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marshmallow-phd · 4 years

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Scarlet Moon

Genre: Scarlet Heart Ryeo!AU, Time Travel!AU, Alternate History, Royalty!AU

Pairing: OC x EXO OT9

Summary: This isn’t Gwen’s time. She was from the modern era, with technology and electricity. But during a solar eclipse, she’s transported back into a previous life in a time and place she does not know. Now, as the foreign daughter of a merchant living in a prince’s household, she must tread carefully, watch her back, and guard her heart. But with the princes locked in a battle over the throne, the chances of her making it out alive might disappear.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3

********

The paper sliced across the skin before any action could be taken to avoid it. A high pitched hiss followed by a short whine. The flap of skin that had been separated was being dyed red.

Gwen stuck her index finger in her mouth to sooth the stinging. It helped a little bit. Still sucking on the appendage, Gwen stumbled over to the supply closet and opened the thin metal doors with the other hand. She kept this feat up as she opened the first aid kit and pushed around the different types of bandages, trying to decide which one to use. The cut was right on the tip, right where you never want it to be. It was hard to get a band aid on that kind of cut. Eventually, she found a smaller version of a standard design and ripped the paper covering opening. She wrapped the band aid around her index finger before heading for her desk. It was back to the files that had injured her in the first place.

The pile was tall; by her standards, at least. Gwen had been dealing with it for the past hour. The dates on the files needed sorting, separating the ones could be sent to long-term storage. She almost gave out another whine, but she didn’t want the others to hear and start the relentless teasing. Her coworkers were quick and very witty.

It was a friendly floor. Everyone joked and played around without the fear of feelings being hurt. If Gwen didn’t have to do the actual work that came with the office space, she wouldn’t mind staying here forever. But dealing with these files and demanding customers and meeting quotas was not what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. Not that Gwen knew exactly what it was that she did want to do. She’d tried a lot of things over the last few years in her slow going college years. Marketing, history, education - hell, she even took several makeup courses and skincare lessons that focused on natural resources. None of it stuck, none of it held her interest, though the information could be recalled if needed.

“You alright there, Gwen?”

Drudging up from the bowels of her thoughts, Gwen looked up at Kimberly, who had stopped at her desk on the way back from the printer.

“Yeah,” Gwen nodded with a sigh. “Just… ready for the week to be over.”

“Ain’t that the consensus,” Kimberly laughed.

“How are the dogs?” Gwen was seizing the opportunity to distract herself from work. Kimberly owned two dogs with opposite personalities. One was the well-mannered older brother, the other was the skittish, hyper younger brother. She loved to talk about them and there was never a shortage of entertaining stories.

Kimberly rolled her eyes. “Kurt is back to back to demanding his breakfast at five a.m. Oh, but Kent now does this thing where he walks backwards. Whenever he starts doing that, we’ll beep at him. You know, like the garbage trucks? Then he gets all shy and hides his head.”

Gwen couldn’t stop giggling at the thought. “Oh, the poor thing!”

“You’ll have to see it next time you come over.”

“I can’t wait.”

As Kimberly walked away, Gwen sighed. She didn’t get out too much and the humor that most of her socializing outside of work was with one of her coworkers wasn’t lost on her. Just another dart to throw at the board that was Gwen Sinclair.

It wasn’t like her life was a complete disaster. Really, it could have been worse. She could imagine a thousand different scenarios that she could be living right now that were worse off then her current situation. Truthfully, if glanced at from the outside, Gwen’s life was simply... mediocre. She was blessed with tolerable roommates, an okay job that provided a nice paycheck for a twenty-three-year-old who had yet to finish college. But… the loneliness was killing her and overall, she was craving for something more.

She was exhausted from obligation and responsibility. She wished to go back to the days where she read about adventure and intrigue and imagined some day living that out herself. After having those words in her hands, she felt empty in her reality. Somehow, each day felt even more draining.

With the end of another workday, Gwen packed up the files that still needed to be sorted, locked up her cabinets and tugged on her coat as she waved goodbye to Kimberly and the others. A few other coworkers were chatting excitedly about the solar eclipse happening in a few minutes. Gwen, however, was annoyed. Annoyed at the fact that all anyone - online or in person - could talk about was the solar eclipse, as if it was the only one that had ever been seen in this generation. When one person mentioned the eclipse, it was fine. When it was every post and every comment and every conversation, it felt a little ridiculous. Gwen couldn’t care less about the event. Getting home was her current priority. But escaping wasn’t that easy.

For the millionth time, Gwen rolled her eyes as she scrolled through the newsfeed, waiting for her car to warm up in the parking garage. The weather was cold and dreary, slowing down her progress on getting home. Puffs of steam escaped her lips in the below freezing temperature. Other employees hurried past the back of her car to get to their own tiny sanctuaries. An alert for a new email popped up at the top of the phone screen. From the quick scan of the notification, she saw that it was from her eastern history professor. He wanted to go over the latest paper from class. Oh, no. That was never a good sign.

Gwen huffed, threw her car into reverse, and pulled out of the parking space. First the papercut, now this.

Since all her classes were online, Gwen had the minor luxury to not be forced to talk to her professor face to face, which surely would have been humiliating. But it couldn’t be avoided completely. She’d email him back once she arrived home. Or maybe she’d put it off until tomorrow. Dealing with this was the last thing she wanted to do. Stress was already causing her skin to revert back to puberty, she didn’t need this as well.

Her phone rang and she struggled to answer it while carefully winding down the levels of the garage. It was Jaynie, the favorite of the roommates.

“Hey, Janie, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering if you were coming straight home today.”

Gwen smirked, knowing exactly where this was going.

Over the past several months, a bit of an obsession had developed with Korean dramas. The shows the two of them consumed were different from the same old, boring American television and there were years worth of stories to choose from. Currently, they were in the middle of another romantic comedy. While Gwen loved the storyline and was in a constant state of swoon, as soon as the credits started rolling, she was reminded how pathetically uninteresting her life was. But those sixty plus minutes of pure escapism made it all worth the crash that came afterwards.

Gwen tried to wait patiently in the line to leave the parking garage, but her frustration was getting the better of her. It was stop and go, stop and go, stop and go.

“I’m planning on it. That is, if people decide any day now to not drive idiotically.”

“Ugh, I had the same problem on my way home.”

Curious. Both of them worked in the downtown area. “How did you get home so fast?” Gwen asked.

“I got off a little early today.”

“Lucky.” Her accounting job often led to flexible hours. Gwen was jealous of that level of freedom.

The road was slick from the freezing rain. Weather like this brought out all the stupid drivers as if this wasn’t a yearly occurrence. She was careful to look both ways before exiting the garage and inching into the street. What she didn’t account for was the other emptying lot across the street. A large black SUV pulled out right at the same time, but went too fast, hitting the water that was slowly turning to ice on the asphalt.

With no time to react, the SUV slammed into the side of Gwen’s compact car. Glass from the driver’s side window shattered and sprayed her face. Her phone flew out of her hand. The crunch of metal hit her ears before she could fully process what had happened. With the force of the collision, her forehead slammed against the steering wheel before the airbag deployed. The sound of screams echoed around her, but the words were unintelligible. Slumped over in her seat, a shadow creeped over the scene. Through the slits of her barely open eyes, Gwen watched as the sun disappeared behind the moon. Then all went black.

********

The water was what brought her back. It filled her lungs and surrounded her on all sides. She flailed her limbs, desperate for traction that couldn’t be found. Her clothing weighed her down, the hems being pulled as if hands had gripped tight on them. She needed a miracle. And a miracle she got. Two hands held onto one of her wrists and pulled her to the surface.

She gasped for air as her rescuer struggled to bring her to shore. The cloth that covered her felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds, making it nearly impossible to move. Water made its way up her throat, spilling over her lips. Her lungs were finally clear. They took in as much oxygen as they were allowed, burning with each brath.

“Lady Gwen! Lady Gwen!”

A young girl blocked out the bright sun. She shook Gwen’s shoulders desperately.

Gwen’s brain processed that the girl was not speaking English, but… she could understand her. The girl’s damp, dark hair was pulled into halves on either side of her face held in place by wide red straps. She looked at Gwen with deep concern, like a lifelong friend. But Gwen was sure she had never seen this girl before in her life.

“My Lady, can you hear me?” she asked frantically.

“Who are you?” Gwen finally choked out.

That made the girl pause in her panic. “What?”

Slowly regaining her strength, Gwen pushed herself up to her knees. As her eyesight cleared, she took in her surroundings. Gone were the tall metal and glass buildings, traffic lights, and speeding cars of her modern home. Now all that surrounded her were trees and a sandy beach of a large, calm lake. In the distance, wooden houses with curved rooftops, painted in bright reds and greens dotted the horizon. The heaviness that weighed her down was a dress made of too many layers and of no western fashion that she’d ever experienced before.

Whispers bounced around the rocky shore. All the faces that were looking on with concern around were unfamiliar. Gwen grabbed the hair cascading down her back, but it was still the red she knew, darker from the dampness of being pulled out of the water but still her hair.

“Where am I?” she asked in a quiet, gasping voice.

“My Lady, don’t you remember?” The girl panicked. “You’re in Songak. Goryeo.”

“Goryeo?” Gwen screeched. All the minor details she could summon up of the country came rushing to the forefront of her mind. It was information overload and her brain couldn’t handle it. Her lungs tried desperately to keep up, breathing in as much air as they could, but her throat was closing up from the panic. The landscape blurred and she fell to the ground.

********

She was in a bed this time when she regained consciousness. The room was cold and dimly lit with soft, orange candlelight. A man, Caucasian unlike the others, sat beside the bed on a stool, worry etched into every facet of his face.

“Gwen, sweet, are you all right?”

English. He was speaking English. But that was a footnote of comfort to the bigger problem. She still didn’t know what had happened to her or how she got here or who these people were that seemed to know her. The man, who was about in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair, smiled down at her, though his eyes were confused. “Gwen, does it hurt anywhere? Can you tell me if you hit your head?”

Gwen took a moment, to calm down and to evaluate what she was feeling physically. Her head didn’t hurt, nor did any other part of her body. Wordlessly, she shook her head. The man seemed relieved.

“Are you all right?” He asked again, a different meaning under the question this time. “Chae Ryung said you couldn’t remember her or that we were in Goryeo? Do you at least remember your papa?”

Gwen weighed the choices in her mind. There wasn’t a mirror around, but she started to wonder if she had taken the place of someone else. Someone who knew these strangers. She could say that she didn’t know any of them - the truth - but would they think her mad if she spilled too much? Perhaps she could say she remembered a few things. Like him, if he is this poor girl’s father. Why am I here? In this time?

Choosing to comprise with herself, she gave the smallest of nods. “Papa.” Sitting up, she pulled him into a hug and there was something comforting about his embrace. This body remembered him, at least.

“What happened?” she asked after she let go.

“Chae Ryung said that you’d wandered off again and she found you, you’d been the water a long time.” The man, Papa, sucked in a breath, his eyes beginning to water. His genuine concern over her wellbeing made Gwen choke up as well. “The doctor said you stopped breathing. That could explain your lost memories.”

Good. The excuse was already in her hands. That should make it easy enough to play along while being forgiven for any missteps. But they shouldn’t be in Goryeo. That didn’t make any sense, historically. If anything, they might have been in Joseon – late Joseon. Was this some sort of alternate timeline? Or maybe she hit her head really hard in the car crash and this is really all a dream from the stress of her paper and too much K-drama.

Yes. Too much K-drama.

That had to be the explanation. This was all a strange dream. Which meant, she could play along and not be afraid. She could ask questions and live out the day until she woke back up in her own time, most likely in a hospital with a bandage on her head and her mother fretting over her.

She glanced around the room, taking in the architecture that she had only ever seen in pictures. In person, it was even more stunning and intricate. This wasn’t an ordinary citizen’s home. Interesting. What else could her brain come up with? “Why are we in Goryeo?”

“Your father’s a merchant, remember?” He spoke slowly. Each word was deliberate, giving Gwen time to process. Good filler for her mind. “I made a large fortune here and planned on taking you back home, but… your mother is buried here. We couldn’t leave her behind.”

A wave of emotion hit out of nowhere. Though her mother was alive and well, it didn’t stop a tear from escaping. “Mama.”

Papa wiped it away with a coarse finger. Gwen gasped back, surprised by the realness of the touch. Her dreams were never this intricate. The blanket strone across her lap scrunched in her fingers. It was cold and soft… and very real.

She wasn't dreaming, was she?

Confused by her reaction, Papa paused for a moment before continuing his explanation. “The eighth prince is graciously letting us stay with him while we wait on the construction of our home to be complete.”

The eighth prince?

Panic grew tenfold. If this wasn’t a dream, then she was in very big trouble. If history told her one thing, it was that proximity to royalty was the most dangerous place to be. Gwen might possibly have been able to skate by if they were simply staying in some unknown village far from the capital, but they were in a prince’s home. Which meant they were in… Songak, the capital city, just like that girl – Chae Ryung – had said. Right under the King’s nose. Breathing became difficult again. Each one was shallow, barely letting in any oxygen. Gwen could feel her chest tighten and her vision blurred.

“Gwen!” Papa jumped up and tried to keep her straight to give her lungs as much room as possible. He switched to Korean as he called out over his shoulder, “Someone, get the doctor! Now!” Shuffling sounds echoed off the floor on the other side of the sliding door and then faded away.

A minute later, breathing no better, two men and a woman rushed inside along with Chae Ryung. The older man stepped in front of Papa and took his place. He pushed Gwen’s shoulders gently until she was lying down. Two cold fingers against her wrist checked her pulse. The other, much younger man stepped up to Papa.

“What happened?”

Papa frowned. “It seems she’s lost some of her memories. I was explaining why we were here when suddenly she had trouble breathing.” He stopped, struggling with his own breath. “I’m sorry we’ve become a burden to you, Your Highness.”

Gwen’s breathing was regaining strength and she was able to concentrate on the conversation. So that was the eighth prince. He was younger than she would have guessed, handsome even, if she had to focus on something other than her lack of breath.

“Do not think such a thing,” the Eighth Prince replied. “Your presence has greatly improved the household. Lady Gwen will get better with time.”

Papa bowed, obviously grateful at the response. He turned to the woman. “Lady Hae, may I enquire after your own health?”

“Today is a better day,” she smiled, though her pale, drained complexion said otherwise. “Please, don’t worry about me. Keep your thoughts for your daughter.”

The doctor released Gwen’s wrist, satisfied with the improvement of her pulse and breathing. He stood up.

“It was a mild panic attack,” the doctor said calmly to Papa. “If it happens again, she should lie down and focus on her breathing. The incident at the lake seems to have taken a toll on her body. She simply needs rest. In time, her memories and her body will recover.”

Gwen didn’t agree with that statement fully. This body might get better in time, but there was no way memories that didn’t exist would ever return. One by one, the occupants left the room until it was only Gwen and Papa remaining behind. Silence hung in the air. After a moment, Papa sat down on the stool and took Gwen’s hand.

“I was worried I had lost you,” he whispered.

Gwen’s eyes fell down to the blanket covering her legs. Things were becoming clearer to her now. This was not a dream and she was no longer Gwen Sinclair from the twenty-first century. Something must have happened. She didn’t know what exactly had occurred or what would happen now, but she was here. And little did this man – known only to her as “Papa” – know that he had indeed lost his daughter. The face may be the same, but the Gwen inside was different. She would try her best to be good to him, at least until she found a way to get back to her own family. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

********

The next morning, the doctor, along with the Eighth Prince, came back to check on Gwen. The doctor commented that her pulse was stronger and that she seemed well on the road to full health. However, he still insisted on keeping her on bedrest.

Bored with these same walls and too curious about her temporary home, Gwen sat up. If she was going to be here for a while, she might as well get to know it. “I’m fine. Please, don’t make me stay in here all day. The sun and air is good for you, isn’t it?”

The sudden rebelliousness against the doctor’s suggestion did not seem to sit well with any of them. Gwen gave Papa a pleading look. A father couldn’t resist those eyes. He sighed, turning to the doctor. “Perhaps, a little exercise in walking around the grounds would be all right?”

The doctor looked reluctant, but he agreed. “But she shouldn’t overexert herself.”

“Chae Ryung will stay with her,” the Eighth prince ordered. “If you’ll please excuse me, I must meet with my brothers.” He bowed and left, followed by the doctor.

Having heard her name from the hallway, Chae Ryung shuffled quickly inside and over to Gwen, holding out her arms for the latter to balance on as she slid off of the bed. “Are you sure you want to go outside?”

Gwen nodded. “Yes. Perhaps seeing more of this place will help jog my memory.”

Chae Ryung tilted her head. “How can your memory jog?”

Gwen snorted, both at Chae Ryung’s confusion and at herself for the slip of the modern phrase. “Sorry, I just meant, maybe my memories will come back.”

“Oh.” The look on her face was enough to make Gwen laugh again.

Gwen scolded herself internally. She had to be more careful with her words. Every step was one on thin ice. She couldn’t change who she was, not completely, but she would have to pull back. Chae Ryung, however, felt safe, like a shelter from the rain. With her, Gwen could find answers that might be dangerous to seek elsewhere. Straightening her shoulders, Gwen smiled broadly and took her newest friend’s hand. Chase Ryung grinned brightly at her and guided her out of the room.

#exo royalty au #exo royalty!au #scarlet heart au #scarlet heart ryeo #exo time travel au #exo time travel!au #exo angst #exo series #exo x oc #exo x original character #exo ot9 #Scarlet Moon

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s-horne · 4 years

Note

What about stony quarantined with a rambunctious toddler? Or teenage Peter?

(I went for toddler!Peter and essentially just wrote about my own lockdown life... including at-home workouts and far far far too many snacks)

(also, no mention of the bad thing causing this lockdown)

***

“What in…” Tony trailed off as he surveyed the living room. It looked like every flat surface was covered with some sort of artwork. If random scribbles and brightly-coloured sponge patterns could be called artwork. “Having fun?”

“Loads of fun, Daddy! Look at this!” Peter held up a piece of printer paper covered with splotches that vaguely resembled hearts. “D’ya like it?”

All Tony could really see was the mess in his living room. There was paint on his table and a pink splodge on the floor, steadily growing larger as a stream of blue dripped down the table leg to meet it. He swallowed down his sigh to smile at his son. “I love it, baby. Going up on the fridge, for sure.”

Peter beamed and eagerly grabbed another painting. “And this one! Look at this one!”

“That one, too? Wow.” Tony smiled at Peter, heart sinking when he noticed yet another patch of paint that had somehow reached the skirting board. It was a bright yellow that seemed to glow in the sunlight. “My little artist.”

“Papa did this one,” Peter said, setting his painting down on the table. Steve swept in and picked it up when Peter put it on top of another painting, carefully moving it away from his flailing arms. “Like it?”

Tony laughed. “I love them all, baby. You and Pops are pretty talented, huh?”

“The best,” Peter agreed, nodding his head as he handed Steve his painting. When his hands were free, he grimaced down at the mess on them, holding them up to show his parents.

Steve took the painting with a smile and shook his head at the mess Peter had gotten into. As he met Tony’s gaze over Peter’s head, Steve reached for a damp towel. “Work done?”

“For now. Need to go back to it in an hour or so to finish off the last few bits. But I think it’s snacky-snack time, yeah?”

Peter’s face lit up and he yanked his hands away from the towel that Steve was rubbing over his arms. When he’d scrambled off his chair, Peter bounced over to Tony. “Snack! You want cookies?”

Tony poked Peter on the nose. “Thank you, kid. We can share a packet of cookies. Once we help Pops to clean up this room.”

Eyes wide, Peter turned to look around him. He grimaced again and leant his head against Tony’s knee. “Whoops. Lotsa mess.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tony said, lifting his eyebrows at Steve. “Lots of mess.”

“What’s going on here?”

Steve had walked in on some strange scenes over the years, but seeing his husband and son bunny-hopping around the room was one of the cutest.

“Bunny!” Peter cried, toppling over when he jumped a bit too enthusiastically.

Tony sighed as he stopped bouncing, breaths a little laboured as he shot Steve a tired look. “Yeah, Pops. We’re bunnies. Obviously.”

Snorting, Steve crossed the living room to deposit his bags of shopping on the kitchen table. He stepped back into the lounge to watch them, arms folded across his chest as he leant on the doorframe. “I can see that. I think. Why are you being bunnies?”

“It’s a good workout, isn’t it, Pete? I found it online.”

Peter grinned over at them for a moment, hands held up at either side of his forehead to make rabbit ears, before he turned his attention back to the television and concentrated on the next move. It looked to be some kind of jumping set to replicate frogs and it took every ounce of Steve’s self-control to not laugh at the unimpressed stare on Tony’s face.

“Come give me a hand with the groceries?”

Tony sighed in relief at the offer and ran a hand through Peter’s hair before he headed into the kitchen. As soon as he was through the door he fell into a chair. “Oh my – have you done that? It’s extreme. Never mind a workout; it’s a torture method.”

Steve chuckled, grabbing a glass to fill with water. “Here, drink this. Looks like being a bunny really took it out of you.”

Drinking the water eagerly, Tony glared at Steve over the rim of his glass. “You don’t get to mock until you’ve done that. You try doing Pikachu jumps followed by a plank and reverse lunges. And then go straight into Fireman Sam climbers.”

The longer Tony talked, the wider Steve’s smile grew. “Those are not real.”

Tony’s glare worsened. “Oh, believe me. They are.”

“Well, I think they sound like a lot of fun. Can I join?”

Tony threw a hand over his face and sank further into his chair. “You can take over. Forever.”

Tony rather thought he might live on the couch forever. It was comfortable. And the cushion over his head worked wonders for blocking out sounds. Tony could play innocent with his head buried in the proverbial sand.

“What happened?”

Someone poked at his shoulder and Tony groaned loudly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve said, but there was a sharp undertone to his voice. “What happened?”

“What?” Tony rolled over enough to peer up at Steve.

“I’m sorry, have you gone deaf? Am I the only one who can hear the gates of hell opening?”

“He’s in time out,” Tony said, wincing when a particularly loud cry reached them from Peter’s bedroom.

“How long has he been–,” he cut off with a grimace when Peter cried again. “What the hell did you say to him?”

“He’s a kid,” Tony snapped. Pushing himself to sit up, he rubbed at his forehead. He hated being the bad parent, the one to dish out the punishment. “They cry. He was naughty and now he’s being punished. This hasn’t had to happen in a while – he’s forgotten how much he hates it, is all.”

Steve was silent for a moment, frown lines deep in his forehead. There was a bang and a thud and Steve shook his head. “Oh, go and get him.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not. He needs to learn.”

His answer was a lifted eyebrow and Tony groaned when Peter wailed again. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine. But when he does the exact same thing tomorrow, I absolutely reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’.”

Steve rubbed his hand up and down Tony’s arm soothingly, as though it were Tony who was in tears. Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Times are hard enough at the moment. Go and get him.”

With a long sigh, Tony pushed himself up. He stood still for a moment to collect himself before he headed to Peter’s room. Sometimes, he really hated being the adult.

“Hey, kid.” Tony perched on the end of Peter’s bed, eyes on the boy-shaped lump beneath the blankets. Though Peter’s sobs increased in volume with his presence, Tony knew the difference between actual cries with real tears and ones made for attention. Peter’s had definitely turned into the latter. “Come on, Petey, don’t cry.”

There was a beat of silence before a tiny voice was heard. “Mean.”

“I’m not mean,” Tony said with a sigh, resting his hand on his son’s back. It showed how Peter was feeling that he didn’t throw Tony’s touch off. An apology would be easy enough to work from him and Tony would be able to orchestrate a somewhat-sensible conversation.

“Are.” Peter sniffed. “Big meany.”

“Come here, silly boy.” Tony peeled away the blankets to reveal his son and brushed his thumb over the boy’s wet cheek to dry his leftover tears. “Don’t cry, kiddo. I’m not a big meany. You know you aren’t supposed to hit people.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter said, heavy breaths punctuating his words. “Didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I think you did,” Tony said as he hooked his hands under Peter’s armpits and heaved him onto his lap, “but now you know what happens when you’re naughty. What do you say after you do it?”

“Said sorry,” Peter mumbled, words a little slurred with his exhaustion. He burrowed closer into Tony’s arms and Tony graciously pretended not to notice where he wiped his nose. “I did.”

“I know.” Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s hair and rubbed circles into his back. “Take a deep breath for me. You know you aren’t supposed to hit people. It’s not okay to do that, even if you’re really, really angry. It’s a difficult time at the moment, babe, so you need to be a bit more patient with us, okay? We can’t go outside so we have to be extra, extra nice to each other.”

“I’m nice. Miss. Danvers says I’m a good boy. I love you.”

“You are a good boy,” Tony chuckled, holding Peter closer and tickling his stomach softly. “Most of the time. And I love you, too.”

There was a long moment of quiet before Peter pulled his face away from Tony’s neck. “Snacky-snack?”

Tony gasped. “A snack? How can something as tiny as you possibly eat so much? You’re so small!” Tony stood up with Peter in his arms and lifted him high in the air. “Have you got hollow legs? Is that your secret?”

Steve laughed from across the doorway and stepped into Peter’s room. “I think he must have hollow legs. A little hollow boy.”

“No!” Peter squealed, right in Tony’s ear. “I’m not hollow!”

“You do eat a lot,” Tony said thoughtfully, dropping Peter down onto his hip. “You’ll eat us out of house and home, eventually.”

“Papa!” Peter reached out for Steve when Tony started to tickle him, desperately grabbing at the air as giggles fell from his lips, cheeks flushed with laughter instead of tears. “Tell him ‘m not hollow!”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Steve said, taking Peter with a laugh. “He’s not hollow. Now, what was this I heard about a snacky-snack?”

“No.”

Steve took a deep breath. “You can’t say no, babe. You have to do this.”

“Can’t.”

“You can.” Steve pushed the pencil back across the table to Peter. “And you can say more words than that, you silly billy. Don’t go shy on me now.”

“No.”

Peter’s glare was impressive. It was clear whose son he was, Steve mused. It caught him off guard quite often, but most of the time he loved when he noticed it. Not all times, though.

“Come on, kid. One more worksheet and we can get a snacky-snack with Daddy.”

“It’s hard.”

Sighing, Steve cursed his son’s stubborn streak. “It’s good that it’s hard, sweetheart. That’s what I’m here for – I can help you with it. And then when you go back to school, you can show your teachers how clever you are. Miss. Danvers will be so impressed that you’ve worked so hard over the little break.”

“‘m clever,” Peter said, rubbing at his eye. “Like Daddy.”

“I know you are, kid,” Steve said, reaching out to pull Peter’s hand away from his face. “You’re my clever boys. So let’s do these horrible math sheets and then we can go and show Daddy how smart you are!”

Peter sniffed. Loudly. “You gon’ help me?”

“Of course I am,” Steve said, voice soft. “That’s what Papas are for, aren’t they? Now, look at this first one.”

“Is it bedtime yet?”

Steve snorted, which Tony thought was rather rude. “It’s only eight. Pete’s only been down ten minutes.”

“He’s also been up since five. It’s been a long day.”

From where he was burrowed against Steve’s chest, Tony felt more than heard Steve’s chuckle.

“That’s cause he’s your son, sweetheart. Bed is for the weak, according to you pair.”

Tony huffed. “It is. Most of the time. These are extenuating circumstances and I just want to sleep until it’s over.”

“Well,” Steve said, hand running through Tony’s hair, “I was going to open a bar from my secret chocolate box and finish off that bottle of wine we opened last night, but if you’d rather go to bed then…”

Groaning, Tony stretched his legs out on the couch and rolled until he could see Steve’s face, peeking through one eye at him. “What sort of candy have you got?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ooh,” Tony moaned, grinning up at his husband sleepily, “the magic words. Talk dirty to me, baby.”

With a loud laugh, Steve bent down and brushed a kiss to Tony’s temple. “Red wine and Hershey’s. The Special Dark kind.”

Tony groaned theatrically and lifted his arms to twist them around Steve’s neck, holding him close. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured against Steve’s lips, “you know how I like it.”

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loserboigavin · 4 years

Text

Hoboken Terminal

The train was five minutes behind schedule. There was almost no one on the train, and scantily anyone aware of the delay besides myself. Two old men sat in the front of the car, seemingly deep in their own thoughts with one leaning on his cane and one sprawled against the burgundy seats. Upon closer inspection one could tell that they were merely asleep after a slow journey on this line from Paterson. A mother and her child sat a few rows ahead of me, speaking their own language to each other in their own little world. The little boy enjoyed the sights of the yard we were rolling through and his mother beamed at his joy, though it had little effect on the dreary mood of the car. Outside the streaked window, it was May and the trees had begun to bud, and Hoboken sat still against the bright blue sky. People moved in the distance though no detail could be met, no one would want to hang around a train yard. The train finally made it under the station shed, making it so dark that it could be anytime of day as our nearly empty train joined a long line of fully empty trains.

I rushed down the steps at the end of the car to make it onto the low platform, everyone else behind me as I rushed down towards the ferries. It had been years since I was last there, though it hadn’t changed at all with huge trains waiting to whisk away the few people that would board them. The yellow lights of the huge departure board displayed the lack of departures for the middle of a weekday, just when the rush would start around four thirty. Despite the lack of trains the board was still a beauty, old lettering and back lighting straight out of the seventies, which was probably the last time anyone cared about what happened in this place. When I turned back away from the board all of my fellow former passengers were gone, probably down in the PATH tunnels waiting to leave on a train that would rather wait until all of Hoboken got on. People were waiting for coffee and reading the paper at the small stalls in the dark green walls of the terminal building. The doors to the lobby were adorned with gilded handles harkening back to the terminal’s origins, seemingly the only thing the place could boast about anymore. Boast they should however, the lobby was a masterpiece with large hanging bulbs affixed to the crown mold surrounding the terracotta tiled ceiling. Wooden windows lead to ticket booths with windows so clean the black and white tiles of the floor made the workers inside look like a silent film. The small offices served no one however, and the workers inside seemed to fit better in a vintage photograph than reality. Stairs at the far end lead to more offices beyond the sturdy and tall wooden waiting benches in front of me, and below the stairs was my destination, the ferry slips. I walked through the lobby like a King in his court, though the desolate nature of the hobby perhaps made me more like Hades.

As the gilded handles of the doors on the other end greeted me, the austacious lights of the lobby said their goodbyes. The ferry slips were much darker than the terminal, despite being nominally outside. Narrow walkways extended out into the water with small ordenmants of metal on either side, though no ships were present to meet them. The departures board said that they were at most every half hour, so assuming that I had just missed one I moved to look out across the hudson. Manhattan gleamed in the distance, the buildings were playing king of the hill with each other to see would reign supreme. Claying their way ever higher to the Heavens, Olympus, or any other greater plane couldn’t be decided. The water was blue under the sun, but more of a gray in actuality. It lapped against the pier pillars, and beyond that the wall that the building sat on. Little waves crashed and retreated, over and over and over, the same splash everytime could be heard from every pillar and every surface that could ever be hit. As I watched the water and its flows, it did what was expected of it everytime, until I caught a wave with no origin crashing sideways into another one. Vortexes then formed all around the pillars as the water decided to travel as it may without any regard for physical laws. A stream of yellow light then appeared on the slips, as I looked back towards the city the light of a setting sun was being reflected back across the river towards the terminal. A ferry could never realistically travel in such treacherous waters I thought, I should’ve just taken the PATH.

I rushed back inside to find my way to the PATH entrance, but scant signage proved useful in keeping me in such a useless building. The lobby was busier now than it was before, with people standing about, unmoving while they stared at nothing in particular. They were not fiance types in suits, but not the poor homeless of Penn Station either, far too regular for the fanciful lobby. I was the only one moving as I moved towards the doors labelled “exit”, as if they were too shy to even look one in the eye. A man lit a cigarette as I was about to exit the building, I didn’t think anything of it. The terminal was a castle of evergreen metal outside, with a large clocktower dwarfed by the more modern buildings across the river and farther down in Jersey City. “LACKAWANNA RR” was written in large letters above the entrance, though a few of the letters decided to take an evening off when their lights were most important. Police cars were parked in front of the barren square, though no human could be seen anywhere, just their built creations. No official sign for PATH trains was anywhere to be seen, but a small piece of printer paper had an arrow pointing towards a staircase on one side, and an apartment listing on the other, as it was perpetually close to falling from its tape. The staircase was so unimportant that it must have made any man who walked down it feel like a lesser rat. The tiled walls were dirtier than those in the Lincoln Tunnel, and the floor looked like a congelement of puke and misery with cheap concrete. As I walked along the corridor it turned and turned back on itself, I passed a homeless man and gave him the quarters in my pocket, but I thought I had just seen him before so I have him a five on top of that. I kept going, following the singular line of green tiles that contrasted the pissed stained yellow ones. I came across a staircase, it led back up to the barren square I was in before, still lonely, but now with a purple sky in the background. I had thought New Jersey faced the east, but maybe they were having some sort of special event.

