,” she singsonged. 

“I-” James sputtered, folding the newspaper and tossing it on the table. “Of course I can help her.”

He stood up and gathered his plate while Harry followed suit, marching behind his father as they went into the kitchen to place their utensils and plates into the sink.

“I told you I like him,” Lily smirked at James, who simply rolled his eyes.

“Hey mum,” Harry asked once she and James were finished talking, because it was rude to interrupt adults. “Since we’re done, can Draco and I grab one of the board games and go up?

“Sure, Harry,” she smiled, dismissing the two after Draco’s light protest.

Unfortunately, they weren’t able to make it much further than setting up the game and establishing the rules when Lily knocked on their door once more, telling them that Narcissa was back and it was time for Draco to go home.

“Does he have to?” Harry frowned, slightly bitter at the fact that they didn’t get to play the game.

“I’m sure Draco could come over again soon,” she said, trying to placate her son. “But I think Mrs. Malfoy is tired, so we should let them go now.”

“If she’s tired then she should rest, and Draco could stay here with us,” Harry argued.

At this, Lily let out a small huff of amusement. “Maybe plan a sleepover for another night.”

“Fine,” Harry pouted. The trio went back to the living room where Mrs. Malfoy was waiting, making polite conversation with James while Draco put on his shoes. 

When both families stood on opposite ends of the doorway, Harry frowned as Draco gave him a small smile.

“We should play again sometime,” Harry stated. Draco looked up at his mother for permission, who nodded and turned back to talk to his mum. 

“Bye Harry,” Draco whispered before stepping away when his mother did.

“Hey,” Harry said, taking a step forward as well before pulling the younger boy into a hug. Then, he whispered, “You have to come back.”

“Okay,” Draco nodded seriously as they pulled away.

“Promise?” Harry asked.

“I promise.”

-————————————————-

Masterlist

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[ryttu3k]

Doing those ship meme questions only it's the new OT3 (Beckett/Sascha/Ilias) because they're my main source of serotonin these days. Occasional appearances from Anatole and Lucita, too.

Not doing all, but there are A Lot.

1. Who's the one who's reckless and always getting into trouble while the other gotta pull em out

Beckett and Sascha actually do have a lot of braincells between them but none of them are in use for 'can sense danger'. Ilias has gained some minor common sense since his 'hey, I'm going to ask our Antediluvian for power to help face its favourite childe oh whoops I am possessed' thing and is usually the one sighing fondly and saving their asses.

2. Who's the one to send the other "I love my gf/bf" memes

Ilias. 100% Ilias. He would go out in public in a shirt saying 'I <3 Sascha' and calling them ‘my flower’ while Sascha is just pleased they can't blush any more.

3. Who's the one who listens to a music genre the other doesn't like and how does the other react

God their music tastes are all over the place. Sascha is over a thousand years old and has seen and heard A Lot. They consider the Romantic period 'modern music'. Beckett is similar albeit with about 350 years of it. Ilias got hurled from 1233 to 2004 and after a period of ??? went, "Oh, Romanian music!" and it was. Dragostea Din Tei. Like can you imagine one moment it’s 1233 and the next moment you are listening to Dragostea Din Tei. Also thanks to the language drift they only caught about a quarter of the words so it was this whole thing where he almost, almost was understanding it but the rest was just, “...what.” And that’s how Ilias discovered modern music.

Anyway yeah they’ve pretty much decided that their collective music tastes are so disparate no one is allowed to comment on them.

4. Which one spoils the other more and do they ever get competitive to show the other more love

Honestly, they all kind of spoil each other, albeit in different ways. Like Ilias will just randomly pop a handmade flower crown on Sascha’s head. Beckett will occasionally find an extremely rare book on his desk and know Sascha found it for him. Beckett always tells Sascha first when he’s found something cool so they can be the first to investigate it. And they absolutely get competitive, yeah.

5. How many years did it take to get married or was it just not for them

Sascha and Ilias have a mutual blood bond, which is more or less the equivalent of thus. Beckett has a mutual bond with Anatole, but he and Sascha have a level-2 bond.

7. Are their friends/family supportive

 Honestly, uh, Sascha and Ilias don’t really have anyone else. Beckett’s companions tend to range from, “They’re terrifying but I trust your judgment :D” (Anatole) to “hahahahahaha if Vykos harms one hair on Beckett’s head I’ll end them” (Lucita) to “WHY” (Aristotle, Okulos, most others tbh).

8. How does one comfort the other when the other is in distress/having a panic attack/crying

Sascha is the one most prone to panic attacks because trauma is a bitch and basically just... Beckett and Ilias both respond by with hugging/gentle restraint (if they’re okay with touch) or by giving them space and doing things like running a hot bath when they’re touch-averse.

9. Which one dissociates

Honestly Sascha spent most of 1234 to 2006 lowkey dissociating, which is fair when there’s literally another essence fused to yours. Post-Dracon, they still get the occasional dissociative episode, but it’s much easier to bring them back to themself.

10. Which one stares at the other's booty like “damn” and how does the other react when catching them

All three tbh. Beckett stares at Sascha, Sascha either gets a bit self-conscious or a bit ;) , depending on mood. Sascha stares at both Beckett and Ilias and gets a bit embarrassed when caught (Beckett will laugh it off, Ilias will basically be ;D). Ilias stares at both and is completely shameless about it because he may no longer be on the Path of Pleasure but he’s absolutely not going to feel ashamed for admiring his gorgeous lovers.

11. When they live together what kinda place do they live in? What does their home look like?

Beckett and Sascha travel too much for one place, honestly, and Ilias accompanies them a lot. They do have a few houses scattered throughout the world, though, including one in the Carpathians (nowhere near Brasov, tyvm). Not really as big as the monastery, it’s mostly like... big library, a few comfortable places to sleep or rest, Ilias likes having a garden these days and grows a lot of flowers.

12. What do their dates look like

Museum heists.

13. How does each act when getting drunk

Ilias gets even more handsy. Actually he can get to be a bit of a pain, but he does listen immediately if one of them tells him to tone it down. Beckett gets very enthusiastic and fired-up and a bit more feral and he’s gonna go find Enoch right now and prove Caine wasn’t real once and for all. Sascha, uh, tends to get a bit emotional and also very talkative, but can literally like. Talk their way into minor breakdowns. Basically less barriers.

14. Which one rolls over in the morning evening to wake up the other one just to kiss them

All three :3

15. Have they saved each other's lives before

Yup!

Ficverse-wise, Sascha did also save Ilias from becoming a bogatyr to the Eldest, although that was also Sascha and Beckett both saving themselves by being emotionally honest. Yeah XD

16. Does one have an interest the other think is weird but wants to listen to it regardless

Ilias’ spirituality conflicts a bit with Beckett’s... atheism, I guess? Like he’s definitely not sure he believes in the spirits that Ilias regularly works with as a Koldun, but he’s willing to keep a relatively open mind. (He’s a bit less open-minded in Sascha’s belief in - and support of - Caine, given that he’s literally based his career around the metaphor theory!)

17. Which one uses cropped hentai as reaction images

Sascha.

They have troll tendencies, okay.

18. Does one of them kinkshame the other

There is absolutely no kinkshaming here. Listen Ilias was a Priest of Jarilo. Sascha was once on the Path of Pleasure too. Beckett seduced Dracula for information then forgot to ask his question. They’re all very open about everything.

There may be teasing about the odd hobby or interest but it’s pretty lighthearted.

19. Is one of them self conscious about their body? If so how does the other comfort them

Beckett occasionally has Moments over his hands and worries about hurting Sascha or something. They basically respond by being like “are you kidding the claws are hot as hell”. On occasion, Beckett will get one of them to Vicissitude them down if he wants to use his hands more, although they’ll regrow and be achey for a night or two afterwards.

20. Say they were cuddling on the bed while listening to record player playing the background. Which song is playing?

Honestly I want to say Third Eye by Florence + the Machine just for fic reasons. When I was writing Mantle I saw it very much as Beckett towards Sascha, but it fits with Ilias towards them as well.

I have no idea how they would have discovered F+tM but anyway.

23. What kinda joyrides do they go on? Relaxing ones or wild ones?

It. I imagine it usually involves police chases. When it doesn’t Beckett will occasionally go wolf so he can stick his head out the car window like :P

Shh don’t tell anyone.

25. Do people ever get annoyed of their pda

God probably. One of the main exceptions is Anatole, who’ll basically go, “Oh! Are we cuddling?” and flop on top of Beckett.

27. Which one’s the red, which one’s the blue

They’re all red. Fear. Ilias is probably closest to blue.

28. Are either of them mentally ill, if so how do they help one another cope

Sascha has both PTSD (from Symeon and Michael, and from the Eldest) and C-PTSD (from being bound to the Dracon for literal centuries). Also depression and anxiety, which are... pretty common with those. See question 8 for some of the coping methods, the rest is just... taking each day as it comes. Like they’ve lived a very long time, but they only got free of the Dracon in 2006, so it’s still a very new thing.

