#this tiny prompt has gotten wildly out of control

[luulapants]

Hale Royal Family AU - Part 3

Based on @shey-elizabeth​‘s post:

”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:

Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)

#random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”

Part 1

Part 2

May 2017

Trendy or In-Your-Face? 20 of Stiles’s Most Outrageous Looks

Peter snagged the tablet out of Stiles’s hand on his way to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to tap it on the top of Stiles’s head. “I thought you said you were going to stop reading this tabloid trash,” he tutted.

“Do you think my stompy boots are a cry for attention?” Stiles asked.

“No, but I think they imply a level of masculinity you have no intention of following through on.”

“That’s hurtful,” Stiles said.

“I also think they’re no one’s fucking business but yours,” Peter added for good measure. He stuck his head into the kitchen and called, “Mrs. Larson? I don’t mean to rush you, but is the tea about ready? I’d like to be out by nine thirty.”

When he turned around, he saw Stiles had stretched out long on the sofa, his feet and hands dangling over the ends on either side. “What’s the rush? We’re just hanging out with my dad.”

“We would be skinned alive if we arrived late to one of my family’s events. I think we should extend your father the same respect out of principle,” Peter lied smoothly. He walked over and bent down for a quick kiss.

“Mmm, I love you,” Stiles murmured.

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Peter asked. This had become a standard call-and-response of affection for the two of them.

“Especially when you get on my nerves,” Stiles answered.

As far as Stiles knew, this would be a quiet celebratory brunch, just the two of them and the sheriff. He had opted not to attend his university’s graduation ceremony, not wanting the press that would inevitably come with such a public spectacle. “There’s thousands of other kids graduating, too, and if I go, it’ll all be a bunch of cameras on me drawing the attention,” he had said with a roll of his eyes, and Peter hated that the vultures in the tabloids had already gotten under his skin so thoroughly.

“It’s your graduation. It’s a big deal, and you deserve to enjoy it as much as the rest of them,” Peter had argued.

But Stiles had just shrugged a lazy shoulder. “Knowing me, I’d wear my stupid square hat wrong or my gown would be too flashy.”

So, to make up for it, they were spending graduation day with the sheriff. Peter had expected the man to hate him, what with the age difference and the reporters harassing Noah for information about Stiles. At first, he may very well have hated Peter, but a few blowups between Peter and those same reporters had proved beyond any doubt that he was prepared to defend Stiles with utmost ferocity.

When Peter pulled him into his scheme for the day, Noah hadn’t even hesitated. He just clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder and asked if he had the ring size worked out.

He’d taken the size while Stiles slept. A parade of elephants couldn’t wake Stiles before seven.

—-

“Did we really have to go somewhere that requires formal attire?” Stiles griped, fidgeting with his blazer. “For breakfast? I’m too scared to eat pancakes in this thing – I’ll get syrup on it.”

“You should try eating with your mouth closed,” Peter advised, and got an elbow to the ribs for his trouble.

The hostess that greeted them stumbled over her words in giddiness. “Oh, uh, your – your Highness, Mr. Stilinski. We’re so happy you chose to dine with us this morning.”

“I hear your terrace has one of the best views in town,” Peter replied smoothly. He had reserved the whole terrace for this morning.

It was beautiful, high up on a cliffside overlooking a comparatively quiet, scenic area of Richardson Bay. He couldn’t have asked for better weather, the fog having cleared already, leaving nothing but cloud-dappled sunshine and a sweetly cooling breeze off the water.

Noah was already waiting for them, leaning against the railing and looking out over the bay with a broad smile on his face that Peter didn’t often see so unguarded. He hadn’t expected to feel so jittery over the idea that Noah was actively happy about this.

Stiles got the pancakes after all, but insisted on taking the blazer off while he ate. They mostly talked about Stiles’s plans now that he was finished with school. Laura had already assured him a seat in the royal family PR department, though Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that full time.

“It just sort of feels like… like it’s getting handed to me? It’s not supposed to be that easy, you know?”