I somehow found myself on a PATH training bound for midtown, the car was packed and the doors were still open. Everyone was silent as everything was in Hoboken, all staring into their own worlds. An old woman sat in her fancy hat at the end of the bench, her eyes were hidden in her glasses but it was obvious that she was staring out the window. Her hands were sad as was her posture, hunched over like everyone on the train would attack her at any minute. Everyone’s posture was sad, hunched like cold and hungry dogs in the commercials all while wearing large coats and holding huge bags like runaways in a teen drama. We arrived at Christopher Street Station and a good amount of people got off, while no one got on. Across from me was a man with a large duffel bag, he wore three coats and the densest pair of jeans I had ever seen. He wore headphones, but no sound could be heard from them. His eyes were closed though he wasn’t asleep, he seemed to be rocking back and forth like he was praying. He gripped the bag strongly, his hand seemed to be bleeding from the dig of his finger nails. Despite all of this his face was as serene as anyone else’s, everyone looked like a stoic subject in a painting. The lighting helped this image as it flickered on and off, illuminating and reilluminating the subjects as they sat in their repose. The ads on the car wall spoke of help for New Yorker’s through some new shoe or a new kind of taxi company, but they didn’t draw the eye of anyone on board. The journey of the city is eternal, its struggles superseding anything material for that was the city in its birth and it will be the city in its death.

The train arrived back in Hoboken sometime later, I must’ve been distracted by some hustlers selling candy or CDs or some other oddity. The waiting area sat at the head of the trains as they stared you down, trying to convince anyone to choose them over the identical rolling stock next to it, destinations differed though all were the same. I boarded one with red seats and end car stairs as a light flurry began to fall. The train was warm with cold passengers, its conductures rushed up and down the aisles checking tickets that could never pay by themselves to have the train run. A young family sat near me as I stared out the streaky window at the lights of Hoboken with the snow falling in front of them. We departed five minutes late.

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quicksilverlightning · 5 years

Text

The All Might Fan Forum Discussion Board, Part Two

ALL MIGHT FAN FORUM General Discussion All Might Battles Meeting All Might Rescued by All Might All Might Encounters >Small Might Encounters (New!) Fanart and Fanfiction

Gone4-a-Jog

Small Might Sensei

I like to go jogging. I started recently and I’m not very good at it – I can’t run very fast or very long. But I like taking different routes and discovering new places when I stop to catch my breath. It was during one of my longer runs that I bumped into All Might.

I’d heard someone behind me a few minutes before I stopped to put my hands on my knees and try to gulp down as much air as possible, but didn’t hear that he stopped when I did so I jumped and nearly fell on my ass when I got upright, then nearly fell again when I saw who it was and this long sentence doesn’t begin to cover the comedy of errors that was my life in these few moments.

He stopped cause I was running wrong. Sidenote: there’s a such thing as running wrong. Apparently, you want to land in the middle of your foot and try not to land on your heel at all cause that can cause problems. He also taught me a few breathing rhythms for different intensities of runs.

He ran with me for about twenty minutes, correcting my bad posture and seriously I know every post on this forum says it, but All Might is super, super nice. Like, you’d think he’d have at least a little ego or something, but he doesn’t. He just wants to help everyone. He said hello to everyone we passed and doubled back to throw away a bottle someone dropped. He’d so nice you guys.

I’ve been using what he taught me for a few days now, and haven’t gotten a stitch in my side once. It’s so much easier to run now. Thanks Sensei!

Pepper-oni

Seatmates!

Small Might sat next to me on the bus. Pretty sure he could have had any seat he wanted no matter how crowded it was, but he was really polite and kinda awkward about asking if he could sit with me. Meanwhile, I’m internally screaming while trying to keep it cool on the outside.

He was texting someone on his phone – I tried not to stare, but it’s All Might, you know? I didn’t catch much, just that he was proud of someone, which, hello, is so frickking cute. He looked happy.

m0toroildrmz

A brief conversation with my mother:

“Mom, do you know who that was?”

“No?”

“That was All Might! All Might, mom!”

I leave my mom alone for five seconds to use the bathroom, and I come back to ALL MIGHT helping her with her English crossword puzzles. She didn’t even get an autograph for me.

oba-san581

the beach

I don’t know why it took so very long for it to click – after his last battle, I couldn't shake the feeling that I’d seen that tall, skinny man somewhere before. And he is such a distinctive gentleman; I was sure I knew him, somehow. It wasn’t until I met him on the beach that it finally fell into place.

I’m retired these days, so I have a lot of time on my hands. Every day, I take a walk from my home to the library and back. Sometimes I stay a few minutes, sometimes the entire day gets away from me. For months, almost every day without fail, there was a man and a boy cleaning the shoreline near my home. They would be there when I left for the day, and were still there when I came back. The boy was a scrappy, freckled little thing, cute as a button. The man was slender, but undeniably strong – he would step in to help with some of the bigger appliances, but mostly directed the boy and cheered him on.

I stopped to speak to them a few times; the boy was such a polite young man, and All Might was genial and humble. I never would have known. I could never have guessed had I not met him again, returning from the library with a book to enjoy near the waves.

It’s strange; heroes are so flashy these days, hustle and bustle and fight and move. And we appreciate them, need them. But there’s something so very special about the little things. All Might personally spent almost a year helping clean up a beach. Would anyone else in the top ten have done that?

He was every bit as kind as I remembered. He doesn’t accept praise very well, insisted the beach was all the boy’s doing. Which is fair enough I suppose – he did most of the heavy lifting. Even so, that man was out there almost every single day, with lunch and water and cheer and kind words. It warmed my heart, watching the two of them progress across the sand. I’m so glad All Might is a teacher now; those kids are in good hands.

spite-and-aesthetic

again with the cats

small might plucked my cat out of a tree AGAIN – same cat same tree he even fucking remembered me is this guy for real?

MKPlusUltra

All Might does not skip Leg Day

So I’m minding my own business, checking messages on my phone, waiting on my drink order, when there’s some commotion across the street – lotta loud noise, people screaming and running, standard-issue villain-tries-to-rob-the-till-at-the-combini sort of afternoon. It’s a tall guy with, like, I guess it’s a stretch Quirk off some kind? He looks like he walked out of some old-timey cartoon, all wiggly limbs bouncing everywhere, running from what looks like some rookie Pro – I don’t even think they were a rookie yet; maybe an intern? Anyway, Noodle Arms is booking it, Intern is after him as fast as his short legs can manage. Leggy clears the street in one jump and starts twisting his head around like he can’t decide where to go next.

It’s at that moment when All Might himself exits the building next to mine, one hand leaving his pocket to check his watch and Noodle makes a decision.

Now look, I’m gonna break this down into slo-mo for ya, cause seriously, it was a thing of beauty. It was one, smooth, impossibly cool-looking move, and every piece of it needs to be appreciated. This DUMBASS, who clearly had no plan whatsoever beyond “grab a hostage,” honestly thinks he can take on ALL MIGHT, I guess cause he’s skinny now or something. He wraps his stupid noodle limbs around him and All Might doesn’t even twitch when Dumbass constricts his arms and waves a gun around. Dumbass is yelling something, I don’t know what, who tf cares. All Might kinda tilts his head, wriggles his shoulders a bit, then lifts his arms up and slides out of the jacket so fast the fabric doesn’t even lose its shape. I’m not even kidding, it looked like it was on an invisible mannequin, this move came straight from the Acme school of How To Defy Physics. Dumbass has just enough time to look shocked before he’s eating a size 13 leather shoe – All Might dropped to his haunches, made a quarter-turn, and kicked his leg up and back, straight into the jaw of Dumbass. He kicks him so hard his feet actually lift off the ground and he flies backwards into a streetlamp.

All Might doesn’t even look angry; he just looks Annoyed, like someone forgot to put sugar in his coffee. He picks up his jacket and slings it over a shoulder and waits around a few minutes for the police to catch up and haul Noodle McDumbass into custody while Short Intern babbles away with stars in his eyes. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

AM_FAN0112

HE’S BACK

HE HASN’T BEEN TO THE SHOP IN THREE MONTHS TOSHINORI YOU USELESS SUNFLOWER I WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I LEFT SO MANY TEARS ON HIS JACKET

YOU FUCKING SWEETHEART. YOU ABSOLUTE RAY OF LITERAL SUNSHINE. I WILL SAVE EVERY COPY OF SUGAR SUGAR CAT CAFE FOR YOU I WILL READ EVERY SINGLE DUMBASS ROMANCE MANGA I CAN FIND I WILL WORK IN THIS TINY BOOKSHOP FOR THE REST OF MY STUPID LIFE JUST NEVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN YOU AWKWARD JACKRABBIT DON’T EVER LEAVE ME HANGING LIKE THAT AGAIN

I’M SORRY FOR SCREAMING I JUST MISSED HIM SO MUCH HE’S MY FAVORITE CUSTOMER EVEN BEFORE I KNEW HE WAS ALL MIGHT. HE’S AN ADORABLE OLD MAN

RedRibbon

A good man

Perhaps it’s a little unfair for me to comment since I work in the Tower. Still, there are some things I wanted to share with the world and this is a good place to do it.

I’ve been at the agency for three years now, mainly doing secretarial work. My direct superior is a man named Yagi-san. Yagi-san acted as All Might’s personal assistant, right hand man, concierge, whatever you want to call it. Telling something to Yagi-san was as good as telling it to All Might directly. I, along with everyone else in the Tower, learned why that night in Kamino.

I’ve read many, many posts on these discussion boards and if I were to identify a unifying theme that everyone seems to mention, it’s that All Might is a nice guy. That he really, honestly cares. That he worries about the little things just as much as the big things. I’ve worked with Yagi-san for three years and can confirm that none of it is a show for the adoring public – it’s all 100% true.

Let me tell you something, I worked with Miruko’s agency before All Might’s, and Wash before that, but unless the two of them also have secret identities, neither one of them was on the ground floor pushing pencils with the rest of us like All Might was. I’ve seen Yagi-san escorting new hires around the building when they get lost. I’ve seen him roll up his sleeves and change a busted printer cartridge, ink all over his shirt. He knows everyone’s birthday. He’ll do coffee runs, answer the phones, make deliveries, grab lunch, whatever you need. I’ve seen him as All Might, shutting the press down when they start getting pushy with the employees, or dropping by the daycare and making the kids light up.

I’ve never seen him complain. I’ve never seen him brush anyone off. I’ve never seen him be rude, or arrogant, or insulting, or aloof. I’ve never seen him treat anyone as lesser, as if they weren’t worth his time. Yagi-san lifted morale just by being in the building, the way All Might cut crime rates just by existing. Everyone in the agency loved Yagi-san just as much as they loved the hero; everyone had a story about All Might, and another one about Yagi-san. I’ve seen a few of those stories on this very board.

But this one is mine:

Ever since high school, I’ve used a ribbon to keep the hair out of my face. I love my curls, but they can be a nuisance waving around at the edge of my vision, so I keep them pulled back. I like using ribbons because scrunchies often get caught in my un-tameable mess of hair.

My ribbon snapped one day at work. It wasn’t a big deal – just a minor annoyance to have to keep pushing my hair back. But Yagi-san noticed. He noticed without anyone saying anything, and came back from lunch thirty minutes later with a beautiful red ribbon that he tied into my hair.

It really is the little things that matter the most. This tiny little gesture made me feel seen, acknowledged, valued. Not just as an employee, but as a person. All Might cares about those kinds of things – his employees aren’t subordinates, they’re people. He doesn’t rescue victims, he recuses people. He doesn’t pull you up to his level; he gets on yours and puts you on his shoulders.

I’ve worn that ribbon nearly every day for two years. It’s gotten thin in places, kinda frayed at the edges, but still doing its job faithfully. A bit little like the man who gave it to me.

#yagi toshinori #All Might #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #fanfic #bnha fanfiction #small might #social media fic #pov outsider #I love writing fics like this #number one in our hearts #loosely connected to An Unofficial Statement from Might Tower #AM_FAN0112 is me

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wheregayeldhidsthewips · 4 years

Text

Descendants of Madness

Disclaimer: Nobody belongs to me. Which really sucks.

Spoilers: TS - S2 (try to contain your shock); S&H – Bloodbath, Sweet Revenge

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Don’t run with scissors.

Descendants of Madness

By Gayle Smith

May 30, 1998

Vacaville, CA

“Si-mon.”

Chanting filled the air as a shadowy figure stepped out of the prison transport and raised his shackled hands before him in triumph. “I dreamed this day and it has come to pass. I dreamed that my children would come for me, so that I might walk, unfettered once more, through the unclean cities of the fallen ones and gather the chosen before me.”

His hand drifted down to touch the head of the supplicant kneeling before him, blank eyes reaching up to meet his. “I dreamed you’d come.”

The young man, his guard’s uniform covered in the blood of a man he’d once called friend, dropped down to press a kiss to manacled foot in front of him. “Si-mon. Si-mon. Si-mon. Si-mon.”

* * *

The harsh jangle of the phone disturbed the peaceful silence of the room, bringing a weary sigh from the lone occupant of the bed and seconds later a hand fumbled across the night stand until its fumbling fingers closed around the handset before disappearing beneath the blankets again.

“‘lo?” A sleep-tinged voice answered, “‘s’it? Yeah. What?” The curly-haired figured shot up in bed, throwing back the covers and reaching for the crumbled pair of jeans on the floor. “How the hell did that happen? Damn it. When? Has anyone told Hutch? No, I’ll call him, then I’ll meet you down at the precinct. And I wanna see everything you’ve got on this. Everything.”

* * *

June 3, 1989

Boston, MA

Laughter followed Debbie Foster as she crossed her office and called out to her companion. “Just give me five minutes to print that file and I’ll meet you in the board room.”

Stepping across the room, she leaned over her computer and quickly brought up the document in question, sending it to the printer. Eyes still on the printer, she reached over idly to pick up the ringing phone and bring it to her ear, “Hello?”

“Darkness falls, Simon calls.” A sibilant voice whispered in her ear.

Papers drifted to the floor, falling from fingers gone slack. Every trace of emotion was wiped from her face.

“Si-mon.”

“The time of ascension draws near. Are you ready my child?”

“Yes, father.”

* * *

June 10, 1998

Somewhere in California

“Pick up the phone. Please, Gail, pick up the phone.” She clung desperately to the phone, her gaze moving nervously between it and the door. “Please, please.” A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the connection was made, “Gail, thank God I...”

... awfully busy, but if you leave a number, I’ll be sure to get back to you as soon as I return.” A light, breezy voice informed her.

“Gail, oh please, you have to get this message. It’s very important. Simon is free. He’s coming for the children, you have to warn...”

“I dreamed you’d betray me.”

The soft voice froze the blood in her veins and she turned toward it in mute denial, shaking her head as she stumbled backward.

“Yes, my child, I dreamed of this.” Simon Marcus reached out to touch her face, cupping it lovingly between his palms. “All of this. And then, I dreamed your death.”

“No! Please, Simon, please, no.” She fell to her knees in front of him. “Please, I wasn’t betraying you. I swear. I was just trying to find him for you. I swear.”

“There is no need for untruths between us.” He bent down before her, brushing her hair away from her face. “Simon knows the truth. He dreamed it.” With one swift motion, Simon snapped her neck, watching serenely as she fell bonelessly to the floor. “I dreamed your death.”

* * *

June 13, 1989

Cascade, WA

“Get a move on, Chief.” Detective James Ellison bellowed at his partner as he checked his watch again. “Sandburg, what the hell’s taking so long?”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Blair mumbled around the leather tie in his mouth as he smoothed his hair back into a ponytail, “Geez, Jim, what’s the hurry? Simon’s not expecting us to be at the station for another hour.”

“I know, but I want to try and get some of the paperwork cleared off my desk before those bozos from the Federal Task force arrive.” Jim motioned toward the open door. “Which I’m not going to do if you don’t get the lead out.”

“Get the lead out of what?” A cheery voice and the scent of sage brushed past Jim as Naomi Sandburg swept through the open doorway. “Blair, darling.” She enfolded her son in an embrace.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” Blair’s arms tightened around her as he returned the hug. “When did you get here?”

“I came straight from the airport, sweetie.” Naomi held Blair at arms length and ran a mother’s eye over him. “You look tired, are you getting enough rest?”

“I’m fine, Naomi.” Blair smiled indulgently at her, “And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Oh, that’s quite simple, I’ve come to kidnap you,” Naomi responded brightly.

“Kidnap?” Blair backed away warily. “Mom, what are you up to?”

“Just trying to spend some quality time with my favorite son.” Naomi linked her arm though Blair’s and led him to the couch. “I thought it might be nice if we spent a little time together. I know the semester is over and I’m sure that Jim can spare you for a few days. Isn’t that right, Jim?” Naomi turned and fixed her bewitching gaze on Jim. “What do you say?”

“I... ah...” Jim looked between the two figures on the couch, from Naomi’s steady gaze to Blair’s beseeching one. Noticing the slight shake of his partner’s head, a grin crept across his features. “You know, Naomi, I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. Our little Blair’s been burning the candle at both ends trying to get through finals and help me out at the station. I think some time away to relax is just what the doctor ordered.”

“But, Jim, man, don’t you need me down at the station?” Blair’s voice held a barely checked note of desperation. “What about that meeting with the Feds? Simon was expecting both of us for that.”

“I’m sure Simon will understand, Chief,” Jim replied with a good-natured grin. “He knows how much extra time you’ve been putting in. Go on, go with your mom. Commune with nature, eat granola, meditate. I’ll be sure to save you all of the really exciting paperwork.”

“Gee, thanks, man.” Blair frowned across the space at his roommate. “No, really, man, I mean that. Sincerely.”

“Oh, come on, honey, is it really going to be so bad spending a few days alone with your mother?” Naomi reached out a hand to brush a stray lock of hair from his face.

“No, mom, of course not.” Blair reached up to capture her hand and held it. “All right, I surrender. What should I pack?”

“A little of everything,” Naomi replied mysteriously.

Stopped in the doorway to take a final jab at his friend, Jim thought he saw something akin to relief cross Naomi’s face at Blair’s capitulation. He opened his mouth for a moment, intending to ask her if something was wrong just as she turned to him with a graceful smile and quietly waved him out the door.

* * *

“Ellison!”

Jim winced as hot coffee splashed across his hand and turned to face his commanding officer. “Yes, sir?”

“Where’s Sandburg?” Simon’s gaze traveled anxiously over Jim’s shoulder to the space usually occupied by his partner.

“Probably still back at the loft, why?” Jim’s focus shifted to the two men waiting in Simon’s office. Both in their mid-50’s, neither had the look Jim had come to typically expect of Feds. The slight arrogance that seemed to surround most of their brethren was missing and both wore an air of weariness that Jim associated with cops who had spent too many years on the streets.

“What do you mean ‘back at the loft’?” Simon snapped. “I told you both to be in my office at 8:00 to meet with the representatives from the task force.”

“I know, sir, but Naomi turned up just as we were leaving.” Jim’s attention shifted back to Simon, a faint alarm going off in the back of his head over his captain’s reaction. Simon had said nothing to indicate that Blair’s presence was required at the meeting. “She wants spend a few days with Sandburg and with the way the kid’s been running himself ragged between school and working at the station, I figured he could use the down time. Why? Simon, what’s going on?”

“Jim, you’d better come in here.” Simon motioned for Jim to join him in his office, closing his door on the curious glances of their co-workers.

* * *

“Blair, sweetie, you don’t have to pack everything you own,” Naomi chastised lovingly from the doorway of his room.

“I’m not packing everything, I’m just... You know, this would be a lot easier if you told me where we were going.”

“And ruin the surprise?” Naomi’s bright laughter filled the room. “Where’s that sense of adventure I always loved about you, my darling?”

“Probably somewhere in this bag.” Blair gestured to the large duffel covering half his futon. “But if you tell me what the emergency is and why you’re in such a hurry to get me out of here, maybe I’ll be able to drag it out.” Shoving the duffel aside and plopping down on the bed, Blair reached a hand out to his mother and pulled her closer. “Naomi, what’s wrong? What are you running from?”

“Nothing, sweetie, nothing at all.” Naomi drew him into her arms. “I’ve got everything I could ever need right here.”

“Mom, please, I can tell you’re upset about something.” Blair rubbed soothing circles across his mother’s back as she clung to him. “What is it? Please, tell me. You’re not...” Naomi saw the sudden fear shining in Blair’s eyes. “Are you sick?”

“No. No, Blair, love, I’m not sick. It’s nothing, nothing important.” Naomi stood and brushed away the tears that had suddenly sprung to her eyes. “Let’s just take what you have and go, Blair. We can get whatever we need when we get there. Please.”

“Okay, mom,” Blair hefted the bag over his shoulder, “but when we get there I expect you tell me what’s going on. Everything.”

“Anything you want, Blair, just hurry.” Naomi started for the door, her eyes widening fearfully as the phone began to ring. “NO! Blair, leave it.”

“Mom, it could be Jim.” Blair dropped the bag and reached for the phone.

“Sweetie, no!” Naomi’s hand closed over Blair’s. “Jim knows we’re leaving, and I know you, if that’s one of your friends from the University we could be here all day. Just let the machine get it. Please. For me.”

“All right,” Blair shouldered the bag again and followed Naomi out the door. “But you’re going to tell me what’s going on, mom.”

“Of course, sweetie. Of course.”

* * *

Jim paid little attention to the phone ringing in his ear, instead fixing his attention on the files scattered across Simon's desk and the worried frowns surrounding him. The topmost folder was open, revealing bloody crime scene photos of a man in prison guard's uniform with half his face blown away and the inside of a prison transport drenched in blood.

Fixated on the dark red patterns and the tension radiating off the other men in the room, Jim nearly jumped out of his skin as his own voice greeted him from inside the phone. 'Shit. Answering machine.' Jim silently berated himself and took a deep breath, trying to push aside his feeling of impending doom. "Sandburg, are you there? Chief, if you're there pick up the phone. Okay, listen, I want you to call me as soon as you get this. If you come back to the loft don't leave before you call me, got that?"

Hanging up the phone, he looked up to find three pairs of eyes watching him. "He must've left with Naomi already."

"Who's Naomi?" One of the Feds, the angry looking blond one Simon had called Hutchinson, barked at Jim.

"His mother. What the hell is it to you?" Jim returned the man's icy glare. "And what do you want with my partner?"

"Hutch, calm down." The second man, his short, dark curls just beginning to turn gray, reached out and placed a calming hand on his partner's arm before fixing his gazing on Jim. "Do you have any idea where they went?"

"No. Naomi just that said she wanted Blair to come away with her for a few days." Anxiety crept through Jim's gut again. There was something seriously wrong with this situation. Why the hell were these people so damn anxious to find his partner?

"Simon, what the hell's going on here? Who are they?" Jim jabbed an angry finger in the direction of the visiting Feds. "And what the hell do they want with Sandburg? Is Blair in some kind of trouble?"

"Jim, I think you'd better have a seat." Simon motioned to the table behind them and started gathering the files off his desk.

"I don't want to have a seat, Sir." Jim replied coldly, his jaw tensing. "I want to know what the hell is going on."

"Jim, please..."

"Captain Banks," the dark-haired one cleared his throat uncomfortably, "I think you'd better get an APB out on Sandburg."

"You think I don't know that?" Simon snapped at the man before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Captain Starsky, please, just take the files and wait with your partner at the table. Give me a minute to make that call and have a word with my detective."

"We're wasting time here." Hutch hissed toward his partner. "I told you that we should've just headed straight to the apartment and picked up the kid."

"Hutch, drop it." Starsky curled a hand around Hutch’s forearm and directed him to the table. “These people know what they’re doing, let’s give them a chance to do it.”

“All right, I just...” a weary sigh escaped him and Hutch closed his eyes.

“I know, babe, I know.” Starsky turned back and scooped the files off of Simon’s desk, meeting Jim’s hard stare. “While your captain’s taking care of that, there’s somethin’ I think you should see.”

Jim studied the man closely, once again gaining the impression that he and his partner were something more or less than the harried Federal agents he’d been expecting. “Unless it’s going to tell me why you’re so interested in my partner, I don’t care.”

“It is. Please.” He gestured toward the table. “All I’m askin’ for is five minutes, detective. Just listen to what we’ve gotta tell you and then decide from there.”

Jim sat stiffly across from them, suddenly not sure if he wanted to know what those bloody pictures had to do with his friend. As he watched, Starsky reached to pull the second file from the pile and flipped it open in front of him. Inside, a man of approximately 30 stared up at Jim, his guard’s uniform neatly pressed, his warm brown eyes holding a glint of humor.

“Joseph Spinelli, a prison guard for the last 8 years. He and his partner and another guard were transferring a felon from Folsom prison to San Quentin thirteen days ago.” Jim tried to place the note in Starsky’s voice as he recited this information. Sadness? Regret? “Their prison transport was found abandoned at the side of the road, their prisoner gone and both Spinelli’s partner and the other guard murdered. No sign of Spinelli.”

“What do a dirty guard and a prison break in California have to do with my...”

“Debbie Foster,” Hutchinson intoned as he tossed the next folder down in front of Jim, “twenty-eight year-old investment banker in New York. Walked into her office ten days ago to get a file and hasn’t been seen since.” He sorted through the files, “Jennifer Santo, disappeared from her home, leaving her five month old daughter behind, that same day. George Murphy, disappeared off a construction site. Tyler Parker. David Rhodes. Kathy Wilder.” His voice rising as he slapped each file down, until a hand land softly on top of his, stilling it.

“What the hell have any of these people have to do with Sandburg?” Jim snapped, what little patience he had wearing thin. “Damn it, Simon, what’s going on?”

“Twenty-two years ago,” Starsky leaned back in his chair, his voice so low that Jim had nudge his hearing up to catch it. “Hutch and I were part of the investigation that brought down Simon Marcus...”

“Simon Marcus? The cult leader?” Jim found himself straining forward, vague memories of news stories flashing through his memory.

The knot in Starsky’s stomach tightened as he remembered the horrors they’d found. “We were the arresting officers...” his voice faltered and he exchanged a glance with his friend that bespoke shared pain. “God, I can’t even begin to tell you what we found there. After all this time, everything we’ve seen as cops, none of it, not one other unholy terror compares to what they were doing. We managed to arrest Marcus and most of the cult’s hierarchy, or so we thought. It took eight months to bring Marcus to trial and convict him of the nine murders we could pin on him.”

A sudden spike in Hutchinson’s pulse drew Jim’s attention. The man was reaching for a glass of water with a hand that trembled so slightly that even with his senses Jim could almost believe it was his imagination.

“Hutch?” Somehow, Starsky had picked up on his partner’s discomfort as well, reaching out to gently touch Hutch’s back. The move was so intimate and familiar that for a moment Jim found himself leaning into the comforting hand that was always there when he needed it, turning to catch the smile that always offered support and encouragement, only to find it missing. A chill worked its way down his spine as he turned back to the two men.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” The blond man waved off his friend’s concern and turned to Jim. “At the sentencing hearing, they got into the court house somehow and...” there it was again, that telltale spike in his pulse, a slight increase in respiration, “they kidnapped Starsky. Right from under our noses, right from under my nose.”

“Hutch.” This time the warm voice held a note that was at once both supportive and concerned. “Don’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” in a tone that clearly said he didn’t agree, “it wasn’t my fault.” Brushing a hand across his face, he looked up at Jim and continued, “When we found Starsky, the remaining cult leaders were holding him at an old, closed down city zoo. But that wasn’t all we found. God, if we’d had any idea...” his voice cracked, “they were holding children there. Thirteen children. Jesus Christ, you’d think that someone, some parent, grandparent, teacher, someone would’ve reported at least one of those children missing. The things they did to those children...”

Starsky reached to pull Joseph Spinelli’s folder out and dropped it on top again. When he finished flipping through the first few pages, Jim found himself looking down at a picture a thin, young boy. Hunched in the corner of what appeared to be a cave, he was covered in filth, welts and bruises showing through the torn clothes he wore.

“Damn,” Jim swore softly, his heart breaking for the scared little boy in the pictures, “Spinelli was one of the kids?” The implication suddenly hitting him as he looked sharply at the two shrewd pairs of eyes studying him. “All of them?”

“Yes.” Hutchinson turned the pages in the next file. “It took over a week for anyone to make the connection between the disappearances and Marcus’ escape.”

Feeling the cold dread that had started in the pit of his stomach spreading outward, Jim looked to Simon for support, afraid to ask the next question, not wanting to hear the answer he already knew. The brief flash of pain in Simon’s eyes before he turned away only confirmed Jim’s fear. Taking a deep breath, he asked. “Blair?”

No words were spoken as another file was pushed in front of him. Worn, the edges tattered with age and use, the precise letters, written in neat block, everything about the file seemed to mock Jim, daring him to open it. In that moment, he found he couldn’t. Couldn’t open it. Couldn’t look at the words, the pictures. Couldn’t know that once, somewhere, someone had hurt Blair and that he’d been unable to stop it, hadn’t even known about it.

But he had to look, didn’t he? Had to know if he was going to help, going to stop this from happening again. And so, slowly, so slowly that no one could tell it contained the same slight tremble that Hutchinson’s had just moments before, Jim’s hand reached out and touched the file. He ran his finger across the faded letters: Sandburg, Blair, as though it that could somehow change them. Then, with an almost too casual flick of his wrist, he opened it.

Jim slammed his eyes shut at the sight that greeted him, as if those thin tissues of flesh could block out the image that was now seared into his brain. The sight of that achingly tiny boy, curled into a corner, his small body covered in bruises, painfully thin ribs straining against flesh that seemed stretched to the breaking point. And then there were the eyes, eyes that Jim recognized despite the intervening years and the changes they’d brought, eyes that should be full of joy and wonder, but only held fear.

“Simon, I...” Jim closed his eyes against a flood of emotion, anger and fear warring with pain and regret. “I can’t look at this.”

“Jim, I’m sorry.” The compassion in Simon’s eyes almost undid him. “I should’ve warned you. But...” he shook his head and turned away, whispering softly. “But how do you prepare someone for that.”

A hand gripped his arm, squeezing briefly before pulling away. “Me too. I should’ve taken the pictures out. You didn’t need to see that, no one does.” Starsky shuffled through the file, removing a handful of photographs before handing it back to Jim. “Just the reports, if you think...” He left the thought unfinished, shrugging apologetically.

Trying hard to check his emotions, Jim opened the file again, running a professional eye over the reports, ignoring the pang in his heart at what each methodically catalogued injury had meant to the little boy who was now his best friend. Closing it again, Jim pushed aside the nagging voice in the back of his head proclaimed there was something missing and focused his attention on Starsky and Hutchinson.

“Why?”

The question, spoken coldly, startled the two visitors and they exchanged a quick glance before Hutch asked. “Why what?”

“Why help him? After everything Marcus and his followers did to these kids, why would Spinelli help him escape?” Catching the silent, almost imperceptible signals that flew between them, Jim knew there was still more they hadn’t told him. “And why kidnap the other children? What could they possibly want from them after all this time”

Hutchinson’s pulse spike again and Jim turned a laser fine glare on him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“They weren’t kidnapped, at least not that we can prove.” Hutch slumped back in his chair, rubbing his face. “At least one we know wasn’t. Kristine Anderson was in protective custody in Portland, three days ago she answered the phone and then hit the officer guarding her over the head with a lamp and disappeared.”

“So, she was in on it, went voluntarily?”

“No, she was... From every report, the girl was terrified when the Portland PD picked her up and told her what was going on. She didn’t remember a lot of what happened, but enough to be scared. She went into protective custody willingly, gladly.” Hutch shifted uncomfortably, making eye contact once more. “Until she got that phone call, a phone call that shouldn’t have gotten through to her at the safe house, she was fine. Afterward... the officer said that she just went blank, like there was no one there.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Jim’s heart raced at the implications. “Are you saying that they got to her? With just a phone call?”

“We’re not sure what happened, but...” Starsky heaved a sigh, once again breaking eye contact. “Given the sudden circumstances behind each disappearance, the out-of-character nature of them... We know that the cult was usin’ brainwashing techniques back in the 70s and the docs figure that maybe the kids are reacting to some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion that was planted in ‘em before they were rescued. Now all they gotta do is call the kids and activate it.”

