#and the opposition party want to continue all of this when they inevitably win the next election by a landslide

[snowonthebeachftlana]

i hate this stupid fucking country and its stupid fucking political and media establishment so much

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

BORIS JOHNSON RESIGNS AS MP. Thoughts? The people howl for a new update to the Big Dog the Clown saga.

Yes this was not on my personal bingo card; my most recent Big Dog event was that a friend of mine works for air traffic control and recently had to delay BoJo's holiday flight by four hours, and on being told that this particular plane had to be prioritised for a runway slot because it contained an Important Clown promptly pushed it to the bottom of the priority list. Lol. And then all this! What larks.

Okay not a lot of detail yet still but LET'S TAKE A LOOK AT THE EVENTS OF 9TH JUNE, 2023 and you know what? It's been a while. Let's do it properly.

7.15am

Another day dawns in the reign of evil Grand Vizier-turned-PM Rishi Sunak. He's a very boring flavour of evil, tbh. Say what you will about Johnson, but at least there was spectacle and showmanship to his clownshow. Something for the children to boo and hiss. An animate ham in a villain's wig, something to really enjoy as you sit back, relax, and savour a tall, cool glass of schadenfreude.

By contrast Rishi just gets sycophants - who are no less ridiculous, but far more grey and boring - who pretend he's a tech bro because "he understands AI" and they think that will make him a visionary and a man of the future and maybe some sort of Elon Musk figure, because that's obviously a smashing template to be copied in a leader of a country.

This briefing was presumably drafted using ChatGPT.

Anyway, this is what we thought the day would be: another dreary overcast washout, livened up by Downing Street's latest attempt at making Sunak seem like a good idea to stave off the hulking spectre of Labour's inevitable GE win next year. How trite. How tedious. How mediocre.

What a shame it would be if... something were to liven it up.

8.39 am

Fun fact!

When a PM's term ends, as their last act in office, they get to present an Honours List. This means they write a list of all the people they reckon have been Jolly Good Sorts who have done Good Clowning and Supported The Community, and nominate those people for honours. Honours here can be anything from an MBE/OBE etc, to a Damehood/Knighthood, all the way up to entering the Peerage i.e. becoming a Lord. Traditionally, people have been fairly reasonable with these lists. Apart from anything else, the outgoing PM can only write the list - the new Prime Minister has to sign off on it, and it's usually the case, of course, that PMs are deposed by the opposition party.

Why am I mentioning this? Well: Boris, you see, has now presented his list to Sunak to validate. You may be unsurprised to learn that it contains quite a lot of clowns.

Another fun fact!

If a sitting MP is given a Peerage, they cannot continue to be an MP. MPs are elected. Lords are not. So an MP offered a lordship right now would have to stand down if they accepted, triggering a by-election in their seat that... well. That anyone could win, couldn't they? Ordinarily. Except Labour's shadow is growing, isn't it? I don't suppose Sunak would be all that happy about losing, for example, any Tory MPs nominated for a peerage right now.

What fun facts.

At 8.39am, Politics UK reveals an as-yet-unverified report that Nadine Dorries and Alok Sharma have been removed from Boris Johnson's honours list, and will go back to vetting.

(They also reveal that Big Dog's dad has been removed from the list, because nominating your dad for a Peerage is "inappropriate". Sorry, Bigger Dog. Apparently even corrupt ghoul Rishi Sunak has a limit to what open corruption he will allow, which is news to us all, most of all Rishi.)

10.41am

Nadine Dorries decides she will play to her strengths, and appear on TV to do some Public Speaking, which always goes well for her of course.

Nothing, let's remember, has been confirmed yet at all. But she's here to put people's minds at ease! No power-hungry status-chasing pink maniac, she! She is very clear in her aims.

“The last thing I would want to do would be to cause a by-election in my constituency.”

Quite right, Nadine. That would be disastrous.

11.20am

Oh, it’s Tory think tank NRG’s conference in Doncaster today.  Gideon George Osborne, pig-stupid former Grand Vizier and idiot fail-heir to David "pig-fucker" Cameron, gives a speech.  Let's see some quotes!

On the Tories’ choices of chancellors since he personally fell on his sword over Brexit left the role:

“You can see when the partnership doesn’t work. The government's paralysed and the politics is terrible.”

Fair, but also you are a government, George.

On Tories who attack the civil service:

“We’re in charge of our country’s destiny. We should stop blaming others if we don’t get things right." 

... right. But you just... Uh.

On Tory culture warriors:

“It’s really important that the Conservative Party is excited about the country we aspire to lead… and doesn’t get in to ‘we’re against all these groups of people’. We’re the inclusive people.”

Well, points for clearing that absurdly low bar, I guess. Christ, I cannot BELIEVE Suella Braverman is making George fucking Osborne look good-by-comparison.

1pm

Ooh. Nadine's attempts to put minds at ease have inexplicably not worked, can't think why not. She's such a reassuring and charismatic speaker normally.

But the rumour is now FLYING about that Nadine has indeed been dropped from the honours list, and specifically because Sunak wants to avoid a by-election that will lose him more seats at a time when he is desperate for even a mat on the floor as long as it's blue.

Sorry, Nads. Still; this morning you were very clear that the constituency comes first, so I suppose that's okay. The priority now is that she MUST stay in position, so the Tories can keep their numbers steady. It is VITAL she remains an MP. Let's remember her exact words!

“The last thing I would want to do would be to cause a by-election in my constituency.”

3.45pm

Nadine Dorries tweets her resignation.

The last thing she does as an MP is indeed to cause a by-election in her constituency.

3.50pm

Except this is Nadine Dorries we're talking about. She's found some flashy balls to juggle, look, and a boy to pour custard down her trousers.

Not five minutes after dropping the bombshell, she deletes the last tweet announcing her resignation, and tweets a new one.

The new tweet says, “it is now time for another to take the reins” as the MP for Mid-Bedfordshire.

The original tweet said, “it is now time for someone younger to take the reins.”

*

On Talk TV, Dorries says that "something significant did happen to change my mind", but doesn’t elaborate.

3.56pm

The whispers are whispering. The rumours are rumouring. The knives are sharpening.

Nadine's now-former seat is Mid-Bedfordshire, and has been Tory since 1929; a safe seat, which certainly explains how Nadine fucking Dorries managed to hold it for as long as she did.

An MP on the right of the Tory party says that if the Tories lose the Mid Bedfordshire by-election, it’ll open questions about Rishi Sunak's leadership CLOWNFALL 3: REVENGE OF BIG DOG LET'S GOOOOOO

3.57pm

Nadine Dorries is removed from the WhatsApp group.

I would love to know who leaked that image. I really should not have that image. Ah well. Now you do too.

4.12pm

Good tweet alert!

5.08pm

Phew! What a day. Let's see how Rishi's getting on.

He approves the rest of BoJo's honours list. Shall we take a look at our newly-honoured citizens? Shall we see what familiar names crop up?

Honours for staff at centre of Partygate Jack Doyle, Rosie Bate-Williams and Shelly Williams-Walker (and a lot of other terrible and disgraced people who were loyal to Johnson, and some of Carrie Antoinette’s friends).

Damehoods for Andrea Jenkyns and Priti Patel.

Knighthoods for Jacob Rees-Mogg, Conor Burns, and Michael Fabricant.

An OBE for Kelly Jo Dodge, Parliamentary hairdresser.

Also honours for Ben Houchen, currently at the heart of a media storm about dodgy property deals.  His huge regeneration project in Teesside is subject to a government investigation regarding the governance, finance and value for money.

*

(Interesting point – Tory MPs Allister Jack and Nigel Adams were offered peerages, but decided to wait, since accepting now would trigger by-elections.

Why were they offered at all, do you think?)

*

So … this means Michael Fabricant is now Sir Michael Fabricant.  Like, actually.  Genuinely.

Nice one, Rishi. Thank goodness you understand AIs.

5.44pm

The Guardian’s Pippa Crerar - journalist who brought down Big Dog one Partygate reveal at a time - tweets her guide to he honours list:

Martin Reynolds, former PPS, invited 200 officials to drinks in Downing St garden.  He told officials to "bring your own booze", later adding: "We seem to have got away with it".

Shelley Williams-Walker, getting a Damehood, was No 10 head of opps & now runs his office.  At No 10 party the night before Prince Philip's funeral she was dubbed "DJ SWW" for her banger playlist.

Jack Doyle & Rosie Bate-Williams, who get OBEs, were press spox who repeatedly denied the parties happened

Dan Rosenfield, who gets a peerage, quit in mass exodus of senior No 10 staff as anger over Partygate grew.  Former chief of staff faced reports he was among senior Downing Street officials who attended a Christmas quiz when restrictions were in place.

Shaun Bailey, who ran unsuccessfully for London mayor, gets a peerage, and Ben Mallett, a close friend of Carrie Antoinette's who ran Zac Goldsmith’s disastrous mayoral campaign, gets an OBE. Both are in this picture of a lockdown-flouting party at CCHQ:

What a sea of punchable faces.

7.58pm

But we've been so focused on Nadine! She's fucked up her juggling, look, but she's sliding around on the rollerskates, ever so distracting. But here's the thing, Tumblrs, here's the thing:

Among all of this, what's the Chief Clown doing?

The Privilege Committee reveals in their draft report that Boris Johnson misled Parliament, and recommends a sanction of more than 10 days.

Does that sound too little? Are you wishing it were smething more meaningful? Let me help put it in context.

This sanction would be enough to trigger a by-election in Johnson’s seat.

8.02pm

Boris Johnson

QUITS

as an MP

The committee said Johson had “impugned the integrity” of the House of Commons. Fascinating! I didn't know its honour had ever been pugned.

He accuses the inquiry of trying to “drive me out”!!!!

"It is very sad to be leaving parliament - at least for now - but above all I am bewildered and appalled that I can be forced out, anti-democratically, by a committee chaired and managed, by Harriet Harman, with such egregious bias".

Worth noting that the committee has a Conservative majority, mind. But you mustn't let things like facts get in the way of your feelings, BlowJo. You never have as a politician. Nor as a journalist, come to that.

(Also SIDE NOTE – “at least for now”??  What are you planning, Big Dog??  I suppose Nadine is leaving an empty seat...)

8.41pm

Christopher Hope of the Daily Telegraph reports he’s heard rumours of a THIRD Tory MP potentially resigning – and another Johnson loyalist at that. Lol. Trololol. Lmao, even. Perhaps rofl.

11.43pm

And finally, the day is wrapped up with the Guardian revealing their front cover for the following day:

Big Dog is OUT, hot trans bloke is IN.

Not a bad finish.

[misscammiedawn]

50 Days of HypnoFetish - Day 2: Bratting

Alignment: 100% Top Only - Lady Ru'etha's Sunrise could NEVER. (She has tried. It never goes far)

Bratting is an art. One I never really understood because my experience, until this past year, had been with those who enjoyed to fight for the sake of the fight.

There is nothing wrong with that, I can respect the allure of wanting to test one's strength and try to overcome. To feel that the opposition from your partner is giving as much as possible and that if there is surrender, it is earned through exhaustion all available options.

It is the difference between one who wishes to test their restraints and confirm their helplessness and someone who wishes to escape and prove that they are not helpless at all.

I am not a fan of the fight until you collapse model because I do not feel strong enough to provide that. Eventually the keyfabe of the scene will break, in-scene and out-of-scene emotions inevitably clash. My imposter syndrome keeps me from committing and when I am in opposition with my play partner I can never tell when and where the lines are. It's emotionally exhausting for me.

Much love to all those who *can* top those kinds of scenes. It's just not me.

But when my partner and I are working towards the same goal? When strength and power is exchanged and every move is a battle of wits and wills?

Oh how I am on-board with that.

I get into little battles of wits and wills with my darling lass every now and again. I wrote a story about one such occasion here. As many Madison/Belladonna stories tend to be, this was inspired by a real moment where I had misworded a suggestion *just* enough that it gave my dear brat the wiggle room to make it a chase. I had asked her to brat as hard as she could, but when I said a certain word it would cause her to begin pleading. My intention was that she would maintain her boisterous and confident energy as words begging for surrender poured from her lips.

She was able to ignore it because when I told her which trigger I intended to use I got the wording *just* wrong enough that she could ignore it.

Even if it had worked, she may well have continued bratting just the same way she had. Because another time we were clashing our minds against one another she confessed to me her weakness. "I don't want to win."

Her bratting is her pleading. She wants to lose and every jab, jibe, provocation, mischievous giggle and bounce of self-satisfied delight is outright saying "Please hypnotize me, Miss Dawn. Please make me surrender, please make me helpless, please prove that submission is inevitable."

So what do I mean when I say bratting and why is it hot?

It's the emotional charge of it. I have always loved it when people intentionally get under my skin and try to get a rise out of me. Regardless of which headspace I am in, I am told that I have the most delightful reactions and I like how active a bratting scene is. I can go out, trying to demand and command attention and obedience and in the right circumstances, someone rewards my conviction with their own.

It's the most delicate kind of dance, because energies have to be aligned. If someone deflects or tanks the energy then it is removed from the scene. If it is redirected and poured back towards the other party then it grows.

Bratting is the process of performing "Yes, and" improv while using the language of no. The unspoken truth is that every action is designed to go to the same destination. That every action and reaction is within the keeping of the game and the game is over when the brat has been subdued or the energy of the scene dies.

I vastly prefer it when the brat eventually surrenders.

The best thing about this kind of play from my experiences, (besides seeing the broad smile and hearing delighted giggles and feeling my own buttons being pressed) is it pushes me. Drives me to break my routine and actually engage with the induction and seduction processes. It makes trance all the more of a reward, which is a delightful thing when a simple snap of the fingers is able to win it at the best of times.

Of course. I am a Fae and I cheat. I am a horrible cheat when it comes to these contests. 90% of the time keeping me within the rules of the game is part of the fun. My hypnotee pushes my buttons and makes me want to win fair and square.

But the 10% of the time, when a smirk crosses me face and I firmly command a quick and powerful victory?

Can you even imagine the power rush of riling up a partner to get ready to combat you before you say "You like Captain Marvel, don't you? Then you'll know what I mean when I say "I have nothing to prove to you." SLEEP."

Gosh I never realized how much I would enjoy it until I found a bratting partner on my own wavelength.

-

Day 1: Unwinnable Conditions

FULL SCHEDULE MASTER POST

Day 3: Summoning

[qqueenofhades]

Do you really hate this county? Or were you just ranting?

Sigh. I debated whether or not to answer this, since I usually keep the real-life/politics/depressing current events to a relative minimum on this blog, except when I really can't avoid ranting about it. But I have some things to get off my chest, it seems, and you did ask. So.

The thing is, any American with a single modicum of genuine historical consciousness knows that despite all the triumphalist mythology about Pulling Up By Our Bootstraps and the American Dream and etc, this country was founded and built on the massive and systematic exploitation and extermination of Black and Indigenous people. And now, when we are barely (400 years later!!!) getting to a point of acknowledging that in a widespread way, oh my god the screaming. I'm so sick of the American right wing I could spit for so many reasons, not least of which is the increasingly reductive and reactive attempts to put the genie back in the bottle and set up hysterical boogeymen about how Teaching Your Children Critical Race Theory is the end of all things. They have forfeited all pretense of being a real governing party; remember how their only platform at the 2020 RNC was "support whatever Trump says?" They have devolved to the point where the cruelty IS the point, to everyone who doesn't fit the nakedly white supremacist mold. They don't have anything to do aside from attempt to usher in actual, literal, dictionary-definition-of-fascism and sponsor armed revolts against the peaceful transfer of power.

That is fucking exhausting to be aware of all the time, especially with the knowledge that if we miss a single election cycle -- which is exceptionally easy to do with the way the Democratic electorate needs to be wooed and courted and herded like cats every single time, rather than just getting their asses to the polls and voting to keep Nazis out of office -- they will be right back in power again. If Manchin and Sinema don't get over their poseur pearl-clutching and either nuke the filibuster or carve out an exception for voting rights, the John Lewis Voting Rights Act is never going to get passed, no matter how many boilerplate appeals the Democratic leadership makes on Twitter. In which case, the 2022 midterms are going to give us Kevin McCarthy, Speaker of the House (I threw up in my mouth a little typing that) and right back to the Mitch McConnell Obstruction Power Hour in the Senate. The Online Left (TM) will then blame the Democrats for not doing more to stop them. These are, of course, the same people who refused to vote for Hillary Clinton out of precious moral purity reasons in 2016, handed the election to Trump, and now like to complain when the Trump-stacked Supreme Court reliably churns out terrible decisions. Gee, it's almost like elections have consequences!!

Aside from my exasperation with the death-cult right-wing fascists and the Online Left (TM), I am sick and tired of how forty years of "trickle-down" Reaganomics has created a world where billionaires can just fly to space for the fun of it, while the rest of America (and the world) is even more sick, poor, overheated, economically deprived, and unable to survive the biggest public health crisis in a century, even if half the elected leadership wasn't actively trying to sabotage it. Did you know that half of American workers can't even afford a one-bedroom apartment? Plus the obvious scandal that is race relations, health care, paid leave, the education system (or lack thereof), etc etc. I'm so tired of this America Is The Greatest Country in the World mindless jingoistic catchphrasing. We are an empire in the late stages of collapse and it's not going to be pretty for anyone. We have been poisoned on sociopathic-libertarian-selfishness-disguised-as-Freedom ideology for so long that that's all there is left. We have become a country of idiots who believe everything their idiot friends post on social media, but in a very real sense, it's not directly those individuals' fault. How could they, when they have been very deliberately cultivated into that mindset and stripped of critical thinking skills, to serve a noxious combination of money, power, and ideology?

I am tired of the fact that I have become so drained of empathy that when I see news about more people who refused to get the vaccine predictably dying of COVID, my reaction is "eh, whatever, they kind of deserved it." I KNOW that is not a good mindset to have, and I am doing my best to maintain my personal attempts to be kind to those I meet and to do my small part to make the world better. I know these are human beings who believed what they were told by people that they (for whatever reason) thought knew better than them, and that they are part of someone's family, they had loved ones, etc. But I just can't summon up the will to give a single damn about them (I'm keeping a bingo card of right-wing anti-vax radio hosts who die of COVID and every time it's like, "Alexa, play Another One Bites The Dust.") The course that the pandemic took in 21st-century America was not preordained or inevitable. It was (and continues to be) drastically mismanaged for cynical political reasons, and the legacy of the Former Guy continues to poison any attempts to bring it under control or convince people to get a goddamn vaccine. We now have over 100,000 patients hospitalized with COVID across the country -- more than last summer, when the vaccines weren't available.

I have been open about my fury about the devaluation of the humanities and other critical thinking skills, about the fact that as an academic in this field, my chances of getting a full-time job for which I have trained extensively and acquired a specialist PhD are... very low. I am tired of the fact that Americans have been encouraged to believe whatever bullshit they fucking please, regardless of whether it is remotely true, and told that any attempt to correct them is "anti-freedom." I am tired of how little the education system functions in a useful way at all -- not necessarily due to the fault of teachers, who have to work with what they're given, and who are basically heroes struggling stubbornly along in a profession that actively hates them, but because of relentless under-funding, political interference, and furious attempts, as discussed above, to keep white America safely in the dark about its actual history. I am tired of the fact that grade school education basically relies on passing the right standardized tests, the end. I am tired of the implication that the truth is too scary or "un-American" to handle. I am tired. Tired.

I know as well that "America" is not synonymous in all cases with "capitalist imperialist white-supremacist corporate death cult." This is still the most diverse country in the world. "America" is not just rich white middle-aged Republicans. "America" involves a ton of people of color, women, LGBTQ people, Muslims, Jews, Christians of good will (I have a whole other rant on how American Christianity as a whole has yielded all pretense of being any sort of a principled moral opposition), white allies, etc etc. all trying to make a better world. The blue, highly vaccinated, Biden-winning states and counties are leading the economic recovery and enacting all kinds of progressive-wishlist dream policies. We DID get rid of the Orange One via the electoral process and avert fascism at the ballot box, which is almost unheard-of, historically speaking. But because, as also discussed above, certain elements of the Democratic electorate need to fall in love with a candidate every single time or threaten to withhold their vote to punish the rest of the country for not being Progressive Enough, these gains are constantly fragile and at risk of being undone in the next electoral cycle. Yes, the existing system is a crock of shit. But it's what we've got right now, and the other alternative is open fascism, which we all got a terrifying taste of over the last four years. I don't know about you, but I really don't want to go back.

So... I don't know. I don't know if that stacks up to hate. I do hate almost everything about what this country currently is, structurally speaking, but I recognize that is not identical with the many people who still live here and are trying to do their best, including my friends, family, and myself. I am exhausted by the fact that as an older millennial, I am expected to survive multiple cataclysmic economic crashes, a planet that is literally boiling alive, a barely functional political system run on black cash, lies, and xenophobia, a total lack of critical thinking skills, renewed assaults on women/queer people/POC/etc, and somehow feel like I'm confident or prepared for the future. Not all these problems are only America's fault alone. The West as a whole bears huge responsibility for the current clusterfuck that the world is in, for many reasons, and so do some non-Western countries. But there is no denying that many of these problems have ultimate American roots. See how the ongoing fad for right-wing authoritarian strongmen around the world has them modeling themselves openly on Trump (like Brazil's lunatic president, Jair Bolsonaro, who talks all the time about how Trump is his political role model). See what's going on in Afghanistan right now. Etc. etc.

Anyway. I am very, very tired. There you have it.

[ihearthes]

Quarantine Christmas Part 1

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff/Smut (Smut in Part 2) Word Count: 2826 (Part 1) Fiction Chalenge via @caitlin‘s fiction party via @sweetcreatureinthedark

December 23, 2020

My head spins as I haul my suitcase from the trunk, using two hands due to the heft of the dirty clothes inside. Setting it on the ground, I yank on the handle before grappling with the two shopping bags filled with presents, reaching back for the decorated Christmas tin that is filled with homemade cookies, fudge, and other delicacies baked by my colleagues at Apple Music. 

Wrestling with my hands full, I close the trunk with an elbow, shivering in the chilly LA air. At the front door, I want to cry. Dammit. I could clearly remember that when Glenne had given me the code for the front door and the alarm, I placed them in my phone under her contact information. 

“FUCK!” The primal scream is released from my lungs, likely scaring the neighbors if any of them are outside enjoying Christmas lights or having family celebrations on this Christmas Eve Eve. Balancing the tin of cookies on top of the suitcase, I set down the shopping bags to reach for my phone. My purse slips off my shoulder, knocking the container of sweets, and in the scramble to rescue them, I nearly fall head over heels into the bushes. 

It isn’t until I punch in the numbers and drag my personal effects inside that it occurs to me that the alarm isn’t armed. Had Glenne and Jeffrey forgotten to punch in the code before they left for Palm Springs? Deciding I don’t care, I leave everything by the door as I drag my suitcase to the main floor laundry room, dumping everything in without regard to color or type of clothing. Since we’ve been working remotely the majority of the time for the last fucking nine months, “dressing up” encompasses blue jeans and the occasional blouse, but most of my clothing is sweatpants and t-shirts. Deciding washing the blue jeans and blouses with the sweatpants and t-shirts is the worst idea ever, I fish those out before pouring laundry detergent over the remaining garments and starting the washer. 

Glancing down at the clothing currently on my body, it seems completely reasonable to drop them into the washer too. Stripping the t-shirt from my body, I toss it into the swirling water before adding my bra, socks, and leggings to the murky mix. Wearing only panties in the cool house makes my nipples bead. 

Ha! I’m sure my nips are happy to get any action after almost a year with no dating of any sort because of the fucking pandemic. Which reminds me that I’ve forgotten my vibrator at home. Shit. Of all the things I don’t mind borrowing from Glenne, I do have a line I won’t cross. 

Placing the tin of Christmas yummies on the kitchen counter, I grasp the handles of the two bags of gifts. It might be silly to put them under the tree since I’m the only one in the house, but it will make me feel better. More like I’m at home with my family in Indiana. Less like I’m stuck in quarantine in an empty house for my favorite holiday. Sniffling, I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand as I pad down the two steps into the living room to the tree. 

Kneeling at the fake tree, I reach for the switch to turn on the lights. As the colors begin blinking, I carefully withdraw each present, reading the tag before gently placing the gift under the tree. Even my brother had sent a present through the mail which must mean he misses me his year. Right now, we should be challenging each other to the most ridiculous games to see who is the best. Inevitably, he would win some while I beat him at others until eventually we declare a tie. My mother would chastise us both with a grin on her face, implicitly encouraging us to continue our “reindeer games” as my father called them. 

From behind me, I hear a shuffling sound. Hadn’t they taken Myles with them? No matter. I could use the company a dog would provide. 

“Santa, you’ve changed!” a soft voice exclaims, and I jump, twisting around to find another human wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. 

“It’s you!” Both voices exclaim simultaneously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” We both pause, “Stop saying what I’m saying!” 

Out of breath, I stare at him. The Harry Styles. Fuck. 

His eyes roam over my body, and it finally dawns on me that I’m wearing nothing but my Victoria’s Secret lace panties. Shit. 

Pacing measuredly to the couch without openly cringing, I grasp a wool throw and wrap it around my chest regally like I’ve just exited the pool at some exotic locale near the equator. My shoulders straighten, and I face him openly. 

“Are you joining Glenne and Jeffrey in Palm Springs?” My back is a board, and my tone is barely restrained. 

“Nope.” His nonchalance combined with his truncated answer pisses me off, per usual.

“So you’re flying home, waiting here for your flight tonight?” The hopeful tone is obvious to me and probably to him as well.

“No.” Those green eyes of his rake over my nearly-naked body, and I shiver. From the cold of course. Jesus. Get your heads out of the gutter!

“Watering the plants prior to returning to the Soho?”

“Uh uh.”

Delayed dread begins to fill my stomach. “You mean --” I clear my throat -- “you’re staying here?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.” Running my hand through my hair, I ponder the impact and my next steps. 

“You?” He asks politely, even though I know he doesn’t feel solicitude at this moment.

“Glenne told me I could stay here for a few days. I made arrangements for my place to be fumigated while I was in Indiana for Christmas.”

His raised eyebrow mocks me. 

“I’m not going, though. Okay?” 

“Why not?”

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been, Styles? In case you didn’t know, there’s a global fucking pandemic, and all of Los Angeles is locked down. So no -- I am not getting on a plane with a bunch of potentially infected and contagious --” Emotion overwhelms me, and I have to stop and catch my breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears that form in my eyes. 

“Whatever, Smith.”

“My name --” I draw myself up and gather my anger around me like a cloak -- “is not Smith.”

“Yeah, right. Which bedroom are you planning to sleep in?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we both stay here?” Appalled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “I’ll get a hotel room.” When I realize my wardrobe is in the washing machine, I softly say, “As soon as my clothes are dry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Smith. We’ll share the space. It’s only a couple of days.”

“Excuse me!?” Anger wells up. “Only the most important days in the entire year!” Superiority makes me stand up fully to him. “Besides, I’ve been quarantining for months. No way do I want to share germs with you!”