Peter clicked his tongue and leaned over to kiss some syrup off the corner of Stiles’s mouth. “It’s about time our penchant for nepotism went to a deserving candidate,” he argued. He pulled back, licking the sticky flavor off his lips. The spot was still there. He dipped the corner of his napkin in his water, then reached over to scrub it off. Stiles would be furious if he had syrup on his face for the proposal.

Noah watched his fussing with a nostalgic sort of expression, and Peter couldn’t help but think that he was remembering Stiles’s mother. It made him flush a little, not expecting the kick of emotion that came with the thought.

“He’s right, you know,” Noah said. “Most successful people had someone give them a hand up at some point. There’s no shame in it. You said yourself Laura is interested in the research you were working on – that’s on your merit.”

“And you did promise you would keep working on the promos for the vineyard,” Peter added. “So it’s not like it would be your sole vocation.”

“Oh, because working for your vineyard totally helps with the nepotism issues,” Stiles joked.

“I didn’t say that. I said you promised,” Peter shot back with a grin.

As they were finishing up their food, Stiles’s dad received a call, right on time. “Work,” he said, “I’m gonna go take this.” Then he disappeared inside, leaving Stiles and Peter alone on the terrace.

Peter nudged Stiles and stood. “Come on, let’s enjoy the view.” He walked over to the railing, his heart thudding in his chest as he placed a hand briefly over the lump in his jacket pocket.

Stiles came up next to him, hands gripping wide on the railing as he leaned forward. “God, this place is really, really beautiful,” he sighed. He looked over at Peter. “Thank you. This is, like, a thousand times better than getting mobbed by reporters today.”

Stepping in close, Peter wrapped a hand around the back of Stiles’s neck and leaned in for a kiss. “I can think of something that would make this day even better,” he purred.

A mischievous grin spread across Stiles’s lips, clearly buying the misdirection as he turned toward Peter. “Oh yeah? You’ll have to tell me all about it.” He kissed at Peter’s jaw.

“Well, to start…” Peter murmured, then took a half step back and dropped to a knee. He saw the teasing turn to confusion turn to shock and realization all in the matter of a second as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little ring box. “You know I love you, Stiles. I’ve loved you since the day I met you, and I love you more every day.”

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Stiles blurted.

Peter grinned. “Especially when you get on my nerves.”

They had talked about it, of course. Peter would never make this sort of decision for the two of them without Stiles’s input. They had talked in vague terms, though: What would they do when it happened? Should it be public or private? How long should they wait? How would they handle the press?

He opened the box. Inside sat two slim cobalt rings, simple but elegant with a subtle, weaving design. “Will you marry me?”

Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, blinking quickly to chase off the waterworks Peter knew were threatening to overtake him. He covered his face with his hands, then slipped them down so they covered just his mouth and nose, peeking over them at Peter, at the rings. He said nothing, just made noisy near-hyperventilating sounds.

Finally, Peter said, “You know, traditionally, an answer is expected in this situation. Some of us are getting on in our years and have knee pain.”

“Shut up, you don’t have knee pain,” Stiles laughed. “Let me feel my fucking feelings for a second.” He wiped at the inside corners of his eyes and nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes. Obviously. Get up.”

Peter started to get up, but Stiles was already grabbing him by his arm, pulling him up the rest of the way. He crowded in for a hug first, burying his face in Peter’s neck and scenting him. He didn’t have werewolf senses, but he knew that Peter liked the feeling of scenting and being scented. Stiles pulled back just far enough to kiss Peter, slow and sweet.

Off on the other side of the balcony, Noah was snapping pictures on his cell phone. Inside the restaurant, he had no doubt others were as well. They would make an official announcement this week, but the rumors would leak well ahead of then.

Bringing the ring box between them, Peter looked down at it. “Should we put these on now or wait until the wedding?” he asked.

“Oh my god the wedding,” Stiles said. “There’s going to be a wedding. I’m going to marry you.” He was grinning like an idiot at Peter, then looked over to where his dad stood, trying to pretend that he wasn’t crying. “Dad, I’m gonna marry this guy!” he called.

