#but blessedly still sane for now

[fangweaver2099]

𝐅 𝐀 𝐖 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐓 𝐇 - CH 3 - KIDNAPPED BY ONE DIRECTION

MINORS DNI 18+ FIC

You’ve always liked the idea of having a dominant partner - BDSM was something you’ve read about, watched videos about.

Something you made Pinterest boards and aesthetic tumblr posts about when you were 18 and curious, the idea always sounded nice, but you’ve never done it in practice, not really. Sure you bought fuzzy handcuffs at a gag gift store once, but that didn’t really count.

You’re still a virgin.

You’ve always had that chronically awkward, workaholic type of vibe that made typical dating near impossible at worst and frustrating at best. Normal dating apps have proven fruitless and agitating. So poor curious little you talked yourself into making a fetlife account. You weren’t looking for true love, but at least you could get laid.

DM Request from: 10:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Hello, Fawn.”

College was for new experiences after all.

CW: BDSM heavy/centric fic. Safe, Sane & Consensual. Miguel is your professor, but you both don't know that. Age Gap (Y/N is 23, Miguel is mid 30's)

TAG: @slut4oscarissac23 @iamtheprincess227 @haveclayeveryday @junehasnotbeenfound @thedevaxer @bunnibitez @kodzuminx @neteyamslovrr @cl3stevu @miguels-cock-piercings @dumn-little-bunny

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - CHAPTER 1 - CHAPTER 2

8/19/24 7:05 AM - WebRigger2099 - “Look at you, little Fawn; so delicious. You make me want to hunt you down like a wolf and tear that cute outfit off of you.”

You didn’t really hear what Aurora mentioned despite your reaction - did she know Dr. O’Hara? She did have a tendency for weird nicknames. She called Taylor “TayTay'' once and you swore you’ve never seen them so mad - they’d yelled something about Taylor Swift? You think? You weren't sure - you were way more focused on the fact that your professor needed to pull you aside for… something. 

Your thoughts immediately went to the worst case scenario. 

Did you accidentally plagiarize one of your papers? You’d seen videos of plagiarism checkers catching lines used in obscure fanfics before, could that have happened to you? Or did you completely flunk something and he was merely giving you a heads up before dropping you from his class and alerting the dean?

You never did get the opportunity to talk. Aurora seemed intent on talking his head off, and before the older man could get a word in, she had rushed everyone out of the classroom, chittering away like a parakeet. You didn’t particularly want to have a conversation with your least-favorite professor, so you quickly told him you’d speak to him on Wednesday about it. You tried to convince yourself that you were content with being ignorant to whatever problem he had with you for the weekend.

But even when you were loaded in the back of Aurora's 2012 Subaru Forester you couldn’t get your mind off it, not fully. Not like you had a means of distraction either, you kept opening telegram and then closing it. 

Because you were the tallest in the group, you always got the window seat…at least you wouldn’t have to worry about anyone in the back looking over your shoulder at your phone screen.

“Off to the shore now. I’ll make sure to take pics :3” - Fawnteeth - 8/19/24 12:05 PM [Read]

Your fingers were practically flying across the small screen as you chewed on your bottom lip. In a way it felt awkward messaging him, desperate for attention you hoped he would reply - you saw the indication he read the message instantly, but no reply came. You settled with scrolling instagram, he’d reply eventually. 

He was an adult - he had a life. 

Just like you. 

You had a life, right?

Totally. 

After a thankfully uneventful drive from NYC to Ocean Grove's beautiful beach and cozy little town. It was early enough that the beach wasn’t completely packed, blessedly, leaving plenty. You helped Kore and Taylor unpack the car, being the only one who could carry the umbrella. So you tugged it along as you saw Aurora with her girlfriend Cerice. 

The two met by accident at one of the many cheap bar stands that littered the shore. She was a lifeguard and Aurora had somehow flirted herself out of getting scolded when she was caught running with two margaritas in hand. 

(She may have been a short little thing but damn if Aurora could drink.) 

The two were inseparable when they got together, always attached at the hip. You swore Aurora would drive the three hours there every day if she had the time. Honestly, you found yourself occasionally wishing for something like what they had - their relationship was enviable with how affectionate they were, even if it made Taylor roll her eyes sometimes with how sickeningly cute they were. 

But you never really saw yourself as relationship material anyways, and besides the closest thing you had to a boyfriend was an old man that had made you cum with a bluetooth toy a couple times. You didn’t know his name, and, really, you weren’t even sure if it counted as a situationship, and he was currently leaving you on read…

(was he seriously that technologically inept? you knew he was older, but he had to know that leaving people on read was, like, insanely rude.)

As always, though, an impromptu beach day meant attempting to build a sand castle with Kore, Aurora, Babette and Cerice while Taylor acted weirdly dad-like, scoping out the beach, commenting on the tide and mumbling about sunscreen and adjusting the ‘god damn umbrella, christ’. 

They had a thing about skin cancer. It was the ginger in them. 

After you helped build the foundations, watching Aurora and Kore collect sticks and colorful shells in order to decorate the sandcastle which was still just its foundations. You settled down on a towel and pulled your phone out of your bag. You used your bag as a pillow, shaded under the umbrella as the day passed by.

You shouldn’t be thinking about college right now, nor what Dr. O’Hara was going to chat with you about. It didn’t matter that you had an essay due Monday and a report due Thursday. You’d get it all done the night before in a grind of glorious procrastination as you did on most assignments that required your attention for more than an hour. 

You wished Web had replied. It was strange that he hadn’t; usually, he was pretty quick to get back to you, but the fact that he had left you on read was strange. Maybe you’d do something to get his attention. 

You opened your phone and realized that your boobs looked great at this angle. Snapping a picture, you shot it Web’s way. He didn’t open it this time, but you could see that he had the app open before promptly closing after he got your notification. 

Weird. 

You ended up taking a nap listening to Aurora, Cerice and Kore chat away about the sand castle. You’d look up every so often and see Babs in the distance on her large pink colored donut floatie, and assumed Taylor was somewhere nearby.

In the end, you all walked the boardwalk, got ice cream at the little corner shop and collected seashells and sea glass. Babette found a red sea glass piece and you all freaked out at how rare it was. You all took pictures to post to your instagram stories, and Aurora made some offhand comment about her “Uncle Miggy” liking a post from a few weeks ago.

Overall, it was a huge relief to get away from the rest of your life. A tiny vacation, in a way. You kept checking Web’s messages… but again, you saw he had seen your photo but hadn’t replied. 

Maybe he was busy. 

After you had showered away sand and salt, moisturized and dressed in your favorite pajamas - an old t-shirt and loose sleep shorts - you pulled up the Canvas app. Nothing was due tonight, so you were good to cuddle up in your bed, pull up a movie, and relax. 

For a moment, you just stared at your phone. Were you desperate enough to text Web again? After all, this wasn’t normal. He always replied or said he was busy and would get back to you. He’d typically even shoot a ‘ busy next few days’ as a warning, not just… leave you high and dry like this. .

Did you upset him? Was it something that you did? Or - maybe he had some kind of emergency in his personal life? With how old he was, surely he had family, right? 

You went back and forth, if you messaged him again, that would be pretty pathetic. But everything about this situationship of yours was pretty pathetic if you thought about it for too long. He had purchased you, a girl he had just barely met, over 200 dollars in sex toys, and in exchange he had seen almost every inch of your body. 

Save your face of course, you’d even gotten lazy and let him see your tattoo a couple of times, he said it was pretty, and “fitting,” whatever that meant.

 You gave in and messaged him again.

“Heyy just got back home u up?” - Fawnteeth - 8/19/24 9:23 PM [Read]

You watched that message for hours, anxiously switching between Telegram, Tiktok, Instagram, and even Pinterest. You couldn’t even remember the last time you opened Pinterest, but you were desperate for anything to keep you distracted. Time seemed to crawl, and soon it was nearing 1 AM -

and he still hadn’t replied. 

You told yourself you were being silly, that there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he wasn’t responding to you. You did your best to convince yourself, but you couldn’t ignore that gnawing feeling in your gut that something was deeply wrong. 

Maybe you should visit a doctor about getting you a prescription for anxiety medication…

You fell asleep waiting for his reply - the anxiety alone wasn’t enough to keep you up later than 2 AM. When you woke up and were conscious enough to register last night, you quickly scooped up your phone and scrolled through all of your notifications to find… that he had left you on read, and never replied. 

It just wasn’t like him. Something was clearly wrong.

The feeling of dread returned and went straight to your stomach again. You couldn’t bring yourself to get up yet, it was only 9 AM, and you didn’t have class till noon anyways. You sunk back into the comfort of your pillows and allowed the weight of your weighted blanket to crush you. You didn’t want to distract yourself, you just wanted to lay there and wallow. So you didn’t bother with the nervous routine of checking all of your apps and allowed yourself to wonder what you did.

You opened your phone against your better judgment, reading over the last few texts you sent him. 

(Did he think you were trying to get out of meeting up with him?)

“Hey, hope you’re okay. Not like you to not let me know if you’re gonna be gone.” - Fawnteeth - 8/20/24 11:53 AM [Read]

Did he find someone better than you? Prettier, smarter? Easier to get along with? Dread was where your mind went to first. You couldn’t come up with a logical explanation as to why this was happening. You knew you’d felt better once Web actually answered you, for fucks sake. But until he did it seemed that you were nothing more than a spider caught in a web of your own insecurities and anxiety, and no one had yet come to your rescue to cut you free.

Minutes turned to hours and soon the alarm you set yourself went off. 10:30, you needed to at least shower and get something in your stomach before you went to class. You couldn’t allow yourself to skip just because the internet man you’d grown attached to had decided to ghost you. You were pathetic, but you weren’t going to be that pathetic, no matter how much you really wanted to. Thankfully, all your other professors were way nicer than Dr. O’Hara.

You showered, ate oven-heated chicken nuggets with Taylor and made yourself at least somewhat presentable. You hated how much you craved Web’s attention and care - it was stupid how a man you barely knew had reduced you to this.

You looked at yourself in the mirror before heading out, you looked like shit, you knew that. Deep eyebags a clear indicator of a lack of sleep, your hair was still a bit damp from your rushed shower and you were pretty sure you hadn’t completely washed your conditioner out. It was up in a disgustingly messy bun, so it's not like it mattered anyways.

You tried to navigate the day as you typically would, aching for any shred of normalcy as a welcome distraction. You were halfway through one of your classes when you had to rush to a bathroom stall to have a silent panic attack. You were wiping your tears with the shitty paper-thin toilet paper when you decided to just head back home, consequences be damned.

On the subway back to your shared apartment, you took out your phone and sent a quick message to the group chat.

“Went home early, when all of you are back could you be as quiet as you can please? I’m sick and not feeling well :( ”  

You dropped your bag on the floor and kicked your shoes off into some uncaring corner of the room. The moment your head hit the pillow and you were curled up comfortably, you were out like a light. You weren’t sure how long you were asleep, but when you checked your phone It was about 5 am. You had a few notifications, the expected feel better soon wishes from your friends, some Instagram notifications, but nothing from Telegram. You didn’t bother checking it, you knew that the Read in italics seen underneath the last message you sent would only mock you further. Your roommates had at least done what you had asked, the whole place was quiet and still. They were all probably still asleep.

You didn’t bother to shower, instead crawling back into bed and watching Supernatural. You didn’t even like Supernatural - but you watched three episodes straight and fell asleep in your sweats on your bed with the sound of Dean yelling lulling you to sleep. 

Eventually, you woke up with sweat sticking to the back of your neck. You felt gross and it made you shiver. It was 11AM and you knew you had classes. You convinced yourself to take a shower, but forgot to eat. You ended up getting coffee and a bagel on the way to class. 

It wasn’t a very good bagel. 

But hey, you did ace your first test in calculus - take that, Dr. O’Hara. You were good at math. 

You messaged Web again when you took the subway back home.

“Did I do something? I’m really getting worried.” - Fawnteeth - 8/21/24 5:28 PM [Read]

He was getting your messages, reading them clearly, and yet he was choosing at this point not to reply. You were truly getting ghosted at this point, and the realization that Web was probably not ever going to respond to you hit you like a brick to the head. You tried not to cry on the subway, you did not want to be that girl who cried on the subway over getting ghosted on Fetlife.

When you got back to your apartment, you once again shed your shoes and outdoor clothes, and crawled back into bed. You ignored everyones concerned looks and mumbled to Aurora that you were fine and just tired when she knocked on your door to check on you. You appreciated the gesture, but you did not want to talk to anyone right now, and you didn’t have the energy to deal with Aurora's animated personality at the moment.

Despite the exhaustion you felt, you couldn’t sleep. The silence of your room was deafening, and the complete lack of message notifications you were getting only made you want to cry. You let out a shaky sigh as a few stray tears dripped down your cheeks. You weren’t in public, you were in the enclosure of your own room with only a few stuffed animals as your witness. You could cry now, this was probably the best place to cry.

Yet despite how badly you wanted to, how you wanted to scream and sob and fall apart until you were a heap of sweat and snot on your bed, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything more than shed a couple more tears. You didn’t eat dinner that night, you felt like if you tried to you’d just puke it all up.

If Web knew you weren’t eating, he’d scold you, maybe even punish you. You wished he would, punishment, no matter how painful it was and how sore it made you, was better than this. You wanted to go into your messages, confess to every skipped meal, missed shower and late bedtime, to put it all in writing in the hopes of getting some kind of reaction from him, even if he was busy. Probably busy with some new girl that he was talking to that had bigger boobs than you and a cuter pussy. He was probably telling her to write the praises and sweet words meant for you on her body.

You felt like throwing up.

You were being completely pathetic now, you knew that. But now you were too sad and too hurt to care. Maybe if you bothered him enough, you’d get some kind of response. Closure maybe? Taylor told you when you broke up with your last boyfriend that you deserved closure, so this probably wasn’t any different 

“I do want to meet up, if that was a problem… I’m not trying to lead you on. Please” - Fawnteeth - 8/21/24 11:45 PM [Read]

You doomscrolled for an hour before you turned your phone off completely and went to bed.

You woke up to your alarm, feeling like shit just like the past few mornings. You forgot to shower again, and planned on skipping breakfast before Babs stopped you and pushed a protein bar into your hands. You ate it to make her happy, and it did help a little, even if you hated the peanut butter flavor.

As much as you wanted to skip class again today, you knew you couldn’t. You had Dr. O’Hara’s class today, and he would be the least understanding and sympathetic to your problems. He’d probably laugh at you and tell you to grow up. That the “real world” didn’t make accommodations to the hurt feelings of a stupid girl. 

Asshole.

You walked into his classroom with Taylor on your heels, but before you even had the chance to set your bag down at your non-assigned assigned seat, Dr. O’Hara stopped you. “Stay after class. I’d like to have a word with you.” You felt tears burn in your eyes as you barely managed to whisper out a “yes sir” before you found your seat. Taylor raised an eyebrow at you, concerned, but you just shook your head, wiping your eyes and looking down at your shitty laptop’s keyboard as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d cried this much.

You had completely forgotten about him wanting to talk with you. It was probably about your academics, and how you’d somehow fucked up unintentionally and ruined your life yet again. First it was your Fetlife dom that you clearly had strong feelings for, and now you were going to get kicked out of college for plagiarism. This was it! You’ve completely ruined your life and now you were going to be stuck working retail for the rest of it with horrible hours just to be able to afford to keep a roof over your head. Next all your friends were going to tell you that they hated you and are kicking you out.

You couldn’t pay attention in class, you didn’t even make a single note. Dr. O’Hara was a horrible professor, and Taylor would give you their notes anyways. You could see the way their eyes occasionally flicked to you, concern and scrutinization mingling into something that almost resembled pity. 

You stayed in your spot after class had finished, with Taylor telling you to text them whenever your conversation was over so they could walk you to the Subway. They never did that - while Taylor was always protective, they seemed hesitant to actually be personal and one on one with people. God, you must’ve looked like a wreck then. Once everyone had cleared out, your professor turned to you. “Come to my office and wait outside, I’ll call for you once I’m ready to see you. This isn’t a classroom conversation.” His voice was cold - was it colder than usual? God, you felt nauseous. 

You nodded, wringing your hands, and walked your way over to his office. Peeking inside the window, it seemed cold and empty, save for the man himself. There was not a single personal item or degree on the wall - it felt like a shell, really. Was this not his usual office? You tried to remember if he had office hours listed in his syllabus, you didn’t think he offered them. You sat down in the plastic chair outside the room, clutching your bag as you dug your nails into the well-worn material.

As he sat down, Dr. O’Hara mumbled your name, formal and cold, and god, it felt like he was mad at you. You practically tiptoed into the room as you shut the door behind you with shaking fragility. You were a good girl, all things considered. The only time you had ever been called into an office was to congratulate you on your scholarship. Of course, you totally squandered said scholarship by doing what your father wanted and going into nursing , but that was neither here nor there. 

(Even if he was still upset with you at the new development.)

Now he’d be laughing at you - you were already failing classes. So much for success and proving him wrong. You hoped when you were older, maybe in your thirties, that you could go right up to your father and prance about his office, singing “I told you so’s” from the heavens themselves. Now your life was over, and within a week you were sure to be homeless. 

You felt cold sweat on your neck, forcing you to fiddle with the tag of your zippered sweatshirt as you sat down in the plastic chair before Dr. O’Hara’s desk. You found yourself staring at your sneakers, double knotted and slightly stained.

Did you already fail? Did you fuck up your most recent assignment? Did whatever plagiarism checker he used ping a false alarm? Your mind rushed to a thousand possibilities.

Dr. O’Hara cleared his throat, causing you to jump out of your thoughts. You looked up at him. He looked… nervous? You had never been close enough to really see his features, he looked older, wide flat nose, pronounced cheekbones, dark messy hair. His dark brown eyes were staring you down. 

…Was he waiting for you to speak? Did he think you knew why you were here? The silence was worse than any scolding he could give you. 

You were a talker. You’d always been a talker. The amount of times that you’d been told to shut up in your life was more than you could count.

So, of course, you talked .

“I-I don’t know why I’m here. I hope it - I promise you I'm trying as hard as I can. I both work and do school full time. If it’s something with my recent assignments I- I don’t know . I’m trying. I.. I have a habit of using really big words that sometimes come up with plagiarism checkers that the college recommends you all use. It happened last semester with one of my roommates - er. They didn’t have anything to do with any of my assignments. They’re not even in the same major -”

“Slow down. You’re not in trouble,” he interrupted, eyes tired as he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

You paused your rambling, staring at him almost dumbfounded as you grip at your sweatshirt. “W… Why am I here?”

He looked like he was weighing something in his head as he stared at you, dark gaze thinning and lips pressing thin. With a big exhale, he let out whatever inhibitions had been holding him back.

“Does the phrase ‘Fawnteeth’ mean anything to you?” His words were blunt and emotionless, face turning to stone in an instant. You couldn’t read him, but you weren’t very good at reading faces anyway.

You felt all the color drain from your face, veins turning to ice. You were frozen, terrified, a deer in the headlights. How the fuck did your professor know about - that. You had used ‘Fawn’ as an online alias since you were a teen, yes. But Fawnteeth was something that you only used… on Fetlife. You know - where you were anonymous . You were supposed to be anonymous!

…Did someone tell him? The college board? Not even your roommates knew you used that website. You only spoke to three people on it - and even then, only one regularly. Or… you had, before Web ghosted you. 

In your panic, you couldn’t put any answer together that made any sense.

“I… If anyone has sent you anything. I am so sorry- I don’t know how. Oh my god . I’m so fucked .” Your hands grabbed your face, fingers sinking into your flushed cheeks as you tried to look anywhere but your genetics professor. 

“You’re not in trouble,” he reiterated, though the words seemed almost as painful as they were awkward rolling off his tongue, “I just needed to - we needed to -”

You couldn’t look him in the eyes as he spoke, so you stared at his hands. 

His… oddly familiar hands.

(Despite the fact that you’d never been close enough to see his hands.)