“Oh please! As if you’ve got a monopoly on quarantining! I’m perfectly safe. We get tested every morning before we film. When was the last time you were tested?” 

“Two days ago!” She’s at her boiling point. “Look, if we're both staying here together, then we’re just going to have to avoid each other. It’s a big house. We can do that.”

“Maybe once you put some clothes on,” Harry comments, smirking in that way he has where the left side of his mouth tilts up. 

Mortified, I glance down at myself. Briefly I consider scurrying for Glenne’s closet, but I pause. Why should I rush away? Because he’s male? Because he was here first? Because he’s sexy as fuck and my panties can’t take anymore? 

“Fine,” I respond as I brush past him like the Queen of England. “I’ll find something to wear, and then we can hash out the details.”

“Great plan. I’m ordering something for dinner.”

My stomach growls, and I suddenly feel an irrational hatred for that part of my body. How I long to state that I’ve already eaten or that I plan to cook something! But alas, I’ve brought no food with me, and I’ve no clue what’s in the kitchen. If Glenne and Jeffrey even left anything. 

“Does that mean you’d like some too?” He gloats, and as much as I would like to smack the grin off his face, I’ve not eaten since a quick bite for breakfast hours before. 

Knowing I’m going to have to grovel, I face him. “I’m capable of ordering for myself.”

“Yes, but that’s not necessarily good for the environment, is it? Sending two drivers to the same address from different restaurants?” Pausing, he appears to swallow whatever snarky comment was forthcoming. “Can we agree on this one small thing? I’m thinking poke.”

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. That’s exactly what I would have ordered. Fuck. 

Casually, I shrug. “Yeah, whatever. I can choke down some poke.” As I saunter away, tucking the ends of the makeshift shroud under my armpits, I call back to him, “Spicy please.”

Quickly I make my way to Glenne’s closet, surveying the items there. Ripping down a pair of joggers and a Full Stop Management hoodie, I drop the covering I’ve been wearing and rapidly draw the clothes over my naked body. Nothing I can do about not having a bra, but the hoodie is roomy so I worry less. 

In the bathroom, I run my fingers through my hair, combing out the curls as best I can in this environment. In no way do I want it to appear that I’m trying to look amazing for Harry. Biting my lip, I admit to myself that the opposite is true. I absolutely want him to fall at my feet. 

Which isn’t going to happen, I remind myself. Give up the ghost of a fantasy. 

Making eye contact in the mirror, I provide a pep talk for myself. “Listen,” I remind my reflection, “this is just one more fucked up situation in 2020. You’ve gotten through worse. It’s truly a giant house, so there’s no reason -- wait. Why is he staying here anyway?” For whatever reason, I had allowed him to dodge that incredibly simple question. 

Tucking my hands into the hoodie’s front pocket, I amble to the kitchen where Harry is just disconnecting his phone. 

“Food will be here in 45 minutes,” he promises. 

“Why are you staying here again? I missed your answer earlier,” I prompt. 

I’m confident I see a flash of embarrassment crossing his face as he lowers his head. “Wine?” He asks, gesturing towards the extensive rack of reds and then the chiller of whites. 

Unsure as to whether I should allow the diversion or press, I examine him. His eyes look tired and sad. His clothes, while comfortable, aren’t upbeat. Nor is his current demeanor. Is he okay? 

Planting his hands in his hoodie in an unconscious mimic of my pose, he glances at me before his eyes stray to the side, examining the marble countertop. That look tells me more than I need to know, and my empath side emerges as I toss him a life preserver. 

“With poke? I think perhaps a Reisling.” 

He nods, bending to look through the wines in the cooler before he extracts one, holding it up for me to inspect the label. My eyes start to widen at the vineyard, assuming the extravagant cost, but I calm my features. “Perf!” I declare. 

Grasping the wine opener from a nearby drawer, Harry removes the cork as I snatch two wine glasses from the cabinet and place them near him. Carefully comparing the amount in each glass, he pours enough before recorking the bottle. Taking my glass, I move into the living room where I can view the tree. It’s Christmas Eve Eve after all, and I refuse to be deterred from watching the lights twinkle and celebrating the season. 

Harry apparently has a similar idea as he fiddles with the sound system before a crackle of ‘Jingle Bell Drunk’ by RaeLynn starts playing which causes me to giggle. 

I settle on one side of the sofa, and Harry plants himself on the other side. Separately, we each take a sip of the riesling. My tongue does a happy dance at the flavor on my tongue. “This sweetness will cut the spicy quite well. Excellent choice.”

“You made the selection,” Harry reminds me, and I cringe. 

“Oh. Yeah.”

Silence descends as the song proclaims “I’ve been naughty. I’ve been nice.” 

“If there was ever a year for this song, this is it.” I announce into the quiet. 

“Yeah. It’s been quite the year.”

Sharply, I glance at him. Perhaps I had missed something? “Excuse me? You’ve had one hell of a year, Styles. Grammy nominations aside, there were how many music videos released during this global disaster? Plus a movie!”

“Agreed.” He’s quiet, his jaw clenched, and suddenly his words burst forth as though a gate at a dam has been opened. “But no tour. And almost no family time.”

Wait. Was this superstar feeling some of my emotions? He’d had a stellar year in anyone’s estimation. Maybe I could be more sympathetic. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry about tour. I had tickets to Vegas and one of the LA shows.”

His head swivels to me more swiftly than an owl focusing on prey. “You had tickets?”

“HAVE.” I swallow. “Thanks for not canceling by the way. I cannot imagine the bloodbath for getting tickets in the future. You’ve become the ‘it celebrity’.”

A blush is followed by a sheepish smile. “You can always get tickets, Smith. Just ask.”

“I don’t do that.” My voice is filled with the prickles that I feel at his words. 

“Do what?” 

“Use my privilege to get tickets to shows.”

“Oh. I…” His words trailed off. 

Suddenly, I feel less uncomfortable around him. Reaching out, I shove at his shoulder. “You’re a giant star, and you have a ton of fans who want to see you. Me? I’m just happy to be a member of the audience.”

“Really?” Incredulous is what I sense in that one word. “Why?”

“Seriously?” I’m appalled. “Do you not know what an amazing entertainer you are, Styles? Fuck. If I hadn’t been able to see your Fine Line show at the Forum last December, I probably would have cried. You know exactly what your audience wants, and you deliver it. Consistently.”

“But --”

“Hush. Don’t you dare negate your talent!” Taking another sip of wine, I reveal unabashedly, “Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I really enjoy your shows.”

“Smith?” He inquires, and my hand stalls with my wine glass halfway to my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you like my shows?”

Stalling, I run a finger through my hair and empty my wine glass before holding it out to him. “More please?”

He rises, but I can read his reluctance. Within moments, Harry is back at my side, handing me a second glass of the riesling. I can’t help but notice that he’s topped his own off too. 

“Answer the question, Smith.”

“My name isn’t Smith. In fact, there’s not a single part of my name that’s related to Smith. Why do you call me that?”

“Tell me why you like my shows, and I’ll reveal the meaning behind the nickname.”

My head feels fuzzy from the wine and the headiness of being near Harry, and I watch the lights flashing on the tree for a few minutes while Meghan Patrick belts out her version of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ over the sound system. 

“You make your fans feel like they matter.”

“How?” His question comes rapidly, and I have to gather my thoughts. 

“You...talk to them. Listen to them. Watch them. Appreciate them. It’s rare, Harry. I mean, I’m in this business too, you know. Not every artist does what you do.”

“False.”

“I’m fucking serious, you asshole.” I gulp down more of the wine. “You make your audience feel like they’re your closest friends. I wish more artists did that. Specifically the ones I represent.”

“Oh.” His single utterance is enough, and we sit in pure tranquility for several minutes as the lights blink and Ava Max sings “Christmas Without You”. 

“Wanna watch the quintessential holiday movie?” I inquire, looking at him. 

“Which is?”

“Die Hard, of course,” is my response. “What were you thinking?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Nope. It’s pretty good. In the top five for sure.”

“Wait. What are your top five?”

“Oh, that’s easy. ‘Die Hard’, ‘Home Alone’, ‘A Christmas Story’, ‘The Santa Clause’, and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly?” I giggle at the joke since ‘Die Hard’ is full of death. 

“Fine. But we watch ‘Wonderful Life’ afterwards.”

“Deal.”

Part 2

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 11- Pettiness

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Masterlist

Ever since your removal from the task force both All Might and Endeavor have decided to be more involved in it on a managerial level. Which is really just a nice way of saying that the two are micromanaging and Hawks has never wished so hard for two people to just fucking retire already. Let Midoriya and Shoto take over and let the agencies finally enter a new fucking era without the ridiculous pettiness. “Hey bird boy,” a voice singsongs.

Speaking of petty...

“Has the fact you’re almost single-handedly ruining her career affected you and (y/n)‘s relationship yet?” Monoma asks Hawks cheerily.

He, Hawks, and Bakugo are standing on a rooftop staking out a nearby building not far from the downtown area that’s suspected as being a new base of operations for the group responsible for the attempted terrorist attack. Midoriya, Todoroki, and Tokoyami are at a different building on the other side of town. This is a perfect example of why Endeavor and All Might’s micromanaging is only making the task force’s job more difficult. The two of them had insisted on choosing the teams and somehow neither of them had considered how bad an idea it was to put your ex fiancé on the same team as your current boyfriend. Brilliant. Truly fucking brilliant. Monoma has made petty jab after petty jab since the moment they left the office and it is starting to really grind away at Hawks’ nerves.

Hawks has been trying to be the bigger person, he really has. Things are finally in a good place with you again and he really doesn’t want to fuck that up, regardless of how much of an ass Monoma is being. He should really be given an award for the immense amount of patience and restraint he’s been showing. But that particular jeer? That particular jeers rings a little too close to home. Because yes things are finally good with you, but the fact your career hinges so much on your relationship now is an undeniable dark shadow being cast upon it. Another reason, Hawks might add, that he couldn’t wait for Midoriya to take over for All Might. “Feeling tongue tied?” Monoma needles again. “Say something worthwhile and I just might fucking respond,” Hawks fires back. “Ah so he does speak! Just admit things aren’t all rosy and perfect in ArteHawks land.” “ArteHawks?” “Your perfectly perfect couple name for everyone’s favorite perfectly perfect star-crossed lovers.” “Don’t call us that.” “Call you what?” “Star-crossed lovers.” “Aww why not? Are the fates themselves not telling you your relationship is doomed?” “Our relationship isn’t doomed.” “Sure it isn’t,” Monoma scoffs and something snaps in Hawks.

It only takes a moment for him to grab Monoma and slam him down against the rooftop, pinning him there. “Watch what the fuck you say,” Hawks threatens. “Hey ease up. I’m not enjoying his bullshit any more than you are but just ignore him,” Bakugo warns. “Yea Hawks, ease up,” Monoma smirks up at him. “Listen here you little-“ “Hawks! I said ease up. If you fuck up and get a bad headline it reflects on (y/n) too remember?” Bakugo cuts Hawks off before he can finish his sentence. Hawks looks over at Bakugo and then back down at a smirking Monoma. God he wants to punch that stupid, smug look off his face. But Bakugo has a point. So Hawks takes a calming breath that does very little to actually calm him down before forcing himself to release Monoma and go back to observing the building across the street; however, the peace is only momentary. No sooner has Hawks returned to his post does Monoma stand back up and ask “So when all this inevitably blows up in your face, how long do you think it’ll take for (y/n) to come running back to me to fix her reputation again? A week? A day?”

There’s only a split second between Hawks registering what Monoma has said and his reaction. He whirls around, fist connecting with Monoma’s face, causing the other man to stagger backwards with the force of it. He rears his fist back to land another one but Bakugo catches his arm and yanks him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bakugo demands. Hawks wrestles himself free of Bakugo’s grip and redirects his gaze to the younger man. He should calm down, objectively he knows he should, but Monoma’s words are floating through his head and Bakugo had prevented him from fully venting his ire so it continues to burn through his veins. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? You just gonna let him talk about (y/n) like that?” Hawks spits back. “He’s obviously trying to get a rise out of you idiot. So stop giving him the satisfaction,” Bakugo scoffs. “Oh so he can just say whatever the fuck he wants and you won’t react huh? Won’t defend your supposed best friend,” Hawks replies and he knows it’s unfair but he’s pissed and so much stress and tension has been building since the moment he told Endeavor about the two of you’s relationship that he needs an exit for it. It was supposed to be Monoma but now Bakugo has stepped into the crossfire. “What the fuck are you implying bird brain?” Bakugo asks, his voice low and lethal as he steps closer to Hawks in warning. “I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying you’re a fucking coward,” Hawks replies, wings subconsciously puffing up to make him appear larger. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that. Motherfucker don’t play with me,” Bakugo warns. “I’ll say it again. You’re a fucking coward.”

Hawks should’ve listened.

The punch to his face is not unexpected and he almost immediately follows up with one of his own. But one punch isn’t enough and the fight starts escalating. One minute they’re trading blows and the next he’s shoving Bakugo off the roof and the other man is dragging him over too. Hawks quickly engages his wings to avoid falling and by the time he lands on the street Bakugo is doing the same, having used a few well timed explosions to control his fall. The fall hadn’t cleared either of their heads though and as soon as they make eye contact Bakugo is surging forward with his palms sparking, crimson eyes rage filled. Hawks sends a few feathers his way but it doesn’t slow the other man down so he pulls out his two large feathers ready to wield them as blades.

On the other side of town Midoriya mutters under his breath as he takes notes on the movements inside the building opposite the one he, Tokoyami, and Shoto are stood on. “Some things never change,” Shoto comments as he goes to take a seat next to his friend. “What? Oh! Yes I guess so,” Midoriya admits bashfully. “How has (y/n) been doing?” Shoto asks. “Better since she and Hawks made up but still difficult. All of the events are driving her up the wall since they take time away from actual hero work,” Midoriya explains. “I wish I could offer some encouragement but my father is just as bad as All Might. Overheard him demanding Hawks invite his plus one to the bullshit agency-only cocktail party he’s having tomorrow,” Shoto replies. “Honestly I’m surprised (y/n) hasn’t killed him and All Might yet,” Tokoyami interjects as he joins the conversation. “Trust me, she’s thought about it. Repeatedly,” Midoriya comments. “Anyway, what do you say Midoriya can we confirm it’s this building?” Shoto asks, veering the conversation back to the task at hand. Midoriya nods, “Yep, I’m certain of it. We should notify the others.” “About that.... we have a problem,” Tokoyami sighs as he shows Midoriya and Shoto a photo Monoma’s just sent him of Hawks and Bakugo locked in combat.

Hawks should stop.

He knows he should stop.

He wants to stop.

But somehow he can’t stop until he wins.

His wings are a fraction of their usual size, his ribs ache, he’s heavily bruised, and there are burn marks where Bakugo has caught him with one of his explosions a few times. Granted Bakugo isn’t looking that much better, equally bruised and bleeding in several places where Hawks has managed to cut him. This all started so pettily but neither he nor Bakugo is willing to back down. They’re both too proud. Both feel as if they’re fighting for your best interest and, as such, admitting defeat would in some way be letting you down. One massive fight that at its core is just two men’s horribly misguided attempt at defending you. The sheer irony of the fight is something both men will come to realize once the dust has settled but for now their minds are far too clouded to consider that what’s happening is exactly what Bakugo had been warning Hawks against. So instead of stopping like he knows he should, Hawks continues to grapple with Bakugo, the two of them locked into close proximity tumbling over each other until finally Hawks has Bakugo pinned beneath him, a feather pressed to the other man’s throat.

That moment it’s like all the air gets sucked out of the area. Hawks has never and will never needlessly kill someone, especially not an innocent or fellow hero. But with Bakugo pinned underneath him, both their chests heaving with exertion and Bakugo’s eyes burning with defiance and a refusal to back down or submit even with his life in Hawks’ hands, Hawks is struck by the realization that he could. He could kill Bakugo right now if he wanted to and that’s a sobering thought. “Shit,” he huffs out and the next word out of his mouth is about to be an apology when suddenly he’s being ripped backwards by an unseen force and Bakugo is being similarly yanked away. As Hawks finds himself suspended in air he finally takes in his surroundings for the first time since he and Bakugo started exchanging blows.

There’s a massive crowd of people around staring and whispering in an attempt to figure out what exactly is going on. He spots with growing dread a news van and several reporters all taking pictures of the scene, including some of the collateral damage to the street. Thank god none of the buildings themselves were damaged. Then finally he finds the source of the unseen force holding him in the air.

In the middle of everything stands you.

And man, oh man do you look pissed.

Author’s Note: Men are ✨dumb✨ but we’ll see how (y/n) reacts next chapter. This is the chapter with the least connection to the associated song which meant leaning more heavily on the overall album’s inspiration (Romeo and Juliet if y’all couldn’t tell lol) for this particular chapter and more trying to have the vibe of the chapter match the vibe of the song.

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp @pokesosa @lildockel @bread0nhead @lavender-moon13

[sadoeuphemist]

Six Times You Knew What Everyone Was Thinking (and one time you didn’t):

1.

The King sits you down with his other two advisors, has you close your eyes, puts a hat on each of your heads. The hats will be either red or white, he says, with at least one red one. The first to speak up and name the color of their own hat wins the prize.

You open your eyes, see the other two advisors both with red hats staring at you. You all study each other, thinking. Silence. Silence. No one coming to a conclusion.

Ah, but in their silence it is obvious: if your hat were white, surely one of them would have figured it out already. Your hats all are red, of course.

2.

You pass through a tunnel in a group of n where n>2 friends, wind blowing through your hair; you emerge from the darkness to see each of your friends with a smudge of soot on their foreheads. You laugh. You cannot help but laugh. They look hilarious! The moment they realize they have a smudge of soot on their foreheads, they will wipe it clean, of course, but for now all of you are laughing. You all will keep laughing as long as there is a spot of soot left to be seen.

You think, How inseparable you are from your friends, how your minds all work according to the same rules of logic! You can imagine what they are all thinking, right now, in their laughter; and they of you; and you are imaging them imagining you and so on ad infinitum. You watch them laughing and are looking into a hall of mirrors.

You think this is what knowing is.

In any case, so long as your minds all tick along at sufficiently different speeds, eventually, your faces will all be clean.

3.

You attend a conference of logicians, a mad tea party. At the entrance they place a colored band around your head, forbidding you to look at your own color. They sit you all in a circle around a table, allow everyone to silently look around at one another, to note down the colors of everybody else.

This problem is solvable for everyone, they tell you. At regular intervals, a chime will sound, and everyone who knows the color of their own headband at that point is to stand and leave the table. The game will continue until everyone has left.

An inference: everyone must share a color with at least one other person, see it reflected somewhere, in order to have any chance at succeeding. If you see someone with a color all of their own, ah, then you must be their partner. If a pair fails to stand at the first chime, it is because they must have each seen something in you that you could not see in yourself, and so you will all rise together at the next chime as a trio. And so on, and so on, the smaller groups at first and then the larger, everyone in turn finding the group where they belong.

There is nothing to it but the logic. It is so orderly, so inevitable, done like this.

4.

There is a blind spot in all these variations. Something so obvious that everyone but you can see. A mark on your forehead, a crown or dunce cap placed atop your head, that characteristic of the self that can only ever be perceived through someone else.

You do not know if your husband is cheating on you or not.

There is a system, as these things go. Gossip flows freely here, and so every woman knows of every unfaithful husband in the kingdom but her own. It would be discourteous to tell her. All women in the kingdom are required to train in logic before taking a husband; this too is widely known. You can trust them all as you can trust yourself.

One day the Queen makes an announcement: infidelity has run rampant in the kingdom, and so every woman who learns her husband has been unfaithful to her must kill him that very night. Every execution - or lack of executions - will be publicly announced the next day. You know quite well the number of unfaithful husbands in the kingdom, as does every wife: n, or n+1.

You count the days, and check your loaded pistol, and you wait.

5.

There are two hundred inhabitants of the island: a hundred brown-eyed, ninety-nine blue-eyed, and you. The rules of the island are numerous, and contrived, and have little room for variation, but by now I think you must have grasped the pattern. You all think in lockstep, are all perfect logicians. You all know the color of everyone’s eyes but your own.

One final rule: the moment someone knows their own eye color, they must leave the island by ferry that night.

For a long time nothing happens. Each day passes like the other. The sky is an eternal blue. No one learns anything.

And then one day, an oracle visits the island, gathers everyone together to make a single announcement: there is at least one person among you with blue eyes.

She has not told anyone anything new, of course. You all could see either a hundred or ninety-nine blue-eyed people; you all knew that already. And yet, the count has started; time, invisibly, is ticking. And yet, and yet, and yet...

The answer has been much discussed: on the hundredth night, all one hundred blue-eyed people leave the island (as it turns out, you had blue eyes, as might have been predicted).

But the question is this: What did you learn?

6.

You and one of your blue-eyed compatriots have been captured, locked in separate cells, far from one another. Eight strong iron bars block the door of your cell; your fellow islander (though you do not know this, have yet no way of knowing) counts twelve in theirs.

Your captor told you this, before you were separated: the number of bars in both your cells added together would total to either twenty, or eighteen. Your task is to determine which. He will first ask your friend during the day, and then if they cannot reason out an answer, he will come to ask you at night. Day in, day out, until one of you can give the correct number with absolute certainty, and then you will both be freed.

You learn nothing else each day, nothing but your continued inability to answer. You must choose between two immutable possibilities - your friend must either have ten bars, or twelve - and as one day passes, then the next, then the next, the routine and options both unchanging, it may seem impossible to ever inch towards a conclusion.

Ah, but then when were you ever limited to what was merely possible? 

There are 8 bars in your cell; theirs must have either 10 or 12. Meaning they might imagine you as having 8, or 10, or 6. And so they imagine you in your cell as you were a moment before, calculating the possible number of bars in their cell: 10, 12, 8, 14. And from there, you imagine, they imagine you imagining them imagining you: 10 or 8 or 6 or 12 or 4 ...

Each possibility branches out into further possibilities, broadening the ranges, worlds within worlds within worlds within worlds. You are so alike. You know each other, perfectly: not just in everything that might be, but in all the things you might imagine within those possibilities that right now are ruled out even as hypothetical, and the things your imagining’s imaginings might imagine, and so on and on and on...

You are looking into a hall of mirrors.

Uncertainties multiply themselves. Through the kaleidoscopic reflections of one another you each discern every combination of numbers that might be conceived of, no matter how many layers deep in hypothetical: 18 and 2, or 16 and 2, or 16 and 4, or 14 and 6, and so on all the way down the rabbit hole.

After the first day passes without incident, there is no longer any conceivable set of worlds where your friend has eighteen bars. (The answer would be too obvious, the game over immediately.)

After the first night passes, if you know your friend does not have eighteen bars and yet you still cannot give an answer, then there is no longer any conceivable set of worlds where you have two. 

The days pass in silence. The range of possibilities shrinks, ever gradually honing in on the truth.

Of course, you both already knew full well that these combinations were impossible. You each had your own set of bars, perfectly immutable, the iron laws of addition and subtraction. You all saw a red hat. Ninety-nine pairs of blue eyes, at the least! Everyone knew, and everyone knew that everyone knew that everyone knew.

But eventually there is an end to the maze of mirrors, of recursive possibilities, after so many, many iterations, when finally you cannot tack on another ‘knew they knew’ and still have it make sense. Then, you wait, each day passing, each of you learning from everyone else in their inaction: I have done nothing yet today to free us, and so now I know they know I do not yet know ...!

(a blue-eyed person sees 99 blue-eyed people, and thinks:     they might each see only 98 blue-eyed people, and think:         they might each see only 97 blue-eye people, and think:             .......               they might each see only 2 blue-eyed people, and think:                  they might each see only 1 blue-eyed person, and think:                      they might not see any blue-eyed people at all!)

(this is what the oracle teaches you!)

------

0.

After all your trials, this one is the simplest: You are one of two generals on opposite sides of a city, planning to launch a combined assault. Your target is walled, and well-fortified. You will need to attack together or not at all. A single army alone would certainly be massacred, so neither of you will send your troops forward if there is the slightest hint of doubt.

Alas, your only method of communication is sending messengers back and forth through enemy territory. There is a good chance they will be killed; the journey is quite perilous. But lives are cheap, and messengers are plenty, and you are both eager for victory. How many messages will you need to send back and forth before you can begin?

Answer: this is a simple problem, well known to be impossible. Send as many messengers as you want, but without a reply you cannot be sure that any of them survived. The other general must confirm the message - but how will he know that you received the confirmation without himself receiving another confirmation in return? And then that confirmation must be confirmed, and so on ad infinitum, each link in the chain essential and thus itself needing verification, such that no number of messages successfully delivered could ever be enough.

There is an insurmountable gap between you, meaningless assurances piling up, all made unbearable by uncertainty: Do you understand me? Do you understand me? Do you understand?

.

.

RESOURCES:

Wikipedia article on induction puzzles: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Induction_puzzles

Possibly the earliest known formulation of one of these kinds of puzzles (the smudge of soot one), by A.A. Bennett: https://puzzling.stackexchange.com/questions/28194/the-origin-of-the-blue-eyes-puzzle

Blue eyes puzzle (solution): https://xkcd.com/solution.html

18 or 20 bars puzzle: https://puzzling.stackexchange.com/questions/45664/are-there-eighteen-or-twenty-bars-in-my-castle

Two Generals’ problem: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_Generals%27_Problem

Common knowledge: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_knowledge_(logic)

[withcolebrock]

Lover of Mine~chapter 8

Lover of Mine~5 seconds of summer

Masterlist

Warnings: swearing, alcohol,

Word Count: 1,691

Author’s Note: long time no see this series. However Mike is depicted in this fic is not how I believe he treats women, only for the sake of the series. Anywhooooo I am hopefully going to be able to start posting these every day until it’s done. I hope you enjoy it! This is my gif!!

It was normal for everyone in the house to blare music while they would get ready. Especially Colby and Y/N. Their rooms were on opposite ends of the hall but they could hear each other’s music perfectly. It almost felt like a competition to see who’s music would overpower the other one. It was always a fun mixture of songs because she would listen to One Direction while Colby would listen to artists similar to Lil Peep. Ultimately she would win, and her music would overpower his. Since he loved listening to One Direction too.

The party was already starting downstairs while she was still getting ready. All of the boys had finished getting ready hours ago, they wanted to get ready early to set up the house. People were always out of control at their house so they always tried to make the house unbreakable. But inevitably the house would get some damage one way or another.

She hummed along to the words of Ready to Run by One Direction as she applied blush to her cheeks. She leaned her head back away from the mirror looking over her features. She placed the makeup brush down as she looked for an eyeshadow palette. She jolted back as her door began to be pushed open. Her eyes widened as she looked to see who it was, she smiled softly as she saw Colby. She reached for her phone and turned her music down.

He sat on the bed behind her while he let out a long dramatic sigh. She shook her head while smiling, “What’s wrong?” she asked while she opened her Morphe eyeshadow palette. Her eyes looked around the colors trying to figure out what look she wanted to do.

