#so true Queen the brain cells have left the building

[insignificant457]

Life on the Archimedes (755 PCE)

[allhailthecoffeegods]

A lonely kitty in Gotham

Chapter 1

Tired... Marinette was extremely tired. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep but instead she sat staring at the wall of her office in her small apartment she had bought and was now living in because her parents kicked her out.

Why was she staring at the wall you may ask? Short answer, she had finally done it! She had finally tracked down Hawkmoth and Mayura after 3 years of fighting she now knew both of their identities (Gabriel Agreste and Natalie Sancoeur) and not only that but she had an entire file filled with proof. Now all that was left was to take back their miraculous and hand them over to the police (not before cursing them first... obviously).

Unfortunately it’s not going to be as easy as it sounds. You see Marinette or Nettie which she goes by now was alone, completely and utterly alone.

No Parents, no family and no friends.

Three years ago Nettie had all of the above she was happy, she had a best friend Alya and a group of many friends from her class, she had two loving but slightly distant parents who ran the most popular bakery in all of Paris possibly even France and her amazing grandmother Gina who traveled the world and told her all about the crazy things she did (some of which she promised not to tell her parents about because it may have been considered breaking the law but nothing reallllly bad).

But all of that soon changed over the first year Hawkmoth terrorised Paris with his akuma and was later joined by mayura with her sentimonsters. Slowly she lost everything including her partner in fighting crime Mr.Bug holder of the ladybug miraculous.

Nettie is in procession of not only the black cat miraculous but also forcefully became the last remaining guardian of 18 other mini gods that are bound to jewels (excluding the butterfly and peacock (not that she would ever give them up because they are basically her family now and she will do absolutely everything to protect them)). How?

Running late to class 3 years ago she saved a (very) old man (186 years old to be specific) from being hit by a car, and for some reason that was enough for him to “gift” her the black cat miraculous as he saw her true chaotic soul and aura (it didn’t matter that she was only 13 YEARS OLD!) he thought it was a brilliant idea to turn her into a child soldier fighting a war against two supervillains more than double her age.

After and introduction to the one and only God of Destruction, who by the way is OBSESSED with the stinkiest of cheeses, she became one of Paris’ main superheroes Kitty Noir alongside her partner Mr.Bug who she guessed to be around the same age as her at the time. It was easy to deduct that he was going to be more of a problem instead of a partner due to his obsessive and intense flirting and lack of skills other than some possible fencing training, all in all he didn’t have a clue how to fight. He was also apparently extremely reckless... like more reckless than her pouring 2 energy drinks into coffee before downing it and has died so many times in a fight she now also has a close relationship with tiki the God of Creation having had to end the fight herself (honestly why did the old guy pick him because it seems like he didn’t even do a similar ‘oh help save me’ situation like he had with her otherwise the old guy would already be dead!) Even though she wasn’t that much better to begin with she did have some hand to hand combat training curtesy of Gina and her ‘friends’ (let’s talk about those later). And she was now training in martial arts and going to the gym to build more muscle and become better without the enhanced supersuit just incase (she also sticks a domino mask on before transforming because she’s paranoid okay and if she is ever forced to detransform she doesn’t want anyone knowing her identity right of the bat to use against her, okay!)

Alongside that she was also extremely smart (like genius level) great with technology and quick to come up with some absolutely insane but brilliant plans. This all resulted in her taking on more of a leadership roll whilst fighting akumas. Mr.Bug only got worse as time went on and her civilian life went downhill, it took 8 months for the old man (previous guardian of the miraculous and temporary mentor for 2 of the months) to become compromised and pass the roll onto her. And the first thing she did was take the ladybug miraculous back and erase the holders (Adrien Agreste her former friend) memories of being Mr.Bug.

The only problem with that was the battle Miracle queen where master fu (the old guardian man) was compromised, and so were all 8 of her temporary heroes except Viperion, holder of the snake miraculous, who had started to tour around the world with his farther Jagged Stone) this ment there were two consequences of taking The ladybug back, the first being she was now alone against two superpowered terrorists but also that she had to switch transformations at the end of a battle to be able to purify the Akuma and cast the miraculous cure to fix everything and yes that did include... resurrection of people who died in the cross fire.

Anyways, back to how Nettie is alone. Only a few weeks after the first attack, an exchange student transferred to the the newly dumbed Akuma class *sigh*. At first she seemed nice and had and was telling the class of her interesting life, her mother was a Italian diplomat and she’s traveled the world.

But Nettie had a bad gut feeling about Lila Rossi which unfortunately was correct. On her third day in the class she started gushing over how kitty noir aka Nettie dearest (obviously unknown to everyone else) saved her from and Akuma attack and they became “best friends”, to say Nettie was left speechless and confused at the lie is an understatement.

Regrettably Nettie was unable to prove her story was a lie because how would she know said superhero didn’t save her without revealing her secret identity.

But the girl carried on creating more and more outlandish claims, such as how she saved Jagged Stones cat on a jet runway (like come on seriously what airport would allow a CHILD of even a cat to run out onto the tarmac). But pointing this out was apparently a mistake which Nettie soon discovered in the girls bathroom after class. Lila sauntered in with a sickly sweet smile that was soon dropped when Nettie refused to give into this girls bullshit.

Hence she was pinned against the wall and threatened, that if she didn’t go along with lie-la’s lies she would lose everything she loved before leaving so she wasn’t caught. Not believing her Nettie continued to point out inconsistencies and facts that contradict her story’s but no matter how much proof was presented to the class lie-la was able to turn it around (meta theory coming into her head: maybe she wasn’t affected because of the miraculous magic) and plant the idea that Nettie was a bully into all her friends heads which apparently all share one brain cell ( or so she thought until Adrien confirmed he knew they were lies to but he was taking the ‘high road’ because nobody was getting hurt, it’s definitely not like lilas ruining all there future careers by promising favours and opportunity’s that will never come and convincing them they no longer need to put in any effort for their futures *insert eye-roll* ).

So life continued and her friends started to turn on little Nettie the scattered brained, clumsy girl who bent over backwards to protect and make sure they were all happy. It hurt more than words could describe the day Alya her BEST FRIEND led the class to turn their backs on her and declare they no longer want to be friends with a jealous bully anymore.

Luckily Nettie wasn’t akumatised but she came very close to it. The only things keeping her going were her duty to Paris and her family.

But as a consequence to that good luck, bad luck hit like a truck. She didn’t know for a few weeks until a guy named Jason called her parents to inform them that her favourite person in the whole world her amazing grandmother Gina had passed away in a accident somewhere in the United States. And if that wasn’t bad enough Lila also managed to place a seed of doubt in her parents around the same time. Life fucking sucked. She wasn’t able to process and grieve due to Hawkfuck still being around so instead she threw herself into creating her own business (NeTi Designs) doing commissions, did I mention she’s a talented fashion designer... no, well now you know. As well as diving head first into a very thorough investigation on mothfucker in between fighting Akuma, helping in the bakery, plus training and patrolling the city of lights for two hours each night.

Atleast she didn’t have to make excuses to not hang out with her ex-friends anymore heh heh *cough*.

Eventually this resulted in her parents questioning her on her disappearances from her room after randomly checking in one night while she was out patrolling and the conversation sort of went like this.

“Marinette, where have you been?! I just checked your balcony and you weren’t up their. It’s 2am” Sabine exclaimed when she dropped back onto her bed moments after detransforming. “Mamma I swear I was up there and I fell asleep in the corner near my pillows behind the deck chair. I just woke up from the cold and I thought I herd movement and panicked because ‘oh my gosh!’ Is it an Akuma but it wasn’t it was you mamma” Nettie responded with dramatic waving of her hands and a fake smile.

Sabine was NOT impressed and most certainly knew it was a lie but it was 2am and she couldn’t deal with this right now so she glared at her daughter whilst leaving her room through the trapdoor.

This continued for two weeks with both her parents randomly checking in. Nettie had to eventually relocate her research into a small apartment a few streets away from the library (which she paid for with commission money that nobody but her knew about especially since her business was doing well and she didn’t put it past her class to try and destroy that if they ever found out) and say she was studying to not be caught doing deep background checks on all her suspects, making files for every Akuma and tracking the butterfly’s on a app she created that has multiple resources available to the public ranging from an alert for attacks that can be activated all the way to videos she made in her hero persona showing things such as meditation or basic self defence that should only be used if they’re unable to get to a safe area away from the Akuma or to buy time to then get away depending on the powers of said Akuma. (Could also be useful in regular crimes like attempts at mugging)

This lead to longer disappearances to the point all her stuff that had any value to her or was related to business and miraculous matters (so basically everything) she was practically living there already. Not that she realised since she got maybe 5-6 hours of sleep and week? She was so enclosed in her little world when her parents decided they had enough (after multiple accusations of her sleeping around with older men and doing drugs (all tests came back negative because her choice of drug was caffeine) which where definitely lilas doing) her parents yelled at her to get out and never come back... so she did the only thing she had to grab where her pillows and fairy lights and she was out of the door, the situation was dubbed a future Nettie problem because ya know suppressing your emotions so the world doesn’t end.

(Authors note: I have plans on making this a series. Hope you guys like it 🙃)

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...’

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

[marvelous-writer]

Responsible for Making Sure You’re Responsible

Summary: Peter knows he’s hurt badly enough that he can’t just slap a bunch of band-aids on his injuries, and especially the giant, still-oozing puncture wounds on his back and along his shoulders from the tips of Toomes’ wings. But it’s not like he can just stumble into an emergency room and ask to get stitched up. So where to go instead?

May would have a heart attack if she saw him right now, not to mention immediately figure out his secret. Ned would also definitely freak out, probably waking his parents in the process. Mr. Stark was an option, but Peter wasn’t about to bother him, not after how the man had made it crystal clear that he didn’t want anything to do with Peter ever again.

So no hospital, no May, no Ned, and no Mr. Stark just left… Happy. 

Or: following his final fight with the Vulture, Peter is left grievously injured and in need of some serious help. Cue Happy to the rescue.

Word count: 6,880

A/N: Me and @blondsak‘s first collab!!!

Link to read on AO3

Peter doesn’t know how he made it from the Coney Island Cyclone all the way to Avengers Tower. To be honest, the entire journey was a bit of a blur as his steadily bleeding injuries throbbed painfully in protest from all the web-slinging. 

When his feet hit the landing pad of the Tower, Peter distantly wonders why he had decided to come here, of all places. Even through his foggy brain, he knows he’s hurt badly enough that he couldn’t just slap a band-aid on the many deep cuts, burns and bruises littering his whole body, especially the giant puncture wounds on his back and along his shoulders from the tips of Toomes’ wings. But then again, it’s not like he could just stumble into an emergency room and ask to get stitched up. At least, not wearing his original Spider-Man costume, which - though basically rags now - was still far too easily identifiable beneath all the stains and grime. 

As for going home, that was definitely ruled out—May would have a heart attack if she saw him right now. Peter could maybe have chanced going to Ned’s, but Ned would have almost definitely freaked out at the sight of him, which would have led to his parents waking up and Peter losing any hope of his secret - not that it was still much of one anymore, but still, he had to try, didn’t he? - staying under wraps. So Ned’s place was out, too. Mr. Stark was another option, but Peter wasn’t about to bother him, not after how the man had made it crystal clear in the form of a forced walk of shame from Brooklyn to Queens - in Hello Kitty pajama pants, no less - that he didn’t want anything to do with Peter ever again. 

So no hospital, no May, no Ned, and no Mr. Stark just left… Happy. 

It’s definitely not ideal, but the fact remains that Happy’s his best bet right now, and Peter, well—Peter is pretty desperate. And the only place he knows Happy could be was back at the Tower, from where he assumes the man had been overseeing the move before the plane took off and Peter’s night went from  really, really bad to totally screwed.

With a deep, weary sigh Peter limps towards the glass doors, one hand pressed firmly against a shoulder in a futile effort to staunch the worst of the bleeding, surprised to find that the door is unlocked as he steps inside. He’s too out of it to notice that the once well-furnished living room is now completely empty. He passes by the kitchen, looking around at the vacant space. He doesn’t exactly know where he’s going to be honest. There’s a small tingling at the back of his head, the only warning he gets before an unfamiliar face comes around the corner from the hallway, a small squeak of surprise coming from the man - a security guard, by the looks of his uniform - at the sight of him. 

“Don’t come any closer! I’ll—I’ll shoot!” the guard cries out, though it comes out shaky, like he’s scared or maybe just inexperienced. All the same Peter doesn’t hesitate to put up his throbbing arms in temporary submission, biting back a groan from the pain. The shaking flashlight suddenly stills on Peter’s chest, the guard taking in the tattered remains of Peter’s homemade suit. His going wide as he exclaims, “Wait—you’re Spider-Man! What are you doing here?” Then, all shakiness gone and replaced with excitement, “Are you here on Avengers business?” 

“No, it’s n-nothing like that,” Peter weakly replies. “I actually need to talk to–”

“I heard that you were, like, an honorary Avenger now,” the guard interrupts, seemingly not noticing Peter’s injured state. “Is that true? I mean, I saw that on The Bugle’s Twitter page but I wasn’t sure if it was true. But I guess you did  fight with Iron Man against the Rogue Avengers, which was totally awesome by the way! That basically means you are then, right?”

Peter’s head is spinning from all of the questions, worsening his pounding headache. He closes his eyes beneath what’s left of his mask, gritting his teeth. 

The guard must take his silence as affirmation, continuing, “I knew it! My buddy Marv keeps saying there’s no way they’d add a low-level vigilante from Queens to their roster, but then he’s always been more of a Cap guy and anyway, he’s from Brooklyn so what does he–”

“S-sorry, but—where’s Happy Hogan?” Peter interrupts with as much force as he can. He’s starting to feel really lightheaded, and he can’t afford to let himself pass out in front of an overexcited Spider-Man fan, and especially one who was obsessed enough to believe any Spider-Man news that came from The Bugle—a news site that Peter knows for a  fact  offers a substantial reward for any proof of Spider-Man’s identity. “L-look, I need to speak to Happy right now. It’s a-an emergency.”

“Uh, okay, sure,” the guard replies after a moment, looking slightly put out even as he pulls out his cell phone and starts swiping through it, putting it up to his ear as he continues to eye Peter curiously. Normally Peter would have no issue hearing the ringing and Happy picking up, but he’s just so tired. Instead finds himself zoning out even as the guard starts rambling to the other person about Spider-Man showing up, until–

Peter startles when someone pokes him in the arm, looking up to see the guard is now standing right in front of him, holding out his phone. “He says he wants to talk to you.”

Trying to blink the exhaustion out of his eyes, Peter nods and takes the device. “Hey, Happy.”

“Kid,” Happy replies with a sigh, the relief in his tone something Peter’s never heard from him before. “You have no idea how glad I am that you’re okay.”

“Me too,” Peter agrees without thinking, then blinking slowly again, “but uh, about that–”

“Look, this line isn’t exactly secure,” Happy interrupts, and now Peter hears voices shouting in the background, along with what sounds like large trucks rumbling, “and neither is the tower anymore, for that matter. How about you head to my place? We’re just about finished getting the tech loaded and off the beach.”

“Oh, um, okay,” Peter replies numbly, the fog in his brain clearing just enough for him to memorize Happy’s address—relieved when he realizes it’s still in Manhattan, and in the Upper East Side at that. Happy doesn’t really come across as a glitzy kind of guy, but Peter supposes it makes sense that Mr. Stark would pay him very well, considering his job title and all.

��...still there, kid? You get that?”

“Wha’?” Peter asks dumbly, pulled out of a second daze in as many minutes. Man, he really needs to focus if he wants to make it to Happy’s in one piece. “Oh y-yeah, yeah. I’ll meet you there, Happy.”

There’s a pause then, as if Happy is mulling something over. But whatever it is he must let it go, saying instead, “I’ll see you there. And no dawdling at the churro stand, you hear me?” 

The line clicks before Peter can reply. Wearily he drops the phone from his ear, passing it back to the guard. “Thanks.”

Not wanting to invite further conversation, he immediately starts limping back toward the landing pad—only to come to a halt when the guard calls after him.

With a sigh Peter turns around, “Yeah?”

But where he expected the guard to bombard him with more questions, or maybe ask him for an autograph, the man looks only worried now. “Just wanted to check, uh—you sure you’re gonna be okay? ‘Cause to be honest, you don’t look too good.”

Peter smiles behind the torn mask, feeling a tiny bit of warmth spark in his chest at the man’s concern. It’s almost enough to overtake the cold that’s already seeped into him—Peter suppressing a shudder as the two war for dominance.

“Thanks, b-but, I’ll be okay.” 

“If you say so,” the guard says after a few moments, clearly not buying it. But he doesn’t say anything else and after a pause Peter turns away again, stumbling over to the doors and back outside. The chill of the night air seems to sink right into his bones, and this time Peter can’t stop the whole-body shiver that wracks him.

“Okay, you j-just gotta make it to Happy’s and then he’ll s-stitch you up and you’ll be f-fine,” he says to himself—taking a deep breath as he tries to shore up enough strength for the trip. “C’mon Spider-Man. Just this one l-last thing and then you can rest.”

With those words of self-encouragement Peter sends a web out and jumps over the edge, falling and falling only to shoot out another web and clumsily catch himself—ignoring the deep stabbing pain as his bodyweight pulls on the injured shoulder, feeling another burst of warmth flow down his back. 

Gritting his teeth, Peter takes aim for the Upper East Side, willing away the tendrils of darkness that keep pulling at his mind as he flies through the air, focusing on nothing else but getting to Happy’s place and continuing to talk to himself just to stay awake. 

“You got th-this, Spider-Man. Just get to Happy’s and th-then you can s-sleep,” he whispers just as Happy’s building comes into view. 

With no small amount of giddy relief he lands on the small balcony and wrenches open the sliding glass door. 

“S-s-see Happy? No d-dawdling,” he announces with a lazy smile, only to belatedly realize the place is still dark. Distantly his mind registers that he must have beat Happy here.

For a few moments Peter sways, before he hears a dripping sound. 

“Wha’s l-leakin’?” he asks the empty room. He glances down when he hears yet another drip, blinking dumbly when he sees it’s coming from him. 

His blood, landing onto what has to be super-expensive carpet. Shit! 

“Ohhh no,” Peter whispers, looking around in a panicked daze. Everything is starting to go blurry now and no—he can’t pass out here! Happy already barely tolerates him… what will he say if he comes back to find Peter ruined his floor?

“Think, Peter, think,”  he says to himself, before stumbling through the apartment toward the hallway—cursing when he trips over the edge of the coffee table, knocking over a plant on his way down. For a second he just breathes as he lies on the floor, eyes closing as he nearly gives in to the exhaustion… only to grit his teeth and stumble back onto his feet.

He leans heavily against the hallway wall for support as he staggers toward the bathroom. 

“M-made it,” he whispers as he crosses the threshold. He clutches at whatever is within reach as he hauls himself across the tiled floor, spots gathering in his vision. But by some miracle he eventually manages to collapse over the edge of the tub, curling up against the far corner of the porcelain. 

With a sigh of relief Peter finally allows his eyes to close and stay closed, telling himself that he’s safe now. After all, Happy is on his way, and he’ll handle everything for Peter, just like he does for Mr. Stark, right?

Right,  Peter thinks. 

It’s the last thought he has for a while.

_______________________________________________________________

“Come on! It’s a frickin’ yield sign!” Happy yells as he blares his horn at the car in front of him. He’s been stuck at this intersection for over seven minutes now, chipping away at what little patience he has left now that he’s back in Manhattan, yet still too far from Peter.

Because frankly, it’s a miracle the kid is even alive after a crash like that. The minutes after he’d first seen the scrawled note - during which he’d frantically searched the wreckage for a matching teenaged vigilante to go with the copious bloodstains strewn about the sand - will forever haunt Happy, especially knowing that Peter had been on the downed plane.

And while at first he’d been relieved to hear that Spider-Man was at the tower and looking for him, when he’d heard how out of it the kid sounded on the phone… well, let’s just say it had reminded him far too much of a different reckless superhero he knew, albeit back in the man’s less sober days. 

But where back then he’d been saving Tony from choking on his own vomit, tonight had raised red flags in Happy’s mind for other reasons. Because Peter wasn’t drunk or high, no—he was injured, badly enough that he was spacing out and slurring his words.

Happy can only hope it’s just a minor concussion, and not something worse. Because if anything happened to that kid, he would never forgive himself for it, and not only because Tony would have his head. Peter’s aunt was at home waiting for him, probably wondering where the hell he is at twelve-thirty in the morning on a Saturday night. 

He recalls then what he’d told the kid not a week earlier, when Peter had called while he’d been busy and distracted preparing for Moving Day: "Stay away from anything dangerous. I'm responsible for making sure you're responsible, okay?" 

Happy chews on the inside of his cheek, feeling another cry of worry-induced—and if he’s honest, guilt-induced—road rage rise up in his throat, only to force himself to swallow it back down. 

He’s not going to let himself lose it, not yet. Because Peter has to be okay. He has to be, because Happy doesn’t know how he’ll live with himself if he isn’t. 

It takes him twenty minutes before he arrives at his apartment building, not stopping to talk to his doorman as he quickly gets into the elevator. 

“Come on, come on…” Happy mumbles to himself as he impatiently punches at his floor’s button as the polished elevator doors slide shut in front of him. 

He all but runs out when the doors slide open on his floor—only to nearly crash into his next door neighbor Ms. Devine and her yappy shih-tzu, Mr. Fluffers.

“Sorry, Ellie,” Happy hastily apologizes, then when Mr. Fluffers growls at him, adds in a faux-casual voice, “Taking the dog for a late night walk?”

“Fluffy here runs on his own schedule,” the older woman responds kindly enough, only to narrow her eyes as if sniffing out a chance for gossip fodder. “And what has you hurrying home in such a rush after midnight?”

Making sure Spider-Man isn’t bleeding to death in my apartment. “Just checking that I didn’t leave my oven on.”

Ms. Devine continues to stare suspiciously for a few moments, before smiling tiredly and saying, “I’ve done that before.” 

“Haven’t we all,” Happy says with a polite smile as he walks around her, reaching in his pocket for his keys. “Have a good evening,” he adds rather dismissively, not looking back at what he is sure is a disapproving glare.

He waits until she turns the corner before racing down the rest of the hallway. Happy stops at his door, hands shaking as he fumbles to slide the key into the lock on the knob, scared of what he’ll find inside. He braces himself as he steps into the dark entryway, shutting the door behind him—careful to lock the deadbolt just in case Ms. Devine gets any ideas and decides to make an impromptu housecall. 

“Peter?” he calls out as he walks further in, feeling around the wall for the light switch, his hand meeting something wet. He finds the switch and the lights come on—only to gasp at the sight just mere feet away from his face. All along the light grey wall of his living room and turning down the hallway are long, broken, halting finger trails of red. With growing horror, Happy realizes it can only be one thing— blood.

Fear shoots through Happy as he turns away from the blood-smeared wall, finding a trail of red droplets along with a plant lying on its side on the floor—its dirt burrowing into the carpet and mixing with more blood stains, as though whoever knocked it over had landed in the mess and only barely managed to get back on their feet.

“Oh shit,” Happy breathes out as he follows the bloodied dirt trail, leading to the bathroom down the hall, finding the door open with the lights on. “Peter?” he frantically calls out.

Stepping a foot inside, it looks like something straight out of a horror movie. There’s smears of blood across the floor, as well as a handprint on the edge of the sink. Happy’s eyes scan over the scene before they settle on the blue and red— too much red —covered figure lying in the tub. 

“Oh my God,” Happy exclaims as he rushes forward and bends over the edge, hands hovering over Peter’s all-too-still form. Shit shit shit!!! 

“Kid? Peter?” Happy calls as he shakes the kid’s shoulder, gently at first and then more forcefully—closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in relief when the kid lets out a weak, pained groan.

“H’py? S’ you?” Peter mumbles, lifting his head, the goggles of his ridiculous homemade mask squinting in the lighting. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Happy says with no small amount of relief. Placing his hands under the kid’s armpits, he helps Peter’s slumping form straighten a little bit, alarm growing when he spots a pool of blood beneath the kid’s form, standing out against the pristine white tub floor. Happy reaches up and carefully peels off the torn remnants of the mask, revealing Peter’s pale and dazed face. His curls are slightly damp and sticking to his sweaty forehead. Unsure what to ask first, Happy blurts out, “What are you doing in the bathtub?”

Peter blinks slowly. “May says tomato sauce is… is hard t’ get out…” 

Happy brows pull together in confusion. “Tomato sauce? Kid—what are you talking about? You’re bleeding.”

Peter nods slowly, his chin dropping to his chest as he blinks with half-lidded eyes. “S’ what I said…” he mumbles, his eyes closing further. 

“Hey, hey, hey—no falling asleep on me. I have to make sure you don’t have a concussion or anything,” Happy tells him sternly. 

“But m’ tired,” Peter mumbles, words slurring together slightly. 

“I know, and you can sleep soon. Let’s just get you out of the tub and cleaned up first, okay?” 

“M’kay,” Peter mumbles, blinking sluggishly. 

Happy helps him out of the tub, practically carrying him with how wobbly the kid’s legs are, and sits him down on the closed toilet seat. “Do you promise to stay upright if I let you go?”