Noah laughed and waved a hand.

“Oh my god, he knew!” Stiles realized, gaping. He shoved at Peter’s shoulder. “Did you ask his permission for my hand in marriage?” he demanded.

Peter lifted his chin. “That’s a trick question, and I won’t respond to it.”

Stiles laughed, then looked down at the rings. “I want to put it on now,” he decided. “I think I’m gonna go crazy waiting to be married to you.”

The words hit Peter square in the chest. For a second, he could hardly breathe. He kissed Stiles again, nuzzling his cheek as they parted. “Come on,” he said, reaching down to separate the rings in the box. One was just slightly smaller than the other, for a slenderer finger. He picked it up and held it out for Stiles’s finger. It fit perfectly.

Stiles picked up the other and slid it on Peter’s finger, leaning up to kiss his cheek as he did. “I’m gonna marry you…” he murmured, a bit manically against his skin.

Finally, Stiles crossed the terrace to tackle his father in one of those all-out Stilinski-style hugs. Peter could hear the sheriff murmuring, “Congratulations, son. He’s a good one.” Then Noah was releasing Stiles and turning to him, holding his arms out. “Come on, then. You may a Hale, but you’re going to be a Stilinski, too. Stilinskis are huggers.”

—-

They drove back to the house with Stiles’s dad, though Peter’s personal driver and a bodyguard stuck close to their back bumper. Stiles sat up front with his dad and spent the whole drive gleefully grilling the both of them on how long they had been planning this behind his back.

Nothing looked amiss as they turned down their street, but the moment the front gate opened to let them in, Stiles whipped around in his seat with an accusing expression. Their driveway was lined with cars, many of which Stiles would recognize on sight.

“How many people did you tell about proposing!” he demanded.

Peter laughed and leaned forward to push on the side of Stiles’s head playfully. “I told them it was a graduation party, you idiot.”

“Oh. Right.” He looked back around at the cars, probably cataloging who he could expect to be here. “We get to tell them, though, right?”

“That’s the idea.”

The royal presence was relatively modest to start with – at least, as modest as it could get with two princesses and three princes in attendance. In any case, Peter hadn’t branched out into his extended family, except for a couple of cousins who lived locally and who he got on with well. His nieces and nephew had come, Laura hugely pregnant and Marco glued to her side, his protective instincts in overdrive. Peter had invited some business friends he’d met through the winery as well.

The rest were Stiles’s people. They were mostly around his age, high school friends and a few from college. Scott ran over to tackle Stiles in a hug the moment they stepped onto the terrace. The staff had done a spectacular job setting everything up in the short time they had been out. Lydia approached at a more sedate pace, strolling up with a plate of hors d’oeuvres balanced in a neatly manicured hand. Peter liked Lydia the best out of Stiles’s friends, though they had only met when she was back from MIT on vacation.

She waited for Scott to stop trying to squeeze the life out of Stiles before leaning in and pecking him on the cheek. “Happy graduation,” she praised. Lydia had graduated a year earlier and was now working on a graduate degree of startling complexity. Turning to Peter, she said, “And thank you again for the plane ticket – it was very sweet.”

“Of course,” Peter agreed.

“You bought her a plane ticket?” Stiles demanded, then spun back to Lydia, gesturing wildly. “You let him buy you a plane ticket?”

Lydia shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “He insisted.” Then, changing the subject, she reached out and snatched Stiles’s flailing left hand from the air. “Now why don’t you tell me what the hell that is.”

It figured she would be the first to notice the rings.

“Wait, woah, what?” Scott demanded, face splitting in a grin. “Dude!” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Hey, Allison!” waving her over.

Stiles groaned. “Oh my God, would you two shut up? We’re supposed to make an announcement. I don’t even have a drink yet.”