You heard him talk, but it was like listening through water as you just stared at his hands. As you visualized the last time you saw them wrapped around - oh god.

Your eyes darted up to meet his, and he looked…concerned, brow furrowed and dark eyes wide. You tried desperately to speak, but your words caught in your throat.

His hands were Web’s hands. The same scar on his knuckle and webbing of veins that made them look out of those black and white thirst trap BDSM aesthetic tumblr posts you used to reblog on tumblr. 

This was not what you had imagined when you agreed to meet up with your weird…online situationship dominant.

Distantly, you heard Dr. O’Hara - Web - say your name, still coming through your head like water, distant and muffled. 

This had to be some sick joke. You trailed your hands from your cheeks to cover your ears. You swear you’re going to hurl. 

Were you having a panic attack? 

Probably.

You took a moment to breathe into the silence, thankful that he seemed to take the hint and stop fucking talking . You could just leave, pretend like he never.. You two never…

This had to be a sick joke. Unless he hunted down one of his future students… but… You hadn’t even signed up for his class when he messaged you. No, this had to be some horrible accident. Some horrible, horrible accident. You did NOT sign up to fuck your teacher.

Especially not… Him. Anyone but him.

Finally managing to compose yourself, you took in a shaky breath, hands dropping from your face to your lap. Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you balked at the sight - he looked terrified . Not ten minutes ago, you would’ve found some sick joy in it, but right now… 

You couldn’t find the humor. 

“Web?” Your voice cracked, upset and heartbroken. What else could you say? Ask? What could you do ?

You watched Dr. O’Hara tense up, breathing through his teeth. He ripped his gaze from you and placed his hands, palm down on the table. 

This could only happen to you. Only you would somehow sext your fucking teacher for months. You could never have anything easy or normal. He couldn’t have been some banker, or a stupid sexy jock librarian. 

“Dios mío…,” Dr. O’Hara rumbled, voice deep and low. You watched him lean back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

He was Web. Your horrible, awful, asshole professor that you had spent countless nights bitching about was the man you had sent pictures and videos of your whole pussy swallowing up a dildo to. This man had seen you cum before he’d seen you get an A on one of his assignments.

Oh god. 

You spent a solid thirty seconds in the most painful, humiliating, awkward silence you’d ever gone through in your entire life. This was worse than when you dropped out of nursing school, when you broke your arm learning how to skate in front of all the popular girls in middle school, when you’d been turned down in front of a crowd by your middle school crush. It was worse than anything you’d ever experienced.

(You wished you had died right there.)

Unfortunately, God was not intending to strike you down right then. Maybe you could pray to Zues and he’d throw a perfectly aimed lighting bolt right between your eyes. You’d seen on Tiktok that some people prayed to the greek gods, maybe one could grant you a favor and-

Your thoughts were interrupted with the door being swung open, another one of your professors waltzed into the office like he owned the place. Professor Parker - most of his students seemed to call him Peter - burst open the door, phone in his hand held out to Dr. O’Hara. 

“Oh. My. God. Miguel. You will not BELIEVE what my baby sitter just sent me.” Not even looking at you, he strode in, pajama clad and scruffy bearded. It was like you weren’t even there, and your jaw snapped shut, teeth clicking with the effort. Dr. O’Hara’s eyes widened. 

“You know Mayday? My pride and joy? Your godchild? Look at her. She got cake and it's all over her little face. Hah! Babies don’t know how to eat cake. It’s so adorable…” He chuckled, waving his hand in a relaxed gesture before he noticed that you were also in here, very panicked and on the verge of crying. You… and Miguel having the worst day of his life from the look on his face.

“Uh.. Did I interrupt some-”

“ Nope ,” Dr. O’Hara said quickly, slapping both of his hands down on the desk. He turned to you, eyes wide. “I will continue this conversation with you later.” 

Dr. O’Hara raised his brows as if trying to tell you to act normal . You blinked once. He said your name - all formal again. Prof. Parker leaned on his chair, still holding the phone in his direction. Eyeing you with confusion, the ganglier professor frowned, head cocking to the left. Curious. 

You needed to play it cool. You wished you exploded on the spot. You’ve seen videos about spontaneous combustion before. 

That would be really nice about now.

You squeaked and stood up. “O-Okay Dr. O’Hara I will see you. Next… Class. Later.” You turned on one foot and practically ran out the door.

This was not at all like the sexy TeacherxStudent college romances that you had read on wattpad in middle school. But knowing your luck, your life would turn into a version of “Kidnapped by One Direction” next - you already had the messy bun part down of being a Y/N.

But hey, at least you knew why Web ghosted you now. You kind of wished that it was a prettier, younger girl with better boobs and a cuter pussy, not this. This wasn’t the kind of closure you wanted. 

So. You went to your next two classes and then promptly went home and laid down face first on your bed until you heard the phone ping. For a moment you considered not checking… but you groaned and picked up the phone. It was Web. Dr. O’Hara. 

 5:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Hey.”

“ ...Hi. ” - Fawnteeth - 5:12 PM

 5:10 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how else to approach you about this.”

“ I can imagine ” - Fawnteeth - 5:12 PM

“ please tell me for the love of god you didn’t know ” - Fawnteeth - 5:12 PM

 5:12 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I only found out Monday. Your tattoo. You don’t normally have it showing.”

“ oh ” - Fawnteeth - 5:12 PM

 5:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I didn’t mean to make you worry before, I was just trying to figure out how to respond.”

“ ghosting me was not the way to do that ” - Fawnteeth - 5:13 PM

 5:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Would you have preferred I told you who I was over this chat? I wasn’t sure it was you. Not fully.”

“ I guess that makes sense ” - Fawnteeth - 5:13 PM

 5:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “If it wasn’t you you would have said that name doesn’t mean anything to me and I would have messaged you back right away on here.”

“ ok ” - Fawnteeth - 5:13 PM

 5:13 PM - WebRigger2099 - “This wasn’t what either of us expected.”

“ sure fucking hope not ” - Fawnteeth - 5:14 PM

 5:15 PM - WebRigger2099 - “I promise I did not intentionally try to woo one of my students. There’s like… 20 different colleges in NY. Thousands of students in each of them.”

“ I have the worst fucking luck on the god damn planet ” - Fawnteeth - 5:15 PM

 5:15 PM - WebRigger2099 - “You’re telling me. I finally find someone that agrees to my rules and waits patiently for two months before they even meet and this happens.”

  5:15 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Look, you can block me, I would honestly expect that. I’m sorry again.”

“ is this what you meant by continuing the conversation? ” - Fawnteeth - 5:15 PM

 5:16 PM - WebRigger2099 - “If you want I will help you transfer out to a different class. Afterwards, we can mutually block one another.”

“ I don’t want that. ” - Fawnteeth - 5:16 PM

 5:16 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Then what would you like? I want to make this right by you, the last thing I want is for you to feel like I’ve thrown you away.”

“ I’ll be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I want. ” - Fawnteeth - 5:16 PM

 5:17 PM - WebRigger2099 - “That’s fine. But I’d like to speak about this again with you, in person. It’s wrong to have a conversation like this over text.”

“ I would appreciate that, please. ” - Fawnteeth - 5:17 PM

 5:17 PM - WebRigger2099 - “Okay just… Somewhere private. I don’t need to be raising questions meeting up with a student outside of class.”

“ I think that’s kinda obvious. Where? I don’t want to see professor parker again. ” - Fawnteeth - 5:18 PM

 5:16 PM - WebRigger2099 - “He has a bad habit of coming in at terrible times. Highland Park, tomorrow at 5pm?”

“ ok ” - Fawnteeth - 5:19 PM

You turned your phone off for the night, you saw you got another notification from Web, but you didn’t bother reading it. Maybe you should have -, at least then, he’d be the one left on read this time.

[invye]

How They Met [1/3] - MiShanks

[CoraMiShanks Fix It AU]

I think it's time I write up my thoughts about how exactly Mihawk, Shanks and Rosinante met and outline the start of what will become their relationship. And since I am pathologically incapable of writing short posts, I'll cut it into three, so I can take my time.

Mihawk & Shanks [this post]

Mihawk & Rosinante/Corazón [link]

Rosinante & Shanks [link]

- Mihawk & Shanks -

The first meet in Loguetown, as they so often do. At the point of Rogers' execution Mihawk's exploits have pinged the Marine's radar once or twice, but he has not been given a bounty of his own yet as there were bigger fish to contend with. Mihawk attends to pay his respect to Roger as the Marine's greatest challenger, shoes that he doesn't expect - nor wants - to fill, but will aspire to anyway along his way to becoming the World's Strongest Swordsman.

He doesn't expect the reaction of the crowd to Roger sending them out to find his treasure, given that Mihawk himself doesn't care about treasure at all. Roger hasn't even taken his last breath yet and the pirates of tomorrow are running to be the first ones out at sea. It's a bit disrespectful, honestly. On top of that, crowds really aren't Mihawk's thing. At all. And he didn't bring Yoru (that would only have gone wrong with the amount of Marines all around), so while he's desperately trying to keep his cool and get out of the crowd's way, his mind is growing increasingly more frantic.

That is until he quite literally stumbles over Shanks. Mihawk recognises him immediately (really, it should be illegal to give minors bounties, no matter what crew they belong to), red hair, strawhat, planted like a rock in the moving crowd, the only person in sight to actually shed tears. Mihawk blessedly stops thinking (panicking) and instead starts acting. Grabs the kid, who no doubt would be the Marine's first target three minutes from now, and gets them the hell out of there, leading them away from the port instead of toward it.

They don't talk as Mihawk ducks them into an alley when the Marines start running by. It's not the best hiding spot, but with Mihawk playing up the bored noble act, shielding Shanks from direct view, its enough that the Marines don't look twice and keep going. Mihawk ends up handing Shanks his handkerchief, faintly hears himself giving a platitude about Roger having been a great man, and once things calm down he makes his exit, without looking back even once.

In the months following after, Mihawk is one of the many many new pirates who receive bounties during the rush onto the Grand Line. Shanks is elated when he finally gets to put a proper name to the man who helped him instead of thinking of him as Hawkeyes (he likes Hawkeyes though, and that nickname might already be stuck given how much he has asked around for him... Whoops).

Mihawk doesn't care for his bounty. Doesn't care for being a pirate either, but there's plenty strong people to fight among the pirates now, and a high bounty does attract interesting challengers... Also he does still have some unfinished business with the Marines, so.

Mihawk's bounty skyrockets as he's given the Marine Hunter epithet. Shanks turns around to newly recruited Benn and says: "This is gonna be our swordsman!" and Benn can't do anything but raise his eyebrows in open questioning of Shanks' sanity. Then again, he doesn't follow Shanks because he thinks he's sane.

It takes another year for Shanks to track Mihawk down. It really wasn't an easy task with how Mihawk seems to just go wherever the wind takes him, but he finds him none the less.

"Hawkeyes!!" Shanks yells (and Mihawk has a sudden epiphany about where that epithet came from, because he's heard it being whispered behind his back, but no one has used it to his face yet), "Join my crew!!!" "No." "Why not?" "There's nothing a crew could offer me." "I want you to be my swordsman though." "You carry a sword of your own." "You're better." "Obviously. I'll be the World's Strongest Swordsman before long." "See! That's why I want you on my crew!" "No." Had Mihawk known Shanks a little better at that time, he would have been worried about the sudden silence and the contemplating look on Shanks face. But he didn't, so he simply turned to leave. Then: "Will you join me if I beat you?" And Mihawk can't help but laugh.

They do duel after that. Mihawk thoroughly unites Shanks' behind with the sand under their feet. Shanks is weaker than him, a little off balance (might be the recent growth spurt [actually is mostly due to Shanks being flustered at realising he really likes Mihawk's laugh]), but his technique loudly speaks of his upbringing. It's exhilarating. There is a telling spark of Haki that Shanks is actively holding back and Mihawk can't wait to see what he can do when he decides to fully unleash it. Mihawk ends the duel by telling Shanks to keep up his training and try again a couple months from now.

Shanks is back the next month. He still loses, but from then on the duels are a regular thing, only becoming more frequent until there is barely a week going by in which they don't cross blades.

When Shanks eventually manages to eek out a win (by going all in with his Conqueror's Haki rather than his swordsmanship), he doesn't ask Mihawk to join the crew again. They've already long understood that if Mihawk ever is to join, he will do so on his own time and volition. Until then they will have their duels.

(Shanks is working on making Mihawk stick around for drinks every now and then, it's only a matter of time.)

[hourcat]

Just saw an ex at an event, started making out with the hottest person in arm's reach and now we're dating? 🤭 with piarles ofc (and lancierre as exes? hmhm)

33. Just saw an ex at an event, started making out with the hottest person in arm's reach and now we're dating?

The worst part about being friends with your ex, Pierre swears, is that they're still fucking nice to you long after the breakup has happened. Sure, it's great for show—see, no hard feelings!—but it fucking sucks because it’s been barely a year since he and Lance split up and all of a sudden he’s got this. This fucking wedding invitation in the mail. Which is…it’s insane, isn’t it?

“You date weird men,” Yuki says flatly, not looking up from where he’s perched on their couch in the apartment, mindlessly flipping through the newspaper he snatched from the pile collecting out front of their building.

Pierre groans, slapping the cardstock halfheartedly against his forehead. “But that’s insane, right? We were together for almost three years and he didn’t even mention the idea of a wedding once, but now all of a sudden he meets this,” he glances at the card, “this Fernando guy and it’s all oh, I think marriage is for me, now?”

His roommate exhales loudly and makes a show of flopping the paper onto his outstretched lap. “Because you are so sane right now,” Yuki deadpans. He shakes his head, though, and picks the paper back up. “Pierre, you are friends. You should be happy for him.” Pierre opens his mouth to protest but closes it when his best friend’s dagger of a glare is directed right at him. “Go or don’t. But this is about him. Not you.” And then, just to make sure his point is clear, Yuki flips him the bird before returning to whatever is so goddamn interesting in the news, leaving Pierre to fume silently over the flowery green invite to his ex-boyfriend’s wedding, which is in—oh, fucking great, two months.

But Yuki is right. Pierre finally relents late into the evening, staring at his ceiling, that yeah, this is about Lance at the end of the day. He’s thoughtful to want to include Pierre in his life still, and it’s not like Pierre doesn’t like him. They text often enough. He calls Lance his friend, now, which is a lot less weird than he thought it would be when they broke up last spring. If their roles were reversed, sure, he’d wait more than a year to do something crazy like get married, but he’d want to invite Lance. Probably.

So begrudgingly, he grabs his phone from off the charger and snaps a photo of the little RSVP QR code printed neatly at the center of the card and commits to it. Fuck it, he’s got nothing else going on that weekend. He’ll drag Yuki along as his plus-one and will get to spend the whole time complaining as payback for getting forced to third-wheel on the world’s most uncomfortable sushi date.

Pierre laughs to himself. Sweet, sweet revenge.

-

Of course Yuki is sick the weekend of the wedding.

“Do you want me to stay and take care of you?” Pierre had asked hopefully, hovering in his roommate’s doorframe with the fantasy of being able to skip out on this event and still look like a good person. But Yuki’s glare had peered through his sheets, and he’d muttered something rather rude about Pierre not even being able to take care of himself, how is he going to take care of Yuki, and that’d been the end of that.

So that leaves him here, alone, at this lush-looking wedding venue that is swarming with couples he knows. Friends of Lance’s, friends of theirs when they were together, even some of Lance’s coworkers had shown—all happy and tastefully paired up with someone as they walk towards the main dining hall. They’re starting with dinner, which is the strangest idea Pierre’s ever heard—he finds his blessedly empty table shortly after walking through the huge wrought-iron gate, which means there’s plenty of time to people-watch and try to figure out which strangers Lance’s apparent fiancé is bringing to this party. Everyone is dressed to the nines, at least, Pierre can’t complain about that. (He’d worried, some nights, that if he and Lance ever got married, the dress code would be sweats and whatever. He’s sort of glad he was wrong.)

Except, in the throng of beautiful guests flocking to their tables, Pierre sees him: Lance, all dressed up in his wedding suit, looking hot like always. And as if he hadn’t been the unluckiest man alive before, Lance looks up and meets Pierre’s gaze with a huge grin and starts to make his way over.

Fuck. Fuck. He can’t just—he’s going to look fucking pathetic, showing up to the wedding without a plus one. Why hadn’t he just texted one of his coworkers? Kay definitely would have agreed to go with him. Frantic, he looks around for someone, anyone he recognizes to help him out, only to dismayingly realize that he really is here alone in a sea full of couples.

And then, a miracle: a guy that definitely is working for the catering staff, dressed in a standard black tux, is passing his table by. He’s…gorgeous, actually, now that Pierre can get a proper look at him, ruffled brown hair and wide green eyes and glasses that are just dorky enough to be cute. He’s got a half-pout on as he scouts the room, apparently looking for something—

But that something is now Pierre. “Hey,” he hisses, and the stranger turns his head sharply towards Pierre’s voice only to be yanked down into the seat next to him, grunting in shock as he stares, shocked, at Pierre. “Listen, I owe you big time for this, but I need you to do me a favor—” Pierre doesn’t even get a chance to explain himself, because when he glances up again, Lance is so close to the table, now, and he can’t—

Fuck it. Pierre grabs the stranger’s tie, yanks him close, and kisses him: clumsy, senseless, and strong, earning a muffled squeak.

He’s kissing back, though—which has to be a good sign, if for no other reason than it means Pierre’s not losing his kissing abilities during this dry spell of his.

“Goddamn, Pierre,” Lance’s voice says, increasing in volume as he gets closer, “I should get you two a room or something.” The moment breaks—the stranger’s eyes are wide and dark, mouth a little red from the aggressiveness of Pierre’s affections, and yeah he’s gorgeous. Pierre forgets himself for a second as he stares, and then:

“Ha, sorry, I guess I forgot where we were. Lance, this is my boyfriend—”

“—Charles,” the stranger interrupts, holding out a hand for Lance to shake. He’s a natural. Pierre is floored. Charles. “Pierre has told me so much about you.” When he smiles, Pierre is almost convinced he’s telling the truth.

[delilahjanepierce]

[PM] I’m glad you will be, too. And I know JB feels the same way.

Delilah had peeked at the response during class - most teachers seemed to be giving a bit of leeway considering how distracted the majority of the students were after the announcement - and immediately put her phone away, sitting up ramrod straight. The ugly swirl of emotions inside of her was something she really didn't know how to deal with, and she couldn't think about it too hard. Not when she was in class.

Once the bell rang, she made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, trying her best to look like someone who just really had to pee and not someone who was possibly having the biggest emotional breakdown of her life. The bathroom was blessedly empty, and she ducked into one of the stalls, barely managing to hold her hair back before she lost everything she'd managed to eat that day.

Delilah tried to cry as quietly as she could, slumping onto the floor and drawing up her knees to muffle whatever sounds she did make. She didn't understand really why she was so upset over this. She wasn't even going on the stupid field trip this time.

And yet, fear and guilt and - inexplicable anger churned in her stomach. She was scared for those she loved. Guilty about not having to go and not being able to spare them. Anger over - the school forcing this again? As much as she tried to make that fit, it didn't. But admitting why she was really angry, and why she actually felt so guilty, felt even worse.

It was dumb to be angry at Miss Kat. She was just trying to take care of JB, of Jughead. And she was an adult and an experienced submissive, so obviously it made sense for her to take the lead, right? Delilah probably would have messed something up on her own, since she didn't have as much experience. Kat would be better at taking care of JB than she would be, since she had a claim of her own an everything.

So maybe it made more sense that she was mad at herself. Mad that she wasn't better. Mad that she got upset by the news instead of focusing on how to support her Domme through the situation. Mad that she hadn't managed to get her shit together enough to let JB claim her in the first place so she wouldn't even have to go through this. Her chest ached, silent sobs making the muscles heave, the knees and thighs of her jeans soaked with tears by now. Because this? JB having to go through this? Was all her fault when it came down to it. Because she wasn't good enough. And Kat stepping in to take charge proved it.

