#fondness for m notwithstanding

[fooltofancy]

book 3 feels veeeeery much like someone tellin a story with beats they know they wanna hit but they're not QUITE sure how they wanna get there? so everything between the two or three mildly interesting bits of story is just filler.

[thee-morrigan]

stay over if you can

attachment theory, chapter 7 The Wayhaven Chronicles Nate Sewell/Holland Townsend rated M

Excerpt:

By the time they'd finished eating, sitting on her back porch, the sky having shifted from gold to the velvet blue of twilight, Sleater had abandoned them both in favor of chasing lightning bugs across the lawn. It was a beautiful night. Evening had arrived with the sound of a choir, the cacophonous harmony of nightjars and spring peepers ringing from the trees, the occasional distant call of an owl or the shriek of a hawk cutting through the deepening smudge of indigo night overhead. It had grown noticeably cooler in the absence of sunlight, an evening breeze blowing the sweet fragrance of jasmine over the deck, their nighttime blossoms unfurling like paper fans in the dark. The glow of fireflies chased one another through the shadows, flitting like will-o-the-wisps, flashing out a language all their own. Holland swirled the remaining wine around in the bottom of her glass, watching her dog bound through the shadowed grass, her speckled coat limned in the pale gold of the porch light, tail wagging gleefully as she darted amongst the dusk-washed hydrangea blooms. Everything felt soft and lovely, muted and languid in a way that made Holland want to linger, just like this — just as they were, warm and content in the waning light of day. The thought struck something soft and bright in her heart — a sliver of the kind of happiness she hadn't felt in so long she wasn't sure what it was. It was sharp and aching and sweet and warm all at once, and she wanted it — she wanted to capture this feeling, to hold it in her hands and wrap herself in it, to bask in it like a cat stretched out in a patch of sunshine. It felt — she felt — she wanted — She wasn't totally sure what she felt, actually. (As for what she wanted...well. She had some specific thoughts on that front.) It had been a long time since someone made her feel like this. Since someone had her so off-kilter. It was a little unsettling. It was a little exciting, too, which made it even worse. "Thank you, by the way," she said, not looking at Nate but rather still tracking her dog's movement, legs curled underneath her in her chair, the loose folds of her dress shifting against her thighs. "For dinner, I mean. It was delicious." She glanced at Nate, then, only to find him already watching her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The look in his eyes was warm and almost too fond. It made something inside her flutter like a startled bird. "You're very welcome," Nate said, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." “A very compelling bribe,” she added, taking a sip of her wine, eyes drifting back to Sleater, now standing motionless, ears pricked, the tip of her tail quivering as she tracked the movements of some invisible prey amongst the flowerbeds. “Canine sedition notwithstanding.”

read the rest on ao3

[serasaka]

Thomas McClaine/Francis York Morgan fanfiction Pt. 2: Because they both deserve so much better. <3

Another long day at the station, but at least it was Friday night at last. Thomas kept this in mind as he at first plodded – but then hopped – up the steps to his little apartment. His sister Carol was performing at the club, which he would normally love to see, but this had been a particularly-rough week: “The Raincoat Killer” was on the loose, and it had just so happened to start raining. He knew Carol would be safe at the club, so he decided to focus instead on himself.

As soon as the door shut behind him with an old, familiar clunk snugly inside the jamb, he quickly but carefully put his gun and holster away, kick his shoes off, and headed straight for the record player. He was in a mood – on any other weeknight he would have headed for the shower, whipped up a quality weekday-dinner to make even a full-time chef blush, and then relax.

But there was nowhere to go the next morning; there were leftovers in the fridge, no fuss necessary… So, what better way to start the weekend than with some self-care?

Thomas adored his record-player. Carol was part of the reason he did: His talented sister was a singer, performing smooth jazzy numbers in her red silk dress and boa. In fact, Thomas was so fond of her performances that one might call it envy. Thomas occasionally donned a red silk get-up as well, complete with a wig, make-up and stilettoes. Usually that sort of thing was reserved for his lovely G…

…He sighed, mournfully just then. That, he knew, was a sordid relationship, rife with angst, humiliation and discomfort – a not-fully-requited love, it seemed. Still, even G was not available to put a show on, so Thomas was a comfortable one-man show. He half-smiled with sad eyes at the thought.

Laying the needle quite gently to the record, and waiting for that tingle-inducing fzzz that preceded the music, Thomas closed his eyes and let the music take hold of him.

---

York had been on his way back to the hotel, carrying on his usual inner dialogue with his childhood friend, Zach, about old movies and which cinematography geniuses directed them. However, as he passed Thomas’ apartment complex, something set the FBI agent senses a-tingling. Thomas entered his and Zach’s collective brain.

“You know, Zach,” he said aloud, “Thomas is a funny character, isn’t he? He’s always so coy, effeminate for sure – and that cooking! Amazing! – but do you get the feeling that he’s hiding something? Hmm,” he absent-mindedly struck a cigarette lit while driving. “I know he doesn’t have the reverse-peace-sign tattoo, like the killer does, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely off the hook – no one in this town is.” He muttered on to confidant, doing a three-point turn in the middle of an empty backroad, “He’s protective of his sister, for sure… so who’s to say that that protective personality isn’t hiding something about the case? Or… someone?”

Having turned the car around – notwithstanding just barely dodging a large fallen tree branch – York grunted approval to himself. “Yeah, it might just be a hunch, but acting on a hunch and being horribly wrong is better than not acting and being horribly right.” Mechanically dousing his cigarette in the ash tray after only a few puffs, York drove straight back to the apartments.

Pulling into the first empty spot he saw, York got casually out of the car and strode to the steps, betraying the confidence of someone who lived there. He glanced around, his head unmoving, in the near-darkened staircase: No one. All the other apartment windows were either pitch black or had a light on somewhere in another room. York’s eyes fell on Thomas’ door and, seeing that the living-room light was brightly lit, he quietly moved to the window to look inside.

What he saw made time stand still.

Thomas was sashaying, swaying, rolling his neck and shoulders; he shuffled his feet only every so often side to side, but he was clearly dancing. He saw his hands pass lazily through the air, fingers snapping. All of his movements were slow, breezy; trance-like.

Quite the dancer, isn’t he, Zach? York dialogued to himself inwardly. I never knew he could move like that. He and Carol could put on quite a show!”

A strong breeze blew in just then, surprising the FBI agent back into the present. The wind whipped his tie so hard that it smacked the window. He froze.

Thomas spun around, shocked pale – except for the flush in his cheeks.

Their eyes met through the glass.

----

Thomas, who one moment was a graceful jazz dancer, rapidly became a hurt, embarrassed man. He strode angrily to the door and threw it open. York just grinned sheepishly.

“Good evening, Thomas,” York greeted, becoming his usual calm, collected self. After all, he knew what was about to happen – with good reason. No sense in showing guilt.

Thomas glared at him, a mix of anger and confusion in his face. “York, what are you doing here?! How did you even know where…” he then pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “…Ne-nevermind. You are FBI, I guess. But why are you even here?! It’s Friday night! I’m tired and want to be alone,” he finished sternly, arms crossed over his chest. Even in the darkness of the falling night, York could still see the blush in his cheeks leading all the way to his temples and ears.

Well, what should we tell him, Zach? The truth, or…? Then, out loud, “You’re right, it’s Friday night. I thought it would be a good time to catch you guys while you’re in a good mood. Maybe we can chat about how this is affecting us,” York took a step towards the shy dancer. “After all, as Emily said: We are a team… and this is a very rough case for all of us.”

Thomas wanted to be angrier; he wanted to tell York off for such a dim-witted excuse for spying on people he just earlier that day told were ‘pretty much in the clear.’ Yet he was also a little excited to see York. Alone. At his doorstep. It was becoming increasingly too good of an opportunity to spend time with him to blow it on shooing him away, no matter how harebrained the excuse.

“Hmph,” the shy dancer brooded, honestly with only a little anger left to put in it, “well, why didn’t you just knock then?” Standing aside and gesticulating with both hands like an usher, “Come on in?”

I’m not totally sure he bought it, Zach, but it was worth a shot, York dialogued. With a smile and a polite nod, the FBI walked in and started looking about the living-room.

“It’s small, but it’s home,” said Thomas, clicking the door behind him and making double-sure that it was locked. A thrill of fear – or perhaps excitement? – went through him that maybe it was not locked this whole time after all. “Can I offer you a drink?” he asked, quickly moving to the record-player to remove the needle.

“Oh, you don’t have to turn off your music for me,” said York gently. “It’s actually quite nice.” He raised an index finger in the air like a small ‘aha!’ finger-gun. “You’ve got some refined tastes in music, I see. Jazz? Old time lounge stuff? Can’t say I know anybody who’s still into that these days.”

The shy dancer hesitantly removed his palm from over the needle. As secretly delighted that he was becoming to have York over for a surprise visit, he began to feel the familiar, unwanted anxiety knotting up his stomach. He was so painfully self-conscious; G certainly had a hand in that. It was practically beyond repair most days for poor Thomas, even when George was in the best of moods.

Thankfully, the FBI agent did not pursue it. “And yes, I’ll have a drink, thank you. What do you have?”

Feeling a little inspired, Thomas spun around and strode to the kitchenette. “Well, I have the usual water, but maybe you’d prefer something stronger?” Then, flatly, “and no, I don’t mean coffee.”

York chuckled. “Oh no, not this late, I’ll never sleep. How about you surprise me, then? You’re an excellent cook – I’m sure you’ve got something up your sleeve with bartending, too.” He turned as if to look at something interesting hanging on the wall, just to put two fingers to his forehead and channel Zach.

Lets just be on the alert for anything he slips in the drink. I know, Zach, it was a bold move to have him just make something, but we want him to be comfortable enough to talk.

He then casually turned back around to see Thomas working quickly with a bottle of gin and citrus soda. He smiled proudly at the finishing touches: A sprig of mint sitting neatly on top, and a twist of orange rind on the rim. He glided over to York and held it out. “It’s nothing fancy, but I’m told I’m pretty good at these.”

“Straight-forward, yet elegant,” York commented, taking a sip. He locked eyes with Thomas as he did, causing the latter to flare up in the cheeks again. “Wow, that’s delicious, Zach! One of the best ones I’ve ever had, I think!” He dialogued aloud to his confidante. Watching how Thomas’ face light up and his chest swell with pride, York decided that chances were very good that his drink was safe.

Thomas gestured to the couch. “C-care to sit?” His anxiety crept back no sooner than having offered. He was deathly afraid of being a boring host. However, York just smiled and sat down with his drink.

Well, Zach, I’m already imposing – may as well get started.

----

“So, tell me about yourself, Thomas,” the FBI agent started. “We probably shouldn’t ignore that I saw you dancing – I’m a bit envious. I can’t dance for the life of me, not even at my high school prom,” he smirked with a chuckle. “Why be a cop? Why aren’t you dancing on stage with Carol?”

Thomas’ anxiety spiked into his chest, and for a moment his heart stopped. “M-me? On stage?! Pssh…” He waved dismissively at first, crossing his arms and turning away, embarrassed. The beat of quietness was too long for him, though. “…Well, I’m not as good as her, for one. She taught me everything I know about dancing, b-but she’s just the best at it. Besides, she can also sing, which I can’t.” He half-turned back towards York, expecting a disinterested expression.

To his surprise, the shy dancer found an intrigued FBI agent, thoughtfully gripping his chin in his free hand.

“That’s not all true, Thomas. It can’t be – I saw you dance, and it was quite good. Might be a great career switch for you,” York concluded, taking another sip of his drink and smiling at it in that childish glee-like face he seemed to spontaneously show. In those moments, the outside word disappeared to York; for Thomas, this at least allowed him to openly blush and stare at him a little.

A smooth, seductive and almost bass-y lounge number came next on the record. The volume was still relatively muted, just enough for ambiance – save for what sounded like the breeze whipping around outside, tossing sticks and leaves against the cement walkway. Thomas honed in on it; then, turning fully back around with a hand dropping to his hip:

“Would you... Would you like to see something I’ve been practicing, York?”

York’s eyebrows flitted up with curiosity. “Sure thing. What’ve you got?”  Zach, it seems like he’s opening up to me, finally. Can’t let him clam up now, he dialogued.

Thomas curled a foot behind his leg, tapping the floor with his toes for a moment, wondering if he just made a huge mistake. What if York laughed? No – he’s a professional, and took time out of his night to come by! Why would he laugh? Then again, it would also feel odd doing this without his dress on, let alone in front of a live audience…

…In front of the object of his fancy.

Thomas closed his eyes slowly, and inhaled a deep breath. Expertly backing the needle up right to where the song began, he exhaled slowly and let his shoulders drop a bit; his hips felt a little looser. His eyes, which showed stifled fear only moments ago, now turned back to York half-lidded and darkened.

The shy dancer began to move.

----

As the music played, Thomas parted his feet and did a slow shuffle from side to side. He rocked his hips slowly, twisting inward with a slight sway when he switched them. His arms bent lazily at the elbows, and he snapped his fingers every fourth or fifth beat; when the song soared upwards, he would wisp his arms up and snap to the beat, his forearms moving from being crossed over his head to slowly drifting down to his sides.

Stealing glances at the FBI agent, he could tell he had a captive crowd.

York was spellbound. He had not moved his drink hand the entire time. The sultry beat of the music mixed with Thomas’ hypnotic dance sent his mind swimming, caught in a menacingly-slow whirlpool of emotions; his heart fluttered with every snap of the dancer’s fingers. The wind continued to whip outside, so much so that the lights began flickering. Suddenly, the lights permanently dimmed.

Thomas did not care – he was entranced.

Zach… I never realized that… York had begun to dialogue, but he could not concentrate enough. He was staring wide-eyed at Thomas, drinking in every feature like it was brand new territory.

Thomas was still in uniform, save for his shirt being half-unbuttoned and his tie hanging undone about his collar. Yet, York found that suddenly he was filling out the uniform superbly: His swerving hips, his strong shoulders, his slim waist and surprisingly firm chest. The dimmed light hit his angles, curves and features just right. The FBI agent started noticing a lush curl of Thomas’ hair dangle and drip down over his forehead, like a come-hither finger. From behind the glasses, those heavy-lidded eyes just seemed to grow darker, the ambient light sheening off of them just so. Even the dancer’s lips seemed to glimmer glossily; tiny flecks of light bounced off of them at different poses.

Feeling the building intensity of York’s stare, Thomas curled one corner of his mouth into a coy, flirtatious smirk. As he danced, he would raise and lower his head depending on the rises and dips in his swaying – now he put in extra effort to make his neck look longer, or drop his eyes closed eyes in bliss. The deep blush was crawling up his cheekbones again, into his temples and ears – and he didn’t care one bit anymore.

Once or twice, York nearly dropped his drink but gripped at the last second, brief lapses in his enraptured state.

The song was almost half-over, so the dancer pulled the trigger to press onto his next bold move.

----

The FBI agent had not blinked the entire time; the ice in his drink had all but melted away. Even Zach had fallen completely hushed. Both personas were awestruck.

A warm smirk spread over Thomas’ face. He reached a hand up and lazily grabbed the loose tie about his neck. Like a silk ribbon on a luxury gift, he slinked it off his neck, letting it swing into his other waiting hand. He brought the wide end up to his cheek and held it there, looking as if his face was pressed sweetly against someone’s chest. The dancer zeroed his sights squarely on York from beneath the heavy lids, only moving the rest of his body for a several beats.

He took the tie corner closest to his mouth into his canine, gently tugging it away again, letting the fabric drag longingly across his lower lip.

York nearly dropped his drink again.

Thomas’ smirk slowly morphed into a more serious, sultry frown, as he leaned down to the FBI agent and ran the tie fabric beneath his jaw, smoothing out to the edge of his chin. York instinctively leaned into the pull-away and, just as Thomas planned, he found himself standing upright, dangerously close to him.

Thomas took the tie and gently looped behind York’s neck and tugged him in, still dancing. He did not even drink that night, but he was drunk off of the power he found over the FBI agent. He locked his wide-pupiled eyes with York, tugging him in ever-closer.

The drink finally slipped from York’s fingers and thudded to the floor, but neither man flinched.

Z-Zach… are we? …Am I?... Once again, York could barely even finish his inner dialogue before finding his hands reaching for Thomas’ hips. Though not at all a dancer himself, York began swaying in synchronicity with Thomas; his eyes returned the stare, a mix of dumbfounded…

…and seduced.

The song was nearly over, so Thomas had to be even braver if he wanted to close out strong.

----

Letting the tie drop to the floor, the dancer wrapped his arms loosely around York’s broad shoulders. He moved his hips in close to his, until they were not only touching but moving as one. Next their torsos slowly connected, from stomach to sternum. Both of their hearts were fluttering furiously, Thomas’ even more-so as he was getting closer to what he desired. At last, their chests collided in that slow, deliciously-torturous way, and Thomas’ eyes sparked. His breath hitched; York shook with surprise, but was too taken to back away.