“Naomi.” Jim suddenly sat upright in his chair. “I knew something was wrong with her. She was too desperate to get Blair out there this morning. She has to know that something’s wrong.”

“You think she’s trying to protect Sandburg?” Simon asked dubiously.

“If she is, it’s about time.” Jim’s eyes narrowed angrily as they drifted over the folder bearing Blair’s name. “How the hell could she let this happen, Simon? I know she wasn’t the most attentive mother, but for Christ’s sake, how the hell could she let something like this happen to her own child?”

“I don’t know, Jim.” Pain shone in Simon’s eyes as he thought of his own son. “I can’t even begin to imagine.”

“Wait a second.” Hutch snapped his fingers and reached across the table for the file. “Who did you say this Naomi person was?”

“Blair’s mother.” Jim replied, scorn coloring his tone.

“Not according to this.” Hutch flipped quickly through the pages, pointing insistently at the relevant line.

“What are you talking about?” Jim snatched the file back, quickly scanning the page.

Name: Blair Alonso Sandburg

DOB: 12/27/69 Age: 7

Father: Unknown

Mother: Deceased

* * *

“Blair, honey, you’re not eating.” Naomi reproved gently, cupping a hand over her son’s. “What’s wrong?”

“Besides the fact that you won’t tell me what’s going on?” Blair turned his hand over to grasp hers. “Mom, I know there’s something more going on here than just your wanting to spend time with me. What is it?”

“Yes, sweetie, you’re right, there is.” Extracting her hand, she reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before patting his cheek. “But I’ve already promised to tell you all about it once we get to the cabin. I’m talking about whatever else is bothering you. Blair, sweetie, I can tell just by looking at you that something is wrong. You’re too pale, too thin. What’s wrong?”

Blair looked at his mother for a long moment, as if weighing his choices, before shrugging and pulling away. “There was an accident, a few weeks ago. I guess I’m still recovering.”

“Accident?” Naomi’s breath caught in her throat as she looked at her son’s pallid features. “What kind of accident? Does this have something to do with your work with Jim?”

“Yes, no... Not exactly. It’s a long story, Mom. And I don’t think I’m really ready to talk about it yet.” He shifted uncomfortably and recaptured her hand. “The short version is Jim and I kind of had a falling out and we both said and did somethings we shouldn’t have and we’re still trying to put the friendship back together.”

“Oh, sweetie, I know how much Jim means to you,” Naomi squeezed the hand holding hers and sighed. “My timing couldn’t have been worse, could it?”

“Actually, Mom,” Blair laughed gently. “It could’ve been a lot worse considering. Besides, maybe some time apart will do us good. It seems like lately we’re either trying too hard to act normal or sniping at each other.” He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn their conversation had taken, and pushed his plate away. “What do you say we get this circus on the road again?”

“You’re right,” she sighed, gathering her belongs. “We still have a long drive in front of us. I’m just going to freshen up.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the car.” Blair dropped some money on the table and started to slip his wallet in his back pocket before catching sight of a payphone across the restaurant. Pulling out his calling card, he walked over and quickly dialed.

* * *

“Major Crime.”

“Hey, Henri, is Jim around?”

“Hairboy, is that you?” Henri swiveled around in his chair, grinning gleefully at the sight of Jim shut away in Captain Banks’ office with the two federal task force agents. “Man, Simon was not happy to find out you’d skipped on this morning’s meeting.”

“Damn. I was afraid that would happen. How loud was he?”

“Loud,” Henri confirmed. “Just about took Ellison’s head off.”

“Maybe I should head back...”

“Where are you?”

“A restaurant outside of Yelm.”

“What’re you doing all the way out there?” Henri asked, rifling around in his top desk drawer.

“That’s a good question.”

“What?”

“Going... somewhere with my mom. She showed up on our doorstep this morning to whisk me away for a long weekend of family bonding.”

Henri burst into laughter. “I’ve seen your mother, Hairboy, I’d take a weekend in the mountains with her over a meeting between Jim and the Feds any day.”

“Henri, man, she’s my mom. Cut that out. Listen, can you tell Jim I called? I’ll let him know where we’re headed as soon as I know.”

“You got it Sandburg, later man.”

* * *

Jim stepped out of Simon’s office, pale and grim, making his way, woodenly, over to his desk and sat down heavily.

God damn, he needed a drink. Jim couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed a drink to numb the horrors his job brought to him everyday, probably the night Lila died, but he’d just about sell his soul for one right now. For anything to help dim the memory of that thin, battered little boy and eyes that should only know joy filled with terror.

“Jim? Man, are you all right?” Henri stood next to his desk, brow furled in concern. “I called you a couple times.”

“Sorry, H. Yeah, I’m fine, just...” He waved a hand in the direction of Simon’s office. “This case is...” He trailed off, staring back through the blinds at Starsky and Hutchinson sorting through the files.

“Ugly, huh?” When Jim nodded, Henri just shook his head. “Sorry, man. Listen, I just wanted to pass on a message from Sandburg. He wanted you to know—”

“Sandburg?” Jim’s head whipped around audibly and he glared up at Brown. “When did you talk to Sandburg?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Henri replied, puzzled by the sudden change in Ellison’s attitude. “You were in with Captain Banks and the Feds.”

“And you didn’t call me?” Jim snapped, rising angrily to his feet.

“I told you, you were in with Simon and—”

“I don’t give a damn who the hell I was in with, you should’ve called me.” Jim’s voice rose with every word.

“Ellison.” Simon stood in the doorway of his office, glaring at his detective. “What’s the problem?”

“Brown talked to Sandburg,” Jim ground out, pointing an accusatory finger at the other detective.

“You what? When?” Simon demanded, the two Feds crowding in behind him.

“I talked to Hairboy on the phone. What’s going on, Captain?” Henri asked, concerned. “Why the big deal about my talking to Sandburg?”

“Did he say where he was?” Starsky pushed in between Jim and Simon.

“Yeah, he said he was in a restaurant outside of Yelm.” Henri answered. “Simon, is Sandburg in some kind of trouble?”

“We think he might be. Did he give you any idea where he was headed?”

“No.” Henri shook his head in disgust. “He only said to let Jim know he called and that he’d try and call back when he knew where they were going. Jim, man, I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea that Sandburg was in some kind of trouble, I’d’ve got you right away.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have come down on you like that,” Jim admitted apologetically. “I’m just worried.”

“Yeah, I hear you, man.”

“Okay, listen up people, I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” Simon stood in the middle of the bullpen, making sure he had everyone’s attention before continuing. “If anyone here takes a call from Sandburg, you find Detective Ellison or myself right away. Do not let him off the line. Is everyone clear on that?” A round of affirmations followed.

“Captain Banks, this Yelm, where is it?” Hutch asked, following his partner and Jim back into the captain’s office.

“It’s a small town about thirty, thirty-five miles South of here.” Simon pulled a map out of his filing cabinet and spread it out on the conference table. “Here.” He pointed to the spot on the map.

“Is there anywhere around there that you think they could be going?” Starsky traced the line of freeways leading to the small dot on the map.

“Nothing I can remember Sandburg bringing up,” Jim replied thoughtfully. “And from there they could be headed to any number of out of the way places. Up into the mountains to one of the National Parks or Forests, back over to I-5 and down into Oregon. Damn it, I should’ve stuck around and found out where Naomi was taking him.”

“She probably wouldn’t have told you the truth anyway,” Hutch pointed out, turning to his partner. “What now?”

“That’s up to Captain Banks.” Starsky watched him expectantly. “We’d like to stick around here, with your permission. Sandburg’s the last kid on the list, and the hardest to track down. I think if we’re going to have any hope of findin’ the others or Marcus it’s gonna be through him.”

“We’d appreciate any support you’d be willing to lend us.” Simon replied, glancing significantly at his detective. “Have you checked into your hotel yet?”

“No, we were kind of hoping we wouldn’t be staying that long,” Hutch sighed, rubbing long fingers across his forehead. “We should probably check in with the task force, too, let Franks know what’s going down.”

“Ellison, forward your calls to your cell and tell Brown I want to see him in here. I want him to get started calling all of the contacts listed for Naomi in Sandburg’s personnel file. Then make sure Captains Starsky and Hutchinson get settled in their hotels,” Simon directed. “When you get back we’ll see what Brown’s come up with and see if you can come up with anyone else Sandburg’s mentioned.”

“Contact list?” Hutchinson questioned. “You don’t just have a number you can call?”

“For Naomi?” Simon snorted softly. “Not hardly. Ms. Sandburg travels quite frequently, usually to some of the more exotic locations. It makes it hard to find her when she isn’t trying to get lost.”

“Makes her hard to find when her son needs her,” Jim muttered angrily.

“Jim,” Simon warned softly.

“Whatever,” Jim replied curtly. “I’m going to go transfer my calls, let me know when you’re ready.”

“Mind if I ask what that was about?” Starsky motioned toward the closed door.

“We’ve had a hard time getting a hold of Ms. Sandburg after Blair was injured on a couple of cases,” Simon explained. “Detective Ellison is a bit... protective of his partner, he tends to take things like that a little more personally than Sandburg does.”

“I can understand that,” Hutch said softly, exchanging a knowing glance with his partner.

* * *

Jim leaned against the wall outside of the hotel room Starsky and Hutchinson had just checked into, carefully extending his hearing to pick up on their conversation.

“What do you think of Ellison?”

“Seems like a good cop to me. Really seems to care about the kid.”

“You don’t think it’s a little strange that a former army ranger just happened to lose his partner at a time like this?”

“Hey, you lost me once in a crowded court house.”

“That’s not funny, Starsk!”

“I know, Babe, but it’s true. I think Ellison’s a good cop who got caught in somethin’ none of us are prepared to deal with and I think you’re takin’ too much responsibility for this on yourself.”

* * *

Hutch jumped from the car, not even taking time to turn off the ignition, and scrambled around the front, his long legs eating up the distance between him and the horrifying tableau in front of him. With each hurried, pounding step, he could hear the sounds in front of him, the low fervent chanting of the cult members, grow louder, “Si-mon. Si-mon. Si-mon,” filling his ears.

But it wasn’t the black robed figured that transfixed him, driving a cold spike of terror through his chest. It was a tiny slip of girl, red hair flowing across her simple white gown, and the knife she held above her head, poised to strike. It was the sight of his partner, his best friend, helpless before her, his hands tethered over his head.

Even as he ran, legs pumping, lungs straining, he knew he was going to be too late. Too late. Too late. And then, there it was, the flash of morning sun against the blade as it moved in an inexorable arc, down, down, until the only sounds he heard were the soft sickening squelch of the blade sinking into vulnerable flesh and Starsky’s cry of pain.

“NO!” The cry was torn from his throat as Starsky lifted eyes already fogged with pain to meet his. A brief second of recognition passed between them before those eyes slid silently, permanently, shut. “NO! STARSKY! NOOOOOOOOO!”

"Hutch! Hutch!" Strong arms wrapped around the sobbing man, holding him close, "Hutch, come on, babe, wake up. It's just a nightmare, that's all," Starsky soothed, rocking his partner gently as he held him tight, "Just a nightmare. I'm right here."

“Starsk?” Hutch clutched weakly

Sentinel, Too – part 1: May 20 1998

New Moon – May 25th, 1998/June 24th, 1998/July 23rd,1998

Full Moon – June 10th, 1998/July 9th, 1998

Bloodbath - Judge Arlen B. Yager

#wip it good #the sentinel #starsky & hutch #crossover #au

2 notes · View notes

let-it-raines · 5 years

Text

Not Your (soul)Mate {10/15}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature

A/n: Will my posting schedule ever make sense? Probably not. Anyways, thanks for reading, my pals! You guys are the best, and I love love love you all for loving this story and these two crazy people💜

Thank you to @captainsjedi for her love and support and artwork!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @initiala @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @emmas-storybook @searchingwardrobes @spartanguard @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @xellewoods @thejollyroger-writer @galaxyzxstark @cssns

-/-

No part of her understands why their cable bill is mailed to her. They’re a cable company. They provide TV and internet and yet they’ve never heard of paperless online billing. It’s ridiculous. And yet the minute she’s late with her payment she gets an increasingly nasty series of emails that shows they obviously know how to use the internet. And since Storybrooke Cable is the only company that provides internet in a sixty-mile radius, it’s not like they don’t have the funds to set up a website. Hell, she’ll take a class and learn how to program the website for them if she has to.

Well, probably not. That’s all a little dramatic, but she really hates having to go down to the mailboxes in the basement to get her mail so that she can go upstairs and write a check and buy a stamp to mail the payment in. It’s not the biggest deal in the world, but she hates it.

She obviously would not have lasted in a world without internet.

The old stairs creak beneath her, a sound that she’s used to when she’s carrying her laundry downstairs (it’s how she knows when she’s on the unsteady step since usually she can’t see over the full height of her clothes which is what procrastination gets her), and she quickly descends downstairs to the row of mailboxes that rest against the wall in front of the washing machines and dryers that work at least ninety percent of the time.

She and Belle need to move to a nicer place. They can afford it, but then again, if Belle moves, it’ll probably be with Will. It’s a constant thought every time Emma thinks about it, so she never quite works up the courage to bring up moving somewhere else. This place is just fine, they’ve made it their home, and so what if she has to walk to a bit of a creepy place to get her mail to pay her cable bill. It’s not like anyone in this town is actually going to do something to her.

They’d have hell to pay.

The stairs could use a little work, though, maybe a few new light fixtures for the hallways too.

Pulling out her key, she twists it in her box, opening it and grabbing the few envelopes that lay flat against the metal. She closes the box, locking it back up, and as she walks up the stairs, she shuffles through the mail, tripping on a loose board as she sees neat black script inked across the white in the upper left corner.

Killian Jones.

What the hell?

What the hell is he doing sending her a letter? Even though her toe is still stinging from how she jammed it, the pain worse than some of her injuries she’s gotten on the job, she stops in the middle of the staircase and rips the letter open.

Dear Emma Swan,

You’ll have to forgive me because it’s been awhile since I’ve written a letter that’s not an e-mail. I’ve been told by a rather reliable source that it’s a bit old-fashioned to write like this, but I do like a bit of a challenge. So, Swan, I’m sitting at my desk writing you a letter on stationary that Ariel found me and with my very favorite pen. And while I don’t expect you to write back, I have included several stamps to encourage you. You wouldn’t want me to waste money, now would you?

Anyways, I find myself wondering about you because you intrigue me. There are things I’d like to know. For instance, how long have you been a secret nerd watching the History Channel and National Geographic? I, for one, have been a fan for years. It’s fascinating to learn about things that have happened in the past. What other interests do you have? Do you enjoy sports? Read any good books lately? What is your ultimate favorite baked good? Do you like cooking them yourself? Are you one of those people who have a favorite flower? I am partial to sunflowers over roses, preferring the brightness of yellow, but then again, there are yellow roses.

I’m simply but a curious man who enjoys knowing the answers to my questions, and in return, you can feel free to ask me anything you want. I’d even tell you what kind of underwear I wear since you seem to be averse to answering that particular question.

Sincerely,

Killian A. Jones

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, scanning over the words one more time before opening up the envelope to see several stamps with pictures of sailboats on them.

A part of her absolutely cannot believe that he wrote her a freaking letter, but then again, she’s not really shocked. That’s exactly something that he would do just to annoy her, and the fact that he included stamps is really over the top. She’s not going to complain. She needs stamps, but damn, the man is persistent.

But she’s not going to write him back.

Absolutely not.

She folds his letter back up and puts it in the envelope before walking up the rest of the stairs and turning in the stairwell so she can get back to her floor, quickly moving into her apartment to write a check so she can send off the cable bill before she gets to work this morning. Belle is still sleeping, so she tries to stay quiet as she grabs her purse and walks right back out the door, all of her mail in the front pocket of her purse.

All day she ignores the letter that seems to be burning a hole through the leather material of her purse that’s hidden under her desk, but it’s more of an attempt at ignoring it than actually ignoring it, because when David leaves to go question a fight that broke out down by the pier, she grabs a piece of paper out of the printer and starts writing something back.

Damn it. Has she lost control of her limbs?

Jones,

You’re ridiculous. Seriously. I can’t believe you took our texts as a challenge, but then again, it is you. I have no idea why I’m writing you back, but you did say that I could ask you any question I want, and, well, I simply can’t pass up that opportunity.

So tell me, what is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you? And spare no detail.

Sincerely,

Emma Swan.

PS: I am a mean ping pong player, and I agree with you about the roses. If you’re looking for a good book recommendation, though, I suggest Belle. She gives me all of mine.

Oh, and bear claws.

And I want to know what the A in your name stands for.

Quickly, she stuffs the paper in an envelope, seals it, writes his address on it, places a stamp in the corner, and puts it in the mailbox outside of the station so that she literally can’t take it back without tampering with federal law. She’ll bend a lot of rules, but she’s not going to break federal law over something as dumb as a letter.

Two days later, she gets a letter back. There’s no formal address this time, and she kind of likes that…not that she likes this.

Really went straight for the kill then, eh Swan? It took me a bit to remember what exactly my most embarrassing memory is, simply because I’m so suave that I don’t have many embarrassing moments.

However, when I was a young lad of twenty-three, I had the night off and left base to go out to a pub with a few of my mates. This was something we did often, something we’d done for our five years together, but on this particular night I indulged in a few too many glasses of rum. My tolerance wasn’t quite what it is now, even if I do wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck now, and while I don’t remember the night but in a few glances (particularly me telling the lasses that I was the Captain when I was not), I do remember waking up in the flat of a woman I didn’t know without my clothes anywhere in sight. Either she stole them, my mates somehow stole them, or something else happened, but my options to get home were either walking in the streets of Birkenhead in the nude or wearing this lass’s mother’s nightgown. It was this billowing, flowery thing, and while I fully believe I can wear anything I want, let’s just say my actual Captain did not take too kindly to me walking back onto base in something that was not approved. I was written up three times for one incident, and I’d just like you to imagine me having to explain why to my superiors why I was wearing a nightgown when I had no idea myself.

I have to say, though, nightgowns are quite comfortable. Lots of air to breathe. It’s likely a good thing that my mates thought it would be funny to buy me a nightgown when I was promoted. It was much more my taste. Silk is wonderful, though I don’t think I ever wore it. I much prefer my briefs.

So, there’s a story of one of the brightest moments of my youth, and while I’m sure you’ll somehow use it to torture me, it’s yours to know.

My middle name is, Andrew, by the way, and the lovely Belle has recommended me to The Guest Book as reading material. It’s rather good. Feel free to borrow my copy if you’d like. Speaking of Belle, I hear Mr. French makes rather delectable bear claws, but he’s in a fierce rivalry with Mrs. Lucas over who makes the best. Personally, I think they’re using pastries as a bit of foreplay, but that’s simply a theory from an observer.

Now, Swan, I’ve metaphorically shown you mine, so you should show me yours.

Have a good week,

Killian Andrew Jones.

Emma doesn’t realize it, but by the time she’s finished reading the letter, she’s got tears streaming down her face, just a few of them, from laughing at the thought of Killian running around in a nightgown. That’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but for some reason, she has no issue imagining him walking into base in a flowery nightgown that hits at his knees and shows off all of the hair on his legs with the shoulders being a little tight. It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and she’s glad that Belle is still at the library so that she doesn’t ask what in the world Emma is laughing at.

It would be a little hard to explain.

Well, not really, but she doesn’t want to explain. Because her explaining any of this would make her have to explain other things, and since Belle already knows that Killian sent her the basket of baked goods months ago. So it would be too difficult to explain her...having to explain. This is kind of like some sort of bad inception.

But Belle’s not even here, so it definitely doesn’t matter.

While she’s still laughing, she gets up from the table and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass out of the cabinets and pouring her a glass of the wine that she and Belle didn’t finish drinking last night. If she’s going to spend her time writing letters to Killian, which is a ridiculous concept in and of itself, she should at least have some alcohol in her.

Not enough to make her have to wake up without clothes and have to borrow an ugly nightgown from the mother of the person she’d slept with but some alcohol all the same.

She doesn’t have any paper here, so she has to shuffle through some of the old notebooks Belle keeps on their bookshelves, and takes out a lined page from the back, settling down on the couch with her wine and paper and pin while Drain the Oceans plays on the TV.

Killian Andrew (Asshole) Jones,

I’ve added the “asshole” because I really did think that was your middle name. You did say you would respond to it, but I guess Andrew is okay. Is that a family name? Your father’s maybe? I don’t have a middle name, didn’t even have a last name, only my first, but I’ve always kind of thought it would be something classic since my first name is.

Shit. I just got wine on the paper. Oops.

So you and that rum, huh? You seem to be a fan of it. And also nightgowns. Are you sure you don’t sleep in one of those? Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? You scare them all away with your nightgown. I imagine it makes easy access to...things, so really, they should like it better than the briefs. It’s just a great mystery that may never be solved.

Granny’s bear claws are better than Mr. French’s hands down, but Mr. French has better pastries overall. Plus, he’s like my dad, so you implying that they have a thing going on is really kind of freaking me out. I bet Granny wears a nightgown, though, which makes my earlier joke about easy access so much creepier.

Some things simply shouldn’t be imagined. But if you’re going to, make sure to tell Ruby to scar her for life.

I haven’t read that book, but if Belle recommends it, it must be good. I’ll have to check it out. I’ve been very into historical romances lately, which isn’t really on par for me, but there’s simply something about Jane Austen, you know?

Thanks for telling me your most embarrassing story. You’re right. I’m totally going to use that against you, and no, I will not tell you my most embarrassing story. It involves karaoke, though, so it’s a good one.

Emma

If she hadn’t had the wine, she probably would have realized that she revealed a bit too much in her letter, but after she seals it that night and sends it off in the morning, still using the sailboat stamps Killian provided, she doesn’t think about it.

Not at all.

What she does think about is the fact that eight days go by without a new letter. She didn’t even realize that she wanted another letter, that she got a weird sense of excitement over them, until she wasn’t receiving one in her mailbox.

Who has she turned into that she’s checking her mailbox daily?

What decade is this?

But her week has gone by as normal, spending her days at work, reveling in the hour break she gets to eat lunch with David or Ariel, and her evenings at home, sometimes with Belle, sometimes not. On Saturday she, Ruby, Belle, Mary Margaret, and Ariel all spent the day at the beach, waking up early enough to beat all of the tourists there, and settled down with blankets and umbrellas with bags full of food and a cooler full of drinks. They didn’t bother moving, not unless to dip into the ocean to cool themselves off or to run up to the pier to use the restroom, and even if her eyes constantly trailed down to the pier to look at the fleet of ships and boats and what not resting outside of the Jones’ office.

And if her eyes kept checking her texts even if most everyone she spoke to was already there, no one had to know. Though she does think that Ruby noticed.

She wasn’t very subtle in her desperation.

But she didn’t see him, not that she wanted to, and she tried to push it all to the back of her mind to enjoy the day as the sun beat down on her skin so that she got the slightest bit of a tan that she hopes stays with her until the fall.

Okay, so she thinks about the lack of a letter a lot.

However, she wasn’t thinking about it when she was driving home from work, but now that she’s standing next to the door of her apartment with Will holding a stack of their mail, it’s all she can think about.

Shit.

Why didn’t it occur to her that she and Belle share a mailbox and that Belle could see one of these letters? How could she have missed that?

“Hey,” she cautiously greets, placing her keys down, the clanging loud in her ears, on the table and stepping further into the room, “I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

“Belle and I are going to dinner. Why do you have a letter from Jones?”

“Huh?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest, the sound louder than it has been in a long time. She can feel it all the way down to her toes. “I have a letter?”

Will raises his eyebrow, obviously not believing her, and as casually as she can, she steps forward and takes the letter from Will, stuffing it away in the back pocket of her jeans.

“So where are you guys going for dinner?” Emma asks to change the subject.

“Eric’s place. He gives me a discount.”

“Ah, yes, because everyone wants discount fish.”

“Oi, it’s not like he’s giving us the old fish.”

“So you think. If you guys die in a few days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’ll be dead, and you’ll be bragging about it.”

“Exactly.” She steps around Will and sits down on the couch, reaching down to unlace her boots and kick them off. “I guess I’ll miss you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Emma,” Belle shouts, and Emma leans her head back to look down the hall to see Belle standing in the hallway, “can I borrow those teal heels that you wore last week?”

“Yeah, they’re in my bathroom.”

Belle doesn’t say anything back, but less than a minute she comes into their living room wearing the teal heels and a little black dress, fluffing out her hair over her shoulders while Will grabs his coat off the chair, stepping up to her and kissing her cheek, whispering something that Emma doesn’t pick up on, which is good. It’s private, and she doesn’t need to hear things about their private life.

Her hearing thing has been wonky lately anyways. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

“We probably won’t be back until late,” Belle tells her, and Emma reaches her hand up over the couch to let Belle grab onto it. “Do you want me to bring you back anything?”

“Nah, you two go have fun. Don’t do anything that I’ll have to investigate.”

“Well, that just takes all of the fun away.”

After the two of them leave, she leans up on the couch and pulls the later out of her back pocket, hoping that Will forgets about it and doesn’t mention it to Belle, and quickly opens the sealed envelope, her nerves running over every inch of her skin and making her fingers shake the slightest bit as she straightens the creases out of the paper.

Emma,

I apologize for my late reply, but you seem to have caught me at a bad time. I had a client call and request a refurbishment on his seafaring vessel (his words, not mine), and I’ve been consumed with it. I love this job. It’s a way to keep me connected to the ocean, a place where I spent so much of my life, but this is different. And it certainly didn’t help that my wrist decided to act up a bit this week. It’s the weather and all.

Regardless, I do wish you would have told me your most embarrassing story. I feel like it’s a real ice breaker, and I love karaoke....if I’m drunk. But then again, bad things seem to happen when I’m drunk. So wine? That’s your vice? I always took you more as a tequila or whiskey type, but then again, I’m learning that I know very little about you, love. Though, I like that it’s changing a bit, if I may be so bold.

Jane Austen is bloody brilliant, and it’s nice to hear of someone else appreciating her. Mr. Darcy and I have a lot in common, you know? I, too, screw up with strong-willed women and then have to realize the error of my ways to have them allow me back into their lives. Or, at least, I hope. Tell me, if you’re a fan of historical romances, how are you not a fan of letter writing when that is such a core piece of the story? Is it simply that you don’t like modern day letter writing because it, for practical reasons, doesn’t make any sense? We could have had this entire conversation in ten minutes, but it’s taken eight days. Yet, this is a bit more fun, even though talking to you does incite other kinds of fun.

As to my middle name, it’s my mother’s maiden name. My father’s name is Brennan, and the only thing I carry from him is the Jones name, which is likely a good thing. He wasn’t a good man. He was a drunk, and he abandoned us when I was ten. I’m proud to be a Jones because of my brother and my mum, so like you, I suspect that my last name carries a weight that most don’t.

Anyways, that’s much too much information about me. Tell me, Swan, there’s a Summer Regatta coming up in two weeks. Do you think you’ll be at the festival? I know someone who can get you a free ride on a boat.

Killian.

He’s got a screwed up family too.

That’s what she gets out of all of that. It’s not that he loves the same books that she does, not that he correctly guessed her drinking vices, not that he practically invited her to be his date to the regatta in over Labor Day weekend. It’s the fact that he has a screwed up family, a drunk deadbeat dad and a dead mom. She knew his family life wasn’t great, if only because Elsa never mentions having to take the kids to go see Liam’s parents.

Huh.

She can kind of see it now, can see that he is a bit of an orphan too, and even though he had parents, it breaks her heart. No one should ever have to grow up without having people love them, and she’s thankful that Killian had Liam and their mom. That’s a nice thing for them to have a family, even if it’s not what most people would call complete.

Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the fact that she suddenly understands Killian in a way that she knows only a few people can, but she pulls out her phone and lets her fingers move without thinking about it too much.

Emma: So not a fan of karaoke then? Is your voice that bad?

The three dots pop up almost immediately after she presses send only for them to disappear, only coming back every few seconds. He’s either trying to think of what to say or realized that he’s texting back incredibly fast. It’s nice to know some things never change.

Killian: For someone who is incredibly attracted to my voice, that’s a bold thing for you to suggest.

Emma: Touché.

Emma: So it’s not bad then?

Killian: I’ve been told that it’s actually pretty good, but I find that karaoke does nothing but bring embarrassment unless you’ve been drinking all day.

Emma: Okay, but say you have…what’s your go-to song?

Kilian: Easy. Anything Elton John. He’s so easy to understand.

Emma: You’re kidding, right?

Killian: Nope.

He definitely has to be kidding.

Emma: I figured you’d be more of a Queen or Beatles guy. I’m pretty partial to Queen.

Killian: Well, I could do those too. Or pretty much anything from the eighties. I feel old, but I don’t know a lot of the new songs.

Emma: That’s because you are old.

Killian: Being older than you doesn’t make old. And as you can tell, I’ve retained my youthful glow.

Emma: Sure, we’ll call it that.

She takes another sip of her wine and turns the volume up a bit on the television so that she’s not simply staring at her phone waiting for him to text her back. That’d be pathetic. Then again, she’s sitting at home drinking wine and watching the History Channel while her roommate is out on a date. That could be considered pathetic. Or very, very smart depending on who is asked.

Killian: What are you up to tonight, love?

Emma: Watching Drain the Ocean, though I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what’s going on.

Emma: You?

Killian: The same, actually.

Emma: Creepy.

Killian: Believe it or not, I think we have similar taste in television shows.

Emma: Ugh, I know. I can’t believe I have so much in common with an old man.

Killian: If you keep flattering a man like this, he might get the impression that you like him.

Emma: Never.

Emma: At least we don’t like the same foods. Unless you secretly like junk food.

Killian: I enjoy certain kinds, but I don’t think I have the same propensity for grilled cheese, onion rings, and bear claws like you do.

Emma: I also like poptarts and brownies. Oooh and lots of icing.

Killian: You’re a child.

Emma: Oh, come on. You don’t like icing?

Killian: If there’s cake attached, yeah.

Emma: No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. Straight out of the can.

Killian: You also eat raw cookie dough, don’t you?

Emma: Duh.

Killian: I do like cookies, though. And mostly pastries that involve fruit. It makes it all feel a little healthier.

Emma: You’re in shape. I think you’ve got the healthy thing down.

Killian: I knew you liked staring at my ass.

Emma: I said nothing about your ass.

Killian: Just my general body then? The abs? The biceps? My collarbone? What about my left ankle? You’re into period romances. I bet the left ankle really does it for you.

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself, putting her glass down on the coffee table and standing from the couch, smiling to herself as she reads the message and walks to the kitchen. He’s such an idiot.

Such an idiot.

And now she really wants something sweet to eat, so she presses up on her toes and gets a can of chocolate icing out of the pantry popping open the top and grabbing a spoon out of the drawer so she can at least be a little civilized about the whole thing. Without putting much thought into it, she holds the spoon full of icing up to her mouth and takes a quick picture, not checking to see what she looks like before sending it to Killian.

Emma: See? This is the way to eat sweets.

The three dots pop up before they disappear just like before, and she doesn’t really have time to think about it before the front door is swinging open and Belle is walking inside, an obviously bright red flush on her pale cheeks.

“I’m engaged,” she squeals, holding her left hand up as she walks into the apartment, a small diamond ring resting there.

“What?” Emma gasps, nearly choking on her icing before she puts the spoon and the container down, running her tongue over her teeth to wipe up all of the excess icing. “You’re engaged?”

“Yes! Will asked at dinner. Oh my gosh. You know, I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those girls, but I did the thing where I put my hands over my mouth when he got down on one knee.”

“Of course you did,” she laughs, reaching forward and wrapping Belle up in a hug, squeezing her as tightly as she can while she sees Will walk into the apartment, bags of takeout in his hands and a smile on his face that tells Emma he’s just as happy as Belle is. Good. They deserve all of the happiness. “I’m so damn happy for you. Both of you.”

“And you’ll be so much happier when you know that I brought you earplugs for tonight,” Will tells her when she hugs him.

“That is so gross.”

“I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

“Babe,” Belle laughs, walking over to the two of them and leaning into Will to press a kiss into his cheek, “stop grossing Emma out and give me five minutes to tell her what happened before we can let her put the earplugs into use.”

“Nope, nope, no,” she refuses, putting her hands in the air, “you guys just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Perfect.”

“Please ignore him.”

