#but it ended up fitting in perfectly with the previous ficlet

[robininthelabyrinth]

LXC is the legal guardian and adopter for LSZ or LJY, and NMJ has questions.

part 2 of the LJY-adopted-by-LQR fic (now also on ao3)

-

“So, did I knock you up before I went to war or something?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Because I feel like you should’ve mentioned it if that was the case. Possibly in a letter.”

Lan Xichen was so tired that it took him a solid minute to parse what was wrong with that sentence and how to respond, and it was not by following his first instinct to apologize that he should’ve written better letters.

“Stop making fun of me,” he said instead, groping towards some measure of dignity.

Sadly, dignity was in very short supply when you were taking care of babies. Multiple babies. Well, one baby and one toddler, which was somehow worse?

Lan Xichen was pretty sure they’d figured out how to time their crying off each other.

“I would never,” Nie Mingjue said, like a liar, and then he picked up little Jingyi and – Lan Xichen simply cannot find another way to put it – shook him, in a manner not unlike testing a melon for freshness.

For some reason, this made Lan Jingyi stop crying and start making snuffling little giggles instead.

“How did you do that?” Lan Xichen asked, eyes wide.

“Do what?” Nie Mingjue tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and scooped up some food off the table, offering it to him, and Lan Jingy actually ate it. “Xichen, are you feeling all right?”

“Shhh!” Lan Xichen hissed, eyes fixed on the baby, which was neither spitting up everything nor wailing as if his heart was broken. “No unnecessary noise during meals.”

Nie Mingjue snorted in amusement. “Sure,” he said amiably, in the tone Lan Xichen had long ago learned meant ‘nice rules you’ve got there, it’d be an awful shame if someone found a loophole in them’. “This isn’t a meal, though; it’s just a snack.”

Lan Xichen eyed the still-not-crying Lan Jingyi and decided that now was not the time for a spirited debate on the virtues of discipline and fulfilling the merits rather than the word of a rule.

“Where’s monster number one gone?” Nie Mingjue asked abruptly. “He must be very good at hiding, because I looked away for a blink of an eye and he was gone.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes slowly dropped down to where a cloth-covered lump was not-so-sneakily edging towards Nie Mingjue’s foot.

Nie Mingjue was one of the foremost front line fighters of their generation, and possibly the previous one as well. His physical ability was matched only by his incredibly keen senses.

There was no way he was not aware of the lump.

“It’s a real shame, too,” Nie Mingjue continued. “I was planning on doing a test of how far you can throw children, but I think monster two here’s a bit too small to make the test worthwhile. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be –”

You can’t throw children, Lan Xichen was about to say, except Lan Sizhui was tearing off the tablecloth and jumping up in excitement, shouting, “Here! Here! I’m here! I’m big enough! You can throw me!”

“Why does he want to be thrown,” Lan Xichen murmured, bewildered. He’d never wanted to be thrown around as a child. Had he?

In fairness, he wasn’t sure. No one had ever offered.

Apparently, though, Lan Sizhui did very much want to be thrown around, and Lan Jingyi even condescended to allow Lan Xichen to hold him while he watched.

“Higher! Higher!” Lan Sizhui shouted.

“Really? Is this high enough?” Nie Mingjue held him up at eye level.

“Higher!”

“Like this?” Above his head.

“Higher!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“All right. How about –” Baxia slithered out from her place by the door, zipping over until she was right in front of Nie Mingjue, allowing him to step onto her like a stair, and then zipping upwards to about hip-height, lifting Nie Mingjue and Lan Sizhui with her. They very nearly hit a tree branch with their heads. “– this?”

Lan Sizhui shrieked with laughter.  

“It’s too early to introduce them to flying,” Lan Xichen objected, because it was. “Mingjue-xiong…”

Nie Mingjue hopped down with a laugh. “All right, one last toss,” he told Lan Sizhui. “Then you nap. Okay?”

“Okay!” Lan Sizhui, who had never once willingly succumbed to naptime in the entirety of the time that Lan Xichen had known him, promised earnestly.

Back into the pile of soft grass he went, giggling the entire time, and amazingly enough he really did fall asleep afterwards. Lan Jingyi, too, had fallen asleep at some point.

“I’ve decided that your brother needs more experience running a sect,” Lan Xichen told Nie Mingjue, who raised his eyebrows. “Starting immediately. I promise to allow you to leave when Jingyi is, oh, shall we say five years old..?”

You could reason with a five year old. 

Nie Mingjue laughed.

It was a type of laugh that suggested that he thought Lan Xichen was making a joke. This was incorrect.

“You’d be amazed at how serious I am,” Lan Xichen told him threateningly, “I’m sect leader here, this is my territory, I can have you arrested any time –” but by that point Nie Mingjue was already bundling him off to bed, too, combing out his hair and plying him with snacks and –

This was not helping his argument that Lan Xichen should be allowing him to leave rather than keep him trapped in the Cloud Recesses as a babysitter-slash-love-slave. 

Well, he wouldn’t really do that, of course. He’d let him go. Eventually.

It’d probably be good for Nie Mingjue’s stress levels, honestly.

“Seriously, though, how did you do that?” he asked, his head on Nie Mingjue’s lap. “They didn’t cry once.”

“I’m good with kids,” Nie Mingjue said, his fingers digging into Lan Xichen’s scalp in just the right way. “Now can you explain to me how exactly you ended up with them? Two, no less?”

Lan Xichen groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. “Sizhui’s Wangji’s,” he explained. “Not biologically, but he’s put his name down in the family register under his own. But, you know…”

“I know.”

Lan Xichen appreciated that he didn’t need to go into it. The doctors had estimated that Lan Wangji would regain full mobility within three years, so that was the period the elders had mandated for his so-called ‘seclusion’, but with Lan Wangji being locked away like that – even with visitors, even though he was trying his hardest to care for the child from where he was – meant that someone had to care for the child’s day-to-day life until his brother was ready to resume the role.

“Jingyi is a cousin, I think,” he continued. “His parents are dead, and uncle accepted guardianship for him…I think he’s going to adopt him, actually.”

“Then why is he with you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Xichen, I say this with a full heart of affection and tremendous respect for your capabilities,” Nie Mingjue said. “But why in the world would you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Lan Xichen sighed. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue that it wasn’t stupid – he was, quite obviously, terrible with children.

“Uncle’s still injured from the war,” he admitted. In fact, his injury was probably even older than the war, dating as far back as the burning of the Cloud Recesses – his uncle had never been much of a fighter, his impressive cultivation strength stemming almost entirely from gentler arts like music and learning and meditation, but when his home and his family and his students were at risk, he’d fought, while Lan Xichen ran. Not just fought; he’d kept fighting long past the point that his body allowed. It only made sense for the bill to need to be paid. “He had a recurrence of an old complaint, not long ago; he started coughing up blood. The doctors insisted that he try to avoid anything that might cause him  stress.”

“Stress. Like, say, a rowdy infant?”

“Exactly like a rowdy infant,” Lan Xichen agreed, glad that Nie Mingjue did not mention that what had happened with Lan Wangji was also likely a source of stress. At least the two of them had slowly started to repair their relationship recently – the heartbreak would kill their uncle sooner than anything else, and Lan Xichen might be weak, but he really couldn’t tolerate the idea of suffering any more loss.

And also, if Lan Wangji could see his way to forgiving their uncle, he might one day agree to forgive Lan Xichen, too.

“I see. So you ended up with the little one, too.”

“Yes. And they hate me.” Nie Mingjue coughed a little. “No, don’t deny it. They clearly hate me. They always cry and spit and yell -”

“They’re children, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue said. “Traumatized children. They do that.”

Lan Xichen didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Nie Mingjue was frowning in memory of pain long past. Lan Xichen remembered, with painful clarity, how young Nie Huaisang had been when Lao Nie had died, how badly he had taken it.

There’d been a lot of crying and vomiting and yelling there as well.

“You’re good with kids,” Lan Xichen said instead of commenting, trading delicacy for delicacy; he would not touch Nie Mingjue’s still-bleeding wounds just as Nie Mingjue avoided his own. “Very good.”

“Well, I like to think so, anyway.”

They remained in blissful, comfortable silence for a while.

“How would it have even worked?” Lan Xichen finally asked. His eyes were still closed, Nie Mingjue’s fingers running through his hair; he never wanted to move again.

“Hmm?”

“If you knocked me up before you went to war. I mean, they’re not even the same age.”

“Well, one of them’s from the affair, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, am I cheating on you now?” Lan Xichen opened an eye and pinned Nie Mingjue with a fierce look that instructed his lover to reconsider.

“Of course not,” Nie Mingjue said, mock-solemnly. His eyes were dancing. “You were so distraught after receiving incorrect news of my untimely demise that you conducted a ghost marriage with my spirit, and then went and had a child to continue my name.”

“…they’re both surnamed Lan.”

“So what? Are you saying I’m not good enough to marry into your sect, is that it?”

Lan Xichen’s cheeks were hurting from trying not to laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of implying such a thing.”

“There you go, then.”

“Can I ask why I felt the need to have a child to continue your name if I had one already?”

“…well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve got nothing.”

Lan Xichen burst out laughing.

[lothiriel84]

Fairytale

I'm in love with a fairytale Even though it hurts 'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind I'm already cursed

A Cabin Pressure ficlet. Arospec!Douglas, pre- to post-canon. Inspired by this post. 

For a long time after Helena, he makes no real attempt at dating. Sure, he does go in for the occasional, mutually satisfactory one-night stand; he may be world-weary and cynical, but he’s not dead yet, if you catch his drift. And yes, deep down under his carefully constructed Sky God persona, he’s only too painfully aware that he’s getting on a bit, and he would do better to start looking for a new potential long-term partner sooner rather than later; he just feels like he could use a bit of space, after going through the motions of yet another messy divorce.

To be perfectly honest – which he rarely is, even in the privacy of his own mind – his marriage to Helena had been withering away long before the Tai Chi teacher even entered the picture. Like clockwork, all of Douglas’s relationships invariably reach a stage where he can’t seem to meet his partner’s emotional needs, no matter how hard he tries. After that, it’s only a matter of time before the relationship itself starts to sink to its untimely end; even now, with three failed marriages under his belt, he doesn’t feel remotely closer to figuring out how to stop it from happening.

Always one for grand gestures, he can’t seem to get to grips with the fabled happily ever after, so to speak. Sweeping the woman of his dreams off her feet is easy, always has been; keeping up with the daily grind of playing the part of the loving husband, not so much. And for all that he’d very much rather not unscrew the cap on that particular period of his life, he’s still plagued by the niggling doubt that it wasn’t so much his drinking problem that caused the dissolution of his first marriage as it was the strain of living up to societal expectations with regard to a happy and fulfilled married life that pushed him towards drinking in the first place.

All those romantic movies Linda was so fond of watching, back in the day, they never showed you what comes after your significant other says yes, and you finally settle into a life together. He always assumed everything would fall into place, once you’re sitting in your picture-perfect house with your beautiful new wife and a little bundle of joy on the way. What those movies usually failed to mention was that you were basically signing in for what felt like a lifetime of proving your worth as a romantic partner, regardless that you were long past the courtship stage by that point.

And, well, frankly it all started feeling a bit too much, no matter how adoring his wife or how spectacular the sex. They had kept it up long after that, mainly for Verity’s sake, but in hindsight it was a terrible decision, not least because rather than owning up to his share of the blame, he started to hit the bottle as a way to numb his feelings of inadequacy. It had taken a decade of sobriety and the failure of his second marriage for him and Linda to be back on speaking terms, and by then, he was barely more than a stranger to his elder daughter.

When he and Karen got married, he thought he had it all worked out; she was his closest confidant as well as his lover, and they were on an equal footing in pretty much every aspect of their relationship. And above all, she didn’t require constant proof of his unchanged feelings towards her; no need for him to put on an act for her benefit, he could just be himself in her presence, or so he thought.

By the time Emily was four, they were sleeping in separate rooms, and he was seeing more of Helena than he did of his own wife. He never cheated on Karen, that much was true, but it did very little to assuage his guilt when he eventually bowed to the inevitable and manifested his intention to split up with her. She called him a bastard and a liar, even accused him of carrying a torch for ‘that bitch’ ever since their wedding day, five years prior; and while he would maybe go as far as admit to a certain level of sexual attraction dating back to that first meeting, he had only been entertaining the idea of acting on it for the past six months.

And oh, sex with Helena was everything he’d imagined it to be, and more. She was significantly younger than both Linda and Karen, happened to be a fitness enthusiast, and even more importantly, she was under the impression he was the best thing since the sliced bread. Which was precisely why he elected to omit the finer details when it came to his reasons for exchanging his prior position at Air England for an otherwise unspecified job at a small charter firm that – quite conveniently – operated out of Fitton. And yet, somewhere along the way, even their shared belief in the terrificness of Douglas Richardson turned out to be not enough.

“At least he loves me,” Helena had spat back at him, when he’d lashed out at her for having an affair behind his back. He’d let go of her then, his mind floundering helplessly as she moved around the room to gather her things, only coming back to his senses when the front door slammed shut after her.

How could she even suggest he didn’t love her, after he’d bloody left Emily’s mother to be with her? And yet, even now, with his third divorce long finalised and yet another flavour of alimony putting a dent in his savings, he cannot help but wonder.

Was he really, truly in love with Helena when he married her? He thought he was at the time, and with each of his previous wives before her, but now he’s not so sure anymore. Not after he had to sit through an eight-hour flight with Herc describing to him in painful detail how Carolyn makes him feel, never mind that she’s not even remotely his type and he very nearly gets a heart attack every time he lays eyes on that terrifying-looking stuffed sheep that lives in their house.

And now Martin has announced he and Theresa are finally getting married – his Liechtenstein citizenship test passed with flying colours, and on his fifth attempt no less – Douglas is beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this relationship malarkey might not be for him after all.

It’s not as if he isn’t happy enough now, back in the captain’s seat, flying the old girl all over the world with Carolyn and Arthur – and yes, even Herc – at his side. And he still gets to tease Martin by text in his spare time, send him new word games when he’s particularly bored, or even fill him in on Arthur’s latest culinary exploits.

He’s going to go up to Barrow-in-Furness in two weeks’ time for Emily’s birthday, and he’s actually looking forward to seeing Karen again; they’ve settled into the beginnings of a tentative friendship of late, what with his most recent divorce and her splitting up amicably with her second husband, and she jokingly told him over the phone he’s welcome to stay for the duration of the weekend so long as there are no further attempt on the life of her surviving koi carp.

As for Verity, their relationship may still be more than a little frayed in places, but he gets the feeling she’ll come round in her own time, whenever she’s ready. He was positively delighted when she emailed him last month, explaining she moved in with her girlfriend and that he should send her birthday and Christmas cards to the new address.

As one of the greatest philosophers of our age put it, you’re hardly ever blissfully happy with the love of your life in the moonlight; and when you are, you’re too busy worrying about it being over soon. He smiles, closes his laptop, and decides he may as well run himself a hot bath.

