#honestly he wouldn’t burn everything but he’d leave enough damage to have them distracted enough so he can take out jon

[percentstardust]

want drogon to enter a revenge era where he flies back to westeros after four years to raze the land as he searches for jon sn.ow. he’s alone, he’s suffering, and he’s angry. he’s gonna be double the size in this time frame so he’s going to be a nightmare to take down IF he is taken down.

[iamtheblondestblonde]

The Clark Kent Effect

Part One

AN: So this is meant to be the beginning of a (semi short) series, depending on how well it’s received. Feedback is therefore more than appreciated and always remember I love reading tags. Feel free to message me or send me anons as well, every interaction makes my day :) 

To all my American followers: please go vote tomorrow, I don’t even live there but I still know how important it is.

Word Count: 2.9k (short boi)

Warnings: alcohol and one swear word maybe? 

Part Two

My other writing can be found here

While your costume had seemed like a great idea two days ago you now thought differently.

Technically it was a great costume, but only because you hadn’t exactly planned on needing to step out of the club to make an angry phone call. Alas here you were, legs shaking and teeth clattering because of your stupidly short dress, this situation the last nail in the coffin that would finally pronounce your disaster with Colin dead for good. You weren’t sad about it in the least, only cold. If only you’d thought of grabbing your jacket on your way outside this wouldn’t be as bad, it was the end of October and you were in New York after all, but you’d been so angry to see his caller ID on your screen that you’d stormed out without thinking, which you now deeply regretted.

Stepping back inside was like heaven and running into a wall at the same time, if said wall was made out of hot air and the smell of sweat, hairspray and alcohol. You really shouldn’t be happy about stuffy air, but at least you weren’t shivering anymore so you were going to mark it down as a success in your books. Since the restrooms were close to your right you made a quick detour, checking if everything was still where it was supposed to be.

At least your boobs hadn’t fallen out yet and you dismissed the judgy stares in the restroom as you readjusted your cleavage and reapplied your bold red lipstick. Normally you’d stare as well, not judging but usually intrigued by women who portrayed such confidence but tonight you were one of these women and you wouldn’t let anyone else ruin it. You’d earned a good night out after finally escaping Colin’s manipulative fuckboy ways and telling him to get lost for good.

So with your chin up and your shoulders straight you stepped out of the restroom, determined to find your group of friends again so you could get drunk and finally have a good time. It took a bit longer than you’d like to admit, your heels only barely giving your tiny frame a height advantage but then you finally spotted the fluffy halo of your best friend. After making sure that it was really her – there were enough angels in this room to make any priest happy after all – you quickly made your way over to her.

Or at least you tried.

You’d only gotten a few steps in when your heel got caught in the costume of a guy dressed up as mummy – which really only consisted of his regular clothes and what you estimated to be about three rolls of toilet paper – and you stumbled. You could already see yourself in the emergency room of the closest hospital with a broken nose from crashing to the ground, blood running down your face and staining your already red dress. Perhaps you could play it off as a part of your costume but it’d still hurt and your night would definitely be over.

But none of that happened because you were saved by a very handsome Superman. He’d stood with his back to you, you’d definitely spotted his broad shoulders underneath the stretched blue fabric earlier, but he’d turned in your direction right before gravity had decided to take its toll on you. Apparently his costume was justified though, because he caught you with cat-like reflexes, wrapping his hands around your arms and pulling you back towards an upright position before anything damaging could happen.

He was a lot taller than you so the first thing you really noticed of him was his throat and perhaps you really should’ve dressed up as a vampire because you noticed that he had a very sexy throat, if that was even a thing. Your weird thoughts were interrupted by him chuckling though and your gaze quickly snapped up to meet his and you really weren’t sure if you should congratulate or scold yourself for how you’d managed to end up in his arms.

The handsome stranger was wearing glasses in true Clark Kent fashion and his hair was better than any DC artist could have dreamed of, perfectly tousled in the way that showed that he liked to run his hands through it and you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t tempted to do the same. In the dim lighting of the club you couldn’t make out the color of his eyes behind his glasses but they could honestly be yellow and he’d still be hot as fuck.

Sometime during your almost-fall your hands had ended up on his chest and you really should be embarrassed about the fact that you were practically feeling him up but somehow you couldn’t find yourself to care enough to let go. You relaxed your hands from the tight grasp they had on his shirt and instead carefully splayed them out on his chest as if you were going to push yourself off of him but not really doing so. With how you were pressed against him you could feel the heat radiating through his shirt and how firm his body was, his muscular built more and more evident with every passing second. His hands had started to wander as well, moving up from the side of your arms towards the top of your shoulders, the size of them burning itself into your mind as you just stared at each other.

If one were to ask you what day it was right this moment, you honestly wouldn’t be able to answer them despite everyone in this club dressed in Halloween costumes. Mozart himself could have returned from the dead to perform “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” with a string quartett in the middle of this dancefloor and you probably wouldn’t have noticed right now, too caught up in the eyes of this handsome stranger.

When he reached up with one of his hands to adjust the little devil’s horns on top of your head you blinked in surprise, finally snapping out of your daze.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry, I totally didn’t mean to crash into you but my heel got caught and-“, you began to ramble, your sense of common decency finally kicking in but he only laughed and since neither of you had taken a step backwards yet you could feel it rumbling through his chest.

“Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind having beautiful girls quite literally falling for me”, he joked and if he were any other guy you probably would’ve scoffed at his choice of words but somehow the boyish charm worked well for him and you found yourself grinning as you came up with a response.

“Mmm let’s hope this isn’t a normal occurrence for you because I’m not a fan of getting caught in traffic.” You finally found the strength to take a, very reluctant, step back, untangling yourself from his grasp and dropping your hands but still smiling up at him. He definitely had the potential to be your catch for the night. You could really use the distraction after all.

Your blissful thoughts were interrupted by someone tugging at your arm though, a look over your shoulder revealing a pouting angel dressed in white and with a bouncing halo. It seemed like Emily had found you instead after you’d gotten distracted by your hero.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over the place for you”, she whined and you could tell by her slurred words that she’d gotten quite the head start while you were outside on your phone as she was well on her way to get plastered. Otherwise she never would’ve interrupted a conversation with a hot guy either, it was an unspoken wingwoman rule after all.      

“Come on, Dana just brought a new round of shots and you need to catch up!” And with that she tightened her grip on your wrist and pulled you away. You barely managed to tell the handsome stranger to come find you later before he disappeared between the writhing bodies and was out of your sight.

Way too many shots later you found yourself on the dance floor, intoxicated and having a great time.

Your thoughts hadn’t wandered to Superman in quite a while, too consumed by alcohol and the thumping beat of the music, until you spotted him leaning against the banister of the top floor, drink in one hand and definitely watching you. Again, this would be creepy if he were anyone else but in this case it only made you appreciate the current sensual song even more, your eyes never leaving his as you moved your body to the beat. You were planning on going home with him later either way, you could tease him a little more before then, show him what he could have if he played his cards right.

He was still watching you a couple of songs later when your throat had gotten dry and your heels were starting to grow uncomfortable. In need of a break you pointed towards the bar, hoping that he’d understand and when he nodded you smiled brightly, excusing yourself from your group of friends so you could grab some water. You were done drinking for tonight, much more exciting things laying ahead of you and you wanted to be sober for them.

Water was apparently a welcome change from the regular orders the bartenders got because you were served immediately, a cool bottle set in front of you seconds later. You checked over your shoulder before taking a sip, spotting your Superman as he made his way towards you with a smile, one you returned before turning back around to climb on the stool that had just freed up so you could give your feet a well-deserved break.

When you felt a tap on your shoulder you fully expected it to be the hot guy, your most dazzling smile instantly on your lips as you turned around but it quickly fell off your face as you realized who it really was.

When you were younger you’d often imagined yourself in this moment, thought of what you’d say when you’d finally see him again after all this time apart. A small part of you had pined after him for years and fantasies of how your eyes would meet from across the room and how everything else would stop mattering had filled your daydreams once upon a time. But as you looked at him now there were no butterflies, no fireworks and you could still hear some remix of “Monster Mash” blaring over the speakers, the world was definitely still turning.

Perhaps you’d built up what had been between the two of you in your mind in the years of his absence, put him on a pedestal – he deserved to be one though because through everything he had been nothing short of a great guy – but as you looked at him you realized that all that was in the past. There was just a warm afterglow of what once was. As you looked at him now, there was absolutely no doubt that you didn’t love Anthony Beauvillier anymore.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really you, but wow Y/N you look great”, his familiar voice met your ears and it took you a second to realize that he’d slipped into French, the way the two of you had done countless times as teenagers.

You probably resembled a fish with the way you were opening and closing your mouth without saying anything but you couldn’t help yourself. Seeing Tito in this club had hit you like a fright train and you hadn’t expected it at all, which only made it worse.

Almost 20 Million people lived in New York State and over 8.3 Million in New York City alone. Brooklyn housed well over 500.000 people as well and yet you still managed to run into your ex in this club, despite the both of you growing up in Québec. If you were any good at math you would calculate the probability of this happening but you’d always sucked at it and it really wouldn’t help your situation either. You reminded yourself that you both worked here now but that was absolutely beside the point.

Before you managed to embarrass yourself even further you shook your head to clear your thoughts, smiling at the guy who had once held your heart before making the break into the NHL. He was dressed as a boy scout, with medals pinned to his shirt, the scarf thingy and everything and the costume was so incredibly him that you immediately felt catapulted back into your teenage years. It was easy to fall back into your old routine then.

“Oh yeah, do you think your Mom would still speak so highly of me if she saw me dressed as a slutty devil?”, you joked and he threw his head back in laughter, taking you even more by surprise when he threw his arms around you in a hug. It was a bit awkward with you sitting on the bar stool and all and it made you realize that he himself didn’t even feel the same anymore, his career of being a professional athlete shaping his body into a much more bulkier version of the one you were used to.

As you looked over his shoulder you caught the gaze of your Superman and your thoughts immediately returned to him. What must he be thinking of you hugging another stranger at the bar after telling him to come see you? The confusion was evident of his face, a crease between his eyebrows giving his thoughts away and you noticed how he scrunched up his nose in a very cute way so you immediately pulled back from Tito, reaching up to adjust your horns as a disguise for your sudden movement.

“So, did you finally manage to make your dreams of living and working in New York City come true?”, he asked as he took a step closer to let someone else pass by and you nodded, amazed that he still remembered after all these years. He really was one of the good guys.

“Yep, I finally made it, although it’s not as glamorous as I thought it would be. But maybe that’s only us working class people, I’m sure it’s a lot different in your line of work.” Thankfully he picked up on your teasing and wasn’t insulted, only laughing even more as he finally had the space to move next to you so he could look at the crowd as well.

“Speaking of work..”, he trailed off as he switched back to English and to your utter disbelief he waved your Superman over. Superman was reluctant to move at first, that much you could tell by looking at him, and since you watched him extra closely you were probably the only one to catch him flinching a little as Tito threw his arm around his shoulders but his confused expression was obvious as he looked between the two of you.

“Y/N, this is my teammate and best friend Mat, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Mat, this is my ex Y/N. You’ve also heard of her.”

Of course you’d heard of Mathew Barzal, last year’s Calder winner and rising star among the NHL’s elite players but it seemed like you were a victim of the Clark Kent Effect because you hadn’t recognized him at all with the glasses on.

Now your Superman had a name but the only thing you could focus on were the words “best friend”. No matter how hot Mat was and how much you’d wanted him before, very much imagining him helping you out of your tight dress, you couldn’t do that to Tito.

Mat seemed to come to the same realization as you because he plastered what could only be described as a business smile on his face, extending his hand for you to shake. You took it, relishing in the way his warm palm felt against yours and allowing yourself to enjoy his touch one last time before letting go and smiling at him with sad eyes as you introduced yourself.

Tito stayed to order a drink, pulling Mat and you into a conversation and therefore preventing your escape and while that was already bad enough in itself, he unknowingly took your breath away when he asked Mat:

“Hey, did you ever find that hot klutz you told me about? The one that fell into your arms earlier?”

Tito had his back towards the both of you so he didn’t see the way Mat looked down at you with sad eyes as well before pulling himself together and responding:

“Yeah, but turns out she’s not available after all.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur, you’d returned to alcohol after saying goodbye to Tito and Mat and promising Tito to stay in touch, so you barely remembered climbing into an uber hours later and only really came to your senses when you chugged a water bottle in your kitchen.

“Wait, weren’t you planning on going home with that hot Superman you mentioned earlier? What happened to him?”, Emily asked from her spot on the couch, her usual spot after a night out since your apartment was closer.

“I guess he left”, you answered, not really willing to go into any details right now.

“Aw, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

And wasn’t that the truth.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Three Gates - on ao3 (for content warnings check Ao3) - on tumblr: pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9, pt 10, pt 11

- Chapter 12 -

The Nightless City was grand and glorious, as luxurious as Koi Tower and as tasteful as the Cloud Recesses, and Meng Yao would burn it all down in a heartbeat for the chance to return to the familiar sparse stone and metal of the Unclean Realm.

Wen Ruohan had forgiven him for murdering Wu Bixian and blowing his cover once Meng Yao had explained the circumstances, although he’d been displeased; Meng Yao had had to work his way back into his inner circle the hard way, inventing monstrous machines for him to use in his Fire Palace, where he played at treating torture the way other people viewed sport.

Meng Yao had once dreamed of torturing his enemies – initially defined as anyone who insulted his mother, but later expanded to include anyone who made a serious effort to harm Nie Mingjue and recently he had been considering an additional expansion to loop in the same for Lan Xichen – but now he realized that torture was boring and burdensome and messy, and a quick execution was clearly much more effective.

There was a lot less upkeep, for one.

A lot fewer tormented doctors as well – that poor Wen Qing would probably have never picked up her needles if she’d known this was where she was going to end up using them, that was for sure – and anyway, neither of his lovers would have approved so it was all a moot point anyway.

Possibly former lovers.

Not that they’d ever actually made it to the stage of being lovers, what with Lan Xichen’s sect rules and parental trauma, Meng Yao’s nightmares of the brothel, and Nie Mingjue’s experiences with Wen Ruohan…

Probably for the best, actually, given what Meng Yao now knew about Nie Mingjue – something that he was almost certain that Nie Mingjue did not know about himself.

A few months at Wen Ruohan’s side had certainly been enlightening on that front. As Meng Yao might’ve suspected, he treated even the people in his clan about the same as wooden furniture, useful to varying degrees but all ultimately disposable, and someone like Meng Yao, a talented retainer he’d stolen from another sect and who had no way out, made for amusing company.

Wen Ruohan had in fact heard the rumor of someone in the Nie sect being born as a yang furnace, very likely from Wu Bixian himself in an attempt to get rid of what he perceived to be a stain on the sect’s reputation, and he’d investigated, ultimately figuring out that the person in question was Nie Mingjue. A yang furnace, Meng Yao learned, was considerably rarer than a yin furnace, requiring the right horoscope and lucky (or unlucky) parentage, and was considered far more precious – people with that constitution would have an incredible talent for cultivation themselves, but would also be able to magnify, many times over, the cultivation or even cultivation potential of those with whom they engaged in dual cultivation.

The furnace’s consent in the matter was not required.

After discovering the truth, Wen Ruohan had apparently gone back and forth for some time in deciding whether to snatch him up immediately, training him up as a concubine reserved for the use of the Wen clan, but one of his more esoteric specialists had told him that the sort of intense cultivation techniques he had in mind would likely kill a child and, more importantly, that the positive effect on his own cultivation would be magnified if Nie Mingjue’s cultivation were higher when he began.

“Sect Leader Wen’s patience is admirable,” Meng Yao said with the sort of smile he’d worn when talking to the brothel owner that used to beat his mother on a regular basis just so she’d ‘remember her place’. “If only I had known..! I am not so certain I could resist such a temptation for years on end.”

Wen Ruohan laughed. “Well, I must admit I gave it a half-hearted effort a few times. The doctors did say that a few times early on wouldn’t hurt.”

By hurt he meant damage to Nie Mingjue’s ability to cultivate, or to cultivate with others, not to the lifetime of nightmares and terror that Nie Mingjue suffered as a result of his unrelenting pursuit.

“Though on that subject,” Wen Ruohan continued, a faint smile on his face, “perhaps you’d like to take a look at the room I’ve prepared for him, and let me know if you have any suggestions – anything you think he’d enjoy for the times when he’s not – in service.”

“Of course, Sect Leader Wen.”

“Naturally, if you also have any proposals regarding any of your marvelous machines…”

“Naturally, Sect Leader Wen.”

“Good,” Wen Ruohan praised. “If you please me well enough, perhaps I’ll let you take a turn once I’m done with him.”

He had other requests, too, which were even less savory – mostly storytelling, Meng Yao casting his mind back to his days at the brothel and even in desperation some of the artwork Nie Huaisang insisted on collecting to describe all sorts of scenarios for Wen Ruohan’s evident enjoyment.

Meng Yao took a bath as often as he could plausibly manage it, and still felt unclean.

(Chiwen, hidden away as best as he could in the room he’d been assigned because a Nie saber did not voluntarily enter Wen hands, screamed in his head. He hated everything about what they were doing.)

It was amazing, Meng Yao thought, how far self-deception could go: he had thought, once, that he would be able to distract and dissuade Wen Ruohan without losing anything along the way, that he could sell himself without counting the cost, and at the last he realized that his mother had been right about warning him not to get used to making deals with bad men.

Wu Bixian, too. He had thought that Wen Ruohan’s goal was domination of the cultivation world, his pursuit of Nie Mingjue only a means to get there or at best a distraction, when in fact Wen Ruohan wanted to be a god, to break through the barrier of cultivation and rise up to the heavens, and he believed that Nie Mingjue could get him there.

And yet Wen Ruohan, too, was deceived – he thought that everything in the world was meaningless grist to that great ambition’s mill, thought that everything he did was for power and power only. And yet there was the great care and attention with which he had filled the prison room in the Nightless City with all the things Nie Mingjue liked, things that he’d figured out from casual mentions in discussion conferences, the fascination in his eyes when Meng Yao told him stories that were sometimes so very boring and mundane, the casual way he dismissed even his own heir’s death at Nie Mingjue’s hands…

Perhaps the interest had been merely practical once, but it certainly was no longer.

At least the war was going well.

Not much else was.

His letters with Wen Ruohan had been belatedly discovered and publicized, his betrayal becoming widely known – Wen Ruohan deliberately cutting off Meng Yao’s route of return, no doubt. The fact that it was a good move, and one Meng Yao would have done if he were in his place, did not make it any easier to swallow.

He had always assumed he would be there to explain the letters to Nie Mingjue.

He’d said so many cruel things in those letters over the years, hurtful things, things he didn’t believe but thought that Wen Ruohan would like to hear – things about Lao Nie, about Nie Mingjue, about Baxia, about Nie Huaisang…disdainful, wretched things, lies that had flowed so easily out of his brush when he’d thought it was all a game.

He didn’t want to think about Nie Mingjue hearing them – seeing them – reading them –

He didn’t want Nie Mingjue to think that was how he really felt.

Some days, in the middle of the night in the too-brightly-lit core of the Nightless City, Meng Yao put his head in his hands and felt the prickle of tears in his eyes. He should have known better, he thought. He shouldn’t have tried to take it all on his own shoulders; he shouldn’t have assumed he’d be able to explain, that he could swear on Chiwen that his motives were pure and that all would be easily forgiven; he should have told Nie Mingjue what he was doing early on so that it would not come to him as a surprise –

He should not have repeated his mother’s mistake from all those years ago.

(“They don’t trust us!” Lao Nie had shouted, his voice still audible behind those stone walls, and Nie Mingjue had gone silent, the words hitting their mark and leaving a wound, before he’d started arguing once again.)

Meng Yao had originally planned on having both Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen act as his contacts during the war, but instead for his sins he got stone-faced Lan Wangji and, eventually, red-eyed Wei Wuxian, who was clearly still deeply shaken by the near-destruction of the Lotus Pier and how close he had come to losing everyone he loved.

(Meng Yao killed time in between boring torture, nauseating dinners with Wen Ruohan, and interacting with his two contacts in trying to figure out how to get said contacts to confess their obvious attraction to each other without ever actually telling them to their face that they were being idiots.

How anyone had ever compared him to Wei Wuxian – citing their status as fatherless children being raised by sect leaders alongside their heirs – he honestly did not know; the boy had a genius for cultivating and the arrogance to go with it, but simply no common sense whatsoever. Meng Yao was his exact opposite.)

They had both briefly been guests of the Wen sect, brought in by the same invitation that had been forcefully extended to Nie Huaisang; once they were there, they were given to Wen Chao to lead and reshape. Obviously that went about as badly as anyone could imagine, Wen Chao being what he was.

Nie Huaisang had been there too, of course, and Meng Yao hadn’t dared go anywhere near him. It wasn’t that he doubted his own acting abilities, or Nie Huaisang’s for that matter, but rather his own perception. Nie Huaisang was a very good liar, and if Meng Yao got it into his head that his own blood brother didn’t believe him, he might very well fall apart.

So he didn’t go.

That turned out to be a mistake.

Apparently, not showing up was seen as some sort – admission of guilt, perhaps, because the second Nie Huaisang returned to the Unclean Realm, things started going very badly indeed. Many of his old contacts stopped talking to him or even disappeared, even the ones he would have sworn Nie Huaisang had no knowledge of, and he didn’t even want to think about how many of his plans ran into obstacles that had nothing to do with luck and had everything to do with Nie Huaisang’s Nie temper.

Meng Yao only hoped that the cause of the temper tantrum was his failure to apologize for not letting Nie Huaisang properly into his schemes, and not that Nie Huaisang thought –

Surely Nie Huaisang would have said something to Wei Wuxian or Lan Wangji if he didn’t believe Meng Yao to be trustworthy? They were peers, had been schoolmates, and a few months together was more than enough time for Nie Huaisang to get the measure of them – he had to know what they were doing on his behalf, surely, and he hadn’t stopped them, so…

Sometimes Meng Yao thought that his circular rationalizations would drive him mad, long before anything else about this horrible life of his did.

(He also thought, sometimes, about how his mother would feel – how she did feel – about what he was doing, and whether she approved or not. He usually tried to stop thinking about it as soon as possible.)

At any rate, the sect heirs had all escaped after some unfortunate encounter with a corrupted Xuanwu that made Meng Yao twitch in fear when he belatedly learned about it, and soon after that the war began in earnest.

The Nie sect took Heijian, as had always been the plan; the Wen sect’s cultivators threw themselves against their iron wall without any success and even some heavy losses, especially whenever Nie Mingjue himself there to lead battles. The Lan sect was scattered after the burning of the Cloud Recesses, but Lan Wangji’s early warning had preserved more of their lives than might have otherwise been accounted for – the attack on the Lotus Pier had been similarly blunted through timely advice, although Jiang Fengmian’s stubborn refusal to take immediate action had resulted in injuries, some rather serious.

Two major attacks, in under a year – the rest of the cultivation world was alarmed. A sizeable number chosen to give in at once, while others opted to join the opposing forces, and war was everywhere.

Meng Yao had hoped that his information would be enough to tip the balance, that he could play the same role he’d played against Wen Ruohan in the past – acting as an interruption, but never quite tipping his hand. Never pushing for the real reward, taking the big risk…

The war dragged on.

There were some close calls – some difficult battles. People were dying on both sides. Several times there were reports of terrible injury to key people; the death of someone he loved was only a matter of time.

It seemed that he didn’t have a choice but to take more dramatic action.

Evil, Chiwen screamed in his mind, just as he had every day since Meng Yao had arrived at this horrible place. Kill it!

Meng Yao wished it was so easy.

“Do you mind if I borrow your brother?” he asked Wen Qing, who glared at him but accepted the jar of wine he offered her. “Just for a while.”

“None of your machines,” she said at once. He couldn’t blame her.

“No machines,” he agreed. “I need a courier.”

She paused, then put the wine down. “Out of the Nightless City? Safely?”

He smiled.

Wen Ning was delighted to see Wei Wuxian, and the feeling was decidedly mutual – Meng Yao had picked Wen Ning in part because of the extraordinary initiative he had taken at the Lotus Pier, initiative that made the entire Jiang clan quite fond of him – and Wei Wuxian happily agreed to smuggle Wen Ning out of Qishan to deliver a private message.

“Make sure he gets to Lan Xichen,” Meng Yao instructed. “A message can be compromised or lost – a person, not so easily.”

“I’ll do my best,” Wei Wuxian said, and almost looked approving, like he thought that Meng Yao was doing this to save Wen Ning from the worst of the war.

He had no idea what Meng Yao was doing.

“Wei Wuxian,” Meng Yao said when they were about to leave. “What does Lan Xichen say about me?”

A blink, there and gone. “He fears for your safety, and hopes you are well.”

“And – Nie Mingjue?”

He didn’t bother asking about Nie Huaisang. If his brother didn’t want someone to know how he felt, no one would ever have the slightest clue.

Wei Wuxian hesitated, and Meng Yao waited, and in the end Wei Wuxian finally said, “I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything about you at all.”

Meng Yao nodded. It was no less than he’d expected, for all that it felt as if his heart were shattering. “Thank you. Please go.”

Wei Wuxian would take Wen Ning to Lan Xichen, and Lan Xichen would believe the words of a person more than he believed a letter – it was his nature to do so, especially when that person was as serious and earnest as Wen Ning, who seemed so trustworthy and who would never knowingly tell a lie.

But a person who would never knowingly tell a lie could still be made to carry one, and so Lan Xichen would listen to Wen Ning, and he would take what Wen Ning told him to Nie Mingjue, and Nie Mingjue – who might have questioned information brought by Wen Ning but who would never question Lan Xichen, the way he had previously never questioned Meng Yao – Nie Mingjue would listen, and believe, and act on that belief.

He would go to Yangquang –

And Wen Ruohan would be waiting for him.

Sometimes Meng Yao hated himself.

[bluebellwriting]

Mom-Friend Looking for a Dad-Friend Part 2

You’re sitting in your office, going over some case notes from your last session with Paul. The poor thing has really been missing his husband. You never had the pleasure of meeting Hugh, but from the way Paul talks, he was a wonderful man and a loving partner. You’re sure you would have loved him. 