She scrambled for the toilet again, dry heaving at the thought of JB realizing all of this - and realizing she wasn't worth the wait anymore. Not when she had other options. Delilah didn't know how long she stayed there, weak, flushed and trembling, before she managed to pick herself up. She was late for class, but that meant the bathroom was still blessedly empty.

Swallowing hard, she crossed to the sink, splashing some water on her face and rinsing out her mouth. A makeup wipe, some concealer and foundation fixed the problem of her flushed cheeks and tear-stained skin, but nothing could fix the tell-tale red rimming her eyes. So instead, Delilah smiled at her broken reflection, the expression bordering on not quite sane, but it was as good as she could get at the moment.

She would just have to keep trying harder.

[turtle-steverogers]

Pre serum Steve once fell of a balcony and Bucky caught him. Bucky reminds him every chance he gets.

anon, you have inspired me... i saw this. thought "YES", then scurried to my google drive

and so here is a fic, wholly based on this ask

-

“Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve twists around from where he’s perched on the fire escape rail, back against the cool brick wall of their shitty tenement. It’s nearly April and the weather’s getting warmer, a soft breeze keeping it just cool enough for long pants. Steve has always preferred warmer weather, though, and he thought he’d take advantage of the first truly nice day that Spring. His sketchbook lies open on his lap, propped against his knee. A light, but detailed sketch of the other tenement buildings that spanned out in front of him fills the page.

“Drawing,” Steve says, glancing at Bucky where his head is poking out the window. He looks concerned and his eyes keep flicking to where Steve’s holding himself stable with his free leg. “Why are you already home? What time is it?”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and Steve wants to stick his thumb on the little divot to smooth it out. He always thought Bucky would get a permanent wrinkle there if he kept frowning so much.

“Nearly 6:00,” Bucky says, and Steve realizes he must have let time get away from him. That tends to happen, when he draws, his mind blessedly quiet for a few hours as he loses himself in the methodical scratch of his charcoal pencils. Still, he had gotten home from his work restocking shelves at the local grocer around 3:00. He didn’t think it had been that long.

“Oh,” he says.

Bucky climbs out onto the escape. He’s wearing his work clothes still-- an oily white shirt tucked into heavy denim pants. His hair's hanging down in his eyes. Steve knows he’ll want him to cut it soon.

He wants to reach out to him, but he can’t. Not out here where anyone could see. It’s torture, not being able to touch anywhere but in the confines of their bed, hidden under the covers where prying eyes can’t strip away their privacy-- their God given right to love each other as wholly as human nature could allow. Steve purses his lips and forces himself to look back down at his sketch.

“I don’t like you sitting up there,” Bucky says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Just because you’re afraid of heights doesn’t mean that everyone else is, Buck. Besides, we’re only three stories up.”

Bucky huffs, stepping closer. “That’s still far,” he says. “You fall, you’ll splatter all over the sidewalk and scar Miss Maggie downstairs for life. I’d have to pay for her heart failure and your funeral.”

Steve snorts and closes his sketchbook, thoroughly distracted now. The sun’s starting to set anyway, and it’s bound to get cold soon.

“You’re so dramatic,” Steve says. “I’m holding myself up just fine. See? I can even reach for my other charcoals and there ain’t no problem.”

To prove himself, Steve closes his sketchbook and tosses it onto the fire escape, sticking the charcoal he was using in the binding. He twists around after that and leans over to grab another pencil from where he’d left his spares on a ledge to his right, his thigh muscles flexing as he holds himself in place. The pencils are farther away than he last remembers them, though, because he feels himself reaching further and further until his balance is tipping and he’s tumbling over the side.

“Stevie!” Bucky’s frantic voice shouts, but Steve can barely hear him, too busy gasping in surprise.

There’s a suspended moment of terror as the world seems to go quiet, his ears ringing in alarm as he feels himself starting to fall and oh god, Bucky was right, he really shouldn’t have tried to reach out for his pencils and now he really was going to fall to his death and Miss Maggie was going to see him break his neck on the sidewalk or he’ll kill an alleycat on impact or--

--A strong hand closes around his bicep, catching him before he can fully go over the side of the fire escape. He’s shaking with adrenaline as Bucky lifts him back to safety. He’s speaking, Steve realizes belatedly.

“--Such a fucking idiot, I swear to god, you’re gonna be the death of me, Rogers.”

“You say that, like, once a week,” Steve says weakly, and he notices then that he’s shaking. His teeth are chattering, adrenaline coursing through him. He must look as freaked out as he feels, because Bucky takes one look at his face and softens.

He glances around, then braces a hand on the back of Steve’s neck, grounding him. A moment later, Steve is being pulled into his chest. He’s sweaty and smells like the docks, but Steve presses closer, inhaling deeply in time with Bucky.

“You okay, kid?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods against his chest, hiding. “Sorry. Spooked.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bucky says, pulling away after sneaking a soft kiss on Steve’s head. He swoops down to collect Steve’s sketchbook. “C’mon, let’s go inside.” He straightens and points an accusing finger at Steve. “I told you so, by the way.”

Steve just rolls his eyes.

-

“No! Not without you!”

“Aw, hell…”

Steve’s going to die.

He’s thought that a lot, in his 25 years of life. But now, as he sizes up the impossible jump between him and Bucky, he really truly believes it.

Bucky made it across, if only barely, and Steve wishes he would just go. There’s a deep pain in his eyes now-- one Steve noticed as soon as he lifted Bucky off that goddamn experiment table. If anyone deserves to get out of this fiery hell, it’s him. But Steve knows that he really won’t leave without him. He’d damn himself to die by the burning hands of war right alongside Steve.

Steve knows this, because he would do the same.

He takes the jump running, giving himself one moment to falter before he’s soaring through the air. It burns, and he knows he’s breathing in so much smoke. Fire licks at his heels and singes his clothes, melting the soles of his boots and mottling his skin.

It feels like he’s caught in midair, flying forever without falling as the other side gets closer and closer and holy shit, he’s going to make it-- he’s really going to--

He manages to grab hold of the railing on the other side, screaming as it breaks and bends, leaving him dangling. The metal is smoltering and he gasps, letting go on instinct as it burns the skin of his palms and shit, he’s such an idiot, but before he can fall, Bucky’s leaning over and grabbing him by the forearm.

He hauls him up onto the platform and they collapse onto the ground, panting as they claw at each other, needing something tangible-- real-- to keep them sane and then they’re kissing, teeth clacking together and noses bumping. Bucky’s sobbing, Steve notices and he pulls back to reassure him, only to realize he’s doing the same. They kiss until the air in their lungs turns to ash and they pull away to breathe, foreheads resting together.

“You’re such a fucking dumbass,” Bucky pants.

“Fuck you,” Steve answers. He kisses him again, hungry for more-- yearning to crawl under Bucky’s skin and hide there. “Thanks for catching me.” And it’s horribly insufficient. There’s so much to say to each other, so many bases to cover and things that can’t go unsaid, but Bucky must understand, because he guides Steve’s head down to his chest. A position Steve never thought he’d have the privilege of falling into again.

“Always gonna catch you,” he says. It’s quiet for a long time, nothing but their heavy breathing and the roaring fire to fill the spaces between them. Steve opens his mouth to say something; anything. He needs to ask if Bucky’s okay-- what they were doing to him-- and he knows Bucky has questions. Ones that he deserves answers to more than anyone, but the words get caught in his throat. It doesn’t matter, though, because Bucky laughs wetly. “Like-- like that fuckin’ time you almost fell off the fire escape and--”

Steve groans, shoving at Bucky before gathering him close and breathing him in, because if Bucky can find it in him to tease, then things have to be okay.

“You ain’t ever letting that go, are you?”

“Never.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs

[five-rivers]

AU where Danny’s human form has ghostly attributes like fangs, reflective eyes, occasional glowing, echoing voice, etc. What theories do the people of Amity Park make, and which ones are true?

.

“Fenton, correct?” you ask.  You’re a long-term sub.  Ms. Tetslaff unexpectedly had to have major surgery, and won’t be returning to teach for months.  

“That’s me,” said the boy, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning just enough for you to see that, yes, those are vampire fangs.

“You’re going to need to take those out,” you say.  

“Take what out?” he asked, blinking blankly, and do his eyes-?  No, that’s a trick of the light.  

“The vampire teeth,” you respond.  “They’re a safety hazard.  You could swallow them.”

“I’m not wearing vampire teeth.  These are my normal teeth.  They’re just weird.”  To demonstrate, he pulled back his lips with his fingers, showing you the gums.  Sure enough, there are not seams or edges that you can see.  

“Huh,” you say.  “Never mind then.”

.

“It’s the parents,” they said.  “I heard they experimented on him.  They only needed one to carry on their work, you see.”

This might have made sense, except that you’ve met Jazz Fenton, and she’d somehow managed to make her position on her parents’ research, her career aspirations, and her opinions on the city’s six most popular restaurants clear within your first five minutes of conversing with her.  Which is actually kind of weird by itself.  

Either way, you don’t think she’ll be carrying on her parents work any time soon.  

You thank the vendor and pay for your sandwich, periodically glancing the way Danny Fenton went.  

.

“He glows, you know,” said the teenager.  She knows you’re not from town.  You don’t know how.  She doesn’t go to the school you work at.  “In the dark.”

“I’ve never seen him in the dark,” you say, but you have seen how he catches the eye.  

Until he doesn’t.  

“We have,” said the girl, nodding at her coworkers behind the counter.  “He comes at night, sometimes.”

“Is it body paint?” you ask, even though you know the girl can’t know, and wouldn’t bring it up if she thought the solution was so mundane.  

“No,” she said.  “Weston thinks he’s dead.  Wesley, I mean.  Not the one that works here.”

You’re already hopelessly lost when it comes to the Weston brothers, but you file the information away nonetheless.  It could be useful.

“If people really think he’s dead,” you say, “shouldn’t his parents be told?”

The girl snorted.  “Have fun with that.”

.

Something burned green on the road.  You cover your nose with the back of your hand.  You see Danny Fenton standing on the other side.  His eyes reflected the green light.  

“He’s like a cat,” whispered someone behind you.  

.

Two students spoke in whispers in the hallway outside your temporary office.  

“He’s a vampire.  That’s the only explanation.”

“No, he’s not.  He can walk around in the sun.”

“That’s actually a recent addition to the myth-”

You get up and close the door. 

.

“I heard him purring.”

You don’t know how much more of this you can take.  You’re hoping Ms. Testslaff comes back soon, so you can stop coming here.  

“What, is he a cat, now?”

“I don’t know, maybe.  You’re just going to whip out the werewolf theory again, aren’t you.”

“Better than werecat.”

.

“Alien?”

“Would explain why he’s so obsessed with astronomy.”

Your fellow teachers are in on it, even.  You pinch the bridge of your nose.  And contemplate the ancient coffee machine.  It is worth it, you wonder.  

“I think it’s more likely he has undiagnosed autism,” said the blessedly sane Mr. Lancer.  “Or ADHD.  Have any of you heard from the our SpEd team recently?  I swear, they’re dodging my calls.”

“If they had the potential to force me to be alone in a room with Danny Fenton,” said one of the others, “I’d probably dodge your calls, too.  I can’t believe you still have the guts to give him detention.”

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” agreed the other.

Mr. Lacer glared down his nose at them.  “There’s something wrong with you.  Are you teachers or not?”  He looked at you, as if to compel you to comment, to weigh in on either side.  

You shrug.  You know you should agree with Lancer, but, well.  

You don’t want to be alone in a room with Danny Fenton, either.  

.

“Maybe he was abducted by aliens.”

“Hm.  Possible.”

You haven’t seen Mr. Lancer in the break room for a week.  

.

“My little sister saw him walk through a wall, once.”

“Do you think that counts more towards ghost, mutant, or vampire?”

“I don’t know.  Let’s ask the teacher.”

You pretend not to hear them.  

“Let’s just put a mark in each column.”

.

You’re leaving.  Finally.  

You sigh as you pack the last of your supplies into your car and lean against the door, staring up into the flat blue sky.  

Something silver, black, and tan streaks across it.  

You could swear it was Danny Fenton.  

[hiinnys]

i buried a hatchet (it’s coming up lavender)

(hello! it’s been a minute! sorry, i’ve unfortunately been trapped under work’s capitalist foot!! but how are yall? MAJOR happy birthday to harry james! thank you for being my comfort character <3 anyways, hope you enjoy harry’s little 22nd party, which is also on ao3!) 

the planning starts in may. it’s nearly three months early, but may brings bad memories molly’s always tried to avoid. it’s a simple question about cake flavors pointed at harry and ginny, their birthdays always planned in tandem, but harry freezes nonetheless. it’s nothing anyone would notice, but ginny does because she’s ginny and harry’s always been what she’s good at. so when they’re alone later and she asks about it, he’s not surprised.

“it’s stupid,” he says, shaking his head in that way he does that makes him seem so small ginny’s heart aches.

“harry,” she pushes this one, feels like she has to.  

“it’s just…i’m twenty-two this year, aren’t i?”

“yeah?”

“i’m always gonna be older than them now,” he almost whispers, like it’s a crime to even speak aloud. he sits down on the bed just then. the bed in his flat that he’s been too scared to ask her to share with him. he wonders briefly if his dad was ever as scared to ask his mum something so easy; wonders if his dad ever got the chance to be, or if that was just another thing war took away from him.

“harry,” she sits next to him, body angled towards him so her legs are pushed up against his side. “talk to me.”

it’s a simple request; ginny’s like that, takes only the smallest pieces of him because she thinks everyone else takes too much. he wants to tell her that she can take as much as she wants, it’s all hers anyways, but he doesn’t know how, so he settles for giving her what she’s asked of him.

“it feels…wrong, i guess, to celebrate it,” he sighs, tries to quell the storm in his chest, in his head (doesn’t succeed). “it feels like i’m celebrating their deaths.”

she’s silent for a moment, like she’s thinking it all through, weighing the merits of what he’s said, and he can’t quite express how grateful he is that she gives him this - her respect, her thoughtfulness, her whole self, each and every time.

“i get it,” she finally says. “but you can’t live the rest of your life avoiding your birthday. i think you’ve already missed too many in your parents’ books.”

he knows she’s right, thinks about his years with the dursleys, about how he didn’t even know his birthday until he was five and a teacher at primary told him. he nods his head.

“but-,” he starts.

“just not this one,” she finishes. “yeah, i get it.”

the next time they’re at the burrow, ginny casually mentions that she’s actually surprised harry with a weekend trip for his birthday, seeing as he never takes time off otherwise, and if the family would like, they could do a joint cake at ginny’s birthday dinner.

***

she actually does surprise him with a trip, something that he wasn’t expecting, but she suggests they bring teddy along and harry reckons the kid’s due for a holiday. she doesn’t tell him where they’re going to start, just piles the three of them in harry’s car and tells him to drive (she’s yet to pass her driver’s test, but ginny’s one of the few people who genuinely enjoys the tube so she’s not in any rush).

it’s when they’re less than halfway there that harry realizes she has them set out for shell cottage.

“really? you thought bringing me to your brother’s place would be a nice birthday surprise?”

“first of all, you said yourself we aren’t celebrating your birthday, and, second, bill and fleur aren’t home. they’re in france, so i asked if we could borrow the place for the weekend and they said yes.”

“fair enough.”

***

teddy’s antsy for the water as soon as he sees it, so they only go as far as throwing their stuff in the sitting room before taking him down to the shoreline. he splashes happily through the calm water, and his clothes are soaked to the brim, but his laughter fills the air, so harry lets it be.

“harry!” the five year-old shouts, holding up a distinctly purple piece of coral. “look! pretty!”

“you wanna take it with you?”

“YES!” he screams, eyes wide with glee, and harry can’t help the rush of love for his godson. he exaggerates tucking the coral into his pocket when teddy hands it to him, just to affirm ted’s desire to keep it safe. when he turns around, ginny’s smiling at them from her place on a rock, jeans pushed up to her knees, feet in the water and red hair blowing in the wind, and harry finally feels peace settle into his heart.

***

the rest of the day passes rather quietly. when they finally make it in from the beach, the day catches up with teddy, leaving him exhausted and irate, so harry gives him a quick bath and settles the boy in for a small nap. when he gets back down, ginny’s changed and sits on a bar stool in the kitchen, picking at the last of the snack plate harry had made earlier in lieu of a proper lunch.

“hungry?” harry asks and, at her nod of affirmation, starts looking through the fridge to figure out what dinner can be. they sit in an easy silence for a bit, harry washing and cutting vegetables and ginny watching. over the years, he’s learned she likes to watch him cook, and though the reason for it doesn’t make too much sense to him, he likes having her there, so he’s never questioned it much.

“thank you for this,” he finally says.

“for what?”

“bringing us here. i’ve been in my head about it all too much, i think. the whole twenty-two thing. it’s nice to not have to think about it for a bit.”

she studies him for a minute, like she’s trying to look right at the core of him, so he puts down the knife he’s been using to chop the vegetables and gives her all of himself.

“you never have to thank me,” she says after a minute.

“i know.”

***

teddy “helps” harry clean up after dinner that night, which really just means that ted sits on the counter next to the kitchen sink and rattles on about something or the other while harry does the dishes. every now and then, harry blows some soap bubbles on the boy and basks in the glow of the laughter it brings out of him.

an hour later (and well past his bedtime), harry finally manages to get teddy to stay beneath the sheets, but it’s only when ginny reads him babbity rabbity twice and swears on her life that they’ll go back down to the water tomorrow that teddy settles in for the night.

“harry!” he whispers as harry’s switching off the light.

“yeah, mate,” harry stage-whispers back, his eyebrows raised for ginny’s amusement.

“happy birthday!” teddy murmurs tiredly.

“that’s tomorrow, mate.”

“still,” the boy whines.

“thanks, ted,” harry responds, gentle smile on his face.

when they finally make it into their room, harry places a quick silencing charm on the door. at ginny’s raised brow, he says, rather simply:

“for good measure.”

ginny snorts.

they’re silent as they get ready for bed, and harry lets himself sink deep into the warmth of it. they don’t get this too often, the pair of them; ginny’s spot in the harpies takes her across the world and, when harry’s not in some obscure town somewhere tracking some homicidal maniac or the other, kingsley has him on diplomatic missions across the continent. it grates at harry sometimes, how little he gets to be with his girlfriend, but ginny has games to play and championships to win and harry has people to catch and (every now and then) laws to change, and neither has any desire to stop anytime soon so they live with it. in his opinion, they’re pretty good at it. they know their limits. they carve time out for each other, always. harry makes it to all the big games, the ones she’s nervous about. ginny makes it to every stupid ceremony and the endless galas that make harry want to claw his eyes out. she keeps him going; he keeps her sane, and the rest they take as it comes, together. always together.

“harry,” her voice, light as the sun, breaks him out of his reverie. “where’d you go?”

“sorry,” he whispers back. “just in my head a bit.”

“that’s okay. it’s a nice head.”

“it’s a nice head?” he grins at her, knowing she’s caught. ginny rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her face, and when she’s done feigning her annoyance, she pulls him in for a kiss. it’s calm and confident and everything that is ginny and when they fuck, they look into each other’s eyes the entire time, and he’s reminded, with each thrust, of just how much he loves her.

***

when he wakes up, the room’s dark, the spot next to him is empty, and he can hear voices coming from below. his heart clenches for a minute, a piece of the war he’ll never be able to let go of, but it eases when he sees ginny’s wand, still on the table, still next to his.

he gets out of bed silently (mentally thanking his auror training) and makes the short walk down the hallway towards the stairs when he sees teddy’s door open too. before he has the chance to panic this time, though, he hears the boy’s laugh followed by ginny’s own giggle. there’s a smile on his face now that he knows ginny would tease him about if she could see it, but he honestly can’t help it. not when he’s in this house, full of a warmth that he’s finally, blessedly, allowed to be a part of. he spots them in the kitchen, but from their angle, he knows they can’t see him. ginny’s leaning against the counter, mixing something in a rather large bowl, while teddy’s sitting on the counter next to her, weirdly, waving a strawberry in the air.

