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comrade-meow · 3 years

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‘Sex work’ advocates and the Nazi propaganda playbook

Last month Nordic Model Now! was asked to participate in a University of Exeter student debate on the proposition that “This house believes that sex work is real work.” As a group, we are ambivalent about taking part in such debates. On the one hand, they are seldom a conducive forum for understanding nuanced and complex issues – but on the other hand, if we don’t participate there is a risk that the audience won’t hear the feminist analysis of prostitution. No one else in the group was able to take part that night, so reluctantly I agreed.

From the comments on social media during the debate, it appears that most of the students were won over by the arguments of the two proponents of the proposition – even though it was clear to me that they both had powerful vested interests in a booming sex industry, that much of what they said was palpably false and much of their argument relied on ad hominem attacks on myself and the other speaker against the proposition.

I was awake much of that night wondering why the students at one of the top universities in the UK appeared to be so unable to see beyond the self-satisfied veneer of the two speakers for the proposition. By the morning I’d resolved to analyse the arguments for the proposition and place them in context, with the aim of providing some help to those coming to similar debates in the future. This article is the result.

The Nazi Manual of Propaganda

Yale professor and expert in the history of fascism, Timothy Snyder, talks of the 1924 Nazi manual of propaganda that advised finding simple slogans and repeating them over and over and framing opposition as disloyalty or worse. Many people, he says, have taken up these tactics in recent years, leading not only to an erosion of the understanding that politics should be about reasoned debate leading towards constructive and informed policy, but also to politics being viewed as a battleground between ‘friends’ and ‘enemies’.

You would need to be blind to not recognise that these tactics have become increasingly common in the UK and US in recent years, and how they have been used to manipulate the public into support for policies that are not in their best interests and that might have catastrophic consequences. Depending on the arena, dissent is framed as hatred, ‘anti-science,’ or not ‘evidence-based,’ and this acts as a powerful silencing force that shuts down critical thinking and coerces acceptance of what is often little more than hot air.

These tactics obscure who are the real beneficiaries of the propaganda – usually people who gain power or who benefit in financial or other ways from whatever is being promoted. Bizarrely, we can observe these practices on both the right and left of the political spectrum.

These tactics were on display in the University of Exeter Debating Society debate. It was by no means the first or only such debate I have taken part in or observed, and nor was it the first time that I saw those promoting the idea that ‘sex work is real work’ consciously or unconsciously using tactics from the Nazi propaganda playbook.

You don’t have to take my word for it. You can read the transcript of the debate and I’ll illustrate my claims through an analysis of the key arguments used by the two speakers for the proposition.

Jerry Barnett

The first speaker for the proposition was Jerry Barnett, who’s the author of the book, Porn Panic. He regularly writes on sex and the ‘economics of sex,’ and runs a YouTube channel called ‘Sex and Censorship.’ In other words, the sex industry indirectly provides his daily bread and butter.

After introducing himself, he defined work as: “A voluntary exchange of time or labour for money or some other payment.” He didn’t mention that this definition deviates significantly from the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition, which is based on mental or physical activity, and he didn’t explain how you can exchange time for money.

One of the key arguments against prostitution being considered normal work is that although it involves some mental and physical activity (pretending the punter’s a great guy, cleaning up afterwards, etc.) the core feature of prostitution is that he uses her body – he gropes and penetrates her. This is not about her being actively engaged in mental or physical activity but someone doing something to her.

What other work involves someone doing something to you while you lie back and endure it? The only thing that I can think of is participating in medical trials – but that’s not considered work – even though you might be paid for taking part.

So, he sneakily expanded the definition to make it easier to argue that a man penetrating your orifices is a normal form of work – although of course he didn’t mention penetration because, like most sex trade lobbyists, he buries such fundamental realities in euphemism and obfuscation.

Interestingly, he did admit that it is invariably men who are the customers (or punters as we call them) and nine or more times out of ten it is women who are being penetrated – or earning an income from ‘sex work’ as he euphemistically described it.

His arguments hinged around two key contentions: First, that ‘sex work’ is well-paid, enjoyable work that has short hours and is particularly suitable for anyone who needs flexibility. I will leave aside the questionable ethics of promoting such a skewed reality to an audience of impressionable young women and men.

Second, that opposition to ‘sex work’ is based on false statistics, the conflation of trafficking and consensual ‘sex work,’ and moralistic values from people who are anti-sex and who attack women’s rights, and refuse to “listen to sex workers who say it’s empowering.”

Most of the time, he expounded on one or other of these claims, all presented with utter conviction, while implicitly framing anyone who disagreed with him as the enemy – the enemy of women’s rights, of rational debate, of men, of more or less everything that he considers good in life.

He dismissed my arguments as “anecdotes” even though most of his were based on wishful thinking rather than hard evidence – while at the same time claiming they were “evidence-based.”

For example, I mentioned that the murder rate of women involved in prostitution is the highest of any group, including in the UK, and that where prostitution is legalised, the murder rate of women in prostitution usually remains high.

His immediate response?

“Anna is good with anecdotes but when she tries to use statistics, they don’t seem to add up at all. I think the last time I looked, the professions with the highest [murder rate] were police and fast-food delivery people who are overwhelmingly men. But yeah, the anecdotes stack up, the statistics don’t.”

I didn’t manage to respond to this until much later in the debate, when I quoted a senior police officer who, when giving evidence at a Home Affairs Select Committee inquiry in early 2016, said:

“We have had 153 murders of prostitutes since 1990, which is probably the highest group of murders in any one category, so that gives the police cause for concern.”

I didn’t have the stats for police murders at my fingertips but I looked them up later and found data that suggested there had been about 28 murders of police officers in the UK during the same period (1990-2015). So, there were more than five times as many murders of women involved in prostitution as police officers. I couldn’t find any data on fast food delivery drivers other than a few isolated press reports.

So much for his grasp on statistics. But the damage had been done.

Charlotte Rose, the other speaker for the proposition, compounded the damage by asserting more than once that there had been no murders recorded of women involved in prostitution in New Zealand, where the sex industry is fully decriminalised.

But again, this is untrue. The German women who run the Sex Industry Kills project have documented 10 murders of prostituted women in New Zealand since the sex trade was decriminalised in 2003 along with a number of attempted murders. That is a significant number given New Zealand’s small population (currently less than 5 million).

One of my key arguments was that the sex industry normalises and eroticises male dominance and one-sided sex, and feeds men’s entitlement and reduces their empathy – which are the very attitudes that underpin the current epidemic of rape, child sexual abuse, and other forms of male violence against women and children.

Jerry’s response? That there was not an epidemic of male violence against women. He based this assertion on another made-up definition centred on “a steep sustained increase” – unlike the Oxford Dictionary, which centres the definition merely on a disease being widespread.

He said that not only was there not an epidemic of male violence but that the prevalence of such violence has been on a steep decline for 50 years.

But this is not true. Research has shown that male violence against women has risen significantly in the UK since 2010 and that new forms of gender-based abuse are increasingly prevalent. Even the UN describes male violence against women as a pandemic – which is an epidemic that has spread to cover multiple countries.

I mentioned that the judge in a judicial review about Sheffield Council’s relicensing of Spearmint Rhino (a lap dancing club) had castigated the council for rejecting a large number of objections from women and community members who said that the club had made the streets less safe on the basis that these objections were nothing more than “moral values.” The judge was clear that the objections were not about morality but were issues of equality.

Jerry responded as follows:

“There was briefly the anecdote about Spearmint Rhino and that women didn’t feel safe in the area. The fact is I’ve been involved, I’ve got stripper friends who’ve been involved in these campaigns to keep the venues open and these claims are false. They come up over and over again – that the presence of a strip club in an area makes women less safe. This has been de-proved, debunked, using evidence over and over and over again. So, the idea that women don’t feel safe in the area is a different thing.

Unfortunately, if women don’t feel safe, that’s sad but then they should acquaint themselves with the facts that actually the presence of a strip club in an area does not lead to an increase in sexual violence. And yet these kinds of things are continuously claimed to make it look like this is a woman’s rights movement rather than a morality movement, which it is.”

As for his claim that the increased violence in the vicinity of lap dancing clubs and similar has been “debunked” many times, well I couldn’t find any clear evidence that supported that. Rather I found much to the contrary. The Women and Equalities Select Parliamentary Committee in its report on its inquiry into Sexual Harassment of Women and Girls in Public Places, accepted the considerable evidence that sexual entertainment venues, such as lap dancing clubs, “promote the idea that sexual objectification of women and sexual harassment commonly in those environments is lawful and acceptable.”

But that is not good enough for Jerry. He sticks to what he knows is effective, and repeats sound bites that are simply not true while dismissing solid evidence and presenting any opposition as irrational and the work of moralistic enemies.

As to a man telling women they are being irrational to fear male violence, what can I say? I am not sure anything I would like to say is publishable.

Charlotte Rose

The second speaker for the proposition was Charlotte Rose, who was wearing a t-shirt advertising Fan Baits, a new commercial sex industry advertising platform. She introduced herself as, “a former multi-award-winning escort, current radio presenter and advocate for decriminalisation of sex work.”

She went on to say:

“I just want to discuss something that may affect your moral judgement. How do you all feel when I mention people who work in abortion clinics, abattoirs, factory farmers, nuclear power station workers? To name just a few. For me I do not like it. But just because we do not like what these people do, it doesn’t give us the right to state that their work is not legitimate.”

Since when have people campaigned against factory farming or nuclear power because they didn’t approve of the people who work in those industries? Eccentrics aside, the arguments are always around the impact of those industries on the environment, human and animal health and welfare, and other wider issues – and any personal disapproval is reserved for those who, knowing the damage caused, profit from those industries.

The inclusion of abortion clinics in this list is a sneaky attempt to associate our opposition to the commercial sex industry with extreme anti-woman protestors against abortion. This is a classic example of suggesting guilt by association. For an audience of students whose average age is likely to coincide with the peak age for abortions, this is particularly reprehensible.

Charlotte then said that “until you’ve worked as a sex worker, you’ve got no right whatsoever to dictate anything against [sex work].” This is an argument that we hear repeated over and over in true propaganda playbook style, making people lose their critical faculties and the ability to say, hang on a minute, I’m entitled to have an opinion on factory farming and nuclear power and other industries that have a wide impact, why on earth can’t I have an opinion on the sex industry?

And the truth is, of course you can have such an opinion, and indeed as a concerned citizen, you should – but they don’t want you to. Because once you really look at the sex industry, it’s hard to ignore the rampant abuses and negative impacts on us all, particularly young people.

Like Jerry, Charlotte expounded on how “consensual sex work” has nothing to do with sexual abuse, exploitation and trafficking. But of course, it does. There is no separate market for trafficked women – they are on the same street corners and in the same brothels and so-called massage parlours as women who may have made some kind of choice to be there. From the outside you can’t tell what led a woman to that place – nor what is holding her there.

As we have written elsewhere, most pimping meets the international definition of human trafficking and most women involved in prostitution have one or more third party (i.e. pimp) feeding off their prostitution. And the evidence of the violence inherent in prostitution is overwhelming.

Charlotte may not be a male chauvinist pig as all the evidence suggests that Jerry is, but she was equally happy to misrepresent our arguments and frame us as hateful and dangerous. She claimed several times that we want to “delegitimise” her work. (What work? Didn’t she say she was a former sex worker?)

In an attempt to convince everyone that her work really is real work, she went into a long explanation of what it entails: dealing with emails (80 a day), text messages (120/day), phone calls (50), notifications, advertising, website SEO, updating her photos, social media and special offers, booking hotels, etc.

She then asked whether that sounded like work – which of course it does. But that was missing the whole point of the debate because she didn’t mention the core aspects of prostitution – sexual intimacy with a stranger who pays you to have his every whim and fetish met with a smile.

She claimed that “delegitimising sex work” damages her credibility and means men won’t see it as legitimate work and means she “can’t get a mortgage by writing down that I’m a sex worker.” But later when she was asked why she was against legalisation of the sex trade (she favours full decriminalisation), she said:

“Legalisation is what happens in Amsterdam, but women, or sex workers […] have to pay for a licence. So, first of all, they’ve got to give a large amount of money to be able to get a licence to give them the ability to work and be in a legitimate premise.

Number one, they cost a lot of money. Number two, their details are known so there’s no anonymity. If someone wants their business not to be known to the government, then unfortunately they won’t be able to work. So, these two massive factors are why we don’t want it to be legalised.”

But hang on a minute… Isn’t she arguing for ‘sex work’ to be considered ‘real work’?

And isn’t one of the things that distinguishes ‘real’ – or legitimate – work from scams, drug dealing and other illegal activity, that when you earn money from ‘real work,’ you fill out a tax return and inform the government about where your income comes from.

So actually it sounds like she doesn’t want it to be regular ‘real work’ after all.

She made other arguments that were equally dodgy. She claimed several times that by expressing our views, we are causing actual harm to sex workers:

“One of my morals is not to cause harm to other people. I would never use my morals to cause harm to anybody. Your moralistic view is causing harm to sex workers.”

She is talking about an industry in which women involved in it have an extremely high murder rate – almost invariably by male punters and pimps – and yet she suggests that the problem is naming and describing this reality.

I explained that our position is that nothing can make prostitution safe and so we need to reduce the amount that happens. Anything that normalizes it means it will increase – it will increase men’s demand for it and more women will be sucked in and be hurt. As her position is that prostitution should be legitimised and become a normal job, you could therefore argue that her position will cause harm – like she claims about us. However, we prefer to argue on the facts and actual evidence.

Conclusion

Judging by the comments on social media, the young audience were swept along by Charlotte’s glamorous and suave act – in the face of which our attempts to focus the debate on the depressing realities of prostitution appeared about as alluring as a school assembly address by Miss Trunchbull on a bad day.

But reality is what we must deal with. Basing public policy on wishful thinking and propaganda invented by those with powerful vested interests is a recipe for disaster. You only need to consider Brexit to understand that.

The Brexit debate was dominated by sound bites and hot air underwritten by hedge fundies and other capitalists salivating at the prospect of looser and weaker regulation of business and commerce. But large sections of the British population were swept along by the propaganda and were blind to the likely dangers. It is only now, four years later, as the actual reality of Brexit is becoming impossible to ignore that opinion polls are showing the majority turning against it and realising it is almost certainly a terrible mistake.

You can’t help wondering in this context why schools and universities are not educating students about the dangers of propaganda and how to recognise and resist it. All of us, but especially young people, need to understand how to identify vested interests, easy answers and soundbites that oversimplify complex subjects, attacks on opponents and unevidenced assertions that they are motivated by hate or worse, and to see these as red flags.

Much of life is complex and messy and inequality and abuse of power is rife. There are no easy answers. Real solutions require hard work and challenging powerful vested interests – not following them like sheep.

#Anglo.txt

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victorineb · 4 years

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Bloodletting

An omegaverse fic for @hannigram-a-b-o-library‘s Reverse Bang, featuring vampires, reunited lovers, and lots and lots of blood. Huge thanks to @idontfindyouthatinteresting for the inspirational artwork and idea, and to @desperatelyseekingcannibals for coming onboard as co-writer to save my hopelessly blocked self. All the love to both you guys 💖💖💖

---

“So you want me to tell you the story of my life?” Will asks, silhouetted by hazy golden light from the large windows of Hannibal’s office, an edge of red staining him where the sun filters through the drapes.

“Not all of it,” comes Freddie’s reply. He can tell she’s smirking without having to look. “Just start from when you met Hannibal Lecter. You are clearly very close. Is that usual for a psychiatrist and his patient?”

Will doesn’t respond, merely lifts an eyebrow at her, at which she smirks.

Will huffs and turns back to the window, a smile playing across his lips. As if she even knows what she’s asking. He has to admit that his only reason for agreeing to this interview is for his own amusement. It is always a pleasure to watch Freddie’s misplaced confidence that she has the upper hand. But he hadn’t expected her to go straight for the throat.

“Whatever you wish to tell me,” she encourages.

“I see,” Will prevaricates.

He turns to look at her. She’s made herself comfortable in her chair, dictaphone in hand and note pad on lap. Intending to capture absolutely everything.

She doesn’t have to attempt discretion this time round. Not like the last time she’d been in this office, with her cover story and polite persona, thinking she could easily dupe some fussy shrink into giving up the goods on Will and the Stammets case. As Hannibal had told him after - unethical, even for a tabloid journalist.

Though, in truth, Hannibal’s irritation came mostly from the spanner she’d thrown into their plans. For she had seen the painting, carelessly left poking out of its packing box. That had piqued her interest all the more, turning her from a mere nuisance into a potential threat, and she had hounded Will until he had, so she believed, given up and granted her demand for an interview.

An interview, and some answers as to why Hannibal Lecter owned a clearly timeworn painting of himself together with an unstable FBI profiler who had only recently become his patient.

And so now she sits once again in Hannibal’s office, having been graciously allowed the space for their tête à tête, the cat that got the cream after all.

“Do you mind?” she asks, holding up the recording device and tipping it towards him as if asking for consent. As if she wouldn’t use it anyway, regardless of his agreement.

“You’d need a lot of tape for my story,” Will replies, drily, ignoring her question.

“It’s all digital these days, Mr Graham.” Freddie smiles that snake-like smile of hers, truly believing that she’s the predator in the room. “So, let’s get started.”

Will strolls slowly over and takes the chair opposite her. Hannibal’s chair, usually.

“Where should we start?” she asks, pleasant and patient and completely false. “Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourself.”

“All right then, since you asked. I’m a vampire,” Will says, cocking his head and waiting for her reaction, holding her gaze. It’s clear that she’s trying desperately not to roll her eyes.

“Funny,” she replies with a raised brow. But as his expression remains unchanged, hers sobers and she asks, “You mean this literally, I take it?”

“Absolutely.”

Freddie glares at him.

“Mr Graham, I appreciate your leaning into the crazy angle but if you’re going to waste my time-”

Will sucks in an unneeded breath and lets out a sigh. “You want to know how I met Hannibal.”

“Please,” she replies, firmly.

“How I met him this time, anyway,” Will clarifies and her eyes narrow again.

She settles in to listen to him anyway.

---

Will Graham is something of a legend amongst the students of the FBI Academy, known by all as brilliant, demanding, and intense. Rumour has it that if you have the temerity to ask a spontaneous question during one of his lectures he will eviscerate you with nothing more than a few cutting words and a scowl. And his ruthlessness with a red pen is enough to strike fear into even the most confident and diligent of students — the papers they receive back bear a striking resemblance to the crime scenes he lectures on, stained with red in cruel, ruthless slashes. All this perhaps explains why the halls of the Academy are currently clearing at an exaggerated rate, as students fling themselves out of the path of Professor Graham as he storms down the hallways towards his office. Or perhaps it’s just the look on his face that suggests he might finally have flipped, the way certain cruel rumours say he inevitably would, one day.

It is the unhappy fate of one student to have chosen this moment to visit Professor Graham’s office, a foolish thing in any case, as Will has no office hours scheduled for this day. He is loitering just outside Will’s door, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand, completely unaware of the unhinged professor stalking towards him until they are inches from each other. In fact, the student – name of Miller, Will thinks – only becomes aware of his professor’s presence by his scent, that weird, unsettling mix of alpha and omega that means no one ever knows what designation Graham is, or likes to be in close quarters with him for too long. Miller can never understand why the Professor doesn’t wear scent blockers; at least then he might avoid the hisses of freak that follow everywhere he goes.

Then again, Will Graham is exactly the kind of stubborn asshole who’d enjoy making people feel uncomfortable.

Miller looks up into the blue eyes of his professor and squeaks, an embarrassing noise that he immediately attempts to cover up with a cough.

“What?” Professor Graham growls, actually growls, a rumble of irritation that would rival any alpha in rut.

The boy squeaks again and stares, petrified, at his teacher.

“Intelligent commentary as usual, Miller.”

The kid flees and Will watches him skid down the corridor without a backward glance. He sighs, and scrubs a hand down his face. He’ll make it up to Miller somehow, give him easy credit for something. Will stares into nothingness for a moment longer and then slides into his office and closes the door firmly behind him. That little performance should have ensured no one will bother him for the rest of the day. Possibly the week. Will leans back against the door and finally allows the smile he has been holding back to burst onto his face.

The bone arena of my skull, he thinks, rolling his eyes. His beautiful boy has not changed, then, still as pretentious and as annoyingly brilliant as ever.

Hannibal Lecter.

Will’s grin broadens. His fangs ache.

---

Later, he stands in the middle of a field, regarding Hannibal’s field kabuki, and wonders if he should feel offended. Patronised, at least. Apparently Hannibal believes that Will needs some help to see the Shrike and has gifted him some perspective.

Really, Will has no idea how to feel. Hannibal’s art has always been beautiful and this is no exception – shows, in fact, that his boy has progressed far beyond even the skill he had developed under Will’s watchful eye (and doesn’t that come with a dull ache, the knowledge that Hannibal did not spend the years apart pining, but continued to pursue his pleasures with the singular focus that Will had never liked directed at anything but himself). But it also suggests that Hannibal has not learned the lessons Will had hoped he would. Asked him to.

That is… disappointing, in a way Will finds unmooring, forcing him to step away from the scene, pretending overwhelm and upset in order to placate Jack. Childishly, he snaps out some retort about Jack preferring Dr Lecter’s opinions to his own and storms off, shaking his head at the daddy issues he thought he’d long shaken off. Hannibal’s getting to him, as he always knows how. He takes one last backwards look at the tableau, sees the tenderness in it, not for the girl, but for him. Its black tines curve upwards to the sky and the points meet and melt into the sparkling sunlight.

It is a beautiful gift.

---

Will smells him before he knocks. Scent-blockers do nothing to mask him, not from Will. He suspects he could freeze Hannibal in ice, or seal him in plastic and still he would find that scent, maddening and delicious. Still, he makes the good doctor wait, taking his time to slide out of the motel bed and stretch his muscles into wakefulness, before flinging open the door. The sunlight blinds him for a second, his eyes still sensitive to it even after all these years, and then there is Hannibal, smile on his face, food inevitably in hand.

“Good morning, Will,” he says, and the bastard has the gall to sound amused. He always did enjoy unsettling Will. “May I come in?”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You need to ask?”

“It’s only polite. You know how I abhor rudeness.”

Will hums, unimpressed. ��Where’s Crawford. You didn’t eat him, did you?”

Hannibal smiles, close-mouthed, no teeth. “Agent Crawford is deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.”

Will sighs, lets his shoulders sag, turns away into the darkness. Hannibal takes this as the invitation it’s meant to be, stepping over the threshold, closing the door gently behind him. The second he does, Will is on him, shoving him against the wall, one hand around his throat, lifting, lifting until his arm is at full stretch. Hannibal’s feet dangle above the floor. He appears wholly unconcerned, looking down at Will with a serene expression and adoration lighting his eyes.

“I told you to stay put until you were summoned,” Will growls.

“And so I did, until I was.”

Will flexes his hand around Hannibal’s neck, feeling it ripple under his grip. “All right, what loophole has your clever little brain come up with this time?”

Hannibal grins, delighted by Will’s disdain. “You did not specify that it must be you who called. Jack Crawford summoned me to help the noble ranks of the FBI, I could not find it in myself to refuse. That he specifically wished me to support a gifted yet troubled profiler by the name of Will Graham was a mere technicality, albeit a happy one.” Hannibal slides his arm up and over Will’s and rests his hand on Will’s cheek. “And it was truly happy, Will.”

It’s an old trick and one Will is hard-pressed to resist. Soft words and soft touches, Hannibal’s always known how to wriggle under his skin.

He tries not to let Hannibal see the effect it still has on him but there’s no hiding the fact that his grip loosens a little. Nor that the smile it pulls from Hannibal makes Will want to kill him, or kiss him. He’s never quite sure.

“I ought to put my teeth in your neck right now,” Will snaps, trying to wind up his anger once more.

Hannibal, though, knows exactly the wrong – or right – response, smiling down at Will as he tells him, “I have missed your mark on me. I wept the day the last one faded.”

Will’s nose twitches for a moment, taking in Hannibal’s scent and finding little of his own evident there. Every instinct tells him to do just as his alpha suggests, but he doesn’t wish to give the petulant child the satisfaction.

“I don’t find you deserving.”

“You will.”

Will lets it go. Hannibal’s right, after all; this was never intended to be a permanent separation, just a few years to remind his boy of his priorities. And he’s been planning their reunion proper since the moment he caught Hannibal’s scent in the halls of the BAU.

Truth be told, he’s been planning it – in the abstract at least – ever since the first Ripper murder dropped, years ago. But he isn’t going to let Hannibal know that, not yet. And he certainly isn’t going to reward his bad behaviour without making him work for it first.

“All right, you can stay. Show me what you brought for breakfast.”

Will drops Hannibal unceremoniously on his feet and Hannibal reaches down to collect the bag he brought with him, unflustered, unfazed, as though nothing had just happened. Will watches as the alpha delicately removes the containers of food he has brought, setting them on the table like the offering they are.

When Hannibal takes a seat, Will does so too. He deigns to offer Hannibal nothing but a cool gaze as this old, familiar scene plays out like it has so many other times.

“Hardly a suitable offering,” Hannibal demurs as Will’s mouth twitches. “Or sufficient.”

The momentary glance between them then is an acknowledgement. Hannibal is aware that Will hasn’t fed in quite some time. A fine shiver passes over Will at the memories of them feasting together, before, in circumstances quite different from this. He feels his control slip ever so slightly at the thought of what Hannibal might have brought, his eyes following his alpha’s elegant hands closely as they set out their meal.

“A little protein scramble; eggs and sausage,” comes the familiar refrain.

“Used up all your creativity on unnecessary theatrics, none left over for the leftovers?” Will asks, forking his share onto a plate, deliberately uncouth, and trying not to drool at the scent. It isn’t exactly his preferred source of nourishment – nor Hannibal’s, to be sure – but Hannibal can do things with even such plain fare that just the memory of his kitchen has, on occasion, caused Will to kick himself for leaving.

“I elevated those parts of her that were worthy of it; the rest I did with what I could.”

“And here I thought you were just catering to my plebeian tastes,” Will says, looking up from under his lashes with a sneer.

“I do not recall your tastes ever being less than exquisite. Save perhaps that time in Constantinople.”

“Matthew,” Will says on a sigh, momentarily submerged in their shared memories. “He had such potential, a shame he had no control over himself.”

“I never liked him,” Hannibal sniffs, flicking out his napkin and setting it on his lap.

“You never liked any of the strays I brought home,” Will counters. “I wonder where he is now.”

“I should have killed him,” Hannibal glowers, and Will can’t help the swell in his chest at the reaction, even as Hannibal settles back into eating as though nothing has been said. Perhaps Will should have let Hannibal kill Matthew, but there is something pleasing still about having denied him. He has to admit to enjoying Hannibal’s still-piquant jealousy over that particular event.

It’s not the time to bask though, so Will decides to move on from this teasing and clears his throat.

“I give lectures on you, you know.” He watches Hannibal’s pupils dilate and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thought you’d like that.”

“I will not deny that I always enjoyed being the focus of your attention. And I think that it would not be inaccurate to say that the opposite was true as well.”

“Yeah, well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Your distraction.”

“My disobedience.”

“Stop. It was never that. Don’t make me out to be some cruel master,” Will snaps, unimpressed by Hannibal’s attempt to play the victim.

“Are you not? You may have preferred to dress us up as equals but the control was always and ultimately yours.”

“Really, alpha?” Will hisses.

“Really, sire.” Hannibal touches a hand to his throat, smooth, unmarred skin a lie and an insult to them both. Will longs to remedy it. He had always been so diligent about maintenance in the past. Instead, he takes another bite of his food, just to watch the way Hannibal watches him.

It seems clear to Will that despite his intentions, there is no avoiding this conversation. Even if he hadn’t intended to have it here and now. Hannibal is here. Now.

Will swallows his bite and places down his fork with a deliberate click, a movement that Hannibal notes with a raised brow but doesn’t comment on.

“I was three hundred years old when I met you.” Will knows Hannibal doesn’t need reminding. Their meeting is seared into both their minds. Will, an omega of thirty when he had been sired, had been selective for those three hundred years in regards to who he would sire himself. They had been few, and mostly for the sake of power orstrategy, rather than any great desire to keep them with him.

And then there had been Hannibal. A beautiful young nobleman bent on vengeance for his murdered family. They had encountered each other as Hannibal’s search brought him to the final murderer, by then a vampire of Will’s acquaintance.

Will is still unsure, all these centuries later, justwhy he agreed to help the young upstart, other than Hannibal being Hannibal and refusing to take no for an answer. He’s only a little clearer onhow he wound up allowing the alpha to seduce him so thoroughly. Will might have been irritated by the human, albeitgrudgingly impressed by his prowess as a killer and his passion for revenge, but Hannibal was beautiful and wild and utterly self-possessed. It tickled Will’s ego to let him attempt a courtship. He just hadn’t expected it to work.

“We had centuries together, Hannibal. And then you got distracted.” Will spits the word, imbuing it with the betrayal that still burns in his veins.

Hannibal’s eyes narrow for a moment, and Will knows what he’s thinking despite his tense silence. That it wasn’t his decision to separate them. That perhaps if Will had expressed his displeasure instead of exiling Hannibal without discussion, they could have worked things out. That they didn’t have to spend so many years estranged, alone, suffering heats and ruts that would always synchronise regardless of their distance, all for the sake of unfounded jealousy and petty resentment.

The thought makes Will wince, and his glare at Hannibal makes clear that he doesn’t want to hear anything from his mouth on that subject. And so Will brings them back to the point, Hannibal – amazingly, uncharacteristically – taking his scolding without riposte.

“We had a good thing in Florence, and then you got so caught up in playing cat and mouse with Pazzi that you lost focus. You, and your ego, were distracted to the point of endangerment.” Will tries not to growl the words; his ire will do no good.

Hannibal’s jaw clenches at the truth.

“And so you have tortured me with the denial of your presence for decades,” he grits out, finally.

“I wanted you to learn your lesson. I said I would let you return when I was ready to deal with you.”

“Are you ready now, Will?”

“Does it matter?” Will asks, with a poison-sweet smile. “You’ve forced my hand.” He picks up his fork and resumes eating the remnants of Hannibal’s gesture.

Hannibal’s smile returns, despite Will’s harsh words. Pleasure at being back in Will’s company, and being allowed to feed him in this way, apparently outweigh any fears of imminent rejection. In truth it’s enough to inflame Will’s desire for his alpha anew, that feeling of being the only thing in existence that matters. Not that he’s about to allow said alpha to see that. Will swallows and looks at Hannibal with a stern expression.

“What do you want, Hannibal?”

“Only the pleasure of your company,” comes the reply, all pleasant and proper and precision- engineered to piss Will off.

“You’ll spend another thirty years without it if you don’t cut the crap.”

If anything, Hannibal’s smile only broadens at this and Will unexpectedly finds himself hoping for his lips to part, to allow him a glimpse of fang. “Impossible boy,” Will says and it has the desired effect, Hannibal’s lips skinning back to reveal the points of his teeth. Will sighs, and aches for them in his neck, and says nothing.

Instead, Hannibal fills the silence with exactly what Will had expected. “I have but one request.”

“Of course you do.”

“Come to my table, allow me to make you dinner, permit me one conversation. I could live a very long time on one conversation.”

“You can live a very long time regardless.”

“Without you, it is mere existence.”

Will stops, his fork halfway to his mouth, and raises his eyebrows at Hannibal. “That was excessive, even for you.”

“Perhaps. The truth often is.”

Will hums and there is a lull before Hannibal rejoins.

“You know, Will, Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup, the finest china. Only used for special guests.”

Will’s chuckle is genuine and lightens his chest. As does Hannibal’s clear appreciation at having triggered that amusement. Will sits back in his chair with a sigh, smile still lingering. He missed this. Missed having an equal.

“How do you see me?” Will can’t help asking.

“My beginning and my end. My everything.”

Will’s chest aches and he bites back the words that try to claw out of his mouth, the admission he feels the same, that he’s been lost for so long, that Hannibal is the missing part of his soul (assuming he still has one). Instead, Will hums again before replying, cool and apparently unaffected.

“One dinner.” He forks the last of his food into his mouth and speaks as he chews. “To prove yourself to me again.”

Hannibal smiles and nods his agreement.

---

Later, sitting in front of the Hobbs’ front door, Will steals a glance at Hannibal and rolls his eyes.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, not quite conjuring the detached disinterest he’s aiming for.

Hannibal, who might as well be purring with delight, takes a moment to consider, his eyes roving the homestead before them, denying Will the whole of his attention. It needles, just as it’s supposed to, bright little points of irritation biting their way out from under Will’s skin.

Will huffs, a release of pressure. “I got a criminology degree, you know. A good one, too, could have gone for the doctorate but…” He shrugs, one-shouldered and easy.

“Been there, done that?” Hannibal inquires. Will shoots him a smile, small but fond, acquiescent. “I did know,” Hannibal continues, returning to Will’s earlier remark. “I have even read your monograph. You were always fascinated by the creepy crawlies.”

“Says the man obsessed with cochlear gardens.” Will watches Hannibal let him have that and then, in for a penny, asks, “What did you think of it?”

“Your writing has improved greatly since I last read any of it. You have mastered your old weakness for the run-on sentence.”

“Damned with faint praise,” Will says, waiting Hannibal’s teasing out.

“You know what an imago is?”

“A flying insect.”

Hannibal smiles, soft lines by his mouth that will never grow any harsher. He knows Will knows that is not the answer he was looking for but he will indulge his sire’s intransigence. “An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

“An ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal. Reading your book brought me as close to my ideal as I have been these last several decades. Still, it was only a concept, trapped and pinned to the page with its colour fading and its lifeblood drained.”

“Remind me never to ask you for a blurb on anything I publish,” Will says, burying himself under humour while the creak of his voice betrays him. “We should go,” he adds, unprepared to deal with the extent of Hannibal’s wanting him, even as he recognises the same urge building anew inside himself.

“Indeed,” Hannibal answers but neither of them move. “Was there something else?”

“What were you up to in that office?” Will asks, needing some kind of forewarning. He knows Hannibal did something, his antics with the box files deliberately obvious. And his alpha always did have a troublesome habit of setting things in motion out of idle curiosity. Just to see what would happen.

“I suppose we will find that out together,” Hannibal says, infuriatingly.

Will briefly considers punching him in the but he does have a job to do. He exits the car, stalking off towards the house and leaving Hannibal to follow or not as he may. The sound of the passenger door opening and closing provides the answer to that and Will doesn’t bother to look back, instead steeling himself to deal with Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ no-doubt polite but unconvincing front-door deflections.

Or not.

Will’s head snaps towards the door, beyond which he can hear the sounds of struggle, sense the outflowing of blood. He makes to sprint for the house but manages only a couple of steps before the front door is opening and the shadow of a man is pushing a bloodied, struggling woman into the light. The door slams and Will catches the woman – presumably Mrs Hobbs – in his arms. She is bleeding, bleeding, bleeding and Will’s vision is red, his eyes large and greedy as he goes to his knees under the deadweight of departing life. He pulls in a great breath of copper and fear and feels a fang slice his lip, shudders at the spark of pain, an echo of the agony beneath him. He can taste that pain as he tongues his lip, as he gazes into the woman’s shuttering eyes and he wants more of it. It’s been so long, he’s left it so long…

“Will.”