Your door pings and without looking up you beckon your guest to come in. The familiar sound of hooves on metal draw your eyes upward to Saru who looks... horrible. 

His skin is pale, eyes watery and pained, and he’s sniffling. Never in the time you’ve known him have you seen Saru look so vulnerable or so openly in pain. It’s a strange and horrible sight, and you want nothing more than to wrap him in your arms, and hug and kiss the pain away.

“Oh, Saru!” You stand and usher him over to the small couch in your office. He looks gigantic compared to it, but he sinks into the soft cushions and lets out a content sigh. Once he’s seated and you can actually reach his face, you place a hand on to his forehead.

“You’re burning up, you poor thing.” Saru leans into your touch, forgetting for a moment the immense pain he’s in, just relishing in the coolness of your hands. You’re so sweet, so lovely, such an angel. 

“Saru,” your voice draws him back out of the fever’s void. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you in med bay?”

“I wanted,” he breathes, “to come see you. It’s nicer here.”

“But you need help. More help than I’m equipped to give you right now.”

You try to move away but a hand on your waist -- Saru’s hand -- keeps you there.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”

He leans his head back to lean against the wall, but you’re still being held in his grasp. Which honestly isn’t fair, you need to be helping him right now and the feeling of his large fingers holding you close is just so distracting.

“Saru, please. Let me take you to med bay, or at least back to your room. My couch is too tiny for you, you giant.” 

Saru sighs but lethargically rises from the couch. His hand remains on you though, gliding up from your waist to your back to your shoulder, using you like a tether to keep him from plummeting into something horrible. The longer this “cold” persists, the more it occurs to him that this isn’t a rhinovirus. But maybe he can just fall into you, let the embrace you have over him keep upright for just a little bit longer. 

You have to hold on to him with all your might to keep him from falling over in the halls. He refused to go to med bay, afraid of the inevitable. He wasn’t ready yet, there was still so much to do, so much to tell, to say to you. The issue of needing to confess his love to you now before he disappears forever is weighing on his mind just as much as the news of his impending death. But it wouldn’t be fair to you, especially if you didn’t return his feelings. To pour his heart out only to expire and leave you with the guilt of not loving him back would be far too cruel.

You’re about to reach his quarters and Saru is lost in a day dream of resting his head in your lap, letting your thighs cushion and comfort him. But Michael had to ruin that with a desperate call to the bridge.

You graciously helped him there but were called back to med bay at that by Dr. Pollard, who was desperately understaffed. You left him in a rush, a promise to check on him at every possible moment, and one last lovely sight of the back of your head.

---

The med bay was overrun with your wounded crew mates after... whatever had happened. You’re still not quite sure. Right now all of your attention is on checking vitals and applying hypos. But when Saru comes stumbling into the room, it’s like you have tunnel vision. All you’re able to see is how considerably worse he’s gotten, how he can’t even support himself anymore. He has such powerful legs, it’s strange seeing them so weak.

You finished quickly and rushed over to him, not even trying to hide the partiality you felt towards him. That’s when he told you that he was dying, that the man you were falling in love with was going to disappear from this realm within mere hours. You almost burst into tears then and there, but Saru was determined now, motivated to use what time he had left to save his crew. He didn’t need you blubbering over him or confessing your love (which you’re sure he didn’t reciprocate) to distract him. This is how he wanted to spend his final hours, and you were ready to honor that.

But it hurt. A very selfish part of you wanted him to want to spend these last hours with you. That same part so desperately wanted you to confess your love to him, to scream out into the world how deeply into him you had fallen. But a bigger part, the therapist, the maternalist, tells you that you can’t. That he doesn’t need the weight of some girl’s affections on his fatigued shoulders. He needs to rest and to work, he doesn’t need to be concerned for you right now.

So you stay quiet and resist the urge to check in with him and Michael every minute. You use what you remember from medical school to help patients who you can actually save. You try not let the those dim, teal eyes haunt you throughout the day.

---

You’ve just returned to your office after your long day assisting in med bay when you get the call from Michael. You’re tired, your arms are achy and your back feels like it’s holding up a thousand pound stone. But when she calls you, you’re out of your seat and down the hall before she can even finish.

He’s okay, she says. He wants to see you.

When you enter his quarters he’s on his bed, shirtless, and very much not dead. In fact, the color has returned to his face and his eyes are alight with a kind of energy you’ve never seen from him before. On his end table in a small bowl rests his... ganglia. The sight of them is enough to distract you from his shirtlessness.

“Saru!”

His eyes meet yours and he grins. You hug him before you can even think about it because he’s alive. He’s breathing and smiling and hugging you back. He’s alive.

“I was so worried. I was thinking about you all day and I--”

“I’m sorry.”

You pull back to look up at him but you keep your shoulders on his forearms, just to make sure he’s here with you. It’s definitely not because you like the way his skin feels against yours.

“Why?”

“I...” he breathes out. “I came in here with all intentions to... And I didn’t get to say goodbye.” 

Your shoulders deflate and you remove your hands from him entirely. He came in here to die with Michael. He wanted Michael to be here instead of you. 

You take a step back, trying not to look hurt because this isn’t about you and your feelings. You should just be grateful that he’s alive. 

Plus, Michael’s known him for longer. And she’s stronger and more brilliant and more attractive than you, of course, he’d want her here with him. Of course, he’d choose her.

You hide your disappointment behind your best and brightest smile.

“It’s alright. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m just happy you’re here,” you tell him. He smiles at you again and proceeds to tell you everything that had transpired since you had seen him med bay. About his revelations regarding his people, about the freedom he now feels, about the conversations he had had with Michael. You try to be happy for him and in a way you are. You’re thrilled about his new relationship with his culture and his mind, and heartbroken with him over this new truth he has stumbled upon. But you have to force down the anguish you feel every time he mentions Michael.

---

You’ve been avoiding Saru since his vahar’ai, making up reasons for why you couldn’t eat dinner or listen to music with him. Sure it was cowardly, but you could take cowardice over the feelings he brought up for you. Every moment you did spend with him was just a reminder that he could do so much better, that your feelings were useless because he was probably in love with Michael or some other amazing person on this ship that wasn’t you.

Yes, you’re aware that if a patient of yours was acting so childish you would have told them to confront their problem head-on. But you’re only human and sometimes it’s just easier to descend into the pit of repression, no matter how psychologically damaging it might be.

That’s how your sister had put it when she had confronted you about your “increased workload” and frequent nights hidden away in your quarters.

“So what? You’re just gonna hideaway from him forever?” Sylvia asked.

“No! Not forever,” you pouted. “Just until I have to return to the Enterprise with Captain Pike.”

“Don’t remind me that that’s a possibility. I’ve loved having you here with me all the time.”

“I have too.” You smile at her. “But ultimately my home is on the Enterprise and this just... affirms that maybe this isn’t the right place for me.”

“But you are perfect for Saru!”

“That doesn’t matter, Syl. What matters is what he wants and I don’t think that will ever be me.”

“In that case... have you considered a rebound? Maybe that ensign that’s shown some interest in you,” she teases and you shudder at the thought of him.

“Mark? No, no way. He’s just a flirt who can’t take a hint.”

“Okay, then someone else! Oh! Maybe at the party next weekend?”

“No.”

“Oh, come onnnnnnn.” Sylvia flops onto your lap, sending you her best pleading eyes. 

“Ugh, no. I hate parties. The loud music, the bumping and grinding.”

“You’re such an old lady. Please? If you really want to get over him, a rebound might be the best way.” She nudges your shoulder.

“Syl,” you sigh. “I think that’s the problem. This isn’t something that can be fixed with a rebound, assuming I can even get one.”

Your sister sends you a glare, screaming ‘knock it off with that self-criticalness.’

“I just mean,” you continue. “This feels so different. I feel so different about him, more than I’ve ever felt about anyone and it just hurts to much knowing I can’t have him. He’s not someone I could just get over with a casual fling.”

“Why are you so convinced he doesn’t like you? You should know by now that he’s way different around you, way happier, way more relaxed. I don’t think it’s as out of the question as you think.”

You shrug because you can’t put it into words. It’s a feeling, deep in your gut, telling you that he’s going to break your heart if you’re not careful. You’ve already let your guard down too much.

“Well, how about we make it a girls night? We can dress up all fancy and dance~” Sylvia interjects, bringing you out of your cloud of negativity.

“...Fine. But I’ll only stay for a few minutes.”

---

Sylvia left your quarters with a conniving grin. She taps her comm badge.

“Tilly to Commander Burnham.”

“Burnham here. What’s going on, Tilly?”

“Can you meet with me in the spot?

There’s a short pause, but Sylvia knows Michael is grinning just as wickedly.

“I’ll be right there.”

“The spot” is really just their shared quarters but the two decided long ago that neither you nor Saru could learn about their secret meetings to get you two together. These meetings began as casual chats or with Michael complaining about the goo-goo eyes Saru would send you from across the room. Ultimately, this became the war room in the infernal battle to bring together two souls who were so obviously meant to be together but were too dorky to actually do anything about it.

“Did you tell her about the party?” Michael asks as soon as the door closes behind her.

“Yes! And she actually agreed which is the real miracle here. What about Saru?”

Michael sighs, “we’re gonna have to work on that.”

“What do you mean? What have you been telling him?”

“That there’s a party and it might be fun for him to socialize and relax.”

Sylvia looks at her incredulously.

“What?” Michael cries. “If I say, ‘oh, and (Y/N) will be there in a sexy dress,’ he’s going to panic and not show up at all.”

“How is he, by the way? Any better?”

Michael sighs and flops on her bed. Truth be told, Saru had been a nightmare and was making no attempt to hide it. He had been agitated every since his vahar’ai and everyone on the bridge was convinced it was because he wasn’t getting his daily dose of you. 

There was a pattern. He’d report for duty each morning with a hopeful look in his eyes. He’d send you a message asking if you wanted to have lunch. He’d receive ‘no’ as an answer. He’d ask about dinner. Again a ‘no.’ He’d mope for about a solid hour, and then be cranky for the rest of the day. At first it was kind of amusing, seeing the usually cool and collected Kelpien reduced to a depressed dork because of you. But now it was just annoying and infuriating, with a hint of sad.

“He’s getting worse. He doesn’t even snap at people anymore. He just mopes. Have you told (Y/N)?”

“Even if I did, she wouldn’t believe me. She’s so convinced that he’s actually in love with you.”

They burst out laughing at that. 

“Okay, okay,” Sylvia breathes, recovering from their fit of giggles. “You should tell him that she’s going to be there and that he should get a grip and whisk her off her feet. I have a feeling pushing him into the deep end on this will finally motivate him.”

“Are you going to tell (Y/N)?”

“Mmm, no. I think it should be a surprise.”

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 67 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Previously: Bianca introduced the world to her scandalous new girlfriend (in spite of strong disapproval from her friends, especially Fame), and Violet worried about Sutan’s friends accepting her.

This Chapter: Team Adult gather at Fame and Patrick’s for their annual chosen-family Christmas party.

***

“No, no, not that one!” Fame stepped in front of the catering girl, picking up the wine glass she had just put on the dining room table. Fame held it up, catching the rim of it on the light, a smudge of white haze clearly clinging to the glass.

“Look at this!” Fame handed it to the woman, “Rewash. Now.”

The girl ran off, and Fame sighed, annoyance at the inconvenience of it all crawling under her skin. It was incredible how she always had to go through everyone's work with a fine-tooth comb, the ability to do things right the first time worryingly rare.

The dining room was almost complete, a crisp white table cloth spread out, glittering baubles in silver and glass placed in between plates and cutlery.

They would start the evening in the parlor, the bartender she had hired ready to make drinks for everyone as waiters moved through the crowd with trays of hors d'oeuvres. After that, they’d come here to the dining room for dinner, while dessert would be served in the living room.

Fame had perfected the seating chart, making sure to put Raja and Sutan on separate ends of the table so they wouldn’t speak Indonesian all night, Karl and Raven kept separate as well so they wouldn’t snap at each other, while Bianca had been sat as far away from Detox as possible so he couldn’t question her about anything related to the very unfortunate situation of Courtney.

(Fame had every expectation that it would all crash and burn, and honestly, the sooner it happened the better, Bianca’s newest brain damage doomed to fail from the start.)

She moved a fork with the tip of her finger, making sure it was perfectly straight, another wave of annoyance rolling over her at the thought.

“Having a good time?”

Fame looked over her shoulder, just to see Patrick stand in the doorframe, a smile on his face, his hair still wet from the shower he had taken after Charles’ evening walk. He was wearing the outfit she had put out for him, the blue wool sweater making him look absolutely fantastic, the new chinos she had ordered perfect on his legs.

“Are you giving me attitude too?” Fame fought the impulse to roll her eyes, Patrick always poking fun at her attention to detail, even though he never complained when she made sure their life ran like clockwork.

“Oh never,” Patrick pushed away from the door, the smile still on his face as he walked over. “But you deserve it sometimes.”

“You’re so fortunate I promised for better or worse when we got married.”

“If this is for worse,” Patrick leaned in, placing a sweet kiss on her lips. “I’m sure I can manage.”

***

Karl braced himself from the cold as he pressed down the doorbell, a piece of opera he didn’t recognize playing out because Fame never did anything halfway, ever.

He had come directly from London, only stopping at his hotel for a quick shower and a change of clothes, the catnap he had taken in his first class seat barely enough to tide him over. He’d planned a week in New York to see his friends and get some work stuff done with the American head office of Elite before going home for Christmas with his family.

The door opened, and Karl looked up to see Patrick stand there, a big smile on his face.

“Karl!”

“So good to see you,” Karl smiled, responding to the tight hug Patrick gave him, the man quickly taking his coat and directing him upstairs to the parlor.

It was always exciting to see what theme Fame had gone with, the live string quartet that was seated in a corner promising him one of her more extravagant moods.

In spite of his desire to always play it cool, a smile immediately broke out on his face at the sight of his friends.

God, he had really missed them.

Raja and Detox were standing near an enormous white Christmas tree decorated with silver ribbons and glass baubles, the usual Persian rug exchanged for a pure white one he was fairly certain had been bought just to fit this year's Christmas aesthetic.

“Raja, De!” Karl grinned, his friends greeting him with hugs, Raja pressing a kiss against his cheek, the patchouli scent that always clung to her wonderfully familiar. She was wearing a blue suit with a deep neckline, several golden necklaces hanging from her neck, one of them so long it was tucked between her tits. She was stunning as always, but he loved Raja’s bitchiness most of all. The years had made her more diplomatic,however, the judgemental asshole was still in there--now, it just took a cocktail or three to get her out.

“Love the hair,” Karl raised an eyebrow, trying to convey how sarcastic that compliment was, Detox’s hair a shade of bright, fire-engine red. “Dyed it for the holidays?”

“How’d you know?” Detox smirked. He was reliably the worst-dressed in every room, tonight donning a red velour blazer, white shirt, red bowtie and white pants, hair only slightly more horrible than the entire ensemble. “It’s gone over better than the Halloween green.”

“Much better,” Raja drawled with a grimace, and they all laughed, which drew Fame over.

“Karl!” Fame smiled, opening her arms. “Oh look at you!” She pulled him in for a hug, pressing a kiss against his cheek, her hands as always surprisingly cold.

“Look at you,” Karl took a step back, holding Fame’s hands in his so she wouldn’t run away, Fame constantly fretting and correcting in her evergoing quest to be the perfect hostess. “Fucking stunning.”

Fame giggled, the flattery clearly getting to her, and Karl couldn’t help but love her. She was wearing her signature white, a structured dress ending just above her knees, the neckline classy and sexy, her blonde hair in a curly updo.

“Where’s your drink?” Fame tilted her head, her teeth biting into her red lip.

“I’ll go get one.” Karl released her, making his way across the room, but first stopping when he saw Adore. She was in a black dress and her typical loosely-tied combat boots, hovering over a waiter to snag appetizers from his tray. It was comforting, Karl realized, how much these people never changed.

“It might be time,” Karl slung an arm around her neck, his cufflinks almost catching on her hair, “to start paying a little attention to your diet, hon.”

“It’s the holidays,” Adore grinned, her mouth full, and Karl couldn’t help but laugh.

“You don’t have to listen to me,” Karl released her with a shrug. “But when you’re fat, I will have no sympathy.”

“I just love you fashion people,” Adore rolled her eyes. “Obsessed with superficial nonsense.”

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, my dear,” Karl smiled.

“Well that’s a fucking lie,” Adore grinned, pushing her hair over her shoulder as she took his arm and led him towards the couches. “Have you ever had the cheddar biscuits at Red Lobster? Or any form of fried cheese?”

“Oh god,” Juju groaned, already sitting amongst the plush white pillows, her belly basically a perfect ball on her tiny frame. “I would kill for those cheddar biscuits right now. But I guess I’ll settle for you...Hi, stranger!”

Juju reached her arms up towards Karl and he laughed, bending over to kiss her cheek.

“Nice to see you too, Juju. You’re looking...uh…”

“I’m a fucking whale, you can say it,” Juju sighed, shaking her head.

“Nah, it takes all the fun out of it when you say it first,” Karl told her with a cheeky grin.

“Leave her alone, bitch! She’s glowing and gorgeous!” Raven came up behind them, looking exactly like the supermodel she was, not a hair or an inch of fabric out of place. She handed a full plate of appetizers to Juju, adding, “Here you go, love.”

“Really? You didn’t have to!” Juju smiled brightly, taking the plate. “You’re the best.”

“Come on Juju,” Karl grinned, tapping her leg. “You know she’s only doing that in case she ever gets pregnant, so we all have to kiss her ass and wait on her hand and foot.”

“Hey!” Raven exclaimed, a hand on her hip. “I resent that.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Well, no.” Raven laughed, leaning over to give Karl a hug and a kiss.

They chatted for a bit, catching up on everything that had happened since he was last in New York. If anyone had told him twenty years ago that his closest friend group would be mostly lesbian women and straight couples, he’d have laughed in their face. But now, years later, here he was, hearing about Adore’s newest lesbian punk band, Juju’s pregnancy, and Raven’s search for the perfect wedding invitations.

“Karl!” He turned around to see Fame, arms crossed and brow furrowed, voice scolding as she asked, “You still don’t have a drink?”

“Sorry, sorry!” He laughed, making a sweeping gesture towards Adore, Raven and Juju. “I guess I just got distracted by all this feminine grace and beauty.”

“Eat a dick!” Adore retorted, mouth full once again.

“Happily,” he shot back. “Who’s serving?”

Fame wrinkled her nose, taking Karl by the shoulders and gently guiding him towards the bar, where he was met by a bizarre sight, Patrick and Bianca standing side by side and chatting, both smiling and drinking what looked to be schnapps.

Karl had honestly expected Bianca to be public enemy number one of the friend group right now. Raja had caught him up in an email after he saw the pictures of Bianca with her newest blonde, who was apparently Fame’s assistant, Raja always the one to go to if you needed a detailed update on the alliances and altercations in the friend group.

He wouldn’t lie--he was a bit excited to witness the drama of it all. Unfortunately, in this moment, everything seemed disappointingly copacetic.

He was just about to say hello to Bianca when a blood-curdling scream came from upstairs. Detox took off, running up the stairs two at a time to attend to whichever one of his twins was having a meltdown.

When Kelly was little, Karl understood why they had to drag her around to events. But now, both Detox and Juju had established careers and plenty of money to afford child care at home, so it made no sense to him that they were there with the nanny instead of home with the nanny--though at least they knew enough to keep them blessedly out of sight, probably parked in front of a TV upstairs.

“Jesus christ,” Bianca groaned, and Karl nodded, the screams of children surely their own category of horrible.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he chuckled, and Bianca grinned, pulling him in for a hug.

“We need to get him a drink,” Fame said to the bartender, apparently unable to relax until he was properly lubricated.

“You’re been spending a lot of energy trying to get me drunk,” Karl said. “You don’t have any ulterior motives, do you?”

Bianca guffawed. “You two would truly be a match made in hell, huh?”

“You’d know all about matches made in hell, wouldn’t you?” Karl asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Bianca narrowed her own eyes at him for a second, then laughed slightly, shaking her head. “Good one, bitch.”

“Karl,” Fame whined, gesturing towards the bartender.

“Alright, alright. Uh, can I just get a triple tequila on the rocks?” He turned to Fame, asking, “Happy? This’ll catch me up quick.”

Fame gave a satisfied nod, but then Karl was distracted by his name being called from across the room.

“Karl!”

Karl turned around to see Sutan at the top of the stairs and he instantly abandoned everyone at the bar to go greet him.

“It’s so good to see you!” Sutan smiled brightly, pulling him into the tightest hug and holding him close, the two men locked in an embrace.

Karl had really truly missed Sutan, emailing or calling not the same as actually being with his friend, even though they were in contact almost every single day. He was so overjoyed that he almost didn’t notice the dark-haired woman standing at Sutan’s side, a pair of crutches under her arms.

“Violet, this is Karl, one of my closest friends who unfortunately abandoned us to go live in London,” Sutan said, punching him affectionately on the arm. “Karl, meet Violet.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Violet said, balancing one of her crutches to shake his hand.

If anything positive could be said about Sutan’s dreadful taste in women, it was that they generally had a strong sense of personal style, and this one was no exception. She wore a deep green dress with a high neck and long sleeves, the cut flattering on her slender frame and hiding her cast.

For a moment, he was almost impressed- until he noticed that she was barely paying him any attention, her eyes all over the room behind him like she was looking for something.

“You too, Violet,” Karl said. “I love this dress. Is it Versace?”

“Yes.” Violet glanced at Sutan, who put an arm around her, looking very proud of the incredibly mediocre first impression his girlfriend had just made. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” After a moment of awkward silence, Karl gave a tense smile.

Good lord, this girl was dull as rocks.

It never failed to astound him how Sutan wound up with such basic bitches. He supposed that it had something to do with how laid-back he was: he almost never chose the girls; they chose him.

Although if his idiotic grin could be believed, he was strangely gaga over this one.

Karl knew he should have told him to just call Violet back in September, being ignored by her clearly terrible for Sutan’s critical thinking skills and decision making.

“Karl, you left without your drink,” Fame said, handing over the glass, and suddenly Karl was grateful for her relentless hounding, taking a huge swallow and letting the tequila burn down his throat.

“So…” Karl looked back at Violet. “I hear you two have been shacking up.”

He loved Sutan with his entire heart, but the man wasn’t easy to live with since he always put work first, wasn’t easy to be around - not even with a broken foot. But if Sutan’s emails were to be believed, there hadn’t been any issues at all, which meant Karl had to do his own digging.

“How’s that going?”

“It’s been great,” Sutan laughed, “Right, lovely eyes?”

Karl had to use all of his strength not to retch at that particular nickname, studying Violet’s reaction. Upon closer inspection, her face was not quite as pretty as she looked at first glance, especially the set of her lips--resting bitch face was an understatement, everything about her mean and distant.

“Yes. Great.”

Karl couldn’t pinpoint it, but her tone was terrible, dry and uninterested, like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Can I-” Violet looked around the room. “I need to sit down-”

“Right. Sorry!” Sutan looked around, spotting empty seats near the bar. “Come on Karl!”

***

Bianca wandered towards the girls with her drink in hand, dropping a kiss to the top of Juju’s head before gesturing to the sofa.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead!” Juju smiled up at her, one of her hands resting on her belly, “Although at the rate I’m growing, there may not be room for you much longer.”

“Ha!” Bianca sat down, placing her drink on the side table. “So I guess I shouldn’t ask how you’re feeling?”

“I’m feeling like a cow,” Jujubee complained, though she was rubbing her thumb up and down, gently petting her belly. “Thank God this is the last one, and that there is only one this time. Another set of twins would have killed me.”

“I’m very glad to say I can’t relate,” Bianca laughed.

“Oh, come on, Bianca, you’ve been a mother,” Raven said, her voice silky smooth, lashing fluttering as she continued, “I mean you practically raised Adore and just adopted a new baby, right?”

Bianca knew, of course, that this was Raven’s sad attempt at a joke about Courtney’s age, and she rolled her eyes, asking, “Wanna get to the punchline, cunt?”

“There’s no punchline! I just think you’re a great person for being so generous with today’s youth,” Raven said proudly, and Bianca responded with another eye roll.

“Where is your little conquest tonight, anyway?” Juju asked, sitting up straight as Detox came back down the stairs, thankfully without a toddler on his arm.

“Working.”

“Oh...what a shame,” Raven clucked. “I was really looking forward to having her catch me up on Sesame Street.”

“Princess please, she’s obviously watching a big girl show like Dora the Explorer,” Raja cut in, settling down beside Raven on the loveseat.

“You know what, you’re both assholes.”

“Maybe we just think you can do better, Bibi,”  Raja shrugged, putting an arm around Raven.

“Exactly,” Fame piled on, perching delicately in a chair. “I mean for god’s sake, Bianca, I’ve seen her wear neon. You can’t be with someone like that.”

“Yeah, well, neons are back,” Bianca grumbled.

“Neons are great,” Detox grinned, settling beside his wife. “Very in amongst high schoolers.”

Bianca attempted a smile, but it came out more like a sneer. She’d been expecting this, of course, but it was still annoying. She looked around, craning her neck to try and spot her sister.

Where was Adore? Surely she’d be just as annoyed at everyone talking shit about her best friend, but she was probably sneaking a cigarette on the back terrace or hiding upstairs with the kids.

“I think she’s great,” Juju said, and Bianca was grateful for at least one person on her side, ignoring the eye rolls from the peanut gallery as Juju continued, “She’s sweet, smart, spunky, I totally get why you like her.”

“Thank you! See, this is why you’re my favorit-”

“But she’s too young for you,” Juju finished, and Bianca scoffed. She should have known there’d be a ‘but’ coming.

“I’ve always hated you,” she said flatly, taking a swig of her wine as the others laughed. “But come on. She’s in her 20s, what’s the big deal?”

“She’s on the wrong end of her 20s,” Juju said with a light grimace, Detox nodding at her side.

“No, she isn’t. She went to school with Adore. So she’s what, mid 20s? That’s not even-”

“She’s 21,” Adore said, choosing that moment to return, flopping down onto the floor next to the sofa with a full plate of snacks, casually adding. “She graduated early.”