“we gotta put it in!” he whispers, in the way five year-olds do, which isn’t much of a whisper at all. “harry loves strawberries!”

“strawberries in a birthday cake? i’m afraid you may be a genius, ted,” ginny announces in a quiet voice, while harry’s eyes fill with unshed tears. he stays glued to the spot for a bit longer, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s ruining their surprise, but not being able to turn away from his family. eventually though, he does. he climbs, silently, back up the stairs and slips back into his and ginny’s bed. when he falls back asleep, it’s with the ghost of a smile on his face and a feeling he doesn’t think he’s known until this moment.

***

he’s woken up in the morning by teddy trying to pull his arm off.

“wha-”

“come on,” the boy whines. “it’s breakfast!”

at that, harry wakes up instantly, feeling the guilt wash over him at the idea of leaving teddy without food. it’s only then that he smells the coffee in the air and realizes that ginny isn’t next to him. he breathes just then, quickly realizing that teddy isn’t hungry; he just wants harry awake.

“sorry, mate,” harry smiles at him guiltily, voice a bit rough with sleep. he lets ted drag him down stairs, the boy practically bouncing the entire way down. when they get to the kitchen, he’s met with ginny - long hair in a knot atop her head, eyes still a little sleep tired - grinning around a piece of toast.

“morning,” she smiles up at him and he gives her a lopsided grin in return.

“ginny, ginny, ginny,” teddy bounces next to her. “we’ve gotta do it now!” he whispers.

“we should probably let him eat first,” ginny whispers back.

“no! we gotta do it now!”

“alright, alright,” she responds. “harry,” she gestures to a seat, which harry takes, brows furrowed though he thinks he knows what’s coming. sure enough, ginny and teddy disappear for a few seconds, then come back with a slightly lopsided cake adorned in strawberries, a single candle lit in the middle. he beams the minute he sees them, which turns into an all out laugh the minute teddy starts up his rendition of ‘happy birthday’ which usually involves a lot of lyrics that never stay the same and none of them ever know. when ted’s done, ginny tells him to make a wish and harry asks teddy for help blowing out the candle.

they skip actual breakfast, choosing to tuck into the cake first. it’s sickly sweet and makes teddy smile from ear to ear, frosting covering his cheeks.

“like it, mate,” harry bemusedly asks. all teddy manages is a quick nod between bites, and harry knows he’ll regret letting the kid have two slices later on. but that’s later and this is right now and right now, he’s sat at a table with the two people he loves most in the world, eating a cake they made for him. right now, he’s celebrating - in his own, admittedly, small way -  a birthday his parents’ never got to. right now, he’s doing everything they wanted for themselves and him. right now (and everyday after), he’s their son, the same as he’s always been, keeping them alive with every breath he breathes, every birthday he celebrates. right now, he’s sat with the woman he loves, laughing as he watches his godson attempt to fit an entire strawberry in his mouth, so completely and ridiculously happy.

happy birthday, ginny mouths from over teddy’s head. harry smiles easily at her, love shining through his eyes, lighter than he’s ever been.

[whumpwillow]

Aeonian | exist

me deciding which prompt to use for today: 

Whumpay 2021 Day 10: Screaming / Silence 

warnings: gunshots, starvation, dehydration, captivity, abandonment, panic attack (kinda?) 

mentions (but does not include): (ie. Ezra laments a lot of things) whipping, burning, slavery, impalement, lab whump, straitjacket, muzzle, nonsexual nudity, people talking to themselves referenced as insanity, homelessness, beatings

//

Ezra hated a lot of things. Hated being whipped, burned, impaled, enslaved, torn open…you get the idea. Namely, he hated people. He hated humanity.

All it had ever brought him was pain, pain, and more pain.

That was why, when the scientists stopped coming in to drag him out to the lab one day, he rested easily, not caring what had happened to them. They could die and he would laugh.

There had been red flashing lights and blaring sirens, then gunshots ricocheted off walls. Ezra wasn’t able to see outside his cell, so he just laid back in bed and listened to the chaos as everything these sadists had built fell down around them.

No one came to get him. No one came to shoot him—pointlessly—or lock him up in thick manacles, put him a straitjacket, or force a muzzle over his mouth.

He was left blessedly alone.

The noise and chaos continued for a few days as whoever had taken down the facility had their people sweep through it, though none came into his cell. Ezra took the time to rest and catch up on sleep for his sorely deprived body, because even with immortality, he still felt the physical effects of lacking something as strongly as a normal human would.

The scientists never fed him, so his stomach had hollowed out and cried for him to eat, but he had gotten used to that. He was beginning to feel a bit parched, as he’d usually end up swallowing buckets of water when they hosed him off whether he wanted to or not. It was the only way he received anything to drink at all, so most of the time he wanted to.

The noise died down after a while, the drum of footsteps and muffled voices fading away into nothingness. Ezra relished the quiet. The scientists were always talking to each other as they stood above him, his body lying prone and stripped bare on the operating table. They hardly ever talked directly to him, but they were always saying something to each other, or even just mumbling to themselves. He wondered if other people did that, or if it was strictly a scientist thing. He’d seen others before in his life talk to themselves, but it was not in the same manner as taking notes and measurements, as those other people had been…less than sane.

He grew so annoyed by their voices, hated the way they took vitals and measured the time it took him to heal, the way they kept getting so excited over whatever results they were trying to achieve.

Did they want immortality?

He remembered them saying something about that.

Why would they want this? Why would anyone want this?

Ezra shook his head to clear himself of the memories, throwing an arm over his eyes. He fell asleep again, feeling his body slowly regain some of the strength it once had before he’d been denied everything that made him whole.

He didn’t know how long he slept as no windows showed the daylight change to darkness. He kept track of time through how long his hair was getting. The slavers had shorn it all off when they got him, but now it was down to his thighs.

Wall to wall, the cell was painted white, along with the floor and ceiling. The only color came from the silver circle on the door, where a handle lay on the other side. Of course there wouldn’t be one on this side, no.

Ezra rolled his eyes. Then slept some more.

The days wore on, and there was nothing in his cell to occupy himself with. It contained no adornments other than the long shelf built into the wall, supposedly a bed but with none of the comforts one should have. It held no blankets, no pillows, not even a mattress, and was just a platform of hard, cold, white that Ezra slept on so he wasn’t on the floor. Not that he minded sleeping on the floor—most of the other places he’d been trapped in had him doing just that, and he’d gotten quite used to it.

He found himself getting bored. He walked laps around his small cell, really just circles due to the size of it. He did jumping jacks to get to get his blood pumping now that he’d restored all his lost energy. As the days passed by—or at least, he thought they did—he began to have so much energy he didn’t know what to do with it all. He did pushups and sit-ups and tried to perform some fighting moves, though he still had no idea what to do about technique. In all the time he’d been alive, he’d never learned properly how to.

Other days, he just lied there, on his little platform bed. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to imagine the sky, the sun on his face. He’d close his eyes and try to feel the warmth of it, but the cell was always too cold. The scientists had turned the heat down like he was a slab of meat needing to be preserved. That’s all they thought of him, really, even if they always said he was going to be their next big breakthrough.

Ezra hated humanity. He did. He hated people with a burning passion, he hated their treacherous ways, their scheming thoughts, their cutting smiles. People had an endless capacity for cruelty, especially where he was concerned. He was a plaything, a toy, a breakthrough, an indestructible slave. He was whatever they wanted him to be because he would never die so they could do whatever they wanted to him.

And, by all the gods, he missed them.

He never thought he would. He was glad at first, to be away, to be left alone for the first time in however long he could remember. When he was homeless and living on the streets, people had mostly ignored him, but there had still been the occasional shopkeeper who’d spit on him for sitting on their back stoop or a gang member who’d kick him just for fun.

Here, he didn’t have to worry about sleeping in the rain and the mud. He didn’t have to worry about being beaten half to death for wandering into the wrong territory. There was no one out to get him. No one to drag him away to any facilities to be tortured day in and day out.

He was alone. He was so, so alone and he hated it.

The silence pervaded his mind, filling him with an ache, an empty hollowness that rattled around inside his body. He wanted to see someone, anyone—just to see another person’s face, to hear their voice. They didn’t even have to talk to him, they could just talk over him, above him, about him, just like they always had. It didn’t matter. He just wanted to hear something to remind him he was not alone.

He didn’t want to be alone.

And yet.

Time marched slowly on, and Ezra found himself wanting to scream. He did.

It surprised him, the loudness of his own voice. It was a wonder to even remember what it sounded like.

He did it again. Again. Again.

He screamed until his voice was raw and hoarse, and he screamed some more until his throat was raw and ragged.

A wide, rictus grin split his face. Yes, this was it. Sound. He was real. He existed.

He started hyperventilating, doubling over and clutching his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. Shaking, trembling, he screamed until his voice gave out.

This much, and a normal human would have irrevocable damage. Vocal nodes scarred for life, creating a voice like gravel.

He healed the next time he slept.

And then he did it all over.

Later, after he got out, he would learn that he screamed himself hoarse for over forty years. Was trapped in that cell for even more.

—

tag: @dramaticcollapse​

[clumsyclifford]

ok you said i could send a prompt despite my like. almost disappearing for a couple days only to learn i Missed Prompt Night. SO first of all - thank u. second of all - could i get some merrikat? like i've really been wanting to read merrikat but as we know there is a tragically small amount of it out in the world we frequent. how about: sitting on the other’s lap ?

i think we ALL deserve more merrikat actually u are right. so here is the girl meets world pilot but like, make it merrikat. train boy rights

-

Jack has issues with the subway. It’s just a few stops over, Alex said. It’s really easy, you don’t even have to switch lines, Alex said. Alex is the kind of person who puts in headphones and becomes one of the locals when he gets on the subway. Jack has been to the city a hundred times and he still feels like a tourist. In all honesty, he would have walked to where they’re supposed to be meeting if it wasn’t so gross and hot. The subway isn’t much better, but at least it’s in the shade.

Jack steps onto the Q and it’s so packed that he can barely see the other end of the car even with his height advantage. He’s never been a fan of the metaphor of people being packed together like sardines but it’s unfortunately accurate. Everywhere he looks there’s another person, and each of them is in their own world. Alex had to pick the busiest time of day for them to meet up.

The train lurches forward and Jack manages to grab the handle by the door before he falls over. He can’t help but picture it, a car full of human dominoes toppling one after the other just because Jack lost his footing at rush hour. He tries to avoid checking his texts for the name of the stop he’s supposed to get off at, but he has nothing better to do than make sure he’s headed in the right direction. It would be a very Jack move to get on a train going the wrong way.

The train stops and he mentally checks it off the list. Three stops left. Blessedly fewer people get on than the throng that leaves, but it’s still packed. It’s funny how this many people wouldn’t feel crowded at a concert. If the train car was dark and one end had a band playing a rock show, this many people would be an audience, or with any luck, a mosh pit. He should know better than to wish for musicians on the subway. If any of these people read his mind, they’d throw him off right there. He glances around, but no one is looking back at him. At least that’s reassuring on the mind-reading front.

At the next stop, Jack looks up right as a boy walks on carrying a skateboard. He has headphones in, as any sane person on the subway would. He’s chewing gum and carrying a book in his other hand. Jack cranes his neck to see what his choice of reading material is, but he can’t see before there are too many people between them. Somehow, the boy manages to find a seat when someone else stands up. The train starts moving again. Jack tries to be subtle as he looks at this boy between people’s shoulders. He’s looking down, but whether it’s at his book or his phone, Jack can’t see from here. The boy turns and his nose ring catches the light and Jack is relieved all over again that no one here can read his mind when he very loudly thinks this boy is cute. If he was Alex he’d already be writing sonnets about this stranger. The boy smiles at whatever he’s reading, a dimple embedding itself into his cheek. Fuck, Jack thinks. He might give sonnets a shot.

One more stop passes and the train car ends up half empty. The seats are all full but there are few enough people standing that Jack has room to lean against the wall, and more importantly, he has a clear view of the cute boy across the train. Now that there’s not a sea of bodies between them, he has to be more careful about outright staring. Then again, if he lets this boy fade into his life story as a cute stranger on the subway who he never sees again, he might be more like Alex than he thought. He checks the text from Alex again to make sure he hasn’t missed his stop, and when he looks up, he makes eye contact with Cute Boy. Jack’s eyes widen as he looks away. He should probably stop staring. The subway lady's voice comes on to rattle off the name of the next stop. Cute Boy glances over again, and this time Jack smiles a little before he can look away. Cute Boy smiles back. Jack decides he’s just met his future husband.

Jack takes two steps across the train when it slows down abruptly, sending him off balance more than expected. He reaches for the railing but grabs at air, and the next thing he knows, he lands on something solid that’s very much not the floor.

“Hi?” Cute Boy says, looking surprised.

“Hi,” Jack replies. He’s in Cute Boy’s lap. And not on purpose. His face gets warm. People start piling in when the doors swoosh open.

“You good?” Cute Boy asks, pulling his headphones out. He makes no move to push Jack to the floor.

“I am now,” Jack says, and thankfully Cute Boy laughs. His laugh is as cute as his smile. “There were no other seats open.”

“And you got tired of standing?”

“Yeah.” Jack smiles. “You get it.”

Cute Boy laughs again and the train pulls forward.

Cute Boy’s name is Zack, he learns as they roll along. Yes, he can do skateboard tricks. Yes, he was listening to Blink before Jack fell into his lap. Yes, he might be Jack’s dream boy. He doesn’t ask Jack to get up off his lap, but when Jack feels bad and stands up, Zack stands too. They hold onto the rail as the train stops again and Jack gets so caught up in talking to Zack that he doesn’t hear the subway lady announce the name of the next stop.

Fifteen minutes later when there’s a natural lull in their conversation, Jack gets a text from Alex.

“Oh fuck.”

“Is everything okay?” Zack asks.

Jack manages to look mildly ashamed even though when Alex asks later, he’s going to tell him it was worth it to get Cute Boy’s number. “I missed my stop.”

[writtenonreceipts]

Hi! I love what you did with the Rowaelin angst prompt, you really got me there. I was wondering, what about a part 2? Maybe based on the song “ last Christmas?” Thanks!

is it wrong that i’ve never really listened to that song before?  oopes.  haha.  when i listened, it struck a chord of even more angst with me so here we are! thanks so much for reading and for the ask!!

read part 1 here

#

One year.

She’d thought that it would have been enough time.  She’d hoped that it would be.  But now, being back in the city staring up at Dorian’s apartment building--Aelin was terrified.  

She was shaking, her heart throbbing, her breath rattling.  It didn’t occur to her at that moment that she was having a panic attack.  Because Aelin did not have panic attacks.  She was in control of herself and her past and it was fine.

A doorman opened the front door as Aelin approached the building.  She gave him a smile while also pondering how the hell Dorian could afford a place like this.  The last she knew he’d been cut off from his family and struck out on his own.  Of course Dorian Havilliard wasn’t one who stayed down for long.  It shouldn’t have surprised her that Dorian lived in a place like this.

The lobby of the building was warm with soft golden light giving the entire space a decadent glow.  As she entered the elevator, Aelin managed to get a hold of her breathing under control.  It helped that she was going to the top floor.  

Mother above, Dorian, she thought, how did this happen?

She should have known that being gone for a year would do this.  Nothing would be the same, things would change, and hell--she deserved the unsettling tides.

The elevator opened and Aelin went the few short steps to his door.  There was only one other apartment on this floor.  Not that she should have been surprised.  When she knocked on the door she was met by a handsome man with black hair and a neatly pressed button up shirt.  His face lit up as he took her in.

“Aelin!”

“Hey Dorian,” she said, putting on her best smile.

“Damn, I’ve missed you,” he said.  He yanked her inside with a flourish. “Seriously, Aelin, you couldn’t have called?”

“I’ve been busy,” she said while shooting him a dramatic eye roll. “And so have you by the looks of it.”

Dorian grinned.  “C’mon.  I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Aelin followed him through the front hall of the penthouse.  Everything about it screamed of sophistication.  The hard oak floors, the cream colored walls, soft lights.  She truly shouldn’t have been surprised that Dorian had found his way back into this sort of society.

Christmas music drifted in from deeper in the apartment mingling with the sound of voices.  Warm scents of baked goods and cinnamon greeted Aelin as she rounded a corner and came up short.

Not only was the living room filled with men and women in fancy suits and dresses--Dorian’s business partners if Aelin had to guess--but several familiar faces as well greeted her.

“You're here!”  

Aelin had to stagger back as someone nearly tackled her with a hug.  It didn’t take long for her to recognize the embrace or the familiar scents of cedar and lavender.  Lysandra gripped her tighter.

“I missed you too,” Aelin chuckled.

When she was finally released from Lysandra’s near death grip, Aelin got a good look around at who else was gathered for the party.  She froze upon seeing Lorcan, Fenrys, and Connall.  If the three of them were here that could only mean--

She was gratefully distracted at seeing Aedion come from around the corner by the kitchen.  

“Well, well.  You’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence?” Aedion quipped.

Aelin had to bite back an inappropriate comment that she knew Dorian’s other guests wouldn’t appreciate.  Instead, she rolled her eyes and pulled him into a hug.

“Missed you too, ass,” she said quietly enough so as not to disturb the high society ambiance of the party.

“Let me get you a drink,” Aedion grinned.

He was quickly replaced by Dorian’s girlfriend, a delightfully terrifying young woman with silvery blonde hair and vibrant gold eyes.

“I hear you're the one to come to to stage an emergency ending to the festivities,” Manon said.  She had a shot of whisky in both hands and shoved one toward Aelin.

“Get me a lighter and smoke alarm and I can have this place cleared out in an hour,” Aelin replied with a wink.  Manon grinned and shot back her drink.

She could do this.  Despite all the unfamiliar faces and how strange it was to be back home--Aelin would make this work.  She unfortunately had to talk about what she had been doing the past year.  A lot.

Not long after the...incident...she’d taken an opportunity to travel to Italy to play as a concert pianist in various opera and play productions.  And then her work in the fashion industry led her to move to Paris for the last six months.  And she hadn’t regretted anything.  Not really.

The only thing she actually did regret was staying away from her family and friends for so long.  But she’d done so to keep herself sane.  She had to keep reminding herself that there was a reason as to why she left.  And a reason to why she would probably continue to stay away.

Aedion was just explaining the disastrous way he had proposed to Lysandra--when had Aelin missed that?--when the door to Dorian’s apartment opened again.  

Aelin was facing away from it but from the looks shot in her direction, she knew exactly who had entered.  She had to force herself to take a small, slow sip of her drink and not look over her shoulder.

“Hey Rowan,” Dorian called out. He’d been talking to someone Aelin thought was the CEO of some company or another but moved quickly out of Aelin’s line of sight.

When had they all gotten on close enough terms to be friends?  How had they all gotten to be friends?  And why the hell hadn’t Dorian warned her?

Panic swirled in Aelin’s gut, but she kept her back straight, her chin up.  She had no reason to be cowering.  

“Sorry I’m late.”

That voice.  That damn voice.  How could it still cause her heart to stutter and her skin to flush?  Aelin found herself gripping her beer tighter as she stared straight ahead at Aedion who was watching her carefully.

She was fine.

One year.  She’d had one year and she was fine.

“Nah, you’re fine,” Dorian said.  

Has the music gotten quieter?  Had all the voices stilled and silenced?  Aelin could hear her blood pounding in her ears.  Her palms started sweating and she knew she needed air.

She reached out and squeezed Lysandra’s hand who had diligently stayed by her side all night.

“I need some air,” Aelin said.  And without further explanation she darted to the balcony, slipping out into the cold air.