Hannibal. He shifts the woman so Hannibal can have access too. A life extinguishing in his arms and Hannibal at his side. This is right, this is how it always should be, this is-

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is hushed, gentle but insistent. He places a finger beneath Will’s chin and lifts it until Will’s eyes are forced to lift and look at him. “You have a job to do, mustn’t forget.”

“Don’t you want to…” Will begins, hazy through the cloud of hunger that has enfolded him. He blinks. He knows Hannibal is right, and yet the instinct is almost too strong to resist. Why is it so hard to resist? Will whines, pained and overwhelmed.

“My love,” Hannibal says, stroking Will’s hair with such easy familiarity that Will cannot help but lean into it. “I have wanted nothing more for so many years but I think you wouldn’t thank me for it when the FBI arrives.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Will hisses.

Hannibal pauses at that, regards Will thoughtfully. “Have you been waiting for me to come and rescue you all this time, sire? From undeserving masters who use you like a dog in the endless pursuit of justice and you with no reason to leave? You who has razed cities to the ground, drained kings of their lifeforce, been a god of blood and terror, have you been hiding, waiting, craving for a reason to live again?”

Will whines again and does not deny it.

“Will.” Hannibal says it on a breath and his hand tightens in Will’s hair. “We have been foolish, haven’t we?”

Will can only nod.

Hannibal is right. He should have swallowed his stupid fucking pride and told Hannibal to stay. Should have kept him by his side at all times, through all ages, ‘til the end of everything. Should have circled the world with him, well-fed and well-loved, and then done it a thousand, thousand more times. Instead, he is shivering and famished on the doorstep of some dismal human killer, wracked with hunger of every imaginable kind, punished by his self-pitying refusal to feed more regularly.And now, despite his great age, the mere presence of his alpha is causing primal instincts to surface. He can feel it rising in Hannibal too,the instinct to come back together, to renew their bond;it’s almost strong enough for Will to beg for them to leave now, to be away from this farce of an existence, no note, no explanation.

Hannibal’s presence there is cause both for his weakness and his strength, as he pulls himself together as best he can.

Hannibal looks down at the body in his arms and for a moment Will’s unbeating heart gives a phantom spark. He can already taste her blood in Hannibal’s mouth. But then Hannibal moves away and takes the body with him, freeing Will from its weight.

“Go and play the hero,” Hannibal tells him, nodding at the front door, “and afterwards we will begin again.”

---

Somehow, Will finds himself inside the Hobbs’ front door, bracing himself against the hallway as he gropes for any trace of composure. He has his gun up, his eyes darting to the sides to check for activity, but he knows where he’s going. The stench of fear and panic is sharp in his nostrils and he follows it like the bloodhound rumour would paint him as.

Into the kitchen, then, ducking into the doorway and the sudden feeling of steel through his heart. He staggers, more from shock than pain, and grabs the door jamb for support, slicking it red. The knife is warm inside him, painted with another’s blood, and uncomfortable as Will’s body attempts to reject it. He looks up, into cold blue eyes that sparkle with triumph and then dull into confusion and fear as Will grasps the knife’s hilt and slides it from his body with a little groan of relief.

“Do you see?” he asks the bewildered Garret Jacob Hobbs, letting the blade fall from his shaking fingertips to clatter on the ground, the sound cacophonous in the stricken silence of the kitchen. Even the child lying on the floor has grown quiet, her life leaving her in great gouts; like mother like daughter.

“Monster,” Hobbs rasps, poised between fight and flight.

“Takes one to know one,” Will hisses, then lifts his gun and puts every bullet he has into the pathetic creature before him.

Hobbs is shoved back into the corner by the of Will’s shots and drops to the floor in a ragged heap, wet noises bubbling up from his throat. Will doesn’t pay him any further attention – he will die in that corner unwatched and unheard – instead folding to his knees beside the girl exsanguinating on the floor. Her breath is shallow but still there and Will clasps his hand around her neck, thinking to stem the flow despite the likely uselessness of the gesture. Her father used the same move on her as he did on her mother – uninspired – a deep cut to the neck, opening the carotid so her blood would be pushed out, fast and forceful, her young, healthy heart speeding her death along. An attempt at mercy, Will supposes, but a pointless one. She will still die in pain and confusion, life snatched from her by a man who should have lived to protect her.

“So easy to take a life, so hard to save one,” Hannibal remarks from the doorway. Will lifts his head, shaking, overwhelmed, suffused with blood and death and desperation. He’s covered in it, not an inch of him spared, and he looks up at Hannibal through glass blooming with crimson. Hannibal looks back at him and, without another word, crouches at the girl’s other side and gently replaces Will’s hand with his own.

“This won’t save her,” he murmurs, as Will’s knees finally give out from him and he slumps into a heap, still trembling and panting for air he doesn’t need. Even now, human instinct is still buried inside him, the urge for survival seeking out every last route, even the pointless ones.

Will shudders as he looks at the girl. A mere child.

A child. And his body burns.

“Hannibal, fuck, can you smell it?”

“Yes,” comes the reply, Hannibal not looking up from his examination of the damage to the girl’s throat, “you are in heat.”

“The blood, the fucking… there’s so much of it and…” Will trails off, whining.

“And your alpha is here,” Hannibal finishes for him, clinical and matter-of-fact, belying the need Will knows he is feeling.

Will is panting, sweating.

He should have fed. He shouldn’t have let Hannibal so close. He shouldn’t have agreed to help Jack. So many recriminations litter his path to this point, and none of them matter now.

Not with the girl bleeding out before them, and his whole body screaming for Hannibal to take him and knot him for the first time in decades, not when Will can barely focus on anything beyond the three of them.

“What?” Will looks up, tries to focus, realising Hannibal had said something.

“I asked if you want me to save her, Will?”

Will blinks, looks down at the girl, blinks again.

“She could be ours. We could be her fathers.” Hannibal’s words sound encouraging though his tone is matter of fact. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? A family? Let me give it to you Will. Let me make this future for us.”

Will winces and clasps his abdomen as a sharp pain strikes. His nostrils are filled with the scent of his would-be daughter’s blood. Could-be daughter. She’s choking on it, her eyes almost unseeing as her life continues draining inexorably from her.

An almost hysterical chuckle breaks from Will’s lips.

“Will she be your Claudia?”

Hannibal’s smile is soft, amused. “And which of us do you see as the scoundrel Lestat?”

Will finds a smile of his own, somehow. “Both. Neither. Can we just be ourselves?”

Hannibal looks like he would very much like to reach over and touch Will but he keeps his hands tight around the girl’s throat. “We certainly can try. But the point still stands. Do you want her, Will?”

“Yes,” the word escapes him like a cry.

Will seizes with longing and arousal as Hannibal’s fangs reveal themselves. He watches as he takes the near lifeless body into his arms and sinks his teeth into her, as Will sank his own into Hannibal so many centuries ago.

The girl convulses slightly as the last of this life flows from her and puts up no resistance as Hannibal nicks his wrist with a fang and streams a little of his blood down her throat. Will considers doing the same but it’s not necessary – Hannibal is his and she is Hannibal’s, the connection will flow through them all, it’s inescapable.

She will be nothing more than a husk now. At least, for a little while. Her new life will come with time and they will find her when it does. Hannibal will be drawn to her essence when she revives and will take her from whatever morgue or grave she has been stowed in.

And then they will be a family.

The thought sends another sharp pain through Will, his womb contracting with need.

“Hannibal.”

The alpha looks up and lets the girl slip from his arms, back into the pool of her own blood.

Will’s body cries out to be taken. So it is damn near excruciating when Hannibal simply raises a brow and tuts.

“You really should take better care of yourself, Will. Had you eaten as you should…”

Hannibal trails off when he hears Will’s desperate snarl.

“Hannibal,” Will growls.

Hannibal flinches, succumbing to the effect of his sire’s heat on him, helpless no matter how righteous he tries to seem.

Jolting into movement, Hannibal pulls Will to him and lifts him in his arms, getting to his feet in one smooth motion as though Will weighs nothing. The scent of Hannibal’s oncoming rut serves only to make Will’s womb clench all the harder, for his slick to run all the freer.

They are dripping with blood.

The little they had been flecked with from Mrs Hobbs, and the splatter on Will from shooting Garrett Jacob Hobbs, was nothing compared to the blood of their daughter. The Hobbs’ daughter once, but now – and forevermore – Will and Hannibal’s.

Will cries out as his body shakes through a painful tremor, instincts driving him to create new life inside him like a good omega, regardless of those organs having been rendered defunct and useless since the day and hour he was made.

“Breed me…” Will growls, trying not to whimper.

To which Hannibal sucks in a sharp breath and replies, “Claim me.”

Will trembles, and grins.

Trailing thick globules of blood, Hannibal carries Will from the kitchen, and towards the stairs. At that, Will can’t help a smirk. With backup doubtless on the way, Will can’t argue with the desire for privacy but Hannibal could have easily removed them to another room on the ground floor of the house. Instead, of course, Hannibal carries him to a bedroom and lays him gently on the soft blankets like a new bride.

Such a careful, caring action, deliciously at odds with the animalistic glean in Hannibal’s eyes that shows exactly how close the alpha is to descending into his rut.

And indeed, any restraint is gone in moments as Hannibal begins to tear at Will’s blood- soaked shirt. When it is shredded enough to fall apart, Hannibal crawls over Will like the predator he is, and lowers his mouth to Will’s right nipple.

Blood has soaked through to skin and Hannibal whines his pleasure as Will’s body contorts with need.

He needs to be naked, he needs Hannibal inside him.

But there is something else in this. Something in Hannibal sucking the blood from his chest, the girl’s blood. Their daughter.

The sight of it solidifies something within Will, a familial bond between the three of them. This will join them together irrevocably. Irredeemably. This is the promise of their future. The promise that he will never separate them again.

“Alpha…” Will gasps and wriggles and finally Hannibal pulls back.

His eyes are wide and feral, pupils dilated,

the expression Hannibal only wears when he’s killing or fucking. No, more than that, the one he only ever wears when he’s with Will, with his mate.

Will trembles at the sight. Has he ever understood what it means to be in love before this moment? How could he have? How could he have felt this and ever pushed Hannibal away?

“Mine,” Hannibal growls, moving back, ripping Will’s pants from him and throwing them away. They hit the wall next to the bed with a wet thunk, leaving a bloody impact stain.

Will tries to reach for Hannibal’s clothes, but it’s too late for that now.

He’s hazy, unfocused on anything but Hannibal’s scent.

But this is nothing compared to Hannibal’s loss of control. His rut is completely upon him now, vicious and unyielding until he knots his mate.

Hannibal pushes Will’s hands away. With motions quicker than even Will can follow, he reaches out and grabs Will’s throat, pulling him close enough to nose at the healed mating scar.

Oh, how Will hates that they heal this way.

It’s not a new regret, he has felt it every time they’ve renewed their claim on each other, but it’s all the more profound this time for how long it has been, how completely time has eradicated the proof of their bond.

Will whimpers as Hannibal pulls back and uses his grip to manipulate Will onto his front. He collapses to the bed when Hannibal releases him, but drags himself quickly onto all fours as he knows he must. As instinct drives him to in order to receive his alpha’s seed.

The sound behind him is unmistakable, Hannibal ripping open his exquisitely- tailored pants with no attempt to otherwise undo them.

“Stay,” he growls, an order and a plea, his hand now gripping the back of Will’s neck, forcing him down as he slides in tight against Will’s ass.

It’s only when the tip of Hannibal’s cock presses against his entrance that Will is aware of exactly how wet he is. Even for a heat, the slide is almost frictionless as Hannibal slips into him for the first time in decades, burying himself to the hilt.

The alpha pauses for a moment, shaking.

And Will wonders what is to come. They have never been so long between matings and now Hannibal has given him a child. Will shudders. Whatever is next, he wants it all.

There is some pain as Hannibal’s grip tightens on his neck, but it’s quickly soothed by the comfort of the alpha blanketing over his back, only the tattered remains of their clothes between them. He fucks Will hard. Harder than Will can remember.

And even with that, it is loving.

Hannibal’s grip loosens and he strokes over Will’s faded mating mark, before leaning in to nuzzle at it. Graze it with his fangs.

“Please, Hannibal.”

“Mine,” Hannibal grunts again and then sinks in his teeth.

Will comes.

He’s not sure if it lasts moments or days as his body drags Hannibal closer, further inside himself. He can feel the press of Hannibal’s knot against him but, beyond that, everything is dreamlike.

He is lost. There is nothing else but Hannibal’s body sliding in and out of his own.

It might last hours, Will can’t tell. He drifts in sensation, basks in their closeness, wishes that eternity could be nothing but this. But then Hannibal cries out as he pushes his knot into Will, and Will’s body locks around it, triggering another climax, this time for both of them.

Hannibal’s teeth are in his neck again, biting deeper.

Deeper.

“Enough, Hannibal,” Will commands in that voice that he so rarely wishes to use. The voice of a master over that which it has sired.

Still Hannibal grips, his tongue moving over flesh a moment longer, and Will wonders for a moment if it will be necessary to use force to settle his alpha. Hannibal’s remarkable discipline does not always extend to his indulgence in Will and they have sometimes come to blows before Hannibal’s control re-establishes itself. Will tenses slightly, in readiness for a fight but then Hannibal is pulling back, releasing. Collapsing.

Hannibal falls to his side and takes Will with him, his hips still pumping.

Both addled with pleasure and relief, Hannibal continues to fill Will with every drop of his seed, until they both black out from the exertion of their continued climaxes.

If time hadn’t lost meaning before, it has now.

Will has no idea how long has passed since they tied.

It’s still light out, but Will can’t be sure if they are even on the same day.

The initial haze of his heat has lifted, sated for now by the mating bite. Still, he will not be truly satisfied until he’s returned it.

Hannibal murmurs and then is awake.

He growls and Will shushes him gently.

He growls again, pushes up against Will and Will pulls away, seed spilling from him in the wake of Hannibal’s softened cock. This only brings another snarl from the rutting alpha, at which Will turns and snaps his fangs.

“Damn greedy boy. Insatiable boy. Behave and I’ll give you what you want.”

Hannibal proves his point by humping his now hard- again cock against Will’s thigh.

As quick as Hannibal had been before, Will pushes the alpha to his back and sinks down on his twitching member.

Hannibal’s growling fades into a howl and he almost doubles over, baring his teeth and snapping at Will.

Will chuckles, and smooths Hannibal’s hair back from his sweat -damp face.

“Oh, Hannibal. Always so beautiful in your rut. I have missed this.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches, his fangs exposed, when Will leans down into a biting kiss. He doesn’t know if the blood he tastes is his own or Hannibal’s as they catch fangs in each other's lips. He doesn’t care to know.

Will begins to rock gently, working Hannibal’s knot up. It swells quickly, and Will is glad that their bodies are reacting with such speed given that they won’t be alone for long. In fact he’s surprised they haven’t already been happened upon. Perhaps it’s a sign that not much time has passed at all.

“Remember this time, dear boy,” Will whispers, hovering above Hannibal’s lips before sliding his mouth down to Hannibal’s neck. “Remember it like the first time. Like every time.”

When Hannibal whimpers, Will sinks in his teeth.

And that’s all the alpha needs to howl once more and resume his impossible task of impregnating his omega. His sire.

Will sighs and lets Hannibal ravish him.

Lets him work through his rut.

For now, at least.

They have so much time ahead of them now.

---

“Will!” Jack’s voice is quickly followed by a heavy rapping on the bedroom door.

Will shakes his head, pulling himself from the muggy feeling of a heat temporarily sated by knots and bites. He’d passed out after their last round, straddling Hannibal’s hips, still securely knotted despite having collapsed face first onto the alpha’s chest.

He blinks and turns his head to the door, raises a brow.

“What do you intend to do?” Hannibal asks, casually curious, on his back with his arms crossed above his head. His knot pulses with his words.

Will squirms pleasantly at the sensation but keeps looking in the direction of the disturbance a moment more. Then he turns his head slowly, a sweet smile just for Hannibal bursting across his face.

“I intend to do nothing more than see just how you get us out of this mess. And you will get us out, Hannibal, because immediately after you do, I am taking you to my home, sating your rut, and then never letting you out of my sight again.”

Hannibal grins and calls out, in a professional tone that feels foreign in this intimate setting.

“Jack, this is Hannibal. I respectfully ask that you don’t come in.”

“Doctor Lecter? What the hell is-”

“I will write a full report for you, but suffice to say, Will was unexpectedly overcome. The adrenaline and shock of the experience, of the deaths downstairs, has driven his body into heat. A perfectly natural, if rare, side effect for an omega in these circumstances.”

Jack murmurs something on the other side of the door that neither of them can quite make out. Likely something about how he understands how delicate omegas can be.

Will raises a brow at Hannibal. Follows it with a scowl.

Before either of them can say anything further, Jack replies again.

“I will have this room restricted until you are ready to leave.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

They can hear retreating footsteps and Will bites back a growl.

“I would be mad at you for pulling that misogynistic bullshit with my boss, if I thought for one moment you believed it. Or that I’d have to work with him much longer. I’m surprised you didn’t just invite him in for us to feast upon.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to be so indiscreet. Though it’s not too late-”

“No,” Will growls.

Hannibal hums his agreement, then rocks his hips slightly and makes Will sigh at the feel of his knot still locked firmly within him.

“I will endeavour not to do anything rash. We’ll have to wait until we can steal Abigail away from the morgue. Once she’s fully recovered, we will start anew elsewhere.”

“Not Florence,” Will grumbles, clenching around Hannibal’s knot hard enough to make the alpha draw a sharp breath.

“No, not Florence,” Hannibal agrees, mouthing at the renewed mating mark on Will’s neck.

Will smiles, a happiness descending on him that he has missed all these years. Except now it holds the promise of so much more, all just waiting for the moment Abigail wakes in her bed to see her new fathers sitting beside her, each holding one of her hands. Ready to begin their life as a family.

---

“And here we are now,” Will ends, his hands spreading with a flourish.

“That’s it?” Freddie frowns, angry. “You really expect me to buy that?”

Will shrugs. “Up to you, Freddie. The evidence is all there, you just have to interpret it.”

She glares at him, clearly trying to decide just what kind of crazy he really is. Will thinks she’s this close to storming out of the room, off to write an exposé of his bizarre fantasies, when her eyes alight on his chest, which hasn’t risen for a breath for several minutes now. Her gaze widens into a full-blown stare and Will allows himself a smirk as he sees the wheels turning in her mind.

“You… you…” she stammers, before pulling herself together. Will always has admired her gumption. “You smell wrong, nobody could ever tell what you were until Lecter claimed you. And – wait, he did claim you, everybody saw the mark…”

She trails off as Will, smiling indulgently, lowers his shirt collar to reveal the smooth, unmarred flesh he’d allowed to regenerate (much to Hannibal’s heated protests) just for this moment.

Freddie’s pen drops to her lap and rolls off somewhere into the office, forgotten, as she raises a hand to her mouth. She leans forward, on the edge of her seat, as she scans the patch of skin which she had posted pictures of, bloodied and torn, just mere days previously. She looks as if she wants to touch; maybe she would have, if her attention hadn’t just been gripped by something new.

She peers into the darkening room and finally registers the boxes, the packing that has already begun in readiness for a new life, elsewhere. Her eyes snap to his, suddenly frantic. “That’s not the end. It can’t end there. Or, tell me something else, tell me about before, before meeting him this time.”

Will can’t help but smirk at how quickly her smug entitlement has melted into eagerness.

That, and the fact that she believes it all and yet apparently has developed no concerns for her safety.

He smiles at her, almost kind if not for the momentary flash of points behind his lips.

“For you, there is no more to tell. No more stories, Ms Lounds.”

“There has to be more… What people wouldn’t give to have your life! What I wouldn’t give!” Her eyes glow with the burning desire he has seen so many times before, so predictable in this type of human. Only one had ever surprised him… but then, Hannibal hadn’t really ever been human,not even as the young Lithuanian man who had looked into Will’s eyes and told him the bite could wait until he was ready.

“You agreed to this interview for a reason, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” she presses.

Will smirks.

“And what reason would that be?”

“To make me one of you. Another companion. You can see we are all alike, that I was meant to-”

Will cuts her off. “Ms Lounds, I can assure you, we are nothing alike.”

He laughs, a cruel chuckle, watching as she stands from her chair, places her hands on her hips, every bit the entitled brat.

“I’m not leaving here until-”

Will moves so swiftly from his chair to hers that he knows he is nothing more than a blur to her. And the fear in her eyes confirms it.

She shrieks as he looms over her, taking hold of her shoulders with a crushing grip as he growls at her.

“Is that what you want? To be one of the immortals?” he growls, enjoying the fear that grows in her eyes, replacing the passion of moments before. He leans in close and whispers, breath cool against her ear, “You’ll never be more than food to us.” And there it is, the difference between him and Hannibal, and the likes of Freddie Lounds. Her eagerness has been replaced by terror that marks her as fodder, not friend.

Freddie screams and, with a grin, Will lets her go.

He watches her run but he doesn’t need to follow.

He can hear as she comes to a sudden halt just beyond the door. And then he hears Hannibal croon words dripping with charm… and other, deadlier things.

“Ms Lounds, we’ve been remiss. I believe it’s about time my sire and I had you for dinner.”

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capricornus-rex · 5 years

Text

Inseparable Dyad (5)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: When Cal follows his instincts to revisit Zeffo, you sense a great disturbance and urgency in the Force. A trap was set by bounty hunters who wanted either—or both—of your heads, but no one knows who has put the price.

Notes: Oh wow, finally finished the last part! This was fun to write, especially the 4th part. But now it’s time for the close. Glad you guys liked it and thanks for the support! Stay tuned for more fics, I have a lot in mind ;)

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Masterlist

5 of 5

The Mantis is still traversing through hyperspace. It feels like it has been minutes since the ship outran the fighter ships and got away from the outpost. Merrin comes in holding two cups in each of her hands, a wisp of steam wafted out of the cups’ rims.

“It’s tea, it will help you relax,”

“Thank you, Merrin,”

She handed over each cup to you and Cal. You wrap your hands around the cup, savoring the heat spreading across your hands and then took a sip; you felt more of the heat within this time. Cal exhaled a sigh of relief with every sip, it seems that the tea is helping with releasing the tension from his muscles.

“Greez? Cere?” you called.

“Yeah?” Greez responded from the driver’s seat.

You stood up and sat on the vacant fourth seat in the cockpit. Cal stood by and leaned against the doorway frame.

“Any idea who that was?”

You heard Greez’s voice strain, “We just rescued you from the crime boss, Mux Odra,”

“Yeah, he introduced himself,” you cut in, hoping for a more elaborate answer. “Does he know either of you?”

“Well, he and I go way back, in a certain point of view,” Greez replied.

“Oh? And what’s that ‘certain point of view’?”

Greez struggled to explain in a way that would make you understand where he’s coming from in this situation. Cere then took the reins with the exposition.

“Mux Odra’s syndicate touches on illegal trafficking. Slave trade, auctions, exotic pet trades to name some.”

“But he tends to keep the ones he likes—they either go to his arena or his chambers.” Greez added.

“How did his men know that we were in Zeffo? The ambush looked like they were expecting us.” Cal joined in.

“They must’ve seen the Mantis on the landing pad,” Cere presumed. “They were able to jam our communication in-planet and off; that is why I couldn’t contact you from the ship.”

“I don’t expect you to know him before all of this,”

Cere leaned back to her seat, a slow, long sigh exited her nostrils, she avoided your eyes for a second and then turned them to Greez. You angled your head to Greez who had his back turned to you. There was silence in the ship. The captain felt all eyes on him, when he swiveled his chair, he found himself cornered by everyone’s stares—including Merrin way at the back, arms crossed over her chest and her hip leaning against the holotable’s edge.

Greez sighed loudly, it was more of a loud groan rather. He knew he owed everybody an apology and explanation, at least except Cere.

“Like I said, he and I go way back. Before this stint with Cere, a few years ago, I crossed him on a game of Sabacc. I won fair and square on that round, he just didn’t like to be on the losing side. Just a disclaimer though: I’m not into gambling anymore! Frankly, I don’t understand why he decided to take it out on you guys after so long. Moreover, why would he know that I’m travelling with two Jedi?”

“How many gang leaders have you pissed off, Greez?” You blurt.

But Greez’s last sentence clicked. Cal beat you to asking the question.

“Is he popular with the other crime bosses?”

“Mux Odra? Oh sure, the other bosses like him, no doubt. He’s the life of the party!”

You picked up where Cal was getting at, you connected the dots so far in this conversation about Odra.

“Crime bosses like Sorc Tormo?” you cut in.

“Yeah…” Greez’s nervous voice fades out.

You and Cal exchanged glances. Without speaking to each other, you came to a conclusion, it’s as if both of you have connected the dots and completed the whole picture. Whatever you two were thinking together may be a theory or a speculation, but it is the most likely one.

Cere sensed the growing tension between you and Cal, she sensed what you were thinking.

“Cal, [y/n], what are you two getting at?”

“You guys rescued me from Sorc Tormo, it doesn’t take a genius to know that I’m travelling with you, Greez.”

“You’re implying that Mux Odra knows about you two because of Sorc,” Cere realized.

“Yes, and looking back, I think Sorc Tormo was still a little sour on my escape. It’s not a stretch to presume that he gave word to Mux Odra.”

“But how did he find us in Zeffo?”

“Sorc Tormo has all of his goons scattered to any world we’ve been to so far, that’s why the goons saw the Mantis land and blocked our communication. They must have sent word while we were exploring, that is how the ambush was staged. I had a feeling about it earlier, before we got captured.”

Cere called that a fair point. The possibility of Mux Odra sending out goons the same way the Haxion Brood is doing is brought up, there was a short silence, thinking of the possible solutions to rectify it.

“Well, we’ve gotten rid of the Haxion Brood goons well so far, though it just means extra work if Odra decided to send his men out,” You point out.

“We can take ‘em, right, [y/n]?” Cal winked and you returned a smile.

Cere gave a reassuring smile at the two of you. As a recompense, Greez decided to chart the course to a safe place he knows. He reassured the crew that it’s totally fine and no one will come looking for you there. They won’t even know that Mux Odra and Sorc Tormo has made a joint bounty out of you and Cal.

You and Cal returned to the couch at the holotable, neither of you spoke for a few minutes but you sensed that he wanted to say something. The moment was awkward but, fortunately, short-lived.

“[y/n], back at the outpost,” Cal starts. “I was seeing images in my mind, but I had the feeling that it was coming from you—like, you were the one sending those thoughts to me, you were the ones seeing those images in your perspective. I saw it, [y/n]: the room, Mux Odra sitting down, and even his voice when speaking to you. That was all you, wasn’t it? I’m right, aren’t I?”

You processed what Cal said, you didn’t actually think it would work and have the images make it to Cal’s mind.

“Yes,” your voice was soft and low. “I think I did. When I was looking around, the thoughts started to run in my mind, and then you were the first person I thought of. I hoped maybe—just maybe—it would let you know that I wasn’t far from you. My instincts told me that it would work, turns out it did. The truth is: this is the first time I’ve done it.”

The truth surprised Cal indeed, so many thoughts ran in his mind but they mostly revolved on this Force ability that you have. It was just as rare as his Psychometry. Your Force ability allowed you to communicate with another Force-user or sensitive through your mind—regardless of distance—you are capable of sending them thoughts, sentences, or images to the other person’s mind. Given that you’ve had little experience with this, you needed undisturbed concentration to be able to send vivid messages to the receiver’s mind.

You confessed that when you first learned about this ability, you told your late master and asked you to demonstrate it; when she experienced and witnessed it she sensed feelings and somehow blurry images, unlike Cal who was able to wholly see images vividly as he sees you before him, feel sensations and emotions, and even hear voices that you hear in your point of view. Recalling your younger days, you experimented on your own ability—you showed it to your closest friends amongst the Padawans, one of whom was Cal. You once personally consulted Master Yoda about your ability, he theorized that perhaps only with an individual whom you have nurtured and sustained a true, strong bond in the Force—your ability will reveal its true lucidity.

This time, you consulted Cere to see if she knows anything to support Master Yoda’s theory. She joins you on the couch at the lounge.

“A dyad in the Force,” Cere inferred.

“A dyad…?” You softly mutter in confusion.

“It’s a connection between two Force-sensitive beings,” Cere raised her index fingers on both hands and joined them together. “Which makes them one with the Force. Many Jedi believe that it is a rare but powerful bond, just as powerful as the Force itself. What happened in the arena was the catalyst. Through your ability, [y/n], you and Cal could communicate more than just with thoughts and images; it can be developed and learned over time, of course. A dyad can work in many ways, yours is just one example,”

“Is that why we know what to do together without even speaking? It’s like, a feeling or thought and then it turns out right in the end,” Cal inquired.

“Yes,” Cere managed a small smile. “It’s exactly that. You two have a shared gift, a very rare one at that.”

Cere politely excused herself and returned to the cockpit.

There was silence after she left. You were processing everything that she just explained to you. You try to recall the past instances where the dyad was manifesting without either of you knowing. That morning in Bogano when you were fighting off the Oggdos is a possibility, the fight at the arena was the strongest evidence, and you remember that one time you were meditating, but got too deep into the trance but Cal’s voice was the one you heard and led your subconscious back to reality.

Suddenly, you felt Cal’s hand gently clutch your lap, you slightly flinch after being lost again in deep thought. His soulful eyes twinkled as you looked right into them. You take his hand on your lap, your fingers intertwined with one another, you beamed him a secretive smile and closed your eyes. He scooched closer so he can let your head rest on his shoulder, his free hand secured you on the front, embracing you; he could feel the rhythm of your breathing, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathed, his heartbeat was slow but loud, it pounded under your hand resting on his chest. Both of you drifted off to sleep as the faint sounds of your hearts and breathing lulled you in a comforting peace.

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minyoongleschimjoongles · 5 years

Text

Windfall 1

Pairing(s): Poly!BTS X OC, Sugar Daddy! BTS X OC

Warnings: Implied sexual situations

Note: In this fic, Zara can’t speak very much Korean. Until the language barrier is closed, Bold Text indicates that a person or an app is speaking in Korean.

Masterlist

The way Seokjin tells the story, the day he and the boys met Zara was foretold for centuries. He distinctly remembers the clouds parting to reveal the shining sun, and a choir of angels singing praises to the heavens. The moment her green eyes met Namjoon’s dark ones, the world stopped spinning for a noticeable moment, then her eyes swept over the rest of them, and their fates were sealed forever.

Jin’s full of shit.

The truth of the matter is this; the sky was downpouring, the clouds inky grey above pedestrians, locals and tourists as they ran for cover into stores and under awnings. It seemed to Zara like they’d never see the sun again.

The small coffee shop she was sitting in was overcrowded, but the wifi was free, and the Chai Tea was cheap, a blessing to Zara’s depressingly thin wallet. On the laptop in front of her was the essay that was due at midnight, the half-edited blog post scheduled to go up in two days, and the raw footage for her latest youtube video. When you were a content creator in college, multitasking was key.

Jin’s “chorus of angels” was actually the squealing of a group of prepubescent girls that had caught sight of the Boys as they moved through the shop with their coffee orders. Polite as they were, they were taking photos with the fans as they passed, though Big Hit would surely yell at them when they find out.

Zara was paying no attention to the commotion, eyes on her computer screen, listening to the audio of her video through the chunky headphones she wore. Had she been paying attention, Zara might have been able to prevent the disaster that occurred right at that moment.

Namjoon, still smiling at the young fan he’d just taken a selfie with, made to take another step towards the door. His foot caught on a table leg, his long, clumsy limbs pinwheeling in an attempt to recover his balance. The coffee was released in favor of the edge of Zara’s table, his eyes widening in horror as they followed the downward trajectory of the beverage, straight onto the keys of Zara’s computer. The screen flickered once, twice, then blinked out completely.

The world did go still when Zara’s eyes met Namjoon’s for the first time, but that’s because of the fury that surrounded the small young woman.

“Holy fuck,” Yoongi’s words were carried with a nervous exhale. Zara’s angry gaze swept over him briefly before going over the other five young men, before finally settling back on Namjoon.

“What,” she reached up to pull her headphones off her head, “the fuck?!”

“Oh, shit!” Namjoon straightened to his full height, grabbing for napkins to sop up the coffee before it began to drip into her lap. “Fuck, I am so sorry!”

Zara stood quickly, and despite being half a foot shorter than he was, the look on her face made him take a step back. He watched as she began to fiddle with her laptop, trying to get it to turn back on, to no avail.

“Oh, no,” she whined softly when she realized how screwed she actually was. “Oh, no, no, no!” She hung her head and brought her hands up to her face, thinking over her options. Her essay and her blog post weren’t an issue; anything she had to type, she did in Google Docs before submitting or posting. She didn’t need to worry about the unedited video footage either; her personal channel was nowhere near as popular as her family’s, so there was no uproar if supply didn’t meet demand, and her “fans” would understand. But the memories, and the photos she’d saved on her computer couldn’t be replaced, and to be honest, neither could the computer. At least, not for a long time. She quite simply couldn’t afford it on her meager part-time retail salary.

Namjoon reached out to gently brush her shoulder with his fingertips. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?”

Becoming aware of the whispers and the many eyes on her as she had a quiet meltdown, Zara stepped away from him, shoving her ruined laptop into her bag. Namjoon watched her with guilty eyes, casting a pleading look at his brothers over his shoulder. Taehyung, the epitome of ‘no help’ shrugged his shoulders. Namjoon turned back to see Zara had shoved the rest of her stuff into her bag, leaving her half-finished tea on the table.

“I can make it up to you,” he said, as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and made for the door.

“Look man, don’t worry about it, okay?” Zara’s voice shook as she called over her shoulder. “I gotta go, I gotta get out of here.”

Namjoon was quick to follow her out the door, his long legs carrying him over the distance between them in record time.

“Hey, hey!” he looked down as he matched her stride. Zara’s eyes stayed on the sidewalk, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. “Come on, let me make it up to you.”

Zara’s cheeks burned, and she glared up at him.

“Oh my gosh, you’re not going to use this as an opportunity to hit on me, are you?”

To her surprise, Namjoon laughed, bringing out the most adorable dimples Zara had ever seen. “No, I’m going to use it as an opportunity to get you a new laptop.”

That stopped her in her tracks, and Namjoon grinned at her wide green eyes. “That’s better, Speedy. Hi. I’m Kim Namjoon.”

***

“How about this one?”

It had taken Namjoon the better part of an hour to convince Zara to agree to letting him buy her a computer and to come out to lunch with him and the boys, swearing up and down that they weren’t going to kidnap and murder her. Now she sat in a huddle of attractive young men, Namjoon’s phone in her hand, scrolling through the laptops Amazon offered with a frown on her face.