As if on cue, a waiter appeared at their sides with a tray of drinks, and Stiles snatched a pink-tinted glass of champagne from it. “That one’s the wolfsbane,” the waiter corrected gently. Stiles passed it to Peter, then reached for a glass of the yellowish bubbly.

“You thought I would serve sparkling rosé?” Peter asked, wrinkling his nose.

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning against Peter’s shoulder, turning to Lydia and Scott as Allison came over. “He thinks rosé is a tacky bandwagon trend,” he explained.

“It’s only popular because Instagram models think it looks pretty,” Peter huffed.

“Oh my god, did you get engaged?” Allison blurted, a touch too loud, and every wolf in attendance wheeled around to look at them. A moment too late, she slapped a hand over her own mouth, mortified as she realized that she had blown the surprise.

Peter waved a hand at her. “That’s on us, I let him distract me,” he assured her. Next to him, Stiles was cracking up, face pressed against Peter’s shoulder. Peter sighed, wrapping an arm around Stiles’s middle. He raised his voice. “For those of you who didn’t hear, Stiles and I have an announcement to make,” he called out.

Stiles quelled his laughter, lifting his head and then snatching Peter’s left hand with his own. He raised them into the air. “We’re getting married!”

The next two hours of the party, Peter lost track of how many people they had talked to. There weren’t even that many people at the party, he didn’t think. By the time one person had finished congratulating them, another pair of lips were against his cheek or an arm around his shoulders.

“It’s a good thing we ate before we got here,” Stiles murmured against his ear. “I haven’t even gotten near the food.”

Peter kissed his temple and grabbed his hand, dragging Stiles toward one of the food tables. “Sorry, her future highness demands sustenance,” he joked to Marie, his Winemaking Director.

“I wasn’t demanding anything,” Stiles insisted with a laugh.

“You were about to,” Peter replied. He knew the progression of Stiles’s appetites. If he so much as mentioned food, it meant he was no more than ten minutes from devolving into a whiny, hangry mess. “Come on, what do you want? They made all your favorites.”

“Taquitos?” Stiles teased.

“All of your favorites that are fit to serve to guests,” Peter amended.

By the time he had a seventh bacon-wrapped water chestnut stuffed in his cheek, Stiles had fallen deep in conversation with Marco about his and Laura’s royal wedding experience. Peter hadn’t wandered far from Stiles, caught up in conversation with Lydia and Kira but keeping track of his fiance’s movements in the back of his mind. He didn’t notice Talia’s arrival so much as he noticed the sound of Stiles choking on his food.

He coughed and scrambled over to Peter’s side, hissing, “You didn’t warn me she was coming!”

Talia heard – of course she heard – and looked over at them with a smile. Peter lifted his hand in a wave, smiling sweetly, though he felt as thrown as Stiles looked. “I invited her,” he murmured through his teeth, “but since it was just a graduation party, I figured she wouldn’t make it. One of her brood must have texted her.”

The crowd parted for her like opposing magnets, repelled by her admittedly intimidating presence. Her Majesty wore a bold red business dress, a little out of place at a garden party, but he figured she hadn’t had enough notice to change. Lydia and Kira, even Marco, cleared out to give her unfettered access to the guests of honor.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, stopping a respectable distance away. If they had done this in private, she would have hugged them both, been exuberant and happy for them. In front of this many unknown people, she had to maintain her stoic alpha veneer.

“You heard right,” Stiles answered, holding his hand out to show the ring.

Talia took his hand, using it to pull him in close enough to press her cheek to his, a more affectionate greeting than she had given him in public ever before. Stiles looked elated when she pulled away to give Peter the same greeting. “Congratulations to you both. Stiles, we’re very excited to have you in the family,” she assured him, and the tone was genuine, though Peter could hear the underlying anxiety. No doubt her political wheels were already churning with the potential fallout.

They made polite small-talk for a while. Peter hated talking to his sister in public like this, when she knew others could be listening in. Everything stayed surface-level, unemotional, stiff. It made him feel, sometimes, like she didn’t care about him at all, even if his logical brain knew better. She asked about the proposal. She asked if they had thought about timing yet, which they hadn’t. She offered the use of the royal events planner, which Peter had already assumed was a given.