[catsafarithewriter]

“It’s been a long time since I had a good sword fight. I’m hoping you’ll indulge and give me one.” I feel like baron would say this to a man who kidnaps Haru for force marriage. Like it would be how the cat bureau would meet this prince and the guy immediately wants hair as his wife so baron had to fight him to save her. It would be kind of cute. If that’s ok? And love your previous works I love how emotional and fluffy they are!!😍😍❤️❤️

A/N: This ficlet ended up being far more comical than you were probably expecting (if you want angst over the kidnapped-to-be-a-bride trope, check out YC’s latest story!) and thank you! Flattery gets you everywhere! (That’s how that saying goes, right?)

x

Haru didn’t have time for this.

Like, really, really didn’t have time.

She leant over the armrest of her newly acquired throne and scowled at the prince who had put her there. “You know, it would save us all a lot of time and trouble if you just returned me back to my world now.”

“But why would I do that,” the prince asked, “after all the effort I went to to attain such a lovely bride?”

“You should do that because this lovely bride has friends who aren’t afraid to kick even royal asses who kidnap people.”

“Kidnap is such a strong word…”

“Steal. Capture. Imprison. Trap. Which of these words do you prefer, Your Highness?” Really, Haru thought, Baron was beginning to rub off on her. Although the people he swept off his feet didn’t usually resort to kidnapping him to get his attention. 

She supposed she was just that lucky. 

“Oh, do not fret over your companions, my dear.” The prince smiled indulgently at her, as if she were a child in need of reassurance. “The palace is well guarded and highly secure. No one but who I allow will come anywhere near us–”

It was at that exact moment that the huge double doors leading into the throne room fell off their hinges, followed by a lot of smoke and coughing and barely-suppressed cussing that sounded suspiciously like Muta. 

When the air cleared, the Bureau could be seen in the freshly-made opening. 

The effect was somewhat ruined by Baron stomping out the smouldering hem of a stolen guard’s uniform. “Muta, next time please dial down the explosives,” he could be heard to mutter. “We want to create an entrance, not blow up the palace.”

“You take all the fun out of life,” Muta muttered back. 

Haru looked to the prince and gave an unnecessarily smug smirk that was probably quite unbecoming of their possibly future queen. “You were saying?”

“Usually,” he amended. “Usually no one but who I allow is permitted…”

“Sure. Anyway, this has been a blast, but I’m already running behind schedule, so if we can wrap this up–” Haru rose to her feet, but found her wrist caught by the prince. 

“Nothing’s been decided,” he said. 

Haru slumped back into her throne. “Naturally.”

“Your Highness,” Baron called up to the raised dais. “It was a pleasure to help your kingdom out in our previous case, but it seems we may have mislaid a companion of ours in the leaving.” He bowed. “Miss Haru, I believe it’s time to head home.”

He looked up to meet Haru’s scowl. “You’re late,” she said. 

“And you’re as stunning as always.”

She had to fight to keep the smile from twitching onto her lips. “You’re forgiven. Mostly.” She tilted her head, taking note of the stolen guard uniform that was only gently smouldering now. “And where did you get that disguise?”

“Oh, this?” He had the audacity to look surprised, as if only just noticing the cape. “Stealing into a palace is no simple task. We had to take some precautions.”

“You’re telling me you took the time for a wardrobe change before coming to rescue me?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”  

“ENOUGH!” cried the prince. He raised his head from where it had been dropped into his hands. “Could you two stop… flirting for long enough to take this seriously? Baron, I have selected your companion as the perfect partner to rule this kingdom alongside me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

“Are you sure?” Baron asked. “Because we took great pains to get this far and it would seem like a waste to just turn around and go home now. I even went to all the hassle of finding a good costume to get us this far with only minimal chaos.”

“Baron, just take him seriously and get this over and done with!” Haru called. “I have places to be!”

“Very well, Haru. As you wish.” Baron removed the stolen cape and hat, passing both across to Muta. “So, Your Highness, how do you wish to resolve this? A challenge of wits? Chess? Maybe a riddle or two…?”

“I challenge you,” the prince cried, “to a duel!”

Baron beamed. “Fantastic. It’s been a long time since I had a good sword fight. I’m hoping you’ll indulge and give me one.”

Any fallout from his, frankly-impressive, line delivery, if he did say so himself, was hindered when Haru called out, “What?” from the queen’s throne. “What about the fencing lesson you gave me yesterday?”

“That was practice!” he called back. 

“I put you on your ass and you don’t consider that a decent sword fight?!”

“What I meant was– hang on.” Baron bowed to the prince and motioned to Haru. “Would you mind terribly if I just cleared this up–”

“I’ve challenged you to a fight to the death,” the prince protested. 

“I’m not hearing a no. Trust me, this’ll only take a moment.” He dodged his opponent and ascended to the dais. “Haru–”

“I don’t have time for this, Baron,” she said. 

“I know, but–”

“I have to pick up Kasumi from nursery in the next…” She checked her watch. Both clock hands were spinning rapidly. “…whenever the equivalent of 2pm is for this world.”

“I know–”

“I do not have time for you to show off in some grand toothpick fight.”

Baron looked crestfallen. “I’ll be quick.” 

“Will you? Or will you get distracted with fancy footwork and showy moves?” She raised an eyebrow. “Look me in the eye and promise me you will keep this practical and…” she motioned vaguely to  him, “non-Baron-y.”

“Non-Baron-y?” he echoed with a grin. 

“Drama-llama-y.”

“That’s not a word either.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” She prodded him in the chest. “If I am even a minute late in picking up Kasumi, I will hide all your tea for a month and tell your sister about that time you jumped out of the window.”

“Got it. No drama-llama antics. Just… one request.” He had to duck as the prince swung a sword at him. “Muta! Cane!” He caught his cane with practised ease and halted the prince’s second attack in time to look back to Haru. “Next time I give a striking one-liner, just let me have it.“

“Get me back to the human world on time and I’ll consider it.”

“Deal.” Baron dropped away and rolled down the steps. “Now, that was hardly sportsmanlike, Your Highness. Attacking your opponent while their back was turned.”

“Then stop flirting with my future wife!” the prince snapped back. 

“Not your wife!” Haru shouted. She slumped back into her seat and watched the fight play out with a general air of grumpy impatience. Muta sidled up to her and offered her a slice of cake. She took it.

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me you managed to fit in a trip to the kitchens as well, before you decided to get me out of this nightmare,” she grumbled.

Muta shrugged and munched on the rest of the cake. “We figured you’d be handling this, and the easiest unguarded entrance was the kitchens. Did you know they’re making you a six-tiered cake for your wedding?”  

“Oh joy,” Haru monotoned sarcastically. “It almost makes getting married tempting.”

“You should get yourself hitched more often. Weddings have all the best food.”

“Why don’t you get yourself married, and then you can choose the wedding food,” Haru retorted. 

“Nah. You seem to have the market cornered on unwanted marriages anyway. If I just stick around with you, I’m sure to be invited to many more without having to raise a paw.” He finished the last of his cake. “Except for the whole, ya know, rescuing you business.” 

“Charming.”

“Nice dress, by the way.”

“Fight me, peasant,” she muttered. She watched as Baron flipped over the prince and landed perfectly, giving Haru an imaginary tip of a hat as he did so. “Oh god, he’s showing off. I’m going to kill him.”

“And yer sound surprised?”

“No. Just annoyed.” She raised both hands to her mouth and shouted, “Get on with it!”

Baron nodded, but when he turned to block the prince’s oncoming attack, she could see he was talking. Probably delivering some witty comeback to whatever his opponent was throwing at him. 

Haru groaned and slouched further into the throne. The many ruffles of her ridiculous dress bunched up at the improper posture and she had to flatten them down. There was no way she was going to be on time to pick up Hiromi’s daughter at this rate, and she had no idea how she was going to be able to explain it to her friend. Somehow ‘I got kidnapped to be the bride of another world’s prince’ just wouldn’t fly. 

“It’s not his fault,” Muta said. “He was made to be dramatic and showy and that’s the guy you fell in love with.”

“Yeah, I suppose…” Haru looked sharply at Muta. “Wait, what?”

Muta smirked. “Do ya really want me to repeat that louder for everyone to hear, or do ya want to admit you heard it right the first time?”

Haru blushed. “The second one.”

“Good.” Muta grinned wider. “And it doesn’t help that he always gets worse like this when he has someone he wants to show off for.” He winked. “If ya get my drift.”

Haru stared and blushed further. “Hang on a minute.” She stood and cupped her hands to her mouth again. “Hey, Baron?” she bellowed.

Baron scooted to one side to smoothly avoid another attack. “Yes?”

“Do you love me?”

Baron’s attempt to parry fumbled, and the cane was knocked from his grasp. 

“Ah-hah! Now I have you!”

Baron batted the sword away with his hand. “Shut up, I’m trying to talk here.What did you say, Haru?”

“ARE. YOU. IN. LOVE. WITH. ME?” Haru yelled across the throne room. 

“Is this really the right time to ask?”

“Is that a no?”

“No! I mean–” Baron rolled away to avoid another attack. “Yes, I am in love with you, but could we discuss this over a cup of tea or something?! I’m kind of busy right now!”

“And I’m meant to be picking up Kasumi from nursery, and yet here we are!” Haru called back. She faltered. “Wait. So you do love me?”

“I have loved you for the past year, but thanks for noticing!”

“Well maybe if you made it a little clearer–”

“I thought I was making it clear!”

“Wistful looks do not make anything clear!”

���I’m sorry.Would you have preferred it in writing?”

“Maybe!”

The prince lowered his sword and threw a reproaching look at the two. “Look, could you please delay your declarations of love until after the fight?”

“No!” both retorted. 

The prince shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said and pushed on with another attack. 

Baron rolled back and snatched up his cane to deflect the hit. “Haru, I’m sorry if my intentions were unnecessarily vague, but you have to understand I’m not wholly familiar with modern-day styles of courting! And I wasn’t sure if you returned my feelings!”

“Of course I’m in love with you, you idiot!”

Baron knocked the prince’s sword clean away and didn’t notice. “You are?”

“YES!”

“Oh.”

The prince muttered something very unprincely and dived for the dropped weapon and went to attack Baron again. Whatever Baron had to say in addition to his eloquent ‘oh’ was smothered by the clash of cane meeting sword.

“PAY. ATTENTION. TO ME!” screamed the prince. 

“Oh, this is getting ridiculous.” Haru snatched the cake plate - sterling silver - off Muta, stalked across the room, and slammed it into the back of the prince’s head. He slumped to the ground like a sack of royally-dressed potatoes. “There!” she heaved. “Fight over. Can we go home now? I have appointments to keep.”

“Haru…”

“If I’m not there in time for Kasumi, Hiromi’s gonna have kittens. I promised her–”

“Haru! Do you love me?”

She leant in and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, keep up with the programme, Baron. Of course I do.” She patted him on the same cheek. “But, if I’m late to picking up Kasumi, I’m still going to hide all your tea for a month,” she said. 

Baron could only grin like a fool. “That was the deal.”

[obscure-sentimentalist]

Because I’m that much of a completionist...

Part 4: 2020 Year in Review

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Introduction

For anyone who missed my fit of data-collection madness (for fun!) in August, I gave into my own curiosity and combed the entire Flommy tag on AO3 to take a look into various trends over time, how the tag breaks down in terms of ship categories, etc. Since I took on the project when the year was slightly more than half over, any data collected for 2020 was year-to-date (YTD) and as such incomplete, compared to previous years. This fact (combined with how attached I’d already grown to my spreadsheet for this study) got me to consider adding a 2020 end-of-year wrap-up datapost. Now that 2020 is finally getting kicked out the door, let’s take a look at how the year shaped up for Flommy works!

Methodology

As noted in Part 1, the overarching goal of the study was to examine and catalogue the contents specifically within the “Tommy Merlyn/Felicity Smoak” relationship tag on Archive of Our Own. All works featured in these results are tagged as (or otherwise wrangled under) this relationship tag; though it’s doubtful that this is the case, any works featuring this relationship that are not tagged in this way (and thus do not appear) will not be counted.

By final data collection on December 31, 2020, there are 445 works total (inclusive of hidden works viewable and accessible only with an AO3 login) within the Flommy tag. (For context, there were 441 works for the earlier parts of this study that examined 2013 through 2020 YTD, the data for which was collected on August 5.) Measures defined in Parts 1 and 2 of this study still apply; however, the following category has been added with this installment:

Creator Seniority: denotes whether or not a creator has previously published a work within the Flommy tag

First-Year Flommy Creators are those who first posted in the tag in the year in question; creators may post multiple works in their first year and will still be counted in this category until the following year(s)

Existing Flommy Creators are returning creators to the tag, having posted their first work(s) in an earlier year

Publish Year and Update Year

Let’s start by taking a look at these charts again, to see how 2020 Full Year netted out compared to previous years. Both the Publish Year (accounting for all works published within a given year) and Update Year (the most recent year in which a work was updated, which also includes the works published that year) are depicted here, as they make similar shapes overall, but with some slight differences:

The key change here from the original Part 1 chart is 2020, but the full timeline helps to provide context. Back in August, 2020 was still tracking under 2019′s work count for both works published and works most recently updated; in terms of Publish Year, 2020 YTD had a -21% decrease in published works over the previous year. By year’s end, though, there were exactly as many works published in 2020 as there were in 2019, and a one-work increase for Update Year! While not the significant YOY increases in the early years of the tag, it also isn’t the steep declines as of late--holding steady is a good sign, given series’s end and the fact that this is becoming an even rarer pair as time goes on.

Some other Publish and Update Year Fun Facts:

Of the works updated in 2020, 25% were from an earlier Publish Year (the remaining 75% were all published in 2020)

At least one work published each year between 2015 and 2019 was updated in 2020, with 2018 holding the most previously published works updated this year

Creator Seniority

2020 seems like a good year to give our newest measure a test drive:

This year saw a fair amount of new Flommy creators contributing to the tag (myself included, to be honest), accounting for just over 2/3 of the total individual creators who published at least one work in 2020. I may put up previous years’ breakdowns for comparison as supplemental material, but even 2020 in isolation tells an interesting story--that despite the end of the series, new creators have stories to tell within this rare pair tag. 

(Granted, as noted in Part 2 with the breakdown of Relationship Tagging, there is a potential that some works were improperly tagged as romantic [/] that should be platonic [&], or feature Flommy in a minor capacity, but categorization beyond that would be more qualitative and subject to researcher bias.)

Some other Creator Seniority Fun Facts:

Though the majority of creators in the tag are First-Year Flommiers, 58% of the works published in 2020 were by Existing Flommy Creators

All new creators published one Flommy work in 2020, while some returning creators contributed multiple offerings

Share of Work Category

We’ll look first at Publish Year, then Update Year, for where the works fall by relationship tagging:

2020 did not yield any new [Compilation] works (AKA works tagged for both Flommy and O/F, but which are meant as prompt collections, ficlets, etc. where pairings differ by installment), nor were any updated, so we’ll only be focusing on the remaining four categories for these charts.

In a delightfully surprising turn, the majority of all new works were tagged as [Flommy Only] (works with no other romantically-tagged relationships)! This is cool to see, knowing that there are still new works coming specifically for these two. [Smoaking Billionaires] (tagged for the other pairings of the OT3 and/or indicative that it’s an OT3 and not a love triangle) follows as a close second, and interestingly, there were very few [Other] (tagged for both Flommy and O/F, but are not ficlet compilations or OT3--i.e. love triangles, potential platonic/familial tagging errors, etc.) works published in 2020.