“I promise you I’m trying.”

Will and Belle go back to their room, and she takes the opportunity to grab her phone, her icing, and plant herself in front of the television, turning to volume up so that she doesn’t have to risk hearing anything else. Tonight will probably be the night that her weird hearing thing picks up again.

She is so damn happy for the two of them, a bit of a buzz of happiness spreading over her skin, but she can’t help the little voice in her head that wonders what’s next for her if the two of them are getting married.

She hates that she thinks that.

Her phone dings, and she looks down at it, forgetting that she was texting Killian before Belle and Will came home.

How long were they texting for her friends to get engaged during that time? That’s…a lot of time. Did it really all go by that quickly? She didn’t even notice.

Killian: I mean, there’s definitely something sweet in that picture that I’d like to eat.

Emma chuckles under her breath, unable to help herself, especially when accompanying the text is a picture of him holding a banana over half of his face, the scars on his wrist and the chain around his neck visible even in the dimness of his apartment. And damn it. This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

She likes Killian Jones.

#Not Your (soul)Mate #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #Captain Swan

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years

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COSMIC - S1:E5; Chapter Five, The Flea and The Acrobat - [Pt. 1]

A Will Byers x Gender Neutral!Reader Series

𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘣 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘔𝘳. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

His heart racing, Hopper could hear the blood pumping in his ears as he ran through the twisted corridors of the lab. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as he swiftly maneuvered the facility be had just broken into in search of the missing boy.

"Will?" His desperate calls echoed off of the cold tile walls.

"Will?"

In the midst of his frantic haste, he had gotten turned around. The chilling corridors all seemed the same and a new wave of panic flooded him. Taking a deep breath, the chief tried his best to recompose himself. He came across a crossroads; it resembled a four-way intersection that one may find on an ominous back road in the country. He stared ahead and sighed.

Each corridor was identical to the next. Cold and unwelcoming.

"You gotta be shittin' me." He growled under his breath.

Grabbing his bearings, the man kept straight and hoped for the best.

The hallway stretched for what felt like miles, when finally, after a few turns, it came to a dead end. He looked around and noticed this was quite different than the others.

The chief's instincts that had earned him the title in the first place suggested to him that the small corner of the facility had been long forgotten. This particular area had been neglected the upkeep that was evident in the rest of the laboratory. Ahead of him lay two doors; an old broom closet, labeled as such, and a rather ominous looking door, with an accompanying window with a glimpse inside an untidy room.

This particular room piqued his interest. The door was closed, though the handle seemed to be broken, the room ajar. Hopper cautiously stepped toward the door, reaching his arm out and slowly pushed it open.

Hopper stepped inside the cluttered room, his heart racing, not knowing what to expect. It was clear that the room was designed to have a greater purpose, but had been hastily abandoned and eventually forgotten. It seemed that just about every item in the room, much like the rest of the facility, was made of steel. From the counters to the filing cabinets with half-opened drawers. His eyebrows furrowed in curiosity as he stepped inside and around the steel table to the cabinet on the opposite end of the room.

Knowing he had little time, he shone his flashlight into the drawer and he quickly rifled through the filing cabinet waiting for something that might catch his eye. Hopper sighed in disappointment when he found nothing useful. He began to shut the filing cabinet in defeat when he caught a small glimpse of a peculiar label shoved all the way to the back, almost like it was meant to be forgotten.

Tilting his head in curiosity, Hop pulled the drawer out as far as it would go and even then, the man had to reach for the file. It was a wonder he caught it in the first place. He pulled it from the drawer and examined the front with haste.

The label on the edge of the manilla folder had been scratched out and written over many times that it was now indistinguishable. The front cover was all blank, except for a few words that had been scribbled in black ink.

SUBJECT 009; THE MISSING EXPERIMENT

The familiar words sparked something in Hopper. With no time to waste he shoved the file into his jacket and closed the cabinet, making a run for the door.

Fortunately, Hopper was able to retrace his steps back to the where he had gotten lost, this time making a right turn down the hallway. He continued his calls for Will when suddenly, he found himself in a room, not that different from the strange room he found himself in earlier. Only this room, contained a bed.

And a security camera, which happened to be the first thing Hopper noticed when he entered.

He stepped closer to the bed, the light of the flashlight landing on a small stuffed animal, that was placed neatly at the top of the bed near the pillow. Frowning, Hopper moved his flashlight to the wall above the bed, a small piece of printer paper had been taped to the wall.

It was a drawing, clearly done by a child.

There were two people depicted in the drawing, in the form of stick figures. What appeared to be a tall man standing next to a smaller stick figure who he could only assume to be artist. The child wore a frown, and they faced a table that appeared to have a cat on it. Hopper almost didn't notice the words above each stick figure.

Above the child, was the number eleven. And above the man, written in messy handwriting was a single word.

Papa.

||𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

The five of us were scattered around Mike's basement. El was curled up on the couch, most likely physically exhausted from contacting Will. Mike was sitting at the opposite end of the couch by El's feet, concentration etched in his features. Lucas occupied the lounge chair deep in thought while Dustin resides at the bottom of the stairs.

"What was Will saying?" Mike wondered.

He began reciting Will's words from earlier in an attempt to recall the only clue we might have that he might be alive.

"Like home... Like home... but dark?" He stood up from the couch, hands still in his jacket pockets as he began pacing the room.

"And empty." Lucas pressed his intertwined fingers against his forehead, his eyes closed deep in thought.

My leg bounced up and down at an alarming rate, a nervous habit I picked up at a young age as I spoke up, my eyes still focused on one random corner of the room.

"And cold."

Dustin sighed.

"Empty and cold. Wait, did he say cold?" He looked around the room, seeming to second guess himself.

"I don't know, I think? The stupid radio kept going in and out." Lucas sighed.

"He did. He said cold." I muttered, unable to shake the haunting voice of my friend's terrified cries for help.

"Like home." Mike repeated once more. "Like his house?"

"Or maybe like Hawkins." Lucas offered eagerly.

"Upside Down." El muttered.

"What'd she say?" Lucas asked.

"Upside Down." Mike said, a hint of astonishment in his voice as something seemed to have clicked.

"What?" Lucas repeated.

Mike walked over to the table I sat at and looked at the overturned game board. It was then I recalled what El had been telling us the other night, with Will's game piece.

My mouth fell into a silent gasp as everything began falling into place. I turned myself back around in the chair and looked at the board.

"Upside down." I breathed.

Mike had taken a seat across from me, both hands on the game board while the other boys got up and joined us at the table.

Mike began flipping the board over multiple times as he explained.

"When El showed us where Will was, she flipped the board over, remember? Upside down. Dark. Empty. Cold." He finished, locking eyes with me as he said the last word.

"Do you understand what he's talking about?" Lucas asked me and Dustin.

We replied simultaneously.

"Yes."

"No."

We both looked at each other with confusion and a hint of annoyance for a split second before dismissing the thought.

"Come on guys, think about it. When El took us to find Will, she took us to his house, right?" I offered, gesturing all around me as I spoke.

Lucas shrugged.

"Yeah. And he wasn't there."

"But what if he was there?" I offered, eyebrows raised as I looked between my brother and Lucas. "What if we just couldn't see him? What if he was on the other side?"

The boys, aside from Mike, of course, seemed to consider this. Mike jumped back in as he flipped the board right side up once more.

"What if this is Hawkins and..." he flipped it back. "This is where Will is? The Upside Down."

Dustin seemed to perk up as he connected his own dots.

"Like the Vale of Shadows."

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Dustin slammed Mike's collection of Dungeons and Dragons guides and spell books on the table and began flipping through the various guidebooks. After a few moments he stopped on the page he had been looking for and began to read aloud.

"The Vale of Shadows is a dimension that is a dark reflection or echo of our world. It is a place of decay and death. A plane out of phase. A place of monsters."

As he read the next sentence, Mike, Lucas and I all shared the same, unsettled look, and a chill ran down my spine.

"It is right next to you, and you don't even see it." Dustin finished, and looked up, sharing our looks of concern.

Mike spoke up.

"An alternate dimension."

It seemed I was not the only one who was having difficulty handling the information.

"But... how... how do we get there?" Lucas asked worriedly.

"We cast Shadow Walk." Dustin said.

"In real life, dummy." Lucas deadpanned.

"We can't shadow walk, but... maybe she can." Dustin offered.

We all look to a drowsy looking El.

"Do you know how we get there? To the Upside Down?" Mike asked her gently.

She shook her head softly and we all felt the heavy ache of disappointment. Some of us were better at hiding it.

"Oh, my God!" Lucas sighed dramatically.

I tuned out the bickering that began between the boys when I gestured for the handbook and Dustin complied, sliding it over to me.

Maybe, just maybe, there must be something in one of these books that could help us or even give us an idea. I began flipping through the spell book and found myself lingering on my characters class, the Druid. More specifically, the Druid spell pages, getting lost in thought.

My eyes scanned the pages, my hope and curiosity had bubbled down to desperation and boredom as I read the all too familiar page. This time, with a new lense.

I recognized the many spells I had used in previous campaigns; Produce Flame had gotten me out of a pinch with a mimic once, I smiled at the memory. And of course, Plant Growth - one of my personal favorites - Will would always tease me about my love for plants carried on into my character.

I soon found myself unable to tear my attention away from one of the lower class spells I always used, Cure Wounds. Something in the back of my mind kept gnawing at me. I bore my eyes into the page as I reread the words over and over again.

"You or a creature you touch regains a number of Hit Points equal to 1d8 + your Spellcasting ability modifier. This spell has no effect on Undead or constructs."

It dawned on me. That night we saw "Will". It was just moments before we heard the sirens, I realized my cut had mysteriously vanished. I had immediately gotten distracted when we heard the sirens and then everything happened one after the other that I had forgotten.

'How could I possibly have forgotten something like that?'

I thought about El. A week ago I never believed it possible to move things with your mind, but yet El could. It made me wonder.

I shook my head, clearly, I was grasping at straws.

'Remember what mom said?' I asked myself, some part of me desperate to bury the ridiculous notion growing in the back of my mind. 'My body has always been faster than most medicines.'

I broke myself out of my thoughts to see Dustin and Lucas packing up. Suddenly realizing how tired I was, I happily joined in and grabbed my jacket from the chair and we said our goodbyes.

#you'll float queue #stranger things #will byers x reader #reader insert #will byers #dustin henderson #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #cosmic #y/n henderson #x gn!reader #will byers x gn!reader #the flea and the acrobat #1x05 #st 1x05

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dreamtimeagain · 3 years

Text

I pulled myself up out of bed, my blanket slipping off the side of the mattress and to the floor as I fought to open my eyes in the morning light. Stumbling across the room, I was beyond exhausted, struggling to make my body move. The voice that roused me from my slumber grumbled from down the hall. I needed to get going. I had to make it to the kitchen.

The wonderfully dark hallway made it easier to see beyond the sleep in my eyes. The carpet was grey and rough under my feet as I rounded the corner to a kitchen filled with the soft glow of morning light. I trudged across the wood floor and looked up in time to see a small shadowy child knock over something and skitter away. I knew I would be in trouble for not stopping them. The children were under my watch while the voice was back down the hallway.

Moving over to the countertop, I grabbed a paper towel to clean the child's mess. As I wiped, I noticed that the grey tank top I wore had started to turn blue. Vivid blue. I touched the blue and it came off on my finger as a fine powder, deep cyan in color. It was printer toner, and it was all over the counter. I tried to clean it up, but the toner was persistent, like a child's craft glitter, clinging to my arms and clothes and cleavage.

I gave up trying to be tidy. The counter must be clean, but I had no care for how clean I was. Maybe being dirty would give him second thoughts about getting me out of bed when I was so tired. Brushing the rest of the cyan powder off of the counter and onto my shirt, I turned and headed back around the corner and down the dark hallway.

The door I needed was closed, and I could hear sounds on the other side, but I was too tired to wait any longer, my eyes threatening to close. I stumbled back to the kitchen and leaned against the stove, cradling the blue front of my shirt. Fatigue hit me hard and I slid down to the floor, the handle of the stove bumping my shoulders on the way down.

The red-haired woman roused me with her voice as she leaned over the counter to look at me. She asked if I was ok as I tried to stand up again. The room was faded out, grey as the shirt I wore, except for the deep cyan powder that stained it. I told her that the children were under my watch, and that I was waiting for the voice down the hall to emerge so I could go back to sleep. With a nod of understanding, she straightened up and brought her knee up.

Swiftly and effortlessly she climbed up onto the counter, her legs and arms seeming too long. Her bare skin looked golden, the sunlight reflecting off of her shoulders. She crawled on all fours across the countertop and up the side of the wooden cabinets. She did not stop until she was hanging from the yellowed celling, her long hair hanging loose across her face as she turned to look at me.

Go to sleep. I will watch them for you.

I nodded and asked if she was really ok with that, even though I already knew the answer. She nodded and I turned, still cradling the front of my blue shirt, and stumbled down the hallway, my bed and blanket beckoning me. As I reached the door I remembered that I couldn't sleep. I couldn't leave the children alone.

Not when I didn't know where the magenta and yellow toners were. The cyan was a mess, but blue was ok here because it was liked and loved. But not magenta. Pink was hated here. I returned to the kitchen to find the house empty. The red-haired woman was gone and so were the children. I was not afraid, just sad that my choice had burdened her with the task that I had been given by the voice.

I left the house, and in the bright sunlight made my way down the street to the center of town. Everyone was there, dozens of people dressed for winter, shouting and grumbling at the door to town hall. Murder. There had been another murder, and why wasn't the city doing something about it? Why were there no arrests? Someone should do something.

Pushing past the crowd, I made my way to the door and knocked. The red-haired woman smiled at me through the frosted window and opened it just enough for me to slip in. She was sorry she had to leave, as she needed to get to work. The children were here, and the sheriff was keeping them amused.

She led me down the hall, the clinical blue walls turning into a blur as we slipped down one hall after another. Then there were a set of white doors that we pushed through, and before me were the children. They were happy, their faces smiling as they watched the skinny man in uniform as he ran around the room.

He was tall, skin as dark as the bark of a fir, and a piercing gaze that darted back and forth between the evidence he had pinned to the board and the children who were asking all the questions they could. He saw me and smiled with his perfectly straight white teeth and gestured to a table in the corner. Would I care for coffee? A donut?

Oh yes please!

I was still so tired, but coffee sounded perfect. As I apologized for the children, I walked over to the table and looked for the coffee pot. The red-haired woman brought it to me, the table was covered in every creamer imaginable, but no sugar or mugs or milk. Couldn't have the coffee without those things, so I shrugged it off as a lost cause.

The sheriff and the woman tried to tell me about their case, chatting enthusiastically about poisons and shoes, but I only cared about the food. I spotted the purple donut box and opened it, nodding absent mindedly to their words.

There were old fashioned doughnuts, their rough crinkled edges smushed together under a layer of days old glaze that was slippery to the touch. Normally my favorite, but they looked so unappetizing and grey. The sheriff saw that I was unhappy with them and instead offered me a selection from another box, this one yellow.

My eyes locked onto a cinnamon bun shaped doughnut, with what I thought was blue glaze. Instead it turned out to be a blueberry muffin cinnamon bun doughnut. I'd never seen one like it before so I reached out and pried it loose from the row of pastries it was stuck to. Then a loud bang startled me and I turned away.

...then I woke up.

#dream #lucid dreaming

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angelic-guardienne · 7 years

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Darkest Minds - II

Whoo, back at it again with Detective!Ignis. This one is just suuuper angst heavy, so. Proceed with caution! Haaaa, this took forever to think of, but I wrote it pretty much one sitting. Whew.

[Previous]

Tagging: @alicemoonwonderland (finally have more for ya) @nemo-ne-impune-lacessit @for-lack-of-a-better-world @amicitonia @roses-and-oceans @ponkita @zoeyredbird1 @tales-of-a-fallen-star @kerrtrash @crazykruemel @onpanwa @themissimmortal

At noon that same day, after five grueling hours of remaining cordial with his coworkers despite simply wanting to run away and never look back, Ignis was sitting at a table in a homely cafe not far from the station, listlessly eating a sandwich and sipping coffee. He watched the milling citizens through the front window, almost all of them proceeding with life as if nothing had happened.

It was all so mundane. Even when he felt like the world should have stopped in mourning, it just kept spinning, his tragedy confined to just a few select people. Iris Amicitia was dead, but that was just a minor concern to the general public. People would remain cautious for the moment, trying to be more aware of their surroundings and where they were at whatever time to be sure that the same fate did not befall them. The caution would fall by the wayside, and everything would return to normal.

It made Ignis sick to his stomach, that the entire population wouldn’t be feeling the same loss that he was, even if that was a selfish thought. It felt so wrong for them to be able to move on so fluidly, to remain so distanced from it all, to remain so completely unaffected.

And then he realized the hypocrisy in his own thoughts.

He was a detective. He reassured mourning families and tried to make sure those responsible for the crimes committed paid the appropriate price. They called him unflappable, even cold, as he tried his damnedest not to let any case affect him in too big of a way, apparently making it look effortless going by the comments he heard about how unfeeling he seemed. “Detached” looked to be his middle name.

For so long, it’s worked out for him. Only the worst cases got a reaction out of him – at least, a reaction down by the station – and even then it was subdued. Ignis refused to let himself get caught in the whirlwind of emotion that was mourning for a life already lost to the world’s insanity. Getting consumed by such raw feeling would deter him from his goal – finding the person responsible and getting them the appropriate sentence.

Now that Ignis was no longer in the driver’s seat of the situation, now that he was reacting instead of acting, all of the feelings he’d let build up under the pretense of an icy focus came crashing down. Now that Iris was dead, now that Ignis was the one that needed to be consoled, now that he could no longer remain so untouched by it all… Ignis barely had the energy to struggle with keeping up a calm demeanor, and everyone saw him as he felt – hurt and tired, put simply.

Ignis’ stomach was roiling, his appetite lost. He stiffly stood from his seat, tossing the remaining half of his sandwich and exchanging his cold coffee for a cup of ice water. He chewed on an ice cube as he exited the establishment, heading back to the station. There was work to be done, and he didn’t have time to linger so deeply in his thoughts.

It wasn’t much longer before Ignis arrived at his destination. He headed straight for his desk, clutching his little cup of water tightly as he felt himself being crushed underneath the suffocating atmosphere. Ignis didn’t fail to notice the looks his coworkers were giving him, and he certainly didn’t fail to ignore them. They needed to focus on their jobs, not on him.

Ignis plopped down in his chair, immediately opening and beginning to inspect the file that was left there for him. It looked fresh, the paper was even still a bit warm from the printer, but the biggest indicator had been the large, bold letters, “I. AMICITIA” printed across the front. Ignis heaved a sigh as he read through the general report and looked through the photos, forcing himself to keep his head on straight as he reviewed everything. He needed to focus if he was to get anything done.

Still… he chanced a glance at Gladio’s office, only to find the door closed, the shutters down over the window, and the lights off. Gladio, currently, was not here.

Right.

Once the news made it around the station, everyone had taken notice of Gladio diving headfirst into his work and not looking back. They figured it was best that Gladio take some time off, just to let things settle in and to let him mourn his loss without the pressure of the case looming over his head. Gladio had protested firmly, not even looking up from his paperwork until Ignis admitted that he agreed with their coworkers.

“You’re going to run yourself ragged like this.” Ignis said, placing a gentle hand on Gladio’s tense shoulders. “Go home. I’ll – we’ll take it from here.”

Gladio seemed to be having a small mental war with himself before he finally acquiesced to Ignis’ request, turning a thankful, if not slightly miffed, red-rimmed gaze up at his long-time friend. “Only because you said so.”

Ignis raised a brow, allowing a smirk to pull at his lips. “Is that so?”

Gladio nodded, giving an affirmative grunt, then started to gather his things in preparation to depart. Ignis left his office with a final farewell.

Ignis pulled himself out of the brief memory, shaking his head. He scanned over the documents in front of him again, but his focus kept evading him, the words blurring on the page. Looking at the pictures and reading the report, he knew it was all too real, yet part of his mind refused to accept the notion. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the concept that he’d never get to cook alongside Iris again, or hear her laugh, or listen to her banter with Gladio, or hear the ping of his phone when she texted him to talk about some new fabric she’d seen at the market, or watch as she and Gladio fought over the last of a pile of pastries he’d baked–

Ignis huffed out a sigh, removing his glasses and holding his face in his hands. His throat burned and he could feel the sob rising, feel the shake beginning to crawl up to his shoulders, but he choked both sensations down, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Iris deserved his full attention, and he’d give her no less.

At least, that was the plan.

When he’d slipped his glasses back on, Ignis immediately noticed the figure looming over him: one of his coworkers, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret. She gave him a rather sad look and placed her hand on his shoulder, just as he had done for Gladio earlier.

Her tone was as gentle as her touch. “Ignis, you should probably–”

“Head home,” he finished for her, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back in his chair. He removed his specs again before draping an arm over his eyes. Another sob threatened to escape him, completely unprovoked, and Ignis forced it down again.

“Yes.” she said, voice still soft, “You’re just as affected as Gladio is. You both need rest and time to recuperate. Head out, we’ll cover the case for now.”

Ignis remained still for a moment, weighed the costs and benefits of protesting, but he quickly gave up. He was so exhausted, the bone-deep tiredness of mourning lain over him like a blanket, and he wasn’t entirely sure sleep would fix it. Still, it was worth a try. So Ignis relented to her demands, packing his belongings and robotically exiting the building and making his way to his car.

Six, he felt so numb. He could only imagine how Gladio felt.

Ignis made it to his apartment with little fanfare, dropping his bag by the door and sinking onto the couch, staring blankly at the dark television screen across from him.

He remained there until his phone buzzed from his pocket. He recognized the tone as Gladio’s and reached for it, listlessly reading the text.

GLADIO: How are things coming along?

IGNIS: I’m not sure

There was a small pause before Gladio’s reply.

GLADIO: They kick you out too?

IGNIS: It would seem so

IGNIS: How are you holding up?

GLADIO: Fine

IGNIS: Liar.

It took Gladio ten minutes to respond.

GLADIO: Can I come over? Can’t stand being in this house any longer

IGNIS: Of course

GLADIO: Thanks. Be there soon

Ignis nodded and put his phone away, then stood and made his way into the kitchen. “Soon” meant anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes, which should be just enough time for him to cook something up for Gladio to eat. Ignis worked under the assumption that the other man hadn’t eaten since he’d gotten the news, and knowing Gladio, his assumption was probably right.

Ignis planned on making something simple, just a vegetable stew, but when he took out a carrot and laid it on the cutting board, he was assaulted with memories of Iris standing next to him, and then his hand was shaking too much to properly wield the knife and cut the carrots. The slices he’d made were crooked and uneven and entirely too large. Ignis sighed, setting his knife down and leaning against the counter. That plan was out the window.

Ignis resigned himself to setting some water onto the stove to boil so he could make two cups of noodles. He didn’t share Gladio’s degree of fondness for the meal (he doubted that anyone did) but he could admit that the noodles made a fine comfort food.

They both needed all the comfort they could get.

After Gladio arrived and Ignis had served the Cup Noodle, they sat on the couch in relative silence. Neither of them touched his food very much.

Ignis was, frankly, startled when he tasted salt on his lips that he was sure hadn’t come from the cup, and then he realized that he was crying. The sobs that he’d barely managed to keep a lid on throughout his time at the station finally came bursting from him, breaking the already fragile silence that had settled over the room.

Hearing Ignis cry was the last straw for Gladio and the floodgates opened. Tears streamed down scarred cheeks in an endless stream and Gladio let out a noise that sounded akin to the one he’d made on the phone earlier in the day. Ignis cried harder, and Gladio followed.

No words were exchanged; no words were needed. They simply mourned together for the loss of a little sister to the world’s insanity.

#final fantasy xv #darkest minds #detective!ignis au #tw: murder mention #ignis scientia #iris amicitia #lunafreya nox fleuret #gladiolus amicitia #can you tell that i tripped and fell at the end #i wanted to add more but i decided it'd be better in part 3 ya?#i'm still kinda writing blindly with this so haha? *shrugs* work with me here?#i believe this ended up being almost 1800 words so there's that.#i'm proud #writing #ffxv

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scramblednoodle · 4 years

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Day 1

So here we are. Last we talked, I was contemplating the concept of death, and the way I approached it. That was...2019? My friend with ALS died. Bean died. And then J and I had the most amazing trip of our lives, a distraction we sorely needed, a trip across the country over 30 days and 8500 miles, camper trailer in tow. Amazing time, amazing trip. Did we do Burning Man? I think we did Burning Man. Then CFT, then the holidays, then 2020 came around, and we did Further Confusion, with Vardaman gigs interspersed between.

And then Covid19 happened.

I don’t want to talk about all of the things that have happened since then. I’ll give a summary, though. We found VR and found a whole new dimension of socializing. We’ve made a TON of friends, more than we have ever made at any con, and maybe more than we’ve made at many of those cons combined, and we’ve gotten closer to some of our existing friends. I’ve lost a ton of weight. We got a kitten. We’ve stayed home, we don’t eat out, save for the occasional Taco Bell/Papa Murphy’s take-out. A lot of stuff has been done at home and with the house. We got a 3d printer, a kegerator, and a freeze dryer. Life has slowed down, but time has sped forward, and the two are oddly disjunct.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

See, sitting at home, doing things, and not being distracted by going out all the time has caused a certain amount of reflection. A LOT of reflection. I’ve had to face some things, and as a result, I’ve realized some things. Last year I started having a gender identity crisis. This mulled around in my head, until I slowed down, until life calmed down and I was forced to delve deep and explore this. Early this year, shortly after FC, I admitted that I was trans, to myself, and to those that know me. I came out on Twitter, to massive amounts of support. I mean, folks who knew me well probably weren’t all that surprised, except that it took me so long. To others, maybe it broadsided them, but I have thought of myself as “she” for so long, and been called “She” or “Lady” or “Her” or “Mistress” or whatever for so long, maybe it got taken for granted.

I was undecided on transitioning, but always kept the option open. Since I’d been losing weight, I set a goal: if I could hit 220, I would “consider” transitioning.

Let’s go back to the cross-country trip. I stopped shaving during that trip. I grew a great, big, Pacific NorthWest beard. MANLY beard. Bushy in all the right ways. I got complimented on my beard.

I started to hate my beard.

Denial-beard, it’s called, amongst some transgender folks. For my birthday this year I bought the nicest electric razor I have ever in my life owned, and was more expensive than my last 4 electric razors combined. For my birthday, I shaved my denial beard. It was the first time I had entirely removed my facial hair in years, and certainly the first time without it AND embracing my transgender self.

I loved what I saw in the mirror. I loved her so much that I decided that my goal of hitting a weight and then transitioning was purely a projection of my continued belief that in order to physically become the woman I am inside, that I had to be svelte. Thinner. Sleeker. Beautiful.

What a bunch of rubbish.

I saw myself as a woman in the mirror for the first time in my life, and I felt nothing but giddy joy. I’m starting to tear up at the memory of it. Do you have any fucking idea how HARD it is to look at yourself in a mirror for FORTY THREE YEARS and hate yourself? I bet more than one of you do.

Between 2007 and 2009 I went from 308lbs to 175lbs. I looked GOOD. I had hot men wanting to touch me, to fuck me. It was nice to be liked.

I hated who I saw in the mirror. And I eventually hated what being fit and thin and desired turned me into. A Fitness TYRANT. My way or no way. I started to look down on those who could not do what I did. It was gross.

Harley died, work went to shit, and over the next 10 years or so, I put most of the weight back on.

Still hated who I saw in the mirror.

And then, thanks to Covid, I saw a woman in the mirror, and for the first time, I understood.

Fuck the weight goal. I talked to my therapist. I needed a head check. Is this me? Am I doing the right thing? Is this a phase? A phase, LOL.

I’ve presented as a woman online since 1997. It started as an excuse to have cyber with straight guys; at least. that’s what I told myself. It felt comfortable from day 1. Over the years, my male characters either fell to the wayside, or became women themselves. So easy, transitioning in a side reality. Very few people would judge, and those who did would easily be blocked or ignored. I felt comfortable.

When I started to date Kiteless, many years ago, his circles had no problems with she/her pronoun with relation to me. After all, I was not the only dragoness with a misidentified physical body. It was...nice. For the first time, I felt like I could be accepted. I WAS accepted, as who I felt I was. That persisted, and continues to persist. When I started dating J, he would always refer to me as “Lady”. He never had a problem with my gender, though it took him a while to realize that it was not just a kink for me, that I was not doing it to tease him, but that I was doing it because it was how I felt comfortable. I think he understands it now.

Speaking of understanding, it was about the time I decided to go through with HRT that the real wall started to erect itself. Something that grew and grew, and grew strong.

My Dad.

Don’t misunderstand, it wasn’t anything he did or said. My dad is Puerto Rican, and he’s Military. He lives and breathes the US Army, even though he’s long retired. I don’t think he understands how to function back in the world. I don’t think he can handle the entropy. Or at least, it’s not an entropy he understands. But this makes him subject to, let’s just say, a rather blunt, lopsided, and sometimes outdated view of the world.

How in the hell would he accept that his son was going to become his daughter?

So I started to build this wall in my head. Out of bricks that I made myself. Bricks based on assumption and self-projection. I have ever been my own worst enemy, and this was no exception.

There is a memory, a very NOT FOND memory I have. Before I left home, before I escaped from under HIS roof (and he never let us forget that), my parents found out I was gay. At one point, my dad and I got into an argument, and he said “They need to take you out like that kid in Colorado and beat you.” He was referring to Matthew Shepard, a gay college kid who was beaten severely in Laramie, WY, and later died in Ft Collins, CO.

I’ve never forgiven my dad for that comment. I don’t know if I ever can. The comment came from a place of ignorance and anger, but it came from him, it came from within, and it was directed at his child. I will never forget that moment, and that moment will forever color the way I interact with him.

SO! You can understand, perhaps, why I was terrified of telling him. Despite our rocky relationship over the years, I do love my dad, and he’s the person in the world that, for a long time, I most wanted approval from. In a way, I still do, and I will probably always want his approval. Now, my mom accepted who I was without issue. She’s always been supportive, though there was a time when I think she was hurt that I would never give her grandkids. :P She follows me Twitter, so it was pretty clear to her what was happening with me, though she somehow missed the big news, that I was going to transition.

It was hard to tell her, but as I expected, she was supportive. Very supportive. I’m blushing just thinking about it, the feeling of my mom calling me her girl. I never would have thought I’d get to this point.

When I first broached transition with my therapist, after much handwringing and self-questioning, the expectation was that I was going to start a long process of approval. I would need to go through my Primary Care physician, then see an endocrinologist, then get a letter of recommendation from my therapist, then be evaluated for medications. My doctor was a small-town, country doctor who didn’t listen, and whose answer to everything was Flonase. He was OBSESSED with allergies and nasal steroids. I was really dubious he’d be on-board with helping me transition. So, of course I changed PCPs. J and I were already super dissatisfied with him, so it was a no-brainer. Ended up at OHSU, with a primary care doc who specialized in gender confirming action and therapies. We talked. I got a lab panel done. And then suddenly she was prescribing me estrogen and testosterone blockers.

My expectation of 6 months was suddenly obliterated, and boy did the doubt start. Am I doing the right thing? Oh my god, I’m not ready for this. I was supposed to have SIX MONTHS, and it took ONE AND A HALF.

Things moved fast after that. A few more doctor appointments. Some medication research. Some frozen sperm, just in case.

Yesterday was...a roller coaster. Yesterday, the meds showed up in the mail. Yesterday, I got the notification that my sperm was accepted into the sperm bank and was healthy and viable. Yesterday, I called my mom, and we talked for almost 2 hours. It was a lovely conversation. And I asked her to help me tell my dad.

A very short while later, I received a message from my dad. It was cryptic, but Dad is ESL, so he doesn’t really enunciate the way most folks do. Blunt, coarse, direct, and with odd modifier choices. Nonetheless he made one thing clear.

He loved me no matter what.

I cried for 30 minutes straight. My paper towels were a sopping mess of tears and snot. I was a mess.

I also felt more free than I’ve been in a long, long time. That wall I built got torn down, and good riddance. *I* built that wall, out of my own fear and projected doubts. It was a real wall. Those fears were real feelings. Unfounded, but REAL. And they’ve finally crumbled. Finally.

