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earlgreydream · 3 years

Text

new york.

| draco malfoy x reader | fluff |

cw: a bit of soft smut, swearing

“Come on, Draco,” you grabbed his hand, pulling him through the streets of New York. His eyes were wide, and he marveled at everything.

Before dating you, Draco had stayed in the wizard world, barely leaving London. He kept within places of magic, and had never really seen muggle life.

Now, the two of you were eighteen, and you’d managed to free him from a summer at Malfoy Manor. He’d agreed to go to America with you for the summer, though he was extremely hesitant to spend a summer in the muggle world.

“New York IS magical!” You had insisted to Draco, and he gave in once he realized how happy it would make you. And secretly, he was curious to see where you had grown up.

Oh, and that you had braved your entire Christmas break at Malfoy Manor, under the scrutiny of Lucius, who was incredibly unfriendly and unwelcoming to his son’s mudblood girlfriend.

“We’re staying in my apartment. It’ll be just us, Draco. You don’t need to worry about impressing anyone,” you had promised your anxious boyfriend.

Now, Draco’s silver eyes couldn’t take in all of Times Square. He looked like a startled child, and you giggled at his wide eyes.

“This is crazy, Y/N, everything is all lit up-” Draco gaped at the signs. You walked slower, keeping in time with him as he took it all in. Your hand held onto his arm, keeping you together as you navigated the busy square.

You looked up at the sky, dark clouds hanging heavy overhead. Thunder boomed in the distance, just over the sound of the street.

“It’s going to rain. Time for an indoor activity,” you broke Draco from his trance, and the two of you made it to a small staircase outside of a building. Draco hesitated, and you dragged him down into the underbelly of the city, into a lounge you frequented whenever you were in the city.

You were greeted by buzzing neon lights, printed carpet, and arcade machines. Everything was retro, looking like you’d stepped into the 80s. You ordered soda before pulling your boyfriend to an arcade game. He looked unsure, and you grinned at him, setting your things down.

“What is this?” Draco asked, looking around curiously.

“This is an arcade. We play these games, I’ll show you.” You put a coin in the slot of the machine and showed Draco how to play Pac-Man.

“Want to try?” You asked, moving over to let him try after you finished demonstrating. He nodded, gingerly pressing the buttons. A frown knitted on his face as he struggled, not doing near as well as you.

“Can I try again?!”

“Sure, babe.” You slipped another coin in the slot, and he attempted a second time, still barely making any points.

“Draco, it’s just a game, relax,” you smoothed yourself hands down his arms as he tensed up with frustration. It was taking all of your strength not to laugh at him as he fought with the game.

“I can’t even win against a bloody muggle contraption-” Draco huffed and a couple teenagers turned their heads.

“It’s alright, they’re hard. Some take practice. Let’s try another one.” You sipped on your sprite, giving Draco a quick kiss to calm him down. He hummed softly and followed you to a different game. Thankfully, he was slightly better at the second one, and his bad mood faded with your encouragement.

You spent the entire afternoon there, eventually swapping arcade games to bowl in the alley at the back. You knew Draco was using magic, because he striked every time. You rolled your eyes as onlookers stared in awe, and he grinned at you with a wink.

“It’s not fun if you cheat.” You told him, and he kissed you.

“No, but I’ll play fair next round.” You let him, knowing he wanted to redeem himself of being embarrassingly shit at the games.

You had only dropped your bags at your apartment, but the two of you had been out since your flight landed this morning. You were starting to get tired, and you could sense Draco was too.

“I’m starving, and the rain has let up. Want to get something to eat?” You asked Draco, and he nodded, holding out his hand for you to take. You grinned and intertwined your fingers, walking out to the damp street with him.

“Come on, there’s a great deep dish pizza place closer to my apartment.” You led him into the subway, and his arm wrapped around your waist protectively as you waited for your train. His chest was pressed to your back, his grip on you secure.

“We’re safe.” You rubbed his arm that was under your ribs, but he didn’t relax. You rode the train downtown a bit, before getting off in lower manhattan.

“It’s just up here.” You told him, tightening your jacket as the night got colder. The two of you walked half a block into a New York deep dish pizza parlor, and Draco smiled at the delicious smell as you entered.

“Two,” you said to the waiter, and he sat you down at a booth in the corner. Draco’s hand rested on your knee, and the two of you ordered their restaurant original pizza, sipping on ginger beer as you waited.

“This is your New York?”

You hummed, nodding in response. He kissed your cheek sweetly, openly affectionate with you in the public setting.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the MET so you can see the art,” you said, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from his face. He leaned down and kissed you softly, one of his arms around your shoulders as the two of you sat on the same side of the table.

“I’m excited.”

“Me too, it will be fun!” You agreed. You turned as the waiter set down the pizza in front of the two of you, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up.

“This is huge, Y/N!”

The waiter smiled and left you alone, and you sliced off a piece, handing it to him before serving yourself.

“We’ll put the leftovers in the fridge at home. Try it. You’ll like it, I promise.” You encouraged him, and he did so with excitement.

“Oh my gods, this is so good!” He exclaimed, making you giggle.

“New York isn’t half bad, is it?”

He shook his head, silver eyes shining. You enjoyed your pizza, watching people walk by out the window. Draco had already expressed his anxiety over not only the amount of traffic in New York, but also of the cars driving on the wrong side of the street. You giggled at his disdain for the incessant honking, used to the quiet serenity of Malfoy Manor.

You were yawning by the time you walked the last three blocks to your apartment, Draco’s hand on your lower back as you slid your key into the lock. You let yourselves in, kicking off your shoes and losing your jackets in the hall. Draco took his time looking at your apartment now that you had time, and you let him wander as you put your extra pizza in the fridge.

You watched him run his fingers over your books and look at plants and various things of yours that were set around. You leaned in the doorway, unnoticed by him, observing him peek into your life. He picked up a small stuffed bunny off of your bookshelf, an endearing smile on his face as he carefully set it back down.

“I love your room,” Draco said when you stepped in, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting against his back.

“Thank you.”

“Let’s wash the city off,” you said, tossing your jeans into the bin, stripping off the rest of your clothes as he watched, following suit.

You giggled as he chased you into the bathroom, lightly tickling your sides. You turned on the shower, stepping under hot water and pulling your boyfriend in with you. He kissed you deeply, water running over your bodies. He squeezed soap onto his hands and began to glide them over your skin, squeezing your ass in the process. He definitely spent extra time on your chest, and you did the same to him, washing him up. Your giggles echoed in the shower chamber, and Draco left hot kisses over your neck, shoulder, and chest.

Draco lifted you onto the wide tile shelf, kissing you deeply, his tongue invading your mouth. Your fingers tangled into his wet hair, and you spread your legs for him to stand between.

A loud moan escaped you as he slowly entered you, a slight discomfort forming as a result of your lack of regular sex at the castle.

“Please— fuck— move,” you begged Draco, dragging your nails up his back.

He obliged happily, fucking you slowly, careful not to be too rough. Your chest was heaving, your body on fire against the cold tile of the shower, everything slick and steamy. Draco’s mouth moved along your neck and jaw, and your head was spinning as his hips repeatedly met yours.

“Need to feel you come around me, love,” Draco murmured, tweaking your nipples lightly, drawing a squeal from you.

“I’m close, just, a little faster,” you panted, gripping his shoulders. Within minutes you were coming undone, and you wouldn’t collapsed if it wasn’t for the shelf holding most of your weight. You felt Draco’s orgasm follow, leaving you both lightheaded and airy.

“Give me a minute before I can stand up.” You laughed, holding onto his arm to steady you.

The two of you finished getting clean, and you dried off before going to your bed. Your head rested on his chest, fingers tracing shapes over his milky skin until you fell asleep.

You woke up the next morning to soft noises in the kitchen. You got up and pulled Draco’s t shirt over your head, walking out to the kitchen to find Draco struggling.

“I was going to bring you some tea in bed but I can’t find the kettle.” He complained, and you giggled, shaking your head.

“What? Why’re you laughing at me?” He demanded, and you held his cheeks and kissed him.

“Hand me two cups, Malfoy.” You ordered, using his last name. His nose scrunched up, and he bit back the urge to complain about how you addressed him.

He obeyed you, and you filled the cups with filtered water, and put them in the microwave.

“You’re joking-” he started, and you cut him off with another kiss.

“We’re in america, sweetheart. I haven’t got a kettle.”

He was disturbed by your lack of kettle, but he trusted you to make good tea, and he didn’t want to upset you by judging your American ways. The term mudblood pricked into the back of his mind, instilled by his horrid father. He pushed the thought away, and wrapped his arms around you. He didn’t speak, but he hugged you tightly, and you rested against him.

“I love you,” his voice was full of such urgency, you didn’t know what had crossed his mind that made him feel the need to hold you so tightly and remind you of his affection.

“I love you too, Draco.” You touched his face gently, looking into his eyes.

You broke away to drop tea bags into your now-hot water. You put a bit of cream in Draco’s how he preferred it, and he kissed your cheek, pulling the two of you back to bed with your tea.

“We can get ready after this.” You decided, enjoying the warmth of your bed. Draco loved your tea, and he finished his more quickly than you. He traced the flowers printed on the duvet, listening to you talk about the museum you were taking him to.

He was enjoying the city so far, even though the noise had kept him up. He got dressed and admired you in a little white sundress. You spun around for him, and he kissed your lips, catching you and pulling you into him.

He couldn’t keep off of you now that the two of you had space. You’d graduated, and you were free. You could openly be loving without the judgement of teachers or other students, and no one was around that Draco had to protect his reputation from.

He was always kissing you, holding your hand, or letting his hand rest on your knee now that you were away from judgemental gazes. He enjoyed just being with you. Draco was much more relaxed away from his family and aristocratic peers, and your life together in America was coming a solid reality.

Draco’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand as the two of you ascended the steps up to the MET. You turned, grinning at him in the sunshine, and you pushed up on your toes, kissing him sweetly.

“I love you!” Draco announced when you dropped back down from kissing him, and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I love you too, Draco.”

He let you pull him inside, and the two of you spent the entire day wandering through the endless rooms in the art museum, admiring the paintings, drawings, sculptures, and artifacts.

Draco’s eyes lit up at the sketches of the dancers, he studied them for a long time.

“I think I’d like to try art.” Draco informed you, and you looked up at him.

“You should, I think you’d be good at it.” You spoke encouragingly, and he smiled down at you.

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.” You rubbed his arm and kissed his shoulder.

“Come on, I want to see the impressionists. That’s my favorite part of this place.”

He followed you, standing behind you as you admired the paintings. His arms were around your waist, and his head rested on your shoulder as he looked at the paintings with you.

You stayed at the museum until it closed, going home and eating the leftover pizza on the balcony. You handed Draco a sketchbook you had, and some pens, earning a smile.

“I can use them?”

“Of course.” You nodded, and he began to sketch you, sitting there. You listened to the cars below, and happy people singing in an apartment above yours. His sketch was beautiful, and you smiled at him dreamily.

#draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #draco x reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco fluff #draco smut #draco #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy smut #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco fanfic #draco malfoy fanfic #harry potter #hogwarts

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crowfootwrites · 3 years

Text

Sugar [Miguel Galindo x Fem!Reader]

I - I'm not sure what happened, because I didn't plan this lol. But it's probably because I had this song on repeat as I was writing. Miguel has been pissing me off this season, but I guess that's working for me? Idk, that seems like there's a lot to unpack there. Anyway, here's a one-shot!

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, smut (like, a bunch of it), unprotected sex, daddydom!miguel; language; references to sugaring (not the waxing kind) | Words: 3,295

Taglist: @chibsytelford

He had been coming in every Thursday morning for the last several weeks. He ordered the same thing every time. For Miguel, medium flat white with oat milk. An odd choice, in your opinion. Based on his appearance, you would have pegged him as an Americano guy. Or at worst, the type to order a cappuccino and casually drop the “I discovered cappuccinos at this exquisite little café on a Venice canal” line. Especially the first time he came in wearing that white suit. Might as well have been wearing a fucking straw fedora.

He sat in the café every time he came in, reading the paper and looking at you. Men did that, sometimes, but they all had the decency to look away when you caught them staring. But this guy would meet your eyes with not a hint of embarrassment and take his sweet time breaking your gaze to return to his paper. If he had been anyone else, it might’ve made your skin crawl. But the fact that he didn’t look away, as though he didn’t care that you knew he was looking, had you intrigued.

Your barista job was the way you were paying your way through school and you worked a lot. Having something like a handsome regular to look forward to made the time a little more bearable. So, your little dance with the stranger Miguel went on like this for several weeks. After the first few, you started making sure to have his order ready when he arrived, knowing he would show up at 8:15 on the dot. The first time you did that, you slid his drink across the counter as he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours lightly. You met his scrutiny with your own darkening gaze, daring him to say something. But also begging him to say something.

He didn’t. He simply smirked that infuriating smirk and took his usual place at a table near the door, opening his paper with a flick. You turned on your heel, sucking your teeth as your coworker arched her eyebrow at you.

The next Thursday, you had his order ready when he arrived, but in an effort to restore the power balance, you had your coworker bring it to the handoff. You could feel Miguel’s eyes on you as you zipped busily behind the counter, making drinks. He watched you intently for the entirety of his visit. You allowed yourself exactly three glances his way. Each time, you could tell that you were getting him riled up. You had the feeling that no one ever said no to him, and you weren’t giving him the attention he so clearly desired.

Perhaps the timing was right, or perhaps your brush-off worked, but the following week was different. You could tell something had changed when he walked in. He was all business, his shoulders squared beneath his navy suit jacket, his bearded jaw set. He looked… like he was done playing games. The thought sent an involuntary shiver crawling down your spine.

“Good morning, Miguel,” you said coyly as he approached the handoff where you had his drink waiting for him.

“(Y/N),” he offered in response, a devilish glint in his eye.

“I’d like to get this to go,” he continued, motioning to his coffee, and your heart plummeted, immediately assuming you had somehow messed this up for yourself.

“Uh, sure,” you retorted. “Not a problem.” You turned away to remake his drink in a to-go cup, mentally kicking yourself already. When you returned to hand him his drink, he was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, studying you.

“There’s something else I’d like.” He pushed himself off the wall and leaned over the counter conspiratorially, his mouth very close to your ear. His tone was smooth, with just enough authority to make your thighs clench. “You. On your back. In my bed.”

His words squeezed the breath out of your lungs. You pulled back for a moment to meet his gaze, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. Your pulse thrummed under your skin. “Also, not a problem,” you murmured, proud of how smooth you managed to sound, despite the rolodex of emotions spinning in your head.

***

“Fuck – Miguel!” you moaned, your back arching off of his 1,000 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets as he slid his fingers between your folds, his mouth and beard glistening with your juices. You watched him smirk from his position between your legs, his fingers stretching you exquisitely. He had one of your knees pinned roughly to the bed, keeping you spread for him. You clutched at the sheets on either side of you, but your hands started to wander as he found his rhythm inside you. His thumb circled your clit roughly as your fingers dragged themselves down your body. One hand found a home pinching and twisting your nipple, the sharp twinge punctuating the slow heat building in your core. Your other hand gripped at Miguel’s hair as his tongue lapped at your clit again, and you couldn’t help yourself as you ground your hips harder against his face, whining in pleasure.

Your first orgasm rolled through you like a wave, your whole body convulsing repeatedly as you rode it, wailing Miguel’s name in its wake. He climbed over you as you came down, his thick cock hanging against the inside of your thigh and you shivered, eager to be stretched around him as he fucked you into his fancy mattress. He eyed you hungrily as he moved to press his mouth to your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. When you had been lulled into the gentleness of his ministrations, he bit down hard on your shoulder, sinking roughly into you at the same time, and you cried out as the sensation took your breath away. You clung to Miguel, your fingers clawing frantically at his back, as he bottomed out, thrusting hard and deep.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he rolled his hips against yours. You relished in the sounds of your fucking echoing in the spacious room, his hips snapping furiously against your ass. He tossed your legs over his shoulders and pounded harder into you, the new angle sinking him even deeper. The fire in his eyes excited you and had your pussy throbbing around him.

“Ahh, Jesus, Miguel, just like that,” you gasped, feeling the pressure building in your core. The higher he took you, the emptier your mind became, until all you knew was the ache to be filled. Miguel pulled your hands off of him, grabbing your wrists roughly and pinning them to the bed above your head, never breaking stride.

“Please don’t stop,” you cried, your eyes screwed shut, quickly approaching another orgasm. Miguel dropped himself onto his elbows to hover over you, the added stimulation over your clit wrecking you. Your second orgasm snapped, spots bursting behind your eyelids and you clenched around Miguel completely. He fucked you through it and moments later he was pulling out to kneel in front of you on the bed, stroking himself desperately before releasing ropes of hot cum on your chest.

He was breathing hard as he ran a finger through the sticky mess on your chest and brought it up to your lips. He watched with dark eyes as you opened your mouth obediently and sucked the taste of him off of his fingers.

After a moment, his face relaxed and he pulled himself off the bed, returning from the bathroom with a damp rag. He gently cleaned off your chest, grazing your clavicle with his lips. You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped you, at the image of Miguel Galindo cleaning you up.

“What?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

“Hope you’re not expecting me to give you my employee discount from now on,” you snickered.

Miguel grinned. “I think I can afford a cup of coffee, querida.”

***

You were more than a little surprised when Miguel showed up at your door late one Saturday morning. You had been sleeping together for a few months by then; sometimes at fancy hotels, but usually at his home, in his bed. Well, and on a lot of his other furniture. But considering that he lived in a very expensive house with lavish trappings and armed security, him coming to your shitty apartment in Santo Padre was unprecedented. But there he was, standing at your door, while you stared back at him wide-eyed. You drank in his suited appearance while you stood before him in bare feet and an oversized Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt.

“Good morning, princesa,” he said smoothly, that notorious smirk fastened to his lips. “May I come in?”

You shifted from foot to foot. “Uh, sure, I guess.” You stepped back to allow him through.

You watched skeptically as he gazed around him. He kept his expression smoothed into neutrality, making it impossible to read him. Most apartments in Santo Padre were old and somewhat run down. You had worked hard to make yours feel homey. It was small, but your couch was new, and you had a nice TV you had saved up for. There was framed art on the walls and pictures on the shelves. If he had said anything negative about your home, the only space you had to yourself, you might have thrown him out. Perhaps he sensed this; either way, he kept his mouth shut.

“Can I get you something to drink?” you asked courteously, the nicety feeling strange on your tongue considering that not two days ago that same tongue had been wrapped around his cock.

“Coffee?” he asked, and you rolled your eyes, but still let the grin settle on your lips.

You padded to the kitchen and pulled out two ceramic pour-over sets, your grinder, and the most expensive beans you had on hand. You got started on the familiar, comforting process of making coffee, letting yourself focus on the grinding and the pouring and the steeping, while your mind tried to parse out what Miguel was doing here.

When the coffee was done, you returned to the living room to find Miguel sitting on your couch, gazing down at the papers you had been going through strewn chaotically across the coffee table. He glanced up at you as you entered, a rare smile gracing his features, but you caught the furrow of his brows before he looked up.

You handed him the cup of coffee with an arched brow.

“You need a better system of organization,” he chided, motioning towards the mess.

You shrugged as you dropped onto the couch beside him. “Probably, but I would need to find the motivation to organize it first. Looking at all of this makes me depressed,” you responded, only half-joking.

Miguel studied you seriously for a moment. Then his features relaxed and your chest unclenched accordingly. He set his cup on the coffee table and settled back into your couch as you pulled your legs up under you, getting comfortable.

“So,” you started, drawing the word out. “What brings you to the wrong side of the tracks this fine morning, Miguel?”

You caught the irritation that flashed in his eyes as he turned to look at you. But he eased up when he spotted your wry grin.

“Needed a break from work,” he said simply, his hands gently pulling your feet onto his lap.

“So, you came to hide out in the last place they’d look for you, huh?”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

He drew a low groan out of you as he pressed a thumb to the insole of your foot. You had worked a double yesterday and your feet were killing you. You closed your eyes, your head dropping against the couch cushions as you relaxed into his touch.

When you opened them a few minutes later, Miguel’s hungry stare was focused on you.

“Fuck, querida, the sounds you make,” he growled, reaching for your hips and pulling you roughly onto his lap, your back pressed against his firm chest. You let your head drop back onto his shoulder, his breath in your ear sending tremors down your back. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch teasing against the fabric of your panties. Your pussy clenched in anticipation, and you moaned, a low, wanton sound that had Miguel restraining you firmly with his free arm.

“So needy for me, (Y/N).” With a quick flick of his wrist, he had pulled your panties off and let them drop to the floor. He draped your legs over his, opening you wide for him. His middle finger caressed your slick folds, frustratingly slowly. Patience wasn’t your strong suit, and Miguel very much enjoyed lording that over you.

A low rumble reverberated in his chest as he swatted at the side of your bare ass on his lap. “Beg for it,” he commanded, nipping hard at your neck. You yelped at the exquisite mix of pleasure and pain.

“Please, Miguel. Please, I need you.” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, rocking on Miguel’s lap, as much as his hold would allow, desperate for more friction.

“That’s better,” he remarked as he plunged two fingers into you. Your mouth hung open in a silent cry, devastated by the feeling of him stretching you. The pace he set was savage, and you were quickly approaching the edge.

“Fuck, I – I’m so close,” you wailed, the rolling in your hips no longer under your control.

So he pulled his fingers out. A petulant whine escaped your throat before you could stop it and you heard Miguel tut chidingly in your ear.

“Up,” he ordered, and you rose off his lap. He pulled at your waist and bent you over the arm of the couch, positioning himself behind you. You heard his pants dropping to the floor before a firm smack landed first on one cheek, then the other, making you rock forward against the couch, wetness sliding between your thighs.

“Please,” you whispered, and Miguel cracked, pushing his thick cock between your folds. He sheathed himself inside you, his grip bruising on your hips. After giving you a moment to adjust to his size, he pulled out and slammed back into you, returning to his brutal pace from earlier. He looped a strong arm around your torso and hauled you up, his fingers finding their place in a firm grasp around your throat. He fucked furiously up into you, your living room permeated with primal grunts and moans.

Your fingers wandered needily to your clit, twirling around it until the tight coil in your belly snapped and you were coming, writhing so forcefully that you broke from Miguel’s grasp and caught yourself with trembling hands on the arm of the couch. Miguel reached down and gripped your hair, tugging just enough to turn your head to the side, watching you come down from your high. His cock was punishing inside you and you were trembling from overstimulation, but you knew he was close. His jaw clenched and he leaned over you, pressing his forehead against your spine, fucking you deep.

A few more thrusts like that and Miguel was coming undone inside you, his cock twitching with his release. From the corner of your eye, you could see the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pulled out, immediately going to fetch a towel from the bathroom. He cleaned you up, placing gentle kisses on the red marks on your ass and combing his fingers through your hair. You grabbed his hand and led him to your bedroom, pulling under the covers with you, your eyes already heavy with sleep.

A short nap later, you shuffled back out to the living room, leaving Miguel asleep in your bed. Despite your little interlude, you had to be somewhat productive today. You sighed, steeling yourself for the stack of bills still awaiting you. Your rent and tuition bill would be the priority. There had been more fee hikes at the school, so you were probably looking at another couple of months of pulling as many doubles as you could manage to cover expenses. Plus, you had to consider the cost of your textbooks. As you perched on the edge of the couch with your elbows on your knees, you scanned the sea of papers looking for the tuition statement. Your eyes widened as you located it, a soft “what the fuck?” escaping your lips.

There was a check on top of it. For the total amount of your tuition for the semester. Signed by Miguel Galindo.

You picked up the check with trembling fingers, as though terrified it might disintegrate if you thought about it too hard. You stared at it, your thumb tracing over the check amount, as you stood robotically and made your way back to the bedroom.

Miguel was still asleep, facing the edge of the bed, the almost permanent stress lines around his eyes and mouth gone. You sat heavily on the floor beside him, your head almost touching his, still staring down at the check in your hands.

“Miguel, what is this?” you asked softly, and with a groan, he opened his eyes.

It took him a moment to register what was happening, but when he did, he shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t want you to have to work doubles all month. Then I’ll never get to see you.”

A quiet hum thrummed in your throat. “This is a lot of money,” you muttered.

His lips turned up into a grin, a hint of condescension behind his sleepy eyes. “No, it’s really not, princesa.”

Your brain worked hard to process what was happening. What he was doing. “Does this mean you’re like, paying me for sex, essentially?”

Miguel heaved a heavy sigh and sat up in bed, pulling you into his lap. He buried his nose in your shoulder, his lips gliding softly across your skin. “Consider it mutually beneficial. I need something from you,” he growled, trailing a hand teasingly under your shirt, “and you need something that I can give you in return. And like I said, I would be a very unhappy man if I never get to do this,” he continued, pinching your nipple roughly, eliciting a fragile whine as your mind snapped to attention, “because you’re always at work, especially when I can do something about it.”