“I don’t want to do this party,” he groaned while rubbing his eyes several times. “I don’t want to talk to people, I don’t want to clean up the mess, and I just want to lay in my room and sleep,” he continued. She pouted her lips as she started applying the eyeshadow.

“Wasn’t it your idea to have this party?” she asked, looking towards him through the mirror. He shook his head roughly as he fell down onto his back.

“It was my idea to have some people over, like Kevin and Aryia. Maximum eight people,” he explained, “But no,” he said sarcastically, “Everyone else invited the whole fucking city of Los Angeles.”

“Hey I only invited Mike,” she defended while she reached for a different eye shadow brush. He didn’t respond, instead he held up his phone and began scrolling through his twitter mentions. Most of his mentions were about him and Y/N. It was common for him to see tweets about him and her, or even accounts with their ship name. “You can still hang out with everyone and I promise you won’t have to clean anything,” she continued after the long period of silence, a small laugh left her lips.

“Well the person I want to hang out with is bringing a date so I might just hang in my room the whole night,” he said, his eyes widened while he pursed his lips forward. She pulled the brush away from her eye as she slowly leaned back away from the mirror. She furrowed her eyebrows as she glanced towards him in the mirror.

“Who’s bringing a date?” she questioned. She placed the brush away, while she reached for her eyeliner.

“It doesn’t matter,” he sighed while he looked into the mirror, watching her apply her eyeliner. His lips curled up as he admired the way she concentrated. “What time is Mike going to be here?”  He changed the subject quickly. He brushed his hand against his nose several times while his gaze shifted away from her.

“Soon,” she dropped her eyeliner onto the vanity top before she stood up. “You need to get out,” she turned to face him, a tight lip smile formed to her lips. His face scrunched together, “Go, go I need to get changed,” she lightly pushed him up from the bed.