But that’s just the works published in 2020: let’s take a look at the story when we factor in the works updated as well:

The percentages for two of our categories haven’t changed at all, but now [Other] has taken a bit of share from [Flommy Only], knocking the latter out of the top spot. [Other], indeed, was the category with the most works from previous years that were updated in 2020, which made up ground for the category since there weren’t many newly published works. By contrast, [Flommy Only] works were solely from 2020--no previous works were updated, which decreased its Update Year share.

Work Length and Completion Status

We’ll stick with Update Year for these, to get an idea of all the works that had new material added in 2020.

There are some interesting patterns with our work categories! The top two--[Smoaking Billionaires] and [Flommy Only]--are both split 50/50 between Multichapter and Oneshot, so both work lengths have had fair representation for these two categories. [Other], meanwhile, is the sole category whose 2020 contributions were entirely Multichapter works. As that’s a more nebulous category in terms of Flommy-tagging, there could be an interesting story there, but that’s again beyond the quantitative measures used here.

Now for Completion Status:

Interestingly, while both [Flommy Only] and [Smoaking Billionaires] had the 50/50 split for Work Length, at least half of each of their Multichapter works are marked as Complete on AO3. [Non-O/F], on the other hand, matches back to the Work Lengths perfectly, with all Multichapters still Ongoing and only the Oneshot marked as Complete. Our [Other] category, entirely comprised of Multichapter works, shows that just under a third of them are Complete.

Additional Relationships

Wrapping up the year-in-review with one last measure, which closed out Part 1 and the bonus Part 3--the comparison of works also tagged for Oliver/Felicity to those without:

This serves as a narrowing down of the existing Work Categories--[Smoaking Billionaires] and [Other] are rolled into the “With O/F” category, and [Flommy Only] and [Non-O/F] are rolled into the “Without O/F” one--and reflects the Publish Year data. 

Compared to the full 2013-2020 YTD charts shared previously, where the “With O/F” category held the majority, if we isolate 2020 on its own, the “Without O/F” category edges out the win by a slight margin. This is a notable feat, as I examined the splits for previous years, and not only did “With O/F” come out on top every year, it was by a considerable difference (the closest split was all the way back in 2014, where 62% of the works were “With O/F” and the remaining 38% “Without O/F”). 2020 is the first and only year so far to turn the tables, at least in terms of newly published works.

Conclusion

And with that, The Great Flommy Tag Analysis 2020 comes to a close! I admittedly have assorted other measures that weren’t previously included in dataposts that could make an appearance if there’s interest, but with this 2020 year-end wrap-up, that’s the end of the planned data analysis. Hopefully this served up a couple interesting bits of info, word- and chart-heavy as this study wound up being.

[kerfufflewatch]

hey hey here’s the quickest ficlet in the history of ever, because I’m goddamn tired and don’t want to edit 

anyway happy holidays, have some Mid-Grade Quality Smooches(tm)

--

Other than the person who hung it up in the first place, nobody actually knew where the mistletoe had come from.

It was simply there when the Christmas Eve party began, a little sprig of green leaves and white berries wrapped with a red ribbon hanging innocently from the doorway as though it, too, hoped to join in the festivities. It was quickly noticed by a few members of the team, who notified the others, until everyone knew that it was there, and became wary of passing through the doorway with anyone nearby.

But it moved. Every twenty minutes, although they vehemently denied having purchased it, either Lena or Genji would put it in a new location--by the drinks table, by the television, in the doorway, or hanging from one of the lights overhead. It kept the team on their toes, and meant someone was always inevitably caught unawares.

Hanzo has made sure to track the mistletoe’s progress throughout the evening, making sure to never be caught beneath it. However, although he was careful, the rest of the team either did not mind or simply didn’t give it much thought, and several had been caught unawares. First it had been Mei and Reinhardt, wherein Reinhardt had placed a perfectly gentlemanly kiss on to the back of Mei’s hand before they shared a laugh about it. Next had been Genji and Lucio, and that had been amusing--they shared a quick peck, with the urging of onlookers, and though Lucio had departed with an amused smile, Genji had lingered with a look of faint awe on his face and the faintest flush in his cheeks. He was quick to leave once he came to himself, but that was a moment too late; Hanzo had made sure to memorize that moment in case he needed it for future sibling blackmail.

A few others are caught, too, as the night goes on. But the alcohol flows freely, and even Hanzo’s sharp senses are eventually dulled. Every time his drink is empty, someone presses another into his hands. The mistletoe is moved after each successful catch, and Hanzo forgets to look for it again for some time.

He remembers again half an hour later, as he leans against the wall to listen to McCree tell a story. McCree is bedecked in a hideously bright Christmas sweater, gesturing grandly and sloshing his drink as he talks. Hanzo, truthfully, lost track of the story as soon as it began. He was much more interested, in the way that McCree’s ugly sweater still fit the shape of his chest and shoulders, and the deep sound of his laughter that only got deeper with every drink, and the way that his chestnut hair caught the lights overhead and framed his face in a messy, ruggedly handsome way.

Hanzo smiles without meaning to, affection smouldering warmly in his chest for the ridiculous man in front of him. He quickly hides it behind a deep drink of his beer.

“So there we were,” McCree says, just waitin’ for Gabe to . . .”

He trails off, and his gaze slides away to a point of Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo hears a giggle behind him.

“What?” he asks, and turns. A few feet away stand Lena, Reinhardt, and Angela, clustered together and staring directly at him and McCree.

“Look up, luvs,” Lena says.

Hanzo’s stomach drops. He looks up.

The sprig of mistletoe hangs a foot above his and McCree’s heads, dangling innocently from a thumbtack.

He meets McCree’s gaze. McCree looks just as startled as he feels.

His heart races, slamming against his sternum. He must admit, this thought has crossed his mind more than once tonight, but he has not dared entertain it for more than a moment. He is not foolish enough to think that McCree cared for him in the way Hanzo did him. Though the thought of stealing a kiss had its appeal, he knew better-- a kiss given and dismissed as part of a silly game would cause more grief than satisfaction, and it would only leave him wanting more,

But now, with the opportunity here in front of him, Hanzo cannot remember why he would ever turn it away.

McCree’s gaze flickers down, lingering for just a moment on Hanzo’s mouth. Hanzo licks his lips, and holds his breath, and tilts his face up just a fraction--

And McCree grimaces, then turns away, pulling his hat down over his face with one hand.

“Sorry, fellas, this one ain’t happenin’,” he says.

Hanzo’s insides run cold.

He distantly hears protests, the loudest being from Lena and Reinhardt. “You can’t just wimp out!” Lena cries. “Where’s your holiday spirit, McCree?”

McCree forces a laugh. “This just ain’t for me,” he says. To Hanzo he says, “‘Scuse me,” then ducks away, quickly putting distance between himself, Hanzo, and the offending mistletoe.

Hanzo remains where he is, rooted to the spot, his drink clutched between both hands. The others huff, disappointed that their show was canceled, but quickly go back to their previous conversation.

It takes Hanzo a long minute to unstick his feet from the floor.

--

As the party begins to wind down, Hanzo carefully extricates himself from the festivities, claiming exhaustion but, in actuality, taking himself and a particularly strong drink elsewhere. He settles on the skybridge, a favored location when he needs some time to himself.

The cold pit in his gut has not faded, though half an hour now has passed since his miserable rejection. He is surprised by how deeply he had been cut. He had not expected anything, had known that even if he had gotten what he wanted, it would not lead to anything ore. It would not mean that McCree wanted him, even if he could have pretended in that fraction of a moment.

And yet, he was so starved for McCree’s attention that he would have taken that pitiful scrap, and now was trying to drink himself into unconsciousness because he had not been given even that.

Pathetic.

Hanzo leans against the wall of the building at one end of the skybridge, gazing out at the sea as he nurses his drink and his own useless heart. The winter air is freezing, biting at his exposed hands and face, but he hardly notices. Out here, at least, it is quiet--until he hears the faint metallic jingle of spurs approaching up the stairs.

Hanzo can feel McCree’s presence behind him, but he does not turn to look. A beat passes, and McCree clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says. “You, uh. You got a minute?”

Hanzo shrugs. McCree moves to lean on the wall beside him. Hanzo takes another drink. A long moment passes in silence.

“Listen, um,” McCee starts, then stops. “I’m sorry. With what happened at the party. Guess I wasn’t really payin’ attention to where they moved that thing, and it kinda caught me off-guard.”

“It surprised me as well,” Hanzo says mildly. This, at least, is truthful enough.

McCree huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah. They kept movin’ it. Think Genj and Lena were tryin’ to pin a bunch of us.” He clears his throat again. “But, um. Regardless, sorry for runnin’ out like that. I know that was a bit awkward.”

Hanzo shrugs again, feigning nonchalance though his insides feel as though they are twisting into knots. “Why? It was a game. A poorly-thought one at that. Surely they must have expected someone to not want to follow through.”

“Well. Yeah. Still, feel a little bad for hangin’ you out to dry, even if it was just somethin’ dumb.”

McCree falls silent, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. Hanzo finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on a nearby tarp-covered crate.

“The thing is,” McCree says, “there was a reason I didn’t want to--do that.”

Hanzo didn’t think it was possible for him to feel worse, but somehow he does. He does not want to listen to McCree list the reasons why kissing him, even as a joke, would be so unbearable. “You do not have to explain,” he says, but he sees from the corner of his eye as McCree shakes his head.

“I really do,” he says. “I--”

Finally, Hanzo dares to look at him. McCree’s expression is set in a deep frown, his gaze somewhere toward the sea. He works his jaw, seeming to struggle to find the words, before he gives an exasperated sigh.

“Look,” he says, “I know you think I ran off because--we’re friends, or somethin’, and I didn’t want to make it weird. And I . . . guess it is, a little, but not the way you think.”

McCree groans suddenly, wiping a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he mutters into his palm. “This shouldn’t be this damn hard. Look,” he says, turning to face Hanzo, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders, “The reason I didn’t is because--because if that ever happened, if I ever actually got to kiss ya, I wanted it to be on our terms. Not some stupid game.”

Hanzo’s breath leaves him all at once. He stares without meaning to, while the meaning of McCree’s words slowly penetrates his alcohol-addled brain.

“If,” he repeats stupidly. “If we--?”

“I really like ya,” McCree blurts. “Have done. For a while now. And I know--well, I don’t know how you feel about that, or about me, or whatever. But if there’s any chance at all that we came around to that, I didn’t want it to be messed up somehow because of a dumb party game. I wanted it to be because you wanted it, too. Not because we had to.”

Hanzo is quiet for a long moment. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again when he cannot find words. His heart is beating so fast that he thinks it may have stopped entirely.

McCree sighs softly. His shoulders slouch, the determination drained from his frame and making him seem smaller. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s fine if you don’t feel the same. I just wanted that out there. We’ll just pretend this didn’t--”

“No.”

McCree blinks. “No?”

Hanzo is not fully aware of his own movements, but he reaches out to take McCree by the shoulders nonetheless, forcing him to stay. McCree stares, wide-eyed, visibly uncertain.

Hanzo swallows hard past the lump of emotion and fear in his throat. He takes a deep breath. “I wanted you to then,” he says deliberately. “And I want you to now.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of McCree’s mouth, as though hesitant to be known yet. “You do?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Yes. Please.” Hanzo realizes he’s digging his fingertips into McCree’s shoulders and forcibly relaxes his grip, finding a hold in McCree’s serape instead. He dares to look up, and McCree meets his gaze. His eyes are a soft, warm brown, bracketed by faint lines of confusion and tentative hope. He carefully, oh-so-gently rests a hand on Hanzo’s hip, then leans in, and this time Hanzo is reward by the press of McCree’s lips against his.

McCree kisses him once, careful, then again, more confident but no less gentle. When he tries to pull back, Hanzo follows, catching his mouth again. He throws an arm around McCree’s neck, keeping him close, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have McCree as close as space will allow.

McCree smiles, and wraps his arms around Hanzo’s middle, and kisses him until they both lose track of the time and the cold--no mistletoe required.

[todisturbtheuniverse]

2017 Year End Writing Review

While I don't do monthly reviews anymore, I figured it would still be fun to post an annual review; I've been doing that for several years now and it's fun to look back on it.

I did not post very much fic this year. I wrote some. I posted less. I got very into this mindset of really polishing fanfiction, stressing about posting it if it wasn't up to quality, or whatever. So in total, I only posted 13 short-ish fics this year, made no progress posting in my one major WIP, and...you would think that would mean there wasn't a lot of writing.

There was a lot of writing. Slightly more than 500,000 words' worth. But most of it was original fiction, so I'll talk about it under the read more. (Bless you if you make it through this post, because it is lengthy.)

What I Worked On

Yet another draft of my 2013 NaNo novel. Is this thing taking shape yet? Somewhat. It is my whale. My big, dumb whale. My I-planned-a-trilogy-and-bit-off-more-than-I-could-chew story. My testing-everything-I-know-and-can-learn-about-writing story. But I can't give it up, can't leave it alone, always come back to it, think about it daily. Someday it will get there. Someday I will at least think, This will do.

A full draft of a new novella and associated planning/character backstory/tidbits that don't quite fit in-story but were useful to write. A cantankerous witch, her spurned fairy lover, and her plucky apprentice try to solve the my-garden-dies-every-night-and-I-don't-know-why problem. It's a fun bit.

NaNoWriMo 2017: A post-apocalyptic story of friendship, vengeance, and overcoming pride. There are gun fights! There are ominous rocks! There is a lot of sarcasm! I haven't yet reread it, but it's on my to-do list in 2018. The planning for this novel alone nearly constituted the word count of an entire novel. I went all-out. It was really fun.

@hollyand-writes tagged me for the following, so I'll roll that into this post as well:

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 favourite works you’ve created this year (fics, art, edits, etc!) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world in 2017. Tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original!) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works. <3 (Please feel free to consider yourself tagged if you want to do this!)

A Shadow, Passing Through & Before I Embark: A pair of fics where I explored some of that territory in Act 2 of DA2 where Hawke and Leandra might have repaired their relationship a little bit before. You know. I've always felt pretty hostile toward Leandra; she puts a lot of blame and responsibility on her children when it has no business being there. But I also attempted a DA2 replay this year, and found her occasional comments in Act 2...interesting. I saw them in a different light. And a mushy, selfish part of me wanted to see Hawke get some kind of closure--some kind of improvement--with her mother before she died. Anyway, though I did not make it all the way through DA2 (I always, always, always stall before All That Remains, ever since my mom died in 2013, because it makes so. many. complicated. feelings), I liked picking it up again. I missed Hawke, and I missed Isabela.

With My Whole Heart: A little more Cassandra/Josephine fluff, sparked by an anon prompt. When I finally started thinking about it, this little fic just...flowed. I think I wrote it in an hour and a half, non-stop. It helped me remember how writing fanfiction used to feel for me. Just fun and nice and kind of wonderful.

Practicality, Revisited: A Kima/Allura fic. I'd love to explore more of these two. Written for the Critical Role Relationship Week, which I adored the idea of--I got some fun match-ups to write about, but this was by far my favorite.