Peter gives the tiniest of nods, before slowly slumping sideways until his head and the ball of his shoulder hit the tiled wall. Happy waits until he feels confident Peter is safely propped before nodding back, patting him gently on the arm and leaving the bathroom. He practically runs into the kitchen, grabbing two pills of prescription strength ibuprofen and filling a glass of water heading back the way he came. 

“Here kid, take these,” he says, depositing the pills in Peter’s open palm and then holding the glass for him after he puts them in his mouth, helping the kid take a sip to get them down, then a few long gulps to quench his thirst. Satisfied, Happy sets down the glass and moves to the cabinet under the sink, pulling out his heavy-duty first aid kit. 

For as much as he had ignored the kid the past few months—and he’d be beating himself up about that for a good long while after this, no doubt—Happy had taken one aspect of his reluctant side gig of Spider-Man’s Keeper very seriously from the get-go, and that was preparing for a night just like this. One where Peter would call because he was injured and needed help getting patched up, and Happy would grumble but give him his address and tell him to swing over. 

As such, he had promptly taken his SI company credit card details and ordered an expensive, industrial-sized first aid kit to keep at home. He had hoped he wouldn’t ever have to use it, of course. But for now, he just finds he’s glad he had the foresight to plan for such a scenario—knowing that if he hadn’t, they’d be in a lot more trouble right now than they already are. 

“M’ really sorry, H’ppy,” Peter whispers as he watches Happy unclasp the kit and start pulling out supplies, carefully laying them out on the bathroom counter. Happy glances over at him, relieved to see the kid seems more coherent now that he’s both hydrated and medicated. “I didn’t... didn’t know where to go, and m-May would freak out—” 

“Kid, it's okay. I’m glad you’re here and not bleeding out in some alley,” Happy interjects as he grabs some face cloths from the small bathroom linen closet. Finally, with everything set up on the counter within easy reach, Happy turns back to Peter.. “Let’s get you out of that hoodie so I can see how bad it is.” 

Getting the top part of the kid’s homemade costume off of him is a bit of a struggle, but Happy takes it slow as Peter struggles to lift his arms above his head, parts of the fabric sticking to his skin with dried blood. Once it’s off, Happy’s stomach drops at the sight of the dark bruises blooming across the kid’s torso, as well as the cuts and deep puncture marks on his left shoulder. Just from being at the crash sight he knew it had been one hell of a fight, but seeing the consequences in the form of the actual wounds littering Peter’s young body brings it home in an entirely different way. 

“Happy?” Peter’s voice takes him out of his thoughts, looking up to see a puzzled look on the kid’s overly pale face. 

“Yeah,” Happy nods, blinking a few times and forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He turns the faucet on, rolling up his shirt sleeves and washing his hands and forearms thoroughly before running the face cloths under warm water, wringing them out. “This might sting a little,” he warns as he kneels down in front of Peter, bringing a cloth down to one of the sluggishly bleeding cuts, earning a pained groan.

After a few minutes, Happy’s managed to clean and bandage the cuts. The two puncture wounds on the kid’s back were shallow enough that they only needed to be cleaned and bandaged, but the two on his chest just below his clavicles would both need a couple of stitches. The only problem being that said kid is half-asleep and fading fast right in front of him. 

“I’m gonna have to stitch these chest wounds up, alright? Think you can hold on for a few more minutes?” Happy asks. 

Peter blinks heavily a few times, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” Happy says as he reaches up for the first aid kit from the sink countertop, grabbing the suture packet inside. He wipes away the blood and disinfects the left-side wound first—being the more serious of the two—before taking out the pre-threaded needle from the package. “Ready?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Peter replies with a shaky nod, cautiously eyeing the needle before closing his eyes as if bracing himself.

“Try not to squirm too much, kid,” Happy says before getting to work. To his surprise, besides a slight flinch with every pull of the thread Peter remains obediently still, and Happy wonders if he’s had to do this himself a time or two—feeling a pang of distress at the idea of the kid alone in his bathroom with nothing but his aunt’s sewing kit for supplies, biting down on a washcloth to muffle any noises of pain as he shakingly attends to all manner of jagged cuts and wounds.

He wants to think he’s just being dramatic imagining such a thing, but still he refuses to ask Peter—deciding not knowing is better than having his suspicions confirmed. As it is, the kid stays completely stoic even as Happy finishes stitching up the left wound and moves on to the right, being sure to be careful and thorough but still going as fast he can—knowing the kid is operating on his last reserves. 

“Alright, your torso is good to go,” he says as he finishes pressing a bandage over the second line of stitches, looking back up at Peter. “I need you to tell me the truth now. Do you have any other wounds that need seeing to? Because this isn’t the time for modesty if you do.”

Peter blinks slowly, before looking down at his legs. Happy watches in patient silence as the kid seems to take stock of himself—taking the chance to give a cursory once-over of the kid’s sweats. He personally doesn’t see any stains that seem to indicate more than shallow cuts, and is relieved when the kid looks back up only to shake his head.

“I think ‘m okay now,” the kid says, voice weak but tone honest enough that Happy believes him. 

“Alright,” Happy says simply, getting back to his feet—ignoring the way his knees crack and protest at the movement. “I’ll be right back. Try to drink more water if you can. No passing out while I’m gone.”

Peter doesn’t reply but also doesn’t slump any further, which Happy takes as acknowledgement enough before he swiftly moves back into the hallway, heading for his bedroom. He grabs one of his old Stillman’s Gym t-shirts and a pair of drawstring sweatpants that no longer fit him before going back to the bathroom—heartened to see the kid is still awake, albeit barely.

“Lift your arms,” he orders, watching as Peter does so as much as his injuries will allow before pulling the t-shirt over the kid’s head and getting his arms through the holes. “Think you can stand up and get those ruined pants off?” he asks next, Peter taking a deep breath before nodding determinedly. Happy can’t help but hover as he watches the kid stumble to his feet, using one arm to lean against the wall for support as with the other he fumbles with his waistband. Happy pointedly doesn’t watch, just leans over and stares at where the torn sweats are pooled at the kid’s feet as holds open the clean pair of sweatpants so Peter can step into them, lifting them up to the kid’s knees and letting go as soon as Peter has a good enough grip to pull them up the rest of the way himself.

Leaning back up, Happy does one last visual assessment to make sure he’s not missing any hidden injuries. Satisfied, he carefully wraps an arm around the kid’s uninjured lower back, leading him out the bathroom door and down the hallway.

It’s a testament to how absolutely exhausted Peter must be that he doesn’t ask any questions as Happy guides him into the guest bedroom, pulling back the covers and helping him settle in beneath the sheets.

“Th’ks, Hap,” Peter mumbles, eyes closing. He’s out almost immediately. Happy shakes his head as he watches the kid for a few more moments, making sure that his breaths are deep and even and pressing two fingers to the kid’s neck, double-checking his pulse. But everything seems to be fine, and Happy lets out a long sigh, giving himself just a few seconds to collect his thoughts as he tiredly rubs a hand over his face.

Tonight was close—way, way too close. And besides that sociopath Toomes, the blame for it rests squarely on exactly two people’s shoulders—neither of which are Peter. 

With that thought in mind, Happy gives the kid one last look before walking to the door. He closes it most of the way but leaves it just open enough so that he can peek in later, making a mental note to leave Peter a glass of water and some more pills for when he wakes up. 

He silently makes his way back into the living room—pointedly not looking at the dried blood streaked across the walls and staining the carpet—and pulls out his cellphone. 

He’s not too surprised to see he has a dozen missed calls from just the last hour, most of them from his team with the exception of one from Pepper and two from Tony. He debates calling Pepper back first—having no doubt she needs some answers about exactly how everything went to shit tonight so they can start getting ahead of the morning news cycle—but in the end selects Tony’s name. He finds himself mildly stunned when the man picks up on the first ring.

“Hap?”

“It’s me, boss.”

“Good. Listen, Fri’s been keeping me updated on the crash and apparently there’s evidence the kid was there but ran off, is that–”

“Don’t worry, I found him,” Happy says with a sigh. “He’s injured but he’ll survive.”

“Thank god,” Tony replies, and the sheer relief in his voice is enough that Happy is left surprised by him for the second time in under a minute. Tony wasn’t usually so transparently sincere when it came to those outside his inner circle, but his genuine concern for Peter couldn’t be more clear. Happy can’t help but wonder when that development happened, though—on second thought—he supposes he’s not all that shocked it did. The kid can be annoyingly endearing.

“That said, you’re gonna have to call May Parker and come up with a whopper of a good story,” Happy continues, “‘cause I sure as hell ain’t taking him back to Queens yet, what with the shape he’s in.”

“Sure, sure, I’ll figure out something.” A pause. “How bad is it? And where are you two? Does he need–”

“He went to the tower looking for me, after. One of the guards rang, and I told him to meet me at my place,” Happy explains. “Kid took some serious licks during the fight with Toomes but I managed to get him patched up. He’s sleeping now.”

“Good, that’s good.”

And now they’re at the part of the conversation that Happy would rather not deal with. But it’s no longer something he can afford to avoid, not after stitching up the passed out child down the hall. Because Peter is just a child—only  fifteen, for Christ’s sake. Happy swipes a hand over his face again, shaking his head—hating that he ever let himself forget that.

“Listen, bo—Tony,” he begins, “you know I’m not one to actually speak my mind too often, but this was… Look. I don’t know much but I do know that kid needs his suit back, and probably a whole hell of a lot more from you—from  both of us—from now on. Because this? This was an absolute shitshow as it was, and if he hadn’t been okay, I don’t know if—”

“You don’t have to tell me how bad I fucked up, Hap, I'm well aware,” Tony interjects, but there’s no anger in his tone, just weariness. “And just so we’re clear, this isn’t gonna happen again—I’ve already got a plan. As soon as the kid’s healed up he’s coming out to the compound. I’ve decided to make him a full team member—got a new nanosuit ready for him and everything.”

Happy frowns. He’s not sure making Peter an Avenger is any better for his safety than taking his suit away was. But then, if there’s one thing Happy tries to keep out of, it’s all the team drama and politics that Tony seems to constantly be dealing with. As long as the kid’s identity is safe, he supposes it might not be a bad idea—if Peter even wants it, that is.

“Just make sure you let him know it’s a choice and not a demand, boss.”

“Of course I’ll make sure he knows that,” Tony says irritably, but Happy knows him well enough to recognize that he’s only annoyed because he understands  exactly why Happy felt the need to say as much. After all, taking the kid to Germany, making Happy his main contact, keeping him out of the loop with the Toomes investigation, taking away the suit… Tony hadn’t given Peter much choice in anything up to now. 

Happy thinks about pressing the point, but decides it’s not worth it. Him and Tony might not be on the exact same page but they’re at least reading the same book, and that’ll have to do for now. In any case, Happy doesn’t intend to go anywhere, so if the time comes to set Tony straight again where the kid is concerned—he’ll be there then, too.

“Alright, well, if that’s everything for now I think I’m gonna try to catch a few winks while the kid is out,” Happy says. “He should be recovered enough to go home tomorrow, so you can tell his aunt to expect him then.”

“Got it, and yeah, I should hit the hay soon too,” Tony replies with a long sigh.  “Get myself ready for the PR storm that’s no doubt already brewing.”

Silence again, and Happy thinks about apologizing for what happened—knowing all too well that if he’d just listened to Peter’s friend when the kid popped up on his screen, this whole mess might have been mostly prevented. But he clenches his jaw instead. He has things to apologize for, certainly—but it’s not Tony who needs to hear them.

“Tell Peter I'll be in touch soon,” Tony continues when Happy doesn't respond.  “And Hap? Thank you.”

Happy pauses, uncertain exactly which thing in particular he's being thanked for. It could be for looking after the kid, or for saying his piece just now, or simply general gratitude for all the years he's faithfully had Tony’s back. He supposes it doesn't matter which one it is though, not really. The reply is the same. 

“No problem, boss.”

With a small smile, he hangs up. 

In a span of an hour, Happy’s managed to scrub every last drop of blood from the floors, walls and the bathroom. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to wake up and see the mess in the morning. He also threw the tattered remains of his suit in the washing machine and then into the dryer—one less thing for Peter to worry about. 

Tossing the bloody used paper towels in a plastic bag, Happy disposes of it in the kitchen trash can, leaving it hopefully out of sight and out of mind. 

If only the sight of an unconscious and injured Peter in his bathtub could be as easily forgotten.

Casting his guilt aside for now, he grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it up halfway, along with a few ibuprofen in a plastic Dixie cup. Turning off all the lights, Happy heads back down the hallway to the guest bedroom. 

He quietly pushes the door open with his foot and walks over to the bed, placing the water and pills on the nightstand within easy reach. Happy’s eyes fall on the kid, who is passed out, his mouth hanging open slightly. Another small smile finds its way to his face as an odd feeling spreads through his chest at the sight. Before he can talk himself out of it, Happy reaches a hand out, placing his palm on the kid’s forehead. He tells himself it's to check for signs of fever, but if it's also to physically reassure himself the kid is going to be okay, well, nobody’s gonna know anyway. 

“You’re gonna make my hair turn grey before its time, kid,” he whispers, receiving a soft sleep-sigh in return when he drops his hand. “And that’s only if Tony doesn’t manage it first.”

With a fond shake of his head, Happy makes his way out of the room, sparing one last glance at the sleeping teen before closing the door behind himself, leaving it open a crack once again. He heads to his room, choosing to leave his door open as well so he can hear should Peter wake up and need him. Going through his nightly bedtime ritual, his mind races with everything on his agenda for tomorrow—dealing with Damage Control’s rather displeased (to put it mildly) reaction to the plane crash and the almost-stolen tech, the inevitable PR nightmare, and finally, scheduling security detail for Pepper as she makes the rounds of meetings she'll undoubtedly have handling her end of all the former.

But right now, those things don’t seem as important. The important thing is the injured fifteen year old sleeping in his guest bedroom. The very one who he was supposed to be watching out for, and who he completely and utterly let down. 

As he lays down in bed and turns off his lamp, Happy vows to himself to be better from now on. Better at being there for Peter, even if that involves the kid talking his ears off with stories about school, his adventures patrolling Queens or all the annoying pop culture references he can't seem to stop making. From seeing everything Tony’s been through he knows the superhero business can be a lonely one, and Happy doesn’t want that for Peter. The kid should know he has more than just his teenage buddy in his corner. Which is why as soon as he can tomorrow, he is going to tell Peter exactly that. 

With that last thought in mind, Happy closes his eyes, soon drifting off. 

________________________________________________________________

It’s close to seven-thirty in the morning and Happy is sitting at the center island in the kitchen, all dressed and ready for the day, sipping from a mug of coffee. Despite it being Saturday, he still has a lot of work to do, starting with driving Peter home. 

He’d better get the kid up now so he has a chance to wake up a little and eat something before he goes home and faces the music with his aunt—Happy shooting off a quick text to Tony asking what cover story he gave Mrs. Parker so he can make sure their stories line up. And once he’s got that taken care of with the kid, Happy can apologize to him for the dismissiveness he’s shown over the past few months and explain how things are going to be different from now on. 

First though, he needs to get Peter’s suit out of the dryer. But when Happy goes to grab it, he finds the machine empty. Confused, he heads back down the hall, stopping outside the guest room and knocking softly. “Peter?” 

He’s met with silence on the other end. Happy’s brows pull together as worry pools in his gut. “Kid? I’m coming in.” 

But when he opens the door, he finds it to also be empty—the bed neatly made. Happy walks further into the room, seeing that the window is slightly ajar, the curtains gently blowing in the wind. 

“So much for that talk,” Happy mutters to himself with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He can only hope the kid doesn't blow his cover with his aunt. Should Peter reveal everything, he has no doubt his phone—being the only connection the kid has at the moment to reach Tony—will be blowing up with calls and texts from an understandably irate May Parker. While Happy is personally of the mind that she deserves to know the truth, he’d rather not deal with putting out that particular fire on top of everything else on his plate today.

He’s about to walk out of the room, but something on the nightstand catches his eye. Happy goes over and picks up a small folded piece of paper, finding neat handwriting inside. 

  Dear Happy, 

Thanks for helping me last night and letting me stay over. I would have let you know I was leaving but you were sleeping and after how late I made you stay up, I didn't want to bother you.

Also, don't be mad but I thought you should know that you snore REALLY loud. I'm no doctor but you might want to get that checked out.

Sincerely,

Peter Parker

 “That little shit,” Happy murmurs, reading over the part about his snoring again with no small amount of disgruntlement. Yet all the same he makes a mental note to call his doctor later in the day and make an appointment.

After all, he might have missed out for the time being on the big talk he had planned. But actually paying attention and taking Peter more seriously? Letting him know in every way he can that he’s listening, that the kid can trust that he’ll be there if he needs him?

Taking responsibility for all that begins right now.

[jenmyeons]

Crush Culture

moodboard credit to crush culture’s biggest fan @kyungseokie​ <3 

Pairing: kyungsoo x female reader Summary: Turns out drunk-dialing your crush in the middle of the night isn’t as bad as you initially thought.

Word count: 1620

Author’s note: what was supposed to be a drabble turned into a lot a little more but this is hopefully the fluffiness you were seeking jae! can’t believe i’m taking a fluff request from the queen of fluff herself @j-pping​ this is wild 

A dragged out ‘Kyungsoo~’ greets him over the line when he in his disoriented sleepy state answers the phone with a grumble.

The sound of your voice with the unmistakable drunken slur immediately has him perking up as he leans in squinting, trying to make sense of what ungodly hour of the night or morning it is. In the end, Kyungsoo gives up and instead asks why he’s the one at the receiving end of your drunk dialing. 

“I- I just-” you hiccup while trying to get the words out. “I just missed you so, so, so, so, so much. Why didn’t you come with me and the tall ones out for drinks, Kyungsoo~?” 

Kyungsoo’s brows draw together in confusion. “The tall ones… do you mean Chanyeol and Sehun?” 

The answer he receives is an almost incomprehensible one but he thinks he makes out a yes. Relief. At least you’re in somewhat good hands, Kyungsoo thinks to himself.

“Where are you? Are you still with the idiots?” He asks, worry lacing his still sleep-heavy voice. 

“No, no, no!” You interject. “They left for this… this… I don’t know,” you relent at last and Kyungsoo can feel his stomach sinking at the thought of you out by yourself without a sober cell in your body.

“I wanna go home” There are sniffles heard now and Kyungsoo sighs with defeat, you always were an emotional drunk. 

“Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up,” there is no hesitation in his statement and before you’ve even replied with a vague description of your whereabouts, Kyungsoo already has a pair of sweats on, heading for the door without bothering with a jacket. He quickly slips his shoes on and walks out of the apartment with determination in his step.

The drive from Kyungsoo’s home isn’t very far from your location and he is relieved to see that you followed his simple instructions to stay where you are while he makes the drive to pick you up. 

You’re seated at the sidewalk with your high heeled shoes taken off and discarded to the side, forgotten, as your knight in shining armor pulls up with his sleek car a few meters away. In the time since Kyungsoo ended the call with you in order to concentrate on his driving, you’d managed to at least somewhat sober up the slightest bit. The lack of alcohol fogging your brain quickly reminds you of the predicament you’ve put yourself in; drunk dialing long time friend and crush in the middle of the night, forcing him to come save you from what could otherwise end in disaster, had you actually stayed out in the middle of the night all alone.

The door of the driver’s side opens and a disheveled and unfairly good looking Kyungsoo appears in your line of sight. Looking good despite being rudely awakened at an ungodly hour should be illegal, you think to yourself. 

Without much more than a greeting and a ‘how are you feeling?’, to which you answer with an unconvincing ‘fine’, Kyungsoo pulls you up from the sidewalk and steers you over to his car. 

The vehicle smells like him is all you can think as you buckle your seatbelt in silence. As if every little thing doesn’t already remind you of him. His own natural scent along with the faint hint of his cologne feels like it will consume you and you can’t wait for this drive to soon be over. Streetlights pass by in a blur and Kyungsoo’s soft humming to whatever tune is playing on the radio and fatigue takes you over. The alcohol starts wearing off and with Kyungsoo’s angelic voice, you’re quickly lulled to sleep. 

Your soft snoring reaches Kyungsoo’s ears and he steals a quick glance at your sleeping state, head resting against the window, passing street lamps fleetingly lighting up your features and he thinks you look a lot younger while you’re sleeping. As quickly as he takes his eyes off the road to look at you, Kyungsoo tears his gaze away from you to focus on the task at hand. He contemplates for a while if he should make the long drive to your own place across town but decide against it as he feels a yawn separating his lips. Blinking away the fatigue which starts to once again cloud his eyes behind his thick rimmed glasses. His right hand itches to release the steering wheel and instead grab your left one which rests on your thigh. Not wanting to cross any boundaries, Kyungsoo grips the wheel a little stronger and tries thinking about something else. Anything other than how your fingers would feel intertwined with his.

The car coming to a halt in front of the familiar building of Kyungsoo’s apartment and the gentle shaking of your shoulder pulls you into consciousness. It takes a minute or two for your disoriented brain to connect the dots of your whereabouts and you send Kyungsoo a questioning look.

“I don’t trust that I can drive you all the way home without falling asleep at the wheel,” he explains softly and you know deep down that he probably doesn’t mind, he wouldn’t have picked you up otherwise, yet the need to apologize still takes over.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him sincerely and feel the warmth of a blush spreading through your cheeks. “I shouldn’t have called you this late.”

Kyungsoo shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you wake me up in the middle of the night than going home all by yourself.”

Not sure what to say so you just nod and open the car door. The chill of the night air making you shiver while still being refreshing in contrast to the stuffy air inside the car.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea once we get inside,” Kyungsoo states casually, walking around the car to lead you towards the entrance of the building. Your feet slightly unsteady from a night of drinking and wearing heels.

True to his words, the first thing he does when the two of you get inside is turn the kettle on while you settle on one of the stools by the kitchen counter. Kyungsoo works in silence, only asking what kind of tea you want and you feel strangely out of place in your friend’s home. Unsure whether it’s due to the embarrassment of drunk calling your crush or the suffocating quietness but the atmosphere is making your brain malfunction. You observe how he with a familiar comfort shuffles around the kitchen, heart thumping against your rib cage as you imagine how it would be to see this on a daily basis. How lucky you would be. 

Then Kyungsoo looks at you as he places the teacup in front of you and the last bit of liquid courage leaves your system in five daunting words.

“I’m in love with you.” 

Your right hand instantly flies up to cover your mouth as soon as the words that have haunted you for years are spoken into existence. You watch with dread as Kyungsoo’s round eyes widen in shock, his mouth falling agape and the regret of your confession comes creeping, burning your cheeks and neck. 

After an eternity of regret and furious blushing on your part, Kyungsoo finally breaks the quiet.

“Come again?” 

“Please don’t make me say it again,” you plead with tears of embarrassment threatening to spill as well as a thickness building in your throat, awaiting the rejection which you’re sure will come.

In a weak attempt at gathering yourself, turn away from the intense stare of Kyungsoo’s gaze - needing to focus on anything other than the man holding your heart. 

Kyungsoo, normally calm and collected can feel both his mind and heart racing from the words of the confession which still hang in the air. Waiting for him to say something - anything really. However, all words have left him and he stays rooted in his spot. The moment he has been dreaming of finally arrives and like a dumbass, he can’t even tell you he loves you too. He is so deeply in love to the point where he wonders if anyone has ever sparked such feelings in him before you. Probably not. 

Your stressed out state and the way you turn your head to look away from him seems to do the trick as his hands move to cup your face at their own accord, forcing you to look back at him. There’s a fragment of a moment where Kyungsoo hesitates as he leans in before his lips lock with yours. 

Instinctively, your hands find purchase at his waist - pulling him closer by the fabric of the worn out t-shirt you’re sure he only ever wears to bed. The kiss deepens at the slight tilt of Kyungsoo’s head and your mouth works against his until the lack of air becomes overbearing. As you pull apart, his hands stay firmly where your neck meets your ears, rough thumbs stroking gently at your cheeks.

“We’ll talk more about this in the morning,” he manages to make out breathily after several moments of silence. His gaze then flickering down to your forgotten teacup on the counter. “For now, just drink your tea then let’s go to bed.”

How he manages to keep up a cool exterior is beyond him and the smile playing at your lips makes his heart race wildly, making him steal a chaste kiss before settling down beside you, playing with your free hand as the two of you chat about anything other than the elephant in the room while you drink your tea. 

You can definitely get used to this.

[donteattheappleshook]

Stone Hearts Chapter 10

Slightly shorter chapter this week and I'm not super happy with it but here is the product of my flu-addled brain... and me being forced to write plot.

Summary:

Emma should have known. She should have known that they couldn’t just go to the underworld and not suffer any consequences. She should have known they’d bring something back with them.

Cannon Divergent after 5x21 Last Rites. No Hyde. No serum. No Evil Queen split. No prophecy. No season 6.

Read from the beginning on Ao3 or FFn because tumblr eats all my italics.

Rated M

Chapter 10

Emma couldn’t help but notice how good she was getting at this whole teleportation thing - at this whole magic thing really. She’d only just started to learn and get the hang of it before she became the Dark One. Before that her magic had been unpredictable, driven by fits of fear and anger or other strong emotions. But when she’d taken on the dagger’s magic it had been fuelled by something else, by darkness and hatred and desire. It had come easy but with a price. 