Namjoon looked up from the book in his hand at the price of the laptop on the phone screen and shook his head.

“No way, pick a more expensive one.”

“A more expensive one?!”

Namjoon just shushed her, a small smirk on his face.

Zara gave the boys a few more options, none of them going over $200. Finally, Jimin sighed and snatched Namjoon’s phone out of her hand.

“If you’re going to be unreasonable, I’ll have to do it myself.” He scrolled back up to the top of the page, clicking on a Macbook. Though Zara didn’t understand his words, his actions spoke loudly enough for her to understand.

“No, hey, that’s way too much!” she cried, as he clicked, ‘Buy now.’ “I’m never going to be able to pay you back!”

He completely ignored her protests, completing his order. When he had confirmation that the deed was done, he spun around to face her. His eyes darted over her face, taking in the blush, the slackened jaw, the frustrated tears.

“I can’t afford-”

“We can afford,” Taehyung assured in broken English, taking up her hands and shaking her gently.

Namjoon closed his book, accepting his phone back from Jimin, before fixing Zara with a smile. “Look, I messed up. You don’t owe me anything. Come on, Zara, don’t cry. I hate it when girls cry.”

“I’ll find a way to pay you back,” she promised, wiping her eyes. “It’s not right to let you spend so much money on me when you could certainly be using it on something more important.” Over Zara’s shoulder, Namjoon connected eyes with each of his bandmates, his brow arched high. Jin’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. It wasn’t every day that they met someone that didn’t know who they were. It was certainly refreshing.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll pay you back!”

Taehyung rubbed her arms again, and seeing that she wasn’t going to cry anymore, he let her go.

“Yeah, you can try, Speedy.” Namjoon said, “Come write your number down so we can let you know when your laptop arrives,” he paused, and his grin widened a little more. “By the way, this will be the opportunity we’ll take to hit on you, Pretty Girl.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she scoffed, but now she was smiling too.

“Oh, you haven’t met incorrigible.”

***

PJM: What are you doing right now?

Zara looked away from the paper notes in front of her, a tiny smile appearing when she saw Jimin’s initials pop up. Over the past week, the boys had stayed in contact, painstakingly Google-Translating every text to ask her questions about herself, telling her stories about themselves. Jin admitted they’d googled her when she told him about her family’s Youtube channel AHillofaRide, and she admitted she’d googled them too, as soon as she’d gotten home that first day. She’d been more than shocked to discover how famous they actually were, but it got a lot of the awkward stuff out of the way and she found herself grinning like a fool every time her phone buzzed with a message from one (or all) of them.

Zara: I’m cramming for my WWII History Midterm.

PJM: I thought you were in Art School, Z?

Zara: I am, but I’m double majoring in History.

PJM: That’s amazing, Zara, you’re amazing. Art and P.E. were always my favorites in school, but I guess History was okay too.

Zara: You’re a monster, History is the best. Stop lying to yourself.

PJM: Yes, Ma’am.

PJM: So, Speedy...

All the boys had taken to calling Zara by Namjoon’s initial nickname for her, and it had begun to make her heart flutter.

Zara: So, Jimin...

PJM: Your laptop’s here. Did you want to come pick it up from the arena, or did you want me to drop it off with you? I can come by now?

Zara glanced up from her phone screen to look at the messy floor of her dorm room. She and her roommates had had a study party the night before, and the floor was covered in pizza boxes, candy wrappers, soda cans and a mixture of dirty and clean clothes. She imagined much of their suite looked the same.

Zara: I don’t want to be a bother.

PJM: It's no bother. I’m just hanging around doing nothing right now, anyway.

PJM: You’d be doing me a favor, really.

PJM: I’m getting stir crazy.

Zara: Well, we wouldn’t want that. Can you give me 20 minutes before you leave?

PJM: Sure thing. See you soon, Speedy.

Zara slammed her notebook shut, bolting to her feet. She shot a quick message to her roommate, Ji-yoo (who, conveniently was originally from South Korea), and their suitemates Jane and Clara, letting them know she was having a guest over, that she was purging the disaster, getting only positivity in reply. Apparently it was about time she had a boy over.

She started with the pizza boxes, breaking them down and putting them aside to be recycled. She moved on to the garbage in the floor, gathering the wrappers and shoving them into the overflowing garbage can that she and Ji-yoo shared. She let out a grunt and scoured the top shelf of their closet for any garbage bags, letting out a victory screech when she found the roll of bags wedged between the shelf and the wall. The garbage was dumped and she moved on to the soda cans.

The clothes were a lost cause, so she tossed them all into the hamper to be dealt with later. She made the beds, folding blankets and fluffing pillows and tucking in the sheets, before moving on to their desks. Ji-yoo’s desk wasn’t awful, just a little cluttered with her notebooks and textbooks. Her makeup sat in an overflowing basket on the corner of her desk, but other than that, all Zara had to do was put some papers in the drawers.

Her own desk was covered in pallets of paint and sketchbooks and pencils, the drawers of the organization caddy she’d bought for her supplies were open, their contents scattered across the desk and the top of the caddy. With a huff, she cursed her disorganized tendencies. By the time she had everything back in the right drawers, and the desktop cleared, she knew her 20 minute head start was over, leaving her only another 15 to clean the common area.

The dorm suite was a simple set-up, consisting of a small common area; no more than a long hallway with a counter top spanning the length of it. There was a toilet room at one end, a shower room at the other, and the two dorms between them. The door to the suite had an electronic lock on it, as did each of the dorm doors, but the girls usually left the doors open during the day.

Sharing such a small space between four girls wasn’t difficult for Zara; she had younger siblings, so she was used to lots of people living their lives around her. Living in the dorm actually helped her with a bit of her home sickness. Having three people there to talk to made living on the complete opposite end of the country from her home, made living in a strange, huge city bearable and for that she would always be thankful.

Due to the common area being the most shared space, it was the cleanest. Jane had gone out and bought the recycling and garbage bins and Clara had brought a shoe rack from home that she let all of them share. Command hooks held various jackets, hats, and accessories, and Ellie’s art had been proudly sticky-tacked to the wall by Ji-yoo.

There was a microwave on the counter and a mini-fridge on the ground beneath it. A TV sat haphazardly next to the microwave, with Zara’s blu-Ray player and Jane’s Xbox next to it, cables a tangled mess around it. There was a lone circle chair between the two dorms, upon which a large Scooby-Doo plush sat standing guard, courtesy of Zara’s younger sister Scarlet.

She’d just finished tying off the top of the garbage bag when her phone vibrated on the counter.

PJM: They won’t let me into the building without you here with me.

Zara: That’s because you’re a random 4 foot tall stranger.

PJM: Ouch.

Zara snorted and lifted the bag, grabbing her key card and student ID from her jacket pocket on her way out the door. She dropped the trash in the bin at the end of the hall and started down the stairs at a light jog, her slippers echoing quietly in the silence.

It was easy to see Jimin standing at the security desk, an easy-going smile on his face as he made large hand gestures to the security guard, one hand holding the Amazon box. He looked nice in his plain white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, his hair tousled from the wind. His eyes lifted to meet hers and his smile turned into a full on grin.

“There she is!” He exclaimed in Korean. He quickly set the Amazon box on the counter and, to Zara’s surprise, wrapped his arms around her, sliding between her tank top and the flannel shirt she wore. The next sentence was spoken in slow, careful English, clearly something he’d practiced. “It’s nice to see you, Pretty Girl.”

Zara could feel her face heat up against Jimin’s t-shirt.

“Zara Underhill,” the security officer said, causing Jimin to break away from her. “You’ve never had visitors before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Zara sighed, reaching for the sign-in sheet and signing her name. She slid the clipboard in front of Jimin and held out the pen to him. He filled out his information and signed his name with a flourish.

“Okay, Miss Underhill, he’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Phil,” Zara smiled and started back up the stairs. Over her shoulder she called, “This way, Jimin. Follow me.”

Jimin wasn’t the only one who had been practicing. Zara had enlisted Ji-yoo to teach her some Korean, sensing that her interactions with these boys would last longer than the short time they’d be in California. Although, Zara was far from fluent.

Jimin grabbed the Amazon box and followed after her up the stairs. On the third landing, he gave a little whistle. “You live so far up. Which floor do you live on?” When he saw Zara turn to blink back at him stupidly, he searched his brain for his limited English vocabulary. “What Floor?”

“Five.”

“Elevator?”

Zara shook her head and pulled out her phone, the Google Translate already open and at the ready. “It’s always crowded. I get enough crowding at home, you know, so the stairs are easier.”

Jimin nodded, smiling. He pulled out his own phone, “I guess it’s good exercise!”

When they reached her suite, she let them in and he lingered awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the art in the small common area.

“Yours?” He looked at the perfect colored pencil rendition of Rapunzel, a grin working its way onto his lips.

“Yep,” Zara replied, quickly tapping on her phone. “My sister, Scarlet, really loves fairy tales, and she was on a real Rapunzel kick. She’s got a picture of Flynn Rider I drew framed next to her bed.”

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jimin mumbled to himself. Zara grinned at him, and nodded to her dorm room.

“Come on, Legs.”

Obediently, Jimin followed her in, setting about opening the computer box as Zara settled herself at the head of her bed. She watched him quietly as he plugged it in and began the setup, letting her type in all her information, jokingly looking away from her passwords.

“There you go, Miss Zara,” his phone droned as he scooted back so that he reclined against her headboard next to her. He watched her fingers moving lightly against the keyboard as she scrolled through her Twitter. She placed her hand on the top of the screen and paused, before closing the laptop and setting it gently to the side.

“Jimin,” She said, sitting up on her knees. In response to the slightly serious edge to her voice, Jimin straightened his back a little. “Tell me what you want in return for the computer.” This is the phrase Zara had practiced.

They were back to this again, were they? Jimin’s lips twisted into a pout, and his fingers tapped across his phone screen.

“Zara, I’m serious, you don’t have to pay us back.”

“No, Jimin, I’m serious. Why won’t you let me pay you back?! It’s not like it’s a sex thing...”

Jimin, who had already been shaking his head and typing before Zara’s phone had even stopped translating, froze abruptly, lifting his eyes slowly, and Zara’s own eyes widened as realization took root.

“Oh my gosh, it is a sex thing! Jimin, you’re a total Sugar Daddy! Or would it be Sugar Daddies? Is it all of you?”

Jimin winced at her tone of voice, not needing her to translate the words, ‘Sugar Daddy,’ at all. His fingers finally typed out a response, “That’s not exactly the situation, but I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Zara stared at him a little longer, before coming to a decision. She reached for her flannel and ripped it off. Jimin started, dropping his phone onto her bed.

“Zara, what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, reaching next for her black tank top. This action is what spurred Jimin into action.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” He grabbed her wrists gently, forcing her down onto her back. She gazed up at him as he hovered over her, stress showing in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

This, Zara understood.

“I’m paying you back.”

“Jesus Christ, Zara,” it was a long suffering sigh that left him, as he moved himself off of her. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Silence, and then Zara joined him on the side of her bed. She stayed quiet for a few more seconds before typing out, “We could do it, you know? All of us... that would be okay.” He glanced at her and nudged her with his shoulder, reaching back for his own phone.

“The laptop really was just a gift. Hyung killed your first one, we don’t want you feeling obligated to sleep with us just because we replaced it. And it really would be all of us, Zara. All seven. I can’t explain why right now, but I promise if you decide you’re okay with it, we’ll explain right away.”

“Okay,” Zara agreed, but Jimin shook his head and stood up.

“No, we want you to seriously think about it. I want you to think long and hard about if this is really what you want. It doesn’t matter what the guys and I want.” He looked down at her and smiled, “I’ll see you around, Pretty Girl.”

And he left, leaving Zara to think.

@snowythellama @stskpop

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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 5 years

Text

There’s This Girl... (Sidney Crosby Imagine)

The first imagine I’ve ever finished. Hope you enjoy :)

Rating: G

Pairing: Sidney Crosby / Reader

Words: 3319

Warnings: smoking, something that could possibly be construed as minor stalking

Requested: yes / no

Summary: Sid is acting weird, and you’re determined to figure out why.

“Move over,” a familiar voice orders from your right. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s Sid, because he has a habit of following you out of the arena when you get off shift after a game. You look anyway, because though he follows you, he doesn’t usually sit down. Usually, he stays standing upwind, while you sit on the wheel stop in the mostly-empty parking lot and smoke your post-work cigarette. That’s how it’s been for the past year or so since he first followed you through the arena and outside, where you’d called him out for being creepy before he even knew you knew he was there.

He gives you a look and you scooch over, making room for him on the cement block, which he promptly takes. Something must be wrong, because not only is he sitting, he’s sitting downwind, and he hasn’t started talking or asking questions yet. That’s all this really was- sometimes he would vent to you, or he would ask you questions about yourself. It only kind of counted as friendship, more like friendly acquaintances than real friends. But you’re pretty much incapable not trying to help people, so you exhale, prepared to ask what’s up.

“Can I have one?” he asks, right at the tail end of your exhale, which you choke on just a bit. The look you shoot him is so incredulous you can feel it. He’s never asked for one, not even a drag of yours, and he’s more likely to remind you that smoking is bad for you than anything else. You can tell by the slight change in his expression that he’s trying to appear confident and sure, but is embarrassed by your reaction and probably not very sure at all. The thought briefly surfaces that you shouldn’t be able to read him this well, but it’s not important right now, so you ignore it. Ignore it in favor of the thought that something must be very, very wrong.

“You can have one,” you say, pausing just enough that he looks vaguely pleased, “If you tell me what’s wrong first.” His face falls from vaguely pleased to vaguely annoyed in a fraction of a second. But you know that smoking on an impulse is almost always just a way to escape something upsetting, so maybe if you get him to talk about it, he’ll change his mind about the cigarette.

“It’s nothing,” he says, very deliberately not-pouting as he crosses his arms. It’s defensive posture, especially from him, and it reminds you of when you first met. When he followed you all the way through and out of PPG Paints on a whim, apparently because he was leaving late and saw you saying goodnight to your co-workers. It only took you a flight of stairs to realize he was there, if not who he was, but you’d been curious as to how far he’d follow you. So you’d just kept saying goodbye to those who were left as you passed them, acutely aware of his presence behind you. Honestly, your intention was to lead him outside and confront him, set him straight like others who had followed you in the past (with less savory intentions). But when you made a smart comment upon exiting the building and found out it was Sidney Fucking Crosby trailing you, well. Confrontation wasn’t worth your job.

Luckily he ended up being a cool dude, who was just fascinated that you seemed to know everyone you passed- and they seemed to know you- and he wanted to see how far that extended. Most everyone who stays as late as you has been here at least as long as you, so you’d had two years to get to know them at the time. Of course you were going to say goodbye. After that, he’d taken to following you out with increasing frequency, hanging around to talk while you smoked and usually a while after.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” you reply, because it doesn’t. Maybe he had spoken and acted more or less like this in the beginning, but he hadn’t been this difficult or defensive in months. They won tonight, but he could still be upset about his playing, because he’s overly critical like that. But if it was a hockey thing, he’d just tell you. He’d never held back on that topic before, and you can’t imagine he would now. Which means it’s something personal, which you’re really not trying to deal with, but will because he’s your kind-of-friend.

“It’s not a big deal,” he insists, continuing, “The chirping just hit a sore spot today.” Sid had been chirped for just about everything ever, over the years, so you can’t imagine what was said that could upset him. Let alone upset him this much.

“What was it?” you ask, tacking on, “If you don’t mind me asking.” Because you’re polite. He takes a deep, harsh breath and sighs it out between his teeth. By the look on his face, he’s thinking of what was said, and reliving that distress.

“There’s this girl,” he says, like every word he gets out is pulling a tooth, “That I like. And they were saying how I wasn’t good enough for her.” Which is kind of ridiculous, because, as previously stated, he’s Sidney fucking Crosby.

“And I know they were just joking,” he continues, posture getting less rigid the more he speaks, “But they were right, and it just got to me.” His body kind of slumps once he’s finished, arms falling to his lap and spine curving like he’s trying to curl in on himself. The resignation coming off of him in waves is enough to tell you that reassuring him of his worth is not a conversation you’re going to win right now.

“So your solution was to take up smoking?” you ask, tone perfect to convey how ridiculous that is. His cheeks go red and you’re trying not to think about it, because he’s trying to come up with an explanation and you’d like to hear it. Also, you try not to think about things like his blush in general, because you’re hoping that if you staunchly refuse to acknowledge your crush on him, it will go away. It hasn’t worked so far, but it doesn’t hurt to try. It does hurt to hear him talk about his own crush though- probably on one of his model friends- but you’re just gonna push that down to deal with later. Or never.

“You said it helps with your anxiety,” he says, which is true, “So I thought maybe…” He trails off and you kind of understand his train of thought. If smoking helps with anxiety, maybe it helps with all negative emotions. Not quite right.

“Picking up an addiction’s not gonna help you here, bud,” you reply, stubbing out your cig, “Especially one that’s gonna affect your playing.” You put the butt in an old empty pack, close it, and put it in your jacket pocket. You don’t get up, though, because this conversation’s definitely not over. The situation is odd though, because you’ve at least met most of the team, and you can’t imagine them intentionally saying something to upset a teammate. Besides the obvious issue of a distressed teammate not playing as well, they all seem like pretty decent guys who just wouldn’t do something like that.

“I played like shit tonight anyway,” he grumbles, “Did you see my stickhandling?” Which, okay, so you wouldn’t say he played like shit, necessarily, but. It definitely wasn’t his best performance. But that’s not really the point, because you know all the tricks in the book for deflecting and redirecting, and this is definitely that. Not even a great attempt at a redirect either, so he must really be upset about this chick.

“Nice try changing the topic,” you respond, “But you’re not getting out of this one.” Sid looks a tad sheepish at being caught, and doesn’t elaborate, but doesn’t make a move to leave either. It’s like he wants to talk about it, but something is stopping him. Embarrassment, maybe? He’s probably not used to not being “good enough” for someone, so maybe he’s just uncomfortable with the experience. Whatever’s going on in his head, he’s not offering to share, so you’re gonna have to lead him.

You could probably go home now and avoid it, if you wanted. Just tell him you had to get going; you know he wouldn’t object. But you’ve got a too-big heart and he’s your kind-of-friend, so you just brace yourself to listen to your crush talk about their crush. It won’t be the first time.

“What did they say that got to you?” you ask, pulling out another cigarette. This conversation definitely warrants chain smoking, as far as you’re concerned. Sid lets out another sigh, wiping his hands down his face.

“Just-” he pauses, takes a deep breath, continues, “Just that she’s so nice, and helpful, and can make friends with anyone. And she’s beautiful, and smart, and competent, and a million other amazing things.” Even though that’s an exaggeration, you can see where Mystery Girl being a genuinely good person would make a normal person feel inadequate, but Sid’s not a normal person, he’s Sidney fucki-- you get the point.

“Okay, so?” you say, and he looks a bit baffled at your response already, “You’re nice, and helpful, and friendly, and beautiful, and smart, and competent, and a million other things too. Why is she any better than you?” You’re being maybe a bit too honest, because you mean all of those things sincerely. He’ll probably take it as flattery from a sort-of-friend, though, like he always does. He always gives you this look when you compliment him, like it means something more coming from you, or he cares about your opinion, or something. He’s giving it to you now, but looks away into the middle distance before you can start making it deeper than it is. Even when you think the world of him because you’re maybe in love with him, just a little bit, he never sees it as anything other than friendship. It’s whatever. You’ve been rejected before. It’s fine.

“It’s just, they said…” he takes a long pause, looks away from you, buries his face in his hands, “They said she’s independent. That she doesn’t need me.” Okay, you know he doesn’t mean independent negatively, because he loves an independent woman, but. But you can understand that most people want people to need them. You don’t necessarily agree, probably because you’ve never needed anyone, but you understand.

“I mean,” you prepare yourself for the rant you’re about to go on, reminding yourself that it’s for Sid, so it’s worth it, “Isn’t that better, though?” Sid looks understandably confused, but you soldier on.

“If someone needs you, of course they’re going to be with you and stay with you,” you explain, not really wanting to bare such a fundamental worldview, but willing to for his benefit, “They don’t think they have a choice: they need you. But if someone doesn’t need you and still wants to be with you… that’s a decision. And it means that every second, they have the option to leave you. But they don’t.” Your cig is burning out, but Sid looks like he’s starting to get it, so you ignore it.

“I’d much rather take someone who sees every part of me and still makes that choice, every second, to be with me,” you say, “Than someone who stays because they think they can’t live without me.” You don’t talk about how you’ve never needed anyone, or how you felt broken for years because of it, or how long it took you to come to terms with the way you love. Love as a decision, not a necessity. How you allow people in your life because you want them there, not because you need them. How you choose every moment to keep Sid around.

“I never really thought of it that way,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands now that he’s taken them away from his face. You give him time to think, re-lighting your cigarette and taking a long drag. You hold it until your lungs burn, then hold it a moment longer. It’s not the first time you’ve had to talk a crush into going after their own crush, but it’s still not a fun time.

“Well, now you have,” you say around the tail end of your exhale, forming the words with dancing trails of smoke, “So go for it. If you want her that badly, why waste an opportunity, y’know?” By this point, you just really want this conversation to be over. He can go get with whatever runway model friend of his that he’s clearly head over heels for, and you can go home and drink ‘til you pass out. It’s a win-win, really.

Except he’s not leaving, and you don’t want to leave until you know he’s okay, so you’re both just sitting there silently on a slab of cement in an empty parking lot as you blow smoke as far away from him as you can. This isn’t even close to the worst experience of your life, but it sure feels like it right now, in the moment.

“So you think…” he trails off for a solid 30 seconds before finishing the thought, “You think I should just go for it?”

“Yeah, man,” you reply, grinding the cherry into the blacktop with probably more force than necessary before putting the butt into the same empty pack, “As long as you’re not an asshole about it, she won’t mind you shooting your shot, even if she’s not interested.” You put the old pack back in your pocket with the new one and your lighter. Like 99% of the time, any decent person isn’t gonna begrudge someone making a move on them as long as they’re not creepy about it. And you can’t imagine Sid being creepy or douchey about, like, anything. Except hating Giroux, maybe.

“What do I say, though?” he asks, his tone a bit weird, “To make her understand?” You’re not exactly the most romantic person out there, but it’s not exactly difficult. Like. Just stick to the basics.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “Just tell her how you feel, I guess. Make your intentions clear.” He’s giving you this weird look, so you turn your head back to center so you don’t get distracted trying to figure out what he’s thinking. You can’t help but fiddle with your hands a bit, not quite rid of that old nervous habit.

“Hey, Y/N,” his voice is gentle, edged with something... sentimental? Maybe? “Look at me.” You obey despite yourself, turning back toward him, forcing yourself not to read into his expression, or the situation, or the full-on butterfly rave taking place in your stomach from the way he’s looking at you.

“I know I’ve only known you for a little while,” he says, reaches out to stop your fidgeting hands by taking one in his own, “But I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” You- okay- this is- what?

“The guys were chirping me about liking you,” he carries on steadily, like he’s not redefining everything you know about the world, “Because you’re so far out of my league.” Which is fucking ridiculous, because he’s Sidney fucking--

“Because it doesn’t matter that I’m a professional athlete when you’re you,” he’s just trucking on through, and you know you’re doing a pretty good impression of one of those novelty singing bass decorations right now, but he doesn’t seem to mind, “Because you’re the type of person who stays half an hour after your shift just to listen to some old man whine about his crush.” Yeah, his crush that’s apparently on you, of all people. You’re not-- you’re not even close to Sid’s type. You’re too.. Not-model-y. You’re not someone you’d ever see on a runway, or in a magazine, or up in the family-and-friends box at a goddamn NHL game. You don’t fit the profile, and for a moment you’re afraid that he might want you to change so that you are, but then you remember it’s Sid you’re talking about, and that fear seems ridiculous. Then again, this whole scenario feels ridiculous.

“I’ve been fascinated with you since that first night, when I saw you address everybody by name, and ask about their families and lives, and remember the details even though you insist you have no memory,” you do, and it’s true, you don’t remember shit, ever. Except your co-workers’ lives and likes and dislikes and okay, maybe you have a good memory when it comes to things you care about.

“I’ve been keeping myself from asking you out for a long time,” he confesses, “And now I have no idea why I was so scared. Because at the end of the day, you’re still Y/N, and you’re still my friend.” The if nothing else goes unsaid, but you know him well enough to hear it in your head anyway. You shouldn’t know him well enough to know that. It’s only been a year, like three months of which he wasn’t even here for. He was in Nova Scotia, with his family, who he might have sent you pictures of, because you might have maybe exchanged numbers a while back, and maybe you’ve been missing all the signals that mattered.

“Holy shit,” you say, finally finding your voice, “You’ve been flirting with me.” It’s not even a question, because as much as you’d bullshitted yourself for months, there’s no other explanation for some of his behavior. Oh fuck, you’re oblivious.

“Yeah,” he laughs, “Apparently I’m not good at it, though.” You’re both so goddamn stupid. You’ve been flirting with each other for a year, and neither of you noticed. All because you both thought the other was too good for you. What kind of romcom nonsense…

“We’ve been dancing around each other for a goddamn year,” you say, still astonished at both the fact that Sidney fucking Crosby likes you, and that you’re apparently both Moron4Moron with how blind you’ve been. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something in response, but you just squeeze the hand he’s entwined with yours and bring your free hand to his cheek.

“Sid,” you cut him off, dead serious, “Ask me.” His eyes are so dark in the dim light of the parking lot. You feel like if you look into them while he asks, you’ll fall down a rabbit hole you may never find your way out of. You’re not opposed to the idea.

“Y/N,” there’s a long pause, during which neither of you dare to breathe until he finishes the thought, “Do you want to grab dinner some time?” There’s a beat, and you both break out into peals of laughter, his honking mixing with your snorting to make possibly the ugliest and most beautiful laughter ever created. The two of you end up leaning against each other, random points of contact wherever you’d happened to land. You’d pinch yourself to make sure this isn’t an elaborate dream, but your knee is still throbbing and your head aches where it had smacked into Sid’s, so you don’t need to check. Even if it was a dream, you’d gladly stay in it as long as your brain let you. You have to pull your head back a bit to look him in the eye, eagerly jumping into the wonderland that is loving Sidney Crosby.

“The guys always call you my girlfriend,” he says, “Guess they’ll have a reason now.” A wide, crooked smile overtakes his face, and you finally, finally allow yourself to appreciate it.

#sidney crosby imagine #nhl imagines #RI #andis coping mechanism #scrosby

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raevenlywrites · 5 years

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Happy STS! How about a catch up for the people (me lol) who are either new or getting back into things? What's one (or more) of your wips about? Bonus points, what's the latest or your favorite excerpt from it?

*waves* Hi! Welcome (back) to Foxes and Fate!

FnF is the answer to two things that have been bugging me for a while: What’s on Otherside in Asylumverse, and why do love triangles always suck? XD

Tybee is a luck eater faery, bored of his destiny as a prince of Faery and determined to outrun it. Gil is half-elemental, half-merfolk, half-out of his mind with worry for Tybee. Lia is a simple mortal girl, just looking to break out of the cage her mother’s over-protective upbringing built around her heart. Just a little magic, ya know?

Fate has plans for all three.

As per usual with me, I’ve drafted about 3/4 of the main story, then wandered off to write fun stuff that happens later down the road XD The main trio become the heart of a new court in Faery, collecting outcasts, runaways, and people who just don’t quite fit. Most of the house is involved with each other in someway in this very adult, very relationship oriented slice of life. The magic and political upheavals take back seat to the tender hearts, emotional confusion, and 20-somethings figuring themselves out. Its a coming of age, and coming to terms with not being entirely straight--basically, a big queer puppy pile of feels :P

And speaking of feels! Recently we’ve been working on drawing the court’s newest member, Cassius, out of his shell:

Tybee smiled, bringing the delicate wire flower up to his face again.There was a delicate scent to it, not flower exactly, but somethingspicier, darker. It reminded him of Cassius’s hair.

The silken petalsbrushed his lips, the wire holding them butter soft. The dexterity itmust have taken to work wire this fine…

“It’s exquisitework. Some of the finest I’ve seen from you.”

“Thank you.”Cassius studied the rose against Tybee’s complexion. “It suitsyou. I did a decent job.”

Tybee laughed, andit finally rang out free and true. “I’d say it’s more thandecent, Cassius. It has to be excellent to stand up next to me.”

He played into theposing, running the rose along his cheek. He knew they both lookedlovely together. What he was wondering was how this rose reflectedCassius’s thinking, what the Crafter was working through while hemade it. It was a physical manifestation of his processing the eventsof last night, and Tybee wanted to break it back down, bit by bit,and figure out exactly how Cassius was feeling.

Cassius smiled,amused by Tybee’s show of ego. “Where will you put it?”

Tybee lookeddemurely around the garden through lowered lashes. “Oh whereindeed. It almost seems too delicate to leave out here. Is it morerobust than it seems?

“A windowsill ortable by a window would probably be best. Then the sky will triggerit to close and open at dawn and dusk.”

“Oh!”

Tybee stared at thelittle blossom, going slightly cross eyed he brought it so close. Buthe really wanted to examine thoroughly, knowing such a clever spellwas worked in there.

“Is it tied to thesunset or the lunar cycle?”

“Sunset. As thesun fades, it’ll bloom.” Cassius was pleased by Tybee’ssurprise.

He squinted at theplate under the bud, trying to see the charm or etching… It wasimpossibly delicate. He raised his eyes to Cassius’.

“It’s truly awonder. Excellent work.”

“Thank you. Ithought it suited you.”

Tybee smiled, softlybut wickedly. “Why Cassius. Are you saying I am an excellent pieceof work?”

“I think you’vebeen called a piece of work in this House many times.” Cassiusmused with a smile.

His laugh trickledrichly around the darkness surrounding them, curling and wrappingclose.

“I’m not outhere with the rest of the house,” he said softly, leaning in. “I’mout here with you.”

“Bit late.”Cassius returned. “I’d begun to wonder if you were going to joinme tonight.”

His eyes hid behindlowered lashes. “I… wasn’t certain I’d be wanted.”

Cassius hummed. He’dnever really seen Tybee like this. Flirty, yes; but only in themiddle of the night did he have this vulnerable sort of honesty.Cassius liked it, but perhaps not the doubt that he was speaking of.

“I told you itwasn’t your fault, that I was fine.”

“You and I bothknow you don’t always speak your heart. Rather rarely, in fact.”

Tybee held the roseup to his face, examining it without seeing it. It was completely tocover up the intense emotion he was feeling, giving his facesomething else to do.

“That’s fair.”Cassius thought about that a bit, then added, “I’ve spent quite abit of today vexed, actually. But not by you.”

Tybee hummed, a cooof sound he often made at Quibble, or Cam. It was enticing, andutterly empty. Tybee was on the defensive. Already on guard, waitingto be rejected.

“And what, dearfriend, has been vexing you?”

“That if we’vekissed, I have no clear recollection of it.”

Tybee’s entireface blossomed—into utter surprise. His large, luminous eyes shinedin the starlight, wide and wondering.

“Oh.”

He sat a moment,hardly moving, hardly breathing, then he blinked. Blinked, and satup, setting his feet to the floor. He clasped his hands neatly beforehim, resting his elbows on his lap, flower cupped delicately in hishands. He was being entirely too careful to be truly casual, thoughit was clear that’s what he was going for.

“Well,” he saidsoftly, “I’m sorry you languished so long under such an easilysolvable vexation.”

Cassius made a smallamused sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I did spend all daymaking you a flower while I came to that conclusion, so I did it tomyself.”

Tybee’s lipsquirked into a smile, eyes dropping to the flower in his lap. “Well.Not a complete loss then. I’m glad to be the recipient of suchbeauty.”

“I’d hoped you’dlike it.”

“I adore it.”

Cassius ran his handthrough his braids, shaking them out so that the beads gentle tinkledtogether. “Good.”

Tybee spun the rosearound on his palm, letting the wires catch the light.

“I’d like tothink that such a beautiful creation speaks of beautiful feelings?”

The stars in hiseyes mirrored the winking lights of the rose’s wires as he gazed atCassius, awaiting his response.

Cassius let hisbreath slowly ease out. This was why he hadn’t explored this yet,despite how often Tybee had hinted and flirted with him during theirnightly chats. “I am… still exploring how I feel. This isn’t anarena I’ve had much experience in. But I enjoy our chats, and I amsincere that it bothers me that I don’t have a clear memory of ourkiss.”

Tybee set the roseon the chaise beside him, never looking away from Cassius.

“And I am sincerein my offer to help you reclaim that memory and make it your own.”

“I would likethat. I’m just… Inexperienced enough that I’m not sure how toproceed.” He finally admitted.

Tybee smiled andmoved to kneel before him. “That’s a simple enough matter toovercome. Just tell me you want me to, and I’ll be happy to leadthe way.”

#storyteller saturday #frigginconfused #asked and answered

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tnystrk-exe · 6 years

Text

Home 7

Tony Stark X Reader

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 End

AN: A fuck finally managed to write a thing! Writer’s block is a bitch.

A blaring alarm kept going off, waking you in the most annoying way.

“Tony, turn it off,” you mumbled sleepily, not bothering to open your eyes. When the alarm kept going, you shifted to shake his shoulder only to be met with air, “Tones?” Sitting up, you looked around before reaching over his side for your phone. “Hello?”

“Good morning, YN,” Pepper greeted, “I’m sorry for waking you. I wanted to know if you and Ro were free for the next two days?”

“Yeah, we’re not busy,” you answered, suppressing a yawn.

“Then would you like to join me at the Stark Expo. It would be nice for Ro to see something else Tony has made. Especially since he’s been...distant lately.”

You thought for a moment, wondering if she knew about Tony’s condition. If Rhodey did. He told you last night, even if he hadn’t he’d be sure to tell them soon. “I think that sounds good. We’ve never really went out together. It would be nice,” you agreed, “Yeah, I’m sure Ro would love to go.”

“Great! Happy and I can be over in two hours to pick the both of you up.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” The line went dead soon after plans were made. “Tones? Still around?” You called out, not really expecting you’d get a response back.

Getting up, you walked to Ro’s room to wake her for the day. “C’mon, sweetheart, time to get up.”

“More sleeps mama. No ups.” She curled up more comfortably into her blankets, “nigh’ night.”

You couldn’t help a laugh, “We’re going to see somewhere new today.”

“Daddy coming?”

“No, sweetheart, but Pepper and Happy are going to take us.”

Ro pouted, pulling up the cover over her head. “No Pepper.”

“C’mon Ro, she’s kind and very nice. Give her a chance. She said wants to show you somewhere secret for your birthday present. You’re not being nice right now.”

“But daddy kissing her, don’t like it.”

“It’s okay,” you pulled the blanket off of her, “We don’t have to like everything when it’s given to us, but we can love them once we learn about the situations more. Just one shot, that’s all I’m asking. Your daddy cares about her very much.”

Her pout didn’t waiver, but gave you a small nod. “I try. Promise.”