I took my first HRT pills this morning. As I understand it, I’ll be on them for at least 3 years, assuming I stick with it. I can expect a second puberty before any physical changes. In 6 months or something, physical changes will begin to occur, but right now I’m just...Well, my head is spinning. I still have doubts, but since yesterday, they’re quieter. They’re less pronounced. They’re mostly based around trying not to get shanked by a Good ‘Ol Boy. The usual.

And now we come to today.

Today is a special day. Today is my Day 1. Today begins the rest of my life.

I’m scared, I’m excited, I’m nervous, I’m giddy. I am as confused a jumble as I ever was. But I’m pretty sure of one thing:

This is right.

My intent to is journal things now and then. Thoughts, worries, etc. We’ll see how it goes. )

Peace, y’all.

#transgender #transitioning #self doubt #hopeful #anxiety #joy

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thatgirlonstage · 7 years

Link

Summary: Lance wakes up in a hospital on Earth to discover he has been missing for four months, with no memory of Voltron or the Galra. Drawn inexplicably to the desert where they found him, he discovers a hut full of research and notes that may provide the key to his missing memories. With secrets and conspiracies surrounding him, and the Garrison potentially hiding far more than he could ever have imagined, Lance grows to trust the notes in the desert - but he may not believe the person who claims he wrote them.

Chapter Four:

The first thing Lance saw was paper.

There were reams of it scattered across the room, stacked high against the wall, books piled haphazardly in corners and toppling onto each other on shelves, posters covering the peeling wallpaper, rolled up maps and star charts shoved into cardboard boxes, newspaper clippings with headlines circled in red pen, colored Post-It notes stuck on everything, all of them scrawled over with the same messy, spiky handwriting.

The second thing he noticed was the conspiracy board.

A massive corkboard covered most of the wall to his right, beside a single narrow door that presumably led to the rest of the hut. Lance gaped at it: it looked like it had fallen out of every crime thriller ever, complete with color-coded string connecting the dots from dirty pencil sketches to photographs to a map that sat dead center, with a giant black circle around the words ENERGY SOURCE and several X’s marking out a triangle.

The third thing he noticed was how much dust he had kicked up by opening the door, as he went into a coughing fit.

When he had cleared his lungs and wiped the tears from his eyes, he took a few hesitant, stumbling steps closer to the conspiracy board. Pictures of lions dominated, some photographs of what looked like cave drawings, others messy sketches that had clearly been rubbed out over and over by an increasingly dirty eraser, creased and torn along the edges. For some reason, the sight of the lions made Lance’s heart jump into his throat, although he couldn’t recall ever seeing something like it before. Annotations in the same spiky handwriting covered them, but none of them made any sense. What did “NAs around?? WHO LIVED HERE?” have to do with what looked like a mathematical calculation? Why was there a yellow Post-It that just said, “changing art styles” with three arrows pointing to different photographs on it? Why was there a photograph of nothing but a cave entrance? Why was there also a world map with the constellations charted across it, showing where they were visible?

“Does that guy with the telescope live here?” he wondered aloud, and then winced, wondering if he might have alerted anyone else in the house to his presence, but as much as he strained his ears, everything remained silent. “Only if he’s been sleeping in that park for a few months straight, judging by the dust,” he muttered to himself. He turned and surveyed the room.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen so much paper in his life. If he thought Cal kept an impressive number of physical books even though digital copies were less than a quarter of the price, it was nothing compared to whatever the person who lived here had. They were piled everywhere: on the shelves against the back wall, on the desk and shelves on either side of the front door, underneath the wooden slab sitting on top of some concrete bricks that Lance thought was supposed to pass for a table (helping to hold it up, by the looks of it), even stuck on top of the tower of what looked like Garrison reject tech. Lance frowned, moving closer, and his eyes went wide. This was Garrison reject tech. The two back-to-front G’s that made up their logo were pasted onto the corners, although at least one looked like it had been scratched off. “What the…?” he murmured. The Garrison was dedicated to keeping their technology scarily modern, so it wasn’t unusual for them to donate outdated but still perfectly serviceable technology to the electrojunk yards in the city where people could go scavenge them. Most people in the city probably owned a printer that had been thrown away by the Garrison at some point. This was different, though. For one thing, some of this was a lot more sophisticated than a printer – Lance thought he recognized a machine Hunk had told him could be adjusted to scan for, record, and convert almost any frequency to levels that could be heard by human ears – and he doubted it would get tossed in with the Garrison’s normal electrojunk. For another, some of it wasn’t just old, by technology standards it was ancient. The holoscreen projector looked like it was decades old, probably older than Lance himself, and had clearly been repaired and retrofitted over the years. He ran a hesitant finger along the top of the frequency scanner and it came away coated in dust.

Rubbing his hand against his pants, he took a few slow steps over to the table. There was an empty water bottle and an open, empty black can that according to the label had once contained beans but now had nothing but some nasty congealed juice at the bottom of it sitting on top of a few sheets of paper. One of them had something written in all caps and red across it, and Lance carefully, with one finger, shoved the bean can aside to get a look. It said: DON’T FORGET – TOMORROW. There was a date written underneath and circled four times.

Lance’s throat constricted and he wondered if he was going to start coughing again. He stared at the paper until he thought he might burn a hole right through it. The world seemed to tumble into chaos around him. He clenched his fists, trying to hold onto reality with brute force. He could hear his heart thundering in his ears.

The date written on the sheet of the paper was the night Lance had gone missing.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at this sheet of paper with its frighteningly coincidental date before he reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out the new phone he’d finally bought. He was halfway through typing in Detective Hopkins’s contact before he paused.

“What would I even say…?” he asked his phone. “Detective Hopkins” sat at the top of his screen, waiting to be pressed, an alert to the police two taps of a finger away, but instead he deleted the letters of his contact search one by one and slowly put the phone back into his pocket. “Not yet,” he muttered. “I need something more than a piece of paper if I’m going to explain why I’m out here at all. Plus, walking into this hut probably counts as breaking and entering, doesn’t it? Oh, shit, am I breaking the law?” He shifted from foot to foot, suddenly paranoid that Detective Hopkins was tailing him and was about to burst through the door and arrest him. Making a split-second decision, he walked over to the door on the right wall and twisted the knob.

The door opened onto a sparsely furnished kitchen, boasting nothing more than a single cupboard and a square of counter space, a rickety old gas stove, a rusty metal sink, a mismatched set of two chairs and a table, and a squat little fridge that was making a frightening rattling sound as it ran. At the opposite end of the room another door was cracked open to a tiny square of a bathroom, and a ladder led up to some kind of attic. Lance, still slightly paranoid that the owner of the hut was going to appear in front of him and shoot him for trespassing, walked over to the fridge. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand hesitantly on the handle, and yanked it open. He slammed it shut again as fast as possible, his free hand coming up to cover his nose. Unless the mold in there mutated and came to life and tried to kill him, he was happy to let whatever remnants of food there were rot in there for eternity. It settled one point for him though: he was certain now that no one had lived here for months. And, judging by the mess in their refrigerator, whoever used to be here had left unexpectedly.

Just for good measure, he finished exploring the hut. The bathroom was miniscule but functional. The water ran brown with rust and sand for the first few minutes after Lance turned it on, but eventually cleared. He splashed his face clean of the dust, although he was careful not to swallow. The cracked ceramic floor was outlined in the sand that had gathered between the crevices. The sink had a glass with a toothbrush and almost empty tube of toothpaste sitting on it, and a comb with four of its teeth missing. The shower was marked only by its wide metal head and a flimsy, tattered curtain hanging off two metal rods; the drain was set into the floor. A few strands of black hair were curled over it.

Up the ladder, there was an almost empty attic. The slanted ceiling was so low that Lance could only stand fully upright in the exact center. There was a mattress with crumpled sheets and a thin blanket thrown across it, and a cardboard box. A few scattered pairs of socks, boxer shorts, and a black t-shirt made a loose pile of dirty laundry next to the mattress, but otherwise the room was bare. Outside was also mostly uninteresting: a well for groundwater explained how the house had plumbing, and the concrete attachment to the house had a generator connected to a set of solar panels around the back of the hut, which explained how the fridge was still running, as well as containing a few rusty gardening tools, but that was it. Lance went back inside to the main room and stared at the date glaring at him from that sheet of paper again. He reached down, hesitated, and then reasoned that his fingerprints were already all over everything.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he shrugged, and picked it up.

Examining it gave him nothing new. There were fragments of printed text on the back, but he was pretty sure that was just because it was scrap paper. He sat down on the couch, turning the paper over and over in his hands. DON’T FORGET – TOMORROW. The words mocked him.

On a whim, he reached over and grabbed the nearest book off a shelf next to him, disturbing a cloud of dust as he did so. The spines of all the books were already thoroughly broken, so it fell open on his lap. It was a history of the region. A quick scan of the table of contents told him that it began more or less in the 1600s and worked its way up through the end of the last century. The earlier chapters in particular were stuck full of Post-It notes. He flipped through it slowly, seeing sections of the text underlined and circled, accompanied by exclamation points and question marks.

The page it fell open to, the one where the reader’s annotation marks were so heavy they almost obscured the actual text, contained a picture similar to the ones on the conspiracy board and a single paragraph. Lance read.

One peculiarity is the prevalence of cave drawings of what appears to be a female lion, which fill countless caves in one concentrated area (see Map 2.4). While the scholarly consensus is that they must actually be drawings of cougars, they bear an uncanny resemblance to a female African lion in the proportion of the head and their build. As of yet there are no authoritative studies on these drawings since access has always posed a problem – first because of the terrain and climate, and in more recent years because of Galaxy Garrison’s restrictions on people living or working in the area due to safety concerns over pilot training and weapons testing. The little research that has been done found several patterns that repeat across most of the drawings with slight alterations, suggesting an evolving mythos.14 However, the story depicted does not appear to be tied to any other myths or folktales from the region. Even stranger, recent radiocarbon dating suggests that the very oldest of these drawings might date to roughly 8000 BCE, around 4000 years older than any other cave drawings found in North America, while the newest ones may even have appeared after colonial exploration and settlement began in the 19th century.15 This makes little to no sense given what we know of the movements of Native American populations through this region (see Chapter 3). The working theory among scholars is that the various tribes present at different points in history each discovered these cave drawings, interpreted them, reinvented them to fit their own myths, and then redrew their version in a cave nearby. More in-depth interpretations of the story being told in these drawings, its significance to Native American culture, and the history of the region, will have to await further research.

Scrawled in the top corner of the page was a handwritten annotation: “If completely fictional, why consistent patterns across tribes/time? What was start of myth?” Lance worried his bottom lip. He set the book down on the table and grabbed the next one without paying any attention. The cover was a startling green on black pattern, with the title written in such big font it almost completely obscured the design: ALIENS: The Secret History of Galaxy Garrison. He groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Nope. Okay, if this isn’t telescope man’s house, it’s the house of his even crazier cousin,” he said. “Nope, nope, nope, I’m done. I am… I am done with this. Time to go home.” He shoved the books back onto the shelf, stood up, and marched out the door. The sun was beginning to fall into the west, dipping below the mountains. Lance took a swig from his water bottle, swung himself onto the hoverbike, and took off towards town, refusing to look back as the strange little desert hut shrank into invisibility on the horizon behind him.

Lance was singing, stirring peppers, onions, and snap peas together, when Cal walked in. He gave him a cheery wave, and reached back with to turn down the quick-paced Spanish music blasting from a speaker on the counter, continuing to dance side to side, swaying his hips along, as adjusted the heat on the stove.

“And I’d never seen eyes like hers before,” he sang, imitating the singer’s vibrato on the last word. “Hey, how was school?”

“You’re cooking?” Cal asked, dropping his backpack off his shoulder with a thunk. “What is that? It smells delicious.”

“Nothing special,” he shrugged. “Just kind of a stir-fry, fast and easy. I was thinking of making fricasé de pollo one night if you’d like, I just need to leave it to marinate the night before.”

“Since when do you cook?” Cal asked, bending over to untie his shoes.

“Since Hunk.” With a quick twist of his wrist Lance shook some salt over the pan, keeping his hand high to avoid any drops of hot oil. “I had the worst crash in the flight simulator I’d ever had, my advisor told me I’d never get into the Garrison, I got back a theory test that I flat-out failed, hid in a bathroom in the basement for three hours before I limped my way back to the dorms during dinnertime in order to avoid running into anyone, and ten minutes later Hunk turned up with the most delicious black bean soup I’ve ever eaten in my life. Probably would have been even better if I didn’t keep crying into it. Hunk said he’d wanted to do something more traditionally Cuban, give me a taste of home and all, but this was the best he could manage since he wasn’t even really supposed to be in the kitchen in the first place and had to scrounge for ingredients. He kept apologizing, he was so anxious, meanwhile I couldn’t even keep my voice steady long enough to actually thank him for it.

“So then like a week later, once I’d pulled myself together and convinced my teacher to let me retake the theory test, I was determined I was going to cook something for him, you know, to thank him. I managed to get into the kitchen by telling the chef I was Hunk’s friend – he worked there for some extra cash on weekends and one of his moms was a chef, he could cook better than anyone else in that kitchen – but I ended up with the saddest, driest, burnt-up fried plantains you’ve ever seen in your life. It was a total disaster. I wouldn’t have dared try to make him eat them, I just threw them away. But I must have had the most pitiful puppy-dog look on my face after that because Hunk knew something was wrong, and when I finally confessed what had happened he was so touched that he insisted he get to teach me to cook. We spent Sunday mornings in the kitchen since the simulators weren’t available until noon.”

“Hunk was your roommate back in prep school, right?” Lance scraped the spoon slowly around the edge of the pan.

“Yeah. Sweetest guy I’ve ever met,” he said. Cal tucked the laces inside his shoes and set them carefully in a boot tray.

“I met his moms,” he said. Lance kept his eyes fixed on the pan. “They were lovely people. His brother too.” Lance stabbed a pepper with the fork and sampled it. Almost done, could use another couple minutes, he decided. “So, you planning to share that or what?” He sent Cal a relieved grin.

“Patience, patience,” he admonished, waving a spoon at his brother. “It’s not done yet.” Cal slid onto a chair and crossed an ankle over his knee, watching expectantly.

“Cooking, speaking English in the morning, you really have changed a lot,” he mused. Lance shrugged.

“None of this is recent,” he said.

“Guess we don’t see each other all that often anymore.” There was a moment of quiet, the Spanish singer still crooning gently from the speaker. Lance murmured the lyrics under his breath, swaying almost imperceptibly. He felt Cal’s eyes on the back of his neck but didn’t turn around. Another few stirs around with his spoon and he stepped back, satisfied.

“There’s rice in the pot,” he gestured. Cal grabbed a plate and helped himself. The two of them moved around one another in sync, navigating the compressed little apartment kitchen to set out silverware and water, Lance dropping a used cutting board and knife into the sink to be washed later. They ate in comfortable silence, the muted sound of a guitar from the speaker and the indistinct noises of people having their own dinners in the apartments above and below providing a soundtrack to their quiet company. Only after both their plates were scraped clean did Lance sit back, crossing his ankle across his knee to match Cal, and ask if he had any critiques.

“Not a one. You know I’m terrible at cooking, why didn’t you do this before now?” Lance shrugged, throwing his arms over the back of the chair.

“I was recovering from being an invalid. Show some consideration to your little brother.” Cal rolled his eyes.

“Right. Well, you’re cooking dinner from now on. You want to stay in this apartment, you’re going to earn your keep.”

“Hey! That wasn’t in my contract!”

“I’m changing the terms of our agreement. Older sibling privileges.” Lance could have sworn the glint in Cal’s eyes was almost mischievous.

“You are the most— the most insufferable— you dirty little f—”

“Lance,” Cal gasped in mock horror. “Language, please.”

“I’ll language you!” Lance growled. He launched himself at Cal, trying to yank him off the chair, but couldn’t make him budge.

“Please, Lance, you know you could never win when we fought.”

“Maybe not. Buuuuuuut… I do know your weak spot,” Lance gave Cal the evilest grin he could and Cal met him with a glare.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said suspiciously, slowly placing his foot on the floor.

“Oh I would,” Lance said. He went to his knees, grabbed Cal’s foot, and tickled the bottom. Cal shrieked, kicking at him, but Lance hung on grimly to his leg and continued to tickle. Cal was somewhere between screaming and laughing, trying to shove Lance away, but his position from the chair was too awkward and he couldn’t get to his feet with Lance hanging on to his leg.

“You absolute ass,” he cried. “Two can play at this game, you know.”

“No!” Lance shrieked as Cal bent over and reached for his ribs. He let go of his grip on Cal’s leg to knock away his hands. “Sorry, sorry, truce!”

“Not a chance,” Cal said, jumping to his feet. Lance crab-walked backward until he managed to flip over, trip up to his feet, and attempt to sprint away. Cal caught him and knocked them both onto the air mattress, his fingers tickling agony into his sides.

“Let goooooooo,” he groaned through involuntary laughter, slapping ineffectually at his brother’s arms. “You’re an adult, you’re supposed to be too old for this.” He squirmed, trying to wiggle his way out of Cal’s grasp, but he had Lance pinned down, still digging his fingers mercilessly into his ribs. “Calixto Sanchez, if you don’t stop I am going to burn every single one of those dinners you want me to cook for you.” Cal paused, squinting at him, his knees digging into Lance’s hips.

“You wouldn’t eat burnt food for the next two months just to spite me.”

“Try me,” Lance dared. Cal stared him down a moment longer, then flipped off of him. Lance sighed in relief, gave it a single beat, and dove for Cal’s feet, throwing his torso across Cal’s legs to keep them in place.

“You CHEAT!” Cal shouted, trying to shove him off. Lance couldn’t hold his position long before Cal managed to pull him away and they devolved into wrestling. Lance discovered there was a lot more of him since the last time they did this: his limbs had stretched long and he was all angles now, all elbows and knees and bony shoulders that he could shove up against the block of muscle that was his brother to try and push him off the mattress. They were almost evenly matched for a few minutes, but Cal eventually managed to shove Lance onto his stomach and pull his arms behind him. Lance kicked ineffectually for a few seconds, like he was swimming, but Cal was sitting on his back and he couldn’t reach him.

“Okay, okay, you win, you always win, I’ll cook nice things for you,” Lance groaned, and buried his face into the air mattress. Cal didn’t say anything, only released his grip, but Lance could feel the smugness rolling off him in waves. “No need to be so damn proud of yourself.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cal said in a tone that told Lance he knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Suuuuuuure,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. He flipped himself over onto his back. “You wanna watch a movie tonight?” he asked. Cal shook his head.

“Some of us have homework to do. On Saturday maybe. Oh, speaking of which, Louisa’s said she’s going to come visit on Saturday. Midterms were this week so she can take a bit of a break.”

“Sweet,” Lance said, spotting the pot of rice still sitting on the stove and remembering he still had dishes to do. He sighed, pushed himself to his feet, and ambled back over to the kitchen. He pushed the volume on the speaker back up, rolled up his sleeves, and turned on the sink, running the water over his fingers until it got hot. “You know, it’s a pretty dumb idea to build a school out in the desert,” he reflected. “The town has the lake, I know, but the Garrison’s far enough out that it can’t be easy to cart all the water they need all the way out there.” He said nothing about the strange little hut with its personal well that seemed so wildly impractical, so far from everything.

“Well they needed a big open space that no one else wanted so they could just claim it as theirs and then they wouldn’t ever have to worry about flight regulations or anything,” Cal said offhandedly, opening up his computer. Lance paused, hands submerged in sudsy water.

“Wait, so, how much of the desert is the Garrison’s private property?” he asked. Cal frowned at him.

“I don’t know exactly but it goes on for miles. I mean, that’s how they keep the town from expanding out in that direction, they own all the land.” Lance felt his breath hitch but tried to keep his voice calm.

“So… If someone were… living out in the desert…” Cal shook his head.

“They couldn’t be. Well, not legally anyway. But like you said, why would anyone want to live out in the desert anyway? There’s nothing out there.”

“Right,” Lance muttered, scrubbing oil residue forcefully off a pan. “Nothing but a whole lot of sand.”

He spent almost ten minutes standing on the porch without quite managing to grab the doorknob. He very nearly convinced himself to turn around and go back to the city. This was almost definitely the worst idea he’d ever had. The knowledge that he was now trespassing not just on the abandoned house of some weirdo but also technically on Garrison property, in a house they couldn’t possibly know about because Lance was sure they would flip their shit if they did, full of what might, he was realizing, be stolen Garrison tech, and books all about how the Garrison was really an alien cover-up organization or something of the kind, made his heart pound painfully against his ribs every time he started to move toward the door. He paced on the porch, muttering to himself.

“Maybe someone built this house before the Garrison even got here? And then just… refused to leave? Because clearly someone’s been living here within the last year even if they’ve been gone for a few months at this point. But how did the Garrison not notice it ever? We are pretty far out, so I get why they might not have noticed it since they arrived, but they must have, have surveyed the property or whatever you call it when they first bought it, right? Okay, so if the house wasn’t here when the Garrison arrived, who built a house in the middle of the desert on government property? Who does that?” He turned back and caught sight of the broken-down fence, partially buried in sand, that marked out what he thought must have once been a garden. “Some, some weird… hermit… farmer… obsessed with aliens… Okay, Clark Kent or whoever the fuck…” He turned, faced the door, and before he could think any more about it, shoved it open.

He half expected to see some wild man with long wiry hair asleep on the couch, or Garrison lieutenants waiting to arrest him, but it looked exactly the way he had left it yesterday. He picked his way gingerly across the room to the stacks of paper against the back wall. Brushing away the dust, he grabbed a handful of pages off of the first stack, settled on the couch, and started to read.

The same date that he had gone missing, that was written on that “Don’t forget” paper, was written in bold across the top of the first page and circled. There were a series of calculations written out, all in that same spiky handwriting. At one point, the writer seemed to have made an error or a series of errors, because the math got so crossed-out and scribbled over that it became nearly illegible. Lance, glancing around, spotted a pencil lying on one of the bookshelves, seized it, and finished out the calculation in the margin so he could read the whole thing. It took him a couple pages to figure out exactly what he was calculating: this guy was, for some reason, tracking the movement of stars by hand, calculating, if Lance had to guess, how they would appear in the sky on that particular date. Hit by a thought, he jumped to his feet and walked over to the star chart superimposed on a map of the world pinned up on the conspiracy board. The star chart hadn’t been printed off the internet, he could see now, it had been rendered and printed off on this guy’s own computer, from his own calculations. Lance whistled.

“Wow, okay Kent, can I call you Kent? I’m going to call you Kent, it sounds better than ‘freaky conspiracy guy.’ You really do not trust the Garrison, or… anyone, do you? How long did this take you?” he wondered, looking at the sheaf of papers in his hand. True, it wasn’t like he had tried to chart every single star in the sky, mostly just the big constellations and the planets, but it would still have been painstaking to finish – and clearly, judging from Kent’s endless errors and redo’s, math was not his greatest strength. One margin next to a particularly blacked out scribble had “WHY THE FUCK CAN’T I DO MATH” written next to it.

“Okay, so, you plotted the stars on this date. Whoop-de-do. What of it?” Lance chewed his lip, looking at the map that took up the center of the conspiracy board. He touched it lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Maybe I should…” He let the thought trail away. Taking off on his rental hoverbike into the middle of the desert, again, without a clue what he was looking for or if there even was something to look for, on the basis of a map in the abandoned shack of a crazy person, seemed like seriously pushing his luck. “Save it until I’ve worked out what Kent here was up to,” he decided, and then turned back to survey the chaotic room with its piles upon piles of paper in dismay. “…If I can,” he muttered.

He plopped back down on the sofa, setting the star chart calculation sheets aside on the table, and reached for another handful of paper. This one was topped with the question “What does ‘arrival’ mean?” and that same date. Underneath, there were bullet points brainstorming an answer.

The lion?

ALIENS?

(The lion could be an alien???)

A message?

A disease?

A meteor / some other kind of disaster?

Some kind of ‘chosen one’ bullshit?

People?

People returning to the caves?

The bullet points went on, each straying further into desperate imagination than the last. Lance flipped the page, and found a grocery list scrawled on the back:

—ramen

—jerky

—batteries

—frozen pizza

—mac & cheese

—potato chips

—eggs if they’re cheap

—toothpaste

Lance raised his eyebrows, spinning the pencil between his fingers, and after a moment’s hesitation, set it against the page and wrote in small, neat letters, “Your insides are rotting, Kent.” He shook his head, setting the sheet of paper aside, and picked up the next one, turning it horizontal to read it. This one had “THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING” written in the center, and “PROPHECY” written at the top, surrounded by question marks. There was a dotted line drawn between them. Next to it were various thoughts: “If you had the ToE you could predict the future,” “Is a partial ToE possible?” “We can predict the movements of the stars, stands to reason there are other steps between that and a complete ToE that would allow you to predict other things,” “Attractions like gravity? Forces in the universe with predictable patterns we just haven’t documented/understood yet?” and then, in the corner, in very small letters, Kent had written, “Maybe it’s just magic.”

Lance sighed, setting the paper down. “I could spend months trying to pick apart this guy’s mind,” he said to himself. “Kent, what the hell were you trying to figure out? What do you mean by prophecy and arrival?” He stared forward, zoning out, when the corner of a newspaper peeking out from under a photograph on the conspiracy board caught his eye. Curious, he pushed himself to his feet, and pulled up the picture of the mountains to find himself confronted with the sober face of Takashi Shirogane, staring out from over the top of his obituary. Although the picture had been left untouched, the writing was scrawled over in red Sharpie. Kent had written himself a reminder in huge, bold strokes: “REMEMBER THE GARRISON LIES.” Lance caught his breath. No one had quite believed it when the Kerberos mission had been reported to have crashed. No one could believe that Shiro, first in his class and the best pilot the Garrison had seen in a decade, would make a ‘pilot error’ that would get himself and his whole crew killed. It simply didn’t make any sense. It sounded crazy, it sounded like a conspiracy theory, and they would never have really questioned whether the Garrison was telling them the truth, but the doubt lingered in people’s voices when they talked about it, in people’s eyes when they glanced at each other as they heard the news.

Had Kent discovered something? Did he know something, have some concrete evidence that the rest of them didn’t know about? Almost everything else in this shack was covered in question marks, confusion and uncertainty bleeding out of every line of writing. There was absolutely no doubt in the bright red Sharpie. Shiro’s picture watched him, his young face serious and proud. REMEMBER THE GARRISON LIES. Lance touched the newspaper clipping lightly with the tips of his fingers.

“Okay, Kent,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”

#voltron #my writing #written in sand #memory fic #lance #klance #keith kogane #writing that tickle war was so pure #that was my apology for dbs lol #in which lance discovers a conspiracy nut and nopes the fuck out #again

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tasteofswallowedwords · 8 years

Text

Mere Speculation

Part One

Pairing: Jughead Jones x Reader

Summary: Reader is new to Riverdale and peaks Jughead's curiousity

Warnings: Mentions of death

A/N: This is the first fanfic I've ever posted so please go easy on me

Jughead sat in his usual booth in Pop’s, his laptop open in front of him, casting a blue light over his features. He was distracted, however, by the strange girl working behind the counter. She spent much of her time in the kitchen. He caught a few glimpses of her flipping burgers, shaking the oil from baskets of fries, and she would occasionally venture out to work the register while Mrs Lodge waited on tables. Her apron was spattered with grease, her hair pulled up into a ponytail with wisps too short to be tied back hanging out by her neck.

Jughead was intrigued. It wasn’t often a stranger would appear in Riverdale. First Veronica Lodge, now this; and all of it just months after the mysterious death of Jason Blossom. It might all be mere speculation, but speculation was one of Jughead’s favourite pastimes.

“Forty-five seconds,” Veronica stated as she slid into the booth opposite Jughead, followed by Betty.

“What?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Since you last blinked,” Archie finished, throwing himself into the booth beside Jughead.

“You should talk to her,” Betty encouraged.

“Who?” Jughead replied. Feigning ignorance, he studied his laptop screen carefully, without reading any of the words displayed there.

“The waitress,” Archie said simply. “We watched you stare at her for ten minutes through the window-”

“That’s a little creepy, don’t you think?”

“Well, what were you doing? Counting her freckles so you could report about it in the paper?” Archie countered.

Jughead rolled his eyes as the rest of the group giggled. “Why would I want to talk to her?” he sighed.

“Because she’s hot and you’re not blind,” Veronica said incredulously. Leaning back to get a better look at the waitress, she continued, “Hell, if you don’t hit on her, I will.” She flicked her eyebrows suggestively, sending Betty into fits of laughter.

“You know who she is, right?” Veronica asked.

The entire group shook their heads.

“Oh. I thought everybody knew everybody in this town,” she said ruefully.

“I’ve never seen her here before,” Betty said.

“Mom says she’s Pop’s daughter,” Veronica shrugged.

“No way,” Archie breathed, wide-eyed.

Jughead shook his head. “Pop’s daughter goes to boarding school,” he dismissed.

“Until she got expelled,” Veronica stage whispered.

The group fell into silence, each member trying to recall everything they knew about the girl.

“That’s (Y/N) Tate?” Betty asked quietly.

“God, I never would’ve recognised her,” Archie sighed.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Veronica said, shaking her head, “how can Pop have a daughter our age without any of you guys knowing who she is?”

“We know of her,” Jughead explained, still in awe. “We used to know her. Last I saw her, we were eight.”

Jughead recalled (Y/N)’s story. She had lived with her father, Terry Tate, affectionately known as Pop, and her mother, Theresa. Her parents divorced when she was eight years old. They battled for custody, and Theresa won. The end was really ugly. Theresa moved far away with (Y/N) in an effort to keep her from her father. Later, news spread around Riverdale High that (Y/N) was attending boarding school a few hours away. That was the last anyone had heard of her.

“What’d she get expelled for?” Jughead asked excitedly.

“Apparently, she set fire to some kid that kept talking about her.”

The group turned to the head of the table to find (Y/N) standing there, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a notebook. The four simultaneously lowered their heads to stare at their hands. Jughead’s heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat.

She laughed. “Wow. I’ve never seen four people blush so hard at once. Anyway,” she flipped the notebook open. “Are you guys gonna order, or did you just come in here for the free wifi?”

Veronica, always the first to recover in awkward social situations, ordered her usual milkshake. She then ordered Betty’s usual, too, because Betty still couldn’t look at (Y/N). Archie flashed the waitress his signature smile that usually made girls weak in the knees. When it had no effect on her, he ran a hand through his hair and awkwardly ordered a burger and fries. She nodded, scribbling in her notebook.

“What about you, J.D.?”

The corner of Jughead’s mouth curled up slightly. “As in J.D. Salinger?”

She shrugged, supressing a grin. “I was thinking more like J.D., from Heathers.”

“The creepy murderer guy,” he nodded. “Ouch.”

(Y/N) nodded in agreement. “The hot creepy murderer guy.”

Jughead became extremely aware of his breathing, the blush bleeding across his cheeks, and the fact that he could not break eye contact with her.

“Should I get you a menu?” she asked teasingly.

Jughead let out a shaky breath. “No,” he said evenly. “I’ll have a chocolate milkshake.”

“Coming right up,” she smiled, a teasing light behind her eyes. She turned and walked away, leaving the group silent and rattled.

Archie, Betty and Veronica stared at Jughead expectantly. He didn’t know what they wanted from him, so he turned towards his laptop, his thoughts still on (Y/N). She had retreated to the kitchen.

“Jughead,” Veronica said carefully, “what was that?”

Jughead shrugged. He kept a straight face but he was genuinely concerned his friends might be able to hear his heartbeat where they sat. “She called me a murderer,” he said eventually.

“A hot murderer,” Archie said quietly.

“I- I think she was flirting with you,” Betty said.

“I think she was making fun of me,” Jughead stated, and he believed it.

“That’s half of what flirting is,” Veronica laughed. “Now, do you want to know why she was expelled, or not?”

The group threw a cursory glance at the kitchen. They spotted (Y/N) at the grill, laughing with one of the cooks, safely out of earshot.

“Well,” Veronica began dramatically, a mischievous grin spreading across her features, “my mom was working here when Pop got the call. She heard a bunch of stuff about destruction of school property and verbal outbursts.”

“So, what?” Archie asked. “She threw a fit in class and started throwing stuff around?”

Veronica shrugged. “I don’t know. But I bet Jughead could find out.”

Everyone giggled. When they weren’t looking, Jughead stole glances at the kitchen. (Y/N) worked without complaint, singing absentmindedly along with the radio while she wiped counters. To his disappointment, (Y/N) remained in the kitchen and Mrs Lodge delivered the food to their table.