Then, as if it were just another innocuous question, she smiled at Stiles and said, “And do you think you’ll want the bite after the wedding?”

Stiles froze, and Peter could hear his heart hammering, the sour scent of anxiety spiking.

Peter placed a hand on Stiles’s lower back, trying to steady him. He wanted to snap at Talia, scold her for asking that sort of question in this setting, on this day, for asking at all. He wanted to call it out as a rude fucking question, but he had no idea if it was. There really wasn’t a prescribed etiquette for a royal marrying a human. They just weren’t supposed to in the first place.

After what felt like an eternity, Stiles found his voice. It came out quiet, though, a little shaky. “Um, no. I… thank you, but I don’t want that.”

Talia’s expression moved in ways so minute that nobody but immediate family could have picked up on it. She recognized, Peter knew, that she had upset Stiles.

Peter gave her a coldly polite smile. “We are very glad you could make it,” he said. “I know it wasn’t on your agenda for the day. I hope you didn’t have to detour too far.”

She took the out, turning fully to Peter. “Oh, not at all. I was just on my way to a meeting in the city here. I should probably be heading that way, though. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.” If anyone noticed the awkwardness of her exit, they didn’t say anything.

Once she was gone, Peter turned and took both of Stiles’s hands in his own. “I love you,” he breathed, voice soft and just for Stiles. “I love you exactly as you are.”

Stiles let out an unsteady breath and nodded. He pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes.

—-

Peter swore, checking his coat pockets, then his laptop bag, then the dining room table, for the third time. Finally, he headed upstairs to the bedroom. “Stiles? Could you call my -”

He stopped in the doorway at the sight that greeted him. Stretched out face-down on the bed, still in his pajamas, Stiles lie with a pillow hugged under his chest, face pressed into the sheets. It was a Stiles position of deep distress, one of the most distressed of his library of absurd positions.

“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” he asked, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed. He nearly sat on Stiles’s tablet, then picked it up and turned the screen on.

Gold Digger Stiles Strikes It Rich

Peter’s hand tightened on the edge of the tablet, but he quelled the surge of rage before he could snap the stupid thing in half. He closed out the window, then set the tablet aside. “You know nobody that matters thinks that, right?” he asked softly, rubbing a hand over Stiles’s back.

Stiles’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.

“Stiles,” Peter admonished. “Do I think that? Does my family think that? My family adores you.”

“Talia thought I wanted the bite,” Stiles said into the mattress.

Peter sighed. “She shouldn’t have made the offer when she did,” he said firmly, “and I can assure you she didn’t offer because she thought you were only with me to get it. If anything, that was her own selfish hope of avoiding the mixed marriage.”

Stiles rolled onto his side to face Peter, still hugging his pillow. “I hate that I care about that shit. I told myself I wasn’t going to care about it, I told myself I didn’t give a shit what the vultures said, but.. but, fuck, why don’t they like me?”

“Like has nothing to do with it, Stiles,” he said softly, scooting closer so he could pet Stiles’s hair. “They’re just out to get attention and sell subscriptions.”

“They didn’t do this to Marco,” Stiles argued. “Marco wears a flashy pocket square and, oh, hey, everyone, pocket squares are in this season! Everyone go get yourself a new pocket square!” He waved his hands in front of the pillow theatrically. “I wear a tie that doesn’t match Talia’s hat and I’m trying to tear apart royal society with my bare hands.”

Peter moved up to the head of the bed, tugging Stiles up to sit curled against his chest. “It’s homophobia,” he said, not about to beat around the bush on the matter. “It’s specism.”