Despite how hot she was, the chill immediately struck Aelin to the core.  She downed the rest of the drink she had in one hand and set in on the small patio table.  The alcohol did little to help her.  If anything, it made her feel even more miserable.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Aelin stared out over the city.  From this vantage, she could forget about the traffic down below.  She could forget that just a few blocks to the west was her old apartment.  

Instead, Aelin let the chill wind brush against her skin.  The air helped her mind clear, even with all the drinks she’d had, and helped her breath a little easier.  

She’d made a mistake coming tonight.  Not only had it been overwhelming to see all her friends again, all at once, but now she couldn’t leave.  Not without looking like a wounded animal in front of that bast--

The door of the balcony opened behind her.  Aelin stiffened, but turned around.

There was Rowan.  Hell he was still just as handsome as ever with his broad chest, piercing eyes, and brooding face.  He’d cut his hair since the last time Aelin had seen it.  It was styled neatly and didn’t even hang in his eyes.  His suit fit his form well, the tie at his neck loosed just enough that Aelin caught sight of a tattoo trying to sprawl it’s way up his neck.  That was new.  

“You looked cold,” the ass said.  In one hand he held out a coat that blessedly looked like the kind of thing Manon would wear.  Black with too many zippers and buckles.  

She wished she hadn’t finished off her drink so she could toss it in his face.  But she was cold and she was the bigger person.  She accepted the coat and slipped it on.  It was lined with soft fleece and Aelin debated trying to steal in from Manon.

They stood there facing each other not not seeing the other.  After her initial appraisal of him, Aelin focused her attention over his shoulder where Lysandra stood watching through the glass door.  Aelin had never been more grateful for her friend.  Rowan also didn’t look at her.  Instead he looked over the cityscape behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

They stood there.  In silence.  Only the barest hints of Christmas music filtered from inside.  Despite the coat, Aelin felt a chill rise on her skin.  She didn’t want to be here.  She didn’t want to do this.

“Can we talk?” Rowan asked quietly.  

She felt the second his gaze turned to her face.  She felt his eyes rove her body and felt the way he assessed her.  Always so analytical.  Always so observant.

“I can’t do this right now, Rowan,” she said, tucking a stray bit of hair behind one ear.  She shocked her head and tried to dismiss the look of utter pain on his beautiful face.

“I just want--I need to talk to you,” he whispered.

Aelin stepped away from him and leaned against the balcony railing.  She stared into the main room and found Lysandra, still standing and watching.

“I can’t,” she repeated, “It’s been a year and I still can’t even look at you Rowan.  Do you not realize what you did to me?”

The pain on Rowan’s face hardened.  Despite the time they had spent apart, Aelin was still able to read him.  Anger, disappointment.  And more pain.  Good.

“You left before we had the chance to talk,” he said.

“Talk about what?” She said, cutting off before she said his name again.  It hurt far too much to keep repeating it. “That you cheated on me?  That instead of staying that night, you went out and got so drunk you couldn’t even control yourself?  Is that what you want to talk about?  That you broke my heart?  That after everything you and I have been through you just said to hell with it and went and trampled all over it?”

Aelin had to push away from the railing and pace a few steps.  Her body was shaking and her mind would not settle.  She bit down on her tongue to keep from talking more.  Because if she continued she knew her voice would get too loud and she couldn’t ruin Dorian’s party by screaming at Rowan.

He only watched her.  Aelin knew she had cut him deep but honestly did he deserve anything else?

“You said you wanted to work on our relationship,” he finally said.

“That was before,” Aelin snapped, but Rowan spoke over her.

“You wanted to work on what we have--had--and fix it.  And I’m the ass that took that away, I know I am,” he said, his voice quiet but with burning intensity. “But when you left without warning, without putting a closure on what happened, how do you think I felt, Aelin?  Did you stop to think about what that did to me?”

“Quite honestly I couldn’t care less about how my actions affect you,” she said and met his eyes. “Because obviously you couldn’t care enough about me.”

As he stared at her, Aelin swore she could feel a phantom of his hands on her body.  She’d imagined his touch before.  So many times at night when she struggled to fall asleep.  It made her sick then and it did so now.  

She’d had a year.  Wasn’t that enough?

Aelin broke the connection first by turning to where she’d set her glass.  She picked it up and made to step around him.  Rowan made to grab her arm, but she flinched away.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He retreated, just a step, but Aelin could still feel the ghost of his breath on her skin.

“I still love you,” he said.

Aelin squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears building behind her eyes.

“Good-bye Rowan.”

She slid the door of the balcony open and reentered the apartment.  The warmth immediately saturated her skin and enveloped her.  Lysandra was by her side in an instant.

Aelin was grateful when her friend did nothing but take the glass from her frozen fingers and guide her away from the balcony.  

Dorian wasted no time in finding her and giving her arm a squeeze. “I didn’t think he was actually going to come.  I mean, he hasn’t been out with any of us for a while.”

The look of sheer panic in her eyes told Aelin that he was telling the truth.  She patted his hand.  “I’m fine, Dorian.  But I should go.  I have somewhere to be.”

She gently brushed his hand away and gave Lysandra a firm nod.

“I can kick him out,” Dorian insisted.

“And make a scene?” Aelin shook her head. “I heard what Fenrys said, he’s working for Maeve now and you don’t want her on your bad side.”

Dorian looked ready to refute everything Aelin had said, but she held a hand up to silence him.

“I really do have somewhere to be,” she said.  She slipped out of Manon’s jacket and shoved it in Dorian’s hands.  

“Aelin, this handsome fella said he’s looking for you,” Manon’s voice rang out.

She looked up and felt the first bit of relief that night.

Sam Cortland adjusted his tie as he stepped into the living room.  His eyes immediately landed on Aelin and he smiled brightly.

“Hey,” she said.  His presence immediately strengthened her from the conversation she’d just had with Rowan. “I didn’t think you would make it.”

“I left my meeting early,” Sam admitted.  He wasted no time in leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to Aelin’s mouth. “It was worth it though.”

Aelin made introductions and Sam explained one fateful night in Paris after a work meeting where he had finally managed to woo Aelin into a date.  Six months later they were still together.

There was laughter and jokes that Aelin didn’t hear.  She knew Sam had wrapped an arm around her waist at one point.  Someone found her a new drink.  

But she missed it all.

Not when snow began falling outside and a pair of green eyes bore into her.  And even with the poor angle, she couldn’t quite seem to shake him.  She wondered if he knew that it had taken months for Aelin to stop crying herself to sleep.  That sometimes she still did.  And despite how much she cared for Sam she struggled telling him three simple words.  They still didn’t live together.  They hadn’t even slept together.

The snow began falling in earnest outside and Aelin could see the way it caught in Rowan’s hair and lingered on his jacket.  She missed everything going on around her except for the flex in Rowan’s jaw as he watched her.

She missed it all because it had been a year and she was still in love with the man who had broken her heart.

#

as always thanks for reading, for comments, for reblogs...it always means so so much!

tags--i’ve never really had a tag list before so bare with me if i accidently miss you/put you on a list you didn’t want to be on...please feel free to reach out and gently remind me...

tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire  aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx  @bamchickawowow 

[rk1kheadcanons]

Prince AU where one of them is a prince who falls in love with the other and in order to keep him close has him be his "servant" so people don't ask why theres a commoner in the place

I love this already! I'm going to base loosely it off of an rp we're in the process of doing with two other characters in the D: BH fandom.

Elijah Kamski is the King of Cerulean Forest (a play on the color of thirium.)

Amanda is the Queen of Rosengaurd and is the mother to Connor and Ayden, the princes of their land, and Connor is the betrothed to Elijah.

Ayden had been married off to the kingdom of Jericho to the Lady of the Sword, the King's General.

King Elijah is truly intrigued at the thought of his soon to be "Queen."

Connor's distraught because he's virtuous and his King is known for all manner of dalliances with commoners of his Kingdom, including letting them reside in the castle for no other reason than the King's fancy.

Connor is supposed to tolerate this, mainly because he is a male and they of course will need an heir to the throne.

It cheapens the open love that their kingdoms supposedly boasts.

Connor cannot turn down the betrothal without facing a possible war between the countries, so he does what any sane prince in the same situation would do: disguises himself as an incoming servant, a maid no less of a neighboring King's castle.

He knows about the kingdom and the one that holds the crown there. After all, his identical twin was married off to their female Captain of the Guard. He knows he will need help but he's afraid to involve his brother since he is part of the court and still a direct link to the crown, too.

Connor packs light and secures loyal servants, no friends that keep his identity hidden as he's secreted to the kingdom of Jericho by the cover of night.

In a cart drawn by his stableman, Rupert, he's pulled into the courtyard and received by two dancers of foreign ethnicity, Echo and Ripple. They bear strong similarities and heavy accents but are not kin, rather they are lovers. They quickly usher him into the castle, blessedly unmolested by anyone.

The first couple of days he stays in the would be harem. 

He finds that the King has no taste for such proclivities and converted into an area for entertainment a time ago.

He's smuggled up into the new group of King's servants as planned. What he doesn't plan on is being spotted more or less immediately. A firm yank of his arm from in armored Ayden has him having to tell his brother what was happening in their home kingdom and what he's now done by involving Jericho.

No matter how it looks, if Connor is a discoverer here, it will look like he was kidnapped from his kingdom, perhaps out of jealousy because he was engaged already to a neighboring King. After Connor explains why he ran though, Ayden promises to try to start making a preliminary injunction against the other kingdom and make look like also that the kingdom of Jericho is aware of Prince Connor's absence and are actively looking for him, that way should he be "found" here, it would not reflect badly on their kingdom.

This is all done in secret, of course, even behind Ayden's wife's back so as not to cause a stir. Ayden has contacts at home that are loyal to him still as well in court.

Connor begins working as the personal assistant to the King.

He's awkward at best trying to do anything at all.   Having had servants himself from childhood, anything he does is learned on the fly.  He's happy to be in the King's presence though, sure the man is not even aware of his existence. 

Markus Manfred's beauty was unmatched only by his intelligence. As each day passed and he served him tea, fetched him his documents to be reviewed, Connor couldn't help but fall a little bit more in love with the man as he spoke with his counsel on the affairs of his people and maintained a lovely air about him. Connor secretly wished that he were his betrothed.

Markus happened to observe his new little assistant as well.

He was a little different, Markus mused. At times it seemed that he had no idea what he was doing or how to do it, but he seemed made up for it in his adorableness and sheer stubbornness.

 Markus had caught him many times staring at him, blush staining his cheeks.  He’d write it off to his unique appearance that he had. He knew wasn't every day you met a person with two different colored irises.

He simply smiled and left the servant be.  

Connor excelled in the act of being a servant and found that he enjoyed the mundane tasks assigned to it. He also had forgotten how beautiful the King real was up close. He'd almost blown his cover just by staring at him in awe. The sky blue and grass green of his eyes were so bright, coupled with perfectly placed freckles on copper skin; Connor was a lost cause.

Things were going well for about a three weeks, Connor coming and going from his little home, still without a solid plan on what to do, when the official missing parchments from his kingdom complete with his face were passed out.

He hid in a cowl and slunk into work hoping no one would notice.

They did not and he was surprised that his day went about its normal routine with molestation. He puttered around the King's official office and he had not said a thing, yet the air was not awkward. Connor still was nervous as it was only a matter of time and he had no plan for what to do when discovered.

Just after he'd finished for the day, greeted the King calmly in a bow in a warm goodbye and went to turn towards the doorway, did the other's voice stop him.

"And how long did you plan on staying with the act of servitude to escape your betrothal, prince Connor of Rosengaurd?"

Connor whipped around so fast he almost lost his balance, his face in panic, a sharp contrast to King Markus who looked...amused?

"Listen, while I am sure you have your reasons and there are rumors, I don't mind you staying as you are but, do you plan to stay on the run forever to stave off the inevitable?"

Connor looked down at the floor, grabbing at his arm.

"I don't have a choice. My mother is using me as a bargaining agreement for more power from an allied kingdom. I don't have any other suitors so I am pretty much going to the only bidder," Connor states bitterly.

Markus sits back in his chair. Well, he could not let that happen. Connor was lovely and brilliant. If he was anything like his twin brother or more, which he just had a feeling that he was a true, Markus was more than happy to offer what he was going to.

“How about I become your suitor instead?”

It was the most natural thing to say.

Connor would be able to stave off Elijah and have just as good of a chance of bringing alliances and power to his family if that's all his mother cared about, meanwhile, he'd be able to date someone with who he had quite possibly fallen in love within a short period.

Markus seemed like he felt the same way, too.

Huh, calling him by his first name and not his title seemed so lovely in and of itself.

"I accept," Connor said with a small smile on his face that was mirrored by the other man.

Ayden was notified of this information and Connor was "found" in the kingdom of Jericho visiting his brother and accepting the King's offer to be his suitor.

Once Rosengaurd knew of these plans, Queen Amanda allowed for it, knowing that King Markus was a more honorable man than Elijah could hope to be.

She would allow Connor his decision on who he would marry off the two.

Of course, the decision was already made in Connor's heart.

[ruensroad]

never knew it could feel like this

@bloody-bee-tea gave me a good challenge with some mafia!Xichen falling in love with cafe owner!Jiang Cheng, featuring a healthy dose of secrets and jealousy.

---

His life had been a study of how to properly ignore his emotions from his first day under the Jin Syndicate’s thumb. Fear, hidden behind logic. Anger, hidden behind polite words. Sadness, hidden behind smiles. When one was part of a mafia and every moment of life forfeit at any given moment, one had to adopt such measures just to stay sane and alive. Falling too far into emotion would not be good for anyone, something he knew well. After all, if his father had not done that very thing, he would not be where he was now, and he’d promised himself long ago he would never follow that path.

And for the most part, he had a solid handle on it. Over the years, Lan Huan was certain he’d felt all emotions a human was capable of and had dealt with them all. Grief, to frustration, to rare, unbridled joy. There were some emotions he would never reach, like knowing true freedom, and he was alright with that. He had to be. The problem was that he’d miscalculated his ability to overcome these emotions he did not expect. Which was to say he did not overcome them at all. Not even close.

The Lotus Cafe was a safe haven. Peace, when peace did not exist for a man in his position. And a simpler freedom, where he could forget, even if for just an hour, that his life was not his own. Where he could imagine a world where sitting and drinking tea with a warm pastry was a welcome break from a normal job, and where he could smile and flirt with the cafe’s owner without feeling like a liar and a thief.

Not that his intentions towards Jiang Cheng weren’t true. They just weren’t wholly honest, could never be, and if he wasn’t so weak he could be the better man and walk away.

But there was no walking away from a miracle. Lan Huan had learned that from his mother. And perhaps Jiang Cheng didn’t know the full truth about Lan Huan’s tainted world, but he understood Lan Huan was at least holding secrets and still seemed to want him regardless. Only a blind fool would turn away from such a gift.

That was where the problem began.

Want was new for him. He’d wanted to be with people before, but it had happened rarely and had never gotten this far. He felt guilty to indulge it, and helpless to fight it. That he wanted Jiang Cheng was all the logic he could find. Too many reasons to list in needing to say yes, just as many reasons to say no. He was dangerous, a complication, but he could not make the words come to tell Jiang Cheng thus. And so the cycle of guilt and desire started all over again.

And now? Now he was faced with an even newer problem.

She’d come after closing, when Jiang Cheng had dimmed the lights and handed him a broom to help. A rare smile on his face, laughter in his eyes, Lan Huan had been unable to deny him anything, even if all he’d wanted in that moment was to sweep Jiang Cheng around the cafe floor in a dance to the music playing from his phone on the counter.

He’d settled for a kiss or three, all stolen around a grin, then had set to his task while Jiang Cheng had wiped down each table and chair.

The knock had set Lan Huan on edge, because his world’s shadows could reach even the brightest of places, and knowing the face on the other side of the door had not helped.

Seeing Jiang Cheng blink in surprise, but move to let her in had been infinitely worse.

And then it’d started.

“A-Qing,” Jiang Cheng chuckled and she swatted at his chest, all good natured. “Fine then, Doctor Wen.”

“Better.” She was always lovely in all the times Lan Huan had met her, the only free clinic doctor willing to patch up even mafia. Her poker face was legendary, even in the circle of the Jin Syndicate, and she didn’t even blink seeing Lan Huan standing there, holding a broom. “Did you finally find a way to disable your texts, Jiang Cheng? Wei Ying has been crying the past hour that you won’t answer him.”

Rolled eyes, so easily, and Lan Huan watched his entire frame relax, the way it never did around anyone that wasn’t family or Lan Huan himself. It made his fingers clench, just a little, around the broom.

“No, I’m just good at ignoring him,” Jiang Cheng huffed. “He knows I’m busiest at closing. Did he seriously send you here to make sure I wasn’t dead? Again?”

Her laugh was a surprise and the answering smile on Jiang Cheng’s face was a knife to his heart, so sudden it took his breath away. “Yes, but I didn’t come here for him. A-Yuan wanted to remind you of his recital on Saturday.”

Jiang Cheng sighed, but looked so fond about it that Lan Huan’s stomach dropped. In the half light, Jiang Cheng looked soft as he stared down at her, and she in turn seemed just as sweet. And that was a pain worse than the bullet he’d taken before. Lan Huan had to set the broom to the side before he snapped it, a cold feeling in his chest as they leaned in close.

He grabbed a rag and set to finishing the table Jiang Cheng had been working on, but it was a half hearted effort at best, his attention tunneling on the way Jiang Cheng bent in towards her and she to him, like their bodies knew each other’s shape and space enough it was an unconscious effort.

“I told him I’d be there, so I will,” Jiang Cheng assured her, teasingly stubborn, making her laugh again. Lan Huan had to turn away just to breathe and not rip the poor rag in half. He had a feeling that would be hard to explain away, given it was a new one. “Five o’clock, right? I made sure to fully staff so I can leave.”

“Five,” she agreed, teasing right back, and Lan Huan didn’t even have to look to know Jiang Cheng’s face was a pleased flush. Fuck, but why did this hurt so much to hear? “They’ll riot, you know. Their fearless, never-takes-a-break boss actually leaving before closing?”

“I take breaks,” Jiang Cheng grumped in mock offense and Lan Huan had to set the rag down too, feeling it start to tear around his fingernails. “You make me sound like some heartless slave driver.”

“Not heartless,” she teased, getting a snort and what sounded like some swatting. She chuckled and then finally, finally her footsteps went back to the door. Unfortunately, Jiang Cheng’s did too. “I’ll see you Saturday, Jiang Cheng. Be there or I’ll neuter you with a spoon.”

“Yes, yes, tell A-Yuan I’ll be there.” Fond, so fond, it made Lan Huan flush cold, a feeling he had never known. He’d known the numbness of anger and grief, for certain, but jealousy?

He didn’t know what to do except try to keep breathing, even as his chest constricted, even as his heart clenched so hard with something that felt too much like helpless grief. So what if Jiang Cheng smiled at her like she was the sun? They were close and they were allowed to be. So what if their closeness spoke of intimate things? Shouldn’t he be glad that someone saw Jiang Cheng as worth wanting the way he did now?

No, he realized with a sickened jolt. It wasn’t. Not when she was so blessedly normal and beautiful and could give Jiang Cheng a whole love, not just one wrapped in secrets.

Lan Huan was not used to feeling inadequate, but he felt it now, and didn’t know how to come back from it, nor compose himself, even as the chime over the door heralded her departure and the restarting of his alone time with the man he loved.

Gods, what would Jiang Cheng think, hearing such dark thoughts inside his head? He closed his eyes and forced in a deep, shaking breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth, as he’d been taught. One breath, two, three…

“You look like you’re about to explode,” Jiang Cheng commented beside him, startling him back to the present. His face was amused, but the edge of worry was creeping in, even under that adorably arched eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Lan Huan did his best to smile, but he knew it fell far flat even before Jiang Cheng snorted at his failure.

“You are a terrible liar,” Jiang Cheng said, crossing his arms now, and the words were an unexpected sting amidst the coil of black in his stomach. Oh, if only Jiang Cheng knew how wrong he was. If only he knew…

“I am,” Lan Huan agreed regardless, because he was failing at this. Tamping down the wave of cold was like trying to wrestle a dragon.