Flying, Falling: Ryder/Vetra. I wish my enthusiasm for Andromeda had not dropped off so damn abruptly (not the game’s fault, I don’t think; I just lost interest even though I enjoyed it); this, and the other two I wrote for this pairing, were such fun little fics. Maybe someday I'll take another dip into it. Video games in general had a hard time holding onto me this year. But this one is really sweet, and on a reread, I really liked it. The banter, especially. I like a good banter.

Overall Thoughts

This post has no structure and is getting abysmally long, so I'm going to try and wrap up.

I wrote a lot this year. In nine out of twelve months, I wrote more than 30K words. Of the remaining three months, I wrote more than 20K in two of them and less than 10K in only one. I had a streak where I wrote something every single day from August 30 to December 14. The longest in memory, and I'm sure the longest, ever. I had a pair of back-to-back crazy months: planning NaNo in October with 72,556 words, and actually doing NaNo in November with 100,227 words--not all of them for that novel, but about ¾ of them. I really got my discipline together this year.

I worked on more original fiction, more often, than ever before, too. I miss fanfiction, but I am happy about that.

It was the most productive word-count year on record, at just over 500K. Beats out my previous most productive year, 2015, by more than 125K words. I wrote 373,467 words that year. It was also easily most productive in terms of time spent writing; I put my ass in chair and wrote for about 300 hours in 2017.

Goals

Last year's goals seemed to work out for me. I didn't always adhere to them perfectly, but the spirit of them led to a very productive year. So with that in mind, I'm going to reprise most of them:

Spend a little time writing every day: this was not true 100% of the year, but making an attempt meant I tried more, and led to more success.

No word count goal; I just want to make sure I'm keeping track with my handy-dandy spreadsheet.

Permission to write ficlets, drabbles, and even multi-chaptered fics as I want to. Still working on balance between original fic and fanfiction. After revisiting some of the joy of writing fanfiction late last year, I'd like to get back to it again, in some capacity. But multi-chapter fics with coherent stories, again, I would like to have a full first draft written before I start posting. It drastically cut down the WIPs I have floating around out there.

Get back to These Chains. I did some work on it mid-2017 to the tune of like, three more chapters, but didn't post. I have it planned out. I just need to do the thing.

I hope that, for all of you, you find satisfaction in your creative endeavors this year, in whatever art or practice that may be.

[triggeringthehealing]

woke up like this

pre-Stiles/Derek | T | ~4k | AO3

Summary: “I mean, I didn’t get a tattoo, I just… have one. Woke up with one.” It's his birthday, he's 25 now. He's in the middle of a work assignment when he wakes up on the morning of his birthday, and spots it in the mirror. Black ink on his arm, a shape too familiar not to recognize immediately. Stiles doesn't know where it came from, or what it means. All he knows is that yesterday, he was 24, and he most definitely didn't have any tattoos.

A/N: Written for the @weekendwritingmarathon​ birthday flash ficlet challenge (look, I tried, and I originally only had 1k. then the rest happened ;) 

It’s been years since he thought back on the hell that was his high school, and almost as long since he last thought about him.

Well no, even Stiles knows that that’s a lie, and he doesn’t have to say it out loud or have a werewolf listening in to catch the skip of his heart. He’s done plenty of thinking about Derek, on and off through the years, some days more than others. But he hasn’t seen him in over five years, even though he knows that Scott is still in touch with Derek, Cora, and Peter.

Stiles has been out of Beacon Hills since that last fight when he was still a trainee for the FBI. He’s now a full-fledged agent, and when he does end up in California, it’s usually because of the job. Sometimes he visits when he’s there, other times his dad comes out to meet up for dinner. More often than not, Stiles doesn’t even let anyone know he’s nearby, because his assignment doesn’t allow for outside contact.

Whenever that happens, it still feels odd, like he’s a stranger in his own home. None of the previous times felt quite as strange as this one — he’s investigating something that reeks of the supernatural, and he’s only an hour’s drive away from his hometown. But he’s under strict orders to stay under the radar, the order reinforced by Rafe McCall’s reassurance that it’s not the Beacon Hills pack that’s being investigated, and they shouldn’t be involved.

Stiles wonders if that’s Rafael’s way of keeping Scott and his very new family safe from harm. Whether it is or not, it’s what stops Stiles from contacting any of them, no matter how much he’d love to see his newly acquired godson.

The temptation to call rises when he checks the calendar as he wakes up, and he gets reminded of what day it is.

He’s 25 today, and he forgot it was his birthday.

As he slowly stretches and starts waking up properly, his phone buzzes several times in a row, and Stiles squints at it, sleep still clouding his sight. There are text messages to wish him a happy birthday from his dad, from Melissa, from Scott, Lydia, and a few others. Like any year before when he was on assignment on this day, they know better than to try and call.

Quarter of a century kid, glad you made it this far. I’ll have a cake for you. Dad

Hey, did you ever think we’d make to this age? Happy birthday, bro! Scott

Happy birthday, kiddo. Your Dad and I are so proud of you. Mel. PS: the cake is sugar-free, don’t worry.

The others are more or less generic, but enough to make him get out of bed with a smile. It’s still on his lips when he shuffles to the bathroom, his muscles aching from the stake-out he was on for two days running. When he runs the water, he catches a glimpse of his sleep-mussed hair and the beard that he knows he’ll have to shave eventually. He rubs the coarseness on his jaw and grins — it’s what keeps him from being easily recognized now that he’s so close to Beacon Hills.

But then there’s something else that catches his eye, right on his arm, just under his shoulder. At first he thinks it’s a smudge or a shadow, but when he tries to rub over it, it doesn’t move.

Stiles walks closer to the mirror while he’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and then he turns sideways to get a better look. It’s there, he’s not imagining it, the black stark against the paleness of his skin, the lines crisp and clean. His mind flashes to a memory from days way too far in the past — the familiar image that he’s seen more times than he’d ever care to admit to.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles, narrowing his eyes at the ink on his skin. “What the actual, ever-loving fuck.”

He blinks a few times then, partly to be sure that he’s not imagining things, partly because he wonders if it will disappear after he does. But no, when he’s done making himself dizzy by blinking a little too fast, it’s still there, clear as it was moments earlier.

A black triskele that instantly brings back thoughts of Derek and the Hale family, of the vault with several items with the same design on them. He hasn’t seen it in years, and yet there is no other association he’ll ever have to it.

What he doesn’t understand is how it came to be on his skin, slightly raised like he knows a tattoo would be, but perfectly healed like a fresh one most definitely wouldn’t. He’d know, he did go through the pain of getting one done on his wrist, the two bands that mirrored Scott’s tattoo on his upper arm. He checks to see if that one is still there, on his left wrist, and runs a finger over it like he sometimes does to reassure himself of reality.

His first instinct is to call Scott, the next one is to email Deaton and Lydia. In the end, he heads back into the still running shower, and lets himself breathe through the shock of his discovery. When he emerges some time later, he rubs the towel over his face a little too roughly, and then looks back at the mirror, the black catching his eye all over again.

In the years that he’s worked around and with the supernatural, he heard and saw outlandish things. Things that made him stop discounting possibilities unless he had complete certainty that they weren’t real. Unicorns, for one, didn’t have healing powers, and their blood didn’t warrant eternal life. Fairies weren’t adorable little Tinker Bells, and they could pack a magical punch — he found that one out the hard way. Alpha packs aren’t at all functional in the long term, as ultimately the members end up fighting each other for the leadership position.

There are also things that he only found in journals and notebooks, most of them handwritten because very few packs were as tech savvy as Peter Hale, and too used to the lack of electricity that would be needed to power a laptop. Some information remains unproven, as he has no way of finding out without the involvement of embarrassment.

But magically appearing tattoos were, as far as Stiles was concerned, the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels.

And yet, here he is, with a tattoo on his arm that definitely wasn’t there when he went to sleep, and it just so happened to match the one on Derek Hale’s back. Derek, whom Stiles hasn’t seen in half a decade, and who could be just about anywhere in the world, as far as Stiles was aware. The last time they spoke was when they were both packing up and leaving Beacon Hills for good.

Stiles manages to get partly dressed, but only puts on a tank top before he grabs his phone and sits down on his bed, his side and the arm with the new mark reflecting in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. Then, with slightly shaky hands and a quiet plea that the number hasn’t changed, he finds Derek’s name in his contact list and presses the call button.

There are debates about how werewolves age. It’s not always simple and linear, not like with humans. For wolves who can shift fully, time slows when they’re in their wolf form, and they show less signs of aging. It’s not as noticeable when they only shift partially, but there still is a difference.

Derek doesn’t usually dwell on it, never has. Most shifters stick to their own kind, and the end result is — barring any clashes with hunters — that werewolves simply live longer in human terms.

He isn’t sure when the triskele appeared on his back. Or at least he can’t pinpoint the specific time, considering it was at some point after the fire, and around when he came back to Beacon Hills to find Laura. He didn’t notice it at first, due to it’s placement, but one day he spotted it in the reflection on a broken window. At the time he didn’t have time to dwell on it, though family stories popped into his mind, tales about marks on the skin, about connected souls. Had it not been for his past, he would have given it more thought and more attention, but when the mark appeared, Derek wasn’t in a state fit for even considering its significance.

It’s been a few years since, and he’s more settled now, free of the dangers of rogue hunters and most importantly, the Gerard part of the Argent clan, Kate included. The mark is still there, still as solid black as ever, but he’s long since learned to just accept its existence and he has no intention of finding out anything more about it. He knows the lore now, read about it in the few books that he managed to salvage after the fire, in the house or in the family vault.

He knows that it means something, that there’s someone out there who will get the same mark and will have a connection to him. The someone could be anyone in the world though, and he has no idea where he would even start looking. Not that he particularly wants to, not now that he’s found a peaceful and quiet spot for himself, and started building a life.

He’s close enough to his old territory to feel its pull in a good way, but far enough that no one from the current pack knows where he is. He’s finally — after years of not being able to settle down anywhere without being targeted — somewhere that he can once again call a home.

And then his phone rings one early morning, the name on the screen a pointed flashback to what he’s been actively avoiding thinking about.

“Hey Stiles,” he says when he picks up. “It’s been a while.”

More than five years, Derek thinks but doesn’t say out loud.

“Hey,” Stiles says shakily, the connection crackling in the background. “Yeah, I… I wasn’t sure you still had this number.”

“Never changed it,” Derek tells him, then hesitates before he continues. “Just in case it was needed. Yours is still the same too.”

“It’s… I keep it on a spare phone, just in case….”

Stiles chuckles darkly, then sighs loudly enough for Derek to hear.

“Is it needed?” Derek asks. “Is there something….”

“It’s not… I’m not in Beacon Hills. I haven’t been there in a while,” Stiles says, his answer just vague enough that it sets Derek’s senses on alarm.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? What? Yeah, just peachy, perfect,” Stiles rambles.

Derek doesn’t need to strain his hearing to catch his heartbeat, he knows that Stiles is at the very least omitting some information.

“Stiles,” he says quietly, softly.

“Okay, so, there is a reason I’m calling,” Stiles says. “It’s not just a random social call.”

“Yeah, after all the years, I didn’t think it was,” Derek tells him. “Are you really okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles says firmly, just enough that Derek does believe him. “But… well, there’s….” Stiles takes a deep breath. “It’s kind of hard to explain over the phone, but… I have a tattoo.”

“O-kay?”

“I mean, I didn’t get a tattoo, I just… have one. Woke up with one.”

It clicks almost immediately, and Derek takes a sharp breath.

“Where?”

That is not the question he wants to ask, but it’s what slips past his lips. And the question is about more than one thing — he wants to know where Stiles is, where the mark is on his body, and possibly where they can meet. Derek is almost certain that he knows what the mark is, but he needs to see it with his own eyes.

“What?” Stiles asks, sounding confused.

“Where are you?” Derek asks, clarifying the question with what seems most important right then.

“I can’t… I’m… I’m working, and I can’t say,” Stiles says.

“Oh,” Derek responds, disappointed.

“I’m almost done though, the case is wrapping up,” Stiles rushes to add. “I… where are you?”

For a few moments, Derek debates whether he wants to open that can of worms, and who else besides Stiles will know if he volunteers that information. But then he realizes that it doesn’t matter, and what does is the mark on Stiles’s shoulder.

“I’m close to Beacon Hills, actually,” he says, still hesitant. “Not in the county, closer to Tahoe.”

“Have you gotten yourself a cottage in the mountains? Are you a lumberjack now, Der?” Stiles asks, laughter ringing through his voice.

Derek blushes, glad that Stiles can’t see him.

“Not quite,” he mutters.

“That’s not a no,” Stiles says, now openly laughing. “Did you start wearing plaid?”

“See if I tell you now where to find me,” Derek grumbles.

“Pssh, I’m sure I could find a way to track you down.”

“Misappropriating resources? Really?”

“It’s for an important cause, it would absolutely be justified,” Stiles protests weakly, then he adds, “I’d rather you told me though, so that it’s your choice.”

Derek’s heart does something utterly inappropriate for such an innocent remark. It’s just enough to help him decide on whether he wants to tell Stiles or not.

“I’ll text you the address,” he says. “When do you think you’ll be free?”

“A few days, at most,” Stiles says. “So… I’m guessing you know what’s happening? Should I be worried?”

“I have an idea,” Derek tells him, aware of how much of an understatement that is. “And it’s not… you’re not in danger.”

“That’s debatable, considering my day job,” Stiles says, but there’s less tension in his tone than when the call started.

Derek isn’t sure whether it’s his tentative reassurance, or if it’s the conversation itself, but he breathes out and relaxes too.

Stiles jots down the address on the notepad by his bed, and chuckles when a completely random memory hits him.

“What? Something funny about my address?” Derek asks, sounding a little irritated.

“It’s nothing,” Stiles says. “It’s just, there was this really bad movie Scott and I watched years ago, called Grizzly Rage. It had this guy that kind of looked like you without the scowl and the facial hair. Just… it was really bad.”

“Well, the Road is Ridge, not rage,” Derek grumbles.

“Could be worse, could be one of those that remind me of pornstar names,” Stiles says, holding back another chuckle.

“Like what, the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on?” Derek asks, catching Stiles off guard.

“I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“I was a teenager once, Stiles,” Derek tells him, and there’s a lightness to his voice that Stiles isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to.

“More than once, as far as I remember,” Stiles tells him, his mind flashing back to the time when they suddenly had a teenage Derek on their hands thanks to Kate’s machinations.

“True,” Derek agrees.

“Right, so, I’ll let you know when I can drive out,” Stiles says, steering the conversation back to where it started. “It shouldn’t be more than a week, I don’t think.”

“Take your time, Stiles,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles wonders for a moment if it really is fondness that he can hear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but this is going to bug me until I get answers,” Stiles says.

He glances in the mirror again, glaring at the mark on his arm. He’s still looking at it when he finishes the call, dropping the phone on the bed. Then he lies down, staring at the ceiling instead, hoping it will give him at least some clarity.

It doesn’t, and neither does his research that he squeezes in between wrapping up his case and finalizing paperwork. When he’s done, he requests a few extra days off, because instinct tells him that whatever he’ll find at Derek’s will require at the very least some time to recover from it.