It had been hard to relearn how to use it without channeling the darkness inside of her, the sad, angry places that she’d buried deep. She’d just begun to understand how to draw from the light in her life, from the happiness and desires she had for herself and for others. Killian had helped. He always helped, being around him had that kind of influence on her - calming, encouraging, letting her believe in herself and in her abilities. 

And then, after they’d returned from the Underworld, after they’d defeated Hades and Killian had come back to her… she hadn’t needed it. For those six, happy months that she was allowed, Emma hardly ever used her magic. It was still a part of her, still sometimes flaring up when she got excited or upset - much to Killian’s amusement - sometimes used as a party trick or out of laziness. But there had been no threat, no reason to practice, no one to defend. She’d been able to just let it be another thing about her that made her different, made her who she was, rather than a weapon, something she had to master and learn in order to protect and save people. 

She wondered sometimes if practicing would have made a difference. If being ready and constantly prepared for any new danger could have somehow prevented what happened, if she could have somehow defeated the King if she’d just been stronger. But then, Regina hadn't been able to stop him, or Gold. She may have been the product of true love, but their magic still far surpassed hers in skill and experience. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

But now she was back to learning, back to practicing, and once again almost always doing so under threat. Getting them out of the hospital had been a gut reaction, instinct and fear and even, a little bit of protectiveness. The potion she’d learned from a book, followed a recipe. But more and more she was noticing that she could call on her magic, weave it without the need for any emotion at all. It was strange. It was as though it had been simmering below the surface, waiting for her to need it again.

Her partner seemed unaffected by the magical travel. Maybe he was used to it, maybe he was completely unaware of it or unfazed, didn’t know that it wasn’t normal to teleport from one place to another. He was more concerned with something else than with magically appearing out of thin air.

“This is a house?” he asked, staring at the Town Hall. He sounded shocked and skeptical and it made her laugh, drawing his attention away from the massive building and to her. Those were two more emotions she hadn’t heard from him yet. She didn’t really know if they even counted. Maybe it was just because he was speaking more now that she was noticing tones in his voice she hadn't picked up on before. She’d heard other stolen people speak, had heard cruelty and malice in their voices… but never shock, never doubt. It was such a small thing… but still.

“Not really,” she told him, unsure how to explain the intricacies of mayorhood to him. “It’s the Town Hall. Regina’s office was in there and she spent more time here than she did anywhere else - more than at her own home anyway.” He considered her for a moment and then nodded slowly. She wondered if he really understood or was just letting it drop. She’d have known if it was Killian. He was always easy to read. “Come on,” she continued. “Ruby shawshanking her way into the hospital gave me an idea.” 

“Ruby?” he asked. “Shawshanking?” 

The way he said those words… it almost sounded like him. The same confusion and slight aversion to new terms he didn’t recognize, a sort of distaste at being out of the loop. Marty Mcwho? Photoshopped? It made her heart tighten a little, the way his brow was pulled down, the immediate instinct to tease him, to make a joke about him not knowing anything about pop culture - the way she would have teased Killian. He looked so much like him now. She thought about how she could possibly explain what shawshanking was when he spoke again, making her heart jump into her throat. 

“Ruby is the wolf-girl, right?” He was still frowning, still looking unsure, and increasingly so under her gaze. How did he know that? She tried to put it together, tried to think of when he might have seen Ruby. She’d been gone when he’d arrived to save her at the hospital hadn’t she? Had he heard her talking to Ruby through the window of her cell? Had she been less successful in being stealthy than she thought? Had he heard her and Henry talking about her? Her brow was pulled down now and she tried to force down the hope that was flaring up.

“How did you know that?” she asked. Was he remembering? Had something happened since this morning that was somehow bringing bits of his memory - of Killian’s memory to the surface? He frowned deeper, eyes searching, staring at the ground below his feet. That panicked expression started to bloom on his face again the longer he thought.

“I - I don’t know…” he started. Emma stared at him, waited until he brought his eyes back up to hers, searched them, tried to look past the scared, lost expression there, looking for any hint of recognition. 

“What’s... your name?” she asked, hesitant, afraid of what would be better, what would be worse - him knowing or not knowing. That expression came over his face again, the searching and then the worry and then the panic and the pain. “Hey, sorry, sorry,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. He inhaled sharply when she touched him. “Forget I asked, okay?” He didn’t respond but his muscles relaxed a little. “Let’s go inside. We shouldn’t be out in the open.”

 He nodded and followed her. She didn’t know what to make of it, of his confusion. Was he scared because he knew that something was missing? She really, really didn’t want to hope… but she really did. They had to get out of the open, she reminded herself. Now wasn’t the time for introspection and hope. 

Ruby’s tunnel had given her an idea. It had reminded her of something Regina had said once - back when defeating Hades had been the worst of their worries - that there were tunnels that ran under the Town Hall, hidden beneath it. She was pretty sure that Regina was too smart to have designed a town with a single, underground passage - Emma was pretty convinced that those tunnels ran under the entire town. At least, she was really hoping that they did.

Remembering them had given her two new hopes. One, that they might actually find a safe place to hide that nobody in the King’s army knew about, including Gold. And two, that maybe Regina had stashed away some of her spellbooks there for safekeeping. It was a long shot but that was what she was left with at this point. The only problem was that she had no fucking clue how to get into them. She hadn’t been allowed to go on that particular mission, had been called too emotional because of her grief. Yeah, well, things change and now she was the only one who could complete this mission, grief and all. But now she didn’t know how the fuck to get in there. 

There were thankfully no protection charms around the building - her parents taking over as town leaders had seen to that, ensuring everyone was able to come and seek aid, find refuge if they needed it. But while that was a good thing, meaning they could get in easily, avoid being exposed for very long, it also meant that they wouldn’t be as safe inside. She didn’t have time to put up new ones, didn’t have the amount of backup standing guard she needed to make sure nobody tried to get through before they were even built. They would have to be quick. 

She led him inside and he followed easily, letting her grab hold of his hook and drag him along behind her. They made their way up the grand staircase and into the mayor’s office. She almost laughed again when she saw his reaction to the decor. She had to agree, it was a bit much. She got to work, pulling books from shelves, looking inside and under potted plants, investigating the desk for a secret latch or a set of keys, anything that would point her in the direction of the entrance to the tunnels. She was so focused she almost didn’t hear him when he spoke again. 

“Is it… Killian?” he asked. She froze, kneeling by the foot of Regina’s chair where she’d been inspecting the underside. Everything stopped for a moment, every muscle in her body, the blood in her veins, the beating of her heart just stopped with those three words. His voice was small, quiet and full of that same, almost childlike confusion and fear. He reminded her of the lost boys they’d met in Neverland. She waited, waited until she could feel her limbs enough to move them, to stand, to look at him cautiously, too afraid to hope for the best, bracing herself for the worst. 

“Is what Killian?” 

He only looked at her for a moment. “My name. Is it Killian?” Emma’s breath was shaky and harsh now with fear and she didn’t even know what else. This was foreign territory. 

“Why are you asking?” She couldn’t let herself presume, couldn’t put words in his mouth. 

“You… called me that,” he said, the frown still ever present and ever deepening on his face. “Before.” Her breath left her all at once. He hadn’t remembered. The memories weren’t his to remember. She shook her head.

“Killian…” she paused, not sure exactly how to explain it. “Killian was his name.” He watched her again and then the frown softened in understanding as he put it together. 

“The man from your stories.” 

“Yes.” 

“The man who had my voice.” She frowned. What? She stared at him. “In my vision last night,” he continued as though that explained anything. 

“Your vision?” she asked, confused, trying to understand this cryptic, riddle-like way in which he was so fond of speaking. “You mean your dream?” Her heart pounded, hard, heavy beats against her sternum, echoing through her whole body, shaking it. “Did you dream about him?”

“I - I don’t know,” he said and it took everything inside of her to stay calm, to not let herself get frustrated, not to demand answers. Whatever was happening was clearly as new for him as it was for her - and just as terrifying. “It’s... blurry.” 

She walked up to him, put her hand on his arm again, noticed the way the deep creases that had returned in his brow faded a little at her touch.

 “What else was in your dream?”

He looked at her and slowly the fear and confusion left his face, was replaced with certainty. There was almost a longing in his eyes. She was sure that if he didn’t seem so afraid of touching her he would have reached out for her then. 

“You.” 

Shit. She didn’t know what to do with that. He’d dreamed about her. She didn’t even know he could dream - didn’t know the shells dreamed. Had he dreamed about her now, as she was, as the person he’d known for a little over a week? Or was it… She was still so afraid to hope. She could handle him being someone new, being someone born of what was done to Killian, someone that she had grown to trust. But to let herself believe that he was Killian, that he was Killian trying to break through to her - and if she turned out to be wrong… 

She stepped away, dropped her hand and with it his gaze left hers. Whatever focus, whatever draw had been making her look like that left him and he was back to the reserved, quiet man he’d been before. She moved to resume her search, starting to pull books from shelves again and leaf through them. She didn’t even know what she was looking for anymore. She wasn’t really focusing. She was just trying to get her heart and her breath and her feelings back under control. 

“What is it then?” he asked and she nearly sighed. She’d only just started to manage to ignore the thoughts racing in her head, to try rationalize his existence and he’d had to go ahead and pull her right back. 

“What’s what?” She didn’t look up from her book, knew she’d groan at him if she did.

“My name.” 

The words caught her by surprise. She shut the book slowly, put it back on the shelf. His name. She didn’t know what his name was. She didn’t think any of the King’s minions had names. She’d been calling him Killian and then correcting herself and calling him Not Killian in her head - as well as several other, much ruder names out loud. She remembered what Gold had called him - his puppet. It made her skin crawl just to think about it, about this man being used as a slave, being used to do evil’s bidding when there was a kindness in him - she’d seen it. He deserved a name. 

She looked over at where he stood, awkwardly in the middle of the room, fiddling with the sharp point of his hook the way he seemed to do when he was nervous or scared. She smiled a little, remembering another man that she’d believed to be evil and cruel but who had proved her wrong. She gave him a little smile. 

“Why don’t we call you Hook for now?” 

He looked up at her, his brows lifting in surprise, and then back at the appendage for a moment before meeting her eye once more. He nodded. Hook it was then. She could handle that. Killian hadn’t been Hook to her for a very long time. It was fitting, someone who looked like him and sounded like him but was so far removed from the man Killian truly was, the man he had become. She returned his nod and pulled out another book. 

“Good. Now help me look.” It was the least he could do instead of just standing there, making her question everything she knew and believed every few minutes. 

“What are we looking for?” 

She sighed. “I don’t know. Anything that looks like it could be a passageway or a key or something to get into a secret tunnel. Just, tell me if you find anything that doesn’t look right.” 

He nodded but he looked more confused than ever. She couldn’t blame him. He would be no help at all, she thought. He made an effort though, searching the room, looking under pillows and along tables for buttons or latches. He was inspecting the window when he stopped. She figured he’d given up, that he didn’t understand what they were doing or why. 

It was a long, fruitless while where she turned the entire room upside down before she gave up, collapsed on one of the armchairs and heaved a sigh. She looked over at him, unsure what their next move should be. She had really placed all her bets on finding this tunnel. He was still at the window, looking out of it, focused on something outside. Her immediate thought was that someone was coming, that they’d been found and even - fleetingly - that he’d sold them out. But he didn’t look worried or tense or prepared for a fight. He just looked focused. 

She stood, walking across the black and white linoleum to where he stood, following his gaze to whatever it was that had caught his attention so raptly. It was a tree. A single tree, isolated from the rest, with dark, red apples growing from it. Of course. Of course Regina would hide her secret entrance in her most precious possession. It wasn’t her desk or her chair or her books - it was that fucking tree. 

She remembered then that it had been Killian who had told her about that particular royal quirk. King Arthur had revealed it to him in the Underworld when they’d been looking for Hades’ missing pages. Had this man - had Hook - known who Regina was, what that tree meant to her? Maybe they had been told things about them, fed information to make it easier to hunt them. The person who stole Snow had known who she and her father were. 

Maybe. But maybe it was something else. It was too many coincidences, too many little moments and whispers that kept hinting at, adding up to, the same thing. His dreams, the way he’d reached out for her so desperately, the way he’d hummed that song, the way he knew who Ruby was, the way he’d listened to her stories, the way he’d kissed her back, the way he’d called her Emma, the way he’d saved her life - and now this. 

Something was - no, he was changing. Whether it was the spell fading or Killian screaming out from somewhere inside of this new man, she didn’t know, and she didn’t have time to speculate. But she couldn’t keep hiding from it, couldn’t keep protecting herself from it if it meant not helping Killian - not finding him.

She thought back to another time, long ago, when she’d met another version of Killian, one that wasn’t so different from the man before her now. He’d been a deckhand, scared and confused and nearly helpless but deep down, in the end, he’d still been Killian. Kind, and brave, and willing to sacrifice anything - even himself - to protect those he cared about. At his core, he’d been Killian, regardless of the memories he’d been fed, or the ones that had been stolen. 

She remembered her parents then too. Remembered how David had told her that he’d helped Snow find her way back to herself once, back to him, by reminding her of who she was and who he was to her. True love was the most powerful magic in the world and she knew, without any test or scales or magic kiss that that was what she and Killian had had. Maybe it was time to start believing in that, time to start reminding this man of who he was rather than just resenting what he’d become.

She took his hand and he startled. “Come on,” she said gently. “You figured it out.” His brow pulled down in that confused way that had made her laugh before, clearly having no idea what she was referring to. She grabbed her bag and led him out of the office, her hand still wrapped around his and, after a moment, she felt his fingers close over her own. The familiar feel of it was like a warmth, blooming from where they touched and out through her limbs, into her bones. I’ll find you, she thought. If you’re in there, I’ll find you. 

They made their way through the building and out to the tree. That was as far as she got for a while. She was sure that Hook was right and that the entrance was probably disguised somewhere on the trunk. But how the hell she was supposed to find it she had no idea. She circled the tree, looking for something out of place, something wrong. It looked like a normal damn tree. Hook was staring straight up, frowning a little at the fruit with his mouth hanging open, like he’d never seen an apple tree before. Technically, this version of him probably hadn’t, she realized. She left him to his confusion as she kept looking, pressing at every knot and pulling at every branch she could reach. 

“What I wouldn’t give for Indigo’s magic sword,” she muttered under her breath. 

“What?” he asked, his face finally looking away from the fruit and the leaves. Good, his neck was gonna get sore if he kept that up. 

“Nevermind,” she said. After a moment, he simply nodded and went back to looking at the apples. She frowned. “What the hell is so fascinating about these fruits, man?” she asked, getting annoyed - more at herself but, well, he was there for her to project it onto. He didn’t look down again.

“They’re all exactly the same.” 

“Huh?” she asked, frowning and following his gaze. He was right. Every single apple was identical. While she’d never really noticed much difference from one apple to another, these ones were eerily all the same. Each the exact same shade of red, each the exact same size, each the exact same flawless shape. That wasn’t normal. She should have known Regina would use magic to genetically modify her fruit. 

She noticed one though - one that was just a little bit different. Where the others were a dark, almost blackish red, this one was paler, like it was younger, like it hadn’t ripened yet. It was smaller too. She reached out, pulled it until it came loose, and held it between her hands. Hook watched her do it, that same, confused, skeptical look on his face. 

After an anticlimactic moment, where she thought she’d guessed wrong, she jumped at the sound of the earth moving. The ground next to her feet was falling away, opening up to reveal a set of stairs that disappeared beneath the tree. Fucking Regina and her fucking apples. She almost laughed, almost groaned. A new fruit was already growing in the old one’s place.

Hook was tense beside her and it took her a second to realise that at some point, he’d put himself between her and the passage, as though blocking her from whatever the noise was, or whatever might have been planning to come out. She put a hand on his arm that was braced, held out in front of her. She gently urged it down and after a moment, he didn’t resist. 

“It’s fine,” she told him. “This is what we were looking for.” She took his hand again. It was hard to stop once she’d started. Just like it had been hard to stop talking to him those nights in the cell. Every time she touched him she just wanted to keep touching him, keep feeling him. She liked feeling the warmth and the comfort, liked the way his hand still fit with hers the same way, the way his rings were still cold against her skin. It was familiar and now… now she had hope that maybe it really was him, somewhere, somewhere really deep down. 

He was staring at their hands again, his still stiff in hers and she worried. Maybe she shouldn’t be pushing him. She might have just begun to believe that maybe there was a chance she could find the man she loved… but to him, to Hook, she was still a stranger. Maybe it wasn’t fair to put all of this on him, to expect him to be someone else, someone he wasn’t anymore, someone he would hopefully be again - but might not. She moved to loosen her hold but he shifted, slipping his fingers through her own and hanging on, like he was grounding himself. 

He looked up at her then and she nodded before slowly heading down the stairs, testing the first step, making sure it would hold, making sure it wasn’t a trap. When it held steady under her weight she continued. Hook followed behind her, not releasing his grip on her hand. When they reached the bottom, Emma found a leaver in the wall. Apparently opening it from the inside was easier than from the outside. She pulled it and the steps rose back up, disappearing into the ceiling above them. 

It was dark inside. Emma felt for a lightswitch, instructed Hook to do the same, a little disappointed when he dropped her hand, but she couldn’t find one. Hook didn’t seem to have any luck on his side of the tunnel either. She couldn’t see him anymore, it was pitch black around them. She was worried suddenly, not liking not knowing where he was, if he was alright, if he was afraid. She focused on her hand, held it out in front of her and thought about how much she wanted to see his face in that moment. 

A small flame appeared in her palm and she let out a small cheer, pleased with her own achievement. Fireballs were hard. She remembered how long it took Regina to teach her to even manage a spark. Hook looked up at her when she called out, reacted to the light. He seemed surprised for a moment but when he saw the excitement on her face he gave her a small, hesitant smile. Maybe even this version of him was a fan of her magic, she mused. 

“Emma!” he shouted suddenly and she barely had time to see the panic in his eyes, see him try and reach for her before someone grabbed her from behind, a knife pressed to her throat.

“Stay back!” the voice shouted when he took a step forward. He paused, looking between her and the person who held her, evaluating, judging the threat. The voice spoke to her next. “Move and you die.” The voice was female, and familiar.

“Ariel?” she asked, surprised, confused. She didn’t even know Ariel had been in Storybrooke when the Horned King arrived. 

“You know who she is?” another voice asked. A second woman came out of the darkness, holding a sword to Hook, aimed it at his chest. 

“Tink?” she asked in shock. The blade at her throat pressed harder. Hook stepped forward but Tink moved in front of him, stopping his progress. The blade was digging into his jacket now, over his heart. If he took another step it would run him through. “Of course I know her,” Emma said, hoping to de-escalate the situation. “Tink. It’s me, Emma. You know me.” 

“We used to know a lot of people in this town,” Tink said, not letting up. “Don’t trust her,” she said to Ariel. “It could be a trick.”

Emma met Hook’s eyes over Tink’s shoulder. She could see his hand twitching, tense. She also knew he could get out of this, could escape giving the opportunity. He’d had blades pointed to his chest before. She looked down at her hand, at the fire, hoping he’d understand that she could get out too. He nodded. 

Emma snuffed out the flame, engulfing the room in darkness again. She raised her hand faster than Ariel could react, blasting the knife out of her hand, heard it clatter to the floor. She heard the screeching of metal on metal next, heard Tink cry out but she didn’t hear her sword hit the floor. There was panic for a moment as they all scrambled in the dark, and then the lights came on. 

Tink and Ariel stood to one side of the tunnel, Ariel’s hand was still gripping the leaver that had clearly turned on the power. Tink was next to her, still armed. Emma looked around frantically for Hook, relieved when she saw him standing a little ways away from where she’d last seen him. But he was far too close to that sword.

“Are you okay?” she asked. He nodded. She turned to the other two. “Tink, Ariel... Is it really you? Are you really okay?” She had tears welling in her eyes now, her voice cracking. She’d thought she was the only one left, her and Ruby and Henry. But there were more. How many more were there? How many had survived? “Are you really still human?” They were, she could see it in their eyes, see the recognition and the fear and the anger. 

“We’re plenty human,” Tink spat. She stepped closer to Hook again, sword drawn. “What about you though. How can we know you’re human?” Emma saw his face harden, ready to fight and she shook her head at him. Don’t, she tried to say without words. We need them to trust us. They needed to be together in this. They couldn’t defeat the King if they were divided. But she didn’t know how to convince them to trust Hook when she herself had only just begun to. He was still cursed and she knew that that would be enough to scare any of them into action. Hook didn’t move but he still glared at the woman who was holding a blade to him for the second time since they’d entered the tunnel. 

“I am,” she tried to tell them, tried to beg them to listen. “My heart… it has a protection spell on it.” Ariel seemed to relax. Tink didn’t. “Ask me anything! Anything at all, something only I’d know and I promise I’ll know the answer.”

“I believe you,” Ariel said.

“What about him?” Tink demanded. “I’ve seen him around. Seen him with the others. He’s one of them.” Emma saw her hand tighten around the handle of the blade. 

“Don’t touch him!” she shouted. She could feel the magic burning in her fingers, had to rein it in, had to control herself to stop it from lashing out. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to if Tink hurt him. “He’s different,” she tried to explain. “Something’s… happening to him.” 

“Emma,” Tink said over her shoulder, her voice patronizing, heavy with pity. “I know you loved him and all, but you can’t be serious. He’s dangerous. Just like the rest of them.” 

“Tink,” Ariel said quietly. “Maybe we should listen to her. What if…”

“What if nothing,” she snapped. “He’s cursed. There’s no coming back from this one.” Her voice broke on the last words. 

Emma recognized it then. The despair in Tink’s voice, the hopelessness, the anger, and the hatred… the emptiness. She recognized it, recognized herself a week ago, hell, days ago. But she also knew what that meant. Tink wasn’t going to let him go. She was going to kill him. Emma felt fire burning inside of her - rage, protectiveness, love, all merging into one. It raged through her veins, rushed through her body until she could feel it in the tips of her fingers. 

“I said. Don’t. Touch. Him,” she shouted again. But this time it was a warning. There were twin flames burning in her hands now, she could feel the magic coursing through her, knew she couldn’t stop it, she'd lost control. She couldn’t let her hurt him. It was engulfing her, overpowering her, consuming her. She’d just got him back -just got the possibility of him back. She wasn’t going to let anyone take it away. 

“Enough!” someone shouted behind them. The voice broke through the anger and the rage and the fight in the room, all gazes snapping to its source. Emma’s fire simmered out when she recognized who it was. Belle. Belle, heavily pregnant and pacing towards them with a crossbow aimed at Killian. She didn’t look ready to shoot but Emma knew better than to challenge her. 

“Belle -” Tink started but she interrupted her.

“I said enough.” Tink hesitated for a moment, looking between the woman and Hook before finally stepping back, dropping her sword. She didn’t look happy about it. Belle looked at Emma then. “How is he different?” 

Emma hesitated. “He’s… changing.” She knew that wasn’t enough. Belle’s look told her so. “He’s - I think he’s coming back. He’s remembering things - little things -”

“None of them come back,” Tink insisted, sword lowered but her hand still had a white-knuckle grip around it. 

“Yet,” Emma reminded her. “None of them have come back yet.” She looked at Belle again. She was still aiming the crossbow at Killian. But Emma knew her. When it came to hope and believing in people, in trying to see the good in them, Belle was only second to Snow. She just had to convince her. “He saved my life,” she told her and Belle raised a brow, surprised, interested. “He turned against the others - he saved me from them.” She could see that had gotten through to her.

Belle thought for a moment, eyeing Hook warily. “Show us his heart,” she demanded.  

Emma hesitated. She didn’t know what good that would do. He was cursed and his heart would reflect it. She feared that more than anything it put him at greater risk - Tink was just waiting for an excuse to run him through. She wondered, just briefly, if it was because she’d cared about Killian too, if it hurt her to see him stolen. But Belle wasn’t budging. Her bow was still at the ready, her expression told Emma she was waiting. 

Emma sighed. At least, maybe this way she could be close enough to protect him if Tink or Belle came after him again. If she could keep his heart safe then they couldn’t kill him. She stepped forward and Hook’s gaze was still firmly on Belle, on the weapon in her hand. She approached him cautiously, not wanting to scare him, hoping he knew she was still on his side. She didn’t touch him yet. Didn’t want to distract him from the seriousness of what she was going to ask - because she was going to ask. He deserved better than to have his heart ripped out of his chest like he was no one. 

“Hook,” he hesitated for a second, not wanting to look away from the threat, but finally his eyes met hers. “I have to show them your heart. I need them to trust us. This is what they need to trust us.” His expression was unreadable. “Will you let me do that?” she asked and he hesitated for a moment, gaze flicking back to the other women in the room before settling on her again. When he looked at her there was trust in his eyes, not for them, but for her. “Thank you,” she said so that only he could hear. She brought her hand to his chest, felt his deep inhale as it rose under her palm. “This might hurt,” she apologized. 