As the song reached its fade-out, the dancer tightened his forearms and brought the FBI agent’s face in dangerously close to his. York’s breathing started to labor; the room felt much too warm suddenly. It sent Thomas right over the edge to see the handsome man mere inches from him nearly lose his cool over what he was seeing.

Their bodies still fused, Thomas slowed the dance rhythm way down to the fade, leaning close, tilting his head slightly, and finally – finally – placing a delicate, moist kiss on York’s shocked, parted lips.

----

Silence.

Silence for that sordid, full-minute-long kiss. If York and Zach were not collectively stunned enough, they were both brought to attention right there and then. York’s surprise began to slip away nearly halfway through, his mind becoming warm, dizzy and relaxed.

York, we!... We can’t… Zach tried to dialogue with him, but the damage was done. The personas’ hearts were thudding recklessly in their singular chest. They were spiraling deeper into the pools of Thomas’ eyes, accepting the dancer’s irresistible invitation into his embrace; into his desires.

Gripping the dancer’s hips gently, York pulled him in even closer, wherever gaps of air existed between their bodies. His hands wandered up and down Thomas’ lower back, not once letting go of his body. Their lips knit and re-knit together every few seconds, slowly; with a delectable stickiness from their tongues teasing the tips of each other. Wisps of gin made it into Thomas’ mouth, sending his mind reeling. He delved inside the FBI agent’s eager mouth, wanting more; York dreamily obliged.

York felt hands gently grip the back of his head, fingers moving over his scalp, behind his ears, and touching the corners of his jaw tenderly. One hand traced a finger softly along his scars. This made the FBI agent briefly wince – his scars were sensitive, and thought no one would care to touch them anyway. To Thomas, York’s skin was becoming increasingly warm to the touch. A quick peek at the agent’s face revealed that he was, in fact, a deep scarlet across his cheekbones. His eyelids dropped close again, warm happiness shooting through his veins.

For the first time in a long time, he felt safe; he felt accepted, desired and adored.

Suddenly, all power went out in the apartment. The wind was whipping furiously outside; the sound of a snapped wire could be heard off in the distance. The room fell deathly quiet…

…Except for the blood pulsing hard in each man’s ears, so furiously were their hearts beating as a result.

Only the ambient, pale-blue moonlight through the clouds kept them from a total blackout. The light waxed and waned off the back of York’s head, shadowing his intense stare; what light made it past him glinted flirtatiously off of Thomas’ face – a glint on an eye one moment, maybe off a dewy lip the next. He, too, was staring with hunger at the man in front of him.

We… have to stay on-task, Zach, York tried to rationalize to his fellow persona, but even Zach had become submerged in the passion.

Nngh.. York, just… Zach strained, …S-stop… let go…

Thomas smirked again, but this time it was much different – much more animalistic than was his wont.

…Just do it, York… Don’t stop.

York’s breath staggered – he dove in for another kiss, pressing hard and longingly into the dancer’s mouth. He grappled the back of Thomas’ head, sliding fingers through his lush hair. The music had long-since died, but the two men were still swaying, joined at the hips as one man had a leg slightly between the other’s. Thomas was certainly coming out of his shell for York – he was undoubtedly taking control of their movements, so much was he in his element. The FBI agent was grateful, as he had no idea how to make out, let alone with another man.

If he had said that to Thomas right then, the latter would have laughed in his face most incredulously.

As they took turns softly sucking on one another’s lips in between re-knits, York glided a hand up to Thomas’ chest, sliding his fingers inside the opening of his uniform. It was hotter than hell inside his shirt; the heartbeat was such that he thought he was touching it right through his skin. York parted from the kiss and tilted his head inward, lining Thomas’ neck with soft kisses. The dancer let out a breathy moan, sending a jolt squarely to York’s overstimulated heart.

Any ordinary man would have died from it, but York and Zach soaked it expertly together.

Emboldened, York bit teasingly at the skin with his canines, producing a quiet cry from deep in Thomas’ throat. York ran his fingers along the exposed area of chest. As Thomas turned a deep cherry red, he brought a palm up to the FBI agent’s chest and shoved him…

…Right onto the couch.

The dancer grinned wildly, planting a hand on either side of York against the back of the couch. York blinked, frightened briefly.

It’s okay, York, Zach dialoged. Just pretend… it’s like high school…

Thanks to Zach’s suggestion, York spun into profiling mode. Zach had summoned the one and only time he and York came close to experimenting with another male. It was a good old-fashioned game of Truth or Dare – and it was with his worst enemy, some preppy junior. York was a diehard anti-establishment punk, mohawk and all, so the idea of being kissed by some snotty rich brat was nearly nauseating. But the prep did exactly what Thomas did to him just then. York specifically remembered that moment: He decided that maybe he might like men, too. However, the prep was a lousy kisser.

Thomas was divine.

Not to mention that Thomas was a much-lovelier human being: Smart, sensitive, even endearing in his own coy, awkward way. Bonus points for being such an amazing cook. Yes… York could tell that Thomas, even if he were hiding something, was being his truest self, right now; it proved he was the most innocent, if not tragic, of all the suspects in this insane case.

Relax, York… let us have this.

----

The dancer climbed onto the FBI agent’s lap, a leg on either side. Never breaking eye contact, he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, slowly – deliciously – and tossed it aside. York wriggled out of his blazer and chucked it behind him onto the floor. Leaning back in the couch, he drank in the beautiful dancer’s naked top-half with his eyes – and hands. His fingers traced, trembling slightly, as if reading his body with them: Up his sides… then stomach… then chest… gliding up his neck and gently grabbing behind his ears to pull him in.

Thomas allowed himself to be pulled in, closing the gap with a passionate kiss. It truly was a dream come true. He was lip-locked with York, this handsome – even if very odd – man from the big city. He was everything Thomas was not: Confident, bordering on brazen at times, rugged and angular, tough, analytical…

…and an incredibly sexy level of intellect.

Maybe it was the kind of intellect: Street-smarts with a healthy dose of book-smarts, unlike his own inherent, nerdy bookishness with little stomach for actual policework. He had been lured into it by George – his ‘lovely G.’ There was an escape now. York was the blessing in disguise, a city boy bringing the conservative, small-town façade crashing down.

Thomas nearly jumped up and packed his bags, looking to run away with York.

The two men broke the kiss again, their chests heaving with lack of air. The dancer leaned his forehead against the FBI agent’s; wrapping their arms around each other, they sat again in life-rending silence.

Save for their panting and racing thoughts.

At last, Thomas leaned back enough to look at York’s face. “Do you… want to take this to the bedroom?” he asked through a shy grin. It was only then that York could feel quite the bulge through Thomas’ pants.

York swallowed. “It’s… It’s not that I don’t find you incredibly enticing, Thomas,” he responded, carefully observing the soft contortion of the other man’s face. He followed up quickly, “Believe me, if I were any other person, I would love to take it there… I just… I’m not ready for that. I…”

York reached a hand up and cradled Thomas’ sweet face, letting the latter lean into it and close his eyes. With a thumb, York smoothed over his bottom lip, made tacky with their kisses.

“…I just need more time with you… I don’t want to ruin this,” the FBI agent implored softly.

…Is this love, Zach? Am… are we falling for him? I’m… confused, York dialogued.

The confusion poked through to the surface, as Thomas noticed and smiled affectionately. “…York,” he whispered, sliding off his lap and snuggling up next to him. “…I’m sorry, no pressure was meant.” Then, frowning a bit added, “I’m… I-I’m used to, you know, being used. By Geo—err, other men. It makes me f-feel… kind of shameful.”

York, relieved but saddened by the torture Thomas endures for affection, pulled him close and brought his eyes directly up to his own.

“You deserve better, Thomas.”

The shy dancer smiled meekly into the other man’s face, running a hand over his scars again. Seeing York wince instinctively, even under such a loving touch, Thomas cooed, “Ohh, you… You’re amazing. Surely you deserve someone who makes you see that…”

Affectionately staring into each other’s eyes again, they slowly locked lips once again. In the middle of it, York whispered breathily against Thomas’ lips:

“Can we at least… fall asleep together?” I bet you’d love that too, Zach.

A light chuckle escaped Thomas as he responded dreamily:

“Only if we don’t need to wake up ever again.”

[galahadwilder]

We Break Things Down Just to Build Them Back Up Again

Chapter 5: Proud

Enjoy my writing? Sponsor a fic chapter!

We Break Things Down Archive

AO3

*

As soon as he says it, Adrien knows he’s crossed a line. It's pretty obvious that she never intended for him to know; for as long as they’ve been friends—and she is one of his closest friends, oddness of their relationship notwithstanding—she’s never given any hint that she might have feelings for him. It was a secret, a secret spilled in anger and frustration, a secret that was never supposed to be shared.

They could have pretended it never happened, and everything would’ve gone back to normal. She could’ve pretended she never said it and he could’ve pretended he never heard it and they could keep being friends, keep being—

By bringing it into the open, he’s changed things. They can’t go back. He’s pushed what they have from stable ground into the river, unable to see if there’s a waterfall coming, or sharp rocks, or... He doesn’t want to lose her. He wishes there was a way to rewind time, to undo just thirty seconds, to never have brought this up at all and to keep things the way they were.

Marinette screams.

He doesn’t even think before he’s holding her, brushing at her hair, whispering apologies. He worries that he’s done the wrong thing again, that she’s going to push him away, but instead her head drops sideways into his chest, the side of her skull pressing against his sternum.

”Are you okay?” he whispers, not quite trusting his voice.

She nods, keeping her hands over her eyes.

The back door to the bakery bursts open, and the massive bulk of Marinette’s father charges out, all fists and concern, making Adrien flinch at the memory of vines and huge man-wolf. “Pumpkin?” he cries, his eyes zeroing in on her huddled in Adrien’s arms like a killer robot analyzing murder targets.

Adrien’s joints all lock at once, and he’s unable to prevent a whimper from escaping his teeth.

Immediately, Marinette just... melts. Her legs slip out from her elbows, her feet smacking against the cobblestone patio as her palm caresses Adrien’s cheek, her fingertips scratching at his sideburn in a way that leaves him undone. Her eyes lock on his, blue fire blazing within, and he feels his heart calm the way he does when he sees the same look in his Lady’s eyes. She’s got this.

”I’m okay, Papa!” she calls back without looking away from Adrien. “Just... made an idiot of myself in front of Adrien again?”

Adrien marvels at how Tom’s posture instantly relaxes, how he goes from “fight” to “jolly” in less than the time it takes Marinette to finish her sentence. “Oh!” her father says. “That’s—I’m glad.” He glances back at the bakery. “Sorry, I ran out on some customers...” He chuckles sheepishly. “We’re kind of having a rush today.”

Adrien’s jaw drops. He... he ran out on customers because he heard Marinette scream? And he’s not angry because it was a false alarm? There’s no punishment? No lecture? No...

No wonder Marinette could tell he’s afraid of his father, if this is what her relationship is like with hers.

Marinette twists her head, her pigtail batting Adrien in the face (which quite frankly offends his inner cat. You smack Kitty? You smack Kitty in the face? Jail! Jail for Princess!). “A rush?” she says. “Do you and Maman need help in the bakery?”

”I think we’re okay, Pumpkin,” M. Dupain says with a fond smile.

”Please?” she says, squirming a bit in Adrien’s arms. “I need something to do with my hands.”

He halts just before the door. “Well, if you insist,” he says, before heading back inside.

”Made an idiot of yourself in front of me... again?” Adrien says, gently helping Marinette to her feet. “Is that—does that happen a lot?”

Marinette bites her lip as she turns toward the bakery. “...Pretty much every day,” she mumbles, pulling him along after her by his wrist.

He stumbles after her, unsure what to make of what she’s just said—but suddenly the way she acts around him is thrown into a very new light.

*

”Come on,” she says with a smile. “Want to learn how to bake?”

His arms quickly get tired and sore from folding the heavy dough, and Marinette steps in to take over. She points him towards a pan of sweet dough that’s already spent the morning degassing, tells him that they’ve got an order of Chats Noir—“like Swiss Mice, but cat-shaped and covered in chocolate”—shows him how to make the basic shape, and leaves him to it.

Aside from her very gentle instructions, Marinette is quiet while they make the dough. Adrien doesn’t mind. It’s so different from the instruction he’s used to getting from his father, or the photographer, or his fencing coach that he just lets himself go, riding the calm of her voice like an inner tube on an ocean tide. It reminds him a bit of working with Ladybug, following that familiar voice as she takes him through an unfamiliar task, not with force or frustration but kindness and faith. Of course, Marinette isn’t Ladybug and the babbling crowd isn’t an Akuma bearing down on them; with no adrenaline screaming through his skull, he lets the indistinct voices and the repetition of the shaping of cat ears drown out his thoughts.

It’s a bit cramped behind the shelves with four people, but Adrien finds his claustrophobia isn’t so bad when he’s distracted by the smell of yeast and sugar and honey and cinnamon.

Then the first batch of cat rolls is in the oven and the crowd has died down a bit, and Marinette finally answers his question. “Yes,” she says, not taking her eyes off the thick dough she’s pounding out against the table with her palms. She's quiet enough that none of the customers can hear her—this conversation is just for him. “I do have a crush on you.”

Do, not did, he notices. Also, she won’t look at him—she addressed her sentence to the unmade bread, not to him, though if that’s what it takes for her to not stutter he’s not going to complain.

”It’s pretty debilitating,” she says, still staring at the paste beneath her palms. “And I’ve done some... pretty stupid things because of it.”

”I’m... sure they weren’t that bad,” he says as he moves to the mixing bowl and begins whisking the egg whites for the Cat’s Tongues.

”I’ve caused Akuma because of it,” she says, then her hands stop and she sighs. “Please don’t ask which ones.”

Adrien swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. For someone with as big a heart as Marinette has, to have to deal with the guilt of causing an Akuma... He doesn’t know what else to say other than that.

She shakes her head. “My fault,” she murmurs. “My—my responsibility.” The wet slapping of the dough grows sharper.

Marinette's parents glance back at her, concerned, ready to jump in—as if this is a discussion they’ve had a hundred times—but Adrien gets there first, poking Marinette in the side. “Hey,” he says. “You’re allowed to make mistakes. Akuma are only one person’s fault, and...” He smiles. “That’s not you.” Then he raises an eyebrow. “Unless you’re secretly Hawkmoth.”

She laughs. “No, no I am not,” she says, her cheeks pinking. She looks at him and sighs. “See, this is why I have so much trouble getting over you,” she mumbles. “How am I supposed to move on when you keep being so sweet?”

Adrien’s stomach bottoms out. Sweet. People have liked him for his looks, or his fame, or his celebrity, but... sweet? Nobody’s ever called him that before except Ladybug, and... she doesn’t feel that way about him. (Kagami’s talked about his “soft heart,” but she always seems to have a little disdain in her voice when she says it. Though he’s fairly certain that disdain comes from her mother, not from her.)

Adrien opens his mouth to apologize, to tell her that he’s flattered but there’s someone else, and then... then her father brushes past, jogging the mixing bowl in Adrien's hands, and he remembers vines and wolfman and what happened the last time he turned her down, and he hesitates.

I need to, his brain says. It’s not fair to her.

He’ll hurt me again, his nerves reply.

Do we really want to say no anyway? his heart adds, quietly, unheard by the rest of him. It’s Marinette.

But in that crucial moment of indecision, Marinette continues. “The thing is,” she continues, “I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to get into a relationship while you're still learning about boundaries.” She turns, taking a bench scraper and tearing the dough apart, using the scraper to round it into uncooked rolls. “It's not that I don't still have feelings for you.” She sighs, hangs her head. “I just—I think being your friend is more important. For both of us.”

Adrien's not sure whether to be crushed or elated. On the one hand, she's just given him the perfect out—the perfect reason to say no, to turn her down. On the other... on the other. There's another hand. Why is there another hand? Why is he so disappointed?

He opens his mouth to say something—he's not sure what—but he's saved from finding out what his brain was going to spew next when M. Dupain suddenly turns around. “I think the cats are about ready, don’t you?” he says with forced mirth.

”Uh, I don’t...?” Adrien begins, at the same time as Marinette interjects “Papa, it’s only been—!” but her father bustles in between them and throws open the oven.

The cats are definitely not ready. Baked bread doesn't bubble like that.

"Oh, my," Tom says. He glances at Adrien. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"

Adrien blinks, then shrugs. "No?"

Tom turns, waves his wife over. "Sabine, dumpling," he says. "Come take a look at Adrien's handiwork."

The cash register rings as she punches in the numbers for a customer. "In a minute, dear," she says.

Adrien bites his lip. "Did I do okay?"

Tom beams at him. "Adrien, son, you did beautifully," he says, reaching up to ruffle his hair, which sends a jolt of warm through Adrien's face. "Especially for your first time." He swings the oven closed and returns to stocking the shelves. "Proud of you!"