“Oh, come on, I won’t look,” he joked as he started walking towards the door. She shook her head dramatically, trying to hide the smile forming to her lips. He laughed as he pulled open the door and left. She sighed while she walked towards her dresser. She took out a fancy set of red lingerie and laid it out onto the bed.

~~~

The amount of people at the party was overwhelming, you could barely walk around without bumping into someone. But it was normal for the type of parties they always had. The music was loud and the base could be felt through the floor. She was all over the place, trailing Mike behind her. Most of the time she would be in the sea of people dancing with Mike.

She wouldn’t say she was drunk, but she was getting there. She slowly turned her body around to face him, her gaze looking into his eyes. She bit her lip as she slightly widened her eyes. She wrapped her hands around Mike’s neck pulling him closer to her, his eyes lit up as he slowly wrapped his hands tightly around her waist. She smiled against his lips as she leaned in and kissed him.

Colby stood against the wall while taking slow sips of his drink. Every so often as people moved away from the main group, he would catch a glimpse of Y/N dancing closely to Mike. He clenched his jaw tightly as he watched her, his heart would race fast. He wanted to be the one to dance with her, he wanted to be the one to hold her and kiss her. He lowered his head, staring towards the floor while he took a sip of his drink. He cringed at the taste.

He lifted his head, looking towards Mike and Y/N, from across the room he met her eyes. Her body slowed from her dancing as she stared towards him. His lips twitched up into a small smirk. Her lips curled up slightly when she saw him. Mike tightened his grip around her waist. She looked away from Colby towards Mike, she forced out a laugh.

Colby looked away from her back towards the floor while chugged the rest of his drink. A small tap on his shoulder, caused him to lift his head. His eyes widened as he saw the same red haired girl from this morning. “Olivia, hi,” he was shocked to see her here. He didn’t even remember telling her about the party. She reached over and hugged him. He hesitantly hugged her back, “I didn’t realize you were coming,” he forced a smile.

~

Y/N leaned towards Mike and whispered, “Take me to get a drink,” he smiled as he took a hold of her hand. He began pushing through the crowd keeping a hold of her hand tightly. Her eyes kept down as she watched her feet. The kitchen was the only place where people were in and out immediately. Y/N took in a sudden breath once she entered the clear space. She let go of Mike’s hand as she pointed her finger towards the assortment of drinks.

“Yes please,” she cheered as she pulled the vodka from the counter and began pouring a heavy amount into her cup. She then reached for a can of Dr. Pepper and started pouring it into the cup. She rested the almost empty can down onto the counter while turning around towards Mike. “Are you having fun?” she asked while biting her lower lip. He nodded his head as he began to move towards her quickly. He rested his hand onto her cheek as he kissed her.

She pulled away from his lips, while breathing heavy. She pushed aside the strap to her dress revealing the red skinny strap, “You are going to meet me in my room in ten minutes,” she bit her lip as she took a hold of her drink. She turned around and began walking through the sea of people towards the stairs.

She stopped short when she saw Sam and Colby leaning against the wall right before the stairs. “Hey!” she said excitedly. They smiled towards her as Colby’s gaze looked her body up and down.

He took a sip of his drink while Sam said, “You look like you’re having fun,” she nodded several times while she took an overly confident sip.

“I am,” she giggled, “Are you guys?” Sam nodded while Colby shrugged his shoulders. She took a small step closer to him while her eyes flickered down to his lips briefly. “Colby, at least try to have fun,” she smiled softly as she ran her hand up and down his arm slowly. Colby shifted his gaze towards her hand, before he processed what she was doing she started to skip up the stairs. He watched her walk away from him while smirking slightly.

After Mike sat still in the kitchen for a while taking one too many drinks while he was in there. He decided to start heading towards the room. He walked through the sea of people while trying his best to not bump into anyone. He glanced towards Sam and Colby, rolling his eyes slightly. “-Tonight?” Sam asked. Mike stopped short on the step, wanting to listen in.

“I’m going to tell her I love her,” Colby’s voice was calm while he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Dude, are you sure? I thought you were going to wait until her and Mike broke up,”

“I don’t know, dude, I have to tell her I’m in love with her,” Colby let out, it was the first time he said those words out loud. Mike clenched his fist several times, he bit at his bottom lip as he stomped up the stairs. Colby turned his body towards the stairs and saw a glimpse of someone that looked like Mike up the stairs. He shrugged his shoulder and began walking up the stairs slowly.

Where we’ve been a thousand times

[everythinggeeky]

The Fall | Anakin Skywalker

Anakin Skywalker x Jedi! reader

Warnings: NONE! the angst, 

Word Count: 2.9k

Request: okay hear me out. request where the reader is cozy with Anakin with Ahsoka for her mission and when order 66 is executed, meaning she goes through all of that with the clones and the ship crashing but she doesn’t know it’s Anakin’s doing and then maybe Ahsoka tells the reader what maul told her on Mandalore during their fight. does that make sense? lol, I see angst. -Anon

masterlist

A/N: I took some creative liberties with this, hope you don’t mind! don’t sue me for emotional damages. Requests and tag lists are open!

You stood by the window watching as the stars shoot by in brilliant colors. You always enjoyed traveling in lightspeed - it gave you the opportunity to ignore the realities of the galaxy, even if only for a little while. Trying to distract yourself from the pressing matter at hand, your hand wandered to the small charm that hung from the side of your belt. Rubbing the charm between your thumb and forefinger, you remember the day that Anakin gave it to you after he had been training with you for months. 

“Y/N. This is for you. It’s a traditional artifact. There’s an engraving on the back for you, can you read what it says?” You fondly remembered a significantly younger Anakin handing the small charm to you on Coruscant after he had returned to you following a dangerous mission.

“I’ll always be with you,” you read aloud.

“Right. Because we have to stick together, no matter what,” he smiled sweetly down at you, “I have a duplicate on my belt. I’ll keep it there to remember my promise.”

You nodded, confirming your half of the promise. Since that day, you carried the charm on your belt, right next to your saber. This gentle reminder eased your anxieties when departing for a new mission. The ritual was the same: three clockwise spins between your thumb and forefinger, four counterclockwise. 

Over time, as Anakin and yourself grew from padawans to Jedi Knights, the charm began to lose its engraving from the repeated ritual, but the promise still stood between Anakin and yourself.

You would unite following a mission and embrace one another to confirm your physicality. Over time, your relationship with Anakin grew from fellow padawan, to close friend, to the possibility of something more, despite what you chose to label it. You always knew you had a special bond with Anakin, but were afraid to pursue it. The Jedi code forbids attachments, and you couldn’t risk your attachment to Anakin becoming your downfall.

These tender moments of nostalgia only lasted for so long; the sound of the transmission patching through pulls you out of your daze. You sighed heavily, not wanting to be bothered. After turning around, you were relieved to see that it was Anakin instead of another general. 

“Ahsoka, Y/N, this could be a tipping moment for the Clone Wars. The Jedi are counting on you once again. Capture Maul and uncover his motive. I must go, but I know you’ll accomplish what is necessary.”

“Have I ever let you or the Jedi down, Anakin?” you spoke up.

“Never. And don’t let this be the first,” he chuckled, trying to distract from the gravity of the mission at hand.

“I won’t,” you confirmed as Ahsoka walked away to attend to strategic planning with the troops.

“Y/N. I’m serious, I need you to come back to me this time. The way this is looking, the Jedi could gain an advantage here and win the war.”

“I will, Anakin. I always will. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you...too long. There wasn’t enough time today on the dock.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, but with Obi-Wan there…” he trailed off.

His personal communicator chimed again, pulling his attention away from your private moment.

“I have to go, Y/N. The Chancellor-” Anakin tried to pull away.

“Be careful, alright? You know how I feel about mixing politics and war. It’s never good.”

“I’ll be alright. I promised to come back to you, didn’t I?” he smirked his trademark smirk before continuing, “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

“Impossible,” you smiled softly up at him.

“Good luck with your mission, Y/N,” Anakin spoke softly, the transmission ended before you had the chance to finish.

“You too,” you said into the silence.

You were on board a shuttle with Bo-Katan and Ahsoka, making your way to Mandalore. Maul was confirmed to remain in the city, his direct location unknown. Enemy fire interrupted your smooth transport; your troopers, and Bo-Katan leaving the ship on a jet pack. You looked to Ahsoka and shrugged before fleeing the ship, dismantling and disarming the enemy on the way to the surface.

After landing, you were met with heavy blaster fire which was blocked by the smooth and effortless motions of Ahsoka’s lightsabers, as well as your own. Working your way down into the tunnels of the city, you decided it was best you split up. Ahsoka would work with the commander and a few others, and you would lead your own respective group.

Taking out the opposition one by one, you worked with your team to find Maul. Ahsoka patched through eventually informing you of the dark lord’s location. You and your troopers made your way to the hub to surround Maul, armed and ready to fight.

“Ah. I see the Jedi have some new recruits I was not aware of,” Maul purrs.

“Can’t keep moving the same guys around everywhere in the galaxy. Too bad you’re stuck with us I suppose. Surrender and there will be no bad blood,” you spoke up, twirling your saber once for intimidation.

“Surrender? Why do so when the Jedi will inevitably lose?” 

You looked to Ahsoka with concern, preparing yourself for a bloody match with the Sith that almost eliminated Obi-Wan Kenobi. After a small back and forth, you lost track of Maul. You discovered that Darth Sidious was responsible for the Clone Wars, ensuring that the Sith were playing a game with the Jedi from the very beginning. After hours of gruesome fighting and snide remarks, Ahsoka was able to capture some time with Maul to discover Darth Sidious’ plot while you and Bo-Katan resolved the smaller fights on the surface.

You were separated from Ahsoka, busy taking down the enemy forces of the surface of Mandalore. Your saber made quick work of the blaster fire, blocking it from coming into harm’s way with your comrade. Slashing down enemies with an impressive twirl of your saber, mimicking the style of your master from so many years ago.

You hadn’t seen Ahsoka in a few hours, too busy fighting alongside the other troops assigned to the upper levels of the city. You received notice that Ahsoka was in pursuit of Maul, determined to uncover his motive and the greater plot at play. Through her continued efforts, she successfully captured Maul. You reunited and met with the Council to discuss further efforts to eliminate the Chancellor’s control.

“We have Maul. We will escort him back to Coruscant,” Ahsoka speaks up to the Council.

“The war could be over soon…” you trailed off quietly.

“If the Chancellor complies,” Master Windu confirms.

You nod, doubt troubling your mind. Where was this coming from? You knew Anakin and Obi-Wan would complete their mission and get the information necessary to end the war. But something lingering in the back of your mind continued to grow; you were so close, was this really going to be the end of a long war?

Master Yoda questioned your thoughts, “Doubts about the war, you have.”

“Doubts, yes. Is this too good to be true? If Darth Sidious is truly playing both sides...how can we know this war won’t go on for many years to come?”

“Faith in your colleagues, you must have.”

“Yes, Master,” you replied, looking to the floor.

“A message for Skywalker, perhaps?”

“No, when I see him after all of this is over, I’ll tell him myself.” 

“May the force be with you.”

And with that, Master Yoda ended the transmission.

“Ahsoka, you didn’t tell the council about what Maul said” Rex spoke up.

“You’re right. I didn’t,” she spoke as she walked through the doors.

You followed her through, mind wandering endlessly. Is the council right? Is this almost the end of a multi-year war? 

“Wait...What did Maul say? You didn’t mention it to me”

“In time...if what Maul said is true, it will reveal itself. I don’t want to distract you from the truth and from the mission, Y/N.”

“I see...why can’t you tell me, Ahsoka?”

“I just can’t,” she continued after a long silent pause, “I can sense something troubling you, Y/N. What is it?” Ahsoka asks as you make your way to the ship where Maul is to be boarded.

“Do you really think the Council is right? That Maul is right?”

“There’s no way to know for certain, but your doubts echo my own. I know the Order has a reputation for corruption, and it’s not up to me or to you to eliminate that, but I can’t continue knowing I contributed in an effort that allowed innocent people to die.”

“That’s why we’re here, Ahsoka. You know what is right.”

“I suppose, I just don’t want to be a soldier anymore” she closed, taking her position on the bridge alongside Commander Rex, while you sat outside the briefing room, unable to tolerate the pressure of more diplomacy.

As you traveled through hyperspace, the force called out to you in a series of struggles and arguments between an unknown party.

“It’s not the Jedi way!” a voice called out through the force, exhausted.

The painful thoughts plagued your mind as the scuffle continues. 

“What have I done?” 

“Anakin?” you said quietly into the empty hallway, looking around for anyone that could help you, or maybe you could share the news with. 

You hurried to find Ahsoka, surely she felt this too. As the doors to the bridge slid open, Commander Rex stood between you two, guns drawn and aimed at both of you. Pulling your lightsaber from your belt and igniting the blade. Ahsoka stood still, shifting her focus from you and then back to Rex.

“Rex...what is this?” Ahsoka begged.

“Under Order 66, all Jedi are to be executed for treason. You are in violation of Order 66,” he spoke in a tone that was dissimilar from his normal.

Firing a shot at both of you, you and Ahsoka ducked out of the way; using her lightsaber to deflect the back-and-forth fire between the troops. Before you had the opportunity to get caught in the middle of the fire, you fled the scene, running into the hallway of the ship. You ran to escape the fire of the corrupted troops, finding a quiet supply room to yourself.

You thought if you could find the quiet space to meditate, perhaps you could send a message to Anakin. What was the argument that you heard? What did Anakin do that was so terrible that he immediately regretted it? There has to be some good left in him, surely nothing is solidified quite yet. 

Reassuring yourself that nothing has been set in stone, you sat on the cold floor of the supply closet. Inhaling deeply, you centered your thoughts to reach Anakin’s. The blaster fire continued outside, drawing you away from your meditation now and again. As you tried to connect with Anakin, you were once again dragged down by Anakin’s panicked and angry thoughts. 

“Anakin...” you spoke into your force bond, hoping he would reciprocate.

You waited, hanging on desperately for a response. You let a tear fall as you reached for the charm on your belt. 

Three clockwise, four counter. 

“Please, Anakin…”

“Y/N…” Anakin spoke out, heartbreak is laden in his voice.

“Where are you Anakin…?” you pleaded.

“Coruscant,” he quipped.

“What has happened?”

“I can’t-”

“Anakin, please…” your connection was brutely interrupted by clone troopers searing the door, attempting to break the door down.

You looked between the door and the charm in your hand, pondering your next move. As the clones came closer to breaking down the door, you forfeited your force bond with Anakin, leaving your meditative state and igniting your lightsaber. 

Two clones broke down the door to the supply closet, exposing your hiding place.

Another clone echoed Rex’s command from earlier, “you are in violation of Order 66. You will be executed for treason.”

You fought off the clones, finding a way to flee the clones, and reunite with Ahsoka. After running what felt like forever, you found Ahsoka. Breathless, she stopped you.

“Y/N. The clones are compromised.”

“You don’t say,” you huff.

“No, they were designed that way.”

“What??”

“The Kaminoans installed an inhibitor chip. Order 66 was the plan all along.”

“Darth Sidious…”

“Yes.”

“Is this what Maul was talking about…?”

“Yes, but there is something else.”

“Tell me.”

“Y/N, I really can’t.”

“Ahsoka, please.”

“It’s Anakin.”

“What about him? I felt it. I tried. Ahsoka, I tried to talk to him. He pushed me away,” you spiraled.

Ahsoka caught your shoulders, squaring you to herself, “Y/N. Maul said Anakin is behind this. The destruction, Order 66. He is Sidious’s apprentice.”

You pulled away from her, “You lie. There’s no way that Anakin could have done this…”

“I know. But I think Maul may be right. Anakin has always doubted the Council, and increasingly so in recent days…”

“Ahsoka...I..”

“Right now, we have to worry about the clones. We gotta get that chip out of Rex’s head.”

You nodded, trying to focus on the mission. Your personal matters and attachments could not intercede. As Maul caused his own chaos in the corridor, you worked with Ahsoka to fight off the clones and get out of here. Eventually, you made it outside, where after a messy battle, Maul was able to escape after a struggle with Ahsoka. 

The ship was gaining speed rapidly, and the clones were gaining on you. Ahsoka, Rex, and yourself fought back to back, blocking blasters and the increasing pressure from the clones. Ahsoka dropped the three of you to the lower level and covered you and Rex as you looked for an escape ship.

With a boost from Ahsoka, you boarded the ship with Rex, fleeing the wreckage. Ahsoka confirmed she would find her way and would work to defeat the clones. You steered to bring Ahsoka on board after she fled the wreckage herself. When it was safe, you landed on the moon’s surface, examining the wreckage behind.

You took a moment to yourself, finding a quiet space to allow yourself to feel the devastation. You had been through so much within the last day and this was time to rest. Tossing your lightsaber back and forth between your hands, you remembered your fondest memories while training. Working side-by-side with Anakin while you were both padawans were some of your favorite memories. The first time you sparred with him, you took him down practically instantly. 

With a knee on his chest, you leaned into his face, “what? Can’t keep up, Skywalker?” you chuckled, smirking.

“Oh, I can keep up, Y/N,” he smirked, shoving you off his chest.

You laughed while standing back up, “I thought Master Kenobi was supposed to be teaching you something.”

“Hush,” he teased.

You smiled fondly at the memory from your youth. These much happier days seemed so long ago now, both of your lives completely different. Anakin’s choice was confirmed; he had truly given up on the Jedi and on the light side of the force. Hope was lost. In an attempt to comfort yourself, your hand wandered to the charm on your belt again. 

Three clockwise, four counter. 

A tear fell from your eye as you pulled harshly on the charm, detaching it from your belt. You tossed it out onto the expanse of the moon’s surface. You’ve lost hope in redeeming Anakin. You could sense he was gone. This was your only chance for survival.

Following your unceremonial separation, Ahsoka wandered over to you.

“You ready to go?” she spoke softly.

Wiping your eyes, you stood and followed Ahsoka to the shuttle, leaving the moon for good to start your life over again. Your life away from the Order, and away from Anakin.

Vader returned the moon months later. There was a rumor that wreckage from the clone wars existed, rumor that possible Jedi have crept through the cracks of Order 66 and escaped. He searched the surface with a dedicated team of troopers. Through the snow, helmets from the 501st peppered the snow.

Vader knelt to the surface to brush some of the snow aside. In his efforts, a silver piece of metal was hidden under the snow’s covering, beside one of the helmets. He picked it up and recognized it instantly- the same charm he had given to you as a boy.

He took this as a sign of your suffering; the wreckage was brutal and there was no way you survived. Vader pocketed the charm; his own was left burned and charred on Mustafar. Perhaps there was hope and you were alive. Wherever you are, he tried to reach out to you, but the door was closed.

Vader repeated the ritual in his gloved hands.

Three clockwise, four counter.

tagged: @kenobee​ @hxldmxdxwn​ @smokahuntis​ @obiwkenobi​ @jbarnesss​ @takenbymyfandoms​ @ilovesupersoldiers​ @ahsxkaa​

[lailannajacobs]

If You’d Ever Had A Real Boyfriend, Maybe You’d Know What To Do With A Fake One | GIBP IV

Pairing: Fey!Loki x fem!reader 

Chapter Summary: You experience your first council event and get to know Loki a little bit better. 

Warnings: pure fluff

Word Count: 12.5k 

A/N: I know this took quite a while to come out, but I ended up writing far more than I’d intended and I spent a lot of time editing to try and get the fake dating as perfect as I possibly could. I hope you don’t mind the length so much and I’d love to know what you think of the chapter!! <3 

You had wanted to spend the whole hour in the bath, scrubbing the stupid Junabee from your hair, but Loki had given you an hour alone and you weren’t about to waste it soaking in a tub; no matter how luxurious or tempting it was. You’d chosen a dark silky blouse and fancy but comfortable pants, quickly noticing that Valkyrie had made a slitted compartment in the leg for your dagger. You hadn’t spoken about it with her and you didn’t know if that was her way of ominously warning you to stay safe or simply that she’d gotten a better read on you during your afternoon than you’d thought. Either way, you were glad to have it there.

Even though they clashed with the outfit, you’d kept your boots on underneath, refusing to part with them. You weren’t in the mood to get blisters from shoes you’d never worn before and needed to to know you could run and move if need be. Your steps were silent on the floor — another reason you’d kept on the boots — hopefully imperceptible even to Fey hearing. Leaning your ear against the door, you waited, listening for movement in the hallway. Nothing. Your hand was tentative on the handle. You gently pulled open the door and stepped out, eyes scanning the hallway. You bit back a groan.

Loki was leaning against the opposite wall, freshly changed into a dark suit, the cut and style similar to the likes of human fashion and his dark hair combed back. You were momentarily surprised he owned something like that, but with the mountain of clothing you received from Valkerie only hours after meeting her, you should have guessed she would have made something for him as well. It was a clever move on his part, and you wondered if it was him or his seamstress who had decided on the suit. Regardless of who’s idea it was, the clothes fit him so perfectly, even you couldn’t deny that he was incredibly handsome. The thought made you scowl. He raised a brow.

“I thought you were going to be back in an hour,” you blurted then quickly realized how suspicious you sounded.

He shrugged, “I lied.”

The silence stretched on after his words and you turned them over in your mind. He knew you would try and leave. It was the only reason he would have lied about something so unimportant. And you stupidly believed him. You ran your tongue over your teeth, trying to hide your frustration — at him, yes, but also at yourself. You should have known that after sneaking off this morning he’d be watching you even more closely. If you’d have stayed put, maybe you could have gained his trust enough to search the palace on your own. Now, you’d only made everything harder for yourself. There was no way he trusted you before, but he sure in the Seven Hells didn’t trust you now. You should have known better than this. You had to be better than this. You felt tears burn behind your eyes and you struggled to keep ahold of yourself.

He cocked his head, looking at you more closely now, as if he could see beneath your skin if he tried hard enough. You avoided his gaze, watching the trees swaying outside through a nearby window until you were sure your voice wouldn’t crack when you spoke.

You tried to turn the tables on him Instead of trying to defend your own actions, and muttered, “that wasn’t very nice of you.”

He seemed to find that funny, his intense stare breaking as he pushed off the wall and approached with slow, lazy steps, “and what were you about to do, sweetheart?”

You took in a deep breath; pasted on a coy smile. You had to calm down and get your act together if you wanted to get through this. And you were going to get through this. For yourself. For Nat. You had no other choice.

You closed the door behind you.

“Find you, of course,” you replied sweetly.

His head dipped in a slow nod, lips pursed as if he was trying to fight a smile. You didn’t for a second think that he believed me.

“Well, sweetheart, you found me,” he crooned.

You couldn’t fake any kind of enthusiasm, the words dry when you said, “lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he countered, lips curling into a wicked grin. His eyes were bright and taunting as if he was winning a game you weren’t aware you were playing, “and now that you’ve found me, what are you going to do about it?”

His voice had dropped so that his question sounded like a dare, words laced with danger and promises of something more. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten now that he was leaning against your doorframe. You looked up haughtily, holding his gaze as you searched for something to say in return, but you had nothing. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and raised a brow, that insufferable smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Annoyed and all too aware of how close he was standing, you snorted and pushed past him. It wasn’t the most elegant or articulate, but it was the best you could come up with.

“Anything I should know about this party thingy?” you asked, hoping you could get back onto solid footing with some distance and a neutral question.

He was silent as he strolled beside you and you had to look up at him to make sure he’d heard. The only reason you didn’t repeat the question was the pinched look on his face and the way he began by saying, “I won’t lie to you,”

You stopped short, your hands on your hips. He paused and turned. When you didn’t back down, he nodded as if he’d just remembered lying to you less than an hour ago.

“Not about this,” he explained, though you weren’t comforted in the slightest by his answer. He was obviously comfortable lying to you and seemed to have it in mind that he would need to. Obviously, as king, he wasn’t going to tell you most things, but you wondered what that meant for your fate and Nat’s.

You kept walking, not wanting to get distracted and make a big deal about something you couldn’t change. For now. You motioned for him to go on.

“The council isn’t going to like you,” he replied bluntly, “they’re all part of the generation that burned down the temples of the old gods and almost half supported the discoveries that led to the war on purity.”

You closed your eyes for a few steps and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. Several decades before Hayle inherited the throne, Dark Elf scholars from Alfhiem discovered that magic flowed through the Nine Realms like currents in a massive loop of energy. They had found that the each specific mutation that differentiated the races attracted certain currents of energy and allowed those mutation to interact with and manipulate the magic of the currents. Humans couldn’t interact with any.

Then, when Odin later took the throne, a human scholar named Brock Rumlow was found guilty of capturing and testing on as many of the other races as he could get his hands on to try and imitate the mutations to give himself more power. Odin had taken the opportunity to turn as many of the other realms as he could against humans, burning the temples the humans had built when they had believed the magic had come from the gods. They had set out to eradicate the ‘lesser race’ — humans who had no power and would inevitably try to steal everyone else’s. Anyone who had sided with Odin despised humans and were a threat to them, even hundreds of years after they had lost the war on purity.

You were in more danger here than you’d realized.

“Great,” you muttered. Then a terrifying thought occurred to you that he might actually agree with them, “if they’re part of your council, why haven’t you gotten rid of them?”

He looked down at me in surprise, “kill them?”

“Kick them off the council,” you snapped, “you were king for at least a little while. You could have changed that.”

You stopped yourself from saying that he should have changed it. The actions of one human should not have been enough to condemn the entire race for future generations and every other race that had sided with them. But you should have known when Asgard had abandoned everyone good in the war that they didn’t care for anyone other than themselves.

Loki remained silent as a beautiful Fey woman crossed you in the hallway and nodded politely as she walked past. Her eyes lingered on you and the space between you and Loki so you stepped a little closer to him as you walked, your shoulders practically touching. When you were certain she couldn’t see you anymore, you stepped away from him, afraid he could feel your anger radiating off you in waves.

“Their positions are for life,” he said with a shrug, “and unfortunately, that’s a long time.”

“Unfortunate,” you scoffed, then muttered, “maybe you should have considered the first option gave you.”

His steps faltered slightly, “I beg your pardon?”

You knew he’d heard with his Fey hearing.

“Nothing,” you chirped.

He looked at you warily before continuing, scanning your body from head to toe as if he was looking for the dagger you’d pulled on him the day before.

“Thankfully, the head of the court is impartial,” he finally said when he seemed satisfied you weren’t going to try anything, “and the ultimate decision is his. My advice to you is to ignore the rest of them and focus on making this convincing.”

You nodded. His plan made sense, but there was so much that wasn’t on your side simply because you were human. If this was a fight, you were starting it blindfolded and with a hand tied behind your back. You clenched your teeth, frustrated. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention how desolate our situation was before you’d agreed to it. Though you hadn’t really agreed to it. It would be a long time before you forgot the way he’d casually threatened your life and the pain he’d caused last night.  

“If you knew all this, then why in the Seven Hells did you drag me into this?” you snarled, unable to keep the emotion from your voice, “wouldn’t it have been easier to use someone who was Fey? I’m sure Valkyrie would have been available.”

You weren’t sure why you’d called out the seamstress, but now that you had, you wouldn’t mind him explaining some of the million secrets you knew they were both keeping from you.

He didn’t seemed fazed by your outburst, his face almost more impassive than it was before, “easier maybe, but it would have been too obvious. The fact that you’re so unexpected makes it the most believable.”

Your anger was dropped to a simmer for a moment when you wondered what he meant by ‘too obvious’. What kind of past was between them? Maybe something was still there and this whole situation was coming between them. Maybe your deal was ruining a perfectly decent relationship. You decided you didn’t care. You weren’t here to become invested in their lives. You had other — more important — things to worry about.

“This hallway leads to the council’s banquet hall,” he continued once he realized that you weren’t going to say anything else on the subject, “if ever I’m not here to escort you, this is the easiest way to get from our rooms to the hall.”

“There are other ways?” you asked, thinking that the better you knew the layout of the palace, the better your chances were of finding the Hand.

He glanced at you side-long, wary of your question. With reason, but you weren’t about to confirm that.

“I mean, what if I’m not coming from my room,” you supplied, hurrying along.

“You can always ask for help,” he said. His face took on a serious quality that you hadn’t seen on him before, “the walls have ears here. Unless you’re in your room, know that I’ll be able to hear you if you’d like help.”

You didn’t know what to think about that. You’d been talking pretty freely about your deal, even though it had been in hushed tones most of the time. But that meant that whatever you said could be overheard by anyone. You were going to have to be even more careful than you’d first thought.

He nodded as if he could read your mind and honestly, with the minute demonstrations of magic you’d seen so far, you weren’t sure he couldn’t. You didn’t know anything about Fey magic and because of it, you were even more at a disadvantage. If you were going to have to spend a few moons here then you were going to have to learn more about it. Maybe even put your pride aside and ask him about it.

“Do you think you can make it convincing in there, sweetheart?” he asked, pausing a few steps away from a set of double doors. You’d been so lost in thought that you hadn’t realized you were already at the banquet hall.

“YN,” you grumbled, “and I think I can manage.”

“Good. Then I think we should hold hands,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, though you were glad he’d had the decency to accept your terms and ask you first.

“How romantic. And original,” you laughed, though there was no humour in the sound, “did you come up with that all on your own, prince?”

“You did want a heads up,” he ran a hand through his hair, “and funny thing is sweetheart, love isn’t original. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Never been in love?” you couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” he kept his eyes on the door ahead, not giving anything away, his voice steady when he asked, “have you?”

A crazy kind of laughter bubbled in your chest at the irony and impossibility of your situation. Afraid it would turn into full blown panic, you managed to push it far enough down to say, “no. Looks like we’re perfect for this.”  

He rocked back on his heels, the corner of his mouth barely twitching upward, “I knew there was a reason I chose you.”

“I broke into your palace, I don’t think that counts,” you scoffed.

He offered his hand, “I let you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, prince,” you said, your frustration back as if it had never left. You tried to ignore that familiar itch blooming at your tailbone, “you people are so overconfident and arrogant that anyone with half a brain could break into this place.”

“And yet, here you are,” he pointed out, that infuriating smirk growing.

You crossed your arms, tucking your hands tightly against your body to hide your growing temper, “not because of your charm.”

He leaned in close, lips almost touching your ear when he whispered, “you’re no peach either, my queen.”

“At least I’m not a spoiled brat who coerces helpless humans into miserable bargains,” you whispered back, head snapping to face him and your composure slipping away faster than usual. We were so close now your noses were practically touching and you made sure to take a step away from him.

He shook his head and you felt a shimmer of magic surround you like a bubble. You looked around as if you could physically see it, but obviously nothing was there.  When you looked back at him, Loki’s eyes were ablaze.

“Like you’re helpless, YN. You obviously don’t like me and that’s fine, but don’t think for a second that I’m clueless. You can fool them, sweetheart, but not me.”

You let out another humourless laugh, easing the pressure in your chest slightly, “and there’s that overconfidence and arrogance I was just talking about.”

“Are there any other insights about me you would like to share?” he asked, that bored expression quickly replacing any sort of emotion you might have seen on his face.

“Not right now,” you snapped.

He huffed a sigh, “then we should go in.”

You took his hand. It was a rough, warrior’s, easily engulfing yours.

He smirked.

“Shut up,” you growled, tempted to rip your hand away, “this is a necessity.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he pointed out, though there was no doubt in your mind that he knew exactly what he’d done to get under your skin so easily. Just the thought infuriated you more.

“This is never going to work,” you muttered.

He paused, voice taunting when he said, “not with that attitude it won’t.”

It took all of your restraint not to punch him in the arm with your free hand. He was so cavalier about all of this that you had trouble believing he took any of it seriously. How were you supposed to get the book when this was over when his vanity seemed to take precedence over everything else? He raised your hands and placed a slow kiss on yours, his intense gaze never leaving you. You glared at him and could feel his lips twist into a smile on your skin. Before you could snap at him for being an arrogant prick, he pushed open the doors and was on the move again, tugging you along with him. You did your best to keep up with his long strides through the smaller hallway that led to fancy looking doors at the end. You didn’t know if you were late or it if it was you dreading the party, but it felt like he’d picked up the pace.

You kept repeating to yourself that the walls had ears and that you had a job to do. You had Nat’s face etched into your mind — the sheer panic, wide eyes and gaunt face of the day the two of you had gotten captured. You had to get her out. You had to. Which meant that you couldn’t go around hating the man you were supposed to love. At least, not blatantly you couldn’t.

“I couldn’t be happier than to be here with you in this moment, Loki,” you said as you approached the doors that looked even more impressive up close, “there’s no one else I’d ever want at my side.”

He stopped with his hand on the door and looked over at you with a curious, but slightly amused expression on his face. He leaned over so that his shoulder barely brushed up against yours and said, “commendable attempt, sweetheart, but you might want to remind your face of your intentions if you want anyone to believe it.”