You nodded, a little dazed, and Miguel pulled you against him as he laid back down, spooning you. You began to relax as you talked yourself into the arrangement. You were already having sex, right? So, this was just… sweetening the pot? You imagined for a moment how much less stressful your life could be if you didn’t have to spend all your time either in classes or at work to pay for classes. You could have more time to study, more time to cook so you wouldn’t be living on fast food. And you certainly weren’t going to turn down more time with Miguel.

You chuckled quietly and Miguel squeezed your hand questioningly.

“Does this make you my sugar daddy?” you asked with a laugh.

Miguel scoffed. “Not a fan of that term, but I suppose that is an accurate description.”

You rolled over to face him, meeting his heated gaze. You wrapped a leg over his hips and threaded your fingers into his hair, desire blossoming in your belly. “What about just daddy, then?”

You watched that signature smirk appear, the clenching of his jaw hinting at his swelling arousal. He rolled you onto your back, pinning you roughly to the bed. “Now that, querida, I can work with.”

#mayans fx #mayans mc #mayansmc #miguel galindo #miguel galindo x reader #mayans mc imagine #mayans oneshot #miguel galindo oneshot

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honestgrins · 3 years

Note

Can you write a Klaroline drabble where Caroline shows up in NOLA and shocks everyone but maybe Kol or Katherine when she says she's Klaus's wife? Cannon Caroline not original.

I Heard a Rumor

The club was filled with people and the chaos of a Friday night. Klaus preferred to avoid the rush of tourists, but Marcel kept the VIP lounge to a more tolerable set even during peak hours - usually.

“Don’t you just love this place?” Janet was hanging over the balcony to watch the crowds below, none too subtly pushing her ass back toward him. As one of the humans on staff to provide a live blood source, she was perfectly amiable to Klaus. He’d even become something of a regular customer for her given his penchant for the tinge of bourbon in her taste. However, it seemed she took the friendly flirtation of their transactions to heart, and she was testing his patience for more.

Unfortunately for her, his patience was wearing thin. With a barely polite grimace, he downed the rest of his drink and made to stand. “It’s a bit rowdier than I like, love, so—”

She gave a rapturous giggle, only to fall into his lap and sprawl across him. “I like that you call me ‘love,’” she murmured, her mouth clumsy against his ear. “Let’s get out of here, and I’ll show you how much I like it.”

Rolling his eyes, Klaus was ready to speed out of there without bothering to set her back on her feet. The only thing that kept him in his crowded seat was the biting and all too familiar voice coming from behind him.

“Sorry, love, he won’t be available to accept whatever appreciation you have in mind.”

Both surprised — though for very different reasons — they turned to see Caroline Forbes facing them with a pageant-ready smile and murder in her eyes. She was stunning. Klaus couldn’t help a grin despite his earlier annoyance, and his brow arched in challenge. “Hello, sweetheart. Fancy meeting you here.”

Her jaw shifted almost imperceptibly to the left, but his companion didn’t seem to sense the rising tension as a threat. “Who the hell are you?”

Just like that, Caroline’s smile turned sharp with her fangs on full display. “I’m his wife, and you’re in my seat.”

The club was home to any number of vampires who heard her perfectly over the music, and more than a few froze at the sudden silence coming from him. The Klaus Mikaelson they knew would have reacted instantly, either with murder or some other violence, and they all seemed to wait for the ensuing mayhem. Even Janet finally grasped the discomfort of the moment, and she extricated herself from his lap with all the delicacy a human could manage. “I’ll just— Yeah, bye.”

Whatever show the club was waiting for, Klaus had more pressing concerns. “Shall we continue this interesting discussion at home?” he asked, though they both knew it wasn’t a question. Gently gripping Caroline’s arm, he flashed them back to the manor. He heard Kol and Rebekah meandering somewhere, and Elijah was likely on the premises as well. With that in mind, he brought her to the privacy of his studio and its soundproofing spell. Wisely, she waited until the door was shut to yank her arm free with a disgruntled huff. He merely smiled as he went to pour them some blooded wine. “That was quite the display you gave, sweetheart,” he said lightly, handing her a glass. “I have to admit: I didn’t see it coming.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped, setting aside the drink without indulging. His lips pursed; it was an excellent vintage, yet he was more perturbed at her outright refusal of his hospitality. Perhaps this wasn’t their usual spat to be easily resolved. Proving just that, she seemed truly distraught. “You promised to leave Mystic Falls, that my life was my own.”

“It is. I haven’t stepped foot in Virginia since that day.” Brow furrowed, Klaus felt an urgent need to reassure her. “I understand you need time to accept what I’m offering, and I am prepared to wait however long it takes. What on earth made you believe I’m encroaching on that promise?”

Last he heard, she wasn’t even in the States. They did chat by phone every so often, and when she’d mentioned a tour abroad, he had offered a list of his various estates that would be available to her should she wish. It was the caretaker of his dacha outside of Moscow who alerted him to her softening boundaries. He certainly had no intention of making her regret the change, let alone whatever caused this latest upset.

Watching him with suspicion, Caroline apparently wasn’t sure of his intentions at all. “Seriously? It wasn’t bad enough I ran into the stalkers you have ‘looking out for me’ in every city, but the one time I take you up on borrowing a place, you have the staff literally bowing to me. I wrote it off as a cultural thing at first, then I heard the whispers.”

“Though I refute your accusations of stalking, I will admit to warning some friends and enemies you are not to be trifled with in your travels. As for Dmitri, I merely asked him to welcome you as an honored guest, which you are.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms in defiance. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t welcoming me as an honored guest. I overheard him chatting with his wife about meeting ‘the new mistress of the house.’”

Klaus shrugged, unconcerned. Satisfied the situation wasn’t more dire, he allowed himself to relax on his sofa, daring to pat the spot next to him. Caroline remained unmoved, and he rolled his eyes. “Perhaps the nature of your significance was lost in translation. You’re the one who came to my town and introduced yourself as my wife.”

“Because half of Russia thinks I am your wife!” With an indignant stamp of her foot, she seemed ready to tear her hair out — but she frowned more sedately at the blankness on his face. “You didn’t know?”

Shaking his head, he honestly had no idea. “What happened, Caroline?”

Finally taking her drink, she dropped to the couch beside him with an embarrassed groan. “I stepped into exactly one vampire club, and people practically threw themselves out of my path. I assumed it was more of the same from you, until the guy I was flirting with was suddenly yanked away by a friend. He went white when he was told my husband would tear out his intestines and shove them down his throat.”

“A bit uncreative, that.”

“Klaus!”

“I don’t know,” he insisted, his frustration growing to match hers. Rubbing a hand across his mouth, he genuinely had no idea why anyone would think him married. Though he had many hopes and plans involving Caroline in his future, matrimony was a human tradition he’d never once considered. “Truly, this didn’t come from me.”

Sighing, she leaned back into the couch and nursed her wine, defeated. “Oh. Then, sorry for cockblocking, I guess.”

Klaus smirked at that, and he turned to face her more fully. “Are you really?” The lightest blush stained her cheeks, and he knew she was biting her tongue at the faint scent of her blood. Unable to resist, he reached his hand to rest on the back of her neck, his thumb rubbing into her hair. “New Orleans is a small town at heart, love, and you effectively announced yourself as my wife in the middle of town square.”

“To be fair, I thought you had told the whole world, and I wasn’t going to be the only one not getting laid because of it.”

“Ah.” He was torn between a wince and a laugh, so he settled for another sip of his drink instead. His other hand continued to massage her scalp, and he felt the tension slowly loosening within her. “I never meant to restrict your choices,” he promised. “Tempt you into choosing me, absolutely, but not like this.”

Finally, she relaxed into him, slouching until he could tuck her against his side. Some doubt lingered, though, he could tell. Perhaps it was a sign of growth on both their parts that he didn’t take offense and that she trusted him enough be honest. “But who else would want to spread a rumor like that about us? It’s not like anyone benefits if we really did do the Vegas wedding thing.”

His mouth twitched, and he flashed to the door, barely sparing a brief kiss to the top of her head. He tore it open, only for her to slam it shut again. Pressing her back to the wood, she kept a heavy glare on him. “Put those away, we both know you’re not going to bite me.”

With a reluctant growl, he forced his fangs to recede. “It’s not your blood I want at the moment, and it’s certainly not pleasure I seek.”

“Yeah, ‘cause revenge isn’t a pleasure for you,” she answered snidely. “Tell me what’s going on before you kill the blabbermouth.”

“This is something I have to do myself, sweetheart.”

“Hi, I might want to help! They screwed with both of us here, not just you.”

A half-smile formed without permission, the fondness he felt for her softer than he was comfortable acknowledging at the moment — especially when someone had proven all too willing to use their connection against him. “Few in New Orleans know about you, let alone your...effect on me. Only two would maliciously speak out of turn about that. And just one of those would dare to bind you to me forever, lest I be challenged to follow through.”

Her face was an open book to him, and he hoped she never lost that human nature to share every feeling she had as it happened. Confusion, calculation, consternation, they all boiled down to an annoyed scrunch of her nose. “Your family knows I exist, at least, I think so. I never actually met Elijah, but you two seem to have gotten over whatever grudge match was going on at home.” He gave a brief nod, fascinated at the determined way she thought it through. “I also doubt you told him about your fling with a baby vampire. Kol and Rebekah, on the other hand, probably didn’t need to be told.”

“Bekah still likes to complain that we defiled the entire wood within earshot,” he muttered, not that he could be particularly aggrieved at the memory of a sunny afternoon. “And you are no mere fling, Caroline.”

That lovely blush rose again, and she looked anywhere but at him as he crowded her against the door. Gently brushing the curtain of her hair back from her face, Klaus waited for her to gather herself. After a deep breath, she finally met him with a half-hearted glare. “Which Rebekah loathes, so she’s definitely not daring you to marry me by telling everyone else you already have.”

Silently agreeing, he hadn’t lowered his hand from where it settled on her cheek, and a thrill came when she leaned into it. “Kol, however, enjoys sowing chaos wherever he goes.”

“Yeah,” she groaned. “That sounds on brand, and I played right into it with this stupid payback stunt.”

“We always did share a flair for the dramatic.”

The laugh built in her throat before it burst out, filling the air between them until they were both smiling like fools. Her hands had curled into his shirt, one at his hip and the other over his heart. The slight tug of fabric was tempting, but he still kept his tentative distance. “I promised you time, and I meant it.”

Biting her lip, Caroline nodded. She didn’t let go of his shirt, either. “Does it have be all or nothing right now?” It was half a whisper, the barest hint of whine in her voice endearing. “Because you smell really good and it’s been a long time thanks to your stupid brother, and I might have missed you more than I realized, so can you just kiss me alrea—”

There would be consequences from the rumors of their marriage, and more than just those Kol would face. Caroline would be a target, either for those seeking Klaus’s favor or those out to destroy him. Her presence or absence from his daily life would be a noted occurrence, and more rumors would arise should they be seen with others instead. New pressures would exert force on the evolution of their relationship, something he had measured in decades and centuries without such attention. But they could deal with those consequences in time, together.

Later.

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #to rely on the kindness of strangers #anon anon #fic: i heard a rumor

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tessasocs · 3 years

Text

Cover Tutorial

Because several people requested it and while I'm a bit reluctant to share my secrets, I'd rather have this knowledge out there because I know how hard it is to make stunning covers. All of this stuff I learned by trial and error and my process differs with each cover, but here you go!

I use Photopea, not photoshop but the process should be the same.

That being said, I'd rather you didn't reblog this post. Feel free to reply and like it, just don't reblog it pls.

The cover I'll be showing you how to make is my most recent one for my Ron Weasley fic Manic (x)

tagging: @akabluekat @booty-boggins @materialkii @kazinejghafa @leviackermannns @a-song-of-quill-and-feather @jewelswrites-ish @randomestfandoms-ocs

1. Go to file and hit "New" to start a new canvas. My preferred dimensions are 512x800 because that's the Wattpad size, but you can change it to whatever you like!

2. Load your background and FC image you want to use. I shop around for good background stock packs and the one I used for Manic is from a fantasy pack I found on deviant art. The image of Danna Paola I just found on google. I prefer to use transparent PNGs cause I don't have to erase around them, but regular photos work too!

3. The next thing you want to do is hit "Free Transform" and adjust the background and PNG to the position you want. You should see an outline like in the above picture. Now that I have the images where I want them, I'm gonna erase the excess background around Danna so that the clock shows behind her. Load the brush tool and set it anywhere from 40% - 70%. That way the edges aren't too harsh. I add a raster mask and use the black paint tool to erase it. It should look like this when you are done.

4. Now come the fun part, TEXTURES!! Seriously these changed my life. For this one I added some green smoke that I found on google and an image of a green snake that I also found on google.

Because I didn't like how the border of Danna's pic was showing through the smoke, I erased the bottom of her picture so it looked more blended in. Then, after adding the snake pic, I went over to the little bar above the layers that says "Normal" and switched it to "Lighten" so it blends in more. Then I took the brush and continued to erase parts of the pic until it looked like how I wanted it!

5. Now if I want to get that shiny sort of waxy look for my OCs, I have four very simple steps. The first is to click on "Image" and go to "Shadow and Highlights" It should look something like this:

From there I just adjust the top part to my liking. I tend to lower Amount and increase Radius but it differs from picture to picture. When I'm satisfied, I go to "Layer" and hit "Convert to Smart Object" so you should have a tiny little square that indicates it's been converted. Then I just play with the filters Photopea gives me.

I personally like to use Diffuse, but there are tons of different options you can use. After that, I click Smart Sharpen three times and that's how you get that waxy sort of look. With the Diffuse filter especially the face and hands of your FC can get all wavy and stretchy, so I just take the brush tool and brush it over the wavy and stretchy areas.

Your cover should look like this now!

6. To achieve the sort of highlight and green look, I take a Hue/Saturation layer, hit colorize, and adjust it to my liking like this

I wanted it to match the green smoke, so I made the layer green. I then hit CTRL + I to invert the raster mask and take the brush layer and just highlight the areas to make it look like it's hitting her naturally. USE WHITE FOR THIS STEP. Also make sure your brush is at 0% otherwise it won't look as good. It should look like this when you're done!

7. Now add your PSDs and text and you're done! If you want something a little extra fun, go to filters and hit "Distort" while on the text layer and play with the different options until you find something you like!

And now you have a cover!!

TADA!!!! Let me know if you guys want more tutorials!

#tessa's tutorials #cover tutorial #poster tutorial #my edits #my ocs #do not reblog

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 3 years

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You Say It Best (When You Say Nothing At All)

Pairing: Starker (Peter Parker/Tony Stark) Rating: Explicit (E) Notes: This one was based off an anonymous prompt asking for the use of the quote “you say it best”. In typical Bobbie fashion, I set to spotify and made music the ultimate muse. Word Count: 7.4K Warnings: Tony is deaf in this one and ASL is mentioned/used frequently. There’s also some NSFW stuff, but that’s a usual for me. Summary:

Peter Parker doesn't like the subway, but relents when he gets a job with the New York Philharmonic. The gig he's been waiting for all his life is definitely worth an early morning ride. Things go from good to not so much when a stranger takes Peter's coveted seat - every Monday morning. It doesn't take long for Peter to confront him, only to find out that people aren't always what they seem.

Or - the one where Peter and Tony learn what love really is.

Read it on AO3 here.

It all started with a monumental misunderstanding.

For most of college, Peter got away with never riding the subway. His home-grown roots and the steady cliché personified by practically every move based in New York left a dirty taste in his mouth about the underground motor system – a part of him didn’t want to admit that they scared him (just a little). For the 6 years he diligently attended Tisch’s music program, Peter lived close enough to avoid any sort of transportation aside from the use of his own two legs.

Staying in the city, Peter should’ve figured that he would inevitably need to ride the subway some time or another – taking a taxi was a total no-no and not everywhere could be reached by bike. Of course, that predestined time finally made itself apparent when the New York Philharmonic came calling – after years of practice, performance, and gritting his teeth against the teasing, Peter was finally realizing his dream; and, ironically, getting himself a subway pass.

Despite the weird fear he harbored for all of his existence in the city, Peter found his rides on the subway to be pretty calm and easy. Having to grab the earliest train, Peter realized that there were good and bad times of the day to be catching a subway. He sent up a little word of thanks when his usual car stayed relatively empty for the third week in a row. His trusty seat by the window with just enough space to fit his saxophone case stayed empty and ready for him every day. Life was good.

Until it didn’t – and then suddenly life wasn’t that good again.

For the first time in weeks, Peter got onto the subway and immediately found himself frowning. His usual seat was rudely occupied with someone completely new, the curly brown hair of the man both flattering and unkempt. Attempting to be cool about it, Peter stealthily glared daggers over at the individual, his frustration for the break in his routine bubbling just barely under the surface.

Determined to speak up for himself the next day, Peter got on his train to find his seat once again empty, the man from yesterday nowhere to be found. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Peter quickly took his seat – the need for sameness overcoming the curiosity the brunette man from the previous day stirred up in him; he wanted to be frustrated by him, not attracted to the honey color his dark brown hair changed to when it caught the light.

Things stayed normal for the rest of the week – every morning, Peter prepared himself for a turf battle, and every morning, he found himself a little bit disappointed that his seat competition wasn’t there to both look gorgeous and be frustrating in Peter’s self-proclaimed space.

Boarding the subway a week from that first encounter, Peter was once again caught off guard by the same man sitting innocently in his seat. Though the man couldn’t know how much drama he was causing him, Peter felt his anger boiling up again, the idea of not sitting in the usual place grating against the already abysmal feeling of a Monday morning. By the time he worked himself up enough to actually talk to the other man, his seat was conspicuously empty. In his brooding, Peter missed his opportunity – he cursed himself of the lost chance, then quickly took the seat so no one else could ruin his everyday routine.

After the fourth week of the Monday seat-napping occurrence, Peter felt fed up and impulsively followed the man off the subway when they got to his usual stop. Realizing how creepy it was that he watched the stranger enough to know when his prime opportunity would be, Peter almost stopped himself from pursuit, his feet hesitating a few seconds before his frustration won out. Gritting his teeth, Peter shook his head and continued to follow.

When the foot traffic brought them together, Peter reached out and grabbed the man’s shoulder – his touch light, despite the aggression of the move to begin with. He kept himself from blowing up until they were facing each other – then let shit loose.

As he spoke and gestured wildly, Peter noticed the man’s expression moved from surprised to confused pretty fast. His eyebrows were pinched, both eyes attempting (in vain) to watch the way his lips moved. It wasn’t until he saw the man shuffling that he stopped his fast talking (should be read yelling) and paused to take a well needed breath.

All of a sudden, Peter saw the man pull his gloves from his fingers, the thought of getting punched at the forefront of his mind, before noticing that those very fingers were moving a mile a minute. He remembered just enough from his freshman sign language class to recognize the ASL but was lost after that. The stranger continued to gesture before a grin randomly broke out across his face. Peter figured his own facial expression was worth the stranger’s smirk.

An obviously underused voice sounded in his ears next, Peter’s face dropping again, a rush of a deep blush rushing to his face at the words that were spoken from the stranger’s mouth. “I can tell you’re confused. It sucks not being able to understand someone, doesn’t it?” Though the man was talking, his fingers gestured with each word – the man obviously more comfortable with his hands than with spoken dialect.

Letting go of a very embarrassed breath, Peter let his eyes fall to his shoes, apprehension and shame filling up the space between them. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Not just for not knowing that you’re deaf, but for yelling at you at all.” He stopped then, the realization of his words hitting him square in the chest. The guy standing in front of him was deaf, and he was still talking at him a mile a minute. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I – you probably don’t even know what I’m saying.”

The man let his grin grow at that, a look of amusement fresh in honey-hazel eyes. “I can read lips, actually. You’re very emotive.”

A beat of silence rested between them before the slightly scratchy voice sounded again. “I’m Tony.” The man – Tony, pointed to himself, his hands fingerspelling as he introduced himself.

Peter couldn’t keep the smile from blooming across his lips, eyes twinkling as he finger spelt his own name back, those specific letters close to the extent of his ASL knowledge. “I’m Peter. And insanely embarrassed by my behavior. Can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

Tony’s answering beam made Peter’s stomach lurch, the heat settling there unlike anything he felt before. It took a lot of effort to push it down, even more so when Tony nodded, his eyes twinkling with mirth and interest.

As one could expect, it took them a few minutes to really master talking with each other.

After getting the affirmative, Peter tucked his head and started to trudge towards the nearest coffee shop – Tony’s usual stop was only two away from his own, so the turf felt relatively familiar. He wandered these streets often between his morning and afternoon rehearsals – enough to know about the cute little hole in the wall with the best espresso. His feet led them there easily, Peter only looking back over his shoulder twice to make sure Tony was still there, following closely on his heels.

Peter let Tony deal with ordering for himself, then stepped up and added his own triple shot espresso to the ticket – his bank card coming out faster than it ever had before. A simple cup of coffee was the least he could do; it wasn’t often people got yelled at by random strangers on the street.

For such an awkward way of meeting, Tony took everything in stride. He too must’ve been a regular at the coffee shop – Tony stood in what looked like his usual spot and waited patiently for the barista to slip the cup in front of him, instead of yelling out his name like she did for every other patron.

In his observation, Peter noticed Tony’s way of speaking without saying anything at all. He smiled widely and allowed his eyes to do a lot of his talking, the deep color of them just as animated as the looks being cast about. Though he gestured with his hands often, Tony adapted to those around him easily, the man quick to find a way to get his point across.

When they sat down across from each other, Peter took a sip of his drink before even thinking to speak – the thought of his undercaffeinated mind causing him any more drama a very real worry.

The coffee did its job a couple of moments later, Peter’s insides warming suspiciously like they did when he saw Tony smile for the first time. Brushing that thought aside, Peter let his eyes roam over Tony, the man still sitting there patiently, his patented grin pulling at lips that looked to be way too kissable for their own good. He let his eyes stay there for a moment before clearing his throat, unusual nervousness washing over him.

Much to his surprise, Peter felt a hand on his own before he could get any words out. His eyes bulged for a second at the weird feeling of rightness that overcame him – Tony’s tan hands were calloused and covered in what looked to be paint or marker. Interesting, even down to his very hands.

“Don’t be nervous. I can get five words out of ten and keep up pretty well if you don’t start yelling at me like you were. I don’t expect you to know how to sign and these” he said, gesturing at the hearing aids Peter hadn’t even noticed, “help muddle through the vibration of your words. I’m probably a better listener than you are.” Tony flashed him his eyebrows at that, his amusement at the entire situation written so plainly on his face.

Blushing, Peter nodded, his gaze averting for a second to collect himself. Though they weren’t touching anymore, Peter could feel the pressure on his skin, Tony’s kindly spoken words wrapping the rest of him up so peculiarly. From being a complete ass to totally smitten, Peter wasn’t sure what was happening to him – what the man in front of him could do to him just by being an admirable person.

“You’re probably right about that. The only thing I really like to listen to is music. And that’s usually just to make sure I don’t miss my own cues when I’m playing.”

Tony’s eyes lit up at that, his hands making the sign for music without much thought. “You’re a musician? What do you play?” His eyes glowed with earnest; a genuine interest written clearly in his gaze.

“I’m the second seat saxophone for the New York Philharmonic. I usually play the alto, but I fill in on the bass line when the pieces demand more of a commanding sound. I’d prefer to play the bass, actually – much more my style.”

“I played the tympany for a while in high school, if you can believe it. Percussion gives off the best vibrations.” Tony mimicked playing the instrument, his hands holding the pretend mallets the same way he would’ve if the percussion was actually sitting there. Peter let himself feel a little giddy at that – music was his life; sharing the passion for it felt good for a change. The usual forced enjoyment of his colleagues could be so grating, but Tony – Tony made it feel novel, like it used to before performing became a job.

“I was too small for the drums when they were distributing instruments in sixth grade. I was lucky to have landed the saxophone instead of the flute.”

Conversation flowed easily between them after that.

Tony fumbled every now and again, the quirk of his brow causing Peter to slow down or back up to make his words clearer. Aside from that, their conversation didn’t falter. Peter eagerly sussed out that Tony was an artist that worked in graphic design, the dark marker on his fingers making sense as he dug into his bag and pulled out his latest work. The blue on his fingers matched the lid of the tracing marker stuck in the middle of Tony’s book of art. His eyes lit up as he gestured and pointed at the different pieces of the work – Tony’s energy and enjoyment insanely intoxicating.

By the time Peter’s ‘oh shit’ alarm went off, they were deep in conversation about the difference between Marvel and DC’s comic prowess, Tony more interested in the art than Peter and his character driven preferences. Looking up as he shut the alarm off, Peter gestured to his phone, the screen still alive and bright.

“I’ve got to go, but I’d love to get your number.” Peter pushed the phone towards Tony, his cheeks warm from the hope and want of a nice conversation and obvious chemistry.

Tony pulled the phone towards him, his pointer finger tracing the edge of Peter’s case. “You can have it, under one condition.”