“A-Huan,” Jiang Cheng sighed and nudged him, then shook his head. “Is this about Wen Qing? The lady that was just in here.”

He knew that already, but Jiang Cheng didn’t know, and it was another hateful secret between them. “You two seem close,” he said, because it was true, and he needed some honesty here before he fell apart with lies.

“I’ve known her for years,” Jiang Cheng shrugged, though had gone a bit softer around his sharp edges again. Lan Huan hated that he couldn’t tell if it was for Wen Qing, or for he himself. “Made it to one date that I will never speak of again, so don’t even try. All you need to know is we’re friends and that she’s family now. So stop looking like the world’s poutiest murderer. She’s undeserving of any homicide plotting.”

It was meant as a tease, of course it was, but only made Lan Haun feel worse. Not that he’d ever been tasked to kill anyone, but he’d ruined so many lives in other ways, and his treacherous mind already knew what path it would take to ruin hers.

“I just…” He sighed, for once unable to put a voice or polite veil over what he was truly feeling. And perhaps that was for the best, he thought in some despair. Best Jiang Cheng see him for the petty fool he apparently was. “She makes you so happy…”

“She does, because she’s a friend,” Jiang Cheng said again, chuckling now, and reached out to take his hands. Lan Huan felt himself soften instantly, feeling the worked in callous of Jiang Cheng’s palms, so familiar now, a comfort. “Many people make me happy, even if I don’t seem like it. My sister, my nephews… hell, even Wei Ying, when he’s not being a total idiot.”

He leaned up on his tip toes then to kiss the side of his mouth, which had Lan Huan melting more even with his heavy heart. “I know… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for how you feel,” Jiang Cheng told him, firm on that, and slowly his untangled their fingers to wrap over Lan Huan’s shoulders, teasing in his hair. “And maybe I kinda like you jealous, even if it’s unwarranted. Just don’t act stupid or mean to her in the future and everything will be fine.”

“I’ll do my best,” Lan Huan promised, fingers sliding down Jiang Cheng’s hips, and swallowed hard at the smile he got for it.

“You’d better. I’m not saving you from her wrath,” Jiang Cheng huffed and leaned up again. This time, Lan Huan met him halfway and kissed him slow, though knew he was pulling him in a tad closer than was strictly necessary. Not that Jiang Cheng seemed to mind, if that chuckle was any indication.

“And for the record,” Jiang Cheng tacked on when they parted, forehead to forehead and gently swaying to the music and the peace of their world, “you make me happy too. Next time you feel this way, remember that, or come find me so I can tell you again. Deal?”

Lan Huan kissed him for that, finally finding a much better, truer smile, and knew he was utterly lost. “Deal.”

[sapphicspacebabe]

a first (and fierce) affirming sight

Pairing: Cal Kestis / Original Female Character

Rating: T

Word count: 6,538

Synopsis: There is a list Cal keeps in his head, full of Jedi who he hopes (prays) escaped those final, carnage-filled hours of the Clone Wars. Every year he was on Bracca, the list grew smaller and smaller, until only a handful remained. On Ordo Eris, Cal can finally add the one name he had hated removing.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23942239

᛫᛫᛫

It was a dream. It had to be, Cal thought dazedly as three blades of light met in a spectacular display of lavender leavings. The impact jarred his sprained wrist, vibrated up the aching bones of his arm, until his teeth shivered painfully. For a moment—a brief, peaceful moment—past and present bled together into a timeless space.

This was the true curse of precognition, he knew, feeling hard ground give way to the springy mats of the Temple’s training salles, and back again. Becoming lost in the pull of the past. Cal had been on the receiving end of that lecture more times than he could count. And the ghosts were hungry today, batting away at his attention like tooka kittens to string. Somewhere within him, a memory tried its hardest to unlock itself from the holocron he had constructed around The Before.

(Because that’s all he can bring himself to call it. The Before. An ephemeral, almost innocent name for his childhood and a majority of his adolescence, whose presence only brings him pain now.)

So he took a two-step backwards. Disengaged. As if finishing an abandoned movement to a dance, a powerful pink blade appeared where his belly had been moments before. Too close. From his perch on his shoulder, BD-1 warbled an apology in Binary. Cal winced as his fatigued brain offered translation, as scattered as it was:

They took my stims. I’m sorry.

“Don’t worry about it, buddy,” Cal muttered, exhaling sharply as he dove into a forward roll, shoulder taking the brunt of his weight as he came upright. Remembering a half-forgotten cadence, he thrust his hand outward, finished the movement with a painful, Force-borne shove. A cry of surprise was his only clue that he had stumbled his opponent with his push. He didn't voice his private thoughts, borne on the end of an exhausted mental probe he threw in his opponent’s direction. When it dissipated against that fragmenting, durasteel wall of terror and pain and sorrow, he didn't curse.

(Even if he desperately wanted to.)

His opponent was still floundering, perhaps a sign that she was finally, blessedly (thank the Force for small mercies) exhausting herself. This gave Cal a moment to compose himself. Draw from the wellspring of the Force and smother the arguments his body was raising.

And they are many.

He is exhausted in a way that makes him afraid of the moment when their duel is over. The bass line of the music playing throughout the gladiatorial arena has long since worsened the post-electrostaff headache into a positively ghastly migraine. The dance his opponent is leading him in—making him give up more and more of that spun-up asteroid/Galatenan reed mat ground—has his stomach doing uncomfortable flips as his mind fights against the seductive pull of the past. He is bruised, covered in the blood and leavings of a dozen different creatures.

And yet…

A sense of relief so profound filled his breast. Of joy. In any other circumstance, he would be beside himself with the strange sensation of something warm in his chest that balks at raising his lightsaber against hers.

Even if she does not recognize him.

(Especially because she does not recognize him.)

But... if I can’t get through to her, Cal thought, I won’t need those stims anyway. Because without stims, without a prayer of a plan, this was how Cal Kestis—survivor of the Purge, Jedi Padawan—would die.

Cal knew (hoped?) that he was still in that stinking, rat infested cell he had first woken up in. He knew (hoped?) that Beedee was rusting in the dark rivers of Kashyyyk, or worse. Because this was a dream. Cal could create stims, wish away his aches and pains, choose a combatant of his choice in this sheltered corner of his damaged psyche.

One whose face made his heart hurt less.

But some sane part of him, untouched by sedation and fatigue and hurt, knew that this wasn't a dream. Knew that the Haxion Brood has pitted him against the only combatant in the galaxy who posed a threat to him:

Another Jedi.

No.

A friend.

The blue blade of his lightsaber came down with all his might upon the crossed blades of his opponent—his friend. She had drawn them close (Too close, Cal mused as the impact jarred his bones again, made his headache worse), held her lightsabers before her in an ‘X’, which shadowed her aristocratic jawline and sunken cheekbones in something resembling a healthy glow.

Half a decade had changed him, but she had remained untouched by the passing years. But if Cal can call the last five years “easy”, it is clear that his friend did not have such a luxury. Her blue hair is lank. Wild. Untamed. Her sunset eyes are feral discs of pink that look almost red in this light.

They showcase no recognition, even as Cal called her name again.

He’s certain that this is no case of mistaken identity. There are a few new scars, and she wore the filthy remains of foreign, official-looking robes instead of her impeccable tunics and wrapped belts of The Before, but Athanyal Hu is someone Cal would never forget.

(Now, if only he can get her to see reason.)

It had begun so innocently, if one could call anything about this, “innocent”. The heavy thrum of the music he used to listen to while breaking down derelicts on Bracca (for he swore to remove the band’s existence from his personal ’Net playlist), combined with the roar of the crowd, the dying cries of the feral oggdo he had gutted, and the pounding of his own head created a cacophony like no other. It was a deafening thing, leaving him at the mercy of the poisonous, unJedi sensation sitting in his chest like a coiled snake.

But for now it lay buried.

Tamed.

Secured.

Above his head, the larger-than-life holoprojection of Cal’s crime-lord kidnapper stretched out his arms, pontificating to his crazed church of fanatics.

“What. A. Show!” exploded Sorc Tormo.

Cal tilted his head upward further to regard the shimmering figure of the Umbaran. The blue cast from the holoprojector only served to make the bluish skin of the crime lord even more striking, and his colorless eyes even eerier. Clad in regalia that reminded Cal vaguely of Count Dooku’s vestments and costumes, and smiling like a predator about to swallow prey, Sorc Tormo did little to hide his lacking sanity.

The snake occupying Cal’s chest hissed with rage at the sight of the Haxion Brood’s boss.

He quickly strangled his anger back into hazy submission.

“The legends really don’t disappoint,” the Umbaran crime lord continued. “These Jedi are unstoppable!”

The word slapped Cal in the face with all the force of two ships colliding in hyperspace. Legends. Five years had passed, not five hundred. Every year he was on Bracca, official Imperial channels would report the capture and executions of "fugitive Jedi". Some of the names were unfamiliar, but most were not. And each time a new name reached Bracca, the private list Cal kept alive in his heart lost one more person.

One more legend.

Like Athanyal had lectured about to the senior Padawans during the small moments when the High Council remembered the education of their youth. Sometimes, Cal still dreamed of those lessons in that beautiful, enclosed conservatory within the Temple. He remembered how her eyes lit up with pleasure as they translated ancient Jedi epics together. How excited she would get as they delved through the ruins of ageless Jedi Temples that lived on when the Order had been forced to forsake them. Everything Athanyal was, everything she tried her hardest to teach them, was done with the kind of wild abandon only a Padawan raised in the years before the Clone Wars could ever truly know. She taught him the true meaning of the word, “legend”.

Now, if one paid the credits, dug around the ’Net long enough, they could pay to watch those legends die.

(When he had been desperate enough, those first few weeks after he had buried himself in Bracca’s seas, Cal bought a bottle of the disgusting, fermented fungal mash that served as beer on his new Imperial homeworld. Sat somewhere private and damp and watched grainy holo-footage capture those last moments.

Her last moments.

And when Prauf found him—red-faced and crying, gaze fixed on the pixelated death mask of Master Unduli, but not her, never her—the Abednedo only sat beside Cal in companionable silence while he wept.)

Cal’s anger had stirred, righteous and holy as the crime lord continued his homily. Was this all he was to them? Cal thought helplessly, wounds stinging and fatigue dragging him to what constituted “down” on this artificially spun-up asteroid. Entertainment for the criminal underworld, stoking fear that had led to the genocide of his people?

The carnage was clear around him.

The proof.

“How will we ever give our guest the challenge he deserves?”

The snake in his chest hissed. Cal bared his teeth in a snarl and glared at his captor’s larger-than-life holoprojection. From somewhere behind him, Cal heard the hair raising screech of blood-rusted gears opening a blood-rusted door. A tiny well of fear opened in his belly as his mind wandered and Beedee whined.

Far across the arena, the blood-rust of a thousand species cracked like a scab as the door opened to deposit some new creature from Sorc Tormo’s hellish bestiary for Cal to kill.

(Or die by.)

The inside of the cage was as black as night. From its depths, a wave of terror so extreme erupted with such power, the sour taste of adrenaline coated his mouth. Cal felt his grip tighten the slightest on the hilt of his lightsaber, felt his feet shift unconsciously into the starting cadences of Form I: a comfortable reminder of old times. Peaceful times. The Before.

And then the dream began.

With a feral cry that chilled Cal to the bone, Athanyal Hu launched herself from the black and blood-rusted cubicle that had enclosed her. For a stupid, idle moment, Cal felt his heart lighten. Felt the memory (salty tears, Prauf beside him, datapad frozen on the terrified visage of her) that caused him so much pain, replacing itself with something better.

Because she was alive.

Beedee’s warning wail jerked Cal from dream to reality.

One of Athanyal’s magenta blades striking his shoulder hard enough to part muscle and singe bone finished the transition.

He charged forward, swinging his lightsaber overhand in a feint. With a snarl, Athanyal blocked with one lightsaber, the other darting for his belly. But Cal had anticipated her strike (telegraphed as it was through the Force), and already ducked low beneath both blades. Stalking left to assault an earlier aggravated wound, Cal pressed against those strange, formal dueling pants with his lightsaber, an apology on his tongue.

“I really hope you don’t remember this when we get out of here,” Cal said.

There was no weight behind the blow, but the shock would hopefully break her from this alien hold on her mind. Blue plasma melted fabric, burned skin. Athanyal screamed

delight and wonderment decorated the air like a sweet-smelling mist. Among the revelers, Cal stood on the observation balcony, between two Padawans he had grown close to during his créche days (and whose names he could no longer recall). There was no embarrassment felt between him and his friends as they watched the tourney with the same wide eyes and whooping cheers as the younglings below. Twilight on Coruscant had forced some unnamed member of staff, or maintenance droid, to light the braziers in the formal exhibition salle. The shadows threw mythical, dancing shapes against the wood walls and transparisteel windows overlooking Coruscant. The riotous colors cast from four ignited lightsabers (sunset orange, forest green, floral pink) reflected against the wide, wall-length panes of transparisteel, bathing the night sky in an illusory aurora.

And at the heart of it all was Athanyal: beautiful in the same way a lightsaber was beautiful, forcing her body through the torturous aerial calisthenics of Ataru’s most technical two-handed cadence. Mesmerized, the audience watched as she leapt and spun through the air, avoiding the sweeping blades of her opponents with a grace that seemed unnatural. It was hard to rectify this battle hardened veteran with the young woman who was, not hours before, laughing the tournament off with a smile and a wink.

(“I don’t need a tournament to distract me,” Athanyal had said in her conservatory, smiling that inscrutable smile of hers as she walked between rows of younglings and Padawans. “Besides, I think covering the unattributed Jedi epic “Sunrider” is a little more interesting than spending the day tired, hungry, and crammed in a too-small climate control tube.”

“So the rumor that you were eliminated six minutes after sunrise was true after all?” Cal offered, grin wolffish.

Athanyal’s smile was diplomatic and saccharine as she retorted:

“Padawan Kestis, thank you for selflessly volunteering to date this text using Psychometry.”)

Floral pink sent forest green spinning. A Nautolan girl retreated to the spectators with a surprised, but pleased look on her face. Master Ki Adi Mundi tapped a sonorous charm and announced the defeat of the Padawan whose name was lost to the sea of memory. Three had become two as easily as breathing. Wide eyed, breath caught in his throat, Cal watched Athanyal circle her opponent. She bore her teeth in a snarl as

high above their heads, Sorc Tormo crowed with delight as a particularly powerful Force push sent Cal spinning in one direction, lightsaber vanishing elsewhere. Athanyal, who had been knocked on her rear by Cal two moves earlier, rested on her elbows for a long moment before launching herself at her friend with the same, unrecognizing gaze and feral war cry.

Cal exhaled with the sort of exhaustion that sapped strength from his bones. Extending his hand outward, he rolled to his knees and felt the pommel of his lightsaber strike his palm with the same shock of memory as usual. Athanyal was caught off guard by this recovery; she quickly retreated, raising both lightsabers overhead as Cal attacked with uncharacteristic viciousness. He wore on her defenses, forced her back towards the center of the arena, in case Tormo decided to “enhance the viewing experience” with a herd of rampaging varadactyls.

In his gut, Cal knew the varadactyls would be the last straw, even as he felt the Force bolser his flagging body, his flagging mind, his

twilight had fallen on the Temple again. The crowd in the formal dueling salle was much more sedate than those who had gathered for the Chakora Seva tourney two years before. Cal stood slightly apart from the other Padawans in the advanced dueling circuit. Fifteen and uncomfortable, he watched with a senior Padawan’s eye as the two highest ranking duelists amongst the younger Knights brought their demonstration into its third hour.

Virin Qoshu had begun the seminar, demonstrating the handling and use of a saberstaff against Master Cin Drallig. In a sparring match that lasted all of an hour and a quarter, both Masters Qoshu and Drallig lectured, broke to assist older Padawans who were showing an interest in the ancient, ungainly lightsaber practice, and came out evenly matched. Cal had ignored most of the bout; Master Tapal had already begun his training with two lightsabers, and the idea of marrying himself to such an unwieldy weapon bothered him.

(Though he did admit that the saberstaff had its charms.)

Then, Masters Qoshu and Drallig stepped back, respectfully bowing to each other in turn. From beneath his position on the overhead observation balcony, he felt a teasing energy reach out for Master Qoshu, and watched the imposing Kiffar woman smile in turn.

To Cal’s surprise, a barefoot and very dressed down Athanyal Hu emerged from the eaves beneath his feet, and approached a towering Anakin Skywalker, who was striding from his own hiding space on the opposite side of the observation balconies.

Immediately, he came to attention, pushing back from his position near the wall to stand as close to the railing as possible.

Stripped down to her belted and sleeveless under tunic and leggings, Athanyal meditatively spun two Silvian iron and Brijeshi leather pommels in hand as Master Skywalker continued his approach. He was equally bared to the cool air of the salle: chest bare, hands gloved as Athanyal’s were gloved, wearing the same tight black pants as his dueling partner.

The gathered Padawans were unused to such public undress. All tittered, passed appreciative glances at either Master, found themselves blushing. Even Cal was not immune to the display before him as he took in the defined muscles and strong shoulders of Master Skywalker, and the graceful curves and refined movements of Athanyal Hu.

(His flushed face was due to the heat of so many in the salle. Nothing more, nothing less.)

But where Athanyal held herself tightly, like a sand viper poised to strike, Master Skywalker let himself bleed. There was a conflicted air about him, a miasma in the Force. Something dark and ugly flashed through the space, taking the shape of a togruta.

Cal flinched bitterly. Everyone grieved for Ashoka Tano, but Master Skywalker’s grief was tinged with bitterness. Accusation.

She left. snapped lightning-quick through the already charged atmosphere.

(A sharp glare from Athanyal made the thought dissipate. But its sting still lingered.)

“The first lesson Master Qoshu ever taught me about Jar’Kai was: “Using a second lightsaber with a dearth of overconfidence will not double your skill. It will only double your chances of cutting a hand off, or worse.”,” said Athanyal.

The miasma around Master Skywalker lashed out with anger, a quiet How dare you staining the air like tar, even though he laughed as uproariously as Master Qoshu and their audience did. Athanyal—returned from that long, sealed mission to Kijimi—did not laugh. Did not smile. She only began circling her opponent like a predator stalking prey.

As if tied to her, Master Skywalker mirrored his much smaller opponent.

His friend.

Cal watched, something akin to jealousy burning in his gut, as the two old friends fell into an even older pattern: Athanyal rolled her neck, her shoulders, and Anakin did the same. Anakin flexed his fingers over the pommels of his lightsabers—one his, the other his lost Padawan's—and Athanyal mirrored as if the lightsabers in her hand were strangers. From this distance, Cal could only see their lips moving, conversing secretly with smug smiles and mock-scowls that led to unfettered laughter. The Angel of War and The Hero With No Fear mirrored each other (trusted each other) so completely, their breathing seemed to synchronize until they were like one organism.

“Jar’Kai is many things,” said Athanyal, patience dripping from her voice like honey as she led this mesmerizing opening dance. “It is a method of dueling, like Master Qoshu’s beloved saberstaff is a method of lightsaber construction. It is an ancient technique, first referenced in the Qel-Droma Epics as the preferred form of the mythical Sith Lord, Exar Kun.”

Here, she paused. A curious expression overcame her face as she looked at her friend, who still matched her stride, her breathing, her heartbeat. For a brief moment, Cal felt Athanyal’s grief and... fear? in the Force. But as quickly as it appeared it was gone, like a summer storm on Naboo. She grinned—her first since Kijimi, since she had drawn herself inward and emerged changed—and Cal’s heart lifted when her eyes briefly found his

“I guess it’s a good thing we’re still entertaining royalty,” Tormo sneered.“Maybe betting against our little Chume’da wasn’t a mistake after all.”