“It’s bullshit,” Stiles muttered, nuzzling into Peter’s chest. He’d worn a silk shirt for an early meeting with a wine exporter. Stiles held out his left hand, staring down at the ring on his finger. “I’m supposed to be happy right now. I’m supposed to be fucking, like, floating on the air, happy about getting engaged and getting married and instead I see one stupid article like that, and I just…”

Wrapping his arms around Stiles tightly, Peter said, “I know.” He kissed the top of his head. “You think I don’t know? There can be a hundred positive articles, and the one that sticks in your head is the nasty one. I went through this when I came out – you know I did. I don’t read the papers anymore, and do you know why?”

Huffing, because Peter had already told him a hundred times not to read the tabloids, Stiles looked up at him. “Because you’ll just drive yourself crazy?”

Peter kissed his forehead. “No. Because you told me not to.”

A little furrow appeared between Stiles’s brows. “When?”

“The night we met.” Peter rubbed his thumb over the furrow. “You made me promise that when I came out, I would kick anyone to the curb that wasn’t a delight about it. And, you know, the press was not a delight about it.”

Stiles stared up at him, a smile slowly fighting its way through the pout on his face. He groaned. “God, stop throwing my own good advice back at me. It’s annoying.” He sat up a little and nuzzled into Peter’s neck. He nipped at the skin there, just a tease. “I love you,” he muttered, as if thoroughly inconvenienced by the fact.

“Even when I get on your nerves?” Peter prompted.

Twisting in his arms, Stiles straddled him and kissed his lips. “Especially then.”

They made out for a long while, lazily shedding their clothes until Stiles sat bare in his lap, a hand wrapped loosely around both of their cocks while Peter pumped two fingers into his ass. Stiles pulled away with a shuddering breath that usually meant he was too distracted to focus on kissing anymore. Peter wrapped his free hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, keeping him close so their noses pressed together.

“How do you want to come?” Peter asked, voice low. He curled his fingers, and Stiles arched his back with a whine.

“Like this,” Stiles decided, rocking back against his hand and stroking them a little faster. “I wanna come like this, then I want you to come on my face.”

Peter ducked to press kisses along Stiles’s throat, working down to scrape teeth along his collarbone, then finally bit at one of his nipples. Stiles leaned back, his free hand braced on the bed between Peter’s legs as he rode his fingers.

“Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, Peter. Fuck, m���gonna -” His voice broke off as he came with a shiver, hand still stroking the both of them, using his come as lube now.

Once he had come down, Peter nudged him onto his back and crawled over him, straddling his chest. “You made a mess of me, darling,” he purred. “Are you going to clean it up?”

Stiles stretched his arms over his head. “I’m royalty now, I don’t have to clean.”

Peter gave him an exasperated look. “You know, for a future trophy husband, your bedroom talk could use some work,” he teased.

“Fuck my face?” Stiles offered, batting his lashes.

“Better,” Peter conceded. He dragged the head of his cock over Stiles’s lower lip. “Lazy, but better.”

“Lazy!” Stiles huffed. “Excuse you, I am catering to your alpha male instincts. I am alluringly vulnerable. I have -”

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“Arguing is for foreplay, and I can’t fuck your mouth while you’re talking.”

Stiles scowled at him, but he opened his mouth wide and dragged his tongue along the underside of Peter’s cockhead. With a grin, Peter leaned forward onto his hands and knees and slipped into the soft heat of Stiles’s mouth. He rocked his hips down in slow, uneven thrusts so Stiles could never be quite sure how much he was going to get. Finally, Stiles tightened his lips around him, moaned, and sucked. Peter’s knees nearly gave out, which would probably have resulted in a very difficult to explain injury for Stiles.

Peter continued thrusting shallowly, groaning and dropping down onto an elbow. With one hand freed up, he stroked Stiles’s hair, tugging lightly and winning an answering moan. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmured. He could feel his body tightening, nearly at the edge. When he couldn’t hold off any longer, Peter sat up again. He slipped out of Stiles’s mouth and started jerking himself over his face with short, quick strokes.

“Fuck yeah, please. Mark me up. Make me smell like you,” Stiles encouraged, stroking Peter’s thighs with both hands. Peter came with a low moan, watching as he streaked Stiles’s face with white.