She pushed her hand in. There was no resistance. She did it as slowly and gently as she could and he barely flinched, though she didn’t know if that was due to her care or to his cursed ability to ignore pain. She’d only done this once and that time she’d been scared and frantic and overtaken by darkness. It still felt wrong, taking someone’s heart from their chest, but it didn’t feel as cruel as it had the last time she’d done it. She took hold of his heart and pulled back slowly. He let out a small grunt but seemed otherwise unharmed. She cradled it against her, protecting it, remembering the last time she’d held his heart in her hands. 

“Let’s see it,” Belle said but her tone wasn’t as harsh as it had been. Emma knew - if anyone could understand loving someone despite their darkness it was her. And Belle had loved Killian too. It had taken a while but their friendship had grown into one that she knew Killian cherished. She realised then that all the women in this room had cared about him at some point in their lives. She just hoped that she could convince them to believe in him now.  Emma held out the heart. 

A small gasp left Belle’s lips and Emma’s eyes shot down to the heart - to see what was wrong. She nearly dropped it, shock and fear and hope coursing through her all at once, knocking her back with the force of it. It was cracked. His heart was stone, just like the others, solid rock encompassing it in its entirety… almost. In the middle, right in the dead center of the stone, was a tiny, little crack, as though a piece had been chipped out. It was barely a hair’s width but from it she could see the red glowing through, shining through, a little bit of light trying to force its way through the darkness. Holy shit.

She looked up to meet three equally stunned faces. No one knew what to do. No one knew what this meant. Was the spell breaking? Had something been wrong in the first place? Was this Killian fighting his way back to her again? She wanted to cry. She did cry, a hot, silent tear rolling down her cheek. Belle dropped her weapon. Ariel came up to Belle’s side, taking the weapon from her and offering her very pregnant friend a hand should she need to lean on it.

“What does this mean?” Emma asked, hoping Belle had an answer. Belle with all her books and her research and her love, if anyone had an answer it would be her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.” Belle walked over to her, took hold of her arms, the heart still held between them. Emma tightened her grip, needing to protect it now more than ever. “Emma, if he’s trying to get back to you, then we’ll help him.” Emma nodded and Belle turned to the others. “Come on, let’s head back to camp,” she told them. They agreed, Tink heading off after her. Ariel walked by Emma, stopping to pick up her dagger that was still on the floor.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice a little small, embarrassed. 

“It’s okay,” Emma said. “You were protecting yourself.” Ariel’s gaze dropped to the heart in Emma’s hand. “That’s incredible,” she said. “I didn’t know that was possible. I thought the spell was unbreakable.” 

“So did I,” Emma breathed. 

“I suppose we never really know the limits of magic until they’re tested,” Ariel said. She gave Emma another, encouraging look and headed off after the others who were waiting for them a few yards away. 

Emma turned back to Hook, her eyes still fixed on the heart. When she looked up at him he was watching her, looking unsure. “Thank you,” she told him and he only nodded. “We can trust them now, okay?” He looked hesitant but he didn’t protest. “I’m gonna put this back now.” He nodded again, waited. 

Raising the heart between them, Emma paused, focusing again on that soft, pinkish glow - Killian, reaching out to her. She had to believe it was him. She should have trusted him sooner, believed in him sooner. She brought the heart close to her face, held it so the crack was barely a breath away from her lips. 

“Come back to me,” she whispered, hoping, that somehow he would hear her, that the message would reach him, that he would keep fighting, knowing she was out here fighting for him too. Hook was looking at her, his head tilted slightly, brow knotted again. He’d find her. She knew he would. In this version, in any version, Killian would always find his way back to her. 

Emma pressed the heart back into his chest, gentler this time than when she’d done this for him so long ago. She could see the change in his expression when the heart was returned, a change in the way he looked at her, that slight recognition, that slight longing coming back. She was relieved. 

She kept her hand there on his chest for a moment, appreciating the steady beat under her palm. Hook’s hand covered hers, holding it against him. She realised then that as much as she was trying to believe in Killian, believe that he could break this curse, she also needed to believe in Hook - in this version of him, believe that he was a good man, that he was fighting against his instincts, choosing her, despite the risks. She slid her fingers through his, squeezing them once before leading him off after the others. 

[mattygraygubler]

our campus: chapter 2 (tom holland fanfic)

summary: frat!tom and reader go to the same college and y/n is tasked with being his tutor, they don’t really get along at first (because i love reader and tom hating each other trope)

warnings: none???

word count: 2.3k

a/n: bold is texts, any ***s refer to the footnote at the end of the chapter, this one is a shit ton of dialogue and texts, sorry bout it

for a list of characters click here

to be added to the tag list send me an ask !

masterlist

✰✰✰✰✰

“Drink some green juice, Y/N,” Isabelle said, handing you a to go cup from Jamba Juice. Isabelle never drank enough to have a bad hangover, so when you all slept in on Sunday, she went out to get hangover cures. After two nights of parties, it was insane that she was still completely fine. 

You had a queen size inflatable mattress on your floor, so the four of you were able to sleep as comfortably as possible in a not-so-large dorm room. You complained for a while at first, saying you should have just gotten an apartment, but it was too late. Next year. 

“Y’all wanna go to starbs and study?” Emily asked. Ally groaned, putting her head under her pillow. 

“No. I gotta shower and then eventually go to a theater thing.” She responded, slightly muffled. 

“I am also going to shower, and then try to do some of my justice and law readings and then I have to go tutor that Thomas kid.” “Ooooo please text updates!” “Emily, it is literally like tutoring anyone else, I really doubt he’s cute.” You responded. “Whatever,” she said with a smile. Your friends filed out and you took your time with a long shower.

When you got out, you realized it was already 2:30, and most of the day was gone. You put on some ripped black jeans and a shirt from urban outfitters, quickly did some makeup, threw on your sneakers and were out the door, headed to the library. 

“Y/N!” You heard the second you walked into the library. 

“Hi Kyle,” You said and smiled as he fell into step with you. 

“We missed you this weekend,” he said, referring to his fraternity, delta chi’s party. 

“Sorry, I was outvoted.” You said with a small smile. Kyle was a hottie, but incredibly bright. You befriended each other in a math class freshman year, he invited you to dchi parties, and you were now on the short list to be their sweetheart.*

“Well don’t get out voted next time! C’mon, if Jamie is sweetheart I’ll die, and if you don’t come to parties, we can’t elect you sweetheart.” Jamie had broken Kyle’s heart at the end of freshman year, and her, along with one other girl were also contending to be sweetheart. 

“Ugh you drive me insane.” You responded, rubbing your temples. 

“In the best way,” he said and kissed your forehead before walking to the back of the lib. 

You had reached the glass doors to the honor’s lab, basically a wing of the library where honors students studied and hung out in between classes, during meals, whenever. It had “Honors College” written across the doors in black painted letters. 

You pushed open the doors, saying hi to people as you walked towards an empty table. You took a seat facing the doors, so you could see anyone who didn’t belong. 

It was an honor system, no one would be penalized if they tried to sit in the honors lab without being apart of the honors college, but you would get a lot of incredibly nasty looks from some very smart kids. It only happened during fraternity pledge season, when frat boys were hazed and dared to do stupid shit, like have a sit-in in the honors lab.

There weren’t a ton of kids in the honors college, so you all formed sort of a little family. Everyone got along (for the most part), and helped out with difficult assignments. 

Pretty soon, you were encompassed in your law readings, not fully catching on why Fear v. Minnesota was so important. 

“So what’s a gorgeous girl like you doing in a dump like this?” You heard a british voice ask. You looked up to see a boy with brown eyes and slightly curly hair leaning on the table. Clearly attempting to put the moves on you. 

“Dump?” You asked. 

“You heard me, baby,” he said. 

“Well it is very clear that you are not a member of the honors college-”

“And you are?” He asked, a cocky smirk on his face. 

“I am, yes.” He became red. 

“I’m Y/N, I don’t care what your name is, but unless you have a reason to be here, I’d leave before Paul pummels the shit out of you.” You said. You nodded your head to the left, where Paul and two sophomores were standing, arms crossed, clearly incredibly upset that this outsider was here. 

“Wait, did you say your name was Y/N?” He said, looking back at you. 

“Yes…” 

“I’m Tom.” You looked confused. “Holland? You’re supposed to tutor me?” Your eyes widened with the realization. 

“Thomas,” you muttered. He laughed. 

“Darling, the only times I hear that are when a professor is calling on me, or a girl is yelling my name in bed.”

Ok, who the fuck was this kid? 

“I’m gonna move on from that sentence.” You said and gestured to the seat across from you. A text popped up on your phone, in the honors college junior’s group chat. 

hc* jnrs ⋛

Paul

Ok who the fuck let tom holland in here

Jessie

he’d need at least triple the amount of brain cells he has to just find the doors

You actively laughed out loud at that text and looked at jessie, who was now standing with Paul. Paul laughed as he waved to you, and Jessie just winked. 

“Something funny?” He asked as he pulled his laptop out. 

“Just a funny text. You can put that away and grab your notebooks, by the way.” You said as you texted back. 

You

gronk asked me to tutor him

what’s the big deal? you guys know him?

Lindsay

i’m sorry im home rn, did someone say tom holland? 

Paul

Y/N’s tutoring him so he came into hlab, didnt realize she was his tutor, and hit on her

Leila

LMAOOOOO

Jake

THOLLAND IN THE HLAB IM SHITTING MYSELF

Lindsay

he hit on Y/N? poor bastard doesnt know what hes in for

You

do you guys know something about this kid i dont? 

You finally looked up from your phone to see Tom sitting there, empty handed, staring at you. 

“Where’s your notebooks?” You ask. 

“Uhm, I don’t have any. I just use my laptop.” 

“Ok your homework tonight is going out and getting notebooks for all your classes.” 

“Really? You’re giving me homework?” You raised your eyebrows. 

“When I tutor kids,” he winced when you said kids, “I have some ground rules. You break a rule, I stop tutoring you. No second chances, no redos. Got it?” “Got it.” He said, holding back a smile. 

“Something funny?” “No, no, please, tell me about these rules. I must warn you, I have always been a rule breaker.” He winked and you simply rolled your eyes. 

“This isn’t a game, Holland.” You said. The smile left his face. “Rule one is you follow all the rules. Rule two, if you break a rule, we’re done, no exceptions. Rule three, if I give you homework, you do it. Rule four don’t be late. And finally, I am adding a rule five just for you.” You said, writing each rule down on a piece of paper which you handed to him. He laughed. 

“Problem?” You asked. 

“I’ve never had a woman…” 

“What? Reject you before?” He was obviously referring to rule five, which was do not hit on me ever again. 

“Listen, darling, I was just surprised is all. I didn’t expect someone so beautiful to be part of the nerd brigade.” 

“Do I need to add another rule about you not making fun of my friends?” 

“No, no, I apologize.” He said with that cocky grin still on his face. 

“Pull out your planner.” You said. 

“My what?”

“Right, you’re a brit. Pull out your diary.”

“Oh I don’t use one, sweetheart. Got this great thing up here,” he said, tapping his head. “Keeps everything sorted out.” 

“Well clearly that’s not true or you wouldn’t be missing assignments.” He shrugged. 

“I didn’t forget about them, just chose not to do them.” “So your story is that you’re choosing to fail your classes and risk expulsion?” He just shrugged again. 

You pulled out a notepad and started a list. 

Buy notebooks for every class

Download a planner (diary) app on your computer

Make a list of all assignments (including readings) due within the next week

“I’m going to need a copy of your schedule.” 

“You know, babe, usually we schedule the date after I ask you out.” 

“Look at you, five minutes in and you’ve already broken rule five.”

“You can’t honestly expect me to follow rule five when you’re this attractive.” You gave him a cold stare, and started packing up your stuff. 

“Wait, wait, Y/N, I’m sorry. I’ll try not to do it again.” You paused and raised your eyebrows dangerously at him. “Correction, I won’t do it again.”

“Good. Now I want a copy of your schedule and syllabi. What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“I have rehearsal until nine. After that I’m all yours.”

“I have a sorority event until nine, you can meet me here at nine fifteen.” 

“You’re in a sorority?”

“You’re surprised?” You asked. 

“Which one?”

“Delta Nu*.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Why are you so surprised?” 

“That’s, like, the highest tier on campus.”

“Sororities aren’t a hierarchy, anyone who tells you different is fucking with you.” You said as you gathered your stuff. You didn’t have time for his anti-panhellenic bullshit.

“Hlab. Tomorrow. Nine. Don’t be late, and do your homework.” You said. “Oh, one more thing.” You handed him your phone, opening up a new contact. He raised his eyebrows, and you raised yours back, daring him to make a comment. He didn’t simply handed you his phone so you could enter your information. 

You walked straight out of the lib, leaving Tom in your wake. Kyle saw you leaving, gathered up his stuff and shouted “Y/N! Hey, wait up!” You paused, waiting for him to catch up. 

“Can I walk you home?” 

“You don’t have to do that, Ky.” 

“I want to. I was just about to leave anyway.” You smiled as you and Kyle left the library, headed across the quad towards the junior dorms.

It was a short walk before you reached your dorm, Kyle heading to Heart Hall directly next to your building. 

“See you tomorrow?” he asked. You smiled and waved. 

Once you were back in your room, you paused realizing you had nearly twenty missed texts. 

♡girly girls♡

Al

Y/N we need to know his last name so i can get the dirt on the right person 

Em

and Y/N i need to know RIGHT THIS SECOND if he was cute

Iz

guys shes still tutoring her, let her phone be and she’ll facetime us later and answer all your dumb questions

You replied, saying you were tired and you would meet them for lunch in the cafeteria in your building like usual. 

hc jnrs ⋛

Jake

How has Y/N not heard of him shes in a diff frat every weekend

Cassy

Jake please tell me i didnt just detect judgement in your jargon

Jake

Cassy please tell me you didnt just use jargon in a text message

Jessie

jake does make a good point im shocked Y/N doesnt know about him 

Leila

WHATEVS I NEED AN UPDATE

Is she still with him/???

Jessie

Yup but she looks like shes about to punch him

Paul 

If she doesnt, i will

Jessie

shush paul girl can take care of herself

ok looks like shes packing up 

Leila

Y/N!! i NEED an update

You 

i have not heard of him, no

whats his deal? besides being incredibly flirty and not reading my vibes, like, at all

Jessie

rumor has it he gave all the phi alpha’s chlamydia

Julia

as a proud phi alpha i just wanna drop in and say that he did fuck quite a few of us, but he gave none of us (and none of us have) chlamydia

Jessie

he def gave someone chlamydia tho

Paul

id believe it. hes a massive scumbag

Cassy

a HOT massive scumbag

Jake

-_-

Cassy

everyone in delt is hot

You

wait a sec, did you say hes in delt?!?!

max please confirm

Max

yeah hes in delt with me, so is that other brit that he came over here with us

Cassy

Harry!!!!!!!

Max

harrison** 

Y/N

wait harrison? i think he knows my friend emily

Max

well its not a huge campus, and emily does know everyone

Jessie

wait Y/N what was he like

You 

an asshole. im debating telling gronk i dont have time to tutor him

Julia

that wouldnt be very hc of you….

You

whatevs. Im finishing this near v minnesota reading then passing out. see you guys tomorrow

Jessie

KISSES!!!

Paul

you know jessie theres these awesome things call emojis

Cassy

paul do u ever stfu 

It wasn’t until you caught up with both group chats that you realized you still had unread messages. 

Tom Holland

is that your bf???

hes cute

didnt peg you for the monogomous type

hes in a frat right??

why arent u answering? too busy with ya boy 👀👀👀

You

do you bother all girls with annoying questions? not a cute look

Tom Holland

no such thing as a “not cute look” on me darling

you didn’t answer my question

It was at that point that you turned your alarms on, turned your phone on do not disturb, and plugged it in. Before long you were in bed, hoping for more sleep than you’ve gotten the past couple nights. 

*A sweetheart is a girl who is friends with all the boys in the fraternity, always goes to their parties, and acts kind of like a “mom”ish figure in a lot of their lives. Normally they’re a junior or senior and serve for one year. They’re essentially the female face of the frat. For a better definition click here.

*delta nu is not an actual sorority, i didnt want to alienate any orgs (i am a proud member of greek life if you couldnt tell) so i just used the fake one from legally blonde

*hc stands for honors college

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Caught in the Heat (Loki x Reader) - Part 4

Synopsis: Your first day in the Tower doesn’t go quite the way you expected.

Words: 1235

Warnings: none

Part one

Part two

Part three

Your classes had passed so slowly you thought that time had stopped. You’d been distracted all through your afternoon classes, taking mostly incomprehensible notes. You’d rushed out of there the moment classes had ended, hoofing it up to the Tower.

You’d arrived, looking up at the building towering above you. Your heart had thudded, skipping a beat. You opened your mouth, then walked on, looking down at your feet. You took a deep breath and wheeled around, turning back to the building. You looked through the glass doors.

Tony Stark was standing in the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyebrows raised. You felt your cheeks flush, looking up at him as you climbed the steps. He opened the door for you, and you shuffled past him.

“You doing okay there, short stack?” he asked.

“Fine,” you managed to squeak out.

He led you towards the desk at the front, giving you a swipe card. You looked down at it, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. You looked back up at him.

“That’s it?” you asked.

“That’s it,” he said.

“No security check?” you asked.

“Any friend of Bruce’s is a friend of ours,” he replied, “plus I did the security check the first time you walked into the building.”

He was smiling at you. You flushed again. He tapped your card and you looked at it again.

“That’ll get you anywhere in the building,” he said, “except private rooms, the roof, and the pool.”

“There’s a pool?” you asked, looking up again.

“Absolutely. And I’m just kidding. You can go up to the pool anytime,” he said, “Bruce is waiting in the lab. Floor 14.”

You blinked at him. The thought of getting to work immediately made you want to turn tail and run. You’d been ignoring the fact you’d actually have to be working alongside one of the best minds in biochemistry. It made you terrified. You were just a kid who knew nothing. You shouldn’t be there. You were a fake.

“I’ll take you up there,” he said, putting his arm around your shoulders.

He led you into the elevator. You were sure you must look like a deer in the headlights but the Ironman had his arm around you. He pressed the button for floor 14, leaving his arm around your shoulder. You were tapping your forefinger against your thumb, trying to remove that anxious energy out of your body before you saw Bruce again.

The lift doors opened on the lab and Tony pushed you out. You stumbled over your own feet, doing your best to stay upright. Tony chuckled, walking past you.

“Hey, Bruce, I found you something interesting,” Tony called.

“If it’s your particle accelerators Pepper already brought them up,” you heard Bruce’s voice distantly call back.

“Something better,” he called, motioning for you to follow him. You trailed behind.

“Better than particle accelerators?” he asked, his voice coming closer as you passed by all kinds of amazing technology.

“Prettier too,” Tony said, giving you a wink. You flushed again.

“Tony, what are you-“ Bruce asked, rounding a corner towards you, “(Y/N).”

“Hi,” you said, waving.

“Come look at these cells,” he said, gesturing to the microscope he’d been looking into.

You stepped past Tony, putting your eye to the lens, looking down at the cells on the slide. You heard the two men move away, talking to each other about the particle accelerators that had arrived that day. You watched the cells, trying to figure out what they were from, what they were doing. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen anything like them before.

You felt a presence behind you. You couldn’t hear the voices of the two men, assuming they were done, that Tony had left. Your brain was going a million miles an hour, trying to find anything that would tell you what the cells were.

“What are these from?” you asked.

“Me,” said a voice that was distinctly not Bruce.

You started, knocking the microscope over from your haste to look behind you. Loki was standing there, a smirk on his face, his arms hanging by his sides. You stumbled back a step, bumping the table the microscope was sitting on. You made a grab for it, righting it before it could fall causing untold damage. Loki chuckled and your cheeks flushed. Where was Bruce?

“Or rather, I should say it’s Asgardian skin,” he said, “taken from my brother.”

“Thor?” you said, turning to look back at the microscope. There was a skin sample from a literal god.

“Unless I have another brother my father has kept hidden from me,” he said, a note of petulance entering his voice, “which isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.”

His face darkened and you were once again aware of being alone with a man who had killed hundreds of people. You pressed your back against the table, the edge digging into your skin uncomfortably. His eyes dragged over your body, watching your fingers clench on the metal, your muscles stiffening under his gaze. Your heart has beating hard enough against your rib cage to leave bruises.

“What do you think, love? Do I have a secret brother?” he asked, taking a step towards you.

Your feet scrambled on the ground, trying to find purchase in case you had to fling yourself over the table to get away from him. He chuckled low in his throat and you felt your skin prickle. This was not what you had signed up for.

“Oi, reindeer games, leave the kid alone.”

You glanced over your shoulder, finding Tony and Bruce standing there. Neither looked very impressed. You looked back at Loki, almost expecting him to be holding a knife. All he did was shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He sauntered past you, giving you a wink as he went. Your heart skipped a beat.

He disappeared, Tony following after him after clapping Bruce on the shoulder. He turned to you, shrugging his shoulders as if to say ‘what can I do’ and you gave him a small smile.

“Is this really a skin sample from Thor? Because if it is you could do some revolutionary work on it. I mean, no one knows what makes up a god and you have two running around this Tower. You could be nominated for a Nobel Prize, or change the world, or maybe even do science no one has even dreamed of yet. I’ve never seen anything like this,” you rambled, looking through the eye piece again.

“It is,” he said laughing, “but come on, that’s not what I meant to show you.”

You ducked out from behind the microscope again, this time managing not to knock it over. He held out his hand, leading you further into the room you’d only gotten a glance at last time. It had seemed to be filled with more than you could ever imagine. You didn’t even know what half of it even did. It was more than you could have dreamed of.

He set you up with some data analysis, designing an experiment while he listened to your opinion on the data he’d collected. It was nice to be taken seriously for once. Even if you thought there was a lingering shadow in the back of your mind with ice blue eyes and the smell of rain clinging to it.

Tags: @sheridans-dynamos @tumultuous-love @juniperbab @internetgremlin @true-queen-of-mischief @sev7en @fleurs-en-ruines @lokilover2000 @hakuoyuki @el-eldritch @foreverbeingthunderbuddy @fuckthatfeeling @dangertoozmanykids101 @bluestaratsunrise @dark-night-sky-99 @justanothermarvelfanaccount

[myriadimagines]

Common Face (pt. II)

Game of Thrones One Shot

Pairing: Reader x Margaery Tyrell

Other Characters: Cersei Lannister, Tommen Baratheon, Olenna Tyrell

Warnings: imprisonment, swearing, death (hhdfngjdf)

Requester: anonymous

Request: “i wanted to request a part 2 for 'common face' (margaery x reader). while the reader tries to keep a low profile, margaery is imprisoned (just like in the series) & the reader visits her in secret a couple of times. cersei still suspecting and maybe almost being caught to tommen? If you can, could you extend it to the Great Sept of Baelor episode? During Margaery's imprisonment the reader eavesdrops on Cersei's plans and tries to stop the wildfire, but is prevented by soldiers. Ending with the reader leaving for Mereen, to join Daenerys, knowing that he might get to see Olenna and talk things through.”

Word Count: 1,964

A/N: I hope you like it! Sorry I kinda jumped over certain parts mainly because I’m a lazy fuck but anyway, for anyone who hasn’t read it, here is Part I!!

please reblog/leave comments, they’re very much appreciated!

You don’t care about Olenna’s multiple warnings, don’t care about the dangers of being caught, don’t care much about anything ever since Margaery’s imprisonment. Your brain feels frazzled, disconnected from your body as you find yourself unable to think straight about anything. Your body moves on instinct and impulse alone, any shred of logic thrown out of the window, simply driven by the sole fact that you love Margaery and can’t let anything happen to her. 

Or let anything else happen to her, anyway.

The Septas glance at you suspiciously as you weave in between them, keeping your head low as you follow behind the Faith Militant who leads you to Margaery’s cell. You would be suspicious too, if you were them, as the seemingly lowly servant you’ve disguised yourself as has no reason to visit the former Queen as often as you do. 

You can only hope the High Sparrow and his followers still see you as a servant, and aren’t aware of your true identity and allegiance to the Tyrells. They have eyes and ears everywhere, after all, making it all the more crucial for you to keep a low profile as to not unveil anything. You tread lightly, walking through life as if you’re being constantly watched. As a spy, being suspicious of everything and everyone isn’t new to you, yet you feel as if everything has been shifted into overdrive.

But as a Septa steps forward to unlock Margaery’s cell, you almost abandon everything to rush forward and hold her in your arms.

You remain frozen in place as Margaery looks up, cowering in a dark corner of the dismal cell. You’ve already visited Margaery as many times as can without raising suspicion, but it doesn’t make it easier to see the woman you love suffering in such horrible conditions. The only source of light is the diluted sunshine through the barred window, casting blotchy patches of light onto the opposite wall. The stench is overpowering, the air thick and heavy, and every inch of the floors and walls are covered in a layer of dirt and grime. Margaery herself doesn’t look much better, donned in drab robes that almost camouflage her into the walls, her once styled hair now hanging in limp, greasy strands obscuring her exhausted face. 

Her eyes initially narrow, before you step into the dim light, and her eyes widen with recognition. Her mouth opens, but you shoot her a look, warning her not to react before you hold out the small tray of food in your hands, “The Queen sent me. Wanted to make sure you had enough to eat.” 