After an hour or so, noise in the diner died down. Jughead’s friends left, and the number of customers dwindled. Jughead watched as (Y/N) pulled a length of paper from the receipt printer. She leaned over the counter and doodled on it, smiling contentedly.

For the first time ever, Jughead found that the diner was too distracting. He had sat in his booth for hours, and had only written a few dozen words. He packed his laptop away as the diner’s phone rang. (Y/N) all but skipped over to answer it.

On his way out, Jughead’s curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t help but peek over the counter at the receipt paper. The sketch depicted a familiar scene; a boy in a booth at a diner, hat slightly askew, attention fixed on a laptop.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes as she watched Jughead grin and leave the diner. She made a vow to herself to not let that boy into her life. She had heard all about his work for the school paper, and his novel about Jason Blossom’s death. Whatever happened, she did not want to end up in that book. She wouldn’t allow it.

Part Two

#jughead x reader #jughead jones #riverdale #riverdale imagine #jughead imagine

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dralentines-day · 8 years

Text

Gift #26, @thedrarryaddiction

It’s gonna take more than a 12-step program to cure THIS Drarry addiction after taking a look at this very special gift. Enjoy, @thedrarryaddiction !

Our gifter says:

“Hey babe. Hope your Valentine's is going well. Remember that all of the chocolate will be on sale tomorrow and please take full advantage of that. Also, please enjoy this fic I wrote for you, I hope you find it very soothing xxxxxxx”

Home County - Harry is an architect and the reluctant part-owner of his own firm. Malfoy works at The Ministry but doesn’t actually have a proper job title even though what he does sounds like it’s pretty important. It would be hard not to become friends, probably, when they have to deal with the truly terrible weather, and Harry’s irrational hatred of his assistant, and building thirty whole houses from the ground up in a wet field outside of London. 10k.

Tags: no smut.

JANUARY

Harry had put squishy chairs in his office for a bloody reason. At the time it had only been because he’d thought they’d looked nice, and because they had gone with the green 'good-luck-in-your-new-office' rug Luna had woven him to go over the dark floorboards. Now, though, he liked the way that people would sit down and just... sink into them, deeply and inescapably. Then get this look on their face, as though they knew how embarrassing it was going to be when they had to try and climb their way out of the soft yellow cushions at the end of the meeting. Harry loved that look. He dreamt about that look. And Harry didn’t think he was a particularly vindictive person, but if Cho insisted that he had to have a bloody office then he was damn well going to make it as inconvenient as possible for everyone involved.

Back when he’d first started working, (before he’d gotten cocky and decided starting his own firm would be in any way a not-stressful and good idea) he’d been shoved in with a load of other trainee architects. They’d had this big warehouse space with about thirty desks, and it had been loud and messy and everyone had got on each other’s nerves half the time, but he missed it fiercely, when he went into his own office and there was nobody in there to talk to or share their biscuits with him. Granted, his current office was a nice room. Spacious and light, with high vaulted ceilings and a pale wood drafting table set into a track so that he could follow the sun as it moved across the floor, spilling in through the half-moon windows. It was just-- missing some people, that was all.

So when Harry kicked the door open one day, with a heavy stack of paper balanced in his arms, and saw Malfoy sitting there, all rigid and proper, he wanted to punch a wall or something. Malfoy was… sitting in the chair wrong, somehow, the bastard. Harry didn’t know how he’d managed it, exactly, possibly some sort of firming charm, but he’d perched himself right on the very edge, back straight and ankles crossed primly. He looked the way Harry had always tried to look in school when a professor turned around from the board and he wanted it to seem like he’d been paying attention. Malfoy’s hands were folded carefully in his lap and he was watching Harry with a blank gaze, as if he was already incredibly bored by the proceedings. Harry let himself feel disappointed for a second. He had genuinely been looking forward to watching Malfoy wrangle himself out of the chair’s clutches. He’d even imagined it a bit, the way Malfoy would get all embarrassed and flustered, it was one of the reasons he’d even agreed to this meeting in the first place.

“Do you want tea?” Harry asked, dropping the paper on his desk with a loud bang. A couple of sheets flitted slowly onto the floor and he ignored them. Malfoy watched for a moment with a bewildered look on his face, then, visibly collecting himself, he stood up and attempted to shake Harry’s hand. Harry looked at one of his horrible, heavy, silver rings and deliberated. He didn’t really shake people’s hands anymore, which everyone always told him was a weird thing not to do. But he’d sort of given it up after all the stuff that happened in the aftermath of the war, after a thousand people a day wanted to press their palms against his. He figured he may as well indulge Malfoy this small luxury, though. Malfoy seemed like the type of person who would be very comforted by formalities. Malfoy looked like the type of person who liked forms. And questionnaires.

“No, thank you,” Malfoy told him, in a cool voice. “I was given a water by your assistant.” Harry wrinkled his nose. The assistant. Hired by Cho, also called Harry, number one cause of strife in Harry’s daily life. He tried not to think about the other Harry if he could at all help it.

“Great,” he said, and took a couple of books off his own chair so that he could sit down. He balanced them precariously on a small patch of available desk surface, right on the corner. Malfoy watched this process closely but chose not to comment.

“I was under the impression I’d be meeting with both you and your partner,” Malfoy said, sounding so formal. Like he’d never even met Harry before.

“Cho’s on site today,” Harry told him apologetically. He was actually sorry about that, because if Cho were here then she could do all the talking and Harry would be able to do what he normally did; sit mostly in silence and nod at all the right moments. Possibly doodle a bit. “So it’s just me, I’m afraid.”

“Alright,” Malfoy said, and pursed his lips. Harry got the feeling that Malfoy didn’t think it was alright, actually, but was holding his anger back for the sake of an easy life. Harry took a moment to appreciate that, because he really wasn’t in the mood for an argument, least of all with Malfoy. “I’m here on behalf of the Ministry,” Malfoy said, apparently done with niceties, as he reached down into a smart briefcase propped up against the leg of the chair.

And before Harry could even fucking think he was saying “I didn’t think they let--”

He cut off abruptly and put a hand over his mouth, almost in slow motion, and it probably would have looked comical. If it had been in literally any other situation. Harry, just for second, considered punching himself in the face to save Malfoy the trouble, but Malfoy only raised a pale eyebrow slowly. It was a bit fascinating, actually. Harry hadn’t met many people who could raise only a single eyebrow at one time. He wondered if rich people were just… taught that sort of stuff from birth. Malfoy didn’t even look flustered.

“What an incredibly rude thing to start to say,” he said.

“Fuck,” Harry replied, “I’m so sorry. I have no fucking filter sometimes.”

Malfoy lifted the corner of his mouth in a dim approximation of a smile. “I get the feeling you don’t do too many meetings.”

“Fuck,” Harry agreed, resting his forehead for a moment on the pile of crisp paper. It crunched underneath his skin. “I don’t even know why I fucking said that. I already knew you worked at the Ministry.”

To his eternal surprise, Malfoy waved it off. “It’s alright,” he said, “Well. It’s not, but I get it a lot. They let Death Eaters work at the Ministry? You should have been put in Azkaban. Etcetera, etcetera. It’s lovely, I truly love it.”

Harry grimaced, feeling guilty now about the way he’d just wanted Malfoy to be embarrassed, not twenty seconds ago. “Do you want another water?” he offered, and Malfoy honest-to-god snorted.

“What?” he asked, “An apology water?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, smiling now, “You can have two, if you want. One for now and one for the road.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Potter, it’s fine, you said something without thinking. I actually planned for that, I’ll have you know, and I’m relieved we got it over with so early in the meeting. Now I won’t be anticipating it the entire time.”

Malfoy looked nice, Harry noticed, rather abruptly. He wasn’t wearing those heavy Ministry robes, but a plain black set with a short cape. His long hair was plaited neatly and hung over his shoulder. He should have looked like his father, with all that going on, but he didn’t. Harry had expected- he’d expected Malfoy. Malfoy the way he’d been back in school. Slicked back hair, sneery face, posh voice. He still had the voice, and his face was still pinched and pointy, but he looked- different somehow, softer. He had grey eyes. Harry hadn’t-- he’d forgotten about that.

“Alright,” he said, and shook himself a bit. “Alright,” he repeated, and started rifling through the numerous objects on his desk. After a while it became apparent his notebook was missing. “Harry!” he shouted, and Malfoy looked startled for a second, probably thought Harry had taken leave of his senses, until other Harry popped his head around the door.

“Mr. Potter?” he asked, innocently. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Did you take my notebook?” he asked. Other Harry shook his head. He’d tied his long hair back into a massive ponytail and it thumped against the wood of the doorframe.

“No?” he replied, “Have you checked your drawer?”

Harry cut his eyes over to Malfoy, who was staring out of the window, apparently uninterested. Harry tried to check his drawer as surreptitiously as possible. “Yes,” he grumbled, “It’s not in here.”

Other Harry sighed. “Can I come in?” he asked, and then did anyway. He ducked down to look on the bottom row of Harry’s bookshelf, right beside the cushion he always sat in to-- Ah. Other Harry plucked the blue notebook off the shelf and threw it over. “Anything else?” he sighed, “I have to go and pick up your things from the printer. What do you want for lunch? Sushi?”

“Please leave me alone,” Harry said, shooing him away, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“You’re very rude to your assistant,” Malfoy told him, once said assistant was out of the room.

“Do you have an assistant?” Harry asked, “Because I feel like if you had an assistant then you would understand how terrible assistants are.”

“He seemed quite nice,” Malfoy pointed out, “How long would it have taken you to find that notebook by yourself?”

“He tries to make me go to galas,” Harry said, shuddering, “He once booked me a suit fitting and told me it was a client meeting so I’d go. He hates me.”

Malfoy blinked, then smiled a little, “It’s not his fault he works for you.”

Harry screwed up his nose and opened his notebook. Then licked the end of his ballpoint. “Should we talk about what you’re here for?” he asked, before glancing over his desk for a moment. The cup of tea he’d put there twenty minutes ago had vanished somewhere. “Did you see my tea?” he asked Malfoy, lifting up a transparent set square.

“No,” Malfoy told him, and tried to hand him a thick blue file. Harry took it after a second, reluctantly giving up the hunt. “This is a contract, obviously you don’t sign it today. You’ll look over it with Chang and your lawyers. I’m just here to talk to you about the project we’re starting.”

“Right,” Harry said dubiously, and abandoned the folder on a pile of architectural digests. “I know how contracts work, Malfoy.”

Malfoy ignored him and produced another, smaller file. This time in bright red. He passed it to Harry, who opened it and flicked through. It was a site survey. A couple of still photos of a large patch of countryside, soil samples, a reading of the magical levels in the surrounding area. “What’s this for?” Harry asked, “Is the Ministry-- is this an office thing? Are you relocating?”

“No,” Malfoy said, as though he was talking to a child, and straightened the cuff of his shirt, “We’re very much not doing that. I’m sure you know how many houses were damaged during the war.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. A lot of their business came from that, actually. People wanting their houses repaired by people who knew what they were doing. People who wanted new houses. People who’d looked on the damage as a potential opportunity to get that kitchen they’d always dreamed of. It was sad, though, Harry thought, when he had to look around houses with spell damage and tell the owners it would have to be gutted. When he went into bedrooms with umbrella spells for a roof, when he had to tell families the prices and they’d sometimes cry. He didn’t like it much. The Death Eaters had really done a number on a lot of fucking people.

“The Ministry are proposing a housing scheme, modelled on Muggle housing estates, in order to give people houses whose own were damaged during the war,” Malfoy said, after a slight pause. He looked down at his own red file. “That’s it,” he said, when Harry didn’t say anything.

“Housing estates are--”

“I know,” Malfoy interrupted, and made a face, “I personally am of the mind that we should be paying to repair houses instead of building new ones. Some of those damaged are ancestral homes. However, it has been made very clear to me that the cost of repairs is far more than the cost of building new homes, so here we all are.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. A wizarding housing estate. Fucking hell. He and Cho had never done anything even remotely like this. The biggest project they’d ever carried out had been a wizarding pool complex in Stratford. Maybe the housing estate could have a pool. Harry perked up at the idea. “Where are you wanting to build?” he asked, and Malfoy leaned forward until he could flick to a page in Harry’s folder. A satellite map, a bright yellow outline showing the plot of land.

“We’ve been negotiating for quite some time with the Muggle government,” he explained, “Which is partly why this has taken so long to come to fruition. We’ve settled on this site, in Kent. It’s very nice, I’ve been there myself.” He smiled, properly, for the first time. “I think it’s a shame that we can’t repair homes, but we can make the new ones as good as possible. So that people will like living there.”

Harry frowned. “No offense,” he said, “But why didn’t you pick a more established firm?” He didn’t really know that he had to ask though.

“No offense,” Malfoy echoed, “But it was mostly because it’s you.”

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he said, “Of course, yeah.” Cho was going to love this. It filled her with glee every time someone came in and wanted the chosen one to build them a house. Harry had got used to it by now, mostly, but it was still weird and he still didn’t like it very much.

Malfoy sighed, “As much as it pains me to say this,” he started, “I can assure you we wouldn’t have hired a firm we didn’t believe could deliver.” Harry thought for a second. There might have been a compliment in there somewhere, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

“Okay,” he said, “I can’t say for definite, but I think Cho will probably want to go for this. It’s way beyond the scale of anything we’ve done before, I should probably say that.”

Malfoy nodded thoughtfully. “Shall we talk about the process?”

“Um,” Harry said, “I mean, I can’t do specifics obviously. But Cho and I will have to see the site before we do anything else. We need to talk about what specs you want the houses to have, if you want them all the same size, stuff like that. How many are you looking for?”

“Thirty,” Malfoy said, easy as anything. “No less than thirty,” he amended.

“Fuck,” Harry said, succinctly.

“You shouldn’t swear in business meetings,” Malfoy told him, then sighed. “What if I’d had to take minutes?”

“Thirty houses,” Harry said, ignoring him, “Thirty. Thirty houses.” He didn’t know if Cho was going to murder him or throw him a party. They’d been talking about hiring a few more junior architects but now they would definitely fucking have to. He didn’t want to ask about the budget. He really, really didn’t. He wondered if he could call Cho and make her do it.

“Yes,” Malfoy said calmly, “Do you want to talk about the budget?”

Harry sat back in his seat and looked at the ceiling for a minute. It was very dark blue, almost midnight. He usually found it soothing, when he was lying on the floor and trying to think of a way to make three rooms fit into a space the size of a shipping container. It wasn’t quite doing the trick now, though.

“Yeah,” he said, and groaned, “I suppose we’d better.”

“Three million galleons,” Malfoy said coolly, and Harry stared at him for a few seconds, mostly in disbelief.

“I--” he started, “I thought you said this was supposed to be on the cheap.”

“That number was on the lower end of the scale,” Malfoy said, “But if you feel as though you can make it happen for less than by all means do so.”

“I need to talk to Cho,” Harry said, breathing hard, “She’s way better at this than me. She probably would have just like, nodded at you. And I’m over here having a bloody panic attack. Three fucking million, for thirty houses. Where is the Ministry getting all this money?”

“You’re not having a panic attack,” Malfoy informed him. And then paused delicately, as though what he was about to say was particularly distasteful. “And it’s mostly what they confiscated in reparations after the war.”

And then Harry wanted to die, because Malfoy was as good as saying that it used to be his money. He wanted to sink into the floorboards and never look anyone in the face again. Harry blamed other Harry for this. He wasn’t sure how but it was definitely his fault. Or Cho’s. Or the both of them.

MARCH

It was pouring with rain. The hard, driving kind that soaked through clothes in about ten seconds and wasn’t even nice to look at since it made everything grey and dull and faded. The air smelled like wet earth and cut grass, brought in on the strong breeze blowing through their makeshift shelter. Harry was sat in a rickety camping chair that had creaked ominously when he’d sat down, thinking about how soon they could get a permanent office set up on the site. One with walls. And a floor. He stared at the ground beneath his feet, a pink worm was squirming near the toe of his steel-capped boot. His knee was getting steadily wetter and wetter from a small leak in the plastic roof.

“Harry?” Cho said, tapping her pencil against his neck. “You’re getting rained on.” Harry moved his knee out of the way and sighed. He hated days like this, where you were lucky if you could fit in a few hours of work around the downpours. He watched assistant Harry talking on his phone just outside the shelter, a golden umbrella charm sheltering him. Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“How long do you think this will last?” Malfoy asked, from across the table. He had both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, and he was peering at the clouds on the horizon. Harry yawned and caught his elbow on the sheet of thick plywood that made up the surface of the table. The junior architects had built it the other day using some scrap wood they’d found in the store room of their office building. It wobbled dangerously on the uneven floor.

Cho looked up from where she was scribbling notes onto a piece of slightly damp paper. They’d put up wards to stop rain blowing into their workspace, but they weren’t very sturdy. Harry kept having to apply drying charms to all the plans. “I’m not sure,” she said, “I think it’s just a shower, it’s been doing this all day.” She was wearing a black roll-neck and a pair of black trousers turned up at the cuff. Her wellington boots were resting on an upturned blue crate that had held a kettle and a couple of boxes of tea. Malfoy made a noise and opened his briefcase. The same one he’d had last time, monogrammed with his initials and lined with dark green fabric. He got out a book and started flipping through the pages.

“Have you overseen many projects like this?” Harry asked him, bored out of his fucking mind with nothing to do except wait.

Malfoy glanced up and then gestured to himself, eyebrows raised. Harry snorted and then nodded. “Um,” Malfoy said, resting his book carefully in a dry spot on the table, “Not one of this size, no.”

“What do you usually do?” Harry asked. He knew Malfoy worked at the Ministry, it had been all over the papers when he’d been hired three years ago, he just didn’t know what his bloody job was. The papers hadn’t been able to find out either, Malfoy hadn’t been given an official title.

“Oh,” he said, and then sniffed. “I’m part of a team that oversees where the reparations money goes to. So some of it’s on healthcare, some of it goes to direct payments for people affected. And some of it ends up on public works like this. All the repairs done in Hogwarts came from that money.”

“Did you help with that?” Cho asked, and Harry stared at her. Malfoy had been in fucking community service when Hogwarts was being rebuilt. He remembered the sentencing, he’d been there.

“No,” Malfoy said, and huffed out a wry laugh, “That was before I joined.”

“Do you like it?” Harry asked. Malfoy thought for a second, his brows knitting and his forehead wrinkling a bit. Harry thought he was definitely going to say no. Nobody had to think for that long about whether they liked their job or not if they actually liked it.

Malfoy didn’t, though, he said “Yes,” in that posh, stern voice of his, sounding totally sincere, “It’s not what I ever thought I’d be doing, but I like it.”

“That’s good,” Harry said, and meant it. Malfoy raised his eyebrows but he didn’t comment.

Harry had spent quite a bit of time with Malfoy in the past few months, even if all of it had been spent talking about the houses. Preparing and arguing and holding meeting after fucking never-ending meeting with the most boring Ministry people imaginable. Malfoy was hardworking, serious, but he seemed to like Harry, and even when he was visibly stressed he never got angry or raised his voice. Which Harry was definitely guilty of. Malfoy was just-- calm, never flustered, never rushed. Once or twice Harry had had to do the thing where he put his head in between his knees, when someone demanded an extra bedroom be put in, or that the garden double in size. Malfoy had barely batted an eyelid, just made some strong tea and stood back while Cho patted Harry on the back and laughed only a little. Malfoy was nicer than he’d been in school, while Cho had just been getting steadily less indulgent of Harry’s issues. Which, he supposed, was probably fair enough.

The rain started easing off and other Harry came inside, his phone tucked up between his ear and his neck and a scrap of paper in his hands. “--won’t want to do that,” he said, and Harry fucking knew it was going to be about him.

“Nude photoshoot,” other Harry said, “Yes or no.”

The three junior architects that had been working quietly on the other side of the shelter looked up. One of them started laughing and the other two shushed her. Cho snorted and Harry elbowed her in the side. “Is that a joke?” he asked.

“No,” was the reply, “Witch Weekly are bringing out a not-safe-for-work edition and they want to interview you about the housing project.”

“What,” Harry said, but he didn’t think anyone was listening. Cho had started properly laughing now, and even Malfoy had the beginnings of a smirk. “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

“What?” other Harry said, into the phone, “I’m bloody well asking him right fucking now. It’ll be tasteful, apparently,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Harry took a deep breath but couldn’t think of anything to say. “You should do it,” said Leah, from across the room, looking up from a drainage plan. Harry regretted ever learning the junior architect’s names, if this is how they were repaying him for it. “It’ll get a lot of buzz for the project.”

“The project doesn’t need buzz,” Harry sighed.

“I know,” said Leah, “I just think it would be funny.”

“You’re fired,” Harry told her, but she just laughed and went back to her work. Harry blinked. He did have firing authority. He wouldn’t ever actually fire someone, obviously, but it was nice to be able to scare people who were suggesting nude photoshoots. He turned to his assistant. “You’re fired,” he tried.

Other Harry rolled his eyes, again, and went back outside. “He’s not going to do it,” he said into the phone, “I only asked because I owed you a favour.”

Cho stood up and stretched, Harry heard her shoulders crack and he winced in sympathy. “Shall we go?” she asked, gesturing to the light rain, “I think this might be as good as it’s going to get for a while.

They left the other architects sitting in the dry and ventured out by themselves, over a small rise and down into the flat ground that would make up the housing estate. There were white lines spray painted onto the grass in the outline of the floor plans, markers stuck in the ground indicating where windows and doors were going to go. Cho led them to the nearest house and stepped inside.

“So this is the front hallway,” she said to Malfoy, who just nodded silently. He looked utterly miserable, dressed in his customary black robes and a pair of heavy boots with laces up past his ankle. He’d done an umbrella charm but he couldn’t do much about the wind, and it was whipping strands of hair out of his plait and into his eyes. Harry had tied his hair back that morning into a very sturdy bun, and then made Hermione put a couple of pins in it when he’d gone over for breakfast. He wondered for a second if Malfoy knew about hairpins, and if Harry should tell him or not.

After a while they made their way back to the shelter, damp and shivering with cold. Malfoy had seemed to like the layout, he hadn’t said much but he’d nodded a lot when Harry had talked about how much sunlight all the rooms would get.

“I’m going to get out of here,” Cho said, shaking her ponytail out and prodding Harry into doing a drying spell on it. “My girlfriends are waiting. Gin’s back from Holyhead for a few nights so we’re going out.”

Harry leant against the side of the table and folded his arms. “Have fun, I might stay for a bit,” he said, “Order some food or something. I want to look at the hallways one more time, I think we might be able to get away with making them a bit wider.”

Cho kissed him on the cheek, before apparating away in a haze of lavender and amber perfume. Harry had just kicked other Harry out of his seat when Malfoy came to sit next to him, swinging himself up onto the table and steadying himself with a nervous laugh when it threatened to topple. “Did she say girlfriends?” he asked curiously, “As in, girlfriends plural?”

Harry tilted his head. “Yeah,” he replied. “As in, Luna, Gin, and Cho. They all live together. They’re--” he cut off and wriggled his shoulders. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Malfoy told him, expectantly.

“In love,” Harry sighed, “With each other.” It was really sweet and really cloying, and he was so happy for them but they made him a bit sad sometimes. There were three of them, and they’d all found each other. And he was still by himself a lot, when Hermione and Ron were busy with child number one.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, carefully, “That’s nice, I suppose.”

“It’s brilliant,” Harry said, and he really did mean it. “Did you know Gin plays for the Harpies?”

“I think everyone knows that,” Malfoy said gently, as if he were afraid Harry was going to burst into tears or something. “She’s very good.”

Harry hummed in agreement. “Do you want to order Chinese?” he asked, after almost no deliberation. Malfoy laughed.

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose so. Are we eating it here?” Harry looked around them. It was darker now, still raining outside. And Leah or one of the other two had lit the lamps hanging from the roof so that the whole place was bathed in a pleasant golden glow. Other Harry had his face buried in his laptop, and he kept checking his watch as though he was waiting to be sent home. Malfoy shifted a little closer, seemingly without meaning to. He’d been close to begin with, but now Harry could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell leather and clean shampoo.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and Malfoy smiled. “I’ve still got a couple of drawings to do, if that’s okay.”

“So where are you living now?” Malfoy asked, after carefully swallowing a mouthful of spring roll. They were the last ones here, it was late in the evening and Harry was trying not to get sweet and sour sauce on any of their plans.

“Um,” he said through some noodles, and then dropped them back onto his plate. Malfoy made a face and Harry ignored him. “In London?” he said.

“Yes,” Malfoy said patiently, “But where? Wizarding district?”

“No,” Harry said. Grimmauld Place was probably as far as fucking possible from being a Wizarding street.

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and pointed his chopsticks in Harry’s general direction, “You’re living in the Black house.”

“Grimmauld Place,” Harry corrected him, “How did you know that?”

“I’m very smart,” Malfoy informed him, and then licked a bit of grease off his thumb. Harry averted his eyes. “Also I only just remembered that I already knew.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “I guess Andromeda told you?” He’d known, for a while, that Malfoy saw Teddy quite a bit, but they’d never run into each other and Harry hadn’t ever particularly wanted to change that. Andromeda never talked about Malfoy, never really brought him up, and Harry never asked questions. For a little while he’d wondered whether or not Teddy should even be allowed to see Malfoy, but he had been firmly overruled by Andromeda on that point.

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “I’ve been there, you know,” he said.

Harry blinked for a few moments in surprise. “No,” he said, “I didn’t know that.” It made sense though, now that he thought about it. Malfoy’s mother had probably taken him.

“I don’t remember it,” said Malfoy, “Other than how dark it was.” He’d taken his cloak off and loosened his tie. And sprawling over a conjured armchair he looked rumpled and soft and relaxed. Harry thought he should always look like that.

“It’s changed a lot,” Harry told him, “It was the first house I ever did any work on.”

“Really?” Malfoy asked, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t know why, but I expected you to sell it.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, “I did think about that, but I decided it would be better to just… I don’t know, change it.” It was practically unrecognisable now, actually. Open windows at the back of the house leading into the fecund garden, that fucking portrait finally gone, light and bright and airy. It felt more like home than any place Harry had ever lived, even that one year after the war he’d spent at The Burrow while he’d been working out what to do with his life. Crawling into bed with Hermione and Ron after a nightmare, skirting around Ginny when she came back from Wales and the Harpies, a year of Molly and Arthur laughing in the hallways. He’d needed that, then, but he was happy having something of his own, now.

Malfoy nodded slowly, let his head fall against the high back of the chair, rested his plate in his lap. “I think this is going to be good,” he said, gesturing at the plastic roof and the haphazard furniture, at the dark sky, at Harry. “I honestly do.”

MAY

Malfoy in a green hard hat. It was a sight Harry never expected to fucking see, and it was brilliant. He thought about taking a photo and then realised he’d left his phone in the office. Also there was the fact that Malfoy would probably murder him. It was a nice day, fresh and blue, the breeze cool and sweet-smelling.

“Afternoon” Malfoy said, striding over from the apparition point. “How was last night?”

Harry grimaced. Last night had been babysitting night. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and Malfoy laughed.

“So it went exceedingly well, I take it.”

“Did you know kids were so messy?” Harry asked, “Like-- he kept trying to draw everywhere.”

“You know I’ve looked after him before,” Malfoy said, with a look on his face like he thought Harry was being ridiculous and was trying hard not to say anything about it.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “I know. He just- ruined a perfectly good lighting plan, that’s all.”

Malfoy rubbed at his face for a few seconds. “What did you do?” he asked.

“Um,” Harry said, feeling oddly guilty all of a sudden. “I wasn’t sure what to do. I sent him to his room but I don’t know if that was right or not.”

Malfoy bumped his shoulder. “Did you shout at him? I did once and then felt so awful about it. But he’d gone onto the balcony and was sticking his little hand out and I was fucking terrified.”

“He goes everywhere,” Harry said sadly, “Once I caught him with his arm literally inside the toilet. But-- no, I didn’t shout. I try not to shout.”

“I’ve seen you shout,” Malfoy said, surprised.

“Yeah but--” Harry paused, “Not at Ted, though. I wouldn’t shout at Ted.”

“He’s the worst child on the entire planet,” Malfoy said, but he was smiling.

“I love him to death,” Harry said sincerely, “I was so shit at being mean to him. After about five minutes I went upstairs to check on him and he somehow managed to persuade me to read him a fucking story.”

“Does he have his own room in your house?” Malfoy asked, with a faintly surprised air.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I live in a big house though.” He didn’t want to make Malfoy feel bad about it, since he knew that when Teddy stayed at Malfoy’s place he slept in the guest room. Malfoy only had a small apartment, apparently, although Harry had never seen it. Harry probably didn’t even need to give Teddy his own room. Except that he’d remembered what it was like to be jealous of Dudley’s, when he had been growing up, and he wanted Ted to have his own space in Harry’s home.

“I just--” Malfoy said, and cut off. “I was thinking about making the guest bedroom into a room for him. But I don’t know how Andromeda would take that. I only have him a few times a month.”

“That’s like, more than I do,” Harry said. He was busy all the fucking time, lately. And it was difficult to look after a toddler and also run his own business. “I mean. I can’t have him more at the moment. Hopefully during the summer.”

Malfoy hummed in agreement. “Is he back at Andromeda’s tonight, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “And I’ve made myself a promise not to work this eve. I have no idea what I’ll do. The world is my oyster.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “You’re so odd,” he said, and then blushed a little when Harry smiled. Which was weird. “Shall we go look at the machines?” he said hurriedly, “I’ve never seen them up close before.”

They’d broken ground about a week previously, and so far had actually refrained from fucking anything up. It was going well. He and Cho were on site almost daily, supervising and doing work on other projects, with a continued rota of baby architects reporting to them about what was happening back at the office.

“Careful,” Malfoy said, grabbing onto Harry’s arm after they’d been walking for a few minutes. They were almost up to the site now, surrounded by the outlines of houses and men in hard hats and uniforms. “Hello,” he cooed, bending down to look in the cropped grass. Harry had never heard anything like it.

Curled up beside a dandelion stalk was a tiny grass snake, pretty and brown, with little black spots and beady eyes. “Hey,” Harry said, in parseltongue. Malfoy swore softly and took a step back.

“Hello,” said the snake, stiffly. It sounded terrified. Harry would be, and he was surprised it hadn’t been stepped on yet. “How are you?” it asked.

“I’m alright,” Harry said, and he was already kind of in love with the little thing. “Are you alright? You seem a bit scared.”

“You can still do that?” Malfoy asked, wide eyed. When the snake had started talking he’d bent close again to hear, even though he couldn’t understand. “I didn’t know you could still do that.”

Harry nodded at him, and the snake said “No, I’m perfectly well.” It sounded as though it was lying.

“Do you want me to move you somewhere?” Harry asked it, and the snake bobbed its head, like it was considering. It wasn’t making eye contact, but Harry didn’t think snakes really did eye contact the way humans did.

“No, thank you,” it said, “I wouldn’t want to cause you any inconvenience.”

Harry laughed, and loved the way that Malfoy smiled at that even though he didn’t know what was going on. “I think I’ll have to insist,” he said, “I don’t want to scare you or anything, but I think this place is about to be dug up.”

“Oh,” said the snake, “I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m going to pick you up,” Harry told it, “Is that okay?”

The snake weaved its little head, and then said “Alright. Yes, alright.” Harry cupped his hand so that it could slither on, and then lifted it slowly, taking care not to jostle it.

“Should I put it in my pocket?” he asked Malfoy, who was getting right up close and smiling at it. “I don’t want to drop it. Should I ask if it wants to go in my pocket?”

Malfoy made a face. “Do you think snakes know what pockets are?” he asked, “I don’t think it would understand. Does it have a name?”

“Do you want to go in my pocket?” Harry asked, “What’s your name?”

“Brown Branch,” said the snake, sounding pleased and proud, “And yes.”

“Can I touch it?” Malfoy asked, as Harry deposited the snake in the front pocket of his shirt, “Or would that be weird?”

“I’ll ask it when I set it free again,” Harry laughed, and started making his way for higher, safer ground, Malfoy keeping pace beside him. “It said it’s name was… I don’t know, it’s not really properly translatable. Brown Branch.”

“Probably because it looks like a branch,” Malfoy said seriously.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, trying not to laugh. They walked past the office tent on their way up the hill, a couple of people were smoking outside and they waved.

“Harry!” other Harry called, from the doorway. “What are you doing? Can I go home?”

“Yeah,” Harry called back, lifting his hand, “I’m transporting a snake!