Once it’s approved, he gets on the road. It feels like he should go to his dad’s to get Roscoe, to drive out in the Jeep for the nostalgia of it. But he doesn’t trust that Roscoe would manage the whole drive, especially not the off road parts that he could see on the route when he looked it up on the map. So instead he rents a newer model, because bringing his work car doesn’t feel right.

It’s still blue, and it’s still a Jeep, but it’s quieter and allows his mind to keep spinning as he drives. It’s not quiet enough to escape Derek’s attention though, and when he pulls up at the cottage that the directions lead him to, Derek is standing on the porch, smiling.

“You knew,” Stiles tells him accusingly, his finger poking at Derek’s chest. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Derek sighs. It’s been a week of wondering whether his instinct and guesses were right, and now that he saw the triskele on Stiles’s shoulder, the questions are inevitable. Especially since he very much failed at looking surprised when Stiles rolled up his shirt sleeve.

“It… I didn’t know it would be you,” Derek says. “It didn’t really matter.”

“You had a mark on your back the size of a fucking target that was supposed to lead you to someone, and you think that didn’t matter?” Stiles is almost yelling, exasperation dripping out of every word. “What does it mean? Is it like, a soulmate kind of thing?”

“No, Stiles, you’re thinking romantic fiction,” Derek says, another sigh following as he sits down on the front porch, pointedly looking at the spot next to him.

“Then what? Because I’ve read more than enough supernatural lore, and not one thing mentioned magically appearing tattoos,” Stiles says, sitting down.

His knee is bouncing up and down, and Derek wants to put his hand on it, make it stop. He doesn’t. Even though his restraint is already on a thin string because he’s also trying to hold back from touching the mark on Stiles’s shoulder, he manages to keep his hands to himself.

“It’s… it’s not like we’re magically bound to each other now,” Derek says quietly. “Or that we’re destined for eternal love.”

Stiles snorts, but it’s with a bitter edge.

“Yeah, I’m not stupid enough to believe in that kind of crap, not anymore,” he says. “As much as Scott still keeps telling me that it exists and I’ll find it someday.”

“You….”

“Not with this job, I won’t,” Stiles says. “Not with the schedule I have.”

“It’s not like you’re ancient, Stiles,” Derek says. “You’re twenty… what now?”

“Twenty five,” Stiles says. “Actually, this thing,” he points to the mark on his shoulder, drawing Derek’s attention to it again, “showed up on my birthday.”

“Happy birthday?”

Derek sounds hesitant, and it’s not only because he’s not sure if it’s appropriate to say. It’s also because he remembers when his triskele appeared, or at least the approximate age he was when it did. His age is still not completely linear, not now that he can shift fully. And he knows that back then he passed for younger, at least for a while. But the number is not insignificant.

“There’s lore,” he starts, aware of the fact that Stiles is paying close attention. “It’s not about soulmates, not about love. It’s about wolves and packs, and about Emissaries.”

“I’m none of those,” Stiles mutters.

“No,” Derek says. “But it’s not just about that. Marks like this, marks that show up on the twenty fifth birthday, they mean a bond. If you were a druid, and me an Alpha, it would mean that you’d be the perfect Emissary for me and my pack.”

“And when we’re not?”

Derek smiles softly, then looks up from the floor to Stiles and lets his eyes flash.

“What the fuck?”

The words slip out of Stiles’s mouth, and Derek knows that he maybe should have said something. He isn’t sure when it happened, but he felt his power grow over the years, and then one day when he shifted fully, it felt different.

“I’m the Alpha,” he says, smirking when Stiles’s surprise immediately morphs into an unimpressed glare.

“You’re not the Alpha,” Stiles says, then rolls his eyes. “But nice throwback there, I’ll give you that. So, when did this happen? How? Why didn’t you say anything? Does Scott know?”

Derek shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t. I’m far away from his territory, and the area around here doesn’t… well, it used to belong to my family decades ago, then it didn’t, and now it’s technically mine. I don’t have a pack though.”

“You have Isaac, don’t you?”

“No, he’s… he never came back from France. I don’t… it’s fine this way. Safer.”

“Oh my god, you’re still a martyr, aren’t you? Derek, you….”

“No. I’m not alone because I think I don’t deserve a pack. I just, I’m okay,” Derek says, and this time he does move his hand to put on Stiles’s knee, even though it’s not bouncing anymore.

It’s more about conveying to Stiles that he’s not lying than about anything else. He wants Stiles to believe him, to understand that he’s chosen this way. That it really is what he wants.

“Right, okay. Say I believe you,” Stiles says, clearly not completely convinced yet. “What does the mark mean?”

“It means…,” Derek starts, then takes a deep breath. “It means that you’re important to me. That maybe I’m important to you?”

He always knew that about Stiles, even before the call, before the matching triskele confirmed it. It just wasn’t something that Derek could — or wanted to, not if it meant disrupting Stiles’s life — act on, or even mention to anyone.

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles says.

“Thanks?”

“So, since we’re talking secrets….”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, curious and slightly worried because Stiles looks nervous and his knee starts bouncing again under Derek’s hand.

“You know the whole spark thing back then?” Stiles asks and Derek nods. “It turns out that while I’m not a Druid, I do have some ability to work with magic. Or, like, make things happen as long as I believe in them.”

Derek’s eyes widen.

“I mean, I’d need training to be your Emissary, if you even need one since you don’t have a whole pack,” Stiles rambles, and he ducks his head. “That’s if you even wanted one. But like, if you would, then….”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles’s head snaps up.

“Yeah?”

“I do.”

The words are out and hanging between them for a few seconds, then Stiles drops his hand on top of Derek’s.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and he smiles when he sees Stiles’s shoulders drop with relief.

“Right. That’s cool. Awesome. I’ll get right on that,” Stiles starts talking, clearly still unsettled.

“Maybe… maybe stay a few days first?” Derek asks.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and his body tilts a little until his shoulder bumps against Derek’s. “Okay.”

Derek mirrors the movement, and he turns his hand so that Stiles can lace his fingers through his. There’s a tingling on his back, like the tattoo is reacting to the contact, and for the first time since it appeared, Derek doesn’t feel like it’s a target on his back. He feels like it’s an anchor.

[xerxia31]

Aperture - an Everlark Ficlet for Burkygirl

It’s Burky’s birthday! 

My dear, sweet friend, beta extraordinaire, #tumblrqueen and fellow smutkateer @burkygirl is celebrating a birthday today! This is for you, T! Thanks for making this place so very much better!