Ilias has some trauma from some of the things he’s had to do to survive since waking up with the Thirst of Ages, and gets into guilt spirals on occasion. He mostly focuses on Path of Nocturnal Redemption methods to work through it; he’s kind of adverse to anyone seeing him vulnerable like that. He knows Sascha has done some awful shit, but they weren’t themself at the time so Ilias feels it doesn’t count, and Beckett is like, Humanity 6? He just doesn’t get it, so Ilias keeps it to himself.

Beckett has an odd, acquired one - his experiences in Jerusalem left him with the ability (if it could be called an ability!) to occasionally hear the Cobweb (the Malkavian Madness Network). While his connection isn’t nearly as strong as an actual Malkavian’s, he does get odd flashes of Insight; less helpfully, it can occasionally get, uh, loud in his head. This tends to ramp up a bit with proximity to Malkavians, so when he’s around Anatole, Anatole will help him filter the voices and thoughts out by teaching him meditation techniques. (Given that Anatole - correctly - feels responsible for Beckett being afflicted thus, he wants to make sure it doesn’t hit his lover too badly.)

29. Does one have a spot on them where they would melt when the other kisses them there

Give Beckett head scritchies and he’ll turn into a puddle :3

34. Are they a reckless couple or safe

*loud, prolonged laughter*

37. Do they get into fights often? If so what do they fight over and how do they make up?

Sascha and Ilias are usually... very chill; if they argue, it’s over the other’s safety, like Ilias wanting to do something reckless and Sascha being very much ‘please do not’. Sascha and Beckett argue a bit more, although thankfully they have now stopped trying to literally kill each other XD When they do, it’s usually ideological, related to Gehenna, Caine, et cetera. Sascha is still very much a part of the Sabbat, and Beckett is, well, basically an atheist.

40. Who would fight in honor for the other if someone would insult them

All three tbh. Here’s a fun bit from the novel:

Still really dig this bit from BJD, too!

No misgendering on Beckett’s watch!

42. How would one react if the other was to die

Uh.

Poorly.

Like most of Sascha’s sanity slippage was due to the Dracon’s essence being fused to their own and just how the Eldest... did that, but a good part of it was absolutely due to Ilias’ death.

43. Who dies first

...canonically, Ilias XD;;

It’s okay he gets better.

[uniquesoulvibes-blog]

This is a story I wrote for @mundanelion  

It is a Malec figure skating AU that is set before the 2018 Pyeongchang Winter Olympics. Nathan Chen, Vincent Zhou, and Adam Rippon all competed at Sochi. Because this is a total dream and I’m a figure skating dork who loves all three of them I had them win gold, silver, and bronze there. Nathan gold, Vincent silver, and Adam bronze.

Lion is awesome btw and everyone should love her and her art

Chapter One:

Alec stuck his phone in his pocket and pushed open the door to the rink.

“Hey Helen,” Alec said to the black haired woman putting up skates behind the counter.

“Oh, Hey Alec,” She smiled at him and stepped up to the counter.

“Is the ice open?” He reached into his bag and pulled out one of his skates. They were black Jackson Competitors that he had gotten a year ago. Alec started skating when he was eight after the winter Olympics in Italy that year. His parents were not very supportive of him but they let him keep skating because he loved it so much. When he was twelve he began taking ballet and gymnastics classes to help him improve on the ice. He started taking lessons when he turned thirteen after convincing his parents that he wouldn’t put skating before school. He continued skating and began competing, he made it to the junior grand prix and came in fourth. He went to Worlds when he was seventeen and placed sixth. He kept skating and improving and his goal was to make it to the Olympics in Pyeongchang that was in a few years.

“There is another guy out there right now but I don’t think he’d mind you being there.” She smiled at him. “His name is Magnus, he just moved here after backpacking around Asia. He has good makeup too.”

“Cool,” Alec smiled and went back to the lockers that were across from the ice. He took off his shoes and tugged on his skates and bunga pads. He laced them up and pulled on his blade guards. He closed his locker and walked out towards the ice. He peered in through the hockey glass and saw a man, presumably Magnus, performing a routine on the ice. The step sequence he was performing was really beautiful and he seemed to float on the ice. He stopped and thought for a minute before skating over to the barrier and picking up a maroon notebook and writing down some notes. Alec must have made some noise because Magnus looked up and saw him.

Smiling, he said, “Hello,” Magnus skated over to him. His voice was smooth and deep.

“Uh, hi,” Alec said awkwardly. He breathed in the cold air and filled his lungs in the familiar scent of the rink, “I was wondering if I could skate with you.” Magnus raised his eyebrows, Alec realized what he had said, “I-I mean like, skate on the ice with you not like with you with you but uh, oh god.” Alec covered his face with his hands.

Magnus chuckled, “Either one is fine by me.” Alec’s head snapped up and his cheekbones flared red. Magnus smirked, “I’m Magnus.” he stuck his hand out.

“Alec,” He shook his hand and smiled.

“Take your guards off, I want to see what you can do.” Magnus winked at the twenty-year-old.

“Okay,” He took them off and hung them on the Hockey net next to a pair of golden rockers. He stepped on the ice and took a few strokes to the center where Magnus was.

“Alexander is your full name right?” Magnus asked.

“Yeah, most people just call me Alec but it doesn't really matter to me you could give me a nickname or whatever it doesn't matter, I'm rambling aren't I?” Alec flushed again.

“You’re cute Alexander.” Magnus let his eyes wander up and down his body.

“I, uh,” He stuttered.

“I did always like boys with black hair and blue eyes.” Magnus smiled. Alec’s eyes widened and he looked down and dug his pick into the ice. Magnus put two fingers under Alec’s chin and lifted his head up. Magnus slid closer and looked into Alec’s eyes, “You aren’t out yet, are you?” Alec shook his head and looked away again. Magnus sighed and backed up, “I won’t force you into anything,” Magnus chuckled a bit, “I don’t even know if you like me or not.” Magnus sighed. “Are you working on anything right now?” Magnus asked as he skated back over to his phone and notebook.

“Uh, yeah,” Alec said dumbly.

“Show me,” He turned back towards him and leaned against the barrier, “What’s your music?”

“It’s a compilation of music from Mao’s Last Dancer. I have it on my phone,” Alec skated over to him and handed him his phone. He connected it to the Bluetooth speakers in the rink and found the music in his playlist. “Just hit play when I’m in position.” Magnus nodded.

Alec skated back to the center and got into his opening position. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. He got into position and waited for the music. He heard the first few notes and then began his sequence. He took a deep breath and decided against going for a quad toe loop and did a triple instead. He landed and continued his program. He entered the second half of his program and attempted a triple axel, a jump he’s struggled with. He fell but kept going. He ended the program with a combination spin and froze in his last pose when the music stopped. Alec heard applause from Magnus and a few dog whistles. Alec turned to him, breathless.

“That was beautiful! Did you choreograph that one or did your coach do it?” He asked.

“I did, it took me a while but it is my favorite program I’ve done so far.” He said timidly.

“It was amazing, and you looked amazing doing it.” Magnus winked and skated towards him.

Alec’s eyes went wide and he looked down, digging his toe pick in the ice.

“No one has ever flirted with you have they?” Alec shook his head.

“No, no one has ever really noticed me before.” Magnus frowned.

“How about this, I’m inviting you to come over to my place and join me for dinner. Your decision is completely up to you. I’ll ask for an answer at the end of this session. Agreed?” Magnus smiled.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Lovely,”

“I’m gonna go practice,” He said awkwardly. Magnus nodded and turned around, skating back towards his notebook.

Alec turned and took a few strokes, stopping when he was a good distance away from the barriers. He started out his practice by doing a few double and single rotation jumps, practicing his quad salchow and triple axle the most. He glanced over at Magnus and saw him performing a perfect layback spin. Magnus had his eyes closed and he looked peaceful and focused. Alec quickly realize he was staring when he heard someone tap on the plexiglass next to him, when he turned to see who it was he saw Helen giving him a thumbs up. He rolled his eyes and returned to his practice. Helen left with a knowing smile on her face.

About an hour later she returned; “Hey guys,” she called. They both turned towards her, “We’ve got a private party in a bit so wrap up, we gotta Zambo.” They nodded and began skating towards the exit.

Magnus approached him while he was pulling on his rockers, “Have you made a decision?” He asked.

“Uh, yeah, would it happen tonight?” Alec high fived himself mentally, that was the most confident thing he’d said all day.

“Are you free tonight?” Alec nodded, “Wonderful, can I have your number?”

“Yeah, sure.” Alec pulled out his phone and gave it to Magnus. Magnus punched in his number and smiled.