*

Proud of you.

The mixing bowl is halfway to the ground before he even realizes it's slipped out of his hands.

Proud of you.

He can't hear any of the rest of the shop—the pressure in his ears is squeezing in on his eardrums like q-tips.

Proud of you.

Marinette is turning to look at him, and he realizes his peripheral vision is just gone, like a buzzing at the edges of his vision.

Proud of you.

The bowl crashes into the ground, everyone in the shop jumps, and Adrien's crying. He's—he needs to stop, he's crying in front of people, he can't be, he, he—he can't breathe, he can't—

Marinette's mother's head barely comes up to his sternum; she is somehow, impossibly, even shorter than her daughter. He's trying not to melt into her arms.

"How long has it been since someone told you they were proud of you?" she murmurs, stroking his back.

He tries to speak, but only sobs instead. He can't remember.

He can't remember the last time someone told him they were proud of him.

Enjoy my writing? Buy me a coffee!

We Break Things Down Archive

@katieykat513 @alexseanchai @kiritomarshelllee @mayumikurosake @flightfoot @dawnonfireinferno @dont-call-me-a-faerie @kaydenth3gayden @h2onima @everywhichwaymb @facegun @varikasnuori @marichams @smackthat-allonthefloor @definetlydorkybandgirl @gingerdaile @dani-ari @ouatpancakes @theblogthatnoneknewabout @waiting-for-the-barbarians @digitalmagpie @starshine89561 @eleventhdivision @jessielefey @jawnlawk @ladynodrinette @certainloverjudgepatrol @donegonewrong @juhavs @the-wizard-sam @littlechaoslady @rena-rain @sailormew4 @adamsrandomstuff @cartoonfanorwhatever @wickedboibaby @hiimpetermanwaitno @lionxufla @leviaana @pagan-fae @sunksunnyk @celinedgd @graduatedmelon @shamefullove

[poetrex]

Ok, Max... I enjoy your knowledge of military history and trivia, so #21. And #25 because I’m curious.

21. You're put in charge of the National Shipbuilding Strategy for the Royal Canadian Navy and Canadian Coast Guard. What are your procurement priorities over the next three decades?

OK, first—sorry I took so long to answer this! I know you enjoy history and trivia—and that's good, because there's a fair bit to unpack here. Apologies for the jargon.

So. The National Shipbuilding Strategy. I hate it, thanks! Specifically the Canadian Surface Combatant (CSC)—it's pork barrel politics on the most massive scale to build large warships in Canadian yards at such an inflated price. I suppose there's an argument to be made for building them at home, but I don't buy it. Icebreakers and offshore patrol vessels yes, but multirole patrol frigates? Far cheaper in foreign yards. So we're going back in time a few years and install yours truly as the (fictional, fanciful) Czar of Canadian Shipbuilding.

Let's start with the basics. Why do we need a Navy and Coast Guard, and what do they need to get the job done right?

Canada is a capital-M Maritime Nation. We border three oceans and have the world's longest coastline. 90% of international trade in bulk travels by water—it's always been the cheapest, easiest way to move heavy goods (as Norman Friedman is fond of saying, it costs less to move a car from Yokohama to New York by sea than to move a similar car by rail from Detroit). Guess who exports some bulky products? Canada. Guess who relies on the regular delivery to ice-free ports of produce and finished goods to maintain a high standard of living? Almost everyone on earth at this point. I live on a boggy rock in the North Atlantic—without maritime trade, it's a starvation diet of cranberries and moose-meat for me and my family. That's why you need a Navy—to secure fair access to the global commons, and to regulate and enforce the sustainable harvest of marine resources, for Canada and the world. You can raise, train and equip an army in under a year from scratch if you need to, but you can't wish a navy into existence out of thin air—modern warships can take ten years or more to build, and they are expensive. So let's talk fleet architecture and procurement strategies.

Icebreakers! We need them urgently, in all sizes but especially a Heavy Icebreaker. The proposed CCGS John G. Diefenbaker should have been a priority for domestic shipbuilding—it was intended to replace the Louis S St.-Laurent, which launched in 1966 and should've retired two decades ago. This need will only become more pressing as a warming Arctic makes the Northwest Passage a more viable route for international shipping.

Forget building the CSC at home—order frigates from European yards, or plan on piggybacking the USN's FFG(X) project. I'd probably take a dozen or so British-built Type 26s.

I've seen the Harry DeWolf-class Arctic / Offshore Patrol Vessel (AOPV) derided as a 'slushbreaker' but she's not bad. Would I like a thicker hull? Sure, but the additional costs aren't worth it, not for her RCN job description—I'd rather prioritize icebreaker capability in CCGS vessels. She's already pricey for an OPV, but it leaves Irving Shipyards something to chew on (I'm not completely unswayed by political arguments for domestic construction).

Joint Support Ships. Because Vancouver's Seaspan yard needs some love too, and because underway support and logistics is sexy.

Finally, Submarines! Our aging Victoria-class boats ought to be replaced, ideally by nuclear-powered subs capable of under-ice operations. Now that n-word's a hard sell, and not just to the Canadian public—the idea's been floated in the past, but nobody's especially keen on exporting their SSNs (and we can't build them here). So we'll likely have to settle for diesel boats—6 at a minimum to ensure operational availability, since you can expect 2 out of 3 vessels to be in maintenance or refit at any given time. I like SSKs but recent advances in Air-Independent Propulsion (AIP) notwithstanding, they can't do sustained polar ops, which is where a lot of... interesting stuff happens underwater (Russia knows the contours of our Arctic shelf far better than we do, for instance. And what was that mysterious Ping in the Hecla and Fury Strait?) So what do we need subs for? Well, partly I just think they're neat. No navy is complete without a subsurface component. They're deadly in war but what they really excel at in peacetime is surveillance. When Spanish trawlers were violating our Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) during the 'Turbot Wars', it was our Oberon-class boats (along with CCGS vessels) that played a key role in collecting the evidence needed to chase them down in international courts. Additionally, operating submarines means we're part of the international waterspace management system through which foreign navies are obligated to inform us of submarines operating in or near our waters, which is also nice to know.

Phew! That was an earful, I hope I didn't put you to sleep. I could go on but I probably shouldn't.

25. If you could instantly master any language, which would it be and why?

Mandarin. I love the history and culture and literature of China. I have a few friends in Taiwan that I chat with from time to time. Someday I’d love to visit. I’m also fascinated by China’s naval development and would like to be able to read military publications in Chinese.

[bellarkewrites]

Dang Daisy

by Ursa_99

She had a fondness for the quirky people here.

But every place had odd ones. Murphy and her notwithstanding.

And her little flower thief was starting to look like a local odd ball.

The normal rustling of bushes, the sharper cracks of the fruitful growth brought Clarke out of her thoughts. The man swore, it wasn’t unusual, though with the number of twigs and branches he was breaking was more than his normal stealthy self. He was off his game today

Words: 1599, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: The 100 Series - Kass Morgan, The 100 (TV)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake, Monty Green, Jasper Jordan, Maya Vie, Gina

Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin

Additional Tags: Doctor Clarke Griffin, Teacher Bellamy Blake, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, based on a post, Trying to make something more fluffy and less death and gore, I Tried, just a hint of angst, Should be getting ready for my senior seminar, How's my writing, No seriously i want to know tips or good websites if ya'll know any, ooc as always

Read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2ISfGmk

[dirkgentle]

So... this Todd person. You seem to like him a lot. Why? What makes him so great? Because it seems like you’re over exaggerating him a little (a lot).

                  For a moment, the only sound is that of Dirk’s bewildered and absolutely mind-boggled disbelief. Then, in a sudden bout of insight into the utterly incomprehensible, he breaks his stream of quizzical exclamations with a laugh. 

                 “ Oh, right! I see! You’re one of those unfortunate ones who haven’t met Todd! Now, this does make perfect sense — I was getting seriously concerned for a second there! But of course. Yes. Joy-deprived waking-up-every-morning-to-a-world-that-doesn’t-include-Todd-Brotzman person speaking, that was to be expected. Not, of course, that you are in ANY way to be blamed; lots of people haven’t met Todd! Even I managed not to meet him for thirty-four entire regrettable years of my life! We’ve all been there. Such a dreadful state of mind, being unaware of Todd’s existence! You should seriously consider getting one for yourself, though NOT mine, I’m afraid he’s exclusively reserved for Dirk-ish purposes and not available for sharing, renting, kidnapping, stealing, being flirted with or ANY other objectives that make him even the slightest bit less of a my Todd. Look — why don’t you take a seat and let me elaborate? 

                 “ Todd … is … incredible. If you’ve ever felt that there’s a shortage of good things in the universe, that’s because they all went into the making of Todd. All of them. I’m sorry about that. I am, however, considerably less sorry about hogging them all to myself in a conveniently hug-shaped Todd bundle because, quite frankly, it’s an act of self-care and should not be unduly criticised. Speaking of hugs! Todd’s … well, I shouldn’t say bite-sized, but he’s certainly a snack, delectable in all the right spots and easy to carry around for some much-needed indulging. I love Todd! There’s just something about the shape of him that seems to fit immaculately against my chest, gosh, he’s the most flawless thing, though obviously he’s a person, but what a multi-functional one! He’s like … aha! A Swiss army knife of an assistant, except instead of a toothpick and a bottle opener and a little wonky bit that I could never quite work out he comes with an even WIDER array of neatly integrated qualities. For instance! His head is at once a wonderful chin rest and a place to dump ALL your forehead kisses and the most gorgeous sight since the invention of shooting stars and full of invaluable scientific knowledge and intelligence! He’s — oh, you poor person, you don’t even know! He’s sooo talented ?? To a preposterous degree, really. He knows all these outlandish minutiae about … electricity and – and car driving and growing the SWOONIEST bit of stubble that’s just right for tickly smooches and … and !! He’s a punk star, too! Oh, he’s so punk. I once saw him put on shoes without socks underneath. And he can sing! And play the guitar! He’s in a band, actually? Don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re only THE BEST AND MOST PROFUSELY AMAZING band ever. He’s their lead singer! To recap: not only does he sing, but he leads! He lead-sings a whole band! A whole one of a band! ” 

                 { Time to suck in a dizzying breath that swooshes all the way into the tips of Dirk’s toes, by the lung-bursting feel of it. } “ Todd looks … lovely on stage. And not on stage. Todd looks lovely on and in all stages, is what I’m saying. Even in a fresh-out-of-bed, no-toothbrush-inserted-yet, baggy-underwear-sporting stage. It’s uncanny, meaning I wholly lose my ability to can around him. He has these eyes, you know - and, oh, oh, he’s got lips, too, but not just any old pair thereof. They’re … mmm, I rather suspect he wouldn’t be TOO keen to hear me disclosing my assessment of them. We have this agreement, you see, wherein I shouldn’t necessarily overshare with strangers the sort of knee-weakening things — uh. Yes, I am getting a little side-tracked, aren’t I? Back to the Todd at hand! Well, sadly, not at hand. I ADORE holding his hand! His hands are a firm ingredient of happiness. — Hey! But I can hold these while I find myself tragically bereft of his actual presence! How very fortunate that I carry his pictures on me at all times, wouldn’t you say? Will you kindly look at them! That’s him, being an absolute  t r e a s u r e  at five twenty in the morning, can you believe it? And - oh! This shirt really accentuates what I haven’t, at this point in time, enlightened you about, but shall be thoroughly dedicating myself to in a sec’. Todd is fantastically strong! Do you see his arms? And his back? Oh, and those collar bones, and his neck, and his jawline and — ” 

                 A peculiar softening takes place across Dirk’s features, a ripple of undisguised fondness that spreads from the curl of his mouth to his besottedly slanting brows. “ He’s brave, too, you know. My boyfriend, ” he continues in a murmur, a tingle of relaxation easing into his voice now that the excited downpour has found such a willing ear to plunge into. “ Terrifically brave. Quite possibly - no, definitely definitely - the most courageous man I’ve ever known. Person I’ve known, really. Todd is … he’s so good. Few people are. I mean, not to misrepresent my perspective:  m o s t   people are good, notwithstanding popular belief. But Todd is … Todd is Todd. He’s unmatched. He’s … how do I put it? He’s always there. Al-bloody-ways. Without fail. He grabs whatever offends his sense of right and wrong by the scruff and shakes it until everything that keeps it from succumbing to common sense comes tumbling right out. The world’s better for him. I’m better for him. He was the first - the … the first person to look at me, really look at me and decide what he was seeing was worth staying for. He wouldn’t let me come to any harm, extraordinarily enough. Todd’s ( bear with me for another minute! ) … a protector of the universe, in his own manner, although heavens know it’s given him enough bullshit. But he … goes on. He’s a silver lining. He’s beautiful and loyal and unbeatable in all the right ways. Knows how to pack a punch, too. He gets me right back on my feet every time I stumble. He takes care of me. Spoils me. Makes me  s t u p i d l y  happy. And … well. ”  

                 With a sigh, the detective pockets the stack of printed-out Todds, thumb stroking affectionately across the patch of jacket that contains the bundle. “ He doesn’t know any of this. There’s never - NEVER! - been a single person more obstinately determined to slander himself than Todd Brotzman. But I … I love him. Very hair-raisingly, fanatically, irresponsibly, gorgeously much so. That he knows. And the rest … we’re going to get there, one day. ” 

“ … AND ALSO! Did I mention that he’s an out-of-this-world talented kisser ?! ”

[scandalsavagefanfic]

I’d love an “I’m up for the challenge” with either Jason/Midnighter or Jason/Apollo/Midnighter. Could be a follow up to the cross over Into The Bleed or it could be completely fresh and stand alone. Either way is great!

This really is too long for a tumblr post. I’d suggest reading it here (I personally prefer to read longer things with AO3′s formatting). But you can still read it all under the cut.

57. “I’m up to the challenge.”

Explicit (breathplay)

Midnight/Jason Todd

2597 Words (oof)

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice calls out from behind him to gethis attention.

Jason sighs and rolls his eyes. Midnighter is alright, heguesses, but he’s Dick’s friend and Dick’s friends are all so tedious. Roy is a perfect example, he thinkstrying to ignore the fond warmth that the thought of the redhead brings to hischest.

The guy also calls him ‘kid’ and Jason finds that infinitelyirritating. Not only has he not been a ‘kid’ since before his parents died, butit’s kind of infantilizing and whenever someone calls him ‘kid’ or ‘son’ or‘boy’ they’re invariably trying to establish their authority over him.

And he really hates it when people think they’re somehowentitled to a say in his… anything.

But he turns around anyway. Truthfully, if Dick keeps makingfriends on his side of the “to kill or not to kill” line it could make his lifea lot easier. Especially if those friends like him and are willing to defendhim.

As he’s turning, he sees Steph’s lip quirk up and her browsraise before she walks through the magic, teleport, door thing.

Which he hears close behind him as he faces Midnighter’stoothy grin.

“You did pretty good work out there.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. “I’m trying not to be offended byhow surprised that sounded.”

“It is a little surprising,” Midnighter says smoothly, softbrown eyes twinkling with mischief. Somehow, even when he’s being insulting,the man is impossibly charming.

Jason crosses his arms across his chest and frowns at him,“I’ve been doing this since I was 12. Dick says you have a computer in yourbrain. You must need to upgrade your software if you’re stunned by mycompetence.”

There’s that grin again. Jason isn’t sure he likes it. Toomany teeth, too many sharp edges. It feels… predatory.

It gives him the chills.

“Dick told me you were kind of… brash,” Midnighter says thelast word with a lilt, making it clear that he’s being diplomatic, “I wasexpecting a fists first, strategy never mentality. But it’s pretty clear youthink things through.”

Jason scowls. Opens his mouth to tell Midnighter where hecan shove Dick’s opinion, but the other man talks right over him.

“You’re still a lot of bluster and bile though, aren’t you?”

“The fuck do you want, asshole?”

“What’s the matter, kid? We’re just talking. Didn’t take youfor the sensitive type,” but Midnighter’s eyes openly rake down his body,making what he wants pretty obvious.

Jason wishes he’d left his helmet on when his ears heat andhis face flushes.

“If you’re hitting on me, your game needs work,” Jason snapsas he turns to leave.

Just ahead and a bit to his left is a TV, some bookshelvesand a nicely appointed sitting area. To his right is a kitchen. Straight infront of him, across the room is a big window that takes up most the wall and adining room table with chairs. To the right of that is a floating staircasethat goes to the loft bedroom and bathroom on the upper level.

But, other than the door to the bathroom and the one to theops room behind him that he just came through, where Midnighter remains, heavygaze burning into Jason’s shoulder blades, there is no other door in the entireapartment.

“Going somewhere, kid?”

Jason just barely manages to keep from jumping when thewords are rumbled into his ear close enough that he can feel the warmth of theother man’s breath.