“When are you flying to New Orleans again?” Bianca asked, and Adore laughed.

“Listen, don’t be mad at me. I totally ship it; you know that,” Adore said, handing Bianca a napkin with a mini quiche as an apology.

Bianca took it, chucking her sister on the cheek before barreling on.

“By the way, you’re all a bunch of hypocrites, because nobody gave Tan shit like this when he started dating Violet!" Bianca gestured towards the bar where Sutan and Violet were chatting with Karl and Patrick.

“Wait, we didn't give him shit?” said Juju. “Oh man, I gotta think of some jokes.”

“Bianca, listen,” Fame said. “The real problem is that she’s barely competent-”

“Rude,” Adore muttered, and Bianca rewarded her loyalty with a shoulder squeeze.

“I’m just saying, she already has enough trouble focusing on her work. I don’t need you breaking her heart,” Fame said pointedly.

“Look, she really has improved since she first started,” Raja said, continuing with an arrogant wave of her hand. “I see her growth, as minimal as it is to me. I just don’t think this is the best idea you’ve had regarding relationships.”

“Duly noted,” Bianca snapped, gripping her glass tightly, more than ready to change the subject.

When they finally moved on, she did her best to follow the conversation about everyone’s vacation plans, but found herself still feeling tense and irritated. She excused herself from the group to go get another drink, then instead headed upstairs to have a moment of peace and quiet.

***

Courtney pulled her coat tighter around herself, grateful that at least she now had protection from the freezing cold wind and rain whipping around her.  It had been a long couple of days--weather miserably gray, full of stressful end-of-year fire drills. She’d finally finished putting together the long list of Miss Fame’s business contacts so that she could approve gifts and holiday cards, and was anxious to get home.

Her stomach clenched when her phone began to buzz in her handbag, praying that it wouldn’t be some urgent task that required her to turn around and go back to the office. Surely Miss Fame had her hands full tonight with her party.

When she saw that it was Bianca calling, a big smile broke out on her face. She stepped under an awning to answer.

“B! Hi!” Courtney exclaimed, “I figured you’d be busy with your friends all night.”

“I decided to take a break from the festivities,” Bianca said flatly, and Courtney laughed.

“Having fun, huh?” She tilted her head, hand twirling a lock of hair.

“Oh yeah. What about you? Are you still at work?”

“No, I’m walking to the train,” Courtney said.

“How would you feel about hopping into a cab and coming to my place instead?” Bianca asked.

Courtney looked at the time on her phone, confused. There was no way they already ate dinner, it was barely 8.

“Aren’t you gonna be there for awhile?”

“I think I’m gonna skip out early,” Bianca said with a sigh. “I’m just not feeling it tonight. So, whaddaya say? Thai?”

“Are you sure?” Courtney asked, holding her breath. Of course, dinner and an evening with Bianca was about a thousand times better than the night of cup-o-noodles and Netflix on her phone that she had planned, but she also knew how important Bianca’s friends were to her. “I don’t want to take you away from them if-”

“I’m sure. Please come. I really want to see you.”

Warmth filled Courtney’s chest as she took a deep breath, her smile now so big that it threatened to crack her face in two.

“I’m on my way.”

“Great. See you soon, angel.”

***

“Where do you think you’re going?” Fame demanded, a hand on her hip. She’d noticed Bianca slip from the room earlier and had followed her, her friend now coming downstairs, coat on and cell phone in hand.

Bianca looked down at Fame, a slightly guilty expression on her face and Fame instantly felt her stomach clench.

“I’m...I’m sorry, blondie, I’m just not feeling up for the whole thing tonight.” She let out a sigh, adding, “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” Fame informed her, brow furrowed. She had no idea why Bianca was being like this. Of all people, Fame would think that she’d be the first one to be able to take a few jokes about her ill-fated relationship.

She’d certainly dished it enough to all of them over the years.

“Well, I am,” Bianca said, but made no move to remove her coat or put it back as she came down the last few steps, still clearly planning to leave.

“Wait Bianca, what about dinner?” Fame exclaimed, finding it easier to focus on food than her feeling of being abandoned by someone she considered her closest friend on such an important night, her stomach in knots. “We haven’t even had the first course!”

“Would you rather I left in the middle of the meal?” Bianca asked.

“No, I would rather you stayed and had a good time and stopped being so...so…” Fame was looking for the words, anger and fear and worry swirling in her guts.

“Please,” Bianca pressed a kiss to Fame’s cheek. “I’ll owe you one, okay?”

“No. No. This is not okay!” Fame burst out, refusing to accept how this conversation was going, how Bianca was being so incredibly selfish, the fact that she already owed her several ‘ones’ clearly forgotten by her friend. “It’s not okay. I really don’t understand this, we’re just looking out for you.”

“I know. But I’d rather skip ahead to the part where you guys are happy for me.” Bianca sighed, rolling her eyes, and it hit Fame like a punch to the stomach. “Which I assume you will be, eventually.”

Fame groaned. It seemed like Bianca was determined to take this little fling way too seriously, daring to prioritize someone completely new over all of them.

Fame only hoped that when it all crashed and burned, she’d have a functioning office. She shook her head, resigned to the fact that Bianca really was leaving early, skipping out on what was usually her favorite night of the year.

“Merry Christmas, blondie.”

“Merry Christmas,” Fame grumbled back, barely patting her on the back when Bianca hugged her goodbye.

[unsettledink]

Kinktober Day 18

Sustain

Prompt: Subspace/Aftercare

Word Count: 4220

Summary: Phil is willing to do a lot to keep Tony Stark on premises; this wasn’t something he was expecting, but he can handle it. 

(flogging, subspace, aftercare, IM2 era, cuddling, overly vulnerable Tony, excessive talking)

*

He'd known from the start that Stark was going to be a handful. It's not a surprise— anyone could have known that.

He just hadn't expected it to go to pieces so quickly. Stark disappeared for a few hours, still in the house, of course, and reappears looking even worse, strung out and jittery. Exhausted. "Have to go do a thing," he says. "Have fun; I'd say don't burn down the house but it's a little late, isn't it."

"You don't have to go do anything," Phil tells him. "I’m not going to fetch you coffee, but I can provide whatever you actually need to get this done."

"Nope," Stark says, obnoxiously popping the p. "Not a chance, Agent."

"At least I can say I warned you when you're twitching on the floor," Phil says, and he probably shouldn't be looking forward to tasing Stark so much.

Stark rolls his eyes; Phil should have remembered threats just aren’t effective on him. "Listen," he says. "Sure, you can hit me with whatever little toy you're carrying around, but we both know it's not going to keep me down for more than five minutes. So let's stop playing games; you go on your way, I go on mine. Message has already been delivered."

"What do you need, Stark? You're not going anywhere, and yes, it can keep you down for more than five minutes. You're not exactly in top form."

Goading is a bad idea, he knows it's a bad idea. Stark narrows his eyes and Phil can see the instant he decides to be an ass about this, to see if he can ruffle Phil. Good luck. Better men have tried.

"I need a good fuck," Stark says, smirking. "Helps me think and you need me thinking, right?"

"Alright," Phil says. "What exactly are we talking about here? If I'm not your type, I'm sure we can find one of my team that is."

Oh, that gets him. "I— what?" Stark says. "Seriously? Just to keep me from getting out of here?"

"I did say that I could provide anything you needed." Stark’s an ass, but from what Phil’s heard, it's not like it would a chore to have sex with him. Probably.

Stark stares at him a moment, but he doesn't back down. He never does. "And if I needed something else?" he says. "What if I, say, wanted to hurt someone?"

"You'd have fewer options to choose from," Phil says. "You seem to be having trouble with the definition of anything."

"Ha ha," Stark says, "you're not having trouble with any of this. What if I wanted it the other way around? Is that really something you'd even have the skill to 'provide'?"

That's... unexpected. "Actually, the answer is still yes," Phil tells him. "I'll need a little more information from you beforehand though."

"Are you fucking—" Stark shakes his head. "Incredible. The lengths you'll go to just to get me to— you know what? Fine. Fine! Come on," and he turns, nearly stomping off like a child. Phil follows.

The house isn't a complete disaster once they're on the lower levels; Stark leads him to a bedroom, through it to a smaller room. "Here," he says, gesturing at a cabinet. "Pick something out, I'm sure you'll get the idea." He grabs a chair and hauls it over to the center of the room while Phil uncovers a nice collection of floggers, crops, paddles. Stark's serious.

"You don't have a preference?" Phil asks.

"I don't own anything I don't like," Stark says. "As long as you know how to use it, any of them will get the job done." That's... interesting phrasing. Definitely not any sort of aroused, not like Phil had expected.

"And what is the job, then?"

Stark glares at him for a minute, his jaw clenching. "The pain helps," he says, finally. "It clears my mind of the distractions. Lets me think things through without having to think about them sometimes," which must make sense in Stark's head.

Phil runs his hands over a thick, dark red flogger, of incredibly soft leather. "I'm surprised," he says, and ignores Stark's little 'ha!'. "I would have thought you'd had more than enough pain, not that you'd want more."

"It's not—" Stark sighs. "Fuck," he mutters. "Why did I think this might work? I don't trust you a bit, this is pointless."

"If you didn't trust me at all," Phil says, "I wouldn't have made it this far." Stark just stares at him, frozen, indecisive. "If it helps," Phil tries, "you could always threaten me with something dire if I hurt you."

Stark laughs, a sharp, harsh bark. "I don't give a shit if you wind up hurting me," he says. "At this rate I'm going to be dead by the end of the month; what am I supposed to do to you then?"

He won't be. Phil doesn't know what Nick has up his sleeve, but he's certain there's something; he's not going to just let Tony Stark die. But Stark sure seems to believe what he's saying. "If you don't care about that," he says, "then what is it?"

"This isn't— goddamnit. You know what this is," he says, tapping the reactor. Phil nods. "And you know it's killing me. So maybe you can figure out from those facts that I am already hurting, all the time. Drugs barely touch it anymore, and they screw with my head anyway. This…” Stark sighs. “Sometimes, this helps. It's like— an overload of my system. It can trip a breaker, and then when I reset, the pain isn't gone but my threshold for it is higher. It's easier to deal with for a while. When it works, that is, and that's what I'm worried about. Because if it doesn't work, all I'm left with is more pain."

"I understand," Phil says, and he does, actually. Stark's looking for that rush, looking to sink into subspace, a little break from the world. He really wonders who's done this to him before, who made him think it had to be as hard as that. "I can get you there," he tells Stark. "The fact that it's a physical need makes it simpler; as long as you trust that I don't want to damage you, that's all you should need. If you needed to submit, it'd be a problem, but this? This is doable."

Stark's giving him an odd look. "Huh," he says after a moment. "I guess you really have done this before." Phil refrains from rolling his eyes, but it takes an actual effort. "Alright," Tony says. "Fuck it. Let's do this." He yanks his shirt up, over his head, and— 

And it's a shock. It's slightly awful, honestly. The scarring around the reactor is extensive and the dark lines spreading out from it are disturbing. Stark looks awful entirely aside from that; he has any number of bruises, no doubt from any of the fights over the past few days, and while it hadn't been as obvious under clothes, Stark's lost weight, his spine sharper than it should be when he turns and sits down on the chair. Backward, his arms folded on top of the back, head ducked down. It's unusual.

"Is there a reason for that?" Phil says, taking the dark red flogger and a shorter, fuller one from the cabinet. He pulls off his suit jacket and sets it aside, loosening his tie.

"Can't lie on my chest for too long without it getting really painful," Stark says. "If I get where I want to be, I'd have trouble staying on my feet, and I— I can't handle being bound to keep me up." His shoulders are tense, his whole body stiff.

"Understandable," Phil says, quietly. "Colors work for you?"

"Yeah, fine," Stark says. "I seriously doubt you'll get me anywhere close to a yellow, much less red, but whatever." He shivers, faintly, when Phil sets his hand at the top of his spine; Phil leaves it there until Stark's skin is warm under his hand, until Stark shifts, his head dipping a little more. Maybe there is a little hint of submission in there after all.

"Uh," Stark says, a softer tone than Phil's ever heard from him. "I— I like the blue one a lot."

It might be a test, it might not, but in the end it doesn't really matter. Right now, he's offering Stark a service; he goes and gets the blue one too. It's thicker, coarser, not something he’d start off with.

Stark's a quiet one. He jerks at each strike, and he's not silent; Phil still hears gasps and soft little wordless noises, constantly, but he's far from loud. He's not showy about it, the way he is about everything else. Phil wonders, a little, if it's an act, if Stark is holding back. If he'll lose that control when Phil pushes him further, beyond where he can keep that sort of lie going.

Maybe it's not the one that's an act.

Stark does like it, though, his head dropping down onto his folded arms and the tension fading from his body. Replaced by a different kind, sure, but not that anxious, unhappy strain from before. Phil waits until he's relaxed enough to slide down further in the chair, until Stark is shuddering at the lightest of blows. Drags one soft, low moan out of him before Phil switches things up.

The first strike of the blue flogger has Stark's head jerking up, his whole body tense in response. "Oh, fuck," Stark says, shakily. It looks like a good response, but Phil gives him a moment anyway. Waits, while Stark hunches in, stealing himself against the next blow; when it doesn't come, he turns his head, just enough to glance at Phil over his shoulder. "Like that," he says. "Just like that."

Good enough for Phil.

Stark's a little louder with it, startled with every hit at first, his noises sharper, more guttural. A little bit, for a little while, and then they start to die out. All Stark's noises disappear after a while, nothing more than soft panting, and that's not really what Phil had expected. "Stark," he says, and when he doesn't get a response, he steps up to Stark's side. "Stark," he tries again, "look at me."

There's not even a tremor of movement; Phil gets a grip in Stark's hair and pulls his head up, tilting his face towards Phil’s.

Stark blinks at him, slow, his mouth lax. Just hangs from Phil's grip and doesn't react at all for a moment, and damn, Phil hadn't thought Stark would fall into this so easily. "Sorry, what?" Stark says, his consonants soft, almost slurred. He shakes his head slightly, blinking faster, dragging himself up out of that liminal state.

"Nothing," Phil says quickly. "Nothing at all. You can stay just like that, it's good." He lowers Stark's head back down, resting on his arms, and loosens his hand, turning his touch into more of a pet. "You're doing beautifully." Stark stares up at him, not as distant as he had been but not quite focused either. He hesitates, caught in place, and then shivers, turning his face into his arms, hiding. "Don't worry," Phil says. "I'll put you back there."

He's got a handle on what Stark needs, now, what to watch for. That little interaction had pulled Stark up enough that he's startling at each blow again, even if he's still quiet; Phil keeps at him. Switches over to the softer, thuddier one for a bit, the first hit with that drawing a whine out of Stark. He melts when Phil keeps using it, though, sinking further down, burrowed in his arms and barely moving, just absorbing it all.

That's good, and Phil's sure that has Stark at least drifting but it's not what he'd asked for.

Stark cries out when Phil brings back the blue one, loud, real pain, his whole body tensing and his head coming up. Phil gives him a moment, waits until Stark puts his head back down, his shoulders tensing as he holds his position. It's only going to make it hurt more, and the harsh noises Stark is making prove it. Stark stiffens up, tenser and tenser as it goes on, and then— 

Gives in.

His shoulders drop, and he rocks with the next blow instead of flinching. Gets quieter and quieter again, calmer and calmer. Phil waits, keeping at him, watching for that last bit, that last edge of resistance to disappear. Phil's arm is actually starting to ache a little when it comes, when Stark sags, lax like he'd been with the softer flogger. Stays like that through the next few strikes, and that's where Stark needed to be. That's where he should stay for a while, if Phil's careful with him.

He sets the floggers aside and goes to Stark, crouching down beside him. Puts his hand on Stark's shoulder, the heat of it incredible, and Stark doesn't even shiver. "Okay?" Phil says, softly. He gets a small affirmative noise, a little more than he'd expected, actually.

Stark sighs when Phil runs his hand over his shoulders, very lightly across all that reddened skin. Stays just as calm and pliant as Phil keeps touching him, slowly stroking his back.

He doesn't really want them to stay here, though. Eventually—if it hasn't already—that chair is going to be uncomfortable, and Phil doesn't exactly want to crouch like this for long. "Can I get you to the bed?" he asks.

There's another little noise, with an equally little nod this time, and then Stark is pushing himself up. Phil rises, startled, ready to catch him if he's as unsteady as he looks, but it's unnecessary; Stark's unfocused, wobbly, but perfectly able to stand and walk to the bed in the other room. Phil keeps a hand on his arm regardless.

Stark sits on the bed, and then seems to get lost, or distracted, not moving again until Phil pushes him gently towards the middle of the bed. He gets Stark curled up on his side, just a sliver of his back touching the sheets.

There's a chair against the wall that doesn't look too modern, so hopefully more comfortable than most of the monstrosities around here; Phil has a feeling he's going to be here a while, watching Stark come back up. He stands, about to walk away when there's a soft touch on his hand. He looks down.

Stark's arm is stretched out, his fingers just barely resting on the back of Phil's hand. He's looking up at Phil out of the corner of his eyes, head just barely turned towards him. It's a clear a request as anything spoken; stay.

"I'm not leaving," Phil tells him. "I'm not even leaving the room. I was just going to get a chair.'

There's a breath, a hesitation, Stark's hand not leaving his, and then it's gone, Stark dragging it back in, turning his face into the pillow. That was the wrong response, something about it was just... wrong.

"Stark," Phil says, leaning onto the bed. "Do you want me to stay here? On the bed? I wasn't sure you'd be comfortable with that." After all, this doesn't seem to be at all sexual for him.

Stark doesn't say anything—Phil's not entirely sure if he's nonverbal or not—but he turns his face back towards Phil a little. Doesn't quite look at him, and doesn't make a move; he's not going to ask again, not after what he obviously took as a rejection. His reactions are odd, not much like Phil had expected. Maybe it's just the subspace, but— Phil's found even that sort of personality shift has roots in something underlying.

"Alright," Phil says, and lies down next to Stark, facing him. Not quite touching, but close. He's not entirely sure what sort of thing Stark needs from him right now, and Stark's not giving him a lot to work with. Stark reaches forward, catching the end of Phil's tie; he'd unknotted it earlier but left it tucked in the collar of his shirt. Rubs it between his thumb and fingers, slowly. Tactile, Phil thinks, and he'd thought, with the way Stark fends people off, subtly and not so, that he wouldn't want that.

"You're not bad at that," Stark says, a little soft around the edges but perfectly understandable, much more coherent than Phil had expected. "Get lots of practice?"

"Thank you," Phil says. "Not really, not for a while. I don't have the time to go out."

"Yeah," Stark says, "Fury seems to be trying to run you ragged. Bouncing you here and there. What short straw did you pull that you keep getting me?"

"I don't think of it as a short straw," Phil tells him. "More a challenge, and I enjoy getting to stretch myself." That gets him a huff of laughter. He reaches out and catches Stark's chin, raising it enough Stark has to look at him.

He's still as unfocused and dazed looking as before, the same slow sweep of his eyelashes, the same easy movement as Phil touches him. "Are you normally this... active?"

"Mmm," Stark says. "I've never been the sort to shut up for long, I guess."

"That wasn't what I asked," Phil says, going quieter as he lets his tone firm up.

Stark's fingers still on Phil's tie, his eyes closing briefly. "Yes," he says. "I get chatty when I'm under, a little too chatty. I'll get quiet again in a while, stay like that until the wind up hits me."

There's definitely a submissive streak in there, even if Stark isn't willing to acknowledge it. "Wind up?"

"Everything coming back online," Stark says softly. "Reboot complete, and I'll be bursting with energy for... hours, maybe a day or two before I crash."

Crash, or drop, Phil wonders. "Is it inevitable?"

"Don't know," Stark says. "Not enough data." He goes quiet, but he's playing with Phil's tie again. Has shifted a little closer as well, his knees bumping into Phil's.

Tactile, he thinks again.

Stark moves, his head coming up until he's almost looking at Phil— is, but it's more looking through him, Stark's expression starting to go sharper, his forehead creasing. He looks at Phil for real then, meeting his eyes. Stares, for a moment, almost focused; that quietness is sliding away, leaving him looking exhausted, bruised around the eyes. And then he just— goes soft again, his gaze sliding away for a few seconds before he looks back, hard, a tic in his jaw.

He's trying to pull himself out of it, Phil realizes. It's obvious that he wants to stay there, but he's not allowing himself. Even though that was the whole point. "You don't have to do that," Phil says. "There's no rush, no schedule to keep to."

"Sure there is," Stark mutters.

"No," Phil says, and if he needs to he'll make it true. "Nothing that can't be rearranged. Don't fight it so hard, Stark."

Starks making twitchy, restless little movements, and fuck, it might be the wrong move, might yank Stark straight out of it, but it feels like Phil has to try. He puts his hand on Stark's arm, gets a good grip and rolls onto his back, pulling Stark with him.

There's a tense moment once Stark is snugged close against him, leg draped over Phil's, arm over his chest, Phil still holding onto it. Stark's head is up, staring at him. "You have nowhere else you need to be," Phil says. "Nothing else you should be doing, right this moment. I know; I'm the one making your schedule for now. Take it, Tony. I won't let it be interrupted."

For another few seconds, Phil thinks he might have made the wrong choice, that the way Stark ducks away from uninitiated contact is a truth, not a cover up. That Stark won't be able to fall back down, or trust Phil beyond the scene.

Stark shivers, and between one breath and the next, goes limp. Melts against Phil easily, leaning into that contact he obviously needs. Phil turns his head until he can see Stark's face, resting on Phil's arm and turned up. His eyes are closed, but all those little lines of tension have disappeared again. "There you go," Phil says softly. "Just like that; that's perfect." Stark shivers again, his eyes opening, and he's right back where he should be.

Phil's going to keep him there as long as he can.

He thinks, while Stark settles, watching Phil through half closed eyes. Thinks, Stark's fingers absently tapping against Phil's chest, erratic little touches. He doesn't know quite what to do with this new information, not yet. It's not something he'd expected, at all, and it runs completely counter to a few things he'd thought were solid facts. Phil considers himself an excellent judge of people, considers Natasha to be even better, and they've both misread this. They've both completely missed huge pieces of Stark's personality, and it's a little embarrassing to think they were taken in by Stark, fooled by the face he puts on for the world.

Stark's quiet, still aside from his fingers. His eyes are almost closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, ridiculously long. He shivers ever so faintly when Phil runs his hand over his back, still hot to the touch, and lets out a shaky little exhale. Phil never would have called it, but he's willing to bet Stark would be the sweetest sort of submissive, if he went down for something other than pain. "Tired?" he asks.

"Always," Stark says with a small smile, a soft thing Phil's never seen before. "Not sleepy though."

"How do you feel?"

"Better," Stark says. "Good. Really good. You did really... made it easy? Not hard? Not falling, sliding."

Definitely out of it again, Phil thinks, a little amused. Stark stumbles around what he's trying to say constantly, but not like this, not like he can't quite figure out words. "Just wanted to make sure we did get you where you needed to be," he says.

"Oh god, yes," Stark says. "I didn’t think it was going to work with you at all, but it was fast." He laughs, and it’s an actual laugh this time, low and satisfied. "It’s so quiet," he says, which Phil is going to take as a good thing even if he isn’t sure what Stark means by it.

He's quiet a while longer, and really, Phil could do with this downtime as well. Nick has been trying to have him everywhere, keeping tabs on everything. "You think Fury knows?" Stark says, distantly.

"Knows what?"

"What the answer is. Whatever the solution to this is," he says, flicking his fingers at the reactor. "Is he missing a piece he needs me to find, or is he just getting off watching me like a rat in a maze."

"I think I can say I'm sure he's not enjoying it," Phil says. Personally, he thinks Nick has a solution and just isn't happy with it, wants to see if Stark can come up with something better. And give himself some leverage if he gets to swoop in and save Stark at the end of the day.

Then again, Nick's not normally as hands on anymore for individuals. He's hard to read, but Phil's pretty sure his lack of surprise about Iron Man wasn't entirely a front; he'd already been keeping a closer eye on Stark.

"Don't know if I believe you," Stark mutters. "Sure looked like he was enjoying watching Natasha stab me."

"He might have enjoyed that," Phil admits.

"Knew it," Stark says. He seems to run down after that, going quiet again, still, not even his fingers tapping.

"I take it the box wasn't terribly helpful?" Phil asks after a bit. Something about it set Stark off, at least.

Stark sighs. "Just— junk. Not even half finished bits of things, home movies, bragging about the expo." He huffs. "Leaving messages for me, like hearing that stuff now is going to help. It would have meant something back then. He didn't build the stupid thing for me, he built it—"

Stark stiffens, his eyes going wide, snapping out of that quiet space in an instant. "Son of a bitch," he says. Scrambles up, yanking open a drawer. "I need—" he says, his words lost for a second as he pulls a shirt on. "Send someone to go find the original expo model and get it here."

"What?"

"The— the model, the thingy, you know," Stark says, keyed up. He waves his hands around. "The one from the video, there's something in it, something— he hid it, whatever it is. I need the actual thing, now."

"Alright," Phil says. "I'll get it here.

Stark pauses, glancing over at him. "Yeah," he says. "You get things done."

"So do you," Phil says, "just flashier." Stark smiles, that softer one from before that's new, and whatever it is he thinks he's found, whether or not it is the answer— he's going to figure this out.

Phil just has to keep him together until he does.

[starryknight09]

Burning love

Febuwhump Day 22: burned

Read on AO3.

________________________________________________________

Peter hadn’t been paying attention.  He knew better, but he’d been distracted thinking about the best way to ask MJ to the spring fling dance.  Even after Tony had harped on him over and over again about lab safety and always being careful and blah blah blah, which Peter thought was more than a little hypocritical because the other man was the antithesis of everything he preached about.

Regardless, one moment he’d been thinking about whether inviting MJ to the dance required flowers, and the next moment he forgot to move the hand holding together the two Ironman armor pieces so it accidentally got in the way of the welding torch he was using to meld the seam.  It happened so fast, for a split second Peter just froze in shock, staring at his damaged hand even though he couldn’t see much through his welding mask.  Then the pain hit him and he sucked in a sharp breath.  He fumbled with the blowtorch for a second before he managed to turn it off.  Flipping his safety mask up, he examined his hurt hand, no longer filtered through the mask’s lens shade.