“I’ll see you tonight Alexander.” Magnus winked at him and turned to leave.

“Okay, see you then.”

===========

“OH MY GOD ALEC!!” Isabel squealed, “What are you gonna wear?” Alec had gone home after the rink and told his sister what had happened to him.

“I was just going to wear my sweatshirt and some jeans.” he shrugged. Izzy looked at him incredulously.

“Alec, a hot guy named Magnus invited you to come to his house for dinner and drinks and you are going to wear a sweatshirt??” Izzy gaped at him.

“Uh, yeah?” Alec shrugged.

“Uh, no! I’m going to pick your outfit.” Izzy walked past him and into his room.

“Please nothing too frilly.” Alec sighed as he followed his sister into his grayscale room. Izzy was going through his closet.

“You have nothing colorful.” She huffed.

“Iz, get out of the closet.” Alec sat down on his bed.

“You should take your own advice Alec.”

“Ha ha, a coming out joke, very funny.” Alec leaned back and lay down on his bed, his legs dangling off the side.

¨How about this?” Izzy walked back into Alec’s room holding a navy blue button up shirt and black pants.

“Iz, I got those pants for a funeral,” Alec said in a bored tone.

“Oh well, you look good in them so you are wearing them.” Izzy threw the clothes onto his face before he could say anything, “Get dressed.” She walked out and closed the door.

Alec sighed and laid there with the clothes on his face, appreciating the darkness the clothes provided. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and thought,  ‘I have no friends other than Jace. Who is texting me?’ He reached down and grabbed his phone from his pocket. He pushed the clothes from his face and sat up again. His phone screen lit up with the notification for a text

Magnus <3: Should I pick you up?

Alec bit his lip and thought for a minute before responding;

Alec: Sure

Alec sent him the address.

Magnus <3: I’ll be there at nine

Alec sat up and got up from his bed, leaving the clothes there.

“Hey, Iz!” He called from the hallway.

“Yeah?” She stepped into the hallway from the living room. Isabel didn’t live with Alec but she stayed at Alec’s New York apartment when she came to visit. She lived in California where she went to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, which they called the Institute for short. She was on a break from college for a few weeks and had come to NY to see her brothers.

“Magnus is gonna pick me up at nine.” Alec strolled toward her and into the living room.

“Ooooo~” Izzy wiggled her eyebrows and giggled before looking at Alec with a serious face, “Alec?”

“What?”

“Is this going to be your first time?” Izzy put a hand on her hip.

“What?! Iz, I just met this guy!” He went bright red.

“So it is going to be your first time.”

“Izzy!” Alec huffed and closed his eyes, “He just invited me over for dinner at his house, that doesn’t mean that we are going to have sex.” Alec walked past his sister and into the kitchen.

“Alec, if he does anything that you don’t like, shove him off.” Izzy followed him to the kitchen.

“Magnus wouldn’t do that, would he?” Alec busied himself with getting a cup of water.

“He might Alec.” Isabel leaned over the breakfast bar.

“I’ll be fine Iz, don’t worry.” Alec smiled at his sister reassuringly, “I’ve dealt with worse things.” He pointed to the burn scar that spread over the left side of his neck.

“I know, I just worry.” Izzy frowned at the scar. She was not there when Alec had been burnt but she knew the story. Alec had saved their adoptive brother, Jace, when they were young. Jace had been messing around with matches in the old shed behind their house when it caught some hay on fire and quickly spread to the dry, wooden walls of the shed. Alec had run in without hesitating and threw Jace out of one of the windows before he could get any serious injuries. Before Alec could get out he was hit with a burning beam and was trapped in the shed. He was rescued before anything fatal happened but he was hospitalized for a long time. The scar on his neck wasn’t the only one, there were a few on his chest and back. He is very self-conscious about them but he has gotten used to people staring at him.

“So when is Magnus coming again?” Izzy leaned over the breakfast bar and grabbed a few grapes from the bowl on the counter. “Nine.” “That’s like,” Izzy paused, “an hour from now.” She stuffed a few more grapes into her mouth, “So what are you gonna do until then?” Alec shrugged, “I’m probably going to go to the gym for a bit and then come home to take a shower.” “Okay, I’m gonna go to Jace’s house.” Alec put the half-filled glass on the counter and Izzy grabbed it and took a sip. Alec just sighed, “Well I’m gonna go.” She stood up and grabbed her bag from the counter, “Good luck!” She called as she closed the door.

Soooooooooo yeah

There is the first chapter.

I have like, six more that I finished writing, I just have to type them up

I hope you liked it!

--Evan

[granvarones]

on september 19, 1989, the legendary janet jackson released her magnum opus, the iconic “janet jackson’s rhythm nation:1814.” the album was released during the peak of my mother's crack addiction. here is the long but hella interesting story, told through the album’s seven top five singles, of how that album and my childhood best friend, robert, saved my life.

it was mid-august of 1989. i lived in north philadelphia with my mother and my five brothers in a one bed-room apartment. well it was sort of an apartment. my grand mother had transformed her two-story house into two living quarters. my grand mother lived upstairs part of the house and we were regulated to the downstairs part.  this the "living room" was our bedroom. the "dining room" was everything but a "dinning room" because we never sat as a family for meals in that room. i am sure one of the reasons was because didn't even have a table. it was dark and empty room for the most part but it was where i spent most of my time dancing and avoiding the world. it was also the room where i first heard janet's "miss you much."

the song premiered on q-102 fm in philadelphia and i waited till the top of the next hour to hear it again so that i could record it on cassette. because we didn't have cable, i had to wait until the video premiered on the weekly syndicated show "friday night videos" . hunty, once i saw the video - it was a wrap! the imagery and the fuckin' choreography provided my lungs with oxygen!

although it had been just a few weeks since the release of the album, i already memorized every word of every song by the time i started the seventh grade. i hated school and dreaded the start of every new semester. there we many times that i was sure if i could not deal with the name calling. but “rhythm nation” had inspired me to stay in school. if janet said education was important, then hell, education must be important! 

although it had been just a few weeks since the release of the album, i already memorized every word of every song by the time i started the seventh grade. i hated school and dreaded the start of every new semester. there we many times that i was sure if i could not deal with the name calling. but “rhythm nation” had inspired me to stay in school. if janet said education was important, then hell, education must be important! 

i met robert on the very first day of school. i knew as soon as i walked into the classroom and witnessed him commanding space with his beautiful spirit, that this semester would be different. i remember exhaling when i saw him and thinking to myself, “finally! i am not the only one.” for years, i was always the only “out” student in school and seeing another unapologetic femme dude was like my imagined community come to life!

i sat near him and his crew waiting for an opportunity to connect. i pulled out my “rhythm nation” cassette, which i carried with me everywhere. “i love janet jackson!” robert said as he crossed his legs. i said “ooh honey chyle, me too! i know all her moves!” we were best friends from that moment.

before robert, i never talked about my mother’s addiction with anyone else. when he said, “my mom’s on that shit.” i replied, “mine’s too.” before robert, i had to survive lunch in the cafeteria on my own. being called "faggot" sliced me open but when i was with robert, i didn't care. we laughed at the students who called us faggots. we laughed at them because they didn't know janet's "miss you much" and "rhythm nation" choreography. we wondered, “what the hell are they doing with their lives if they aren’t mastering janet’s moves?” freaks!

on some days we were bold enough to do the choreography in the lunch room. of course, we had to do it without music so we just sang the songs while we danced. most students laughed but some others were quite impressed. those were the students, in their little ways, helped to make survival in the cafeteria a little easier. and i thought, well if they attack us, there are multiple exits for us to escape.

one day, our science teacher, miss harrison approached me and robert as we walked into the classroom and asked if we could do our janet routines. “come on guys, it may quiet the other students.” miss harrison was a young teacher and the students always gave her a hard time. while completely shocked and terrified by her ask, i remember feeling a sense of affirmation. she knew that we could dance. she knew that we danced together. we didn't dance that day. mainly because unlike the cafeteria, her classroom only had one exit and we weren't trying to risk it.

by the time the "escapade" music video was released in january of 1990, robert was sent away to a group home. i remember feeling immense pain and heartache because i wasn't sure if we would ever see each other again.

i had to learn the choreography alone. i had to survive school alone. i had to fuckin' survive my mother's addiction. but i had my rhythm nation cassette. well, i had the cassette but no radio to play it on because one of my mother's friends stole my damn radio and sold it. lawd, how the hell did i survive!? i tell ya know.

without robert, i spent every monday and wednesday afternoon in miss wilson's english club. granted, i was the only student who showed up but i loved miss wilson. she had been my 6th grade teacher and she was always welcoming. we didn't do anything related to english studies, she and i just sat and gossiped about the other teachers. this is how i knew that my social studies teacher, who loved to laugh whenever i was teased, was getting a divorce after finding out her husband was having an affair. this information would prove useful when one day she laughed at me yet again. calmly, i said "you laugh all you want but i know when you go home tonight, your husband won't be there." chyle, her face cracked! she never laughed at me again.