Peter quirked his brow at that, his head rising in recognition. “Sure, what is it?”

“Tell me why you were yelling at me.”

Blushing more furiously, Peter let his hand drift to the back of his neck, the nervous gesture one he picked up after having the shoulder harness on during hours of playing. “It’s kind of stupid – but you were in my seat. Have been, every Monday, for the past few weeks.”

The oddest sound fell from Tony’s lips, the soundless laugh choked off like the chuff of a dog without a voice box. The joy in it sent a shiver down Peter’s spine, his face splitting into a grin, despite the raging embarrassment that lashed at his skin.

“I knew it. I kept taking it after that first week just to see what you’d do. You’re something else, Peter.”

And though he wasn’t the most familiar with ASL, Peter knew Tony’s parting gesture was something affectionately close to the one used to call someone an idiot.

For a while, the bulk of their conversation existed through the realm of text messages. Having just got into performance season, Peter didn’t have a lot of in-person time to spare. Between rehearsals and practice concerts, there wasn’t much time to function normally, let alone nurture a new courtship – so, they made do.

Most mornings, Peter woke up to some sort of text message from Tony. From little things like quips about the weather to snippets and sneak previews of his latest drawings and commissions. No matter what he opened up, Peter came to enjoy whatever Tony Stark sent his way.

The messages continued throughout the day, usually Tony narrating a zoom meeting, or talking mad shit about the neighbor who lived across the hall from him (based on her comings and goings, Tony swore the older woman was a British spy). There was always something to respond to between songs and stints of rehearsal – the idea of not being alone more than welcome after spending entire pieces and concerts in the depths of his music space, that section of his brain lonely now that Peter knew what good company felt like.

It was almost weird, then, when Peter found himself with a couple nights off after the hustle and bustle of the city’s celebration of Christmas. Aside from his New Year’s obligations, Peter was finally free to spend a little time with Tony in person. So free, in fact, that he found himself brushing up on a few rudimentary signs before meeting up with him.

When the day finally came, Peter felt the slightest bit of apprehension. They were surprising, the nerves – for all intents and purposes, Peter spent the last three months in constant communication with Tony. When they weren’t texting, they were sending pictures through snapchat, their multitude of faces saying so much more than words between them ever really could.

Maybe that was it – the rightness of the thing between them. Having never experienced it before, Peter couldn’t decide if it was the greatest thing to happen to him, or the weirdest experience of his life. Not growing up with his own parents made it hard to understand connection – especially the guttural, natural kind that usually came from the relationship between parents and child. Most of his relationships served a purpose, but his thing with Tony only brought him joy and excitement; a feeling so foreign, he wasn’t really sure what to do with it.

Putting it all away, Peter did his best to shake off the nerves – the least he could do was give whatever it was between him and Tony a chance. They were so good together in so many ways. He could practically feel Tony in each of his text messages, the man good at choosing his words to make the most maximum of impact. There was a connection that wouldn’t exist if Tony didn’t have to spend so much time trying to understand the rest of the world – Peter didn’t understand himself, but Tony luckily seemed to; so much that Peter learned a thing or two every now and again.

Despite it all, Peter felt whatever negative feelings within him completely dissipate when Tony answered his door. They figured the best way to really spend some quality time together was for one of them to cook, an action that Tony took upon himself without hesitation (the face Peter made when Tony brought up the idea probably had something to do with that, but Peter sure as hell wasn’t going to point that out). The other man’s smile was genuine and if the smells wafting from the apartment were anything to go by, the food was going to be insanely delicious, too.

Before he could psyche himself out of it, Peter drew Tony into a quick hug, then let his fingers fly. “It’s nice to see you again,” Peter said with his hands, his lip drawn between his teeth the entire time.

Letting out a soft gasp, Tony lit up, his grin dimpling with its intensity. He took a step forward, his own hands reaching out to grab Peter’s. “You’ve been practicing. That greeting has its own sign,” Tony babbled proudly, their arms moving together through the correct movement. “Lazier, but more recognizable.”

Peter felt himself melt into the touch, the thought of not getting his attempt right flying from his brain the second Tony gripped him. The warmth that radiated from Tony’s chest pulled him in, their innocent embrace bringing him an unnamable happiness.

Just as that thought started to settle, Tony released him, a knowing look sitting between the crease of his brows. “Come in, come in. Want to sit for a drink? The stuff on the stove still needs a few minutes to simmer.” Now that he was aware of Peter’s practice, Tony used his hands with every word, the signs a lot slower than the last time they muddled through conversation.

Peter followed Tony over to the small bar in the corner of the room, his presence more than enough of an answer for the other man, who was already pouring them a dense finger of what looked like amazing whiskey. After passing Peter his, Tony raised his glass for a toast – his eyes practically glowing. “To new things,” Tony said, his voice clear and filled with warmth – more than likely affection, too.

Clanking their glasses together, Peter ducked his head – the entire situation between them so new, and yet, so damn familiar all at once.

By the time they nursed their first drink, a blinking light at the entrance of the kitchen caught Tony’s attention, his body springing to action before Peter even recognized what could possibly be going on. Tony shot him a smile, his hands already moving. “I can’t hear the buzzer on the oven, so the light tells me when it’s going off.”

A flush moved over Peter’s skin, the simplicity of the explanation making him feel a little silly – in all of his time as a human, he never gave any thought to the things he used on a daily basis, how some people couldn’t use the things that seemed so simple and normal to him. Like every second of his time with Tony, Peter felt both out of his depth and completely mystified to constant be learning new, eye-opening things.

As he initially thought, Tony’s cooking was absolutely excellent. They ate at a small table in the corner of Tony’s kitchen, the room well equipped, the space an obvious lifeline of the apartment.

“I spend a lot of time in here,” Tony mumbled around the chicken parmesan in his mouth. His eyes caught Peter’s, the glance saying just how tuned in to his thoughts Tony actually was. “The kitchen has the best light for drawing – and I love to cook.” He enunciated the last word with a sign, his fingers deft in their movement.

“I can tell. Everything is amazing. You even cooked fresh pasta!” He twirled a noodle around his fork for emphasis, the freshness of it apparent even then.

“It’s a way to connect. Cooking. I’m not the best communicator – but I sure as heck know how to get my point across.”

Those words sat with Peter for the rest of dinner, and well into the after dessert making out they were doing on Tony’s insanely comfortable couch.

Peter didn’t hesitate to close the distance between them when Tony led them back into the living room, a drink in each of their hands. As they sat down and put their crystal glasses on the coffee table, Tony slung his arm around the back of the couch, Peter allowing himself to narrow the distance and absorb all the points of contact on offer. Like magnets, their lips found each other, the firm press of Tony’s against his own like the rest of him – pure, genuine, and upfront. In all things, Tony was upfront.

Straddled across Tony’s lap a little while later, Peter broke their kiss, the softest noise of confusion sounding in the room around them. Unable to decipher who made it, Peter quieted them both by climbing up and off Tony, his hands pulling the man up with him. “Will you show me your bedroom?” Peter needlessly asked as their lips sealed together in a chaste kiss, both unable to stay separated for too long.

Instead of answering, Tony gripped Peter’s hips and pulled him close, their bodies pressed flush together. Breaking the kiss, Tony used his hold to guide Peter back, the two of them stumbling in the awkward dance of too many limbs and not enough space all the way down the hall and into a well decorated bedroom.

A gigantic king-sized mattress took up much of the room, a large wooden bedframe outlining it and making the feel of it grand, almost eye-pulling. Crisp maroon sheets were jumbled in the middle of it, as if Tony didn’t make his bed after rolling from it earlier that morning (he didn’t), and an avalanche of pillows took up the head of it, the collective feeling of fluffiness making a rush of affection sneak into his chest. Tony liked to be comfortable, that much was obvious.

The softest touch against his cheek brought Peter back from the vortex of his thoughts, Tony’s questioning gaze warm in its inquiry. Calloused fingers brushed over the meat of his cheek, the caress pulling a moan from his lips.

“Is this okay? I really want you, but you look a little nervous,” Tony said softly, the words kind of jumbled against the skin of Peter’s neck where lips were worrying endlessly.

Moving suddenly, Peter grabbed Tony’s cheeks, his grip just enough to bring Tony’s focus back to Peter’s face, the need for his smile to be seen more important than the physical arousal coursing through him. “I am nervous. You mean a lot to me. I don’t – want to fuck this up. I want you, Tony. I do – I want you so much.” He spoke slowly, each word important, each one needing to be heard more than anything else.

“You can’t fuck it up. I’m here. Right here, Pete.” Tony pulled back enough to make the sign he chose for Peter’s name – a finger spelt P followed by the unmistakable sign for beautiful. “You can have me. It’s okay.”

Not a lot of words were shared after that. Peter gave in to the chemistry that roared between them, his hands making deft work of Tony’s shirt, then his own before there was nothing left between them but the slightly graying hair on Tony’s chest. In eager exploration, Peter ran his fingers down the length of Tony’s stomach, up his sides, and across soft lips – his hands for once doing all the talking for him.

Settling back against the bed, Peter felt Tony take the same path across his skin, his fingertips and nails followed shortly by tongue, lips, and teeth. By the time Tony made it down to his cock, Peter was hypersensitive, each one of Tony’s touches feeling like a shock to his core. So distracted by the goodness of it all, Peter didn’t notice the opening of a drawer, or the subtle click of the top of the lube opening. It wasn’t until the combination of warm lips around his cock and cold fingers pressing against his rim, that Peter realized Tony was moving things along – eagerly, if the desperate thrusts against his leg were to say anything.

Before pressing any further forward, Tony used his free hand to sign “okay?” in the cutest of ways. Peter was splayed open wide, on display like a fucking meal, and Tony still wanted to make sure. The thought struck him to the core. Shaking the immensity of it away, Peter nodded, his eyes slipping closed as Tony redoubled his efforts.

One finger quickly became two, Tony methodically pressing in and spreading his fingers to test the stretch and give of Peter’s rim. He found Peter’s prostate pretty early on, the tip of his middle finger hitting it within the first few strokes of his fingers pressed into tight heat. The constant pressure and immense fullness kept him from spiraling over the edge – but just barely.

Sliding a hand into Tony’s hair, Peter gripped the locks tightly, his fingertips digging into the soft scalp below. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to make a mess.” Peter let himself pant out a few breaths, a few pulses of pre-cum dripping with each word. “Please, I’m ready. I’m ready, Tony.”

He wasn’t sure if Tony saw the words coming out of his mouth, but he moved like he did – his body completely in tune with Peter, like each movement Peter made was another page in the instruction manual, another thing for Tony to categorize and use for the rest of time.

A displeased noise left his lips when Tony pulled his fingers out, the feeling of emptiness both uncomfortable and unsatisfying now that Peter knew just how good Tony felt inside him. The emptiness didn’t last for long, though – Tony drew back just enough to tear open the condom with his teeth, the rubber going down over his cock quicker than Peter thought it could. His last rational thought revolved around the opening of the lube cap and the slightly cold press of a warm tip to his most intimate place.

Inch by inch, Tony pressed himself inside, the obvious pulse of his cock enough to force Peter to relax – he wanted to feel every part of the other man, all of his twitches and throbs included. When he finally bottomed out, Peter grabbed Tony’s face, forcing his eyes up and on his own. “You feel so good, Tony,” Peter whispered, his mouth exaggerating every word.

The pure joy on Tony’s face made Peter’s cock twitch, the feeling of happiness an unknown aphrodisiac with a line straight to his pleasure center. Closing his eyes, Peter let everything wash over him, even the sign for ‘me too’ Tony pressed into the skin of Peter’s chest.

With Tony starting to thrust, Peter relaxed further and gave his body over to the other’s manipulations. Like all things, Tony moved with what seemed like a never-ending amount of energy. His fingers dug into Peter’s thighs as he held them tightly in his hands, Tony’s grip flexing with every thrust. His lips traced the length of Peter’s neck and clavicle, the slightest suck marks left behind in the most gentlemanly of ways. From the subtle brush of chest hair over peaked nipples, to the friction their bellies created, Peter felt on edge from the very start.

Little by little, Tony shifted the intensity of his thrusts, his hips rolling and grinding down against Peter’s prostate the second he managed to find it with the tip of his cock. Though Peter was sure he wasn’t conscious of them, Tony’s grunts and moans got louder in pitch with each steadily increasing thrust, the sound like the beautiful music Peter made on a daily basis.

When it was finally too much to holdout any longer, Peter let his fingers tangle into the hair at the back of Tony’s head, his clenching grip enough to draw Tony’s attention back to Peter’s face. His beautiful hazel eyes took in every miniscule facial expression Peter made as he came apart; every crinkle on his brow, every flare of his nostrils, even the shape of his lips when he finally took that plunge over the edge. Peter managed to get his eyes open just enough to see Tony lose it, too – the magnitude of this sort of vulnerability not lost on Peter a single bit.

----

The beautiful thing between them continue to bloom as the month’s past.

Despite living in a life continually filled with noise, Peter loved the silence that came with his place in Tony’s life. After understanding just how important it was to have a direct line of communication with Tony, Peter eagerly started his quest to learn the in’s and out’s of ASL – his teacher one of the best and most knowledgeable on the subject.

With a good reason to want to learn, Peter took to the language like a duck to water. They stilled verbally communicated pretty frequently, but Peter didn’t feel nearly as lost when Tony started to talk without using his words like he so often did. The signs and little subtleties were becoming a part of his life, each one just as important as the notes he used to create his life’s work.

Of course, Peter still felt a few reservations throughout their time together. Sometimes, no matter how hard he tried, Tony couldn’t keep up; especially in big groups of people, or around strangers that weren’t familiar with his particular brand of needs. He never went out of his way to let Peter know how he felt, but the obvious lack of Tony’s presence in those conversations could be felt.

As much as it frustrated Tony, it grated on Peter every now and again, too. It took so much effort to communicate, his old habits of talking fast or not facing Tony coming back without thought – the idea of not being able to send his signal to Tony easily just as frustrating as not being able to receive it.

And when it came to his music, Peter found it the slightest bit sad that Tony couldn’t hear the smooth tones and sounds that came from his instrument. Though he talked often about the way music felt, Peter wanted Tony to hear him – to appreciate the craft the way it was meant to be appreciated.

One of their evenings together, Peter was practicing in Tony’s front room while his boyfriend worked diligently on his latest commission, the head-down look about him one that Peter recognized pretty easily after so much time together. He warmed up with scales, then brought his first piece of music out of his folder, the familiar notes bringing him a sense of comfort that not a lot of other things could touch (Tony, of course, being the one exception). Playing through the first piece without much thought, Peter was surprised to feel a hand on his shoulder that easily slipped down to palm at his chest.

Letting the saxophone rest against the side of his thigh, Peter signed swiftly, his ASL so much better now that the two of them spent so much time with each other. “What’s up? Everything okay?” Peter asked, his fingers almost perfectly making each sign.

Tony smiled softly at him, his cheeks pinching into the adorable little dimple Peter loved so much.

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to listen to you play.”

Quirking his head, Peter pointed at the couch – “I’d like that, sit down and I’ll play you something.”

Without thought, Tony moved closer to him, his hand pressing more firmly against Peter’s chest. “I’ll be able to hear it here.” Tony said aloud, his voice twisting a little in annoyance. “The floor muffles the sound over there. I want to feel it.”

Unable to stop the small flare of irritation from slipping, Peter shook his head, eyes rolling. “It’s distracting. I can’t play with you standing right there.” Each word was a lie, the both of them more than aware that he could, in fact, play with Tony’s hand pressed against him – they’d even attempted (unsuccessfully) to have Tony’s cheek pressed tightly to his chest. Peter wasn’t sure what made him lash out or say something to hurt – it just fell from his mouth carelessly, without thought.

The way Tony pulled his hand back, almost as if he’d been burnt, made Peter feel guilty, which inevitably led to him letting more of his temper rear its angry head. “I sometimes wish you could just hear like everyone else. It’d make things so much easier.”

For the first time in their entire relationship, Peter felt the silence. In the moments between such nasty words leaving his lips and Tony’s reaction, the usually easy absence in noise felt louder than any concert Peter could remember playing. It was palpable, alive in a way that shouted turbulence ahead.

Then, Tony shifted until they were level with each other, his hands moving stiff, ruthless in their sincerity. He didn’t speak, not like Tony usually did when saying something he wanted to make sure Peter understood. “If it’s so hard to have me in your life, you’re welcome to go. I don’t need this – your lack of understanding. I thought you were different; but you’re just like everyone else.”

Tony didn’t say anything more, he simply got up and padded quietly into the kitchen where the sound of squeaking markers against paper could be heard just a moment later.

Knowing how much he fucked up, but still feeling a little bit of that lingering anger, Peter packed his music and saxophone up, leaving Tony’s apartment with no sound at all left behind.

It took a few days for Peter’s wallowing to get the best of him.

In the twenty steps it took to get to the elevator from Tony’s door, Peter realized just how shitty his behavior was. In all of their time together, Peter never thought of Tony as a burden or any sort of problem. Instead of turning around like he should’ve, however, Peter walked on, the ding of the elevator like a final note in their piece. He took every step of their attempt to communicate (and do it well) in stride, trying as hard as he knew Tony had to every second to get where they wanted to go together. It wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t.

Yet, in his anger, Peter let the one thing Tony couldn’t change or help become an obstacle between them when it never was before. He felt frustration towards the hurdle they were always jumping, but never towards Tony – no matter what stupid words came out of his mouth.

After missing three practices in a row, Peter wasn’t surprised to see one of his fellow orchestra members at his door – the beautiful Natasha Romanov knocked the way she played the cello, primly and without any room for bull shit. Her hand was rhythmic and demanding, the tone telling Peter he shouldn’t even think about ignoring the person on the other side. Bucking up (because he knew she’d never go away if he didn’t), Peter pulled a sweater over his three-day-old t-shirt and answered the door.

“Parker, you look like shit. Smell kind of like it, too. What the fuck’s going on? It’s not like you to miss rehearsals.” Natasha’s voice was booming, her words loud after so much time intimately wrapped up in Tony’s silence. “Who do I need to beat up?”

Peter couldn’t help the small smile that overtook his face – despite the guilt and shame hanging so heavily upon his shoulders, it felt good to have someone have his back; even if it wasn’t all that deserved.

“Me, actually. You should come inside. We’ll need coffee for this conversation.”

Leading her into his somewhat disordered apartment, Peter set about making coffee before saying anything more. He refreshed the grounds in the French press, then poured them each a piping hot cup of the good stuff, his anxiety lessening ever so slightly with each delightful breath of delectable coffee scent being pulled into his lungs.

It took him three sips before he felt ready to talk, the heaviness of all the things finally lifting.

“I’m an asshole, Nat. You’ve met Tony – good, genuine, sincerely lovely Tony. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me and I was… unkind. Incredibly so. I told him it would be easier if he could hear – if he wasn’t who he is. I’ve been too embarrassed to step foot outside of my apartment. Or play. I can’t – not when I made such a mess of things.”

In her no-nonsense way, Nat took in his words, paused to let them sink in, then slapped him across the back of the head. She looked him down squarely, her eyes unblinking. “You and I both know you deserve that.” Natasha remarked before letting her features soften, a look of understanding settling on her face, instead. “Do you know what I like so much about Tony? Not the fact that he can’t hear, or that he’s incredibly attentive to make up for it – it’s that he listens. Genuinely. Actively. Like it’s the only thing in the world that’s important to him. The barrier he’s had to overcome has made this beautiful openness to connect within him.”

Patting his hand on the table between them, Nat took another sip of coffee before continuing. Her voice seemed like it was shaking before she stopped, the emotion of her words obviously threatening to overcome her. “With you, I know that’s the case. You, all of you, are the only thing in the world that’s important to him. Peter, it’s like he takes all of you in. Everything that you give to him, he keeps and uses to bridge that gap. I’ve never seen another human smile at someone that way Tony smiles at you. He says so much by saying nothing at all. Because he knows, Pete. He may not be able to hear you in the sense you think he should, but he’s listening.”

He looked at her blankly for a second before nodding wildly, his eyes wide and open for what felt like the first time. Thinking about it, Peter recalled the many times he turned to see Tony staring at him, an inquisitive, yet affectionate look in his eye. When things were good (which was every day they were together but the last three) they didn’t need any words to communicate what was going on, not really, anyway. Tony spoke to make it easier for Peter, but the closer they got, the easier living in the easy rhythm between them became.

Jumping out of his seat, Peter looked at Nat gratefully, a genuine smile overtaking his lips. “I don’t know how I let myself not notice that for so long. Thank you, Nat. Thank you.” He grasped her hands tightly before turning to head out the door, Peter only stopping when he realized leaving meant leaving Nat in his house.

“I’m going to go and hopefully fix this. You’re welcome to stay. I have some of that wine you like in the fridge.”

Casting a glance over his shoulder before closing the door on his way out, Peter caught the mischievous look on Nat’s face, the cellist wasting no time in her pursuit for his good wine.

It took 20 blocks and many tireless minutes to get to Tony’s apartment. His timing was atrocious, but there wasn’t any time to spare. Tony deserved an apology, many apologies, and Peter wanted to start making it up to him as quickly as he could. Tony was a forgiving person, but forgiveness only went so far – and things between them were too good to give up; too vital and important to let pettiness and irritation rule over all of his actions and subsequent reactions.

Not wanting to presume they were still completely okay, Peter decided not to use the key Tony gave him a couple of months ago. Instead, he pressed the doorbell a couple of times, the flashes of it recognizable even outside of the apartment. Waiting with a heavy sense of tension and bated breath, Peter watched shadows dance at the bottom of the door, the sound of Tony’s footsteps just barely audible through the heavy wood.

It took Peter a second to take Tony in, the man’s presence overwhelming in how good it felt – to just be there, standing in front of him – like heaven. When he allowed himself to truly take Tony in, Peter realized Tony was just as wrecked as him, the usual bags under his eyes deep and purple, the sign of tiredness more like bruises against pale skin. Though he tried to project an air of fineness, Tony looked like shit.

Before Peter could talk himself out of it, he fumbled to sign his apology, his eyes locked onto Tony’s as he moved his hands. “I fucked up. You’re not a problem. You’re not a hardship. You’re everything. The rest of the world is all talk, but you – you say so much without saying anything; I was just too stupid to take it all in. Too wrapped up in my own shit.” Peter stopped then, his hands moving to cup Tony’s cheeks. Tony hesitated for a moment before leaning into Peter’s touch, the caress like kryptonite.

“I love you, Tony.”

Peter searched Tony’s eyes for a moment, the flood of tears at the corner of them confusing and the slightest bit frightening. There wasn’t anything else after this, no plan B or back up – if Tony didn’t want him, that was that.

Sucking in a deep breath, Tony softened his expression, the feeling of having his mind read enough to make Peter’s head spin. He forced himself to stay in the moment, though, his eyes watching in fascination as Tony moved to reciprocate the phrase, his lips moving without the use of his hands – a totally rare occurrence.

With a finger to his lips, Peter caught him before he could mumble out the syllables, his other hand wrapping around Tony’s waist, tugging until they were pressed tightly together, a touch of contact between them from chest to toe. Carefully, Peter pulled his hands back and signed instead –

“You say it best, when you say nothing at all.”

#starker #you say it best (when you say nothing at all)#bobbie writes #starker fanfiction #deaf tony stark #musician peter parker

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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

Text

Lost and Found (Ten)

Monaco! Or at least, my version of Monaco lol. Generic verse typical TW for Tony having a panic attack and of course, Monaco-esque explosions/violence. Also we love some pining boys and a little WS-eque Bucky.

Halfway through the story!

MASTERLIST HERE

*****************

The noise was deafening--over sized engines on undersized cars, screaming crowds and shouting reporters, cheering fans and a fever pitch of anticipation that vibrated in the air and clanged mercilessly against their ears even from behind the safety glass on the town car.

Deafening and exhilarating and Tony’s eyes were wide, his entire being visibly thrumming with excitement, his smile stretched so thrilled that James ignored the apprehension at being stuck in such a big crowd and simply angled his body so he could stare at Tony staring at everything else.

Damn he was beautiful.

“I love this.” Tony’s nails dug into the expensive leather upholstery of the Rolls and James’s eyes automatically dropped to the dimples in the fabric, the clench and unclench of Tony’s fingers, and then inevitably to the foot of space between Tony’s hand and his own. It was the same foot of space that had been present for the ride to the airport, for the journey overseas to Monaco, for the length of time it had taken to get from the airport to here up close and personal for the race, and it was a foot of space that was driving James insane.

Leaving Tony in the lab the night before had been difficult enough but trying to keep some distance in front of Pepper for the better part of the day had been full on torture. The startling intimacy of Tony on his lap, Tony around him and on him had grounded James in a way therapy never had, having another soul sparking bright with pleasure alongside his own had been nearly spiritual, the first time he’d felt human and real and himself in months-- years?-- forever.

There had been none of the shame James thought he remembered from another blank time with an unknown face, none of the guilt he thought used to drive him to confession, none of the hurried and the hide and the only in the shadows that clamored in his head along with so many other dark things.