“Great!” You picked her up, she sighed comfortably, nuzzling against your neck. “Let’s wake up a little before we start getting ready, Sleeping Beauty.”

Your daughter sat across from Pepper, humming as she scribbled in her coloring book. Ratty old ‘Ony Bear sat on the seat beside her, strapped in by her orders. Every other moment or so, she’d look up at Pepper shyly, curiosity in her eyes. A question poking and prodding at her. She wondered, briefly, wondered if it was a question you’d scold her for and one that would pull a laugh from Tony.

“Miss Pepper?” She interrupted the conversation about Pepper’s new position.

“Yes, Ro?”

“Does daddy love you or me more?”

Pepper laughed, “I don’t think your dad can love anyone more than you.”

“Does daddy love you more than mommy?” She asked, starting to color again.

That left an awkward air between the adults, one that a snoring Happy was completely oblivious towards. Pepper looked at you for an answer.

“Well...who makes daddy get out of the lab all the time?”

She looked up for a second, thinking, “Both.”

“Then that means, he has to love Dum-E more, right?”

Ro giggled loudly, “E, loves daddy in lab! Whats ‘bout J?”

“Hmm,” you thought for a minute, playing it up to try to move her a long from the topic, “I’d say he’s a close second. Now, why don’t you and I play a game!” Ro cheered in agreement, before looking through her bag for whatever game she could figure out on the spot.

There had been a tension in the air between you and Pepper that neither truly understood. Though you were grateful for her new assistant, Natalie, for sensing it and suddenly having a wave of work that couldn’t be avoided. Still, you didn’t enjoy her inquisitive looks towards Ro.

“I didn’t know Mr. Stark had any children,” she stated when Ro got bored enough to fall asleep in her chair, “She does have some resemblance. Maybe it’s the eyes, but she favors you.”

“She’s mine,” you shrugged it off, “Comes with hanging out with Tony. A pap asked Ro if Tony was her daddy once and it sticked. We’ve tried to correct her, but you know how kids are when they get something stuck in their heads. We both figured it’s just something to grow out of.” She didn’t look convinced at the lame cover you and Tony had for on the spot emergencies. Usually people didn’t care once they found out she wasn’t his.

“Wouldn’t reaffirming it just be damaging? I’m sure her father doesn’t enjoy it much.”

“No complaints so far. Besides, I’m sure you don’t wanna be stuck on a jet with a crying four year old, just because I corrected her. It’s just easier for the time being to indulge her.”

Natalie gave you a judgmental look, “But Stark of all people? Are you sure th-“

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You cut her off, getting defensive.

“He just seems like an odd choice. All things considered.”

“Tony’s a good man. You haven’t known him enough to even begin to understand everything.” You weren’t the most patient when it came to people’s thoughts on Tony. Even after all these years, you couldn’t quiet get a handle on it like Rhodey had. Especially with all the politics surrounding Iron Man lately. You just didn’t want to hear it. “Don’t even think of questioning my decisions when it comes to Tony or my daughter.”

Natalie raised her brow but didn’t offer another word. Though her expression was blank, something told you that your small out burst had given her a reaction she wanted. What for whose to know?

“Mama, daddy coming now?” Ro asked, a bit pitifully.

The both of you were holed up in a hotel room while Pepper made perpetrations for the tech demonstration happening the following day.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” you motioned for the little girl to come sit in your lap, “But, maybe we can try to call him. Would you like that?”

Much to your surprise, she sook her head ‘no’. “Not same. I wan’ see daddy.”

“I’m sorry, baby. Maybe when we get back home, promise we’ll spend some time with him.”

“Ice cream?”

“If that’s what you want to do, it’s fine with me. The whole day can be a family day.”

Ro held your hand, skipping along beside you as the group made its way to the Stark Expo.

“I’ll be busy all day with the event and a couple of meetings,” Pepper offered you an apologetic smile, “I really thought I’d be able to keep the two of you some type of company today.”

“It’s fine, Pepper,” you shrugged, “Business calls. I’m sure Ro and I can keep ourselves more than entertained. Right kid?”

Ro looked around everywhere her eyes big in wonder, “Yes!”

“I’ll send you a message later tonight, so the two of you can see the show. Have fun.”

“Thank you miss Pepper,” Ro shouted waving her off.

You looked around, “So, where to first?” You didn’t really have a chance to finish before Ro started pulling you off towards an exhibit with a robot greeter at the door.

The whole day was spent going in and out of various shops and exhibitions. She even convinced you to get her a small Stark Industries shirt because she liked that it looked like Tony’s, Iron Man snow globe, and a tiny backpack so she didn’t need to hold her things. When the two of you took a quick break at a play area she found herself a little friend with a kid in an Iron Man mask.

Around sun down you got a text from Pepper, signaling it was time to meet up with the rest of the group. Ro was warn down, so you opted to carry her over, hoping she’d regain enough energy to get through the show without throwing a tantrum. When you finally made your way over, Ro slipped from your arms.

“‘M big girl mommy.”

“You weren’t a big girl five seconds ago,” you joked, lightly squeezing her hand in yours.

Ro stuck her tongue out at you before smiling, remarkably similar to Tony. Sometimes you wondered about those kinds of things. Whether she did pick up his little ticks or you just wanted to see them. As she was growing her features were starting to become more similar to Alex’s, but part of you wished she looked like someone that actually loved and cared for her instead.

“Thank you miss Pepper!” Ro’s shout pulled you out of your thoughts. She ran over quickly to hug her leg. “Next time, you come too?”

Pepper smiles, returning the hug happily, “It’s a deal. Are you ready to see the show?” She asked, starting to escort the two of you to your seats.

The show went off with out a hitch. You wouldn’t expect it to go another way, Pepper seems to have planned it down to the second. Still, you couldn’t help but cringe when Hammer came out. The charisma he wanted to show just wasn’t there, you hushed Ro from giggling too loudly. You kept a scoff at bay while he pretended to care about keeping people safe rather than his own ego. Sure, you were probably biased, but he was still easy to see through. As he stroked his ego, different bots raised through the stage, a set for each branch of the military.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today I am proud to present to you the very first prototype in the Variable Threat Response Battle Suit and its pilot, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes!” Hammer announced, gesturing to Rhodey.

“Uncle Rhodey!” Ro cheered, standing up from her seat to jump up and clap. She cut of with a gasp as Iron Man flew into the arena. “Daddy!”

You grabbed her hand so she wouldn’t run onto the stage. Rhodey and Tony seemed to have some kind of argument. Ro pulling against you took more of your attention, while you tried to calm her down, promising she’d get to see him in a minute.

“No! Now mommy!” Your grip on her slipped. That’s when the crowd started screaming, gunshots sounded off, and glass started shattering all around. “Leave daddy ‘lone!” You heard her shout, running in the direction she saw Tony fly off toward.

You tried to run after her, but the crowd of panicked people put more and more distance in between. All you could do was continue going forward and follow the small glimpse of her backpack. “Ro!”

The sound of explosions rang through the air. Someone from behind pushed you down, trying to get ahead. Some of the shattered glass cut a slice across your cheek. There wasn’t time to think about that as you got up, narrowly missing being stampeded over. When you finally made it out of the building, you had already lost sight of Ro. Mechanical whirling of the drones coming closer sent panic through you, but you stopped to look for her from your positions. A small body turned corner, wearing the same backpack Ro had. You had to trust it was her.

Chasing after the little figure, you’d always be a moment too late. Either a crowd would be in the way or she’d turn a corner. When you finally came close, she was running toward the little boy with the Iron Man mask from earlier. a drone was taking aim at him, Tony seemingly came out of no where just in time to stop it before flying back off. A small shout of “Good job, daddy!” waved off the fear you were following another kid.

You sped up as she stopped short of the boy. “Did it hurt you?” She asked.

“Uh huh,” he shook his head, “Stopped it just on time! Iron Man even told me good job!”

You grabbed Ro and picked her up, safer in your arms than on the ground in case she decided it was time for another run. “Don’t do that again. Stay close to me,” you have her a look over, assuring yourself that she was okay, “You can’t do that, okay?”

“Yes, mama, I sorry.”

“Hey,” you smiled at the little kid, “Do you mind taking off your mask, please?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he pulled it off, giving you a big smile.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

“Um...,” he shook his head, “I came here with my aunt and uncle.”

“Mind if I help you find them?”

“Please?” He grabbed your hand.

You took the two of them to the least chaotic areas you could find. Hoping they wouldn’t get scared and someone would recognize the kid soon. He seemed to perk up when he saw a man looking around frantically.

“Uncle Ben!” He called out running towards him.

The man turned around, easily catching the boy in his arms. “You’re safe,” he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “Don’t run away again, Pete. May’s worried sick.”

“I’m sorry, but I helped Iron Man!” Pete informed, “And this nice lady helped me find you.”

Ben looked to where Pete pointed to give you a grateful smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry, we really need to go find my wife. Do the two of you want to come with us? Maybe we can help you out too?”

“It’s not a problem. I think we’ll be okay,” you looked around, “despite things. Stay safe.”

“You too. Thank you again.”

An explosion happened close by, “I think, it’s time for us to go.” You tucked in Ro close, attempting to avoid all the crowds. All the same, you couldn’t ignore another’s toddler’s cries. A quick observation, you noticed her crying, looking into a wrecked building, thick smoke billowing out.

“Mama!” She cried, taking small, unsteady steps towards the danger.

Quickly you ran over to scooped her up. Glancing inside the shop, you found her mother quickly. Some rubble piled on her unconscious body. You could get her out, you decided as if there was any other option. Taking the girls to a bench clear from smoke, you made Ro sit, wrapping her arms snuggly against the toddler.

“Whatever you do, don’t let her go and stay here.”

She looked up, tears already pulling in her eyes. The fear she was so ignorant to minutes ago hit her in this moment. As well as she could, she managed a, “Yes, mommy.”

Taking a deep breath of clean air you ran into the building. Smoke was thick, but you could still manage to see somethings decently. Running over to the young parent, you started pushing off the rubble off as quickly as possible. You coughed hoarsely as smoke filled your lungs. Finally freeing her, you dragged her out of the building.

Making it as close to the girls as you could, you stopped to check the woman’s vitals. Her breathing and pulse were both dangerously low. You hoped Tony wasn’t in a life or death situation. Setting the call up, you handed Ro the phone, “When your dad answers tell him we need an EMT exactly where we are. If he doesn’t answer press the green phone again,” you ordered, before beginning CPR.

Some stress was taken off of you when you heard Ro speak uncertainty into the phone. Scared, but she got the basic gist of it through. The little girl’s crying didn’t allow much relief. A sense of pride took you over when you heard Ro make her voice a bit stronger and start to comfort the little girl.

Taking the time to check the woman’s pulse again told you it was stronger, but wouldn’t stay that way if you stopped CPR completely. You didn’t know how much time had passed, but you knew the toddler had stopped crying, explosions were raking through the air, and finally a stressed EMT told you it was time for you to take a break. Pulling away you went to slump down next to Ro, taking the toddler from her.

“You did so well, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

The EMT spoke up before Ro could, “Do you three need a ride to the hospital?”

“Yeah, the baby is her’s,” you motioned to the mother the other EMT’s were putting into an ambulance, “I’d like to make sure she gets to someone she knows safely.”

Nearly twenty minutes later, you, Ro, and the mystery child were in seats in the hospital waiting room. You had bought them drinks and snacks from the vending machines to keep them sedated as they watched whatever cartoon was playing on tv. Remembering it may be a good idea to tell Tony the two of you were safe and well, you started looking for your phone. Not here. Must have been left at the bench.

You didn’t get to focus on it much before a young man ran in frantically. “I’m here for Olivia Campo. Is our baby here? I don’t know where our daughter is and the person that called me said Olivia was still unconscious.”

Taking a shot, you walked over to the man and tapped him on the shoulder, mystery toddler on your hip. “What do you want?” He asked turning around, not particularly rudely, just stressed and terrified beyond compare. Instantly, his face softened and he quickly grabbed her from your arms, “Do you know what happened to Olivia and Sofía?”

You gave him a quick rundown of what happened and how you had found the two of them.

“Thank you, ma’am. For everything. For saving them. Is there anything at all I can do for you?”

“Can I borrow your cell phone?” You asked, “I really need to call my kid’s dad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he handed over his phone, “Take your time. I’m going to find out if they know anything else about my wife.”

Keying in the memorized number, you hit call. “Hey, Tones.”

“YN,” he sighed, “Are you okay? Is Ro?”

“We’re fine. Ro’s been through way more than I’d thought she’d go through on this trip, but fine. What about you and Rhodey?”

“I think Rhodey will fill in the role of sidekick just fine.”

“Funny, I always thought of you as the sidekick in that situation.”

“You’re probably right,” he laughed tiredly, “J has your location. Happy is going to drive over and pick the both of you up. Then we’re settling things and going home.”

“A shower and my own bed sound great right now.”

“Then it’s a play. We’ve got a date in your bed first thing.”

You rolled your eyes, “Goodbye Tony, I’ll see you later.”

Nearly a week later life was back to normal. Tony had just came back from his and Rhodey’s honorary ceremony in Washington and Ro was happily humming to herself as she drew.

“You’re such a dick,” you laughed, “How’d you even get Stern to be your presenter?”

“A pirate owed me a favor,” he stated, continuing when you raised your brow, “This secret boy band thing Avengers.”

“The Avengers?” You scrunched your nose, “Just name yourselves the Justice League and call it a day. What are your group avenging exactly?”

“Not my group. I’m not even in it.”

“You’re not in it? How’s that happen?”

“Well, Iron Man? Passed with flying colors. Me however, I’m not recommended at all.”

“What’s the tin man without his heart? It’s just a hunk of metal.”

He laughed, giving you a soft smile, “Thats cheesy even for you, but that’s the crux of it. He’s not a narcissistic, compulsive, or self-destructive,” he thought for a moment, “Actually that last one is a build in protocol, but that’s beside the point.”

You frowned, “When did they even get all that? From interviews?”

“Nope, last week was my test. I’m just a bench warmer, that can offer up occasional plans.”

“That’s not you,” you shook your head, “Tones, you put everything in what you do.”

Ro ran up to the table, “Look mommy! Look daddy!” Her chubby fist held up a colored on sheet of paper.

Tony picked her up and sat her on his lap, setting the paper on the table in the process. He looked it over, trying to make sense of the scribbles. “Is it Godzilla and Big Bird playing basket ball?”

“No, silly!” She pointed two to bodyish shaped figures, “Daddy and mommy save day. Superheros. See? And here it says ‘I lo’ you!’”

Tony kissed her cheek, “That’s cute, Ro. We love you too. What do you say we hang up this art work on the fridge?”

“Yes! Please!”

Keeping her in his arms, Tony walked over to the kitchen. He let her adjust around some of her other drawings and helped her set aside the ones she didn’t like anymore. It was their normal procedure. Tony had said it was a lengthy process but Howard had always made him upset when he’d take down drawings calling them “too childish.” There were small things he does to avoid making Ro feel anything less than perfect. He tried so hard.

“You’re a great dad,” you stated, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

He put his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Thank you, beautiful. That means a lot.” You watched as Ro moved around the magnets, making sure that her favorite pieces were set up perfectly. Tony watched you. For the briefest moment he thought about how easy it would be to close the distance. Take his shot and see what happened. The weight in his arms brought him back to reality, he had fucked up his family enough this month. So, instead he opted to kiss the scar you had earned yourself at the Expo, grateful that was the extent of your injuries. “I love the both of you.”

You look at him, smiling the smile that always knocked the air out of him. “I love you, too, Tony.”

“Lo’ you, daddy.” Ro turned his arms to hug him.

Someone knocked, startling the domestic bliss of the home. “I think that’s Happy and Pepper,” you said, pulling away.

“Happy and Pepper?”

“Yeah, family dinner. Rhodey should be here in twenty.”

“They’re family now?” He asked, smiling.

“Of course, you care about them don’t you? The only one missing is J.A.R.V.I.S., but that’s one you.”

“How?”

“I keep telling you to make a garage and a system here.”

“Dear, if I did that I’d have absolutely no reason to ever leave this house.”

“I don’t think we’d mind that very much,” you laughed. “We love having you here. Now, I should go open the door before Happy isn’t.”

“Good luck with that. He’s always a grouch.”

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tragedybunny · 5 years

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The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends - Chapter 6

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected. Katarina/Swain

Winter had followed us back to the Capitol. The temperate climate and our nearness to the sea meant it was always short lived, but for now snow lightly dusted the city, quickly turning grey in the ever rising haze of smoke. I was sitting in the seat of the large window in my room, overlooking the back garden, sketch board in my lap, drawing the city skyline in charcoal.The cold breeze of the open window was worth the unclouded view. Drawing hadn’t been considered an essential part of my education, so it was something I’d learned mostly on my own, and rarely had the opportunity to indulge in. The last couple of weeks had been painfully boring however, and there’s only so many times you can do katas.

I’d commandeered the old armory on the back of house as my personal training spot. This nearly caused a fit with some of the senior servants as I demanded family relics be removed to storage. Moira especially hated the notion, as I was sure she hated me in general. She’d been the most obvious to see me as a stain upon the House from the start. Her expression hiding nothing as her and the other servants were gathered in the great hall to hear the announcement that Madame Katarina would be staying on an indefinite basis. Her protests on the matter of the armory were met with an exasperated hand wave and “Just do as she asks”.

“Yes, please do as I ask.” I’d smiled in her beet red face. I won that round you old bat, though she’d gone from detached politeness to outright hostility after that.

I felt an unexpected weight on my shoulder and a shiny stone dropped into my lap. “Kat” her bird voice croaked out.

“Hello Bea.” I reach up to stroke her chest. He hadn’t been exaggerating, his pet really had taken to me, despite my best efforts to remain cool to her. “Here to bribe me again?” I look down at the bowl of sliced citrons I’d been picking at. I’d acquired them on one of my late night kitchen raids, the imported fruits being expensive enough I’d had to split a bottle of wine with the cook, Cress, to get him to stop mourning their loss. Thankfully drinking was his second love after cooking. “Are you even supposed to eat these?” She nipped my ear lightly. “Fine, but don’t blame me if you’re sick later.” I held up a slice and she greedily pulled it from fingers.

I’d been so occupied with her I hadn’t heard the door behind me open. “I didn’t know you drew.” He was right behind me, looking over my shoulder.

I almost slam my hands down to cover what I was doing, but stop short not wanting to smudge it. “I don’t, it’s nothing.” I feel my cheeks flushing. Noone’s ever caught me doing this before, so of course the first had to be him.

“You really shouldn’t denigrate yourself.” He pushes my hands out of the way. “It’s really quite good.”

I snap out of my paralysis and move it to the side. “Were you here for something?” At my agitation Beatrice hops into my lap and lets out an indignant caw.

“No.” She flaps her wings a bit as if the emphasize her point.

“You little traitor. She’s been feeding you hasn’t she? Don’t worry, I won’t upset her again.” He holds his hand out and after a moment’s hesitation, she hops onto it. He lightly pets her head and speaks softly until she finally decides to perch on my dressing table and preen in the mirror.

I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. “Betrayed by your own bird.”

“Very funny. I’m plotted against in my own house.” He leans down and kisses me softly on my cheek. I stop laughing as the sensation washes over me.

“Anyway, you wanted something?”

“You’re lacking in attire suitable for a formal occasion.” A statement of the obvious. I’d left everything like that behind when I left my family’s house, all of it had been mother’s choices anyway.

I let out a groan, sure this isn’t going anywhere I like. “Yes, and?”

He ignores the groan. “That needs to be remedied, the Solstice celebration is in two weeks, and you’re going to accompany me.”

“Fantastic, a painfully boring religious ceremony. I’m not even religious, why do I have to go?”

“Neither am I, and I’m expected. You’re going to make sure I don’t die of boredom between that and the party afterward.”

“It keeps getting more appealing. Isn’t this Darius’s job?”

“Hmm, no, I believe it is definitely your responsibility these days.” I detect the slightest bit of a smile. He leans in again, lips brushing my earlobe. I forget to exhale for a second. “Must you be so obstinate about everything? Besides, the last party we attended together was interesting enough.”

“Maybe I could try to kill you again? That will keep things lively.”

He sighs, clearly done being gentle about it. “Just get ready, we’re leaving shortly.” He’s really going to drag me through this whole affair.

Then he’s gone, leaving me in a storm of emotions. I’m irritated that he orders instead of asking, but at the same turn I’m thrilled he wants me there with him. On top of it all those same feelings I’d stumbled into up north have never abated; the heart racing whenever he’s near, the yearning for his touch and those moments when he softens with me and is almost affectionate. As much as I’ve tried to reason with myself I can’t deny what my heart insists on longing for.

I’m not a fool though, we’ve barely seen each other since we returned. I know he’s done that purposefully, likely I gave myself away somehow. It’s rejection plain and simple, and it stings. And I loathe that I miss him.

I throw on some clothes appropriate to the cold and head to meet him downstairs, resigning myself to whatever he’s planning. When I reach the bottom of the stairs where he’s waiting he takes my cloak from hands and places it over my shoulders. “Madame.” He kisses my cheek, clearly pleased I’m here without further argument. Charm when he wants something isn’t a new tactic for him, and yet it still gets to me. “Did you just blush?” This time he’s actually smiling.

“What…no!” I start to march out the door. “Let’s get this over with.” The carriage has been pulled around and I climb in and wait for him to join me. When I turn back he’s standing in the doorway, having clearly heated words with Moira. What did I do this time to set her off?

When he finally gets in he takes my hand and kisses it. “I’m sorry for teasing.” He doesn’t let go.

“It’s fine.” I put on a cool exterior. “I guess I’ll just have to spend exorbitant amounts of your money to make up for it.”

“You’re a cruel woman.” Surprisingly he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me a bit closer to him. We ride the rest of the way enveloped in the silence that falls between us.

The carriage eventually rolls to a stop in front of Mistress Hester’s, of course, she’s only the best dressmaker in Noxus. I remember the hours of boredom as I tried to amuse myself in the shop while mother shopped and was fitted. Of course, Mistress Hester doesn’t take walk ins, no matter your position. I’m clearly the victim of a long running plot.

Some stop and stare as we emerge from the carriage, I can only imagine the gossip this will ignite. I try my best to ignore it. The little bell above the shop door chimes as we enter summoning a severe looking woman from the back. There’s more lines to her face and her black hair has streaks of white in it, but her steely gray eyes are still sharp.

“Grand General, Madame Katarina, well it has been a long time.” She’s already looking me over, sizing me up, quite literally.

“As was discussed, I need her to look acceptable to accompany me.” I feel more like one of his possessions than ever, being remade to better fit his needs.

“Of course, and is there a budget to be adhered to?” Her eyes gleam, no doubt she’s dreaming of the bill.

He turns to me. “Try to keep it reasonable Kitten.” It’s been weeks since he’s called me that. I’m startled at how pleased I am to hear it again, I forget to be embarrassed we’re in public. He leaves a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’ll be back later.”

He’s barely out the door before she pounces on me and I’m escorted to her office behind the counter. “Tell me now Madame, what is it that you like? I haven’t seen you in sometime and now I would wager your tastes are different.” Her last statement carries a couple of connotations she doesn’t bother to hide.

What do I like? Mother always made these decisions. A strange sense of excitement washes over me as I take in swatches of fabric, sketches, and the in progress works around me. It was never the dressing up that bothered me, but the social events that followed. I could never be as elegant or charming as Cassiopeia and I was always reminded of it. Violence was my arena and even there I fell short in my father’s eyes. Those days are gone though, and however I’m tethered now, their judgements are behind me.

“Let me show you something.” It’s a sketch, lace, meant to hug curves, and yet exquisitely elegant. “I’m seeing deep scarlet, you’ll be very fetching.”

How she figured me out so quickly I can’t guess. “I do like that. A thought has occured to me though. I’ll likely need more than one dress in the future. Perhaps I should order a few?” He can hardly argue about it, he did force me into this.

She smiles. “Of course, whatever you like. You’ll have priority for the first, so it will be ready in time, but we can get started on anything else you desire.”

Several hours later I’m being littlely chided on the ride home. “Is that what you think of as reasonable.”

“I did try to warn you earlier.” I let my tone get a little smug. Leaning over, I whisper in his ear. “Shall I make it up to you?” I may as well enjoy his attention while I have it.

“You most definitely will later. I expect you to be most apologetic you expensive little creature.”

I run my hand along the inside of his thigh. “Only if you promise to forgive me after, Sir.” I purr.

He looks like he may take me up on my offer right here in the carriage. He kisses me roughly and deeply, leaving me a bit breathless, but finally settles on pulling me tight against him for the remainder of the ride.

When we return home I’m beckoned upstairs to find Gwen waiting in my room. Young and sharp, she’s always been the first to insinuate herself when she thinks she’ll get on my good side.

“Where’s Moira?” His irritation is evident.

Gwen wisely demures and looks at a spot on the floor. “She said she was unwell, Sir.”

“I see, how unfortunate.” It feels petty, but I’m pleased this stunt has incurred his ire.

“I’m more than capable of doing her duties.” Confidence suddenly replaces the meek act from a moment ago.

“And no doubt you’re very ambitious as well.” He steps closer to her, studying her for a moment. “Do you remember Zaun at all, or is it stories from your parents driving you on?”

To her credit, she doesn’t falter under the intimidating gaze. “Bits and pieces, enough.”

He nods. “Very well, you’re to deal with whatever Madame needs from now on. I’ll inform Moira that comes before any other duties and I’ll see that you’re compested duly.” He turns to me. “Back to the matter at hand.”

He leads me over to my dressing table where boxes of jewels lay open, glinting in the late afternoon sun. ‘Fuck.” I mutter, not as quietly as I intended.

“Wear whatever you like. They’re yours to use as long as you’re here.”

“No, absolutely not, that’s too much.” I cross my arms, intending to stand my ground on this. “People already talk enough about me, I can’t start going out in the Swain family jewels.”

He grips my chin and tilts my head up to look him in the eyes. “Then they can talk, and you’ll do whatever pleases me.” Again it’s that sudden switch of tone, there will be no further discussion. “Understood?”

“If you insist.” I’ll be damned if I understand why he considers this so important.

“Good girl. I’ll see you at dinner.” He lets go and leaves me with Gwen, who had been making herself as unobtrusive as possible in a corner.

I turn my attention to the ridiculous wealth left on display. No wonder Moira gave herself a fit over it. Stones of every shape, size, and color; necklaces, rings, heavy broaches; the result of a lineage of wealth and titles. “I can’t believe he did this.”

“I suppose he has his reasons. That’s one of the first things I learned working here, nothing is without a reason.” Gwen was now right beside me, taking everything in with me. “It is spectacular though.” She reaches for a previously unopened box. “Want to see the most amazing bit?”

It opens to reveal a tiara wrought in gold and set with black diamonds. My eyes go wide. “Damn.” I get a little gleeful at the thought of wearing it, despite having a dim memory of seeing his mother in it years ago. I sit down at the dressing table. “Pin it on me, Let’s see if you’re up to your new role. “

“Of course Madame.” She goes to work, pinning my hair up, and fixing the tiara in place. It’s rough but it gives a good general impression.

Gwen’s work aside, I find I hate it. I look the part of being his mistress, like I am what everyone says about me, the family traitor who chose the wealth and power of the Grand General. “Do you not like it?”

“No it’s fine. I’m just not used to seeing myself like this.” She nods but it’s clear she doesn’t buy it.

She seems to consider her next words carefully. “If I may Madame, you may want to make peace with that, all of Noxus will be seeing you like this.” Of course they will. No doubt that plays into whatever his goal is with this whole charade.

That night after dinner he asks me to join him in the study. “There’s a matter we need to discuss.” He makes sure the door is firmly shut behind us and the servants dismissed.

After everything else I’m not exactly sure what to expect. “This should be less fun than the rest of the day.”

“I thought you’d prefer this since you acted like you were headed to your own execution earlier.” He smirks and takes a seat at the X’ah board. “Play while we talk.”

I don’t hide that I roll my eyes. I hate the Vastayan strategy game, mostly because he always wins. This time though I may have a strategy. My eyes travel to the whiskey decanter on the sideboard. He may be able to outplay me, but I can out drink him. I pour two glasses and sit across from him.

“You’re too kind.” He takes the glass from my hand. “You go first.”

I move, an aggressive opening, it’s what he’ll expect. “What did you want to discuss?’

He makes a soft opening, like one would against a child learning to play. I can’t decide if it’s a serious assessment of my skill or he’s making a joke. “Your father’s Guild, they’re floundering under their current leadership, since his disappearance.”

“Hmm, and?” I answer his move and tip back my glass, finishing it, daring him to follow suit.

“They need leadership, and that’s where you come in. You’re going to take over, be the leader they need, and dismantle all the other Guilds.” I don’t watch his move, I’m too busy glaring at him. I refill the glass after he finally finishes it.

I take my move. “Have you lost your mind? I’m no leader. And I’m certain no one is going to stand aside and just let me take over.”

“Then you’ll dispose of them.” If only his sense of confidence was contagious.

“You realize that is potentially a very large number of people?”

“My Dear, I don’t care if you have to kill nearly every other assassin in Noxus. The Guild will answer to you, and you’ll answer to me.”

We play in silence for a few moments, I refill our drinks. After sometime a hole appears in his strategy. I smile to myself, at least one thing is working out in my favor. “Really though, I can’t do this. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He looks up and appraises me for a moment. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were capable of it.” I sigh and put glass number four on the table in front of us. “It’s not your aptitude that lacks, it’s your confidence.”

Hearing those words stirs something in my memories and I’m taken back across the years. A dark haired, dark eyed, very important friend of my father’s is speaking to me, offering me advice in the face of my father’s anger. “You said something very similar to me once, a very long time ago.” The whiskey must be getting to me. I don’t even know why I bring it up.

“Really?” He thinks for a moment. “Oh yes, you fell out of a tree on me. You were spying on your father and I.”

“He scolded me for the spying and my lack of stealth. I fell because I was nervous, that was your advice.”

“I’m surprised you remember that.”

“It must have left an impression.” Everything feels so unbearably warm all of a sudden. “Maybe that’s why…” No, my tongue if definitely getting too loose. “Why am I even talking about that? It was so long ago.”

I look up and he’s staring at me, in a way I’ve never seen before. “Kat…”

“Anyway I win.” He looks down at the board then back up to me as I smile triumphantly.

“You cheated.”

“No, you’re just drunk.”

He tries to stand and wobbles a bit before sitting back down and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I am drunk. That’s still cheating.”

“It’s not technically against the rules.”

“You wicked, deceitful woman. Very well, you win.” He gives in and actually laughs a bit.

Just like that, the soft mood from that night in the north returns. I get up to clear the glasses and he pulls down into his lap and nuzzles my neck a bit. “You know first you excessively spend my money and now you win through trickery. What I am I going to do with you Kitten?”

“Maybe you should put me over your knee and spank me?” I hear him inhale heavily. I knew that would get to him.

“When I sober up I may hold you to that. For now I’ll settle for your help upstairs.” Really at this point, both of us are a bit unbalanced, and I find myself giggling as we navigate the staircase. Finally as we stand in front of his door he leans down and pulls me into a kiss that’s surprisingly soft “Come to bed.”

Everything around me spins a bit and I can feel every beat of my pulse. I know it isn’t just the whiskey. I’m enthralled by him again. “Of course.” I let him take my hand and lead me to his room, the thudding of my heart now all too familiar.

#Swain #Katarina #jericho swain #katarina du couteau #lol swain #lol katarina #league of legends #the blade's edge #swain/katarina #katarina x swain #league of legends fanfiction #my fanfiction

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das-boog · 6 years

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I had an idea for a battle-monster setting where instead of being divided up by an elemental type (fire, water, dragon, etc) monsters were categorized by genre. B-movies have an advantage over Modern Scifi due to their solid rubber bodies being hardier than CGI, whereas Fantasy creatures get a fascination effect against Art Flick Metaphor Puppets. Wrote a drabble for it below.

———

When I was told I’d be conducting an interview with the local MonsTactics champion, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Certainly not the woman I’d been handed a photo of; tiny Anzu Goda, in a prim pantsuit, all professional smiles as she held up a tournament trophy alongside two other well known monster breeders clapping politely. Besides the artificial-plastic-orange hair she looked like she could be any other professional athlete, a far cry from the bombastic personae she had in the arena.

That was to be expected though; most breeders prestigious enough to have their own dojo were expected to be larger-than-life personalities. A career MonsTactician had a lot of expenses, and winning battles could often come a far second to selling merchandise. Ms. Goda was known to be more committed to the keyfabe of her profession than most, and I hoped for the chance to crack through that gaudy, vaudeville exterior to show people the REAL Anzu.

Driving up to her dojo, however, I felt the hubris of that expectation settle on me like a lead blanket. Ms. Goda’s flagship dojo, Milktooth Hall, is an imposing edifice miles into the mountains outside of town. Formerly an asylum, Milktooth’s imposing bulk of gothic architecture, wrought iron and apparently unfinished renovations did not exactly give off a welcoming, homey vibe. While the main building looked largely livable, from the road I could see shattered windows and missing shingles on the upper floor, and another house on the grounds that looked like it had suffered a recent fire. Even already knowing her reputation, the structure was intimidating, and I felt it was nearly instinct that made me check my phone’s reception and my pocket for mace before stepping out of the car.

So braced was I for some sort of danger that it was almost a relief when, at my touch, the door creaked open on its own to pitch blackness. It was too blatant for me to keep taking seriously, she had to be messing with me. Repeating that to myself until it was convincing, I walked into the house.

The foyer opened into a largely unaltered reception area for the asylum. Wooden benches had been replaced with plastic seats bolted to the ground and the floors replaced with linoleum the color of curdled milk. Lights seemed broken or flickering at random. I was the only person there. This was all, again, expected decor for the famed MonsTactician Goda, but I was surprised that I was the only person in the room. Had she been told I was coming? Image was one thing, but certainly Milktooth Hall had to have other staff? Battlers being trained, monster wranglers, classes, accountants, clerks, something? Even Black Jacobs, who raised monsters found at the unexplored sections of maps, kept local offices in his port of call to handle business. But besides the buzz of the neon lights and the odd distant creak or snap of the building settling there was nothing. After a few minutes alone and confused I made up my mind to search the building and opened the first door to my right.

This is how I met her, standing stock-still just behind the door, not showing so much as a flicker of shock when I shrieked in surprise an inch from her face. The beloved, bellicose, Bloodsplatter Tactician, Anzu Goda.

She was wearing the costume she had on in all the major tournament photo-ops, faux-leather strips and resin-faked metal scraps covered in fake bloodstains and artistically draped rags. The outfit was ramshackle mess faked perfectly around superhero sleekness. I was briefly disappointed. If she was meeting me the same way she met her battle opponents, then this might be just another promotion opportunity.

“You are… From the magazine.” She giggled, true to her stage presence as ever. Unblinking, mad grin, movements just a little bit too fluid. A performance cultivated by a slew of dance instructors, acting trainers and psychologists whose careers Anzu had made very, very prestigious. I tried not to let my judgment show.