during my afternoons with miss wilson, i would tell her about my life. she would remind me of how special i was and how one day, janet would pick me to dance for her. when i told miss wilson about my radio being stolen, she went out and bought me a new one - the next damn day! to express my appreciation, i danced to "escapade" for her. also, i really just wanted to show off the choreography.

in other related "escapade" stories, i seldom danced in front of my mother. while she was hella supportive of me as a queer kid, she struggled with my being unapologetically gay af. she hated that i lip sync for my life to songs by women. which is why i was so surprised when one day, while she was drinking with friends in our "living room", she asked, “baby, why don’t you dance one of those janet songs for us?” “he knows how to dance. he’s good” she told her friends. i danced to "escapade" because it was the current single. i didn’t lip sync for my life and i am sure that impacted  my performance. my mother smiled the entire time. her friend said, "you dance just like michael jackson." i knew what he "meant" by that but i was more irritated that he chose to say michael and not janet. looking back now, i wish i had chosen to dance to "rhythm nation” instead. but i suppose i didn’t because robert wasn’t there to dance with me. 

just as spring of 1990 was approaching.  i was sent to live with my aunt janet after my mother found me crying uncontrollably in the corner. i seldom ever cried in front of her so i am sure the sight of me in tears frightened her. “what’s wrong?!” i didn’t know how to tell her that i had overheard her own mother and sisters describing as dirty and ugly kinds. so i just replied, “i want to die.”

robert was still away in foster care. i was now in a new homes and  transferred to a different school. i was afraid that he would not be able to find me ever again. i kept this sadness to myself. 

i hated my new school. i had tried to reinvent myself as “straight” but that didn’t work. i am sure it was me always saying, “i will read you, write you, erase and retrace you!” that “outed” me. i also  wasn’t committed enough to “masc” persona. somehow, i knew that being myself was enough but i also knew that it wasn’t enough.

to avoid the teasing from other students and the gaze of teachers who looked at me as if to say, “why are you so damn gay, tho!?”, i began to cut class. i would come to school for the advisory period and then walk the fuck out. some days, i would find a playground and simply sit and wait for 3pm. some days, i’d sneak back home and watch music videos while my aunt  and her husband were at work. this is how i managed to catch the world premiere of the “alright” music video on mtv. later that night, my aunt was watching tv and called me into the living room. “janet’s new video is on!” i was like "oh really? that's cool because i have never seen it. ever." i think she knew i was lying.

a few months after moving in with my aunt janet, i got word that robert was looking for me. he managed to run away from his group home. i immediately rushed to his mom's house but he left moments before i arrived. i am sure all of this would have been easier had we had phones but we didn't. it was the 90s and we were poor as hell.

i waited on his mom's steps for hours before he finally returned! we hugged hard and he said "you still remember the steps?" we spent the next few hours talking about our dreams of dancing for janet, boys and how he was never going back to that group home. it was a school night so i had to get back to my aunt janet's house. i didn't want to leave robert. i was scared that he would disappear again. "hey. you want to go to the mall tomorrow? i can cut school."

the next morning, i met up with robert and we walked the miles to the mall. i remember us taking a polaroid picture in the photo booth. i was wearing a burgundy turtle. i remember being hot as hell because it was hot as hell! 

on our way back from the mall, we stopped by a save-a-lot supermarket. we had just under 5 dollars. enough to buy a few sodas, some cookies and a bag of chips. we found a playground nearby and sat on the swings killing time before i had to head back home. while we were there we met a girl about our age, who by today's standard would be considered sex-positive but back then she was a girl who didn't give a fuck what people thought. we shared our sodas and treats with her and spent the rest of the afternoon laughing our heads off.

robert walked me half way home that night. right as we were saying good-bye and planning our next outing, he said "you won." i replied, "what?" he said, "remember our bet. i said that 'lonely' would have a video and you said that 'come back to me' would have a video. you won.

in late june of 1990, i was the saddest i had ever been. robert was returned to his group home and my aunt janet sent me back to live with my mother. she was fed up with my cutting school. the kicker is that i had just one more week of school.

i left janet’s dreading going back to my mother’s house. by this time, my mother lived in a two bedroom house. it was definitely a come-up from our usual one-bedroom apartment. but i didn't want to deal with her addiction. but i had no choice.

sometime that late july, robert showed up at my house. he had not run away but was given a weekend pass to visit family. we did what we had always done - danced to janet songs. i don’t remember us talking about our dreams. i think by this we became aware of that dreams for boys like us don’t come true. but we could still dance our asses off.

that sunday, my aunt blanca and i drove him back to his group home. it was about a 45-minute drive and i counted every minute. he said if he was good, he would be given another weekend pass. i told him to be good.

"black cat" premiered on a sunday in august. this i will always remember because i hated sundays. some days i still do. robert hated this song.

during the next couple of months, robert ran away a few times. i would try to hide him in my room but my mother, who was deathly afraid of child services, would demand that he had to go back. i would cry every time this happened. it wasn’t until winter of 1990, i convinced my mother to let robert live with us. and by convincing, i told her that he was discharged but had no place to go. she said, "then he will stay here."

robert and i watched the mtv world premiere of "love will never do (without you)". it is not only my fave song from the rhythm nation 1814 album, but it is my all-time-fave janet song. it is also one of my and robert's fave janet video. the hair. the smile. the walk. antonio. everything! it was also the first video where janet gave us skin!

i remember us walking to the record store on germantown avenue - the same store i purchased the rhythm nation album in september of ‘89 - to buy the 12" single. mind you, i didn't have a record player. we just had to have it! we would wind up buying all of the rhythm nation singles on 12" and then nail them to my wall.

robert was already my brother but he became a brother to my brothers. he became my mother’s son. my brother nicholas, who used to watched me dance to "miss you much” for hours,  now watched as me and robert danced to everything.

when janet released "janet." in 1993, robert and i would perform "if" for all the drug dealers on the block. my brother would block traffic and turn the car lights on to provide us a spot light.

robert lived with my mother years long after i moved out. he even moved to florida with her. he would provide my mother the same magical gift he provided me for many years - his love and friendship.

i have not seen robert in almost a decade. i still remember the light he provided me during my darkest times. i still remember our inside jokes and i still dream that maybe one day, we will somehow, dance for janet jackson.

[406ink-blog]

Time stands still

Daenerys and Jon face challenges after arriving at Winterfell

Author’s note: Fluffy, smutty fanfiction ahead

Jon sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face in his hands, scratching at his beard over and over, before looking straight forward with unseeing eyes.

Daenerys felt hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes to her cheeks.  Why didn’t he say anything?

Only a few hours earlier as Missandei had been dressing her, struggling a bit more than usual to button the bodice of the Queen’s dress, did the two suddenly reach a simultaneous conclusion: Daenerys was pregnant.  Their eyes connected in the looking glass, sharing a knowing look.  Dany had thought the month-and-a-half at sea en route to White Harbor from Dragonstone had been to blame for her “shrinking” wardrobe; she was not used to being so confined and therefore inactive, nor eating so well, for so long.  Never had she thought, for even a moment that she could be pregnant.

  Missandei finally broke the silence to ask when Daenerys had last bled, pointing out the gentle swell of the queen’s once-flat belly, her now fuller breasts, her darkening areolas and suddenly tender nipples.  Dany’s red flower had not bloomed on a regular basis for many years, she truly had no idea.  When Missandei asked, “Who might the father be, Your Grace?” Daenerys had shot her a disbelieving look and replied, “I believe you know the man of whom we speak.” 

After all, there were no secrets between Dany and Missandei, her most trusted advisor.  Missandei had found Jon Snow in Her Grace’s bed in the morning on more than one occasion.  She had changed the queen’s linens, the evidence of their nightly activities plain as day on the silk sheets.  She knew from their girl-talk during Dany’s baths and dressing routine that Dany and Jon had lain together every night on the voyage to White Harbor, and more-often-than-not they coupled two or three times a night, as though no amount of love making could sate their desire for one another.  In truth, it was a desperate attempt to make up for all the nights they had spent apart before finding one another, and for all the nights they may never have if they failed to defeat the Night King in the Great War to come.

 A visit with Maester Wolkan had confirmed what they suspected.  Missandei had held her hand as the Maester had performed his examination and given them the news, and they both had sat for long moments in silence after he quit the chambers she had been given on her arrival at Winterfell.  Missandei was again the one to finally break the silence, “Are you happy for this news Your Grace?”

Dany smiled.  “So happy.  Missandei, I never thought I would bear another child after …” her voice cracked, thick with emotion.  Missandei turned and embraced her friend and queen.  “I am so happy for you both.  What do you think Lord Snow will say?  How will you tell him Your Grace?”