Exhausted, lightsaber pointed towards the ground, Cal paused his assault, taking a step back as Athanyal struck one of the massive domed elevators that deposited smaller, more aggressive wildlife into the gladiatorial pit.

With a cry of pain, she crumpled to the ground (mats?), lightsabers deactivating upon impact and spinning off into the shadows of the opposite elevator’s interior. Cal’s push had done more than stagger her as he had intended. Fueled by fear, he had shoved out with what little strength he could spare, and more.

Because exhaustion was beginning to win.

Because Athanyal would not stop her constant, semi-feral assault.

Because Cal didn’t want to die.

(He didn’t want to kill Athanyal to live.)

Athanyal struck the elevator’s exterior several meters away at the same moment Cal retched, disgusted with himself. A youngling mistake, drilled into their heads when they were still too young to be trusted with training ’sabers, and he had made it so easily.

He gave in to fear.

Cal retreated from where he had vomited, drawing on the flagging remains of his strained connection to the Force. About fifty meters in front of him, Athanyal still lay crumpled and unmoving in the dust, too far away to confirm or assuage that ever-present, choking fear.

And above their heads, Sorc Tormo gloated about the royalty in their midst. The captured Chume’da.

Royalty was a term not often heard in this new Galactic Empire. Naboo’s queen was not the same who walked behind the casket of Padmè Naberrie, also called Amidala. This new queen was little more than an Imperial mouthpiece. Alderaan simmered quietly under the eye of the Emperor. Their queen was unwilling to risk Alderaan’s viceroy, prince, and senator while he remained in the Imperial capital, so close to the evil he fought to stop (and his friend had died fighting). Royal families from thousands of worlds had either gone to ground, slaved themselves to this new Imperial regime, or died with their people.

Royalty was a demonym now: a painful reminder of what had been lost.

What the Empire had stolen from them.

But the crime lord said royalty. Said Chume'da. He used a title that tugged on his precognition. Cal felt sunlight where there was none, felt the calm and serenity of the Temple surround him.

But the crime lord opened his mouth yet again, interrupted the recall of memory.

“I was tempted,” the towering Umbaran continues with a cold smile, “let me tell you, to hand Her Worship over to the Inquisitors, but that wouldn’t be a warrior’s death. Besides...”

The crime lord let out a mournful sigh. Across the fifty meter gap, Cal felt his heart leap into his throat as Athanyal moaned pitifully. With an effort equal to the gravitational mass of a neutron star, he watched as the pommels of her lightsabers skittered brokenly across the ground (mats?). She tilted her head upward, snarling at the smiling Umbaran, who was staring down at her.

“She killed some of my best friends,” said Sorc Tormo. “That makes this personal.”

Cal took a more aggressive stance as Athanyal reversed her grip on either lightsaber, panting as if the air were thin, and crouched low in defense. The feral look remained, but the fear grew until Cal felt like he would choke on it

midnight found the formal training salle in near darkness. Only the illumination of Coruscant and her moons entered the floor to ceiling panes of transparisteel, casting the interior in a ghostly glow. The interior, however, was lit only by the blazing lines of pink plasma trapped in bitter lockstep.

Cal was mesmerized, though the sheer hurricane of feeling—with Athanyal at its heart—made Cal dumb to the fact that this was not his memory.

In near total darkness, The Angel of War practiced this sinuous, twining dance. By the light of her lightsabers, and Coruscant’s nightlife and satellites, Cal watched with a riveted gaze as she danced for an audience of one:

Herself.

Slowly, Athanyal worked her way through the leaping waterfalls and violent rivers of Ataru’s cadence. The delicate balance of the Force and the lighter footwork of Niman allowed for a more relaxed practice. When this grew too little to control the rising winds of the hurricane within, The Angel of War flung herself into an absolutely punishing cadence of twists, fantastic aerials, and dangerous deactivations of one or both lightsabers. This was followed by either two outcomes: one, or both, tongues of pink fire erupting to life behind an opponent.

This time, there was a third outcome.

With an absolutely terrifying howl of fury, Athanyal threw herself into the air with the help of the Force. Terrified, Cal watched as two blades collided on an almost lazily activated blue blade. The choreography was so complete, Cal—beneath his terror—recognized the partner who had invited himself into this private dance of control.

No.

Not of control.

For control.

“ “Using a second lightsaber with a dearth of overconfidence will not double your skill. It will only double your chances of cutting a hand off, or worse.”,” said Master Skywalker, almost bored.

Athanyal’s answer came delayed as a second tongue of blue plasma activated to her left. In a move that screamed of self-destruction, the recently Knighted Angel of War redirected her right blade as a stone redirects a river (or a coastline, a tsunami) to intercept the blade that came at her left flank

Cal blinked in surprise as Athanyal leaned into this new, complicated bind. Their feet were hopelessly entangled, and Cal’s interception (his lightsaber at her left, his hand fastened tight around her right wrist) only helped to lock them in further.

Up close, he could see what half a decade could do to a Jedi in hiding, and his heart broke.

Athanyal was underweight. Her cheeks were hollow and her skin cracked from dehydration. Dark circles were beneath her eyes, from exhaustion, abuse, or a combination of the two. Old wounds laid the foundation for new wounds, a hellish scaffold that allowed for further destruction only. Even through the gloved hand that held fast to her birdlike wrist, Cal could feel five years worth of memories butting against his mental barriers, like pirates at a bulkhead: relentless and punishing.

The clothing that had caused such confusion only served to further perplex him, now that they were in the light. The top was a soiled thing, made of something impossibly soft, yet as durable as plasteel. Sleeveless, it was a color that might have been green in another life. A series of interlocking belts and fabric wraps cinched the waist and fabric of the tunic together. Cal was used to this—Athanyal had worn such garments as her Jedi robes once she was old enough—but the colors were new, as was the embroidery: little threads of pearl and silver that denoted either rank or status.

The pants were black, as were the soft wrapped boots (which were endeavoring to hook behind his ankles, trip him and send him to the mats (ground?) where he would meet his end) that went up her calves to her knees. Tattered, torn, and burned, they spoke of battle. Of betrayal.

Of sorrow.

Athanyal’s face twisted into a snarl. Through his palm, Cal could feel her determination take root, a mist overlaying a chemical foundation that made fear her prime emotion.

Except when their dance dragged memories, kicking and screaming, to the surface.

And pain.

A plan was beginning to take root when Athanyal smashed their foreheads together in a blinding headbutt. Cal felt his hand loosen from around Athanyal’s bare wrists as he tried to stagger backwards, but she pressed this new advantage

The expression of her partner would have been one of shock, had it been visible in the gloom. Athanyal deactivated both lightsabers, resistance against Anakin’s ignited blades disappearing between heartbeats. Only reflexes honed by the years saved the Brijeshi Jedi’s life.

Wide eyed, mouth hanging agape, Cal watched as Athanyal somehow dropped to the salle’s forgiving floor. The blue blades that had posed such a threat a moment before intersected where his partner’s heart had been seconds prior. Cal felt the pull of the Force and watched as Athanyal curled her body between Anakin Skywalker’s spread legs and found her footing behind him. But he was there, bringing both blades behind his back to block the downward, forbidden Vaapadcadence’s finish.

“I came here to be alone,” said Athanyal brokenly. The push from her opponent only sent her stumbling backwards a handful of steps, enough to give them both some breathing room. “Please, it’s bad enough you saw me like that.”

“First,” Anakin continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “A Jedi must know their self.”

This time, it was the partner who set the tone, went on the attack

Bile had long since settled in his throat. Sorc Tormo’s crazed commentary was beginning to destroy the very fabric of his nerves. His partner was limping, favoring her left side as she retreated, determination giving way to fear again, but this time Cal felt a weak thread of Athanyal beneath this feral, traumatized woman. Of sanity.

Good, Cal thought, pressing his advantage and exerting this weakness not just in his partner, but in Jar’Kai itself.

That was when he executed his plan.

Again and again Athanyal brought her lightsabers up in defense, circling through each memory of each cadence. Again and again Cal decimated her defenses, throwing as much weight behind the blows as he could. Athanyal staggered under the barrage, arms trembling with the effort to repel his attacks. Slowly—to the roaring pleasure of the crowds above—Cal drove her back, until Athanyal was pressed against the domed elevator

Athanyal...

terror and relief warring in her eyes as

wait… I know you

Cal used the very last dregs of his strength to curl his hand toward himself

You do

The relief in Athanyal’s eyes was what he saw—what he felt—as the Force pulled instead of pushed

… ca—

and Cal cradled the back of her head with his bare hand as his lightsaber ran her through.

The air left Athanyal’s lungs as if she had been punched. Cal felt it in counterpoint: a burning polestar of agony that ignited low, to the left and beside his belly button. He held her tight, fingers running through dirty blue hair, tears running clean lines through the dirt and blood on his freckled cheeks. Deactivating his lightsaber, Cal lowered them both first to his knees, then to his rear, his hold on Athanyal gentle as he guided her across his lap.

Surprise robbed her of any remaining strength. Taking his hand away from the back of her head, Cal drew his wards tight around his mind and moved sweaty hair from Athanyal’s face. Even as armored as he could be, Cal still felt the change wrought by that planet that hurt her so. The horrors of the past five years barking and clawing at his holocron-shielded memories.

As a youngling, he remembered first touching Athanyal’s mind. It wasn’t like touching Master Tapal’s, or his friends’ minds. She had kneeled in that beautiful conservatory, took his hands in hers, and smiled crookedly as she traced the lines of his palms. It was like diving into a bath-warm sea as smooth as Chandrilan silk. He had marveled at what he saw—what he felt—and the mastery of her mental wards astounded him. They were ancient, unyielding things, like the monastery stones on Ahch-To.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

Now, her mind was a maelstrom of the past that she was made to relive, and those ancient masonry walls in her mind were broken and torn. The memories he grasped were little more than disjointed fragments, nightmares of both past and imperfect future. Wincing the fragments away, Cal gently stroked the pronounced plane of Athanyal’s bruised cheek, where the remains of a substance as blue as her hair lingered. Gaze soft, he smiled as cloudy familiarity finally, finally, filled her sunset eyes.

“A dream,” Athanyal whispered, as if she didn’t dare imagine this. Tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes began to fall as Cal felt a thready bloom of hope warm his fingertips. A shaky finger rose to touch his cheek, but she refrained, clinging to the faint memory of sanctity between psychometrics. “This is a dream.”

Cal held her hand in his, granting her permission to touch. To know it was him. Her hand was cold—she was always so cold—but alive. Her eyes widened, and her bottom lip trembled. The sea of her mind began to calm as she reached out. Felt.

“Not a dream.” Her voice was hoarse. Tears fell freely as she let herself believe, even as she began to fall back into that darkness.

“Cal—”

“Rest, Master Hu,” Cal murmured. “Next time you wake up, you’ll be somewhere safe.”

Athanyal contented herself with that, eyes nothing more than hooded, pink slits. The brief moment of sanity was gone. Beedee hopped off his shoulder to putter beside Athanyal’s supine body. He warbled an apology in Binary, and scanned the wound in her belly. He tilted his head up at Cal, and trilled.

We need to get out of here.

“I know, buddy. Trust me, I know.”

High above their heads, their crime lord kidnapper finally realized that Jedi had not slain Jedi. Incensed, Tormo shrieked orders to his underlings; Cal let out a particularly rude curse in Brijeshii and looked around. There were no easy exits, and with Athanyal trapped in this strange fugue state between past and imperfect future, she would not be at his side.

So Cal cursed. He cursed the Force. He cursed himself. He cursed Greez and the gambling debts that had trapped Cal within this hellmouth. And last (but certainly not least), he cursed whatever strange and magical event that brought Athanyal Hu to this stars-forsaken place.

A sound penetrated the air, somewhere between an engine warming up and a yowling loth-cat. The part of Cal not focused on maintaining his wards and body with the Force blessed him with a snapshot of the future.

Damn, he thought, gently moving Athanyal to the ground, pressed against the warm metal of the elevator. Cere, Greez, what’s taking you guys so long?

With Athanyal tucked out of harm's way, Cal called the two abandoned pommels to his hand. The lightsabers were impeccable works of craftsmanship, leather supple and metal burnished to a warm, rosy glow. They were small in his hands. Elegant.

Regal.

As much as he would love to leave them at their master's side, he didn’t know how quickly they would need to make a Virin Qoshu-approved “strategic retreat” (or if Athanyal would try skewering him while his back was turned). The risk of their loss is too great, and there was only enough room on his belt for one lightsaber.

“Well,” Cal said quietly, more to himself than his deaf audience as he gave either pommel an experimental turn. “Good thing Master Tapal made me attend that Jar’Kai seminar of yours…”

Somewhere high above his head, he heard the roar of a GAR-issued jet pack. Time crawled to a halt. A half-second before he saw his enemy, Athanyal Hu’s lightsabers came to life in his hands. The bright magenta plasma burned his retinas briefly, left afterimages that took seconds to blink away. But he had risen them just in time. The bounty hunter who had kidnapped him fired a devastating shot that would have bored through his forehead had he not been quick enough.

“Watch Athanyal!” Cal shouted back at Beedee as the crowd roared its bloodlust. He didn’t pause to see if his trusted friend heard him.

The bounty hunter fired again, hovering just out of reach. Each volley, Cal reflected back with lightsabers that felt like an extension of himself. Like ghosts, he could feel Athanyal’s light hands guiding his, holding his. The black clad Mandalorian aimed his fist in the young Padawan’s direction. Cal had just enough time to roll beneath the sprouted tongue of flame before it struck him.

Cal remembered storming a Separatist stronghold on Jabiim. Seeing the enemy’s cognizant droid general cut down clones and Jedi with stolen lightsabers. That had been jarring.

This, somehow, was worse.

Athanyal’s presence was weak.Thready. But it was there, stronger than it had been when she had first launched herself from the bowels of her prison. He kept an eye trained on her, and one on his enemy, deflecting blaster bolts aimed for his old friend back at the bounty hunter who fired them.

He felt it a moment before he saw it, a subdued blaze in the Force that sang of fierce protection and latent anger. Cal felt his heart leap in his chest.

Cere.

Glancing up, Cal gathered the weak threads of the Force that still answered to him. With a cry of frustration, he flung the bounty hunter as hard as he could, into the waiting keel of the Stinger Mantis as it sliced through the air like a fin.

“What the…” sputtered Sorc Tormo. “It’s the Mantis! Blast that ship!”

This was their chance. Heart in his throat, Cal ducked as the wake from the Mantis’s engines reached him, hurrying back where he left Athanyal. Beedee chirped, worried, as he retook his place on Cal’s back. To his growing concern, Athanyal did not register his presence. When he touched her face, it burned.

Cal felt for Cere in the Force, felt her flicker.

Lower the ramp and dust off the med kit, he said. I have a friend who needs help.

Cere’s reply was a watercolor smear of emotion: shock, elation, latent anger at Greez, and concern. Satisfied that he had been heard, Cal crouched, wrapped an arm around Athanyal’s back and one under her knees.

“Come on, Master Hu,” Cal grunted as he took her in his arms. Stars, she was light. “Time to leave this uncivilized affair.”

Cal hoped that would get a reaction from her. Hoped it would stir a warm laugh and a story. Oh Cal. You haven’t seen uncivilized. Have I told you about my time on Mandalore?

Centering himself, Cal ran for the lowered ramp of the Mantis, the Force propelling his steps until it felt like he was flying. Around him, plasma scorched the rock of the arena’s ground, turned the sand to glass. He saw Cere clearly, now: leaning out of the Mantis’s forward hatch, blaster in hand as she covered her apprentice.

Behind him, the lord of the Haxion Brood bellowed:

“You can’t escape me! I’ll hunt you across the galaxy if I have to!”

Chase me then, Cal thought as he leapt onto the loading ramp of the Mantis, beside Cere. She looked startled for a moment, taking in battered Cal and his equally battered companion. For a moment, Cal thought he saw recognition flash in Cere's eyes, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

“What—Cal?” Cere shouted over the deafening roar of the Mantis's engines. “Never mind. Get her on the sleep couch in the spare room and strap yourselves in. We’ll handle everything else when we’re in hyperspace.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

[skaliciascribbles]

The Birth of a Demon

So I’ve been watching the Moon Blossom au and this week they gave a list of prompts, so of course this is my excuse to do nothing but write a bunch of content for it.

I may have zoned out for a while and gone a bit overboard...

Anyway, here’s Moon Blossom week - Bewitched Moon Blossom au belongs to @somebodyalreadytookthis2

Some would say he was possessed, but Sans was pretty sure he was still as clear-minded as before this all started. It wasn’t his research into “evil things” that was having a toll on his mental health. If anything, it was the bullying. Well, that and the passing of his brother which he suspected might’ve been caused by the very same person who led the bullying against him. There wasn’t much he could do with being one of the few monsters in this small village, and it was far enough away from the castle and its influence that anyone upset about something the royals were doing might seek to lash out at him simply for sharing an appearance with the princes.

His current obsession, and the reason people were beginning to avoid him more, was a demon. Demons were always said to be awful creatures, and yet he’d been seeing one regularly for months now. It wasn’t his fault he wanted answers, he was sure any sane individual would want to know more about the demon that appeared in their room at night with sweet-sounding offers. While the whole demon appearing to offer something enticing sounded about right for demons, it would always leave for the night with a small bow and a “call for your king if you change your mind” if he respectfully declined.

Any text about demons was something he did his best to get his hands on. Digging through the small library in the house of the village head to try and find anything that might help him or explain things to him. It was frustrating to him that all the books just talked about demons in broad strokes and referred to them all as volatile, bloodthirsty beasts that took pleasure in toying with mortals. Even the latest book he’d discovered which was supposedly about summoning the things. Not once was there a mention of demons going so out of their way to offer things to a mortal, nor a demon as polite as the one he’d met.

Closing his eyes, he could still picture the first night he’d met the demon with surprising clarity. It’d been after a particularly rough day. He’d broken down crying in a secluded corner of the village as the grief of his brother’s passing overwhelmed him, only to be found by his tormentors who’d lashed out at him worse than they’d ever done before that. After a day like that, a stranger in his bedroom hadn’t gotten much of a reaction out of him. In fact, the demon looked somewhat beautiful with the light of the full moon highlighting its inky form. The glowing blue eye was like a second moon as the two had watched each other. He could have gotten lost in that solitary eye, and probably would have, if it weren’t for the movement of the demon twirling what appeared to be a black rose in its fingers as it held the flower close to its chest.

“I know your plight,” the demon had said, “and I can offer you the power to oppose your oppressors. You’ll never have to live in fear again.” The voice had been deeper than he’d expected from the other, but it was a pleasant pitch that felt like it resonated within his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he’d ever found it in himself to speak, much less deny the demon. Though the denial was after a moment of hesitation he still felt bad for having. “I’m sorry, but I must decline. Accepting feels like admitting defeat, and I don’t want to let them win.” His voice had been even and calm, something he was even less sure of how he managed than his ability to speak at all.

“Very well.” The demon had nodded, then it gave a short bow to him that felt like something reserved for only those of higher class rather than something that should be aimed at a peasant such as himself. “Should you change your mind, simply call for your king.” With that, the demon had vanished in a blink. Gone into the shadows it appeared to be made of.

After that night, the demon would appear at seemingly random, though always after a bad day, to make the offer again. The exchange between the two of them felt almost routine at this point. Sans found himself finding some strange comfort in it whenever it happened. Any moment in the demon’s presence was comforting, but he couldn’t find it in him to break their exchanges to offer to let it stay. Not like he knew if it would accept a snack or drink, or if it even wanted to be around him beyond trying to get him to agree.

Sighing and opening his eyes, he looked towards the window. It was getting late out, so he’d have to end his search for the day. The book he was holding snapped shut and gently pushed back into place. It looked as though it’d be no use, but he kept a mental note of where about he’d been just in case. With a forlorn expression, he just rested his fingers along the book’s spine for a moment.