Then he pulled you into the room with him before you could say anything else. You did your best to wipe the scowl from your face. It wasn’t easy to do when this was the last place you wanted to be, but every pair of eyes were on you so you had no choice. And there were a lot of them.

The banquet hall was filled with Fey in elegant evening wear, male and female alike, all dissecting you as if you’d intruded on their private event. The room was smaller than you thought it would be, though it still had high arched ceilings, wide stained glass windows and a long table set up in the back with an impressive spread of food. A quick scan of the crowd gave you the impression that there were almost fifty Fey here but not one friendly face among them. Your legs suddenly felt like jelly and you were surprised you were somehow still standing.

Loki looked down at you and raised a brow. It was a silent challenge as if he thought you were intimidated by his court — that you couldn’t keep up. The arrogant look reignited the furry that had been doused by the judging stares and brought you back to your senses fast enough that you didn’t stumble after Loki when he walked you toward the centre of the party. Because of course you were going to the centre of it. Where else would you go?

“Nice to see everyone,” he began, shooting them all courtly smiles, though he lingered slightly longer on the five men who stood a few steps apart from the others. Their tunics looked similar to most of the other men, but you could tell their designs were more carefully tailored for their bodies and the fabrics better suited for the cut of the shirt and pants they wore. These men exuded power and confidence, and you could only assume that they were the council members that you were supposed to impress.

But the council of stuffy old men that you’d been expecting was nowhere to be seen. Only two of them appeared to be over the age of fifty, all the other in their early thirties at most — though you didn’t doubt that most of them were at least a few generations of humans old. All were Fey, and objectively speaking, all of them were quite handsome. Their looks were sharp and angular, traditional of the Fey and alluring in the way that they were surrounded by an air of magic. But the moment you looked into their eyes you knew you didn’t want to be in the room with them any longer than you had to. These men might not have been cruel at the beginning of their lives, but any kindness that might have once lived within them was long gone. And judging by the way their lips puckered in disgust, Loki had undersold their hatred for humans. You didn’t know if Asgard had ever had a human queen before the war, but you’d been warned they weren’t keen on it now. You just hadn’t been ready for them to look at you with more disgust on their faces than most of the people in Odin’s realm did — that was, those who bothered to look at you at all.

“We didn’t realize you were back from your travels, prince Loki,” the Fey man in the middle sneered.

“I arrived yesterday, Tywin” Loki replied curtly, his face impassive as he ignored the jab, “my court was aware.”

You tried not to stare back and forth between the councilmen and Loki. You had assumed that the council and his court were interchangeable, but obviously if they had been, these men would have been aware of his return — his return from where though? And if he had arrived yesterday, then you’d gotten to Asgard not long after he had. Maybe if you’d gotten here sooner you wouldn’t be stuck in this mess…Regardless, you couldn’t help but wonder if your arrivals were a coincidence or if there was something more going on to this whole situation than just a fight for his crown? There had to be a million things he wasn’t telling you, but would any of those things affect your end of the bargain? There were too may questions you didn’t know the answers to and you had to keep your face neutral before your rising worry ruined your scheme and your chances of getting the Hand before it even started.

“And who is this human you’ve brought with you?” Tywin asked, never once giving you any of his attention. He spoke the word as if you were a shameful object Loki had brought with him to use to taunt the council rather than a living, breathing, conscious being.

Loki lolled his head to the side, shooting you a lazy look you took as a signal to answer the Fey’s questions.

You lifted your chin, staring them all down one by one, and spoke slowly, pronouncing each syllable clearly just to make sure they got it, “YN YLN.”

The man’s lip curled, but he didn’t get a chance to speak.

“She will be my queen,” Loki declared.

There was no hesitation or doubt in his voice. It didn’t matter that he needed their approval to take the throne or that they had clearly pointed out that the title no longer belonged to him, he was above these people. They answered to him. Even masked by the bored look on his face, the authority in his voice was so strong, you found yourself believing it. And judging by the frustration on their faces, they did too — even if it was begrudgingly.

“We’ll discuss the technical aspects later,” he decided, his tone suddenly flippant as if he hadn’t just commanded the whole room into silence, “tonight is not meant for business.

He cut through the middle of the crowd and led you to the banquet table at the back of the room, dismissing the rest of the council. The silence lingered and followed you to the table, but slowly, the chatter began again, taking on a life of its own. You let out a since once the music had started again and their gazes were no longer boring into your back. Loki let go of your hand and offered you drink.

You must have looked at the pale red liquid suspiciously because he said, “it’s safe for humans.”

You hated that he seemed to be able to read your expressions so easily.

You grabbed the flute form his hands, the liquid sloshing in the glass before you downed it in a few quick gulps. The taste was sharp and not overly sweet, and went down smoothly. Which meant you had to be careful. You were human. Although your abilities would inherently handle the liquor better than most humans, that was what you were at the moment. Human. One too many drinks and you might do something incredibly stupid.

“Don’t look too pleased to be here,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. You thought it looked like he wanted to tear his hair out, but the look flashed by so quickly you were pretty sure you’d imagined it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. The arrogance on his made you sure that you had.

He handed you another drink, “try not to spill this one.”

“I hate this place,” you whispered.

“Mingle,” he whispered back, “then you can leave.”

You blew him a kiss and stomped off. It was a pitiful attempt at love and you knew it. You needed to do a better job at pretending to be his queen, knowing that if you didn’t, you would never forgive yourself. But of course, the things you knew and the things you did rarely matched up. It was the reason you were a human stuck in this stupid mess in the first place.

Loki stared at you from across the room but didn’t approach. You tried to keep from rubbing your temples. You’d been in Asgard less than a day and you were already exhausted. You chalked it up to stress, not wanting to admit to yourself what the real was and rolled your shoulders back. You smiled at a passing Fey woman. She smiled back. There. That wasn’t so bad. You had a job to do. Loki wanted convincing? You were going to make it so damned convincing he was going to let you spend the whole day sleeping in tomorrow. You tried not to grind your teeth at the thought that you still needed someone to ‘let you’ do whatever you wanted. You down your drink, set it on the table and grabbed two more from a passing waiter. Once you got this done, you wouldn’t need anyone to let you do anything. You were going to be free again. Nat was going to be free. You could this. You spotted Loki across the room and off you went. You could do this.

Only you didn’t get far. A member of the council stopped you with a hand clamped around your arm. You flinched at the vice-grip. If the Fey man noticed your discomfort, it didn’t bother him enough to let go.

“You’re quite pretty for a human,” he leered, drawing you closer.

He was the youngest of the council members by far, looking about Loki’s age. His sand coloured hair was cut short and styled in a way that showcased his pointed ears and accentuated his ocean blue eyes. He was tall and square, holding himself like a warrior. You didn’t doubt he was one. Nothing about him was kind. Everything was rough looking. The humans had a myth that the other races were all carved from stone by the gods and brought to life through their immortal breath, but this Fey looked like they’d forgotten to polish him off, the lines around his eyes harsh and unfeeling.

It took all of your restraint not to shove him off, only the thought of Nat fending off jerks like this in Flaik keeping your anger in check. You were trained for this. That training might have been buried deep beneath hundreds of years of memories but it was there and it was time you dug it back up and used it.

You patted his arm, your cheeks forced into a smile, “interesting that a man such as yourself would say that.”

HIs lip curled in disgust as if he was insulted you hadn’t swooned over his pathetic excuse of an insult, “why’s that?”

“Because I thought the Fey were supposed to have perfect eyesight. Quite pretty doesn’t cut it for your future queen” you ripped your arm out of his grasp and strode off to where you’d last seen Loki, but he wasn’t there.

Great. Of course he’d left you to fend off these vultures yourself. One day you were going to punch him and you weren’t going to be sorry about it.

“Nicely done,” Loki whispered, standing so close you were practically touching.

You almost jumped out of your skin. You had no clue where he’d come from.

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped, shoving one of the two glasses at him,  “I don’t need it.”

He peered down at you, but didn’t try and defend himself, “understandable, but you may want my advice. If you can avoid Helio, do. He might be the youngest on the council but that doesn’t mean he’s any better than the rest of them.”

You snorted, “nice court you’ve got here, prince.”

“It’s a lifetime position, remember?” he said, nodding politely to the guests as you walked along the fringes of the party.

You knew he’d told you that before, but this time you deflated, feeling like you’d agreed to a situation that kept getting far more hopeless that you’d realized. He stopped and gave you a little shrug like he knew exactly how you were feeling. For once, there was nothing condescending in his expression and he genuinely seemed to understand. Maybe he did. He needed this to work too. But then again, maybe he didn’t. He was only loosing a title and not the person he loved most in this world.

He extended his hand. You tried to control the jittery feeling that was spreading through your limbs and through your body, making your breaths more and more shallow. Instead, you tried to focus on the fact that what you were doing wasn’t impossible. Improbable, yes, but not impossible. It would only become impossible if you didn’t take his hand and work with him. You didn’t have to like him. Seven hells, you didn’t even have to trust him. All you had to do was stop letting every little thing discourage you and do this with both feet in. You’d find a way to get the hand. You and Nat had gotten through worse. This time would’t be different. It couldn’t be.

You took his arm instead and stood a little closer for effect. The gesture put a little smile on his face. It was the perfect look to convince the council he was besotted and you knew you should do the same. Remembering the lessons from your childhood, you smoothed out the tension you knew must be on your face and told yourself that you hadn’t messed anything up yet. You were human in a Fey’s realm. It was only natural to be a little tense. You could play the part. You could lie just as well as he could.

“What’s the goal tonight?” you asked, voice low so that you wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention from the fey stealing glances at you.

His face was pleasant when he said, “I just need you to be seen.”

“With you?” you tried to clarify, a little put off by the way his tone didn’t match the look on his face.

“No. Just seen,” he brushed back your hair, leaning in so close that you shivered when his lips brushed against your ear, “I don’t trust any of them,” he whispered, “and neither should you.”

You wanted him to say more, but you understood enough to know that making sure you were seen by all the council was a failsafe to make sure nothing happened to you. If they all knew who you were and what you looked like, none of them could claim ignorance if you were kicked out of the palace — or worse. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Yesterday he had made your deal seem like a piece of cake. Now you were sure he’d lied. Only the worry that your life might be on the line kept you from lashing out in anger.

“If I die, you don’t get to be king,” you reminded him through clenched teeth.

Loki backed off slowly, his movements measured and controlled, “if you died, I couldn’t imagine ever being sane enough to properly rule a kingdom.”

His words were a subtle reminder that despite your distance and the noise in the room, everyone here had Fey hearing and could listen in if they really wanted to — and they probably did. You mentally slapped yourself. You were going to have to start thinking before you spoke.

“Your words are too sweet,” you said, shooting him a pointed look, “but you’re far too strong to lose your sanity over  a human, especially that our love will live on for far long than I will.”

He seemed to realize his mistake and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You narrowed your eyes at him and he shrugged with a little smirk.

“It is your everlasting love that will make me the best king I could possibly be,” he looked like he was enjoying himself far too much and you waited warily for his next words, “after all, sweetheart, I know you’d scale any building for me.”

You placed your hand on your heart for effect. It was better than punching his arm.

“And yet your love is so irresistible, it’s almost as if I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” you shot back.

He grinned.

“Aren’t you two sweet,” a male voice sneered.

You almost groaned. This had to be another councilman. Loki smirked and mouthed tell it to your face before he turned so that you were facing a man who resembled a boulder both in shape and wit. You were glad it wasn’t Helio again, but this one didn’t seem much better. Still, you managed somewhat a decent smile.

He didn’t wait for either of you to speak before continuing.

“I’d heard a rumour a few moons ago that we were going to have two kings instead of a king and a queen rule Asgard this time. But I don’t know where such a rumour could have come from, especially that you two have known each other for…” he was waiting for an answer, looking between you with a smug grin. You doubted he could have made it more obvious that he was hoping to catch you in a lie because these people didn’t believe you were in love. Whether that was because you were human or because you weren’t the right sex, you were no longer sure. You snuggled even closer to Loki and looked up at him with an expression on your face that you hoped showed nothing other than love.

Loki licked his lips, teeth scraping against his lower lip as he tried to hold back laughter. Your gaze inadvertently dropped to his mouth for too long before you looked back up into his bright eyes. Judging by the strange expression on his face, you weren’t doing a very good job at conveying love, which only made it harder not to scowl.

“Every day I learn something new about her,” Loki crooned, “it feels like we keep meeting over and over…like we just met yesterday.”

There was a victorious little glint in his eyes that you hoped the councilman interpreted as love. All you saw was a challenge to keep up.

You widened your grin, partly afraid it might look a little crazy but going with it anyways, “and yet, at the same time it feels like we’ve known each other for an eternity. I can’t remember what it was like not knowing him.”

You both turned back to face the Fey man and he narrowed his eyes, trying to see beneath the act. You tried to snuggle in a little closer, but with Loki’s hands in his pockets, there wasn’t much more you could do to get closer. He seemed to realize that in the way he stiffened slightly, but neither of you moved, afraid too much fidgeting would make the councilman see something he wouldn’t have otherwise found.

You were afraid the Fey could hear your heart pounding and you waited for him to say something. Finally, it was Loki who spoke instead.

“YN, I would like you to meet councilman Lucius Bonnefort. Lucius, meet your future queen.”  

Lucius grit his teeth. He hadn’t been given a command, but the order from his king was clear. He was to treat you with the respect of any other Fey here. Loki raised a brow, waiting. It looked like Lucius might turn his teeth to dust he was gritting them so hard.

“Pleasure,” was all he muttered before sulking off.

You looked up at Loki and found a frigid expression on his face. His council may have been challenging him but at least they still respected him. The harsh lines on Loki’s face didn’t soften. Maybe it wasn’t respect. Maybe it was fear. You’d gotten a glimpse of his power last night that you didn’t want to relive. Maybe they knew better than to cross their king.

You strolled and mingled with some of the other party guests, but none of the other council members came to see you. It was clear they wanted nothing to do with the two of you, and although Lucius seemed to have bought your answer, you weren’t convinced any of them bought your act. It wasn’t like they wanted to, so why would they? The two of you standing close together wasn’t going to change any of that.

You stopped yourself from rubbing your eyes, trying not to let show how discouraged you were becoming. You’d never been in love. You’d never even had a serious relationship or anything that lasted longer than a couple nights. If this was going to work, you had to think. You couldn’t rely on your own experiences to get you through this. You needed something big. Something that would convince them, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were at least a real couple.

You glanced around the room, looking at all the people who refused to make eye contact with you. As much as you hated it, you needed them to look at you. And you needed to make sure that you did something big when they did. An idea began to take shape in your mind. You didn’t like it, but you were pretty sure it would work.

“Mind if I break one of our rules?” you whispered as softly as you could, catching Loki’s attention.

He leaned back, an amused look on his face. The dip of his head was barely visible but enough to give you the go ahead. You took the drink from his hand and grabbed a knife off the table behind him. Loki observed every movement curiously, no longer seeming quite so bored with the event. You gently tapped the knife against the glass, the hollow ringing echoing throughout the room. It wasn’t hard to get everyone’s attention when more than half of them had been stealing glances at you all evening. You placed the knife gently on the table and you free hand fluttered up instinctively to the pendent resting under your shirt. The weight of it was a strangely comforting reminder that what you were about to do was for the right reasons.

“Hello everyone,” you cleared your throat, hating the way your voice trembled, “I know a toast is a bit of a human tradition, but I was hoping, since I intend to be your queen in a few short moons, that I could say hello with a little tradition of my own. I just wanted to say what a pleasure it has been meeting all of you and I hope to get to know you better in the future. I love Loki more than any of you can imagine, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life here!”

The speech was premature and overconfident at best, but it wasn’t only a statement to prove that you be queen, it was also a message to Loki. You might have gotten caught off guard when you’d broken into the palace, but you were going to walk away with the Hand. You could play these games better than anyone here. You had no choice to, and you had the skills to prove it.

The tentative clapping wasn’t even done when you turned around, placed your drink on the table, grabbed Loki by the face and pulled him in for a kiss. He stiffened under your touch, lips frozen in place. You panicked. What did you just do? You were about to pull away and try to come up with a credible excuse for what had just happened when finally, his hands slipped around your waist and he pulled you closer, kissing you back. You melted into his touch. His lips were soft and gentle, and he let you lead the kiss until you pulled away slowly. You stared into his eyes, not quite sure that you’d actually done that. Loki didn’t say anything, his body oddly stiff. You couldn’t read his expression so you stepped back, his hands lingering a little longer before he let go.  Unnerved by this strange version of Loki, you bopped him on the nose with the tip of your finger, surprising yourself with the gesture. His eyes narrowed but you only grinned, taking your little victories where you could get them.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening!” you announced, reaching around him for you glass and raising it.

You were met with a few wide eyes and bewildered looks, but thankfully, everyone raised their glasses and took a sip. You nodded and smiled, meeting a few eyes before turning back to face Loki. His courtly smile masked whatever he was feeling, and you had no idea whether he was furious or not. He extended an arm. You took it but you didn’t know what to think.

This time, as you walked through the party, you got a few smiles and a few nice to meet yous. You shot a winning smile to a fey man as you passed. Not sure what to do with it, he immediately looked away, flustered. The reaction eased some of the pressure on your chest, but you knew the party was far from over. And judging by the way Loki was deathly silent, you were also going to have to contend with him later. He pulled you into a dark alcove at the far end of the banquet hall, the sounds of the party falling away. Apparently he thought sooner was better than later.

“So that’s how we’re doing this?” he demanded.

You had to crane your neck to look up at him you were so close, your chests practically touching. His eyes were emeralds on fire, and with the ghost of that fake smile still on his lips, the effect was terrifying. Despite the number of the drinks you’d downed, you were aware enough to be wary of it.

“I warned you first,” you blurted out. Hating how defensive you sounded, you took a deep, steadying breath but the way it closed the distance between you did nothing to calm your nerves. If anything, it was almost as if your magics were creating an electric current between your bodies. You didn’t know if he could feel it so you ignored it, “I made the right call. Look at them.”

He learned over you to see around the corner, looking at the crowd who was still talking about your little toast. He smelled like mint and summer nights and you tried not to breathe in the pleasant scent.

He settled back into the alcove and raised a brow, “all for the greater good, right sweetheart?”

The words were spoken like a threat rather than an observation, dangerous and cunning. You swallowed, wondering what you’d just gotten yourself into. Actually, you knew what you’d gotten yourself into and you were doing a damned good job of it. If he thought he could intimidate you out of doing your job and securing the Hand then he was very well mistaken.

You jut your chin up, your faces inches away now, “exactly. Maybe you should keep up Prince Loki.”

He chuckled, his breath tickling your cheek. You mimicked his arrogant brow lift, waning for an answer. He said nothing, leaning in even closer. Your breath hitched and you wondered if he was going to kiss you just to spite you.

“If you’re going to make this a competition,” he whispered with a wolfish glint in his eyes, “then I’m willing to play, sweetheart.”

He pulled you out of the alcove before you had a chance to reply. You didn’t know if you’d just made things harder for yourself, but you’d definitely made them more interesting. Though you weren’t sure more interesting was what you needed.

The crowd parted for you as Loki cut across the room and you cursed your short legs for having so much trouble keeping up. He led you toward the only Fey here who actually looked like an old man. His sharp cheekbones and tight skin had gone soft and wrinkly, and the long hair cascading down past his shoulders was as white as his long beard, both of which resembled the frozen landscape of Niflheim. The fey looked thoughtfully between the two of you as you came to a stop in front of him, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“You two are certainly something,” the fey said.

“That’s love,” you gushed, taking the lead on the situation.

Loki placed a quick kiss to your temple before making the introductions. The fey was Eamon Loveless, the head councilman and the one who would have the final say on your relationship. For some reason, probably to get back at you, Loki had brought you to the most important person in the room. You straightened. You could do this.

“Prince Loki,” Eamon was looking at you when he spoke, “I must say, when you told us you’d found your future queen, I hadn’t been expecting Miss YLN. You hadn’t quite painted a clear picture.”

You weren’t sure what Eamon was accusing him of, but Loki didn’t look worried. With his hands still in his pockets as if he couldn’t be bothered to take them out, he gave a little shrug.

“I didn’t want to influence your opinion before meeting her,” Loki explained, “but I imagine you could only have been pleasantly surprised.”

Eamon smiled, “I’m glad you’ve found someone else who makes you happy.”

Loki’s arms tightened at his side, squishing your arm in between his. Any more and it would hurt. You tried not to look up at him in surprise. There had been someone else? Who? When? Immediately, Valkyrie flashed through your mind.

“YN is magnificent,” he grit out, obviously affected by the comment.

Suddenly, the two of you were too stiff. Too awkward. You tried for a fond smile. Eamon’s expression never changed so you weren’t sure if you’d achieved it or not. You felt the panic begin to rise. Where was the Loki who had lied so easily to Valkyrie? Where was the king who’d commanded the room? Where was the prick who’s taunted you seconds ago? The silence was dragging on and you had to fight the urge to fill it with useless babbling. Instead, you lifted Loki’s hand from his pocket and interlaced your hands, giving yourself time to think.

“He’s too kind,” you finally said, addressing Eamon, “it was his kindness that first attracted me to him.”

“And how did you meet?” he asked.

Your heart flipped in your chest. You thought you had come up with something clever to fill the silence but really you’d just dug yourselves into an even deeper hole. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Snapping it shut, you let out a sharp breath that you hoped he misconstrued for a laugh. If this was a competition, then both of you were failing miserably.

“Why don’t you tell the story?” you asked, looking up at Loki.

He looked down at you, eyes glazed over and you weren’t sure he even saw you. You dug your nails into his hand. Hard. The pain must have snapped him out of whatever thoughts he’d been sucked into because that smug little grin returned. You’d never thought you’d actually be glad to see it.

“It feels like it was yesterday,” his eyes were bright as if he found himself amusing, “I was in Midgard visiting King Earl and she was a maid.”

“So he thought,” you interrupted, doing your best not to glare at him. At least he was out of whatever that was, even if it meant he was back to annoying you, “I was actually a soldier in the king’s guard and I knocked Loki flat on his ass for his mistake.”

The fey’s eyes widened. Loki chuckled. He didn’t seemed bothered by your comment. If anything, it looked more like he was warming up to the idea of your little competition.

“That was only because I was stunned by her incredible beauty,” he explained.

“And my skill apparently.”

You thought he was going to offer another counterpoint, but instead he nodded, “it’s all true. Though I must say, normally we’re more evenly matched.”

Eamon nodded slowly, dark eyes taking in everything, “and what happened next?”

“I asked her to dinner,” Loki answered simply and you thought that was going to be that, but he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily, “but she said no.”

“No?” Eamon asked, surprised.

By now your little story had gathered a small crowd and everyone was looking at you expectantly. The human who’d turned down the future king of Asgard. You couldn’t glare at Loki, fearing you’d give something away, but you knew he was grinning, watching you squirm. You’d told hm to keep up. You should’ve expected that a king would play to win.

You shrugged, “I didn’t think we’d have anything in common. And I was busy.”

The last comment earned a few chuckled from the crowd and you lifted your free hand, palm up, as if to say what could I do about it.

Loki took over, “the next time I went back to Midgard, she realized that maybe she’d been too hasty to turn me down, and she asked me to dinner instead.”

“When someone looks this good, how are you supposed to say no,” you laughed, lifting onto your toes and kissing him on the cheek, “and he was so eager, it was adorable. He said yes immediately.”

He turned and stared at you as if you were the only person in the room. You were caught off guard by the intensity of it and you couldn’t look away. It was a dangerous game you were playing. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. You smirked.

“Eventually, we did go to dinner and got to know each other better,” he continued, turning to face the ever growing crowd, “turns out we had a lot more in common that she originally thought.”

The crowd laughed at his callback and you almost sighed with relief. The councilmen might not have bought the act yet, but at least the other nobles were beginning to seem convinced.

“It wasn’t love at first sight,” you murmured, knowing you didn’t have to speak loudly for them to hear, “but I think it’s something so much better than that,”

He tilted his head and looked at you with that half smirk and a glint in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you almost would have thought he was impressed. You grinned, hoping your smug look of victory came across as loving. You were good at this, and most importantly, now he knew it too. Just because he needed a queen, didn’t mean he couldn’t easily replace you if this wasn’t working out. You weren’t going to give him any reason to change his mind.

The councilman’s face was still silent and impassive. All you could hear was the heavy beat of your heart as you waited to see if he’d bought any of it.

A gentle smile softened Eamon’s expression and you almost squeed Loki’s hand with relief.

“You two seem to complement each other quite nicely,” Eamon said, “almost as if you were fated to meet.”

This time your smile was genuine. The orange moon was still far away, but at least you were headed in the right direction to get Nat out of Niflheim. Loki let go of your hand and wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. You tried not to be stiff, but it was hard when you were hyper aware of every place that your bodies connected. You’d never been affectionate, even with Nat, so you found yourself over analyzing your posture, wondering how credible you could really be. Loki on the other hand seemed completely at ease, fingers drawing little circles on your side.

“I’m positive you will like it here in Asgard, Miss YLN. Although I’m sure you must find our realm a little strange,” Eamon continued.

His words let you know you weren’t doing a very good job at masking your discomfort.

“I’m fine as long as Loki is here with me,” you tentatively rested your head on his shoulder. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“YN is fine no matter what,” Loki affirmed, “she’s the strongest person I know, fey and human alike.”

You wanted to scoff at such a lie, but it was cut short when you saw the admiration in everyone’s eyes, even the councilman. For some reason, Loki seemed to be able to sell love far better than you could and you looked up to see just what you were missing. His eyes were wide and filled with puppy-like innocence that didn’t at all suit the fey you’d met and spent time with. The crowd didn’t seem to agree. It was a good reminder of his skills as a liar and how little you could actually trust him.

“I must admit that I was worried when I saw that your future queen was human,” Eamon shot an apologetic smile your way, “but I must say that your confidence has inspired me, Prince Loki. I’m looking forward to seeing how both of you manage with your trials in the future.”

Loki tensed at your side, but you didn’t know why. Eamon’s words were a good thing. He wanted to see how you’d overcome obstacles in the future which meant that he wasn’t ready to kick you out of the palace just yet. That might have only made one council member, but you had to start somewhere.

“And we’ll do it with grace and dignity,” you beamed, your cheeks sore from all the fake smiling.

Eamon nodded and wished you a good rest of evening, and with that, the crowd seemed to disperse as well. You stepped out of Loki’s arms and walked off to the banquet table in search of food and a reason to stand facing the windows, desperate for a break in the whole act.

“I think that went well,” you murmured when you felt Loki walk up beside you.

“Not bad,” he agreed, “you’re almost as good at this as I am, sweetheart.”

You snorted, “better, prince. Better.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” he promised, “get ready. Here’s another councilman. Three down, two to go.”

You sighed and popped a small berry that looked like a grape into your mouth. You rolled back your shoulders.

“Ready.”

You both turned around at the same time, wide smiles on your faces.

“So that’s it then?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe to the banquet hall.

Your legs could barely keep you standing and you could feel the soft pulses of a headache coming on. The party was dwindling, but all of the council members were still mingling with the remaining guests. When you’d asked, Loki had said that he’d wanted to stay until they had all gone. All you wanted to do was eat a real meal and go to bed. If you could, you wanted to try and find the Hand first, but really, there was nothing you wanted more than food and sleep. But none of that mattered. You were stuck here.

“You look tired,” Loki remarked, but when you opened your eyes, he was scanning the crowd thoughtfully.

“Human,” you answered and hoped it was enough of an explanation that he wouldn’t press for the real reason.

“True,” he hummed, “I forget sometimes by the way you stare down the council as if you’re ready to fight them all at once. It’s not wonder none of the other guests were brave enough to approach.”

You were about to retort but realized he had a point. And you were too tired to say anything. You let your head fall back on to the wall and closed your eyes.

“I’ll work on it,” you muttered.

He didn’t say anything. Only when you opened your eyes a few moments later thinking maybe he’d left you standing alone did he say, “why don’t we head out?”

You pushed off the doorway, “yes.”

He chuckled and offered you an arm, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this enthusiastic.”

“Well, you’ve never threatened me with a good time before,” you took his arm, surprised by how familiar the gesture had already become.

“And what do you think I’m offering you now?” he asked.

“A meal and a bed, hopefully.”

He raised a brow.

You smacked his arm, “not yours.”

“So yours then,” he smirked.

You smacked him again or good measure.

“We’re not saying goodbye?” you asked when you noticed you were headed away from the party.

“We can always turn back.”

You pulled him along, “don’t you dare.”

Loki slowed his stride and let YN set the pace. She looked exhausted and he felt bad for not having realized sooner the extent of what he’d asked of her. He should have warned her earlier about the councilmen or at least given her more information about what she was going to expect but he’d been too afraid she’d decide the Hand wasn’t worth it and leave him stranded. And despite all that, she’d done amazing in there. She’d even made a party with the council bearable, which was something he didn’t think he’d ever say. It didn’t matter that she’d made her stance on the whole situation very clear by glaring at him every chance she got, the crowd seemed to love her. Which was far more than he could saw of himself. As soon as Eamon had mentioned Cortese he’d frozen up, lost in memories. The only reason no one had questioned his behaviour was because YN had brought him back fast enough that it wasn’t too suspicious and the fact that he was king. Or used to be. If he didn’t start acting like he was in love, all the power in the world wouldn’t make him king of Asgard again. Hela had made sure of that.

Despite having a million other things to do tonight, he wanted nothing other than an early night and a peaceful sleep. But with Hela whispering in the council’s ear day and night, along with the imminent war Gamora had foreseen, Loki hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in moons.

He looked over at YN who’d been quiet since they’d left the hall. She’d done more than enough tonight. He didn’t have to drag her with him.

“YN?”

“Hmm?”

When he looked down at her, he realized her eyes were closed and that she was letting him guide her. Loki was only surprised for a moment before he remembered always seeing her with a glass in her hands. Obviously what she was feeling wasn’t trust.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

Her brows furrowed but her eyes still didn’t open, “when?”

“Right now.”

That got her attention.

“Eat and sleep,” she replied without thought.

She didn’t say it aloud, but Loki knew she also wanted to be alone. He could see it on her face and the way she’d let out a small sigh when they’d first walked into the silent hallway. He understood the need more than she could imagine.

“I can have dinner sent up to your room…or we can do something else if you prefer?” he added quickly when her face pinched into a strange expression he couldn’t read.

“No,” she blurted out and then stated more calmly, the first option’s fine. Are you joining?”

He shook his head, “only if you’d like me too.”

She seemed to hesitate, looking at the walls as if they physically had ears.

He saved her from having to find a clever way to turn him down, “actually, I have things to take care of tonight and I have to return to the banquet hall. Do you know the way back to your room?”

She nodded so quickly Loki almost laughed. She was a terrible liar. He didn’t know where the performance in the council room had come from, but he had no doubts she was lying to him now. The prospect of being on her own seemed to have rejuvenated her. She straightened, cricking her neck from side to side and scratching over her shoulder. She obviously wanted to take a look around — without him around of course.