Tony had been light and beauty and a glimpse at sanity and then the lab lights had come back on, the windows cleared and the moment was apparently over as Tony mumbled something about a shower and seeing James later and it had been almost awkward between them--

--until James had taken a chance and stepped close again to brush over kiss bruised lips and Tony had melted into him for just a minute more.

Leaving Tony in the lab the night before had been difficult, and now there was distance between them and James couldn’t stop staring at Tony’s hands and fighting a smile as Tony hummed the chorus line to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy under his breath for at least the sixth time in the past hour.

“I love all of this.” Tony paused humming and jammed his sunglasses on as the car pulled to a stop at the steep stairs into the hotel. “James, you’re going to love this too, I promise.The crowd down here is really bad, but we’ll get through it quick and up on the balcony to watch the race from there. Won’t stress you out a bit, I guarantee it.”

“You’ll have to excuse Tony.” Pepper cut into the chatter with a fond smile. “He gets around fast cars and he’s instantly six years old again. Couple years ago he bought one of these cars to race and it's his favorite event of the year now. Vroom vroom, right Tony?”

“Vroom vroom.” Tony laughed at her, and James’s heart stuttered when Tony started to reach for his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you the--”

--his hand fell away and Tony’s lips twisted in an apologetic grimace and James didn’t have any choice but to nod that he understood, he got it, it wasn’t them in the lab anymore it was Tony in the spotlight and not the place for anything real.

It was fine.

James knew what it meant to hide so he nodded reassuringly and Tony went back to humming their song and it was just fine.

“How’s the arm?” Tony asked as they hurried up the steps to get away from the crush of people, the questions and pleas for interviews from the reporters and the rumble of engines. “Bothering you at all?”

“Nah, feels about right.” James bent his left arm experimentally and flexed his fingers beneath the thick leather gloves. He couldn’t actually feel the limb beyond the weight at his shoulder and chest, but nothing hurt and more importantly than that, Tony smiled when he heard the news so James didn’t bother finishing the rest of his thought.

Yes, the limb felt about right but this morning there’d been a split second where James had managed to enter the lab before Tony and he’d seen the numbers from the stress-ball test all over the holographic screens. Numbers, calculations and whatever a variable was, and they didn’t really mean anything in particular to James but they were bright red and blinking and set against lines of green and then black that looked like a chart of normal measurements. Normal measurements but his numbers were high and blinking and red and James-- James didn’t really know what it all meant but nothing about blinking red numbers was ever good.

Before he could even put together the right question to ask JARVIS about the numbers, Tony had come through the doors though and the screens reset in an instant, replaced by the regular Roadster screensaver as the AI calmly greeted them.

If James didn’t know better, he’d think JARVIS was purposefully not showing Tony the numbers, but that didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t it important to know if the rates were too high, if the calculations were off, or if they needed to redo a test or a calibration? What if something was wrong with him?

….what if something else was wrong with him?

“Hey.” Tony’s hand was there and gone at James’s back, pulling him back to the present moment. “With me?”

“With you.” James said automatically, and searched back through his thoughts to find the tail end of the conversation. “Oh, everything on the arm feels good so far. Yeah, everything’s fine.”

“I still think I’m going to redo it with the smaller plates.” Tony ducked around a rather persistent reporter and hurried through the huge double doors into the foyer. “But this one will do for now. Do you remember where the disconnects are if it clutches up like it did yesterday?”

“Here.” James touched the hidden latch inside of his left elbow briefly, then the top of his shoulder. “Two buttons, right? Press and release?”

“Right, just in case something seizes up and I’m not around at the minute to help.” Tony waved to someone in the crowd. “I designed it to deactivate and pretty much fall off on command, but if the connectors stick, just yank on it. We’ll get your shirt sleeve pinned up, Happy can keep the arm in the car for safekeeping and we’ll try again back at home.”

“Sure thing, Tony.” James bumped close enough to brush his fingers at Tony’s side simply because he couldn’t help himself. “Thank you.”

The tips of Tony’s ears turned pink, but any chance he had at a reply was cut off when another reporter shoved a microphone in his face and blurted something about the Senate meetings, about his legendary recklessness, about the big brunette close to his side— was this a new body guard or just the newest nameless person to fall into bed with him? How did Ms. Potts feel about it? Weren’t they an item? What did Tony think about the rumours of his mental instability and inevitable step down from Stark Industries? Would he care to comment? Anything at all?

...James didn’t have exact memories about snapping someone’s neck but right then his hands practically itched with the need to break the bastard in half. Couldn't Tony just walk into a place with out being accosted? Couldn’t they see the stress in his eyes? The slight tremor in his hand when he touched at the glow of the arc reactor? Didn’t they care that Tony hardly ever smiled and throwing questions in his face was a sure way to erase any lingering happiness? Tony had gone from lightly blushing and bumping against James as they walked to ramrod stiff and almost brittle, from humming their song to dropping his sunglasses down and flattening his mouth into a near grimace.

No, James didn’t remember ever snapping someone’s neck but watching the man he— watching the man he— watching Tony be practically assaulted via microphone and obnoxious questions made James see crystal clear red, made a run of horrifyingly precise information skitter through his mind.

Pounds of pressure per inch. Time for bone to turn to dust beneath his fingers. The unnatural angle of forced bones and the glaze of unseeing eyes. Ways to dispose of the body.

Information information information click click click terminate.

“Back. Off.” James growled the words, nearly snarled the words, let his eyes slide murderous and shoulders square dangerous and the reporter squeaked something terrified before scuttling off to bother someone else.

It took a few seconds for the anger to fade and for James’s heart to stop pounding, and when his vision settled and his brain stopped clicking into place click click click scenarios that felt like memories and nightmares, both Tony and Pepper were staring at him.

“....what?” Belatedly, James realized both his fists were clenched, his mouth still turned down into a scowl and he counted up a few numbers— adin dva tri chetrye no no that was Russian, one two three four— until he was breathing evenly again. “Tony?”

“Oh nothing.” Tony‘s throat jerked as he swallowed but his smile was three shades past secretly pleased. “How long did you practice that murder glare before people passed out from fright when they saw it? It’s impressive.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.” James’s chest tightened uncomfortable. “Snapped at a reporter like that. Shit. Sorry Tony—“

“No no.” Tony held up a hand, shifted a half step forward like he was going to place it on James’s arm but stopped at the last second. “No that was— that was amazing. No one except for Pepper ever tries to keep the press away and she’s not half as scary as you. Thank you.”

James glanced at Pepper then reached over Tony’s head to hold the door open. “Well I’ll murder glare at whoever you want, Tony. You just let me know.”

He nodded at Pepper as she passed by him, and she cut a meaningful glance at Tony and mouthed, “Thank you.”

James didn’t think he could reply my pleasure without either sounding foolish or breaking into another growl, so he just nodded again and followed the pair into the dining area of the hotel.

It was less crowded in here but no less chaotic, and James hung back a step from Tony and Pepper so he could try and catalogue everything, gaze landing on each occupant before skittering away, checking the exits and the windows, the ornate chandelier and the mirrored bar surface along the back wall.

Four entrances and exits— the foyer they had entered through, an overly tall set of double doors leading out to a balcony, one that led to stairs and down to the street and one marked Staff Only. Minimal wait staff in clearly conspicuous uniforms. Powerful men with pretty companions on their arm, intimidating women in tailored suits and sky high heels, a smattering of individuals at the smaller tables neither rich enough to dress up nor important enough to mingle at the bar. A few members of the press asking quiet questions and fake laughing with whichever self important interviewee was sat in front of them, a thin man in glasses that turned to stare when Tony walked in the door and currently hurrying towards them— Natalie.

“Mr. Stark, Ms. Potts.” Natalie greeted the couple, her bland expression not even flickering as she turned to James. “James. Welcome to Monaco. I have a table reserved over here—“

“I’d like to be in a corner.” Tony interrupted at the same time Pepper chimed in, “Tony prefers to be in a corner.” and Natalie didn't skip a beat steering them towards a back corner table.

“This can be us right here, then.” The redhead snapped her fingers and a couple waiters rushed forward to reset the table for four, and Tony took the chance to breathe a sigh of relief at the chance to sit down and re-group from the press bombardment before taking James out to watch the races.

He hated the press with a passion, thought the society pages reporters were some of the lowest life forms possible, who made a career out of hounding someone with questions and then spinning stories any which way they liked? The Stark family especially had never known a moments peace from the press and even though Tony had for many years willingly and enthusiastically contributed to the tabloid coverage of his various exploits, now he was just tired. He was just worn out. He wanted to watch the races with Pepper and James and cheer on their driver and spend some time in the sunshine without microphones or cameras or anyone pushing into his space to ask invasive questions like—

“A yoo-hoo! Anthony Stark!”

Tony had only just started to sit when the worlds most annoying voice cut into the conversation between Pep and Ms. Rushman, and he leaned over to tell James, “Unleash the Murder glare anytime now. I’m begging you.”

“Unleash the—“ James laughed softly and Tony had only a half second to appreciate the sound before Justin Hammer invaded their space, complete with requisite tag along and stereo typically terrible reporter Christine Everhart.

“Tony Stark!” Justin clapped a too friendly hand onto Tony’s shoulder, smile stretched wide and tone manufactured fake. “My favorite person in the world! You know Christine Everhart right, works at Vanity Fair? She’s doing a big story on me.”

“Oh?” Tony asked tightly, then under his breath and over his shoulder to James-- “This is my least favorite person in the world.” James gave him one of those amused half smiles, took a step back away from the cloud of cologne hovering at Justin’s shoulders and Tony wished with every shred of his patience that he could do the same.

“Yep yep, you’re not the only rich guy with a fancy car around here!” Justin had a laugh that grated on even Pepper’s unflinching nerves. “BTW, Christine. Big story right here, don’t know if you heard yet. Ms. Potts is now CEO of Stark Industries! Imagine that! Answering phones one day and wearing power suits the next!”

“I heard.” Christine turned a mega watt smile towards Pepper. “If you have a minute I’d really love to grab a quote for--”

“Christine’s doing a big spread on me.” Justin interrupted, either ignoring or not caring that he’d cut the blond off mid sentence. “Figured I’d throw her a bone, help her out. Big name like mine is a story just waiting to happen, you know?”

“Oh absolutely.” Pepper passed champagne from a waiter over to Tony and then back to James, arched a perfectly tweezed brow and commented, “She did quite the… spread… on Tony last year, did you know?”

“Yep.” Tony took a too large gulp of champagne and smacked his lips. “Wrote a story on me too.”

Behind them, he heard James choke on a swallow and Natalie smother what might have been a snort. Ms. Everhart turned pink to the roots of her bleached hair while Justin swiveled to look at her in confusion. “You uh-- you did a story on Tony?”

“Oh I think the word I used was spread.” As calm, collected and effortlessly cut throat as always, Pepper took another sip of the champagne and then turned to Natalie. “I have to go wash up, please see that our table is set?”

“Yes, Ms. Potts.” Natalie chimed in and despite Tony’s attempts to snag Pepper’s shirt and keep her close, both women disappeared a second later leaving he and James depressingly alone with Justin and Ms. Everhart.

“Oooh let’s take a picture!” Justin announced, and Tony only had a moment to cram his sunglasses on before he was squished uncomfortably close to the competing tech CEO, Justin grinning something about fromage or brie while Christine asked, “Is this the first time you two have seen each other since the Senate meetings?”

“You mean since he had his contract with the DOD revoked?” Tony wrenched out of Justin’s hold and retreated a step, stopped only by James’s brief welcome touch at the small of his back. “Yeah, this is the first time. Are we done here?”

“No no, now here’s the thing, my contract was only temporarily suspended and they said uh-- they said-- .” Justin laughed again and Tony grimaced irritably over the noise. He already wasn’t doing very well this morning, and Justin’s presence was not helping the issue. “They said once we get a few things figured out and all this hoopla with Stark calms down...”

Justin kept talking but Tony tuned him out. He was already distracted with the Boogie Woogie song on repeat in his head and the soreness between his legs and the way every breath James took seemed over loud because kissing the soldier again was all Tony could think about. He was already mentally weary after crying in the shower even though it hadn’t been bad tears. He was already exhausted because even after a good day, even after dancing and admitting things, Tony hadn’t been able to manage a good nights sleep.

And then first thing today when he’d met James in the lab to attach his new arm, JARVIS had asked him to check a few numbers, to spend a few minutes looking over some data but when Tony had asked if the numbers were necessary, J had sounded damn near human when he hesitated and answered that they simply weren’t worth stressing about.

Another time perhaps, sir. The AI had replied and Tony had brushed it off in favor of smiling into James’s eyes and wishing they’d had time for a slow kiss before Pepper had come rushing into the lab to get them on a plane.

Another time perhaps, but there hadn’t been time for anything Tony had wanted to do this morning and now he was stuck listening to Justin and Christine talk, stuck worrying that he should have checked whatever numbers JARVIS had saved for him, stuck trying not to give into a burble of hysterical laughter because his thighs hurt and he kept thinking about how he’d never ridden anything but a motorcycle and that hadn’t prepared him at all for last nights activities.

Twenty five years of self loathing and repression and now he was singing 40’s songs and wondering if he would be half as sore if he’d ridden Rhodey’s motorcycle a few more times, and god help him that wasn’t a euphemism at all, and that made him want to giggle a little hysterically too.

Tony missed the days of being sharp, of being on top of the moment and the changing dynamics, missed the days when he could react to Justin Hammer the same way Pepper did-- with a cool smile and scathing retort instead of with a building migraine and the feeling of being goddamn trapped--

*beep beep*

“Well, this hadn’t been fun at all.” Tony cut in to their chatter and didn’t bother trying for a smile as he tapped at his watch. “And now I have to go so, let’s never do this again.”

The steady poisoning was compromising his mind, his wit and Tony hated it but on the other hand, the look of shock on both Justin and Christine’s face at his rudeness was intensely satisfying.

Not worth the palladium eating into his bones, though.

He was gone, hurrying off to the bathroom to check his blood and waving off James’s quiet confused, “Tony?” because he wanted James in at least half a dozen ways but he didn’t want James to see the black at his chest and the numbers on the monitor. Tony didn’t want anyone to see those things nor did he want anyone to see just how close he was to a panic attack just from the effort of pretending.

It was hard work being Tony Stark, harder work being the Tony Stark everyone thought he was and Tony was exhausted with it all.

*beep beep*

“I’m going, I’m going.” Tony locked the door to the bathroom and turned the alarm off on his watch, dug the monitor out from his pocket and jammed it into the tip of his finger.

He needed a distraction, a breather, a chance to reset after all the questions and a moment to figure out where his head was before he did or said something that would embarrass Pepper or draw too much attention to he and James-- he wasn’t ready for those tabloid covers yet, no thanks-- or inadvertently encourage Hammer’s particular brand of bullshit.

Yeah, he needed a distraction, maybe he’d slip out the back and walk for a minute, that would be okay. He just needed to get his mind back on track and his heart back to a normal speed and--

44%

Chaos.

Holy shit. That was almost halfway, that was almost halfway, here he was blushing over a round of sex while he was officially halfway dead, what the fuck--what the fuck was wrong with him-- what the fuck--

Panic.

Tony bent over the sink and pushed his head against the mirror, grasped at the cold porcelain with both hands and squeezed till his knuckles went white and his finger nails jammed uncomfortable against the tiles, sucking a too harsh, too loud breath as he struggled for control.

44%. Was this the number J had wanted to warn him about this morning? This was the number not worth stressing over? The one that could wait till later, no no no this couldn’t have waited till later, he was halfway to dead and JARVIS had told him to stress about it later.

“There won’t be a later, J.” Tony couldn’t breathe, his first real panic attack in weeks, throat closing and vision spotting, legs going weak and head spinning. “F--fuck-- fuck---”

He was drowning, sinking, falling to the floor with his heart pounding and chest aching behind the reactor and god could he feel the poison, could he feel it moving slugging in his veins, was a panic attack going to make it worse-- shit shit shit this was so much worse---

“Tony!” The door to the bathroom snicked open then nearly slammed shut, and that didn’t seem right because Tony had locked it, he had locked it, hadn’t he?, aw hell was he really losing his mind?

“Tony.” It was Natalie of all people, skidding across the floor in her heels and dropping down to kneel by his side, turning Tony’s head this way and that and pressing at the dark marks on his neck that he’d only barely managed to hide with some make up this morning. “Damn it. Tony are you okay?”

“No, not okay-- freaking out--” It was right there to tell her why he was freaking out, but Tony grit his teeth and pushed at his chest and wheezed instead, tried for air, for oxygen. “Just need-- need a minute-- need--”

“You’re having an anxiety attack.” Natalie was surprisingly strong, pushing Tony upright against the wall and he only groaned when she held him still with one hand and reached to turn cold water on with the other, wiping cool drops over his forehead. “I’m going to unbutton your shirt so you stop thinking you’re strangling, you’re going to put your hand right here--” she grabbed at his hand and placed it high on her thigh. “--because there isn’t a person alive that can think about panicking when they have the chance to feel me up. Squeeze, please.”

“I--” That was pretty funny, and the fog in Tony’s head cleared just enough to register the words. “Uh-- yeah, you have--you have very nice thighs.”

“I really do.” Natalie undid the top few buttons of Tony’s shirt, and he was too worn out to tell her no, focusing all his concentration on how warm her leg was, warm and solid and she was real which was helpfully grounding and he squeezed hard when she murmured encouragement and shifted forward closer. “And don’t worry, I know Ms. Potts thinks I will be a very expensive sexual harassment suit, but I can promise you groping my thigh to come back from this sort of thing doesn’t count.”

“... thank you.” Tony ground out. “ Don’t know how you got in here but--”

“Don’t worry about that, focus on breathing and clearing your mind.” she shook her head. “Your hand must not be high enough up if you’re still thinking, huh?”

“Didn’t expect you to joke about this sort of thing.” The next breath came easier, the presence of someone real doing far more to bring Tony out of a spiral than his own coping methods usually did. “About… groping.”

“You’d be surprised the things I joke about.” Natalie’s full lips turned up into a quick smile, then pulled down into a frown. “What does 44% mean, Tony?”

“It’s battery life on the arc reactor.” Apparently even compromised, Tony could tell a quick lie, but he screwed his eyes shut when the next breath came with a reminder that it wasn’t really a lie, it was sort of battery life but not life left, it was life used and it wasn’t the reactor that was running out of time, it was him.

“What can I do to help you?” Natalie wanted to know, backing up and making room when Tony tried to stand. “What can I do? Would you like me to get Ms. Potts?”

“God, no.” Tony made it to his feet, wavered and nearly collapsed and Natalie caught him with another show of surprising strength. “No uh-- don’t tell Pepper. Don’t ever tell Pepper. James either.”

And then with a half curious, half almost delirious look towards her, “You are super strong for someone who fits into a size two dress.”

“Sizing me up, Mr. Stark?” Another one of those quick smiles and Tony swallowed back a groan of pain as he straightened and answered, “I’d say yes, but you’re remarkably difficult to get a read on.”

“So I’ve heard.” Natalie waited until he was stable, then stepped away to give him some air. “How can I help?”

“I uh--” Tony put the monitor back in his pocket and stuck his finger in his mouth to get rid of the drop of blood. “I need to get out of here. Out away from every one. Need to breathe.”

“Alright then, let’s get out of here.” Natalie nodded just once, short and decisive. “Where do you want to be?”

Tony’s head still hurt, and he took a moment to drop his face into his hands, to tug his fingers through his hair and almost whimper as spots popped behind his eyes. Damn these panic attacks.

“Mr. Stark?” Natalie prodded gently. “What are you thinking, right now?”

“I’m thinking--” Tony swallowed, tasted the bitter edge of fear on his tongue. “I’m thinking it’s time to check something else off my bucket list.”

“Sure.” she said promptly. “How can I make that happen?”

And Tony held onto his chest, weary and frightened and seeing 44% flash in front of his eyes, and managed a pained smile when he heard engines roar by outside the hotel walls.

“...know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

***************

Back inside the hotel, James was the only person who noticed Natalie re-entering the room. The redhead moved purposefully unobtrusively, drawing every eye with her figure and her clothing choices while simultaneously disappearing into the crowd of equally beautiful women in equally eye catching dresses. It was like she was invisible in a room full of people staring and it tickled uncomfortable at the back of James’s mind that he recognized her for who she was.

Dangerous.

The same moment he realized Natalie returning was the same moment James realized Tony hadn’t ever come back from the bathroom. He hadn’t been losing time much lately, not with Tony always around but it had been a while since James had been this uncomfortable in this crowded of a room and a glance at the clock proved Tony had been gone almost half an hour while James had been cataloguing and re-cataloguing the room, measuring and re-measuring potential threats, reading and re-reading every expression, every movement, every nuance of all the strangers.

Half an hour Tony had been gone and now Natalie was back and staring at him, waiting until James tipped his head in a silent acknowledgment-- I see you, imposter-- before turning and looking pointedly at the closest TV monitor.

James turned around to look just in time to hear Pepper gasp, “Oh no. No no no, what is happening? What is he doing?!”

It was Tony on camera down at the race track, cheerfully announcing something about why he owned a car he’d never driven and how boring it seemed to just sit up stairs and watch when he could be living it. Tony suited up in racing gear and grabbing a helmet and climbing into the car and James whirled around to find Natalie again because she had to know something but the mysterious redhead was as unreadable as ever, stoic and unflinching as she met James’s gaze then turned to pick up her phone and make a call.

“James!” Pepper cried and he snapped to attention. “Go get Happy! Get him now! I need him right away!”

James was gone in a split second, shouldering through the crowd and ignoring the shocked gasps and outraged huffs when he bodily relocated anyone who got in his way. Happy was downstairs having a few drinks with an old acquaintance and it took James one-and-a-half minutes to get down the steps and through the hall to the smoking parlor, it took him no more than forty five seconds to clear his throat and jerk his head for Happy to follow him, just barley a few seconds to explain a rushed, “Tony went down to the track and wants to race and Pepper said to get you.”

“Aw hell.” Happy threw back the rest of his drink and hustled after James, pushing through the outside door to get to the track and the growing crowd of spectators who were whistling and cheering Tony on as he revved the engine a few times. Pepper was up at the balcony screeching for Tony to cut it out and get back upstairs and so help me god if my hair goes gray after this---! And Happy ran an exasperated hand over his face and said, “You know, this isn’t even the dumbest thing Tony’s ever done? I gotta go calm Pep down, you comin’?”

“I--” James planned on going back upstairs because there wasn’t anything he could do here from behind the twelve foot fence and he certainly didn’t want to sit in the bleachers surrounded by drunk, screaming fans.

“I uh--” James planned on going back upstairs but he stopped, narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Nah, I’ll stay down here. Just in case.”

“Sure, sure.” Happy clapped him on the shoulder and James only briefly registered the driver leaving, hollering up to Pepper that he was coming, that she needed to calm down.

James didn’t even notice the people crowding in around him, pressing him closer the fence and pushing up into the bleachers.

The soldier’s full attention was caught by a figure in orange walking just along the track, a man too sloppily groomed to be the professional staff hired for each of the drivers, the work suit ill fitting and hanging stiffly on his frame as if propped up by something underneath. The man chewed a tooth pick, walked idly along the track with no apparent destination in mind and by all accounts, he shouldn’t have stood out at all.

But James felt danger pricking at the base of his spine and focusing his vision laser sharp, his left fist clenched and then unclenched, clenched and his fingers ground together as watched ever step the guy took.

Natalie was dangerous but this stranger was something worse and he was staring right at Tony’s car as it tore away from the starting line with the rest and disappeared around the first corner of the track.

The spectators tracked the race courtesy of helicopter footage broadcast on massive screens, but James kept his eyes on the man in orange. The crowd cheered and whooped as different cars made the hair pin turns and passed each other in near-dangerous maneuvers, but James edged his way up a few steps and then closer to the fence when the stranger jumped down into the pits and flashed a badge that gave him access to the track.

The fans jostled each other in excitement as the first of the cars completed lap one, their engines roaring and wheels skidding around the bends and opening up on the straightaway--

--and it all happened in slow motion.

The man in orange jumped onto the track and walked resolutely through the wildly swerving cars. Fire burned away the ill fitting suit and whips lashed at his hands, lightning rolling up the cords and sparking bright at his chest where a reactor an awful lot like Tony’s sat harnessed and alien against his skin.

--it all happened in slow motion.

First a car sliced neatly in half, the front end separating from the back like paper being torn away, the body sent flying and the driver inside helpless to do anything but pray.

Then the stands rioting, emptying and stampeding as everyone ran for their lives, bumping into James in their haste, screaming as they were trampled, shouting over the noise of alarms over the loud speakers and sirens already on their way to the track to try and save the first driver.

Tony’s car, skidding around the corner and heading right for the maniac. Too fast too stop, too late to swerve and James’s eyes opened wide, his mouth fell open in a roar of anger and disbelief when those whips cracked fire and tore Tony’s vehicle apart.