“Oh shit.” He swore as soon as he noticed the streak of red blistering skin across the back of it.

“What?” Tony perked up from across the room.  Peter’s back was to him, so he couldn’t see what had happened.  “Did you screw something up?  You need some help?”

“Uh…no.  I’m uh I’m good.” He stumbled over the words because oh god ow his hand hurt.  He really wanted to run over to the sink and shove it under some cold water, but there was no way Tony wouldn’t notice that and he didn’t want him to know how stupid he’d been.  Tony would be pissed, and there was no reason the man needed to know when it should heal itself relatively quickly anyway.

“You sure?” Tony asked, only his voice came from much closer.  Peter put the torch down and turned around, careful to keep both hands behind his back while still trying to look casual.

“Yeah, I’m sure.  It’s fine.  Totally fine.”

“Uh huh.” Tony narrowed his eyes at him.  “You’re a terrible liar.”

Tony peered around him to look at the armor and Peter twisted so he stayed facing the man.

“See?  It’s fine.  I didn’t mess it up.” He said, voice tight because oh god oh god his hand his hand.  He’d been shot before and it hadn’t hurt this much.  What was it about burns that caused such exquisite pain?

When Tony didn’t find anything wrong with the armor he turned his gaze back on Peter, eyes narrowing as he studied him.

“Why are you sweating?”

“It’s hot in here.” He answered but it sounded more like a question.

“FRIDAY what’s the temperature in here?”

“It is currently 70 degrees Fahrenheit.” FRIDAY responded.

“Mmhmm so any clue why the spiderling here is sweating?”

His eyes widened.  

“I believe it is secondary to the burn he just sustained on his left hand.”

“FRIDAY!” Peter protested the snitching at the same time Tony snapped, “What?” and grabbed his arm, yanking it forward so his hand came into view.  The man swore as soon as he saw the burn and Peter’s face scrunched.  It looked even worse now than it had a minute ago.

“What happened?” Tony demanded even as he dragged him by the wrist over to the sink.

“It slipped.”

“It slipped?” Tony echoed in disbelief as he guided Peter’s hand under the stream of cold water.  Even though the coolness helped, the pressure from the water hurt.  He grit his teeth.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

“How did it slip?” Tony asked.  “Aren’t your spidey powers supposed to keep these kinds of things from happening?”

Peter frowned.  Was he talking about his spidey sense?  “Um no.  I mean if some bad guy’s shooting at me then yeah, it’ll warn me, but it doesn’t warn me from myself because I’m not a bad guy.”

“That makes no sense.” Tony shook his head as he brought Peter’s hand out from under the faucet to look at it for a few seconds before shoving it back under again.

Peter winced and tried to explain, “Um it like senses intent?  So if someone wants to hurt me and then they try to it’ll warn me, but I didn’t want to hurt myself, I didn’t have any bad intent, so it didn’t warn me.  Does that make more sense?”

“No.  It should warn you either way.”

“Well, I mean yeah, that’d be nice, but it doesn’t.”

Tony huffed and pulled his hand out from the water again, turning off the faucet.  “Come on let’s get you to the medbay.”

“Oh.  No.  I don’t need the medbay.  We can just leave it.  It’ll heal in a day or so.” He protested even as Tony dragged him to the door.

“Yeah that’s going to be a big fat no.” Tony shook his head.  “We’re going to get this taken care of.”

Peter groaned.

**********

“So what are we dealing with here doc?  Is he going to be able to keep his hand?” Tony joked as Dr. Cho finished examining the burn.

“It’s a second degree burn.” Dr. Cho explained.  “But it’s over a relatively small area.  With his healing powers it should be completely fine in a couple days.”

“I told you.” Peter complained.

“I’ll put some burn salve on it and wrap it.” Dr. Cho said as she started gathering the necessary supplies from the cart next to the bed.  “I imagine it hurts, so once I’m done, I can grab you some of your pain pills if you want.”

“Oh no that’s ok.  I’m good.” He hated his pain pills.  They helped get rid of the pain, but they knocked him out too, and he didn’t feel like sleeping the day away over a stupid burn.  He’d come up for the weekend to spend time with Tony.  He wasn’t going to let a momentary lapse in judgment take that away.

“I’ll give a couple to Tony in case you change your mind.”

Peter sighed but didn’t argue.  She could give them to Tony but that didn’t mean he’d be taking them.

He watched as Dr. Cho slathered the burn in some cream and then wrapped it in gauze.  Once she’d finished, she handed Tony a couple pills and then gave Peter a small smile.  “You’re all set.  Stop by sometime tomorrow and I’ll take a look at it and re-wrap if it needs it.”

“Thanks Dr. Cho.” Peter said, jumping off the exam table, more than ready to leave.

“Back to the shop?” He asked as they walked out of the medbay.

“To do what?  You only have one working hand.” Tony scoffed.

“So do you and you manage pretty well.” Peter snarked.  Tony had survived after snapping the gauntlet but he’d paid for it with his arm.  He hadn’t let it slow him down, though.  He’d fashioned an even better one out of the same nanotechnology he’d used to make his suit.

“Not the same.”

Tony led them back to his rooms in the compound.  “Sit.” He ordered Peter.  “I’ll grab you some water.”

Peter actually listened for once and plopped down on the couch, picking up the remote with his good hand and turning on the TV.

“So, tell me again how this happened or you’re losing your welding privileges.” Tony said as he handed him a glass of water.  “Actually, either way you still might.  I haven’t decided.”

He took a drink of the water before setting it down on the side table.  “I told you.  It slipped.”

“And I’m not buying it kid.  There’s no way it just ‘slipped’.” Tony put the word in air quotes.  “But if you keep insisting, I guess I’ll just have to have FRIDAY play the footage.”

It wasn’t an empty threat, and he knew if Tony watched it he’d see right away he hadn’t slipped.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes.  “I was distracted and I forgot to move my hand.  Happy?”

“No, I’m Tony.”

“Oh god that’s such a dad joke.”

“Don’t try to deflect.” Tony pointed a finger at him.  “You’re going need to explain more than ‘you got distracted’ before I even think about letting you touch that equipment again.”

Peter huffed in irritation.  “I was thinking about how to ask MJ out to the spring fling dance and I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

Peter instantly regretted the admission when Tony’s face split into a wide grin.  “A girl huh?  All of this is because of girl.  See, that I can believe.”

“Oh god don’t get all weird about it.”

“You need some advice?  Not that I’m the best one to give advice when it comes to romantic uh stuff, or so Pepper would say.”

“No.  I don’t need any advice.” He shook his head.

“Ok, so how are you going to ask her?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Sounds like you need advice.”

“No I—”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much about it kid.  Just go up to her at school on Monday and ask, ‘Hey MJ do you want to go to the spring ding—”

“Spring fling.” He corrected, not quite sure if Tony had butchered the name on purpose or not.

Tony waved a hand dismissively.  “—together?’  If she’s anything like you’ve described her, she’ll appreciate the straight forwardness.”

That was probably true, but part of him wanted to make it special.  “You don’t think I should get her like some flowers or something?”

“Flowers?  To get asked to go to a dance?” Tony pulled a face.  “I wouldn’t think so, but then again I haven’t been in high school in…actually never.  I skipped that part of my childhood.”

Peter smiled.

“You know what?  I think this calls for an expert.” Tony took his phone out and put it on speaker as it rang.

“Tony?”

“Hey Pep.  Quick question.  The kid wants to ask his girlfriend out—”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Peter interrupted.

“You hear that?”  

“Yes I did.” Pepper said and Peter could hear the smile in her voice.

“Anyway, he wants to ask a girl out to some spring a ling dance.”

Yep, he was definitely doing it on purpose.  Peter didn’t bother to correct him this time.

“Does he need to get her flowers or something or should he just ask her?  I thought he should just ask her, but then he mentioned flowers, and I honestly have no clue how the kids are doing things these days, so we thought we’d check in with the master.”

“And that’s me?” Pepper asked in amusement.

“Yes dear.”

“Well, I think for once you’re right.” Pepper said and Tony did a little fist pump.

“Just ask her honey.  She’d be crazy to say no to you.  And then when she says yes, you can bring her flowers when you pick her up to go to the dance.  Ok?”

“Ok.” Peter responded.  “Thanks Pepper.”

“It’s no problem.  I’d wish you luck, but I know you won’t need it.”

“All right.  Thanks Pep.” Tony said.

“You’re welcome.”

Tony hung up.

“See?  Easy.  Now, if you’d just brought this up when you’d gotten here you wouldn’t have had to suffer.” Tony gestured toward his bandaged hand.

Peter rolled his eyes.  “I didn’t want to say anything because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it.”

“But I didn’t, did I?”

Peter side eyed him suspiciously.  “No.  You didn’t.”

“So, on that note…do we need to have the talk?” Tony asked, arching an eyebrow at him, but Peter could tell he was just messing with him.

“Oh god.  I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Tony laughed.

**********

Monday morning came and his hand had healed.  Only a faint red line remained and he figured it’d be gone by tomorrow.  As he walked in, he decided to commit to following Tony’s advice.  He fidgeted all through the first half of the day until lunch period.  He’d seen MJ in class, but he didn’t think that was the best place to ask her with everyone else around, so he waited until they were alone in the lunch line together before taking a bolstering breath and asking.  “Hey MJ?”

“Hm?” She replied distractedly as she read the book in her hands.

“Do you, uh…do you want to go to the spring fling with me?”

MJ looked up from her book and the barest hint of a smile crossed her face as she raised an eyebrow at him.  “Are you asking me out Parker?”

“Um yeah.”

“Like as a date.” She clarified.

“Yes…”

“Ok.” She gave him a nod and went back to her book.

“Ok?  So that’s a yes?”

“Yes.” MJ smiled but kept staring at the page in front of her.

“Ok yeah um great.  That’s great!  Uh, thank you.”

MJ snorted.

“I mean uh cool.  It’ll-it’ll be fun.”

MJ kept reading and Peter tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t help pulling out his phone and texting Tony, ‘She said yes!’

‘Of course she did.’ Tony replied quickly.  ‘We’ll start brainstorming flower ideas next weekend.  But not around any heavy machinery.’

Peter smiled and shook his head.  That was actually something he didn’t need Tony’s help with.  He’d thought about it and already knew what kind of flowers he wanted to get her.  Actually, he wasn’t going to get her flowers at all.  A few months ago, she’d mentioned her favorite flower was the black dahlia because of its significance in the infamous Hollywood murder.  Since flower shops didn’t exactly carry bouquets of black dahlias, he’d searched online and found a black dahlia necklace.  The moment he saw it, he knew it’d be perfect.  He glanced back at MJ, unable to keep the smile off his face even as she kept her nose buried in her book.  The dance was only a month away.  He couldn’t wait.

[edelwoodsouls]

all roads lead - ch. 6

When his mother dies, Stiles runs away, straight into danger - only to be saved by Peter Hale. Seven years later, after burying their alpha, Stiles and Malia return home.

Word Count: 2,397 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

Chapter 6: FLINCH

It takes less than an evening for the pieces of Beacon Hills to begin to fall together in Stiles' mind.

The four teenagers kill time until dinner watching television in somewhat awkward silence, passing around a bowl of microwave popcorn. Stiles still can't figure out what they were watching, his senses too overwhelmed by the two unsuspecting werewolves sitting so close on the sofa beside him, the beta leaning into his shoulder, his father shifting back and forth in the kitchen next door.

Dinner is an even more tentative affair. Melissa arrives just as John sets the shepherds pie in the centre of the table. She stinks of hospital cleaning fluids and that distinct floral perfume that hangs around his father's scent, but her smile is just as warm as Stiles remembers, and when she hugs him without hesitation it feels a little too much like memories eight years gone.

Melissa and John are sickeningly good together. They move around, between, with each other in a perfectly synchronised dance. They touch, and laugh, leaning into each other with the effortlessness of certainty.

They're good for each other, and Stiles is surprised to find any lingering bitterness begin to fizzle out inside him.

But whilst John's cooking has, in fact, come on in leaps and bounds since the last meal he gave Stiles - frozen waffles and ketchup - it's not enough to dissipate the thick tension in the air, like the pressure of clouds before lightning.

Scott manages to carry the conversation practically single-handed, with regular interruptions from Malia. He tells them all about sports practice, about the pretty cool new english teacher, about the cute puppy he treated at the animal clinic.

The topics are noticeably inane. More than once, Scott stumbles over a word, glances sharply at Stiles and Malia, quickly changing the subject. Stiles almost pities him. If he didn't know anything about the supernatural, he'd be more than a little suspicious by now.

Stiles stays quiet for the most part, watching this choreography of a normal life that he has never had the chance to witness so closely. Even in a half supernatural family, real life holds dominion. They worry about how to keep their grades up to stay on the lacrosse team. The fact that the local ice rink didn't get enough funding to stay open. The flashy new rich kids with bikes much better than theirs. Random, normal things that completely pass Stiles by.

He wonders how much he missed in New York, holding himself above the rest, writing them off as petty teenagers who knew nothing of the world. Was it just jealousy the whole time? That they could care about the things Stiles had to leave behind?

He cringes away from this realisation- and finds Isaac is staring directly at him.

Where Scott is a waterfall of movement and sound, Isaac is a silent, watchful stone. They balance each other well - Scott's open sunshine, Isaac's caution. He watches the room the way Stiles does: looking for the exits, assessing the threats. Flinching at any movement too sudden, any voice too loud. The clatter of cutlery against plates, a sharp bout of laughter.

He recognises the signs of trauma - no, the signs of abuse - far too well. The mystery of this strange boy his father and old best friend have adopted unfurls a little more.

Stiles meets his eyes, surprised when Isaac doesn't look away. He may behave like a shrinking violet, but Stiles gets the feeling he would do anything for Scott. The way he leans towards his alpha, instinctively, protectively - the same way he leans towards Malia, a gravity built on years of weight. He wonders if this boy filled the vacuum Stiles left when he vanished. If Scott attracts broken, darkened things like moths to flame.

Maybe magic and werewolves are an inevitability in this town, not the result of an ill-wandered youth.

"Are you gonna start coming to school?" Scott asks out of nowhere, and the tension ratchets up a thousand volts, breaking apart the unnoticed staring contest.

"Uh," Stiles starts. Stops. "I'd like to, yeah."

"I'd rather jump off a skyscraper," Malia all but snarls into her mashed potato. "But yes. I guess."

"Awesome," Scott grins. "It'll be great to have new people who're actually nice." Stiles has to stop himself from snorting. Never did he think someone would describe him as nice. "The new twins are dicks. Isaac got detention because of them."

"Detention?" John asks sharply, a father if ever Stiles heard one.

Isaac flinches a mile. Folds even further in on himself, eyes lost in his lap. "It wasn't what it looked like," he says, so softly the words are almost lost in the sudden silence of the kitchen.

"It wasn't his fault!" Scott leaps in vehemently. "The twins riled him up, got him angry, then framed him for beating them up in the halls-"

"Isaac, we're not angry, honey," Melissa says suddenly, yet gently as ever. "We absolutely believe you. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Right, absolutely," John stumbles to follow, face drawn in panic. "Even if you did have detention, it's honestly nothing. What's one detention? Stiles had detention every day for a year when he was nine!"

"In my defence, Miss Clarke really hated you because you arrested her brother for kidnapping," Stiles says. "So really I think I was entirely innocent on that front."

The tension in the room eases, air let from an overblown balloon. Isaac uncurls, slowly, like a sunflower as the dawn breaks over the horizon. Scott's hand rests on his arm, not taking any pain but clearly reminding him of comfort, of pack. Stiles knows very little about Isaac, and yet he finds himself wanting to do anything to alleviate his discomfort.

He's not used to allowing himself to care about others. About anyone, really, except Peter and Malia, and- the one or two people who wormed their way into his heart by sheer force of will. Maybe he looks at Isaac and sees a possibilty of his own future, if he had remained trapped in a house of ghosts and overboiling temper. He'd like to think that's all, that his carefully guarded heart isn't beginning to crack more than it already has.

The rest of the meal passes with an added, wary undercurrent, everyone dancing around their words like cracks in the pavement.

Plates cleaned away, Scott stands up. "Mom, can you help me with dessert?" There's a strangled note to the alpha's voice, as if the words have been trying to force themselves out for too long. Stiles watches them leave.

"So why are you here?" Malia asks Isaac, so abruptly Stiles doesn't have time to anticipate damage control.

To his credit, Isaac barely seems phased. "Freezer related incidents," he shrugs, as if this is a perfectly sensible answer. "Why are you?"

"Coyotes."

Stiles leaves them to trade snide remarks at each other whilst his father referees; they seem impressively evenly matched. Instead, he has no qualms about focusing his hearing towards the other room, the murmured voices and distinct lack of movement.

"What happened, hun?" Melissa asks, voice soft as ever, yet firm, prompting.

"The alpha twins," Scott starts, stops, and Stiles has to school his expression to hide his shock. Twin werewolves are rare, believed to be incredibly powerful. Alpha twins are unheard of- except a single pair, blood-soaked and vicious. Why would they be in Beacon Hills of all places?

"The alpha twins?" Melissa prompts.

"They've really gotten under Isaac's skin since they... killed the others. They know exactly how to rile him up, and so they've made him a target. And I got a call from Derek on the way home - he and Cora were attacked at the loft. He almost bled out. I just- I don't know what I'm doing, mom."

Stiles hears the moment when Scott's voice breaks, and finds his heart cracking a little more in kind. He of all people shouldn't have let all those sunshine smiles distract him from the obvious pressure of being an alpha so young. Scott's positivity, even when they were children, had been a result of his suffering, not evidence of its lack.

And he's still an alpha, Stiles has to remind himself. He still has blood on his hands, somehow, and that makes him a threat despite any deceptive kindness.

"You're doing everything you can, sweetie," Melissa's voice is muffled, as if by a hug. "You've only been an alpha for a few months, and it's not easy, being a leader even in the best of times. What you've dealt with? Becoming a werewolf, hunters, now the alpha pack? It amazes me every day that you even get out of bed."

"I really wanted this to be the year I got my life back on track. Getting my marks up so I can do AP classes and stay on the lacrosse team, y'know? And now Stiles is here again and I don't know how to feel about that at all..."

"Because he's been gone so long? Because this house is already lively enough with two boys under its roof?" There's a small smile in Melissa's voice.

"Because everything new in this town seems to be something twisted and awful and supernatural. He's been gone seven years. Why did he leave? Where has he been? Who's Malia? I want to trust him, I've missed him so much, but..."

"What do your magical alpha senses tell you? What does he smell like?" The kitchen goes quiet for a moment, and Stiles feels the uncomfortable itch under his skin of being watched.

"He's human," Scott sighs with a guilt-wrenching amount of relief. "But he smells like concern all the time. The way he and Malia move around each other, I can't help but wonder what the two of them have been through, where they've been-"

"Scott, the best thing about you is your big heart. I often wish you wouldn't give it out so easily, but don't let past burns close you off completely from genuine miracles. Stiles is human, and against all odds he's come home. The rest can come later, when he's ready. We have to give him time. I mean, we're hiding things from him too, aren't we? Unless you'd like to carry this trifle back in there in all your sideburns and fangs."

Stiles pulls his attention back to the dinner table, reeling. There's so much, too much, all at once.

The alpha pack were infamous in New York. They were a favourite horror story, passed between supernatural teenagers like an urban legend, a ghost story. For betas the meaning was clear: don't anger your alpha, or he might murder your whole pack and join the alpha pack. For alphas: don't be too good at anything, don't make yourself special or noticeable, or the demon wolf will stalk you from the shadows.

Peter had scoffed at the stories, but even he couldn't hide how they made his skin crawl.

If the alpha pack are in Beacon Hills, this is the worst possible place he and Malia could be. The blood of his own pack is fresh on Stiles' hand, the obstacle between him and them a singular beta. He is a wolf who has also been a fox, who still has a little magic left running through his veins despite no longer being human.

There is no guarantee they would care about him at all.

But the risk is there, a sliver of ice sliding towards his heart.

They must be here for Scott, but what makes him special? Or maybe they're here for Laura Hale, the current alpha of the prestigious if decimated Hale pack. Scott mentioned her younger brother Derek, so the two packs must be on tentatively good terms, at least.

Unless, of course, Scott McCall is the current owner of the Hale alpha power. Which is an entirely possible and unpleasant reality that leaves an awful taste in Stiles mouth. He tries to imagine Scott stood over a body, claws blood-soaked, eyes flickering from gold to red.

It feels so wrong. He shoves the image away as Scott and Melissa emerge from the kitchen, carrying a towering monstrosity he supposes is the aforementioned trifle.

"You with me?" Malia nudges him gently in the ribs. There's a question in her eyes - she knows his propensity for eavesdropping, and he can see how much effort it's taking her not to ask right here and now.

"Later," he whispers, turning back to the table with as much of a grin as he can manage.

There are too many unknowns in Beacon Hills. At least in New York, there was an obvious hierarchy, the etiquette between packs and other supernatural creatures rigorous and unchallenged. Here it seems like a mess of blood and confusion.

But leaving now would cause more problems thann Stiles has the energy to deal with. A reawakened search for a missing sheriff's son and an Eichen House escapee could make national news, especially now that Scott and Isaac know about New York.

And Stiles finds he doesn't want to leave - just yet, at least. Even in a house of wolves, he has a bed to sleep in, Malia by his side, his father in his life. He's laid the groundwork for friendship that he hopes will make people hesitate and listen before they try to murder him. Yes, there's risk, and the potential for blood in the near future.

But is it really so different? He ran from blood - who knows what would have happened to him and Malia if they'd stayed in New York?

The Argents are not a forgiving family, and Stiles has done the unforgiveable. They would have been hunted to the ends of the earth, and without the power of the nogistune he doesn't think they'd last long.

And whilst there probably isn't a standard punishment for betas who get possessed and murder their alpha and several other prominent figures in the supernatural community, he can't imagine they'd be lenient.

After all, no one particularly cared about Peter Hale, but everyone loved Noshiko Yukimura.

So they'll stay. Act human. Go to school, play lacrosse, hang out with Scott. Maybe even try to help out with the alpha pack, if they can.

And when the blood comes knocking, perhaps they'll stand a chance.

[rockyremington]

THE BEAUTY QUEEN IN TEARS

who: rocky remington, @bbpuck and @zoepuckerman (ft. quinn puckerman and brock remington) where: puckerman residence when: november 1, 2040, early evening what: quinn and brock blindside their kids when they announce that they are going steady over dinner.

ROCKY: When Rocky’s dad informed him that they’d be going over to the Puckerman’s for dinner, he didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t out of the ordinary or him to be dragged to a dinner or a brunch or some other sort of event with a legendary Lima family. This was all part of the gig. Rod Remington cared a lot about appearances and therefore Brock did and therefore Rocky did…or at least pretended to. When they showed up to their house and were welcomed by Quinn Puckerman, Rocky plastered a smile on his face and greeted her politely by handing off the bottle of wine his dad had brought and taking a seat next to Baby and across from Zoe at the table. Dinner was fine for the most part…conversation was light and easy…until Quinn and his dad joined hands at the end of the table and made their announcement. The last thing Rocky expected when he was informed about this dinner was to be hit with the fact that his dad was now officially dating Quinn. Rocky alternated between staring at both of them in disbelief and then at the Puckerman girls he went to school with. This was not ideal. “Are you guys being serious?” was all Rocky said before his dad launched into a speech about how they met in the June at the Country Club, how it was love at first sight, and how they wanted all the kids to get used to being around each other…like a family. Rocky cleared his throat and put down his fork. No way was he taking the lead on this. He’d leave that to Zoe or Baby or literally anyone else.

BABY: Baby hadn’t been able to ease the weight that was heavy in her chest since stupid Rod and Rocky Remington had walked through the door, and when Quinn grabbed the man’s hand, without even a moment of hesitation in her action, the youngest Puckerman almost felt it smash through her. The back of her eyes burned almost immediately; her delicate hands sounded down against the table in her shock. Baby’s deprived lungs begging her to just breathe as Principal Remington’s voice buzzed through her ears like white noise. “What about Dad?” Baby’s voice cracked over the words; her gaze not even daring to look anywhere near the intruder sitting at their dining room table. She was too focused on Quinn from across the table; her mother’s hazel eyes resembling something almost like heartbreak - for Puck, or for her mourning daughter, Baby wasn’t sure - before hardening over again. Baby didn’t even give her a chance to respond, though, before she was pushing herself away from the table; her glass falling over onto the table in the process. “You know what? Do whatever the hell you want. It’s not like you’ve ever managed to care about what anyone else wants, anyway. Quinnie says it’s time for a new family, and I guess we all just fall in line, right? Whatever.” Baby didn’t stop when Quinn called out after her - completely unhesitating as she threw the front door open and slammed it behind her - she just wasn’t so sure where to go after that.

ZOE: The last thing Zoe expected when she'd been informed that the Remingtons were coming over for dinner was to be ambushed with the news that her mom was now 'seriously dating' her principal. She had known something was up with the way Quinn had been fluttering around the house all day, making sure it was spotless, but she chalked it up to nerves about having a well-established family over. While Zoe absolutely adored her mom, it wasn’t lost on her that Quinn (and honestly, even Zoe) took after her grandma in terms of always wanting to put their best foot forward. Dinner conversation was absolutely fine until it ultimately wasn’t. Zoe could have handled college talk all night, but one look at Quinn’s hand intertwined with Brock’s had her stomach doing somersaults. Despite Baby’s loud and sudden outburst, Zoe remained rooted in her chair, desperate to hear the thought process behind this new pairing. She, of course, wanted her mom happy, but Zoe couldn’t ignore the anger settling in her heart as she toyed with the question of why couldn’t Quinn have warned them of this before hand? It wasn’t until Quinn shot her a pleading look that she broke the silence in the room. “I’ll-” she started before throwing a pointed glance in Rocky’s direction. “We’ll go check on Baby.” If he was going to be a part of their family, he was going to have to get accustomed to Puckerman breakdowns ASAP.