The door closes behind you as Margaery’s eyes narrow at the food, and both of you immediately relax as you rush up to her. You place the tray at her side, reaching up to hold her face in your hands, and she closes her eyes as she places her hands over yours, whispering, “You’re the only thing keeping me from going insane.”

“I wish I could kill everyone here to free you, my love,” you sigh heavily, your thumb brushing against her cheek. Her eyelids flutter open as you tuck her hair behind her ears, leaning forward to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit yesterday when I told you I would. Cersei caught me heading to the Sept, and I didn’t want to risk being followed.”

The mention of Cersei’s name again makes Margaery coil away slightly in disgust. “That devious bitch.”

“Lady Olenna and I are doing everything we can to fix this, but…” you suck in a sharp breath, almost feeling physical pain as you continue to finish your sentence. “Cersei is a step ahead of us.” 

You can see Margaery’s jaw tighten, anger flashing through her eyes. Bitterly, she spits, “Of course she is.” 

“Margaery,” you tilt her chin to face you, softly smiling at her as she can’t help but return the smile. “I will save you.” 

The both of you suddenly stiffen upon hearing voices outside. You and Margaery share an alarmed glances, and you jump back just in time as the heavy door suddenly swings open, revealing Tommen in the doorway. You can see the surprise in Tommen’s face as he looks at you, before glancing down at Margaery. Quickly jumping to salvage the situation, you pipe up, “Queen Cersei sent me to bring food for Margaery.” 

Margaery lets out a low scoff upon hearing Cersei’s new title, and you struggle to keep a straight face as Tommen slowly nods. The boy is too naive for his own good, you think, as he simply accepts your flimsy explanation for your presence. Bowing your head, you cast one more secret glance at Margaery before you leave, leaving Tommen and Margaery alone, where Margaery will no doubt begin to work at him to get him to free her. 

And you have work to do, too. You need to figure out Cersei’s plans. 

—

Your heart hammers so loudly in your chest it threatens to explode right out of your body. You hastily shove everyone out of your way, ignoring the irritated yelling and curses thrown your way as you continue to sprint down the streets, towards the Sept of Baelor. 

A young man in front of you pulls his horse to a stop, dismounting as he greets his friend. You push him aside, snatching the reins into your hand as dig your foot into the stirrup, hoisting yourself onto his horse as he attempts to jump in front of you, blocking you. The man quickly leaps to the side as you kick the horse into a gallop, tearing down the streets as you can see the towering building of the Great Sept draws nearer and nearer.

“Move!” you yell, your voice booming through the streets with the loud clatter of hooves, and the commoners around you quickly scatter away from the path. Your mind is racing, a million thoughts spinning rapidly through your head, but one thing is clear, the one thing that is often the only thing clear for you — Margaery is your priority.

You had been tailing Cersei for days following her walk of atonement, listening in on her conversations when you could in order to find any information you could use. 

However, when all was revealed, it was more monstrous than you ever could’ve imagined. 

Tears were prickling your eyes now, the world around you becoming a muted blur as you urge your horse on faster. Cersei has the building orchestrated to explode using the wildfire under the Sept, killing everyone who stands in her way, Margaery included. You know Loras is also in the Sept, and you need to do everything you can to save Olenna’s grandchildren. 

Your horse wrestles against you as you suddenly yank your reins, narrowly pulling to a stop in front of the perimeter of guards that line the road to the Sept. Panic claws at your throat, and you struggle to breath as you demand, “Let me through.”

The guards don’t respond, instead gripping their shields and weapons tighter as the band together, relentless. You urge your horse forwards, but it tosses its head, especially as the guards slam their shields down, forming a wall that spooks your horse. Dismounting, you use all your strength to slam your body against theirs, and you can feel yourself losing your authority and control as you plead, “Please, let me through, you don’t understand, the Sept is-” 

Everyone suddenly freezes as you hear low rumbling, rubble on the street beginning to tremble as everyone around you looks at each other in confusion. Your heart plummets to the floor seconds before you do, and you collapse against the guards as you realize what’s to come.

You’re too late.

“Margaery!” her name rips through your throat, an excruciating sound of heartbreak and grief just as screams fill your ears, the commoners running away from the Sept as you watch it being rapidly swallowed by vibrant green flames. You lunge forward, though you’re held back by the guards who begin ordering everyone to evacuate, but you can’t hear them as you let out another scream. “Margaery, no!”

Sobs overcome your body, which begins to weakly tremble as you sink to your knees. You let out an anguished cry so loud you’re not even sure a human body can handle it, can handle the immense pain and agony that courses through you. Everything in your body feels like it’s collapsing — you struggle to breathe through your heaving lungs, your heart feels as if it’s cracking with each pump. Your limbs feel numb, your entire body succumbed to the grief and heartbreak, and you don’t have the energy to fight.

Her name is still on your lips, still filling your mouth and suffocating you as you manage to tilt your head up to see the Sept burning to ashes. The green flames dance maniacally against the sky, taunting you, forcing you to think about the lives it had just taken. Tears stream faster down your face now, soaking your cheeks and blurring everything around you. Bodies push past you, trampling around you as everyone attempts to flee, but you remain on the cobbled streets, sobbing so hard you surely don’t have any tears left. 

But no matter how hard you cry, the sadness doesn’t leave. It sits on your chest, weighing down on you, crushing against your ribcage. And no matter how many times you scream her name, no matter how much you plead to the cruel Gods that took her away from you, you know that nothing will bring Margaery back.

—

The sailor tips the small sack of coins you wordlessly hold out to him into his hand, eyes widening upon seeing the gold that spills out into his palm. Looking over his shoulder, he quickly drops them back into the bag, slipping it into his tattered jacket pocket as he repeats, “Mereen, you said?”

You nod in response, throat still too raw from endless nights of crying to speak. The sailor beckons for you to step onto his small boat, and you nod gratefully at him, pulling your hood further over your face as you check, one last time, to make sure you’re not being followed.

As the boat pulls away from the docks, you bitterly watch King’s Landing grow smaller and smaller the further you sail away. It has been a week since Margaery’s death, and your grief and melancholy is now mixed with fury, and a strong need for revenge. Despite wanting to slit Cersei’s throat yourself, you decide revenge which will come in the form of Daenerys Targaryen, whom Olenna had talked about the last time you saw her, and whom she will no doubt be with after she receives the tragic news about her grandchildren.

Your hands grip the edge of the boat, tears threatening to fall again as you force yourself to look away, leaving King’s Landing behind you. You need a clear head, you try and tell yourself, need to forget about the city that has now become a giant graveyard for you, a tombstone for the woman you love. 

I will save you. 

As you head into the ship’s chambers, your last words to Margaery echo in your ears. You suck in a sharp breath, sitting on the edge of the worn-down mattress as you bury your face in your hands

I will save you.

“I’m so sorry.” you choke out in a whisper, hoping she can hear you, wherever she may be. You might not have been able to save her, you furiously think, but you’re going to save the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei Lannister, if it’s the last thing you do.

tag list: @chinike / @gofandomsandotherstuff / @emmacata / @pascalisthepunkest / @musicallisto

[lol2508]

Tom Hiddleston x Reader: On the set

Imagine that the reader also works on the set of The Avengers as an actor. She plays the love intrest of Loki. However as they shot a romantic scène, it get harder and harder for her to hide her true feelings.

______

<<<(Y/N's P.O.V.)>>>

I play Sigyn, Loki's wife on Thor. I love acting. I always wanted to be an actress. And now I am one, who would have thought? Well, I didn't anyway. Not only get I to act, I also get to meet awsome new people. Such as Chris Hemsworth and Natalie Portman. And of course the wonderful Tom Hiddleston. Also the person who plays Loki, A.K.A my movie husband. I really like him, hell I have a hugh crush on him. But I can't love him, he's way too good for me. I mean look at him, handsome, charming, gentle, kind, sweet and polite. And look at, I'm everything he's not. I sighed sadly. There's no way he would like me back, it's better to keep it hidden. I don't want to ruin the friendship we have.

"Hey Y/n, are you ready for today?" Chris asked.

My head shot up. "What?" I wasn't listening at all.

He chuckled. "I asked if you are ready for today? You have two scénes today. One with me, Mark, Evans, Scarlett and a buch of other guy who I don't know. And one with Tom."

Chris made a kissing face. He is the only one who knows about my crush.

"Argh, don't you dare." I mocked. I covered my face with my hands. Trying to hid the fact that I was blushing.

"You got it bad girl." I growled. I knew he was right.

"I know." I whispered. "You should tell him." Chris said.

"No, no and again no! Don't you dare to say anything! It's better this way."

"What's better this way?" The voice of a angel said.

"Nothing Tom. Absolutely nothing." I glared at Chris.

He threw his hands up in defence. "Hey, I'm innocent."

I huffed. "You are never innocent."

"Can soneone tell me what's going on here?" Tom confused voice said. God he's adorable.

"It's nothing Tom. I have to get ready for the shot. See you later."

I glared one time at Chris. 'Not a word.' I mouthed at him.

He shooked his head. 'I promise.' He mouthed back.

I sighed in relieve and turned around. I walked to my trailer slightly humming to myself.

After hours of make-up, getting dressed and lines rehearsing we were finaly ready to shoot the first scéne.

"Camera, lights, ACTION!!!" The director yelled. And we began.

<<<(Sigyn's P.O.V.)>>>

We were in a big room with a round table in the middle. Steve and Natasha are sitting around the table, while me, Thor and Banner stood.

"He really grows on you doesn't he?" Banner asked.

"Loki is going to drag this out. So Thor, Sigyn, what's his play." Steve said.

I simply rolled my eyes. 'Argh, stupid mortals. I get now why Loki want to destroy them. They are dumb.'

"He has an army called the Chitauri." I told them.

"They're not from Asgard, nor any world known. He means to lead them against your people." Thor explain.

"Yeah, they win him the earth in return, I suspect the Tesseract." I added.

"An army?" Steve asked in disbelieve. I nodded.

"From outer space?" He looked at Natasha.

"So he's building another portal. That's what he needs Erik Selvig for."

"Selvig?" I asked. Who could that be?

"He's an astrophysicist." Banner explained.

"He's a friend?" Thor asked. Banner nodded slightly.

'Ah, that makes sense. Now I know why they are worried.' I thought.

"Loki has him under some kind of spell along with one of ours." Natasha told us while she frowned.

"I want to know why Loki let us take him. He's not leading an army from here. " Steve said.

"I don't think we should be focusing on Loki. That guys brain is a bag full of cats. You could smell crazy on him." Banner said.

I glared deeply at him..'How dare he to say something like that about my husband.'

"Have care how you speak. Loki is beyond reason, but he is from Asgard. And he is my husband." I said.

"And he is my brother." Thor added.

"He killed 80 people in 2 days."

"He's adopted."

<<<(Y/N's P.O.V.)>>>

"Aaaaaand, CUT!!!" The director said.

"Nice work everyone." He added.

I started to laugh really hard. It was a laugh I had to hold for the entire scéne. The rest raised looked weirdly at me.

"Hahhahaha, s-sorry. I mean 'He's adopted'? Come on, like that is a reason for someone to kill 80 people." I laughed.

Chris started to laugh too. "I know right." We were rolling on the ground from laughter.

Tom walked in to the room. He was completly dressed as Loki. He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh hey Tom." I said once I've seen him.

Chris stood up and left. "Good luck!"

I was still laying on the ground. "Are you coming or are you going to lay here all day?"

"Yeah, yeah." He offert me a hand and helped me up.

I went back to my trailer to get ready for the next scéne. It was a love scéne. 'Shit!' The scéne was about Loki get captured and Sigyn confronts him with his mistakes. Than they fight and make up and make out.

I was nervous like hell. I sighed and went back to the set.

"Are you okay?" Tom asked. "You look pale."

Such a sweetheart.

I nodded. "I'm fine, let's just get on with it."

"Camera, lights, ACTION!!!" The director yelled again and here we go.

<<<(Sigyn's P.O.V.)>>>

Loki had a gun pointed at him as they escorted him into his cell.

"So, here you'll be spending the rest of your pityful life in."

They threw him in. I looked at him in disappointment and shooked my head. I turned around to leave the room.

"Sigyn! My love, don't leave me." He begged. I froze.

I put my finger in the air, shuting him up. I turned around and said: "No! Don't play that card. You don't get to call me that, you lost me the moment you decided to attack earth."

He frowned fearfully. I sighed at the guards to lower the force field. I turned at the avengers.

"Go, I'll join you later. Me and my husband need to talk." I sneered the husband part. While I glared at Loki.

They put there hands up. They know better than to mess with me. "Alright, just don't kill him. He's still my brother." Thor said.

"Adopted." Loki corrected him. I glared at him. My glare said 'Shut the fuck up!'

"Poor guy, I wouldn't want to be him right now." Steve whispered to Natasha.

Guards lowered the force field for second. I entered his cell. I waited until the avengers left.

I grabbed loki by his hair down to my level. "What the hell where you thinking!" I shouted. I was outraged.

I bet you could see the steam coming form my ears. After Loki attacked the earth I helped the avengers to capture him, but I haven't talked to him yet. And really want to know why? Why did he did it?

"P-plea-se, l-lo-ove." He whined from the pain. 

I frowned as I saw that he was in pain, since I pulled really hard on his hair. I let go of his hair.

He whined and rubbed on the back of his head. "Talk!" I demanded.

"I-I d-didn't mean..." He stuttered.

"No, not that pathetic excuse. I want to why why you did it. And the truth Loki." I glared at him.

He trembled under my glare. Isn't that not funny? The most scary person the nine realms is afraid of his own wife.

"I did it for us. You were going to be my queen, we would rule Midgard together."

I rolled my eyes. "You don't care about me."

He looked shocked at me. "Of course I care for you, love. You are my wife."

"Than why did you leave me and our child. You have no idea how scared Narfi was. He thought his daddy wasn't coming back again." My voice cracked.

A tear escaped his eye. "I-I didn't mean to leave you and Narfi."

He fell on his knees. "Please, please forgive me."

I walked to him and kneeled in front of him. "I forgive you."

We leaned in...

<<<(Y/N's P.O.V.)>>>

"I can't do this." I got up and ran away. Leaving a very confused Tom behind.

"Cut!" The director said.

I really coudn't kiss him. Or say that I love him. It comes too close to my heart. I broke down in the girls bathroom. I cried my heart out. I love Tom, but I shouldn't. Because he would never love me back.

"Y/n?" Tom asked. "Are you okay?"

He entered the toilets. "W-what a-ar-e y-you're do-ing here-e." I hicuped through my tears.

"I-it's t-the g-girls ba-bathroom."

He chuckled. "I guess I'm a girl now."

I laughed. Tom always knows how to make me laugh.

"There is the smile I love." He smiled.

"W-what?" I asked confused.

He frowned. "Why did you ran? Don't you like me? Is kissing me really so bad?" He looked fearfully down.

I quickly lifted his chin with my finger. "No, no, it's not you. It's me. YouseeIhaveahughcrushonyou." I said super fast.

"What?"

"You see I have a hugh crush on you." I repeated.

I looked away. Now he doesn't want to be friends anymore.

Suddenly I felt his lips on mine. "I love you too.

I kissed him back. After a few minutes we pulled away.

"Was that so hard?" He asked laughing.

"No, no it was not." I pecked him on his lips.

"Let's finish that scéne, shall we?"

"We shall, my prince." And I kissed him one last time.

______

Thank you so much for reading this, it means a lot to me.😊

XXX Lol2508❤.

[absentlyabbie]

Flommy. Soulmate AU of sorts. Kiiiind of canon divergence, very loosely.

First, the canon divergence:

So all the pre island shit still happens. Rebecca Merlyn dies when her son is eight years old. Her husband abandons their child to gnash his teeth on a global tour and develop his plan for class warfare and eventual class genocide. Thea Queen is conceived and born. Tommy Merlyn grows up under neglect and contempt as his father manipulates and strong arms his fellow one percenters into committing to his deeply shady undertaking, becoming more criminal and morally bankrupt the deeper they all get into Malcolm’s plan. Oliver Queen grows up lost and misunderstood and acts out as badly as a rich white boy can until he’s looking to sabotage every relationship he has (that isn’t with Tommy) because he doesn’t like himself and doesn’t know who else to be.

Instead of boarding a boat to China that Malcolm sabotages, setting into motion the chain of events that make Ollie into the Hood, the Queen men elect to fly. (Not sure yet how Sara is involved but she probably is; also the flight thing might not be how it goes down) and Malcolm has them kidnapped before they reach the airport.

It’s a huge national story. Billionaire CEO and playboy heir abducted and missing for three weeks. No calls for ransom. No leads. So many tabloid stories being nasty at Moira and about Robert’s history of infidelity.

Meanwhile, Oliver and Robert are held at an obscure facility as both are interrogated and at times tortured, as Malcolm seeks to know how, he believes, Robert is planning to betray him.

Robert gives away nothing, but two weeks in, Oliver is in terrible shape, often tortured to try and break Robert. Robert in their cell does his shitty confession and putting his burdens on his son, making Oliver memorize names and dirty deals and connections and giving him cryptic clues to a cache of incriminating evidence against Malcolm and all the others. Then Robert makes a half assed escape attempt, wresting a gun from a guard and trying to force them to set them free. When it’s clear that won’t work, he apologizes to Oliver and shoots himself in the head, hoping that with no more reason to hold him, they’ll let Oliver go.

Oliver, crazed by grief and days of torture, violently assaults the remaining two captors, disabling one. Little does he realize the authorities have found them and the FBI sweeps in just as Oliver finishes beating a guard to death.

This helps get him into the situation that comes next.

Oliver ends up turning state’s evidence. To protect his mother and sister, to get revenge for his father, and because he is threatened with a trial by agent Amanda Waller.

So, traumatized, changed forever, and on a mission, Oliver can’t bear to return to Starling. When Tommy tries to visit him, before it’s known it was Malcolm behind it all, the encounter goes very badly. Oliver is dark, angry, obsessed. They feel impossibly far from one another. Tommy goes home heartbroken and feeling abandoned again. Oliver pursues revenge disguised as justice. This however leads only to more pain.

Two revelations come at the same time: his mother was as deep in as his father and therefore could be subject to prosecution, regardless of the pressures that put her there. Also, at last, the man behind it all. Malcolm Merlyn, his best friend’s father.

Oliver knows this will destroy Tommy’s life. For that alone he would hesitate. But. But. Malcolm is poison. A monster. And he has only one chance to broker a deal to save his mother, and giving up Tommy’s father is it.

And so, the Undertaking is averted, but its full scope revealed to all. Malcolm is arrested and charged. Oliver could only bring himself to tell Tommy at the last minute. The two are in such hurt and anger they do not speak for the next few years. Still, Tommy does testify at his father’s trial. For the state. He corroborates details and speaks to Malcolm as a father: cold, cruel, exacting and contemptuous. Tommy is dragged in the press plenty on his own. The final nail in the coffin of it all is when Malcolm flies into a rage at the Merlyn house the last day of the trial and almost kills his son.

Malcolm is sentenced to life in prison for numerous crimes, including conspiracy to commit domestic terrorism and attempted murder of his own child. In prison, soon after, he is killed in a prison riot (actually dead or orchestrated disappearance? Who knows.)

Meanwhile Tommy is left to grieve and process and pick up the shattered pieces of his life. The Queens leave Starling, and Oliver becomes almost a hermit to, like, bodybuild and try to psychologically heal and hopefully stay out of Waller’s clutches. Tommy stays in Starling, his trust and assets and inheritance tied up or seized at large by the federal government, the board of Merlyn Global desperately seeking a rebranding or possibly overall firesale, and the city and world in general associates his last name with violent class hatred and corruption.

Years pass. Oliver and Tommy don’t talk. Oliver does not return to Starling. Tommy regains fractions of his fortune over time, maybe opens a business, definitely opens several clinics, charities, and nonprofits across the city. To some he is a hero, a prince of redemption. To others he’ll never shine bright enough to be free of his father’s shadow. Laurel is his good friend and he has been quietly repressedly in love with her for some time, and doing nothing about it.

Now,  the concept:

Soulmates happen, though they’re referred to as soul bonded. They’re not always romantic relationships. It’s a metaphysical bond between people uniquely suited to understand, support, and be complemented by one another.

Being bonded is not a given. It happens, not infrequently, but not so much so that everyone can assume it will happen to them.

Being bonded also doesn’t mean there can’t be breakdowns in the relationship. It’s still something you have to choose to work at. Being bonded just means really that this is a person so well suited to being a vital part of your life, why wouldn’t you choose to work at maintaining it?

So. The way it works. You encounter a person who is your bond partner in the wild, and a mark appears, typically near the chest region, often over the heart or center of the sternum (anomalies do occur.) You can’t miss it because it appears with a feeling almost like you’ve been branded, and it’s described by those who experience it as an electric current tethering you suddenly to your bond partner. You become hyper aware of them.

To outsiders, the bondmark is unmistakable. They couldn’t draw it or describe it in detail, but there is something visceral in the human brain that recognizes it, and recognizes when they match. Even when directly photographed, this holds true to observers.

In this way, bond marks cannot be copied or forged. They cannot be imitated with tattooing or obscured by scars or burns.

(Because even in stories I’ll never write I go hard on world building.)

The bond does confer certain unique connections. Not like telepathy or viewing through one another’s eyes or walking in dreams. But that hyper awareness of your bond partner doesn’t go away. It’s almost an empathetic awareness. It hums, and it carries non verbal understanding, and it feels most settled and right when the partners are together and spend time with one another as best suits who they both are and the dynamic they establish between them.

New bonds are tricky. They are intense and absorbing, and can even be uncomfortable and strange and almost obsessive at times. This newness can last for a period of typically three to eight weeks. This period is referred to as “settling.”

It’s the time during which the new bond through physical and psychological stimuli encourages the new partners to get to know and become comfortable and familiar with one another.

This is typically characterized as a time when new bond partners have difficulty focusing on things unrelated to their partner for long stretches, and a need to not just be in each other’s presence, but often physical contact. This may mean cuddling, sitting closely, thoughtless, casual intimate touches. Ignoring or denying these settling urges can lead to physical discomfort, anxiety, and emotional and mental distress.

Bond partners who are romantically or just physically suited often get rapidly intimately involved during this period, though that doesn’t always mean it will stay that way, and it’s not a given.

(You can be bonded to more than one person, of course. Multiple people can even be bonded to each other. For now the idea is Flommy but let’s not pretend OT3 isn’t always an option with me and it’s definitely an option this concept allows for.)

That’s the other thing, though. First: bonds do not manifest until after maturity, typically no earlier than age 20.

Second, and this is the thing least understood: bonds most often manifest when mature partners first encounter one another. BUT not always, especially with people who knew each other prior to maturity.

There’s a lot of theories, most popular that the bond manifests when both partners are ready to be bonded, or in other words, have grown into the version of themselves truly suited to their partner. But no one really knows. It’s not an exact science.

And plenty of scientific research has indeed been done on soul bonding. There’s a department of the national health organization dedicated to it, legal provisions made for bonded partners, including work and school accommodations for those in the settling period.

(Settling can typically be physically measured through hormones via bloodwork.)

There are societal benefits to bonded relationships after all. Bonded partners tend to be more stable members of society, the possibility of your bonded being anyone promotes empathy, outreach, and social safety nets being extended more broadly, and on the local scale, many studies have shown that bonded partners have a stabilizing, sometimes even calming effect on their immediate social groups and environments.

And of course, there’s plenty of media romanticism of bonded relationships. It’s the biggest subgenre of romance books and films, but is often prevalent in all other genres, especially popular in law enforcement/war story/etc stories.

Now for the actual story:

Tommy visits Queen Consolidated one day to try and woo the board into partnering with one of his charities. He leaves uncertain if they will take it as an opportunity for redemptive PR or treat associating with a man named Merlyn like bathing in radioactive waste. On his way out through the lobby, he literally runs into a cute blonde he wouldn’t have really glanced at twice.

And nothing will ever be the same.

The bonding is instant, electric, and undeniable. However, it is also... unwelcome.

Neither of them is remotely happy that it happens.

Tommy is in love with Laurel and has been talking himself into making a real move. This is the worst timing. And bonding or not, the idea of letting someone get close to him like that is terrifying. He has been abandoned and betrayed and discarded his whole life. In his mind, not even a bonding can make someone want to keep him around in any capacity.

And if they do, he would think it was only because they “had to” because that bond. That’s not how bonding works, but it’s a popular and persistent misconception.

And new bonds can put serious strain on preexisting relationships. When opposite sex, attraction-compatible partners are bonded, the general public has a hard time believing it’s not sexual and/or romantic, and even still insecurity and jealousy from nonbonded romantic partners can complicate matters.

So Tommy is exasperated and suspicious and unhappy.

Felicity is no happier, however.

New bondings require mandatory paid leave from work during the settling period and Felicity has been trying to make advancement finally happen in her career at QC. And bonding leave has historically had a more negative effect on women’s career trajectory than men’s.

It’s still our world, unfortunately.

It’s no different than women starting families.

Beyond even just the career implications, however, Felicity has never wanted to be bonded. Not in any way she’d admit to anyways.

Her parents were bond partners. And still her father walked away from them when she was six.

Her mother, when she is drunk and feeling reflective, will admit they were never meant to be romantic partners. He was her best friend. They rarely slept with each other after settling, but it wasn’t never. The pregnancy wasn’t planned. Donna was delighted. Her husband had never wanted children.