Aperture

rated T

I shift my bag further up on my shoulder as I fish around in my pocket, finally extracting a deckle-edged piece of notebook paper and squinting at the messy scrawl on it. Panem Arms, 12E. This is a swankier hotel than I’ve ever been in before, the carpeting under my feet plush and  pristine, high quality reproductions in expensive frames lining the corridor. The room I’m looking for is in the corner, the door propped partially open, revealing an opulent space with a full wall of windows. My bag thumps against the heavy wood as I shove it open a little wider, and a voice floats towards me from somewhere deeper in the suite. “Peeta? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” I call back, wandering fully into the room. It’s bigger than my entire apartment, tastefully furnished in sleek leather and warm wood. It occurs to me for half a moment to wonder how she can afford this place, before I snicker to myself. There’s no way Johanna Mason has paid a dime. She’s a master of getting people to give her whatever she wants. Which is why I’m here. Setting my bag and tripod on a glass table that probably cost more than my tuition, I wander over to the windows, a full wall, floor to ceiling. The view is phenomenal, but more importantly, the light flooding in this afternoon is gorgeous, warm and golden. Say what you will about Johanna, she’s got a great eye for photography locations. “Find the place okay?” I spin at the sound of Jo’s voice right behind me, the thick carpeting having masked her footfalls, allowing her to sneak up on me. Then I do a double take. I’ve known Jo for more than three years, we’ve had classes together at Panem U and have a few mutual friends. I should be accustomed to her habit of wandering around only barely clothed by now. “Put your tongue back in your face, Breadboy,” she smirks. “Put your tits back in your top, Mason,” I chuckle, and she laughs too. “Hey, I paid a fortune for these,” she says, cupping what are indeed a very nice pair of boobs encased in two nearly transparent lace triangles. “I’ve gotta get my money’s worth.” I roll my eyes. Jo’s okay, but so not my type. “Is that what I’m supposed to be photographing you in?” Johanna is a fashion design major, and I’m here to do a shoot of her latest clothing project. I’m still not certain how she managed to convince me to give up my Saturday afternoon, but here I am. “You’re not photographing me at all,” she says, sashaying away towards a door at the other end of the room. “I already told you, my roommate is modelling. I don’t need Professor Plutarch pulling his pud over pictures of me.” I shudder a little at the thought. “But it’s okay for him to leer at your roommate?” She shrugs. “Brainless is a science major, she’s never going to meet the man.” “You’re cruel, Jo,” I call after her retreating figure, and she pauses, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “She fits better in the outfits, okay?” Jo screws up her face in distaste. “She’s got an ass like a twelve-year-old boy, and vegan leather is expensive.” I have to bite my cheek not to laugh out loud. Classic Jo. I set up my tripod so that the window will be the backdrop for our photoshoot, and lose myself in erecting the light stand and reflectors I brought along. Though I’m technically a business major, my minor in photography gives me ample excuse to buy nice studio equipment. When Jo emerges from the other room again some ten minutes later, I’m making a last few adjustments with my handheld light meter. This time, she’s a whirlwind of sound and sputtering, a flannel shirt tossed over her shoulders, though still not buttoned up. “Forgot the damned bustier,” she groans, twirling a set of keys around her finger. A soft snicker catches my attention and I glance up from my work. Standing beside Jo is a ghost, a dream, a vision that can’t possibly be real. Katniss Everdeen. Katniss Everdeen, the girl I’ve had a crush on since I was barely out of diapers, star of practically every wet dream I’ve ever had. Katniss Everdeen who, last I knew, was still back in our hometown, attending the local college. I haven’t seen her in sixty-seven days, since the last time she came into my family’s bakery before I left for my senior year of school. She ordered two cheese buns, and I’d managed about ten words in her presence, an eight word improvement over the previous visit. Not that I was counting. “Breadboy, this is my roomie–” “Katniss?” My voice is an embarrassing little squeak of awe, and she nods at me. I think I’m going to die. “Hey, Peeta,” she says in that smoky smooth bourbon voice, nonchalant, as if we’ve been buds forever. I’m definitely dead. I was on the debating team in high school and served as class president. I excel at making presentations and have been described as charming and persuasive. I am, by all accounts, a confident, articulate man. Except where Katniss is concerned. I’ve always been terribly intimidated by her, by that scowl and those sharp silver eyes, not to mention the omnipresent boyfriend she had all through high school. Though the boyfriend has been gone awhile, my awkwardness around Katniss has only gotten worse. As more and more time passes without me being able to conjure up a word, it gets harder to think of anything I could possibly say or do to change that. And it certainly doesn’t help that she’s incredibly hot. Just her presence turns me into the shy little boy I used to be. “You know each other?” Jo’s stops her stomping long enough to look between Katniss and me with a confused expression. “You don’t have any classes over in our building?” she says to Katniss. “Peeta and I grew up together,” Katniss says, while I stand there, mouth open like a fish out of water. “Oh did you?” An almost evil little smile curls Jo’s lip. I have no doubt she can see fifteen years of unrequited longing for her roommate written all over my face. Hell, they can probably see it from Mars. “Well I left the top part of Brainless’s outfit in my car, so she’s practically naked under that robe.” I hazard a glance at Katniss; she’s shooting daggers at a clearly bemused Johanna. “You two entertain each other while I’m gone.” Then Jo winks at me. I’m never going to live this down. But it doesn’t matter, because Katniss Everdeen is standing in front of me, wearing a thick, white hotel robe, her lush ebony hair spilling in soft curls over her shoulders. Though I’ve known her most of my life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her with her hair down like this. It’s exquisite. My hands itch to touch her, to paint her, to capture the way the amber light crowns her in fire. She clears her throat; only then do I realize I’ve been gawking. “I, uh. I thought you were going to college back in Twelve?” I ask, my voice a little more even. “Prim’s here this year,” she says, referring to her little sister, the reason she stayed behind in our dinky hometown while everyone else got out of there. Katniss’s dad died when we were in sixth grade, and the whole town knows her mother isn’t right in the head. So it shocked no one when Katniss - smart, studious Katniss - stayed in Twelve instead of accepting any one of the scholarships she was offered. She’s been more of a parent than a sister for years. “She got a full scholarship, so I transferred here from Seam College.” “You’re letting Prim live with Johanna?” Katniss scowls, and I have to fight not to physically recoil. For five-foot-nothing, she’s awfully scary. “Absolutely not,” she says, and I grin, she’s so indignant, like I’ve insulted her common sense. “Prim is in the freshmen dorms. I wanted to be nearby, so my cousin introduced me to Jo.” “What’s it like, living with Jo?” Katniss wrinkles her nose. “She’s a little clothing-averse.” I bark out a laugh, and Katniss glances up at me through her eyelashes. How have I never noticed before how thick and full they are? “But she’s tidy and she pays her bills, so I can’t complain much. How, um, how do you know Jo? I thought you were a business major.” Something hot flares in my gut at the idea that Katniss Everdeen knows what I’m majoring in. “I, uh, wow, yeah. I am. But I’m minoring in photography.” She nods. “Makes sense, you’ve always been so artistic.” I have been, but I’m shocked she noticed. She frowns. “Well of course I noticed, you designed the yearbook cover in senior year, and your dad’s bakery is full of your paintings.” My face heats up as I realize I said that out loud. How can I simultaneously be unable to speak and unable to prevent myself from speaking to this girl? This woman. It takes me another awkward moment to answer. “Uh, right. Sorry, that came out wrong.” I shake my head, ready to slink away and hide behind my camera. But then Katniss does something completely unexpected. She smiles at me. It’s a small smile, more bemused than anything. But it’s glorious. And it’s for me. And I relax a little. “Sorry,” I mumble again. “I wasn’t expecting…” I trail off, waving my hand vaguely. “Oh,” she says, expression shuttering. “Right. You were probably expecting Glimmer.” “Who?” I ask, distracted by the annoyance I can see creeping onto her beautiful face, how this perfectly kissable little line forms between her brows. “Jo’s friend. The blonde?” I shrug, Johanna has a ton of friends and I’m sure half of them are blonde. Katniss huffs. “She knows who you are.” There’s something in the tone of her voice that snaps me out of my stupor. “I thought Jo was going to be modelling her own designs actually.” “She has a boyfriend.” Now I’m the one wrinkling my forehead. Why would I care who Jo is with this week? “What?” “Yeah,” she shrugs, looking at me sympathetically. “A few months now.” That pity on her face confuses the hell out of me. Surely she doesn’t think… “We’re just friends,” I blurt. Katniss cocks her head curiously. “But you were hoping…?” “No,” I laugh. “Johanna’s not my type.” I run my hand across the back of my neck, roughly, fighting the heat rising there. “I was actually dreading this, until you walked in.” Katniss still looks confused. Fuck it, I need to grow a pair. “I’ve always wanted to talk with you, Katniss.” Silence stretches between us, twists my guts. Finally she laughs, just softly. “Seriously, Peeta? I’ve come into your father’s bakery twice a week all summer and every break since high school finished. You could have talked to me any of those times.” I feel like an idiot. “I know.” “Or before, at school, or at the lake, or at one of Madge’s parties-” “I know.” “Then why?” I shrug helplessly. Her lips purse. “You know, you never had any trouble talking to anyone else, mister senior class president.” “Well yeah, but none of them were you!” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “Fuuuck,” I groan, tipping my head back. This is why I don’t talk to Katniss. She turns me into a simpering idiot. “I mean they didn’t matter, none of them. And you do.” I sigh. “I like you, okay?” She freezes, almost unbreathing, for what feels like an eternity. Then a slow smile steals across her face. “Really?” “Yeah.” I return her smile. It’s a relief to finally tell her, and the fact that she hasn’t run screaming seems like a good sign. Behind us, the door crashes open. “Let’s do this,” Jo barks, stalking towards Katniss and towing her to the other room again. They’re back just a couple of minutes later. I’m making a few adjustments to my set up when I hear them approach. Jo is again in only a bra, but I barely notice. Because Katniss isn’t wearing that plush white robe anymore. I am thanking every deity I’ve ever heard of - and a few I invent on the spot - for Jo’s taste in clothing right now. Because Katniss, gorgeous Katniss, star of nearly every wet dream I’ve ever had, is wearing little more than a cocktail napkin. A white vegan leather cocktail napkin. Though Jo joked about Katniss’s participation being an afterthought, it’s clear these pieces were made to her measurements. They fit like a second skin, and the ivory colour makes her olive skin glow. The top is little more than a structured undergarment, the skirt a deep breath away from indecent. And wrapped around her legs, stretching from ankle to thigh, the kind of boots that make adolescent boys wake up stuck to the sheets. Grown men too. “Holy fuck,” I say under my breath. “Not bad, eh?” Jo preens. I know she’s talking about the clothes. I’m not. I can barely breathe, barely even blink. But Katniss looks uncomfortable under my ravenous stare. “Well,” I rasp in a voice that’s not my own. “Shall we begin?” o-o-o She’s gorgeous, wrapped in that skin-tight faux leather and bathed in the afternoon glow. But fifteen minutes into shooting, it’s just not working. Everything about her posture is rigid, self-conscious, the angles wrong, her expression pained. Johanna paces somewhere behind me, making aggravated little noises. Though I try to direct Katniss to position her head or hip differently, nothing seems to help. I’ve done a lot of shoots over the years, worked with kids and pets and all sorts of subjects that are hard to pose. But none have been more difficult than this, and it makes no sense. Katniss is beautiful, she has to know that, and usually so self-possessed. My frustration mounts, none of this is how I envisioned. “Dammit, Brainless,” Jo’s voice rips through the room, startling me. “You’re not even trying. If I wanted a freaking mannequin I’d have bought one! You’re as stiff as a coathanger, you’re making my sexy designs look like Quaker wear!” With each of Johanna’s barbs, Katniss’s shoulders climb higher, her frown deepens. Her fingers are white where her hand is wrapped in a death grip around the window’s edge. “Jo,” I warn, but she cuts me off. “Do you want me to fail? Is this a jealousy thing because I’m hot?” she taunts, and Katniss bristles, anger flashing in her silver eyes. “That’s it,” I growl, and though I keep my voice low, Johanna stops her tirade and looks at me, mouth partly open. “Go for a walk, Johanna, I can’t work with you disrupting my session.” “The hell, Mellark, this is my project,” she sputters, but I’m already shoving her towards the door. “Don’t care, this is my shoot, and you’re killing my vibe.” At her hurt expression, I soften my own. “I’ll get you good pictures, Jo, you know I will. Trust me to do this my way.” “Fine,” she grunts. “I’ll be downstairs at the bar. Don’t fuck this up, Breadboy.” She glances back at Katniss, as if she’s going to berate her roommate again, but I close the door between us, preempting any further insults. For a moment I simply stand, face against the door, breathing away the tension that Jo’s interference caused. Then I turn back to Katniss. Her fire is gone; she looks devastated. “Hey,” I say, all of my pique rushing away, replaced only with concern. I creep as close to her as I dare, she’s stock-still, looking out over the city, sky just starting to pinken. “I’m not a model, Peeta,” she says quietly, still looking away. “I told her that, over and over. This isn’t me.” She gestures to the getup that clings to her curves like a second skin. “I’m bony and awkward and plain and this is such a stupid idea.” I huff out a bewildered laugh. “Katniss, you can’t be serious. You are stunning.” “I can’t do this,” she says, not a trace of self-pity in her voice. “All you have to do it be you,” I tell her. “Unscripted.” Her lovely brow wrinkles. I reach out a tentative hand, slowly, as if with a spooked horse. But she doesn’t bolt. “Trust me,” I implore, wrapping a lock of her silken hair around my finger. And she nods. I take my camera off the tripod and approach her again, needing the intimacy of being close, the serenity of hushed voices. I’ll get her comfortable with me with a few headshots, and get the long body shots Jo needs after. “Just relax,” I murmur as she watches me warily, arms crossed protectively across her chest. Gently, I guide her to lean a shoulder against the window. “Relax,” I breathe again, smoothing her ebony locks over her shoulder. “Tell me why Prim chose Panem U.” Just as I anticipated, her expression softens, her eyes light with happiness. “They have an amazing pre-med program here,” she says, and pride is evident in her eyes and in her voice. As as she talks about Prim, about the one person I know she loves above all others, I raise my camera. I’ve shot off four or five frames before she even notices. Her expression darkens, and she raises an eyebrow at me. “Look,” I tell her with a grin, turning my camera around so that she can see the preview images on the back screen. Her breath leaves in a startled rush. “How?” she whispers, toggling picture to picture with a shaking fingers. Each depicts her relaxed, smiling softly, bathed in gorgeous golden light, shadows emphasizing her fine bone structure. “You made me look pretty.” It’s so quiet, I don’t even know if she intends me to hear it. But I do. “You are pretty. The camera doesn’t lie.” She wrinkles her nose. But she’s smiling, just a little. And I laugh, a relieved sound. “Let’s try some longer shots.” With my camera back on the tripod, I hold the shutter release loosely, not hiding it, but not making it the centre of attention either. We talk, and Katniss leans back against the window, relaxed and smiling. I just keep triggering the shutter. Every so often, I’ll reposition her, naturally, as easily as guiding a friend through a doorway. The faux leather pieces glow in the late light, curving over a jutted hip, sweeping over the soft swell of breast. With her guard down, each picture is perfect, sensual but with a purity that elevates them to something special. For as many times as I’ve imagined myself interacting with Katniss, I couldn’t have pictured this. How natural it feels to speak with her, how right. She’s everything I fantasized, and yet so completely different too. I’d always thought she was intimidating, but I can see now that she’s simply reserved, even a little shy. And in the tranquility of our little hideaway, she blooms. I am transfixed, and utterly reluctant to break the spell. But we’re losing the light. “Jo, uh. I think she said we need to get the back too,” I say, and Katniss spins to face the window. The gloom is gathering outside the window, chasing the orange and amber light. I adjust my reflector, trying to take advantage of the last bits of natural light. And when I glance back, Katniss has lifted her hands above her head, resting against the glass. Partly silhouetted, she’s all long limbs and clean lines, as evocative as any Vogue model ever could be. Her legs, encased in those hot-as-sin boots, stretch on forever, disappearing under a skirt that’s too tiny to even be called clothing. And above that, inches of undulating spine bared to my greedy eyes as her top pulls upward. Fuck, she’s hot. I snap a few pictures, adjusting my aperture to the light. Then Katniss arches her back. It’s an innocent movement, designed probably to work out a kink in her spine. But it has the unintended consequence of lifting that ridiculous skirt just a little higher. Exposing just a hint of ass cheek, gently rounded and smooth as silk. Alluring and enticing. Absolutely nothing like an adolescent boy. A sordid vision of grabbing those sweet swells as I thrust into her, pressed against the cold window glass, flashes before my eyes and I groan. I can’t help it. As I lose the battle I’ve been waging for an hour against my recalcitrant dick, the pained little moan that escapes me catches her attention. Her eyes meet mine in the window reflection. For a moment we simply stare at each other. Then she smirks. Her eyes never leaving mine, she arches more, the skirt lifts almost to the point of obscenity, bare millimeters of fabric hiding her charms. I’m fairly certain that she’s not wearing panties. I’m nearly hyperventilating, watching her face in the window, watching her ass sway just slightly, clicking the shutter remote convulsively. The vixen reflected in the window glass bites her lip, then her tongue sneaks out, swiping along the sting, leaving a glossy slick in its wake. Those perfect peach lips purse, then form my name. “Peeta,” reflection-Katniss whispers, the word a puff of fog condensing on the glass. Silver eyes beckon, I’m powerless to resist. She turns just slightly to look at me over her shoulder, eyes hooded and so fucking sexy. I click off a few more frames of her come-hither stare, of her sweet ass and firm breasts and long, long legs silhouetted by the sunset. Then she whispers my name again. I go to her. She’s still facing the window, hands against the glass when I stand behind her, not quite touching her. “You are so sexy,” I rasp in her ear, and she shudders, pressing backwards, closing the space between us. My arm wraps around her waist as naturally as in my dreams, palm splaying over her flat stomach, the skin warm and soft under my fingers. I lean into her, burying my face in the silken cloud of her hair. She smells like the woods, and a meadow of wildflowers. She smells like home. “Like what you see?” she murmurs, her voice deeper than usual, husky and hot. I groan again, thrusting just a bit against the small of her back so she can feel just how much I like it. She sighs and tilts her head sideways, baring that sweet spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and I don’t resist. Each open-mouthed kiss I press into her hot skin evokes another sigh, a little wiggle of her hips. She reaches up and slides her fingers through my hair, tugging and I thrust against her again, harder. She moans, and I can feel the sound in my dick, throbbing for her. Though her hand remains firmly entwined in my hair, I free my own to explore, skimming along hot skin and cool leather to cup one perfect breast. My name is a breathless plea on her lips, and the words I’ve always struggled with around her spill out. “I have wanted you ever since I first noticed girls were different than boys,” I murmur. “Have always dreamed of touching you like this. It’s always been you.” Then I slide my hand into that ridiculous bustier. Her head tips back, landing on my shoulder, her sharp pants caress my cheek and I squeeze and stoke her breast, firm and perfectly proportioned. Real. “Do you want me?” I whisper, lust and vulnerability battling in my voice. “Yes,” she sighs, the first thing she’s said other than my name. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to mark her and she mewls. Then she’s pulling away, leaving me confused and horror-struck. But just as quickly she spins, I catch a glimpse of her silver eyes flickering like candles before her body is again pressed to mine, hands back in my hair, tugging me to her. Kissing Katniss Everdeen is the most incredible experience of my life so far. Her lips are soft but demanding, controlling. And I meet her stroke for stroke, tasting and exploring. Her hands slip from my hair, slide down to wrap around my neck and I draw her closer, cradling her against me. She slows our kiss, drawing back, tapering to soft pecks, until we’re simply holding each other, lips brushing languidly, intimately. “Go out with me,” I whisper. She nods. The quiet beep of a keycard pulls us apart. Johanna. She wanders in, less blustery than before, but smirks when she sees us standing so close. “Did you get my pictures, breadboy, or is your camera card full of porn for the spank bank?” I snort, she’s teasing, but I have to bite back the urge to tell her it’s a little of both. Katniss groans. “Are you ever not vulgar?” She scowls at Jo, who is chuckling now. Then she turns those murcury eyes back to mine. “Have you eaten?” It’s barely a whisper, shy and uncertain, as if I hadn’t just had my hand in her shirt and my tongue down her throat. I shake my head and she shrugs, needing, I think, for me to make the next move. “There’s a great diner, not far from here. Do you want to get dinner together?” Please say yes, I chant in my head. She nods. “Take off that outfit before you cream yourself all over my expensive material,” Jo barks, bemused, and Katniss flips her the bird before stalking away. I show Jo some of the earlier images on my camera back and she’s genuinely pleased, even if she tries to disguise it. Then she wanders off to help Katniss while I pack up my gear. Lost in my thoughts, when I hear his voice I don’t immediately register it as real. “Mellark?” My jaw nearly hits the floor at the sight of Gale Hawthorne hovering in the doorway, stupidly tall and imposing. Gale Hawthorne who Katniss dated all through high school. I haven’t seen him in Twelve in at least a year and a half, stupidly, I thought he was gone. “Gale,” I say, shaking his hand. I’m nothing if not polite. “I didn’t know you were out here, man,” he says, and seems almost pleased to see me. The feeling is not mutual. I shrug. “I’ve only been here a few months,” he says. “Moved out here to be closer to my girlfriend.” He grins; I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Hawthorne grin before. He was always so serious when we were younger. “Hey,” he says. “Does Catnip know you’re here?” As if summoned, Katniss appears from the other room. “Gale!” she shouts, running to him, jumping into his arms. He laughs and spins her around, hugging her tightly. “I thought you weren’t back until next week?” My heart clenches at the sight of them. Just like in high school, they make a beautiful couple, both long and lean, attractive. And it hits me like lightning - this thing between Katniss and me? It was all for the camera. I’m a fool. I shove what’s left of my gear into my bag haphazardly and head for the door. “Peeta?” Katniss says with confusion. “Where are you going? I thought…” she trails off. I turn to face her. She’s changed out of the costume, wearing jeans and a slim black tee, the worst of the war paint scrubbed from her pretty face. Even her hair is back to normal, braided over one shoulder the way she always wore it when we were young. How many times has I sketched that braid in the margins of my notebook? “Figured you’d want to be with Gale,” I grumble, fiddling with the strap of my bag. “Oh,” her expression lightens, the little worry line softening. “I’ll see him later. I’d rather spend time with you now.” She slides her hands into her back pockets, which thrusts her small breasts forward. Fuck. She’s gorgeous, but I don’t know what kind of game she’s playing, and I don’t want to be a pawn in it. “But he just got back?” She shrugs. “Don’t you want to catch up with him?” “I think he’s got plans,” she says, her expression wry. I’m confused as hell. “Plans that are more important than you?” Now I’m teetering on pissed. What kind of plans could possibly be more important than your girlfriend? If she were mine, I’d make certain she knew nothing mattered more to me that her. Katniss laughs. “I expect he wants to spend time with his girlfriend,” she says, echoing my thoughts and leaving me completely perplexed. I glance over at Gale, only to find he’s gone. And then, as if on cue, I hear groans from the other room. Groans clearly of the sexual variety. What the fuck? As the noises increase in volume, words join the mix. Jo, mostly. Clearly she’s happy to see Gale. Now freed from make-up, I can see a blush steal across Katniss’s cheeks. “Ugh,” she says. “They’re like rabbits. Let’s get out of here. It’s only going to get worse.” I am completely lost. She grabs my elbow, propelling me out the door. “Gale is with Jo?” I manage. Katniss nods, glancing at me as if I’m a little slow. “He’s not with you?” Katniss stops dead in the hallway and snorts, the strangest little noise, cute and unfettered. “Gross, Peeta. Gale is my cousin. And this isn’t Kentucky.” “In high school?” I say, and she laughs. “Was my cousin then too.” “You were always together.” “Well yeah, he was pretty much the only one who’d put up with me.” She shrugs. “I didn’t have many friends.” “He might have been part of the reason why,” I grumble. And she laughs, just lightly. But she sobers quickly. “Do you really think if I had a boyfriend I’d have kissed you? I’m not like that.” Deep down, I know that’s true. “I just thought, I don’t know. We were in our own world, and I came onto you pretty hard.” I drop my gaze to the plush carpet. “I guess I thought maybe it wasn’t real.” “Peeta,” she breathes, and echoes of our photo shoot flood my mind, make my dick twitch. She steps closer, looking up at me through lashes just as thick without all of the goop on them. I can see a smattering of faint freckles scattered across her nose. “Do you know why I come into the bakery so often?” she asks, her words skating over my lips. I can almost taste the answer. “You really like cheese buns?” She laughs again, soft puffs of pleasure that tease my senses. “That too,” she admits. “But mostly I come to see you.” She reaches for my free hand, twines our fingers together. “I only agreed to model for Jo when she said it was her friend Peeta who would be taking the pictures.” I swallow hard at her confession. “Really?” She nods. “Is this real?” “Real,” she says. …………………… ……………………

[sincerely-chaos]

Inconsequential, part XVII (ficlet) - ‘method acting’

John is restless.