“Explore or don’t,” he said, truly meaning it, “the council knows who you are now, so no one will kick you out of the palace if they see you snooping around.”

“Who says I’ll be snooping?” she yawned for effect, “I was planning on getting an early night.”

This time he couldn’t help but laugh, “sure. Goodnight YN. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Her face fell.

“Don’t worry, it’s only breakfast,” he reassured her, omitting the fact that they had a meeting after breakfast. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was no secret that she didn’t trust him. He didn’t blame her. He was lying and he didn’t trust her either.

“Only with you?” she clarified.

“Only with me,” he echoed.

That seemed to appease her and she was about to leave when something occurred to him. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She paused, “only if I can ask you one.”

“Fair enough,” he amended, “would you spar with me some time?”

Loki had been surprised when she’d said that she was a soldier and he was more than a little curious to know how many of her lies had been based in truth. She’d shut down all his earlier attempts at getting to know her better and he was certain she’d do her best to keep it that way. So he figured he would have to be more clever about it.

He was surprised, and pleased, when she nodded.

“I would like that.”

“Good,” he murmured, afraid that if he said anything else she might change her mind, “your turn.”

“What Lucius said about…” she didn’t finished her sentence but she didn’t have to. He knew what she was talking about.

“He likes to speak out of turn,” Loki paused, choosing his words carefully. There was no one else in the hallway, but this was information that his future queen should have already known, “some of the council members haven’t always been supportive of the fact that there was an equal chance that there could have been two kings on the throne or a king and a queen. Even if fate decided to bring you into my life, those council members still seem bitter about my personal preferences..

She nodded slowly, taking the information in. There wasn’t much other than a thoughtful expression on her face and Loki was relieved. This whole thing would have been finished if she had reacted any other way.

“Has there ever been two kings or two queens in Asgard?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he smirked, “but love is love. And in Asgard, that’s the only requirement. There’s nothing they could say or do about it.”

Her face softened and she took his hand. The gesture surprised him, even more so when she gave it a little squeeze, “as it should be. Goodnight prince.”

And then she walked off in the wrong direction.

When he pointed that out, she looked back over her shoulder, an innocent smile on her face that didn’t match the mischief in her eyes, “just taking a little detour, don’t worry about it.”

He was probably going to worry about it later, but he watched her walk away. He’d promised himself that he’d give her as much freedom as was safe for her and his realm. There was no way she’d find the Hand on her own, so he had to trust that she wasn’t really and threat and that she’d be safe after what he was about to do.

When he couldn’t hear her steps anymore, he turned back to the council room. No one reacted when he walked in.

Hela had made her move less than a moon ago, but the council had taken that opportunity whole-heartedly to remind him that he was no longer king. He was only a prince temporarily in charge of the realm, but he wasn’t going to lose his position. He refused to let his people fall into Hela’s hands. Loki had never wanted the crown, but now that he’d had it, he was going to make damn well sure that he kept it. His brother had asked for that much.

“Listen closely.”

Loki didn’t need to shout. His voice carried throughout the room, his tone reminding them that he had once been their king. And with reason. He was far more powerful than everyone in this room, even some of them combined.

“No one touches YN,” he warned, his words slow and deliberate. He found every set of eyes in the room, making sure they all felt seen, “she will be your future queen. There is no doubt about it in my mind. And she might not have a long lifespan, but I have a long memory. You will treat her with the same respect as you did my mother. You’ve been warned.”

He didn’t give them a chance to answer and walked back out of the room. Loki didn’t think any of them would go outright and kill her, but he knew enough of them were power hungry bigots to do something stupid. Thankfully, the council was still wary of him even if he wasn’t their king any more. He could rest easier knowing they’d been warned and his own court was keeping an eye on YN most of the time. It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but he wasn’t going to lock her up or stop her from roaming the palace, even if it did cost him his title.  

He strode through the palace, not sure where he was heading and not sure what to do with himself. His whole body felt two sizes too small and he couldn’t shake the feeling. There were so many other things he had to do, but he couldn’t make himself decide on one. Only the thought of his bead was appealing, and even then, he was too restless to really consider it.

“I saw your queen,” Nebula said, falling into step beside him.

She was still dressed in her commanders uniform, dirt smudged over her eyebrow. She’d been sparring with the soldiers again. Not that he was surprised. She been so grumpy this morning that he pitied his army; though at least he knew they’d be prepared to face anything. There were very few things that were more terrifying than his commander when she was angry.

“Where was she?” he asked.

Nebula’s voice was clipped, her mood no better than it was this morning, “roaming the halls, looking incredibly suspicious.”

Loki threw up a magical sound bubble that would contain their voices. Knowing how suspicious it looked, he didn’t like to do it often, even if it was now the second time he’d done it today, but he knew she wasn’t about to let this go. Feeling the magic, she waited until it snapped into place.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said with a laugh, knowing that just because they couldn’t be heard didn’t mean they couldn’t be seen.

Nebula crossed her arms, keeping up with his long strides, “she wants the Hand, Loki.”

He waved away her worry, “it’s safe.”

“What makes you think she won’t get it?”

He shot her a look. They both knew who was guarding it. There was no way anyone was getting it — human or otherwise. His answer didn’t seem to satisfy her.

“Who says she’s not a spy?” she continued, her voice rising with irritation, “who says she’s not here for the book to give it to Hela? Who says we even have the right woman?”

Loki tried not to pinch the bridge of his nose. Nebula was right to be concerned; there was a reason he’d appointed her as commander. Still, he found himself saying with more confidence than he felt, “I wanted to know how to prevent Hela from winning over the crown and it gave me her name. She has to be the future queen.”

“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe we need to kill her and not work with her?” Nebula demanded.

The words were harsh, but valid. Yet Loki knew Nebula wouldn’t actually go through with it. As far as they knew, YN was innocent, despite wanting the Hand. And he was sure she was an ally, not an enemy. He couldn’t explain why he was so certain, but he’d decided it the moment he’d met her. However, it wasn’t like he could explain that to Nebula. She would need something far more concrete than a gut feeling.

“You’re being rash,” she continued.

He realized she was steering them toward the kitchen and his stomach growled in anticipation. He wasn’t sure how she did it, or if she was even aware she was doing it, but Nebula had a way of knowing what was best for their court, even if her harsh demeanour didn’t always make it very evident.

“Says the woman who wants to kill the future queen,” he countered.

“She wouldn’t be the future queen if you had thought things through,” she growled, stopping him a hand to his chest, “we’re walking a thing line here, Loki.”

“I know that! But I needed to present my queen today and she showed up just in time. Don’t you think there’s something to that?” Loki’s voice was rising and his control was slipping. The bubble around them almost dropped in the burst of emotion.

She poked him in the chest, but she’d lost all bite at his outburst. They were both tired and running through this blind. Arguing wouldn’t help any of them see things clearer.

“We had a backup plan,” she murmured.

“You would have been miserable as queen,” he shot her a smile, “especially that you would have to admit that you find me incredibly attractive.”

She punched him on the arm, “I’m a good liar.”

“Very true,” he laughed, “but this is the best option, Nebula. Trust me.” Loki wasn’t sure that he trusted himself, but he had to believe he was doing the right thing. And if he wasn’t, at least he knew his court was there to help with his mistakes — and to make sure he never forgot them, “and I’ll stay on my guard with YN.”

She sighed reluctantly, but finally looked convinced, “okay.”

“Okay,” he changed the subject, “what have the citizens been saying?”

“They’ll fight if it comes to war again. I tried to reassure them that nothing was wrong and that we were just gathering information, but they know something’s coming. They can feel it,” Nebula shrugged, “Hela’s arrival’s made them all uneasy.”

He nodded slowly and sighed, “better they’re wary than oblivious.”

“They’d better be wary,” Nebula said with a printed look, “you have a human for a future queen and she was stupid enough to agree to the trials. You’d better hope you were right about what that thing meant when it gave you the word YN.”

Loki could only nod and let the magic bubble drop. He was about to follow her into the kitchen when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. The hallway was empty, but he could have sworn he’d seen something. He listened closely, waiting to see if whoever it was might give themselves away.

“Are you coming?” Nebula called from the kitchen.

He heard the banging of pots and decided he’d better go inside before she decided to start cooking and accidentally set the palace on fire. With one last look around, he walked into the kitchen.

[evebrennan]

How To Walk 101

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Between the bar and Milo’s Apartment PARTIES: @wickedmilo & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Caoimhe teaches Milo how to walk in 3/4s time, Milo is grumpy but maybe he doesn’t mind the company. CONTENT: Alcohol, mentions of drug abuse, mention of blood

Milo was more than used to being intoxicated. In fact, he probably spent more time with alcohol in his system than he did without alcohol in his system. But given his new situation, he could no longer pass out in a gutter and wander home in the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately for him, the inevitable appearance of the sun had put a schedule on his fun. It definitely wasn’t the end of the world, not when he could return to a comfortable apartment, and a roommate who usually had a cup of blood waiting for him. But growing used to watching the time wasn’t something he had quite managed just yet. It was why, as he made his way back from the bathrooms, cuffing at his nose to erase any evidence of what he had just been doing inside the stalls, he glanced at his phone screen, surprised to discover the sun was due to rise in an hour. Sighing quietly to himself, leaning heavily against the wall, he took a moment to watch the crowd surrounding him. He knew some of the faces, but so many of them were a blur. People he had probably crossed paths with more than once and forgotten by the time his hangover hit. He missed being as carefree as they were. He missed not knowing that vampires, and werewolves lurked on every street corner. That his childhood best friend was a cold hearted killer, ready to dust him the moment she was given the chance.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to stay where he was forever, not technically at least, he pushed away from the wall and began to weave through the people on the dancefloor, making his way towards the exit. He wasn’t sad to be leaving. If he was being honest, the lights, and loud music were beginning to make his head ache, and at least he could smoke on the walk home. But it took effort. Effort he already didn’t want to expend. Not realising, as he crossed the threshold, emerging out onto the street, that he was in plain sight of everybody lining the sidewalk, he stumbled over his own feet and caught himself against the door jam. Maybe he was more drunk than he gave himself credit for. “Shit…” He muttered quietly, shaking his head in an effort to regain his balance. When he was finally ready, he continued on his journey, unaware of the woman now chasing after him.

It was almost too crowded. Caoimhe pushed through bodies that pushed back, eyes glazed; for once the noise was just noise. There was nothing rhythmic behind it, the jukebox lost under the din of voices and shouts. Alcohol made humans sloppy. Their fingers fumbled and their voices slurred, and Caoimhe never minded chaos, but there was a line between fun and messy. Enough people made the hair on the back of her neck stand up (but then, was that just White Crest), and the air felt heavy. There was nothing there for her save a cocktail and a passably amusing bartender. White Crest boasted enough bars, she was fairly certain she could get away with crossing this one off her list.

Her path out was cleared by someone else, someone who stumbled out the front door, who braced himself against the wall and had to shake his head clear before moving forward. There was no shortage of drunken strangers stumbling around outside of the bar, but most were finding themselves a ride home, or staggering away on the arm of a more-stable friend. This one left alone. Caoimhe hesitated a moment; of course she would need to go in the complete opposite direction. She thought of her couch and her books and the radio turned just loud enough to hear and all the boxes she had left to unpack and–

And she turned the other way and followed the drunken stranger instead. He’d managed just far enough she had to jog, a surprising feat for someone she’d assumed was having a hard time walking only moments before. “It’s one foot in front of the other.” She grinned as she caught up, “I know it can be hard to remember after you’ve had a few, thought I’d help out. Just left, then right. I believe in you.”

Already in the process of pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, Milo was too preoccupied to notice the woman until she spoke to him. Glancing up at her, he did nothing to hide how surprised he was by the sudden company. She seemed a little out of breath, as though she had actively run to catch up with him, though he couldn’t imagine why he was ever worth that amount of energy. “What?” He asked, taking a moment too long to register her comment. “Oh, right. Fuck you.” He muttered, amusement lacing his tone.  He couldn’t stop a quiet laugh from escaping him. The situation felt so ridiculous. He wasn’t exactly a child, he didn’t need taking care of. “I appreciate the concern but I’m fine.” He insisted, sparking up and taking a long drag of smoke before turning to face her properly. What kind of person did this? Chased after people leaving bars and clubs to make sure they were okay? He wasn’t sure whether he found it sweet, or patronising. He figured only time would help him decide. “And what if I want to put the right foot first?” He asked pointedly. “Are you gonna tell me I’m doing it wrong?”

Caoimhe thought about vices: alcohol, cigarettes lit just before dawn, music. She wondered how much of it was habit. He certainly looked like it was natural, like the easy way he cursed and laughed all in the same breath, relieving a tension she hadn’t even been aware was there in the first place. He could have easily meant it. She’d been half-prepared for an argument, one she’d win even if she had to make sure he made it home at a distance. As it was, his beratement was tinged with amusement, and Caoimhe found herself smiling instead.

“Well, you would be wrong. Everyone knows it’s left first, even a Waltz starts with the left.” She mimed a quick Waltz before giving up. There were some things from her childhood that stuck. Her family had never been the type to frequent ballrooms or concert halls, preferring quick-time beats and the kind of chaos that only ever came on late fall evenings, laughter dancing through the trees off Beara way. Formality was something she’d picked up later. She couldn’t think about dancing in rough circles with people who might’ve been friends; she couldn’t think about leaving. “All judgement withheld, though, just let me help you home. You uh, you seemed a little rough back there.”

Milo watched as the woman smiled at him, clearly relieved to find he was in a decent mood, and not about to aggressively protest her company. She had a nice smile, he thought. Something about her was welcoming. “I’m not waltzing though, I’m walking.” He countered, exhaling a breath of smoke, careful to direct it away from her as she demonstrated the dance. He couldn’t help smiling too, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to stop. “You done?” He asked finally, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. If she thought he seemed a little rough because he had stumbled in a doorway, she had no idea what rough actually was. “Believe me, however bad you think I am now, I’ve been a thousand times worse.” He assured her. “And however worried you are about my safety, or whatever… you don’t know the shit I’ve been through. And I survived, so...” Kind of survived. “I think I can handle walking home alone.”

His words weren’t slurred, but they fell from his lips with an easy, almost clumsy enunciation. One you only ever adopted when you were under the influence, or incredibly tired. And much like his pronunciation, his judgement was taking a fast dip in quality. If it were any other night, or if she were any other person, he might be pushing her away by now. Angry that she was assuming he couldn’t protect himself. that he was incapable of avoiding trouble. As it was, he didn’t see the harm in letting her stay. It might actually be nice, having somebody to talk to. “I’m Milo.” He introduced himself after a few beats of silence had passed between them, faltering as he struggled to walk in a straight line, and rebounded awkwardly off of a brick wall to his left. Narrowing his eyes, already anticipating a comment from his new friend, he hurried to catch her gaze. “You didn’t see that.”

Caoimhe resisted the urge to reach out and steady him, tucking her hands firmly into her pockets. There was some pride mixed in there. He hadn’t chased her off quite yet, but his confidence brokered no argument, and she wasn’t going to try. He could bounce off as many walls as he wanted, and she’d turn a blind eye to each, as long as he made it safely home by the end of the night.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t amusing, the way his eyes darted up to meet hers, like he knew she’d say something. And she would. She bit back a grin and swallowed a laugh, but she didn’t have that good of a poker face. The corners of her lips twitched up and she huffed out a breath. So defensive for someone who couldn’t seem to figure out the left then right bit. Caoimhe thought she might actually enjoy this random, drunk stranger. “Didn’t see what?” She gave him the benefit of the doubt, looking away and taking pointed steps forward, sure to match whatever pace he managed to set.

“Milo.” She tried the name out. It fit, somehow, with the brick and the cigarette smoke. “For the record, Milo, you’re stumbling because you’re being stubborn about which foot goes first.” Because it couldn’t possibly be the alcohol. He’d told her he’d been through worse (and she believed him; there had to be some history behind someone who’d stumble home from the bar alone, who’d probably been there alone drinking who knows how much for who knows how long).

“And I’m Caoimhe, by the way.” She wondered if that fit. “I’m sure you’ve been through some shit, but maybe tonight you don’t have to go through anything because you properly used the buddy system.”

Milo grinned, unable to help himself, both surprised and endeared by the woman’s response. “Good.” He said decisively, tapping ash as he spoke. He watched it fall to the floor, careful not to get too distracted by it lest he stumble again. Only looking back up at his company as she echoed his name, he realised it was weird, hearing a stranger say it. More often than not he barely registered the sound. His name was his name, he heard it far too often to really think about it, the phonetics, the way it fell from people’s lips. But now, he heard it as if hearing it for the first time, and found himself wondering whether it suited him. “Wow,” he deadpanned, his smile giving away how amused he really was. “You’re hilarious. Maybe I’m stumbling because you made me feel self conscious and now I’m putting the left foot first… or the right foot? Whichever one it was. It’s never good, asking somebody to change a fundamental aspect of who they are.” He teased, feigning sincerity.

“Caoimhe?” It was his turn to repeat her name, as he committed it to his memory. Or tried to, at the very least. When he had been drinking there was no guarantee information would stay with him, but that didn’t stop him from making the occasional effort. “As much as I appreciate this ‘buddy system’ I really don’t think you’d be able to protect me from some of the shit this town likes to throw at people.” It was true, perhaps he was being more honest than was smart, but he didn’t see any reason to lie. And it led him to a question, one that felt like a sudden, genuine concern. “Hey, if you’re walking me home, who’s walking you home?”  

“Don’t be self-conscious, be self-confident.” Caoimhe could barely manage it without descending into laughter, her words choking off at the end. It was something she could likely find on a motivational poster in some high school somewhere. Luckily, Milo seemed like the tough on the outside, adequate sense of humor on the inside type. “There are much bigger hills to define yourself by than what foot you put first. Like whether or not you like pickles, or if you had a two-thousand-six emo phase. Maybe I’m not just helping you walk home, Milo. Maybe I’m helping you be a better person.”

She spun to walk backwards in front of him, a feat made easy by the pace. He looked like the type who had a two-thousand-six emo phase. With the cigarette smoke clouding out beside him and the way his eyes seemed to focus on his feet (though, perhaps that was her fault). She wondered again what had him in a bar until the sun was threatening to peek over the horizon; she wondered why he was stumbling home alone. He’d accepted her help easily enough, rolled with the twists and turns of the conversation even if she looked so completely random waltzing with no one only moments before. He made good company.

And he was concerned. It seemed genuine, and her smile shifted from light and joking to something a little softer in return. “Unlike some, I know which foot goes first. And–”

And she could defend herself. And there was more to her than just a woman making her way home from the bar. Humans could be cruel, sometimes. She so often saw the best in them, but she wasn’t blind. Caoimhe had learned where her defenses lay: not in her hands or her strength, but rather in the way she spun words, and the way she pulled from them with a simple touch. “I’m stronger than I look. I’ll find my way home again.”

“All of my problems have been solved. However can I repay you?” Milo deadpanned, secretly enjoying the way Caoimhe laughed at her own joke. “I like pickles.” He added, realising after he said the words that they probably were no longer true. It was the first time he had found himself genuinely missing human food. A burger with pickles sounded perfect right about now. He was never going to have that satisfaction again. He craved a different satisfaction, one completely unrelated to greasy diner food. “And I was too busy for an emo phase. Honestly, I don’t think I could have pulled it off.” He had never been the type to put much thought into his clothing. If he liked it, he bought it. And if the colours and styles didn’t seem to horrifically clash then he was more than content to throw on an outfit and forget about what he was wearing. He knew just by watching people in high school that fashion could be taken very seriously, he just didn’t have that kind of energy to expend. “So you assume I need help to become a better person?” He asked, narrowing his eyes in mock offense. “You’re assuming I need to become a better person in general?”

Taking a long, final drag of smoke before dropping his cigarette to the floor, he raised his eyebrows as his company decided to walk backwards. He couldn’t decide whether she was doing so without really registering her actions, or pointedly showing off her dexterity. “Okay, okay, I get it- you can walk backwards without tripping over your own feet.”He laughed. “You can stop with the showing off now.” Watching his new friend curiously when she insisted she was stronger than she looked, he didn’t doubt in White Crest that was entirely possible. He had been steadily learning the tells for various supernatural creatures, but there was nothing about her that caught his attention. Was she human? Or was she something else? “Me too.” He admitted, offering her a genuine smile. “Which makes your little venture entirely pointless, by the way. Even if I do appreciate having someone to talk to.”

Caoimhe almost paused. She almost forgot left then right. Because Milo asked, and she could imagine just how the conversation would proceed, if she were anyone else, if it was her mother who’d offered to walk Milo home. Her smile would have edges. However can I repay you, and she’d have a thousand answers at the ready. An open ‘I owe you’ would be the worst of them, to be paid in a forest somewhere. She could ask for a song, sing, even if it’s horrible, even if you can’t keep a tune. She could try to talk around and around until he said ‘deal,’ and there was something vague and ominous on the table she’d cash in at some later date.

That was her mother. Caoimhe could see it, she could still toy with the thought. Like she was fifteen and twisting in on herself with her mother’s guiding voice whispering in her ear. That was her mother. She only faltered a moment, finding the same easy smile she’d had since she’d caught up with him outside the bar. “Consider it your second bit of free advice. But be warned, the rest comes with a price.”

She already thought of her mother enough; there was no room for her on that dark street, laughing through the haze of cigarette smoke and a little too much alcohol. Not yet. Caoimhe still had some distance left, she wasn’t that tired. And Milo wasn’t a target, either. He was just someone Caoimhe had hoped to help in a small way. “And can’t we all be better people? I don’t like pickles, and I’ve had far too many people tell me that’s a massive character flaw upon which I could improve.”

She believed him. Even if he couldn’t seem to walk a straight line, at the very least his stubborn insistence he was fine meant he’d fight like hell should anything actually try to come after him. There was some strength there. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat and looked down to the concrete, a smile still playing on her lips.  “I’m blatantly choosing to ignore all of that, except the ‘I appreciate having someone to talk to’ bit.”

Milo laughed, shooting Caoimhe a pointed look. “Considering I didn’t technically ask for any advice, you can keep the third piece, whatever it might be...” Even though it was a rather abstract concept, he had no way of knowing what his company might pull from the air if their conversation were to continue, he was almost curious as to what the third piece of advice might end up being. His smile fading, becoming more melancholy as he registered her question, the idea of becoming a better person was one he actively tried to avoid. When you were concerned about working on yourself, you couldn’t always put yourself first. What if he needed money to score and his conscience tried to stop him from swiping someone’s wallet? What if he wanted to ignore texts from his friends, or his parents, begging him to come home, and the guilt weighing down on him became impossible to ignore? Being a better person meant changing. And too much in his life had been changing, as of late.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, scuffing his shoes against the sidewalk. “I try not to think about shit like that, I’m fine as I am.” The mention of pickles amused him, but he couldn’t bring himself to react. If only it was that easy, if only his negative traits consisted of disliking controversial foods. “You can choose to ignore all of that if you want to.” He teased, forcing himself back to the present. “It doesn’t make it untrue, and you know it.” Finally smiling again, a real, genuine smile, he was forced to admit she was good company. He would be an idiot if he tried to claim otherwise. “But yeah… I do appreciate it. Usually I’m doing this alone so… it’s nice having someone to talk to. Even if they don’t like pickles.”

“Your loss. It could’ve been the best yet, and now you’ll never know.” Like Caoimhe had anything even remotely useful to say for the entire walk home. Like she’d been a fountain of knowledge. Rather, she’d be lucky to be remembered come morning, and then only as the woman who’d done a waltz and criticized his walking, and–

And oh. She’d hit on something. His tone shifted and she looked up from her own shoes as his scuffed against the concrete. She was so sick of thinking of her mother, but she wondered sometimes at the shape of people. If they were ever told they had to fit a mould, that certain pieces of themselves should be favored over others. “Hm. Other than the walking thing?” She tried for a smile, something crooked and softer around the edges. “I’m sure you are. Fine as you, I mean. I only meant…”

She only meant what? That she could pick herself apart and find every imperfection, and never be done looking? Everyone had somewhere they could grow. It was in obsessing over those places that the trouble came in. Perhaps Milo had a point. It was better not to think about it. “Maybe it’s okay to always strive to be better. Even if some of us are already perfect.” She tempered it with an actual smile, something brighter than it had been before. He was good company. He was fine as he was.

“See, I knew the pickle thing would bother you. It’s always…” It wasn’t always the pickle thing. It was never the pickle thing. It was the leaving thing. “Well, it’s not usually the pickles, but I’m allowed to have my suspicions.” It was her turn to kick at the ground, to stumble. “And Milo. It has been nice having someone to talk to.”

Milo laughed, shaking his head at Caoimhe. “Clearly you’re underestimating just how much I don’t care.” He was only half teasing. His ability to let things go, almost in spite of his own curiosity, made his life far easier than it otherwise would be. He was almost proud of that fact. He knew it made him trustworthy, knew it was a part of why his friends felt they could confide in him. After all, it was far easier to tell somebody a secret if they weren’t trying to pry it out of you. Offering his company a shrug when she asked him to clarify, he felt something stir in his chest. She actually agreed with him. It wasn’t often he was told he didn’t need to change, didn’t have primary traits that were unsavoury, and required his attention. It meant more to him than he could ever say, even coming from a stranger. “You’re about the only one.” He admitted, the alcohol in his system allowing the words to fall from his tongue. Smiling in response to her joke, he brushed off what remained of his lingering doubts. He wanted to be enjoying the journey, and he couldn’t do that if he allowed himself to get lost inside his own head.

“You’re not perfect if you don’t like pickles. I’m sorry, it’s the truth.” He countered. Raising his eyebrows quietly when Caoimhe admitted it wasn’t usually the pickles that bothered people. He realized he really didn’t know her. There was so much more to her than what he was seeing right now, and he was beginning to wonder why she was also at a bar alone so late at night. Was she drowning her sorrows? Looking for some form of distraction? “If it’s not the pickles then what is it?” He asked, fully expecting her to brush off his question. Though maybe she wanted to talk about it. He couldn’t know until he at least encouraged her to elaborate. Watching as she stumbled, he held his tongue, his eyes shining as he waited for her to acknowledge her clumsy footing. “So, are you going to tell me how much you’ve had to drink tonight? Now that we’ve established I’m too drunk to walk myself home?”

Caoimhe held up her hands, letting it go easily.

The tone had changed, even if only for a moment. Joking gave way to an admittance Caoimhe almost missed in the moments before laughter took its place. She looked over, her hands tugging at the insides of her coat pockets, and she thought about how many songs were so incredibly sad, all dressed up in an upbeat melody. There wasn’t a word for it. Caoimhe thought perhaps there should be. He didn’t linger, and she wasn’t going to press. The moment came and passed as fleeting as everything else had, with a laugh and a smile and his insistence upon playing grumpy without actually telling her to leave.

“I stand in judgement.” Her hand pressed to her forehead, “Have you considered it is you who is flawed for liking them? It’s a crime. It’s a crime against me, specifically. I hope you think about that every time you eat a pickle, you felon.”

And she paused, again. It was easier to talk about the things that didn’t matter. It was the pickles. It wasn’t the connections forged with people who loved their instruments or their voices or her. He asked and the answer was the way her stomach twisted itself into knots, and the scratch at the back of her throat, and how she still wondered what he would create, if she told him he could, just so, if he tried. It was finding out their favorite color was blue and then leaving, always leaving, because how was she supposed to know that, and watch them whither all at once?

“Well, there’s also the whole…” She waved a hand, “Walking superiority, thing. Not everyone can handle criticism. Which,” and pointed at her own feet, “an accident, by the way. I’ve only had enough to think helping a random stranger home is a good idea.”

Milo grinned easily at his company. “I have not considered that because it’s impossible. I have no flaws.” He wasn’t sure how the conversation had become so fixated on pickles, but it was very amusing, and way too easy to humour. This kind of nonsense was liable to take place when somebody insisted on helping him home from a bar in the early hours of the morning. He wasn’t exactly thinking straight. “Do you think pickles were created solely to become the bane of your existence?” He asked, his eyes shining as he caught her gaze. “That would be really fucking petty of the universe…” He could honestly say he probably would think about Caoimhe every time he ate pickles now, and though he figured that would end up being a rather rare occurrence, it made him realise he was happy they had met. Or rather, happy she had forced her company upon him because she saw him as entirely incapable. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he handed it out to her as they began to near his apartment building. Still in the distance, but close enough to see. “No pressure or anything, but if you want to plug in your number then feel free. This was actually- this was kind of nice.”

Laughing when she insisted stumbling had been an accident he shot her a look that was equivalent to saying duh. “No shit it was an accident.” He countered. “It was an accident when I tripped but you decided it meant I needed your protection or whatever, so maybe I should be more worried about you.” He narrowed his eyes, pretending to observe her carefully for any signs of inebriation. “Ah, so far too much then?” He grinned again, ready for her to adamantly deny what he was saying. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“Mhmm.” Caoimhe hummed around a smile. “The world is conspiring against me.”

But maybe not entirely. Maybe it had found a moment in the chaos she’d made of her own life to give her a single, silly moment on a sidewalk with a man a little too drunk to walk straight. It made her think, perhaps, even if White Crest wasn’t permanent (nothing was ever permanent), it could be one of her better temporaries. She accepted the phone, thinking for a moment before entering her number and contact name ‘Call For Advice.’

“But if this is conspiring, it’s not half bad.” She handed the phone back and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. The sky was shifting from dark indigo to a softer purple and somehow she’d found herself further from home than she had been since she’d moved. The town was expansive and full of so many things just off normal, she actually allowed herself a moment to wonder what it might be like if she stayed. If she settled at the university, if she unpacked all of her boxes, if she was a contact in Milo’s phone he thought of in the present rather than the past tense. She could stay long enough to teach him how to walk in three-fourths time.

“I’ll make it home just fine, thank you.” She settled, instead. It was always a pipe dream, there long enough for her to wonder before someone caught up. But at least they’d had a moment. She found one last smile and a laugh and “I’ll dance, it’s stronger than the alcohol. Will you make it from here?”

Milo laughed. The idea of a universe creating pickles to spite one person in particular was definitely out there, but he had seen some very strange things since becoming a vampire. “Maybe it is. But it can’t be too mad at you because it threw me into your path and I am a genuine delight.” Watching as Caoimhe took his phone, when she handed it back to him he laughed at her name, already brainstorming weird, philosophical questions he could send her when he felt like amusing himself... and potentially annoying a new friend. “What if I need advice on weird women trying to escort me home because they’re worried about my alcohol consumption?” He teased, pocketing his phone again, grinning easily at his company.

“I’ll take not half bad.” He added, after a brief moment of consideration. Shooting an uneasy glance towards the horizon, the sky was already a few shades lighter than it had been when he first decided to leave the club. Gesturing towards the end of the street, he reminded himself that he wasn’t in any danger. He was basically home, and there were a good thirty minutes until the sun would fully begin to rise. He really needed to stop cutting things so close but for now he had miraculously managed to make it home on time, which felt like a cause for celebration. It always did. “That’s my building.” He admitted, turning back to face her. Raising his eyebrows at the mention of dancing, his eyes were shining with humour. “You’re going to dance the alcohol out of your system? You might have to show me how to do that sometime.” Coming to a halt so that he could properly focus on the conversation, he nodded, hoping to assure Caoimhe that he really would be okay. “I will.” He insisted. “If you promise me you will. I mean it… not many people give a shit so… it means a lot that you wanted to check up on me.” As annoying as he liked to say it was, he was touched by the sentiment. It meant an awful lot to know there was one more person in the world watching out for him. “I’ll see you around?”