-- Up on the balcony Pepper screamed and screamed and Happy grabbed her, yanked her from the room and towards the waiting Rolls--

Tony was down, Tony was hurt and most likely trapped and there were still racers barreling down the road, skidding and fishtailing as they tried to avoid the stranger in their path, crashing and flipping and bursting into flames.

Petrol stung James’s nose and petrol meant fire and fire meant explosions and all James could see was the bright fear in Tony’s eyes as those whips snapped and lightning popped--

--and James was up and over the fence before he knew what he was doing, scaling the twelve foot links and vaulting over the top, slamming down into the asphalt hard enough to dent it but not pausing to stop before he was off and running, feet pounding down the concrete faster and faster because the mad man was almost to Tony and there went the whipcord cutting into Tony’s car but Tony had somehow scrambled free and James leapt for him, leapt for Tony and shoved him out of the way a split second before the cord would have caught him and dragged him down.

“James?!” Tony cried but James just shoved him again, again and again off the track and away from the danger and out of the path of the cars that kept right on coming to add to the carnage and the chaos.

One step forward and then two, snap snap snap and the lightning sizzled into the road and James kept pushing Tony behind him, one hand out to stop the onslaught, the other on Tony to keep him moving and it was Tony that saw the dripping petrol and shouted “Roll!” so James jerked him away, threw Tony to the ground and covered him with his body when the world went red hot and blistering, deafening yellow for a few horrible seconds.

Then Happy was there, slamming the car into the stranger and right into a chain link fence, but a chain link fence had give and had flexibility and it wouldn’t stop anything, it wouldn’t stop anything, James’s mind was moving a thousand miles a minute, scenarios and plans and neutralize neutralize neutralize he had to end this now, end it now soldier so he shoved Tony towards the car, yelling for him to get in but Tony was yelling for Pepper to give him a case and Pepper was screaming as Happy tried and failed to run the monster over and finally--

“Get in the goddamn car or I will throw you in the goddamn car!” James ordered and Tony looked like maybe he would listen but then the door separated from its hinge, the car split down the middle when a whip charged back to life and parted the metal like it was nothing, like it was butter, like it was water and no protection at all.

Pepper got Tony whatever the hell the case was and James had only a split second to register the odd tech climbing Tony’s body, only a split second to recognize the red and gold as the original color of his new arm and only a split second to see the near murderous determination in Tony’s eyes before the hiss and crack of another whip sounded in his ear.

He reacted on pure instinct, whirling around with his left arm up and taking the brunt of lightning wrapped around his wrist and clear to his bicep. The electricity surged bright and painful through his body, through James’s nerve endings, singeing his hair and nearly stopping his heart as it burning the shirt sleeve away, burned the leather away and lashed charred marks up the beautiful silver.

And James had a breath where he looked the fucker dead in the eye and growled, bared his teeth and snarled--

--then grabbed onto the lightning whip with his right hand and yanked, let his strength surge and ripped the cord up close, closed his hand into a fist and shattered the maniac’s face with one well placed punch.

He went down like a ton of bricks, out like the proverbial light, the reactor in his chest flickering and spotting before powering down, the whips losing their glow and falling limp.

James raised his foot to stomp on his face, thought for a moment about just reaching down and ripping the heart right out of his chest, but metallic fingers closed tight around his arm and a voice came from deep within a robot suddenly standing at James’s side.

“It’s alright.” the robot intoned, and James blinked at it unsteadily. “James, it’s alright.”

The face plate snapped open and James startled when Tony was looking back at him. “I’d say I’ll take it from here, but honestly you did all the hard stuff. Guess I’ll just talk to the press and monitor the clean up and quietly swoon about being rescued by a knight in at least partly shiny armor.”

“...Tony!?”

In the background somewhere Pepper was screeching about how her body physically couldn’t handle the stress of being CEO, how Tony had tricked her into this terrible job and was it too much to ask to just have a vacation and Tony cracked a smile, nudged James gently gently with a robotic elbow. “I haven’t had a vacation in two years, and she’s complaining? This was a full blown assassination attempt and she gets to walk away with slightly frizzed out hair. Definitely over reacting.”

“Tony.” James muttered. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Yeah.” Tony kicked idly at the still limp form on the road, then looked up and around at the chaos surrounding them. “You and I uh-- we should probably talk about a few things.”

*****************

“Did you know Stark was dying?”

“I was aware something was wrong, can you get away and give me a full report?”

“Not for a while, and to be honest I’m not even sure what I saw.”

“Okay stand by, I might have something that can help. Pretty sure he’s poisoning himself and we’ve got a little something that should slow the process.”

“Poisoning himself. Intentionally?”

“Not real sure. It’s not unlike a Stark to have a death wish, but he seems more the type to go out in a blaze of glory instead of quietly suffering.”

“Hm. “Where are we on the other situation?”

“Radio silence until we are absolutely sure it is the same person and absolutely sure he won’t be a danger.”

“Based on what I saw today on the race track, I think it’s safe to say all his instincts and skills are still present and fully functional.”

“Does he appear aware of why he reacted that way?”

“I’m still not sure. I almost think he was as surprised as the rest of us.”

“Well find out quick. He may be a ghost, but if he’s going to be dangerous, I’ve still got ways to bust ‘em.”

“Yes sir.”

“And be careful, Romanov. He put a bullet through you once, I doubt he’d hesitate to do it again.”

“Noted.”

*****************

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*****************

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#ncts fics #winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #ivan vanko #pepper potts #happy hogan #natasha romanov

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leupagus · 4 years

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My Stationery Box, or: The Douche Chest, or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Being A Terrible Parody Of Myself

So I really love to write letters, and have since i was a kid — when i cleaned out my grandparents’ house I found a few I’d written in grade school, and my parents’ files are chocablock full of the weird collage type things I sent to them in college.

I’ve also been a huge insufferable fucking snob about stationery since way too young (yes I did have a fountain pen phase, no it did not go well) and have been collecting fancy paper and cute cards and assorted weird writing paraphernalia forever. Up until recently, things were just kind of haphazardly stuffed in various drawers and shelves and I could never actually find any said fancy shit when I wanted it; but a couple of months ago I discovered an adorable little chest of my late mom’s that had previously housed, I think, her knitting and has mostly just been collecting dust since. And voila: The Douche Chest was born:

(Pictured with my elderly laptop and coffee with my coffee warmer, which I STRONGLY ENCOURAGE everyone to buy one day when we’re not under worldwide quarantine, seriously it will change your life.)

Keep Reading for some top tier stationerdery

First off, the stuff that helps me write! I still use my family address book, which was purchased sometime in the early 80s and has the name and address of everyone my parents ever cared enough about to want their name and address, which is actually not that many people. I keep it updated and have added a few people, but mostly rely on my phone’s address book. Mostly I like it because it’s got a lot of my mom’s handwriting.

My planner, which has a whole correspondence section where I keep a record of who I write to regularly, when I write to them, and what kind of stationery they usually get (because there are different types and you don’t want to give a correspondence an inconsistent letter-reading experience! Yes I know, I can’t believe I’m like this either) indicated by the m, s, x, l, b notations. That will be relevant later. Also yes the planner is where I scribble down both story ideas and my gratitude journal. This is what I’m saying in re: yikes.

At my own house, I have a whole huge box of letters I’ve gotten over the years, mostly organized by sender and date. Since I’m at my aunt’s house for quarantine, my correspondence is all being kept in my dad’s old... I dunno what to call it, basically it’s a trapper-keeper type thing that I literally never saw him go to work without. (A running theme of this tour is that a whole lot of this stuff is inherited from/given to me by my parents and grandparents.) Inside is also various labels that have come in handy when addressing packages etc, as well as our local neighborhood directory.

Next up is my pen bag, which is — I mean, it has my pens. I prefer writing with a black .5 tip rollerball type pen, and by “prefer” I mean “I cannot abide writing letters with anything else and will go to Staples and buy a new box rather than use a ballpoint pen except obv not right now, which makes the bag real important for keeping track of all my special pens.” Also pictured: my grandpa’s ancient letter opener that I’m pretty sure he stabbed multiple people with, and my blue Le Pen which I use to annotate my letters when I’m reading them through before sending. I KNOW.

This is my assorted letter-writing stuff storage box (no we’re not even at the cards yet this is TERRIBLE); please note that I sort of jerryrigged this box together myself, which will be another running theme of this tour. Glue, roller whiteout thingies, washi tape (which I don’t really use but people keep sending me?) post-its and my address stamp because no matter what I do, the fuckin’ Audubon Society refuses to send me a single donation request with cute stickers showing my address even though they’ve sent my deceased dad like three THIS YEAR. Anyway. Also please note the incredibly awesome initial stamp thing — I came up with the rough design in college and use it in place of my name a lot, but I went to leoniebunch and they transformed it into this super professional and lovely design that I want to use for the rest of my life. Not pictured: the fucking wax seal I also had made with that design, because yes, I’m like this.

WE’RE STILL NOT DONE WITH THE PARAPHERNALIA: here’s the other misc. stuff that I use on the regular. Cup with sponge because we’re not really licking envelopes these days: tons of weird stickers that I’ve collected, YET MORE PENS, including rainbow ones because one of these days I’m going to write to one of my friends with alternating rainbow colors and they’ll have to murder me. Also pictured: the letter opener which I forgot to put back in the pen bag, as well as my dog’s nail clippers and brush because that’s a handy place to keep them. Also also pictured: my dog, who does not help in any way with letter writing.

OKAY FINALLY ONTO THE STATIONERY, Jesus just writing this all out is making me both proud and ashamed.

I’m sure you noticed in the first pic how everything is meticulously, not to say monomaniacally, labeled. Some stuff might require a little bit of explanation; some stuff is pretty wysiwyg though. For example, BEAR CARDS, which:

(These are sent exclusively to my nephews, who go absolutely apeshit over them every time. Come to think of it, I have a LOT of cards/letter stock/etc that is just for one person or one set of people, which maybe I should talk to my therapist about.)

PUN CARDS are likewise exactly what you think they are; they’re the most recent addition to my hoard, having found them at Powells when I went to Portland in February. They are extremely My Kind Of Thing.

Then you’ve got things like BIRTHDAY CARDS, THANKS, POSTCARDS which like — guess what:

(Please note that of these birthday cards, all but two were actually inherited from my grandmother who passed away in 1986. See if you can guess which two are my purchases.) (Also I’m running out of thank-you cards but to be fair I am rarely grateful so this should last me another few years at least.) (Also shit, I didn’t take a picture of the postcards I don’t think? Whatever, they’re postcards that I’ve either inherited from my parents or collected over the years. There’s also a very odd collection of wolf-themed cards that SOMEONE in my family collected, and that I have been using exclusively for allighater because she’s the only one who could ever appreciate them enough.)

Then there’s the BLANK CARDS and BLANK AND WRITTEN CARDS WITH/WITHOUT ENVELOPES, because sometimes I just need to know what I’m getting into before opening the boxes. I’d say a good 50% of these were inherited from my folks, with the cutsier ones being my own purchases. The cards that these boxes originally contained are looooooooong since used up but they’re nice boxes and that meme about adulthood being an endless debate over whether or not you should keep a box because it’s a really good box is accurate as all hell.

(There are a lot of cards in here that I bought when I was like, in college — those square ones, for example, were purchased at Faces in Northampton when I was in college and I’m probably never going to actually send them which is kind of ridiculous but see: this entire post.)

And finally, the actual letter-letter stationery! Which I also have an embarrassing amount of! First up is what’s labelled MADOC TREE CARD/LETTER because I honestly had no idea how else to describe it; it was inherited from my grandma who everyone called MaDoc (on account of her being both a ma and a doctor, go figure) and it’s really lovely. I doubt it’s the original intention, but I like to unfold the paper and use both sides of it, because I always have a lot to say. These are used only for family members on MaDoc’s side, and of those, only the ones I really like, which accounts for there still being a lot left.

Then there’s the X-LARGE paper, which isn’t actually that large — it’s just normal computer-sized — but in context is the biggest stuff I’ve got. All of this paper is from my mom, who loved using cute themed paper, and I use this stuff mostly for the friends of hers I keep in touch with (which is actually kind of a lot).

Then there’s the letterhead I use for — okay, so like, we know by now that I’m deeply weird, but this is probably just DEEPLY WEIRD, but whatever, you came this far. So I found a metric shitton of 6 3/4 envelopes in amongst my parents’ office supplies — I have literally zero idea why they had about 5 100-count boxes of these envelopes but I’m one of those people who can never, ever throw shit out, so! I gathered together all the letterhead that they’d also collected over the years from the various universities and hospitals they worked at, cut said letterhead down so that it a) didn’t have University of Tacoma or whatever still on it and b) perfectly fit a 6 3/4 envelope if folded three times. The resulting shape is a little... odd, I’ll admit, but it pleases me greatly and that’s the important thing. In fact this has been my go-to correspondence choice for a couple of months now.

(Also pictured: the cover for this hinky-ass box I made out of a Beekman 1802 box from when we went to their store for their Rose Apothecary popup shop. Zero regrets. Not pictured: the really cute pad of paper I also use for these envelopes that’s a more normal size and shape because where’s the fun in showing you normal stuff?)

And finally, my pride and joy, my Crane Stationery, some of which I have had since I was in high school and my mom bought me a box of it for my birthday (I told you, running theme). It comes in small, medium, and big; yes, I absolutely have rules as to who gets what size of these, too. The medium box kind of fell apart a few years ago so I cobbled a new one together; Crane stationery is notable for not being as exciting as that cover might imply. I’m also kind of pleased that I still have the airmail stationery that I got in college that apparently isn’t sold anymore, which I find baffling because what the fuck is the point of international correspondence if you don’t have to use special stationery? Anyway:

(In re: the lined sheets — I actually have them for every size, because I loathe lined paper but also loathe writing crooked, hence these guides that I put under each sheet as I write. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )

So that’s the complete guided tour! If you aspire to have a collection as viscerally unnerving as mine, feel free to send any questions my way. You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

#'you're welcome/I'm sorry' is ALSO a running theme #anyway a whole three people on twitter wanted this so tadaaaa #stationery station

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cherryblossomflowers · 4 years

Text

An Old Life Meets A New (Pt19)

Don’t forget, 2 chapters are being posted today to celebrate 100 followers!

Pairing: Jensen x Daughter, Danneel x Stepdaughter, Jared x Niece

Warnings: Slight Cussing, Angst, Fluff, Death Mentioned, Car Accident Mentioned, Anxiety/Depression, Arguing, Panic Attacks, Yelling, Fighting

Summary: After the recent death of her mother, Harper must adjust to her new life in the Ackles home, this includes a new stepmother, half-siblings, and reconnecting with her father.

A/N: Harper is about to make her room her own. No hate on Danneel or Jensen please. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

***ASK OPEN***

*LET ME KNOW IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE TAGGED*

*NEW CHAPTER EVERYDAY AT 3PM CST*

An Old Life Meets A New Masterlist

Chapter 19

With lunch over, Jared and Gen decided to take the kids and head out. Harper gave Jared a big hug before he left, sad to see him go but happy to know he was next door if she needed him. She also hugged Gen and the kids as they walked out the door. Tom even asked her to come over to play if she wanted.

After the Padalecki's had left, Danneel said she would clean up from lunch while Jensen cleaned the living room from the kids. JJ, Arrow, and Zeppelin went upstairs to play while Harper excused herself to go and finish painting her bedroom.

She walked in and immediately fell in love with the midnight blue. It felt like the night sky, so dark and open.

Spotting the can of white paint in the corner of the room, Harper got to work. She opened the can, grabbed a clean paintbrush, and dipped it in the can. She held up the brush, letting it drip on the tarp before she swung forward quickly, letting splatters of paint hit the wall.

Harper continued this until the entire bedroom was covered in white splatter paint. After setting the paintbrush down, she took a step back to look at her work.

It was so different, and definitely expressed who Harper was. Satisfied with her work, she walked back out of her room towards the living room.

She saw Jensen and Danneel on the couch, having a conversation. Danneel noticed her walking up and quickly shushed Jensen.

Jensen turned around and gave Harper a small smile, "Well? Is it done?"

Harper smiled gleefully and nodded, "Yeah, I was wondering if I could get help bringing my furniture back in."

Jensen stood up, "Sure, let's get started."

Jensen and Harper spent the rest of the afternoon moving Harper's stuff back to her bedroom. While Jensen got most of the heavier things like her bed frame, dresser, and desk, Harper was busy hanging her new paintings and pictures.

She directed Jensen where she wanted everything, but that was basically the only talking that happened between the two. Jensen didn't seem to want to give Harper the time of day, and Harper was the same.

About an hour later, Harper's furniture was put back to her liking, her paintings were hung up on the wall, the big letters were in the hallway above her door, and she was finishing her hanging star lights along the ceiling.

Jensen had finished hanging her new curtains when he turned to her, "I think you can handle the rest, right?"

Harper nodded, "I think I'm more than capable of making my bed."

Jensen chuckled, "I'd hope so," he walked towards her door, "Just bring the cans of paint and stuff to the kitchen when you're finished. I'll put them in the garage later."

He walked out the door without another word. Harper felt tense. She didn't understand why Jensen was acting so strange. This wasn't like him. Whatever it was Jared and him talked about earlier must've really triggered something.

Harper finished hanging the last of the lights and jumped down from her bed. She took a few steps back and admired her work. Everything was coming together nicely.

She grabbed the bedding set and pillows, and started finishing her bed. She had always loved having tons of pillows on her bed, mainly for comfort but also for making pillow forts during storms.

Once her bed was made and she was satisfied, she eyed the cans of paint next to the door. The bedroom was almost perfect. It just needed one last touch.

She grabbed a paint roller and the white paint can. The wall behind her bed was still blank, and she left it that way on purpose. Harper put paint on the roller, climbed back on her bed, and started to paint white over the midnight blue.

She painted until there was a large white oval above her bed that faded into the midnight blue. She climbed down from her bed, gathered the paint cans and supplies, leaving the tarp behind, and walked out of her room.

Harper walked into the kitchen and set the supplies and cans on the ground. Jensen stood from the couch and walked up to her. He grabbed the two paint cans without a word and walked away.

Harper walked quickly over to the couch where Danneel was sitting, "Hey, Dee. Can I ask for a favor?"

Danneel smiled, "Sure, anything."

"Do you have like different color paints? They can be generic colors, that's okay. But if you have anything broader that would be awesome," said Harper quietly.

Danneel sat and thought for a moment before a light bulb went off in her head, "Upstairs near the kids' rooms is a crafting room. Check there. Take what you need."

Harper walked over and hugged her, "Thank you!" She quickly ran out of the room and towards her bedroom where the staircase was.

She climbed the stairs and walked past the kids' bedrooms to a closed door. When she opened the door, she felt like she was in paradise.

There was so much stuff in this room! Colored paper, pencils, clay, markers, desks covered in finger paint. The walls were splattered with different colors of paint, similar to the white in her bedroom, and also had artwork from the kids pinned up.

Harper saw a shelf across the room with a can filled with paintbrushes and thought to start there. She walked over and took the brushes down. Looking through them she knew they could be put to good use.

She looked around a bit more until her eyes fell on a box in the corner. She walked over and discovered the box was filled to the top with paint tubes of all different colors.

The smile on her face could say it all. Harper was about to do something she had always wanted to do, with or without approval from anybody. Especially her father.

She took the box and the can of brushes, and quickly left the room. She rushed down the stairs and back into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Harper set the box and can next to her bed and reached for the tarp. She covered the top of her bed with the tarp and stared at the white oval.

She mentally pictured something as she continued to look at the oval before she smiled and jumped down from the bed, walking over to her desk. She opened a drawer and found a regular pencil.

Harper jumped back to her bed and allowed the pencil lead to work its magic.

Though it's been a few days since Harper was in New York, she could still remember how Times Square looked. And lucky for her, that memory of each building down to the last detail was still in her mind.

And that is exactly what she has outlined with her pencil on the wall. It was a light outline, but it'll guide her as she paints it.

She jumped down from her bed and walked over to the box of paints. She looked through it, glancing at the wall then back to the box, until she got what she wanted. Picking up the paint and a brush, she jumped back on to her bed, and got to work.

---------------------------------------

Masterlist

My Cherry Blossoms

@mlovesstories @chessurkait @adorable-minibot @desiredposion @idksupernatural @thevelvetseries @spnfamily-j2 @let-me-luve-you @obsessedwithfandomsx @wecantgiggleitsafandom

@mangueweaschester @unicornmadness2444 @emery--nicole--morrison @starchildwild

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monochromemedic · 3 years

Text

No I will not proof read my own shit, I hate my own reading. also im embaressed this is self ship shit and even cheesier then my drawings

My thumbs dragged along Eel’s cheeks, a low hum leaving my chest in content. “You’re handsome, you know that right? A real stunner.” “I’ve been told one or twice, and about a thousand times from you alone.” He gave a small crooked smile, pulling me higher on his chest. “Well I just wanted you to know. Is it so wrong for me to tell you, you look good?” I frowned, my finger sinking unnaturally into the sharp outline of his cheekbone. “You know this isn’t my natural face right? I basically had plastic surgery, except way less fun and more mentally scarring. I could have looked like a regular James Dean before this... or maybe even uglier!” I watched as his face began to twist and churn slowly, his smile shifting to a ghoulish grin as his features floated aimlessly about. With a small playful whine I played his game, pushing his body parts back into place. “I always loved this game in Mario Party~” Plas teased, cocking a brow as I shove his mouth to the side of his head. “Too bad I was never any good at it. This is where this goes right? Right here, by the ear Mr. Picasso?” I poked back, face lulling back to a sincere gaze. “I bet you looked nice even then-” “You’d be wrong. I was one ugly mofo. My teeth were all messed up and my nose was basically just for decoration at that point. You mean to tell me you never went to your local police station and picked up those comically large wanted posters?” “I think you’re just making it worse then it actually was. And no, unlike you I wasn’t obsessed with whether they got my good side in my mugshot.” “You should be, they use them for everything and plaster them on the tvs, the-” “Eel.” “What? It’s true. I may have been an ugly sonuvabitch but I knew how to work an angle.” He grumbled, dropping the hand he was preparing to list all the places he’d been on. “Well if you were that ugly then maybe you should show me.” Plas’s face dropped, brows furrowing in confusion. “Ah...what?” “Well I’m obviously not getting how grotesquely messed up you looked, wouldn’t it be easier to just show me instead of telling me?” I felt his body shift uncomfortably from under me, blue eyes darting to look at some dark corner of the room. “Well I kinda left that life behind me, don’t think it’s worth visiting even if it was for proving a point.” The air seemed to grow thick and heavy around him, a distant look of memories flooding his face. Darker times, a past he longed to separate himself from. I brushed my palm against the side of his neck, pulling his attention back. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, I’m sorry Pat.” “You didn’t know. Besides that guy is as good as dead... basically.” I laid my head against his shoulder, wrapping my arms around any place they could find a hold. What was I thinking, asking him to do that? Of course he wouldn’t want to do that, if he did he wouldn’t try to wear that other face around like his old one never existed. Was he upset? Angry? My grip on him tightened, my face burrowing deeper into his shirt. The comforting pressure of his hand on the small of my back made my mind settle, my face turning to press a single kiss against his neck. His fingers tapped rhythmically, his head twisting away as if he was battling an idea. God he was still mad wasn’t he? I messed up big. I lifted my head to apologize again only to be met with a surprise. Plas’s face had changed. A strong square jaw line, sharp tired eyes and a nose that looked as if it was continually smashed at the exact same point over and over again. He cocked his towards me, lips parting to show chipped, gapped teeth favoriting one side of his mouth. “Ah well, so much for debating...” He muttered, a loud sigh leaving him. “Was this you? Eel?” I asked, hand reaching to rest against his new face. With a small pause he leaned into my palm, eyes not daring to make contact with mine. “This was Eel O’Brian. Not me.” “I know, I know.” I comforted, taking in the lines and creases of his face. He wasn’t bad looking, but certainly looked like he’d been through hell and back. He looked threatening, looked exactly like the kinda goon that would backstab you and leave you dying in the gutter. But he looked tired, ashamed. Maybe it was just Plas but it felt like there was something deeper, like even back then he wasn’t fully proud of what he did, and it came through visibly. “Well, whoever this ‘Eel’ guy was, I have to admit he’s got a certain charm under all that ugly.” The felon cracked the smallest of smiles, lips brushing against my wrists in a gentle attempt of a kiss. “It’s down there. Way, way, way deep under the ugly.” “Maybe not that deep. I think that Eel guy should give himself a bit more credit-” “Pretty sure that Eel guy thought he was hot shit back then.” He interrupted causing me to laugh as another kiss was pressed to my wrist, setting my heart a flutter. “Oh did he now?” “I mean... Allegedly. I wouldn’t know. But I heard he was too big for his britches despite his dentist HATING him. I think he was just ugly in a few other ways.” “Now that I can agree with. Can I maybe, get a kiss from Mr. O’Brian?” Eel leaned his head forward, only a few inches away from my own. “I suppose I could try to convince him...” He chuckled, cutting himself off with a kiss.