“Okay! Have fun!” other Harry told him, over the noise of the diggers, and Harry just knew he was rolling his eyes.

“I was wondering,” Malfoy said, hesitantly, once they had reached the nearby treeline and Harry was trying to extract the snake from his pocket with minimum fuss, “If you wanted to go for-- to dinner. Tonight.”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking his fingers away from the warm scales for a second, trying to concentrate. They went for dinner all the time, and Malfoy never sounded formal and nervous when he asked. This was- different. “Like--”

“A date,” Malfoy interrupted hastily, “I thought you might want to. You don’t have to. I mean, obviously you don’t have to. It goes without saying that you don’t have to,” he continued, in a big rush. He blushed faintly and looked away, his fingers twitching and his face impassive and cool. Harry wanted to mess him up.

“Yeah,” he said, and watched Malfoy turn back around with this incredulous look in his eyes, as though he’d never in a million fucking years expected Harry to agree. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Are you sure?” he said, slowly, and Harry burst out laughing. “Only that it’s quite unprofessional. I was going to wait until we’d finished working together, but you were just adorable about a snake and I gave in.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t sure, Malfoy,” he said, breathless with it. His stomach felt melty and warm. Malfoy smiled, the tiniest upturn at the corners of his mouth, and it made Harry want to touch him and never stop. “I’m sure,” he repeated, and Malfoy’s smile fucking bloomed, until it was wide and happy and gorgeous and lit up his eyes, and it was ridiculous how much Harry wanted to see him smile like that every moment of his life. Utterly fucking ridiculous. Out of fucking nowhere.

“Merlin,” Malfoy said, when he stepped into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and saw the skylight, the windows at the back, the polished concrete counters. Harry felt his face go hot, and then smiled when Malfoy ran his hand over one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table with a muted noise of appreciation. “It looks nothing like it did.”

“I thought you didn’t remember it,” Harry said, swinging himself up onto the counter next to his bottles of liquor. He reached behind himself to get some cups out of the cabinet. “Do you want a drink?”

“What do you have?” Malfoy asked absently, one fingertip against Harry’s KitchenAid, poking at it suspiciously. “What the fuck is this?”

“Um,” Harry hummed, searching through the mostly empty bottles that he kept forgetting to replace. “I have like… vermouth? It’s unopened, I don’t know what it is. Also, a coffee slash orange liqueur. Sounds horrible, can’t remember ever having it.”

“You put vermouth in martinis,” Malfoy told him, “Have you got any vodka?”

“No,” Harry snorted, “Not since I was about eighteen, mate.”

“I suppose I’ll have a neat vermouth then,” Malfoy said, “Just to see what it’s going to be like more than anything else.”

“Oh,” Harry said, splashing a bit on his finger as he poured it, “That’s a stand mixer. For making cakes and stuff?” He nodded towards the KitchenAid.

“You make cakes?” Malfoy asked, “Potter, you’re full of surprises.”

“Everyone makes cakes,” Harry said, extending the glass towards him. Malfoy took it from his hands and leant back against the dishwasher with one palm resting on the countertop. “That’s not like, a weird hobby to have. If I’d have said oh, that’s for mixing glue when I make my model trains, it would have warranted surprise.”

“You make model trains?” Malfoy asked, wrinkling his nose, “That actually makes me significantly less attracted to you.”

Harry felt himself flush, and looked into his drink as he said, “No-- I-- I mean, it was just an example.”

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or not,” Malfoy said, then took a sip of his drink and made a face.

“I swear to you, I do not make model trains. I don’t make any type of model other than the ones for work,” Harry said seriously, watching as Malfoy took another three sips in quick succession. “Do you like that?” he asked.

“What, the drink? No, it’s horrid,” Malfoy said, raising the glass to his lips again, smiling.

“I see,” Harry said, although he wasn’t sure he did. He never really ate or drank anything he didn’t like the taste of, and always got confused when other people did.

“So you like living here,” said Malfoy, and it wasn’t really a proper question.

“Yeah,” Harry told him. “I really do. You know Hermione and Ron live about a ten-minute walk away?”

Malfoy laughed. “That explains so much,” he said. “What’s the maximum distance you’d ever actually live from them?”

Harry thought he might be joking but considered it anyway. “I don’t think I could live anywhere where it took me more than an hour to get from door to door.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, sounding surprised. “That’s actually a full twenty minutes more than I was expecting.”

“Do you like where you live?” Harry asked. He didn’t want to seem insensitive, but it seemed like it would be rude not to ask. He remembered when the Manor had been destroyed after the war, its contents stripped and sold off, or burned. He had no idea what Malfoy must have felt, knowing the place he’d grown up was gone. He wondered if Malfoy missed it. He wondered if Malfoy was glad. Harry thought that the house he’d grown up in could disappear off the face of the earth and he wouldn’t feel a single fucking thing. He wondered if Malfoy was sad about seeing Grimmauld Place, sad about how he’d never have an opportunity to make his old home a better place.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and didn’t volunteer any more information, just swirled the clear liquid around in his glass. He looked upset, and Harry didn’t know what to say to make it better.

“I heard you lived with Parkinson after the… war,” Harry ventured.

Malfoy glanced up and smiled slowly. “Yes,” he admitted, “I think it’s probably fair to say she’s the worst roommate I’ve ever had. She never cleaned. There was a mouldy mug on our counter for about seven months that I didn’t do anything about because I kept hoping she’d move it. It was like she couldn’t even see it.”

“I lived with Ron and Hermione,” Harry told him, “While I was in uni. And then we moved here for a bit before they got their own place.”

“Ten minutes away,” Malfoy laughed. He looked like something Harry had dreamt up, in that moment, bathed in soft light with his mouth wide open. He looked happier than Harry had ever seen him, just because of this. Just because he was teasing Harry in his kitchen, a little tipsy from the wine they’d had at dinner, hair coming loose from his fucking plait; the one Harry wanted to get his hands in, to shake out.

“Exactly,” Harry said, because his mind had gone a bit blank and he couldn’t get it together enough to come up with something more intelligent.

Malfoy looked at him, then. Hard. And Harry had known, obviously, where this was going to end up, but now was the first time he’d actually felt it, could almost touch it. Malfoy set his glass down on the counter with a quiet knock, then took a few hesitant steps forward before pausing beside the fridge, worrying his fingers against the torn corner of a strip of photobooth pictures. He brushed his fingertips over Hermione and Ron’s smiling faces and avoided eye contact.

“I had a very nice time,” he started, his voice low, and it seemed like he was leading up to something but Harry honestly couldn’t give a shit, when Malfoy was close enough to reel in by his sleeve. He felt so impatient, like a child, like he did when he’d drunk too much coffee, like he wanted to eat everything in sight, like he was vibrating. Malfoy’s eyes went wide, and he huffed in surprise when he was pulled over. Then again when he found himself firmly situated between Harry’s parted knees. Harry ran a hand through his hair, once, and watched Malfoy watch him.

“I don’t think I can listen to a speech right now,” he confessed, touching the collar of Malfoy’s shirt. It was coarse and warm and Harry wanted it off.

“There wasn’t going to be a speech,” Malfoy argued, and then shivered when Harry lightly grazed the skin on his neck.

“You were about to tell me how much you like me,” Harry said, leaning in close. Malfoy blinked, and Harry had never been any fucking good at this sort of thing but somehow he’d managed to make Malfoy look like he was about to keel over. It was honestly a miracle.

“Fuck off,” Malfoy scoffed, but it was as good as an admission when his voice sounded like that. Rough and shaken. Malfoy put his hands on Harry’s waist firmly, as if he was about to make a very important point. “Seriously--” he started, but didn’t get much further before Harry was kissing him.

Malfoy immediately gave it up, which Harry thought was fucking wonderful. Tipping his head back so that Harry could lean over him, opening his mouth and sliding their tongues together a little. He backed off and bit Harry’s bottom lip, their noses bumping together, his breath hot against Harry’s mouth. He tasted like that awful alcohol but Harry was finding it very difficult to care; when he got to put his palm on Malfoy’s shoulder and kiss his cheekbones and his temples. He touched his fingertips to the soft skin just below Malfoy’s ear, at the hinge of his jaw, and just kept them there for a bit while Malfoy pressed a burst of heated kisses against his lips.

He pulled away and stared at Malfoy’s slick bottom lip while he caught his breath. Malfoy breathed in once, twice, deeply, then got his hand back on Harry’s neck and guided him in, kissing the corner of his mouth. Harry’s skin felt as though it was a couple of sizes too small, and his heart was beating hard in his chest. He smiled against Malfoy’s mouth and couldn’t stop, and Malfoy had to tilt his head away to stare at him.

“Stop smiling,” he said sternly, trying to frown. Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. “I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling like that,” Malfoy pointed out, “Unless you want me to just… lick your teeth a bit.” Harry snorted. “Exactly,” Malfoy agreed, and poked Harry in the neck, “I’m finding the idea even less appealing than you are.”

Harry curled his hands into Malfoy’s hair, it was soft and a little bit damp at the nape of his neck. He caught sight of Malfoy’s ears, red and flushed, and then he had to kiss one of them. Malfoy sighed impatiently, and Harry got the feeling he was being indulged. He nosed against Malfoy’s hair and felt the way he had when the war was finally over, like something heavy and horrible in his chest had seeped out and fucked off. Or as though his entire future had suddenly loosened, like it was opening, spreading itself out in front of his feet.

DECEMBER

The kitchen smelled like new pine and fresh varnish and cold air, and the hot chocolate with marshmallows that Ron and Hermione weren’t even drinking.

“Why on earth did you even let her bring crayons?” Hermione demanded, as Ron tried to wrangle their squirming daughter. She was on the floor, halfway through a gorgeous portrait of a flower, done in royal purple crayon on the white wall next to the fridge.

“I have no idea,” Ron said, panicked, as Harry laughed and laughed.

“I can just paint over it,” he said, “Actually, maybe the new owners will want to keep it. She has a real talent.”

“I know you’re being facetious,” Hermione said, throwing crayons into a canvas tote bag while Rose looked on, despondent, “But I’m sorry anyway.”

“Kids are so gross,” Ron said fondly, kissing the top of Rose’s head.

“Can I draw?” Rose asked, and Hermione sighed for a very long time.

“Your dad didn’t bring paper,” she said, “And even though Harry seems very happy to let you draw on the walls here, I’m worried that you’d think you were allowed to do it at home.”

“I can draw at home,” Rose told her, seriously, squiggling in Ron’s lap. “Crayons,” she then said.

“Yes,” Hermione said patiently, “But not on the walls. You shouldn’t draw on walls unless someone specifically asks you too.”

“Rose,” Ron said, shaking his head, “Do you know what ‘specifically’ means?”

“This is fascinating,” Harry whispered, “It’s like watching a nature program.” Rose extended one hand out to him and he touched it interestedly. She was vaguely sticky, as usual. “Is that a normal kid thing?” he asked, “Like, are they just always sticky?”

“Yeah,” Ron replied, hauling himself up with a grunt, “Pretty much.”

“I’ve got some plans she can draw on,” Harry offered, “If you’re really set against the wall idea.”

Hermione leant against him for a second, a warm weight at his side. “Yes please,” she said gratefully, holding Rose’s hand when she tried to make a break for the next room. “Harry’s getting you some paper,” she said, “And when he does you should draw on that and not on the floorboards.

“Okay,” Rose said, flopping onto the floor before unconcernedly rooting through the tote bag for her purple crayon.

“Merlin,” Ron said, finally taking a sip of his hot chocolate while Harry unrolled a couple of old plans and set them out on the floor, face side down, “This is amazing. I swear you didn’t used to be so good at making hot chocolate.”

“Remember in the forest,” Hermione said, “I can’t remember where we were, but that time you added boiling water to cocoa powder with nothing else? Horrible, I’ll never forget it.”

“I was a shitty cook at seventeen,” Harry said, rolling his eyes, “Are we ever going to let it go? You were shitty as well, as far as I remember.”

“I can’t cook,” Ron said, as if he wasn’t stating the fucking obvious. Hermione patted him on the arm as she sat down at the breakfast bar.

“You know I’m categorically opposed to breakfast bars,” she said, stroking her hand over the clean wood, “But this isn’t actually that bad.”

“Oh thank you,” Harry said, “Another glowing endorsement from Hermione Granger.”

“Granger-Weasley,” Ron sighed, “Although at this point I don’t know why I bother correcting you.”

“These houses are genuinely lovely,” she said, “You’ve done a brilliant job.”

Harry had never gotten past the stage of feeling incredibly fucking proud of himself when Hermione told him he was good at something. “Thanks,” he said, “It’s worked out well, I think.”

“When can people move in?” Ron asked, looking at the mostly bare walls and the windows still with their coating of protective plastic on the surface.

“Less than a month,” Harry replied, “Probably in time for Christmas, actually.”

“Oh that’s so sweet,” Ron said, “New houses for Christmas. You’re going to make me cry, mate.”

Harry smiled, until he heard Draco from upstairs. “Harry you absolute fucking wanker, come and look at this,” he said, in a tone that Harry could only really describe as a screech.

Hermione raised her eyebrows and Harry shrugged. “Gotta go,” he said, swinging himself down from one of the bar stools, “The love of my life is calling.”

Ron thumped his head against the counter surface. “Fuck me,” he said, muffled by his large coat. “This is so weird.”

Harry grinned as Hermione elbowed Ron square in the ribcage. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m actually so embarrassed by myself.”

“Is this what Hermione and I were like?” Ron asked, “Because if we were then you should have just hexed us.”

“We weren’t ever like this,” Hermione replied, but she was smiling, “It’s sickening. I think I would have known if we were being sickening.”

“Harry,” Draco shouted again, “Are you fucking ignoring me? I’m going to come downstairs and shout at you in a second. I don’t give a shit if there’s a child in the house.”

Ron started laughing against the table. “You’d better go,” he said, “Your lover awaits.”

“Ugh,” Harry replied, “Why would you even say that to me.”

“Have you seen this?” Draco demanded, once Harry had climbed the two sets of stairs up to the small turret room. “These windows are fucking tiny. This wasn’t on the plans. I’m sure you would never do anything so overtly ridiculous. The builders must have fucked up.” He sounded incredibly panicked, and Harry found it very hard not to find it incredibly funny

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Was that a compliment?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. Draco was half right though, the windows were shrunken down to the size of Quaffles; little portholes looking out over the house on the opposite side of the road.

“No,” Draco snapped, “When I compliment you, you’ll bloody well know about it.”

Harry sighed, “Here,” he said, and waved his wand in a perfect figure eight, watching as the windows cycled through about ten different configurations before settling on huge curved circles. The room flooded with light.

“Oh,” Draco said, mollified, “I didn’t know about those. Did I sign off on those?”

“Yes,” Harry told him, finally deeming it safe to go and stand beside him, now Draco had deflated a bit. “You were a bit stressed towards the end there,” he said, “So I can forgive you for forgetting about a couple of things.”

Draco sniffed the air suspiciously. “Is that hot chocolate? Did you make hot chocolate for the Granger-Weasleys and not for me?”

“No,” Harry lied, and wrapped his arm around Draco’s waist, until he gave in and sagged against the side of Harry’s body. Harry liked the way Draco went soft when he was touching him.

They looked out of the window for a bit, at the house directly in front of them. Dark red brick and bay windows and a green roof. They looked old. Harry had thought it might be comforting, wizards were soothed by old things. Draco sighed against him. “They’re great,” he said, “I’d love to say I knew you could do it, but there were definitely some moments when I had my doubts.”

Harry was silent for a few seconds. “We could live here,” he suggested quietly, and Draco made a gagging noise and stepped away from him.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said, “You had to ruin a perfectly good moment, didn’t you?” He bent over at the waist and started fake retching.

“Alright,” Harry said mildly, “Tell me what you really think, why don’t you.”

“I think you’re a prat,” Draco told him, laughing a little bit, “And not that I don’t love these homes, because I do, but I’m a fucking Malfoy, Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I actually managed to forget that for a second there, but thanks for doing such a good job of reminding me.”

“Listen,” Draco said, straightening his back and holding Harry firmly by the shoulders. His eyes looked very serious. “I’m a Malfoy. There are two places a Malfoy will live. Their ancestral home, or the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in the city of London.” He paused for a bit and then said, “Well, and Paris, but my parents live there and you know how I feel about that.”

Harry did. Draco had told him. At considerable length. “Okay,” Harry said.

“Okay what?” Draco asked suspiciously, “Are you going to break up with me because I said I want to live in Kensington forever? I suppose if it were a deal breaker I could stand Islington, in a pinch.”

“I meant okay let’s build an ancestral home,” Harry told him, “Not a big one though, because I don’t think I could live in a massive house. And we’ll have to keep Grimmauld Place for the weekdays when we’re working.”

Draco sat down on the floor, and Harry blinked at him for a second. “Are you okay?” he asked, when Draco moaned and thumped back hard against the dusty floorboards, closing his eyes.

“No,” Draco said weakly, and Harry sat down next to him, cross legged.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I seriously think we should get married,” Draco said, grimly, sounding not at all happy about the prospect. “I don’t think I’m ever going to manage to find someone else as good as you.”

Harry watched him for a bit, his serious mouth, his straight nose, his high cheekbones. He was so nice. And Harry thought it was entirely possible he’d never be able to find anyone better than Draco. “Alright,” he replied, and Draco collapsed with relief, letting out a long sigh.

“I thought you were going to say no,” he breathed, wriggling across the floor until he had his head in Harry’s lap. Harry had never liked anyone more.

“I offered to build you a stately home,” Harry reminded him, “I think that might have been a giveaway that I’m pretty committed?”

“Merlin,” Draco said, “I suppose it should have been. You know it better not be anything modern, I won’t live anywhere that doesn’t have a lot of mahogany and a very stuffy library.”

“I’m sure we can compromise,” Harry told him.

Draco bit the inside seam of his trousers. “Would you like a blowjob?” he offered.

“Um,” Harry said, looking up at a scuffling noise in the door. Hermione was staring, wide eyed in the hallway. He smiled, “Not right now babe, one of the Granger-Weasleys is watching.”

Draco groaned and sat up, smoothing his hair down hastily. “Of course they fucking are,” he said, and caught sight of Hermione, “Of course she fucking is.”

“We’re getting married,” Harry told her, grinning, “We just decided right now.”

“I was listening for most of that exchange,” she admitted, “Which is terrible, I know. Congratulations. I love you so much. I think I actually might cry.”

“Oh please don’t,” Draco sighed, “I know it’s a terrible tragedy that we’re both off the market, but there’s no need for waterworks.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, “Harry what are you doing?”

Harry gripped Draco’s hand very tightly. “I know,” he said, “I absolutely hear all of your concerns. But also I’m in love, so there’s really not much I can do about the whole situation apart from… wait it out, I guess. I’m really sorry.”

“Wait it out,” Draco scoffed, his palm suddenly sweaty, “I’m very stubborn, Potter. I’m going to make a point not to change my mind about you.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, and he had never meant anything more, “Amazing. I look forward to it.”

Want to see more? Check the “dralentine’s day” tag or head over to dralentines-day.tumblr.com!

Happy Dralentine’s Day!

#drarry #dralentine's day #drarry squad #dralentine's gifts #dralentine's day gifts

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lawrenceseitz22 · 5 years

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Weekly Digital Marketing Q&A – Hump Day Hangouts – Episode 230

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Click on the video above to watch Episode 230 of the Semantic Mastery Hump Day Hangouts.

Full timestamps with topics and times can be found at the link above.

The latest upcoming free SEO Q&A Hump Day Hangout can be found at http://semanticmastery.com/humpday.

Announcement

Adam: Alright, welcome everybody to Hump Day Hangouts. This is Episode 230. Today is the third of April 2019. And first of all, if you live Thanks for joining us, we’re going to dive into the questions here shortly if you’re not live or your new semantic mastery, first of all, thank you for watching, and we want to point you in the right direction. The good news is you’re already in the right place. This is a place to be watching Hump Day Hangouts, whether you’re catching this live or again, if catching the replay maybe on YouTube. That’s awesome. The next step is definitely grab the Battle Plan head over to Battle Plan dot semantic mastery.com. And then, for those of you who are interested in either starting or growing your local digital marketing agency, you know, we want you to check out the mastermind go to mastermind, semantic mastery.com and then every week with the hump day Hangouts, you can always go to semantic mastery. com slash HD questions and ask your questions live. We love it when you join us. There’s sometimes good stuff going on for people

Join us live. But you can always ask your questions. If you got a call you got client stuff, you’re at work, whatever, then you can check out the replays. So But that said, we’ve got a few more announcements but let’s say hello to everybody. We got everyone except for Hunan here. I think he’s having some issues with power. So Chris will start things with you. How you doing?

Chris: Doing good.

Adam: Alright, man, a few words. Marco. What’s up, dude? How’s the weather down there?

Marco: It’s beautiful man. Suck last night. We got down to 67.

Adam: that suck man I feel for you. Really?

I had I had to go and grab a sheet. I don’t appreciate having to get up middle of the night and having to get a sheet. But other than that, I can’t. I can’t complain. Good man. How you doing?

Bradley: Good man. I got this from Marco though. Nice here. Finally. It’s 70 degrees today which is nice. Spring is almost sprung here in Virginia and really looking forward to it after what nasty winter so.

Adam: good deal. Well, we got a lot of questions so we’re not going to take up too much time today. Just wanted to mention everybody if you haven’t yet head over to mgyb.co for your done for you SEO Services. With there’s been several launching, we got more in the pipeline, but I know specifically that the embeds, the link building and link indexing live. So go check those out. I’ll put the links on the pages that you guys have anything else to say about that. I just want to let people know that they’ll

Bradley: jump in for a moment real quick Marco, and then you can talk your your trash to the link building services amazing because this is our longtime link builder that he had been working for us for, for me specifically for I think six years now. He’s real pro at what he does. He is amazing. And one of the strategies is working incredibly well and it’s not just from what I’m saying. That from a lot of our members like mastermind members that are using his services as well is if you guys are using @ID pages, which we talked about in various trainings. And in point links to those, instead of pointing direct to your money site, it’s incredibly powerful for local stuff, especially. And it’s working really, really well. And what I love about it is it’s easy, right? Because you just go and place your order for link building, and daddy does the rest. And it basically will power up your @ID loop, which is really super powerful. And it protects your money site as well. So I would highly encourage you guys to go check that out the the, the effects have been consistent across the board. Go ahead, Marco.

Marco: Know what I wanted to add is the embeds are just that it’s not just video. It’s not just maps, it’s embedded. If it has an X ray, we cannot help you, right, because that’s the website not allowing itself to be iframe. Other than that, if you can, if it can be iframe, it can be Set through in an embed gig. So imagine what you do with that with with the with the media page and maybe embedded on the side or maybe I’m not going to go too deep into that, but I don’t want to spend people’s heads. But it’s it’s limitless. And then what’s working really, really well is when you build links into a drive step was the site. I mean, someone just got, we were talking last night in our mini mastermind. And someone literally got a drive stack from us. Got the link building from daddy at the link building isn’t done. And the drive stack has already started moving into the first spots in Google. I mean, that’s how well it’s working. Fuck Google and Google updates.

Go to MGYB, first of all, get the Battle Plan so that you know which products and services you need to grab from us. I mean, you could do it all yourself or save yourself all the time and all those headaches. Let us do it for you and and get it done right kit and get results. I mean, I can’t guarantee was on that yet I will be guaranteeing results in a few months. I can’t guarantee them just right I just I can’t. Google is unpredictable that way that we’re targeting it there’s still some fluctuations that aren’t measured into RYS Academy drive stacks always reloaded but when you add the power of press releases when you had the power of link building when you add the power again, I’ll go back to Bradley’s training YouTube ads if you didn’t get it, I mean you you’re missing one of the best options for getting power into your and I’ll give credit to Becca right now. slipstream, link streams or slip streams as he called them are the shit kit link building into that get people into that and watch watch it just light a match and everything else will just below. So that’s my piece for today.

Adam: Awesome. I got an absolutely nothing to add on to that you guys. So good to go. Go check it out. Again, the links will be on the page. I had reports of some issues with the commenting on the page. Again, we switched to Facebook. So if anyone’s having issues, you know, let us know, you can send them a ticket to support a semantic mastery. com. We want to make sure it’s a work in progress, will try to get things going. It looks like people have commented, but there might be issues still going on. So please let us know. Give us some feedback. And we’ll get that fixed for you guys. We had we had issues with the Facebook app. Ah, yeah, yeah. So I know at least one person had issues and then I’ve seen some issues on my account. So anyways, we’ll roll with the punches, guys, and we’ll get it straightened out. We keep popping around trying different stuff.

So the last thing I want to say to if you’re catching this 12 regardless of where you’re watching this, subscribe to our YouTube channels, the short version. And if you’re checking this out on YouTube, you know, and you’re coming across across clips, or you watch this stuff regularly and you check out our channel. You know, please help us out share it, we’re trying to grow our YouTube channel. We want to get the word out there and you know, we know we got a lot of good clips with a lot of helpful info. So If you know someone who could use it, by all means, share it, email it, whatever you want to do, just get the word out.

Sweet. Can we let? We got no just kidding. Yeah, let’s do this. I’m gonna grab the screen. We’ll get into it.

Tips For Cold Calling Local Businesses And Provide GMB Rankings

Bradley: Alright, so we’re going to start where it says six days ago. So I’m going to start right here with Lee Leon who says, Hey, semantic mastery. Got any tips for cold calling local businesses and providing GMB rankings? Well, I don’t have any tips for cold calling, except that there’s a great strategy that I developed many, many years ago, when I first started growing my own agency that is a combination of email, but very specific video emails, and then calling those that engage or interact with the video emails and there’s a way to determine that and that way, it’s not a strict cold call, because I don’t know about you guys, but I always hated straight cold calls, they suck. you interrupt people, they usually are pissed off that you call them and interrupted them, especially if they think it’s some sort of solicitation even if you are trying to provide help or true value with what you’re, you know, saying to them. Again, most people especially now because marketers have really saturated the market guys and I don’t necessarily mean you and I like as kind of solo printers or little guys so to speak, but like the big marketing agencies that have sales staff and things like that, they, they, you know, hammer local businesses, if you’re a local business, you get hammered with solicitation calls all day, every day. And you know, it’s it’s absolutely relentless. And so if you try to just straight cold call people without doing something to differentiate yourself, you’re going to run into a lot of discouragement, right, you’re going to get a lot of denials, you’re going to get turned down, you’re going to get cussed at all these kind of things. And honestly, it’s hard to sustain that for very long without, you know, throwing in the towel and saying, This isn’t for me, I’m going to do something else. So I developed a strategy that I developed years ago back in probably 2012 was what I called the video lead gen system, we’ve got a product for it right now that I’m actually updating for specifically for 2019 and for lead generation for people that are building lead gen assets as well as can it can still be applied to just straight you know, client work to prospecting for clients. And I’m I’m at currently updating that right now. Like literally because we’re going to be launching that the version two or you know, the update essentially, in what three weeks I think so.

What is it April 23, that we’re doing that is that right? Yeah, yeah. So into in three weeks from today, guys.

We’ll be talking about it will be the day the day after launch. And we’ll be talking more about it then. But specifically Lee, what I would recommend is for cold calling local businesses instead of cold, calling them just direct without somehow measuring their level of interest, you’re going to have a hard time. So the better way to do it, my opinion is to go out and hand select the prospects that you want to work with. And then creating a video email, which the original process that I created was a bit time consuming to do but it worked really well. Like I was getting consistently three or four responses for every 10 emails that I would send out. And that I mean, that’s that’s almost unheard of right for cold emails. And when I say responses, I mean people that would ask for, you know, either reply via email or call me depending on what my call to action was, so that I could start and essentially started a dialogue with me a conversation and now

Have those three or four out of every 10, I would close one or two of them. And I had heard many, many times from people that I would chat with or talk to, you know, prospects that I would talk to, after reaching out to them via video email, I would hear many times people say like, oh, wow, that was a really unique way to get my attention. And so essentially, what it is, is it’s, you know, finding hands, selecting the prospects that you want to work with are the ones that you think you want to work with. And then creating a short video, kind of providing value as to why you know who you are, but not, it’s not about you, it’s about them. And it’s about their digital presence and what you could do to help them or what you see as opportunities that they’re not taking advantage of, so you don’t ever, like criticize their existing digital presence. You always want to say stuff like, Hey, I really liked your website, but I see that you’re missing you know, you could be missing out on leads because you don’t have this or you’re

for example your google my business profile might not be optimized isn’t fully optimized and if you’re not aware of this that’s where the vast majority of leads are coming for local businesses right now or you want to you want to always talk in their terms and again i can’t go into specifics because it’s in the course and we’re relaunching that in three weeks anyways but video email was a really really good way to get people’s attention however like i mentioned the original strategy or method that i had developed was really time consuming it was very effective but time consuming well i’ve learned i’ve developed a way to streamline that which is a lot more it’s a lot easier to get more of these emails out and and again that’s all covered in the update that’s going to be coming out in three weeks so you know i would recommend that you do that and the reason why lee is because when you you can measure engagement through the emails there’s a service that i you know there’s a bunch of different services that do this but i specifically use a service called point of mail com where every email i send out a trial

The engagement level of that email to the to the recipient that I’m sending it to so I can set up notifications to note to be notified when they open the email. When they click on a link in the email, I can have text notifications or email notifications come to me so that I know exactly what my email is getting open and when somebody is clicking a link, for example, a link to a video that I send them, right. And so what I’ve what I’ve learned is if you want to do cold calling, one of the best things you can do is send a series of emails to the prospect and not these like, you know, diarrhea of the mouth type emails, where you literally just like load unload in a long email, like all these things that you could do for them because I found that those get deleted right away or get marked as spam right away. But send these like, short little emails where you’re asking questions and trying to get a dialogue started with the prospect and getting permission from them to send them a video and

And it’s and again, I’m not going to reveal that strategies here on Hump Day hangouts because it’s in the training course. But it’s just a couple of questions that you send, and then you get permission to send them a video from them. They said, Yes, send it. And you send the video via either a link or even a screenshot that looks like a video embedded in the actual email, Either one works. And then when they click that link, you can be notified by your email tracking software or app dependent, you know, whatever, that they’ve clicked that link. So now you know for a fact that they’ve seen your email and they are they’ve seen your video or at least started to watch your video. And that’s when you call them. Because then now you’ve got you know that they are already, you’ve already got permission to send them the video number one because you started a very easy dialogue with them, not where you’re telling them about how great you are and all the things that you can do for them. You just asked him a couple questions and get them to give you what’s what I call positive reply. And once you got the positive reply, you send them the video link that they’ve already given permission to send and then when they click it

You get notified that they’ve opened it, which means you know that or that they click the link so that you know that they’ve at least started to watch the video. And that’s when you call, you can either call immediately, or you can wait a few minutes, or you can wait a day or two and call back and say, Look, I just wanted to follow up to find out if you had a chance to watch the video that I sent you. Well, you know, that they already did. Because you can tell from the activity from from the email tracking app. But you don’t say that, because that’s might sound a bit creepy, right? But you just say like, Hey, I just wanted to follow up real quick to find out if you had a chance to watch the video that I sent you see if you had any questions or you know, see if we could talk about it a little bit. And that way, it’s not a cold call. It’s a warm call at that point. And so I would recommend the that you pay attention or be on the lookout. In three weeks, we’re going to relaunch that called the video lead gen system. And again, there’s a lot of streamlined methods in there that I’ve been working on and just like the past few weeks seriously, for a lot of stuff that I’m doing right now in my own business that I’m you know, is working well. So, hopefully that was helpful.

Anybody got any comments on that?

Marco: Nah, man, that was perfect. You’re the master of that.

Bradley: So let’s move on. I just got one quick one. When you say 30 to 40% I think some people will get how awesome of a rate that is. But it’s just like, freaking astronomical. Like, that’s unheard of you don’t get that when you’re prospecting. So, anyways, if you haven’t, or you’re going to be starting prospecting, like keep in mind, I mean, that is orders that you know, that’s huge. I think a normal response rate prospecting is 1% or lower. Yeah. Yeah. And it’s, again, it’s, it’s, it’s, it’s not hard to do and a lot of, you know, I’ve learned over the years to not do so much of the work myself. And so there’s, you know, methods for or for outsourcing this a lot of the a lot of the work to to where it really requires very little effort on your part up front, other than to record the short videos. And then actually, you know, pick up the conversation once the prospect has replied positively and you can have a VA do most of the heavy lifting between the time that you create the video and the time that the the prospect replies positively and then you just pick up the conversation from there so it’s a it’s a great strategy guys and again I’m going to be will be releasing that in three weeks.