Footsteps quickly took off from just outside the door to the room making him cringe slightly. He hated how familiar he was with the gait of the villager head’s brat child. It was useful if he could catch it before it got to close as it usually meant trouble was coming as they led the torment against him. He had no doubt they were looking for some excuse for another reason to go after him, as they and their gaggle of mindless yes men friends had been quiet lately.

The walk had been blessedly quiet until his house was in sight. Just as he turned the corner to see it, the brat and their ‘friends’ were also suddenly right in his face. His next step was hesitant as he tried to think of a way out of the impending confrontation, but it was too late. “There’s the demon worshiper!” the brat yelled. Sans’s mind stuttered as he stopped in place while others from the village began to look over at the accusation. It was a weighty claim and not something you called somebody lightly.

Of course, that left the skeleton with only one way to reply. “What?” He couldn’t rid the dumbfounded tone from his voice as he watched the brat grin faintly as they stared back at him through a mop of neatly kept brown hair.

“He’s been reading books on demons for months, and today I saw him with a book on how to summon them! He clearly plans on cursing us all!” Sans didn’t know how to refute their claim. It was true that he’d been reading the books, but that was to research the demon that had been visiting him unprompted. Though saying such things while trying to deny the claims wouldn’t make him look any better. The fact that he’d met a demon face to face and was still alive would probably convince the people that he was some sort of demon worshiper.

Words failed him as the brat began to stalk towards him, calling at the villagers that they had to act now to rid their village of evil. Sans threw his hands up placatingly, trying to come up with anything to calm the quickly turning minds of those he’d grown up around as he backed up. At most he hated the village brat and perhaps their friends, but he didn’t hate the village as a whole. He’d never dream of cursing the only place he’d ever known.

A mob was slowly forming and they were driving him away from the safety his home could have temporarily offered. Panic was beginning to seep through his bones as frightened whispers mixed with jeers over the quick acceptance of the accusation. It didn’t take him long to realize what was happening. The brat saying to get rid of the evil was meant to spur the others towards the usual punishment for demon worships. He was going to die.

Hands grabbed at him, tugging him towards the village square. He struggled, pleading with those around him to stop. He wasn’t what they thought he was! He didn’t want to die!

As he was being drowned in a sea of chanting that had begun, calling for the demon worshiper to be purged, that the demon’s offer echoed in his head. If he did nothing, he would die. He’d rather admit defeat to the brat than die. He didn’t know what to say beyond the vague instructions to call for his king. Still, he took a deep breath.

“My king!” he shouted. “My king, I’ve changed my mind!” Despite his shouting, his voice was still lost among the crowd. He could only hope the demon somehow knew he was calling for it.

The shadows of the evening seemed to grow longer at his calling, growing a mind of their own as they began to twist. Startled cries began at the edges of the crowd as people stumbled over nothing and others caught sight of the strange phenomena. People both surging closer to the group for help, or scattering away to try and escape whatever was happening. Despite the noise, deep chuckling could still be heard rising above it all despite how low and calm it was.

“It’s a demon!” somebody cried in terror. “He’s already doomed us all!!” That had the crowd falling apart more as people hoped to escape what a demon might do to them. Sans was dropped in the chaos. He curled up on the ground, in hopes to avoid too much damage from being trampled.

Nothing touched him, despite the loud hysteria, and that caused him to slowly peak out of his protective position. Shadows swirled around him and would leap from the ground to lash out at anyone who grew near to his prone figure. Unthinking, he reached out a hand towards the darkness. It reached out back at him and twined harmlessly around his fingers. The cool touch oddly soothing, almost like it was eating away his fear and panic to leave only a gentle calm.

He looked up when the familiar voice of the demon spoke to him. “You chose an interesting moment to finally admit that defeat you’ve been avoiding.” A single glowing eye stared at him from the condensed darkness beside a nearby building. “However, I will not let you deny me now just because you’re safe.”

A quiet laugh left Sans. “Even if you left, they would just come back for me again.”

That appeared to satisfy the demon. It nodded before stepping from the shadows with a paper in its hands. “Gather the items on this list and return to your home. Only the foolish will dare approach you with the intent to lay hands upon you. Any that do shall be made forfeit.”

“I’ll be as fast as possible,” Sans said as he took the paper with care. Just a brief glance showed a list with the more uncommon items crossed out, and the remaining items were things he should be able to find quickly. He was pretty sure he had some of them at his home already.

Standing, he realized the demon had vanished. He supposed he better gather the items quickly so as to not upset the demon. Plus doing a short grocery run for a demon was a small price to pay for not dying.

Arms full of the seemingly miscellaneous items the demon had asked of him, Sans entered the small bedroom off of the main room of his home after the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The demon was already inside of it doing something on the ground. He made sure to carefully dance around whatever it was doing to place the items upon the bed. Shadows ate up the items he’d dropped off. Candles were arranged around the floor sporadically and lit the whole wooden surface which lit the room oddly, though part of that could be the seemingly sentient shadows moving about as well.

“Is that all?” he asked the demon as he turned to inspect what it was doing to his floor. Dark markings streaked about with strange runes he couldn’t read scrolling off in odd angles. It was beautiful if a bit strange.

The demon didn’t spare him a glance. “Stand in the middle,” it directed as it flipped a page of a thick aged tome. Not seeing the harm in a simple action, Sans followed orders and stepped carefully into the spot where the patterns seemed to flow towards. A brief glance and nod was his only assurance that he was right in his guess.

Unsure of what else to do, he simply watched the demon work as silence fell between the two of them. The movements it made were transfixing, but the demon’s familiar flower wasn’t in its hands. If it weren’t for the candlelight, he probably would have missed the fact that it was gently tucked into the sharp crown that sat upon the demon’s head. It was almost cute in how it reminded him of the frazzled old human who kept inventory tucking their writing utensil behind their ear only to forget where it was later. He only said almost because calling a demon cute seemed like a bad idea. Especially when he had no idea what the demon was doing.

Eventually, the demon stood. It held out its hand and Sans took the quiet message and held out his hands in return. Confusion pinched at his brow when soft black petals fell into his palm. “Place them in your mouth.” Sans wasn’t sure it was safe, but from his research on demons, he knew that the demon wouldn’t attempt to kill him until it gave him what it had promised him. With that to comfort him, he complied. The petals were strangely sweet in his mouth.

With the old tome in its hands, the demon began to speak in a language foreign to the monster. As he spoke, the sweetness in Sans’s mouth strengthened. The lines upon the ground had the colour of the demon’s eye begin to race through them, starting at the edges and working in towards him. He forced himself to watch as he repeated that the demon wouldn’t kill in his mind.

One of the demon’s hands reached out as it continued to speak. That same blue colour filling the lines began to overtake the white glow of what had been removed from him. Strangely enough, he could feel a cold discomfort as the colour and shape of whatever it was changed. His head was also feeling light and strange as if somebody was actively shoving cotton into it.

Wavering on his feet, Sans closed his eyes.

The newly born demon opened his eyes slowly. Fingers twitched as he looked slowly at the one who’d changed him. The other was watching him with a wide grin. “It’s just occurred to me that I never asked before now for the name of my new servant.”

Despite having all the memories of his past life, the new demon felt its old name was not enough for what it’d become. “You may call me… Killer, my liege.” The other nodded.

“Very well Killer, I have given you power. All I ask in return is you offer your services to me. I have grand plans, and they would do well with you to aid me.” The request was simple as far as the now named Killer believed. While he’d been blind before, he knew now that this was the king of demons himself.

He gave a low bow. “It would be an honour to serve you, my king. If I might be selfish enough to request one more thing? I’d like to use my power for the reason you gave it to me”

The king was silent for a moment. “If it would entertain you, my new demon lord.” Killer grinned. A village to torment as it had tormented his past self and being gifted a position as one of the lords of the demon king’s court? Truly today was the best he’d ever experience.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

There were a few fanfics that of course had kidnapping. Huge trope with the fandom but I remember that there were fanfics where Derek was the one to kidnap Stiles. Would you happen to know any like that?

Sure for you. - Anastasia

Tonight You Belong With Me by dontleaveportland

(1/1 I 847 I Mature)

They had even remained blessedly quiet when Tommy said goodbye with a quick peck on Stiles’s lips. It was his first real kiss, however fleeting. Stiles had been so surprised – though in hindsight it explained why Tommy’s hands had been so sweaty, the teen wiping his jeans every five minutes or so that night.

Stiles only saw one tear slide down Claudia’s cheek, his father quickly putting an arm around his mother’s shoulders and distracting her with the food cleanup. The night really had been perfect.

Killing Moon by Are_you_ever_not_going_to_fall_for_that

(1/1 I 1,834 I Mature)

Stiles and Derek talk in the forest which leads to something Stiles both wants and doesn’t want at the same time. Not a very happy story.

Alpha by Nival_Vixen

(1/1 I 3,257 I Explicit)

Stiles has been kidnapped by a serial killer known only as Alpha. Stiles finds himself far too attracted to the man that's probably going to kill him.

Postmortem by Batwynn

(1/? I 5,939 I Mature)

The Nogitsune is gone, but so are a lot of other people, too. Everyone who's left keeps trying to tell him he'll get better, with time.

The question is: when do they ever have time to heal in Beacon Hills?

Aka: When Stiles needs help, and Derek sort of kidnaps him. [Hey, at least he's trying.]

Full Circle by kaistrex (weishen), klimt

(1/1 I 19,557 I Mature)

Stiles wakes face to face with the muzzle of a black wolf and he does the only thing any sane person would do in such a situation: he screams.

A hand – a furry, claw-tipped but human-shaped hand – comes up to cover his mouth. He follows it with his eyes to a furry wrist disappearing into the sleeve of a leather jacket, up to broad shoulders and to the head of the wolf looming over him sprouting from the collar of a Henley.

A wolf. Wearing clothes.

Stiles sags backwards with relief. It’s okay. He’s just dreaming.

–

All Stiles had wanted to do was warn a newly-returned-to-town Derek Hale that some unsavoury-looking men had put a target on his back. Instead, he gets kidnapped, turned into some sort of human-fox hybrid by a spell gone wrong and, oh yeah, werewolves are a thing.

This is all Scott’s fault.

Last Thing Left To Lose by SylvieW

(6/6 I 24,834 I Teen)

Derek's pack kidnaps Stiles and his friends for reasons unknown. Things don’t go as planned, and Stiles and Derek make an unexpected connection that changes their lives.

Matenapped by xcaellachx

(12/12 I 36,671 I Explicit)

Alpha Derek Hale has known Spark Stiles Stilinski was his mate for over six years. The traumatized Spark had killed the rogue alpha who tried to kill his friend so many years ago and was still scarred by the experience. Now, Stiles was settled in as a magic shop owner and Derek was ready to claim him for his own. The ritual of matenapping was an old but accepted tradition and Derek had his den ready to receive his mate. It was time.

Stiles Stilinski thought Lydia was insane for thinking the sexy alpha wanted to matenap him. He was damaged by his past and determined to stay single so he didn't harm anyone. He kept his magic tightly leashed and couldn't believe that anyone could want him. Not a murderer. Even when the wolf came to see him and touched him gently, winking at him and looking at him longingly, he just couldn't accept it.

Very soon, Stiles wouldn't have a choice but to believe it. Derek was taking his mate and bringing him to his mating den where he would court and woo him until he couldn't help but fall in love with him.

Pack Wars by miss_aphelion

(31/31 I 158,626 I Mature)

Scott liked to call it the Great Pack Divide of 2012.

Derek liked to call Scott an idiot.

(Or the one where Derek kidnaps Stiles to teach Scott a lesson, and ends up learning a few things himself)

[shadeofazmeinya]

Close Encounter (1/1)

Summary: Jeremy isn’t sure which god he has managed to piss off, but clearly it must be a powerful one to have a day with all the worst luck of his life combined into one.

A/N: Written for the @rtwritingcommunity Secret Sunshine!! Hope you guys enjoy a very short and sweet mermaid au! Reblogs and Comments greatly appreciated!!!

1.7k+ words

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129926

Jeremy isn’t sure which god he has managed to piss off, but clearly it must be a powerful one to have a day with all the worst luck of his life combined into one.

He sits back in the tiny boat he’s managed to become stranded in, a worthless ripped fishing net hanging out on the end, one oar of what is meant to be a pair laying against his leg. The boat rocks with his movements and Jeremy closes his eyes and covers his face as he waits for the nausea to pass. His clothing is damp, sticking to him and sending a shiver down his spine, but he’s hoping the universe will be a little forgiving with this sun shining down on him. Keep the worst of the chill off during the heat of the day. It won’t get rid of the fishy, salty smell, but it’ll be a fucking great start.

The day started like any normal day. Just another day going out to fish, trying to catch enough to sell and maybe eat by the time the sun went down. But nature had another course set for him when the dark clouds rolled through. He realizes too late he hadn’t tried to check for signs of storms and had no time to get back to shore. He could do nothing but bear down and take it, keep desperately afloat. Now he’s left stranded in his boat, not really sure how far from shore he’s gone with his fish net ruined along with any potential profits.

And now. And fucking now, he’s hallucinating. So doing well.

There was a face. He saw it. Or imagined it? He really can’t fucking tell. But there was something poking out of the water a few feet out from him. Something with eyes. Curious, large, bright eyes. With long blonde and pink hair that flowed out around it until it dived back under the water. If Jeremy were fucking sane right now, he’d say it was a human. But no other humans could possibly be around this far into the ocean. Or have been under the water this long without needing to take a breath.

He watches the area where it had been. He looks for a disturbance but there are no signs beyond the gentle waves rocking the boat, ones he knows he should get to work fighting to get back to shore. But he still stares intently, waiting for whatever. While still greatly debating his sanity.

That’s when he hears a splash, coming from behind. He jumps a mile, the noise magnified in the open, vacant space. “Who’s there?” Jeremy bursts out, seeing small waves expanding out, where something once was but has gone under the surface again. Jeremy picks up the paddle, holding it out as if to hit anything that got near. “I swear if this is a fucking shark or something, I’m going to-“

Splatter. Then a thud and the boat rocks, twisting Jeremy’s stomach as he whips around again. The other oar is flopped in front of him. Soaked but intact. A fucking savior that has managed to jump into his fucking boat from the ether. Jeremy is slack jawed as he reaches for it, fingers tracing the smooth wood. So this part isn’t a hallucination. You can’t touch hallucinations, right?

As he stares, baffled, he hears some sort of noise at his side. A gurgle, maybe a giggle. Jeremy clutches both oars to him now as he whips around to find a face staring back at him. Bright, sharp eyes curled up with a smile. Long, blonde hair pooled around, tipped pink on the ends that haloed out over shoulders that just hung out of the water. It continues to make a noise as it stares right at Jeremy.

Jeremy isn’t sure if he screamed. But his throat feels raw as he scrambles away, nearly flipping his lifeboat for the third time of the night. “What the fuck? Who are you?!”

The person -creature? there’s something its eyes just doesn’t seem… right, skin tinted strange- blinks back. It peaks out more above the water, floating as if standing at the beach and not resting in the middle of the fucking ocean. It still grins and Jeremy can see better how sharp the teeth on it are. “Who are you?” it squeaks back, voice high and light.

Jeremy narrows his eyes, shifting his grip on the oar, but keeping it in front of him. Keeping the creature at bay. “I asked you first,” he retorts. “Who -or what- are you?”

“What are you?” the thing chirps back, blinking.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow, looking curiously at its responses. “A human. Unlike you. At least you don’t fucking seem human. Or real.”

“Real,” the creature repeats, then shifts up and down, mouth stretching across its face. It’s head falls back, chirping. It takes a moment before he registers that it’s laughing.

Jeremy blinks, jaw opening and closing. “Okay… Do you have a name or something?”

“Name,” it chirps, shifting closer in the water, head tilting curiously.

Jeremy swallows, shifting back in his boat and adjusting his grip on his oar. “Are you asking for my name? I asked for yours!” The creature pauses its swim, not getting any closer, eying him carefully but doesn’t say another word. It just stares. Smiling. “Uhh… My name is Jeremy.”

“Jerrr… Emy,” the creature hums, testing the word. “Jerem… Jeremy.”

“Yeah, Jeremy,” he says. “Can you… only repeat words or something? Can you even understand me?”

The creature laughs again, moving closer, pulling out more of the water. Her hair seems to flow around her shoulders and Jeremy swears it shifts in the light, the pink end almost a red. Like fire sitting on top the foam and sea. But as she comes closer –at least Jeremy assumes a she with the length of her hair, the softness of her lips and cheeks- she doesn’t seem dangerous. Curious. Enticing. And Jeremy gets lost for a moment, staring back.

Then a new splash. Nearby.

Jeremy whirls to face the sound. There’s a flash, a twinkle from the sunlight catching what Jeremy at first thought was a fish jumping somehow from the water. But the scales were large, stretched and elongated in a way he hasn’t seen on any fish near here. It’s there for but a moment before diving underneath. Jeremy swallows, readjusting his grip on his makeshift weapon.

His other friend at his side perks up at it, seeing her out of the corner of his eyes get a gentle smile pulling on her face. There’s some sort of chirping coming out of her, squeaking at the other figure. Jeremy can’t tell if its talking or just making noises. But before he can ask, she’s gone, ducking into the waves as well. Leaving Jeremy alone.

“Wait!” Jeremy calls out, grabbing the side of the boat and bends over the water. “Can you at least tell me where the shore is? Do you know? Help me!”

He’s met with his broken reflection in the waves, indifferent to his plight. Jeremy sighs, sulking back into his boat. He glances in the sky, trying to figure out where the sun is sitting, where he’s supposed to go from there. It sets in the west, right? Fuck, which way did he sail out? Was it north? South? He just started moving out that morning, planning to stay in sight of land. Like he normally does.

Jeremy lets himself feel hopeless for only a moment before pulling himself together. He has to get back to land somehow. So going off his best memory of where the sun was when he went out, and with both oars in hand, he starts making his way across the water, pushing the little boat as best he can.

He doesn’t make it far before there’s a bump, causing Jeremy to startle as he felt it from below the boat. The boat rocks from whatever hit it, his grip tightens with white knuckles. But when he looks out, nothing is there and he slowly resettles on the waves.

Jeremy is not cut out for being this long in the open water. Fucking everything is far too terrifying to him today.

Then another hit and a shove, the boat creaking as it’s moved forward in the water, pushed through the waves. Jeremy gives a manly yelp, yanking his oars in, but the boat continues moving, going further and faster than he was rowing. Jeremy glances behind the boat and spots a pair of long tails, like the glimpse he saw before. One a deep brown, like the earth. The other a bright greenish blue, nearly blending into the ocean waves that broke around it. They move together, slicing through the water in ease, helping the boat move as well.

Jeremy sits back, for a second wanting to shoo them off. But as they push, he realizes it’s in the direction of shore. In the direction of home. These creatures are helping him. He doesn’t know why, but he prays at least this is them actually saving him. And not somehow taking him to better place to kill him.

They finally stop as Jeremy sees the shore approaching. Blessedly familiar and waiting like nothing has happened. Still a bit away, but well within Jeremy’s reach. Where he should hopefully reach before sundown.

He whirls around, looking back to see the first creature. She calls, some random chirping noise echoed across the water and Jeremy turns to see her waving. Her arms hold some sort of fins, the same as the cyan tail that shimmered through the water. Her companion glares like he’s trying to kill him with just his eyes, which is the only thing that pokes out above the water. Mixed with the curled, red hair, it only seems to further the mood and intimidation.

Jeremy blinks and waves back to the female, avoiding the ire of the other. She beams, turning to the other and seems to be chirping something. He rolls his eyes, shaking his head before disappearing again in the water. She laughs a moment before joining him. Jeremy watches a few moments more, until the waves settle and it seems like nothing had ever been there at all.

Jeremy swallows, running a hand through his hair before turning back to the shore. Now within reach, the promise of home.

During the paddle, Jeremy can only think of seeing those creatures again. Curiosity fills in after the fear and a new plan for the coming days starts taking over his thoughts. Whatever that was, whatever those are, Jeremy needs to know more.