When he turns around Midnighter is standing only inchesaway, towering over him. Jason hadn’t realized the bastard was quite that quiet…or tall.

Alright, it’s only a few inches—four, maybe?—but it feelslike a bigger difference when Midnighter is standing there in sweats and at-shirt and Jason is in full Red Hood getup and still feels intimidated.

He manages to stand his ground.

“I’m leaving. Door.”

Midnighter’s whole body looks coiled, ready to pounce. Hisface turns absolutely wolffish when nothing happens.

“Oh yeah, everyone’s authorization to use the Doors has beenrevoked. It was a temporary arrangement remember?��

Jason glowers at him.

“Guess you’ll have to ask me nicely.”

They stare at each other in a standoff. Jason glares.Midnighter leers, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning casuallyagainst the doorframe. Still taller than Jason.

Jason huffs. “Fine. Please.”

“That wasn’t exactly ‘nice.’”

“Jesus Christ,” Jason mumbles, pinching the bridge of hisnose.

He shifts back a bit, looks up at Midnighter from under hislashes. “Please, call me a Door, M. Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

His tone and posture are sugary sweet, dripping in badlystaged innocence and submission, obviously mocking and insincere. But itdoesn’t stop the pupils of Midnighter’s eyes from swallowing the brown irises.

His tone is low and husky when he answers, “Sure thing,sweetheart. Door.”

Jason swallows and lets his gaze linger on the other man’sface for a moment.

Then he summons back his bravado and snorts as he stridesthrough the portal…

…And into a room he doesn’t recognize, the space dominatedby a huge bed and some plants.

But he makes a face at the familiar giant window just beyondthe floating stairs leading down.

“Seriously?”

“You weren’t specific,” Midnighter growls from behind him,having followed him through instead of just walking up the stairs, “You didn’ttell me where you wanted to go, so I sent you where I wanted you.”

An impossibly strong arm wraps around Jason’s waist and ahand grips him firmly, just above his elbow. Midnighter brushes his nose andmouth softly up Jason’s neck making him shudder.

Teeth lightly tug at his earlobe, before warm breath puffsagainst his ear, “Still think my game needs work?”

Jason opens his mouth to stubbornly insist that, yes,Midnighter still needs to work on his flirting but then the hand around hiswaist dips teasingly beneath the band of his pants. It doesn’t touch anything,just rubs little circles into his hipbone. But the skin there is sensitive, thefingertips warm and gentle, and the area (not to mention Jason in general)isn’t used to being touched. His eyes flicker closed as he enjoys thesensation. Just for a second, before he gets out of here.

Midnighter sucks at his neck. Jason’s breath hitchesslightly and he stumbles back, just an inch, into the other man’s arms, resolvecrumbling.

“Hmmm,” Midnighter hums agains his skin, vibrations pulsingdown his chest, “You know, I’ve been hitting on Dick for months just to watchhim squirm. But one look at you and I knew we’d end up here.”

“God damnit,” Jason swears, trying to shrug out of the hold.Midnighter chuckles and tightens his grip, pulling him even closer. “Let me gojackass. You can’t mention my fucking brother and expect me to fuck you.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

“It’s not a bet, you piece of shit. It’s a fact. You want,Dick? Go work him over and leave me the hell alone.”

“Oh I’d leap at that if he offered. But he won’t. That kid’sstraight as an arrow.”

Jason doesn’t bother to refrain his derisive snort. He’s pastbeing polite and he’s never heard a more absurd comment in his life.

“It’s true,” the hand in Jason’s pants moves up, sliding underhis shirt, over his abs to pinch and pull at a nipple causing him to inhalesharply, “Dick’s a good sport and he’s happy to let people think whatever theywant but he only swings one way and it’s toward women who can rip him in half.”

Jason wishes he was struggling harder. But he’s mostly givenin to Midnighter’s sultry touches. It’s been a long time since someone wantedhim like this. Even if he is just a consolation prize.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, babe,” Midnighter says whiletwisting his hands into the fabric of Jason’s shirt and jacket before knockinghim back onto the bed where he bounces, “Wanting to bend you over has nothing to do with Dick… obvious punsnotwithstanding.”

Jason doesn’t even notice the self-satisfied little smirkMidnighter gives himself. He’s too distracted by the fact that the other man isholding his jacket and Kevlar shirt in his hands, leaving him naked to thewaist, chest exposed.

“Wha—how did you—“

“Computer in my brain, remember?”

Jason scowls and moves to get off the bed. Midnighter is onhim in the space of a heartbeat, shoving their lips together and pressing Jasoninto the mattress.

He pushes at Midnighter for all of six seconds before he’sonce again giving in, wrapping his arms around the deadly killer on top of himand moaning into his mouth.

He feels Midnighter smile victoriously against his lips.Jason makes a mental note to care about that later.

Right now, however, they’re both wearing too much clothing.

Midnighter seems to agree as he tugs Jason’s pants off hiships and down to his knees. He tries to help, tries to kick his boots off, butthey won’t budge, the clasps keeping them firmly in place.

“Leave them,” M growls before he takes a nipple between histeeth and nibbles just a little too hard.

Jason cries out and then there’s a tongue licking a hot wetstrip over the area before the mouth leaves. Then he shivers when Midnighterblows on the wet spot, chilling his entire chest.

There’s a clinking sound and Jason’s arms are raised abovehis head. Soft, cool leather wraps around his wrists and buckles cinch to holdhim in place. He groans at the idea of being restrained, cuffed, legs trappedin his pants.

With one hand, Midnighter holds his shoulders flat to thesheets. With the other, he guides Jason’s legs up and over to one side,cradling them in one arm, so that Jason’s weight is on one hip and Midnighterhas the access he needs.

“Keep your shoulders flush to the bed. I want to see every twitchof pleasure on that gorgeous face of yours.”

Jason shudders again, closes his eyes and takes a deepbreath, trying not to blush. It’s insane how badly he wants this, and howembarrassed he is at being so exposed right now.

Then a slick finger presses lightly at his entrance and heloses on the no blushing front when he feels a wave of heat roll down hisentire body.

“Jesus, kid,” Midnighter hums as he circles the ring ofmuscle with a feather light touch, teasing, “You look good in pink.”

That just makes the warmth under Jason’s skin burn hotter.

Jason throws his head back and moans loudly when Midnighterwiggles the finger past his rim. He clinches down instinctively and M swearsagain.

“Fucking tight ass,” he grumbles but it’s playful andaffectionate.

He pumps his finger in and out, swirling around, tugginggently at the tight muscle, massaging until Jason finally relaxes into themotions. Then he adds two more.

Jason gasps and thrusts up into the air, barely keeping hisshoulders down as ordered.

“Oh my god,” hebreaths, lost in a haze of sensation, “holy… get inside me already, douchebag.”

“Impatient, greedy, little boy, aren’t you?” Midnighterrumbles, twisting his fingers and curling them to press into that delightfullysensitive little gland.

“Christ! Oh… shit… yes—impatient—god…”

Midnighter chuckles, hooking Jason’s legs, both of them overone broad shoulder raising his hips off the mattress, and lines up his cockbefore gripping Jason’s shoulder with the hand not holding his legs in place.

He nudges forward, the tip of his dick putting just a hintof pressure against the ill-prepared  hole.

“You sure?”

“Fuck you. Just fuck me,already.”

That’s all the permission M needs.

He drives his hips forward and the air is driven fromJason’s lungs.

Midnighter is thick.Impossibly huge inside him. He clinches reflexively as Midnighter starts topull out and yelps.

Midnighter swears under his breath and suddenly Jason is bentat a very weird angle as the man on top of him captures his mouth in a sloppy,needy kiss, and bears down, driving into him with abandon.

Jason tries to reach for him, tries to wrap his arms aroundhim, to hold onto something, anything that might help ground him. But all hedoes is jerk the chains as the cuffs chafe his skin.

He moans, desperate, and tries to meet each thrust but hisposition doesn’t give him any leverage, no power. A small part of his mind thatisn’t lost in lust thinks that may have been on purpose.

He’s close and he hasn’t even been touched. He tries toreach down to touch himself and whimpers when he’s caught up by the restraintsagain.

A low, resounding chuckle washes over him and suddenlythere’s pressure on his throat pinching his windpipe closed.

Jason tries to claw at the hand but once again, can’t move. Hewhines at the building frustration, and the strange pleasure he takes at thatdenial. He’s completely at the mercy of a man who punches people so hard he canliterally rip a heart out of a chest.

The thought of that strength at his neck, holding his secondlife a breath away almost sends Jason over the edge.

The grip eases and Jason sucks in exactly one breath beforeit closes around him again. He’s getting light headed, stars are popping in hisvision.

Another brief release, even shorter, before he’s strangledagain.

And another.

The pace quickens, pounding into him with inhuman power andferocity. The slap of skin and pleased grunts is deafening as his eardrums pop.

Black starts to creep in on the edges. Through his lashes,wet with tears he didn’t realize he’d shed, he sees Midnighter’s black, hungryeyes watching him closely, sees those delicious lips curl into a playful smile.

“You gonna come before you pass out, kid?”

It’s like a dam breaks and relief tingles through him as hefeels his seed splash across his belly. He chokes when Midnighter lets himbreath and hears the other man swear, feels his release flood into him wherethat giant cock is buried deep, when his own gives a second, weaker gush of come.

Jason sags in the restraints. He’s breathing hard, drippingin sweat. He’s more exhausted than he remembers being in years. And at peace ina way that makes him think he needed this more than he’d realized.

Midnighter doesn’t release him. Just flops onto the bed nextto him, breathing perfectly even, not a drop of moisture to suggest anyphysical exertion. That annoys Jason for some reason.

He works his mouth for all the saliva he can summon andswallows, trying to lubricate his dry, sore throat.

“You—“ He croaks, pausing to swallows again, “you don’t looklike you did anything.”

Midnighter smiles, “Perks of the enhancements, kid. Takes alot to wear me out.”

Jason feels a surge of energy and heat pools immediately inhis gut. He smiles back. “I think I’m up to the challenge.”

Midnighter looks down at him, face full of dark promises.

His face splits into that toothy grin.

“Oh kid. I’m gonna wreck you.”

Jason wiggles his hips and tries to kick off his bootsagain.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he taunts through his ownimpish smirk.

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 53 – Battle and Blight

‘Damn it. Damn it. Damn it...!’

Rael furiously grit his teeth, his eyes trembling, as he watched how the smoky trace of a small missile was slowly dissipating.

The fact that the missile was undoubtedly ejected towards the exact coordinates of the KSA headquarters fanned his fear.

He knew he must destroy the machine Yuhyung just activated.

He could not dare fire himself after the missile; the machine was still whirring under Yuhyung’s hand, and he did not want to be too hopeful and turn blind on the chances that the machine could shoot second or third or more of its missiles.

‘So he wasn’t after me.’

Technically, Deneb was after him, and he was willing to stage a battle right here, right now.

However, he did not want to simply eliminate Rael; he was going to make sure Rael will not be able to thwart Yuhyung’s plan, as proven by his poised stance as he stood between Rael and Yuhyung.

“That should be good enough to practically uproot the entire building, right?”

Asked Deneb, his head cocked a little towards the human.

“You’re correct, sir. And the area within the vicinity will be affected as well.”

“Good. Very good. I can’t make an accomplishment unless there’s something for me to accomplish. I’ll check things out as soon as I’m done here.”

That was when Rael at last released his shaky voice, and Deneb’s eyes directed themselves back onto the Kertia’s face as he was snickering.

“Are you saying you will use the innocent people here for your personal ambition? These people have already suffered on multiple basis, losing their homes and beloved without even knowing why. Why would you shove them into yet another pain? Just... Just why would you do this? Just how much of a big accomplishment do you wish for? Is it worthy enough to push others into forced sacrifice for?!”

“...Now I did not see this coming. You’re actually standing in favor of humans, when you used to be the most hardcore human-hater among our kind.”

Deneb’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline, as if he were genuinely caught off guard by Rael’s speech, making Rael’s mouth automatically shut.

“Not to mention how you refuse to abort your courtesy, which I find even more surprising. I was expecting you to drop your formality, if not outright curse at me. I didn’t see this coming at all – you playing a head of a clan despite the situation.”

Playing a head of a clan?

Rael was so very inclined to bark at him, to demand if he has any idea what he goes through every single day, when at least for that very moment he was mortified to be dubbed with a title that Deneb also possesses.

Still, the Kertia managed to exercise every last bit of his patience to hold onto his remarks, upon which Deneb made a sinister smile.

“Or is this how you complain how much pressure and obsession you hold for your position? Is that why you are feigning all that elegance and poise and grace, when I wouldn’t be surprised to see Sir Gechutel or our lord to jab me with the most profane of all language? Yes, that must be it, seeing how you still look like... That.”

And what about my looks?

His anger was short-lived, however, and Rael’s hand slid across his face to touch on the bountiful lock of hair draped across a side of his head.

It was true that even after Deneb’s invitation, during which he screamed at Seira before he could stop himself, Rael had not relieved his hair of its new style, for a reason he could not fathom.

He knew he could not blame his tight schedule; it would have taken him mere 5 seconds before bed or during dress-up.

And of course, he told himself a lie when he thought that he did not know why.

It was one of his desperate endeavors to become a head of a clan that will make his father and brother proud – no, a head of a clan just like his brother. Hence he stylized himself in imitation of Razark.

Deneb nodded, seemingly having seen through this.

“So you’re feeling immense pressure for what you have at hand. Why don’t you take this opportunity to just die and hand over the title of the octaclan to me?”

Deneb blurted out, his manner so mundane as if sharing what he had done for the day.

Nevertheless, the contents of his speech were what Rael had not once imagined, and his mind that was very close to being scattered sharpened at once.

“You will die here. And you will not die Rael Kertia. You will die as a gruesomely shameless sinner, brought to justice by my hands.”

Rael’s mouth fell open beneath his mask, his eyes rolling at what Deneb was muttering.

“You lost your war against the patriarchs of Kertia and decided to bring Union into your vengeance upon Lukedonia. And I, Deneb Illiness, will be the one to stop you, betting my life for the task. And so I will save the humans who very nearly lost their future without the knowledge of the cause. Thus the Kertia clan will lose all its authority and radiance, just like the traitorous clans of Lukedonia, with a vacancy available among the octaclans. And I will not miss my chance to win Seira’s heart, since she is particularly fond of humans, as well as the lord’s recognition, to ultimately take over the Loyard clan and replace Kertia’s name with Illiness. That is my dream.”

Rael did not veil his stupor; Deneb’s plan was nothing short of what the traitorous heads of clans plotted against Raizel several centuries ago.

“All the evidence and testaments are ready, partially thanks to this human here. And you must be wondering why I’m spilling all this for you. Simple – you will not make out of this place alive. Like I said, dead men tell no tales.”

“...You think I’ll just watch you doing all that?”

With his head fully comprehensive of Deneb’s scheme, Rael could feel fury tinted with responsibility boiling within.

Ironing the corners of his lips and forehead clean of twitches and wrinkles, Rael fixed his edged eyes upon Deneb.

“What you are attempting is manipulation, calumny, and murder of your kind for your twisted ambition. Have you ever given a thought about what your ancestors would feel if they are to behold what...”

“I’m telling you, there’s reason why time is not altogether powerless upon us nobles. Just look at you, once-the-greatest-trouble-of-noblekind lecturing me, rubbing in my face how you switched your allegiance from anti-human propaganda to become a human-lover, keeping yourself well-mannered even now... Which isn’t like you.”

Not like me.

The idea what had been incessantly tormenting him and ridding him of his sleep ever since his permanent return to Lukedonia mauled upon his calm as if on a cue.

Which is why he could not react on time when Deneb lunged towards him, a rare occasion for him.

“Ugh!”

Deneb’s attack, his pointed hand as a weapon, was not even close to average.

Nonetheless, Rael got to learn how distraction or underestimation can backfire as a fatal weapon.

He succeeded in avoiding the hand that was aiming dead center towards his heart, but instead his shoulder was sliced, skin underneath exposed.

Deneb was relentless with his charges and blitz, obviously not willing to let Rael take the lead of their deadly dance.

Notwithstanding, Rael’s combat experience was still alive and breathing, and he did not change his mind about finishing this battle as quickly as possible.

Which is why once again he called forth his Grandia.

And once again his soul weapon did not return his call.

Deneb made a sickening smile, in the course of his survey on the blonde noble.

“Normally I would have been less than a snort to you. But I heard from that human your soul weapon is unavailable for now.”

Rael made a humongous flinch as he evaded a series of razor-sharp strokes from Deneb’s hands, in the meantime peeking at the human researcher who was awfully peaceful in his observation.

“And I know that you want to capture me, not kill me. You wouldn’t want any of the evidence or testament I mentioned to be published posthumously.”

Deneb smirked like a child at an amusement park as he bickered.