“Yes. Ms. Goda, MonTactics Monthly. I’m Ezra, Ezra Goodfellow? I believe I spoke to your agent on the phone?”

“Yes I… Recall.” She froze and then whirled away from me, fake metal pieces clattering in my face as she made a 540 degree turn away from me. “This way, to down the hall! Everything will be clear there!” She giggled again, “We’re going to have so much FUN!”

I followed and tried not to audibly groan. Ms. Goda skipped ahead, pixielike, in my own opinion probably a bit too much so for a woman just entering her thirties. Lights began to click off at random. “This way, this way!” Another flash of the mad grin and a ballet twirl around a bend, out of my sight. “We’re almost to my favorite place! My favorite place in the whole building!”

Her voice was still echoing, like from the bottom of a well, when I rounded the corner and found her gone.

I was understandably frustrated; I’d naively hoped my status as a professional would’ve spared me this funhouse nonsense and, to be honest, the whole thing was getting to me. Not the building itself, although it certainly didn’t help; As we’d gone deeper in rusted pipes began to drip unidentifiable brown-red substances down the walls, tiling was missing, and the lights just seemed to get worse and worse as I went. It was how clearly manufactured it all was. The hokiness of the whole thing, right down to the dye in her hair. Something glass, a small bottle or vial, cracked under my foot and I cursed. I’d be lucky to leave this place without tetanus.

I have no idea how long I wandered, but it was more than long enough for my irritation to take root and ferment into a constant low-grade tension. The whole first floor of the building seemed like an endless maze of crisscrossing halls, and more than once I turned back toward what I was CERTAIN should be the lobby just to find more carefully-ruined medical offices and creatively stained wards. Eventually at intersections I would just turn the first way I heard a sound down, a distant giggle or a scratch. I briefly considered calling my editor for help but, true to form, my phone had already died.

It was in this high-strung, exhausted mood that I met Anzu Goda again, standing backlit in front of the door to what appeared to be an administrative office. “Ms. Goda!” Decorum long forgotten, I broke into a half-jog. “Ms. Goda please, I-I get it, we just-“

“Do you know what you are here for, Ezra… Goodfellow.” Sillouetted in the doorframe I couldn’t see her expression, but even so it felt like her gaze bore right through me. An air duct banged and dented overhead, something crawling inside!

“Yes the- the INTERVIEW dammit just let me do my fucking job-!” Professionalism abandoned, I broke into a sprint. My shirt had come untucked. Sweat stained my collar. I was grabbing her arms, shouting, shaking, “Just let me know where we can actually sit DOWN and-!” The vent banged again. Something in it. I looked up at the vent. Wrong! Too late! Something screaming from BELOW me, bursting out of the tiles (loose, shitty linoleum, easily peeled up.) I feel back, flailing, screaming, crying-!

And… So did Ms. Goda. Some pale, bruised, almost translucent-fleshed THING had burst from the ground and was standing over her, shrieking, and tears were running down her face. Just two, around a wide mouth that stretched and contorted her cheeks so the tears ran zigzags. Her scream lasted longer than mine. It lasted longer than the monsters… And slowly faded to peals of laughter as she threw her arms around our assailant.

“Oh that was WONDERFUL Humphrey! Oh who’s my jumpy boy, who’s my loud jumpy BOY!” The creature- soft, eyeless, its fishbelly flesh mottled with random oozing bruises- made another small shriek followed by heavy wheezing and panting as it’s tongue lolled over its almost-human teeth, flopping randomly like a slug exploring. It had hooks for hands, and clammy skin pulled tight over bestial musculature and bones. At its full height it came up to Ms. Goda’s chest, and walked with a pronounced hunch. It headbutted her shoulder twice in catlike affection. Ms. Goda turned to me with another of her signature grins. “All the vents, pipes, secret passages and crawlspaces in the building intersect here, so this is the spot I picked for my office. Any of my rowdy little guys can come surprise me at any time. It’s my favorite place in the whole building!”

The office was comparatively more brightly lit, although I noticed there was still a slight flickering problem. I was soon sipping tea in a large comfortable chair while Ms. Goda ushered a few more Monsters into the room, casually pointing out where I could charge my phone (Humphrey had, out of a desire to “play” with me, apparently drained the battery. “He was probably stalking you about a half an hour,” She added conversationally). Her creatures (or, as she referred to them, “rowdy boys”) mostly kept on a large, thick shag carpet where they would stalk the perimeter, groom themselves with their tongues or rusted-looking blades, or get into brief and terrifying scuffles while we were at the other end of the room. The sole exception was a gaunt creature with what appeared to be a metal cylinder for a head, which set down a large butcher knife to crawl across the room and lay its not-head in my hosts lap. She patted it absentmindedly as we spoke.

“Sorry about all that… you seem pretty wiped out!” Her voice remained just as chirpy and sing-song as it had been when I first encountered her but I was starting to believe that might just naturally be who she was, ellipses and all. “That might’ve got a little out of hand. I was hoping to show off the unique… charm, I guess? Charm and beauty of my lil’ guys here.”

“I mean they made an impression. Humphrey was… Very intimidating. I’m sure he’s a terror in the arena.” I mentally went over the recent tournaments Anzu Goda had been in. I might’ve seen Humphrey deployed in the Hugo Arena in Heorot, exactly once, but I wasn’t sure.

“Hm? Oh sure that too, he’s an Aughts Greenscreen, little bit MacFarlene Slasher and Western Jumper mix. TECHNICALLY a vampire. See the hooks?”

“Yes, I remember now, he used those to bring down a Kelpie being fielded by the Heorot champion, Liana Monteblanc. Would you say then that that was your reason for using a mutt rather than a purebred-“

“Would you like to pet him?”

I froze. For most of these interviews a Tactician would parade out a few of their most prized or crowd-pleasing creatures for some photo ops, I’d never been encouraged to actually interact with one beyond throwing a target for it to chase or cajoling it into roaring for the camera. Besides a tank of Slithy Toves I’d kept when I was little and my mother’s loud, squawking Phoenix I’d always been more of a dog person.

“Would that be alright?”

“Humphrey! Come here!” The creature shambled up obediently at Ms. Goda’s beckoning, the one in her lap already shuffling away in some territorial submission display to Humphrey (Ms. Goda seemed displeased by this, but I didn’t really notice until later).

I slowly, tentatively reached out my hand, and Humphrey jerked to bite down on my wrist. I gasped and looked away, but the pain never came, and when I looked back the monster was holding my hand gently, but firmly, between its teeth. Its fat tongue squirmed between my fingers.

“Humphrey no!” Laughing, Ms. Goda placed one hand on the beasts flat face and shoved it away, making it release my hand with a wet scrape. “You’re going to want to reach out more forcefully,” she explained, demonstrating. She patted its head like a three year old would pat the head of a dog, a clumsy pantomime of affection, “Anxiety, fear, tentativeness, they zero in on that really closely. They’re incredibly empathetic creatures, even compared to most other monsters. If you seem doubtful about what you’re doing for even a moment they can tell, and the only way they know how to react to fear is to exaggerate it. Here, try again.” I did, this time imitating her rough handling, and was rewarded this time by Humphrey nuzzling my hand. Pretty soon the creature was hunched next to my chair, my arm reaching down to pat it occasionally. It felt cool and smooth, like leather with a thin layer of silly putty over it.

“Isn’t that nicer?”

“It is,” I had to admit it. I’d never seen a MonsTactician’s creatures behave so… intimately. Like something kept as someone’s pet rather than some grand incarnation of raw power. I’d stood beneath the bellies of dragons while their handlers pointed out the patterns of their scales, I’d seen pixies twinkle toxic or wish-granting glitters inches from my eyes, but casually patting the flank of this bleating, oozing horror I was cowed. My prepared questions fled me. “Do you… Do anything to get them like this? Some socialization training?”

“Oh most tacticians I’ve met are like this with their monsters in private. Some not,” Ms. Goda shrugged, “But for the most part you really cant work with any animal without some degree of empathic connection or affection, monsters are no different. I’m not surprised you cant really get at that side of them though, I didn’t really agree to this for the same reasons.” Her laugh twinkled, “I’m already rich, I don’t need to do favors for publicity.”

That rankled me a little. “That’s a little strange to hear, Ma’am. With all due respect, it seems odd that someone who doesn’t need publicity would go to the trouble of this whole performance.”

“Hm?”

“You know… Your whole battlefield schtick.” I was beginning to get frustrated again. “The abandoned haunted house, the costume, your whole mistress of horror act.”

“What?” She threw another mad giggle into the conversation, the way a card shark throws down a winning hand, “Ezra, what about this do you think is behavior that I wouldn’t exhibit anyway?”

“Ms. Goda,” I was getting a little sick of being condescended to, not that I wasn’t earning it. “It’s well known that every inch of this building, down to the rusted clasps on your costume and the passages in the walls, are the product of teams of set designers, acting coaches, fashion designers-“

“Oh pfft yeah everyone knows THAT Ezra, god,” she waved me to silence, still laughing, “Because I want to do the thing I would do anyway WELL.” She must’ve noticed my confused expression, because she continued, “I LIKE doing this Mx. Goodfellow. There’s no ‘’trouble’ involved. I LIKE playing the mistress of horror, and I don’t hide that I’m acting.” Her hand gently massaged the base of the metal-headed monster’s neck, eliciting a thrumming tinny purr. “I mean holy smokes man, my door opened by itself like something from an October B-movie. You KNOW who I am.”

I was heartbroken. I wanted to get to the real Anzu, and she was essentially telling me that there wasn’t one. That the woman WAS a fabrication, and lived as one, and liked it that way. She grinned at me leaning back in her chair across from me, fang-caps on her teeth sharp and obvious, streaks in her thick black mascara from when she’d been crying just ten minutes ago tracing drips and zigzags down to her jaw like they’d been painted on. Maybe they had been. I sighed and got into the boilerplate questions; if she wanted this to be rote, I could do it rote and leave.

“Most famous MonsTacticians pick a genre of monster to raise, sort of as their bit. Is that why you chose Horrors, to play into this fantasy?”

“Sort of a chicken or the egg thing really. The truth is that when I first got into raising these guys I hated the idea of ever making them fight.”

“Ah, but most monsters need some degree of violence, conflict or intrigue. Even something as docile as a sphinx needs chances to ask riddles and gamble on the outcome,” I pointed out, “We’re not talking about a pet bird or a normal animal, we’re talking about something with flesh wounds for eyes and rusted fishhooks for hands. A lot of monsters are innately aggressive and need an outlet.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. No monster is innately aggressive.” Briefly, Ms. Goda’s smile took on a frozen edge. A simian display of teeth. “Monsters are reflections of us, of humans. WE’RE innately aggressive and need an outlet. We’re innately dangerous, loving, curious, most HUMANS need some degree of violence, conflict or intrigue. And monsters follow us to them. Do you want me to finish answering your question?”

“I’m sorry, do continue.”

“To fall back on stereotypes, I never really got along with other kids when I was small. My parents had a big house with a property that extended into the woods behind it, and I was an only child, so I spent a lot of time by myself.” She sat back and gripped her mug of tea in both hands, delicately, that soft thrumming anger I’d only barely glimpsed fading to reminiscence. “I was homeschooled for a long while, so I only started spending much time around other children in middle school.” She grimaced, “Bad place to start with humans, really. I honestly think we should raise the age where you’re allowed to take care of monsters a little higher than thirteen, after they stop being monsters themselves. It’s like a feedback loop. But that’s not what you’re here for.” She sipped the tea once, one hand at her jaw to preserve her makeup. “I didn’t really understand them, and they didn’t want to understand me… It felt like the results of every interaction I had with people was completely divorced from my actions. I’d tell a joke, I’d get stared at. The next time I did they laughed. The time after that someone called me an idiot. Eventually I was just… doing random things to see how they’d react. Throwing behavior at a wall to see what would stick.”

“My parents noticed this and would try to get me to break out of my shell. They’d ask me about my classmates, invite the ones they thought I might like to our house for playdates and birthday parties and we’d go romping around the woods, but it still didn’t really click. They liked my toys, they liked my big house and big yard, but I was still an incomprehendable foreign being. The best I could do was mimic them.” She laughed again, twinkling, “Honestly by then it was probably a self fulfilling prophecy. I already assumed nothing I did to make real friends would work.”

“These days, a child with a monster or two can be afforded a lot of freedom. We’d go rollicking deep into the woods, with a couple kids and their monsters keeping watch for anything wild. I remember one of them had a dragon, a big fat goofy eighties-barbera lump of scales and tiny, agile wings, while the other one had some big floppy puppet of a brute that has parents had gotten to teach him his numbers and ABCs when he was little. Supposedly, they would be able to smell any other monsters coming and hustle us home if something were to go wrong.”

“So, when the other kids didn’t see what was following us, I assumed I wasn’t supposed to either and ignored it.” I remember when she got to this part I double checked that the recorder was working. There is a page in my pocket notebook where I distinctly recall writing the words ‘dark backstory???’ and circling it.

“Every glance I got of it was moving slowly, deliberately through the trees above us, gentle enough to be mistaken for just branches moving in the breeze, but it seemed to have no trouble keeping pace with four rambunctious children and their caretakers. Maybe one of the kids had brought a third monster? I heard some fae were supposed to be shy. Or maybe it was something mundane, like some… big monkey. I was twelve.” Ms. Goda chuckled, “It made sense to me.”

“We hadn’t really DECIDED we were going to the creek, Shifat just said he saw a deer there and we just sort of wandered in that direction. Susan hated the woods though; the dragon was hers, and riding on its back had gotten her hair caught in hanging branches here and there. “As she ran up to the waterfront to check her curls in her reflection, I saw the thing in the trees above us speed up, to keep pace with her. I almost raised my voice to shout a warning, but back then I didn’t really have the nerve.”

“I waited with this kind of dread you only experience with social anxiety as like, the look on her face went from preening to frozen fear and confusion, when she saw whatever was waiting above her reflected in the running water. And it was new to me because for once I felt like I could predict how she was reacting. Like, I knew she was about to freak out, because I understood what was prompting this.”

I tried not to salivate and wrote over ‘dark backstory???’, capitalizing it.

“It dropped from above, slower than gravity should allow. Its flesh was mottled hues of dirty pink and green, solid and warty like an armadillos shell. Its face was a cluster of human molars. Its twelve legs ended in delicate, ladylike hands that reached out to brace against the surface of the water, like it might float away without the surface tension to latch on to, with steepled fingers as it lurched its bulk, mouth first, toward Susan.”

I circled ‘DARK BACKSTORY???’ a few more times, excitedly. Ms. Goda did not appear to notice.

“We all screamed. That’s… Kind of the main point I remember. If I focus I could tell you about how her dragon pulled her back with a wheezing burble before horking a wad of flame at the thing, or about Shifat’s Puppet sweeping all of us into its hairy arms and booking it for my house. Or about Aaron’s snotty panicked face a few inches from mine or the clacking howling of the creature behind us but what really stuck with me was that… Scream. It was the first time in forever I’d done anything around anyone else that I hadn’t overthought or tried to control. I just let loose and let what I was feeling come out and everyone else did too, at the same time.”

I underlined ‘DARK BACKSTORY???’ frantically.

“I’d never really felt like I was doing something WITH others before.”

… I thought for a moment, and then crossed out ‘DARK BACKSTORY???’

“I was… Really, really used to not really being in-sync with other children. I didn’t react the same way as them… to bad news, to surprises, to new experiences or enjoyment. Everything I did around my school friends was really carefully analyzed or rehearsed in my head first because I was worried about humiliating myself, or driving people off. But I just reacted instinctively, on the same level as the other kids, without a moment of thought. And afterwards I felt great! Feeling so pent up all the time wasn’t exactly good for a preteen, one good long scream did more for my mood than all the therapy my parents could pay for.”

“I’ve heard some say fear is more of an instinct than an emotion, a defense mechanism.” I offered, “You had trouble connecting empathically, but something so basic-“

“I mean sure maybe,” Goda shook her head and took another sip of her tea, “The point was that I finally had a starting point. Fear. Surprise. Shock. There was a… a Control group that I could start from for understanding other people.”

“So what was the next step?”

“Immediately after? For a couple weeks I was in the habit of hiding in closets and cupboards and jumping out to scare my parents. So when they got fed up with that I got sent along to a new therapist, who figured that I was trying to work through my traumatic incident with the creature in the woods.”

“Something of a swing and a miss.”

“I mean hell, he wasn’t completely wrong. Just whiffed the follow-through. His first idea was exposure therapy, had me play with small therapy monsters they kept that were similar. He had a tooth fairy and a boggart that he thought would be similar. Real couple of cuties, but … Kind of missing the point. The next step was him showing me the articles about how they, y’know like, captured and relocated the thing from the woods that attacked Susan, and that DID catch my eye. Apparently it was a Bandersnatch that had been feeding off ectoplasm runoff from a local prison. When it got big enough to divide, it split into this and a few other ghoulies. It’s really fascinating, like when a Bandersnatch or a Jabberwocky or anything else of the Wunderlander family take in enough external thematic elements they just kind of swell up and SPLIT into new monsters, it’s why there’s so many-“ The topic seemed to be working Ms. Goda up and I was worried we’d lose the plot, so I tried to bring the subject of our chat back to her.

“The creature that attacked you, where was it relocated to?”

“… Uhh, a shelter.” Goda got quiet. “According to the article it was, um, slated to be destroyed.”

“Oh.”

“I guess I understood? It had attacked a child. But I feel like a lot of problems could have been avoided if they’d just moved it to the right habitat. A sunken ship or an abandoned laboratory, someone puts up a sign, maybe get a behavioral specialist in there…”

“A specialist… Like you are now?”

“A bit, yeah.” Anzu grinned, “You know, horrors are the only breed of monster whose primary means of defense or offense requires forming an empathic connection?”

“You mean like Humphrey here did earlier?” I raised an eyebrow and patted the creature with a damp ‘slap,’ “Oh yes, we bonded.” The creature wheezed and, in spite of myself, I rubbed the top of its head and cooed to it. “I’d hardly call screaming and leaping an empathic connection, Ms. Goda.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” There was that stiff, toothy smile again. The woman had some sort of direct access to the lizard-brain prey instincts of whoever she was speaking too. Her pupils pinned me to my chair like a moth to a board. I felt like I’d made myself look extraordinarily stupid to her again. “An abrupt scream can, without language, communicate intent and elicit a reaction that requires an understanding of the recipient and what they’re concerned about, but let’s disregard that. You used Humphrey as an example. Maybe you didn’t feel so close to him, but over the course of the entire time he was hunting you he had to figure out how attentive you were, how much noise he could get away with making in the vents to put you on edge without making you run for it, when to drain your phone’s battery so that you’d feel isolated, and when to bring it all home so that you’d be at your most panicked when he jumped out.”

I looked down at the monster incredulously. It was resting its head on its ankle in an awkward, folded up heap, tongue darting out to lick a scab every so often.

“He played you like a fiddle, Ezra. The instincts that make dogs play fetch are the same ones that they’d use to hunt squirrels. In the wild, the part where you were screaming, flailing and confused would have been where he’d brought the hooks out.”

Humphrey chewed on one toe. I could not find it in myself to describe the action as thoughtfully.

“The more I studied up on horrors, the better I understood what people found offputting. Did you know that there are celtic horrors, a breed of fae called The Gentry, that can completely fake a conversation with a human? They’re no more sapient than any other monster, but can give an impression of complete power with only vague, instinctive answers and precise body language? 50 people a year make bargains with them to grant wishes, and the backfire from the wishes are the Gentry’s feeding apparatus. There’s also the Eastern Haunt which, in addition to constantly emitting anxiety-inducing infrasounds, floods its prey’s den with a gas that suppresses the fight or flight response, but not the desire to act on one of them?”

“So you argue that, what, horrors understand human behavior better than other monsters?”

“I mean, I don’t want to disparage the work of my colleagues.” Ms. Goda grinned and chuckled again, hands fidgeting with each other as she spoke. I got the impression that she would, in fact, LOVE to disparage the work of her colleagues but that isn’t really my role as a journalist. Her fingers interlaced and broke away from each other quickly, like fighting crabs. “Black Jacobs once told me he sees man’s wonder for exploration reflected in the eyes of his favorite sea serpent, I’ve got no reason to disbelieve him. Rational Rick Redcliffe, the Paradox Tactician, says that his Rokos Basilisks and Laplace’s Demon make better company than most people he knows, but I kinda think that’s just because he’s really, really bad with people. I certainly do think Horrors are trying harder.”

“To understand us?”

“To empathize with us. Horror relies on emotion. Connection with an audience where you know exactly how uncomfortable to make them, and what kind of discomfort they need or want.” Anzu shrugged. “That’s what I learned from studying them, anyway. The more I learned about how Horror monsters defended themselves, the better I got at defending myself from humanity. What buttons are okay to push or lean on a bit, which ones to avoid because they’d provoke too much blowback.”

“So that’s all this then?” I gestured to the artfully delapitated building around us, “You do this to push people’s buttons.”

“Swing and a miss, Goodfellow.” Her grin was back, lightly infuriating. “I don’t do this FOR anyone. I just accepted that I’m going to push people’s buttons anyway. So I might as well pick the ones that we both get something out of.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“I didn’t need to pull back from people, Ezra, I needed to throw myself at them with fuller force! Monsters just need presence, the chance to exist as a force upon events. PEOPLE need drama, Ezra. They need the things that they think monsters need. Violence, intrigue, they need to feel like sometimes things have high stakes! Instead of holding myself back, I let myself go off the rails. I got in people’s faces, laughed at my own jokes if nobody else was going to… I let myself be as loud and abrupt and as frantic as I needed to be, with just enough awareness and control of where I was sending things to avoid the stuff that would really hurt people. It didn’t matter if I staggered too far into discomfort as long as I veered out again right after. A good scare is followed by closure. A mess can be therapeutic, as long as it’s cleaned up. After people scream it all out, endorphins flood into the space left behind and they laugh!”

“And this got other children to like you?”

“Oh no they HATED it,” Ms. Goda gave another cackle, “For the most part. But there’s more place in a social group for an oddity than there is for someone trying and failing to fit in. I found people that appreciated who I was naturally rather than having a role in their life that needed filling. Or, maybe they just needed the role I filled naturally? Either way, things picked up.”

“It sounds like this is where you really started to come into yourself. Where the Bloodsplatter Tactician began. What did your parents think of the change?”

“They were glad I was happier, but were worried that my new habits would make life harder for me. Got me tested for aspergers syndrome, fussed over whether I’d be able to hold a job or find a husband.”

“Those sound like the sort of concerns most would buckle against.”

“I never really thought about it enough to have an opinion? My ex-wife thought it was funny as hell though.” I perked up here; Anzu’s personal life was the subject of much gossip and speculation, and there had been a rumor that her five year cohabitation with the troll-rearer Liana Monteblanc had been something more.

“I suppose you may have had some trouble getting close to others, what with your larger than life personality-“ I was rewarded by another peal of frantic, chirping laughter.

“Sure thing Ezra, that’s why so many leads in romance stories play such passive, subdued characters,” That grin was back, toothy and playful, “People need intrigue, remember? They need to be regularly overwhelmed and awed and released. That’s part of what attracts people to monsters in the first place, and it gives monsters a chance to be provided what they need.”

“I thought you said monsters don’t need violence?”

“I’m not talking about violence Ezra, I’m talking about presence. Look at Grendel, or Medusa, or Polyphemous. What they need is to be massive, to have an impact that bends circumstance around it. It reflects on humans that the best ways we can ever think about expressing that is violence. Not that it can’t work in context, but it’s part of what I want to address in my own career. Hence today’s interview.”

“It sounds like your opposition is to the very concept of Monster Battling, Ms. Goda.”

“I’m opposed to ONLY monster battling, Mx. Goodfellow, because it results in drastic misunderstanding of beautiful creatures that have been our companions at least as long as the dog, if not longer. Like look, take in Jiji here.” At this Anzu chucked the cylinder-headed monster under its, lets say chin, and ran her knuckles down its back roughly. I leaned in to peer at the creature, noting the flutelike oozing perforations on its arms and legs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you employ this one in the arena, Ms. Goda.”

“And you won’t, he’s a rescue.”

“Where from?”

“My last batch of classes.”

“Pardon?”

“Milktooth hall is a battler dojo Ezra, I DO train people here.” Anzu giggled, a high-pitched rattling of pleasure, “A few people wanting to get into the Montactics industry sign up for classes on raising and battling monsters every year. You have to be committed, of course, we’re something of a remote locale, but for people that want it badly enough…”

“I see.”

“Jiji was being kept in a steel locker the trainer had bought at an auction for a dilapidated school, chosen simply for rusted aesthetic without even the slightest attention to who the prior owner had been or whether or not it had been used for any sort of sinister disappearance. The ectoplasm he was being fed was scraped entirely off of vengeance fantasies and suppressed fetishes. Jiji here was weak, malnourished, aggressive, and showed signs of wanton abuse.”

“I mean, it is a horror Ms. Goda, I would expect that-“

“Hence WANTON, Ezra!” Anzu launched forward out of her chair at me, Humphrey and Jiji scattering away with a spray of scabs and soft, flailing limbs. The Bloodsplatter Tactician’s arms reached out to either side of my chair and, instinctively, I tried to recoil and hide deeper in the cushions.

The light was behind her head, casting all of her into a silhouette. Stick-thin limbs interrupted by the jagged offshoots of her costume. All I could make out were here eyes and teeth, gleaming above me.

“Horrors aren’t just a collection of Bad Things you can funnel human grossness into and get a result, Mx. Goodfellow!” Spittle flecked my face with every other word, blowback from the unknowable world of her open and enraged maw, “Each one of these creatures is, in and of themselves, an ECOSYSTEM of emotion, experience, texture, and instinct that has to be kept BALANCED! A monster needs to be able to bend the world around it, to have presence solid enough to keep itself impacting its environment! Jiji was forced to sleep in a box, Ezra! An ugly, unhaunted box, without a scrap of history for it to soak! Forced to choke down and guzzle scraps of teenage agony without the rich nutritional value needed to develop a thematic target! How could it empathize with its prey enough to victimize it without any personal qualities of its own? What archetype is it supposed to break when it’s only disruption is good taste?! I do not train people that don’t aspire higher than running some slasher-mill to keep the new owners of the Native Animosity stocked up on disposeable ghouls!”

She was breathing heavily. Her breath was fogging my glasses, but I almost saw a new trail making its way down the mascara on her cheek.

I clicked my pen, awkwardly, “So you… Took Jiji?” Anzu blinked and stepped back.

“Ezra that would be illegal as hell.”

“I mean, you just sounded very passionate about-“

“Could you imagine if it got out that a major MonsTactician was just stealing monsters from people that came to her for training? My career would be over.”

“Well that’s very-“

“I took her aside, expressed my concerns and explained to her that I was worried that she couldn’t provide what this creature needs. I told her what needed to change, and if that was too difficult I offered to take the creature off her hands and compensate her for it.”

“Okay well that makes more-“

“Then she got institutionalized and I cut a deal with her family instead.”

“What?”

“Uuuugh it was so stupid,” Ms. Goda flopped back in her chair, head rolling back like a frustrated teenager. “The girl heard what I said about history and tried to hook Jiji up directly to a psychoactive pump funneled directly off of a set of violent crime news blogs. If it had worked, her failure to dilute it with adequate metaphor could have taken years off Jiji’s lifespan, but instead the pump sprung a leak and doused her with the raw ectoplasm.”

“Oh my god.” Anzu nodded.

“Stage 3 Cthonic Genre Awareness. They had her taken away to St. Pratchetts, screaming about being a background character in a piece of short genre metafiction.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It is… But I suppose it works out for Jiji here.”

“Cold comfort, I suppose.”

“Is it?”

“You don’t think so? The girl wanted to make a change, she came to you hoping to gain understanding. The fact that your advice was so misunderstood, or went so catastrophically wrong in its execution, doesn’t strike you as a little tragic?”

“I mean, yes, of course.” Anzu’s hand fluttered and grasped, spiderlike, to the back of Jiji’s neck to resume petting. “Honestly, that might be part of what she might’ve misunderstood in the first place.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s a temptation, in horror, to contextualize it as something that only happens to bad people. That we can feed them vengeance fantasies and gifts from exes and personal, unbreakable judgement,” Anzu pulled Jiji further into her lap, where it began to emit that metallic ringing purr. As she stroked its back, spines dripping some sort of green ichor rose and fell along its vertebre, careful to point away from its masters fingertips.

“I think that’s something people do in real life a lot, too. Contextualize horrors as things that only happen to people who made some kind of moral or tactical mistake,” I hadn’t noticed it at first, but the sound of the monsters playing on the carpet had stopped. A creature like a ball of tar with nails sticking out had paused mid-wrestling with something not unlike a fanged barnacle. Both had turned their heads to stare at me.

Humphrey had too, for that matter. When I reached out to pat his bald eyeless head again he pulled back, with a warning hiss.

“They figure they’ll never be poor, or assaulted, or lonely, not because of any external factor but because they consider themselves ‘good’ in some abstract, unaddressed definition of the term. Pious or rational or charitable or successful or kind.” Jiji’s lower body still knelt on the floor. Anzu Goda, the Bloodsplatter Tactician, wrapped one leg around it possessively and clutched it in her arms like a child with an oversized toy. She glared at me over the top of its head, her voice trancelike.

My phone was still charging on the desk, five feet away. It felt like a mile. I remembered what Anzu had said about monsters not needing to be violent. I also remembered that the one she’d encountered in the woods in her youth, that she had so much sympathy for, had attempted to seize a child.

“The fact of the matter is that horror, that real meat-hook sensation you feel behind the ribs to drag out a scream, works best when you acknowledge that a perfectly good person can do everything right and still be the next…” I heard a low, rumbling wheeze from Humphrey, “… Victim.”

Why would a reclusive celebrity agree to her first interview in years, gush about how much more closely she connected with the most aggressive breed of monster than she does with humans, and then cop to giving advice that might have gotten one of her trainees sent to an insane asylum?

I looked down to organize my notes. My hands felt clammy and I remember hoping, briefly, that they didn’t smudge my ink. Breaking eye contact was a mistake. “W-well Ms. Goda, you’re clearly passionate about your work, I s-suppose I should ask if you have any further thoughts for our readers before-“

Anzu Goda let out an earpiercing HOWL, and Jiji launched itself from her lap. Before it reached me my world turned sideways; some part of me that wasn’t screaming registered that Humphrey had slammed into my chair from the side. I pressed back into the cushions to keep from banging my head on the linoleum and tumbled across the floor, coming to a rest by the desk.

My phone. It should be charged by now. I scrambled to my feet, still lurching and dizzy, and grasped for my canister of mace. It took another three seconds of panicked fumbling, staring down the approaching monsters and the back of Ms. Goda’s seat, before another all-important detail bubbled to the surface of my thoughts.

“… Did you just yell ‘Boo!’?”

Laughter erupted from the other side of the seat. Anzu clambered up to sprawl over the back of her chair. In spite of myself, I began to laugh too. “Oh my god I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect Humphrey to get in on it, that was way out of hand, but that was AMAZING. Are you alright?”

“Possibly a little bruised,” I admitted, still chuckling (I wouldn’t notice until later, in my car, two perforations in my neck just below the jaw. They were healed by the time I’d gotten home, and at the time of writing this I’m pleased to observe no noticeable signs of tetanus). I hated to admit it, but Anzu had a point about how you felt after a fright. My muscles felt loose, my heart was pumping, I was incredibly relaxed. If she could bottle a good rush of fear endorphins I suspected Anzu Goda would never have to work again. Not that she’d ever willingly retire.

“If anything aches I have ibuprofen in the top drawer of that desk and tequila in the bottom one. I hope that wasn’t too much Ezra, I’m supposed to keep them under better control than that.” Jiji and Humphrey had marched back to either side of her chair, and at this remark she reached down and pressed their heads into a lower bow with a ‘tsk’. “You two say you’re sorry, I have to go give Mx. Goodfellow the rest of their tour.”

“You asked me for a closing statement, Ezra,” Ms. Goda went on, escorting me out of the office and locking the door behind her (I heard the sound of some of the creatures clambering back into the buildings air ducts, others scratching and whining on the other side of the wall). “Do you mind if we handle the photos the Monthly wanted while I think of a good one?”

“You mean that whole display wasn’t it?” Anzu gave another cackle and reached up to throw an arm around my shoulders. It felt like being hugged by a rubber Halloween skeleton.

“Mx. Goodfellow, I have to invite you over again sometime. You’re exactly my kind of stick in the mud.”

“A perfect victim, you mean.”

“That too. But really, I don’t think you appreciate how much you’re helping me today.” Her tone softened in a way I hadn’t heard previously. “Horrors are the most frequently misunderstood genre of monsters. I agreed to this interview to sort of… Un-demonize them in the eyes of the public, I guess? Help them get more popular, and into good homes.”

“You un-demonized them by having them chase me around an abandoned asylum?” “I mean I’m not magic. They demonize themselves a little.” She winked, and I noticed some of her remaining makeup clotting at the corner of her eye. “But some folks need a few demons, right?”

The interview portion of my visit was a difficult act to follow, so Ms. Goda elected not to try. Or maybe she took showing me around the actual functionality of Milktooth Hall too seriously to ham up. Regardless, I finally got to meet some of the battlers Anzu had trained, working in the nurseries and pens for her creatures. They were a varied bunch. A man of forty with a long goatee and tattoos on his palms delicately removed a Xenophormous creature from the chest cavity of a pig and gently placed the writhing, mewling monster pup aside as he moved to the next hanging incubator. His name was Marv. He’d gotten into raising horrors as something to do after his daughter left the house. Anzu was giving him the pick of this litter for volunteering, after they’d been weaned and eaten the obligatory runt. I also got to witness the feeding of her latest addition, an attempt at Genty/Greater Vampire crossbreeding, with the assistance of a gaggle of teenagers from one of her classes. They were taking turns swinging a ballistic gel dummy wrapped in a Kevlar vest winched to a cable at the ceiling (which Ms. Goda assured me was a standard enrichment toy most battlers gave to their monsters) into range of the things claws where it would rake the gel body to pieces, babbling gothic nonsense in iambic pentameter. Every successful strike resulted in peals of laughter from the youngsters, followed by dares to swing the next pass closer. It was actually while I was lining up the photo of the group I eventually chose to accompany this article that Anzu settled on a closing statement.

“So far, Mx. Goodfellow, I’ve been threatened with closure seventeen times.”

She simply dropped the sentence into the silence of me setting up my tripod so neatly, like a seltzer tablet into a glass of water, that you could mistake it for your own thought. Words bubbled forward without disturbing the surface as I lined up my shot. She spoke evenly and quietly, not looking in my direction.

“Three times were concerned citizen groups. Two were former students. One was due to a city ordinance that, abruptly, qualified my dojo as an unlicensed slaughterhouse. Once was Rational Rick Redcliffe, although I think it was just because he wanted to prove one of his tedious ‘points.’ I don’t totally remember the others. And most don’t surprise me. I’m in the business of making people uncomfortable.