And while he loved Felicity, he never really took to fatherhood. The strain broke down their relationship. And even bonded, when you stop communicating, and circumstances are adverse to both partners’ needs being met, and you stop working on your relationship... no relationship is perfect or safe forever from hurt. Not even a soul bonded one.

(Because in my concept, being soulmates isn’t a magical fix for everything. It’s too much an easy button sometimes. I find that dissatisfying.)

Now, what happened between Felicity’s parents isn’t impossible. It’s even understandable, if tragic nonetheless. And her father still made cruel choices in abandoning them and never returning.

But Felicity was six and it hurt her deeply while her ideas of the world were still forming. She decided as she grew up that bonding was bullshit and looking to be bonded so you could feel safe or be happy was asking to get your heart broken, a fairy tale you would be stupid to trust.

So now here she is, bonded to someone whose last name is almost synonymous with domestic terrorism, who doesn’t want to be bonded either, and is in love with someone else. And right when she’s trying to take control of her career, too. Add to that how impossible it will be to maintain her happily anonymous life when bonded to one of Starling’s most infamous sons and none of this looks like a good time.

But you can’t take back a bonding. You can’t undo or break it. Some people are made to have a home in your heart, and the best you could do is evict them and board it up. Still leaves a chamber empty. You can live with it, but you’ll always feel it. And the settling is unavoidable. Even if you choose to never see each other again after, you have to get through settling first.

(You cannot, by the way, be bonded to someone who would truly abuse you. If they would rape or willingly harm you, they’d never be the person so suited to you that you were bound.)

Like there are ways to get through settling on the bare minimum. If both partners are not interested in fostering their connection to its full potential, they can do the least possible to get through settling with minimal discomfort, then simply choose to drift apart and not keep up with each other or stay in contact. (Even then, though, you’re still bonded. Sometimes you’ll just Know something is happening. You’ll feel the urge to reach out, to look in on their life. Hearing about them will always make you pensive for a while. But it’s up to you what to do about any of that.)

Felicity got this far forcefully assuming she’d never be bonded with anyone. Insisting to herself and anyone who asked that she actively didn’t want to be. Tommy had always thought if he bonded with anyone it’d be Oliver. And when that didn’t happen at 20, and things fell out as they did, he assumed... well. He was too broken. Too fundamentally unlovable. Too tainted by the loneliness of his childhood and the selfish monstrosity of his father. His parents weren’t bonded. They chose each other completely on their own, was how his mother put it. He used to think that was even more romantic. As he got older he talked himself into believing it was because of how terrible and cold a person Malcolm was, incapable of bonding equally to anyone at all. Talked himself into believing he must be enough like his father to be similarly incapable of bonding.

(And you know, in every soulmate au I’ve ever toyed with that’s held true. Tommy has always assumed it would be Oliver.)

So when the bond happens to Tommy and Felicity completely out of the blue, two perfect strangers, oh they are pissed. And resistant. They assume they will get through settling and never bother one another ever again if they can manage it.

They want very much to keep it quiet.

That lasts less than a day.

After all, it happened in public. Bondings aren’t entirely commonplace but they’re not rare. If you’ve ever witnessed one, you knew it. That sense of electric connection isn’t imaginary, and at point of contact, can be felt like a ripple by those around the connection. Like holding your hand up to an old tv boxset screen just after turning it off.

All it takes is for someone to follow the feeling back and realize they recognize one of the people now staring at each other with their hands on their chests.

A call to a newspaper or tabloid. “Tommy Merlyn just got soul bonded in the lobby of Queen Consolidated!”

The news is spreading before Tommy and Felicity are even properly grappling with it. By the time they’ve had their first conversation and already decided they want to settle quietly and go their separate ways, it’s already a Twitter rumor and the trashiest tabloid in town is putting out speculation about the mystery bond partner of the infamous Merlyn son.

So. Tommy and Felicity don’t get to settle quietly. The first dent in Felicity’s knee jerk hostility towards Tommy is when he immediately works to do what he can to keep her identity concealed once it’s out there that she exists, just not who she is.

Things get complicated fast too. They can’t keep her identity hidden for long at all, though it matters that Tommy tries, and when higher ups at QC find out that the new bond partner of Tommy Merlyn is an employee of theirs (and a bonafide trending topic), it shifts their standing on his proposal for partnership.

He was right that they were leaning towards not partnering with his charity out of a conservative desire to keep the Merlyn and Queen names still separate. It’s only been five years after all. But as interest in Felicity grows it will be impossible to avoid connection since she works there, and if they fired her to try and cover their asses they’d open themselves up to a lawsuit and public backlash. It’s bad optics to make employment decisions based on a person’s bond partner(s), and if provable is illegal in certain circumstances. It’s also wildly unpopular with the public.

So they pivot to cozying up and trying to maximize on it. They’ll do the partnership and even go over the requested funding, but only if Felicity agrees to participate in the PR push. They intend to go with the partnership/redemption/community healing spin.

And won’t it look pretty to partner with a Merlyn charity for lower income health care initiatives with Tommy Merlyn showing up with their employee, much closer to that class than his own, on his arm.

All of this is complicated by the initiative rolling out the pr push during their settling period, a time most new partners choose to stay out of public by and large.

It can be pushed back slightly, but not enough.

So that will be Felicity’s first public appearance as bond partner to Tommy Merlyn, at a donor gala soliciting funding for free clinics and other low income healthcare initiatives.

In the meantime, they have to actually deal with their settling period, and hope they can be balanced enough at the time of the gala not to be petting each other in front of the press corps.

After all, what happens when you have two deeply lonely and desperately touch starved people bonded at the soul level?

Intense need and desire for physical contact.

Most new partners actually move in together during their settling period because need for prolonged physical contact between bond partners is extremely common.

Think Tommy running his hand up and down Felicity’s arm. Felicity absently playing with his hair when they’re alone. And Felicity’s gala dress will have a plunging neckline (showcasing the mark) and an even more plunging back. Tommy will not be able to stop running his hand down her spine. He isn’t even conscious of it most of the time. She hardly is either, just unconsciously leaning into the instinctive comfort of it. But there will be plenty written about it before press time the next day.

The touching starts soon in the settling process. Before they realize it tbh. They’re angrily telling each other they don’t want this and yet they keep touching each other. Hand on her arm to pull her out of the lobby to talk privately. Pushing at his chest to underscore her point. Etc.

He probably guides her to an unused conference room or whatever and she probably immediately ignores him to start unbuttoning her shirt in a panic, looking for her mark, brand new and right smack in the middle between her breasts. Tommy wigs out at that and they’re on the wrong foot from the jump.

(Tommy’s is upper left pectoral. Literally right above his heart)

“Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa, I did not drag you in here for sex, stop undressing!”

“Shut up! I need to see it. Don’t you need to see it? I can feel it. Oh my god. Oh my god, this can’t be happening to me. Do you see it? Tell me this isn’t real.”

They probably argue until the frustrated tears in her eyes lead him to suddenly unbutton his own shirt and prove to them both the marks are real.

But every second since the bonding that electric hum ratchets up til it’s an impossible to ignore itch. They part ways at some point, within hours after, but it’s hardly dark out before Felicity is getting in her car. She tells herself she’s just too damn ansty to be still and needs to go driving. She winds up outside his apartment building without even knowing that’s where she is. He thinks he’s gone downstairs to take a walk and sees her instead.

So Felicity goes up to Tommy’s place once they realize they were literally being drawn to each other. She spends the night there. They talk long into the night, admittedly a lot of it arguing and snarking, but once they’re sitting on the couch with no space between them he starts playing with her fingers without even realizing it. Once they do, they both just watch his fingers toying with hers in loaded silence until she abruptly bursts into tears.

He’s startled, panicking and trying awkwardly to comfort her and please tell him if he did something wrong. But she’s so frustrated with her tears and it’s making her cry harder. She only barely, figuring it out out loud, manages to articulate that she can’t remember the last time someone just touched her like this, and it’s killing her, and she doesn’t want him to stop and that scares her.

And he terrifies himself by nearly crying too because fuck he gets that. He wants so badly for her to just please let him keep touching her like this, because it hurts how much his skin aches to touch another person so simply, just simple human contact, and he’s not sure that’s okay and why would she want to let him touch her, and how do you even ask for things like that without sounding like a creep?

And she doesn’t look at him like he’s evil incarnate, or the son of it. It helps that she moved to Starling after it all happened. She heard about it, but in the abstract way you hear about local taxes going up, or how everyone hates that one sports team.

He was an abstract concept. She didn’t research him or read the articles or follow his big moves into charity work.

He’s just a person to her.

He’s just himself.

Everyone has baggage.

His is just larger scale as far as she’s concerned.

Not that they get into that right away. That first night is still kinda awkward. The getting to know you small talk mixed with late night slumber party deepness interspersed with bouts of silence and a whole lot of cautious casual touching.

But it does make them realize that they’re going to have to deal seriously with being bonded and especially settling.

Whiiiich necessitates certain moves.

First, Felicity has to deal with work. Before the board has moved on their big idea, she puts in her notice of bonding, starting the paperwork to initiate her government mandated settling leave.

The process is completed by a doctor's note stating that bloodwork shows she is indeed in the settling phase of bonding.

Which precipitates their next stop.

Most hospitals and clinics have specialists for this sort of thing. Not just for bloodwork but for sort of... entrance counseling. They talk to the partners separately, confirm bloodwork, provided documentation legally recognizing the bond, and if the partners choose, they can then also be counseled together. It’s the point at which most people get their questions answered about both being bonded and the settling process.

In his individual session, Tommy is probably asking questions about the practicalities of settling, and how to maintain relationships outside a settling bond, and what to do about being in love with someone else while the bond is making you focus on a different person entirely.

(His doctor, a handsome black man in his later thirties, smiles in amusement at that and reminds him not all bonds are romantic and they are certainly not automatically exclusive of other relationship possibilities.)

But Felicity.

Felicity is after the numbers and statistics. How many bondings go badly, what’s the average length of a settling period, what percentage are platonic vs romantic, and do bond partners who are attraction-compatible always end up romantically or sexually involved or can they remain platonic from the start?

So many questions. Her doctor is a youngish Latina woman, close to 30, maybe a little past, and she takes Felicity’s frenzied questions in stride, patient and reassuring but not condescending. When Felicity asks that last question the conversation veers a bit.

“Do you want the speech I’ve already given you about your continued autonomous freedom to choose and control over your actions? Or do you want more numbers and statistics?”

“Numbers, please. Unknowns bother me. Not like scare me, but they bother me, I just need to know, I need cold, hard numbers. Numbers are trustworthy, numbers are reliable.”

He doctor gives her a tolerantly skeptical look. “The cold, hard numbers it is then. In most studies and surveys, the numbers have been pretty consistent. This doesn’t change anything I said about choice or your control over your decisions, but statistics wise? Typically, for attraction-compatible partners, in all honesty, it’s above 80% odds that the partners at some point become romantically or sexually involved. It doesn’t always remain that way, but that’s the odds of involvement at some point over the lifetime of the bond.”

Felicity gapes. “Eight... eighty percent? More than eighty percent?”

Doc nods. “More than 80%. Of course, that does include brief flings and even oneoff intimate encounters. Are you ready for more numbers?” Felicity gulps and nods. “About 93% of those partners get romantically or sexually involved during the settling period. Even if it never happens again, if it’s going to, the odds are overwhelmingly in favor of it being during the most intense period of the bond, while it’s still new and the partners haven’t found their balance quite yet. After all, it’s a very absorbing, intensely emotional period.”

Felicity sits there looking poleaxed. The doc looks at her a little pityingly. “Still prefer those numbers?”

Felicity groans and falls backward on the examination table. “So I’m definitely going to sleep with him? Or, ugh, fall in love with him?”

The doc shakes her head, rolling her eyes heavenward while Felicity isn’t looking. “Not definitely. But it’s a strong possibility.” Felicity muffles a low scream in her forearms. The doc snorts and, when Felicity sits back up, smiles brightly. “But hey, even if it does happen you don’t have to worry about getting pregnant. Protection is still best in all cases, but an aspect of the hormone cocktail that indicates the settling period does preclude the possibility of successful conception.”

Felicity is not really reassured by this.

So Tommy asks the existential questions at the clinic and Felicity asks how screwed (ha) they are by statistics. Neither is feeling particularly awesome about things after their individual counseling sessions but because they are stupid they opt not to also be counseled as a pair.

They’re morons who are resisting the trust and communication aspect of being bonded.

Idk if I’d end up splashing plot around on this thing or just focus solely on the relationship aspect.

Regardless, even if plot, large focus would be on these two getting to know each other during settling and slowly realizing that the bond—and each other—might be exactly what they needed in their lives. It would be hellaaaaa slow burn.

And then there’s the option to expand.

Tommy and Felicity settle before I’d let Oliver butt in, that’s certain. Adding him to the mix too early would be a disaster.

So big focus on Tommy/Felicity relationship development. Lots of talking and cuddling and minor metaphysics. Eventual shift towards the romantic, and its undoubted accompanying angst.

But also possibly some at least minor plot developments in regards to Felicity pushing to further her career, and plenty of entanglement with Tommy’s reputation and unearned notoriety as well as his efforts to make up for his father’s sins by furthering the legacy of his mother’s life’s work.

I’m thinking there miiiight be an incident of some sort at the charity gala.

Not sure if like... an actual attack aimed at Tommy or like disgruntled people going too far.

And I have this line in my head of them like hiding out in a dark spot somewhere and Tommy miserably apologizing for dragging her into his family bullshit. “You were living a normal, safe life until I happened to you. I’m so sorry.”

And Felicity is half ignoring him as she tries to figure out how to help the situation, and just smirks at him wryly. “Please don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the most interesting thing to ever happen to me.”

And of course at some point in the chaos they’ll get separated and it will drive them crazy, frantically searching through the crowd until they find each other. The photo of them clinging desperately to each other once reunited probably makes a few front pages.

Laurel may or may not be there, and Tommy will no doubt end up deeply conflicted about that.

Felicity at some point follows him around on the job with his various charities and nonprofits he’s either started or is deeply involved in and she develops a troubling passion for the work he does. Troubling because she initially wonders if it’s her own passion or something she’s picking up from him.

She starts making mental notes of things that could be improved.

Not on purpose. But when she notices things that could help she can’t just not tell him of course.

And that’s it that’s the meta thus far.

@abuiltinremedy @sweetme86 @illgiveyouallofme @arrowsgirlfriday @folly1977 @memcjo @it-was-a-red-heeler @karolstrange @hungrytiger11 @adeusminhacolombina @lfcoffee @trinket-the-bear @tosailuponthesea @julandran @fiore-della-valle @deathandindignitybedamned @obscure-sentimentalist @dullbittylife @posterchildforinsanity @msbeccieboo @mell-bell @thebravething @lemmyeatspeaches @soaringcities @inevermindyou @sickandtwisteddoc @acheaptrickandacheesyoneline

[disorganizedkitten]

A day in the life of- Mafia AU

Hello @luckywritess! I was/am your Secret Santa this year (Last year?) from the @mlsecretsanta exchange! I’m sorry it’s so late!  I took one of your listed AUs and ran with it, I hope you enjoy! There will be at least three more chapters of this, exploring other characters’ lives in the same Universe.  Also on AO3!

Chapter one-Paon Vigilant

“No.”

“Maybe you should reconsider.” Renée’s comment was punctuated with the distinct sound of a gun cocking.

Paon Vigilant closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I already gave you my answer. It would be best for you and Lansky to accept that.”

Renée moved moved the gun closer to her head, a silent reinforcement of the threat.

Paon gave herself a moment, a part of her wishing some people understood the meaning of the word ‘No’, and the rest wishing it would be a smooth enough attack for her to grab her knifes at this angle, and then she moved.

The gun was out of Renée’s hand in a second, two tops. Another second to position the gun in her hand as she spun, kicking Lansky in the same motion.

The first gunshot echoed through the room, loud enough and long enough that the second seemed to merely be an extension of the noise. Two thuds, and Paon just needed to wait for her ears to stop ringing.

“I’m fine.” She called to her partner, wanting a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of fresh blood as she cleared her head.

Paon nodded to herself, and stepped over the two bodies she had just dropped, heading towards the door. Honestly, these guys thought she would take a bribe like that in the first place? Idiots. If they knew enough of her to try to bargain with the Miraculous Syndicate through her, they should have known she was smarter than to take such an imbalanced bargain.

It was a shame Renée had pulled a gun on her, knives were much more in her element.

Her partner for the day, The Mime, was waiting for her in the hall, raising a dark eyebrow when she left alone. Paon shook her head, moving her left hand across her neck while tapping her new gun against her leg with her right. He had probably heard the entire commotion, but it was still good to communicate. Mime nodded, adjusting his bowler hat before starting down the hall.

Paon followed Mime towards the door, fishing her burner cell out of her pocket as she did so. She tapped the buttons on the screen, dialing the familiar number of her husband and partner in crime, Papillon.

It didn’t even finish one set of dial tone before the line came live. “How’s it going, Lovebird?”

“Scenario three, I’m afraid,” Paon said, sighing as she dropped the now-cooled gun into her knife pouch.

“Aw. I was really hoping they’d be good on their word. Are you and Mime on your way back?”

“Leaving as we speak. Is someone waiting outside?”

“Robustus should still have a car there,” Papillion answered without hesitation. “Were you sick again this morning?”

“Butterfly, my love, can we discuss my health somewhere we won’t be overheard?” Paon asked, adjusting her pace so she was passing Mime.

“Of course,” Papillon agreed. “According to Catalyst you can’t come home quite yet though. Are you and Mime still okay with vetting Mr. Pigeon in half an hour?”

Paon Vigilant turned to Mime as she reached the next doorway, leaning against the bar so she could sign the question.

‘You still good with going to vett Mr. Birdy?’

‘I’m not due for my daughter’s play until three.’ He replied, the smile at the thought of his daughter obscuring the teardrops under his eyes.

‘Alright. Robustus’ Or Helicopter with eyes, as was his literal sign name, ‘should be waiting for us outside.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ Mime saluted.

Paon pulled herself upright and nodded into her phone. “Yeah, we’re still on.”

“Perfect!” Papillon cried. Paon could hear his smile, and could imagine well enough the happy movement on the other side of the phone. He had been very optimistic about this possible ally, and was seemingly sure that he would be on their side.

Paon smiled back, sliding her daggers into her previously unoccupied hand as she pushed the door enough to actually open it. She spun, checking the alleyway outside, and relaxed a little once it proved to be clear.

“Is Befana going to pick us up from Mr. Pigeon’s meeting place?” Paon questioned, making her way down the alley towards the street.

“She’s overseeing the kids’ practices since Zombizou was needed in the field today,” Papillon answered nonchalantly.

“Well at least there’s someone there making sure they all behave themselves. And she’s there for tech support too I assume?”

“Actually, a good amount of the adults are overseeing that for us since we have to be out today.”

“I’m glad they’re not being left alone for it.” Paon reached the edge of the alleyway, and scanned the road in front of her. “Where’s the ride Robustus sent?”

“Down the road, nearer to the river.”

“Perfect, thank you, Love.” Paon spun again and relayed the message to Mime. He tipped his hat at her, gesturing for her to lead the way. She did so gracefully, walking through the streets as if she owned them. And really, she did. Not even Audrey Bourgeois, known as Style Queen in the world of Mafia and reputed to rule the undergrounds of New York, could compete. Emilie Agreste ruled Paris under many names and as many things. Emilie Agreste, model and movie star, known and beloved by many; Paon Vigilant, leader of the crime syndicate Miraculous, -feared by many, bordering on all; mother of Adrien Agreste, the sunshine child, and Chat Noir, pure destructive power hiding behind a playful smile; possible future mother-in-law of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, the growing celebrity designer, and Ladybug, leader of the next generation of underground; Wife of Papillon, the second half of the brains running the best set of underground warriors to date; She ruled Paris in many ways, and would not be dethroned by anyone. Ladybug may be her successor, but Paon Vigilant didn’t plan on retiring any time soon.

Passerbys averted their eyes when she turned hers toward them, some even ducking inside the nearest building to avoid her. Paon didn’t mind it though. She welcomed it. People would swarm Emilie, but they all avoided Paon Vigilant to the best of their abilities.

Mime kept pace with her easily, causing anyone who may have been stupid enough to try to challenge her on her own to think again. It was why the basic rule of Miraculous Syndicate is to travel in groups of two or more at all times. While almost all of them could easily fight on their own, having a partner kept spirits up and showed trust between members.

The car wasn’t empty when the doors opened, but Paon hadn’t actually been expecting it to be. Traveling in groups was a common occurrence, even past individual mission groups.

Riposte and Anansi were waiting inside.

“Hello, Miss Feather!” Anansi called, waving.

“Miss Vigilant.” Riposte nodded shortly from beside her partner.

“Hello girls,” Paon nodded to them each in turn as she entered the car, settling across from Anansi while Mime sat across from Riposte. “What have you two been up too?”

“Vanisher’s busy with the movie contest, so we’re being substitute spies concerning the Guardians,” Riposte explained.

“We stood out like bunnies in a hamster cage,” Anansi shrugged.

“Well if someone hadn’t gone head to head against a passerby about which version of that crazy spider myth of yours we might have stayed under the radar,” Riposte snapped.

“I was correcting misinformation!” Anansi defended.

Paon just smiled as the girls’ squabble kept up throughout the drive to Anansi’s drop location. Teenagers.

Hopefully Adrien’s teen years would be easy for her and Gabriel to deal with.

They reached Riposte’s destination not long after, leaving Paon and Mime again in silence for the last few miles to the arranged meeting place.

It was surprising, really, how far away the meeting places were from each other in Paris. Entirely different sides of town could sport buildings perfect for their needs. Out of the public eye, whilst not being too far out of the way.

Paon stepped out of the car, scanning the area for traps. There were none, but it would hurt more if she just breezed by instead of checking. Mime flanked her as they entered the building, following the soft cooing of pigeons to the correct room.

They reached the door, and after a quick conversation in sign, agreed to both go inside and meet with the possible new guy.

Paon Vigilant paused in the entryway of the meeting room, doing her best to not let her emotions show through her mask. Monsieur Pigeon took his name seriously. Very seriously.

There were pigeons and feathers everywhere. Bird feeders hung in the open windows, and any birds that weren’t flocked around M. Pigeon himself were staring at them from said feeders.

Even though she used a bird for her symbol, the majestic peacock, she had never taken it this far. Even Gabriel knew better than to take his butterfly symbol quite that far.

A part of Monsieur Ramier’s charm, or so she would suppose.

“Ah ha ha! You must be from the Miraculous Syndicate.” he shot out of his seat, moving irregularly across the room and scattering pigeons. “A pleasure to meet you! Isn’t that right my lovelies?” he chittered at two of the birds still on his arm, then turned back to her. “I am Monsieur Pigeon, if Hawkmoth didn’t tell you before he sent you.” The pigeons moved to his shoulders, leaving an arm open for him to offer his hand to her.

“Paon Vigilant,” she answered, taking it carefully. She pulled it back right after and gestured to Mime. “And this is my colleague, The Mime.”

“Not one for talking, is he?” Pigeon asked, tilting his head. “That’s okay! My darlings don’t talk much either, but we still make an amazing team. Isn’t that right my boy?” the pigeon in question just cooed, rubbing their head against his neck.

Paon was in crazy town. But he was said to be a good fighter, so she would have to trust that. And finish this interview.

“I’m sure that’s true. So you and your... friends... think you’ll be a good addition to our team? Most try rather hard to avoid being pulled into this, don’t they?”

She glanced around the room again, taking in the pigeons cooing around her, and wrinkled her nose ever so slightly at the smell of the poop wafting about the room. It was going to be a very long meeting.

***

“Well that was… a unique experience,” Paon voiced, pulling her mask off once safely back in the lair.

“Oh?” Hawkmoth prompted, leaning on his cane.

“Pigeon is not enough warning. He had at least thirty with him, and they all had names, and he was really nice, but I’m not sure how much he’d actually be able to do. We’re supposed to be scary, not nice.” Emilie handed the mask and hat to Hawkmoth, moving onto her hair.

“Are the pigeons at least unsettling?”

“Very,” Emilie assured him, walking over to where Catalyst was waiting.

“Anansi will be out soon, we could always use another bodyguard.” Catalyst offered, handing Emilie her purse. She took it and dropped her hair pins into it.

“I suppose you’re right. Nathalie, how long do we have until the film contest?”

“Two hours,” Catalyst replied.

“Perfect! We have some time to spend on the fashion world! Your newest line is due in two weeks, right?”

“It’s the one to go with Marinette’s hat.” Gabriel explained. “I still need to meet with her for the last set of checkups. Movie night?”

“I’m up for that!” Emilie agreed. “But only after you change back. Nathalie, do you want to join us?”

“After I finish the paperwork from today’s missions I might join you. You two should go ahead.”

“Alright.” Emilie moved back to hug Hawkmoth. “See you later Nathalie! Hit the button Lovebug.”

[kylo-ren-writes]

Attraction, Epilogue

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, Epilogue

Pairing: Kylo Ren x Reader

Warnings: uhhh, angsty I guess? Age gap, time jump.