#self ship: plas #self ship

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 69: Making Short-Distance Calls

Keith and Lance make some calls back to the Imperial Compound.

Also, because I’m incredibly mature... Nice

First Previous Next

“Hey.” Keith peeks around the bedroom entryway to the main room, where Lance is stretched out on the floor in just a pair of pants, reading on his datapad. “Could you go take care of the elk and make breakfast? And take a little while? I need to speak to my mother.”

“Is everything okay? Are you alright?” The Altean rises to his feet, brushing dust off his pants.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” Keith manages a smile for his concerned mate. The Altean’s frown only deepens, clearly not convinced. “I just… want some privacy, okay?”

“Sure, as long as you’re alright.” Lance sets a tablet aside, kisses his cheek, puts BleepBloop on his shoulder, dances outside to play with Bruna and the bull elk.

Summoning his courage, he settles into his father’s old chair at the small work table, a breeze teasing his loose hair. He turns his gaze briefly through the glassless window into the open clearing, where Lance is petting Bruna, scales, dark skin gleaming in the sun.

He takes a deep breath. He makes his choice. He calls his mother.

“Hey, sweetheart! I tried calling you last quintant.” Krolia smiles. “Did you have a nice time with Lance?”

“Actually, that’s what I need to talk to you about,” Keith whispers. That hurt he’d felt simmers to the surface again.

Krolia’s brow creases with worry. “Is everything alright?”

“Well… No. It’s not.” Keith squares his shoulders, drawing on what he’s learned from his time on Altea. He allows himself to be a prince. “I saw how you looked at Lance at the Sanctorium. I don’t appreciate it in the least.”

“I see.” Krolia lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should talk to him. He recommended we keep it between ourselves, for your sake.”

“Lance isn't the problem!” Keith snaps. “You’re the only one who has a problem.”

Krolia averts her gaze. “You’re right. He bears me no ill will.”

“We’re starting a family,” Keith states. “In a movement.”

“Your trust in him-” Krolia begins, warning clear in her voice.

“Is more than deserved. More than earned… Lance has done nothing but defend me against his people and protect me, even despite immense pressure from his father, who expected him to rape me, pushing and pushing and pushing us for phoebs.

“He cannot have you around him if you pose a risk to his reputation. He deserves the respect of his people. He deserves the respect of his kits. What happened at the Sanctorium cannot happen. Ever.” He sighs, ears wilting just a bit. “I need you to actually try, Mom. Not passively, to appease me. I need you to actually try, so that you can be a part of my kits’ lives.”

Krolia stares at her son, quite suddenly disturbed. “King Alfor expected him to-”

“Yes. but you never thought of that, did you? You assumed that Lance just didn’t feel like mating with me because I was too young! You didn't think at all about what that cost him! Or me, for that matter!”

“You didn’t-”

“Why would I?! You think that’s what I wanted to tell you about when I finally got to see you again? That I was sexually abused by my mate’s father? No! I wanted to tell you about how happy Lance makes me, and how important he is to us all, and about the work that I’m doing! Because I am happy, and I wanted to share that with you!" Keith takes a moment, composes himself.

“Regardless, we can’t have anybody undermining his influence. Especially not now, when we’re about to start enacting major changes on Altea. You're the Imperial Advisor. You have power here. Not only could your lack of respect lessen our influence, but it could put us in actual danger. If we’re going to have kits, I cannot allow that. Ever.”

Krolia’s staring at her son, visibly distressed. Keith hates it, hates the look on her face thinking of what he’s experienced at the hand of King Alfor. He hates that he made her feel that, that he’s broken her heart yet again. But she needs to know exactly what kind of person Lance is, and exactly what kind of person he himself has grown into.

“Forgive me, Keith. I didn’t know- I should have given the boy a better chance, like I said I would.”

“Yes, you should have. But you didn’t. And now, here we are, with an ultimatum. Learn to behave, or you can’t see my kits. Or me.” Keith sets his hands down on the table. “I’d better go. I gave Lance a couple chores to do, so he’s probably forgotten all about them and fed himself to something… I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, kitten. I’ll see you soon. I’ve gathered some things you might need for your season. I’d best talk to Lance, too.”

“Thace will talk to him. He’s a physician.”

Krolia’s ears droop. “Okay. ‘Bye, kitten.”

“‘Bye.” After he’s hung up, Keith rests his head on the edge of the table, lets out a chirp. He isn’t surprised. He’s distressed enough. He feels worse when Lance comes running in.

“What was that? Was that you?”

“Yeah…” Keith sits back up. “I spoke to my mother. About how she treats you.”

“Civilly? I mean, she hates my guts and wants to rip them out through my throat, but...”

“She’s not civil when you’re not looking.”

“Ah. That’s problematic.”

“I know. I’ve taken care of it, but it really sucks.” Keith’s ears are drooped, practically limp on either side of his head. “She has power and a station. We don’t need people to see us all butting heads.”

“I’m sorry, beloved.” Lance rubs the base of his ear, like he used to do before, when Keith had trouble sleeping.

“Not your fault… It just sucks.” Keith leans into that old comfort, letting his chemistry take over as soothing hormones travel through his system. “What else do we have to do today?”

“It can wait-”

“No. We have stuff to do. What’s next?”

“Calling Adam and Shiro. They’ve been collaborating.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Keith gives a ghost of a smile.

“Collaborating only in the professional sense, I believe. Adam is… We’ll say extremely cautious. Come here.” Lance guides him to his feet, gives him a hug. “Let’s do the next one outside. It’s nice and warm out. I know you like the sun.”

Keith nods, humming his assent into the crook of Lance’s neck. He lets his mate guide them outside into a patch of sunlight. BleepBloop parks himself in Keith's lap for pets.

Adam’s walking when he answers the call. “Your majesties! What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just wanted an update on your work. We haven’t seen you hardly at all since we arrived.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” Adam remarks, smirking as he settles on a couch next to Shiro. The large Galra immediately puts an arm around him. “As I understand it, you're finally getting your house in order. Tell me, do you plan to expand said house?”

“Why do we keep you?” Keith mumbles, rolling his eyes, ears tipping back with the motion.

“Because you’d be dead without me. Quite literally.”

“Oh, yeah. How has our work been coming along?”

“We’re handling it,” Adam confirms, leaning into Shiro’s side a little more. “Now, as I understand it, you have not been invited to join the Imperial family for dinner?”

“Not at all,” Lance confirms.

Adam and Shiro glance at each other, visibly troubled. Shiro frowns. “How unusual. That is the tradition. In ancient days, when a chief of another tribe visited, they were immediately invited to dine with that tribe’s chief and their family. It could just be because they know your concerns are elsewhere, but the invitation should still have been extended..."

“I wonder if Lotor and Allura could tell us anything,” Adam muses. “Or Pidge. They’ve all been running around together. In the meantime, we have found something that might interest you. Do you remember that shipment with the weight discrepancy?”

“I don’t,” Keith grumbles as Lance nods. He fixes his mate with an annoyed gaze. More secrets. He really will strangle this idiot.

“Seriously, Lance? You didn’t tell him?” Adam shakes his head. “Nevermind. We’ve discovered that it’s happened multiple times, over the last two decaphoebs. Someone is smuggling on the regular, and someone else is making sure it’s not discovered. These records are not flagged. They’ve been approved and archived, but have no name attached to inspection. The ships hail from Ariel, Pollux, Feyiv, Senfama, and Marchanda. Twenty-three in total.”

“So these are not our assassins,” Lance clarifies.

“Well, they certainly aren’t all your assassins,” Adam agrees.

“Sending assassins to Daibazaal and then on to Altea is stupid,” Keith says, still sulking. “It would only make it easier to trace the client. Unless the client wasn’t Galra at all.”

“Yes. But now we have multiple shipments, which suggests something else entirely. Anyway, we’re still looking into it. We’ll let you know if we find anything. Otherwise, assume no news is no news.”

“Understood. Thank you, Adam. Shiro.” Lance smiles. “Keep up the good work.”

“Always, your Majesties.” Adam bows his head, ends the call. Brief, but informative.

The ensuing silence falls heavy.

“Beloved?” Lance murmurs.

Keith’s leaning away from Lance, not looking at him. “This is becoming a habit, Lance,” he warns. “I don’t appreciate it.”

“I… I didn’t realize.” Lance pales, color washing from skin and scales. “You’re right. It is becoming a habit.”

Why didn’t you tell me? Why are you keeping secrets?!” The tone and loudness of Keith's voice send BleepBloop running from his lap, screeching with irritation from a nearby tree.

“I didn’t want to trouble you.” Lance studies his hands in his lap, guilty.

“Why do you think I mated with you or started a relationship with you at all?!” Keith’s on his feet now, ready to give a right and proper scolding. “I want to be troubled! I want to be there, and help you, and share your burdens! They’re my burdens, too! I don’t have secrets from you! Don’t you dare keep secrets from me! Ever!” Keith sighs, shoulders drooping, anger turning to something softer. “No more. Please.”

“No more. I promise. I’m sorry.” Lance tugs on his hand, pulling Keith back down next to him. “I actually don’t know how to do this very well. I know how to get along with you, and look after you, but I don’t really know relationships that well... I just want you to be happy.”

“Lance, I’d rather know what’s going on around me and be absolutely fucking miserable than wander around happy and ignorant. I mean, not telling me about my mother not liking you is one thing, not telling me about your deal with Alfor is another, but this? Lance, someone tried to murder us! In our sleep! Don’t I deserve to know about that?”

“Yes… You do. I’m sorry.”

At Lance’s miserable face, Keith softens a little. “I want to be with you in everything, Lance. Even the stuff that hurts. Especially the stuff that hurts.”

“I understand… I’m sorry, Keith.”

“You’re forgiven.” Keith kisses his mate’s cheek, right over his dulled scales. “I trust your intentions. Promise we’ll work on it? I'll help.”

“I promise,” Lance whispers, voice fervent and strained.

“My good man.” Keith smiles, presses a gentle kiss to Lance’s lips. “We should call Lotor.”

“Okay.”

Keith leans against Lance, talking over the comms device, calling his cousin. The half-Galra is glistening, shirtless, a loose bit of silvery hair clinging to his forehead.

“Oh, thank the gods! An excuse!” The prince wipes his face with a rag. “I think Kolivan was actually trying to kill me!”

“More like trying to save you from sympathy weight,” the Galra grunts, his sons snickering behind him.

“Pfft. I am a prime specimen. I don’t gain sympathy weight. Or any kind of weight, for that matter.” Lotor grins at his coach. “Go beat up my generals for a bit so I can speak to my cousin and brother.”

Kolivan bows, fist over his breast, his sons doing the same on either side. Once they’re gone, Lotor turns back to his comms unit. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Your medical records. I need them,” Keith states, not bothering with niceties.

Lotor frowns. “My mother said she gave them to you.”

Lance shakes his head. “She refused us. Why would she lie to you?”

“I don’t know… Well, perhaps my medical records will tell us something.” The prince shrugs, good-natured and mischievous. Ancients help Allura with their children, because clearly, Lotor is going to be no help at all. “Ah, Mother. I love her dearly, but… Science isn’t a warm discipline, if you know what I mean.”

“I… have not idea what that means,” Keith mumbles.

“It means she’s emotionally distant and more likely to use logic than kindness,” Lance summarizes.

“Pretty much.�� Lotor drinks from a flask, leaning against an old wall in the shade. “Have you learned anything of our assassins?”

“Nothing for certain. But there have been several incoming cargo ships that did not pass inventory inspection, but were approved anyway. No signature from the inspector. They appear to be coming from five planets in Galra territory.”

“So these might not be our assassins, or even the client, but it is a problem. Which planets?”

“Ariel, Pollux, Feyiv, Senfama, and Marchanda,” Keith recites.

“Ariel is a mining planet, populated. Pollux is a verdant planet, with farming communities, self-sustaining. Feyiv is polar, but its surface harbors organic materials used in some of our biomechanics. Senfama is lush and green, a rich source of medicines. It is also where we tested our Zaiforge prototypes. Marchanda is a mining planet like Ariel, but devoid of life.”

Keith wonders briefly if his uncle knows all of this. He doubts it. he has his son to know it for him.

“This is definitely problematic,” Lotor decides. “I’ll discuss with Shiro and Adam, see if I can be of assistance. I will keep you apprised, and I will ensure that your delightful little associate gets hold of my records for you.”

“Many thanks, dear brother.” Lance smiles. “And do tell Pidge I said hello. I hope that our run-in with the kronil didn’t scare them too badly.”

“On the contrary. We carried it home and dissected it together. Allura nearly gutted us for it.” Lotor chuckles. “I’ll take my leave of you. Good day!”

“See you!” Keith waves his cousin out of the call, throws himself back with a groan.

“Ready to be done?”

“ So ready.” Keith sighs, snuggling in against Lance’s chest to listen to his heartbeat. “I know we only called three people, but I am exhausted. There was so much.”

“I know. We haven’t even called Thace and Hunk, yet.”

“Hm. I think we should talk to Alfor too. About plans in case Altea is attacked.”

“Do you think it likely?” Lance strokes Keith’s hair, enjoying the loose strands between his fingers.

“I don’t know. But Altea wants peace. My people want peace. If some faction is out there preparing to rebel and bring chaos, then I want to be able to stop them.” Keith closes his eyes. “I haven't lived at the compound or my village very long, but I’ve seen awful things, Lance. The things nobody wants to talk about. Bearers, summoned to do their service onlu quintants after giving birth. Sires, leaving pregnant mates behind, never knowing their kits… Kits always get caught in the middle. They’re the collateral, and then later, the next generation of fodder.”

“You’re not fodder, Keith.”

“I’ll gladly be fodder, if it means my kits won’t have to be.”

Lance is quiet for a moment, then- “Me too. But we can’t just go jumping into battles. We have our own responsibilities: to live, and build a better world.”

“Power and influence?”

“Power and influence. Rest assured, though. If it comes time to raise arms for us, I will. For Daibazaal and Altea.”

“For me, and you,” Keith whispers. “And everything we have between us.”

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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anavakarian · 4 years

Text

Day 26: past

Ok, I have to admit that this is a very long blurt out, but I just want to see more actual conversations between these two!

Read it on AO3

It was one of those evenings, lazy, idle, early Spring, that brings scents of newborn flowers and sunlight. And especially there, in the middle of the forest, at the Warehouse.

The rising temperatures had finally dried up the accumulated mud after the heavy winter snow and crescent light gave infinite brushstrokes of a renovated green palette. The vast majority of sprouts had reawakened already, green stems poking out everywhere, and new buds awoke back to life on the trees. But the first flowers to grow were, like always, daffodils: they had already covered the field surrounding the Warehouse with a wild layer of fluorescent yellow.

But despite the obvious changes in temperature and climate, the weather had decided to give the last breath of its bad old habits, unleashing the most unwelcomed storm that weekend. Meaning that my plan to go to the shore with Verda and his family had been postponed, to my disappointment. But I completely understood that the lightning, thunder and the water pouring from the clouds was not the perfect frame to visit and play by the seaside with two little girls.

To top it, all my attempts of going back to my house had been frustrated by a bunch of concerned vampires that seemed to know beforehand how bad the storm would become before I was even able to hear the first raindrops falling. Now, the narrow road that led to the main one had turned into quicksands that impeded any vehicle to drive through.

And that is how I find myself stuck in the Warehouse for another weekend with Unit Bravo. Although, this time, there are no missions, no assignments, no meetings… Nothing to do at all.

Not that I’m complaining: it's always fun to be around Felix; Mason is… definitely caustic, although that doesn’t have to be something bad; I will be able to catch up on some research with Nate and, perhaps - and just if the stars aligned correctly - even train a little bit with Adam. Although, this time, I will try my best to not end our sparring with a heated hold against the floor, even if, since it happened, I haven’t been able to brush the whole scene from my mind at all.

For this Friday evening, I decided to build my fortress in the library, surrounded by my ‘pending list of readings to catch up with’, feet up on the sofa, joggers, tank top, and a comforting glass of red wine.

And it seems that ‘stubborn minds think alike’, as Adam enters the library with a book and his own glass in his hand. He sits on the opposite side of the 5 seater sofa - as far away as he can from me - without any words at all and opens the book in his lap.

I glance at him over the pages of the ‘Fae Compendium’ I’m reading just to admire his perfect posture: both feet flat on the floor, straight back and, just for once, relaxed shoulders. My gaze lingers distractedly over the outline of his discreet Roman nose and the squared profile of his jaw before sliding down towards the broadness of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his arm, stretching the sleeve of his before-usual grey t-shirt. Cargo trousers and more military attire have been recently removed from his wardrobe and replaced by smart clothes - shirts, chinos, shoes… - more according to his rank and the peculiarities of their work in Wayhaven. Although Mason was all scorn and smirks at Adam’s noticeable change of essential clothing, Felix dropped something about him trying to impress someone… And despite Adam’s emotional constipation, I became quite aware that someone was clearly me.

He confessed that ‘I was everything’ and we held hands at the Carnival. It doesn’t seem much at all, but there’s also this insane pulling between us every time we are together. I cannot put words on it. It feels… natural. Good and right. Even if he drives me insane with his sternness and his stubbornness… Although I have to admit that I’m also guilty of the latest, too.

But despite that magnetism or chemistry that pulls us inevitably, neither of us have made any approach effort since the Carnival. Adam… well, because he’s Adam. And me… because it feels somehow correct to wait for him to make the next move. At the end of the day, he’s the one who seems to be struggling to understand what is going on between us. My interest has been laid bare at his feet. Many times. But I’m still waiting for him to decide what he wants to do with it.

As if feeling my concealed and thoughtful stare, his icy green eyes met mine and my stomach flips at being caught. However, I lock my eyes boldly in his, even if I feel my cheeks reddening and the tips of my fingers and toes tingling with excitement.

“D’you know…? It’s usually polite to say hello when you get into a place and find someone else there,” I tease him with a matter-of-fact tone.

Adam’s lips curl up a little bit in return. “I apologize, Detective. You looked quite immersed in the reading. I didn’t want to bother you.”

I hum noncommittally as an answer and go back to my book. And, after feeling his gaze lingering for a little longer over me, Adam goes also back to his.

The silence feels comfortable and that is one of the things that shocks me the most about our relationship: even if the tension between us is a permanent tangible thing, I can perfectly sit with him for hours, just reading or filling out reports… when we are at ease with each other.

I shake my head, trying to stop thinking about him, and I go back to my book.

“Fae supernaturals healing abilities are definitely better than human beings. However, the recovery time differs depending on the species and the nature of the wound.

On the next chart, there are examples of the most common traumas in comparison with the species and the healing time for each of them…”

Shit… I like history, mythology, psychology… And can even do with some biology if necessary, but this is too much for a Friday evening.

Twenty minutes later, my boredom is starting to win the battle. Distractedly, I run a hand through my pixie haircut, brushing the close-crop part at the back of my head.

I have to admit that I love the raspy feeling of short hair on my fingers.

It makes a quiet brushing sound that seems to catch Adam’s attention. I can feel, more than see, how he glances at my subtle movement over his book.

And I meet his eyes, emerald green washing over me with intensity.

His gaze snaps away from mine nearly immediately and there’s a rushed rustling when he turns some pages, clearing his throat.

But I keep staring. And I’m bored. And sudden curiosity sparkles in my mind.

I knew it before, the fact that Adam is more than 900 years old, basically because he told me. But I never got to think of the implications that it meant and I’m heavily struck by it. Like if suddenly understanding that he has actually lived, walked over the Earth, for 900 years. More than 9 human lives!

And I’m utterly gobsmacked and even lightheaded just thinking of it.

In less than a blink, a ton of questions pile up in my mind and itch in my tongue - history, customs, anthropology, religion… - and I decide to finally dismiss the Fae, trying to decide if I should ask them or not. And I’m sure he notices my hesitant stare by the way he shifts his weight a bit. But what really took him off his reading was my fingers tapping insistently a regular and unnerving pattern over the hard book cover in my lap.

He turns his head at me, emerald green finally meeting sapphire blue. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

He gives me a condescending gaze, arching a blonde brow, and the gesture is so incredulous and yet so encouraging that it makes me speak my mind. “I was just thinking of how old you actually are…”

His eyebrows furrow nearly immediately, drawing a deep set of creases between them. Perhaps my admiration has been misunderstood under the boldness of the statement.

“I mean that you have lived for many years and over so many historical periods that I just find it difficult to understand...”

“What is it difficult to understand?” His words are spare and his tone, stern, although there’s a hint of honest curiosity behind them, encouraging the conversation despite his frown.

Speaking to Adam is like feeding a stray cat: you never know exactly when you’re overstepping your proximity, although I’m fully aware that he enjoys some old good snarky comments and clever retorts sometimes… But they can also scare him away in the blink of an eye.

“How are you still sane, for instance?” I declare with a shrug, the Fae book resting in my lap, open awkwardly, forcing its spine.

It’s obvious that my question takes him completely off-guard. After some silent seconds, analyzing the teasing and the meaning of it, Adam chuckles quietly. “That’s a very good question, indeed… Sometimes I ask myself that same exact thing.”

It seems that I passed the test. For now.

“It’s just… I can’t wrap my mind around it. Nearly 1000 years are loads of years!”

“They are, trust me. I’m well aware of it.”

I can’t avoid the feeling that he’s mocking me now or being sincere. It is difficult to tell when his expression is so serious most of the time. “How were things? When you were human, I mean…”

His expression suddenly changes: from a thin friendly grin to pursed lips. Adam examines me with a critical eye before speaking. “Are you going to turn this evening into a personal interrogation, Detective?” His words are laced with reluctancy but it doesn’t take me by surprise.

I asked something too personal. I stepped too far.

However, he hasn’t retrieved just yet the book that he had left closed over his thighs, which means he might be keen on carrying on talking.

I try to solve the situation, swiftly explaining my intentions, giving him an honest look back. “I’m not asking you about the specifics of your life, but about the world around you, if that makes sense?”

“And why would I do that?”

Curiosity underlays his words and I use it on my behalf. “Because you can ask me anything you want in return?”

He breathes in deeply, considering, still eyeing me carefully as if he was about to sign a contract with the devil himself.

I am nearly losing my hopes that he would offer himself for that little game when Adam nods, closing his book and putting it aside on the coffee table, retrieving his glass of wine. Then, he bends his leg and rests it on the sofa, shifting his whole body to face me.

He looks… relaxed. Younger with no traces of a frown or his usual stern expression. At ease as I’ve never seen him before. And devilishly handsome.

A rush of nervousness jolts in my body and I completely forget what I wanted to ask, realizing - despite all the odds - how deeply I’m falling for that man. The sudden desire of reaching out for him and tracing his perfectly chiselled jawline with my fingers overwhelms me for an instant.

But that would be too much. It would be stepping too far, again.

Whatever battle he is dealing with himself about us, Adam is the only one who can solve it, and I don’t mind waiting.

Although I don’t fully understand what is going on in his mind.

“If we are going to do this, you’ll have to be more specific, Detective: I cannot tell you everything about the Early Middle Ages…”

I don’t wait for him to finish the sentence, closing my book and putting it aside as well. “How was life? How were the living conditions?” I ask with eagerness.

He scoffs. “That’s far away from being more specific...” However, he quietens and thinks for some seconds. “Life was… tough. And brief, but intense. And dirty. Death was as ordinary as breathing. People died. Illness, famishing, wars… Many of us were lucky to survive our childhood. The culture was kept locked in the monasteries and life was impossible to conceive without religion. Nobility fought against each other for more land, vassals or resources… that was everyday life.”

I retrieve my glass of wine from the table, rolling the stem in my fingers distractedly. “You’re painting it very bad…”

“It was very bad. They are not called the Dark Ages in vain.”

“Did you only live in Normandy?”

“Mostly. Except when my family got involved in wars of vassalage agreements with the feudal lord or the king. But I would rather not talk about it.”

That is clearly my cue to drop the topic, but I am just curious about one last thing. “Ok, can you indulge me with this one? I guess that you belonged to some sort of nobility back then… Did you? Did you have a castle?”

The tips of his lips curve up on a soft grin. “Minor nobility. And yes, we did have a castle.”

“Well… that explains so many things… Like why you boss everyone around, for example.”

My comment makes him chuckle and I’m delighted to hear the sound, rich and warm. The fleeting view of dimples made me smile in return, trying to take in as much as I can of it.

But I’ve got many more questions to be answered. Honest historical curiosity. “Did the system work back then? Feudalism?”

“I suppose it depends on who you ask. It obviously worked for the feudal lord, but trust me that the vassals and the peasants had a very different opinion about it. The wealth and the land belonged to the lord, as books say. And they only responded to the king. Peasants had many taxes to pay. Most of them were paid in kind, as they didn’t have anything else to pay with. That led to hunger, and hunger led to war and death.”

“It is not an optimistic point of view at all…”

“It was what it was.”