“Given that your soul weapon is not responsive while you are not allowed to kill me, I will surely have a chance against you!”

Rael could no longer hide his dismay, his eyes captivated by Deneb throwing himself forward once more.

“Goddamn it...!”

*****

Meanwhile, at the KSA headquarter

“What the hell is going on here?!”

M-21 shrieked, trying his best to deliver his voice past the ear-splintering siren.

The men gathered at KSA director’s office were in the middle of panic, once the siren ripped its way through all floors, following the duet of a light quake and shatters of glass and concrete.

“What happened?!”

The doctor yelled in frenzy to the transmission just delivered to Taesik’s phone on the desk.

<S-sir, a mini missile just penetrated the wall of the night shift duty room, 4th floor!>

Although it was the time of the day when KSA building is mostly unoccupied, there were few people who were staying overnight for work or getting some shuteye in the said chamber, which was the most densely populated area as of now.

The party’s faces turned pale; they could already see the massacre that took place on the 4th floor.

“So... What’s the casualty?”

Taesik squeezed his voice box in inquiry; as the head of the KSA, he was painfully aware that being dumbstruck with grief was not an option for him.

<Uh... None, it seems.>

“What are you talking about? I can hear the siren as we speak.”

<I-it appears that this missile is not meant to detonate or destroy lives. It resembles a capsule, so I’m guessing it was designed to carry and spray someth... Huh?>

The four humans did not like that the agent’s speech was met with a question mark at the end; unnerved, they repeatedly crossed and exchanged looks with each other.

<W-what the...?! Sir, this missile is releasing gas...!>

Gas? What gas?

Wait a minute.

Could it be the...?

At that point they were reminded of THE gas – the one that Yuhyung used to study as a weapon against Union-affiliated modified humans.

The gas that could not be calibrated as needed in targeting their desired foes, because of which it was canceled and disposed of.

And about which its file was opened and scrutinized by its composer before his departure to Lukedonia.

Without a single word dispensed, they sprinted to the 4th floor.

They had no patience to spare for the elevator to pick them up, so they chose the stairs, which was already clouded with gas that was permeating from the 4th floor.

Taesik and the doctor led the way, their mouths and noses covered with handkerchiefs just in case, and Tao and M-21 soon found themselves at the night shift duty room, the floor hardly visible due to milky-gray smoke.

And they saw a hole with debris dropping from the corners, with beds and desks tossed away from their original positions.

“This is bad. Looks like some of the gas leaked outside on the streets.”

Tao added after poking his head beyond the hole.

“But is it just me, or this smoke kind of... Sticky?”

“I was thinking the same thing, too. That guy must have done something to...”

At then, the doctor and Taesik groaned and wobbled on their feet, and their bodies hit the floor when Tao and M-21 looked behind them.

“Sir! Doctor!”

The two RK’s kneeled to inspect them, and that was when they realized they were surrounded by at least half dozen KSA agents and employees that had lost conscious prior to their arrival.

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Uh... F-first, let’s move them somewhere safe. For now we could make use of the lab that’s...”

Slap!

When Tao reached out towards one man, his hand viciously yanked Tao’s wrist in his grip.

‘W-what in the...?!’

Tao crooked his brows, the man’s force far past moderate, firm enough to astonish a modified human like him.

And the owner of the hand slowly raised himself, his eyes gleaming dangerously, his movement reminiscent of something that people would usually see in zombie films.

The other agents and employees rose in mimicry, their eyes in synchronization as they gazed at Tao and M-21.

The two men froze in sensing how things were definitely taking the wrong turn, and soon enough their audience emitted low growls.

(next chapter)

And thus begin the battle and blight... *Dun dun dun* It surely is a challenge trying to feature separate places all at once as the highlight of this fic is unfolded, but I will do my best. Once this battle is past, the finale will be staged very soon lol. I’m almost there, and I won’t stop until I make it! :D

[gischtglas]

Ara for Worldbuilding Wednesday

B A S I C S

full name: Ara Zahi

gender: intersex

sexuality: pan & poly. very.

pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

family: Garen & Anoush Zahi (parents) - scientists. would not know how to people if you forced them at Phaser-point. possibly giant dorks. Kamîl Hamdi (husband) - microsurgeon, adrenaline junkie and all-around gorgeous person. Chameloid. they bond over being snarky and flirting with people.

birthplace: Vanir - a tidally locked chunk of nowhere with an irregular orbit, a few research stations on the dark side and a whole lotta nothing else

job: Starfleet Counsellor, currently stationed on the USS Tereshkova

phobias: none, really. he’s somewhat scarily well-adjusted.

guilty pleasures: paperwork. sweet, fruity drinks with high alcohol content. Klingon snacks. pretty people. plants. retro movies, especially Klingon and Human retro movies.

M O R A L S

morality alignment?: uh. I wanted to say Chaotic Good, but then I realised that he’s sworn a Hippocratic Oath and actually believes in the whole ‘representing Starfleet’s best’ sort of thing, so… Neutral Good? I guess?

sins - lust/greed/gluttony/sloth/pride/envy/wrath (though he’s gotten better about working out ever since his husband infected him with the ice hockey bug)

virtues - chastity/charity/diligence/humility/kindness/patience/justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

introvert/extrovert: extrovert af

organized/disorganized: organised. if Ara hasn’t turned in his paperwork a week before the deadline, assume he’s dead and / or presumed lost.

close minded/open-minded: open-minded. dude married a shapechanger during the Dominion war and doesn’t even see why people might have thought that was weird.

calm/anxious: calm. things are gonna work themselves out and there’s no reason to fret about them in the meanwhile.

disagreeable/agreeable: agreeable. he can be bloody stubborn, but on the whole? sure, that thing that you suggested sounds good, let’s do that.

cautious/reckless: somewhere in between. he can be somewhat gung-ho and doesn’t shy away from snap decisions, but prefers to actually research and think things through.

patient/impatient: impatient until patience is needed (and at that point, the only thing that can wait longer than Ara is Death itself). he’s not fond of waiting for something to happen, but he sure as hell can wait for something to happen.

outspoken/reserved: outspoken. if Ara thinks something about whatever you’re doing (and he usually does), chances are you’ll hear of it sooner rather than later.

leader/follower: follower. he’s decent at leading people, having the charisma and the mindset for it, but he’s much more comfortable obeying orders and advising the people in charge.

empathetic/unemphatic: empathetic. it’s not quite Betazoid levels yet, but he’s doing his best to get there.

optimistic/pessimistic: optimistic. life is generally good and so are people, exclusions to the rule notwithstanding.

traditional/modern: modern, I guess? he’s very Federation-officer in his mindset, and I suppose that’s… modern if we assume our own standards of today I guess…?

hard-working/lazy: he finds paperwork relaxing and lives for his patients. that about answers that question, I think.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: Kamîl/Ara, hands down

ot3: Kamîl/Ara/pretty people

brotp: Ara/Una, Ara/Iggid, Ara/Shivvie, Ara/Jerry - or to put it slightly differently, Ara/his old friends from Academy who are at this point basically family and Ara/that absolute madman from Engineering

notp: Ara/Commander Stessa

[health-wellbeing]

Phentermine Side Effects

If you are taking Phentermine, you should go to the crisis room if you experience any of the following symptoms:

 I) Allergic rReaction:

 a. Difficulty relaxing

b. Fractional throat closure

c. Swelling of the lips, face or tongue

d. Hives (rash red spots)

e. Irregular heartbeat

f. Very high blood pressure

g. Very difficult brain pain

h. Oddly cloudy view

i. Pipedream

j. Strange driving

k. Disarray

 If you notice any of these less risky Phentermine symptoms, you can continue to use your Phentermine solution. However, the goal should be to tell your PCP about it:

 II) Conceivably less authentic reactions from Phentermine:

 a. Glow

b. Tremors / tremors

c. Concern

d. Strange levels of stress/tension

e. Mild migraines

f. Drunkenness

g. A sleep disorder (discomfort to find a suitable rhythm)

h. Dry mouth

i.  Terrible fondness for your mouth

j. Disability

k. Loosening of the intestine

l. Weakness

m. changes in sex drive

You should know that Phentermine can be addictive. This is most likely due to the way your body adapts to the levels of sensory synapses balanced by Phentermine. However, I do not know because I am not a master. That is exactly what convinced the newcomer (and in short, I have to say). In both cases, you can rely on it body and psyche.

 Likewise, as with any prescription on which you are only slightly dependent, you may experience undesirable reactions if you stop taking Phentermine for at least half a month. Before you stop taking your Phentermine medicine, you should talk to your doctor/specialist for a moment to find out how to arrange a regular withdrawal.

 Notwithstanding the above, you must be aware that opposite symptoms of Phentermine may occur that have not been recorded on this website. If you notice that something strange is happening, please notify your PCP.

Watch Now: Phentermine Side Effects

[inyri]

Equivalent Exchange (an SWTOR story): Chapter 24- Goodbye (Reprise)

Equivalent Exchange by inyri

Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire.)

Comments are always appreciated! Visit me at:

Archive of Our Own

Fanfiction Dot Net

Chapter Twenty-Four: Goodbye (Reprise)

16 ATC. Yavin IV.  

She would have preferred a later start to the morning’s meeting, all things considered.

When Nine wakes to the beeping alarm her mouth is dry and she can feel her heartbeat pounding behind her eyes; she rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head with a grumble of protest, and briefly entertains the idea of falling back to sleep.

“If you don’t shut that thing off-” across the tent, Lana’s voice is muffled; when Nine peers out from beneath the pillow she can only see a blanket-covered form laying prone on the far cot and then one hand poking out, a faint blue-tinged light gathering around the fingertips.

“Don’t you dare.” Dragging herself upright, she reaches out toward the desk and pokes at her datapad until it quiets. “There. Awake. Under protest.”

Lana pushes the blanket off her face, rubbing her eyes. “Believe me, I know. I didn’t set today’s agenda.”

“And I doubt Marr’s battling this hangover, either. I’ve never even seen him eat, let alone being able to drink through that mask.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” As she sits up, picking her tunic off the floor and slipping it over her head, her tone turns sly. “He could use a straw, I suppose.”

“With a little umbrella?“ Now that’s a mental image- she’ll be thinking of it through the entire damned meeting now. She makes a note to tuck a pin into her jacket pocket. That’ll keep her from laughing if it comes down to it. “I ought to shower. After all the torches last night I smell like a cantina fire.”

(More like sex in a burning cognac distillery, frankly, but she can’t tell her that.)

Lana sniffs the hem of her tunic and wrinkles her nose. “I likely should as well. We’ve got half an hour yet- shall we?”

***

She downs three tablets of painkiller with her caf and steps into the Command tent, trailing two paces behind Lana, at eight o’clock sharp. It could have been worse. Marr was always spare with words and today’s no exception: no pleasantries and no small talk, just a sound-cancelling shield up to discourage eavesdroppers and a secure connection to the Intelligence mainframe as they set to work.

She would have thought it would be a shorter meeting. No matter how urgent the work this wasn’t the right place for operational discussions, especially with their temporary peace with the Republic still nominally in place- too many ears, shield notwithstanding, and poor form besides. Clearly, though, she’d underestimated the power of Sith bureaucracy. Three hours in they’ve got both Darth Vowrawn and Darth Acina patched in via holotransmitter and little settled but titles, ranks and whether Lana’s office ought to be in the Citadel or the Intelligence tower-

(Oh, don’t remind me. Lana groans. It took two weeks to even move in once we’d returned to Dromund Kaas. Do you know why it took so long to set the offices up?

I wasn’t there, remember- I was only home two days before you sent me off to Balmorra. But I assumed it was a protocol issue, she shrugs. A Sith Lord in the east tower. Goodness knows we mustn’t go against tradition.

That’s what I thought initially, too, but as it turns out it was rather more straightforward. When Intelligence personnel were all reassigned after the disbanding it left most of the building vacant, and the Citadel tower’s always been crowded- by her expression, she knew it from experience- particularly for the lower-ranking Sith. When word got around there was space for the taking, they claimed it.

That oughtn’t to have been a surprise. She’d just avoided the old headquarters building back then, after all- the Minister’s last act in office had been to build a remote access protocol for the archive, and there were far too many memories in those halls. Just like Sith. Always taking our toys away.

I took them back, Lana says with a grin. But a few of them didn’t take kindly to being evicted. It really made quite a mess.

That’s Intelligence for you. Two parts breaking and entering, a dash of poison, three parts embassy parties and one part wondering how people fit that much blood into their bodies.

Her smile broadens, teeth flashing white in her pale face. Yes, well. I was never very fond of parties.)

-and she simply starts pulling up dossiers on her datapad and ranking them in priority order as she keeps one ear to the conversation.

“I would advise returning the Watchers to service, but that decision will ultimately be yours.” Darth Marr gestures toward the hierarchical map projected above the table. “They were originally reallocated to the military and to Production and Logistics, however-”

She makes a noise despite herself: what a Force-damned waste. She remembers Watcher Sixteen working on a particularly tricky substitution cipher once, years ago; he’d had it decrypted and translated from Bothan before she finished her breakfast. Imagining all that brilliance gone to calculating troop numbers and patterning out fluctuations in grain prices- “Get as many of them back as possible, if they haven’t been ruined already.” Looking up from her notes as both Marr and Lana’s heads snap in her direction, she sets the pad down and folds her arms across her chest. “You know they were never meant for that sort of careless handling. You’ve taken-” oh, what’s a comparison they’d understand? “You’ve taken lightsabers and used them to toast your bread.”

Lana blinks and Vowrawn’s hologram scowls at her, but Marr only nods, impassive as ever behind his mask.

“An appropriate analogy,” he rumbles. “If we are to hope to regain an advantage over the Republic, we must use our resources to their full potential. Should you require any other former assets returned to your employ-” his gaze is turned toward Lana, now, but she can’t help feel as though he’s still partially talking to her- “that may be negotiable.”

“Yes, my lord.” They must have said that a hundred times in those few hours, the two of them; Lana inclines her head in a deferential half-bow. “I’ll prepare a list, with Cipher Nine’s assistance.”

“Then we’ll adjourn until tomorrow. While this truce served us against Revan, it will soon be over, and we have spent far too long having blinded ourselves to our enemies’ plans.” With a wave of his hand, Marr deactivates the projectors. “No longer.”

Well, she thinks as they step out of the tent, past the guards and into the midday heat, it’s about time.

***

And as we sat staring at the Republic, the Emperor destroyed a planet. Lana sighs. To say nothing of the Eternal Empire sneaking in through the back door.

Zakuul surprised the Republic too, to be fair, she shrugs. And I don’t know that handling Ziost differently would have done much good. Even without Kovach’s treachery, without Theron’s Jedi and Saresh’s absurd invasion attempt, he would have set our people to killing each other until he got what he wanted. How do we kill someone that doesn’t need a body, someone we couldn’t even see?

Interesting questions. In that moment Valkorion’s sitting beside her again, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, far too close for comfort. She tries not to flinch away when she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye. How do you?

By the time she can turn to look at him fully he is gone.

That was then, old man, she says aloud, and hears Lana startle on her other side as the world snaps back into motion. I can see you now.

Lana’s hand is cool on the back of her neck.

***

At noon they gather in the center of camp, Republic delegates on one side and Imperials opposite, to say their goodbyes.

She doesn’t have to make a speech, thankfully. She isn’t nearly high-ranking enough for that. Instead she listens quietly, hands clasped behind her back, as Grand Master Shan and Darth Marr address the gathered crowd for the last time. (It reminds her a little of the speeches on Victory Day, when Coruscant fell- she was only a child then, still in primary school, but she remembers the parade, the figure of Darth Baras projected ten stories tall in the central square. All grand speeches were the same in that way, she thinks: the same platitudes, the same shallow promises.

The Sith Code has it right in one respect, at least. Peace is a lie.)

At the end of it the troops disperse to finish the work of disassembly, of loading the shuttles and troop transports, pulling down the tents and lowering the banners. They are left standing on the makeshift dais, turning to face each other, three and three, just as they did in their safehouse on Rishi.

It seems like so long ago. Has it really been less than a month?

“Are the terms we discussed still agreeable?” Satele’s tone is even, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “I’ve no particular desire for war today.”

“Our fleet departs for Dromund Kaas,” Marr replies, “the Mandalorian clans to Rishi and yours for Coruscant, and this is neutral space. We will not pursue unless given reason to do so.”

“And you shall find none.”

There’s an odd sort of formality to their cadence and when the two of them nod to one another the silence hangs in the air, almost palpable; beside her, Lana’s holding her breath. She catches Theron’s eye and he barely moves, one shoulder rising and falling in the slightest little shrug- if there’s something she missed he doesn’t feel it either, clearly.

More Force nonsense, then. It always came down to the Force in the end, no matter how hard the rest of them work, how many times they- Force-blind, defective, inferior- go to the wall in their masters’ names. It always will, probably. She’s used to it by now.