His footsteps, as he paces out to the kitchen, speak of a slight tendency towards limping, which will frequently occur when he's unsettled by something.

What must it be like, Sherlock wonders with his fingers pressed together beneath his chin, to have your mental state written out in every step you take, your body betraying your mind in the most palpable way?

Devastating, most likely.

Which is why Sherlock has never showed either sympathy or pity, much less consideration, in regards to this quirk of John's psyche.

There hasn't been a case for over a week - at least not for John, who was working when Sherlock solved the disappointing five that had at first seemed like a seven - and John is starting to truly despise his job at the clinic for all that it reminds him of just how far from his previous adrenaline-filled use of his skills he's ended up.

On top of that, John seems to be somewhat unsettled by his and Sherlock's last… encounter.

Apparently, Sherlock isn't the only one who found his own unpredictable limits slightly troublesome. Judging by the way that John hasn't even hinted at wanted… that in over a week, John doesn't know what to make of what had happened, and perhaps that'd been enough to discourage him from any further ill-advised experiments with--

But no. That isn't it, regardless of what Sherlock's own disgusting self-pity would like to suggest.

John wants.

John might be harder to read in this regard than Sherlock had anticipated, but the conflicted look on his face whenever Sherlock is either acting in a way that John finds frustrating or displaying fragments of what could be seen as vaguely… submissive gestures is not hard to read.

He wants, but currently, the reasons not to weigh heavier than his… want.

As John returns into the sitting room, frowning as he glances at the stack of journals he'd planned to start working his way through but now feel too disgruntled about his medical career to even consider, Sherlock decides that it's time to tip that scale.

It's a strangely satisfying thought, being able to simply do so.

*

Sherlock knows psychology the way a prey knows the way to avoid the predator.

There'd been forms and interviews - mostly with his parents, at first, seeing how Sherlock himself wasn't a particularly willing source of information - and there'd been patterns to the questions asked, patterns which Sherlock observed and pieced together with some help of a textbook on child psychiatry in his school's library after hours.

He was a “difficult case”. Initially due to his intellect allowing him to “compensate” for some of the symptoms, according to one doctor, and later due to the fact that he began “cooperating”, which in his case meant that he distributed various false leads, pointing to a multitude of different diagnoses, making the doctors feel they might be onto something only to suddenly shift tracks and make them think that another trail might be what they'd been missing previously.

The game ended once Mycroft heard his parents discuss the problem of the doctors’ widely varying preliminary diagnoses in their kitchen, once when he was home over the holidays, and instantly realised what Sherlock was up to.

At that time, Sherlock had already made an educated guess as to wherein his problems lay, albeit no diagnose fitted him perfectly, which was both reassuring and unsettling, because Sherlock wanted things to make sense and facts to fit.

In the end, his parents must have realised that if the medical professionals were fooled by their son already at the diagnostic stage, they were unlikely to manage to figure out a way to get as far as figuring out a way to make life any easier for him. The project was abandoned, and the whole debacle only served to teach Sherlock that distraction, obfuscation, confusion as well as being one step ahead were effective means to prevent anyone from digging too deep into things he did not want them to unravel.

As he grew up, it soon became clear that he needn't go to so much trouble most of the time; his vile temper and sharp tongue was more than enough to keep most people at a distance that would prevent them from even trying.

At least, it worked for well over a decade.

*

“You're better at deducing people's… inclinations than their motives for murder.”

John doesn't stop in his track, just lifts his eyebrows a bit as he continues towards his chair, a plate with a sandwich on in his hand.

“Well, deducing the motive behind any murderous attempt directed at you personally would probably be--” John starts, but Sherlock interrupts him before that so-called joke is finished.

“You find me frustrating.”

John snorts, but it's a far cry from his usual bickering face, his shoulders tense and the past few days of increased psychosomatic pain taking its toll.

“That would be putting it mildly, yeah.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing that John will often smile at this gesture when he thinks Sherlock can't see it. Frustratingly, John seems to find his ‘dramatics’... ‘endearing’ .

(‘Never one to hide your… eccentricity, are you, brother mine?’ Mycroft’s teasing voice echoes in his head, but for once, Mycroft’s insinuations might be something Sherlock can use for his own purposes. His purpose being very much related to what Mycroft had implied.)

“Have you always felt inclined to relieve that frustration by hurting me, or did that start only once you deduced that I might not be opposed to such arrangement?”

Sherlock looks at John, sitting opposite of him, his sandwich untouched on the side-table next to him, balanced on a stack of paper. A minute frown, then his face is once again unreadable.

“I'm not--”

“...punishing me for being ‘an arse’. Noted.”

John sighs heavily, rubs his face.

“Sherlock, if you think that this is about--”

“You're purposely misunderstanding me,” Sherlock accuses, and his frustration is not an act this time. “You don't hurt me because I'm frustrating, but when I am acting in a way that you deem ‘frustrating’, you find it satisfying to think about how I will willingly let you hurt me, let you humiliate me, later. It's quite the thrill, isn't it? Knowing that you're not just someone who follows the sociopathic freak, like people think, but knowing that you are the one who gets to bend him to your will and hold him there, making him want to submit to you.”

Sherlock's voice is deliberate and low, the comfort of hiding behind a deduction about John making the truths about himself easier to voice.

“You're not a sociopathic freak,” John says slowly, as if having had the air knocked out of him.

It's almost too easy, and yet, it's not.

“You don't object to any of the rest of it, then?” Sherlock says, trying not to look too pleased as his words clearly had the intended effect; confirming part of John's motivation and also making John feel a bit... protective on Sherlock's behalf.

(‘So loyal so fast, your little… friend,’ Mycroft had said with his mock-innocent face and a nauseating smile after the first few weeks of their cohabitation.)

“You're not a sociopath, or a freak,” John insists with his jaw stubbornly sticking out, ignoring Sherlock's rhetorical question.

A solider, loyal and with a strong moral principle.

The moral principle was often a bit of a bother, but the other two were... an advantage.

“Arguable, but beside the point,” Sherlock says as to wave John's words off, then continuing. “Given what you now know about my… inclinations I thought you might find the term ‘freak’ somewhat more fitting than you used to.”

The expression in John's face is everything Sherlock had hoped for.

Disbelief, anger, a hint of something akin to sadness and then… determination.

“What on Earth makes you think that I-- God, Sherlock, I--”

Something in the earnestness of John's entire reaction, in the repulsion he displays at the thought of what Sherlock implied, makes something almost warm settle beneath Sherlock's skin, and the sensation is not unlike that he had experienced when he had looked around the police cars and ambulances outside the school where the cabbie had been shot, only to see a short little man with a deceivingly innocent look stand with his hands in his pocket and survey the crime scene as if he had no idea what had happened.

“You're uncomfortable with the fact that you like hurting me, as this is not something you've ever done or wanted to do before, at least not consciously, and it doesn't fit your mental image of who you are. Trust me, it fits you very well from an outside point of view. You like giving people what they need, and this is what I need. You also have latent dominant tendencies which you have only ever allowed yourself to express, in appropriate ways, during your military career, but which you otherwise try to repress, seeing as you don't want to be ‘that kind of bloke’, especially when it comes to women. I bet a few of your lady friends would have been intrigued, but you'd hated it, because it would have reminded you of your uncle. I, on the other hand, am - and I quote - ‘an arrogant arse’, and am not likely to agree to anything I don't really want, and the ‘arrogant arse’ part does make it all the sweeter, doesn't it? To answer your question; since you're not comfortable with what you want, it's not a very difficult deduction that you find my inclinations to be abnormal just like you find your own interest in the activities to be so.”

It's rattled off as a deduction, and in way, it is one. It's just that it's a carefully worded deduction thrown out as haphazardly as if had been about John's latest flu patient on the clinic.

An act. Method acting, an aquired skill.

Sherlock picks up his phone from his pocket and starts typing. He's typing random Google searches, mostly aiming for effect. In the chair opposite of his, John stares and slowly rubs at the bridge of his nose.

Performing a faked nonchalance that he knows John will see through, displaying something troubling but true beneath, pretending that he is oblivious to John seeing through him. It's a strange act, in which highlighting the truth is the objective rather than obscuring it. And yet.

And yet, it's an act, because it's measured and planned, calculated to make John feel like he's glimpsed something Sherlock had attempted to hide or tried to repress.

In the beginning, Sherlock had been just as inexpert in understanding others' reactions as he still sometimes pretend to be. It has proved useful over and over again, people assuming that he doesn't pick up on such things, and more over, it serves to obscure the fact that he often does, but can't always interpret what he picks up.

“That's not-- Christ, Sherlock.”

John groans, drops his hand from his face and absently massages the - psychosomatic - pain in his thigh.

“Oh, I don't fret about it. Just get over whatever stupid moral objections you have towards subjecting me to pain and degradation and get on with it,” Sherlock says without looking up from his phone.

His random Google searches must have been less random than he thought, given that he's looking at a list of results for ‘non-sexual submission’.

With a sigh, Sherlock opens up a new tab and tries to think about anything case-related to Google.

“What about you?” John says just as the silence begins to settle between them.

Sherlock looks up, searching John's face for any underlying meaning.

“You said I'm better at deducing inclinations than motives for murder, but I'm still not sure about your motive for wanting… this,” John clarifies, his voice measured and calm.

“Oh, that's far less complicated than in your case," Sherlock says, suddenly feeling compelled towards a cheerful honesty.

“Oh?”

“I'm a sensation seeker, you already know that. Pain is sensation. Pain administred by someone else is slightly less predictable sensation. You do the math,” he offers, finding that he doesn't even have to act to get that truth out just as blasé and nonchalant as it feels.

“Sensation seeker?” John echoes. “You really expect me to believe that anything that concerns you is that simple and straightforward?”

“I'm an - sober - addict. I solve crime to get a kick, just like you. My brain rots in absence of stimulation. How much more reason do I need?”

“You could get that stimulation anywhere, and with far more skill and less complications.”

Sherlock takes a breath, reviewing his options.

He could jump straight to the issue; ask John what he thinks that means, but he won't, because there are words he'd prefer not to have any of them voice. He could bite back, pinning this on John needing to feel special and telling him it's only about efficiency, which in part, it is. He could also-- no.

“Don't flatter yourself, John. Being gay is not the same thing as being desperate to be fucked by anything with a penis and a pulse.”

The words seem to have the intended effect; John’s mouth falls open for just a second, and then he shuts it again, clearly deeply uncomfortable.

“I didn't--”

“Good, continue not to make that mistake, then.”

In the silence that settles before John clears his throat and returns to the kitchen, seemingly having forgotten about his sandwich, Sherlock rationalises his own utilisation of John's discomfort with the subject, seeing how it efficiently ended the conversation and additionally might prevent any further inquiries about his own motivations.

For once, there's not much more to it than what Sherlock's already disclosed.

Conditioned, sexual response to certain kinds of pain and a vague and rather objectifying sexual attraction to John's more dominant behaviours notwithstanding, sensation is his main motivation.

It crawls under his skin as he sits there, waiting for whatever crisis John's currently having to settle and for this conversation to - hopefully - tip the scales in his direction.

It's not even the pain he desperately needs, at this point.

Which, in turn, is more than a bit unsettling.

(Earlier parts live on ao3 - and also, @brilliantlyburning wondered about John’s motivations; here’s my - or Sherlock’s? - take on it)

[bisexualpirateheart]

20 for silver/thomas/james?

“That’s a weird way to say “I love you”“

Okay, so I wrote this as a sequel to this Silver/Thomas(James) ficlet because I knew I wanted to continue that, and this prompt just fit perfectly. Hope you like it!

                                                 *  *  *

One week into the voyage and Thomas is privately rethinkinghis previous assessment. It wasn’t completely incorrect; interesting is most assuredlyone word for how the voyage is passing. It’s also difficult and frustrating andon the verge of completely intolerable. James is barely talking. They take their meals andthey lie stiffly in the bunks at night and they wait for France.

Silver skulks aroundthe cabin, keeping his head down. He’s still well known on the high seas, so it makes sense for himto stay out of sight as much as possible, but it also means James stays awayfrom the cabin during the day as much as possible. 

Thomas finally corners him up on deck near the prow. None of the crew is around and they need to talk. Jamesdoesn’t acknowledge his presence at first, then finally says.

“What is it?”

“Why are you doing this?” Thomas asks in the most patientvoice he can. It wasn’t his idea to bring Silver along and he’d thought…well,let’s just say he had thought matters would be different aboard the ship.

“Doing what?” James doesn’t meet his gaze.

Thomas sighs. “Why did you bring him along if you’re justgoing to avoid him?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” James grips the railingtightly. “I…I couldn’t leave him there.” He bites his lip, teeth sinking hard into the firm flesh inagitation. “I can’t have the conversation I know I have to have with him aboard a ship.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because one of us will end up going into the sea.” Jamessays flatly.

Thomas represses his sigh this time. He places a hand onJames’s, just a brief squeeze. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Oh?” James turns his head to look at him then. “And howshould it be?”

There’s something ugly in his tone that Thomas doesn’t like,but it’s something that he recognizes, though it takes him a little while. It’s the sound of James when he’s jealous, when he’s thinking something is being taken away fromhim, when he’s afraid of losing something that he cares about, something thatmatters. Thomas just isn’t sure what he thinks is in danger this time. 

“James.”

“Leave it for now.” James says brusquely.

                                                              *  *  *

So Thomas does. He wants James to talk to him voluntarily,not because Thomas is forcing him to. Nothing good will come of doing that.

So he returns to the cabin, where Silver is lying on hisbunk on his back, one arm above his head, the other tapping a restless tattooon his stump. He glances at Thomas when he enters, but says nothing.

Thomas eyes him. “Why did you agree to come?” 

“What else was I supposed to do?” Silver answers, gazing atthe roof.

That phrase again, echoed in James’s voice.

Just fucking talk toeach other.

Silver sighs and stretches his arms above his head. Jameswatches the pull of his arms and the motion of his chest. The memory of thatnight, of Silver pressed back against him is fading. And Thomas doesn’t want itto fade. He had hoped it would lead to more, to be the beginning of something, somethingthat it obviously has already begun, but James hasn’t even mentioned it beyond that first dayon the porch. Instead now he’s acting as though that conversation neverhappened. Silver is obstinately keeping his distance as though his desire forsomething might cause the temporary truce between them to rupture, if there evenis a truce.