“When did things start to change?”

“Believe it or not, when religion started to ease its grip over everything and education and science made their appearance. During the whole Middle Ages, the culture was based and contained in monasteries. Normal people didn’t have any sort of education and mostly everyone was illiterate, including some nobility, too…”

Curiosity strikes me and I can’t help but interrupt him. “Were you one of them?”

Adam gives me a chiding look. “No, I was not. My family took our education very seriously. But as I was saying, things began to change when knowledge started to be more accessible to everyone. It was still mostly reserved for wealthy statements of society and nobility, but it made a whole difference after some years.”

I nod my head, sipping from my wine and he mirrors my gesture. Questions blurt in my mind: now I know he had siblings for sure, so I file the information up in my brain for another occasion, perhaps.

“Is our current government system better?”

“Definitely, although many things can still be improved. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I mean… I think our system is quite unfair and wealth and power are still very badly distributed, but I haven’t known anything else. Obviously, you have a wider perspective of how things have changed or improved.”

His seriousness turns into a very thin smile, but there’s a mischievous tone underlying his question. “Are you agreeing with me for once?”

“Oy, I agree with you more than often,” I say, faking indignant, making him arch an incredulous brow.

“Anyway, there are still many places that have a close-to-feudal government system and I will give you that, even in ours, the power and wealth are not fairly distributed, yet. But I suppose it’s a matter of time. Probably a long time.”

I nod my head with the certainty that, unless anything changes, I won’t be alive to appreciate the expected changes. But a new line of questioning bursts in my mind. “Have you been to any of those countries?” I ask, suddenly curious about his own experiences over 900 years.

Adam shifts again on the sofa, leaning his side on the back of it, and his top stretches gracefully over his tightened biceps. “No, Not recently. Our last assignment took us to different areas of South America, where some countries still have a ‘curious’ political situation.”

“Wow… You must have travelled quite a lot in 900 years…” It was not a question but a statement.

“Yes, I have. What about you?”

His question takes me by surprise. At this point, my human life seems too boring and far too mundane to have any interest at all. My brain stammers in finding a proper answer to it. “I… I don’t know. Well, yes, of course, I know. Not as much as I would have liked to, I suppose.”

I am fully aware of the vagueness of my answer by the way he quirks his eyebrow at me, demanding more information.

“I wasn’t very specific, was I?” I ask, scrunching my nose. I don’t have to wait for his answer to carry on. “Ok, I went to uni, I got pissed when Rebecca pulled back my application for the FBI and I put everything on standby. I got a backpack and I set off to Europe. I was ‘on the run’ for two years, but that’s why I babble in so many languages. Do you speak any languages?”

Adam purses his lips and I see a flick of embarrassment on his features. “Latin, English and French… Only because I learnt them when I was a child,” he confesses.

“How so? I had very high language expectations for a person that has lived over 900 years…” I tease him.

I find it quite funny the way he tries to explain himself. “Well… French and English have changed considerably since Medieval times… French had been quite important for many centuries. Back in time, more than half of Europe spoke French. And then English grew up to be the trade language: there was no need to learn anything else at all...”

“Fair point, I suppose…” I have to admit. “Or perhaps you were just being a bit lazy…?”

His smile widens. “I suppose you can also put it that way… I’m not… gifted for languages,” Adam admits, to my surprise. But before I can tease him further, he puts me under the spotlight, once again. “Where did you live? When you travelled to Europe, I mean.”

His interest seems genuine and it encourages my explanations and makes me a bit nervous, indeed. “Florence and Rome in Italy, suburbs of Paris, Berlin, Barcelona and Santander in Spain, London, of course, Budapest for a little while, although the language was too much for me…”

There’s a shine of admiration in his emerald eyes. And curiosity. “That’s quite a long journey for just two years.”

“It was… I quite enjoyed it: meeting new people, getting to know every secret and hidden corner of the cities… I didn’t do bad: I usually shared accommodation and worked in many crappy places.” I smile melancholically at the memory. “Rebecca also financed part of the trip, trying to buy my forgiveness. I suppose she felt guilty for ruining my expectations within the FBI...”

Even if my tone is easy, there’s still a sharp bitterness lacing my words and Adam notices it. He knows how bad the relationship with Agent Greene is. And, unlike Nate and Felix, I do really appreciate the fact that he has never tried to fix it, probably understanding the harm done and the fact that it was not his business at all.

“You clearly liked that life, why to come back here?”

I sigh with deep resignation. “I wish I could have stayed travelling… One day she turned the tap off. I survived for some months, but my income was not good enough and, sadly, my studies were quite criminology/psychology orientated to begin a brand new career in a different country.”

“But why come back here, to Wayhaven? You could have gone anywhere else.”

I chuckle bitterly. “Come back here was the last thing on my list, trust me: it was not in my plans at all. But they offered me the job and the promotion right after on a silver platter. An easy and shooting career, I have to admit. Not many people get to be a detective in less than a year. Of course Rebecca had something to do with it, but who cared at that point.”

Adam hums quietly, meditative. “I have to admit that, after having worked with you for some time, you are fairly competent as a detective.”

Wow, is that a compliment? Coming from him? About my skills as a detective?

His face is totally serious and I’m secretly glad that we are past the stage when we headbutted each other every day about our leadership disagreements. “Thank you, I suppose. It means quite a lot, coming from you and I do really appreciate it. Anyway, it’s my turn again. What is your craziest story about travelling?” I enquiry, sipping some wine.

“Are we talking about missions with the Agency?”

“No, not really. Something curious, funny or unusual… I don’t know. Whatever!”

Adam thinks for a little while, emptying his glass in the process and I give him some time for it. Definitely, 900 years are many years to think about.

“I think it was travelling the Silk Road little after its popularity grew within the West of Europe… It had been quite popular for some centuries already in Byzantium, but I think I must have been one of the first travellers from the Northern regions… Probably the palest person no one had ever seen there, or that’s what I deduced by the way everyone treated me. Once we arrived in Asia… It was quite common that people stopped me to touch my hair or my face as if they couldn’t believe I was real… Obviously, my features were quite different from the people that lived there… Probably they hadn’t seen anyone so white before...”

I can’t help but snicker at his words, picturing the situation like something taken from a film. “Well, it is true that you’re really pale. Perhaps a sunbathe from time to time would help with that…” my brain supplies, all witty.

He gives me a chiding look, one eyebrow arched up. “I wish it was that easy but trust me, it doesn’t work that way at all, Eve...”

My name sounds warm and sweet like honey on his lips and a thrill of pleasure runs down my spine thinking of him calling my name in many very different contexts, probably with fewer clothes involved.

“That’s a shame… I’m sure it would be quite a sight,” I return, flirty and mischievous.

Damn it! Sometimes I can’t just help it… But, to my surprise, Adam meets my gaze with a rather playful smirk and seems about to retort something back to me.

But, suddenly, his expression turns grave and he quietens, whatever he was about to say dying in his lips.

Perhaps it’s better not to pursue that line of conversation anymore.

I hear some steps on the corridor, even and unhurried. They stop in front of the library door and I turn my gaze to it, expecting Nate’s tall figure to come inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I perceive how Adam stiffens, still looking at me, but I’m sure he’s listening carefully to whoever is in the corridor. After some seconds, the steps resume, getting further away from us and he seems to relax again.

I won’t be surprised if he decides we had enough conversation already but, to my amazement, he adjusts his position on the sofa and waits for me to carry on with my interrogation, an encouraging calm expression on his face.

And I have to admit that I blank for some seconds, not knowing what to ask to keep him talking on the most friendly and intimate moment we have shared since we met. “What’s the best part of these times? What do you like the most?”

“Do you mean from this age?”

I just nod my head, eager to know his answer.

“Many things, I suppose… Water supply, medical advances, hygiene, the Internet, phones, flushable private toilets, cars…”

“Toilets?” I am a bit puzzled before understanding that toilets were actually quite different not many years ago. “Oh… ah! Fair enough.”

Adam gazes at me and offers me an amused tiny smile but I’m already interested in something else he said before. “Was it difficult to learn driving?”

His chest lowers in a contained sarcastic scoff and he rolls his eyes. I love the gesture immediately. “An odyssey at first, but I grew to like it. Nate is the only one who is still working on it.”

“I know he’s not very keen on any sort of technology… Last time I texted him it took him 12 min to type a reply... He told me you like cars.”

“Not the actual cars, but I like restoring and repairing them.”

His statement leaves me open-mouthed, as in my narrowed mind it’s quite hard to believe than a 900 years old vampire could remotely be able to understand the mechanics of a car. “Hang on… Do you actually know how to repair a car?”

For a parted moment, Adam feels quite pleased with himself. “Is it that surprising? I had to invest properly the time I didn’t use for learning languages...”

I gaze at his face, confused. His expression is soft but serious, however, there’s again that hint of sarcasm in his beautiful green eyes. “You know what? It’s very difficult to know when you are joking when your expression is exactly the same one than when we are arguing, you know?” I tease him, faking indignant.

He chuckles again and I melt with the sound.

I don’t want this evening to end. This conversation to end. Us.

“Perhaps you can give me a hand with mine, then?” I ask, hopeful.

But Adam just shakes his head. “I fix cars, but I don’t do miracles, Eve. Your car... I think buying a new one would be advisable in your case”

I shoot him a glare at his snarky comment but I’m happy to see that he’s openly smiling at me.

“Do you have any hobbies? What do you do when you’re not at the police station or working with us?” he wants to know.

Another question enquiring about me. I empty my glass and put it on the side table, realizing how green and clear his eyes are and how at ease he seems to be right now. Probably the distance between us has something to do with it (we are still sitting on opposite sides of the sofa). “Not that I had much time lately, but working out, writing, playing the guitar… But I’m sure you know that last one already.”

He hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t seem content with just one question. His next one is actually quite deep. “Do you regret knowing about us? Not just the Unit. Knowing about supernaturals’ existence?”

I divert my gaze from his and lean back on the arm of the sofa, wiggling my toes extended in front of me. It still takes me a long deep breath in to put my thoughts together to reply to his question, knowing I’m stepping on thin ice. “I did at first.”

Adam lowers his gaze. A quick scene of one of our conversations right after I was informed about everything flashes in my mind. He called himself a monster and I didn’t do anything to contradict the statement. I was not in the correct mindset, neither ready to see the truth. Embarrassment at my doing seeps through every pore of my skin. “But I don’t anymore. Learning the truth hasn’t been easy, but I wouldn’t change it at all. I’m quite glad to be part of it with you.”

His eyes dart to mine with a mixture of gratitude and alarm at my confession and I don’t really want to, but I explain myself further. “With all of you, Unit Bravo.”

But specifically you.

As he relaxes again, I decide to push my luck further. “Adam… I always wanted to ask you this but I will understand if you don’t want to answer. Did you keep in touch with your family after… You know… Becoming a vampire?”

Deep old sadness dampens his green eyes that flicker to the wall behind me and I’m nearly sure he won’t reply. He seems to be lost in memories for some seconds before meeting my gaze again. “I did at first. I was not ready to assume what happened to me. I was in denial.”

“Was it not compatible? To be with your family, I mean...”

He smiles again but this time is quite different. Guilty and melancholic. “Not for a young vampire. Not at all. I had to leave...”

I regret bringing up the topic immediately because I don’t want to know about it. Not if it hurts him. Not if he is not ready.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you recall painful memories. I understand that if you love someone you are never ready to let go…”

“I tracked my descendants for some generations, but their lives were fleeting. Mortal lives still are sometimes. It became more and more difficult within the years. The loss…”

“So you just shut down…” I mutter, suddenly understanding.

Adam stares at me with glazed green eyes under blonde eyelashes, looking at me but without seeing me, lost in memories. And it all made sense now. All of him.

The only way he has been able to survive has been closing himself to any feeling. Switching off that part of his humanity that cared about anyone else. And that is why he’s so disturbed around me. Because I break his defences and remind him of everything he has lost.

The fact that he has feelings for me breaks the balance that his life has had for nearly a thousand years and he is completely lost on what to do about it.

About me. About us.

He just doesn’t want to lose me.

And there’s just one way he wouldn’t have to.

“Are you all right?” I ask, shyly and guilty.

“Yes. I am,” he states after a sharp inhale, retrieving his book from the table.

“I’m going to have dinner with Nate, would you like to join us?”

“No, thank you. I’ll carry on with my reading, Detective.”

Our conversation is clearly over and I smile sadly at the recovered title, my name forbidden on his lips once again.

“Thank you,” I say while standing up.

“What for?”

“For talking to me. For letting me know you.”

Adam doesn’t reply, but I swear I can see the quirk of a smile blooming on his lips when he looks at me.

When I walk past him, my hand lands on his broad shoulder and I feel him stiffen at the contact, all hard muscle and warmth under my touch. I give him a grateful squeeze.

My heart stutters and my breath hitches when his own hand covers mine, interlacing our fingers loosely for just some seconds.

“Thank you for understanding,” he hushed whispers before I resume my steps.

@31daysofwayhaven

#31daysofwayhaven #31 Days of Wayhaven #twc #The Wayhaven Chronicles #adam du mortain #female detective #f!detective/adam #library conversations #a's story #headcanon #mutual pining #longing

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phoebehalliwell · 4 years

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basic icon tutorial

the wonderfully talented @macherierps asked if i could do a basic icons tutorial so i’ll be doing a step by step on how i made icons here. tutorial under the cut!

step one: pick your image and load it into photoshop. there are a lot of places to find images, this particular one is a screencap of piper from s2e11 that I got off the wiki gallery (which is a pretty good resource if you don’t want to hunt down caps yourself)

step two: crop the image. i usually go for 200x200 (they’re icons so they can be tiny and this is just the number i’ve always done. i also usually add a little extra headroom bc i personally don’t like it when an icon is like 80% face, but that’s just me

step three: i choose to adjust lighting before i erase the background because i find it easier to erase when everything is a lost more visible. i always start with curves first (don’t ask me why)

for this i’m just bumping up the light and not touching the shadows. then i add levels, and that’s where i brighten the entire shot and then bring down the shadows again

step four: now that the subject is easily off the background, i add a layer ask (using the tiny rectangle with a empty oval button in the bottom right corner of the screen) and i eliminate everything that isn’t the subject

step five: now that our subject is completely removed from their background, i want to color correct (bc good god that shot is yellow). i’m going to work with color balance first, adding cyan, blues and a bit of magenta into the midtones, and then go to the shadows and add cyan, blue, a bit of green)

then, i’m going to open up a hue/saturation on top of this. i always grab the reds and lighten them first, then saturate back to a reasonable color (it’s always best to have icons be a lil bit bright then say, like, gifs, bc these bad boys are tiny). then i take the yellows, like in the shadows on her neck, and i pitch their hue to be ore red tinted like the rest of the skin, and i lighten it to match

step six: once you’re satisfied with how your subject looks, convert all those layers into a smart object. this allows them to all stay the same while remaining editable, but without letting things like color balance or hue/saturation influence the layers you will put underneath it. (you can convert layers into a smart object by selecting all the frames and either right clicking to “convert to smart object or by selecting all the frames and going filter > convert to smart filters)

then, on your smart object, add the “smart sharpen filter” (filter > sharpen > smart sharpen)

these are the settings i use (it might look a little harsh, but icons are so tiny that i really don’t see an issue with it).

step seven: now you get to pick your backgrounds! i found all three of these bad boys on pinterest by typing in “cute pattern wallpaper”

open them into photo shop and crop them into the same dimensions your cropped your subject (for me, that’s 200x200)

step eight: put all of your backgrounds on the same lil workspace as your icon (i just ctrl+c, ctrl+v them on the document, but be sure they don’t have a lil lock on they’re layer or they won’t copy!) so now i have all three backgrounds sitting underneath my subject layer

step nine: i want uniform color throughout the backgrounds and i also want to do multiple different colors, so i’m going to make a new layer (using the square w the + sign in it in the bottom left corner), and then i’m going to paint over it with the brush tool in the color i want.

then i’m taking my painted layer and i’m changing it from “normal” to “color” so it blends on to the layers beneath it.

step ten: it’s at this point that i’m going to save this as a .psd, labeling it “pipericonred” so i can easily sort it (bc i plan on making multiple colors)

step eleven: now i’m going to save it as a .png (which is the actual usable icon form). since i’m currently on the background with stars, i’m going to save it as “pipericonredstars.png”

once that’s saved i go back into photoshop an make the stars layer invisible, making the hearts pattern the new background, which i save as “pipericonredhearts.png”

and again w the floral

and then as a a solid color background (even with the “color” filter on, if there is nothing beneath it, it will display as a “normal” background)

step twelve: to make different colors, change your painted layer to a new color, rinse, and repeat!

bonus round! blush: i don’t even really add these onto my icons but it definitely is trendy so i figure i’d add how i go about adding blush when i choose to do so. first, you want to open back up the smart object that contains your subject.

add a new layer to paint on and select the color blush you want

add some lil kawaii scribbles on your subject’s face

convert that into a smart object and apply a gaussian blur (why this and not a regular blur? i don’t know. just because)

slide the scale until you’re satisfied with the amount that it blends in (you can also change the blend from “normal to “color” or “hue” but i don’t)

then add a layer mask onto your blush and remove it off of the hair / other places blush shouldn’t be)

#icons #tutorial #photoshop tutorial #ps tutorial #icon tutorial #charmed #piper halliwell #piperhalliwelledit #ogwork #macherierps

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journeymanwithpen · 3 years

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A Story of Split

I recently visited Split, Croatia. It's steeped in history. Wherever you turn, you’re mired in it. When you lean back in your chair in one of the numerous cafes of the old town, your shirt is brushing against 1700-year-old Roman wall. You sip your coffee and can almost hear in your mind the banter of legionnaires who leaned against this same wall with cups of wine during the break from duty. Houses of the downtown Split sprout like unruly hair from within the Roman limestone walls dating from 3rd century A.D. The city’s Cathedral of St. Domnius is consecrated in 7th century. The black granite sphinx guarding the front entrance to the cathedral is estimated to be from 15th century B.C. It is no wonder then that an aspiring scribe who finds himself walking the cobblestone streets of ancient times can’t stop imagination from running wildly back through centuries. Allow me to take you through the time to the very beginning of Split:

The year is 260. We are standing at the seashore in Aspàlathos, a Greek trading outpost in a charming bay on the central coast of Dalmatia. Several ships are tied to the shore, their sails folded like the wings of seagulls lining their masts and the shore. Slaves and sailors bustle over gangplanks, unloading ships and loading the others. At our back, the habitat is not much to look at, just a few rows of stone houses stretching along the shore. Most of them have dual function, as a warehouse and an abode. People who own them are from the Greek colony of Issa on the island of Vis. It’s about half a day sail south-southwest from here. Aspàlathos was built for one purpose: trade. It's trading with Dalmatae and other Illyrian tribes inhabiting the coast and hinterland of the Balkans, and with Romans from Salona, a metropolis of 60,000 souls, the Roman capital of the province of Dalmatia, and a cultural, political and commercial center of the region. It sits less than two-hour walk, or half an hour on a fast horse from Aspàlathos.

Next to us stands a lanky youth. His shoulders are wide and long muscles are taught from military training. His hair is cropped short, revealing high brow and sharp features. He wears a legionnaire's uniform, with leather-strap sandals instead of boots, common for legionnaires on those warm days of spring. He gazes into the distance, dreaming of faraway places, dreaming of seeing Rome one day. He's only 16, eager to leave family's nest. Next to him stands a man with stooped shoulders holding his hands behind his back. Man's fingers are smeared with ink, an unmistakable mark of a scribe. His squints at the youth.

"Diocles, my son," the man speaks, "go with fortune and may Jupiter keep you safe and return you to us. When you can, send us a word, so that we know you're alive and well." The man places a hand on Diocles's shoulder and the youth turns to meet his eyes.

"Remember," the man continues, "when you tire of marching and battles, your home will wait for you. You won't find a better place to rest than this." The man swipes an arm wide over the peaceful bay, the village and rolling green hills behind it.

Diocles smiles at the man. "I know, father. Thank you. It's time to go back to my legion."

They clasp forearms for a long moment, eyes locked on each other's. Then Diocles breaks the hold and walks with long, impatient strides north, across the hills, toward Salona and its garrison. His father returns to the house which is also his office. A scribe is an important part of every trade, the hand that writes contracts, permits, receipts and counts coins. Unfortunately, most of those coins are transferred from one client to another, from a buyer to a seller. A pay for scribe's services will not build him a palace. Diocles's father is doing alright, keeping his family well fed and clothed, with solid roof over their head, and a nice little farm where his wife tends to her cabbages which grow so well in this weather. He hoped to pass all this to Diocles one day, but the youth is eager to see the world, as young men often are. And what better way to do it, but with the mightiest army of the time: Roman legions.

Thirty-five years later, in 295 A.D., the youth who is now a man of over 50, returns to the bay of his youth. He observes the works started to build a large structure that will stretch from the seashore and climb the gentle slope of the hill. His name has changed, as is his appearance; he is stockier now, almost stout. His chestnut hair, streaked with grey throughout, recedes further from his brow, and his jaw and face are covered by neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and moustache. A toga picta died Tyrian purple was draped over his shoulders, marking his stature. He is Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus, or Diocletian, the emperor of the Roman Empire. The structure whose foundations are just being built is going to be known as Diocletian's Palace.

In the year 305 A.D. Imperator Caesar Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus - Diocletian for short - took his stroll along the raised promenade atop the southern wall of his new home. Flowerbeds and trees lined the promenade on both sides to offer the emperor shade from the scorching Adriatic sun. A few marble benches were placed in regular intervals to allow a breathtaking view over the Brettia channel at the islands Brettia (today's Brač) and Solentium (today's Šolta). The emperor moved with shuffling steps, leaning on a cane for support. He was gaunt, his cheeks were hollowed, his shoulders stooped and boney. His skin was grey and a size too large for a man he became. Diocletian was fighting an ailment for over a year, a mysterious illness that almost killed him. It left him emaciated and weak. Next to Diocletian walked a stout man with powerful if somewhat stooped shoulders and strong arms clasped leisurely behind his back. He had open round face with eyes perpetually half-closed and eyebrows that climbed a touch too high, giving him a disbelieving, inquisitive expression. The lower half of his face was obscured in bushy dark hair which greyed at the sides, trimmed to follow the line of a strong jaw. His meaty lips were slightly downturned as if in disapproval. He was Maximian Herculius, co-emperor and Diocletian's partner in ruling the empire that grew too big for a single person to rule over. When Diocletian was confirmed as the emperor of Rome, he turned east to secure the eastern borders of the empire. He soon realized that the news from the Gaul and western borders of the empire travelled too long and his imperial decisions and decrees weren't reaching the west in time. To remedy it, Diocletian elevated his friend Maximian to Cesar, and soon after Augustus, making him equal in status, an emperor in the west, although Diocletian's seniority gave him the upper hand in decision-making. The two worked well together, Maximian's military brawn complemented Diocletian's political wisdom and the alliance born of friendship lasted throughout the twenty years of their rein.

Reaching the bench, Diocletian gingerly lowered himself on it and lifted his face toward the healing warmth of Dalmatian sun. The almost forgotten scent of the homeland wafted to his nostrils.

"I think, my friend, that I can get easily used to retirement," he smiled. "I already feel better."

"You'll miss the action when your strength returns," Maximian grunted in response. "Is your wife joining you?"

Diocletian shook his head. "Prisca is staying in Thessalonica with Galerius and Valeria. She may come when my strength returns."

Galerius was Diocletian son-in-law and successor, the Cesar in the East. His wife - Diocletian's daughter Valeria asked her mother Prisca to stay with them.

"Come Maximian," Diocletian reached his hands to his friend who helped him stand up - "let me show you the gardens. I'm going to grow cabbage here, the way my family did." They walked on to the colonnaded gardens accessible from the promenade.

Diocletian's failing health made the other emperors of the tetrarchy convince him and Maximian to retire. Weakened by disease, Diocletian accepted without much objection. Maximian resisted at first, but Diocletian talked him into leaving the post to younger men. Not suffering idleness well, Maximian sailed to visit his friend's retirement home.

It was an imposing fortress built at the place Diocletian called home so many decades earlier. An impressive walled compound had 16 watchtowers along east, west and north land-facing walls. The only unfortified wall was the southern wall, built on the edge of the sea. Its only opening was a small landing for the imperial galley and supply ships. The walls were built of large limestone blocks. An arcaded gallery bearing the tree-lined promenade stretched along the south wall. The imperial palace with private living quarters and audience hall covered the south half of the fortress. A Peristyle with a balcony from which the emperor greeted his subjects was the very center of the compound. The west side of the Peristyle housed the temple of Jupiter with gardens built for worshipers. The emperor attended the round temple of Jupiter on the east side of the square. The main streets traversing the fortress from east to west and north, met at the forum on the north edge of the Peristyle. The north half of the compound held twin military garrisons for the emperor's legions.