Which Is Good For An Event Blogging: Expired Domain Or A New Domain?

Next is uh i don’t really quite understand this question but Pranab, I says what is good for event blogging expired domain or new domain. I’m a newbie learner. Okay, I guess just means for what is good for blogging, expired domain or new new domain? Well, I would recommend going with a new domain with a brand name that you want to create. Because for SEO purposes, if you find an expired domain that had good backlink profile and relevant content to what it is that you’re going to be blogging about, if it was previously in the same type of content or the same category, essentially the same topic then you can

Get some traction from that. But you have to know how to, you can get some fat and subtraction faster from using an expired domain because it might already have some good inbound links. So a good link profile, but that’s the problem unless you know what you’re doing and how to investigate that, you could very well just buy a domain that’s been spammed to death. And if it’s if it wasn’t in the same category of the same around, you know, built around, if it didn’t have content on it, it was around the same topic, then it’s really not going to benefit from the existing inbound link profile unless they were had unless they had incredibly high, you know, valued links pointing to it, in which case, sometimes you can re categorize it and it will still have a benefit. But for the most part, I recommend just starting off with your own new domain that’s branded after the brand name that you want to create. And starting there and then using some of the methods, you know, to be selfish year some of the semantic mastery methods where you can start pushing authority in and rather

See into your domain using properties that you don’t have to worry about necessarily the inbound link profile because it’s a brand new property, so, or a brand new domain. So obviously, we use a lot of Google properties to push authority. And that’s something that you can do is just start with a new domain branded the way that you want it to be branded. It’s nice, clean a clean domain at that point, right? If it’s new, and then you can start building you know, things like syndication network and blogging consistently. That’s a staple for us. drive stack, we’re going to talk about that here again in a minute, but in our is drive stack, so you can Google properties to start building authority to your to your domain. And then from there, you could do a lot of other things to the Dr. stack that would keep your domain clean, but start building authority. That’s what I recommend. Mark, you want to comment on that at all? No, I totally agree. I’ll be doing an update webinar for syndication Academy. Yes. Where we’re going to talk about the importance of branding and brand plus key word association.

And how that really solidifies everything. As far as Googlebot is concerned. It’s all about the entity, right? It’s all about what you’re presenting to Google, as far as what it is that you’re doing, how you’re doing, and how everything that’s attached to this brand belongs to the brand. You’ve talked about this before. We go on, we claim the footprint. We’re not here to Google. We want Google to know this stuff is all ours. We’re going to go ahead and and have our presence in all of these social media and on all of the different web to Dotto profiles that we create through syndication Academy. There’s other training and syndication Academy that helps power it up. But the whole point is for that entity, and so you can do that, instead of taking what somebody else’s idea and what they had, and trying to convert that to your vision. Just start with your vision and go after that. That. I mean, I totally agree with Brad. Yeah, I agree with that. And it’s interesting.

Bradley: We had a question and I think it was a Syndication Academy group or it might have been our free Facebook group, the SEO tutorials group, but somebody asked our syndication networks still viable in 2019. And that, absolutely they are as far as a straight ranking tactic. They’re not maybe as effective as they were several years ago. But that’s that’s missing. You’re missing the point then because what Marco was just talking about was to entity validator. And it’s incredibly important to do that because in case you weren’t aware of this, Google is looking at authority and well entities and building authority and validating those entities. And that’s one way to do it and and by getting your name listed, your know your brand name or your website, name, whatever listed in multiple places, and that kind of validates that entity in a way that you can’t really do unless you have claimed this footprint.

You know what I mean? And that’s one of the one of the reasons why they’re still very, very effective. And I would have, you know, again, it’s still part of our standard operating procedure. It’s a foundational method. There’s no question.

How Hard Can You Hit A Subdomain With Links On A TLD?

My question is up, he says, How hard can you hit a subdomain with links on a top level domain? Well, it depends on what you’re asking about, Mike. I mean, you typically we don’t encourage hitting your money site, even on a subdomain with direct like spam links and such. We got away from doing that. years ago, really, you know, years ago, you used to be able to do like what was called domain authority stacking. And essentially, you could just manipulate domain authority and page authority that way, which is a mas metric I get it, but it was it was effective. It was it was very effective at the time, but we’re talking like 2014, 2015 timeframe, so several years ago.

Now, I don’t recommend doing that even on, you know, if, even if you were just setting up a sub domain specifically to point links at it. But it wasn’t like, you know, something that you were trying to keep like the sub domain wasn’t your content distribution engine, like you weren’t trying to rank the sub domain. I wouldn’t do it because I don’t like to put anything real spammy anywhere near the money site now. So because we don’t need to, again, just what we’ve been talking about on this webinar alone was like using drive stacks, for example, as the filter or Amazon s3 pages, it’s another great thing to do. Because Google domains or Amazon domains can withstand any kind of abuse you send it them, like absolutely any like kitchen sink, spam, it doesn’t matter what you throw at them. They’ll take it and they’ll take it like a champ. And please, Sir, may I have another, you know what I mean? And so instead of worrying about spamming a subdomain for pushing authority, or whatever, which, by the way, domain authority stacking and shit doesn’t work anymore. I mean, it might with some massive, massive numbers, but it’s difficult to do and it’s not something

That I would consider sustainable. So instead use properties like Amazon and Google that you can then use as like a tier one. That’s the linking to your money site, and push all your spam to those instead. Right? Because though they’ll launder it, they’ll essentially filter out the negative and only pass the good. And it’s just because they’ll take whatever you can throw at them. Like I said, Please, sir, man, I have another. So I don’t, I wouldn’t hit a subdomain on a on a money site with with a bunch of spam. I would unless you had a filter ahead of it, which in that case, you could go direct to the money site. You know what I’m saying, for example, you could be linking from or, and I don’t want to get to, I’m not going to go any further than this. But Iframes are a good way to do that kind of stuff, which is why we do what we do with drive stacks. Because it’s very, very powerful way to push authority without it being spammy to the money site. Does that make sense? For

The @ID page Mike, if you’re in a fairly sure you’re in Syndication Academy or at least one of our paid groups, if you’re in any of our paid groups, you’ll have access to that out ID page strategy, which is using an Amazon domain the combination between that and drive stacks alone is incredibly powerful and you can get away with murder with those. Comments?

Marco: No, I agree.

What’s The First Thing You Need To Do To Rank A Brand New Site?

Bradley: Moving on. Quentin’s up. He says great day guys having I’m having a website made next week for my brand or my band slash brand. What are the must haves to make Google my website bitch? Love it, Quentin. And he says, also, after having a website up and running, what’s the first thing you should do? Okay, so again, Battle Plan Quentin if you don’t already have it, get the Battle Plan because that’s exactly what it is for, to show you step by step and in what order you should apply again, at least from our methods that will work that will help you to get the most traction step one is going to be syndication network to help validate the entity

And then every single time you make posts to your blog, it will help to update that that network which again, again, that’s just activity, as well as they’re just really good signals. So so I would start with syndication network, and then obviously a drive stackas because we’ve been talking a lot about that. They’re just so effective. I mean, still, and it’s funny because we’ve heard another places people say, oh, Dr. Stats aren’t that effective. Bullshit. You just don’t know how to use them or you’re building them and correctly. That’s the thing if you know what you’re doing if you build them correctly, and then you know what to do with them. Once you have them, then they’re incredibly effective. So quit and I would recommend absolutely syndication network. Step one. start posting regularly once your syndication network is attached to your new blog. If you’re doing if you’re a band, and you’re doing a lot of updates on social media, use your syndicate your blog as your point of origin for your syndicate, excuse me, your social media updates.

In other words, post your updates to your blog and allow your blog to syndicate those post to your social media so that you’re always funneling the authority back to your blog as opposed to just when you post directly to Facebook, for example, yes, you can get engagement on Facebook, the Facebook, but who are you benefiting? As far as the the website, the digital property, you’re benefiting Facebook, not your own brand, right? I mean, you’re you’re still benefiting your brand, I get that. But I’m saying you’re not, you’re not benefiting your digital asset, your digital presence, because you’re you’re essentially doing all of your activity on Facebook. Well, you can still have your activity go to Facebook, but haven’t posts to your blog first. Right? So that way that you’re pushing authority back and bringing hopefully people visitors off of Facebook back to your website. And that’s just one example. So I would use your your blog as a as a kind of like your point of origin for your your updates and do it regularly. Right and then as far as that beyond that, again, a drive stackis going to help you to start pushing authority, then you can do all sorts of nasty SEO stuff, off page SEO stuff to your drive stack, which will keep your blog clean. And that’ll help to make Google your website Bitch. Marco, what do you suggest on that?

Marco: Battle plan for a new website? It’s on there, right?

Bradley: Yep.

Marco: Just follow it step by step. It tells you the things that you need to get in guys. We link from the Battle Plan to MGYB services, because that’s, that’s what we use, right? We use, we get the syndication networks, remember you I be from our builders, we got our drive stacks from there, we get our press releases from that. We get everything that we can from the people who we’ve trained to do things, the semantic mastery way. So, of course, we’re going to link to our stuff, it’s what we use, we we’re not going to sell you something or send you somewhere that you know, we don’t know what the effects are going to be. We know the the results that we get. We don’t know something else. That doesn’t mean that you have to get our services in order to accomplish what you are I but I mean, if the other side of the coin is you’d have to get our training, and you’d have to learn all of these different methods. Local PR Pro, Local GMB, Pro, Local Lease Pro, Syndication Academy, RYS Academy, all of the different things that go to the mastermind, I mean, that’s the best place Clinton where you we can help you and and the community can help you get the best results. But if you just starting out, dude, the Battle Plan, get the services why spent all that time doing everything yourself. When you can spend that time actually going into your social media, relating to people being social, and getting those social people to follow you and to come to your website and to give you their opinion. There’s a lot of ways to get people, when you’re being social, to come and be social and help you on the website, you have to create that that activity. That’s that’s an excellent way. I mean, it’s, there’s so many things that you can do. We talked about it in our mini mastermind group yesterday. I call it social conditioning. And I think you call it social engineering. But it all works from, in my mind, from the from Pavlov’s operate conditioning experiments where you create expectation. And we can do that with your social media crowd and get them to your website. That’s goal, because Google will follow them from Instagram, from from Facebook, from Pinterest, wherever it is that you have your social presence. And Google will know that all of these people are interested in your website. And then Google will start sending people to see why all of these different people are interested in in your website. So I mean, that that’s just my recommendation for Quentin. Yeah, plan, follow the Battle Plan services. We have everything, everything you need. And then July be.

Bradley: And guys, the traffic signals are huge for SEO right now. I mean, it’s one of the biggest drivers of SEO or rankings or really getting Google’s attention is traffic from, you know, valid traffic, real traffic, not spoof traffic, but real traffic. So referral traffic from social media sources is a great, especially when they dwell or engaged on your site. It’s not just about dwell time, but if they engage on your site, that that kind of traffic is incredibly powerful for SEO, it’s a great, great signal. And you can buy traffic to so I mean, again, it doesn’t have to be all organic traffic that you send as referral traffic from social media. But you know, you can buy traffic from Google, you can buy traffic from Facebook, and those are, you know, and YouTube, for example, there’s a lot of different ways that you can do that, too, that if it’s relevant, they’re going to engage with your site, right. And that’s just a huge signal. It’s incredibly powerful.

Does “Sending Traffic To Appease Google” Mean Using A Crowdsearch Alternative?

So we’re going to move on to one says, which by the way, the one joined the Mastermind after last week’s Hump Day hang up. And so we appreciate you doing joining. And he’s got a lot of good questions in there already and we’ve got a mastermind webinar tomorrow, we’re actually going to dive into some of the stuff that he was asking about in there. So welcome to on once again. And we’ve got some stuff we’re going to cover for you tomorrow during the mastermind webinar. He says when you send traffic when you say you send traffic to a piece Google do you mean like crowd search alternative? Duwann I know you directed this at Marco so all that Marco add to this as well but as we’re just saying, it’s not about spoof traffic, you sure you could probably still get results with some spoof traffic. However, we’re talking about relevant traffic, right, just the same as we don’t. It’s funny. You know, I don’t we don’t do a lot of PBN stuff and we don’t do domain authority manipulation anymore because it’s just we found it’s more about relevancy like, that’s the longer term, that’s the better strategy. And so we try to do everything. Now, I say that and I just was talking about spam links.

Ahhh good like our service for spam links in MGYB, it works really well if you know how to what to pointed at, which is an example of like we were talking about with drive stacks or an Amazon s3, hosted pages, those kind of things are incredibly if you know how to use spam properly, you can, you can get results from even like traditional spam type links, right? But it’s not something that we would ever want to point directly at a money site. Well, the same thing goes for traffic signals, right? You can buy spam traffic signals or spoof traffic signals using an app like crowd search, which by the way, used to be incredibly effective. We promoted the shit out of it for about two years because I used it. I mean, a lot. I used it a lot. I was using 50,000 credits a month with that thing. And it worked really, really well but Google’s algorithm learned not to count that kind of traffic. And there’s a number of reasons why it became less effective and started having diminishing returns.

And I’m not going to get into all of that we can talk about that in the mastermind webinar if you’d like Duwann. But so so spam traffic signals can still produce some results, but their marginal at best compared to if you can buy or send relevant traffic signals, which is the same thing that we’re talking about, like for example, you know, even traditional SEO like link building stuff, we can create or add relevancy even to spam links by sending spam links to a drive stack that is 100% relevant and and it uses the Google domain to help kind of launder that negative link juice. Well, the same thing goes with with traffic signals, right? If you can, force or push real traffic into your digital assets, your entities, so to speak, right your your your brand, entity from either referral sources or even to buying it direct, if it’s relevant traffic, that traffic is going to be weighted so much heavier by Google, right? So for SEO purposes, relevant traffic is weighted much heavier than non relevant traffic. So for example, if you were to send hundreds of visitors to a blog post on your site that aren’t engaging with it, but it’s just the visitor hits, right that you’re trying to send traffic signals to it. Can that help? Yes, it may be able to help, it may be able to give you a small boost, and the ranks or even a big boost. The problem is when you stop sending that traffic, what happens it will start to slip again, because those weren’t sustainable signals. But if you you can send a fraction of relevant traffic signals from an audience that Google is fully aware of is already interested in that topic or that content and big and how do they do that? Well, if you’re buying traffic from Google, you can buy traffic from known audiences, right? You can you can buy traffic from Google directly from YouTube or directly from display network or search ads if you want it, it’s crazy expensive. But from let’s say display network or from YouTube, where you can literally select the audience’s that you want Google display your ads to write expose your ads to. So Google knows that those people are already interested in that topic, or so. So Google knows that those people are relevant. And because they’re relevant when you send those traffic signals to or those that that traffic excuse me to your your content, they’re likely to engage with it. And the engagement signals are more powerful than just bear traffic signals, if that makes sense. Which means that not only will the traffic and engagement help the SEO, but it’s likely that you’re going to actually convert some of that traffic into whatever your conversion goal may be.

Whether that’s opting in to build your email list or if it’s for local business, it’s making a phone call becoming essentially becoming a lead or submitting a contact request form. Or if it’s a straight like Ecom, you’re trying to sell something, they may purchase your products. So instead of trying to put your effort, time and money into spoofing traffic, why not put your effort time and money into buying relevant traffic or generating relevant traffic through social engineering or as Marco calls it social conditioning? Again, you’re going to get much better results with a fraction of the numbers required that you would from spoofing stuff by just sending relevant traffic signals and engagement from real people that have a real genuine interest in your, your topic or your content, your product, your service, whatever it may be. Marco, you want to add to that?

Marco: Yeah, what I want to add is, is something really simple. And and Google is starting to get even smarter, because they boil it down, right and I call it the art. ART – activity, relevance, trust and authority. And it’s at the link origin and destination and everything attached to the link origin and the link destination. So Google is looking at the activity on the links, meaning, how are people interacting with the website is feeding you the link? And how are they are they interacting when they get to the destination of activity.

Relevance, well, isn’t relevant. Did they come from women’s shoes and and end up at and I don’t know, bricks? Absolutely nothing might want to do with the other. It has to be relevant. And it has to be trusted and authoritative. That’s why we love being inside the belly of the beast being inside Google. So if you can get those three things, the one or Devon Devon, I’m not sure how that’s pronounced But either way, let me know what will be on the mastermind dummy house mouse can get it in there. Now. It’s very difficult. As far as the activities concerned, to get purchase traffic, and I’m talking about fiber, I’m talking about traffic exchanges and all these other places to get these people to act like real people, even if you’re in a traffic exchange with real people. Because in a traffic exchange, all the people are concerned about is earning more whatever tokens or whatever credits, so that they can get more traffic to to their own properties. They’re not interested in dwelling on your website, they’re not interested in interacting with your website. And Google is looking at all of these things. So how can you get in and think of it? How can you get that activity? How can get that real person, like a real person? Will you buy real people, you either train them the right way, or you pay Google and Facebook and Instagram and whatever else to send the right people. Wherever you want it to go. They don’t have to go to your money.

site, they can go into your link string and then up at the money site. Now, here’s the key thing. And the great thing Fiverr traffic does work. And the way that I’ve gotten it to work is you have to get in with, like, a real conversation with the provider, so that the provider knows exactly what it is that you’re looking for. And they have to be able to tell you, yes, I can do it or No, I can’t. And then you test it. Even if they tell you, oh, yeah, I can do that. I can do that. I can get local IPS. And I can get traffic to go in there like that. you test it. You never, you never test on anything that’s going to make you money, although you set it up as if you’re going to make money with your test. And you should. Now once once you have that and you get all of these real people interacting and you see how it works and how Google reacts to this traffic, then you know that you can trust this guy. Never lose that at that

Fivver contact, because it’s worth gold, three or four people out at tier two, tier three tier for interacting with your links and ending up at the destination wherever you want and finishing whatever it is that you set them to do. That’s what Google wants to see the completion of that original action at the destination. So that that’s the key. And if you’re doing that, if you’re buying from phone from fire or anything, is that just going in and paying just whatever, for whoever for whatever, it’s actually you have to know and understand what it is that Google is looking for, so that you can buy and try to approximate what Google is looking for.

What’s A Good Tool To Trakc Your GMB Rankings?

Bradley: Sweet. So next is Jordan was just dropping the link to or what he suggests for rank tracking nice reports, not cheap. So there you go, because somebody was asking about that wills asking what’s a good tool to track your GMB rankings? So you might want to check that out personally Well, what I use is Bright local for my client reporting, which will check track GMB rankings depending on like, you can set it by zip code or by city name.

So that’s that’s all I use that you can also use like pro Rank Tracker. That’s, that’s something that I, you know, I use for,

like test SEO tests and stuff like that. Not that not necessarily. I mean, I do have some client reports in there, but I use that more for tracking, SEO tests, you know, campaigns that I’m testing different methods on and that kind of stuff. But for client reports, I use bright local, because it gives me a lot of really good reports that look nice and they’re they’re really accurate as far as for, you know,

GMB rank tracking. And what’s cool is you can set like third party mentions up so it will show rankings of any one of your branded digital assets. So, like it’ll show citations where their ranking YouTube videos or channels or Facebook pages, you know anything that’s been branded that has a mention of your name that your clients name will show up in the search results of the Rank Tracker search results, right? So it’s really cool because it makes you look like a rockstar instead of just showing where the websites ranking you show where all of their branded properties or profiles are ranking for the various keywords and so it looks really, really good.

And so anyways, again, I just use bright local, but Jordan likes Night Watch dot.io. So check some of them out and see what which one you like. Okay.

How Do You Make And 301 Redirect A Firebase Dynamic Link?

Okay, thank you grant for that comment. Fabian, ask a question about the Firebase 301 redirects. Now that geo geo which was Google’s link shortener is now been terminated, they won’t. They won’t allow us to use it anymore. And Marco is not going to answer that Fabian, because Marco tell him why.

Marco: Because some idiot will take it and burn it.

Bradley: There you go.

Marco: It’s that simple and right now we’ve got it Fabian you’re in the mastermind so when we are working on it to make it available to our membership so that they can use it we have it internally right now but we’re working on making it making it available so that you guys in the mastermind first can use it as soon as it’s available we’ll let you guys know in the meantime i mean bradley you’re using my pretty links pro yeah yeah and there’s rebrand the the hourly there’s a whole bunch of other places where you can get three old ones if it has decent metrics if it hasn’t been burned by all means use it and then we’ll work out our shortener our firebase shortener and how to make it available to again membership has its privileges so the mastermind will get it first

Bradley: Yeah i’m just using pretty links pro which is a plugin i think if you go to semanticmastery.com/prettylinks you can find it. It’s it’s not very expensive. I think it’s like 20 bucks. It might be more than that. But it’s, anyways, it’s a great plugin. And depending on what I’m like, for example, for all press releases, I set up a domain specifically that I use for creating redirects within press releases for the local PR pro method for PR stalking. Also just for like, redirecting those long ugly google google URLs for like maps, for example, or now GMB posts and stuff like that. So I always am using the same, it’s a press related type domain. So that it makes sense, right, and it looked and it looks and fits well, in press releases. And that way, you know, I’m actually building a little bit of authority to my own redirect domain that way. For other stuff, you know, again, I just use pretty links Pro, because I think when you buy that you get unlimited domain installs. And so yeah, I mean, for example, we’ve got a link shortener on for semantic mastery that we’ve had for years now called and if we use pretty links in that it’s SM short dot link. And if you go to the homepage, it’s it’s a Sam Jackson telling you to fuck off. But we use that as our redirect URL and have been for years SM short link and it’s great because it’s just Pretty Link Pro. So again, that’s what I’ve been using. But yeah, there are other things like rebrand Lee and stuff that have some inherent authority that you can use. So that would answer Jordans question next as well.

How To Find The Best Keywords For My YouTube Videos?

So Kevin is up. He says, How do I find the best keywords for my YouTube videos? I’m glad you asked that, Kevin. I actually prepared this specifically, I’m going to drop these links on the page for you as a reply, and then I’m just going to briefly talk about them because they’re both really good. And I want to explain why. OK, cool. So for YouTube video keywords, I think these are the two best software’s or tools available. One is and they’re both from the same developer by the way.

So this one is Power Suggest Pro and this is by Ted Chen that he’s again a developer a both these tools that I’m going to show his hands down my favorite keyword tool and has been for years it’s incredibly inexpensive if you buy it through our link which is the link that I just dropped there I think you can get it for yes I think if you buy it straight from the website at $77 but through our link it’s 57 and that’s because we’ve sold this a lot for Ted so he gave us a discount for our our audience only. Anyways, it’s a one time fee 57 bucks it’s an incredibly simple tool. And it works really really well especially for generating long tail keywords like stuff that you can rank for overnight like instantly when you’re talking about YouTube video stuff because it will spit out a not all it all it does is produced keyword excuse me auto suggest keywords so Google suggest or YouTube suggest or eBay suggest or Amazon suggest and I think it has been in there as well.

I’ll just open it up real quick. But it’s a very simple tool. And all it does is it uses the suggested phrases. And it used does it via API. So it grabs them very, very quickly. And it’s got Google, YouTube, Yahoo, Amazon, eBay and Bing. And so for YouTube, like I’ve got it checked right here, I know, it’s probably small on your end, guys. But for YouTube, you just put in your search term, or your seed keyword, so to speak, and then allow and then just hit Search and you can set up suffix or recursive. recursive means like so for example, you know, when you go to Google and you type in a keyword, and then you type in space a, it’s going to list the top 10 suggested search queries that were that that last word starts with an A, and then you can go be and it’ll give you the top 10 suggested search queries with the the last word starting with a B, and so on and so forth all the way through A through Z, while recursive will then go back in search the 10 results for each letter, again with the neck with a again at the end, and so

You can literally spit out thousands of keywords, complex search queries very, very quickly. And what I like about it is because it’s coming from the Google suggest it for YouTube and Google anyways, the Google suggests API, all you’re getting our search queries that are known to have traffic or have enough interest from Google from from Google users for Google to put them in the suggested a, you know, the suggested excuse me, the the suggest database and other words, Google doesn’t have suggested search query phrases in there just randomly. They’re there because people have searched for those specific queries. Does that make sense? So the YouTube suggest that use YouTube suggest database is not as good as Google’s. In other words, you will see some repetition of like specific words that will be appended to your search queries are the the output essentially from from this tool, but with the when you’re looking at just the Google suggested phrases, it’s incredible because you can get into some sometimes the queries that come out of here are eight 910 words long, which means there’s traffic on those complex queries, there’s no doubt there’s traffic there, or else they wouldn’t be in the suggest database. But very few, if any, are optimizing for them. And that’s why I’m saying this is an outstanding tool for SEO guys. Because you can develop your your silos around long tail keywords that are spit out from this tool, in a matter of seconds, it works very quickly. And you can get super long tail keyword phrases or search queries essentially, that you can optimize content for. And when we’re talking about YouTube, I mean, you can literally rank for stuff, the moment it’s published, if you’re if you’re targeting those long tail and then if you’re using silos properly, which is what we teach with, you know, for content stacking period, but you can you can apply silo architecture

YouTube channels using playlists, right? That’s YouTube Silo Academy, you can do, you can get really good results even for short tail keyword phrases by creating a silo playlist and targeting the longer more complex queries that rank almost instantly. And so again, this is a fantastic tool guys, for 57 bucks, it’s a one time fee. You’d be silly not to use it. Number two, this is a also by Ted Chen. But this is an online version of it. And this is a tool by that was co developed by our friend Justin sorry, who is hands down the best, in my opinion guide for learning how to run YouTube ads for e com and for lead generation or like building email lists and all that kind of stuff. Justin, sorry. He’s great. And this is a tool he developed called tube sift. What he co developed it with Ted Chen, Ted’s there, that’s Justin. And this is an online version that will. it’s got a lot of this the same

functionality in the app or you know, the online version as power suggest Pro, but it’s got a lot of additional features for YouTube advertising. So it is more of an ads tool. And it is an SEO tool. But there is the SEO component of it because it has the same power suggest pro functionality in the app. But it also has a lot of additional things like finding, it’s got a YouTube channel searcher that you can find other channels to find other videos that you can use for in strategic ways. You can also build placement list for YouTube ads, all that kind of stuff. So either one of these are really, really good depending if you’re just doing SEO work, you can get away with just using power suggest Pro. If you plan on doing any YouTube advertising, I highly recommend picking this tool up because it works really well. And I still use this to all the time whenever I run YouTube ads, I’m always in there using this tool. It’s a great, great tool.

Okay, so great question. We’re gonna keep moving. We’re almost out of time here to.

What MGYB Services Would You Recommend To Get Faster Traction In Multi-Location GMB Pages?

Daniel says. I have some Some new sites being created both for roofers one with two locations about three hours apart and one with location servicing to adjoining counties. What service from MTV? Would you recommend to me to get some traction fast in the first month? Then what would you suggest to follow up after that? Thanks. Um, well, first of all press releases, Daniel is going to be one of the things you can do quick to get the best results, the quickest results, although the days of just one press release, being able to get super, super good results are unless it’s very non competitive. If it’s real, if it’s a real low competition, you know, you can very well get a good results with, you know, significant movement with one press release. But if it’s more competitive, it’s going to require several press releases published in succession, like a week apart or two weeks apart. That essentially the PR stalking method in order to get results there’s Google’s algorithm is adapted for a long time there for almost a year. We’re able to just crush it with press releases for from maps listings. And we still can, but it requires more and consistency in order to do it to get the same kind of results, but press releases, obviously drive stacks. drive stack is again standard operating procedure. It does take a little bit of time for Dr stacks to take effect. But I would recommend having to drive stack pointed at your your each one of your clients that then you can actually target both locations within the DR stacks for each each client. And then what you can do is bit link build to the Dr. stat, right and again, that’s those are all services that we provide an empty, Why be in the store. You can buy press releases from us, you can buy and you also get an organization page, which is a like a media room page, which is great, because you can use that very strategically. You can actually embed that in your drive stacks, which is very powerful. And then build links to your drive stacks and your organization pages which are like your accent, essentially your media room page as well.

your your your press releases for that brand that company will be listed. It’s like a it’s like an index like a blog index page essentially for the press releases so you power that up with additional links and that will help to. So again, I would recommend doing a kind of a one two punch. I’m honestly Daniel, if you were are handling like the work for your clients. That’s where local GMB pro local PR pro and ROI is all combine those together is like that’s like the perfect triple combo to get results for clients. I don’t you know, you’d have to go buy all the training courses and learn all that stuff to be able to implement it or you can just buy some of those the GM or excuse me, the PR and press releases and the drive stacks directly from MGYB not have to learn all of it. And then again, you apply the link building campaigns to those properties not directly to the money site. As far as the GMB assets, the actual

maps, you know, listings themselves. That’s where local GMB Pro comes in. That’s where you’re going to get the best results from the actual GM, Google My Business listing, essentially. So that you know, I would recommend we don’t have that service available publicly yet an mg Why be in the mastermind we do, Daniel, where you can buy mg Excuse me. GMB services from us done for you Google My Business Services. But that’s only available in the mastermind right now. So if you want to apply those methods to your current clients, then you have to right now purchase local gym, be Pro, or come join the mastermind, which is what I would recommend because you can get it the training much cheaper there as well as get done for you services there so that you don’t have to spend the time and effort learning how to do it. You can just find that get the training from us as how to apply it and then how hire us to do it for you. And that’s going to get you the quickest results instead of you have to learn it. So I would recommend you come join the mastermind. It’s a small price to pay for the access to us and the training and the methods that are going to help you to get results the quickest. That makes sense. any comments on that?

Marco: No, that’s perfect.

Adam: No say Bradley make sure yeah, okay cool you have a…

Bradley: refresh I know it sucks Yeah, I don’t like that at all. all right um. okay so we’re there

yeah well i’m not i’m not digging the whole Facebook comments thing myself honestly but you know we’re trying to find a good solution guys here would discuss apparently wasn’t working so we’ll work it out. Michaels up he says not sure why. The same thing is complaining about this apparently.

Last week’s page isn’t showing last week some data that was seen as I saw that. huh? Okay.

So did it get resolved? Yep. Yeah, we didn’t have the code in there for the for the YouTube video. Oh shit, my bad. That was my fault then I apologize for that.

Is There A Way To Protect GMB Listings From Being Suspended From People Flagging Them?

Alright, I’ll Gus Augustus says is there a way to protect GMB listings from being suspended from people flagging them? No, I mean, make them look as real as possible. Augustus that’s the only thing you can do is, you know, try to make them look as real as possible.

If somebody flags it, and you, you know, if you can’t verify it physically, you know, via receiving a postcard, or, you know, taking photos from in front of the storefront or the location, if it’s not a storefront business, then the only thing that you can do is really try to make it look as real and as genuine as possible. Honestly, I think that’s bullshit right now, because any, you know, competitive competitors could just flag a listing, and it could cause Google to want to slap it and require ree ree verification, but there’s not much we can do about that right now.

We’re almost out of time, guys. I do have to leave but vitality says hello, hope everything is doing well. Question to Bradley. Any feedback on testing with quantum Newswire? Thanks. No, I’m still testing vitality. There’s a lot of amazing features with it. And I’ve got a lot of hopes for it. And I know the guys behind it like really and we wouldn’t have brought that to to our audience unless we truly believed in it. But I am doing some pretty significant testing with it that we’re going to reap, you know, bring that, bring them back to do another presentation. Another offer essentially, once I have my case study done when we promoted it the first time, I didn’t have my case study done and that’s because I just honestly have had been overwhelmed with too much other work at the moment. But I am actively working on that case study right now. So that in the next two to three weeks, we can bring that them back to present the offer again. And this time, I will take a much more active role in the actual presentation and showcase study data like I often do to show exactly how I’m what you know the kind of results like I’m getting from it. So right now now I don’t have any updates for you, but we will in a few weeks. Okay.

Will Existing Members Get The Video Lead Gen V2 Update Or There’s A Need To Repurchase Them?

Rob says Bradley spoke about video lead gen system v2 launching soon will existing members get the update or where we have to repurchase to get the new v two updates? That’s a good question. As far as I know, you will get the updates. Rob, as far as I know, you will get the updates. Why do we were getting double? I don’t know maybe because it wasn’t showing up on the page. Anyways, so there you go, guys. I gotta run. It’s five o'clock. Sorry about this. Comment app not working correctly. Again. I don’t know what to do about it. We’ll figure it out. So thanks, everybody. Thanks, man.

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