Tag List: @beautifulbows924 @celestiaelisia @bluudhavens @majestic-sith-queen @kyloren-supreme-ben @samarantha @kirah34 @redhairedfeistynerd @drtiberiussith @hoe-for-daddywise @bisexualbitchbabe @hostofthefirenation @ayatimascd @fralackles @imyourdreamwife @kylos-sassy-cousin @blxkstar @thesquidni @kylosskywalkers @ymariejp @sassyspacepizza @the-illustrator-of-melodies @just-another-starwars-fangirl

A/N: well, everyone. This is the last part to this series. I’m so happy that I decided to rewrite it and that many of you enjoyed it. Thank you very much for reading it and I hope to write more series in the future! But for now, I hope you enjoy this last part, and do forgive me for taking a bit of time to write it! (Gif not mine!)

You sat on your small cot in your even smaller cell, with your legs crossed and your back against the wall.

A whole year. A whole year today, exactly. You did not keep track of the days that passed, only guessed... and got a hold of stormtroopers who you compelled to tell you the date upon asking.

It was almost a surprise that that much time had gone by already. But yet, at the same time, you weren’t surprised at all. The days spent in your little cell all blended together, so even though it was almost hard to believe, it also made sense.

Head tilted back against the cool, dirty wall, your eyes closed as the memory came back to you. It was a day that you held onto even though it had been painful, and still was painful to think about. But it was real, something more real than all the time you spent on the dark side and in the First Order. You were determined to think about it everyday so it would not fade. And so you wouldn’t forget a certain face, or rather, forget what a certain someone looked like.

The thought of forgetting the face of the man who’s name you did not bother to think about anymore was almost terrifying. It was a fear you had created inside your head, a fear that made you replay all the prominent features you could remember so clearly even a year later.

How could you forget him, anyway. He was more than unique, with his dark head of curls and waves, whose softness you could just barely feel on your finger tips. Light, pale skin that contrasted against his locks, almost making him look sickly with how it exaggerated the dark circles under his eyes.

It made you smile, remembering the tiredness always evident on his angular face, knowing that he never quite got enough sleep. And smiling even more when you remembered the sleep he had gotten with you that day when he had revealed it all to you and had become one with you.

You had a mark in the wall, near the end of your cot where you had estimated his height from what you had remembered later on, cause he was so very tall and that was not a detail you wanted to forget. Nor did you want to forget the muscle that added build to his body, evening out the otherwise scraggly look he would have had without it.

The way his strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you safe in his embrace, against his chest while he muttered how he was going to protect you from then on. If only he had known how much that wasn’t true.

But the features about him that you remembered most, those and others, like the golden brown shade of his eyes or the fullness of his pink mouth, was what kept the last memory of him that you forced yourself to remember, so vivid. That memory was certainly more preferred to the other one, the one that twisted you up inside.

After waking up from the long nap turned sleep that morning, you had woken up alone to a cold, empty bed. Kylo had not been there, you hadn’t felt him anywhere within his quarters. But that hadn’t initially alarmed you.

You had stayed in his large bed for a bit longer with your face pressed into his pillow, breathing in his clean scent and remembering what had happened between you many hours before.

Now that was another good memory, but only one that you saved for special nights that left you especially... lonely and sad.

After you were done with the ‘burying your face into his pillow’ and remembering, you had gotten out of his bed with a stretch of your limbs over your head and headed into his bathroom. The reflection you saw in the mirror above the sink looked like a different person. You had felt like a different person, a happier person. At least in that moment. It was the after part where you had changed out of his shirt and back into your own clothes so you could go back to your room and change, when things took a turn.

The minute you had walked out of his quarters after folding up his shirt nicely and leaving it on his bed, when you had been seized.

Three stormtroopers led by the one and only Kane, who you had barely seen much of over the last few weeks prior, and was even more surprised to see then, took hold of your arms tightly. One limb in each of their two while the third trooper stood behind with Kane and his annoying smirk standing in front of you.

You couldn’t remember much of Kane in your memory, or really much of the rest of this memory, but it still pained you regardless. You mostly remembered being taken away to a ship and Kane’s normal cruelness as the reality of what had been going on set into your brain. Kane didn’t need to explain it to you, although he did anyway because he wanted to, what was going on. You were being sent away.

That is exactly what had happened. You had been taken away to who knows where and kept in this little, dirty cell which had a regular rotation of troopers to make sure you stayed in.

It had been depressing, it was depressing, but you weren’t dead. Although, at times, you certainly wished you were.

The worst part of it all was the fact that you could not feel His presence through the force anymore. The minute Kane and his trio of stormtroopers had seized you, the connection and bond you had newly shared with him had severed. It had almost been a crippling feeling, a deep pain that had not ever gone away and at times felt linger strongly. At those times, you liked to entertain the idea that maybe it was Him trying to reach out for you through the force. It gave you comfort even though you knew it wasn’t true.

You missed him more than anything, but like most pain, it had lessened over time.

Now, even though you still made time to remember him, almost treating him as if he were dead because if you were honest, it felt like he was, you still tried to keep your mind busy in other ways.

You liked to read and gain knowledge, even though you did not need to learn anything anymore. Your lightsaber had been taken away by Kane and it wasn’t like you could really practice anything in your small space. But over the year, you had managed to acquire some old books from stormtroopers you had compelled, and read them. All of them you read more than five times at least.

Light exercise was another way you tried to keep your mind busy. Even though you couldn’t do much, you still tried to keep fit in what little ways that you could.

Then of course the two meals a day that you got and your sleep were the other ways in which you kept busy. Eating was a distraction and sleep was an escape. And when more time had passed during your time in the cell, the nightmares you had over it almost stopped. You barely had them anymore. It was mostly just deep, dreamless sleep. But you didn’t mind, not at all. Better than the alternative for sure.

Right now it was the time before breakfast when two stormtroopers switched places and another brought you your tray of food.

It was the time you reserved for remembering and for him, the time you allowed any and all thoughts to wander recklessly. It reminded you of meditation—something you rarely did now—with how deeply you fell into your thoughts. At times you wouldn’t leave your mind until you got taken out of it by a clanking from one of the troopers as he banged on your cell. At those times you were sure that it could have been meditation.

That didn’t happen today, however. You pulled yourself from your thoughts quite easily and tilted your chin back down as you opened up your eyes. You were done remembering for today, or at least the morning. It was time for breakfast anyway... or at least you thought it was.

You had gotten pretty accustomed to waking up at the same hour everyday and calculating the in between time of the shift changes of the troopers as well as breakfast, in your mind. A trooper had left but one had not come to take its place. It was odd but sometimes it did happen, so you kept your gaze on the opposite wall and waited. Your thoughts stayed empty, only counting the seconds up until five whole minutes passed. After that, you turned your head to the side, towards the door to your cell, and furrowed in your brows.

Why were the troopers late? They were often punctual and on time, and surely even your breakfast would have been delivered by now.

Pushing yourself up from your bed, you stood, a few feet away from your cell door. Nothing seemed to feel off, only quiet. Although you never really bothered to tap into your force abilities anymore. There wasn’t much of a point. But you couldn’t ignore the sudden feeling in your head that something was indeed off.

You listened carefully, to the quietness that filled your small space. Your cell was down a narrow hallway, so you could not see anything other than another cell opposite of you that was empty. But what you couldn’t see, you could hear, and you certainly were not hearing things when the abrupt sound of footfalls sounded out on the floor.

Your shoulders sagged and your expression relaxed, no longer confused nor concerned. It was the trooper taking the other troopers place. With that in your head, you returned back to sitting on top of your cot, your legs dangling over the edge of it and a book in your hands. You might as well read a bit while you wait for breakfast.

That’s what you did. You read, ignoring the sound of the footfalls and not even noticing how differently they sounded to the traditional troopers. It wasn’t until the “trooper” was standing in front of your cell that your peripheral picked up on the darker attire of the person that you assumed had been a stormtrooper.

Fear picked up in your mind, your heart beat beating quickly. It had you frozen in place as you dared not move or even twitch an eye. A stranger was in front of your cell, something that was not customary. Something that was not protocol. But a voice inside of your head urged you to lift it, to look up at whoever was here, to see them. And so you did, and the sight of them made you drop your book onto the floor.

A dream, this had to be a dream... no, a nightmare. Only a nightmare could produce something so cruel and awful for you to see. Although what you could see wasn’t awful to look at, but it was painful.

Kylo Ren stood there, in front of your cell, dressed in different clothes from what you remembered and with different hair.

You couldn’t help your mouth from parting open and the stare you had on his face. Your expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. He looked the same yet different. His skin was still pale but it held a... scar? And his dark hair wasn’t as curled and styled as you remembered, rather more wavy and stuck to his head, framing that same angular face. That face that looked even more tired than what you remembered.

Kylo stared at you as you stared at him, mirroring the same expression as his eyes flitted over your face and body. You knew that you looked different, too. Thinner with longer hair, although you did not know what your face looked like, you hadn’t seen a mirror since that day. You imagined you had to have looked pretty much the same with only little differences. Just like him.

You seemed to stare at each other, taking each other in, as the minutes ticked by. But this time you weren’t counting the seconds. Somehow you managed to find your voice, and the first thing you could only manage to mutter was: “are you real?” It had been a strangled sounding sound, but they were words regardless.

“Are you?” Kylo croaked out in a reply, although his voice had sounded stronger and deeper. His. The sound brought instant tears to your eyes.

You nodded slowly then carefully stood back up from your cot, keeping your gaze on him as you willed your legs not to give out on you. Your head already felt like it was swimming.

“I... I’m r-real,” you stuttered out, a single tear managing to escape your eye and trail it’s way down your cheek, dripping off of your jaw onto your shirt.

Kylo was quiet, so quiet you feared that he really wasn’t real and that this was a nightmare after all. But then he turned his gaze towards the panel on the wall that could authorize your release by opening the door of the cell. You weren’t thinking of that, however, only of him and keeping your eyes on him as you barely kept yourself up on your feet. Your legs felt like jelly.

Your cell door opened seconds later and you still did not notice, until Kylo was suddenly moving closer as he rushed to you, everything feeling like it was moving in slow motion. One minute he was too far from you, the next you were scooped up into his arms, barely able to breathe with how those familiar, strong—stronger—arms engulfed you into a too tight embrace. That’s when you broke, allowing the tears to fall from your eyes as you frantically wrapped your arms around his neck, him lifting you off of the ground.

A sob broke out from your throat and Kylo quickly hushed you, pressing your face into his chest, underneath of his chin, as he held you up and against him. It had been so long since you had felt him against you, since those arms had embraced you, since you had heard his voice. You missed him even more than you knew.

“H-how... how...” you tried, but Kylo only hushed you again, pressing a hard kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m here, I’m real,” he assured. “I’m real. I’m real.”

You couldn’t help the relief you felt over his words and how reassured and soothed you felt by them. It was him, it was really him. Kylo was here and holding you now. “B-but how—“

“I killed Snoke,” Kylo cut you off. “I killed him, he’s gone, and I’m sorry it took so long for me to find you and get to you, but he’s gone. You’re safe.”

Safe. You were safe. Snoke was gone. Kylo killed him. Kylo killed Snoke.

It was a lot to process, but at the moment you couldn’t care less. Not with how Kylo was here with you now and you were in his arms. So you only nodded slowly and briefly, legs wrapping around his waist as you figured out how to move them again. You believed that if you clung onto him, that he couldn’t possibly disappear.

You could feel Kylo turn and him carry you, presumably out and away from your cell. You couldn’t even think about your books you were leaving behind, but those didn’t matter. Not at this time.

Kylo carried you down the hall and out of it, up a narrow set of stairs to the ground floor of the base you had been kept on. It was an old base belonging to the First Order that didn’t serve much purpose most days. But it was the planet that served the most value, as it offered many resources and allegiance to the First Order. The base was only a necessary aspect of it.

Stormtroopers he had brought along waited there for their new Supreme Leader, and the ones stationed there stood aside and out of the way.

You kept your arms firmly around his neck and your face pressed into his chest as you remained unaware of your surroundings or of what was happening. All you chose to focus on was Kylo and how he felt against you, so warm and hard, and comfortable. No, comforting.

Kylo quickly carried you out of the base and onto his command shuttle, the well trained stormtroopers following behind like the soldiers they were.

The crew didn’t need to be told to take off, and that’s how you realized that Kylo had carried you onto a ship. You felt the familiarity of taking off, something you hadn’t felt in a long time, and you finally pulled your face away from his chest. Just enough so you could glance and skim your eyes around the ship, and look up at him. He was seated on a bench with you on his lap.

One of your arms unwound itself from Kylo’s neck, and your hand rested on his jaw, making him look down at you.

By then your tears had dried and your sobbing had stopped. You still couldn’t believe that he was really here, but you were working on it. Like now, with how you were staring up at him. Up close you could see the moles and freckles that dotted his face, a detail that had somehow slipped your mind from your memories. You couldn’t help the frown that turned down the corners of your mouth slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Kylo asked immediately, hugging you closer to him.

“I forgot about the freckles and moles on your face,” you said softly, throat a little dry and hoarse from crying.

Kylo leaned his face down and rested his forehead against yours. “That’s alright.”

“No it’s not.” Your frown deepened. “I made sure that I wouldn’t forget you and what you looked like, but I forgot something so important.”

Kylo pulled his forehead away and replaced it with his lips. “It is alright,” he insisted. “You will never forget them now or anything about me, because this time there is nothing or no one that can possibly take you away from me.”

Your frown turned into a small smile. “You sound so sure.” He did, and it helped you relax, but you could not help but be skeptical.

“I am,” Kylo said confidently. He was right, no one could take you from him. “I’m the Supreme Leader now, I run the First Order.”

You were surprised, but you knew that you shouldn’t be. After all, he did kill Snoke. Your smile got a little bigger and you hugged him, arms wounding back around his neck. Kylo hugged you back, chin resting on your head.

“I will tell you everything, I promise,” he muttered. “But not now. We have so much time and right now I want to spend some of it holding you.”

You had to agree with him, but you didn’t respond, only snuggled into him to show him how much you agreed.

This time you felt the surety in his words. But unlike before, you had an overwhelming feeling that this time everything was going to be fine. You could live out your lives together. Kylo was going to be your master and train you again in the force. He was the ruler, he didn’t have anyone to tell him what to do. Not anymore.

Peeling your face back from his clothed chest, you looked up at him again as he raised a dark brow. You smiled, then lifted your head, pressing your lips against his in a soft kiss.

Kylo kissed you back, harder than you kissed him, but you didn’t mind. It was a kiss to make up for not kissing again since that day. It was a kiss that was nice and something you wanted to replicate and evolve on many, many times in the future. And you would.

For the first time in the life you could remember, the only life you knew of being here, in the First Order, you felt happy. It would have otherwise been a foreign word to you, but right now, it was the only appropriate word. Because you were happy, more than happy. And the cause of your happiness was Kylo.

[ishipbullshitso]

GONE PT. 2

Also read here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402030/chapters/40993583

"There is something about you," she spoke confidently behind her chair. He did not reply, but the question lying on his tongue is implied.

"I've read about you and what you have done, but there is something missing. There is so much more that is not on paper." She rises from her chair, stalking closer to him on the other side of the table. He doesn't react to her hands spreading across his chest, nails intentionally digging into his skin. It has been many years since he has reacted in any way to a woman. All that mattered to him was a mission and no budding flower could stop him.

Her red lips brush across his cheek into a firm kiss on his cheek, leaving a crimson mark in its wake. Her teeth drag to his ear, nibbling on the lobe as she seats herself on his lap. This was not a chance of seduction; this was a test. She was testing him and he is passing with flying colors.

"Rest assured," she whispers, "I will find out everything that I want to know."  

Finally, he turns his head to look at her. If he had moved any more, they would have kissed, but it was all intimidation. Before she could react, he wrapped a strong hand around her throat, squeezing enough to cut off air. Her lips parted in fear. He tilts her head up and kisses at her jawline. Just for show.

"You won't find a damn thing about me that I don't want you to know." He shoves her to the ground and walks out of the office. She holds a hand against her throat in shock as the door closes behind him.

"This doesn't sound like him, brother?"

T'Challa knew that if there was one person who he could trust with the letter, it was Shuri. She was, somehow, the person who accepted him the most, despite her shooting him the moment T'Challa let N'Jadaka out of the cage. T'Challa paced around the lab, the words as embedded in his mind as his father's words in the Ancestral Plane (which he already checked to see if N'Jadaka was dead).

It has been 38 days.

"I know it doesn't sound like him. He wouldn't just leave Shuri." She gives him a complex look, unbelieving of even that. T'Challa knows he wouldn't go.

"He was trained-"

"He wouldn't just leave!" He pinches his bridge, frustrated. "I know him better than all of you. He wanted to stay." Shuri says nothing more, rereading the letter for his comfort. T'Challa settles to sit down in a seat, but it doesn't stop the thoughts attacking his brain. All of the possibilities.

Was he kidnapped? If he didn't log in his hours to the watch, then maybe he did have border duty and someone got in? Maybe someone in Oakland died and he saw it on his technology. Maybe he needed to go..

"Why would he address himself as Killmonger? I thought he didn't want to be called that anymore."

"He doesn't. There's got to be some reasoning behind all of this." Shuri walks over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. It feels warm, almost comforting, but T'Challa can't appreciate it as much as he should. "I just want him home."

"I'm sure Mother is happy," Shuri scoffs, "I think I saw her crack a smile when you told her that he is missing. If I didn't know any better, I would think that she was behind all of this."

It was a boiling, the rage that welt up in T'Challa. It's not impossible whatsoever. Queen Mother despises his being and everything he represents. Of course she would be happy that he was gone, especially if she is why he left. T'Challa stands, attempting to swallow down his anger.

"Perhaps I should talk to her." Shuri blinks numerously in her surprise, standing in front of her brother before he can move further. She puts a hand up, bewildered.

"Brother.. you are not considering that-"

"I don't know what happened in the eighteen hours between the time I last saw and when I realized he was gone. Mother is the only one who would truly want him gone. I at least have to ask." T'Challa hates this feeling. The panther beneath his skin has been digging to get out, to show some true vengeance to anyone who would dare to want harm upon N'Jadaka. Shuri's thinking it through, he knows it. Despite his poor mood, nothing cannot be considered at this point, even if it means accusing of his own mother of masterminding his lover's disappearance.

"You know how ugly this can get." Of course he knows, but not a cell in his body is not willing to take the risk. He walks up the spiral before Shuri calls his name again. T'Challa turns to his saddened sister.

"What if.. what if he sent you that letter for a reason? Is it really worth going down the rabbit hole to find him?" T'Challa unclenches his fist, contemplative. He already knows the answer before it leaves his lips and Shuri couldn't have expected a different response.

"He's worth it all."

T'Challa almost runs out of the room, saluting the guards despite the build up of tears in his eyes.

"Is this your idea of changing my view of this damn place? Taking me to a forest ain't it, bruh." T'Challa rolled his eyes and hurried him along the trail. Technically, it was another week before N'Jadaka was even allowed out of his cell. As King, he'll break as many rules as he sees fit for the situation.

"Alright, stop and follow me closely," T'Challa advises, stepping in front of him to guide him through the thick leaves. Wakanda was beautiful beyond compare and as King, he was doing a better job of letting the world see what Wakanda truly is and what they are capable of. The rest of the world thought Wakanda was poor and in need, but N'Jadaka thought Wakanda was poor and in need for a completely reason. How do you reverse the way someone bred themselves to think of their disgusted home?

They hiked another five minutes and in that time, Erik had resolved to gripping the back of his robe and ducking his head to dodge the leaves.

"Nigga if you're going to kill me, go ahead and do it."

"I am not going to kill you! Bast, why would you say that?" N'Jadaka shrugs behind him.

"It's just one of your many options, King." T'Challa knows he only refers to him as King when something bitter is in his mind. He sneers the term out, no matter how much he tries not to for formality. T'Challa is only trying to help him, but sometimes the customs of Wakanda seem to make it worse for the both of them. He shakes the thought away as they finally reach their destination.

The quiet roar of the water becomes louder and they emerge through the trees. N'Jadaka looks around, confused, but T'Challa elects to speak before he can say anything.

"I found this place when I was 13. I used to come here all of the time when I was stressed. I built a small hut over there," T'Challa points to the nearly invisible house, "for when I wanted to get away for a while. Come." N'Jadaka follows T'Challa acrosses the shallow of the waterfall to the hut. It had obviously went through some renovations before their trip here today, obviously by the hand of T'Challa. N'Jadaka had a feeling no one else knew about this place.

"So you never took Nakia here when you wanted some one-on-one time?"

"Nakia had made it very clear a long time ago that she has no intention of being my queen. It just took me a long to accept that." T'Challa replies as he opens the door. It had all of the necessities were here for living. A bed, a small "kitchen," a hallway leading to a bathroom in the back. The place was stocked in food. "And no, this place was just for me."

"Then why did you show me then?" T'Challa tossed him a water bottle, which N'Jadaka caught easily, chugging it down in a couple of gulps. T'Challa watches a couple of drop drip from the sides of his mouth, then remembers his place and looks away. It isn't unseen by the war criminal, who suppresses a smile behind the bottle.

"I assumed you wouldn't want to live anywhere near people anytime soon, so I thought-"

"That you would give me your old play house?" T'Challa drags out a heavy breath, thinking this was a horrid idea. N'Jadaka sits on the bed, one leg raised. He presents his teeth, the gold reflecting off of the outside line shining through. "I thought I still had a week left."

"You do," T'Challa replies, "I wanted you to have options since I can't let you leave, and I know that you want to leave and if I could-" N'Jadaka laughs, low, but it is enough to cut the king off once again.

"Just shut up. I'm fine being in a palace or whatnot. It gives me some satisfaction that they still have to deal with me despite all of this shit." T'Challa nods and motions for him to come on so they can leave.

"Hey, King," N'Jadaka waits for him to turn around, "am I really worth all this effort you're putting into me?"

For the first time, N'Jadaka looked like he wanted that answer, like he needed to hear some sort of confirmation. T'Challa knew his perspective of N'Jadaka was changing from the constant interactions to purposely makes with him. It's changing into something T'Challa needs to cut off before it reaches a point of no return.

"You're worth more than your life led you to believe you was worth, N'Jadaka. Come, we have to sneak you back in before Okoye realizes you're gone."

"Oh shit, let's go. That woman hurts like a bitch." They don't talk any more on the way back, not that they needed to. Their minds were in different places, content in their own thoughts.

T'Challa knew that wasn't what he wanted to say, but he can't afford to say any more than what he did say. It was sufficient enough for N'Jadaka, though.

"How dare you ask me such a thing." Ramonda places a hand at her chest, leaning back in her chair. T'Challa stands tall, proud, eyes focused solely on his mother. "If I wanted the boy gone, I'd tell him myself."

"You have yet to speak a word to him since the day he threw me off of Warrior Falls years ago. He is my lover and all you've done is tell me how much you hate him, and now he is gone and you want me to think that you have absolutely no part in it." Queen Mother glares at her son, their prides battling each other in the way they speak.

"Do you even know what that boy has done? Who he is?" T'Challa almost rolls his eyes.

"Mother, I've memorized his file by memory and I know him better than anyone in-" Queen Mother smacks her hand on the table.

"Wrong! You don't know everything. I've done research into your bed warmer and he is not all that he seems." Ramonda gets up and walks down the hall to her room, T'Challa following closely. There is no way that she could have found out more about him.

"Who have you contacted?" She opens a drawer and shoves a file his way. A paper file?

"It matters not. Your consort has a darker past than you think." T'Challa opens the file. It's N'Jadaka in images and reports with classified marked in red on top of the file. Except his name isn't Erik Stevens as his alias. It's Isaiah Malachi Robinson. He closes the file, electing to read more later. What matters is his mother.

"Who did you get this from? Tell me at once!" Ramonda backs away from T'Challa.

"I don't know. I asked for someone to give me more on him since he decided he was going to sex his way back to the throne and they dropped it off at the border."

"You're telling me you got a secret file on N'Jadaka and you have no idea who they are or what they are a part of? Do you realize you could've put Wakanda in danger? Do you realize you could've put N'Jadaka in danger?" T'Challa is all but yelling at this point, pacing around the room. Queen Mother glares and drives a finger into his chest.

"If you hadn't opened your legs for a snake, I wouldn't need to put anyone in danger." He shakes his head and turns away from her, angered.

"If he is in danger and it is because you dug in grounds you had no right to be in, I will not hesitate to come after you when this is done." She gasps, reaching for him, but he denies the gesture. "You know, all he wanted was to be accepted by you. He tried to be good for you and all you do is treat him like he is nothing. You are wrong." T'Challa walks right out of the door with the file in his hand. Queen Mother doesn't call for him to come back.

T'Challa doesn't expect her to, either.

Isaiah Malachi Robinson

Age: Classified

Race: Classified

Profession: Classified

How could N'Jadaka not tell him about this? This isn't military and this isn't when he worked for Klaue. T'Challa scans the images of his lover. He hates the fact that it gives him comfort to see those images. In some, he is smiling and surrounded by other people carrying weapons like his. In others, his face is battered, his body covered in wounds that T'Challa barely noticed across his bronzed skin.

What was he into?

"Operation: Mwokozi" Savior? Swahili? He's been in Africa this whole time and no one knew.