ROCKY: The awkward silence that followed Baby’s question was heavy. Rocky had no idea what the protocol for a situation like this was, so he did nothing. He just sat there, essentially twiddling his thumbs, as Baby aggressively stood up and rattled the silverware and glassware on the table. When her cup knocked over, he quickly reached for it, but the damage was done. Her drink had spilled and now everything was out on the table. Rocky cleared his throat as he used his napkin to soak up her water, figuring this mess was a good distraction from the verbal one he was witnessing. Next thing he knew, Baby was pushing past the back of his seat and headed out the door. He’d save his shock over the relationship itself for later—there were clearly greater issues at hand. Once Rocky had mostly taken care of Baby’s spillage, he looked up in time to see Zoe and Quinn exchanging some sort of look he couldn’t read. When he felt the eldest Puckerman’s eyes on him, Rocky wasn’t sure what to expect. It definitely wasn’t for Zoe to summon him to go help with whatever meltdown her sister was having. He scoffed a little bit at her suggestion, but one look at his father made it clear that he was to follow suit. “Fine,” he sighed, clearing his throat and following Zoe out of the house. He shut the door behind him only to see Baby standing aimlessly in the driveway. “Are you sure you want me out here for this?” he asked, mostly to Zoe, “feels kind of like a private moment.”

BABY: “She’s finally losing it, right? I mean, this has to be the big breakdown Nana kept telling us to watch out for." Baby didn’t even turn around before her voice began echoing off of the empty street around them, but she wasn’t exactly itching to turn and confirm her suspicions that Rocky had followed right along with Zoe. She didn’t want him to see her melt down - she didn’t want him to see the tears that were finding their way down Baby’s flushed cheeks. The youngest Puckerman wasn’t left with much of a choice, though, as the urge to turn toward her sister nearly buckled her knees out from beneath her. Confusion, and exhaustion written over every ounce of her features as she tried her hardest to search Zoe’s eyes for answers - and thoroughly tried to ignore the boy standing next to her. “I didn’t even know she was dating again, and now we’re expected to call this idiot our brother? Tell me I’m freakin’ dreaming, or something, Zo’, because I -” Baby had to pause as she ran out of breath, as a wave of anxiety hit her like a ton of bricks; her blue eyes squeezing shut. For a moment, all she seemed to be able to hear was the sound of her father’s voice in her head. Unintelligible, and muffled, but it was enough to have Baby letting out something like a growl as she reached down toward one of Quinn’s lawn ornaments and tossed it across the expanse of green, toward The McCarthy's home. A tense beat passing between the three of them before the young blonde finally turned her attention on Rocky, “You -” Baby furrowed her eyebrows, stepping toward him like she was on a mission, “Did you know about this? Did either of you know about this? Tell me I’m not the only one.”

ZOE: Zoe watched as Baby flung the lawn ornament, taking a mental note on the location it landed. She’d circle back later that night to return it to it’s rightful place, an effort to avoid a small battle in what would likely be a long, drawn out war between Baby and Quinn. “B..” She sighed, taking a step to close any distance between her and her younger sister. Zoe’s arms wrapped around Baby’s small frame, and she squeezed tight. In a world where Baby was emotional and open with her thoughts/opinions, Zoe had grown to be guarded and somewhat calm in these situations. Her sister’s keeper, in a way. “The signs were all there,” she admitted, as she recalled all the times Quinn claimed she was going to play racquet ball at the country club with girlfriends, the hushed phone calls late at night, and the small spring in Quinn’s step. If she had really been paying attention, Zoe might have put two and two together and figured it out sooner. Just as she was pulling back to better assess her sister’s emotional state, Baby began inching towards Rocky. Zoe’s hand shot out to grab onto her shoulder, keeping her at bay. “It’s not his fault,” she chided. “Let’s just chill for a second. Is this the worst thing in the world?” She shot a look in Rocky’s direction, hoping he’d at least have some sense to realize that Baby needed to be calmed down.

ROCKY: Rocky felt like a fly on the wall of what was surely meant to be a private moment exchanged between sisters. His presence clearly wasn’t helping the situation, but rather aggravating Baby more. “I don’t know about brother,” he chimed in with a shrug as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat, “I mean they’re just dating and shit, right? It’s not like…wedding bells.” He was being dangerously optimistic. Based on how seriously his dad and Quinn took their announcement, it was obvious that this relationship wasn’t nothing. But maybe it wouldn’t be the end all be all…not that Rocky really cared either way. He stared down at his feet while Zoe and Baby hugged, not wanting to intrude. It wasn’t until he heard an accusatory you that he looked up and saw Baby stalking towards him, ready to jab her finger into his chest. “I didn’t know shit,” he spat, a little annoyed at how quick she was to make him a villain. Luckily Zoe stepped in with a surprisingly level head. Rocky considered her question. Is this the worst thing in the world? He met Zoe’s pointed stare and rolled his eyes slightly as he let out a huge, exasperated sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with another shrug, “I don’t know. No?” What the fuck was he supposed to say? “It just is what it is, I guess. I knew my dad was seeing someone, but I didn’t know it was your mom.”

BABY: “Your Dad basically just told us he wants us to be the modern day Brady Bunch, and you think this doesn’t mean wedding bells?” Baby wanted to tell Rocky to ‘use his head,’ or to ‘stop being such a fucking idiot,’ but Zoe’s hand on her shoulder held her back, minding her like a toddler on a leash. She bit her tongue, hard enough to draw blood; reveled in the coppery burst of it’s touch exploding over her taste buds. Baby believed that Rocky didn’t know anything. She wished Zoe would have bothered to share a single one of those ‘signs’ -- but it didn’t seem to matter much. There was already a certain brand of Puckerman lividity stirring within her, too much to simply put back where it came from. It was enough to make her pull away as her nerves got wholly in the way of fire rising through her. Baby’s blue gaze, although not usually soft, growing harder than they had been in days longer than any of the Puckerman and Fabray’s alike could count. “No, it’s not the worst thing in the world. How could it be? The worst thing in the world has come, and gone, and I’m not sure anything else could top it. But this? This is probably as close of a second as it gets.” Stray tears streamed down her cheeks once again - her voice broke, and cracked, and shattered all around them, just like her heart seemed to be doing in her chest. Baby’s eyes, though, couldn’t seem to break through the icy, far-off gaze that had overcome her. Her limbs seemed to move on autopilot as she shrugged her shoulders, not daring to meet Zoe’s - and especially not Rocky’s - gaze as she moved like a zombie down the driveway. “I’ll text you later,” Baby’s words were noncommittal, but she didn’t bother putting any more effort into them than that. “I just… I can’t be here. Not with her.”

AND SCENE.

[sweetcatmintea]

A Gift

Hello hello! Day four, I’ve got to drop this and run! Y’all like tenderness right? Hope you enjoy this drabble ^u^ Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Advent Calendar organiser: @alexprompts Prompt: This cool photo (Germ warning it’s a culture in a dish) taken by @wildler Words: 1009 Characters: Dianna (Mama) and June (Mumsie) 

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Fan fair and laughter fading into memory, another day drew to a close. Snow plinked against the window, a quiet symphony to muffle the world until the sun rose. Incense burned, smoky plume scenting the air with relaxing spice. Diana lay, leaning back into her overstuffed pillows, cosy and comfortable in her night gown as she flipped through a light read. Architecture had always interested her, even if she had no plans to make a career of it. She could appreciate it in her leisure. She hummed a greeting as June crawled under the covers beside her. Cold feet tangled with warm, the latter quickly retreating.

“Don’t be like that,” June pouted, cuddling closer, “you wouldn’t let your poor wife freeze, would you?” Like mother like son, she lowered her ears, big baby doll eyes imploring.

“My poor wife should start wearing slippers if she wants to cuddle.” Dianna laughed, playfully papping June’s forehead with her book before marking the page and setting it aside. Despite her mock annoyance, she turned to hold her lover properly. The cold had its perks, it would seem. June, too tall and lanky to stand eye to eye with Dianna, still fit perfectly in her arms, or maybe it was her heart. They lay together breathing in the moment’s peace.

“Did you get Xave down this time?” Barely audible, the question was murmured into June’s long red hair.”

“Mm. He was still pretty excited but I think the early morning finally caught up to him.” June chuckled, yawning. “Where does he get all that energy? It can’t be from us.”  

“I’m sure you were like that when you were his age. Will was. You’re just old.”

“Well you’re married to an old lady. Do you have a thing for grandmas?” June smiled into Diana’s skin, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Maybe just one.”

“Should I be worried.”

“Definitely.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Dianna’s hand trailed through June’s locks, “she’s beautiful,” Fingers traced her strong jawline, tingling the soft pale skin. “she’s thoughtful,” They continued down her neck, lingering at her shoulders, muscular from work, “she’s fierce,” down her arms, “she’s clever,” brushing over her wrists leaving warmth in their wake, “she’s an amazing mum to three wonderful children,” stopping to interlock their fingers together, ebony and ivory, a perfect harmony, “I might be in love.”

June squeezed Dianna’s hand, cupping her cheek with the other, a blush glowing on her own. Surely this was a gods’ work, carving them from stone to compliment one another so completely. June’s thumb moved oh so gently across Dianna’s skin. Blue dissolved into brown. She could stare into Dianna’s eyes forever. “I think I’ve heard of her.”

Dianna leaned into her embrace. “You have?”

“Yeah.” Lips met in tender love. “They say she’s the luckiest person in the world.”

“One of them.”

Conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, neither party quite ready to leave the moment to history. Snow continued to tap quietly at the glass. Smoke rose in delicate patterns as the incense burned closer to its end. Floorboards creaked as Xavier skittered around in the kitchen, undoubtably a covert mission for water. Dianna laughed softly. That boy, honestly. She exchanged a look with June. They agreed. He’d settle himself down again soon.

Diana stretched, curling closer to June. “Do you think Mary was happy with what we got her? I know she had her heart set on that new sewing machine…” It would have been nice to be able to surprise her with one.

June hummed. “I think so. She’s wanted to see a live Panthers game since I showed her the channel. If she wants one that desperately, she’ll have to save up for it herself. I wish we were in a position to do that, but with the bills, Xave’s camps, taxes on all three kids, it’s just not feasible.” June sighed. She worked and worked but it never seemed to be enough.

“Don’t beat yourself up Junebug. They may not have everything they want, but they have everything they need. That’s enough.” Another kiss planted on June’s forehead as Dianna moved back, rummaging through the bedside draw. “Speaking of,” She produced a small, box, roughly the size of a saucer and covered in blue patterned paper, “this is for you.”

“What? Di, you shouldn’t have! What is it?” June jostled it gently. Gift giving was supposed to be finished that morning.

“Open up and see, I’m not going to tell you, silly.” Dianna watched as June pulled the gold ribbon, unwinding it from the container. It wasn’t much, but she hoped she’d like it. A flat glass cylinder sat safely in tissue paper. June took it out, careful not to damage it. Tiny snowflakes blossomed inside, shimmering as though the sun shone on them before fading away, only to be replaced anew.

“What is this?” June breathed, her eyes glittering, a treasure in their own right.  

“It’s not much, I got it from that market I was telling you about. It’s a snow bloom. I wanted to take you on a weekend to the mountains, you know, like when we first met,” She tugged her night cap self-consciously, a distraction from the butterflies in her chest, “but then Xave had that accident, and, well, it pretty much cleaned out what I’d saved.” She laughed lightly. “It was lucky the money was there, but still… I just wanted to get you something nice to show you how much I love you.”

June took Dianna’s hand. “Having you in my life is more than I could ever ask for.” She wanted to say more than her words were capable of. How do you tell someone they’re the light of your life? The stars you trust to guide you? The home you never knew could exist? She wanted to tell her that and more, to have her really understand. But mere words could never be enough. Still, they were all she had.

“Dianna,” she said, “I love you more than anything. Thank you for existing.”

-----

Tag list

@snobbysnekboi, @inkovert, @kainablue, @i-rove-rock-n-roll, and @goblin-writer

[crimsonbluemoon]

OhmToonz: I’ll Be Home For Christmas

I’m not sure if I’m going to get all of these done today because I’m probably getting too into this. I know I’ll deff get one more done, but I also wanna get some work done on Chapter 13 for Libahunt so we’ll see what the rest of the night holds. 

So until then, here ya go!

Ohmtoonz: “There’s a storm and omg I’m losing signal are you okay?? hold on let me drive 489432 miles to get you the night before Christmas”

“You’re stuck?” Ryan let out a sigh at the repeat of his words, glancing out the window of the common room of his college dormitory. His feet were buried in his bunny slippers, which had been unpacked from his suitcase. Snow poured down in the darkness, adding to the silence of the empty room. Most of the people in the dormitory had already left for the holiday season, but Ryan had been asked to stay behind as a Resident Assistant. “How the fuck are you stuck on campus on Christmas Eve?!”

“The storm came in earlier than I expected it to, and I can’t get to the train.” The night before had been a cluster in the college, as news of a terrible snowstorm heading their way made people leave early. He’d let the other RAs Momo and Squirrel leave the day before, knowing that both had large families that would be distraught if the freshmen weren’t able to make it back for the holidays. Being a senior meant he had less anxiety over the winter break, having done it plenty of times before. But the winter storm waited for nobody, and the dark clouds had come in much earlier than predicted by the weatherman. By the time Ryan had helped the last student out of the dormitory and done his rounds, the snow was up to his calves, and still coming down. It was pointless to try and trek the mile to the train station, especially when he didn’t even know if they were still running.  

“So you’re going to be stuck there for Christmas?” His best friend’s voice over the phone sounded strained, and Ryan blinked before he snuggled closer to the couch and sighed.

“The school’s sidewalks aren’t going to be their first priority to plow because there’s almost nobody else here. I might be able to get out tomorrow, but I’ll probably just wait until the snow fully stops.”

“You can’t just not come home. We’re supposed to go out to breakfast tomorrow, it’s a tradition!” And Ryan knew it was, no matter how far away from home he currently was. A two-hour drive and that was without the crappy conditions. Yet Ryan had made the trek every time in order to see Luke, the one constant in his life. Friends from school were nice, and the boyfriends he’d tried to date were always a pleasant distraction (from feelings he didn’t wanna talk about), but Luke was the one person that he always knew would be there without question. It’d been like that since there were thirteen and muddy from wrestling by the pond near their street.

It’d been how Luke had stolen his heart. 

“I’m sorry, Toonzy.” He hoped that his softer tone would show how sad he really was over missing the tradition. Christmas was a busy time for Luke, having a lot of friends and family to check in with. Ryan didn’t have that problem, as he’d stopped talking to his own toxic parents three years ago. Christmas morning breakfast was the only time the two carved out just for each other, and his stomach ached at thinking he’d have to miss his favorite part of the season.

“Is this because of last time?” The question came out of nowhere, and Ryan wasn’t sure the context despite flipping it over in his head.

“Last time?”

“When I-” A pause in the conversation was odd for Luke, and Ryan realized it was a technical glitch when fragments of his sentence came in. “--I won’t--just hold--soon.”

“Luke?” But nothing but static hit his ears, making Ryan sigh and end the call. He’d been hoping to convince Toonz to live stream a movie with him so he wouldn’t feel so alone, but it didn’t look like Luke was in a good place with service. Instead, Ryan shuffled his stuff back up to his room, ignoring the quiet that rung in his ears when burrowing under his covers and opening his Netflix to the Marvel movie selections. The bed felt cold despite the comforter, and Ryan wondered if it was more mental than temperature as he tried to focus on the movie playing on his screen. Picking the longest one he could find, Ryan pressed closer to his blankets and hoped that the empty feeling in his stomach would go away soon.

The end of the movie came fast, Ryan letting the attractive men and amazing fighting distract him. By the time Steve Rogers said his final line of failure, Ryan was half asleep, phone lazily clutched in his hand and nearly dropping off the bed. He was sure that sleep would claim him until a sudden vibration in his hand shook his away, Ryan yelping as his motion sent him and his computer crashing into the floor. Panic set in when he checked on his laptop, relieved to see the credits still rolling without a hint of damage. Focusing back on the thing that woke up, Ryan glanced back to the phone, mood lifting when seeing Luke’s name crossing his screen.

“Toonzy, you found service?” He asked, trying to hide his yawn when glancing to his clock. It was close to midnight, and Ryan guessed that Luke had managed to get back home from wherever he had been before. Maybe a party, from how long he was missing? He knew that Luke was spending his Christmas holiday with others. Their neighborhood always had a Christmas Eve party, and Toonz was probably warmed with spiced cider and happy memories of the holiday. The thought burned Ryan more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t his friend’s fault that he was stranded. He had no right to be jealous, and yet here he was with clenched fists and a wounded heart.  

“I got service about an hour ago, but I didn’t wanna call while I was driving through this shit. Seriously, did mother nature decide all the fucking snow had to come in one night?” That made Ryan laugh, knowing how much Luke hated driving in the snow. It helped ease some of his bitterness away, leaning his back against his bed.

“Now you see why I couldn’t get home.”

“The fuck you can’t.” The statement threw Ryan off, and a weird noise bubbled from his throat loud enough for Luke to chuckle and continue. “Look outside, Ohm.”

“...No way.” Ryan’s feet were moving before he could get the words out, nearly tripping over themselves when they pushed up to the dorm window. His breath fogged up the glass for a moment, but he wiped it away with his sleeve in order to see what Luke was talking about. There, barely visible in the snow, was his best friend. Bundled up in ridiculous amounts of clothing and knitted accessories, yes, but still there.

“Luke, wh-what are you doing? Are you crazy?!” Ryan gasped out, already rushing to grab his shoes. Thankful he wore socks to bed, he jammed his feet into the boots before rushing out of the room, barely catching his friend’s response as he darted down the stairs.

“I wasn’t going to leave you here all alone on Christmas. Seeing you Christmas morning is my favorite part of the whole fucking holiday. Nothing’s cuter than that half-asleep face covered in maple syrup and eggs.” Ryan’s cheeks burned from emotion and exertion as he made it down the final few stairs, sprinting through the common room to get to the locked door at the front of the dormitory. Yanking it open, Ryan froze at Luke’s face peeking out from the scarf, which Toonz yanked out of the way before giving a hesitant smile. “About time you got out here, I was freezing my balls off.”

“It’s just breakfast,” Ryan blurted out, hands already reaching for Luke’s jacket despite not knowing if he wanted to push him back to his car to pull him closer for warmth. “You’ve got...so many family members and friends-”

“Christmas isn’t Christmas without the guy you’re in love with.” Their eyes met after Luke’s declaration, Ohm unable to close his mouth from shock. The roll of Luke’s eyes and huff of white air proved he thought the expression was unnecessary, hands grabbing Ryan’s wrists. “Yeah I know, don’t talk about it-”

“Wa-Wait, what? Don’t...what?” Ryan asked, not sure if he was dreaming. Did Luke just casually toss out that he was in love with Ryan? Sure that this wasn’t real, Ryan watched Luke hide a wince, shoulders slumping in a way that felt nothing like the confident, beautiful man he was used to.

“Last year, after breakfast? The card I gave you with your hoodie?” The words were spoken like Ryan should have had a clue, and he sort of did. Like tradition demanded, the two exchanged presents after breakfast was over, but neither were allowed to open the gift until after they got home. Ryan remembered the gift, his favorite hoodie which was now worn out from how often he wore it, but he had no idea what card his friend was speaking about. Luke didn’t look interested in reading the confusion on his face when he continued. “I got the message pretty clear when you didn’t say a word about it when we saw each other on New Years Eve.”

“Luke, what card?” Ryan forced out, getting to see his friend show confusion for the first time in the conversation.

“The one I put in the box, under the tissue paper.”     

“Luke, I was so happy about the personalized hoodie, I didn’t look in the box for more stuff. I’m pretty sure I just threw everything else away right after so I could wear the hoodie for the rest of the day.” Ryan spoke honestly, his heart racing when seeing Luke’s eyes widen after his response.

“You didn’t see the card.”

“So you drove all this way...”

“It was thrown away.”

“You thought I was avoiding you?” 

“You didn’t even know I-

“Luke, do you love me?” Ryan asked, hands releasing the lapels of his friend’s jacket to cup his cold face. The snow was covering them now, soaking through Ryan’s flimsy shirt and soaking his hair. But none of it mattered when he stared up at Luke, who couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact until Ryan spoke again. “Please, tell me you love me.”

“Of course I love you. Everyone knows it.” Except Ryan, who couldn’t stop his emotions from bubbling through his chest. Eyes blinked back tears of disbelief and joy, Ryan sure his sob of happiness seemed painful when Luke’s face crumbled. “Ohm, don’t cry. It’s fine, I’m not asking for shit I know I can’t have-”

“I love you so much.” 

“...What?” 

“I love you, Luke. I love you!” Ryan’s words felt like a dam releasing, laughing despite the tears falling down his face. Unable to resist the temptation he’d fought back for years, Ryan pushed up to his tiptoes, kissing Luke to prove his words weren’t a mirage. It was a slow burn of a connection, mouths quiet yet needy as they pressed closer together. Hands that hadn’t reached for Ryan now clambered to his waist, pulling him hard into the toned body of Luke. His own thumbs smoothed over Cartoonz’s face, as if committing him to memory while drowning in their kiss. They pulled away slowly, though Luke didn’t go far, brushing his nose against Ryan’s gently before pressing their foreheads together.

“Shit, that felt right.” Luke’s words of awe had Ryan giggling, content to relax in the arms that were circling his body and warming him up.

“Worth the drive?” Ryan asked, feeling the grin against his lips when Luke leaned forward to whisper into the new kiss.

“To bring you home to me? Every fucking time.”

Okay so this was a little bit of fluff and angst but TOTALLY still sweet so don’t yell at me! So as always, like, reblog, and let me know what you think <3

[simplyswooningk]

The Ancient and Most Noble House of Prewett, Chapter 7 “Pieces, Not the Puzzle”

This chapter is dedicated to @obsessedwithromione, who's support of this story from the beginning lit a fire under me to finish this update which I had been struggling with for weeks. Seventh Son should be updated by the weekend. All the Gobblygook translations are completely my own. Please read and review. :) FFN A03 or below:

Pieces, Not The Puzzle

Bill Weasley was dying to get out of the house. His wife, mother, sister and sister-in-laws (minus Hermione) and all the nieces and nephews had all converged on the place to cook a large Sunday dinner...on Wednesday.

He correctly guessed that it was a ruse to distract Ginny, who had been chained to Harry's hospital bed for what Molly had determined too long. So they were all there, cooking up a feast, or at least what should've been a feast for how long they had been there.

Ginny was quiet, and Bill could tell that she was doing her best to act engaged, but her head and her heart were clearly back at St. Mungo's. He didn't blame her. If Fleur had been laid up, there would've been no magic that could've kept him away.

He knew there was nothing Ginny could do for Harry, and Gryffindors hated doing nothing. They weren't wired to sit and wait. Of course, somehow all of his brothers had managed to get out of this particular event. Charlie had been recalled to Romania, something about baby Horntails being on the loose. Fred had a business trip in New York. He'd almost cancelled, but Ginny insisted on his going, arguing somebody should have some normalcy. Percy had "Ministry Matters to attend to" and as for Ron, well, Ron was in the thick of whatever was going on. He'd seen his brother twice and never more for than a few minutes since it had all started.

He hadn't had any updates, Ron wasn't returning any messages. Bill really didn't' expect him to, but it would have been nice to know that his youngest brother wasn't lying somewhere with a Dark Mark burned into his forehead.

Bill had honestly hoped to be done with Dark Marks and anything Voldemort related. He remembered the First War better than any of his siblings. He remembered the tears in his mother's eyes when Mad-Eye informed her and his grandparents that Gideon and Fabian wouldn't be coming home.

He remembered the funerals, the Dark Marks being burned into the sky and then it was over, like a firework that had burned hot and disappeared into nothing. Of course, the real fireworks began later.

He remembered the parties in the street, the celebrations and the feeling that things were going to be all right again.

He also remembered the conversations that no one thought he overheard or understood, the whispers that maybe He Who Must Not Be Named wasn't as dead as he seemed, the embers of a fire threatening to spark again.

It was the whispers that had hung over his entire adolescence. But then again, he had to admit he'd gotten off easy. When he thought of everything Ron had gone through from his first year at Hogwarts to his current situation, that kid had been through more hell than any of them combined.

He wished there was something he could do to help, something more than decipher curses after the fact.

He didn't like feeling useless any more than Ginny did. But just then being surrounded by all his female relatives and a plethora of toddlers, he felt about as useful as a Blast-Ended Skrewt playing Seeker.

Hopeless as the rest of his brothers in the kitchen, he'd been designated to make sure the children didn't kill each other.

Molly, always very intuitive to Bill, could tell that he was restless. And an idea struck her. Later on, no one could say whether it was coincidence, inspired or fate.

She pulled him aside, and as she couldn't help herself she brushed a long lock out of his hair out of his face. "Bill, we both know there's nothing you can do around her. Cooking has never been your bag even with magic."

Bill smiled at his mother, more so for her benefit than his own amusement. "True," he conceded.

"I've been meaning to ask you something. When I went to Gringotts, I couldn't get the keys to Rubrum or to Mallory House. The goblins said that I was given everything allotted to me. I'm not sure if it's an issue with the ward or, well I don't know. But I was hoping you could look into it."

Bill smiled, happy to have an excuse to get away. "I'll get right on it, Mum," he said, trying and failing to hide his eagerness at the thought of leaving.

With a kiss to his mother and Fleur and a lingering hug for Ginny, he Apparated to Gringott's. The place had been busier than normal. Lots of wizards and witches pulling money from their accounts and going on extended holidays. Bill couldn't fault them. He had a family he wanted to protect.

At the same time, the last thing he wanted was to teach his children was that when things got rough, the right thing to do was to get somewhere and hide. He laughed silently as his own contradictions. He made his way through the larger than average crowd, smiling at people he knew until he was finally at the Vault of Records.

Being a Curse-Breaker, he didn't have much to do with that department unless a magical family was claiming that recently found and un-cursed treasure belonged to them. He had access to the Vault but he had never had a cause to enter it.

The goblins took extra precautions to guard their secrets. All the records were written in Gobblygook. No one but the goblins and the people who the records belonged to could access them. Even Ministry Officials had to get special permission and wards had to be removed.