Doesn’t make it any less bantha shit, though.

“Then we will meet again on the battlefield, Grand Master.” As Marr speaks the breeze picks up, the air moving again. “But not today.”

Satele nods. “It will be as the Force wills it. I-” Then she stops, still looking upward at Marr as her head tilts subtly, and for a moment she’s almost staring through him, mouth still half-open around a word, her hands dropping to her sides. Behind her, Theron’s face scrunches in concern; he takes a step forward, but before he draws even with her Satele blinks and her gaze shifts rightward, straight at her.

It isn’t the first time she’s been stared down by a Jedi, but her expression’s something entirely different- in the past they always looked determined (the good ones, she supposes) or angry (the not-so-good ones, who often as not she didn’t need to fight at all, who only needed a little persuading). Satele looks-

-she looks worried, just for a second, before her face settles back into its usual calm solemnity and she keeps speaking as though nothing at all had happened, waving Theron back with a slight turn of one hand. “I don’t pretend to know the future, but yes, we will meet again. Until then, may the Force be with you.”

“May it serve you well,” Marr replies, and then they say no more.

(I don’t remember that, Lana says slowly. But perhaps it was a vision.

Of the future, or-?

She shrugs. It’s possible. With power like Satele has, the Force sometimes works in unpredictable ways.

You say ‘has’ as though you think she’s still alive.

I’ve no reason to assume she isn’t. I sensed Marr’s passing from halfway across the galaxy, and we had enough eyes on her to know that she survived the sack of Tython. She hasn’t been in contact with anyone- even Theron’s tried, without success- but if she’d died after that I would think I would have felt it.

She frowns, considering. I suppose. But they didn’t see each other again, did they- Marr and Satele? Before he died? It seems so long ago. It’s hard to remember.

Not in person, so far as I’m aware, though I suspect Grand Master Shan may have been meant to be part of the conclave on the Terminus but ended up delayed, just as I was. There were other Jedi there, yes?

There were, and Republic soldiers too. Still, it means she was wrong.

I can only imaging that interpreting the future might be rather subjective. It’s not a gift I share. Her nose wrinkling, Lana looks to her. Nor would I want to, I think. Imagine knowing what will happen and not being able to do anything about it.

An uncomfortable idea, indeed- a chill runs up her spine, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck. I wonder what she saw when she looked at me.)

Marr’s the first to turn away, dismissing her and Lana with a gesture as his guards fall in at either side. Opposite them, Satele starts to walk toward the far edge of the platform; Theron, turning, says something too quiet to hear at this distance and his mother shakes her head. I’m fine- her lips form around the words, then press together in a narrow line as he replies- leave it be, Theron. We’ll speak later.

He sighs as Satele descends the stairs, and then it’s just the four of them left- her and Lana and Theron and Jakarro, one final time.

She raises an eyebrow at Theron, a silent question, and he runs one hand through his hair and makes a face. Fair enough.

“So. I guess this is goodbye.” Theron’s looking at Lana, not at her, when he says it.

“I suppose it is. It’s certainly been…” Lana stops, clearly thinking better of whatever she way about to say. “It’s been an experience, hasn’t it?”

She can’t help it- she laughs a little at that, and Jakarro growls amusement and Theron grins as Lana flushes. “That’s one word for it.”

“I get what you meant,” Theron says. “And yeah, it definitely was. Maybe not one I’d care to repeat, but- well. We got through it, and now it’s back to real life. Like a really weird vacation.”

“Are you heading back with Theron, Jakarro? Much as I hate to admit it, the Empire isn’t the wisest destination for you.” Looking up at the Wookiee as he roars out a reply, she shifts her focus down to Dee-Four for the translation.

“We’re headed back to Rishi!” The droid sounds suspiciously cheerful, which never bodes well, and more to the point-

Lana says it before she can. “Jakarro, you hated Rishi.”

He gestures for emphasis, and Theron has to duck to keep from getting bowled over. “Exactly! That is why I must return!” Dee-Four keeps translating over a series of ever-louder roars. He clearly feels strongly about this. “Those pirates are the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen, but they have potential. I’m going to whip them into shape.”

“Hear, hear.” Shae Vizla, walking past with a few of her clanmates trailing behind, raises a fist in agreement. “Not worth my time, but someone ought to do it. Plenty of credits there if you’ve got the stones to tame that mess. You catching a ride with our ships, then?”

“We have a few stops to make first, but we’ll be there shortly.” She wishes, not for the first time, she understood more Shyriiwook. She’s pretty sure that’s not what Jakarro actually said.

“Fair enough. And Cipher?” Shae pauses in front of the dais and nods her head in her direction. “You find any more fights that good, you know where to find me.”

She grins. Short a punch in the teeth that’s as much respect as she’s ever likely to get from a Mandalorian. “I’ll keep that in mind. Ret’urcye mhi.”

Her pronunciation’s shitty and her mouth catches on the glottal stop, but Shae just grins. “Not bad, Imp. Not bad. Ret’urcye mhi.”

“Well, then”- turning back to Jakarro as the Mandalorians continue across the courtyard, she holds out her hand- “good luck, big guy. Dee-Four, try not to let him rip too many arms off.”

Unexpectedly, he pulls her in for a hug- oh, stars, that might have just been a rib cracking- as he sweeps Theron and, surprisingly, Lana, in with his other arm, nearly pulling them off their feet. “Be safe, little friends.”

“I- oof- I will.” Extracting herself from his grip, Lana takes a deep breath. “And you too, Theron. Be well. I suspect you’ll have an easier time of it without me around.”

“Now you admit it?” Theron blinks, then chuckles. “You’re probably right, yeah- but you too, Lana. Try not to get in too much trouble, all right?”

“I’ll do my best. Cipher-” she looks toward her- “I’ll see you back at the tent. I’m going to go start  packing things up and we can continue our earlier discussion.”

When she nods agreement, Lana steps down onto the cobblestones and sets off toward their side of camp; Jakarro, with one last wave, heads toward the Republic shuttle pads. After a moment, they’re both out of sight behind the rows.  

Theron turns to her, then. “So-” too loud, meant to be overheard even if they can’t be sure anyone’s listening- “you’re finally getting rid of me, huh?”

“I will admit, I’m a little sad to see this end.” She gestures around them, at the little camp that was their home. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me, too. C’mere.”

It’s a brief embrace, chaste and appropriate in sight of the soldiers still hard at work clearing the courtyard. If she had any sense that would have been the end of it.

He whispers in her ear, though, as his fingertips brush along her back. “Do you still think you can get away, or-?”

“I’ve just got a few things to take care of,” she murmurs in reply. “Give me an hour or two, but I’ll send you a message.”

“Good.” Theron takes a step back, his voice picking up volume again. “Take care, Cipher. See you in the ops reports.”

“Not if I’m doing my job properly,” she says, and he winks before he turns away.

(I should have known. Lana sighs. But-

We were careful, as I said. Not careful enough, of course. She raises one hand to her throat at the memory, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Although I’ve been meaning to ask you- what happened to Jakarro? Do you know?

Lana shakes her head. He and Dee-Four did go to Rishi. When the war hit, though, Zakuul blockaded the hyperspace lanes. The pirates and smugglers didn’t stand a chance. I looked for him when I started to pull the Alliance together, but- she frowns. Nothing. And they weren’t exactly inconspicuous.

No, they weren’t. She sighs.)

Back in the tent, she throws her things into her duffel- everything needs washing in any case, so there’s no point in folding- and strips the linens off her cot. Lana’s still packing, setting everything neatly into her own bag, and looks up as she dumps the sheets onto the floor.

“I’ve got people coming to haul everything away. Don’t worry about taking those to the laundry crates.”

“Perks of rank, hm? All right.” The console needs to go, too; she starts an erasure program, setting the storage chips to purge their data. A hammer would be quicker, but the unit could be reused. Waste not, want not. “I’ll start making holocalls, unless you’ve got another task for me.”

“Hm? No, I think anything more than that can wait,” Lana says, rummaging under her cot for a stray tabard.

She nods. “Fine. You don’t have any particular objection to non-humans, do you? Some of my contacts are a bit on the unconventional side. I’ll need to reorder my list-” she holds up her datapad- “if you do, though it’ll be your staff. It’s up to you.”

“Define unconventional.”

“Nothing scandalous. Chiss, mostly. Twi’leks. One Nautolan, if she’ll hire on. Sweetest-looking face you ever saw and she could kill you in a dozen ways with a credit chit and a roll of spacer’s tape. Also a trained receptionist. I was thinking of her for a bodyguard for you, at least until Zhorrid’s been managed.”

Her bag fastened, Lana lofts it across the tent with a wave of one hand until it settles just next to the entrance. “I’ve no objections. If you think they’re suitable, I trust your judgment.”

“Famous last words.” Setting her transmitter on the desktop, she dials in the first address. “It’s been a few years. Let’s see if anyone remembers me.”

***

She oughtn’t have worried.

For better or for worse, people in her line of work have long memories. She learned long ago not to burn bridges unless she didn’t have a choice and it makes the calls that much easier; a dozen conversations later, she’s got their first agents heading back to Dromund Kaas- three Minders, two Fixers, five security specialists including the Nautolan and, in a stroke of excellent luck, Cipher Seventeen. Her only failures are Minder Eight (hugely pregnant, when she answers the holo; she only laughs and points to her belly before Nine can even ask. “I’m sorry, Cipher, but I’m afraid I’ve retired from that particular line of work,” she grins, and Fixer Twelve peeks over her shoulder and waves hello) and one old Nar Shaddaa contact who simply hangs up on her (in retrospect, she did promise she’d call him the next day, didn’t she?).

All in all, a good start.

Two soldiers peek through the tent opening as she disconnects the final call. “Sorry to interrupt, Lord Beniko- and Cipher. Thought you’d told us to come and pull the tent down, but if we should come back later-”

“I was just finishing up.” Tucking the holo into her belt pouch, she rises, stretching. It’s later than she thought. She should find Theron. “I’m sure I can find somewhere else to be.”

Lana nods, too. “I’ll find a sunny corner to meditate in. Once we’re home again, Force knows when we’ll next see actual daylight.”

“D’you want us to take your bags to loadout?” The second soldier chimes in, even as she’s already starting to take one of the desks apart. “We’ve got to head back that way either way, and it’s no trouble.

One less thing to do. Why not? “Fine. Let me just grab my rifle-” she picks it up from its resting place atop the duffel bag, sliding it into her back holster until it clicks; no one touches her guns but her and her team, a lesson she learned the hard way early on. That misfire nearly cost her a finger- “and it’s all yours. I’ll see you in a few hours, Lana.”

She barely sees her wave as she steps out of the tent- she’s already looking down at her commpad, typing out a message.

Did you still want to talk? Free now until shuttle launch.

His reply’s immediate.

meet me by the war table?

She smiles. On my way.

***

When she reaches the stone table it’s bare, now, all the monitors and equipment already hauled away and only faint outlines on the ground left as signs they were ever there. In another few weeks the vines and weeds they’d cut away will have grown back and there’ll be no trace of them at all save only the wrecked shuttle across the clearing and the perimeter sensors left in the field; in a year even those will be gone, rusted relics mixed in with the crumbling stones. It’ll be as though they were never here.

It’s a sobering thought.

She doesn’t see Theron at first. When she turns, though, there he is, leaning against the wall of one of the ruins, and he smiles at her when she

“For a little while there I thought you might be standing me up.” Taking her by one wrist, he draws her around until they’re out of view of the archway.

“Oh, you know,” she says, “no rest for the wicked. Plus, I had to pack.”

“More work already?” Theron wrinkles his nose at her. “It’s bad enough that we’re back to the same damn war, but they could have given you a day off, at least.”

“We’re not big on vacations in the Empire.” After a moment, looking at him still frowning, she reaches out with her other hand to touch his arm. “That came out less funny than I meant it. I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye, Theron, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Us being on opposite sides again, you mean.”

She sighs. She should have known he’d think of things that way- he never was going to be the no-strings type, no matter what he said. “Yes. But we knew that was going to happen from the beginning.”

“I- yeah. Sorry. I’m just not-” he shakes his head, leans down to brush his lips across her forehead and despite herself she tilts her chin up into the kiss. “I keep thinking that now I’ve got to go back to real life and make myself forget, that all of this was a mistake, but-”

“You do. I do, too,” she says against his throat. “And you’re allowed to make mistakes, Theron, whether you admit it to yourself or not. You’re allowed to want things even if you know they’re bad for you.”

“You aren’t- you weren’t bad for me. You saved me.”

She closes her eyes as he cups her head in his hands. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”  

“I know that. But you weren’t.” Another kiss, punctuating the words. “Somehow I didn’t picture this, that first day on Manaan.”

“Quite a ways from Mysterious Ally, hm?” She grins as he mutters something against her skin. “And to think I thought you’d be dull.”

“Really?” It’s only mock offense in his voice, and when she glances upward he’s grinning too. “Not roguishly charming?”

“You’re more the brooding type, but I had you figured for Standard Republic Issue- too serious. Hot, though.”

Theron laughs out loud at that, hands drifting downward, settling around her waist. “I take a while to warm up, ‘s all. Though I’ll admit I was wrong about you, too.”

“Oh, do tell,” she purrs, leaning against him. They’ve got a little time, still. She doesn’t need to leave quite yet.

(She doesn’t want to leave yet. She tries not to think about that too much.)

“Only if you promise not to get mad.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You popped up on holo down in that base, covered in Selkath blood and half on fire, and I thought-” he stops-  oh, stars, is he blushing again?- “I remember thinking, y’know, crazy doesn’t normally do it for me but damn- ”

“Ah, romance,” she says dryly, and winks. “You hid it well. I rather got the impression you loathed me.”

“Thought you said it was overrated. And no, I just- it’s hard training to break, you know? All we ever learn from day one on is you versus us, but once we knew each other better-”

“Oh, it is.” He’s still got a scratch along one cheekbone from yesterday and she traces it with an idle fingertip, curling in closer as his arms tighten around her. “And yes, I know. Though I meant what I said before. I am going to miss you.”

Theron’s quiet for a moment, his head tilting into her touch. “I’m going to miss you, too. I wish you-”

“Don’t.” She lets her hand dip lower, presses her finger to his mouth. “Don’t.”

“Do we just say goodbye, then?”

(She should have known better. Leaving is one thing; leaving is easy. Forgetting is easy. But she doesn’t want to hurt him and someday she’s probably going to have to and that-

That complicates things.)

She nods. “It’s easiest that way.”

“What time is it?”

Turning her wrist, she looks at her chrono. “Nearly four. Why?”

“We still have an hour, then, don’t we? Before we need to be on the shuttles?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then we can say goodbye-” Theron nudges her hand aside, catches her mouth with his and she shouldn’t but oh, to the Void with that; she is allowed to want things that she knows are bad for her- “in an hour.”

She lets him push her back against the wall.

***

And- well. Not exactly love at first sight, but you know what happened after that, she finishes, grinning, with a little shrug of her shoulders. He went back to the SIS, and I went back to work, and that was the end of it. No one else ever knew but Vector.

(His nose twitched as she slid into the seat beside him on the shuttle back to the Terminus, and after a moment he leans over to murmur into her ear. “We wondered where you’d gone. Agent Shan, hm?”

Killiks and their damned pheromones. She never could get anything past Vector, not that she’d ever really tried; he could read her like a book.

She sighed. “Spare me the lecture, Vector, please. I know.”

“Lecture? Never.” As he adjusted the harness straps across her body, he raised the edge of her collar to hide her neck. “We were only going to compliment your taste.”)

I do know, Lana mutters, rather too well. But you’re honestly telling me that nothing happened between then and Ziost?

Nothing happened. We never even spoke, and I was telling you the truth on Ziost. I didn’t know he was there until Kovach mentioned his name.

And after that?

She shakes her head. We spoke once, briefly, a few weeks later. Not in person- she clarifies as Lana’s brows start to creep ceilingward- I was shipboard off Alderaan and he was on Coruscant. I- I gave him the implant he wears now. He probably told you that.

He did. I’m not sure he meant to. Lana rubs her forehead. It was on Asylum, and we were both very drunk at the time.

And the next time I saw Theron, she says quietly, outside of five years of carbonite dreams, was here.

The day I called him, when I was sure you were alive, was the anniversary of the day we thought you’d died. I didn’t even think of it at the time, but- Lana sighs. He was a wreck, Nine. The war was hard on all of us, and I knew you’d been lovers, of course, but I didn’t realize how much he- she trails off.

(She remembers the night of the party. ‘I mourned you,’ he’d said, curled beside her, and she never really understood the depth of what he meant until now.)

Theron kissed me on Ziost. Did he tell you that, too?

Lana blinks, surprised. No. He didn’t.

Before it happened- on the orbital station, while we were in the medical bay; I’d told him that you knew. He was trying to prove your point about objectivity. I stopped him then, but-

Was I right?