“I expect it will be a shock,” Dany said, worry furrowing her brow.  “I told him more than once that I could not have children, though he did say I might consider the mage was not an ‘accurate source’ for that information.”  She smiled at that.

“I believe he will be happy for this news Your Grace.  Every man desires heirs.  Perhaps he will propose a marriage.  He is an honorable man and Lord Snow explained to me that he, himself, is a bastard - that is, his mother and father weren’t mar…”

“I know what a bastard is,” Dany cut off her friend, and gave her a squinty, disbelieving look as she continued, “This is unfortunate timing, but then, when would be a good time?”  She gave a small, bitter laugh.  “I need to tell him Missandei, I need to tell him now.  Can you send for him?”

30 minutes later, Jon Snow knocked at her door and she called out for him to enter.  They were more formal with one another now than they had been on the seas.  They had spent every night together on the ship – either Jon came to her cabin or she to his – and had made love so many times she had lost count.  Afterward, they spent hours talking while Jon held her close, his hand twined with hers. 

They had told one another their life stories in the still of the night, the only noise their breathing and the gentle slap of the waves on the side of the ship.   Dany spoke of many things to Jon, both happy and sad, some that she had never told another living soul.  Jon pointedly asked her what she had meant, when during their first meeting, Dany said she had been ‘sold like a brood mare, raped and defiled.’  She had not been prepared for the flood of emotion as she spoke of her brother Viserys selling her to Khal Drogo, of her subsequent rape at the tender age of 13 and many nights thereafter, of overcoming her trauma to love the Khal, the devastating loss of both her husband – even though it had been a mercy, it had been at her hand, had been her fault – and their child, and the guilt and shame she still carried for all of it.  Jon held her tenderly as she cried for what felt like the first time in many years, his heart overflowing with compassion and genuine concern for his queen, but there was something else; something deeper that made Jon rage inside like a wild animal at the pain and betrayal she had experienced at the hands of others.  He loved her. 

He was thankful those that had hurt her were already dead, otherwise he would have ended them himself.  No one would ever hurt her again as long as he still drew breath.  Longclaw, the great bastard Valyrian steel sword given to him by Lord Commander Mormont, would drip with the blood of anyone who would harm her.  He silently vowed it would be so.  He took no joy in killing, but could not stop his mind from conjuring an image of himself cutting down Daenerys’ enemies - shattering the Night King into a million shards of ice, gutting Cersei Lannister as she sat on the Iron Throne.  Jon had no delusions about the possibility of his death - never had had any.  He had accepted the truth - that he was the shield that guards the realms of men, and would lay down his life if need be, he thought bitterly.  Only gladly would he lay down his life for his queen, Daenerys Stormborn, his Dany.

For her part, questions had poured out of Daenerys’ mouth as though she couldn’t help herself, curious and impatient to know everything there was to know about Jon Snow.  Tracing a slender finger over each of the scars on his chest and abdomen, she asked him how he came to leave the Night’s Watch when the vow was for life, how he came to be stabbed in the heart, and how he had survived his wounds.  Jon explained how his men had labeled him a ‘traitor’ for allowing the Wildlings through the Wall, and had killed him for it, expecting Dany to disbelieve that he had actually died, but she did not.  He told her of the red priestess, Melisandre, who had brought him back to life, and her belief that the Lord of Light had resurrected him, for what purpose he still did not fully understand.  He also told her what is was to grow up a bastard, Catelyn Stark’s hatred of him and the coldness and distance from his family he suffered as a result, and of his first love, Ygritte.

An intimate group, those closest to Daenerys and Jon – Jon, Davos, Daenerys, Missandei, Tyrion, Grey Worm, Sansa, Arya, and Gilly – had assembled in the Stark crypt beneath Winterfell at the request of Bran and Sam.  Jon had assumed the meeting location was to keep whatever information they had to share from the ears of the wrong people.  They stood together in the cool, damp, darkness, the only light coming from the sparsely spaced torches on the walls and the few candles at the feet of the statuary. 

When Bran began to tell his revelation – that Jon was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, and not Ned Stark’s bastard as they all had believed, Jon’s knees had nearly buckled.  “This changes nothing,” Sansa had said, matter-of-factly.  “You are still a Stark.  You are still our blood.  And you are still the leader the North has chosen, the King in the North.”  Clearly the implications of what Bran had said hadn’t fully sunk in to everyone present.  His throat dry, Jon’s gravelly voice broke the silence, “I’m still a bastard.  And I’m not a Stark.  I was born in Dorne - am I even still of the North?  It doesn’t matter.  I will still fight for the North, bleed for the North, die for the North if need be.”

Daenerys stood beside Jon, so close her shoulder brushed his arm.  He could feel the heat she put off in the cool darkness, through even his thick leather jerkin and fur-lined cloak.  She sensed there was more dark words to come from Brandon Stark, from this Three-Eyed Raven.  In the cool darkness, her hand brushed against Jon’s, and she caught his little finger with her own, a silent show of solidarity and support.  He accepted it gladly, twining his large finger around her small one.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Sam interjected with a bit of trepidation, his eyes beseeching Bran to continue.  Bran went on, “Sam told me Rhaegar and Lyanna were married in a secret ceremony in Dorne, after Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled.  I used my abilities to travel there and see it.  You were never a bastard Jon; you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son.  Your true name is Aegon Targaryen and you are the heir to the Iron Throne.”  There were several sharp intakes of breath before a hushed silence fell over the group, each of them wondering what the ramifications of Bran’s confession would truly mean – for the North, for all of them, for the realm. 

To Jon, it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room.  The only thing that kept him standing was the warmth of Dany’s small fingers entwined with his own.  She hadn’t let go, not even when Bran told them that Jon, and not she, was the true heir to the Iron Throne.   Somehow, Jon knew, she never would.

It seemed like everyone started to talk all at once, their voices slicing through the quiet of the crypt.  The echoing din made Jon’s head feel as though it would split in two.  “Enough,” he said finally when he could stand it no longer.  The voices stopped, all eyes on him.  “I need time to think, I need peace and quiet.  Leave me and do not speak of this to anyone.”  Respecting his wishes, everyone turned and began to make their way to the stairs leading up out of the crypt. 

Tyrion lingered a moment longer than the others before he turned to go; his eyes narrowed and shrewd and missing nothing in the darkness – certainly not the laced fingers of his queen and the bastard.  He had seen Jon go into Daenerys’ cabin on the ship, and it did not take much thinking to connect the dots in Tyrion’s troubled mind: they were fucking – no, not just fucking – they were in love.  Gods help them all, he thought, for love is the death of duty. 

Dany saw Tyrion hesitate, felt certain her amethyst eyes betrayed her true feelings for Jon, but it was her actions which left no question.  She did not try to pull her hand away; she wouldn’t let go and neither would he.  She looked at Jon as though for the first time, her eyes meeting his in the torchlight.  “Not you”, he said, obsidian eyes blazing, his voice a velvet whisper. “Never you.”  She embraced him then, her arms going around his shoulders.  “Blood of my blood,” she said whispered against his neck.

Blood of my blood.  Jon never had a mother, never had anyone to comfort him or hold him or assure him that everything would be alright.   And he was so tired, so weary, so weak.  He’d been fighting all his life. In this world, men didn’t show emotion and they certainly didn’t cry or need comforting from women, but Dany’s embrace felt good to Jon.  It felt right.  Daenerys comforting him didn’t make Jon feel weak, it made him feel strong.  For the first time, he felt he had someone who had faced and overcome the same adversities as he had - someone who understood him completely.

The group had agreed to keep the truth about Jon’s parentage to themselves for the time being.  Northern politics were complicated enough as it was, more so now that Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys.  The Northern lords had no trouble believing in the army of the dead or the Night King, but asking them to believe that Daenerys Targaryen was not there to conquer them proved a difficult feat.

Here in Winterfell, with all eyes on them, the freedom Jon and Daenerys had to continue their physical and metaphorical exploration of one another became little and less.  They certainly had less privacy for their wanton abandon, and less time to slake their thirst for one another as nearly every waking moment was spent in preparation the possibility the Wall would fall and the Night King and his undead army would come pouring through the breach. 

Not to mention that almost immediately upon arriving, Jon had been rocked by the revelation of his true parentage.  The nights had become long and empty for them both, as there were too many people about in the castle to allow them to sneak into one another’s chambers, even in the middle of the night.  The fact that Jon was a Targaryen changed nothing for them; in fact it made their connection run deeper than the name they both shared, deeper even than blood. 