But Bill was a Prewett, so technically he wasn't breaking any rules by accessing the records, though the goblins probably would've had a bone to pick with him if they knew he was going into the area without their permission.

He entered the vault and his eyes widened. The vault extended endlessly in all directions. Every magical family that had ever existed in the British Isles probably had records there.

He stood at the front of the vault, awestruck for a few moments before remembering he had a job to do. And for that job, there was only one solution.

Magic.

"Accio Prewett records," he whispered. He heard a soft rustling that sounded like the roar of a Slytherin vs. Gryffindor Quidditch match in the deserted room. After a few moments, a massive, weathered leather-bound rectangular book started coming directly towards him. It seemed that goblins still hadn't developed wards that could completely throw off wand magic.

"Arresto momentum," he whispered before the book flattened him. It was the largest book he'd ever encountered. Not to mention the oldest, some of the dust on it probably went back to the days of Merlin.

He conjured up a small table and carefully took hold of the book, holding it carefully, not wanting to damage it. Even though there was special charms placed on the books to keep them from damage, Bill didn't want to risk it. Something instinctive had taken over, something he couldn't quite name.

His eyes fell to the seal of the House of Prewett red and gold, like most Ancient and Noble Houses with Gryffindor lineages and a white jaguar with the words vicit et valium emblazoned across the bottom.

"Victorious are the valiant," Bill couldn't stop himself from saying aloud. He smiled but then a shadow crossed his features. He realized this record was complete. There would never be any more additions to it. The House of Prewett was extinct, snuffed out like a candle in a strong burst of wind.

If he'd had the time, he would have loved to read the whole thing, even it was as almost as old as Gringotts itself. But Bill knew better than most that time was the one thing you never had.

He found the last page of the records. It was a very short page, the goblins' nonsensical alphabet and markings telling an indecipherable tale that he knew by heart.

His grasp of the difficult language was minimal at best. But what he could make out were the dates. Bill remembered that Gobblygook did not have words for the months of the year, and therefore it was all done numerically.

There had been a steady log kept throughout the eighties. One of the notes appeared to be dated April 11, 1981. It took Bill no time to remember that that was right before his grandparents went into hiding. He remembered everything about the war. He peered closer at the record, hoping to decipher a clue.

He saw the word ghyzed which he knew was Gobblygook for "ward" and ljekep which he knew translated to "heir" and figured that this was the log for the ward that had been placed over the Prewett properties by his uncle. Bill fought back a tear and pressed on. To his surprise that was not the last record written.

There were several dated just after the war and all with the same three words qtghad bzelct ldjave.

Bill wracked his brain, knowing he had heard the expression before. He tried to think of when and where.

Then it came to him, it had been an expedition in Thebes where a tomb filled with treasure had been discovered that supposedly belonged to the Caleks, a very old Egyptian family of wizards. But none of them were able to access it. Roughly speaking "qtghad bzelct ldjave" translated into "access attempt unsuccessful". Bill gathered that this was when his grandparents were trying to access the vault after his uncles died.

There had only been three attempts, Bill knew. His grandparents were far too grief stricken to worry about it. They had enough gold on hand to get by and had simply let the matter drop. After all, it only reminded them that their sons were not coming home. Bill remembered life before that. He couldn't help but remember the way it had changed after that.

From his grandfather's laugh to his mother's smile, everything after had been less. He cleared his throat and told himself to press on. He glanced down at the paper one last time, but he paused. He hadn't realized that his hand had been covering an entry.

For a moment he was certain he'd read the date wrong. He blinked, looked at it again, blinked again and stared. It couldn't be right. It was dated the fifth of May 2003. Bill read the entry which read qtghad gjelda; Rubrum ipmae ljekep Prewett ik Prewett.

"The fuck?" he whispered. If he was reading it right it said something along the lines of "access granted, Rubrum key given to the Prewett of Prewett."

Bill didn't know what to think. The last Prewett of Prewett had been his grandfather, who had been dead since 1989. The heirs to the title had been dead for eight years before that.

Were the goblins running some sort of scam? Had they been holding his family's property hostage this whole time? Was that why they refused to give Molly the key to Rubrum. But if they had been holding the Prewett fortune all this time, why had they hadn't held onto the entire thing?

He wouldn't put much past goblins, if he was honest, but it didn't add up. They valued treasure even more so than they did magic. They would not part with a single Knut without an outright vicious brawl, let alone the money that his family had received.

Something was clearly amiss. Bill knew all too well that the goblins would answer no questions. But perhaps they had figured out how to break the wards surrounding Rubrum and were using it for some shady business dealings?

That was his mother's house. It was the seat of an ancient and storied Wizard family. He set his jaw in a firm line. They wouldn't get away with it. Not on his watch.

He returned the ancient book back to its place, his mind flooding with memories of his uncles and the mansion that he'd once been free to roam. If the goblins had decided to commandeer it for some heinous reasons of their own, then damn his career, he wouldn't rest until he'd brought them to justice.

He took greater care exiting the building as the crowds had largely dissipated, but as soon as he was in the middle of Diagon Alley, he Apparated to Rubrum.

The sun was still setting in the background, lighting up the outer grounds behind the house with a dark red hue. Bill hadn't been there since he was a boy. It had lain lifeless and desolate for so long, without the joy and laughter that had once been its hallmark.

He stepped to the gate, its bronzed legs covered in two decades worth of moss and to his surprise, they opened.

He glanced around, a feeling of unease settling over him. Those gates were not supposed to open to anyone, not anymore.

And then from the eastern window, a light came on. Bill's eyes turned to the window in time to see a figure moving out of the window. It happened so fast, he could not tell if it was a goblin or anything else for that matter.

Filled with all the Gryffindor courage that both his lineages imbibed in him, he raced to the door, about to fling a bombarda through it when to his shock, it opened.

Vicit et Validum

Somber didn't even begin to describe the mood in Kingsley's office. No one had even uttered a word since Ron had revealed that Dumbledore's tomb had been robbed. The Aurors on duty didn't remember a thing and everyone surmised that they had been Confunded.

The Elder Wand, The Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick was gone, missing and most likely in the hands of this mystery lieutenant Voldemort had left behind. Nothing made sense. Nothing was going to make sense.

Ron realized he was still holding Hermione's hand. He knew he should've let it go, but he couldn't bring himself to. He felt like he was watching his whole life from the outside. He heard himself telling Kingsley what had happened, but he wasn't conscious of it. He heard Kingsley ask for an update on the interrogation of Yaxley and Lestrange.

"Are they talking?" he asked.

"Silent as stone," sighed the disturbed Minister. "We're thinking of using Veritaserum."

"Don't think. Do it," Ron said. "We've wasted enough time playing this game. We need answers. I'll take a crack at them."

"Ron, I think you may be too involved," Kingsley said with a sigh.

"Fucking hell, Kingsley, at this point, aren't we all?"

"Something doesn't make sense," Hermione said, speaking for what seemed the first time in an eternity.

Ron scoffed. "Understatement of the millennium, 'Mione."

"I'm trying to think, Ronald. Why would they go after Luna and Rolf? Why? I mean Luna was in the Order, but this isn't about any of that. Not really."

Hermione was on to something. Ron thought for a moment, feeling around in his brain for a locked door he barely remembered.

Then it hit him. He thought back to his conversation with Neville, a conversation that had only happened a few hours earlier, but seemed two lifetimes away.

"Because they would know," he said softly, his voice a hair above a whisper.

Hermione turned to look at him. "What?"

"Because they would know. If something strange was going on, they would know. They'd be able to sense it. You know they have a way of knowing whenever something terrible is about to happen. During the War, they went after Luna before because of what Xeno was saying. Whoever's doing this wanted to make sure that they would never get a chance. That's why they went after them."

"But not Xeno?" Hermione was clearly perplexed.

Ron shrugged darkly. "Merlin knows how long those two fuckers had been Polyjucying as Luna and Rolf. They've probably got Xeno under a bloody Imperius."

Hermione fought back tears. She had missing friends, injured friends, dead friends. They'd been going in circles for too long, they'd lost too much. But there was no time to cry.

Her eyes met her husband's. Their thoughts hadn't been more in sync since the day they got married. It wasn't time to decipher prophecies, or search for clues. It was time to fight.

"Kingsley," Ron said turning to his boss. "You've got to let me go down there. I can't just stand here. I've got to do something. If Luna and Rolf are all right, they won't be for long."

Kingsley took a breath. He seemed to weigh his options before speaking. "All right. But the second you lose your cool, Auror Weasley, I'm pulling you out. Are we clear?"

"As a penseieve," Ron said, already halfway out the door. He had no time to waste.

Interrogations weren't his favorite thing. He didn't like spending time with Dark Wizards or their twisted followers. He certainly didn't like listening to their long, nauseating speeches about their sinister plots and even more sinister brains. The whole thing drained him more than three hours of Quidditch in an August afternoon.

But if it meant helping Harry, if it meant finding Rolf and Luna, if it meant putting an end to it, he would gladly listen. He reached for his Veritaserum, ready to shove it down their miserable throats. Legillmency was banned for use in official Auror interrogations or he would've attempted it.

When he reached Lestrange's holding cell, he felt a rush of adrenaline building in his veins. He felt like he was closer, like he was nearer to ending this. He thought of the moment when he dropped a stone statute on Greyback's head. This felt like that.

Something told him that he was close, but he had been wrong before.

He had no time to be wrong.

The door opened and he dismissed the young Auror who was guarding Lestrange, who was tied to a chair, with his mouth magically sealed. Ron turned red at the sight of him, fuming with coiled rage. The Auror office had been searching for him for the past five years. His capture should've been a reason to celebrate. Instead, it was a reason to take up arms, to find and fight whoever had brought him out of the shadowy corners he'd been hiding in. Ron took a moment to size him up, fighting every urge in his body not to choke him out.

Ron hated him and he hated himself for hating anyone even if they were a murderous Death Eater. But hating him wasn't going to get him any closer to the truth. Unfortunately, only Lestrange himself could do that.

Rabastan Lestrange hadn't aged much from his years in the war. The evil in his veins apparently came with fountain of youth properties. He had no frown lines, no deep creases, as if he had never known stress. Even years in Azkaban seemed to leave no physical mark on him. Dementors could only do so much damage on the already demented, it seemed.

He seemed calm, nonchalant. It was not his first interrogation by Aurors. Perhaps he thought of it as nothing more than an annoying formality, a small price to pay for the cause.

Ron knew Lestrange thought of him as a blood traitor. He was dealing with a Death Eater through and through. Someone loyal to Voldemort and all the glory he had promised them, a hater of muggles and muggle-borns, someone willing to die just to say that he'd kept magic away from people he thought of as unworthy.

Ron might not have hated him so much if he didn't remember that they were related, that the same blood, the blood of Old Magic ran through their veins. That if it weren't for his parents, that if it weren't for his entire family being decent and honorable, being fucking Gryffindors, he could've been just the same.

Choking back the bile and anger in his throat, Ron tried to harness his fury. He had had a job to do.

He conjured up a chair. There was a part of him that wanted to do this old school and pound the answers out of Lestrange's face. But he knew he didn't have time.

"Aperi," he said aiming his wand at Lestrange's mouth. The former Death Eater's mouth dropped open and Ron quickly poured three drops of Veritaserum down his throat. He poured three more remembering that all the Lestranges had been trained to resist the potion. He sat back down and waited for a moment for the potion to take effect. And if it didn't, Ron still had his fists.

When Lestrange stopped jerking around, Ron cleared his throat. He set his jaw in a very firm line and faced Rabastan Lestrange. This man had tortured Neville's parents, killed countless innocent people and had eluded capture for years. Now Ron had him in his clutches, but he couldn't lock him away, not yet. Especially because there was one thing he needed to know before anything else.

"Where are Rolf and Luna?" Ron asked coolly, restraining himself as best he could. He felt his heart racing as he watched Lestrange struggle to keep his mouth shut.

"Where are they?" Ron demanded as he fought to stay in his seat and keep his hands from Lestrange's neck. "Tell me. Now."

Rabastan did not yield easily, that much was certain. The words came out harsh and choked as if someone was literally grabbing them from his throat.

"They're in the dungeon of my house," came his glassy-eyed, broken reply. Snape's favorite potion had taken effect. Lestrange, with all his loyalty and devotion to his dark cause, was no match for it.

Ron wasted no time dispatching a missive to Kingsley to send Aurors to the Lestrange mansion.

"Who are you working for?" Ron asked, turning to face Lestrange.

"The Dark Lord."

"Voldemort is dead. Who are you working for?"

"The Dark Lord," Lestrange repeated.

"Try again. Who are you working for?

"The Dark Lord's servant."

Ron sat up straight. "Who is the Dark Lord's servant?" He cringed as the words left his lips. It went against everything he believed in, everything he was to use the Death Eater's term of veneration.

"The Dark Lord's servant."

"What is his name?" Ron tried again. He aimed his wand at Lestrange's heart. "Now."

"I do not know his name."

"What is his name?"

"I do not know his name."

"Fuck." Ron looked at Lestrange's face and realized he was telling the truth.

Lestrange was so demented, so blinded to the cause of pureblood supremacy that he would willingly follow someone who claimed to be Voldemort's servant, even if he didn't know who it was. It baffled and outraged him almost as much as it terrified him. Blindly loyal with nothing to lose, there was really nothing these people wouldn't do.

Ron didn't even want to bother with Yaxley. If Lestrange knew nothing, Yaxley knew less. He was a stooge, always had been. He thought for a minute, trying to figure out what else he might be able to get out of him.

"Where is the Dark Lord's servant?"

"In his home."

"The Riddle House was destroyed."

"The servant is his own home."

"Where is that?"

"I do not know. The servant sends a portkey when he wants us. We don't know where we are."

Ron sighed, ready to punch the ceiling. This was getting nowhere. Every rock he uncovered only led to a million more. All he had was a piece, not the puzzle. His attention was called away briefly.

He whirled around to see an all too familiar sight. Lestrange was wrestling on the floor, seizing, foaming at the mouth, clearly in distress.

Ron leapt to the ground beside him, trying to steady his movements.

"Help! Help, get someone in here now!" he yelled as he tried to steady Lestrange's head.

He didn't have a bezoar, he had used it on Neville. As much as he didn't want to save him, he didn't want to lose him either. Lestrange was one half of the only lead he had, he couldn't die. "Help, fucking somebody help!" he screamed again.

Within seconds, three Auors and a Mediwizard rushed in. Lestrange was already turning purple. "Save him! Save him, whatever you have to do," Ron screeched at the Mediwizard.

The Aurors rushed Lestrange out of the room and Ron felt his heart sinking. What kind of world was he living when he was begging for a Death Eater's life to be saved?

But he had no time to wallow. He had to figure out who this servant was. Bellatrix had bit the dust, courtesy of one Molly Weasley. Who else would the sick fucker have trusted?

Minutes later, Ron was trying to pull himself together, so he could gear up to have a go at Yaxley, when Kingsley entered the room. He looked the grimmest Ron had seen him over the past few days and that was certainly saying something.

"Lestrange was poisoned with essence of mermaids' tears," Kingsley said with a sigh. "He's dead. Nothing the healers could do."

Confusion clouded Ron's features. "Essence of mermaids' tears isn't poisonous."

"It is when it's mixed with Veritaserum. He probably didn't even know he had it in his system. Whoever's behind this has probably been dosing him with it in case he was caught. To ensure his silence." Kingsley's voice was laced with disgust and a tinge of fear. Their opponent wasn't above killing his own soldiers.

Ron leaned against the table, his legs suddenly feeling wobbly. Whoever this was, they had thought of it all, they'd mapped out every piece on the board. And he didn't know which game they were playing anymore.

"Did you get anything out of him?" Kingsley asked, the despondency evident in his voice. He sat down beside him and Ron shrugged dismissively, not wanting to think about the past fifteen minutes.

"He's working for the Dark Lord's Servant, that's all I know. And he doesn't...didn't know who that was. Rolf? Luna?" he suddenly remembered.

Kinglsey's mouth turned up into the smallest of smiles. "I got a report from the Aurors in the field. They are unhurt for the most part. Missing locks of hair mainly. We're bringing them here immediately."

Ron wanted to feel more relief than he did. He was chuffed that Rolf and Luna were safe. But he couldn't bring himself to feel anything besides rage and frustration. He forced a smile.

"That's good news. We could use more of it." He felt like an absolute knob, he loved Luna and Rolf dearly, but their being safe was only temporary, everyone's safety was only temporary. If they didn't stop this, no one would be safe again.

"That we could," Kingsley agreed. Ron felt as if he was searching for something to say. As the Minister, it was Kingsley's job to reassure and shore up the community in trying times. Kingsley, however, didn't seem to have the words then and there, which was fine with Ron.

As far as he was concerned, there were none that could be said.

"Fancy a go at Yaxley?" Kingsley asked after several still moments. "He's no Death Eater, you might be able to crack him."

"Do you think whoever's doing this stupid enough to give fucking Yaxley information? "

"No stone unturned, Ronald."

"Constant vigilance, sir," Ron replied with a weak smile. A genuine smile had been hard for him to crack lately.

Kingsley studied the young Auror for a moment. "Take a breath, Ron," he told him.

Ron eyed his boss curiously. It was honestly the last thing he'd expected from the Minister.

"You've been running since this began," Kingsley pressed on. "Keep at it like this and you'll find yourself in a hole no magic can pull you out of."

Ron sighed. "Kingsley, I doubt that whoever the hell is doing this is taking breathers. I can rest when this is over."

Kingsley exhaled a soft, dry chuckle. "That's exactly what I expected you to say. You Weasleys are a damn stubborn bunch."

Ron laughed. "That we are. But I would not have it any other way."

"Neither would I. Take a moment, then. Gather your thoughts. I'll have one of the interns bring Yaxley in about fifteen minutes."

Ron nodded and Kingsley left the room. Ron noticed that even his normal walking gait had increased, like he had no time even to walk normally.

Maybe he didn't, Ron thought darkly. Ron looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes seemed an instant and an eternity. He realized he didn't even know where to start. The pieces of the puzzle that he had didn't seem to belong to each other at all.

He was missing something. Yaxley wouldn't be very helpful, he knew, but the times were well past desperate.

"Constant vigilance," he whispered to himself as he tried to put on his game face, determined not to let the events of the last few days shake his resolve. He had to figure it out, he couldn't stop until he did.

He only hoped that he was heading even remotely in the right direction.

Meanwhile, Hermione, unable to sit still, had asked for permission to examine the personal effects that were found with Yaxley and Lestrange. She didn't know what to expect, she just knew she couldn't wait around to hear about an interrogation she wasn't allowed to be a part of.

She was given a separate room where their wands and personal items had been laid out for her. Part of her didn't want to go near their wands, especially Lestrange's. She couldn't imagine (and didn't particularly want to) what horrors that twisted, gnarled piece of wood had caused.

There were at least three vials of Polyjuice potion, two bottles of Dreamless Sleep, several empty potion vials, a ring that bore the Dark Mark, and a black weathered, leather-bound book.

Something about it looked familiar, like she'd seen it before. The book had been placed on its back and she turned it over. The markings on it were faded, but she thought she could make out some sort of bird and what appeared to be a large cat, a cheetah perhaps. Something was telling her she'd seen it before. She couldn't place it, and it didn't make sense. Why would she have seen a book belonging to a Death Eater?

She couldn't tell if she was acting in harmony or against her better judgment when she opened it. Her heart sank when it became apparent the pages were completely blank. Her mind immediately went to Tom Riddle's diary. Better not to fool with that, she reasoned very quickly and put it aside.

Then again, she paused. Lestrange was dead now. If his memories were contained in that book, they could be very useful. Before she could examine the rest of the items, a memo came through: Rolf and Luna were at the Ministry. She leaped up from her chair, eager to see her friends. She was going to give Luna the biggest hug of her life. As she exited, she couldn't say why, but she took the book wit her. For some reason, she didn't want it out of her sight.

When she reached the room where Luna and Rolf were being examined, she paused. Something about the thought of seeing Luna injured and newly escaped from Death Eaters brought back memories she did her best to keep buried.

She couldn't let her mind go there, not back to Malfoy Manor, not to the screeching and soulless tones of Bellatrix's voice, not to the stabbing, relentless pain of the Cruciatius Curse pounding through her whole body.

The only part she ever let herself even think about for a moment was how she survived, how she put Bellatrix's threats, her voice, her wand, her knife and her curse all out of her mind.

His voice, screaming with rage and aching with concern as he called her name. She had focused on that, his voice, her name. There was nothing else, nothing else at all. She had focused on nothing but Ron's voice and she'd survived the worst experience of her life.

If she tried hard enough she could almost hear him calling her that moment.

"'Mione. 'Mione. Hermione."

She looked up and right into her favorite pair of eyes, which were now clouded with concern. She colored slightly when she realized he had been calling her name. He was standing right beside her. He was always there beside her.

HIs concern was evident. "You all right, love?"

She nodded. "I just...I just don't want to see Luna like that."

His eyes filled with understanding at her words. He knew what she meant.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it lightly. "She's alive, that's what matters. For everything else, there's a cure. "

She smiled up at him. "You're right. You're always right."

His eyes widened and a roguish grin crossed his features. "What did you just say? Who are you and what did you do with Hermione Granger? You're an impostor, you are."

Hermione smiled despite herself. "Shut up, before I take it back."

"Can't take it back, it's already out there."

She rolled her eyes as he gently kissed her forehead.

"Let's go in yeah," he said with a smile. "We can't avoid it forever."

"Yeah," she said, intertwining his fingers wit hers. "Wait, did you get anything from Yaxley?"

"Haven't had a chance yet. Wanted to see Rolf and Luna first."

Hermione nodded, she'd dropped everything when she heard they were at the Ministry. In times like these, every second one could get with their loved ones was absolutely priceless.

Whatever was behind the door and whatever Rolf and Luna had to say, Hermione couldn't avoid it. She didn't want to. She squared her shoulders and braced herself to see her friends. Bad memories be damned. There were worse things to be than a survivor.

Stepping into the room, relief filled Hermione when she saw that Rolf and Luna looked rather unscathed. Physically, anyway.

"Hello, Hermione. Hello, Ron," Luna said her in usual airy voice. That one single sound caused a waterfall of relief to flood through her veins. She took a long look at them. They looked tired, and she could see bruises on their wrists. Luna's hair, instead of its usual light blond, looked ashen. Bu her eyes looked bright and she had a smile, though it was nowhere as large as it normally was.

Rolf looked wearier than she'd ever seen him and she'd seen him wrestle a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But other than a nasty bruise under his right eye, he seemed all right.

They looked nowhere near their best, but they were breathing.

"Bloody hell, you guys look like shite," this from a ginger who always had a certain way with words.

Hermione shot Ron a glare, but he didn't meet her eyes once. He was too busy grabbing Rolf by the shoulders and embracing him fondly.

"You all right? Are you hurt? Do we need Healers?" Ron gave Rolf and Luna a firm hug and a once-over, trying to make sure there wasn't any damage done. On the outside at least.

"Rolf, that's a nice shiner you've got," Ron said taking out his wand. "But I've seen enough bruises in my life. Sanas pellius," he gave his wand a quick wave and watched Rolf's black eye disappear. If only every scar was so easy.

"Thanks, mate," Rolf with a smile. Ron and Hermione settled into chairs across from them.

For a moment everyone was silent, Hermione conjured up tea tray and busied herself pouring everyone's cup.

Everyone stirred and sipped and stirred and sipped again. Luna put her cup down slowly. She met her friends' eyes and took a breath.

"You want to know what happened, but you don't want to ask." She wasn't asking a question. Luna never asked questions, she already seemed to know. Hermione was relieved that that hadn't seemed to change.

Ron put down his teacup. "We have to ask, we have to know what happened."

Rolf placed an around Luna's shoulder. "It was last month," he said as if he wasn't quite sure of dates anymore. Hermione didn't blame him. She'd been feeling the same way since this whole thing started.

"We were making unicorn and veela hair bracelets for the Boggarts," Luna chimed in, her eyes far away as if she was watching the scene from a giant television inside her mind. "It keeps them in good spirits."

"We heard a bang from outside," Rolf added quickly. "We thought it was the nifflers getting lose. Those buggers are damn impossible to catch one you lose them, so we both hurried out. But it was just Xeno. Or at least we thought it was Xeno."

"Rolf thought it was Dad, but I knew something was wrong. I've known something was wrong for a while. That's why I've been using my mother's Occlumency spell, to see if I could figure it out."

Hermione raised an eyebrow "Your mother's spell? Is it different from...regular Occulmency?"

"Oh yes, it allows you to enter the minds of all the wizards around you. I've been using it ever since I got the feeling that something was not quite right. All the wrackspurts were disappearing and they don't do that unless there are tons of wizards whose ears they'd rather not enter about. I knew something was wrong."

"Luna dear," Rolf said. "Perhaps we should stay on subject."

"Of course, Rolf dear. Well, I knew it wasn't my father and whoever it was must've known that because before we could move, we were Stupefied. They took us somewhere dark and gray."

Ron nodded. "The Lestrange Mansion."

Rolf shook his head. "No, they moved us there later. But where we were at first, there was a window, I could see a cemetery and a large oak tree."

"Was anyone else with you? Ollivander?"

Rolf shook his head. "No, it was only us. Everyday a very old house-elf would come with porridge and take a lock of our hair. We were tied up and without our wands so there wasn't much we could do. I figured they were using it for Polyjuice."

Ron nodded. "They were. They used it to set a trap for Harry."

"For Harry?" the little color that had returned to Luna's face drained in an instant. "Is Harry all right?"

Ron cursed himself. He hadn't meant to say that. His friends had just been through hell. They didn't need to feel worse. "He's on the mend. Is there anything you can tell us, about where you were, anything you remember?"

Rolf shook his head. "They gave us Dreamless Sleep. We were out of it most of the time."

"There were Ps on the bricks," Luna said suddenly.

Bloody hell, she's still Loony, Ron thought. His face must've shown his thoughts because Hermione elbowed him.

"Ps, Luna? Like the letter?" Hermione asked slowly.

Luna nodded. "I remember, in every corner of every brick there was a P inside an upside-down triangle. It was chiseled into all of them."