She chuckles. What do you think?

I think that right now you deserve to be happy despite everything that’s going on around us, despite everything going on inside your head, and I think Theron looks better than I’ve seen him in years. And I think- Lana smiles- it would be awful of me to be anything but happy for you.

Thank you, she says; Lana stands, then, with a barely stifled yawn. But do me a favor, won’t you?

Hm?

She stretches out until she’s laying flat on the couch, sprawling across the space left vacant by Lana. Go talk to Koth. Don’t keep dancing around things- it’s better to have it all out in the open.

You ought to take your own advice. I saw Theron sneaking out of here yesterday morning.

She makes a face- guilty as charged. Do as I say, not as I do. Still.

But I don’t think I want-

I know that, she says. I don’t mean sex, or romance, if that’s not what you want. Just… talk. I don’t want something else ruined because of me.

You didn’t- Lana stops herself. All right. But tomorrow, I think- for now, I should sleep. As should you.

I will. I might see if Theron’s still awake, first. I…

(She isn’t used to any of this.)

I miss him.

I know. Lana smiles. Good night, Nine.

***

Up next- Interlude III: Liminal Space. A holocall, two leads, and a cure for insomnia as we return to present time.

(Don’t worry, we’re not skipping over the shuttle entirely, but that’s a memory better shared with someone other than Lana, I think. I leave it to you, readers- how much do you want to hear about that final hour?

And for those of you who are familiar with this week’s spoilers (5.4): yes, I plan to continue this story regardless of how things play out. How I’ll approach that particular turn remains to be seen, of course, but I do have an idea- one of the seeds of which appears somewhere in this chapter.)

[ofshipsandswans]

I only came for the dancing

Inspired by a day-in-the-fic-life of the lovelies @mahstatins and @katie-dubHuge thanks to @swanandapirate for beta-ing <3

Summary: It’s Robin and Regina’s wedding; Killian is late, Emma’s not happy and Henry likes cake. Enjoy! 

Word count: 2k 

There were a lot of advantages, Emma would argue, to being Regina Mills' friend.

The lavish dinner parties with the expensive champagne notwithstanding, Emma had come to admire Regina for her determination; building her own empire in a male-dominated world.

Though admittedly, "friend" was a term Emma used in the loosest sense. The two women couldn't be more different, though they both had a stubborn streak that could rival the best of them.

And then, there was Henry. The main force keeping the Mills and Swan women in each other's lives but Emma had to admit, there was a sense of comradeship which had developed from a mutual fondness for Henry.

It still didn't explain why Regina had given Emma the enviable task of bridesmaid.

And that was something none of them saw coming. Regina Mills marrying Robin Locksley, the person she'd swore up and down she wouldn't be within spitting distance of.

C'est la vie, no?

Robin had proposed, Regina accepted and Emma found herself thrown head first into wedding planning. Seven months, a whirlwind of white dresses, cake tasting, flower arrangements, the hen-do from hell and Emma was ready to fling herself off the window ledge, stiletto heels and all.

Not to toot her own horn, but she had the wedding planned to a T, thank you very much. Regina would've had her head otherwise. (There was that one incident with a broken ankle and a missed dress-fitting that no-one wanted a repeat of.)

No, that wasn't the reason why Emma felt like pulling her hair out.

It was more to do with the fact that tall, dark and absent hadn't graced the congregation with his presence, leaving Emma floundering last minute and cursing Killian Jones to the moon and back.

He was the fucking best man.

The best man.

And he was nowhere to be seen.

Emma stood anxiously by the alter, checking her wristwatch, praying that Jones would show up on time.

Five minutes till D-Day, Emma thought sourly.

She fiddled with her bouquet, muttering expletives under her breath that would surely have her expelled from the Church.

Four minutes.

Please, please, please, please, please.

Three minutes.

Dammit Jones.

Robin stood awkwardly, shuffling on his feet, the very picture of nerves. He gave Henry, the ring-bearer, a small nod, his small chest puffing out with pride.

Emma chanced another glance around, eyes peeled for a shock of black hair and baby blue eyes.

Two minutes.

Among the curses she spat at Jones and the hoping his ass wouldn't be late, Emma sent a prayer for her soul.

One minute.

The organ player took a seat, and the first chords of Here Comes the Bride rang out through the hall, the flower girls awkwardly shuffling down the aisle, dumping most of the petals in one go and swinging their empty baskets as they skipped the rest of the way.

Robin looked around, confusion on his face as he noticed his lack of best man, turning questioning eyes on Emma. She was just about to protest that it wasn't her fault.

And that was when the subject in question burst through the doors, the gathered guests standing for whom they expected was the bride, a hum of confusion as they took in the man by the doors.

Killian Jones, in all his windswept hair glory, was bent over and breathing heavily, cheeks and ears tinged pink as he held up a finger as if to quieten the guests. "I made it," he wheezed.

When he caught sufficient breath, he sprinted down the aisle, throwing a quick thumbs-up at Henry and grinning at Robin.

His timing was impeccable as just then, Regina walked down the aisle, her arm looped through her father's and looking as regal as ever. Her train trailed behind her, hair immaculately styled complete with long veil and a reserved smile on her face as she looked at her groom. Emma breathed a sigh of relief, as Regina hadn't seem to notice the less-then-ideal picture of the best man.

As the couple read their vows, Emma glared at Killian, making sure he knew that this wasn't over.

The rest of the wedding had gone smoothly, the interruption by Jones the only hiccup in an otherwise perfect affair. The reception was held in the Ritz Hotel and Emma sipped her drink, watching with amusement as Henry bounced around by the cake, practically drooling at the sight of it. She'd managed to snap a few quick photos of her son in his suit, knowing that as soon as it was time for cake, it wouldn't stand a chance.

She caught Killian by the open bar, nursing a drink of his own. Emma cleared her throat, catching his attention.

"Swan!" He grinned, leaping out of his chair.

"Jones." She nodded, keeping her face neutral.

"It's quite the shindig this." He gestured with his glass to the reception, the music playing from the small orchestra (jeez, Regina didn’t spare any expense), coloured lights lighting the dance floor and general chatter filling the air.

Emma hummed, eyes raking over the man next to her. He squirmed under her gaze and she silently admitted that she enjoyed it.

He coughed, clearing his throat. "Ahem, would you believe it, my flight got delayed and I had to change on the plane. Let me tell you, it's no small feat dressing into a three-piece suit in the confines of an airplane lavatory," he finished, voice rising in pitch as he tried to sell his story.

Emma raised an unamused eyebrow, betrayed by the fact that her lips tugged into a smile. "You’re lucky Regina didn't see you. I'm sure she would've had something to say about that."

He scratched behind his ear, a sheepish smile on his face. "Aye, seems I dodged a bullet there."

They were cut off from further discussion as Henry excitedly announced it was time for cake, digging into his own piece with gusto. Emma took a slice, biting back a moan at the heavenly piece. Those cake tastings were damn well worth it. She was taken aside by Regina, who had changed into something more suited to dancing.

"Thank you, Emma," she said sincerely. "I couldn't have asked for a better friend."

Emma almost choked on her cake. Regina's thank you's were a rarity, and that was when she didn't always mean them. The bride pulled her in for a quick hug, before turning to attend to the other guests. "Oh, and if you see Jones, tell him I want a word."

The next time Emma saw Killian she knew that Regina had got to him first. He motioned for another drink, downing the rum in one go. He looked like a naughty school kid who'd been given a thorough talking-to by the principal, face contrite.

"How bad was it?" Emma asked, sliding into the seat next to him, resting her cheek in her palm as she faced him.  

He shrugged. "Could've been worse. Though I dare say we've reached the bodily threats stage of our relationship."

Emma laughed, clutching her stomach as she gasped for breath.

 "I take offence at that, Swan! You know how terrifying Regina is."

Emma wiped the tears away, clearing her throat. "Hey, you bought that on yourself, buddy."

Killian looked resigned, swirling his drink in the glass.

"Did you have to come in like that?" she said, breaking the silence that had descended on them.

Killian swallowed the last of his drink, smacking his lips and turning to her. "Like what?"

"Like you were a movie hero or something, charging in at the last second to stop the wedding of your beloved."

He leaned in close, and she could smell the rum on his breath. "Don't tell Regina that, love. I'm sure she's already thinking I plan to steal Robin back." He winked.

Emma snorted, quirking an eyebrow and tilting her head. Killian sighed. "If you must know, I did try the back entrance but the sodding thing was locked. Who the bloody hell locks the back entrance?" he exclaimed in indignation.

"Ah, that would be on Zelena's request. Something about keeping the riff-raff out. Her words, not mine." Killian gave her a look. "Don't look at me like that, I didn't know you'd be so late!"

Killian shook his head, muttering. "Zelena...I should've guessed. I swear that woman has had it out for me since the moment we met."

"Must run in the family," Emma mused, raising one shoulder in half a shrug. She swung her stool around, leaning her elbows back on the bar top and watching the crowd.

Killian groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, before following suit. Henry was barrelling towards them; his tie crooked, shirt covered in frosting, and bare-footed. He'd be exhausted by the time they got home but it wasn't a school night so she allowed it.

"Mom! Come dance!" Emma took his small hand in hers, her other hand reaching to take off her heels.

If there was one thing she knew about a sugar-fuelled Henry, was that he had crazy amounts of energy.

"Hi Killian." Henry waved.

"Hello lad. You did wonderful today." Killian winked.

Henry beamed, cheeks pinking under the compliment. He tugged on Emma's hand, and she shot Killian an apologetic smile as she let herself be pulled by her 10-year-old, twirling with him on the dance floor. Her cheeks hurt by the time the music had slowed to something mellow and Henry's jaw cracked in a yawn.

"Alright, kid. Time for bed."

Henry opened his mouth to protest but was betrayed as he yawned again. "'M not sleepy," he lied, eyes drooping.

"Sure you aren't," Emma drawled, rolling her eyes. Emma led him upstairs, the rooms in the hotel rented out for the event. She swiped her key card, quickly making sure Henry brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjamas before kissing him goodnight. He was out like a light before his head hit the pillow.

She smiled softly, switching on the bedside lamp before locking the door behind her and making her way back downstairs. She'd left her heels by the bar, but couldn't find it in herself to regret it, her feet aching after wearing them all day, the soft carpet feeling amazing under her bare feet.

Although her son had dozed off, the reception was still in full spring, and it probably would carry on until the daylight hours. Emma cringed at the thought. She was only running on a few hours of sleep and she should've taken the opportunity to sleep when she took Henry up.

Emma groaned, making her way over to the tables, and slumping down on a chair. Of all the misfortunes, Zelena was there, looking completely sour-faced, scowling at the newlyweds as they danced.

Emma had heard that Zelena's relationship hit the rocks mere days before the wedding, and she would've felt more sympathetic had the sister of the bride not also been strung-up, unhelpful and spiteful (the Mills sisters’ feuds were biblical and Emma got caught in the crossfire when Zelena discovered she wasn't to be a bridesmaid) throughout the whole planning.

Still, not even a vengeful sister (no matter how hard she tried) could ruin what was ultimately a successful wedding but Emma was feeling the effects, the buzz of the day wearing off and leaving her drained. She leaned forward, rubbing at her temples. Maybe she would go back up. She stood, looking around for Regina–wasn’t she just dancing with Robin?–not wanting to go AWOL without the bride knowing lest some last-minute disaster occur whilst she dozes away.

She turned, knocking straight into Killian. “Sorry,” she murmured, hand resting lightly on his chest to keep her balance. “Hey, you didn’t see where the bride went?” she asked hopefully.

Killian nodded, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “Went that way, with Robin. I wouldn’t disturb them right now if I were you, Swan.”

Emma screwed up her nose, not wanting to think about that. “Ew,” she said aloud and Killian laughed.

Behind them, Zelena scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. Emma glared at her, though her cheeks flushed when she realised she hadn’t removed her hand. Before she could, Killian took hold, leading her to the dance floor.

“No,” she shook her head, her words slurring slightly. “’M sleepy,” she said in an almost-exact repetition of Henry’s earlier protest.

“One dance.” Killian pouted, pulling her flush against his chest, “A slow one,” he compromised.

Emma was too tired to protest further, resting her head on his shoulder. If she was a bit more awake and a bit more alert, this kind of intimacy would have her running for the hills. As it was, she was exhausted and it felt nice, Killian’s arm warm around her waist as he hummed to the music, making her doze even more.

She lifted her head, a lazy smile on her face. “If I fall asleep, you better not leave me.”

He grinned, “Can I carry you bridal style?”

Emma shrugged, resting her head on his shoulder again. “Yeah, sure. Whatever,” she mumbled.

“Why Swan. I’d be delighted.”

[minstr3lsong]

"Meet the Blogger"

Rules: answer the 19 questions and tag some amazing people you would like to get to know better.

tagged by @combeferre

i. name: i have many names. My username is minstr3lsong, I'm temperamental_mistress on AO3, I go by Laterose or LadyRis in many other places.

ii. nickname: I don't know of any for my Internet monikers, but I refer to myself as C, which is a nickname for my real name.

iii. zodiac sign: Aries

iv. height: 5′1" on a good day

v. orientation: ??????????? (This is a complicated question with a very complicated answer. Currently the word I'm using is Queer. I lean towards biromantic asexual, but I'm still fumbling in the dark with some other feelings and words)

vi. ethnicity: White.

vii. favourite fruit: Apples and peaches. But I am allergic to both unless they're cooked. Which is beyond frustrating. I had some really great cherries the other day. Allergic to those too.

viii. favourite season: Spring, pollen notwithstanding. But I'm fond of each season for its own unique qualities. I enjoy having all four in rotation. I don't think I could live somewhere without that.

ix. favourite book series: His Dark Materials or Protector of the Small. Both are very important to me.

x. favourite flower: I really love hydrangeas. Especially the blue ones. But also anything that could be considered a wildflower. I really like tiny delicate flowers in mass quantities.

xi. favourite scent: I am quite fond of the smell of browning meat. But there's also a potpourri bag my mother made when I was a child that smells of cinnamon and citrus and all of our Christmas decorations smell like it. That's a good smell too.

xii. favourite color: I can't explain just how strongly my brain gravitates towards shades of green.

xiii. coffee, tea, or cocoa: Tea. The smell of coffee makes me queasy.

xiv. average sleep hours: Eight. I am alarmingly consistent in my sleep schedule.

xv. cat or dog person: I love cats, and I appreciate dogs from a distance.

xvi. favourite fictional characters: My brain shuts down when I try to answer this question.

xvii. dream trip: Someday I will get to Paris. Some other day I will get to Hiroshima, Japan. But it will be some time yet.

xviii. blog created: Sometime in 2010, because I was still in undergrad.

xix. number of followers: I'm on mobile so it's hard to check, but somewhere just over 100.

[inhumansforever]

Inhuman of The Day

February 22nd - Crystal

Crystalia Amaquelin.  The daughter of Ambur and Quelin and younger sister to Queen Medusa.  Crystalia (or ‘Crystal’ as she is more often called) was exposed to the Terrigen Mists during her late childhood.  Terrigenesis had a minimal effect on her physical form and endowed her with vast powers.  She gained the ability to exert temporary control of the four base elements of earth, wind, fire, and air.  This enabled her to create controlled bursts of flame, powerful gusts of wind, send forward a directed torrent of rock and dirt, and manipulate water into spinning spouts.  Although it took Crystal a great deal of training to better master these abilities, hers has proven to be one of the more impressive power-sets among the Inhumans, leading Crystal to become highly respected and popular among her people. 

Crystal’s aunt, Azur, married the former queen’s brother, Mander, and this afforded young Crystal placement among the royal precession.  In as such she grew up in the opulent setting of the palace and enjoyed great privilege.  Her status within the caste system of Old Attilan was further augmented when Terrigenesis endowed her highly impressive powers.  And yet, this privilege and good fortune never appeared to go to her head and she remained kind, open and respectful toward others.  Crystal was the youngest of the various children growing up in the palace and, being the youngest, Crystal often felt left out of the various games and activities that occupied her older sister and cousins.  

Often left on her own, Crystal ended up forming a powerful and lifelong bond with the prince’s watchdog, Lockjaw.  Crystal’s early experiences of social solitude may have also contributed to her later life interests for adventure to desire to explore the world outside of the confines of Attilan.  

At one point, Crystal’s cousin, Maximus, abducted her and threatened her life as part of a ploy to elicit an angry reaction from his brother, Prince Black Bolt.  Due to the potentially disastrous nature of Black Bolt’s powers, he needed to maintain absolute self control and Maximus was trying to break this control by putting young Crystal’s life in jeopardy (in Maximus’ bent thinking he believed that Black Bolt’s loosing control would prove that he was too unstable to rule and thus Maximus would be named the crown prince).  Yet Black Bolt was able to maintain his stoic self control and he saved Crystal.  Crystal had initially been quite frightened and intimidated by her cousin, Black Bolt.  After this encounter, however, Crystal came to feel great devotion, respect and fondness for the prince.