“I’ll ask if they know proper foot placement. That’s the difference.”

There was almost too much weight placed on her spur-of-the-moment decision. It turned out Caoimhe had helped more than even she thought she was going to. It turned out she didn’t mind it. But it turned into an I’ll see you around and that was hardly a promise she could make, if she was in the business of making the promises. She smiled, and–

“We’ll see.” But she hoped they would. She kind of hoped he’d ask for advice, even if she was three states away with her rearview mirror pointed down. With a wave and only the smallest of stumbles, she pivoted and walked back the way she came.

[by-nina]

For auld lang syne, my dear

@fmasecretsanta2020 AO3 | FFN Rating: K+ Genre: Fluff/Romance Word Count: 2,340

A/N: Surprise, @megthemighty! I hope you enjoy this as much as you do the holidays. 😊 Stay tuned, and stay safe always!

He hums a few notes that Riza recognizes straightaway. She doesn’t interrupt him, however; she pauses, entranced by the surprisingly gentle timbre of his singing voice. Roy doesn’t seem to mind. He continues with a slow tempo, gentle like the sway of candlelight, softer and softer until he reaches the resolution of the first chorus.

There is something pleasant and comforting about mornings in winter that always awakens Riza just before the sun rises. It’s quiet, as the Hawkeye house is on any given day, anyway. But towards the end of the year, with their little village covered in a blanket of snow and their distant neighbors kept at home by the cold, the quiet is better justified, more peace than solitude.

Her routine on these mornings is simple. It begins with tea—lavender, which was her mother’s favorite and a type that Riza hasn’t had anyone to share with since her mother’s passing. While the sky is still dark, she lights a small fire in the living room, then curls up close by to read a book by the warm light. There she stays until sunrise, when it feels a little less cold, and then she retreats to the window in her room to watch the sky change color.

Today, Riza wakes up a little differently. She is on the living room couch with her book facedown on her chest, her tea cold and unfinished, and the small fire in the hearth reduced to dim embers. The light coming from the window tells her that she has slept through sunrise. But most tellingly, there is a second cup just inches from hers on the center table, a new fixture of the past couple of mornings or so, and it’s enough to clear her head and remind her of how she ended up falling asleep there.

The door opens. In comes Roy Mustang with a chilly gust of wind.

“Hey,” says Riza. Roy responds with a slight nod as he brushes powdery snow out of his hair and off his coat. “How’d it go? What did they say at the train station?”

Roy shrugs. “Just my luck. They’ve cleared out most of the snowfall in Geob Pass, but there’s been some damage to the tracks. If the weather doesn’t improve, it could take weeks for the trains to start operating normally again.”

He attempts to act casual, but Riza has known Roy for three years and by now she knows the cracks in his façade. His voice is far too even and cool, his walk more a trudge. He doesn’t make his usual easy small talk as he walks around the couch where she is and around the center table, finally settling on the spot by the hearth where she usually does her reading. His focus is entirely on the embers as he ignites a new fire out of them.

A few days ago, Roy was bound for an early morning train to Central, where he had planned to spend the year-end holidays with his family. He always took the same trip back home on the same day each year since he first came to study under Berthold Hawkeye, and this was to be the last. Riza knew about his plans even though he couldn’t speak openly about them. She knew long before the time even came for him to leave, which was why she became concerned when he returned to the Hawkeye house an hour past his departure time. The Amestris Express, he said, had indefinitely cancelled all travel between Central and the East due to a severe blizzard at the border, which buried a long stretch of track under several meters of snow.

Since then, Roy has gone into town early each day, hoping for word on when the trains might begin running again. Each day, he returned disappointed. This then became part of Riza’s early morning routine, partly because it was inevitable to come across each other in the living room, and partly because she felt sorry for him. She has since accommodated him with the friendly gesture of sharing tea with him before he left each day.

Riza continues watching Roy from the couch. He rubs his hands together over the fire he’s just made, and the sight is enough for her to feel its warmth too. It begins somewhere in the pit of her stomach, turns into a stirring feeling throughout the rest of her and a pink tinge in her cheeks. Then, she hears it as a voice in her head. Earnest, hopeful. How nice it is that Roy has remained here, it says, because she—

“I’m sorry,” Riza blurts out over the little voice. “I’m sorry,” she repeats slowly, more sincerely this time. She takes a few deep breaths until the color disappears from her face. “I know how much you were looking forward to this.”

“Thank you.” Roy leans against the table, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Breathes out a short sigh. “I was supposed to spend more time with my family. Not just for the year-end holidays, but after the new year, too. I owe them that.”

Riza hums in understanding. There’s no need to talk about why, and there is no good thing that could come out of talking about it when her father is sure to wake up soon. They have better things to talk about, anyway, that could perhaps cheer Roy up.

“So, how do you spend the holidays at home?”

Roy turns to properly face her. He taps his fingers against the center table, deep in thought. “It’s a little manic,” he finally says with a laugh. “Too many people coming in and out of the bar, and they make a lot more trouble than usual during the holidays. The moment the bar opens in the evening, we hardly get any peace and quiet. But in the morning, when it’s just us, it’s special. My sisters like to exchange gifts over breakfast—trinkets, clothes, pocketbooks—it probably starts a couple of weeks before the end of the year.”

“Does the bar ever close over the holidays?”

“Only on the first day of the new year, so we could get some proper rest. Business doesn’t slow down until then, you see. We even host a party of sorts on New Year’s Eve. Anyone who wants to come just…”

He trails off. The smile on his face is both fond and wistful.

“It’s a little different around here,” Riza says after a moment’s silence. “Well—it hasn’t been the same since we lost Mother. But it’s a lot quieter, from what you said about Central—”

“Trust me, it always is.”

Riza laughs. “We really only celebrate on the last day of the year. That’s when we exchange gifts or get together with our families for a special meal. But you feel it before then—everyone’s a little friendlier and more charitable. It’s like it’s in the air. People prepare food for their neighbors, they keep hot chocolate ready in their kitchens for any time there’s a visitor or anyone who might be passing by.”

She sighs, then adds, “The only living relatives I know of are on Mother’s side, but she hadn’t talked to them in years. It’s just Father and I here during the holidays. But not for everyone else in this town—their relatives come over to spend the end of the year with them.”

“I see.” The fire in the hearth has grown, but Roy is leaning in the opposite direction from it now, closer to Riza. “In Central, it seems like everyone wants to get away whenever they can. I guess that’s where they come from, the people who choose to spend their holidays elsewhere.” He chuckles. “And then there’s me. I come back instead of leaving. Well, what can I say? Whatever everyone else is like, Central’s still home.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“Yeah, it is. We’ve got decorations all over the place, kids singing holiday carols…”

“Hey, we have those too!” Riza is smiling now, almost laughing. “I know it’s not that exciting out here, but you’ve been to town—you’ve seen the decorations. And the kids don’t go all the way to the outskirts, but they do go caroling.”

“And Central isn’t completely out of touch either,” Roy counters, grinning as if this were a competition to win. “There’s a traditional song you’ll hear around town for about a month—musicians perform it in the town square some nights, and then people sing it when the new year comes. Everyone knows it. It goes like this…”

He hums a few notes that Riza recognizes straightaway. She doesn’t interrupt him, however; she pauses, entranced by the surprisingly gentle timbre of his singing voice. Roy doesn’t seem to mind. He continues with a slow tempo, gentle like the sway of candlelight, softer and softer until he reaches the resolution of the first chorus. The last note is like a whisper, almost as if he means for her not to just hear it. Almost as if he were singing to her.

Too close. She has come far too close to him.

Riza leans back and laughs—she hopes it comes off as amusement. “And here I thought you were just an alchemist.” Clearing her throat, she continues, “We play that song around here, too. In the plaza, on New Year’s Eve—everyone goes to welcome the new year there. But we don’t sing it.”

Roy turns up the corner of his mouth curiously. “What do you do, then?”

“We dance.”

On the last day of the year, at Cameron Station, Riza waits with Roy for a train that will take him home.

The last few days feel like little more than a dream.

Nothing much changed about the way she spent the holidays with Roy around. She began each morning before daybreak, with a cup of tea and a book like always. She spent most of each day keeping to herself, as did her father, who told Roy he had “nothing more to teach at the moment” and preferred the company of his books and journals; and as did Roy, who respected Berthold’s decision and instead devoted himself to perfecting the basic alchemy that he had already learned.

Only two things were different this time. The first was that Riza had someone to talk to, at least whenever she and Roy were together. This did happen rather often; there were quiet evenings in the kitchen after dinner, walks to town whenever one had to run an errand and the other reasoned that they needed fresh air, and mornings like the first few ones of Roy’s extended stay. On his part, Roy no longer began each day with a pointless trip to town and the disappointment of not hearing good news. He seemed to make peace with the fact that he would be missing much of the holidays with his family, especially after a phone call during which his aunt assured him that there was no trouble at all, so long as he did eventually come home.

The second thing that changed was something that Riza couldn’t easily name. It seems simplistic to say that she was glad for company, or that Roy’s presence was a mere antidote to boredom. Whatever it was, she could easily trace it to that one morning, in the color that filled her face, the contentment in listening to Roy sing.

She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach when they heard news of the Amestris Express running trains from the East to Central again, and she tries to ignore it now as she stands in the platform, counting the minutes until the train arrives and then—and then she would be alone again. No friend at the table for New Year’s Eve dinner, no companion for the celebrations in the plaza.

No Roy.

Cameron Station is packed with eager travelers whose trips had also been delayed by the poor weather. When the shrill train whistle fills the station, the crowd seems to move forward in a massive wave, a flurry of goodbyes and well-wishes and promises and plans for when they would meet again in the coming year. There are no such parting words between Riza and Roy. Neither can say when or if he will return at all, or if things will be the same if he does.

The traditional holiday song in the East, the same one he had hummed for her, is being played on a violin somewhere in the crowd. A street performer must have come specifically to send the travelers off. Curious choice of music, Riza thinks, but she cannot think of anything more apt. It is New Year’s Eve, after all. A time of farewell just as much as it is a time of new beginnings.

She turns, and she catches Roy staring at her cheek. He catches himself in the act a second too late.

“Well,” he says quickly, “thanks for seeing me off.”

Roy extends his hand to her. Riza hesitates before finally taking it. In the politest voice she can manage, she says, “You have a safe trip back, Mister Mustang.”

He blinks, then laughs a little. “Roy.”

“Roy.”

Their handshake is slow and steady. A moment passes, and then another, and even in the anticipation of missing him Riza soon realizes that their hands might have already been clasped together for too long. Then—

A twist of the hand, a swift twirl, a breathless pause.

Riza takes a moment to steady herself. Mouth agape, she stares at Roy as if to await an explanation, but it doesn’t come. He takes a slow, cordial bow before letting go of her hand, and their little dance comes to an end.

“Happy New Year, Riza.”

She doesn’t find the words in time, and Roy follows the last of the departing crowd into the train, where Riza sees no more of him. There is no final glance over his shoulder, no fleeting glimpse through the windows. The music fades into the indistinguishable, dissonant voices of the crowd.

No matter, Riza thinks with a fond smile. She has those past few days with him to keep throughout the year, if not until he gets back—if not for each new year to come.

[bibliocratic]

tim and martin

part of an series of archive polycule oneshots

They part ways at St Pancras. Tim gives Martin a chicken-peck kiss on the cheek, consciously more sedate than their usual farewells, when Tim will lean into the dramatic to see Martin flush and bluster his insincere complaints.

He tells him, lightly I’ll catch up with you later yeah? and doesn’t let it become a question but settle in as a promise. He gives a little wave of his mobile as if to demonstrate that if Martin needs him, he’ll come.

Martin nods, smiles distracted. That’s the form his smiles often take, like they’re sailboats pushing through choppy waters. His eyes are already wandering to his watch, although he’s got plenty of time. Then he heads off up Euston Road, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, slouching back into his poor-postured hunch.

Tim goes off the opposite way, meandering anchorless through the flow of people in no particular direction. He’s developed his own patterns for days like today. He stops at a new café that he’s certain wasn’t there two weeks ago, and orders an overpriced mocha that cools too quickly and is overly grainy when he gets to the bottom. Sitting up on a wobbly stool and propping his elbows against a wooden bar that looks out onto the tumult of the street, he reads the book he brought, whiling away about forty minutes with an overwrought crime thriller.

(“It’s the brother.” Martin had said, his eyes still closed against the encroachment of morning as Tim had recounted the latest plot twist to him.

“Nah, it’s the detective. The shady one. I’m sure of it.”

“The detective probably didn’t help, but I reckon she more just turned a blind eye to it. The real killer’s the brother.”

“How much d’you want to bet?”

“Heh. I didn’t realise you were made of money.”

“You mean our untold riches from working in spooky admin?”

Martin’s face relaxes into its smile. It ceaselessly delights Tim to see, and he leans in and over the rise of Martin’s chest, presses a kiss at the fold of his mouth to hear Martin hum dozily.

“I’ll get you a takeaway or something.”

“What luxury. Alright then.”)

He checks his phone for the time, but Martin won’t be finished yet. He dog-ears the page with the increasing certainty that he’s going to owe Martin a takeaway dinner for two with the way the plot’s going, and continues on his amble.

The weather’s given up on scattered showers to break into cautious sunshine. He’s a chronic window shopper, and as he goes, he takes photos on his phone of some more ostentatious jackets with show-off, flashy colours and sends them to Sasha. It’s the annual Institute fundraiser in less than a month, and Tim has big plans for his outfit, which every year manages to be a flagrant fashion statement that is a heady combination of eye-catching and borderline obnoxious. Three years in a row, he’s managed to win a dry quip and a desultory sigh from Elias, but this year’s big achievement would be swaying Martin into coming, something he has avoided every year since before even Tim started working there.

With a rapid-fire chatter of pings, Sasha dismisses three of his flashier choices. After a few seconds of waiting, she points out that the deep blue jacket might be a good shout for Martin. Tim makes a mental note to swing back to the shop later in the week with the man himself.

He buys some household necessities – bin bags, a bottle of hand soap – and stops at a pub that’s not too crushed with tourists. He pops a quid in the fruit machine in the corner and wins a grand total of sod all, as per usual, so he gets a lager top and props up the mostly empty bar, reading the Metro he took from the Tube.  Every so often, he flicks his eyes to his phone.

It’s been about two hours when Tim walks to where he knows Martin will be holed up. The café at the front entrance to the British Library is never empty, but it’s sparingly dotted with patrons, and Martin’s been able to take up one of the round white tables with the wonky legs near the windows.

Tim sees what he expects to, what he’s come to learn from this tradition; Martin, headphones in, the music overloud and heavy with bass. There’s the streaked remains of a hot chocolate in a tall glass, a crumb-flecked plate with half a Bakewell unfinished. He’s staring down at his hands, frowning, picking at the scruffy remains of his nails.

“All ok?” Tim asks. He makes sure to wave in Martin’s line of sight.

Martin looks up as he tugs out his headphones and shoves them into his pocket. Tim watches him push a greeting smile onto his face. Tim has learned Martin has a lot of faces he can form like shield-walls, defensive carapaces of anxious pretence he’s spent his whole life hammering out. But today must have touched on that, for Martin after a moment drops the foundation of his expression into an honest, more hard-won welcome that’s still slightly wrinkled with his thoughts.

His hair’s always a bit of a mess after he comes from talking to Leanne. He tugs at it and rakes his fingers through when he’s trying to muddle the words out. Tim leans in on his way to sitting down and pats down the worst of the cowlicks.

“Yeah,” Martin says. He breathes out and repeats himself. “Yeah. It was… it was useful.”

“That’s good to hear,” Tim says, and hopes his expression manages to tell Martin how proud Tim is of him.

“I left you some,” Martin says, gesturing at the unfinished Bakewell.

“My hero,” Tim beams, and picks up the whole thing and drops it into his mouth, beaming with a crumbly satisfaction when Martin goes ‘there’s a fork, Tim,’ and it breaks up the clouds on his face.

“We head off then? Do we need anything else while we’re out?”

“You get bin bags?”

“Yep.”

“We’re running out of soap for the bathroom, did you…?”

“Done and done.”

“And we’re out of orange juice, did you remember that?”

“I…”

Tim stops, because he’s sure the carton’s still half full. He drank some straight out of the fridge this morning, and both Sasha and Martin had simultaneously lectured him on using a glass.

Martin’s smirk peeks out of its warren.

“You would lie? To me?” Tim dramatically holds his hand over his heart, and it wrings a chuckle out of Martin as they stand to leave.

Martin reaches for his hand as they head out. There’s no initial knocking of his knuckles against Tim to gauge how he might go about it, no tentatively brushing fingers to test the waters. He threads their fingers together quickly, like he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t do it immediately, and goes a self-conscious red. It’s a pleasant surprise.  Tim clenches his fingers in a supportive gesture, and gets a delayed response. Martin doesn’t often initiate, and definitely not in public.

“We… um. We talked about you. Me and Leanne,” Martin stumbles over his words after a while.

“Oh? I thought I could feel my ears burning.”

Martin doesn’t continue the thought, but he looks down at where they’re joined, overly aware of the contact.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” he says eventually. “To the party. Anything smart, you know, it doesn’t seem to be really a jeans and t-shirt sort of occasion.”

“You’re going to come?” Tim tries and fails to keep the smile off his face.

“It… it might not be so bad. With you and Sash there.”

“Martin,” Tim says with the utmost seriousness. “No pressure but me and Sash have been mentally trying to plan you an outfit for weeks. Can I…? Can we take a detour? There’s a jacket I really want to show you. If you don’t like it, no harm no foul, but it will look gorgeous on you, I know it.”

Martin looks like he’s automatically going to say no, and Tim gets it. Martin’s back goes up when all the attention is on him, like he’s under a spotlight, and the jacket is a bit more eye-catching than he’d usually go for.

But he seems to breathe through the refusal and sits with the idea before:

“Yeah. Ok. I’ll take a look.”

“You can help me with my jacket as well,” Tim says. “Sasha keeps doubting my fashion choice.”

“She texted me your suggestions earlier,” Martin replies. “I’d doubt it too. Peach? Seriously.”

“Ooh, someone’s catty. Oh! Almost forgot. We’re probably going to have an Indian tonight, cool with you?”

“Um… yeah, sure – why?... Oh! It was the brother?”

“Almost inevitable at this point.”

“Knew it.”

Martin gives a smug little grin, and Tim’s heart does a funny stumble in his chest.

Their hands stay connected all the way to the shop.

[noyourenotreal]

Hunger Games AU

Here, have some more Hunger Games AU from a random point in the story I definitely have not mapped out yet at all or edited and may or may not have the time to continue. I’m feelin’ angsty.

The night before the games, the city lights were like nothing he’d ever seen. From the vantage point of their penthouse suite, he could see for miles, even beyond the limits of the Capitol. What he wouldn’t have given for a view like this back in 12; it would have made hunting a hell of a lot easier. He surveyed the lights throughout the dark city, able to pinpoint groups of people from the brightness and the noise. Parties. Celebrations for his inevitable demise; the richest of the richest eager to watch children of the poor murder each other. It made him sick if he thought about it too much, so he hugged his legs to his chest and closed his eyes. If he tuned it all out, only gave his attention to the breeze, he could almost picture he was back there, that the wind was whistling through the trees and not atop a tower. That any moment, he would turn around, Kikyo would be there behind him, bow and arrow taut, or maybe at home with Shippo, listening to a storm pass overhead in their cabin.

“Mind some company?”

He didn’t move, but he opened his eyes. He knew the voice well. Kagome had silently padded out onto the outcropping, her pajamas flimsy and probably not sufficient for this cold. If she was in the same mindset he was in, though, she probably didn’t notice. The whole day had been a haze. They were probably going to die within the next week at most; who could make space for feeling cold when they already felt so much fear? Her undereyes were dark and her hair was a wild tangle. She’d been tossing and turning, most likely. He felt a little bad about that, but couldn’t pinpoint why.

Wordlessly, she sat opposite him, leaning back into the wall. She folded her legs to her side and copied his gaze, staring out into the city.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked.

“Don’t sleep well anyways. And the noise…”

She chuckled darkly. “Yeah. Me, too. I guess our untimely deaths are worth celebrating. Or something like that.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He doubted there was anything he could say to that. They sat together in mirrored silence then, the whirring of the wind and cheers carried on the breeze. After a moment, he glanced over at her, her silhouette illuminated by the distant city lights. He had the errant thought that she looked as if she was glowing, almost. Like some warmth from within her gave her the light that outlined her profile. An inner brightness. A sun for a soul. Her eyes were closed as his had been, her eyelashes fanning over her soft cheeks.

How was he supposed to kill this girl? Everything in him, every fiber of his being, screamed at him to protect her at all costs. He had to protect this girl of light and warmth so that she could shine forever, so that she’d never dim. If not for him, at least for his district. If she survived, who knew what good she could do for the district? Besides, she’d make one hell of a victor.

But he couldn’t forget Shippo. The kid needed him. Actually needed him, for things like food and shelter. Kikyo couldn’t watch him forever, not when she also had Kaede to worry about.  So he had to win, or at least, he had to try. He had to win the Hunger Games.

It was only then that he remembered what Totosai had said on the train, the three of them huddled at the dinner table to talk strategy, his glass of whiskey sloshing as the train jostled.

No one really ever wins the Hunger Games.

Staring at Kagome, he was starting to understand, starting to piece together how this could be. It was a lose-lose scenario, unless you were a psychopath. Either you die, or you kill someone you knew, someone you’d likely care at least a little about, coming from the same district. You’d lose yourself either way.

“Inuyasha?”

Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realized he had been staring at her for a while. His cheeks reddened with a ridiculous embarrassment— at this point, weren’t they past the point of being shy, given what they were about to embark on?— but still. Whoops.

“Would you… can you promise me something?”

She was looking at him now, her brows furrowed; serious. This was something she had been thinking about for a while, it seemed. He frowned.

“What is it?”

“If something happens to me…” she chuckled in spite of herself. “Or when… can you make sure my mom and my little brother make it okay? I don’t want to burden you or anything, I just… since my dad died, the bakery’s been strapped for money, and I don’t know how they’re going to make it without my help. Souta’s barely eleven, and the thought of him entering his name multiple times, just for rations...” He could see the weariness in her gaze, the desperation in the purse of her plush lips, her clenched jaw. This was not easy for her to ask.

“What makes you so sure I’ll survive to help?”

“You will,” she said, turning her gaze back to the city. “You’ve got the best chances the district’s had in years; everyone knows it, even Totosai.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Sure, he was handy with a sword, excellent at hand-to-hand combat, and proficient in just about every other weapon, but so were a lot of the Careers. Against one of them, the odds were pretty even, and certainly not “ever in his favor”. The only reason anyone was making a fuss about him at all was his decent scores and because he was from one of the outer districts. If anything, Kagome may have a better shot than him, just because she was so charming on screen; that was bound to get her sponsors. So he said what he felt he had to.

“You could still win, Kagome.”

“No.”

He almost jumped at the ferocity of her answer. She was glaring at him, her eyes blazing, her hands clenched. He had touched on a serious nerve.

“I have no chance, Inuyasha. Okay? None. So just. Please,” she said, her voice softening with her gaze. “Please promise me this. Don’t let them starve.”

“I won’t,” he said. And he meant it. “I won’t let them go hungry Kagome. I’d never let them go hungry.”

He wondered if, in that moment, she knew the true meaning behind his words, and why he would so easily make that promise. He wondered if she knew that he remembered the day she did not let him starve.

And, for the first time since they arrived in the Capitol, she gave him a genuine smile. The kind he recognized from school; honest and true. It was close-lipped, still with a hint of sadness, but it was genuine. That inner light shining again. It made his heart constrict. It made his lungs deflate. It made his stomach churn.

It was then he knew the answer to that terrifying question: how was he supposed to kill this girl?

Simple: He couldn’t. He really, truly couldn’t.

[doubleshotofsomething]

Needy

[This is my submission for @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​ ‘s Little Darlin’s Mystery AU challenge. This is a three part soulmate au inspired by the song “Needy” by Ariana Grande, the prologue does not count as part one.]

The world is a big place and not everyone gets to meet their soulmate. You’re lucky enough to find the man you’re bound to. There’s just one problem. You’re not the one he wants.

…

Summary: And this is why we can’t have nice things.

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Thor x Reader

Warnings: Angst... angst? anGST?? [idk what other warnings I can put], definitely no fluff. Everyone is still an idiot, more so than ever.

Prompts: soulmate au. song prompt.

----

Prologue Part One

----

Part Two: [But all that I know is I need you close]

Soulmate.

That's what he called it. That's what you were to someone else, to another man. Their soulmate.

Bucky's soulmate.

"Uh—" Thor blinks. He was having a hard time processing the information. "You're her what?"

It was laundry day. He was in the middle of separating the colours from the whites, like you taught him, to lessen the load for you, when there was a knock. You were supposed to be back in a few hours - today was the day you had the least work hours - to finish the task of throwing each load in the washer. He never could work that thing.

He had let Bucky in as soon as he opened the door, offered him a beer and scrambled through the drawers for a clean shirt to wear. Turns out you were the only one that didn't mind him walking around in a pair of sweatpants.

Both men were confused at first, finding each other on opposite sides of your apartment’s door. Thor assumed there was a mission he was needed for, so he had a paper and pen in his hand and was halfway through scribbling a note for you - something along the lines of 'work emergency'. Bucky assumed he had gotten the wrong apartment; Sam hadn't been particularly useful in helping him locate you.

If she wanted you to find her, she wouldn't have moved, were his exact words.

Bucky knew he was right. But he still had to see you. He hadn't felt the bond in a few weeks, and it was honestly starting to worry him. The least he could do was make sure you were okay, right?

Imagine his confusion when he found out that yes, this is Y/N's apartment and yes, I'm staying with her and no, she's at work, why are you asking?

"Soulmate," Bucky repeats himself, leaning against the kitchen counter as he eyed Thor. "She seriously didn't tell you?"

Thor shakes his head, mouth slightly agape as he stared back at his co-worker. You would have mentioned having a soulmate, that's something people generally tell each other before they make plans to buy a couch big enough for both of them—

"Are we talking about the same Y/N?" He knows that they're both talking about you, because it is the only thing that makes sense. Of course, you would be soulmates with an Avenger, he was just hoping that he was lucky enough to find an unmatched woman like you.

Bucky nods solemnly, taking a sip from the beer he had been cradling as he continued to lean against the counter.

"And you're matched?" Thor asks, hoping the answer is yes.

Because if you're matched, then it's fine. If you're matched with Bucky, his co-worker and friend, then being in love with you was absolutely fine. He could still have you, you could still be his, he could still slice up the peppers for you like you had asked - like you had shown for tonight's dish - and he could still help you make that dish without worrying about—

Bucky shakes his head, eyes scanning your new apartment again. "Mated." He mumbles, frowning slightly at how much smaller it was than your first one, too small for two.

"Mated..." Thor breathes out, and he stares at the man that was made for the woman he wants.

Because that's so much worse. Because he can't have you now, not when you were made for someone else.

It shouldn't surprise him, that you would be a matebond. He thought it was odd for you to not have a match or a mate. The universe could never create such a being, soft and sweet and right, and not have made her for someone like Barnes, rough and edgy and in need of the love you could provide. Fate would never have it.

But it did. It honestly surprised him. You hadn't mentioned having a mate or that he was Bucky. And Bucky had married another woman. And you lived in an apartment that was made for one, when your entire nature was to nest for two, prepare for two, exist for two.

"You're married." is the only thing Thor can seem to say, the only thing his mind can force out of his mouth and he narrows his eyes at Bucky. Your habits were definitely contagious.

Bucky nods, his face neutral as he looks back at Thor. "I am."

"You were made for someone, literally made for her—" he doesn't mean to get angry, to let the thought of losing you get to him, but it does. "—and you married someone else?"

Bucky grimaces, putting the bottle down. He hates that he has heard those words before, hates it even more that it's always from people involved with you in some way, from people in love with you - as if they even knew you like he does.

Steve. Sam. And now, Thor.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I married someone else. That's part of the reason I'm here—"

"—You're here to do what?"

How do you do it? How do you keep on getting his friends, his team, to love you like this? To bat for you like this.

He had barely gotten on good grounds with Sam, then you showed up and ruined a potentially great friendship.

Steve had broken laws, disobeyed orders, took on Hydra countless times, because of their friendship. But, one look at your pretty little face and that annoyingly contagious smile, and he couldn't even leave his best pal alone with you. Not when he had seen that look on his face before. Not when he came back from being with Peggy for you.

And now, Thor, a man who had left Asgard – and came back to help the team – on his quest to win Jane back, was in your kitchen. In sweatpants. Doing laundry.

How do you keep making everyone love you?

How do you keep finding ways to hurt him like this?

"I'm here to fix things, Thor." He shouldn't hate the way it makes him feel, but he does. "I can't feel her, not like before, and that's not right. It... it didn't used to be like this, ya know?"

Thor doesn't. He was made for a throne, and royalty could never have matches or mates. A kingdom could only ever prosper if the ruling party was unmatched, historically speaking, and Kings had to be able to marry whomever was fit to rule beside them - without the prospect of a soulmate intervening.

He didn't know what it was supposed to be like. He had always wanted to know, wanted a soulmate, having loved the notion of it all – having someone made for you. A person so intricately made for another, that it was impossible to be with someone else. So, how could you both be with other people, when you had already found each other?

The weather outside had changed, a darkening sky and a flash of lightening somewhere in the distance. Thor didn't mean to let this upset him, but all he could think about was how he would have to let you be with someone else.

"Thor—"

"Leave, before—" before the temperature drops, before the weather worsens, before it starts to storm—

Because all he could think about was that short-sleeved shirt you wore to work and the jacket you didn't take and the umbrella that was still in the coat closet, because he had said it's going to be a good day, you won't need the jacket and now it wasn't.

Because you were a matebond.

 --

 What you had, the type of soulmate you were, was called a bond – or a mate. It was a rare type, but not uncommon. While most people grew up with matches or were unmatched, you were part of the minority with a mate.

Matches are actual soulmates. It is decided, unchanging. As a match, you live your life knowing that you are just a half – that you have another half somewhere out there. A match's instinct to want their half cannot be fought or changed or challenged. It is inevitable.

Unmatched are as common as matches. They are born from matches who breed with non-matches. The world is a big place, and only 30% of matches ever find their soulmates.

Mates are only ever born because of certain events. Nothing specific, it could be major or minor, an earthquake or the parent of a mate nursing a wounded animal back to health. There wasn't any science to prove the specifics or the nature of the events, only that fate chose which event was significant enough to give parents—matched or unmatched – a mate for a child.

You, along with Sam, were a mate. The science called your kind a bond, because of the biology that linked you and your mate. The stories, folktales, myths, called your kind matebonds, because of the unsettling similarities to the bond’s werewolves had with their mates.

Matches were their own people, regardless of being halves. They could do as they pleased, whenever they pleased. That is why unmatched can only ever come from matches.

Mates, however, could only ever do what their bond to their mates allowed. Everything about a mate was made to correspond with their significant other. Your biology was made for your mate, only him, and vice versa.

You couldn't feel their emotions, like some matches, but your bond - your closeness to each other - could accelerate their healing. Your blood mixing with theirs, your presence near theirs, your smell, everything about you was made for them. You can't feel their pain, but you can feel their presence and them. The bond pulls you towards them - always.

Only 30% of matches ever find each other. But mates will always find each other.

Bucky could never really reject you; it could literally kill you both. He could never be apart from you for too long, it would make him unbearable to those around him. He would constantly need you near, around him, within arm’s reach, because that was his biology.

He would need you, always, and you would always be ready for whenever that was. It was your biology.

When you arrived home and found bags by the door, and Thor waiting for you in the kitchen, a part of you knew why.

He was dressed in the same outfit he was in when you had hit him with your car, stormbreaker placed on the kitchen sink and out of the closet you had insisted it be kept in. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression was one of disappointment. And you didn't need to look into those clear blues to know he was disappointed in you.