This time, Ron and Hermione couldn't help themselves from exchanging a glance. They looked over at Rolf for confirmation, but he merely shrugged. "I can't say either way. But I've learned never to doubt Luna."

Hermione silently agreed with Rolf, but she honestly didn't know what to make of what Rolf and Luna had to say. It wasn't much to go on, if anything at all. She was sick of cryptic messages and dead ends. She wanted answers.

So did Ron. He mulled over what Lestrange had said. Perhaps Rolf and Luna had been in the home of Voldemort's servant, whoever the fuck that was. A very old house elf and bricks with the letter 'P' chiseled into them.

"What happened when they moved you?" Ron asked.

"It was only a few days ago," Rolf said. "By then I had stopped eating the food they were giving us because of the Dreamless Sleep. I was trying to conjure up a quail or two and hide it away when two men with masks on their faces stormed in and started dragging us away. I tried to fight them off, hence the shiner, but the next thing I knew they were pushing us toward a portkey which took us to the Lestrange mansion."

"How'd you know it was the Lestrange mansion?"

"Rastaban Lestrange wasn't exactly trying to hide it. He greeted us as his guests before having us locked away."

Ron scoffed. "Sounds like a Lestrange."

The wheels in Hermione's head were turning. "When was this exactly? Do you remember?"

"Two days ago."

"When the wandmakers went missing," Ron and Hermione said at the same time. They looked at each other again.

"Rolf, Luna," Hermine sated quickly. "We're so happy you're all right. But we better let you get some rest now. Feel better and if you remember anything at all, please let us know. Kingsley's taking personal responsibility for you. You'll stay here until this over. Xeno too."

Ron and Hermione soon left the room, more perplexed than ever. Ron briefly related Lestrange's rambling's about Voldemort's servant and his home.

"You think that's where Rolf and Luna were originally taken?" Hermione asked as they made way to Kingsley's office. They wanted to keep him up to date before returning to their assignments.

Ron nodded. "Maybe, but I'm not sure of anything right now."

"But why move them?"

"Who knows? Maybe because they're holding the wandmakers hostage as well. Maybe because Lestrange wanted to toy with them. At this point, all I'm prepared to admit is that I don't have the fucking foggiest clue what's going on."

Hermione shrugged. "Agreed."

Ron noticed the book Hermione was holding. "What do you've got there, The Abridged Hogwarts: A History?"

"Very funny, Ronald. No, it's a book Yaxley had. It's very old and it's blank, but I can't shake the feeling it's a clue."

Ron looked more than a little aghast. "A blank book? Better be careful with that, love. It could be cursed or...worse."

Hermione knew he was right. But for some reason, the notion only made her grip it tighter.

They arrived at Kingsley's office to see the welcome site of Molly Weasley. Her and Kingsley were clearly having a chat, and Molly clearly was bearing gifts as she was clutching a large picnic basket.

"Mum, what are you doing here?" Ron asked as he moved to greet his mother, kissing both of her cheeks.

"Making sure the two of you eat something," Molly said with a smile. "You've been running nonstop since this whole mess began. Here," she said as she opened the basket with her wand and began to lay out a spread. "I brought roast pork and asparagus."

"Oh, bless you, Molly," Hermione said with a smile. "I hate to admit it, but I'm rather starving at the moment."

"Of course, dear," Molly said. "I brought tea cakes as well because I know how much the two of you—" Molly had looked up, gone white and nearly toppled over the basket with the start she'd made. Her jaw hung wide open and her eyes were filled with shock.

"Mum?" Ron asked. No answer. "Mum? Mum, what is it?"

Molly didn't look at her son. Her eyes were fixed on Hermione's hands. When she did finally speak, her voice was a trembling whisper.

"Hermione, where in Merlin's name did you find Gideon's diary?"

[shireness-says]

Playing the Part ch. 7: What is this Feeling?

Summary:  As a stage manager who's clawed her way up from bottom, Emma Swan can handle just about anything thrown her way. But does that include handsome lead actor Killian Jones? A CS Broadway AU.  Rated T. Also on AO3.  Prologue  Ch. 1  Ch. 2  Ch. 3 Ch. 4  Ch. 5  Ch. 6 

A/N: Even more feelings this chapter - starting to seem like a pattern with me, isn’t it? Chapter title taken from Wicked, purely for the feelings reference. You’re welcome.

Thanks once again go to @snidgetsafan, my brilliant beta. Sorry I’m a mess who can’t remember to edit her own chapter, love ya bunches.

Tags: @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, @thejollyroger-writer, @mythologicalmango, @onceuponaprincessworld, @idristardis, @teamhook, @courtorderedcake, @aerica13, @revanmeetra87, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes. If you want to be tagged going forward (or taken off this list - I won’t be insulted!), shoot me a message, and I’ll make it happen.

Enjoy!

He tries to keep Liam’s words in mind; he really does. But while his brother’s encouragements carry Killian through the rest of rehearsals, they’re harder to remember in the minutes before the first preview performance when there’s a crowd full of eager theater-goers filing in, excited and expecting something marvelous.

Killian should feel confident; he knows his lines inside and out, backwards and forwards, and lord knows they’ve run the show start to finish enough times in rehearsal for there to be no concerns about choreography or scene changes anymore. He doesn’t feel confident, however. In fact, if he were forced to name it, he’d say this feeling is somewhat closer to panic - pulse beating frantically, stomach churning like a storm-tossed sea, and a rising conviction that everything is about to go wrong.

Maybe under other circumstances, he’d go find a quiet corner to release his anxiety in - screaming pointlessly seems like a fantastic outlet right about now - but they really, really don’t have time for that at the moment. There’s only 25 minutes until curtain, people are starting to fill the seats, and cast and crew are still scrambling everywhere to complete last-minute prep. Even if Killian were able to find an empty corner to scream into, there’s no way he wouldn’t be heard.

Since that’s not an option, Killian’s just doing his best to keep himself distracted. Luckily - or not, depending on whose shoes you’re standing in - Belle is just as much of a nervous wreck, and Killian is able to divert his attention to comforting her. Not that he’s alone in that effort; Will Scarlet no doubt has other things he should be doing, but is doing his best to buoy Belle’s spirits instead.

“God, I feel sick,” she moans, cradling her head as best she can without messing up her wig or makeup. “Why do I want to do this again?”

“Because you’re a bloody brilliant actress, love,” Will attempts to reassure, though the attempt falls a little flat.

“It doesn’t feel like it at the moment,” she admits. “God, what if this falls apart like last time? I don’t think I can bear it if that happens.”

“Yes, well last time was largely due to the meddling of other people,” Killian reminds her. “His twisted mind has no bearing on your talent, Belle. You’re a natural for this role. Don’t let him do more damage than he already did last time by letting him get in your head.” It’s in moments like these that Killian can see exactly the damage Belle’s ex did to her, undermining her self-confidence and leaving her convinced that disaster is lurking behind every stroke of apparent luck. It sets a small flame of fury burning in his heart, one that keeps chanting that his friend deserves more. It’s as good a reason as any to set aside his own nerves - the need to perform his best not just for himself, but for Belle so that she can piece her career back together.

“He’s right, lass,” Scarlet chimes in, slinging an affectionate arm around her shoulders to draw Belle closer into a comforting embrace. “No sense letting your thoughts dwell on a bitter old bastard. He’s not worth it; you’ve got too much talent for him to touch.”

Belle offers a relieved smile at their words, and Killian can feel the tension marginally lift from the atmosphere. They fit together, he thinks, Belle and Will, like two oddly shaped puzzle pieces that shouldn’t connect but do all the same. Scarlet is all rough edges where Belle is the picture of grace, but their oversized hearts seem to still beat in time - if they’re ever willing to admit it. Killian hopes they will soon; as amusing as this flirtation is, there’s too much chemistry and potential for them not to eventually act on it, hopefully before everyone is awash in their cast-off pheromones. Belle would give Will some needed focus, and Will would in turn grant her more levity while giving her the support she’s so sorely lacked in her past. That might be the real proof of a compatible relationship, Killian thinks; two pieces that complement each other rather than match exactly.

“Now what do you say you help me make the final checks?” he asks her. “Make sure all the glow tape is bright enough for you to find in the dark?”

Belle even manages to chuckle a little, surprising them all. “Alright,” she replies, “I suppose that’s as a good a distraction as any.”

Killian could use the distraction himself, but he senses now is his cue to leave. Though this may have started as a communal attempt to buck Belle up, things seem to be veering towards a more private moment, and he’s willing to let the lovebirds have their space. Approvingly, he watches Scarlet leap to his feet to offer Belle his hand up from their seated positions before quietly slipping away. It’s not his moment to share anymore, and he may as well check in with David anyways.

As Killian begins the somewhat meandering path towards the dressing rooms, his thoughts turn to Emma, as they so often do when left to their own devices. Despite being in the same building, he’s hardly seen her all day, Emma nothing more than a blonde, black-clad blur as she runs around making last minute preparations. Is she as nervous as he is? Emma always seems like a beacon of calm collectedness, but Killian wonders if it’s all a front. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that she might be just as anxious about this performance as he is.

Whatever the case, as the saying says, the show must go on. Before Killian emerges into the well-lit hallway of the dressing rooms, he takes the chance to breathe deeply to try and shake out some of the jitters. It doubtless won’t work as well as he needs, but Liam had a point, back when he visited - actors feed off each other’s energy, and they really don’t need a theater full of fretful, neurotic performers right now. Fake it ‘til you make it, or so the saying goes.

So after a final pause to collect himself, Killian steps out into the hallway to find David and deliver what feels like the performance of a lifetime.

———

Emma’s mind feels like an ever-expanding, frantic to-do list of items both personal and professional. Honestly, she should probably turn off the former; lord knows she’s got enough to worry about with the show alone. But Neal’s been on her about Thanksgiving ever since Henry declared his intention to stay in town for the parade, despite previous agreements that he’d spend the holiday with Neal and his family. When the show first started gathering buzz, the cast had been asked to perform on the parade broadcast, and Henry is ecstatic at the prospect of actually getting good seats to watch it. They’d tried going once, years ago, but the crowds had been thick despite the cold temperatures, and their view had been somewhat obstructed. Emma doesn’t blame Henry for wanting to stick around to see the parade in person instead of on TV - she’d do the same, and Henry’s own declarations on the subject make it impossible for his dad to really argue about how Emma’s keeping him from his son.

(It also has the added bonus of Emma getting her kid on the holiday, which she’s not celebrating internally. Not at all.)

But with less than a week left before the holiday and three days before Henry’s birthday, Neal is on her to give him a weekend Henry can come up on the train for a “real family holiday”. His words. As if the dinners Emma and Henry have been attending for years on Thanksgiving with Ruby and Granny and whatever other stragglers they manage to attract don’t count. Asshole.

That’s a later problem, though, because honestly, Emma’s got more than enough on her plate right now. There’s last minute checks of the cameras streaming to backstage and reassuring Arthur that yes, his name has been spelled correctly in the program (Arthur King, for God’s sake, it’s not even hard to spell), and of course this is the moment that the headsets develop a weird static background noise, which Kristoff really needs to fix before the curtain goes up. It’s chaos, in short. Emma can only hope that she looks on the outside like she’s in control because on the inside, she’s panicking a little at the thought of all that needs doing. They’re ready; consciously, she knows this. But it’s hard to remember that when people are filling into the velvet-covered seats for the first time and the only thoughts left in Emma’s head are about all the things that could possibly go wrong.

When the lights go down, though, all those thoughts disintegrate. As backwards as it sounds, the actual show has always been the easy part for Emma. No matter what happens onstage, what’s done is done. If something goes wrong, all she can do is react and try to mitigate any fallout. There’s an odd comfort to that, the sheer transience of this art form. All Emma can do from her perch is call the cues, and leave it to her assistant stage managers to put out fires as necessary.

Thankfully, there’s been none of that tonight. On the crew side of things, the scene changes are running as smooth as butter. Emma’s trained her crew well; she’ll have to buy them all drinks after opening night if this keeps up.

The same can’t quite be said of the cast, however. There’s always nerves associated with the first few performances; Emma’s always thought it’s part of the reason for previews. Killian is visibly tense, however, at least to Emma. He’s been such an outstanding actor during rehearsals that Emma had kind of forgotten exactly how inexperienced he is. He’d essentially been plucked out of chorus and supporting roles and shoved straight into a leading part, this role undeniably his largest to date. It makes sense that he’d be feeling the pressure of that. Even if Emma can spot his nerves from her perch in the booth, she’s not too concerned about the audience picking up on that same discomfort; if they do, they’ll likely write it off as a Darcy mannerism. The character is supposed to be socially awkward, famously so. It’ll work.

Emma only hopes his nerves won’t manifest in a more visibly obvious way.

———

Killian hadn’t held much hope that getting on stage would help his nerves, and on that front, he’s not disappointed. If he looks half as uncomfortable onstage as he feels, he must be quite the sight. Knowing that Darcy is supposed to look a little out of place is little consolation. The whole while, he can’t help but feel like a fraud, like someone they just plucked off the street, stuffed him into these fancy clothes, and shoved onto the stage. The weeks and months of preparation don’t matter, the conscious knowledge that he’s prepared for this doesn’t matter; suddenly, the crushing weight of his inexperience smashes him right in the face. And it’s terrifying.

He’s making it through, for the most part, reassuring himself the whole while that this will get easier the more he does it. It helps that the first act is much less demanding than the second, with the letter, Pemberley, and all the rest of it occurring after the intermission.

But then, when they hit the Netherfield parlor scene, the worst case scenario happens.

He’s supposed to banter back and forth with Belle about what makes a lady ‘accomplished’, but as soon as he opens his mouth, the words are gone. Missing in action. Not to be retrieved by the means of mortals. He’s practiced these words over and over, rehearsed them on this very stage, practiced them with Henry in his dressing room, but that doesn’t matter. He’s forgotten every single one of them, right here in front of an honest-to-god audience.

Shit.

Killian isn’t really sure how he gets himself out of that mess; he doesn’t have a conscious memory of it. He manages to force out some words, he knows, but he couldn’t tell you what they were. Doubtless the wrong ones. The only thing he’s certain of is that Belle and Regina must have saved his arse back there; he’ll have to send them flowers after he’s inevitably fired for absolute incompetency.

That’s the obvious outcome, he concludes, waiting backstage before his next entrance. Clearly, he can’t handle the barest expectations of his job; the obvious answer is firing. It’s been a nice three months and a performance, now he’ll go live out the rest of his career in shame and obscurity. Maybe find a nice job where he doesn’t ever have to speak in front of people again. Yeah. That sounds nice - not to mention, more appropriate for his obvious lack of public speaking skills.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the rest of the first act without any further snafus - he suspects by sheer fear alone. Even though the applause is suitably loud, he can’t help but feel that it’s not intended for him, and is instead in appreciation of his scene partners or the supporting players. It’s with a heavy heart that he all but slinks offstage during intermission with the full intention to go have a breakdown in the nearest uncluttered corner.

———

Ok, Killian’s little onstage brain fart wasn’t exactly the most convenient thing on Earth. But at the same time, Belle and Regina covered it like the pros they were, and the audience doesn’t seem to have cared. Really, Emma doubts that anyone outside of the production even noticed his goof. Of course, based on her experience with Killian, she also doubts that he knows that, or that it will keep him from beating himself up over it.

Sure enough, they’re barely a minute into intermission - by all accounts, when Emma should get a little break while the rest of the crew sets the stage for the second act - before Mulan calls her over the headset.

“Hey Boss?” she starts, weirdly hesitant. “Jones is off sulking in a corner. He’s not in the way or anything, just… what do you want us to do about him?”

Emma sighs heavily, though she somehow manages to repress the eye roll that’s almost an automatic response by this point in her life. “I’ll be down in a sec to… I don’t know, give him a pep talk or something. Where’s he camped out?”

“In that weird unusable corner backstage left.”

“Ok thanks. Just hold on a moment, and I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing, Emma.”

She tells herself as she makes her way down the back stairs that it’s all in service of the production, but it’s more personal than that. Killian is her… something. Not paramour or suitor, obviously, but… friend? Maybe? Whatever label he wears, he’s special, and that makes it Emma’s particular duty to build him back up during what is undoubtedly an episode of self-doubt for him.

Sure enough, he’s right where Mulan said he would be, sitting in what looks to be an uncomfortable position on the low brick ledge at the foot of the wall, head cradled in his hands. Frankly, he makes quite the pathetic picture.

“What’s up with you?” she asks bluntly, causing Killian to jerk his head up in wide-eyed surprise, before deflating just as quickly.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he apologizes miserably. “I know I’ve gone and messed the whole thing up. Whatever reprimand you’re about to deliver, I completely understand.”

Emma snorts in response to that self-flagellation. It’s apparent that he’s deep into the self-loathing portion of his evening. “Ok, well, you clearly don’t, because this isn’t that big a deal.”

Killian scoffs, clearly skeptical, though in his costume it has more the effect of a kid throwing a fit on Halloween. “Don’t patronize me, Swan,” he warns.

“I’m not!” she insists. “What do you think previews are for?”

“Publicity,” he states with utter certainty, looking at Emma like she’s the one who’s lost her mind.

“Ok, yeah, eventually,” she concedes, “but honestly, they’re mostly about working out the kinks. And your little… incident today is just another kink to iron out.”

“I think that’s selling it short, Swan.”

“I swear, Killian, it’s not. This happens. The beauty of live theater is that what’s done is done - there’s no sense dwelling on it. And honestly, the audience didn’t even notice.”

“You noticed,” he points out obstinately.

“Yeah, but I’ve read the script, like, twenty thousand times. I have started literally running this show in my sleep. I’m supposed to know when you mess up,” she replies. “Look, that’s not the point. The point is, no one out there cares,” Emma emphasizes, sweeping a hand in the general direction of the house. “A lot of shows take previews as a chance to see what does and doesn’t work in the script, and then change the lines before opening night. Some people literally come to the previews so they can see what changed. If anyone comes back later and notices, they’ll just think it was a script change.”

“Really?” Killian asks, looking up with wide eyes in a manner that’s almost childlike, reminding Emma a little of Henry when he was little and just beginning to discover all the wonderful facts the world had to offer.

“Really. They’ll think it’s a cool Easter egg, or whatever the kids call it. Now if you’re ready to stop moping around, we’ve got a show to finish. Liam wouldn’t want you to be sulking back here and fixating on things you can’t change.”

“That’s low, Swan, dragging a man’s brother into this,” he chides, but he’s standing up all the same with the hint of a smile on his face as he attempts to brush the dust off his rear (which Emma does not stare at, thank you very much).

“Yeah, well, I did what I had to,” she retorts before continuing in a softer tone. “You’ll be ok? No need to drag someone over to watch you?”

“I’ll be fine, Swan. Now go, you’ve got a show to run, and don’t have time for my nonsense in the least.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, already heading for the back stairs. He’s right; they’re due to start any minute. But she really does think he’ll be alright - can see it in the determined nod he makes to himself before setting off back towards his dressing room to change coats in record time. She hadn’t seen this side of Killian before, the intense self-doubt, but all her experience with his hardworking and easygoing nature suggests he’ll bounce back.

The show will go on, and Emma thinks she’s even managed to convince Killian of that too.

(She sure hopes so, at least - otherwise, they’re all screwed.)

———

He’s still not fully confident, walking back onstage for the second act, but he does feel slightly better. With Emma’s words in mind, he’s at least able to appreciate that the applause maybe is for him after all - though he’d have to be truly dense to believe the response after his solo was intended for anyone else. Under other circumstances, he might feel guilty that he forgot his brother’s words, or that he instead latched onto the reassurances of his crush, but desperate times had called for desperate measures, and words of wisdom are appreciated from any and every corner.

Killian’s not sure if it’s the change in attitude or just a change in perspective that causes it, but the second act really does feel like it goes better. With Emma’s reassurance that the audience has no idea when things go wrong ringing in his ears, paired with the freshly remembered promise Liam extracted from him to not get too stuck in his own head, Killian is able to reclaim some of the illusion that things are just like in rehearsals, without the pressure of a paying audience. It certainly can’t be called a perfect show, but he likes to think that he and Belle made for an engaging onstage couple and salvaged the mistakes from the first half.

The audience certainly seems to agree, if the curtain call applause is anything to go by. Belle, of course, receives the largest round of applause - deservedly so, if you ask Killian - but he receives his own share of whistles and cheers. The sound of their audience’s response fills Killian with a warm glow of pride in what he’s accomplished, even despite the rough start, and helps him remember why he started on this adventure in the first place.

After everyone’s taken their bows, the cast raises their arms towards the booth in the traditional thanks for the crew’s efforts. It a compulsory gesture, one countless productions have repeated day in and day out, but it’s entirely heartfelt on Killian’s behalf - especially after the reassurance Emma offered him at intermission. He’ll thank her later with his words, but for now, he stares towards the bright lights and the woman he knows is there, even if he can’t see her, and hopes she understands just how deep his thanks truly run.

———

Despite any proverbial rough seas, Emma’s pleased with how the first preview went. Yes, there’s still plenty that needs working on, but this whole thing is intended as a learning curve, and she has faith that by the time the show formally opens, they’ll have smoothed everything out to a seamless final product. She’ll make it happen.

In the meantime, there’s still plenty to do. The stage has already been reset, and the stagehands dismissed for the night (though Emma thinks she caught a glimpse of Will Scarlet hanging around a few minutes ago, likely he’s stuck around for reasons more personal than professional), but Emma likes to double check everything, just in case. Call it a personal habit, one leftover from her own stagehand days. Plus, she likes to take a quick breeze through the dressing rooms to make sure nothing important got left behind - or, god forbid, on the floor, where Ms. Blue will make that clicky noise about how no one is taking proper care of her costumes. Emma would like to avoid that outcome if at all possible - somehow that tiny woman is deceptively intimidating.

She thinks Kristoff might still be around here somewhere, messing with the mics and whatever else he does - some aspects of sound design and tech are still a real mystery to Emma - so she detours to Dorothy’s perch on stage right to grab her wireless headset before wandering back to the dressing rooms. Kristoff mostly managed to fix the static before curtain, but there was still an annoying little buzz the whole time. He probably already knows about it and it’s on his own personal to-do list, but Emma figures that bringing the devices to him wouldn’t hurt. A helping hand and a reminder all in one, if you will. It’s well within her authority anyways.

She never makes it to the podium, however, as Jones suddenly steps out from the hallway to the dressing rooms, dressed once again in his street clothes. As much as she’s ogled him in costume, Emma has to admit - he’s just as good-looking in a henley and plaid. It was just as true before she saw him in costume for the first time, but knowing how well those breeches display his ass just adds another level of appreciation for that same ass in jeans.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Swan?” he requests.

“Yeah, of course,” she replies. “Is here fine, or…?” There’s no one around, but still, if he wants to have any sort of official, job-related private discussion, they should probably go find a room with a door and no chance of interruptions.

“Oh, yes, here’s just fine,” he smiles, as if he read her mind. “I just wanted to thank you, Swan, for earlier.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary —” Emma begins, but Killian firmly interrupts her, hand raised in a halting motion.

“It is to me,” he insists. “You may not think you provided much of a service, but to me, your words were...indispensable. Just what I needed in that moment. You may not have noticed, Swan,” he chuckles, “but I was a bit of a mess back there.”

Despite his heavy words to start the sentence, his self-deprecating teasing at the end lends some needed levity to the exchange, allowing Emma to relax ever-so-slightly despite her continuing discomfort with being thanked.

“Yeah, maybe a little bit,” she laughs, causing a wide smile to break out on his face. God, it’s a nice smile. Goes great with those street clothes she was checking out a minute ago.

“Oi, thanks for that,” he teases. “I can say that, you can’t.” An attempt at a wink follows, making Emma laugh in turn. It’s hard not to - his idea of a wink is closer to a facial spasm, both eyes closing instead of one and eyebrows doing the work of mimicking a wink. “My point is, I needed a little kick in the pants. Thank you for doing so kindly and gracefully.”

Emma snorts. “‘Gracefully’? That seems a bit far.”

“Well I don’t know,” he defends. “You were fairly tactful about it. Or at least didn’t directly tell me to pull my head out of my arse. I’d call that a graceful approach.”

Honestly, it’s hard to take his defense seriously when he phrases it like that. The barely suppressed smile, still evident in the creases around his eyes, doesn’t help either. “Still, graceful?” she demands. “That’s, like the last word I’d associate with myself.”

“I don’t know, Swan, I certainly think you live up to your namesake,” Killian responds, far more earnestly than Emma would have expected. Is that really how he sees her? That’s… weird, but there’s something nice about that knowledge too. It’s comforting to know that at least one person who’s not her kid thinks so highly of her.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. If Killian’s face falls a little bit at the end of their bantering - because God, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? - then Emma pretends not to notice. Or care.

“Er, no. That’ll do it. Again, thank you.” There’s a moment of empty silence before he nods resolutely. “Have a good evening, Swan.” And just like that, he’s gone again.

Emma’s struck with a small pang of guilt over his sudden departure. They were kind of having a moment, after all, before she abruptly cut it short. But it’s for the best, isn’t it? Keep the professional boundaries, and not get too close?

No, the thing to remember about today is not two emotionally vulnerable conversations with Killian, but how well the show went, and how much the audience liked it. That’s it. End of story.

(Even if those blue eyes are wide enough to get lost in, and his ass really does look great in a variety of pants.)

[tlbodine]

Cringe Tag Game

I’ve seen this passing around and thought it would be fun to join in. 

Rules

i. post a quote or short excerpt from your early days of writing (i’m talking old fanfics, slash fics, original fics, etc., that are barely edited and have a ton of technical errors and misspelled words). this is the cringe part. don’t edit anything! let it be horrendous. don’t panic.

ii. post a quote or short excerpt from your most recent works/WIPs. something that you’re proud of. something that you’ve written that makes you smile when you read it.

iii. tag a writer you admire, anyone who you think is amazing, new friends, followers, writeblrs, anyone you’d like to know more about. if you think someone is a great writer and you want to see how they’ve developed their skills, tag them! everyone started somewhere.