“People have every good reason to be repelled by horror, Ezra. I don’t deny that. That same immune response that lets people recognize other people as untrustworthy is the one that leads them to the conclusion that me, my creatures, and my work doesn’t belong in the public eye or should be subject to strict, codified limits.”

The teenagers smiles had begun to freeze. I didn’t dare take the picture. If the click of my camera interrupted Anzu I’d never forgive myself.

“Monsters are reflections of US though, Ezra. Denying or limiting the myriad forms they can take is to deny our own nature. Being disgusted by one is like a dog looking in a mirror and getting angry at this other, similar dog. Locking these sorts of things away or shoving them into the dark parts of the world we don’t look at… That doesn’t HELP a lot of people. Some need to understand that discomfort. Some need to experience that horror in order to get their release. Some need to find their way to empathy just by this… groundwork, followed by process of elimination. Raising or handling horrors can often provide those things safely, so long as the owner can be trusted to recognize what they are. “My hope is that these breeds will become more popular with the general populance. Not just battlers, but ordinary people that need this kind of companionship. I want to see more slasher mills shut down, I want to see more Haunts and Psychopomps go to good homes instead of ending up as scared and sickly as Jiji was when I found him. I sincerely implore your readership to look into their hearts and ask themselves… ‘do I need a good scare?’”

Anzu Goda finally glanced in my direction and winked, grin returning like a crack in a cartoon earthquake. “How’s that for a closing statement, Mx. Goodfellow?”

“Sounds like good press, Ms. Goda.” I replied, and took the photo.

-Last Professional publication of Ezra Goodfellow before leaving Montactics Monthly. Present whereabouts unknown.

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theclaravoyant · 6 years

Text

Sardines ~ [AOS Team, Rated T]

AN ~ for @mcubingo, and comprised of a few combined prompts for @liz-a-bell. Fluffy hurt/comfort, ft. Daisy & the Team. I hope you like it!

Relationships/Characters: Daisy & Team Prompt: “Under the Bleachers” for @mcubingo Rating: T Warnings: N/A Other Tags: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Coarse Language, Mild References to Childhood Emotional Trauma

Summary: When a successful mission leaves Daisy unexpectedly reeling with feelings from her past, she needs somewhere to hide. And some friends, to help her through the darkness to the other side.

Read on AO3 (~2100wd) or below

Sardines

“Thank you so much, again!” Linda cried, pulling her daughter into a hug. Abby grinned and squeezed back, too overjoyed to bother with the politics of being a teenager. She’d had a long, hard, actually honest-to-goodness life-threatening day, and she wanted nothing more than Linda’s hugs and sappy music on the ride home, and Mark’s homemade pizza, and ice-cream in the lounge with the both of them. She couldn’t thank the Shield team enough.

Usually, Daisy would have been overjoyed watching such a reunion. Abby had performed bravely and her mother’s love was absolute and genuine – if nothing else, she could tell by Abby’s response to it. The pride and protectiveness and relief emanated from their embrace with a soft glow that Daisy would have thought would lift her spirits and help wash away the weight of fighting. Instead, and very much against her wish or will, she felt a rotting sort of feeling clawing at her heart.

“Ex- excuse me,” she stammered, waving her leave. “I’m just going to get some water. Long day, you know how it is. I’ll catch you later, hm?”

The rest of the team looked subtly thrown by her odd behaviour. Had she caught sight of another enemy, perhaps, and didn’t want to alarm Abby and mother before she took care of it? Was she overwhelmed, having saved not just Abby, but in doing so, her entire school? Or was she maybe even injured and trying not to let on? She had, after all, taken the brunt of the fighting. No, it was this terrible sickness, that seemed to get worse the more she tried to figure out where it was coming from. It clawed up her throat like a panic attack, and when she ran to the drink fountains and drowned it in cool, if coppery, liquid, she felt like she was choking.

Outside. She had to get outside.

But she couldn’t very well go back to where they were. Whatever this was, it was coming from them. Was it jealousy? Was it fear? Had she been poisoned? No, surely not, she could remember feeling like this before and not dying, but how? When?

Daisy staggered through the school and out the back, fortunately avoiding most people as it was long past home time. By the time she made it out to the other side, to the track field she felt like screaming. Like throwing herself into the air until pure suffocation lulled her anxiety into cloudy, dreamy, nothingness, and survival made all other thoughts into nothing. Unfortunately for her though, it seemed those who were not headed home had come out here for training. She saw the football team, running laps, and a couple of cheerleaders throwing each other into flips that turned her stomach. She couldn’t flee upwards with so many witnesses. Not least because it looked half like dying, unless she was to make a scene blasting herself out of the arena entirely and running off into the suburbs of this poor town for no reason other than a strange and sickening fear. Or was it loneliness? Or was it both?

And so, with nowhere else to go, Daisy’s body led her on autopilot to a very familiar place. A place where people had come to mourn and fear and skip and shoot up and cause mischief since the dawn of time. A place where you could hide even in a crowd; a place amidst some of the most everyday lives in the world, where anyone could take a time out, however small.

She sat under the bleachers, hugged her knees, and waited for the feeling to pass.

She was still waiting when a familiar set of footsteps approached. Stopped. She heard the crunch of the grass and grit and dirt, the hiccup in breath as her observer bent over to catch better sight of her, and made his way around. A few seconds later, Fitz knocked on one of the load-bearing pillars, with a soft but inquisitive expression. It wasn’t often, after all, that one found an agent – however newly minted – freaking out like this.

“Knock knock?” he posited, when he saw that Daisy didn’t seem to be entirely against his intrusion. At this, she rolled her eyes – and wiped at them, just in case, though she was not crying – and turned toward him, slowly uncurling from her ball as he came over and sat down beside her. A smile touched her lips as he glanced around himself uncertainly, afraid of gum or spider webs or who knows what, before turning back to her.

“How did you find me?” Daisy asked.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly check the girls toilets, could I?” Fitz returned. “You’ve been gone for a while, is all. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Daisy snorted, shrugging it off, though the stormy sickness was not yet quelled. Fitz, of course, saw straight through this, so she pushed on and tried to forge him a vague but convincing answer, and failed. After all, how could she be vague about this feeling when she didn’t know what it was to be vague about? The more she tried to circumvent the point, the more she realised what the point was, and it was like sinking a hot knife into her chest. Tears finally spilled over as she realised exactly what it was she was feeling.

“I don’t know what happened, I just- I saw Abby with Linda, how lovely they were, and it made me remember some… bad things. About growing up. I thought I’d forgotten what that rejection felt like, you know, I’m good now right? But something about that, it just reminded me, I’ve felt like this before. I had good parents, some of them, in the system. I had families I thought I would be with forever, and they thought I’d be with them too, and- and they sent me away anyway. Nobody told me anything. They rejected me over and over again, even the good ones, and it hurts so much...”

Fitz shuffled around in the dirt to sit beside her as she paused a moment in her speech to pull herself together. It wasn’t jealousy after all, or fear for Abby’s safety or her own. It was just a memory, buried for over a decade. The memory of an abandoned child.

“You know they did it to keep you safe,” Fitz reminded her, as gently as he could. He took her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly. “Some of them, anyway, right? They loved you very much. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that now,” Daisy promised. “Fifteen year old me didn’t know that. Twelve year old me didn’t know that. Eight year old me didn’t know that.”

Now Fitz was starting to tear up too. He, of course, had his own experiences with abandonment and rejection from his father, and with never feeling good enough. He hardly dared to imagine what it would have been like if, rather than helping him through it, his mother had turned on him too. If it had happened over and over…

“Damn it, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to bring the mood down," Daisy backtracked halfheartedly. “Let’s just go-“

“How many was it?” Fitz asked.

“What?”

“How many?” Fitz repeated, meeting her eyes. “Houses.” He re-thought his question, and dropped his gaze to where their hands still sat intertwined. “I mean, you don’t have to answer, I was just...”

“Nineteen,” Daisy said. “Yeah. I got kicked out of more houses than years I was alive. Then I got to thinking, fuck that noise, you know? I ran away when I was sixteen, moved into that van, lived there ever since.”

“Wow. That’s brave.”

“It was stupid. And really dangerous.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t brave.”

He squeezed his hand again, and smiled at her. She smiled back, but for all she wanted to, she just couldn’t quite let the moment sit.

“What about you, supergenius?” she teased, nudging him with their joined hands. “You moved countries at that age, didn’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I was technically fourteen,” Fitz pointed out. “But I had a support system. I called my Mum every week. She sent me biscuits in the mail. I got teased relentlessly o’ course, but I also had a PhD at fourteen, so, what did they know, eh?”

“What did who know?”

Fitz and Daisy glanced around for the voice, and found Jemma picking her way down the under-bleachers toward them. She sat promptly and primly, studying their tearful faces and sad smiles.

“Welcome to the pity party,” Daisy greeted. “I had a freak-out, Fitz came and found me, everything’s all good now but I still kinda feel like there’s concrete in my lungs. Just a quick update.”

“Have you had enough water? Since the fight?”

“No, Jemma, I haven’t had water. So unless you-”

“Well, here then.”

“- of course you do.”

And the concrete might have got a little lighter, as she took the water bottle from Jemma. Satisfied that her mother-hen duties were complete for the time being, Jemma shuffled around to sit on Daisy’s other side.

“Watch out for the spider webs,” Fitz warned.

“Oh, never mind that,” she assured him, brushing some aside with her hand. She contemplated wiping her hand on the ground, but a look at the ground warned her against it. Instead she cleared her throat, tucked her hand into her lap and asked; “What are we talking about?”

“Moving out at 16.”

“Oh, I was fourteen, actually, when I attended an American university,” Jemma corrected. “I got myself into some rather sticky situations under bleachers like these. I found I quite preferred the library, though it’s not as good for crying.”

“I wasn’t crying-“ Daisy protested.

“Having a panic attack, then,” Jemma corrected. “You don’t have to give me the gory details, I’m just glad to know you’re okay. I’ve messaged May. She thought you might have taken off and done a runner somewhere in the suburbs.”

“I was close,” Daisy confessed. “I didn’t want you guys to have to go running around after me, that’s all.” She snorted at the irony.

Above them, the bleachers creaked and thudded under the weight of someone’s footsteps. The three of them huddled together a little on instinct, unsure where their current threat level fell, between imminent mortal danger, and children who had stayed up past curfew at a sleepover. But their fear was, fortunately, unfounded, as the head that shortly found its way to glance down between the gaps was none other than Coulson’s. He smiled at the unexpectedly cozy image.

“Hey guys,” he greeted. They blinked up at him, bewildered, and he had to ask; “Watcha doing?”

“Hiding under the bleachers while we wait for May to come get us?” Daisy offered in much the same tone. There wasn’t much left to explain by now, anyway, and when nothing more was forthcoming, Coulson nodded to himself.

“Cool,” he said. “Mind if I join?”

Upon their affirmative, he trotted down the stairs and jogged around the back, watching his head and glancing around at the things people had written, scratched, tied, and otherwise left under here. Eventually he sat, flicking the tails of his jacket out of the way and then pulling out a packet of Red Vines. Fitz’s eyes widened.

“Did you have that in there the whole time?”

He was quite sure, at one point, Coulson had flipped over a table. What kind of magical pockets did he have?

“Yeah. Want some?”

“Uh, yes,” Daisy answered for him, reaching out with enthusiasm. “I was the first one here, I get first pick of the Red Vines.”

When Fitz did not protest, Coulson moved the packet to offer them to her first.

“Why are we here?” he asked.

She ripped the top off a Vine with her teeth and gestured to her mouth as she vigorously chewed. Coulson glanced at the others, but in true high school clique fashion, they were taking Daisy’s lead and refusing to talk. He looked to her once more, studying her expression to check whether or not he should be worried. Perhaps the issue was resolved, or perhaps she simply didn’t want to talk about it any more, but either way he was glad to note that the sense of crisis that had been in her eyes when she’d left them, was there no longer. He nodded his appreciation to the three of them, for having worked out whatever it was, and bit into his own Red Vine at last.

#daisy johnson #daisyjohnsonfic #aosficnet2 #bus kids #aosteam #mcubingo #clara's fic tag #prompt me stuff

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storyunrelated · 6 years

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Roller Mobster

I can never remember if I've posted this here or not and I don't think I have so, well, here it is.

Inspired by a combination of this Carpenter Brut song and also a cliched view of all bloodsports in all dystopian fiction but which only really exists in my head. Also nonsense.

This is also where I came up with Evil President Halifax, a one-note dickhead who amuses me greatly because he's just straight-up called Evil President Halifax. He seems vaguely aware of what sort of story he's in, too.

These things amuse me.

PS: Carpenter Brut is getting kinda big now and this is good.

[Only ridiculous bloodsports can keep the masses in check!]

Entrants from all twenty of the Sectors stood in a line, their futuristic gender-neutral tunics resplendent in their bland colours. Surrounding and encircling them was the track, which gleamed.

Last-minute preparations and checks were still underway here and there: the bearings of the roller-skates being quickly tested, the surface of the track re-sheened for the hundredth time, the guns being loaded, the nozzles of the flame-jets cleared, the blood-sluices checked for flow control and things of that nature. The Entrants had to stand perfectly still through all of this, of course, and the audience had to remain perfectly quiet.

The Derby was integral to the fabric of society, for reasons that were ill-explored at best. It was said that it helped to strengthen the citizenry by reminding them of the important part that total submission to the ruling elite played in their continued survival and the survival of society in general.

Of course there were a handful who had the temerity to point out that survival wasn’t actually that hard as there weren’t any external enemies they were aware of and the non-specific conflict that had sundered the world all those years ago hadn’t actually impacted the planet itself that much anyway – no radioactive wastelands, for example.

Those people had preference when it came to their children being entered into the Derby. If they didn’t have children they were politely and forcefully encouraged to have some as soon as possible so the original threat would have more weight. Surprisingly, this often worked. They were probably just being polite.

The hush that suffused the arena deepened as the president of the Grand Unified Peaceful Allied Alliance (GUPAA) entered, accompanied by lackeys, gophers, advisers, hangers on and the various other useless persons that a person in such a lofty position tends to acquire. Like shit acquired flies.

Evil President Halifax (his official title) waved lazily to the gathered crowds as he took his seat in the Presidential box. The camera drones buzzing about made sure to capture his most sinister angles and blew them up all over the Magna-Screens so that none could escape his gaunt, unnerving countenance. The effort he put into looking the way he did was considerable. Image - while not everything - was very important..

His duties at the Derby were largely ceremonial, but he enjoyed them all the same: look disinterested by everything that happened to further drive home the pointless futility of the spectacle and enforce a general sense of helplessness in the population. After all, he had it within his power to stop it, and if he chose not to even when he seemed not to enjoy it what hope could there be for freedom?

It was good fun. Pageantry was Halifax’s favourite part of the job, really. Again, image.

With the president in place it was time to begin. The Entrants were introduced one after another as soaring music blared from enormous speakers dangling from the cavernous arena roof. Often the music was so loud it drowned out what was being said but it was unlikely anyone was missing much. Just the standard spiel about whichever Sector the Entrant was from, when that Sector had won the Derby last, what their blood type was, what their perfect Sunday was and so on. One by one they were locked into their starting blocks.

There followed the anthem of the Grand Unified Peaceful Allied Alliance; a slow, ponderous dirge that infrasonically ground down even the merest trace of anything approaching hope or joy. The words to it were primarily concerned with how without the benevolence of the Corpo-State every single person in the arena would be dead, naked and in a ditch. Or words to that effect, it was sort of hard to make out of the constant, low droning sound of the Terror-Organs (which were rather like normal organs, only far more terrifying).

Once the anthem had finished it was time for Halifax’s commencement speech. Rising from his seat he approached the Presidential Microphone (like a normal microphone, but capitalised and far more sinister and imposing), relishing the sight before him - a sea of terrified face staring up at him. Just like every year. Just like he pictured in his head anytime he felt down.

“Loyal subjects of the Grand Unified Peaceful Allied Alliance, again we come together as an allied alliance to witness the cream of our youth engage in brutal bloodsports to remind all of you that resistance is pointless and your lives mean nothing to those in power. Let us begin.”

In previous years Halifax had put more effort into his speech. Some years it had gone on for hours, specifically just to see how long he could drag it out. Five hours was his record, at which point he’d got bored and by which point a good number of the audience had collapsed from exhaustion (and been dragged outside to be beaten, as was only to be expected). Today it was mostly just a case of rubbing the faces of those present in how hopeless their situation was and getting it over with.

He sat back down again and waved lazily at someone who was presumably in charge, signalling that it was time to get the ball rolling on another year of murdering children. Nominally for the sake of enforcing order but mostly because by now it was just tradition. Too much effort to stop it now.

His gesture was seen by those managing the event and in a flurry of clipped communication and barked instructions through walkie-talkies the signal was given to begin.

And so the Entrants were off.

At first it was, of course, chaos. It was always chaos at first. The event was intentionally overloaded with Entrants so that the start became a bloodbath of tangled limbs and panicked teens and this year was no exception. Those furthest up the side of the track and most at the mercy of its camber were the first to topple, they in turn taking out those below. Only those closest to the inside managed to escape the landslide of struggling bodies, leaving the others behind.

They had good reason to move quickly. The hazards that the Entrants had to contend with were released in waves and the first wave was always only a small delay behind the Entrant's own start time. Sure enough, with barely anyone managing to wriggle their way out of the body-pile the first wave was set loose.

Heavily armoured and wielding Cruel Cudgels (cudgels designed by science to be as vicious as possible) the Roller-Goons came skating out from their deployment gates, whooping their bloodthirst as they swooped in towards the Entrants - a living tide of proper nouns and violence.

They immediately set about pulping the heads of any Entrants still within reach as those on the furthest side of the pile redoubled their efforts to claw free. Everyone involved was screaming. The Entrants in terror, the Roller-Goons in delight. The audience was deathly silent. All they could do was watch.

Those Entrants that had got away in good time lapped the pile and did not slow down. A few Roller-Goons who hadn’t managed to get prime spots for beating children to death took lazy swipes at those who sped past but their heart wasn’t really in it.

At least one Entrant strayed a little too close and caught a cudgel to the gut, flipping over and cracking their skull open on the track to whoops of approval from the Roller-Goons and a tiny, unseen fist pump from Evil President Halifax. The impact had been tangible, the sound exquisite.

By now the initial carnage had largely run its course. Those killed were dragged off the track by Corpse Handlers and those who had got free were now speeding around with the rest of them. The wounded and the ones too slow to get away properly quickly joined the ones being dragged off and stacked up for incineration.

The second wave of threats was then triggered. Portions of the track gave way to reveal spike-pits, blades swung out from above and jets of flame burst from hidden ports. Traps, basically. The unwary and those simply in the wrong place at the wrong time experienced the traps first hand and results were messy, if spectacular. Even a Roller-Goon caught the wrong end of some fire, crashing into a barrier in a screaming fireball much to everyone’s enjoyment.

Through all of this there was one Entrant in particular who, little by little, started to bring more attention to herself. Her skill on the skates was unlike any that had been seen in years. No trap got close, no Roller-Goon - who by now had all started skating as well - could hope to catch her. She handled herself as though wheels were more comfortable than feet. She was a natural. Born to roll. Halifax narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers.

“She’s a wizard on the skates!” One of his advisers gasped, earning a frightful glare from Halifax. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand (there were many, but some stood out more than most) it was hushed, awed reactions of the hidden skills of the Entrants in the Derby. That sort of thing never ended well for anyone, and had very nearly brought his predecessor’s administration to its knees.

Halifax wasn’t going to let any nonsense like that happen on his watch. With a subtle tip of the head to one his emotionless, starkly-clad retainers he had the adviser quietly removed and neck-shot. Neck-shooting solved a multitude of problems, Halifax found, and never, ever had any repercussions or negative consequences vis damaging his authority or the loyalty of those around him. Why would it? Who would lose respect for an employer who made a habit of regularly murdering those working for him? It was unheard of.

“That one. Where is she from?” Halifax asked another of his advisers. There were always more of them to hand. They seemed to crawl out of the woodwork whenever he had his back turned. This one in particular seemed especially obsequious and fawning. They’d go far.

“She is from…” The adviser said, scrolling rapidly through the pad they were holding. Halifax held a hand up though, stopping them from continuing.

“Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s from the poorest, most run down, furthest-away-from-the-capital Sector, isn’t she?” He asked. He had a gut feeling, and his gut was rarely wrong. It was a presidential gut of the old school, and had instincts beyond those available to normal guts. It was better than normal guts.

The adviser scanned their pad, unsure if they were supposed an honest answer or not. A stiff look from Halifax jolted them into action and they panicked, telling the truth. They hadn’t been advising long enough to have learnt how to suppress this reflex.

“Uh...yes…” they said. Halifax grunted, another nod of the head seeing this adviser dragged off screaming just like the last one. Another expertly delivered neck-shot followed Halifax revised his earlier opinion - they wouldn’t go far.

“Always the bloody underdogs…” Halifax muttered. “And always a teen girl. Why is it always a teen girl? Why do we even let them in this event anymore? Nothing but trouble.”

Meanwhile, on the track, the Entrant continued to amaze - while also display a dazzling combination of personal strength and emotional depth. She shed tears for her fallen, tragic childhood acquaintance whom she’d only just realised she’d truly loved, but she didn’t stop moving to do it. Weeping tastefully she continued speeding around the track, spinning beneath blades and somersaulting over charging, cudgel wielding Roller-Goons.

“I also love you!” Said some other Entrant, speeding up beside her. This came as something of a shock to her, though not as much as his death seconds later. She’d hardly known him, yet somehow felt as if she’d known him a lifetime. Then she concentrated on continuing not to die.

President Halifax sighed. Someone always fell in love with someone. Kids. It got a bit predictable really. Not that it mattered much. He would bring this inspiring, drama-filled charade to an end. Turning to his seat-mounted request unit he pressed the largest, shiniest button.

“Release the Roller-Hounds!” He roared. Unnecessarily. He hoped whoever was on the other end had had their ear right up to the speaker at the time.

At his command a siren blared, a light flashed and a heavy metal grille pulled up and out of the way. From behind it came a ravening park of slavering, barking dogs, all equipped with dinky little canine roller-skates. They tore onto the track with a fury, most skidding wildly out of control and ending up in a thrashing heap where the track tilted, but a handful got moving properly and set off to chase the irritating, still-crying, still perfectly turned out girl.

“The Roller-Hounds are always a safe bet,” Halifax said to himself, idly stroking his exquisitely maintained beard of evil as the hounds closed the distance.

While the hounds themselves could sometimes prove hit-or-miss, the sight of a hitherto irritatingly graceful Entrant being torn to screaming bits by a pack of dogs was never something Halifax would willingly pass up. He usually went to sleep listening to playback of it from previous years. He couldn’t really drift off without it nowadays.

Glancing back over her shoulder the girl saw the Roller-Hounds bearing down on her. The tiny little rocket set into the rear of their tiny little roller-skates gave them a speed advantage she simply couldn’t overcome on her own.

“The inevitability of her vicious mauling by dogs is symbolic of the inevitability of failure for all involved!” An adviser exclaimed, drawing a disbelieving look from Halifax.

“Yeah. That’s sort of the whole point. Do you want to get shot in the neck?” He asked. The adviser rapidly shook their head, paling. Halifax returned his attention to the track.

“Then don’t talk again. For at least a month,” he said, fingers steepling once more as his eyes returned to the girl. The first of the dogs leapt through the air and Halifax found that he couldn’t help but grin.

Of course it wasn’t going to be as easy as that.

Almost in slow-motion (though in actual fact it barely took a heartbeat) the girl smoothly spun in place, ducking beneath the dog which tumbled end over end with a yelp. She was still spinning though, her forward momentum carrying her on along one skate as her other leg shot out. Like a flail she knocked aside the dogs as they closed in, sending them all sailing away from her like they were nothing.

“My God, she’s mastered the Minovski technique,” breathed someone nearby, utterly overcome by awe. Halifax spread his hands.

“I will have everyone here executed if so much as one more person expresses even a shred of admiration for the Entrant down there. Okay? No more hushed tones and no more appreciation. In fact everyone just be quiet. Next person who speaks and isn’t me gets to be food for the Roller-Hounds.”

That shut them up, but did little to slow down the girl who had stopped spinning and was now just continuing to skate. Nothing slowed her. Not Roller-Goons, not the handful of remaining Roller-Hands, not the traps - nothing. Even as the other Entrants were whittled down to single digits she remained utterly unscathed. The release of the Roller-Bats (bat with roller skates, natch) didn’t even register with her. It was like she didn’t care.

Already there was a rising sense of expectation from the audience. A barely-suppressed murmuring. Halifax had seen this sort of thing before. It always ended the same way but it was always annoying when it happened.

“There’s always one. Every year there’s always fucking one,” he hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was starting to feel like a bad joke. Every year there always the underdog. Never the kid who practised, almost always the girl, invariably driven to some idealistic pronouncement towards the climax of the event and unavoidably being very irritating up until the point Halifax had them shot.

This year he really wasn’t willing to wait.

Reaching over again to his seat-mounted request unit he flicked open a plastic cover and pressed down on the angry red button marked ‘Purge Track’. The still-skating girl had a second or so to register the blaring alarm and flashing lights before the whole of the track dropped away, depositing anyone and anything still on it into the suffocating, grinding darkness beneath. She did not have time to scream.

There was uproar in the crowd at this breach in protocol - and, you know, murder of someone who had been doing so well - but Halifax couldn’t have given less of a shit and lazily motioned for some guards to open fire randomly into the audience until they stopped whining. He didn’t stick around to watch the results.

“Next year no more teen girls, alright? Just boys from now on. No-one gives a shit about boys and they never make trouble like this,” Halifax said, striding away from the Presidential box with his advisers clustering around him and struggling to keep up. Then he frowned and came up short, remembering something.

“But then there was that maze stuff. That had boys and they made a mess. Fuck. Fucking kids. You know what, fuck it - bombs in the all the skates. And all across the track. And fucking spikes. And guns in the spikes. Just make sure we have a way that I can press a button and kill anyone making a problem. I’m so sick of this ‘figure of the resistance’ shit every fucking year.”

He glared around, daring anyone to contradict him or make suggestions. There was silence, apart from one adviser quietly taking notes on their tablet. This Halifax actually appreciated, but he wasn’t going to tell anyone that. They’d go far. Probably.

With a final, extra-hateful round of glaring Halifax stomped off, shoving aside anyone careless enough to get in his way and even veering off a little just to have people to shove.

“I’m going to my evil Presidential yacht and if anyone calls me anytime in the next week I’m just blowing the country up I don’t give a fuck.”

END

#Roller Mobster #Short #Short story #Amwriting #Writblr #Writeblr #Writing

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anavantgardener · 4 years

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Frost and Mischief Ch. 5

Summary: The next installment of Frost and Mischief! Loki is learning more about Elska as he works to train her in magic.

Pairing: OC x Loki Laufeyson

Warnings: mentions of violence and abuse, fighting, swearing

Word Count: 4,000

-----

The Fight

-Loki's P.O.V.-

When Loki invited Elska to the Royal Library to learn his favorite spells, he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. What he did know was that he wanted more time with her.

It was just after the midday feast; Elska would be just beginning her hand-to-hand combat training. Loki found himself sitting in his chambers, pondering which spells he would teach Elska this evening. As he thought, he realized he wasn't sure what she already knew. While he became aware of her "book borrowing" a century ago already, he had an inkling it had begun quite some time before his discovery.

She already knew how to turn herself invisible. He knew that much from the day she crept her way into the thief's sentencing, although he was still unsure whether or not Elska was aware of his knowledge of that incident. Perhaps she would benefit from a shielding spell that would hide traces of her magic.

Loki also remembered noticing her interest in the book on telepathy. Telepathy was how he first found out she had been taking things from the palace. It may not have been very polite, but she was the first person he practiced his technique for the spell on. She'd come in to clean the library in the mornings and he'd be there, waiting for her. As she milled about, he'd cast an illusion of himself that remained seated at his desk. He himself would find somewhere to perch, invisible, watching her, visualizing her mind opening its doors to him.

The first day he managed to read her thoughts, he was so pleased with himself he nearly exposed his cover by knocking over a pile of books. Thankfully, his illusion was convincing enough for her to believe that it was merely a little joke he had played, giving her a slight shrug and evil grin.

He found that reading thoughts was not what he believed it would be; rather than the mind acting as a book where the reader could flip to any page they pleased, it was more like a play. The reader watched and followed the thoughts as they flowed. Gifted readers could pick up on the emotions that accompanied thoughts. The better you knew who you were reading, the easier it was to pick up on the emotions. People were not necessarily "open books" unless the secret you were looking for was on their mind presently.

After that, he seldom read her thoughts, finding them dull and uninteresting. He crept into her mind every now and then, curiosity getting the better of him. She thought often of her friends and wondered what they were doing for the day. Sometimes, she wished she hadn't eaten her honeyed toast so fast. Other times, she would fret about what she would cook for the dwelling that evening.

So mundane.

Then, one day, he caught her planning her return to the library and take a book. That day, he remained in the library all day, just waiting to catch her in the act. He originally intended to expose her then and there, but something stopped him. So, he just watched her, running her fingers along the book bindings, looking for her prize. When she finally found it, a bright smile lit up her face with success. Tucking the book into her apron, his gaze followed her as she left, quietly closing the large double doors behind her.

After that, he peeked into her mind more often; she loved the imagination magic required, and flew through spells quickly. She was a master of healing magic, and wondered what ingredients would speed the work of her healing balms. Slowly, her research began delving into the history of magic. She hoped it would open her abilities to stronger, more defensive enchantments.

Admittedly, Elska's thoughts were much less bland than the others in Asgard. Even his own friends were consumed with thoughts of superficiality. Women, glory, food, family, friends - it all felt so trivial. Elska, though, she spent her time thinking of magic and history. Through his intrusion, he learned they shared certain affinities.

Once, Loki tried to read his mother, yet discovered the woman had an enchantment protecting her thoughts from masters of magic such as himself. This led him to his search for spells that would allow him to do the same thing, though he had yet to see if it worked. The only other person as gifted in magic as he was his mother, and he did not wish to risk letting her know he attempted to read her.

Teaching Elska how to read people would allow him to try this new spell out, to perfect it. This could prove troublesome, though. Loki worried that, if Elska was successful, she could learn far more than he was comfortable with. He'd have to be very careful in monitoring his thoughts, ensuring they didn't drift anywhere dangerous.

It is either take the risk or never know if your barrier works, he thought to himself, sighing.

Looking over to the sundial at his window, he noticed he had been lost in his thoughts for almost half an hour. After Elska's combat training, she'd be returning to her lady in waiting duties, so he truly would have to wait until the evening feast to see her again. He'd have to find some way to busy himself until then; perhaps he could try out the snake transfiguration with Thor...

Loki was excited by the idea of having a new friend. He hoped this didn't turn out like the Warriors Three; they'd begun as close friends to both he and Thor, but eventually became more loyal to Thor. He was a sort of fifth wheel when the group was together.

Regardless, Elska had agreed to meet with him, meaning he would get the time he so desired with her. Perhaps he would be able to grow closer to her, yet.

*****

After what felt like eons, it was time for the evening feast. After hours of internal combat, Loki continued to deal with his own self-embarrassment at his excitement to see Elska and to be near her once more. Striding into the main hall toward Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three, he was disappointed to find that she was not seated with them.

He also noticed that Sif seemed to be seething with anger, and a fresh cut decorated her left eyebrow. On her cheek, a bruise was beginning to purple. Peeking into her thoughts, they were swarming with rage stemming from Elska's combat training, though not directly from Elska.

"Damn noble weaponsmen," she thought, her voice in her mind a wispy sort of wind-like sound to Loki. "They truly felt the grotesque need to kill her, actually try to kill her."

Loki's mind began racing as he retreated from Sif's head, sitting down next to his brother. Taking every attempt to mask his building anxiety, he thought what the least suspicious way to the topic would be.

"Lady Sif, where did you get your fresh battle wounds?" He asked.

Fresh battle wounds? She's a warrior, you imbecile, Loki scolded himself.

"Those damned racist nobles, that is where," she snapped, concerned glances coming from those sitting around the group.

"You will have to excuse Sif," Hogun said quietly.

"She, Fandral, and Elska had a bit of a run in with-" Volstagg began.

"She was doing absolutely wonderful," Sif cut him off. "Yes, she was unbalanced and a tad goofy at times, but it was her first day training. Fandral had come along to help with her training. We had finally sorted out what weapon was best for her." Towards the end of her statement, she was more speaking to the air than anyone in particular.

Sif shook her head and took another seemingly violent bite of her chicken leg, ignoring the expectant stare from Loki.

"The weaponsmen came to the sparring arena about three hours into Elska's training," Volstagg took over once more.

"You know, the nobles who think because they have the gold for a sword from the merchants they spar better than the All-Father's personal guard?" Fandral jabbed his fork into a pork chop, clearly frustrated with the situation, as well.

Loki shook his head, pushing them to tell him more as he began eating the greens he had set on his plate.

"One of them recognized her as 'that Devourer filth' and informed the men that they should, how did he put it, Fandral?" Sif was waving her fork in the air, words laced with residual animosity.

"Rid the Nine Realms of 'that vile bitch,'" Fandral set his silverware down, taking a moment to calm himself.

Loki looked over to his brother; Thor had yet to place any food on his plate. Instead, he sat with one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, one in a tight fist on the table.

"For hundreds of years," Thor's blue eyes glanced over to Loki, his words coming out so only he could hear. "Hundreds of years, father looks at her the same way those men do. Yet she served our family so diligently. She would tell me stories when I was upset, sneak into my room as a child to play games with me." Loki had never heard about any of this. "She's been my friend, and yet I have allowed people to treat her this way. It will go on no longer."

Loki looked to his lap, setting down his own silverware. It seemed the group's appetite was dwindling.

"How is she?" Loki looked back to Fandral.

"She is fine, she held her own fairly well, for a starting warrior," he responded. "She took several deep gashes to her legs and abdomen, but nothing she will not heal from."

"She is very shaken," Sif looked absolutely dismal. "Right now, I doubt she wants to be anywhere near a nobleman of any sort." She glanced around the room, a scowl replacing her frown.

"We planned on taking her a plate after our time here, but I think it might be better for us all to take plates for ourselves and for her, eat together," Thor spoke loud enough for the group this time.

"I think she would like that very much," Sif gave a small smile.

"I can make her a plate," Loki offered, and the group began gathering their things to relocate.

*****

When Elska opened the door to her chambers, Loki saw just how much the fight had taken out of the young woman. Her shoulders sagged and her nose was red, raw from wiping it. Still she gave the occasional sniffle. Her puffy gray eyes were a tempest, and dark circles decorated her lower lids. Her hair, now messily braided to the side, was still wet and fingers had pruned, telling him she had likely done nothing but sit in the bath since she was released from the healing ward.

Fury bubbled inside Loki, burning in his mind. He wanted to find the men who did this, and drag his dagger through their skin.

In the corner of her room sat her torn leather armor. It was littered with holes, and he could only imagine the constellations that must decorate Elska's skin under her night gown. It always confused Loki, the way they gave beginner warriors the least efficient armor.