“We’re going to be on this ship for nearly a month more.”Thomas points out. “One of you will have to eventually give in and speak toeach other.”

Silver turns his head and gazes back at him, amusement in his eyes. “If you thinkwe’re not capable of keeping this silence up for the entirety of the voyage, thenyou severely underestimate the both of us.”

Why is he drawn so tostubborn irascible men? Thomas rubs his temples. It doesn’t solve the achegrowing there.

“The both of you are ridiculous.” He takes a book from his bag under the bunk and stretchesout with it.

Silver sighs. “I know.”

                                                        *  *  *

There’s a brisk step in the corridor and Flint enters thecabin, closing the door a little harder than necessary.

Thomas looks up from the page immediately. “What is it?”

“There’s…a ship sighted off to the west.” James mutters.“The captain wanted all passengers to go below.” From the way he’s shiftingrestlessly this way and that, Thomas knows he’s not happy with the order.

“Pirate?” Silver swings his leg over to sit up, facingJames.

“They don’t know yet.” James answers curtly. He paces the tinyroom, hands clenched at his side.

“So we stay down here and then what?” Thomas asks. Hedoesn’t miss the look exchanged between James and Silver. It’s one of sharedanticipation, of readiness.

And in that instance Thomas has an idea of what it will taketo join them together once more. Something of their shared history, somethingthey could fight side by side. Of course he wishes a pirate attack wouldn’t bethe cause of reconciliation, but if that’s what it takes, Thomas could livewith that.

James merely goes over to his bunk. He reaches into his bag anddraws out his pistol.

Thomas straightens up. “James.”

“I’m not letting a pirate ship get in within a hundred years of thisvessel.” James says, checking his pistol.

Silver pushes himself to his feet. “I’m going too.”

“You’ll stay exactly where you are.” James orders, without looking at him.

Silver stares at him incredulously. “What?”

“You’re staying the fuck below deck.” James then draws adagger from his bag as well.

“Just how many weapons do you have stashed in there?” Thomasinquires. It makes sense to protect themselves, but this seems somewhatextreme. “You don’t even know for certain that it’s a pirate ship.”

“If you think I’m staying down here while you,” Silverbegins.

“You’re staying down here with Thomas.” James cuts him off.“And that’s a fucking order. I need the both of you to be safe.”

Without another word he stalks out of the cabin, closing thedoor behind him.

Silver stares after him. “The fuck did he say that for?”

Thomas has his own idea, but he keeps it to himself,especially as he heard what Silver has not. The sound of the bolt being slidhome. His heart sinks.

“Fuck that.” Silver grabs his own pistol and heads for thedoor. He reaches for the handle. It doesn’t budge. He tries it again, but there’s no give. 

Silver stares at it in disbelief. “He locked us in. He fucking locked us in.” He swings aroundto stare accusingly at Thomas. “Did you hear me?”

“I believe he thought that was the only way we’d heed hiswishes.” Thomas says carefully. There’s a pang in his chest at what James has done, why he’s done it, what Silver doesn’t see yet.

Silver raises his arm to pound on the door. “You bastard,let us out!”

The noise is lost in the whistle and boom from up on deck.

Thomas pales at the sound of cannon fire. James is up there and while he was aformidable pirate, they have been living in relative peace and calm for sixmonths now. Anything could happen. He goes over to the porthole, trying to seeanything, but there’s no view, just the broad open sea.

“Damn him.”

Silver slumps against the door. “I’m going to fucking killhim.”

At the moment Thomas finds himself in agreement with Silver.

                                                        *  *  *

It feels like forever before the cannon fire finally fades and there’s silence up above. At last there’s footsteps in the corridor again. The bolt is slowly undone. By thistime Silver has moved to sit on his bunk, facing the door, waiting. Thomasleans against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest, also watchingthe door.

It opens and James enters. There’s smoke and gunpowder on his face, but nosign of blood or injury. Thomas’s heart settles safely in place within hischest, beating in time again. And then the anger rises up, fresh and hot atwhat James had done.

James looks at the both of them and closes the door behindhim. “I know you’re angry.” He begins.

Silver surges upright. “What gives you the fucking right?”

“I thought it was only fair.” James says coolly. “Medeciding your fate for once.”

Silver swings at him and James catches his fist, shoving himback hard.

Silver stumbles, bracing himself with his crutch. When helooks up, his eyes are murderous. “Don’t you dare compare that to this.”

“Don’t speak of that!”James shouts back. “You fucking shit.”

“You had no fucking right.” Silver hisses, moving forwardagain.

“Stop this at once, the both of you.” Thomas’s voice cuts sharplythrough the melee and they both freeze.

“John.” Thomas starts with him. “While James no doubt has avalid point, that’s something the two of you will need to discuss, as you haveneeded to discuss it since starting this voyage. You will have that conversation sooner rather than latter. And as foryou,” He turns to look at James with furious eyes. “Whatever is between the two of you, it does not giveyou the right to decide what to do. For him, or for me. Is that understood?”

“Thomas…”

“Is that understood?” Thomas’s voice rings out imperious andcommanding. It’s the voice of his past, that long ago life in London. He hasn’tspoken like that in years and James stiffens, as he always does when he hearsit.

Without a word he turns and leaves the cabin.

“Shit.” Thomas says succinctly. He leaves Silver there forthe moment and goes after him.

                                                       *  *  *

“James, James.”Thomas comes up to him by the railing. He takes a breath, looking around tomake sure there’s none of the crew around to listen to them. 

He gets a look atthe deck.

The guns were used, Thomas knows that, but no one is dead,from what he can see. Still, the disorder as the sailors set everything  on the ship back torights, make him wince. 

He turns his attention back to James. “I’m sorry. Ishouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” He had never held his rank over James,not intentionally.

“You’re apologizing to me after what I did?” James saysquietly.

“One action doesn’t negate the necessity of an apology foranother.” Thomas says just as quietly. He turns his own gaze out to the grayquiet sea. “For the last ten years, other people decided my fate every singleday. What I ate, when I slept, when I worked. Long before that my actions weredictated by my father. I can’t have that anymore, James. I can’t. Even if it’s for my own good, I have to make those decisions formyself. Can you understand that?”

“Of course I can.” James bursts out vehemently. “I’m sorry.I’m so sorry, Thomas. I never…meant to. I don’t know what happened. The thoughtof an attack just overcame any rational thought. I couldn’t bear the thought of anythinghappening to you and Silver.”

The pang hits Thomas again, and he knows in that moment whatJames himself knows, but hasn’t admitted aloud, what Silver is refusing to even acknowledge.One of them will break, and he just hopes it won’t be irreparable when ithappens.

James shudders softly. He reaches blindly for Thomas, fisting ahandful of his shirt. “I need you.”

“James.” They’re on deck, and it’s hardly the place, nor thetime. The ship isn’t convenient. None of this is convenient. But the look inJames’s eyes lights a fire in Thomas, a fire that he doesn’t want to extinguish.He’s tired of hiding, of having to think first before acting.  

“Come with me.” He draws James down below deck. They make it down to the corridor where James kisses the back of his neck with feverish need,causing Thomas to shiver with want.

Anyone could see them, anyone could come below, and theywould be caught. “We have to get inside.”

He shoves the door to the cabin open, dragging James insidewith him and pauses at the sight of Silver who’s still sitting there, looking at him.

“James.” Thomas hesitates.

James’s hand grips his shirt so tightly Thomas feels therasp of James’s nails against his skin. “Let him see.” He says roughly, and kissesThomas, pushing him up against the door and bolting it from the inside.

Thomas moans into his mouth. “James.” Is this really fair toSilver?

He turns his face and meets Silver’s gaze, searching forsome sign that Silver is all right with this happening. There’s a burning intensity inSilver’s eyes as he looks at them. He gives Thomas a barely imperceptible nod.So Thomas goes ahead, reaching for James’s breeches and underclothes, pushingthem down to his thighs.

James groans, leaning against him, his cock pressing against Thomas’s clothed groin. “I want you inside me.” He whispers into Thomas’s ear.

Silver draws in a sharp breath.

Thomas grips his bare ass hard. “What happened up there?” Heasks.

“You want to know that now?” James groans again as Thomas’sfingers slide along the cleft of his ass.

“Yes.” It’s Silver who answers and James turns his head tolook sharply at him.

He looks back at Thomas for confirmation.

“You heard him.” Thomas says. He presses the tip of hisforefinger against James’s hole. “So tell us.”

“I convinced the captain he needed to frighten off the shipbefore they got too close.” There’s a hitch in James’s breath as the pad of Thomas’s finger rubs him just there. “And it worked.”

Thomas presses James up against the cabin wall, spreadinghis thighs as he searches for something, anything.

“There’s oil in my pack.” Silver mutters.

James eyes him over Thomas’s shoulder. “Fetch it.”

Silver gets out the oil and brings it over to him. His handbrushes James’s, fingertips to fingertips, and then he moves away, back to his bunk.

“Spread your legs and continue.” Thomas says as he slickshis finger.

“I said it worked. That’s all.” James murmurs as Thomas easeshis finger into him once more.

“He let you command his men, didn’t he?” Silver leansforward, waiting for James’s answer.

“Y-yes.” James manages as Thomas eases nearly his entirefinger straight up to the knuckle inside him.

“And how did that feel?” Silver asks casually, as though he already knows the answer.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” James retorts and then gasps asThomas adds a second finger.

Silver just smiles. “You’ve missed it, haven’t you?”

“Shut up.” James says. “Thomas. Now.”

“Turn around and face the wall then.” Thomas removes hisfingers and straightens up, tugging his own breeches down in his haste. He slickshis cock and positions himself between James’s legs.

He thrusts into James with a faint gasp, trying to make nonoise, but unable to hold back entirely. James reaches over his shoulder to grasp Thomas by the side of the neck,turning his head so that he can reach Thomas’s mouth.

Thomas grips his hips moving faster, rutting into him. It’srough and too fast, he wants to slow it down, but James needs this and if he’shonest, he needs it too. There will be time for taking it slow. Another day.Now there’s just this.

And then James turns his head to gaze directly at Silver. “Thisis why you reunited us. Admit it.” James punctuates his words with pressing hiships back against Thomas’s cock. “This. Is.Why.”

“Yes.” Silver’s eyes glitter with savage satisfaction. “Itis.” He’s not remotely apologetic or penitent about it. 

James gasps as Thomas slides nearly all the way out and thenback inside, hot and quick and rough. He’s moving faster now, making James pant with eachthrust. Then Thomas reaches around to wrap a hand around James.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I was fucking worried.” James’s head sinks between hispalms as he braces himself against the wall with both hands.

“I know.” Thomas says softly, still moving in him. “Did you enjoyit?”

James shudders. He risks another look at Silver who justsmirks at him. “Yes.” He admits at last.

Thomas fists his cock harder and James comes helpless andgasping, shooting over Thomas’s curled fingers.

Thomas kisses the back of his neck as he finishes, tastingJames’s sweat, burying his nose in James’s hair.

They lean against each other, steadying each other in their arms and then Thomas eases out ofhim.

James turns andgrasps his face, kissing him thoroughly, his tongue entreating Thomas for moreand then he draws back. There’s a sated, tranquil look to his eyes that Thomasloves.

“Thank you.” James strokes his thumb along Thomas’s cheek.He smiles as he draws up his breeches.

Thomas gives him a smile in return. He starts to draw up hisown breeches and then pauses as he notices James inching towards the door. “Oh, no youdon’t.”

“I just need some fresh air.” James mutters. “That’s all.”

“Tell him.” Thomas insists, standing there still half nude,his hands on his hips. “Tell him what you told me, what you said in this bloodycabin before you locked us in.” Tell himso he understands, damn you, James. He let that just happen because Silverwas all right with it, but he’ll be damned if he lets this continue to simmerbetween the two of them.

James sighs, but his shoulders slump slightly in acceptance of the fact that this can’t go on. “I did it because I couldn’t bear to think of anything happening to you, eitherof you.” He lets that settle in the air as he gazes straight at Silver.

“Yes you said that,” Silver pauses as he thinks about it, really thinks about it. Hiseyes widen a little and James licks his lips apprehensively. Silver looks atThomas for a long moment, and then back at James. “That’s certainly a weird way to say I loveyou.” He says finally.

There’s a challenge there, daring James to confront him, todeny it, to pretend that isn’t why.

James straightens his shoulders and juts his chin up.“No stranger than exiling me to reunite me with Thomas.” Hecounters.

Silver’s smile is serene, but his eyes are faintly pained. “Perhapswe need to work on it.” He murmurs. He glances at Thomas, his expression alittle more tentatively hopeful now. “That night in the cabin…” His eyes dart back toJames, waiting to see what Thomas will say.

“…would have been perfect if James had been there.” Thomasfinishes. He’s growing more attuned to Silver’s thoughts, anticipating thepaths they will take.

Silver nods, his eyes calming in relief.  

Thomas sighs. “I’m exhausted. I need some sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.” James points out.

“And we have at least two hours till it’s time for dinner.”Thomas says. He doesn’t have energy for anything more right now. He reaches for the blankets from each of their bunks, as well as theircloaks. James watches him as he builds a makeshift bed on the floor.

Thomas glances up at James. “Come on.”

With a sigh James sits down beside him, but Silver remains where he ison the bunk. “You too.” Thomas says, patting the blankets between him and James.

“Are you sure?” Silver asks.

“Just come down here already.” James sounds faintly irritableand Thomas is about to remind him to be polite when he sees how Silver’s already sliding off the bunk in response. 

Thomas lies with his back against the wall, settling Silverbetween him and James. This, for right now, feels right. Silver shifts his positionslightly, his back towards James, facing Thomas.

Thomas closes his eyes. Suddenly he’s very tired. He doesn’twant to think of what could have happened if the pirates had decided to attackinstead of retreat. He doesn’t want to consider all the ways this day couldhave ended.

James hesitates, and then he moves closer, his hand restingon Silver’s thigh as though he’s testing the waters. “I know we need to speak,but can we let that wait till tomorrow?”

“I can live with that.” Silver exhales.

He gazes at Thomas lying there, looking so peaceful.

“I’m still not happy with France.” Silver mutters.

“Too bad.” James murmurs. His thumb strokes gently overSilver’s thigh, just the slightest motion of touch.

“You still haven’t kissed me.” Silver points out. “I don’tthink you get to say anything more until you do.”

“Is that right?” James murmurs.

Thomas sighs. “James, for the love of god, just kiss him.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will.” Thomas curls a hand over Silver’s stomachwithout opening his eyes.

James chuckles, and for that Thomas opens his eyes. He liesthere, watching as James leans over Silver, cupping his jaw in his hand, Silvergazing up at him with bare hopeful want in his eyes.

James doesn’t speak, he merely lowers his mouth to Silver’s,a slow entreaty of a kiss, that has no need of persuasion as Silver’s lips part with equal desire and his hand reaches up to curve along James’s back.

Thomas smiles and closes his eyes again.

Yes, he decides his original assessment was correct. This voyagewill prove interesting indeed. He was also correct in it being a new beginning, for all three ofthem.