Jon had been shaken deeply by the information Bran and Sam had told him; everything he thought he knew about himself had been a lie.  Robert’s Rebellion had been built on lies; how many tens of thousands had died for Rhaegar and Lyanna’s forbidden love?  To protect him, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, who Jon had thought was his father, had lived a lie.  It wasn’t that Jon felt his father had abandoned his honor; quite the opposite. Ned Stark had been so honorable, so loyal in fact, that he wrapped Jon in the cloak of his honor and sacrificed his own reputation and even the trust of his wife for his duty.  His father had chosen the hard way. 

We all do our duty when there’s no cost to it.  Honor comes easily then, Jon thought remembering the words of Maester Aemon. Yet sooner or later, in every man’s life, there comes a day when it is not easy; a day when you must choose.  Yes, the fact that the honorable Lord Eddard Stark had done his duty when the cost was so great; that fact shook Jon most of all, because he realized, he felt the same honor and sense of duty to Daenerys.  There would be no sacrifice too great for his queen if he the day came when he had to make that choice. 

But as far as Stark or Targaryen, Jon felt he did not have to choose.  In his heart, Ned Stark was still his father, still with him always.  His mother was a Stark.  He was the blood of the wolf.  He had yet to learn what it meant to be a Dragon, but he was a dragon still.  There was no denying his blood.  He was a dragon raised by wolves.  He could be a Stark and a Targaryen.  He could be ice and fire; a dragon and a wolf.

Jon and Dany had managed only a handful of moments alone over the last weeks since they’d been in Winterfell.  There had been one or two stolen kisses in the Gods wood and a brief moment in the cool darkness of the Winterfell crypt before the statue of Jon’s mother, Lyanna.  Her body had ached for Jon’s touch, the sort of physical pain an alcoholic goes through when there’s no drink to be had.  In truth, he had ached for her just as much. 

They had crossed paths in the hallway late one night; Daenerys had been returning from the privy, Jon had been returning to his chambers from the library.  His eyes locked on her, like a wolf stalking its prey.  He had pulled her into a curtained alcove, ripped her dressing gown open to find nothing underneath.  He pushed her roughly up against the warm stones, claimed her mouth, pushed his knee between her legs and slid his hand over her sex.  Finding her soaking wet, he slid two fingers inside, stretching her pleasurably.   Daenerys found herself hitching one leg up to wrap about his waist, giving him more access, more depth.  His tongue in her mouth mimicked the motion of his fingers pumping in and out of her soaking pussy, and he massaged her swollen nub with his calloused thumb until she came, her legs shaking and her breasts heaving, on a string of breathless Valyrian words Jon did not understand.

And now she stood before him, having told him she was pregnant with his child.  “I know I told you I could never have any children, and believe me, this is the last thing I ever expected, my lord. But there is no doubt in my mind, I am with child.  Your child.”

His legs had gone out from underneath him at the revelation and he’d sat down hard on end of the bed, the second time in the span of the week he’d felt the air sucked from his lungs, the ground falling out from beneath his feet.  A child.  My child, he thought.  My child inside my Queen.  He rubbed his face with his hands, he scratched his beard over and over.  Then he looked up to see her standing before him, arms wrapped around herself, worry and fear so plain on her face, tears threatening to spill from her beautiful violet eyes. 

He stood and closed the distance between them in two strides.  When he reached her, he paused, unsure whether his touch would be welcome.  She had been so formal, almost cold when she gave him the news, as if she had clad herself once again in armor, ready to do battle.  In truth, she was his one weakness, and the thought did not terrify him as it should have.  He put his hands on her upper arms and pulled her to him; she started and looked up at him, her violet eyes wide her lips slightly parted.  “My lord?” she asked, her voice small and shaky.  He placed his lips against her forehead, then enfolded her in his arms.  Her hands came up to wrap around his upper back and she melted into his embrace.  “Dany, there’s no need to be so formal.  Fuck the formalities.  I am Jon, your Jon.  You know that.”  Her heart danced at that.

He needed to know how she felt about this child; all that mattered to him now was her happiness.  He broke off the hug and taking her hand, he pulled her to the bed to sit beside him.  He angled his body slightly to look at her.  Gods, she took his breath away.  It was true what they said about pregnant women; she was glowing, she was radiant.  He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb calloused and rough as it stroked over the softness of her face.   “Are you happy about this child, our child?” he asked.  She was so overcome with joy at the thought of the new life quickening inside her at this very moment, all she could do was nod.  Jon had never been a talker, never a man of many words nor very eloquent, but at this moment, the words began to pour out of him and he found he could not hold them back.

“Dany,” he began, his gravelly voice thick with emotion, “I can’t begin to tell you what this means to me.  Until a few days ago, I was a motherless bastard with no home, no birthright, no name.  Then come to find out, everything I thought I knew - about my father, my family, myself – it was all a lie.  The only truth I know now is you.”  Slayer of lies, Daenerys thought, as Jon continued.

“I had worn the name ‘Snow,’ the word, ‘bastard’ like armor – I thought if I did, no one could ever use it to hurt me.  I never dreamed I’d be named King in the North, or have as much as I do to be thankful for.  There was a time I thought I’d be a man of the Night’s Watch until my dying day, honoring my vows to hold no titles, take no wife, to have no children.  The love of a woman didn’t matter to me then, neither did having children.  My Uncle Benjen warned me I wouldn’t have given it up so easily had I known what it meant. 

“So much has happened since then.  I never dreamed …” He took a deep breath and blinked hard, his emotions threatening to spill over, and fought to regain control of himself.  Dany squeezed his hand, letting him know she understood.  Her warm touch gave him the strength to go on.

“I never dreamed I’d meet someone like you.  You’re not like anyone else.  You’re so fearless, so strong, and so full of fire, so much a dragon in every sense of the word.  On the ship to White Harbor, when we were together, it seemed like time stood still, like everything else just fell away.  I know what you told me about not being able to have children. I know you truly believed it.  By now, I’ve seen so many things that shouldn’t have been possible, experienced them myself … I’ve seen enough to know this child, our child is a gift; a gift of the impossible, a gift of life in this shit world.  In this world of blood and darkness, you and our child, are hope.  But none of that matters, it’s all just pretty words unless … unless it means the same thing to you, my Queen. ”

She had listened intently, letting every word hit her skin and sink in, a soothing elixir to her heart.  “Jon, I …” her voice cracked with the weight of her emotions, “I want this child, your child, more than anything in the world.  It makes me so happy, but it also makes me afraid.  I don’t know what’s going to happen.

“I lost one babe before, the result of my own stupidity, my own selfishness.  The witch told me I’d have another child when the sun rose in the west and set in the east, when the seas ran dry, when the mountains turned to dust and blew in the wind … You can understand why I never thought I would have another?”  Jon nodded his understanding, brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm.

“And now, with the army of the dead on the march, with the Long Night approaching … who knows if either of us will live to see the dawn.  All I know is I love you.”

[sadlyescapismatitsfinest]

You Picked Good! (Shiro x Reader)

Pairing: Shiro x Fem!Reader (Obviously)

Warning: Fluff ;)

Word Count: Honestly, I don’t care enough to check, its just a lot okay.

Summary: You and Shiro are engaged before he leaves but when you find out about the incident, you go and try to find him yourself. 

How you found out that Shiro was missing is something you’ll never forget. You were with his mother helping you pick out a dress for your wedding, when the phone rang. It was your father, he sounds so somber and told you to turn on the news. You don’t remember anything like you were walking in someone else body. But you hug his mother, she was crying her eyes out the loss of her baby. Months past, you tried to forget about him in your work, you may have been well off but you still liked to work. 

The more time went by the more determined you became, you knew he was alive, someone like him has to be. So you told your parents that you needed to do something, they reluctantly agreed. They called up some connections and gathered a team of 3- one was a bounty hunter who was surprisingly kind, an explorer who just wanted to tag along, and a family friend who in very culturally inclined. Though it took a while to get everything together you bid your parents and soon to be parents in law goodbye. You were thankful for their support as you knew it wasn’t easy but you promised to check in every once in a while. You saw the most incredible sights and met the most insane people. 

 Word started surfacing about Voltron, none had actually seen it till one kind planet whose rule was released from Zarkon. They showed us much kindness and they said that the one in the black lion was Shiro. You almost cried, you knew he was alive. You called his parents immediately afterwards telling them the news but also letting them know not to get their hopes up. You started searching for the large ship that was talked about. You were a bit worried, you’ve changed into a wiser and more level headed person with more muscle and scars. You even wondered if he even remembered anything, he never reached out to his family much less you. 

Your luck suddenly turned as the ship literally popped up right in front of you. One of the group tried the hailing frequency (sorry guys I forgot what it’s called). A rather beautiful alien woman came onto the screen making you feel a bit subconscious.

“Hi, I was wondering is Takashi Shirogane was aboard your ship..” You spoke with a fake confidence.

“Who are you to be asking?” The tall, elegant princess demanded.

“Well I’m his fiancé, I’ve been traveling everywhere to find him. Please, I’ll come unarmed and alone. I mean no harm.” You begged the radiant woman.