"My friends," Elska wiped a straggling tear from her cheek. "You must excuse my appearance. I was not expecting visitors." She sent each of them an apologetic look. "Please, sit where ever you like, I am sorry there is not more seating."

Elska walked over to her wardrobe, choosing out another gown.

"I shall return shortly," she walked into her bathing chambers, sniffling and clearly embarrassed.

The group sat in a sort of stunned silence, unsure of how to console their new friend. After a few seconds, they began debating the benefits of taking her to Thor's chambers. They would all be able to sit and eat in comfort there.

While they spoke, Loki muffled out their voices by peeking into Elska's mind. He pushed out the guilt that accompanied the action, telling himself it was to help him know how to make her feel better. Seeing her like this, her heavy heart's gravity seemingly pulled Loki down with it.

Her thoughts only pulled him down farther.

She missed Eira; she wanted to go home, to the dwelling; her efforts toward success in the palace felt futile. Everything spilled through the forefront of her mind in a constant flow. She felt unwanted, dejected, disastrous.

"I am a monster, the thing parents tell their children about to scare them into following the rules," she thought. Her thoughts were laced with her own feeling of disbelief, telling Loki that she was not accustomed to despising her own heritage.

"I hate for them to see me like this," her mind unknowingly spoke to him. "They are kind, yet they will soon learn to frown at me the way the All-Father does, the way those men did."

Loki put his head in his hands as Elska returned to the main room, not wanting her to see the pain he felt for her.

"We brought you a plate, El," Volstagg picked up the plate from Loki's side and brought it to the woman standing in the middle of the floor.

"El?" The corners of Elska's mouth perked up a bit.

"It is the name I have given you in my head, a sort of term of endearment," Volstagg smiled a big, oafy grin.

"I like it," she laughed gingerly, and the sound, while small, slightly eased Loki's troubled mind.

"We thought we would move this little dinner party into Thor's chambers," Hogun stood. "There is more room for us all to sit comfortably."

"Of course, whatever pleases you all," she shook her head, and Loki noticed that she was much more reserved when she was upset. "I will be right there, just going to put on my sandals."

As the group left, Loki stayed behind to wait for Elska.

"None of us will ever turn against you, you know," he said as she opened her wardrobe.

"Tell me, how do you read my mind?" she did not look at him as she spoke, and the question took him by surprise.

"Truthfully, I planned on teaching you tonight," he gave a cautious laugh, not knowing where the conversation was going.

"But you do not deny that you do it?" Elska asked as she finished lacing up her first sandal, looking over to him.

"No," he sighed after a few moments. "I do not deny it. I also do not deny reading Sif's mind, or Thor's, or Fandral's, or trying to read even my own mother's mind."

She remained silent as she laced up her second sandal, and it prompted him to go on.

"It is intrusive, I know, and I will not lie and tell you I feel guilty for the invasion of privacy, but you must know that I was doing it to find out how to best cheer you up," he explained.

"What about the times before?" Elska stood and held the door for Loki, and he felt a pang in his chest. When he did not answer, she continued. "Do you know how to keep others from reading your mind?"

"Possibly," Loki grit his teeth, now becoming annoyed.

"Good, you will teach me both tonight after dinner," Elska sniffled one last time before she began limping toward Thor's chambers.

Something told Loki she would not be accepting any help he offered.

*****

Dinner seemed to lift Elska's spirits, but she was still more guarded than Loki had ever seen previously. Their interaction in her chambers had left him baffled and frustrated. He was only trying to help, to learn her emotions enough to make her happy again, but his efforts were met with anger.

As she chatted away her sadness with their friends, Loki sat and sunk deeper into his own boiling annoyance. Despite her irritation with him, Elska chose to sit next to him on the lounger, and her closeness drove him mad.

First, he cannot for the life of him discern why his feelings push past platonic boundaries. Then, he feels the need to find a way to spend more time with her. And then, she gets hurt and he does what is in his power to lift her spirits, and she gets angry. And now, by merely sitting next to him, the tension in his body was reaching new levels. The man was reluctant to even set his hand on the cushion beneath him for fear it would possibly graze her own.

Even Sigyn never shook his emotions to the core in this way, yet this woman, who he had only truly known for a week and a half, was driving him up the wall.

Leaning against the arm of the lounger, he watched her as she listened intently to Thor's retelling of one of the battles he and his friends had fought in. Her hands were folded on her lap, legs crossed, back straight. The etiquette classes his father had ordered were certainly showing. Looking back to the group, Loki realized Sif had caught him staring as she gave him a raised eyebrow. Rolling his eyes, he looked over to Thor, pretending to be paying attention to the story he was telling.

Eventually, not as soon as he would have liked, the impromptu dinner party came to a close when Fandral suggested they should all go have a drink in the merchant district. Elska declined, telling them she was still quite uncomfortable with the idea of going out (which Loki did not doubt to be true). Loki informed them he had studies to attend to and would surely go out with them the next night.

Before he made his way to the Royal Library, Loki fetched his notes on mind barrier enchantment from his chambers. When he did enter the library, he found Elska waiting for him, sitting in the window nook. Their eyes met, and he could tell she felt guilty for her earlier words.

"While I refuse to apologize for my frustration at your actions," she began, posture perfect and proud. "I will apologize for my frustration with your intentions." Her shoulders slumped back as the words left her mouth. "I appreciate your care, your words brought me relief."

Looking at Elska, Loki found himself struggling to hold onto his anger. He wanted to be mad at her. He wanted to show her the notes that held the answers to her earlier questions and set them ablaze.

But he didn't.

He sat down next to her, looked into her eyes, and felt his feelings soften.

"And I am sorry for my intrusion, and for my blatant disregard for your privacy," he held his hand out for her to shake. "Still friends?"

"Always," Elska grasped Loki's hand in her own, shaking it.

"Well, now," he laughed. "I do not believe you will be able to tolerate me for so long."

"You underestimate me," she smiled, looking down at their still touching hands.

Pulling his hand away awkwardly, he began rubbing it slightly, as if her touch had burned him.

"Shall we get started, then," he tried to move through the strange moment.

"Of course," Elska smiled and stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her gown as she did so.

"Perfect, let us find a place where you may sit directly across from me," Loki began leading her to one of the larger desks in the library. Motioning her to sit down, he told her the basics of mind reading.

"It sounds much more simple than I would have thought," she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.

"I felt the same way when I discovered telepathy," he replied. "But you know as well as I, magic is a game of imagination, visualizing in your mind and forcing that vision into reality."

He watched her scribble down notes, the corners of his lips curling upward, and went on.

"I will inform you that you will not so much read a mind as you will listen to its progression," he said. "The mind is a stage, the person you are focused on is the actor. Their monologue is your goal." He leaned further into the table. "Now, look at me. Imagine doorways in my eyes, let the doorways become a version of myself if I was a door." She smirked a bit, finding his comment amusing. "You laugh, but giving each person their own door will make this process easier. Now, imagine my doors opening and yourself walking into them."

She stared intently at the man, minutes passing by. Loki had not yet put up his barrier; he needed to be sure she was successful first. After half an hour, she leapt from her chair, a smile plastered on her face.

"So you are not sure your barrier works?" she teased, very pleased with her work. She danced around the desk, and Loki watched as she beamed, a smile growing on his own face. Rather than reply, he just looked at her, wanting her to read his answer.

She accepted the challenge, seating herself across from him once more. Entering his mind this time only took her a few minutes.

"I have not perfected it, no," His thought echoed as he waited patiently for her to hear it.

"Your voice in your head sounds different," she smiled. "It is more musical, like an instrument playing a secret tune."

They continued this little game until she was finding her way into Loki's head in just seconds. Then, it was time for him to try out his barrier. He refrained from showing her his notes, wondering if knowing the enchantment before trying would allow her to break it.

"Now try," Loki envisioned a black wall made of stone encasing his thoughts. He gave the wall vines of ivy, believing that plant growth meant the wall had stood for ages, signifying strength. It was tall, and he imagined stacking another layer of stone on the top, just for good measure.

Elska looked into his eyes, and he could see her fascination in her failure.

"It is amazing," she exclaimed. "I can see the doors, I can open them, but I cannot enter them. There is a wall blockading my entrance." She sat for a moment.

"Truthfully?" Loki swelled with pride, thrilled.

"Truthfully! I wonder if one could envision breaking the walls, and if so, could the subject continuously fortify?" Elska asked, though not to Loki. He watched as she thought aloud, quickly writing notes.

"Here are my notes, if you'd like to see them," he laughed as she immediately grasped them, eyes darting through each word. He was surprised she could read his chaotic handwriting.

After writing, he watched as she sat and closed her eyes. She sat like this for quite some time.

"Now try me," her eyes shot open, and Loki could swear they had been red as they first opened.

Loki envisioned the doors he had assigned to Elska. Tall, wooden double doors, floral detail carved into them. The golden door knobs had once been shaped like roses, but after their conversation last night, they had changed to hellebores, a flower that grows even in the cold.

As he imagined himself opening the doors, he was met with something he hadn't seen in Elska's mind before - a wall of ice. Towering well above the doors he had created for her, as he got close he realized he could see his breath, as well as swirling designs glowing within the frozen barrier.

His admiration for Elska grew tenfold in that moment, finding a deep respect for her bold love of her heritage despite the fear others held for it.

"A wall," he whispered to the woman seated across from him, and she grinned from ear to ear.

0 notes

arya3610 · 7 years

Text

Blind Dates Do Not Mix Well With Kiss Cams

Castiel was set up on a blind date with Zachariah. There's a basketball game, a kiss cam, and rejections. Dean is there to save the day.

Read it on Ao3!

Castiel knew it was a bad idea to come here tonight. He didn't even like basketball. Not that he had anything against it, in theory, but this place was loud, everyone was sweaty, and he didn't even know which team he was supposed to be rooting for.

Blind dates were not a good idea.

Also, he was going to murder Gabriel when he got home. Or maybe he'd cry, that might have a better effect than anger. Gabe never could stand tears.

Or maybe he'd just ignore him. Silent treatments were pretty easy nowadays, just turn off your messages and don't answer calls. Gabriel never came to the shop, anyway. Better yet, he could turn on his "Read receipts" specifically so that Gabe would know he was reading the texts, just ignoring him.

Was Castiel that petty?

His "date" called someone on his cell, loudly, continuing the theme of the evening.

Yes. Yes, he was.

It had started off okay, to be fair. Zachariah had seemed nice enough, smiling politely at the awkward "blind date" small talk. He didn't make fun of Castiel's name, which was a plus. Then it had started to go downhill. Gabe, apparently, had not told Zach that Cas was a florist who ran his own independent little shop.

Zachariah had laughed at the idea. He, apparently, was very high up in his company, CEO or something, and very strongly implied that Castiel was too stupid to go into business. He also laughed at the idea of a man working with flowers, making inappropriate comments and mean jokes.

Cas had smiled awkwardly but tried to move on to another topic. He was proud of his little shop; he had worked hard to renovate the old bookstore into a functioning florists'. It had just started making a profit, and he had been excited to tell someone about it. Now he just wanted to get this over with.

Over the course of the meal, Zach had managed to snidely comment on his shop, his career path, his education (not his lack of, he had a degree, but apparently, it wasn't from "the right college"), his clothes, and his smile. He hadn't even smiled at Zachariah. He was smiling because a little girl across the restaurant was so happy that she got to order dessert her smile was wide enough to split her face. She had a few baby teeth missing, and she was adorable.

Every time he had the urge to smile for the rest of the evening, which was not often, he tamped it down, remembering the little side comments that Zach had made.

The only respite he had gotten was when he drove himself to the basketball arena. Or was it a stadium? Court?

Castiel sighed. Zachariah continued to talk on his cell phone, completely ignoring the game and his date.

Why had Gabe even picked a basketball game? Castiel certainly hadn't suggested it, and unless Zach's phone call was really that important, it didn't seem like his choice, either. Castiel tried to unobtrusively listen in. Maybe he should give Zach the benefit of the doubt, it could be incredibly important.

"No, I know the background is loud, I'm just at a basketball game. Do you have those reports for next Saturday ready yet?" A pause. "I know it's Friday, that's not what I asked you." Another pause. "I don't care if it's the smallest company you've ever seen; that paperwork needs to be done. I am your superior. You should respect me." Zachariah got progressively louder, yelling the last words.

Castiel sighed again and looked down at his hands. Maybe he should just leave.

The crowd got even louder, somehow, whooping and laughing at something. Castiel glanced up, but it took a second to see what the big deal was. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. They were on the giant screen in the middle of the court. Zachariah and Castiel were on the GIANT SCREEN in the MIDDLE of the COURT.

Castiel felt ice drip down his stomach as he realized why Gabe chose a basketball game. Kiss cam. Oh, yeah. Castiel was definitely that petty.

Okay, okay, he could do this. This wasn't so bad. Kiss Zach on the cheek to get them off the GIANT SCREEN and then he could leave. He could go home, drink a nice cup of tea, and watch crappy reality TV until his brain felt like it was going to melt out of his ears. He could do that.

"Um," he hesitantly put his hand on Zachariah's shoulder. "Zach-"

Zach turned even further away from Cas and shook off his hand, continuing to talk on his phone.

The crowd booed, but Cas honestly couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or relieved. Being rejected did hurt, after all, but it wasn't like he had wanted to kiss Zach anyway. He tried to smile awkwardly and shrug at the screen, but his face felt redder than normal.

He watched the camera focus on a few other couples, smiling a little to himself at their affection. One couple stood up, the man dipping his partner as if they were in a ballroom and then attacking her face with kisses. She was giggling and swatting him away, obviously happy. Castiel wished he could find someone he could be that happy with. He kept his small smile as the camera panned around again, hoping to see another cute couple.

He lost the smile as soon at the camera focused on them again. This had to be Gabriel. Maybe Cas should cry and then ignore him.

Well... the other couple had left him with a nice, warm feeling. Maybe he could try again. Just on the cheek though, Zach was still a jerk.

"Zachariah," Castiel began, leaning over and trying to get his date's attention.

Zach angrily put his free hand over the phone. "You listen to me, boy!" Castiel jerked back at the insult. "I am on this date because my idiot secretary told me that his brother was lonely and couldn't find a man willing to date him." He sneered at the other man. "I am going to finish my very important phone call and then we are going to leave. Separately. You understand me?"

Cas blinked back tears at the sudden onslaught and slowly nodded.

Zach snorted and went back to his phone call.

Well. He didn't need to pretend to cry for Gabriel, after all. Castiel looked down at his lap, still trying to blink away tears. He glanced up at the kiss cam to see it still focused on them, as if it were confused at the turn of events. He gave it a watery smile and shook his head.

He couldn't stay here. He stood up shakily and started excusing his way down the row, squeezing past knees and beers. No one even grumbled at him for bumping into them, which is, really, how Cas knew it was pretty bad. They all just avoided looking at him and let him through. He fought down a sob. He could cry in his car, just get to the car.

He was about halfway towards the aisle when he heard a voice.

"Hey, Blue Eyes!"

He glanced up from his feet to see a man beckoning to him from the end of the row. "C'mere!"

Castiel sighed shakily to himself. Why not? It's not like anything bad could happen, they were in the middle of a crowded... whatever this was.

The man took his hand when he was within reach, surprising Castiel into looking up. The man was gorgeous. Hopefully he wasn't about to laugh at Cas or something. Once he reached the aisle, they stood there, just looking at each other for a moment. Castiel could still feel the tears brimming in his eyes, but hoped the stranger didn't see them. Judging by the softening of his eyes, that hope went unacknowledged.

"Hey," the man said, voice quiet. "I'm Dean." Dean was still holding his hand, brushing his thumb softly against Cas' hand. "You okay?"

Castiel felt the tears about to spill over, but held them back with all his might. "Yeah," he said, voice hoarse. "Yeah, I'm just," he looked down at Dean's boots. They were pretty scuffed. Did he work in construction? He took a deep breath, trying to distract himself. He gave a watery laugh. "I didn't even like him, this was a blind date and he was awful, I don't know why I'm," he sniffled, raising a sleeve to wipe his eyes.

Dean pulled him into a hug, gently resting Cas' head against his shoulder. "It sucks to be rejected, even if you didn't like the dude. Plus, on the Jumbotron?" He made a huffing noise. "Guy's a dick."

Cas just nodded against Dean's shirt.

"Anyway," Dean continued softly, "I hope you didn't ride here with that asshole. I'll walk you out to your car if you want."

Castiel pulled back enough to look at Dean's face, trying to see if the man was being sincere or not. All he saw was an offer and a tinge of sadness. "I'd like that." He said quietly.

The crowd roared again, and Cas turned to the court with a sick feeling in his gut. The kiss cam was pointed at him again. The Jumbotron was filled with him and Dean. He was going to go home, drown himself in ice cream, and then find Gabriel and strangle him.

"Man, who did you piss off?" Dean said softly.

Cas just turned back and buried himself in Dean's shoulder again. He hadn't seemed to mind a fully grown man clinging onto him earlier, so Castiel took full advantage of that now.

He felt a soft pressure on the top of his head, and heard the crowd all around them burst into cheers and awws.

"Let's just get out of here, okay?" Dean gently tugged him up the aisle towards the doors.

Castiel followed, holding Dean's hand like a lifeline and refusing to look up from his shoes.

The walk to his car was silent, but Dean's hand was warm in his. When they finally came to a stop in front of his car, Dean rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

"Listen," he started, cheeks pinking. "I just wanna say, I know this is weird, I don't do this all the time. I uh," He made a face, "I used to be in a... a pretty bad relationship, a while ago." He seemed uncomfortable. "Just, I saw that guy yelling at you, and... I needed to make sure you were okay."

Castiel nodded. "Thank you, for that." He gave Dean a small smile. "It helped, having you there." He looked down to their still-linked hands and squeezed softly. "I'm okay now. Actually, now that the shock is wearing off, I'm starting to get more furious than anything." Dean laughed, squeezing back. "Don't kill anybody, alright, man?" His eyes twinkled when he laughed, Castiel noticed.

"No promises," Castiel muttered darkly. Wait, 'man'? Had he not told Dean his name? He squinted at the ground as he thought. He hadn't, had he? "Did I not tell you my name?"

Dean smiled and shook his head. "I was wondering whether you were in shock or just didn't want to give your name to creepy strangers who hug you out of the blue."

Castiel rolled his eyes but smiled. "My name is Castiel."

"Mm." Dean made a considering noise. "That's actually really nice."

Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean. "What does that mean? What were you expecting?"

"It's not so much that I was expecting something, but hoping against other things."

"What does that even mean?"

"I mean," Dean blushed again, looking down at his toes. "I didn't want you to be like, Frank, or something. Or Chad." He made a face.

Castiel snorted. "I'm glad I'm not a Chad, then."

"Yeah, I am, too." Dean smiled at him again.

"So," Castiel looked down at his feet. "I should probably get going."

"Oh, yeah," Dean let go of his hand quickly, shoving his hand in his pocket. He looked pretty uncomfortable. "'Course, man, I didn't mean to keep you here or anything-- "

"Would it be weird to ask for your number?" Castiel blurted out.

"Oh, God, I hope not," Dean replied, obviously relieved. "I wanted to ask you for yours but that felt too creepy."

Castiel laughed again and he reached into his pocket. "Maybe a little." He handed the phone over to Dean. "Just send yourself a text, I'll add you later."

"Sounds good, man," Dean beamed at him as he handed the phone back.

Cas glanced down at the text.

Message to: (785) 257-9812

Hey, wanna go on a date sometime?

"Dean, did you just ask yourself on a date from my phone?"

"Whaaat?" Dean grinned at him, eyes glinting with mischief. "Didn't you just ask me on a date? That's the text I got." He waggled his phone in front of Cas, but dropped the act after a moment. "Seriously, if this is creeping you out, you can just say no, I know it's a little," he made a wiggly motion with his hands.

Castiel chuckled at the hand motions and looked at Dean with his first real smile since the little girl in the restaurant. "It's fine, Dean. I'd love to go on a date with you."

Dean blinked for a minute, before muttering, "Damn, Cas, you got a killer smile."

Cas coughed self-consciously, smiling into his sleeve. "Anyway," he couldn't stop the silly smile that the compliment. "I'll text you about it later? We can work out a time and everything."

Dean smiled. "Sounds good, blue eyes."

Castiel rolled his eyes and got into his car. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Seeya later, Cas!"

Message to: Cas

hows tomorrow for you? 7 @ the roadhouse?

Message from: Cas

Ooh, sorry, can't do tomorrow. I have a date with a handsome rescuer at that day. :)

Message to: Cas

thats a yes right

Message from: Cas

Yes, Dean. That is a yes.

Message to: Cas

sweet

Read 9:30 PM

32 notes · View notes

unkindnessofone · 7 years

Text

5SOS. Rooms You’re Tall In

It’s up! This was a much tougher one to write. I thought I knew where it would go, I had so many notes, but here we are. I would love to hear some feedback. Sending this one out as a thank you to the darling @gotsbadblood. They are always encouraging and supportive. I appreciate it. Also if you love Taylor Swift, it’s a blog worth checking out.

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

They had been there before together multiple times, but this felt different than following their parents around for their respective vocations and seeing Parisian life from the safety and comfort of their parent's laps. He was travelling the world as an actual musician, making money for his songs and hearing people that weren't from his neighborhood being impacted from feelings and words that had been produced by his fingers and mind. Then there was her, studying in the city to become a chef, being screamed at in a language she hardly understood while prepping plates for some of the most appetizing food she had ever seen. She wasn't Luke Hemmings daughter when she had her culinary whites on. He was still trying to shake off the shadow of his dad as it danced behind him every time he stepped on stage.

Taking her bohemian dreams to a different level than she had been able to back home in Sydney, Penelope skipped steps on her way out of the subway pit as found herself in a more touristy part of town. She held the crochet strap of her usual purse over her chest as the bottom of her elephant pants, coloured teal, mustard yellow, and a rich purple, dragged delicately over the dirty street. Her eyes were tired, the bags beneath them almost matching the colour of her lightweight pants, but she had taken today as her first day off of work since moving to France. She couldn't spend the Saturday sleeping in and losing out on time with her best friend. Penelope walked straight into the hotel lobby as if she belonged there like any other guest and headed to the stairwell. Connor had texted her his room number and it would have been easier to take the elevator, br she had been surviving off butter, sugar, and jam. Besides, walking up the stairs felt exciting since her doctor and parents had banned almost every other physical activity.

"Hi, rock star." Grinning from ear to ear, Penelope mustered up some energy from the vitamin she took upon leaving her place as soon as Connor threw the door open, his hair as light as it had ever been and terribly curly. As if they had a mental countdown between them, they hurried to hug one another - laughing as they did.

"God, I missed you." Hugging her tighter, shaking at her touch, Connor moaned into her ears that were poking him back with her gold conch shell studs his mother had made for her. "You smell like...thyme? Is that thyme?" Chuckling, he asked as she started to slip out of his arms.

Penelope lifted up her arm and smelled her elbow before yanking on the collar of her plain white t shirt and sniffing it next. She was low on laundry. From living on her own, she was learning she hated to do laundry.

"Honestly, I smell like a pantry now. It's just my life." She shrugged, smacking her arms against both her sides. "I brought you something." She raised his brows with peaked interest as she unzipped her purse and reached around into its contents, producing a small jar of mixed berry jam. On the tightly sealed gold label, she had stamped 'Penelope Hemmings Jam' with a small conch shell in black ink.

"Thank you." Connor held it in one hand, admiring her self made label and leaning in to hug her again, using one arm this time.

"So you can taste home wherever you go."

"I have something for you too." He held his hotel room door open wider for her, allowing her in as he stepped through to where his suitcase was resting open on the queen sized bed.

Fidgeting with the fabric of her pants, Penelope looked around and the room and concentrated on nothing. It felt uncomfortable to be alone in his hotel room. Connor was her best friend and they had been countless hotel suites together, but last time they had seen one another they had kissed. She wasn't sure if that had stopped meaning anything or where they were at yet. Over texts neither of them had brought it up.

Penelope leaned her shoulders against the wallpapered stripes and watched him. He looked stronger somehow which made little sense to her as they hadn't been apart very long and she followed his life closely online. Penelope chalked it up to her head. She was trying to learn French and cooking with a permanent concussion, maybe it was making a mess of the way she saw things even a guy she knew better than the instructions to the perfect pancakes.

"Here you go." Standing up straight again, Connor offered her a closed yellow envelope with her nickname written across it in his forever clumsy penmanship. "Four tickets to the show tonight."

"I can't believe I am going to see you live in an arena tonight." Grinning, Penelope took the envelope and then held her arms up above her head to shake them around with wiggling excitement.

Laughing, Connor stepped in to hug her again, picking her up and twirling her around which invited high volume laughter from his favourite girl. He snuggled his face into her neck, breathing in her new scent, but when he went to part his lips slightly and leave a kiss behind he was surprised that she leaned her neck and head away. Connor took the cue and politely put her down on an end corner of the bed.

"So are you best friends with your idol now? Or one of them." Penelope teased while leaning back comfortably onto her flat hands. Everyone knew that as much as he was inspired by the opening act, Ashton Irwin was Connor's truest idol.

"Paul is cool." Humbly, Connor informed her. "He's living up to my expectations, but he definitely is more quiet and distant than I thought he'd be, ya know? With how crazy he is on stage."

"People are full of surprises." She mused even though more often than not, Penelope found herself guessing what was about to happen before it did and being correct. She was a good judge of character and she figured that came from meeting so many people at once constantly as a little girl on tour. One had to learn fast who was good and who was just pretending.

"Like Molly." Connor mused with a wiggle of his brows, sending them under his mess of curls that were someone else's nightly problem now.

"I can't even imagine your Dad's face." Penny shook her head, eyes shut with disbelief. A dedicated cheerleader of a father, Penny imagine her Uncle Ash still hadn't picked up his frown from the floor since finding out Molly had been arrested.

"They were way more upset she was in a relationship and didn't tell them." Honestly, Connor had been bummed out that his sister didn't confide in him either. He laid down on his back on the bed next to Penelope, hanging his legs off the edge.

"He's really hot." Pen mentioned casually. When the news filtered through the many group chats, Emmeline had taken it upon herself to send everyone pictures from the Internet of Molly's rugby beau, Flynn O'Malley. Connor stared at her blankly, absorbing her comment and trying not to expose how much he didn't care for it. It had always been him obsessing over girls and Penelope blowing off the advances of everyone. Connor wasn't sure he had actually ever heard Penny call someone that wasn't on TV hot before. He knew now that it didn't make him feel good.

"I guess." Connor tried to laugh it off, staring at her blond hair from where he laid like it could tell him a thousand secrets. "I got to go to a radio interview and sound check in a little but. How's your French? Can you translate for me?"

"I could, but I'm not going to." There was nothing about a life that mirrored her dad's that interested Penelope. She wanted to stray as far away from living beneath a microscope as she could. Sometimes she considered using one of her middle names or her maiden name in place of ' Hemmings' just so she was less traceable. Penelope knew how much that would hurt her father though. They had talked about it. "People would start rumours I was your girlfriend if I showed up at interviews and your show with you." Penny laughed awkwardly.

He wanted to ask her if that would be so bad, but Connor wasn't sure his singer-songwriter could take the answer, "Is that why you're bringing a bunch of friends tonight? You don't want anyone getting ideas?" He asked instead.

"I'm just proud and I want to show the people I'm close with here to see my best friend and all can do." She was staring down at him with her usual loving eyes, but the sun bleeding through his balcony window illuminated her to look like his own personal angel.

"You're the best." His hand reached to cover hers over the bed as they both shared smiles from one another. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too." She had been so busy in her new life that e didn't occupy her thoughts constantly, but once a day when she was sitting on the train or learning a new French phrase, he popped into her mind and lingered.

Connor wanted to pull her down. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and moan how much he craved her over and over into her hair and neck. She was keeping her distance from him though and he knew he would pummel some guy who made her uncomfortable. Connor would never forgive himself if he was that guy.

"You're coming to the party tonight after, right? I want you to meet some people. They hired a bassist for us and he's so dope. He's from South Africa and might be completely insane."

"Can't wait." Penny joked. "I want you to meet my friends too." Along with her, she was bringing some of her petite Paris family that she had naturally put together. Alexandra, Cerise, and Jules. "They're excited to meet you as well. I've been playing your music for anyone who will listen." Her cheeks blushed a mauve tone which felt unnatural since very little made her nervous. "You should probably get ready, huh?" She knew he had a busy day ahead and was just fitting her in for a sliver of time this morning.

Like a child, he whined, "I don't want you to leave." It was the same way he felt when she was packing for France ages ago.

"You got to go be the Connor, the Rock God. I have no choice, I'm just a lowly culinary student." Penny fished her hand out from under his, beginning to slouch her way off of the bed entirely. She still had things to do on her day off as well. Nobody was trying to interview her, but she had research for school and she planned to cut her own hair in the bathroom before going to his concert. Plus she had to go to the open market to pick up more ingredients for homemade jam and salsa. Canning had become a fun past time to do in her tiny kitchen with friends. It was a love second to surfing. Nothing would ever replace a board and waves for Penelope Hemmings, but staying up in her kitchen until 4 in the morning in her pajamas with good music playing and fruit in a pan could tide her over.

"There is nothing lowly about you." He said with great conviction, his eyes screaming his opinion as a promise to her as he took her hand again. "You're the amazing Penelope Hemmings."

After wishing Connor luck, Penelope let herself out of his suite. His lips had tainted her as she said goodbye with their knees knocking. Penelope felt like there were too many things to consider. She was falling in love with her new life and her independence. He was on tour and had always taken up with other girls. She imagined he was meeting so many different bodies now that his career was on it's launching pad. Of course, there was also the new people in her life to think about as well.

As she squeezed between two doormen squabbling in French, Penelope reached into her purse and pulled out a bent thin paperback to read on the subway along with her cell phone in its Australian flag phone case. She had missed two texts from her friend, Cerise. The first one in French and second translated to English. The two girls had paired up on the first day of class and became fast friends over their mutual disdain for the know-it-all guy who sat two stations ahead of them.

"I will see you there." Excitedly, Penelope texted back and tossed her phone back into her purse before heading to her subway stop. Somehow, Cerise had managed to score a brunch reservation at Cafe Lola and it was on Penny's long list of places to eat it mostly because of their lemon curd that was apparently the perfect balance of tart and sweet. Penelope was starving anyway. Today was going to be perfect.

As soon as she pulled the black glass door open to the busy spot, Penny was greeted by cutlery clanking against plates and chatter so frequent that it was just static around her. It reminded her of being in the restaurant kitchen just without the heat and pressure. Penelope loved when she was in the middle of chaos which was strange given how little interest she had in drama. It was just that when she was surrounded by noise and movement she felt closer to the feeling of surfing. She was tranquility in something made without control. It was thrilling.

Her eyes scanned around the room for the vibrant red pixie cut she sat beside every week day in class. Instead, she spotted Jules sitting by himself with a cup of coffee and a kindle in front of him. He was waving at her up high by the time she linked her eyes to him. His smile sent her waking by the hostess stand and through waiting groups of patron.

"Salut, Penelope." He stood up and greeted her with a hug, one hand resting on her back. She loved the way he said her name in Picardy influenced accent. It always sounded like he meant to say 'antelope'.

Penelope kissed around the stubble on his cheek before taking a seat right beside him, the spot across from her vacant for their third.

After exchanging pleasant how are you's en Francais and flagging down a server to order a lemonade for Penny, the Australian-American reached into her purse and retrieved the paperback that she had tucked back in after reading it on the subway. Jules turned off his kindle and moved it to the side, leaning in to give the beautiful girl his full attention.

"I like this one better than The Three Musketeers." She told him, flipping through a couple dry pages of Gaston Leroux's 'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.' with Penelope being the type desperate for adventures, Jules had assumed she would love The Three Musketeers, but she had texted him somewhere around chapter two giving it five thumbs down emojis. Penny found the page that she had drawn neon orange highlighter marks on with his permission. It was his clever way of helping her with her French. He gave her books to read and asked her to keep track of the words she didn't know. She had gone from requiring him to read her whole pages while she cooked him dinner in her suite to just needing help with a few words every couple pages or so. Penny dragged her nibbled finger nail to the word and tried to read it before noticing Jules was rubbing at his right knee.

"Are you alright?" Even though she could say it French, she said so in her native tongue to better express her concern. Jules would have detected it in the way she leaned in and dropped what she was doing.

"I love that I can still get you with that." Chuckling, Jules tapped at his prosthetic leg and watched Penny relax with a sigh and fix him her meanest mug that was cuter than it was cruel.

They met at the tapas restaurant they both worked at. Jules played piano with the jazz band and met Penny while rushing through the kitchen late for a gig. He had snatched a piece of baguette she was using for a bruschetta platter and found his chin at the tip of her sharp blade until he put it back down onto the surface. It wasn't until she was mixed up with directions on how to get home that they found themselves talking and getting to know one another better. He fit in with her friends from school because he was relaxed and the girls were wild. He had quickly become a very close friend. One of the only people she actually liked talking to about her surfing accident.

"You're a gomer." Her Aussie accent shone as she rolled her eyes at him and leaned back into her book, turning it around to show him the words she was struggling with. She often looked them up on her own, but it was nice to be with a local that she trusted and have him show her better pronunciation and how to use the word.

"Did you have a nice visit with your friend?" Very interested, Jules asked while leaning in and looking at the book he lent her. She was at the part where Christine and Raoul were hiding from the Angel of Music in the roof of the opera house, vowing to protect one another and love each other for eternity.

"Yeah, it was quick. He has press and stuff." Penny shrugged. "But it was really nice to see him. He gave me the tickets for tonight. Thanks again for coming." She liked spending time with Jules and, like her, he had a true appreciation for live music. It wasn't just about screaming and having drinks for him which Penny liked because she detested both.

"This word, bagarre," With a clean fingertip he poked under the word she had highlighted. "It would be like...how do you say?" Jules bit down on his bottom pink lip, a small scar in the middle that she had noticed as soon as they met. "It's like a duel, but less formal. A brawl!" As he was talking, he figured it out. "Raoul would step outside of himself and brawl with them phantom in order to look after Christine if he needed to." Jules didn't even realize that he had begun to use his hands in front of him to explain the story.

"That's what I thought." The rest of the sentence only made sense that way, but it was still helpful to hear her friend say the word aloud. "Bagarre." Penny repeated and celebrated mentally when he shot her a thumbs up, a gesture he liked because it seemed American.

"C'est bon! Oui." Celebrating with her proudly, Jules reached over and squeezed her arm right before her lemonade was set down in front of them. Penny would have watched his hand over her if the server hadn't shown up. She peeled her eyes off of his hands that were strong and worn out from a lifetime of playing music so she could order a tray of pastries for the table. She hadn't forgotten how badly she wanted to try their lemon curd. Penny nodded her head into her shoulder and watched as Jules watched her, the arrival of her French friend who reminded her so much of Emmeline interrupting their sweet, but nervous silence.