You walked into the kitchen cautiously, body shaking slightly from how cold you were – the rain had caught you on your way back to the office from your lunch break, and again on your way to your parking spot across the street – and your hair was drenched.

"He came, didn't he?" You whisper, eyes assessing the giant of a man standing in front of you.

"Your mate?" He hisses.

An actual hiss, directed at you, and not at the waitress who had gotten your order wrong, or your neighbour who could never lower his music and was too scary for you to ask, or the caretaker who would give you a hard time whenever he had to fix something that Thor couldn't.

You hate what that does to you, what his stare does to you. You could take Bucky's angry glare and his temper tantrums, but not Thor's. You couldn't have this with him too, you couldn't survive it.

"Uh..." You don't know what to say. You can't deny it, because he's not wrong. But Bucky hasn't been your mate since... ever. He hasn't been what a mate should have been. "It's not—"

"It's not what? True?" He's leaned back against the sink and, even though stormbreaker is behind you on the counter, you don't like how intimidating he looks. "Please tell me it's not. Please tell me that Bucky is just an ex-boyfriend that's still attached, or that he got the wrong address, and that you're not the girl he's trying to fix things with—"

"—he wants to fix things?" You didn't mean for that to come out as it did, as hopeful, as slightly excited.

But it did, and Thor's light blues darkened so quickly that they nearly remind you of Bucky's.

"You let me into your home and into your life, knowing, knowing who I was and what you were, and you didn't bother to—" he doesn't mean to yell, he really doesn't, but he's angry and he feels betrayed and you have a mate. "What was your plan?"

"Thor—" you're trembling and it's no longer from the cold, "—calm down, please, I can explain."

He scoffs at that, rolling his eyes. "You're not denying it."

"I'm not gonna lie to you!" Your voice is shaky and high-pitched, and you don't mean to escalate this into a screaming match, but it's too late. "Just—I promise it's not what it seems—"

"It seems like you belong to another man!"

"He's not mine!"

"Neither am I, dammit!"

That shouldn't have hurt you. That should not have hurt you. You have heard it so many times, seen it in so many different ways, that it shouldn't have hurt.

But it did.

It hurt more than it should, you had never thought of Thor as yours, but you were beginning to care deeply for him like he wasn't made for anyone else. And, to make it worse, it took this moment, right here and right now, it took the look of disappointment and betrayal, it took the darkening of his eyes, for you to realise that. To realise that this man, this being that had done nothing but give instead of take, had somehow managed to make you fall—

"We're not even together, he and I." you say softly, wrapping your arms around your waist and looking away from him. "We've never been together."

He seems to find that funny because he laughs. It's a bitter laugh, cold and humourless, and you hate how it sounds nothing like his actual laugh.

"You're mates, Y/N." He says, as if you don't already know that. "What you haven't been doesn't compare to what you will be. I can't do this."

"Do what?" Your eyes widen as you look up at him, gaping at him, at what he was trying to say. "Do what, Thor?"

"I can't do this. I can't be with you—"

"Because of Bucky?"

"—because of you. Because of what you are!"

"What I am?" There's a crack in your voice when you say this.

You're shaking and it's his fault. He knows it. You're easily frightened, and you have never liked yelling, or loud noises, or fast movements, as they always seem to set you on edge. He knows this.

He hates this. He hates that this is your conversation right now, that your first fight together will be your last, that he can hear your heartbeat and it's beating too fast for you to still be standing.

He hates that he wants to hold you, and forget about all of this, because he can't. He hates seeing you like this, hates it even more because he's the reason.

Most of all, he hates that you were made for someone else, when everything about you seemed to have been created for him.

You weren't his, but his entire being responded to all of you like he was yours.

"You are made for—"

"I am made for a man who is programmed to want me dead!" You yell, even though you hate it. You yell because Thor isn't Bucky, and there aren't any holes in your walls or shattered glasses around your feet. "This isn't fair—he can't kill me; his biology won't let him but that hasn't kept him from trying! You can't—we can't—he doesn't get to do this again. You can't leave me— please."

His stomach shouldn't churn the way it is, you're not his.

His anger shouldn't be trying to consume him, because you're not his.

You're not his. You're not his. You're not his. He doesn't get to be enraged by—

"Kill you?" He all but growls, the rumble of it mimicked by the thunder that followed.

"It's not fair—" You don't hear him though; your ears are ringing, and your racing heart seems to be louder than your own voice. "—he doesn't get to do this. No!"

"Y/N!"

"No!" When had your life turned into this… "You don't get it. I want this, I want you. I know I can't give you anything-- I don't have anything left to give. But I want you and I want what we have, okay? Because this is good, this is great. We can have this."

You know you can't. That's why you kept your soul-type a secret. With nothing to show for it, no signs or birthmarks, you could be passed off as an unmatched. Until Bucky shows up... and he always shows up.

But you're hoping that this time, it's different. That he isn't like everyone else, like Bucky.

You're hoping that, this time, your reasons are enough for him to want to stay. That you're enough for him to want to stay.

That you're worth the decision to stay...

"The bruising around your neck..." He trails off and you visibly stiffen. "That's why he can't feel you right, isn't it? That's because of him."

"Say you want this too." You say, choosing to ignore his question – as rhetorical as it may be. "Say you'll stay."

He doesn't.

He doesn't say that, and he doesn't stay.

And, once again, you're left to deal with the mess that Bucky created.

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 14 - D R E A M I N G

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Notes: This chapter features a binary message

@marydragneell​ - here is the latest update

D R E A M I N G

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…

…

There’s a strange noise in the bedroom.

Opening your eyes, you struggle to see properly in the darkness of the room; Rosie’s bed stands opposite yours and you see it is empty. She is not in her bed but in fact, standing in the middle of the room in her pajamas, her Teddiursa doll discarded at her feet.

“Rosie?” you mutter groggily, sitting up and flipping on the switch of your bedside lamp, dispelling the darkness. “Rosie, what are you doing?”

Your little sister does not answer and continues to stand and sway, her eyes half-closed.

Sliding out of bed, you hurry towards her and grasp her gently by the shoulders.

“Rosie?”

Her mouth moves but her voice is very soft; as you strain to hear, you make out, “Live morf su reviled tub, noitatpmet…”

Puzzled, you can only shake her with a little more force in an effort to make her snap out of her stupor as she mumbles and mutters but to no avail, “Rosie!”

The unresponsiveness of the little girl is worrying so you quickly leave the room and slip into your parent’s which is down the hall to the right. You open their door wide and say, “Mum, dad!”

Following your cry of distress is a groan.

A tussle of the covers.

The silhouette of your father pokes out from the sheets. “Wh…what’s wrong?” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s Rosie. I think she’s having another fit.”

Immediately, your mum and dad rise from bed, cursing under their breath as they follow you back into the bedroom you share with your little sister, only to see that she’s fast asleep in bed with her eyes closed and Teddiursa in her grip.

You blink in confusion, and expecting yourself to be scolded, you bite on your lip worriedly but your parents give you a reassuring pat on the shoulders and head over to Rosie’s bed where they sit on either side.

“Rosie?”

Your little sister stirs awake and opens her eyes groggily.

“Hiya sweetie, you okay?”

Whilst you stand in the doorway, Rosie fiddles and fidgets with her doll before she shakes her head.

“I had a bad dream…” she mumbles quietly.

“What happened, sweetheart?”

“…I saw a….a man,” she says, struggling with her words, pointing to the empty corner of the room. “Standing over there, staring at me. He wanted to take me away.”

…

Rosie is five years old.

She’s a smart child who likes dolls and playing tea parties with her Sinistea and Cutiefly, and she has told you and your parents many times that someone is trying to take her away; though she never explains who or what, she describes this unknown entity simply as a 'man’.

Your parents are ghost-type researchers and heavily invested in the supernatural so instead of going to the police to report this, they take you and Rosie to visit a spirit medium who lived far away from Laverre Town. This medium informs your parents that Rosie can see and hear spirits and for that reason, spirits are attracted to her. She tells Rosie to ignore them, not to respond to spirits or else risk drawing attention to herself. Essentially, they are drawn to her like a Venomoth to a flame.

The medium also predicts that you too, will soon be able to heed the spirit’s calling one day.

To your parent’s dismay, she becomes too terrified to speak of this entity which is after your sister, and cannot divulge anything more except it’s evil and not belonging to this world and asks your family to vacate your premises at once.

With no luck and no help, your parents have no choice but to take it upon their own hands to investigate and apply surveillance on Rosie on a twenty-four seven basis.

It’s usually at night-time when bizarre incidents happen, however.

And you hear the noise again at exactly three am.

As you hold your breath and listen, the sound of nails scraping against a board grows louder and louder.

Sitting up, you glance over to see Rosie missing from her bed once again and on this occasion, she is not in the room at all and the door is open. You quickly peel the covers off and rush outside into the cold landing; your attention is grabbed by the little sounds of footsteps and so you peer over the banister where you see Rosie’s pale form idling through the hallway and towards the front door which flings open as she nears.

“Mum!! Dad!!” you yell, as you trample down the stairs. “Rosie, no!!”

She leaves the house, and as you leap off the last step and to the doorway, the front door violently slams shut in your face, the walls of the house trembling in its wake.

Your parent’s bedroom light goes on and they bumble out. “What’s wrong?”

“Rosie went outside!” you yelp, trying your hardest to open the door with the keys but the handle is stuck, as though someone on the other side is holding it down. “It won’t open!”

Your father curses loudly before he joins you, trying to open the door before he angrily thumps a clenched fist against the surface. The door still does not budge and so he rushes to the kitchen where the backdoor is.

“I’ll be back soon! Don’t leave the house!”

Mum nods and as you begin to sob and wail, she brings you into her arms and you clutch onto her, scared and confused by the entire ordeal.

Outside and you can hear your father shouting, his voice muffled and growing distant.

“Rosie! Rosie, where are you?”

In the house, you sit down in the lounge with your mother where she asks you calmly to explain what happened. You tell her you woke up at three am because you heard the noise again and you tell her what the sound reminds you of: nails scraping against a chalkboard. Then you saw that Rosie had left the room and so you went out and heard footsteps downstairs. You saw the front door open and she went outside. She didn’t acknowledge you, as though she was in a trance.

Your mother nods and thanks you for your bravery and encloses you in another hug, and you huddle together for a while until the front door opens and dad enters with Rosie in his arms.

You both rush over at once with relief.

Rosie is fast asleep in dad’s arms, seemingly unharmed yet he looks troubled.

“Look,” he says, lifting the back of Rosie’s shirt to reveal claw marks on her skin.

….

“You’re getting all worked up for all the wrong reasons,” says Graves. “It was probably just a wild pokemon. Could’ve been a Drifloon or Drifblim trying to steal your little girl away.”

“We live in the suburbs, there are no wild pokemon in a two-mile radius.”

Graves sighs in response. “It could’ve been your Haunter or Sableye. You saw claw marks, right?”

“Haunter and Sableye have never harmed my family, and they were with me the entire time.”

You and Rosie play together in the living room with Sinistea and Cutiefly whilst Graves and your father sit on the leather recliners, watching the football game with beers in hands. Dad is clearly stressed, his eyes are dark and dull due to a lack of sleep. Mum prepares food in the kitchen. Graves will be staying for dinner.

You’ve never liked him.

He has an aversion to ghost-type pokemon although you and your entire family have a high affinity for (and are thus drawn to) ghost-types. Rosie doesn’t like him either and he often tries to win favor with the two of you by handing out candy. He is unfortunately your father’s best friend and thus your ‘uncle’ and since he's watched you grow up, he inevitably becomes your ‘godfather’ after Rosie’s birth.

Graves is a police officer and with his trusty Growlithe and Manectric, he quickly rose through the ranks to become Inspector of Laverre Town. He is also apparently seeing a woman called Ellen whom you've never met before but from what you gather, they have a strained relationship.

He and your father never get in each other’s way but Graves doesn’t believe in the supernatural and you wonder how they could have been friends for such a long time.

“Let me show you something,” dad says, when it’s half-time.

“But the Primarina Divas are about to come on!” Graves complains as busty, buxom women in blue and white cheerleading outfits come cartwheeling onto the pitch and the audience on TV cheer and scream raucously as they begin their routine.

“Get over here, Chris,” dad says. He’s standing at the door that will lead to the basement.

“Fine…”

Dad glances at you and beckons you to follow so you get up, dusting your palms and knees. “Rosie, go help mum in the kitchen.”

“Okay, sissy,” she says with a giggle, getting up with Cutie and Sinistea, waddling over to the direction of the kitchen.

You follow dad and Graves down the stairs; dad tells you to be careful on your way down as the stairs are steep and when you arrive at the last step, you and Graves stare at the massive pokemon that’s being held inside a glass container.

It’s a Dusknoir.

“I put an advert online if anyone was interested in trading and someone answered it,” dad says as he stops beside the glass container, “I reckon Dusknoir can help with what’s been going on lately. I’ve asked Haunter and Sableye…unfortunately none of them can help me. They don’t know what it is so I’ve resorted to this. Dusknoir should be able to help.”

“…Dusknoir?” Graves says with a brow raised, before he treks over and stops by your father's side.

The pokemon is conscious of your presences, its single red eye rolling left and right between Graves and your father, before it lands on you. And it stares, planting its large hands flat against the surface of the glass as it hovers in the air.

You gulp and take a step backwards once you feel the intensity of its unrelenting stare.

“…Dad?” you croak, but your father has moved to his desk, moving away some old cassette and video tapes to pick up a leather-bound journal which he flips open.

“Yeah. It's known that Dusknoir receive transmissions from something in the spirit world. My theory is that this 'something' is trying to take Rosie and with Dusknoir’s help, I’m going to find out what it is. I could use Dusknoir to communicate with it.”

"Communicate with it?"

"Yes, it receives signals and I've been trying to decode what type it is. I've been trying all sorts... Binary, morse code, satellite radio waves-"

“Dad!” you exclaim.

“What is it?”

“….I think you should release it,” you say quietly, “….It doesn’t look very nice.”

Dad chuckles and walks over to you, patting your head affectionately. “It’s okay, dear. Remember that ghost-type pokemon look scary but they are just lonely and misunderstood creatures, that’s all.”

“Uh, does the wife know?” Graves utters, and dad nods.

“I’ll be conducting experiments down here.”

“…I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…why don’t you just ask Rosie what it is?”

“She doesn’t know, and I’m not putting my daughter in danger,” dad replies; he returns to his desk, puts down the journal and goes through his papers before he picks up a small black device which you can see is a radio.

Graves sighs. “Well…be careful,” he murmurs.

…

Since Dusknoir has joined your father’s pokemon team, albeit being encased in a glass container for the time being whilst he conducts research, you no longer hear the odd noises and there are no more incidents.

You find Rosie playing in the basement one day. She isn’t allowed in dad's laboratory without adult supervision, so you quickly rush downstairs before either your parents could find out and scoop her up and off the ground, her dolls falling out of her grip.

“Ahh, dolly!” she cries, reaching out for them.

You sigh and bend down to quickly pick them up with one hand whilst the other is wrapped around her waist tightly. “Rosie, what are you doing here?”

“He wants to play with me!” she exclaims, pointing to the glass container where the Dusknoir is.

You follow her gaze to see the large Gripper pokemon staring at you and your sister with its hands flat against the glass. It’s silent but its red eye beadily follows your every moment, watching.

You quickly look away from it, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of your gut. “Don’t come down here on your own,” you tell Rosie, but she merely giggles.

“It’s okay, sissy,” she says with a giggle, before she glances at Dusknoir and goes, “Beep boop beep boop,” and she continues for a while but alternating between the noises.

“What does that mean?”

“You mean…Beep boop beep boop...?”

“Yeah.”

“It means…come play with me.”

“Huh?”

“He taught me,” she says, pointing to the massive Dusknoir.

“Can he even hear us?”

“Of course he can! But he’s been in a bad mood lately. Beep beep boop boop boop!! That means, ‘I only play tea party, sorry’!”

“And what does, ‘what do you want with my little sister’ mean?”

“Hmm…” Rosie ponders before she says, “Beep boop boop beep beep beep," and again, she continues reciting an extremely complicated and elongated message.

Once she finishes, Dusknoir emits a loud, aggressive roar and slams his fists against the glass repeatedly; you step backwards with fright and with Rosie in your grip, you hurry up the stairs and close the basement door shut behind you.

…

Days pass and Rosie goes to school and you go to school and when you come home, it’s warm and welcoming. Your mother is in the kitchen and she smiles and it’s the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen and she makes you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and if you knew any better it’s the last one she will ever make for you and she asks you to take one to your dad who is in the garage and chatting to some neighbours and when it’s almost dinner, you both go back into the house and help set the table up and mum asks about school and how it’s going on and she asks you if there’s any cute boys and you shyly think about one particular lad in class who has caught your eye and when dad tries to joins in, you and mum tell him it’s girls only and you laugh and Rosie joins in, wanting to know what’s going on and then it’s time to eat dinner and you’re sitting down at the table with your family and looking around, at their smiling faces, and you look at your plate to see your mum’s made your favourite food and dad’s eating his steak with his weird protein shake again and mum is scolding him whilst Rosie sticks her tongue out with distaste because there’s vegetables on her plate and -

Screaming.

You’re awoken in the middle of the night by screaming.

Glimpsing over, you see Rosie’s bed is empty.

This isn’t like the normal nights.

Overwhelmed by a sense of dread, you exit and pass your parent’s room; neither your father or mother are inside.

Downstairs, the basement door is wide open and flashing lights flicker from within.

Screaming.

That’s where it’s coming from.

I’m here, you want to say. I’m here.

Each step is heavy, the cold wood under your feet is unwelcoming and chilling to the core. Your house is foreign to you.

In the basement, you make your way down to see the glass container has shattered and a massive swirling vortex of black, blue, purple and white has appeared in the middle of the space.

Dusknoir is halfway inside, feeding the wriggling bodies of your father and Rosie into its mouth.

Your mother lies on the ground, unconscious.

Confused and shocked, you rush towards the huge pokemon.

Stop!!!

Your voice is drowned by the noise. It turns to you, its single red eye flashing before an unseen force knocks you off your feet and your back hits the floor, your head slamming hard against the concrete ground.

You wake up when something cold splashes on your cheek and you wrench your eyes open before you sit up with a gasp, glancing around.

It’s quiet.

Your mother sits on the basement floor, her gaze empty.

Dusknoir is gone.

“Mum!” you exclaim.

She slides her eyes to you as you crawl over to her and grab her by the shoulders.

“Mum?”

She does not respond.

You let go of her and glance around the cold and dark basement. “…Dad? Rosie?? Where are you??”

“Gone,” your mum utters, “They’re gone.”

As you glance at her in bewilderment, she lifts herself off the ground and pads to your father’s desk.

She goes through the papers that have become strewn over the floor and mumbles and mutters and utters under her breath incoherently. She shakes her head repeatedly as she bunches the papers in her hands, muttering ‘no, no, no’ and ‘my baby, my poor baby’ over and over again.

You call out to her but she doesn’t respond.

Therefore, you silently pick yourself up off the floor, leave the basement and phone Graves.

You didn’t know what else you could do.

Graves arrives and it’s almost dawn. He’s brought his partner with him and he enters the house to see you at the door and your mother is surrounded by your father’s papers and obsessively skimming through them whilst seated on the sofa and when he asks what happened, your mother’s ramblings don’t appear to help but when you try to interrupt, Graves isn’t interested in what you have to say or add to the conversation. He leaves your mother in the lounge then heads to the basement, alone.

You sit with her, watching her hysterically pour through the research.

Whilst his partner stays in the lounge with you and attempts to strike up some meaningless small talk, Graves returns empty-handed.

He's confused.

They converse silently and routinely throw you and your mother concerned glances before they split up; Graves checks the rest of the house, inspecting the kitchen, dining room, the bathroom and all the bedrooms upstairs.

He thinks of all sorts of logical reasons why your father and Rosie have disappeared in the middle of the night.

It could have been…

A nasty spat between spouses.

A break-in.

Your mother is the only person who saw what really happened.

He sees that the two of you are badly shaken yet unharmed and drives you to Laverre Police Station to officially take testimony. A search subsequently begins but their outcome is not successful.

When it’s finally your turn to speak to Graves, you have sat in the police station for hours and when you’re brought in the room, it’s intimidating but you tell him what you saw in the basement; Graves stares at you silently the entire time, eyebrows scrunching and lifting everytime you detail how you saw the Dusknoir with your father and Rosie in its clutches and putting them into its mouth when they were still alive.

He remains quiet, doesn’t ask you any questions, doesn’t interrupt. The pen remains untouched by his notepad.

“Kid,” he says, after a pregnant pause following your explanation, “your mother’s said something entirely different.”

It takes a while to register this.

You sit in silence as Graves regards you intensely for a moment before he gets up to leave.

A kind-looking woman with glasses is beckoned in and she plops herself down in Graves’ seat which he has kept warm for her. She adjusts her frames, propping up a manila folder in front of her before she scoops out some documents. She asks you questions which are a little strange because they’re personal and unrelated but you soon realise it’s to assess and revaluate your current mental state. She even has your school records. Unfortunately, the more she asks and the more she doesn’t make any progress with your interrogation and you’re clean but you’re not exempted yet.

Perhaps you have a disturbed mind or Dusknoir devouring your father and sister is a metaphor for a sadistic murderer who has kidnapped them?

“After all, if the public finds out a pokemon had devoured two people, there would be madness.”

And due to the horrific nature of the crime, you had mentally blocked or changed some aspects?

“Why don’t you believe me?” you asked, “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

Raising your voice, you slam your bunched fists on the iron table and yell, “What’s wrong with you??? What’s wrong with all you?! I’m telling the truth!! Why won’t you believe me?!”

You receive no satisfactory answer, your words are taken with no seriousness and you and mum are informed to go home whilst the initial investigation goes underway.

“Mum, why didn’t you tell them what you saw? They think I’m lying.”

When you look at her, all the colour has left her face and you begin to feel you no longer recognize her.

“They won’t believe us,” she utters, “We’ll get your father and Rosie back ourselves.”

Stunned by her words, you can only nod limply.

You’re expected to go to school in a few days. By then, your father and sister’s disappearance have hit the tabloids. Everyone whispers and looks at you, in the school, the neighbourhood….you get stared at when you walk through the halls to your next class, you end up sitting alone in the cafeteria during lunch, even the teachers are careful around you. People think they were murdered.

There is nothing about Dusknoir.

And often, you wonder to yourself if it truly was a nightmare.

You miss your father and sister terribly and your mother inevitably begins to obsessively investigate; she spends much of her time in the basement and rarely eats, drink or sleep.

As the days passed, you become used to seeing her less and less often around the house and though you want to help, your mother brushes you off, asking you to focus on your studies.

Soon, the upkeep of the house falls in your grasp.

You make it a habit to go out to the supermarket and buy food by yourself, dragging a wheeled shopping bag with you each time when you go during the weekends, heading to the ATM when you were strapped for cash.

You look up recipes online and learn how to cook meals for yourself and your mother, leaving food for her on the desk. You eat on your own in the dining room, sitting at the large table, surrounded by three empty seats.

Graves visits as much as he can; he usually talks to your mother but sometimes he sits with you in the living room to watch football whilst your mom slaves away in the basement on her own. He tells you her appearance is turning haggard, which you are aware of.

Worried about her behaviour, you look up various kinds of available therapy which you think will benefit her, spending many late nights on your laptop browsing online and calling up various clinics to enquire but the costs are going to be high so you decide to secure a side gig tutoring some kids to pay for your mother’s treatment, placing an advert online which you didn’t think would get noticed.

Inexorably, your grades begin to fall as you balance your newfound hustle and school. That cute boy in class no longer occupies your mind. You come home late in the evening from your work, exhausted. You stop smiling and overall, you’ve mentally aged.

At night, you lie awake in your bed and glance over to Rosie’s empty bed where the sheets and pillows are unwashed, and you think about that night and you think about it a lot; you wish you could’ve done more and you begin to hate yourself for not paying enough attention to your father’s research and what he was trying to accomplish with Dusknoir. You should’ve done more to help your father. You should’ve studied alongside him.

Rising from bed, you make your way downstairs to the basement where your mother is, hunched over the desk with a black device in hands.

It’s dad’s radio.

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

You walk up to the desk, where you see your father’s old notes which have been collated into his journal with the leather-bound cover. You pick it up and open it, flipping through the pages where you see his handwriting and hold the book to your chest, closing your eyes. There is also a family photo in his study which you pluck out from the stand and hold gingerly in your hand.

On the verge of tears, you croak out, “I want to help. Please tell me how I can help. Please. Talk to me.”

Finally, she swivels round in her seat when she hears you sobbing and for the first time in a while, she embraces you.

She says, “We need to get a Dusknoir.”

Since it started with Dusknoir, your mum entrusts you with this task so you upload another advert and put up a Phantump you had caught beforehand in the PC box and send it on its way to the Kalos GPS.

A few days later, someone answers your advert and you receive a Dusclops through the GPS which evolves into a Dusknoir in process.

Satisfied that you’ve made some progress, you head to the basement with Dusknoir’s capsule in hand, wanting to show your mother. To your surprise, she’s moved from her seat and is clutching the radio in hands, smiling widely.

“Mum?”

She spots you and the smile widens, “They’re alive!” she exclaims.

You can only stare at her, stunned.

“Listen,” mum switches the radio, rotating the small, rounded knob as carefully as she can and you watch the little dial move across the screen.

The crackling static of white noise fills the quiet basement until your mum reaches eighteen ninety-eight hertz and the radio fizzes into life.

“…..hello? This is- ….I’m in a dark place, and….…”

It is your father’s voice.

As your mum grins at you, you rush over, eyes wide. “Dad? Dad! We’re here!!!”

“….I think I’ve been stuck here for three days…”

“He can’t hear us,” mum explains when your face falls. “This is a spirit radio, dear. It only works on this frequency, it picks up transmissions from the spirit world, and it’s picked up your father! He’s alive! Alive!!!”

Alive.

Stiff with shock, mum envelopes you into a hug and sobs and wails with laughter.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen her happy.

“Mum,” you utter, “I…uh…I got the Dusknoir.”

“Excellent!” mum cries as you hand her the capsule which she holds close to her chest.

“Mum…promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” you say, and she nods but somehow you don’t believe her.

…

“Mum, I’m home,” you say wearily, locking the front door behind you and removing your shoes.

You step inside the lounge only to be met with silence.

“…Mum?”

The lights are still on.

You had gone to work for four hours.

She is possibly in the basement, you think, and so you creep down the stairs only to see it is empty. She’s not in the basement, where could she be?

Your search does not last long as you breeze through the lounge and into the kitchen which is in uproar; the stools have been knocked over, there are various cassette and video tapes lying all over the surface of the counter along with an opened dusk ball. Dad’s radio lies on the floor beside a screwdriver and some scattered parts. You spot his journal and the family photo, which has fallen out from the pages.

“Mum?” you call as you pick up the journal and the radio, your voice echoing in the empty house.

“Mum?”

“Mum!”

“MUM!!!”

“…Mum?”

“Mum, please…”

“Not you too.”

Did your voice always sound so sad?

…

Professor Magnolia and Sonia enter the ward.

A girl in a white gown sits at a table with a Sinistea and Cutiefly perched on her shoulders, staring morosely at various untouched chess pieces on the surface. Her eyes hold no life, her hair unkempt, her face a grim portrait of melancholy.

There are other patients but they walk around aimlessly or yell or wail and talk to themselves and Sonia huddles close to her grandmother, wondering why she is in such a scary place.

They don’t come to Kalos often but Magnolia had received an emergency call from a Police Inspector called Chris Graves.

“She ran all the way to the police station,” Graves says, sighing. “I didn’t know what to do with her so I put her there for a while. Maybe she’ll feel better.”

“I hardly think so, Mr Graves. This girl needs proper care.”

“Listen, she had a mental breakdown…and, um…I’m her godfather…so legally, I…I’m supposed to take her in but she doesn’t want to live with me and I don’t wanna force her. I’m paying for her treatment and I’m not offended or anything ‘cos I’m not good at this stuff, I’m not fit to be a dad in any way,” Graves tells her during the phonecall, “And I know you’re her mother’s mentor and so I thought….you might be better to…I dunno, talk to her.”

“Where are her grandparents?”

“They’ve passed away. She has some relatives but they don’t want to take her in. Too much hassle, and the medication’s expensive too.”

Magnolia and Sonia walk up to this girl at the chess table, and says her name.

She looks up, her tired and sunken eyes meeting theirs.

“My name is Magnolia. I’m a Professor from the region of Galar. This is my granddaughter, Sonia. She’s the same age as you,” Magnolia gestures to Sonia who offers you a meek wave.

“Hi….”

“I’m your mother’s mentor so I knew her well, and I’ve been informed about your circumstances. Would you like to come with me?” Magnolia says, “…Would you like to live with us?”

Indifference slowly dissolves to shock as this woman called Professor Magnolia and her doe-eyed granddaughter Sonia stand before you. The chess pieces on the table blur together as you emit a quiet sniff, the corner of your eyes leaking with tears.

...

...

...

In the hospital, Leon remains by your side.

Some people came and went, namely Magnolia, Sonia and Chief Inspector Graves. He was your godfather. Who knew?

You're only allowed one visitor at a time and Leon has made it quite obvious to everyone that he will be the one to stay by your side as the two ladies came and went due to the ungodly hour, and Graves has left to talk to Chairman Rose and the Ghostbunkers and he won't be coming back anytime soon.

Leon has faithfully stayed with you as you were taken to hospital and he sits on the chair by your bed, waiting for you to wake up. You’ve fallen unconscious since you were brought in and the doctors say your condition is stable despite the blood loss and you will make a full recovery very soon. It's good news and Leon holds your hand tightly in his, closing his eyes. He silently thanks Arceus that you're unharmed and prays that you will wake up soon.

However, the door is suddenly thrown open and a blonde-haired young man in black enters the room unannounced, his head wrapped with a plethora of bandages whilst a Joltik is perched on his shoulder with a little bandage tied around its body.

"Chuck!" he yells loudly, and Leon turns round to face the newcomer.

The two men regard each other; the blonde looks at Leon, who's still donned in his torn shirt and his cape appears to be missing and although Leon doesn't quite appreciate the intrusion and the unwelcome noise, he says calmly, "Chuck? I think you've got the wrong room..."

"No, no, that's just my nickname for her, for duckie. I mean chuck. Wait-" the blonde keeps correcting himself until he says your name.

"Who are you?"

"I'm so sorry, I should've introduced myself first," the blonde tidies his act up, lowers his voice and closes the door quietly behind himself, "I'm Jace. It's nice to meet you, Sir Champion."

Jace.

So this is Jace.

Leon has seen his testimonial on your blog and you've mentioned him once or twice. Now he can finally put the name to a face and this is Jace. He must be older than the both of you and he is not bad-looking; he's tall with a thin frame, sharp jaw and chiselled features. One can tell he is friendly from a simple glance.

However, quite the opposite occurs: a surge of discomfort flits through Leon's mind when he realises you and Jace are friends and you are close. Close enough that you have nicknames for each other. The champion's expression doesn't change despite this fact though he tenses in his seat and he clinches your fist with more force than before.

The pit of his gut suddenly bubbles with an unquenchable uneasiness he hasn't experienced before; it's different. It's new, and most unbecoming. Initially, Leon ponders if it's the tension he feels before a battle...but this is indeed a wholly different sensation.

"It's nice to meet you too," Leon does his best but ultimately ends up forcing a smile at the blonde, "And there's no need to be so formal. Just 'Leon' is fine-"

Jace wheezes a little.

"-and you were with her at the art gallery, right?"

"Yeah," the blonde replies, nodding vigorously, "Sir Champion, I mean, Leon...she didn't have to take the case. She knew you had spoken to Rose and you had put in a good word for her, and it's not in her heart to turn down a client."

Leon lowers his gaze. "...I know."

"Rose isn't happy. He says we violated the terms and conditions because I used Joltik and that counts as pokemon battling, which isn't allowed on the premise. But I had to. I had to protect myself and chuck."

"I'll talk to Chairman Rose. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll come around. Thank you for protecting her, Jace."

"You're welcome..."

The room settles into silence; Jace is clearly intimidated by Leon's presence and it's then he sees that the Champion is also holding your hand very tightly.

And then there's the note on the door that says 'One Visitor At A Time'.

Three's a crowd and so Jace utters, "Right, well then, I imagine she's in good hands since you're here and all, so I'll...I'll be off now. Goodnight."

Leon nods.

Without much further ado, the blonde wordlessly leaves the room, closing the door behind him once more.

Leon is left with you and you alone, and that's the way he likes it. Upon Jace's departure, his gut loosens up and the strange swirling and jittery feeling ebbs away in a second and finally, he is able to relax. He swivels round in his seat to face you, leaning over to sweep away a loose strand of hair that's lingering over your closed eyelids. You look peaceful and he wonders what you're possibly dreaming about.

Hopefully, it's a pleasant dream.

…