“Alright, you can come aboard.” She said rather stiffly in her British-like accent.

“Coran, could you take over while I check on that human?” Allura spoke knowing the answers.

The eccentric man agreed enthusiastically.

You stepped onto the platform, waiting to be let in. Once the pretty lady came, she seemed even taller making you even more insecure are she was like a galactic model, exotic and all. You really hoped Shiro remember you because no one could resist someone as beautiful as her.

“Would you like to check for weapons?” After she did so she reluctantly started to walk you somewhere.

“What’s your name?” You tried to make conversation.

“Princess Allura of planet Altea.”

‘Of course she’d be a princess,’ you thought to yourself. “Cool..” was all you could say.

“Here’s the dinning hall, just letting you know that Shiro is probably not the same as you once knew him. He’s not one for affection.” She tried to warn you.

“Thank you for letting me on your ship and showing me kindness.” You smiled up at the white hair royal.

You let out a deep breath before you walked in, your heart being up faster like you’re about to have a panic attack.

The second you walked in you heard something drop and your name being spoken in disbelief. You knew that voice but you were frozen and had no idea what to do because you’re different and he’s different.

In that second you felt a wonderful pressure and the smell of the man you know and love, everything melted away. The insecurity, the doubt along with some tears.

“Oh god, Shiro, I thought I lost you. You were gone, I didn’t know what to do.” It was muffled by the sobs and shirt you pressed your face to.

“I’m okay. I’m here.” He hummed back into the tight embrace.

“You never called or tried to contact home, your parents were devastated.” Breaking away for a tick to look at his face.

“I know. I just got back some of my memories back. But now you’re here.” Bringing you right back into his arms.

The both of you completely ignored the other paladins and the princess until you heard a loud fake cough. The both of you looked at the others.

“Oh, ha,” you cleared your throat and eyes.

The skinny brunette with the high pitched voice spoke. “You’ve been holding out on us, Shiro? You didn’t say you knew such a pretty lady.” He wiggled his thin eyebrows, and the cute raven haired boy shoved his elbow into him.

“(Y/n), this is my other family. Pidge, Hunk, Keith, Lance and you’ve already met Allura. Paladins meet my fiancé.” Everyone’s jaw dropped, who would’ve thought that their team leader would be engaged.

“It’s really nice to meet you all but I did leave the rest of my crew on our ship and was hoping they could come aboard and stay.” You asked looking at everyone.

“Of course they can come aboard.” Shiro looked down at you smiling.

“Okay, I’ll hail them ab-” you were cut off.

“Coran can do that. We need to talk." He ignored everyone, taking you to his room.

“Why do I get the feeling they’ll be doing more than catching up?” Everyone rolled their eyes at the immature boy.

“Before we do anything, call your parents.” You forced him your small alien phone device.

“I love you.” He looked at you with adoration in his eyes and kissed your cheek.

“Takashi! Oh you’re alive! (Y/n) found you!” His parents were in tears.

His eyes were getting a bit foggy as well. “I’ll be home soon, I just need to finish my mission up here. I’m sorry for never calling, I’ll explain when I get home. I love you both.”

They bid their goodbye and he set the device on a table and pulled you onto the bed.

The next morning you slipped on one of his shirts, oh you missed his smell. The old clothes that you stole lost their fragrance.

You kissed his check and left to your ship, you grabbed a bag and put all the food you’d need to cook a wonderful meal. You brought back all the food and started to prepare. As you were making breakfast you felt a pair of strong familiar arms wrap around your waist and light pecks on your neck.

“God, I missed this so much.” He hummed into your neck agreeing. “Okay, open.” You popped a piece of food in his mouth.

He moaned, “I missed your cooking.”

“Alright, enough of the moaning we don’t want a repeat of last night.” You joked. “Help me take these to the table.”

“You know when you were missing, everyone was so worried. God. It was so lonely without you and when I saw the princess I just.. I don’t know what I’d do if you moved on.“ 

"Hey, look at me.” He tilted your chin up. “You travelled galaxies to find me and you know I’d do the same.” He kissed your forehead in reassurance.

“Oh do you you smell that!” Hunk flew interrupting the sweet moment.

“That smells like food! Actual food!” The short girl followed.

“This is actually pretty good.” The princess spoke in an approving tone. 

 "You picked good, Shiro!“ Lance said brashly. The team leader looked down at you and smiled.

"Yeah, I know.” You looked back up at him and nudging him in the side and laughing at his cheesiness.

[unholy3rinity]

The Trip

"Everyone needs to make there way back to the dinning hall in order to start the award ceremony!" God, I hated, with every fiber of my being, Alexander's perky voice. And I especially hated it over the loud speaker in the creepy yet deserted basement of this building. Why was I here again?

 Ah, because my parents volunteered me to help out and perfect little Alexander commanded I go to downstairs to bring back some extra plates. And the worst part of it all is the fact that there is no more stinking plates. This is a fancy building for Christ's sake! They hold weddings and birthdays here and they can't get extra plates? I growled at no one in particular other than myself and turned on my heels towards the staircase. It wasn't totally dark but the slightly fading lightbuld in the middle of the room wasn't enough for me to feel secure walking up the stairs and all I could do was stare at my feet that were adhorned by heels. I had dressed nicely for this thing even though I knew it was another popularity contest. I wasn't going to win anything and surprisingly enough I wasn't upset.

 I look hot in this dress and that's all that matters.

  The staircase was so wobbly and the music from above was so loud I could barely hear myself think. This is starting to sound like the beginning of a really cheap horror movie. Maybe if I just conentrate on my shoes I'll be able to--"Oh shit!"

  I held onto the body in front of me and I felt a pair of large hands grab my waist for support. Even though it was pointless, we were both falling and there was no stopping gravity.

  We hit the ground hard and we both groaned in pain. Of course this hapens to me. Why would I expect nothing less? "Look, I'm sorry I wasn't looking where I was going and--"

   Wow. I don't think I've ever seen a sexier man in life.

  Before I even reached his face my hands were rested on his arms, his exceptionally strong arms. His entire build reminded me of the wrestlers on tv. Not the extreme ones where they look terrifying to be near but this guy looked like he could scoop me up in his arms and still have strength to lift someone my size too. My eyes finally reached his face and his eyes were still closed. As soon as they opened I gasped.

 "Heterochromia?" I mummbled.

  He blinked at me. "Huh?"

 And that's when it hit me. Here I was, staddling this guy I didn't even know, and the first thing I say to him when he realizes where I am, is mention his eye condition. But I mean come on, one eye was blue and the other was green. How is someone not supposed to mention that? "You're eyes, they just look really cool. I'm sorry, are you okay? Did I hurt you or something?"

  His smile was small at first and then he briefly flashed his teeth. "I'm okay."

   "Awesome. I'll get off of you now." I took my hands off his arms (sadly) and rested them on the steps behind him. I tried to pull my body up but stopped as soon as I heard a slight tearing noise. "Oh no." I said slowly.

 I looked down and I noticed the fabric was connected to the zipper on the front of his pants. Shit. If I try to pull away now my dress will be ruined. And I went through hours of annoying customers to afford this. Again I ask, why does this have to happen to me?

  "I guess our clothes don't want to seperate. It's a tragic love story when you think about it." He joked. I bit at my lower lip to prevent from laughing. Or maybe I'm trying to avoid panicking. Either way, I was on the brink of doing both at the same time. I looked up and noticed the door wide open. Various people passed the door casually not noticing us at all. But if one person manages to look in this general direction it won't look so... innocent.

  "What are we going to do? I don't want to rip this dress. And I don't want to rip your pants off." Well I kind of did but he didn't have to know my perverted thoughts.

 "I have an idea but you're going to have to trust me." He stated calmly. I didn't hesistate to nod in response. The sooner I'm out of this very uncomforable and awkward and slightly arousing position the better. He gripped tighter onto my waist again and pulled his body up with me still on top of him. He flipped me over with a quickness that made my heart race and he was on top of me. He tried to seperate us but the sound of the rip only increased and he abrubtly stopped.

  With the look of his disappointment I suddenly blurted, "I kind of like this better."

  He smiled again. "I do too."

  For the next few minutes we kept trying to seperate from each other and nothing was working. And just when I couldn't possible think of something worst to happen my phone in my bra started buzzing. I did a little dance in surprise.

  "I'm sure after we get out of this position we'll have plenty of time for dancing." He said with a laugh.

  I shook my head quickly and tried not to focus on the heat rushing to my cheeks. "That's my phone. Move your hand over a little so I can get to it." He moved his hand and I swiped my phone and answered it. I didn't have to look at the caller ID to know who was calling me. "Hey mom," I laughed nervously. "How are ya?"

   "I'm fine. Just concerned as to where my daughter ran off to. Your friend Alexander just won an award!"