"I'm here and I'm hungry." Kissing Jules cheek first, Cerise exclaimed as fast as she could in French before rushing over to greet Penny with a kiss as well. While Cerise put herself together in her spot, stripping off her pink jean jacket and talking about her morning, Penelope watched Jules listen. His side profile was what had caught her gaze and daydreams in the first place. She was confused. He was very much her first real crush from the excitement that tickled her stomach when he texted her to the nerves that took over her mind when he waved 'bonjour' when he saw her at work, but then there was Connor. He had lusted after her for so long, written songs about her, and they kissed before she left in front of so many people. Did she talk to Connor about a long distance relationship or did she keep dreamed about the French jazz musician with eyes that she swore had flecks of 24 karat gold in them.

*************************************************

Penelope hadn't been wrong about her day. It started with a tight squeeze from Connor Irwin, followed by pastries that lived up their rave reviews, a little time sitting on a bench in Rene Binet garden with Jules, both of them reading their respective books while wishing they brought sweaters. Autumn was fast approaching. She went home in a dream-like state, having a little cheese and jam while cutting her split ends in front of her perpetually foggy bathroom mirror.

She wasn't used to the confusion that seemed to swirl in her brain like creamer freshly poured into morning coffee. She felt like a moron the way her mind was drifting between imagining a hectic life that mirrored her parents with Connor Irwin and an easy melody with Jules where they could cook, dance, and create together. Penelope used to roll her eyes when her friends would stress about boys, but she was reading her textbook with her French to English dictionary on her bed and wondering what Connor's mouth between her knees would feel like it if the way Jules said her name would feel as good as it sounded.

She was thankful when Alexandra texted her that she was on her way so they could get ready for the concert together. The two girls who worked in the male dominated kitchen could gab together about other topics. Alexandra dreamed of running her own catering business in the South of France, only working for the most elite events, and her dreams helped Penelope figure out where she wanted to take her new skills. So far, Penelope Hemmings just really liked making jams and salsa. It wasn't exactly a launchpad for a real career.

Once in her favorite sweater, a blue and white check pattern that her Grandma Christie from her mother's side sent her, and slipped into a very worn out pair of black jeans, Penelope was ready to spend the night with both boys who were holding the logical side of her brain captive. She rested her butt on the edge of her claw foot bath tub and braided her friends hair, breathing in the third cigarette Alexandra had lit in the last fifteen minutes.

"I listened to your friend's music the whole way here." The older girl spoke after her drawn out inhale, her thick almost black hair being massaged by Penny's nimble fingers. "I don't know him, but does he write about you? I felt like his songs, some of them, they were about you." Alexandra had obviously figured out that the tune 'Penny and Me' was all about her new beach loving friend.

"I think so." Forever modest, Penelope explained. They didn't have a deep enough friendship yet for her to be forthcoming. They usually just talked food and work. "We grew up together, you know? Our dads are best friends, they were in the same band. I don't think I had a day without Connor until I was, like, four." It was a slight exaggeration, but they did spend more days together than apart for most of their early years. It wasn't until they grew into preteens that they started to choose to run in the same circle.

"It sounds like he loves you." Alexandra let the cigarette smoke curl upward as she glanced behind her to inform Penny. She wanted to see her reaction even if it was lackluster. "Do you love him?" She inquired as soon as she turned her head again.

"I didn't think we were going to talk about guys..." Nervously, Penny chuckled back. "Weren't you going to give me a recipe for some kind of bore entree?" Penelope was obsessed and wanted to soak in all the different techniques and meals she could.

"I will." She rolled her eyes. They worked together, there was time to teach the blond how to make a bore lasagna. "Do you love him or do you still have, what do you call them, giggly eyes for the drummer?" Alexandra had been working with Jules since she was hired over a year ago. He didn't ever register in her world though until she investigated who the guy walking Penny home every night was even on the evenings he didn't work. Girls had to stick together and look out for one another, she figured.

"Googly eyes!" Loudly laughing with her head back and her blond hair falling to the dimples above her butt, Penelope taught her. She supposed that giggly eyes still described her as well. "I don't know, Alex. I wish I did. I've never been in this situation before."

"Wait!" Letting her second braid come completely undone as she yanked it from Penelope's hand, Alex looked up with an enlarged stare and almost blew smoke right into Penelope's almost nude face. "You're a virgin?!" It was a real plot twist for Alex. She just assumed that the daughter of an Australian rock star with legs as long as pi in its entirety would have banged out a boyfriend and a few wild strangers in-between.

"No more. I'm not talking about this." Penelope drew her line in the sand. She readjusted her almost straight hips on the bath tubs edge and took to her friends hair again. The girl who was once known for how laid back and chill she was (like ice cubes in a finished glass of iced tea) was flustered and embarrassed. She felt like every time she entered a different room in Paris she was finding a different part of herself. It was the biggest adventure of all and she was not impressed with it.

*****************************

She was blaming it on her busy mind, but Penelope felt lost in the crowd during Connor's act at the Paul Shimnowski Band concert. She had no idea how many concerts that she had attended in her entire life, all of them she had loved, but this one she wanted to sit out. She had arrived so excited with her hair falling Cher style down her back and her phone ready to take a hundred pictures a second. Instead, she felt the headaches that she suffered randomly since her accident come on the moment she was a part of the large crowd in the concession areas. She followed Alexandra and Cerise, staying next to Jules as they squeezed through to find their floor seats. Maybe, it was because all of Connor's shows she had attended up until this point had been small venues, local ones that she had seen other decent and not-so-good bands in. This was a stadium. This was the kind of show she grew up watching her Dad put on, but of course, more folksy. The smell of weed lead the vibe of the entire show. She usually danced freely at Connor's shows. She was his biggest fan and former number one merch girl after all. She would raise her tanned arms above her space buns and turn her body in every direction she could without colliding with anyone, but not tonight. Tonight, she hugged her chest and watched her friend with a tight lipped smile. The kind that silently shouted, 'I am not okay'.

Connor looked every bit like his father with his mom's chin and jawbone. Somehow he managed to hone his mother's poise and grace while still embodying his father's goofiness and charm. It made it hard to pull your attention away from him when he was practically making out with the microphone and his hands were massaging the instrument he was playing, seducing the crowd by gyrating to his own songs. It could not be denied, as far as Penelope could see, Connor belonged to the stage. He always said he was born to play music for the world and she hadn't ever doubted him. Now she knew that nobody would be able to. The crowd around her was reasonably new to Connor. He had been relatively unknown outside of Sydney until Paul Shimnowski took him on tour, but she could hear over 5,000 other voices singing along to the song, 'Slipping Away', a ballad he wrote about her, about being with someone else and wishing he was with her, a song that Penelope had heard over a hundred times, but she couldn't remember any of the lyrics. Her head knew the words, her mouth was well acquainted with them, but her brain refused to connect them to her memory. It even struck her as a surprise when he whispered her name into the microphone, singing out loud how he felt clearly, 'Penelope she sleeps so soundly, somewhere in her bathing suit...'. She had heard the line before, even recalling the first time he played the song for her in his parent's backyard while she scratched at one of his big dog's ears, but the words were lost in the fog her head produced.

To her left, looking for sanctuary, Penny looked over at Jules by her side. He was standing still, just watching Connor with a contented look blanketed by a blue glow coming from the stage they were near to. She moved her attention down to the military green chinos he was wearing. She could see at the bottom of one pant leg the fabric outlined his metal prosthetic. He had opted to wear it over his one that better resembled a limb for reasons she knew not to be her business. The sight of his prosthetic, though covered, was a source of comfort to Penny and she leaned into him, knocking her arm against his and gaining his attention for herself.

“You're the Penelope, right?” Jules asked right in her ear, still saying her name how he knew it to be pronounced and not how Connor had just sung it. He had found her to be a small recurring theme in Connor Irwin's songs especially the sappier ones.

“Indeed.” She brought both palms to her chin as if to frame her face for him before laughing gently. “Connor invited me to an after party. Do you want to come?” She knew Alexandra couldn't because she worked in the morning and Cerise was all, but seething that she couldn't because she had obligations with her own boyfriend and his very religious family that attended church every Sunday.

“I'm going back to the restaurant.” Jules explained with a half-frown. Music was his life, just like it was Connor's, and even though he would gladly take any night off for a concert or if Penelope needed him to, he loved going to see his friends play and always wanted to find an opportunity to jump in and jam. He knew he wouldn't make it to the place they both worked at until nearly 11 pm, but he also knew that his seat behind the kit would always be warm and welcoming to him.

“I didn't know.” Penny shrugged. She didn't know which event she wanted to be at more, Connor's after party or her work where Jules would be playing with the rest of the jazz group. She felt obligated to Connor's since she had agreed to be there that morning.

“You'll be okay?”

“Oh yeah, I'll be fine. I just thought it would be fun for you to come too.” She knew it would be. He was a simple calmness that her life was missing. He chased adventures and liked new experiences as much as she did, but Jules was older by a year and needed time to lay in bed and relax. He forced Penelope to just slow down sometimes.

** * ** * ******

Still hugging her chest, Penny waited backstage against a cold white brick wall that she had once leaned against before as a three year old, waiting with a stomach ache for her Aunt Grace to take her back to the hotel for a medicine and a long nap. The way her Uncle Michael told the story was that she ate too much stinky French cheese and threw up everywhere, but the truth was just simply that she had a terrible stomach ache and both her parents were working their respective on-the-road jobs.

Penelope waited behind hoards of people. Some speaking French, but most gabbing back and forth in slang English. She wasn't invisible, eyes looked her up and down, but no one engaged with her, so she kept to herself. In her purse, she still had her copy of The Phantom of the Opera if she really needed it. From over top of a small balding man and very angry looking woman, she spotted Connor's sweat slicked forehead. Penny stepped forward in a lunge movement and waved. He was in the middle of being spoken to by two people at once, but as soon as Connor spotted her, he dove between his new manager and a label executive to talk to her.

“You were out of this world!” With delight and honesty, she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck as he twirled her around.

“You're here.” He moaned against her cheek with a smile that almost broke free from the confines of his face. “You're stunning!” Connor was never light on compliments around his favorite Hemmings, but since they kissed, he felt better about always saying how he felt and right now he felt that she was the most beautiful girl he had seen all day. “Where are your friends?” He looked around, certain that he had given Penelope more than enough passes to come see him backstage without any hassle.

“They all have cooler lives than me.” She excused, as if going to an after party for a concert wasn't anything to write home about. “You're stuck with just me.”

“I'll take you.” Connor threw his arm around Penny and started to walk her closer to the people he now shared his life with. “What did you think of the show?” Her opinion was the only one that truly mattered to him.

“I think you look like a young Ashton Irwin. It was so bizarre.” Penelope tapped both her cheeks with her open palms as she looked up at Connor. “Like, I'm not sure if you're my Uncle or not.”

“Don't be sick.” He playfully shoved her away just to pull her back with the same arm he draped around her like a useless scarf. “Did you like some of the new stuff? I'm just constantly trying out new material. Paul thinks it's the best way to figure out new music, play it live in front of as many people as you can and gage the reaction.”

“It was cool. You're getting kind of Dylan-ish.” Well acquainted in the world of music even though she didn't feel like she had much artistic talent herself, Penny critiqued him. “But like both his eras, you know? Folk and electric. I dig it.”

“Awesome.” Connor tightened his arm around her, bringing her in closer for a hug. He led her into his dressing room where his two best music buddies from back home were packing up their instruments. “I'm just going to get changed. You cool to hang with the guys?” He asked, but Penelope had already escaped his grip and was sitting on a coffee table next to a bowl of pretzels, talking to the guys she knew from spending all her free time at the Wax 'n' Wake by the beach back in Sydney. Connor watched as she easily made herself fit into any room effortlessly. He wondered if his new schedule would change how he felt for her, but his feelings were strong as ever. She was still the image that waltzed through his mind when he was working on new music or the voice he wished he could hear after a particularly challenging day.

** ** ** ************************************************

Outside, where the air was crispy through a hollow wind that was announcing October was just days away, Penelope was dressed perfectly in her cozy sweater and jeans. Inside of the club, she was cooking like one of her first attempts at baklava. It turns out hotter doesn't always make something cook faster. Penny excused herself from the booth that Connor and his ban were occupying, squeezing her way past two very drunk and very French girls to make it to the stairs. She didn't realize that Connor was following behind her until she almost slapped his face off by whipping the smoking door open and shut.

"Are you okay?" Once outside, relief from the heat and noise greeted Penny. She moved away from the group of smokers huddled by the door and stood out in the open, admiring the street lamp between limp orange leaves in the trees. "I didn't know you were behind me."

"It's okay. I didn't need my nose anyway." Wiggling it theatrically at her, Connor teased. "Are you doing okay?" He never quite knew where she stood on parties and clubs. She was a teetotaller which changed her experience from other people throwing back shots and sipping on mixed drinks. Even before her accident, Penelope didn't have any desire to drink. Still, Connor remembered Penelope as a staple at almost every beach bonfire or high school party he went to. She was always there with her usual cooler than the rest smile and the straps of her bathing suit top poking out of a neckline.

"Yeah, I just couldn't breathe." Fresh air had become a requirement in Penelope's recovery. She spent her first few lunch hours at school walking outside around the building, breathing in the air, and she liked to keep a window of her bachelor suite open at all times. It helped her keep her mind clear or, at least, she felt like it did. "You seem really in your element. I can tell you're happy." It was nice to not have to check. With her brothers and Emmeline, she had to check, but Connor's joy stretched through him. It practically screamed into a room.

"I'm even happier that you're here." Connor moved in close just as Penny was lifting up her arms to tie back all her hair, allowing a cool breeze onto her neck and her small chest to press against his. He had no complaints about the movement. "I wish I had more time here. You could show me around or I could see your apartment." He tightened his hands together behind her back, right where her dimples were. "We don't have a day off til Lyon and I'm assuming you wouldn't skip school on Tuesday to hang out there with me."

She was shaking her head before he even finished speaking, "As much as I plan to go there, no way." If she missed a day of school, she missed an entire lesson. Culinary school was fast and Penelope wasn't as whip smart as she used to be. She really had to focus now where she could slack off before. "No." She finished the same sentiment. Somehow, and she wasn't quite sure how, Penelope's hands had left her hair and were both laying flat against his chest which made him flex out of insecurity.

"I understand." He nuzzled his head closer to hers, making their conversation private from even the prying ears of the breeze around. "We will just have to take advantage of tonight then." It was only half past eleven anyway. Connor kissed her forehead and then her cheek. It felt safe and comforting. Penelope felt drawn in, but stepped back anyway.

"Do you want to just go and hang out in my hotel room?" Connor asked and tried to follow her eyes that she was now hiding from him. It wasn't the first time someone had asked Penny back up to their room, but it was the first time she was tempted to agree.

"Connor -" She sighed out his name with frustration. It confused him even though she meant to direct it at herself. Penny had a hand on her forehead and her heart in her throat. "Con, I don't know what to do." He was her best friend and she didn't want to start keeping secrets from him now.

"We don't have to go to the hotel. I didn't mean that in a pressure filled way." Right away, he hurried to defend himself. "We could just, like, catch up or watch TV."

"No, I'm not upset about that." She assured, her hand still massaging sat her temple. "I like you. There's a part of me lately that would love to go back to your hotel room." Enlarging Connor's pupils she surprised him. He instantly cleared his throat and fidgeted his arms at the sound that she had thought about being with him. "There's a part of me that thinks nobody could ever see me the way you do, but..."

"But?" He was stunned she could follow both those reveals with a 'but' and his voice showed it.

Penelope stared at him, her hands finally both at her side, as she tried to read her own racing thoughts. They were four steps apart from one another and Penelope swore she could hear his nerves beating beneath the thin material of his black shirt, "I like someone else too." Like it was a sin, she admitted it, flicking the words out from behind her teeth at his frozen face with the tip of her tongue.

It was obvious he was disappointed as his head instantly fell and a few of his lazily tamed tangles of hair fell free. Penelope figured other girls might apologize in this situation, but she didn't. She made a point not to just apologize unless she was sorry and she was not sorry for how she felt for either Connor or Jules. It was nearly autumn, the wind was cold, but she was slowly burning in the parking lot with Connor almost on fire just steps away from her. Their silence was aching and she could hear it's melody like someone slamming on out of tune piano keys.

"It's that guy in your photos?" It took Connor a minute, but eventually he figured it out. He followed Penny's photo page online closely and the only two photos he hadn't liked was one of her in her white coat at work sitting with Jules in the walk in freezer of the restaurant and the other was just of Jules eating her jam with a large spatula on her balcony. Every other picture, he laughed and admired before giving it a heart tap.

Penelope only nodded in response. She wanted to be truthful, not hurt him.

"The guy with one leg?" It was obvious to Connor that the picture of them in the freezer, Jules in shorts, that he had a prosthetic limb.

"Yeah. His name is Jules." She didn't know if Connor would want that detail, but it came out of her anyway.

"You brought him to the show?!" For a second, Connor felt stung, but he puffed out his chest as he told himself that he had put on a great set. "Wait, he's the drummer at your restaurant." It was coming together quickly now that Connor had the perimeter of the puzzle pieced. He remembered in one of their earlier phone conversations that Penny had mentioned she made friends with a musician, a drummer at the place she was working at, and he was going to show her around Paris. Connor had felt jealous initially, but when she never brought him up again he figured that it was nothing. "He's a musician." He didn't like that for some reason. Maybe it was because he didn't want to have anything in common with her crush or it was because he felt threatened. Connor was on tour and this guy worked with Penny night after night.

"I've never known you to be into somebody." And he had known Her forever even when went through a phase where she wore a lollipop body mist that made her smell like sugar cane. Connor was flabbergasted. "I really thought tonight was going to go different. Honestly, I thought we would just pick up where we left off." Connor really did imagine Penelope's hand in his and the two of them kissing backstage, their young blood rushing around as she finally let herself be with him.

"You want to be together while you're flying around the world?" It was Penelope's time to be surprised though she supposed she shouldn't be because Connor was always fanciful and believed in fairy tales. They were different that way.

"Yeah. Why is that so bizarre?" She had a crooked smile on and her head was posed to the side, asking him to be real.

"It would never work." Penny had gone over the situation in her head plenty of times. She was in school and couldn't visit him whenever and he was on tour and couldn't stop by Paris whenever he felt like it. They could never be there for one another. Right now they were too restricted. Plus, she didn't know Connor to resist the attention and affection of girls who were fans of his music.

"And it's different with Jewel - ?"

"Jules." She corrected before he could continue.

"He plays music too. What is it just because he wasn't good enough to tour?"

"Okay, easy, you're not David Bowie." Penny pointed out with her face holding a frown. She really didn't want to upset Connor, she just didn't want to lead him on either. "And Jules is really talented. There's a lot of talented undiscovered people, you know that!" It wasn't that long ago that he had been recording music in his bathroom and wishing someone would give it half a listen. "I really like both of you." She didn't even know if Jules had any feelings for her, she just knew thinking about him made her feel like there was a ticking time bomb inside of her.

"He has one leg!" Connor laughed as he raised his voice.

"So?" She couldn't believe he was bringing that up so she made sure to narrow her eyes into him and step closer, letting him know just how crazy she thought he was being. "You have dirty blond hair." She said to try and show him how moot his point had been.

"Well, come on, Pen, what's so special about him? I've never known you to be into someone."

"He gets it."

"It? Gets what?" Connor squinted to better follow her. "I get you."

"He gets what it's like to have your whole world change from an accident." Sighing, Penelope told him with some embarrassment. She hated having to admit that things were different for her now.

"Wait..." He put up both his hands and waved them in front of himself as if it helped him understand what she was saying. "You have a crush on him because he's disabled?"

"Okay, fuck you." Penelope said it like she was wishing him good luck. It was simple and sincere. On her toes, she moved forward to rush away. She didn't know where she was and she couldn't remember where Montemare was from where they were standing, but in that moment, she thought being lost would be better than arguing with someone she trusted to never hurt her. Her blond hair whipped behind her like a reptiles tail as she stalked away. She could hear Connor's voice painfully calling her name, pleading, as his feet shuffled closer. Penny inhaled deeply and ignored her instinct to keep walking when she spun around. Their chests were so close to colliding that, out of reflex, Connor jumped back.

"You being cheesed right now is so hypocritical!" She threw her hands down in fists as she shouted into him. "I like both of you a lot, yeah, that sucks, but you dated your way through your yearbook in high school while writing songs about me the whole time!" In case e had forgotten, which he hadn't, Penny reminded him with one large breath.

"I didn't think I had a chance with you." With Penny, she was a mermaid-like angel and, around her, he was just a human with all his flaws. Connor softened, guilt leaking into his previously burning throat, Penny wasn't finished though. He had crossed a line and poked a button. He had never seen her so wound up before and he hated that it was him who had made her feel so awful. He wished now that he could step back five minutes into the past and try to handle his emotions differently.

"You know your parents and their perfect freaking marriage that you're lusting after? You are never going to have it if you don't like yourself on your own first. I was figuring out who I was then I had my accident and I had to figure myself out all over again. I'm not going to apologize for not having time to be your girlfriend and groupie because I was too busy figuring out who I was!" Her own impulsive foolishness had ripped memories and cognitive skills from her and Penelope was very proud of how hard she worked to become someone she liked again.

Connor has never heard Penelope raise her voice. Any time she had been cross before, she played it off cool as a cuke. He had seen her unleash a little on her younger brothers before, not him. It stung and Connor wanted to sit down on the curb and cry. Instead, he ran all his fingers through his hair aggressively holding the ends down and trying to keep from coming undone in front of her.

"Alright, so let's pretend there's no Jules. It's just you and me, you still wouldn't believe we could do it while I'm touring?" He couldn't change Penelope's heart. If she had feelings for two people than Connor couldn't yell at her until he got his way. "No chance?"

"I just don't see...how." Down at the tips of her scuffed up white canvas shoes, she said quietly before looking up to notice how little he cared for her response.

"Why?" Thrusting his chin forward, he asked assertively. "What? You think I'm going to be like your Dad?"

"What?"

"You think I'm going to stay out all night and get fucked up? You think I'll get caught with hookers -"

"That was a rumor and you fucking know it!" Like they were guitar strings, he was playing with her nerves now.

"Whatever. You think I'm going to cheat and not come home just like him."

"He didn't cheat on my Mom!" Penelope growled. She had asked her mom point blank once if he had and she promised that he never did.

"You're still the same little girl who got teased in kindergarten because her dad was in the papers and on TV! You are scared of being happy with me because of my job. Admit it!" Connor huffed at the end. He was out of breath as it has run away with his mouth. Neither of them were used to behaving this way especially with each other. "Penny, what I should have said -"

"Get fucked, you gomer." She didn't let him correct himself. Penny dragged her spiteful glance away from him and began to walk away. She figured she would walk until she was on a Main Street and then take the last subway home. Her emotions were so heightened that she couldn't think straight. Penelope stiffened up her mouth and fought with herself before taking her low battery phone out of her purse and calling her mom. She didn't know what she would say, but she hoped it would center her. It was almost ten in the morning back home on the next day, she assumed her mom would be up running errands or getting breakfast with friends.

She nearly broke into tears when she heard the groggy voice of a freshly awaken Luke Hemmings pick up. It played back every horrible thing that her best friend had just said. Penelope pulled her face away from the phone and checked that she had actually clicked on her mom's name.

"Penny? You okay?" Luke checked the time on his wife's phone as he had reached over her side to pick it up. She was in the shower. "Penny, its like midnight there. " He forgot that she was going to Connor's show that night.

"Dad, I'm lost." She hated admitting defeat. Her frustration with herself was evident.

All at once, Luke panicked, but he chose to take a deep breath and follow the advice of Penelope's doctor and therapist. He couldn't always spring into hero mode. He had to let her learn.

"Okay, that's okay. Can you call an uber to where you are?" He inquired, sitting up and adjusting his wife's pillow behind his back for support.

"I think I'm in a park. We went to a club to celebrate after Connor's show and...and I left..."

"Without your friends?" He didn't hide that he didn't like that.

"It's a long story, Dad." Her sigh was long and held its exasperation until the end. "I know that I'm in Passy which is, like, less than a half hour by car to my place." He was glad Penny knew that because he neighborhoods of Paris were simply French words to him. "The subway station is by Radio France." She didn't know why she knew that, but at some point someone had mentioned that to her and it stuck in her brain. "I don't know how to get there."

"Walk North, Penny." Luke coached her while reaching around to find his phone somewhere in the bed sheets. It was right beneath his pillow. He pulled open Google and began to search on the map for Radio France. Once he had the address, he opened up his GPS app that he used to track all three of his forever wandering children. He found Penelope quickly and changed what he told her, "I'm sorry, Penny, turn around and go straight. I'll stay on the phone til you get to the subway or in a cab." He didn't prefer either. Luke just wished he could drive her around himself.

"Thanks, Dad. I knew where I was and then I couldn't remember. It's been really good though until now." She had Jules to walk her home from work, but she really didn't need him to anymore. She just loved being alone with the drummer and all the tattoos that decorated his arms like lights and bulbs on Christmas tree.

"Are you alright? You could go back to the club and get a car."

"Yeah." Hearing his voice was giving her something positive to focus on. It made her feel closer to home even though they were just over the phone. "Maybe, I should. I just want to be home."

"You will be on December 24th." Luke reminded her while laying back down, feeling calmer now that she did.

"I meant my apartment."

"I know, I'm just teasing. We miss you." He told her that almost every day. "You close to the club?" He couldn't tell that on his phone app.

"Yeah, like, a minute away."

"Just take an Uber, Pen. I will wire you some money."

"I'm fine for money, Dad." Penelope was very proud of the fact that she supported herself. She could never be like her friends who lived off their parents back accounts. Still, Luke always helped her. It was one of the only ways he felt like he could help her from so far away. "I'm here. I'm at the club." She was standing right in the back parking lot where she and Connor acted like children fighting for no reason, but because their emotions demanded it. Connor wasn't there anymore and she assumed he had gone inside with his heart racing and hands playing with his hair.

"Okay. You feel okay?" He didn't want to patronize her and ask her to do some of her memory exercises, so Luke found a more vague way to investigate.

"I'll be fine." She wasn't about to vent to him about how Connor hurt her heart.

"Okay. Love you, Pen. Call anytime." He always reminded her that she could.

"Dad?" Penny didn't want him to hang up just yet.

"Yeah?"

Sometimes, to help her recollection, Penelope would walk herself backwards through her day until she was the place she needed to remember. Right now, she was in the parking lot where Connor made her feel as small as Daphne Hood was.

"You were a good Dad. I know you were away a lot, but I still liked having you as a Dad." Penny nodded and swallowed hard, telling herself as much as she was telling him.

"Thanks." Luke ignored that she used past tense and softened. He had been criticized harshly by people who knew him and many who didn't, so hearing from one of the kids he raised that he earned a passing grade was as comforting as the blanket he was half beneath. "I love being your Dad." He informed her as she approaches the first cars outside of the front of the dance club.

"I'm going to go. Goodnight. Well, morning." Once he said goodbye back, Penelope hung up and put her phone back into its bag.

In an effort to save money and work out some of her conflicting thoughts, Penelope requested for the Uber driver to drop her off on the same block as the place she worked at. It was only a ten minute stroll to her home from there and she wanted to stop in to check her upcoming schedule for the rest of the month.

Penelope squeezed in through the kitchen door where four line cooks were smoking and swearing about the busy night they were in the middle of. When the band came on and the cocktail specials were announced was when people started to pour in. It was a very popular after hours spot for their strong drinks and a generous tapas.

Penny wiped off her shoes on the rubber mat and went to the wall by the office. She could hear the music playing, almost recognizing the staccato song playing. Right away though, Penny knew Jules wasn't on the drums. She checked to make sure she was given the day off before her upcoming exam and then forged forward through the boiling and hectic kitchen. Her eyes checked over moving shoulders as she glanced at different meals being prepared or plated. There was always an opportunity for her to learn. All around her, she heard her name and greeting. She felt better already. This was her makeshift home, this was her out of town family.

She moved closer and closer to the perpetually swinging door that separated the fun loving atmosphere for the dining room and jazz club from the stresses out sweat and swear zoo that was the kitchen. As soon as she had curled one hand around it to push it partially open, a waitress she recognized as Ismay flew by with an empty tray and an annoyed expression that could staple itself into anyone's mind. Penny glanced around the busy room and found Jules right away, sitting on a bar stool with an old fashioned and keeping the beat of the song with his hand on his knee. Due to enjoying the band, he swung slightly on his chair and waved over his head almost as soon as he spotted Penelope. He thought about nodding at her to join him, but it struck him as odd that she had left her friend's party and he could tell that something had happened. She was wearing a face he hadn't seen on her before and, while he thought she was ethereally beautiful, he did not particularly care for it. So Jules carefully hopped off the stool and moved to her. Penelope came out of the kitchen entirely, standing behind the bar in her casual wear.

"Why did you leave?" Jules inquired, leaning into the small bar door that came up to his waist and kept them apart. "Were you not having fun with celebrities?" He couldn't resist teasing her, wiggling his brows as he asked. Jules was not impressed by fancy things and name brands. He grew up with a single mother and modest means between himself and his older sister. He played music and worked as a doorman at Le Royal Monceau. Sure, he had dreams, but he was never impressed by anyone who flashed their success and wealth around. Jules just wanted to be happy right before he fell asleep at night.

"No." Penny sighed and rolled her eyes halfway at the thought of it. "It was weird. I'm going to home now, I just needed to check the schedule."

"Want a walking buddy?" It was a term she had coined for him around the third time he escorted her back to her apartment.

"No. I got it." She was worried about getting lost again, but Penelope really did want to be by herself.

"Okay. Well I'll see you...mercredi?" He could never remember the days of the week in English. Jules hoped to see her before, but he knew that was when they would both be working together. He had picked up the habit of checking her schedule.

"Yeah." Penny promised. "Thanks for coming out with me tonight. Did you like the show?" She realized she hadn't asked after the concert.

"Yeah, it was good. Both acts were good." He admitted while waving his hand back and forth to gesture that they were really just 'okay'. Jules wasn't a big fan of folk or pop music. He grew up on jazz and classic since that was what his grandfather that they lived with played. He was the man who taught Jules everything about rhythm and built him his first drum kit. "It was weird watching someone be so in love with you in front of all those people." He half-laughed through his awkward honesty. "Did you two date?" She had always just referred to Connor as her closest friend, but the performance has all three of Penelope's French friends wondering if they had once been more.

"No." She shook her head and reached around to tighten her ponytail. "We kissed once." She said and instantly wish she hadn't. She looked down into her purse to check the time on her phone noticing that it barely had any battery life yet. She was sitting at an uncomfortable 3%. Penny missed that Jules scrunched up his nose at what she said.

"Do you like him?"

Penny puffed both her cheeks out and let them deflate with a long exhale at his question, zipping her bag back and wondering for a second if her feelings for Connor had changed after their fight.

"I have." Realizing it was a strange way to answer, Penny shrugged. "We sort of fought at the club and we've never fought before." Penny explained to Jules, wrapping her fingers around the bar door again. "I don't know."

"What did you fight about? Was it bad?" He wished his English was better or that her French was more extensive in times like these. Jules felt like he couldn't be as good a companion to her when their was a language barrier between them. He didn't realize his hands had curls over hers, but Penny had and she could not stop looking at them.

"It was just bad because it had never happened before." She spoke directly to their hands. "I hurt his feelings and then he hurt mine back." She supposed that she really just described every fight throughout history, but she wasn't quite feeling as smart as usual tonight.

"What did you say?" In a joking manner, Jules scolded her. He narrowed his eyes in and shook his head very slowly.

"You really want to know?" She asked before realizing that she didn't know if she wanted to honestly tell him.

"Of course." Jules laughed and squeezed her fingers under his tenderly. He couldn't imagine her saying anything that he couldn't handle. His bet was that they just misunderstood one another or that her friend was too drunk to think before speaking.

Penelope tightened her throat which made Jules chuckle at how strange it looked and she tried to come up with a lie. She tried to reason with herself and remember how to be the cool girl that she was known as back home on the beaches of Sydney.

"I told him..." Penny looked up into Jules eyes, but that made the truth harder to share somehow. "I told him...I said...well..." She was embarrassed by how tongue tied she felt and just spat it out, "I told him I like somebody else too."

"Okay." Like it was nothing, Jules accepted with a casual smirk that shrugged above his chin. "So he feels a little crushed. Anybody I know? Someone in your classes?"

"You." She had come this far. There wasn't much point in beating around the bush now. Penny sometimes wondered how different things would be with Connor if he had come out and admitted to liking her instead of just trying to tell her through poetry.

Jules hands loosened on hers and his eyes lightened as he gave her a smile she interpreted as pitying.

"Okay, so I'm going to go jump in front of a car." Penelope uttered a sentence she had heard Emmeline say a dozen times before when she didn't get her way. The words didn't feel right in her mouth, but she pushed open the bar door and tried to squeeze past him. Jules tugged on her wrist, but she yanked it away.

"Penelope! Penelope!" He chased her through the kitchen. After she pushed open the back door, she turned and stopped him from going outside with her. He looked concerned and as if his mouth was full of a hundred things to say.

"Don't. It's okay!" She put up her hand to stop him from coming closer or uttering a word. "Cause I like you both and I don't know what to do. So you don't have to say anything and make it more weird." She really needed to work on her eloquence.

"Can I, please, walk you home?" Jules genuinely wanted to and took her hand in his to try and make that clear.

"I'll text you when I'm there." Penelope just assumed he felt obliged to make sure she was safe. She took her hand back and ran into the night, his eyes watching until she became a dot as dark as the sky was.

****************************

After plugging her phone in and taking a pear from her bottom fridge door, Penny ran a hot bath. She soaked in the bubble free water and watched her skin grow red from the heat. It was comforting and removed how perplexed, hurt, and rejected she felt. Penelope only ate half of her pear before her stomach couldn't bare anymore. She felt too upset and her stomach couldn't handle another bite. Once she was starting to drift off into sleep, she rose out of the bath tub and drained the dirty water. Penelope wrapped herself in her favorite multi-color striped beach towel from back home and picked up her phone from in the dry sink since she used it as a DIY speaker for the Soft Cell songs she was playing to drown out the furious pain from the evening. She noticed that she had four texts and read them as she dried off.

"I'll be in Paris soon. MAKE TIME FOR ME AND ROMANCE MY PALE ASS!!!" Emmeline sent with a string of bright coloured emojis that had nothing to do with her sentiment.

"Are you home safe? You didn't text." Jules wrote about twenty minutes after she arrived at her building.

"I'm really sorry, Pen. :(" Connor had sent around the same time as Jules.

However, Penelope only concentrated on her dad's message.

"Your mum and I are really proud of you. Nice to start the morning with your voice."

Once dry, she put on a pair of sweats and a stained 5SOS shirt from their first headlining tour way before she was born and slept on her futon. She was exhausted so she didn't even bring it down from its couch form. Penelope texted no one and fell asleep wondering where her perfect day went.

#5sos au #5sos series #5sos imagine #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings one shot #penelope hemmings

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