Upon Diocletian's death in 312 A.D., the palace was reclaimed as a property of Roman Republic, and was used as a refuge for exiled dignitaries and deposed rulers. In 7th century A.D. the Roman metropolis of Salona was sacked and destroyed by invading Slavs. Refugees fled from the ruins of the city to find refuge within Spalato's fortified walls. Once luxurious palace and garrison compound was taken down. Its stones were used to build many smaller houses. With time, the willy-nilly building continued outside the Roman walls, under different rulers. Venetians built another set of walls to protect the city from the Croatian-Hungarian and later Ottoman threat. Parts of the wall, as well as "Mletačka kula" (The Venetian Tower) have grown into the tissue of modern days Split.

#writing #amwriting #history #historical fiction #travel #split #spalato #croatia #roman empire #diocletian #ancient

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ilguna · 4 years

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Ethereal - Chapter Three (f.o)

Summary: Five years of watching your trainees die, you’re sick of it. She will prevail, she will win.

Word Count; 5.4k

Warnings; swearing, DEATH MENTION

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Finnick had split just like you told him to. Before he had gone, you told him to meet you back where the chariots would leave from. He promised to be back in time, but here you are, ten minutes until they’re sent off, and he’s still not here. For a moment, you had blamed yourself, thinking that you should have followed after him.

And then you remembered that there is no way in hell you should have. You wouldn’t be here for the tributes, there would be two missing mentors. Laurel and Pleurisy would be sending them off, and sometimes they’re not the best. Laurel is serious, very straight-faced. She doesn’t smile or laugh often, and she shows her appreciation in small ways.

Pleurisy is a different story. Everything she does is grand. She’s not for the black, gold and silver that Laurel is into. Pleurisy is into colors, dying her skin–it’s a bubblegum pink right now–wearing huge costumes that show off her favorite parts of her body. The giant heels, the long nails, the wacky hair styles. When you had first met her, it wasn’t this bad. But she’s sunk completely, she’s in on the trends now.

Polar opposites, that manage to be friends. Annie and Paslee would have absolutely no idea how to handle them like you do. They’ll need your support, and so Finnick being missing, that’s fine. You just can’t be the one that’s gone.

While you’re all waiting to send the tributes off, you excuse yourself from your own, and find yourself heading over to your friends. There, Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria and Brutus are waiting.

“(Y/n)!” Cashmere squeals almost, reaching over and giving you a tight squeeze, “How are you?”

“To be honest, frazzled.” You tell her, she raises her eyebrows, the others lean in. Except for Brutus, he’s not interested in these types of things. He thinks he’s so much better than the other district victors, which includes you, but not Gloss, Cashmere or Enobaria. It’s a little irritating.

You ‘earned’ your title just as much as they did. You killed, you loved, you won. You went around and collecting the gifts that none of the districts actually want to give you. You faced the families of those you killed with a pained smile on your face. And you mentor a new set of kids each year. Just the same as them.

The only difference–which might be why he thinks like this–is that they get winning tributes. However, if their own murderous monsters were killed off in the beginning, you can almost guarantee that yours would have won. Especially the older ones, but that’s besides the point.

“What’s happened?” Gloss asks.

“Finnick.” you tell them, Cashmere and Enobaria are most interested now. Gloss seems like he would rather talk about something else. You don’t mention Finnick much, you have another inkling that it might be because Gloss likes you. And if that’s true, he is the only man you’ll ever consider getting with.

“What about him? Stop making me ask.” Cashmere shakes you slightly, “Spit it out!”

“He’s here.” you motion to the chariots, “Well, not here, here–”

“No, he’s there.” Enobaria says, you look over to see Finnick talking to Annie and Paslee. He hands them something, and then pats their shoulders.

The sound of the anthem makes you jump, “Shit!” you turn to point at them, and they’re laughing slightly, “I’ll bring Finnick over after, okay? Introduce our kids?”

“Us partnering up with district four?” the boy from one asks, his face is all twisted, “Good luck.”

Cashmere glares, it looks odd on her pretty face, “Making friends for the arena isn’t a bad idea.”

“I’ve got my friends right here.” he motions to his district partner, and then the other two from two.

“Four is technically a career.” the girl from two says, turning away from the boy. The boy glares slightly.

You turn to look at Cashmere and she shrugs, “I’ll see you after. Spare the kids, just you and Finn–”

“Shut up,” you shove her, she laughs and you roll your eyes. You head back over to your own chariot.

When you get there, Annie and Paslee are looking more comfortable than they were when you had originally left. Finnick must have said some things to them. You make a few adjustments to make them look nice, and when you’re done, you can almost hear the list of sponsor names that will be after them.

“Smile, wave, blow kisses.” you remind, “Paslee, chin up, Annie, slouch a little more. You’re going to be perfect.”

“Good luck!” Finnick’s voice is behind you, you wave to the kids and watch as they turn around to face where they’re leaving. The horses hesitate, and then they take off after district three.

Grabbing on to Finnick, you pull him with you to the nearest tv’s to watch what’s going on. You’re districted, trying to make sure that they’re moving right. For the most part, they’ve got the footing right and all of that. Paslee waves big, while Annie is smaller.

“Sugar cube?” Finnick asks, you look over to see he’s holding a square, “I know you want it.”

You take it, and pop it into your mouth, “Thanks.”

“Stop stressing, they’ll be fine.” Finnick tells you, his arms wrap around you slightly, and you’re too focused to brush him off. Annie seems to be leaning into Paslee. She’ll readjust like him, but they end up against each other in the end.

They stop in the circle, Snow appears. This is when you notice Finnick’s arms truly, because they tighten. You pull him into you, not knowing if this is because of a fear thing or not. Snow makes his speech, then there’s the anthem, which allows the cameras to pan around them one last time. After that is the final lap around the circle, then they’re gone.

Brought right back to you.

Finnick pulls away after that, and the both of you head over to the tributes.

Annie is the first off of the chariot. She spins slightly in the dress, it spreads out around her. She looks genuinely happy about the dress. You wonder if you’ll be able to pull some strings and let her have the dress if she wins. Or Snow will want to take it and put it in some hall of fame.

It’s an orange dress, the top is almost like a vest and a tank top combined. It hugs around the bottom of her neck to keep it in place. As for the bottom, it’s just a dress made out of silk. To make sure that it follows the district four theme, the top also has netting. The type you use to catch things. Along with that is the regular accessories. You’re sure that you don’t have to explain.

“You guys did so good!” You tell them, “Elysia and the stylists will help you to your rooms to change. We’ll see you in a few.”

You push them off slightly, eager to talk to Cashmere and them again. It’s been too long, and they’ve been dying to actually meet Finnick. Rather than hear about him in the little snot bits you do mention. You’re not sure how all of this will go down with Gloss. Jealousy is a mighty thing.

You take Finnick’s arm, “At this point I just think you should handcuff me to you.”

Looking at him, he has his eyebrows raised, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“It would be easier than you grabbing me all the time.” Finnick laughs, but then he thinks, “Actually, maybe I like the grabbing part.”

“I think you should shut up now.” You tell him once you’re stopping in front of your friends.

“Wow, The Finnick Odair?” Cashmere looks him over, “Got any love poems in mind?”

“They’re all reserved for (Y/n), sorry.” Finnick laughs, you and Cashmere share a look.

“I’m sure you know already, but this is Cashmere and Gloss, district one, brother and sister.” You start, Gloss pitches in with something about being back to back victors, you roll your eyes, “The arrogant one is Brutus and the tiger is Enobaria.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Enobaria flips her hair, but sputters out a laugh a few seconds later.

And just like that, you guys drop into banter. From the outside it would look like you guys were old friends, when in reality you’ve known them a year or two. Finnick practically just met them. You know he’s at least heard of them, but as far as talking goes, this will be the first time.

Gloss seems to ease into the conversation, seeing that you’re keeping Finnick at an arm’s distance—metaphorically—and you don’t acknowledge the flirty attempts. Every now and then you’ll give s look to Finnick to satisfy whatever he’s after.

They get along with him well, but Brutus and Enobaria act a little stuck up. You’re used to it, sometimes they even act like that with you. It’s hard to get mad at it anymore, you choose to ignore it all the same. It’s funny how they’re the ones that are so full of themselves, when Cashmere and Gloss are the most favored by the Capitol.

The only thing that Enobaria has is the fact that people see her as a fashion icon for sharpening her teeth after she won her games. You bet there was a small trend of it after. A couple dozen people probably have the same sharpened teeth.

You wonder what you and Finnick sparked. Something with rope, no doubt. Finnick and his trident, you can imagine a bunch of kids running around with their new toy. You and a spear, too. Little boys with tridents and girls with spears.

Soon, the conversation has to drop off, since it’s nearing dinner time. You bid goodbyes to them, and Gloss sends you off with a wink. As soon as you and Finnick have rounded the corner, he doesn’t look too happy.

“You and Gloss?” He finally asks.

“Nothing but friends.” You tell him, however if Finnick hadn’t shown up, you’re sure that it would have turned into more this year, “Can’t promise he looks at it that way, though.”

Finnick nods, still not convinced. You’re not going to stand here and reassure him, he just needs to trust your word. It’s not like you have any reason to lie. As if you’d ever go behind his back and date Gloss or anything. Even if that would be a not-so-subtle way of telling him you’re over him.

“So what of you think of them?” You ask, looking to Finnick, “What’s wrong?”

“How long have you been friends with them?”

“A year or two now. I only see them for the games.” You tell him, “And whenever they win the games.”

“You’re making friends with them?” He asks, “Why not the other districts?”

He doesn’t like them.

“Because, as I found out, they can hold grudges longer than districts one and two can. I’ve tried with three, but it was short lived. He appreciated my efforts to keep Blaire alive, and that was it. But all the other districts?” You laugh, “Haymitch is truly the only one who didn’t care that I killed the twelve year old boy. Making friends with them is hard.”

“It can’t be—“

“Then go right ahead. Try to make those friends and get back to me on it. I’m sorry that you’re jealous of Gloss, or Brutus or whatever, but they were here for me when you weren’t.” And there you go, throwing this in his face. You hadn’t wanted to do that.

You continue to the elevator, your boots make heel-like sounds. When you stop by the or, you turn back to see Finnick standing there, “Are you coming?”

He shakes his head slightly, “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Finnick—“ you begin, taking a step. He’s going to leave, you can feel it. It’s not selfish for you to want him to stay, it’s for the kids. You’re doing this for the kids, “Please?”

You want to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but you hold your tongue. Saying that will set him off, and he’ll definitely go. No matter how true it is, you need him to stay.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” The apology is too late, you wonder if he’ll see that.

A moment of silence, you know he’s not going to stay, “I’m going to take a walk. Don’t wait on me.”

He disappears around the same corner you came around. You take a moment, trying to calm yourself down for fucking this up. But you swing your arm anyway, and it leaves a nice, fist-shaped hole in the wall.

The elevator door opens, and you go inside of it. The ride up is quiet, and the longer it takes, the more upset you seem to get with yourself. The moment that the door has opened, you’re met with Laurel and Pleurisy, you step out.

“Where’s Finnick?” Pleurisy asks.

“I pissed him off, he’s taking a walk.” You tell them, not stopping to talk to them.

When you reach the apartment, you go inside. A few feet in front of you, Elysia is still sat down with Annie and Paslee, eating dinner. You take another deep breath, this time to steady and truly calm, and then you sit down with them.

“For the next three days, it’s training.” You tell them, “I probably won’t see you guys tomorrow so I’ll tell you this now. If you’re going to make friends, perfect time to do it. Steer clear of the other careers unless you know for sure that you’ll be able to get them into an alliance. They don’t seem too fond of us.

“When you do get inside of the training center.” You turn towards them, they listen a little harder, “Don’t show off the skills I’ve taught you. Go around to places you don’t know. Talk to people that are already there, keep moving around. Don’t know how to use a bow and arrow? Good time to learn.”

“They’ll have classes?” Annie asks, you nod.

“Instructors will be at each station. They’ll help you learn what they’re specialized in.” Honestly, they should put actual victors in there. It’s funny to you that they call them professionals when they’ve never had to actually deal with the circumstances.

Do they come from the districts? No. They don’t have to deal with hunger. They don’t know how to make a fire effectively. Or how to throw knives, use spears, make nets and fishing line. They think they’re professional because the Capitol has trained. The only thing they might be good at is medical, but even then, where are you going to find morphine in the middle of the games?

They’re good for if you have the backpacks in the games. With the plastic, the backpacks, sleeping bags, and iodine. You can survive without all of those, and for the Capitol to put the idea that they need them to survive is ridiculous.

Boil water, find shelter, hunt for food, know your leaves and berries for remedies. Don’t count that you team up with the careers. Or that you’ll be able to get those backpacks, or those weapons.

Expect the worst. Never the better.

You continue eating, answering some of their questions. They want to know when the interview is, and what they’re wearing. You haven’t seen their outfits just yet, so you can’t answer that for them, neither would you. Laurel and Pleurisy would want it to be a surprise.

As for the interviews, you can tell them when that is. They ask who they should make friends of, and you ask who they thought stood out more in the reapings.

To you it’s always the careers, and district seven. The careers are obvious, district seven is because they know how to wield axes, they’ll be very good if they get their hands on some. They might be very good with fires too. District three is an always. They know how to make weapons, just the same as their sister district, two.

They say nearly the same, and you tell them to make friends out of the smart ones. They’ll be useful later on. If they want to run straight to the middle then their stupid. Which sparks an argument with Paslee, saying that getting there first has its advantages. You tell him it doesn’t.

He brings up the fact that you ran to the middle. And for just a second you forget that they were both ten or eleven when you had won your games. You very calmly remind Paslee that you had an alliance with the careers. That there were seven of you, rather than the casual four.

You got to the middle because you’re quick. You didn’t even know you could run that fast until you were running. With Lennox too far behind, trailing. You got lucky in the middle when the sword was in your hands. That had you not swung the sword, then you would have died to the girl from ten. If Trink wasn’t near you, she wouldn’t have killed the boy from five, or whoever it was.

You never truly acknowledged it, but he was coming to kill you. That’s why she threw the sword, to make sure that he wouldn’t come after any of you. Offering that protection that all of you had agreed on.

You tell Paslee that if he runs to the middle when the gong sounds, that he needs to be quick. He needs to be ready to grab the nearest weapon and swing. No matter who it is, but watch out for that alliance he might have with the careers if that’s what he chooses.

He shouldn’t choose that. Either he should stick to Annie, or find someone else to enjoy. Keep a group smaller than four, and split up when there’s a final ten. You don’t tell them this, though.

They both leave the table when they’re tired of asking questions. Elysia had long since disappeared. You eat quietly, making yourself sick when you continue eating, even though you’re full. When you feel like you’re done, you stand and tell them that Finnick won’t be eating.

If he does show, tough shit. He should have been there earlier.

And then, you trudge back to your room. Ripping off the clothes, skipping the second shower as you sit by the window, knees to your chest. You don’t have to sit in here like a caged prisoner. You can go out there and enjoy yourself with your friends. But leaving feels like you’re asking too much, and it’s almost like a chore.

You shouldn’t have said that to Finnick but you were tired of it. If you were dating Gloss, it would be none of his business. You don’t have to justify yourself. You can miss Finnick and love Gloss.

You don’t love Gloss for the record. You’d rather he’d save it for later, a different girl that might show her interest. Someone like Enobaria. That would be a killer couple. Or Enobaria with Brutus. Same district and both hella freaky looking. Brutus has to take some drugs to stay that big, right?

This is so unfair.

You find yourself still sleeping on the floor in the morning. You remember pulling down a pillow and blanket just before you passed out. You didn’t want to sleep on the bed—much less use the blanket and pillows but you had no choice, use them or freeze—because the favoritism is still something you’re not too excited about.

Just looking out the window, you can see it’s about noon. The tributes are in the training center, you hope that Annie and Paslee remember what you told them last night. And you should have probably given them a reason why as well. So they have more of a motivation to keep it to themselves.

The reason would obviously be because of the private session that’ll end up happening after the three days. They’ll need to show off a certain skill. And if they use anything that you had taught them on the train, specifically the knife throwing, or anything to do with the spears, swords, axes…

They seemed skilled with the regular stuff, they should get at least an eight to ten. You still can’t believe you only got a ten on that knife trick. It should have been an eleven. And it’s too bad that you never really got to show it off.

Not that you would ever want to kill two people at once. But could you imagine? Knife throwing would have been so goddamn popular after. People would be dying to learn how, since you did it with one hand.

You get off the floor, tossing the pillow and the blanket back onto the bed. You dig through the dresser for a white shirt, but all they’ve provided you with is tank top after tank top. You settle, but you’ll have to talk to Laurel about it, because there’s no way in hell you’ll wear one every single time you’re on air.

A pair of black shorts is fine, you toss it onto the bed for when you come out of the shower. It’s quick, nothing like you had when you were on the train. You change quickly, pulling on the same pair of boots. You let your hair free, since it feels better that way, but keep a band around just in case you get tired of moving it from your face.

The avoxes seem to have been waiting by your door. You motion to the room, letting them know they can have at it, and then you show up at the table. Food is already sitting there. It’s just you. Everyone else is gone.

Elysia is probably out with Laurel and Pleurisy deciding outfit things. Sorting out the minor details. Probably talking up your tributes like she’s done every single year. She has to, you want as many sponsors as you can wrangle in.

The tribute parade or whatever it’s called–the chariot rides, they give you guys a head start. The reapings and the stations are basically nothing, not focused on unless they win the games. Then they’ll go back and feature it during the recap. Telling it from start to finish.

The chariot ride, the scoring, interviews and the bloodbath. Those are the events that you need to make sure that they know what they’re doing. They did very well during the chariot ride, you’re sure Elysia will come back with compliments from the others. The scoring will be up to Annie and Paslee, you’ll be sure to mention it tonight. And then you’ll have them training for the interviews with every chance you get.

Annie will be able to walk in heels so well, that her ankles and the soles of her feet will be aching. She’ll get a day to recover, and then she’ll have to do it all again. It’s no bother, she’ll be able to sit down during the interview, if she asks. Caesar likes to make sure that his interviewees are comfortable. He makes everything seem natural, he’ll bring out the better in her.

As for the bloodbath, easy. Annie has it down, you’ll just have to worry about Paslee. You’re beginning to think the cocky act isn’t just an act. He might be adapting it as his actual personality. It might bring on sponsors for a little bit, but they’ll get tired of it quickly. They love a strong tribute with a soft heart. If Paslee doesn’t show that, then he’s screwed.

Same for Annie. She can act all kind, but she’ll need to be deadly in the arena. It’ll give the sponsors a twist they weren’t expecting. The games is a show, and if they can provide the unexpected, they’ll be sure to win. Again, you have a good feeling this year. Something is going to be different.

And it’s not because of Finnick.

You get up from the table when you feel like you’re done, but turn to one of the avoxes. You’ve always felt sorry for them, imagine being a servant for a bunch of assholes. They’re degraded to get rid of the attitude, so their self-esteem is gone. You can’t imagine what other mental damage the Capitol does while they’re at it.

“Did Finnick come back at all last night or this morning?” you ask, and the girl nods. She then holds up her finger, and disappears for a second. When she returns, she has a pad of paper in hand.

Of course, Finnick and his paper.

She holds it out to you, you thank her, before turning and heading for the elevator. When you step in, you read over the names. All the last names are ridiculous, all their ancestors had taken up unique last names to differ themselves from the people in the districts. Trying to get rid of all relations they previously had with you guys.

You wonder if your last name would be considered different. Gallows, hanging. You didn’t inherit it from your father, it was more of your mom. Passed down from generation to generation. You, your mom, her mom, and you’re pretty sure your great-grandma had gotten it from the war between the Capitol and the districts.

Changed it. It’s a pretty cool thought to think that the hanging was your legacy. This is what you were meant to do. All a bunch of murderous hanging monsters. Women in your family must be strong. It’s a shame your mom died when she did, she had so much more time.

Had she not died, then there wouldn’t have been as must change as there was in the house. You wouldn’t have learned those valuable skills as quickly and easily. There would have been someone to provide the food, so you wouldn’t have to hop on the boat with your brothers early in the morning. It would take away so many memories.

You wouldn’t change the past, no matter what.

The elevator stops, you look up to see that it’s not the bottom floor. When the doors open, you’re met with Cashmere and Gloss. You flip the top empty pages back on top of the written one to hide what you were looking at, clicking the pen a couple of times.

“What’re you up to?” she asks, looking over.

You show her the empty slip of paper, and then you turn, “What do you think would look good on Annie? Red again or should we go with something different?”

“Actually taking my vote?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, Gloss laughs.

“A light color.” Gloss says.

“Something to bring out her hair!” Cashmere nods, “And you should braid it really cool. Mine won’t listen to me. She doesn’t want to look girly one bit.”

“But she’s fierce, it’s what we need.” Gloss reminds her almost, and she huffs out a laugh.

“As if that’ll bring in sponsors. I hope during the interview she plays pretend at least for a couple of minutes.”

You shake your head, “Don’t have to worry about that. It’s the perks of not being a career district.”

“But you are.” Gloss says, the elevator dings.

You spin your back toward it, beginning to walk out backward, “Not entirely. Four is more exotic than you are.”

“Oh whatever!” Cashmere laughs, following you, “Where are you heading off to?”

“The betting area.” you tell them, Gloss looks to Cashmere.

“I could go there now, you head down to the stylists?” he suggests, “You know I’m not good with fashion.”

“Obviously not.” she motions to his outfit, but then she does the same to you, “Twinsies, I guess.”

“Shut up.” you tell her, laughing.

“I’ll see you two later.” she waves, and then stalks off. It’s a wonder how she’s so nice, yet she can also be so… mean-girl like.

You hadn’t encountered many bullies before the games–because after no one would bother to get within ten feet as if you’d snap and break their neck or something–but the few that had shown. Well, let’s just say that they liked to make fun of the fact that you were parentless. It was ironic, because the girls that would come around, one of two of their own parents were missing.

The pot calling the tea kettle black, huh?

“So how do you feel about Finnick being back?” Gloss asks after some walking in silence.

“Haven’t seen much of him.” you smile at Gloss, “I said a few things to him last night, tried to apologize but he left. Only thing he’s said–or given–to me is a list of potential sponsors.”

When you hold up the paper, he laughs, “It’s empty?”

“Not quite. But I don’t want you to steal them away. I know how sneaky you careers are.” you push him a little bit, laughing.

“Oh really? Says you!” he goes to catch up with you, but you begin to run out of grasp, making it a challenge. The both of you are running down the hall, giggling, squealing messes as you avoid him each time he makes a grab.

You try to fly through the door, since Gloss is catching up on you. You might be fast, but he has long legs. And also looks like he exercises regularly, Gloss is huge whether you like it or not.

Anyway, a pair of arms wrap around you, just before you smack into the door. It’s not Gloss, because the person is chest to heat with you. You have the pleasure of looking up to see Finnick.

And your heart seems to jump to your throat and stay there, “Sorry—“

“I need a word with (Y/n),” Finnick tells Gloss kindly.

You look to Gloss, and he shrugs, “Don’t be long. I might just have to take those sponsors.”

“You don’t have the list!” You hold up, but pass it to Finnick. He takes it for safekeeping. The grin passed between you two is mischievous.

Gloss waves, and then goes inside of the courtyard. Finnick lets the door free, and it shuts quietly. You go to move so Finnick can let you go, but he pulls you closer.

“Not jealous.” He tells you, “and you shouldn’t have apologized last night. You were right, the other districts aren’t interested, not as forgiving.”

“I know.” You say, finally hugging him back, “have you seen them today?”

“Yeah, they were excited to get into the training center. I warned them about not showing their special skill until the private session.”

“And the sponsors?”

“Clearly beat you to it.” He laughed, and you pull away from him, “I’m thinking Annie is our best bet. I’m having them focus on her, but they know to look after Paslee too.”

“So then there’s nothing to do, you’ve taken all of it from me.” You tell him, it’s true. He’s done all of your work. The sponsors, talking to the tributes before they went in. You wouldn’t doubt it if he had also gone to Laurel and Pleurisy to check out their outfits.

“Wouldn‘t say that.” Finnick opens the door up again, and lets you go in first.

You go in slowly, looking around the yard. Taking in your surroundings, how many people are here. You’ve come in here a couple of times before. But normally you wait until the games have started to organize sponsors. Being out here with the others, the most prestigious sponsors makes you feel sick.

Finnick takes your hand, probably feeling the anxiety radiating off of you in waves. He then pulls you along to a specific corner, you watch the people then turn to you. You’re not too fond of them in the first place, but the second that you realize that Finnick was sold to these people, that they have bought him and used him for their pleasures, makes you want to go.

You don’t want them on your side. To think that if either Annie or Paslee were to win, they might think they have an automatic right to them.

You turn your eyes to Finnick, “I change my mind.”

“It’s too late. I don’t hold grudges against them.”

“And yet you should.”

“I stayed at the Capitol on my own free will.” He reminds you, but it’s not sweet, it’s bitter.

Yes, he did. All because of you.

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