  I rolled my eyes. "I could care less about Alexander mom."

  "Oh stop, you don't mean that. Where are you?"

  "I'm uh... kind of tied up. But I'll be there in a second."

   "Are you still in the basement?"

   "Yes I am."

   "Well I'm up on the first floor but I'll be on my way to. Knowing you, you are lost or--"

  "No! I mean no mom don't come for me. I'll find my way back."

   "Nonsense. I'll be there soon. See you in a few."

   The dial tone filled my ears before I could protest. "Shit my mother is on her way here. We need to figure out a solution and fast."

    "Um. Okay. I'm going to try to stand up and I need you to wrap your legs around me. We won't be able to leave but we can step down a few steps and figure out if we can fix it deeper in the basement. Sound good?"

  I nodded quickly and wrapped my arms around his neck. He grabbed my waist again and as soon as he pushed his body up I cling to him, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  I wonder if past me would believe that future me is in this position right now. Probably not.

  He took careful steps backwards and finally we were on level ground. "I have some bad news." He said slowly.

 "Oh god what?"

  "I honestly don't think there is any way to get out of this. Plus your dress is already ripped and my pants are mostly ripped too. The best bet would be--"

  "Aw fuck it." I said and unwrapped my legs from him to land on the ground. I pushed on his chest (well muscled chest) and heard the final rip of death and I frowned. "I'll miss you dress. You were good to me." I sighed and looked up at him. He was much taller from this angle. "I have to go back inside now..." I said awkwardly, suddenly a whole lot less confidence than I felt earlier. He said nothing else so I took that as approval to leave. As soon as I turned around I heard him say 'Hey," with a huskier tone.

   When I turned back around he grabbed me by my waist and gave me a deep, strong kiss to which after a few moments I responded. I hadn't been kissed like this in forever and it felt like he knew exactly how to kiss me, exactly how to touch me, and he knew the exact effect it had on me. Which was really really intense. And I loved it.

  We pulled apart at the same time, our breathing heavy. "I'm going to miss having you straddling me. You were warm."

  I tilted my head back to laugh and grabbed the back of his neck towards me for another kiss. He picked me up and pressed me against the brick wall. This was so much better than a stinking award.

  Thank you Alexander.

[quarterpint]

Whispers at Dawn

Hesediel Park was near empty this early in the morning. The dawn sky’s pastel light washed over the trees and grass, gifting them a delicate glow, and the calm and clear night had left dew clinging to plants along the path borders, robbing the air of the sweet smell of flowers that Pan enjoyed on her runs. This far into the park the city traffic had been reduced to a din, and so the conversation between her and her two running partners had to be kept to a murmur.

Pan and Uub had been invited out again by Aabarella, the eldest of Uub’s four younger siblings. She claimed it was a way to push through the jetlag on her brief ambassadorial visit to Satan City. Her invitations were never quite as they seemed though, and Pan was waiting on the second half of yesterday’s interrogation with some dread. They ran three abreast and kept a brisk pace, although Pan was having to up her cadence to do so, her taller friends taking impossibly long strides. The harder work was a small price to pay to avoid the embarrassment of begging them to slow up.

The air was beginning to warm and so Pan, starting to feel bite of the run, took the chance to brush her shins against an overgrown long-leaved bush, the dew instantly cooling her.

Her detour didn’t go unnoticed.

“Struggling, yes?” Aaberella laughed, her singsong lilt joining the birds’ chorus, carrying in the calm.

“A little…” Pan checked her watch, the reading on her ki still the expected error - nothing - despite her body begging her to release what it was accustomed do. Her limbs were both ice and fire from the lack of ki and running under such duress. “...but challenges are always a welcome change of pace!” she lied through a smile and fell back to counting her breaths.

From the other side of Aabarella came a snort. Uub. “Stop keeping the peace. This is miserable Ella, you wouldn’t be so chirpy if you could hold in your ki, too.”

“Oh, let me have the fantasy we’re on an even keel, Bli, just this once?” Aaberella playfully nudged him, and Pan noted he stride didn’t falter. He’d kept his footing. Damn. She probably would have staggered. Maybe she needed to do this kind of training more often.

They followed a sweeping corner into the more open half of the park, Pan grateful to be on the inside track. On the field in the distance, a teacher led a class for tai chi. Some twenty students of all ages stepping in unison, their pale grey-blue uniform perfectly matched to the mist hovering over the grass. They only people Pan had spotted the entire route.

“Are we clear?” The light had dropped from Aabarella’s voice, the same dangerous tone as yesterday flooding back.

Pan checked then double-checked in ki-sense for any subtle thread of attention snaking its way towards them from the group or behind them, but found no potential eavesdropper.

“Yes.”

Uub grunted his own confirmation.

“Good. Have you thought over my proposal?”

Pan knew this was coming. Aarabella had laid out her goals yesterday on a different run route to usual, placating her justifiable paranoia. Her grand plan to save the world from tyranny. Fighting this more insidious version than the type Pan was used to fighting, she’d explained, required Pan to use her influence and lean on familial connections to voice support.

Southern Isles folk were known as overly friendly people - they avoided confrontation like the plague. Not Aarabella. She had risen through the political ranks by fighting tooth and nail for her home’s livelihood, its history and now their right to rule. Some swore blind Aarabella was the physical manifestation of the entire archipelago's suppressed rage, so Pan knew her answer would not go down well.

“Sorry. I don’t think I can help.”

“You, too?” Her additional ire was aimed at Uub. “Isn’t preserving freedom exactly what you’re fighting for for Earth?”

“Yes, but I can’t be labelled a republican terrorist.” “Wanting independence isn’t republican.”

“Fracturing the state?” She wanted to laugh but Pan didn’t have the energy, which was probably for the best. “It’s republican thinking for a lot of people, or worse. My great grandpa was a king, sure, but he was a warlord first for a reason.”

Aaberella muttered a curse, barely audible over the padding of their sneakers against the asphalt but rare enough an occurrence Pan felt the sting. She slowed to a stop, winded by the disappointment rolling off the woman.

Aaberella and Uub followed suit, turning back. She stood tall, unamused. Uub doubled over to suck in air, finally hitting his wall. Pan resisted the temptation to do the same and gasp.

“Ella, I understand your frustration, but right now?” Pan wiped her brow and suppressed a shiver. “People are scared. I can’t reveal I’m a one-woman army then lay out my politics in the same breath. It’s tantamount to a threat. And what will my students think? We need them on board.”

As Pan had predicted, Abarella’s hands went to her hips. “Then when can you? In a month? A year? He’s legislating the /teaching/ of our languages next. He’s taking everything from us in the name of peace! We have to do something!”

Uub tried to placate her with upturned hands. “Adi, you’re getting ahead of yourself worrying over what you can’t influence. You only carry Cashew on your head.”

“No!” She wheeled on him. “I carry /every/ Island. We all do in our work, even you. Why can’t you see this?” Her sincerity burned - voice raised as much as she dared, fists clenched, jaw set. Pan checked again for eavesdroppers. The talk was verging on treasonous. If anyone heard...

Uub sighed, then steeled himself to stare his little sister down, meeting her strength. “If you’re going to claim /that/ then I carry the world. And we are telling you we need unity until this storm is over. The old countries working as one is the best chance we have to bring Maago home.” Her shoulders fell at that, and Pan’s ever-present twinge of guilt around Uub’s absconded brother resurfaced. “Papayaman can’t risk standing by your side and stirring the water, he needs the King’s favour to even work and we don’t have the luxury to split the camp right now. But--” he held her arm and her chin lifted at that little word, “--/I/ can stand there, as your brother. My words aren’t worth as much I know, but--”

“Ah!” Aabarella’s threw her arms around him, the cogs in her mind already finished recalculating her plan. “They are worth everything to me! Thank you!”

Pan looked past the reconciling siblings to the group stepping as one on the grass. The unison of movement was serene for sure, but it was only a class, with a teacher they’d chosen for an hour a day until they lost the uniforms and donned rich lives. The Galactic King had insisted unity would be best for the Universe too, with only the odd, very reasonable concession here and there to keep the peace. Like the lives of her and her family. Those deciding what was reasonable amongst the stars were never the ones making the concessions, and the same was ever true here, too.

“Fine.” Catching the paranoia bug Pan kept her voice low, approaching them both to shield her lips from view. “I’ll support maintaining devolution. I’m on Papaya Island often enough it makes sense for me to have an opinion--”

“Thank you, Adi!” Aabarella pulled Pan into the embrace.

“--But don’t expect anything from CC,” she choked out. Aabarella tightened her grip muttering 'no matter’s in her ear. Pan knew being called sister was likely a calculated deployment. Still, Aabarella was genuinely grateful, and Pan released her ki to return the hug’s warmth properly.

Pan’s watch chided her for breaking the rule she’d imposed. She ignored the other alarm in her head.