Years later, yet another of Maximus’ sinister schemes resulted in a successful coup were upon Crystal and the other member of the royal family were banished from Attilan.  Crystal’s sister had gone missing and, under the influence of amnesia, had fallen in with the human criminal, The Wizard.  Aided by the teleportation abilities of Lockjaw, Crystal and the others went in search of Medusa and it was during this time that Crystal first met young Johnny Storm (the Human Torch of The Fantastic Four). 

Both attractive teenagers possessing incredible powers, there was an instant connection between Crystal and Johnny.  At first, Crystal assumed that Johnny was an Inhuman like herself.  When she discovered that he was a human, however, it did not at all diminish her feelings for him.  The other Inhumans tended to look at the regular humans as inferior and primitive, but Crystal held no such prejudices.  She saw the humans as equals and was fascinated by them… a feeling that quickly blossomed into a long and torrid romance between Crystal and Johnny Storm.  

The Fantastic Four ultimately traveled back to Attilan and assisted Black Bolt in regaining the throne from his mad brother.  In a desperate act of spite, Maximus activated an impenetrable negative zone force field that shielded off Attilan from the outside world.  Crystal was trapped within the city while Johnny and the other members of the Fantastic Four were trapped outside.  Heartbroken, Johnny vowed to do whatever it took to be reunited with Crystal.

The negative zone force field was eventually deactivated and Crystal and Johnny were finally reunited.  Crystal decided to return with Johnny to the human world and she joined the ranks of the Fantastic Four, taking over for Sue Storm during her maternity leave.  Crystal proved to be a valued member of the FF and her quick thinking and elemental powers saved the day on many occasions. 

Sadly, Crystal and Johnny’s romance began to dwindle.  They grew apart and Crystal eventually left Johnny, returning to Attilan.  Some time later, Crystal came across the Mutant and one-time Avenger known as Quicksilver.  Quicksilver had been injured in a battle with a sentinel and Crystal brought him back to Attilan to recuperate.  During Quicksilver’s convalescence, he and Crystal fell in love with one another.  Soon thereafter, Johnny Storm returned to Attilan in hopes of winning Crystal back and was heartbroken and angered to find that Crystal had moved on and was in a new relationship with Quicksilver.  The animosity between Johnny and Quicksilver notwithstanding, Johnny was eventually able to work through his hurt feelings and maintain a close friendship with Crystal.  

Quicksilver proposed marriage to Crystal and she accepted the proposal.  No Inhuman of Attilan had ever wed an outsider and their engagement caused quite a stir among the Inhuman peoples.  With her royal bloodline and great powers, The Genetic Council very much wanted to say in whom she would marry… in the hopes the union would produce powerful new Inhumans.  Yet King Black Bolt overruled the Council’s objections and gave Crystal and Quicksilver his blessing.  The two were wed in a lavish ceremony in which Johnny Storm, The Fantastic Four, and The Avengers attended as guests.

 Following their marriage, Crystal and Quicksilver resided in Attilan.  At the time, Attilan maintained a cloned slave caste who provided the various manual labor needed to keep the city-state functioning.  Crystal’s good nature and her strong sense of justice, coupled with her experience in the world outside of Attilan ultimately led her to realize the great immorality inherent in slavery.  She argued for the abolishment of slavery on Attilan; furthermore she was able to ascertain how Maximus had used the collective feelings of guilt and racism the citizens felt toward these cloned slaves as a psychic fuel power his giant android, Omega The Ultimate Alpha.  Omega was defeated and Maximus’ plot foiled; and soon thereafter, King Black Bolt issued a decree abolishing slavery on Attilan and freeing the clones.  

Some time later, Crystal became pregnant with her and Quicksilver’s child.  It was at this time that many of the citizens of Old Attilan had started to grow ill from the heightening levels of pollution in the earth’s atmosphere.  Generations of living in isolation had left The Inhumans of Attilan highly susceptible to environmental toxins.  Attilan’s location in the remote mountain range of The Himalayas had thus far shielded the Inhumans from these toxins, yet the gradual breakdown of the earth’s ozone layer and mounting levels of environmental pollutants had finally taken its toll on the populace.  In the later stages of her pregnancy, Crystal was especially sensitive to this sickness and she fell gravely ill.  Quicksilver rushed to elicit the aid of The Fantastic Four.  Reed Richards and Black Bolt devised an intrepid plan and all of Attilan was ultimately relocated to the oxygen-rich Blue Area of The Moon.  The plan succeeded and Crystal was cured of her ailment.  She gave birth to a healthy baby, a daughter she named ‘Luna’ after Attilan’s new home on the moon.  

Luna grew up on Attilan and, for the most part enjoyed a very happy childhood.  The Inhuman Marilla, who had once acted as Crystal’s governess took on the role of nanny for Luna.  Being the daughter of Quicksilver and granddaughter of Magneto, however, would prove to be a matter that would put young Luna’s life in great peril.  The evil Mutants, Fabian Cortez and Exodus, former acolytes of Magneto, abducted Luna.  At the time, Magneto was presumed dead and Exodus hoped to utilize Luna as a means of consolidating power among Mutant dissidents.  Yet, when he obtained Luna, Exodus realized that the toddler did not possess the mutant gene.  The fact that the blood relative of Magneto was a non-mutant, a ‘flatscan’ incensed Exodus… he viewed Luna as an abomination and he attempted to kill her.  Fortunately, Exodus was defeated by Crystal with the aid of the Avengers and X-Men.  Luna was saved.

All of this eventually took a great tole on Crystal and Quicksilver’s relationship.  Quicksilver had always been an irascible and poor tempered sort and the alienation he felt as an outsider living on Attilan only acted to further intensify these qualities.  Crystal and Quicksilver grew apart; the two eventually separated and were later formally divorced.

During this time, Crystal fell in with The Avengers and served for a short while among Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.  As a member of The Avengers, Crystal engaged in a brief affair with her fellow Avenger, Dane Whitman (The Black Knight).  Toward the end of Crystal’s tenure with The Avengers, Iron man’s mind was taken over by Kang The Conquerer.  This mind-controlled Iron Man killed Luna’s nanny, Marilla.  Kang was eventually defeated, but it was the last straw for Crystal and she left The Avengers, returning to Attilan.  

Some time later, the events of M-Day resulted in 90 per cent of the Mutant population losing their special mutant abilities.  Crystal’s ex-husband, Quicksilver, was among those Mutants who lost his powers.  Despondent over the loss of his powers (and feelings partially responsible for the occurrence of M-Day in and of itself), Quicksilver attempted to take his own life, leaping from a building.  Crystal discovered what had become of Quicksilver and found him critically injured.  She brought him back to Attilan, where the Inhuman healer, Kalikya, was eventually able to successfully treat his grave injuries.  Now healed, Quicksilvered petitioned King Black Bolt to allow him to go through Terrigenesis so to possibly reattain his special gifts.  The process was too dangerous and unpredictable and Black Bolt refused Quicksilver’s request.   Desperate and forlorn, Quicksilver decided to plunder a large cache of the Terrigen Crystals; he absconded from Attilan with these crystals, taking his daughter, Luna, with him.  Hidden away, Quicksilver exposed both himself and his daughter to a concentrated form of the Terrigen Mists.    

Quicksilver obtained the temporary ability to travel short distances through time; whereas Luna gained the power to read (and, at times, manipulate) the emotions of others.  Crystal, Black Bolt, and the others were ultimately able to track Quicksilver down, yet by then the cache of Terrigen Crystals had fallen into the hands of the governmental agency, SHIELD.  Crystal was reunited with her daughter and Quicksilver was banished from Attilan forever under the penalty of death.  

The Inhumans’ attempts to re-obtain the Terrigen Crystals from the US Government eventually led to the ‘Silent War’ event, culminating in SHIELD director, Maria Hill’s decision to detonate an atomic bomb on the moon that cost countless Inhumans their lives.  

In the wake of the Secret Invasion Event, all of Attilan found itself embroiled in the intergalactic war between The Kree and Shi’Ar Empires (the War of Kings/Realm of Kings Event(s)).  The Shi’Ar were ultimately defeated and The Inhumans became the rulers of the victorious Kree Empire.  Black Bolt apparently perished in the act of defeating The Shi’Ar and Crystal’s sister, Medusa, was named the new Queen of The Inhumans as well as ruler of The Kree.  As part of an effort to maintain peace within The Kree Empire, Medusa gave Crystal’s hand in marriage to the former Kree leader, Ronan The Accuser.   Crystal was all but inconsonant.  She respected Ronan as a warrior, but felt no fondness for him; and she was irate that her own sister would use her as a bargaining chip to consolidate power over the Kree.  In the end, Crystal conceded to do what was in the best interests of her people and she agreed to marry Ronan.  

What began as a ceremonial and strictly political union between Crystal and Ronan slowly blossomed into a true romance.     Ronan was dedicated to his bride and Crystal’s feelings toward him mellowed, ultimately turning to love.  Sadly, their marriage did not last long.  Black Bolt returned and retook the throne.  As a means of separating the Inhumans from The Kree and relinquishing sovereignty over the empire, Black Bolt had Crystal marriage to Ronan annulled.  Both were heartbroken, but Crystal once again bowed to what was determined to be in the best interests of her fellow Inhumans.  

Crystal returned to earth with the rest of Attilan and enjoyed a short respite with peace.  She enrolled her daughter, Luna, into school at the Future Foundation.  Later, at the behest of her daughter, Crystal made amends with her estranged ex-husband, Quicksilver.  

Following The Secret Wars Event, Crystal was assigned by her sister to command the Royal Inhuman Vessel (or RIV), a large, mobil fortress meant to attend to Inhuman issues all over the globe.  Initially, Crystal used the RIV to assist Nur in the locating of many of the children of Attilan who had gone missing during the Infinity Event and the evacuation of old Attilan.  Following this, Crystal led the RIV on a global ambassadorial mission to offer aid to the various new Inhumans created by the Terrigen Cloud.  

When it was later discovered that The Terrigen Cloud was deadly poisonous to Mutants, Crystal spearheaded an effort to utilize the RIV to stay ahead of the cloud and evacuate Mutants that were in its path.  More recently, The X-Men discovered that the Terrigen Cloud was dissipating and would render the earth uninhabitable to Mutant life.  This led them to break their peace with The Inhumans of New Attilan and engage in a preemptive strike to neutralize the more powerful Inhumans and ensure that they not interfere with The X-Men’s efforts to eradicate The Terrigen Cloud.  A part of this preemptive strike was a sneak attack by Magneto that destroyed the RIV; Crystal and her team were all captured and imprisoned in the other-dimensional realm of Limbo.  How all of this will ultimately resolve is a tale still being told in the pages of Inhumans versus X-Men.  

This upcoming Spring, Crystal is set to star in the new Inhumans title, The Royals, by Al Ewing and Jonboy Meyers.  Crystal first appeared in Fantastic Four Vol. 1 # 45.  

[jjlunfiltered2]

I’mma Ruin Your Labor Day

There’s going to be a TL;DR, I PROMISE.

So, here we are. Labor Day. We should all be having fun, enjoying an extra day off, and celeb the last hurrah of summer before whatever Texas calls “Fall”. But notwithstanding the fact that I’m working today, since A&M doesn’t understand your Labor Day (not necessarily complaining, just jealous), just a reminder that:

• Millions are without a job with no end in sight 

• Businesses from the corporate big wigs to locally-owned are closing, many of which will never return

• Systemic racism, regardless of cop vs black or society against the minority is making it feel like the 60s all over again

• Depression, anxiety, discrimination, and suicide rates can easily jump if this keeps on

• We currently sit with a commander-in-chief who, if you come on out your echo chambers, isn’t a fan of soldiers, veterans, democrats (far left to the center), TiKTok users, a press where current journalism students feel like the may never be respected again once they graduate (don’t even get me started), and children in grade school with resources that are sub par or above par but are inaccessible due to living condition (this is more pointed to Betsy DeVos, but his ass appointed her) &

• Did I forget to mention every other person in this country or others that think masks are:

  • “Ïnfrîñgińg œn my Fīrśt Åmëndmėnt rįghtš”

  • “Ællöwš prîvåté būsiñêssès tø kīck mé ôût før nõt rëspécting my Ämêricân rîghts sö theyyyy càn pROmOtè hUMan DecĒÑcy” or

  • “Affecting my health condition covered by HIPAA” (which isn’t even the right government act; you’re looking for the ADA)

Sorry to be the buzzkill for your holiday, but until things get better, I refuse to let the platforms where I can spread the word go to just me letting BS spread.

I honestly legit wanted to just give up and side with other people so I didn’t have to hear how much of bad person I was so I could please them. Yes, these are legit thoughts that have entered my head.

Then, thanks to TikTok (yes, THAT app), I learned that I exhibit the Fawn response all the time (seriously, Google it). Well, this is one thing I not use that response over.

I’m sure many of you are sick of me making long ranting posts about the situation in the country and have probably muted me or are close to unfriending me. Good. That means your skin is too soft to read and take criticism like a decent human being. This, like my birfday, like the Fourth of July, like Memorial Day, like Easter, like AggieCon, like A-Kon, have been cancelled or dialed back severely. You think I really love the situation right now?

Let me repeat the record for you if you didn’t see the last 15 rants:

I have friends, good friends, who I’ve yet to see since JUNE. FUCKING. JUNE. These same friends are struggling to get by and to go through unconventional means to survive. Do you know how many almost sleepless nights I’ve gone thinking about how to make their situation better, how to put a smile on their face at the expense of my mental health because that’s what friends do?

Do you know how many stories I’ve seen of teachers, staff, students, and parents that are not fond of how school operates now? Do you know haw much it pisses me off to the moon that Betsy DeVos gets to sit on her late husband’s Amway global MLM fortune while children have to sit at a McDonal’s JUST to get their homework done?

How about this: do you realize how many times I’ve had to see or hear that Biden & Harris did [INSERT BS RUMOR HERE] with no proof, yet when I come back and refute claim after claim after claim after claim with indisputable evidence they either find something else great about Trump and change the subject or will squirrel around and find some way to spin it in their favor, thus pissing me off even more while I try to avoid going berserk on them because of all the pent up frustration, lack of physical affection to raise my endorphins levels (I’ll get to that), depression, and anxiety I have to hold back?

Look, I’ve mention these things once, and I’ll mention them until I die. Yes, I’ve been told by my own psychologist that I do have long-term depression, severe anxiety, schizotypal traits, and ADD. Yes, physical affection (i.e. hugging & cuddling) do help; ask the people who know me well enough that help me with it. No, I don’t want pity or sympathy because you saw this. A good person who truly is my friend will offer it without me begging for it. What I do want and what I’m asking from all of you is awareness.

2020 IS. NOT. NORMAL. The past 4 years has not been normal. But if you want everything back to the way it was, then you need to do some things:

(1) Yes, all lives matter. But Black live SPECIFICALLY need to matter some more. And if I hear one more time that BS Antifa is controlling it or [INSERT BS BLM CLAIM HERE], I will verbally rip you a new one. Someone breaking into and destroying property and saying “Black Lives Matter” doesn’t mean they understand the underlying cause of this. Put it to you like this, I can run around nude pissing in front of the door of every church and pooping at every mosque yelling “All Lives Matter”, but it doesn’t mean I’m fighting for the same cause hundreds of peaceful, knowledgable people who know exactly what ALM means, does it? Weird example, but I got your attention, huh?

(2) Wearing a fucking mask to all of you Karens and Kevins who fell what I wrote above. A few posts back I was pressured to take this part down, but it’s coming back up. I will have 0 sympathy for you avoiding to wear a mask for whatever reason just so you can be treated special. You can’t/don’t want to wear a mask? There are SOOOOOOOO many alternative shopping options, food delivery solutions, etc you can take in this age. You’re doing something that is (A) easy to avoid and (B) really doesn’t take up much time or hurts you physically (it seriously doesn’t).

(3) VOTE. DO IT. Register to vote……..ONCE. Yes, I actually have to say that. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and even Discord are making it so EASY to help you get active in the polls. If you truly believe that Trump is, in fact, going to continue to “Make America Great Again”, VOTE. If you want to see Joe Biden & Kamala Harris bring change to this county, VOTE. If you think it’s about time Jo Johnson can give us a break from red and blue, VOTE. It’s not hard, it’s you right as an American, and I, like the rest of the country, will be glad you did.

(4) Finally, if all of this is resonating with you, if you’re feeling like I am in your own way and feel like no one is there for you, YOU’RE NOT ALONE. Share this to whomever needs to see this. Seriously. 2020 has divided the world. We need to come back together. Please. For the sake of my well being and others, come together.

TL;DR:…………….You know what? No TL;DR for you! Read the whole damn thing, ya lazy ass!