---

The Cringe is from the oldest thing on my harddrive, Carnal Jesus. It was my first “serious” novel started when I was 17 (in 2004) and plonked at for four years before I realized I’d spent four years laboring over a book with no plot: 

It wasn’t quite dark when Davin got out of work that Thursday; the sun was caught in the space between late afternoon and early evening, hanging low on the horizon but burning cold, a thick hazy-orange disc of light that spread over everything, making the colors too rich and the shadows too long.  It was almost dim enough to look at, like an enormous harvest moon, fat and lazy in a dark blue sky.  He remembered reading somewhere that twilight came in the northern hemisphere because the sun had already dropped under the horizon, but the light would still be reflected for a little while before totally disappearing; that by the time the sun set, it would already be long gone, and the light was just its ghost. He’d read somewhere else that it took eight minutes for the sun’s light to reach the earth; that if the sun were ever to suddenly blink out of existence, people would live out their normal lives for eight minutes, not knowing anything was wrong, before they were immersed in darkness.  

There was a tow-truck in the parking lot, hooking up to the battered remnants of a silver-grey pickup truck.  There were three people huddled around it, talking; one was wearing the blue jumper of a tow-truck driver, one the black suit of a Coalition investigator.  Davin cut across the parking lot on the other side, avoiding them, hoping Julian didn’t see him.  He could imagine that the Coalition investigator was filing a report on “possible terrorist activity”; they generally passed through town in the morning, evaluating the damage of hate crimes, deciding who was at fault, who to put under surveillance.  It was the government’s official stance that there were no Vigilantes; their crimes were conveniently swept under the rug and attributed to the dangerous rebel LMH, or worse, to the monstrous half-entities that made up the Eliminated. It wouldn’t do, after all, to have the nation believing that there was inner turmoil in the flawless democracy, that the sides weren’t painted so neatly into angels and monsters.  They would be doing a background check on Julian tonight, maybe tomorrow at the latest.  Davin wondered what they’d find, if it would be enough to do anything with, or if they’d let him go a little longer under surveillance to see if they could get him on better charges.  He wondered what would happen to Julian and whatever people he was affiliated with, then tried to decide if he’d care.

---

The New is from River of Souls, which is actually kind of a re-write of CJ in the sense that I gutted everything except for the characters and wrote them into a completely different sort of story. RoS is the first of a trilogy and I’m hoping to publish the three books early next year: 

It's just me and the guy with no face, and I stand awkwardly, not sure on the protocol here. Do I sit down? Do I try to strike up conversation? The Undead seems to be staring at me, but it's honestly hard to tell with his drooping eye trailing down his bandaged cheek.

He doesn't say anything, but he lifts a hand and motions toward the couch, and I hesitantly tread past him and settle onto the edge of the cushion, quelling the urge to fidget. I can't quite keep myself still, though, and I start rhythmically popping the joints of each finger, over and over until I'm half afraid the bones will snap.

The dog, still apparently fascinated by me, jumps up onto the couch beside me and shoves his big shaggy head into my side, thrusting his face under my hand. I bury my fingers in his fur, grateful at the distraction.

The guy with no face makes a throaty, strangled sound that sounds like choking. I glance at him, and see his body shuddering, minuscule convulsions that tremor through his frame. I realize that he's laughing.

"Your dog is nice," I offer, as a point of conversation.

He grunts, and swallows noisily, like battling back a retch.

I only dimly remember my grandfather -- he died when I was little, leaving most of my memory-making to my grandma -- but this faceless Undead reminds me of him in some way. My grandfather didn't speak English, and we had learned to communicate through a similar language of grunts and gestures and shared silence. I remember he would take me onto his knee and give me strange sweets, candies laced with mango and chile powder, and sometimes he'd stuff dollar bills into my pocket with a conspiratorial wink.

The memory warms me toward this guy, this stranger who shares so much with me but who it's impossible to know. I give up on trying to communicate and turn instead to the television, letting myself get engrossed in the grainy melodrama, the rhythmic motion of fingers raking through fur, the hot breath of a dog snuffling against my body.

It's not home, but it feels like it almost could be, and it's the most comforting thing I've experienced since I woke up dead in a ditch off the interstate. I cling to this, because I know it can't possibly last.

--------------------

Sometime, I’ll go digging around in my things to find the hard copies of the really old stuff I have. I have stories I wrote when I was 11 that I haven’t looked at in 20 years that are probably very entertaining. 

Tagging: @cog-writes @comicreliefmorlock and um anybody else who wants to do this I’m garbage with remembering names and who’s done these things lately. 

[thekytchensynk]

Ain’t No Picnic (4/9)

Summary: They were just supposed to head over to the island real quick, just to see what was going on. After all, if pirates were trying to ambush and kill the Straw Hat crew, how could Coby NOT go? And how could Helmeppo let him go alone? It should be simple enough, but nothing can be taken for granted in the New World, and when things go awry, Helmeppo finds himself separated from his captain on an island chain full of pirates who probably won’t be too happy to see a Marine if their paths cross.Oh yeah. And one of those pirates is the infamous “Surgeon of Death,” Trafalgar Law… Warnings: Occasional strong language Read it on AO3

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Whether it was the distraction of the plant matter he was dropping behind him or if he’d just caused enough damage that the vines were getting scared, he only had to cut loose of a handful more on his ascent. This time, when he broke the surface, he barely stopped. In basically one move, he hauled himself out of the water. Exhausted, barefoot and dizzy with lack of oxygen, he nonetheless got to his feet, staggered a little, then grabbed the pirate by one foot.

“Hey,” he heard a voice say, but he wasn’t paying attention at this point. He just ran on pure adrenaline. Gotta get away from that hole. Then I can catch my breath or this pirate can kill me or whatever.

Helmeppo didn’t make it all that far -- only about thirty meters -- before his strength finally gave out. His fingers released the pirate’s ankle and he collapsed to hands and knees, panting and coughing and generally enjoying the feeling of being alive while it lasted.

“Hey!”

That voice again. Helmeppo looked over to see Law slowly trying to get up.

Being dragged through the undergrowth had done him no favors. The guy’s coat and shirt were both bunched up under his arms and there were little bits of leaves caught in his spiky hair. He looked disheveled. He looked waterlogged.

He looked irritated.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Trying to save ... your life,” Helmeppo said, too worn out to be scared of the glare. He had to speak a few words at a time. His lungs were more interested in air in than air out . “If you must … kill me for it ... can you … wait until I’ve ... caught my breath?” He paused, took one more deep breath and finished, “So I have a fair chance to run?”

“With me, there is no fair chance to run,” Law replied.

For a moment, the two men stared at one another. He wasn’t sure what the pirate was thinking, but Helmeppo’s mind was only debating was that a threat … or a joke? Or a threat? Or maybe a joke?

After what felt like an excessively awkward span of time, Law said, “You pulled me out of the water?”

“Looks that way.”

The guy’s eyes narrowed, and for a second Helmeppo was sure he was going to get killed now for having the gall to help a guy out. But then the expression went somewhere … else. Mindlessly, the pirate started setting himself to rights -- straightening his shirt, raking his hair into some kind of order with his fingers, checking that his sword still hung safe in its scabbard. He didn’t seem to be thinking about the current situation and had completely dismissed or forgotten about Helmeppo’s presence, looking lost in thought.

Helmeppo decided to follow suit -- with the setting himself to rights, not so much the getting lost in thought. He stood on exhausted legs and ran down the checklist. Two knives still, which was excellent. No shades -- the sun made him squint, but it was generally fine. He stripped off his vest and wrung it out before gingerly pulling it back on. Wet clothes. NOT his favorite thing. He sat down on the weathered stump of one of those massive leaves, still trying to catch his breath. It probably made him look weak, but his legs -- his everything -- needed a rest.

“So, assuming you’re not going to kill me or whatever, what’s the plan?” Helmeppo said when he was as put together as he figured he could get.

Law’s expression didn’t change. Has his devil fruit affected his face somehow? Instead of answering, he asked in return, “Isn’t it demeaning for a Marine to be begging favors from a pirate?”

The question startled a laugh out of Helmeppo. Probably a bad idea, but the question honestly surprised him. And the idea of it … pride had once been a constant companion, and he still clung to it when he thought he could. But pride didn’t last long when you were a chore boy for the marines, and it had an even shorter lifespan under Garp’s watchful eye.

Demeaning? What did that even mean anymore?

“I don’t want to die,” he said, letting the flat honesty just spill forth. “But frankly, I wouldn’t want to face my friend if I’d left you to die, either.”

He expected an eye roll or something like that -- fair considering that had been kiiiinda corny. What he didn’t expect was for the pirate’s stoic expression to finally change, however briefly, to a small, rueful smile.

“So let me guess,” he said to Helmeppo. “You’re another one of those who caught Straw Hat’s eye?”

Helmeppo let out a short, mirthless laugh. “You could put it like that.” Luffy had mostly just wanted to hit Helmeppo for being a jerk -- a not-undeserved reaction, he had to admit now. “But not me, so much. It was-”

And he stopped. Across the way a barely perceptible eyebrow raise was the only sign that the pirate had any interest in what he’d been about to say.

But he wasn’t sure if he should. Luffy was a secret Coby had kept reasonably well for two years now. Was it really a good idea to mention it now? Even if it might make this pirate more likely to let Helmeppo tag along? When Coby remained convinced his dream would be over if people found out?

Generally, Helmeppo didn’t think the other marines would care. Coby wasn’t the only one who had a dark shadow in his past. Hell, everyone knew Django had been a pirate before serving. And enough marines had a grudging respect for the Straw Hat crew that they might look at it as a positive mark.

But there was one who might see it as a terrible offense. The one that mattered most. Akainu, the one whose absolute justice burned through silly things like circumstance and history. And some nights, after they were called in to stop some depravity, to help some souls who had been pushed to their breaking point by evil men and women, Helmeppo’s dreams turned dark. In those dreams, someone -- usually his father -- traded information on Coby’s past and their fleet admiral turned his justice on his subordinate again, and-

Honestly, Helmeppo tried to think of his dad as little as possible these days. The guy had made it clear they weren’t family anymore, and that had taken … well, longer than he wanted to admit to actually come to terms with. He wasn’t entirely sure, even now, that he had come to terms with it. Sure, once your dad threatened to kill you to save his own skin, something in the relationship had broken beyond repair. And yeah, after a while he’d admitted he always knew his dad was like that. While he had definitely taken advantage of the perks his father’s promotion granted him, on some level he knew -- this is not a man to give this power to. Because his dad had always been excellent at leveraging any power he could lay his hands on.

But some part of him -- the part that remembered being small, and his father being the biggest, strongest, bravest person in the whole world -- kept wanting to insist it had been a mistake. That he wasn’t really as bad as everyone said. And he had to keep reminding himself of the depravity, of the soullessness, that his father had shown to the whole world.

And to him.

So yeah … he worried sometimes about his father coming back. Morgan had kept a low profile since his escape, so if he ever wanted to try to clean the slate, could he do it by trading information? And while accepting a known pirate into their ranks was on the marines, a man hiding his dark past -- actively lying -- would not fare so well under the gaze of absolute justice. Especially since the Fleet Admiral seemed to have forgiven or forgotten Coby’s insolence at Ace’s execution.

But had he?

And with all that haunting him, why would Helmeppo even consider giving that leverage to another pirate? To save his own skin?

But on the other hand, there was something about Straw Hat. He’d infected Coby with it, even. Some… energy. It made the people around him either hate him, or want to become better. And this pirate had worked alongside Straw Hat more than once. Which meant he probably wasn’t the same kind of asshole as Helmeppo’s father, at least.

Probably.

“My captain wants to grow strong enough to beat that Straw Hat kid someday,” he decided on. Then, realizing that could be VERY misconstrued, he hurried on. “Not because he… He… It’s …” The right words came all in a rush. “Watching that Straw Hat kid inspired him to stand up for himself. Let him think it was okay for him to … you know. To admit to his dreams. To chase ‘em. And I think he feels like, to pay him back, he needs to be as strong as Luffy.”

The pirate let out a small, sardonic chuckle. “Trust me, that doesn’t help. You can be just as strong as him, but he’ll drag you along behind him anyway.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. Drag you along. When they’d first met, it was clear that Coby’s bravery wasn’t quite the same as Luffy’s or Zoro’s. Right or wrong, those two acted on their decisions, from thought to movement with no hesitation. But with Coby -- slightly pudgy, short, soft -- there was that hesitation. He had to steel himself before he could act. But every time, the decision was to follow along in the current set forth by the pirates. Something had drawn him along behind them, even when it wasn’t easy. And now, Coby was the one drawing others in his wake.

“That’s what happened to you?” Helmeppo asked

A hesitation. Then, “More or less. We have common goals. But even in that case, you get swept up. Sometimes regardless of what you say.”

Helmeppo tried to remember what he knew of those two working together. Not many details came to mind, but not all the information that was fed to them at HQ matched reality. No surprise there.

“Does it always work out?” he found himself asking.

He wanted the answer to be yes. There was something about that kid. It seemed like when he set his mind to something, it would just happen. That the people around him would step up, and everything would be OK.

But he kind of knew the answer as soon as he asked. Nothing always worked out. No matter how powerful you were.

But when he looked up, Law had turned away, looking off toward where Helmeppo presumed he thought the shore was. “It works out enough,” he said. And he started walking away.

“Guess that means ‘moment of bonding over,’” Helmeppo muttered to the empty air. Shouldn’t have dug into that. He could use another few minutes of rest. He could still feel the shakiness in his limbs, but the pirate clearly wasn’t going to wait. His long legs were positively eating up the ground, his form disappearing into the overgrowth. With a sigh, Helmeppo looked around, hoping to see some sort of leaves he could use to make a makeshift pair of sandals from, or at least wrap around his feet to protect them. It was never, ever a good idea to traipse barefoot around a strange island. But nothing presented itself.

Well, make do. The sooner you get back the sooner you won’t have to worry about it anymore.

He started to stand up, but just as he got his legs under him, something slammed into the back of his head. He had just a moment of indignant surprise at being attacked, and he started to turn toward the source when the attacker struck again. The second blow pitched him forward.

He was out before he hit the ground.

[mel-the-fangirl]

Snapshot - Requested

Harry Holland x Reader

Words: 2,576

Requested by: anonymous (You’ve been waiting for this for such a long time and I am really sorry.)

“a harry x reader fic where ur friends and u were crying and for some reason he took a picture and posted it without your permission and u get a lot of hate about it and u find out about the pic while with harry and u get really upset about with him and make him leave your trailer (can you be a part of the SM:HC cast?) and he feels really really bad so he comes back later to apologise and he finds u cryin and sobbing in ur trailer bc of the hate and he comforts you and cuddles and hugs?”

Hello!!! I have another week off so I’m kinda taking it easy since school has been really tough lately. I’ll try and post as often as I can. Oh, and also I really want to thank everyone because I know I haven’t been so active lately and instead of losing followers like I expected I would, I’m actually gaining them and honestly, thank you all so much!!! I hope you like this one! xx

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Your first big break, so to speak, and it was going to be on what was predicted to be this year’s biggest superhero film,

Spider-man: Homecoming.

It was luck, or divine intervention, or good karma, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Imagine it though, you had auditioned so many times, along with hundreds of different, more qualified people but you were the one who got a call back and you were casted!

Being a huge fan of both the comics and the cinematic universe, it was such an honour to get any role on this film. You were cast as Betty Brant, one of Midtown Tech’s smartest, most popular girls and best friends with Liz Allen, Peter Parker’s love interest. Although you didn’t have as many lines or scenes as you would have liked, you were beyond grateful and excited for everything to happen.

It was only a few days since filming officially started but a bond was immediately formed between everyone, the importance of everyone’s roles or how big of a star they were didn't matter. You were all just kids having an extraordinary time.

On one of your lunch breaks, you found yourself huddled in your trailer that you shared with another actress on the film who played one of the decathlon kids, but since she had a scene to shoot, you were left to your own devices.

You were supposed to be memorising your lines for later but the film playing on TV won your attention.

With your knees hugged close to your chest, tears dropped onto the blanket you had draped over yourself. You just couldn't wrap your head around the concept of why there were some films that revolved around dogs or any other animals dying.

Marley and Me was one such film. Onscreen, Owen Wilson’s family were beginning to say their goodbyes to their beloved Labrador and at that point you were already desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

“Good bye, clearance puppy.” Jennifer Aniston tearfully uttered

With that, you were a goner.

The overflowing dam of tears you’d worked so hard to hold together finally broke wide open, unleashing streaks of white hot tears upon your red cheeks.

“Stupid, stupid film.” you muttered, wiping at the corners of your eyes angrily

Unbeknownst to you, the door to trailer was slightly ajar, with one Harry Holland sneakily snapping pictures of you while you cried with everything you had. Without your consent, he posted the photo on his Instagram for his thousands of followers to see.

“Didn’t know she was a weeper.” Harry captioned the photo and immediately tucked his phone back into his pocket

“Y/N?” he proceeded to knock, feigning innocence

The credits have been rolling for a good five minutes but you were still in tears and you just let them roll down your cheeks. You didn’t have to hide from Harry. The two of you became best buds in such a short time, since you were both around the same age.

As he approached you, he started to feel a little bad about posting your picture, but that didn’t mean he was going to fess up right then. He took the seat next to you and offered you his jacket sleeve to blow your nose on. If it were any other day, you would’ve given him a funny look, why would he want your snot all over his sleeve?

But since you were highly emotional and Harry was feeling guilty, you took his sleeve and he let you. You blew your nose, hard, complete with comical honking noises. Harry winced but said nothing, he turned his attention to the TV still rolling credits.

“I'm guessing that's what got you crying?” he asked, wondering what film it could've been

“It was a horrible film, Harry. Like…” you trailed off, grabbing his sleeve once again

He recoiled from your grabby hands and took his jacket off, handing it to you with a sheepish smile.

“And what film would that be, love?”

“Marley and Me.” you replied, blowing your nose again

Harry tried, I mean he really tried not laugh but it failed miserably. He let out a big laugh that was short-lived once he saw the expression on your face, that’s when he thought it wise to shut his mouth.

“Thought so.” you muttered, grabbing your phone to raise it to your face so you could see the damage done

Harry felt his heart rate pick up. All of a sudden he didn’t want you to see what he did, because he had a feeling you wouldn’t be laughing with him.

As if God had tuned in directly to his line of thought, he heard you say,

“Shit. My phone’s dead.”

You rushed out of your seat to plug your phone in, also catching a glimpse at the wall clock.

“Shit! Harry, I’ve gotta get to hair and make-up. I’ll catch up with you later.”

The door shut behind you and Harry breathed out a sigh of relief, he definitely had to take that picture down before you saw it. And that’s what he did, he took the picture down in seconds, it only lasted on his page for a solid twenty minutes.

But, alas, this was the internet and twenty minutes was just enough for everyone to see it and give out their opinions that no one asked for. It’s just a shame that Harry kept his phone too quickly, not even stopping to check on the numerous notifications that popped up since he posted your picture.

That wasn’t the issue though, the problem was what was on your phone, Harry glanced at it as it harmlessly rested on one of the counters. He didn’t have the chance to check on it as Tom walked inside the trailer.

“Y/N told me I’d find you here.” Tom smirked, crossing his arms over his chest

That snarky look on his older brother’s face would’ve ticked him off if he wasn’t so distracted.

“What?” Harry asked, trying to get around to your phone. Tom immediately noticed this.

“Oh, oh, hey.” Tom swung around and swiftly grabbed your phone, out of Harry’s reach

“Rule number one, mate. Never touch a girl’s phone without her permission.” he held your phone behind his back, expertly dodging his younger brother’s attempt at snatching it away

“Tom, wait-”

“You just leave it alone. Now come on. I need something to eat, catering’s down.” Tom grabbed Harry by the shoulders and steered him out your trailer door, despite his blubbering protests.

Harry gave your phone one last hopeless look before heading out with his annoying older brother.

“Y/N! That was great! Thank you, I think you’re done for the day.”

You gave Laura and Jon a hug before dutifully retiring to your trailer. Maybe one of the upsides to having a small role was that you got to head home before everyone else, actually, scratch that, it was definitely one of the upsides. Tom was always whining like the boy man child he was, about how exhausted the whole thing was for him.

You stretched your arms above your head as you walked through the lot, wondering what the rest of the day had in store for you. Your trailer was just how you left it earlier, your phone was still plugged into the socket.

You were just about to turn it back on when Harry came bursting through the door.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, like he’d just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar

“Well, hello to you too, Harry.” you greeted him, regarding him cautiously. He looked a little shaken up.

Harry took a step towards you as you placed your finger on your phone’s power button, you eyed him warily. Just to test your theory, you lifted your finger from the button and placed it back, making him take another step towards you.

“Okay. What’s going on here?”

“Nothing! Nothing! What’s going on, Y/N?”

“What?”

The two of you shared confused looks then you burst out laughing.

“Harry, you are so weird!” you told him, finally powering on your phone

“Wait, Y/N. Uh, maybe-”

You held up a finger to silence him as you began to scroll through your hundreds of Instagram notifications. It was strange, you’ve never gotten this many in like, ever. Maybe you did, once when you posted that selfie with Zendaya and Tom the very first day of filming but that was a few days ago, what could all this be about?

Reading each comment carefully, you were shocked to see so many people you didn’t know saying such hurtful things about you. Most of them didn’t make any sense but the ones that did and the ones that were very eloquent in stating their hatred for you brought tears to your eyes.

Harry audibly gulped, he wrung his hands together in an attempt to curb his discomfort.

“What, what is this?” you shakily muttered, sniffling as you quickly swiped down, trying to get to the photo that everyone was hating on you for.

When you finally got to the top, you were shocked to see a picture from earlier today, with you sitting on your trailer couch, bawling your eyes out in front of the TV. You slowly lifted your gaze to Harry, and your eyes began to burn with anger.

“Why would you post this?!” you yelled, thrusting your phone towards him

He didn’t get the chance to pry it out of your hands as you began scrolling through the comments again.

“I took it down, Y/N. I’m sure I did.” Harry said in his defense

“‘What right does she have to be crying like that when she gets to hang out with Tom and Harry. What an ungrateful bitch.’” you read out one of the comments for Harry to hear

“‘What an ugly dumb ass hoe’?” your voice rose an octave higher. You just could not for the life of you find out why these people were being so cruel.

“Please just stop reading, Y/N. I don’t want to hear any more.” Harry said, running a hand down his face

“You don’t want to hear it anymore?!”

The fucking nerve of him to say that! This was his doing! This was his idiocy at work!

“Why the hell would you even do this, Harry?! I just, I don’t get it!” you yelled, tightening your grip on your phone, you wanted to chuck it at him

Harry was at a loss. He couldn’t muster up the courage to answer your questions, mostly because he didn’t really have a good reason. He just wanted to have a bit of fun with you, it just.. Backfired. Horribly.

“I am really sorry, Y/N. I am so so sorry. I didn’t know people were going to react like this. Y/N, please, I am so sorry. I-”

“Leave.” you cut him off, feeling like you were going to lose your head if he didn’t leave you alone.

“Y/N, come on. Just-”

“Harry, please go. Now.”

The steely look in your eyes made his heart plummet to the floor as he began to walk to the door. Harry had to do what you said. It was all his fault, it was the least he could do now. He stepped out into the bright afternoon, and he bumped right into Tom.

“What have you gone and done now, Harry?” Tom asked, scrolling down on his phone. Looking at all the hate you got, no doubt.

“Not now, Tom.” Harry grumbled, leaning against the walls of your trailer

Tom looked at his brother incredulously, “You’re bloody right, not now, you arse. Get in there and apologise!”

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Well, I don’t blame her! What the fuck were you thinking posting her picture like that?”

Harry definitely wasn’t feeling the big brother hat Tom was wearing right now. He knew he was in deep shit with you and he knew he needed to apologise.

“I wasn’t thinking! Alright! That’s what you want to hear and that’s the fucking truth. I’m an arse, I know!” he snapped, rubbing his temples

“Right. Well, it’s good that you know. Now go and do something about it. Apologise.” Tom yanked your trailer door open and shoved Harry inside

You heard a dull thud from where you stood inside the bathroom. You ignored it and clutched the edge of the sink tightly, knuckles almost turning white.

“Deep breaths, deep breaths.” you chanted to yourself, trying to hold yourself together

It wasn’t very helpful though. Tears were still making their way down your cheeks, you really wished that you hadn’t read all of those comments. You really fucking wished Harry wasn’t such an idiot.

“Y/N?”

Speak of the camera-wielding devil. A tired sigh left your lips as you turned to face him, you kept one hand on the sink for support.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

Guilt once again knocked into Harry’s senses, stronger this time. The skin near your eyes was red  from how harshly you had wiped your tears away but more was still coming. Harry cleared his throat and tried his best to efficiently verbalise what he needed to say.

“You did but I need to apologise, Y/N. What I did was stupid, and insensitive, and senseless. And I’m an idiot.” he hastily added that last part

You definitely agreed with him, nodding your head for him to continue.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. Please forgive me. I’ll get down on my knees if it would make you feel better.” Harry pleaded with you, his eyes desperately searching yours for any sign of forgiveness

You regarded him apprehensively. The whole thing really brought you down, even though it was ridiculous to listen to the famed “keyboard warriors.” You were new at this, and it was going to take some time for you to fully get over your so-called “haters.”

“Help me to the couch please? I’m feeling shaky.” you extended your hand out to him without letting go of the sink

Harry took your hand in his and his gentle touch brought a sense of calm to you, even though he was the root of all of this. He guided you gently to the couch and draped a blanket over you.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the space next to you

“Sure.”

As he sat down, you found yourself inching toward the heat that radiated off him, all the crying made you cold somehow.

“May I?” Harry asked again, extending his arms towards you

The fucker was being too cute. You rolled your eyes at him but nodded anyway and it turned out to be the right call. Warmth began to seep through your body and you nuzzled your head into his chest appreciatively.

“I’m really sorry, okay? I will never ever do that ever again.” Harry whispered to you, running his fingers along the length of your back

“The only pictures you’re posting of me next time are extremely flattering selfies, do you understand me?” you looked up at him pointedly

Harry nodded earnestly and placed a quick kiss on the tip of your nose, much to your surprise. You stared at him in shock but he just smiled at you cheekily.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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