T'Challa wants to be upset. N'Jadaka never told him about this or even hinted that he was involved anywhere in Africa until he walked right into Wakanda. He wants to be mad, but he knows he's not going to stop. He can't.

Isaiah Robinson was in Ethiopia. He knows Ethiopia and he knows the Rift Valley in the background. He was there. Right under his nose, N'Jadaka was here all along.

T'Challa begins to pack, calling Shuri via the Kimoyo beads.

"Brother."

"I am going to find him and I'm starting in Ethiopia. You've got to take over while I am gone."

"Ethiopia? What did Mother-"

"She found something out and it may mean he is in trouble."

"Just keep me updated!"

"If I can," T'Challa turns off the communication and lifts the bag.

The step onto the plane doesn't feel like a confident stride into finding N'Jadaka.

It feels like he has no idea where the hell N'Jadaka is going to lead him, but he has to try.

He'd give anything to find him.

WHERE DO YOU THINK N’JADAKA IS?? 

[jj-ktae]

Regret

Title : Regret Pairing : Taeyong x you Genre : Angst, Fluff Words : 3686 Summary : Taeyong regrets everything.

It’s insane. Well, no one is sane at five in the morning. Not when the sun is down and the sky is twinkling. There are so many stars, so beautiful in the middle of the fading shadows, mixing with shades of deep blue, pink, orange. It’s like a hidden painting. A piece of art above everyone, yet only a lucky number notices it.

He understands why you love looking up to the sky whenever you feel down. He is doing the same every time he can, because it reminds him of how dreamy you can be.

But Taeyong doesn’t do it out of pure will. He can’t sleep. No matter how much his body screams for rest, his brain keeps every cell alive, connecting with a sparkling pain and going all over his body, reaching his heart and clenching it, twisting his inside.

It’s still funny though, because he is the one responsible for that. He thought it would be better with time, he always got better with time. Like an endless practice, and practice makes perfect. So if he tried hard enough, he could forget about you.

If only he knew.

It’s been a year. A whole year of persuading himself that he could make it without you. He went on with his life, from early mornings to late nights. Every day is similar to the previous one. A succession of moments when he couldn’t do anything but think about you at totally random times.

It doesn’t annoy him. It’s pretty much even normal, considering the amount of love he still has for you. It has nothing to do with hard feelings, this breakup. It’s out of brain choices and not impulsions. It’s a well thought project, with valid arguments and meticulousness.

It was a perfect plan.

Until he found himself crying in the middle of the day because of a song that reminded him of you.

It started to get ridiculous when no matter the number of rebound girls, he would never forget the softness of your skin and the tenderness of your whispers against his neck on a rainy night. It started to be almost funny when he said your name in the middle of a heated love-making session with a model he wanted to take care of with all he had.

But he had nothing left. He had given everything to you and you didn’t give it back to him when you left. You took everything and left him with nothing but void.

It’s another early morning before schedules and rehearsals. It’s a perfect morning for black coffee in front of the window. It’s a great morning to be a melancholic guy with a lost expression and sad eyes.

He laughs to himself when Taeyong thinks about how much of a drama queen he became. It’s natural. He didn’t break up with you because he is heartless. It has nothing to do with a lack of love or him trying to hurt you.

Maybe he is to stereotypical, but he did it for you.

He can still hear the huge snort you gave him when he told you this. It’s true though. He defends himself daily, there was a valid reason.

It’s hard to like him. He has such a low self-esteem he cannot understand how someone can love him like you did. You would wait for hours at home, or wherever you were supposed to meet.

Taeyong was always late. He would always find a way to make you wait, no matter the importance of the meeting, the occasion, the moment.

He hated himself more than you ever did for that.

He is complicated, he knows this. If you don’t mind that sort of lifestyle, why would he? It’s your problem after all. If you love him enough to bear with this, why stop?

Because he knows. No one can love him.

He puts his cup on the living-room’s table and aims for a much-needed shower. He has too little time for too many thoughts and it’s a whirlpool in his head.

Today is another busy day with the promise of less regrets, which he knows won’t be the case.

---

“Hansel and Gretel couldn’t resist the huge amount of candies and cakes. They followed the lady into the delicious looking house.”

The gasps of shock you hear from the mini-humans in front of you is enough to make you giggle a little. “What’s wrong?” you ask, leaning down to their level.

“Why would they follow a stranger into their house?” A fist lifts into the air and the rest agree, tiny heads nodding into your direction.

You hum and get up, agreeing. “Hansel and Gretel were abandoned by their parents. They were starving. You should never follow a stranger, but at least they got to eat.” You try to explain the best you can, regretting your choice to read this book.

“It’s such a sad story, teacher.” A little girl grabs her plushie and hugs it tight to her tiny chest, face hidden into the bright pink fur.

“I know. I promise you’ll feel better once I’m done reading. Shall I continue?” You try, the book wriggling in front of unconvinced children.

It was the best option. You were not in the mood for painting, just like you didn’t want to make salt dough. Reading is good, reading is learning.

But the kids look away and you make a face, deciding not to let them win this time. Reading it is, reading it will be.

This is how you ended coaxing three kids during naptime.

What a crappy day. Being a teacher is great, but a substitute one is a little less rewarding. You get to replace teachers in elementary schools, which means you don’t even have your own class. You don’t know when you’ll see these kids again once their teacher will be back.

It’s the only option you found when you quit your job. There wasn’t any vacant position near your location and you needed the job.

You needed it because you had to move to another district. One that is far from the frenzy you rubbed shoulders with.

It belongs to a past you want to forget. It’s not what you want in your life right now. Maybe you had enough of hiding, maybe it’s about peacefulness, you don’t know.

All you want is for your life to be what it used to be before you met him.

You take your purse and greet the other teachers, ready for another long ride home.

Tomorrow will worry you when it comes, for now you should focus on the moment.

---

“Far be it from me to act like a smartass, but shouldn’t you eat?” Taeyong looks up from his phone when Johnny’s head appears, cheeks full and breath smelling like raw fish.

“Not hungry.” He sits and grabs his box before handing it to his bandmate, “You can have it.” His smile is genuine when he leans against the sofa again, yawning.

“You already have such a tiny body, can’t you force the food down your throat or something?” Johnny insists but grabs the box anyways, aware it would be useless to leave it.

“I can’t, thank you for your concern.” Taeyong laughs because he finds it funny.

They always had a weird way to deal with worry.

He doesn’t find if annoying that his bandmates nag him all the time because he knows it’s true. He should eat, sleep more, drink less coffee, practice less, relax more, stop being so hard on himself.

He knows this already but he can’t do anything about it. This is who he is.

Johnny rolls his eyes and goes back to his spot on the table, mumbling about careless kids and delicious food.

Taeyong stares at your picture for another good ten minutes and smiles.

He is full already.

---

It’s been so long since you came here. This elementary school looks new, like it opened recently because you don’t remember it being here when you were living in the area.

It was a long day, filled with laughs, cries, games, colours, music. In short, a very exhausting day which you have to finish with a special treat to the nearest convenience store. Noodle is your comfort food, more heartwarming than any other luxurious dish.

It’s too cold to care about anything else as you head for the shop, empty and waiting for you to make it a little livelier.

It’s one of these exact same nights Taeyong picks to have a walk around the city. He ends up where his feet always take him. It’s not far from his own place, he knows every street and every place you used to go to. He walks around like you’ll meet him soon and hug him after a long time apart.

He lives with the fantasy of you popping right in front of him at any moment, and it’s enough to keep him happy, no matter the amount of regrets he has.

So naturally, he is everything but prepared to find you, walking away from a convenience store. You’re blowing on your fingers to warm them and it reminds him how you always forgot about your gloves.

You look the same. You didn’t change, and he is thankful for that. It means you live well. You look healthy, even with the huge long coat covering your body. He doesn’t see your face as you walk away, eager to grab a taxi and go home.

It’s right at this moment that the cells he thought were now useless get back to life and make him walk behind you. He adjusts his cap and mask, not fond of the probability to be recognized.

You walk rapidly, like you want to escape. He doesn’t know if it’s about the cold or something else.

You just don’t want to stay here for longer. It’s making you feel too many things. These paths are familiar, just like the building two streets away. It holds so many memories you want to live away from.

If it wasn’t for your job, you wouldn’t have set a foot here.

But here you are, right by the road and waiting for the cars to stop. You don’t look up, the freezing air too vicious for you to trust it won’t sneak into every crook left by your woollen scarf. You sigh and it goes out in a long string of steam, disappearing into the air.

There’s someone waiting to cross the street, too. You feel the presence and the sound of someone breathing. You wonder how long you’ll wait here, there aren’t that much cars anyways.

Yet, something’s off. The person doesn’t move and you feel like someone is staring at you. It’s uncomfortable and making you feel grossed. Like you need some pervert barging into your life right now.

You sigh and turn your head, ready to face whoever is thinking they can mess with you.

But you stop. It’s surprisingly not shocking to see him here. You don’t technically see him, his cap and mask making things difficult to perceive yet you feel it.

You never needed to see him to know it was him.

“Hi.” He says and you tilt your head when you recognize the voice, killing the last tiny bit of hope left in you.

Well, talk about unexpected.

“Hi.” You say back but don’t move, even when it’s finally your turn to cross the street.

It’s like time has stopped. You don’t hear the cars anymore; you don’t feel the cold. You hate yourself for being so receptive but at the same time, you can’t do anything about it.

Taeyong points at the red light and it makes you turn your head to follow his finger. “You’re not...?” He adds, feeling lame and stupid and many other unflattering adjectives.

“Oh,” You start and understand what is happening. “Yes.” You take a few step and he follows, head into his bomber jacket.

It’s only when you’re done crossing that you start looking for a taxi. You live way too far from here to go back home by walk.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Taeyong doesn’t understand what is going through him. It’s like everything he built crumbled. Now that you are here, he can’t walk away. And it doesn’t matter that his mind screams at him to run. His feet are on the ground, stuck by the idea of you leaving him and never coming back.

It’s too much of a good opportunity to be ignored.

“I’m going to get a taxi...” You trail off, forgetting about the said taxi and looking at the shadow created by his cap. It must be hell for him to walk around like this, hidden, suffocated into layers of clothing just so he can be in peace.

“Oh..” Taeyong doesn’t know what his next move should be. You don’t need him to get a taxi. Well, you don’t need him at all.

“Want to accompany me?” You must be out of your mind. Why in the world would he come with you when he was the one who broke up? It’s just that there is something in his body language, in his voice, something that seem off and mysterious and you can’t ignore it.

“Yes. Yes.” He says before you can give up and it makes you stare back at him in shock. It’s funny how little you need to communicate.

It’s not like there is much left to say.

He lifts a hand while you’re locked on your spot, frozen. You blame the weather.

A taxi stops and he opens the door for you, his moves slow but precise, filled with confidence and something you want to identify as care.

You give your address to the driver and the car takes off as soon as Taeyong closes the door, focusing on keeping a safe distance so you both won’t feel uneasy.

You live quite far and it’s a long ride. It’s not uncomfortable, but rather quiet. You try not to notice the way his body sends waves of warmth into your direction, mixed with a scent you know too much. You can’t let it get to you but at the same time, you’re the one who asked him to tag along.

And he is the one who agreed, willingly.

Taeyong stares at the window, the scenery way more calming than the situation he is in. It’s a mixture of fear and excitement. He likes it.

He has to be up at five tomorrow again, but what is sleep when he can absorb your presence as much as he wants? He feels 9 years younger already.

You get closer to your apartment as you rub your hands together in an attempt to find some type of warmth. It’s like your blood left your body because you feel numb, bones frozen and insides icy.

It’s just then that your movements are stopped by his own hands, burning. He shifts closer and envelops them into hands you thought you didn’t missed until now.

They are soft and thin just like they used too, and even his rings feel warm against you. You look at your joint hands and discover you’re not courageous enough to look at him.

You don’t see he is in the exact same state, frightened by the proximity.

He rubs it and shifts even closer, his face still hidden because the driver is pretty much right in front of you and he can’t risk anything now. His body irradiates everything you need right now, from warmth to comfort, with a bit of softness in between.

“Better...?” He whispers and you can only nod in response, right before the taxi stops. You’re finally there and have to part and it’s another whole breakup for you.

You tear your body off and almost jump out of the car before you do things you might regret.

Taeyong didn’t lose his soft side and it’s making your mind go hazy with unwanted feelings.

You turn around to look at him as he peaks around the street, eager to know more about where you live, where you spend your time away from everything he could give you but refuse to.

“I live here.” You state, neutral. You want to enter the building and lock yourself inside but Taeyong doesn’t budge, waiting for you to say more because he can’t do it himself.

“It’s a nice neighbourhood.” It’s pep-talk, useless and uninteresting but he can’t say more. Shall he say more? Does he have to confirm his choices and accept his fate without you?

He can’t and he knows it. As much as he hates himself for what he is, he needs to be selfish and he knows he won’t live with the possibility of you drifting away for good. So far you’re still here and you don’t seem to hate him, which is good.

“Yes.” You agree and grab your keys, playing with the keychain in an attempt to get that stress away from your body. He seems like he is about to talk but you speak first, heart hammering into your chest, “Maybe, maybe you want something warm to drink before going back?”

Taeyong makes a face, glad he has a mask to hide himself into. “Sure.” He agrees.

You take a moment to nod and snap out of your trans to open the building’s door, followed by an hesitant boy who can finally takes his attire off to breath the same air you breath.

You decide not to look at him. You walk to your apartment door swiftly, flying over the deep green carpeting and open a second door, safe and large.

It’s a good thing you cleaned this morning, and you suddenly become cautious of your surroundings when Taeyong takes his shoes off.

The rest is blurry. You barely remember going to the kitchen to prepare some hot chocolate, you don’t notice the milk burning on the stove, you don’t even talk to Taeyong because he is right next to you, right on the kitchen table chair, silent and looking around the place.

It’s funny, how you suddenly want to cry. You thought you had this, you thought everything was under control because you were over him. You had no choice but to be when he broke up for obscure reasons, claiming it was better for you two even though he had confessed his undying love a week earlier. Why would he do this now, why would he appear like nothing happened and play shy?

It makes no sense, and it makes you turn around, forgetting about the milk and hot chocolate and whatever he wants to drink.

“I don’t understand,” You start. Taeyong only stares back, his handsome face glowing in spite of the apparent surprise on his features. “Why? I’m just making hot chocolate for you in the middle of the night after a year without any message from you. Why am I doing this? Why are you here?”

“You invited me.” He would laugh in any other circumstance, because it’s such an arrogant reply.

Taeyong isn’t arrogant.

You snort. “You could have refused, but you are here, in my kitchen, like you didn’t break up with me. Of course I would invite you. Did you even think for one second that I would walk away from you?”

It sounds like a confession and Taeyong feels himself get up. “You’d have every right to.”

“You’re not helping. Stop with the guilty behaviour. Be responsible for what you wanted. I respect that but I just don’t get this.” You move your hands in the air. “What we’re doing now.”

“I still love you.” At some point it’s useless to act like he doesn’t care, not when he is here.

The milk boils a bit too hard and you turn when it spills over the stove, burning you because your brain is still processing the part where Taeyong says he still loves you.

“Damn it.” You mutter and grab your burnt finger to put it under cold water. “See what you make me do.” It comes out as a complaint but there is no anger. You’re enjoying the situation and it’s making you turn into a weak puppy.

Taeyong sighs and grabs the forgotten milk. You look at him as he rolls his sleeves up, revealing veiny arms. “I don’t get why you keep on using a kitchen when you can’t cook.” You laugh bitterly, forgetting about the pain. “Excuse me?”

Taeyong turns to face you when he is done, “Nevermind. I was saying that I still love you. Yes, I broke up, I am the one who wanted this but I regret everything. I thought I’d be better alone because I thought I didn’t deserve all of this,” He stops and continues “all the love you were giving me. But It’s worse now that I’m all alone to deal with myself. You can laugh at me and insult me but maybe you still love me too so let’s not act like we don’t care about each other.” He speaks way too fast, eyes avoiding you even though he is being pretty much insolent.

But he gets no answer, only a hand gripping his sweater and lips over his and it’s a sweet release when you start kissing him.

He gladly welcomes your body and kisses you back, his long arms circling all of you to have it only for him to absorb.

You still feel amazing, like a bowl of air after being underwater for too long.

It’s stays like this for so long he loses track of time. He can’t think straight and has no will to think, only strength to push you against him, more and more. You sigh and breathe against his mouth and it makes him smile in happiness.

When you part, his face is a whole shade of pink, and his lips are red, attacked.

He looks at you and when you smile sweetly, he smiles back.

It was insane, indeed.

[husheduphistory]

Pickles: The World Cup, a Pup, and a Whole lot of Luck

On July 30th 1966 the World Cup was held high over the heads of the England national football team. The Jules Rimet trophy, the World Cup, the golden, glittering, hardest-won trophy in sports had already made headlines once before this final match. Not due to speculation about who would get to raise it up in triumph, but because there was chance that  there would be no trophy to award at all.

In March of 1966 the Methodist Central Hall in London was hosting the Stanley Gibbons Stampex, a rare stamp exhibition with the theme that year being "Sport and Stamps.” To coincide with the theme, the expo had a very unique addition to the display, the World Cup trophy. With England providing the setting for the World Cup finals in only a few months, the timing of the special exhibition was expected to bring thousands upon of thousands of people through the doors to catch a glimpse of the coveted award. Standing 12" tall, perched on a base of lapis lazuli, and fashioned after Nike the Greek goddess of victory, the special guest at the exhibition was not an easy booking and the visit was only agreed upon when the strict demands of the Football Association (FA) were met. For one, the trophy was to be kept fully enclosed in a glass case. Additionally, it was to be guarded at all times with the association understanding that their most precious prize would never be alone in the months before its most important event. The showcase was secured. The security was scheduled. 

Then on March 20th, only twenty-four hours after it went on display, the Jules Rimet trophy vanished.

The Jules Rimet trophy.

The shock over the disappearance could only be matched by the anger seething from the the heads of professional soccer all over the world. While the Football Association in England issued apologies expressing their deep regret over "this most unfortunate incident" and remarked that "It inevitably brings discredit to both the FA and this country" the Brazilian Sports Confederation stated "Even Brazilian thieves love football and would never commit this sacrilege! It would never have happened in Brazil.” Honorary president of the Finnish FA, Erik von Frenckell, laid his opinion out simply with his exclamation of "I’m damned angry!”

The obvious question on everyone's mind was how this possibly could have happened. The terms set by the Football Association were met, the trophy was housed in a protective cell, and it was always under a set of watchful eyes....right? To the utter dismay of the soccer world the best answer that could be given to that question was a reluctant "sort of". True, the coveted prize had protection, but security was not strictly enforced when the exhibition hall was closed to the public. On the morning of the theft a Methodist service was being held on another floor of the building and the stamp exhibition was closed. There was also wooden bar blocking the doorway to the trophy, a small padlock on the showcase, and a curtain over the padlock. Feeling intermittent checks would suffice on this quiet morning the guards went on a "break". At their 11am check all was safe and sound but when they returned for the midday check-in they found a broken board, a forced open lock, a disturbingly ruffled curtain, and an excruciatingly empty showcase. The building it was stolen from was only a few hundred yards from Scotland Yard headquarters.

Police stand guard at the display case after the Jules Rimet trophy was stolen.  Photograph: Keystone/Getty Images

Alsa-Guard Security Services, the firm hired by the exhibition to protect the World Cup trophy, vehemently denied any negligence on their part calling the theft an incident of "human error" and saying that "nothing went wrong, it was just stolen.”  The search for the trophy was forced to begin with a stab in the dark because there were simply no suspects and no solid leads. One security guard working that day reported seeing a man with slick black hair meandering around a pay phone just after 11am but he did not bother to investigate because when he saw the mystery man he was already walking to the nearest bathroom and did not feel it was overly important. The hopes of the soccer world rested on the Metropolitan police force. But, just in case there was more incentive needed, reward money for the return of the trophy began to flow in from businesses and people like the Gillette razor company, a doctor who had treated many of the players, and the chairman of Fulham.  Everyone hoped for the best, but the FA had already secretly arranged for a replica trophy to be made in case the World Cup event arrived before the World Cup trophy was returned. 

There was a question if the thief had even committed the crime for money. The value of the Jules Rimet trophy was approximately $8,500 but the stamps at the exhibition that were left untouched easily valued over eight million dollars and were considerably easier to hide. The question of financial motive was answered the next day on March 21st when English Football Association chairman Joe Mears was contacted by a voice named "Jackson" informing him that a package was on the way. When the parcel was opened the chairman found the removable liner from the top of the trophy and a ransom note demanding the equivalent of $42,000. The parcel also contained a threat that the trophy would be melted down if the authorities were alerted but Mears was not intimidated and they were informed anyway. When "Jackson" was contacted an arrangement was made to meet on March 25th in Battersea Park and make the exchange. The exchange never happened. When "Jackson" spotted law enforcement making their way toward him he attempted an escape but was apprehended. The man in cuffs was forty-seven year old dockworker Edward Betchley, a man with a past peppered in petty crime but when questioned Betchley insisted he was only a middle man to an entity he only knew as "The Pole.” He denied any knowledge of the trophy's location but was charged with theft regardless.

Edward Betchley, who is charged with the theft of the Jules Rimet trophy. William H. Alden/Evening Standard/Hulton Archive/Getty Images.

On the evening of March 27th there was one brain that was absolutely not thinking about the missing World Cup trophy, he just wanted to sniff the hedges outside. Pickles was a four year old black and white collie mix who spent his days living happily with twenty-six year old David Corbett and his wife in the London suburb of Norwood. Corbett's brother was expecting a baby and David decided to take Pickles out for an evening stroll over to a payphone to give him a call. Once outside Corbett fiddled with the leash while Pickles decided he had to explore the neighbor's car, specifically the front tire. When Corbett went to clip the leash to Pickles's collar he saw why the little dog was so insistent on exploring. Tucked behind the wheel was a package, wrapped in newspaper and tied tightly with string. Corbett picked up the package and felt its considerable weight before he placed it back down again. He was suspicious, thinking it might have been a bomb placed by the IRA. After a few rounds of picking up the parcel and putting it back down again he hesitantly picked it up one last time and tore away some of the paper. What greeted him from inside the wrappings was a gold shield and the words "Uruguay" and "Brazil". Corbett was a soccer fan. He knew exactly what this was. Pickles had just found the missing World Cup trophy.

David Corbett and Pickles.

Pickles posing for photographers.

Corbett's wife, who was not a fan of the sport, did not have much of a reaction to his announcement back home but when he rushed into the local police station, still wearing his slippers, he was certain the reaction would suit the magnitude of his find. He marched up to the desk, put it gingerly down in front of the sergeant, and declared "I've found the World Cup!" There was no exclamation of surprise, no fanfare, no gasp. The sergeant looked the statue over and only said "That doesn't look very World Cuppy to me, Sonny.”  Despite the sergeant's lack of enthusiasm detectives were called in and were able to confirm that yes, this was the missing trophy. They were more than likely delighted, but the cloud of happiness enveloping the detectives and Corbett quickly turned cold. Within minutes Corbett went from savior to suspect and he was brought in for questioning. After hours of interrogation Corbett exited the police station and Pickles entered the spotlight as a national hero.  

Pickles the dog being photographed by the press. Central Press/Getty Images.

The following morning when Corbett went to work he had the new obstacle of avoiding the press that was firmly planted outside his home. On his way in he stopped and bought every newspaper he could get his hands on. The headlines were ablaze with the news of England's new national hero, not Corbett, but a scrappy little pup named Pickles.

The fuzzy little dog won the hearts of everyone who heard the story of the chance discovery. Corbett was given a reward equivalent to $16,000 but Pickles was awarded a solid silver medal by lieutenant-colonel Alexander Hendrick Roosmalecocq, secretary of the National Canine Defense League in an elaborate ceremony, a silver platter, a one year supply of dog food,...and an agent. In the coming months Pickles appeared in numerous television commercials and secured a role in the film The Spy with the Cold Nose.

On July 30, 1966 Corbett and Pickles sat at home watching the World Cup final. It was down to England and West Germany and when the match came to an end it was England who met Queen Elizabeth II and won the privilege of raising the newly recovered Jules Rimet trophy after a 4-2 victory. Corbett and Pickles were guests of honor at the team's victory dinner in London and when team captain Bobby Moore went out onto a balcony to greet elated fans he was not alone. First he held up the World Cup trophy, and then he held up Pickles. The crowd went wild.

Corbett and Pickles watching the World Cup final at home.

Queen Elizabeth II presents the trophy to Bobby Moore, captain of England’s national team. STAFF/AFP/Getty Images.

Captain Bobby Moore kissing the trophy following England’s victory. Hulton Archive/Getty Images.

Four years later Brazil won the Jules Rimet trophy in perpetuity after a new trophy was designed. In 1983 the trophy was again stolen but this time there was no Pickles to come to the rescue. Sadly, the hero pup died unexpectedly one year after his time in the world spotlight. The trophy was never recovered and it is assumed it was melted down for the gold.

Pickles was buried at home in Corbett's garden, his resting place marked by a small plaque that reads "Pickles, Finder of the World Cup 1966.”

The grave of Pickles the dog.