Before his legs could really give out, Peter shifted and dropped onto his back on the bed, the opposite direction of Stiles, so his head was next to Stiles’s hip.

After a moment, Stiles swatted at his abdomen. “Peter, it’s in my eyelashes. Get a washcloth.”

Peter looked down and saw that, yes, Stiles had come in his eyelashes. “I don’t know,” he mused. “That look is really catering to my alpha male instincts.”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“It’s alluringly vulnerable,” he continued.

“You’re literally the worst. I’ll wipe my face on the bedspread. Mrs. Larson will poison us both.”

Peter laughed and sat up, leaning over to kiss Stiles’s lips. “Alright, alright.”

“Lazy,” Stiles huffed as Peter ventured into the en suite bathroom for a washcloth. “Is that any way to speak to your betrothed?”

“I call it like I see it,” Peter called back over the sound of the water as he wet the cloth. He walked back in and found Stiles hadn’t moved at all. He knelt on the bed and carefully dabbed at Stiles’s eyes, then wiped the rest of his face with the same soft touch.

Stiles blinked his eyes open and stared up at Peter, expression a little dreamy. He got that way sometimes, in between the joking and bickering. He looked at Peter like he never wanted to look at anything else.

“You know, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Peter murmured.

“I know,” he agreed. Stiles caught him by the wrist, pulling the cloth from his hand before lifting Peter’s hand to his mouth. He kissed each knuckle, then rubbed his face against them. “I’ve been thinking about colors,” he said, “for the wedding.”

Peter settled next to him on the bed. “Tell me.”

[seventven]

au pair (iii)

summary: when a month officially passes since y/n began working for the family, mr barnes presents y/n with an unexpected gift that both of them can enjoy. 

prompt: “thank you, mr barnes.”

pairing: wealthy dilf!bucky x reader

word count: 3k+

warnings: age gap [bucky is 39; reader is about 23]; mr barnes is still thirsting after the new nanny; infidelity (kind of; depends on your opinions); app controlled sex toys; masturbation with a little help; sugar daddy bucky vibes 

a/n: merry christmas if you’re celebrating and if you’re not, enjoy some dilf bucky for no other reason than you deserving it xo

PREVIOUS PART / MASTERLIST / NEXT PART

The bright morning light filled the kitchen and warmed Y/N’s shoulders as she worked on preparing some coffee in the early hours of Sunday morning. She stopped what she was doing and lifted her gaze when she heard the front door open and then close, followed by footsteps nearing the kitchen.

“Is that coffee I smell?”

It was Mr Barnes, back from his usual morning jog around the neighbourhood and Y/N couldn’t help but send him a friendly and polite smile when he finally entered the kitchen. She expelled a tiny laugh and finished pouring the coffee into his favourite mug; an ugly thing, hand painted with hearts and some writing, a Father’s Day present from his little son. She took it in her hands and strolled across the kitchen to where he stood, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the bottom of his t-shirt.

“Dark roast. No milk or sugar. Just the way you like it.”

Y/N came to a stop right before him - closer than she would have had his wife been awake - and peered up at him from beneath her painted lashes. Her voice was quiet and Mr Barnes regarded her carefully with narrowed eyes, long fingers wrapping around the mug to take it from her grasp.

“You take such great care of me, sugar.” His tone, teasing, made her heart skip a beat in nervous anticipation.

Y/N offered him a cheeky, toothy smile and remained quiet when he lifted the drink to his lips. The crooked hand painted word “Daddy” on the front of the mug seemed to taunt her and Y/N struggled not to laugh at the irony of it all.

“Anything for you, Mr Barnes.”

She bit her lip and looked at him for a second longer before shyly turning her gaze away and taking a step back. Y/N could feel his eyes on her as she walked across the kitchen and towards the fridge.

Feeling her heart hammering wildly in her chest, Y/N pulled the door back and began to rummage through the contents for her usual morning fruit. Bending over to retrieve some raspberries from the bottom drawer of the fridge, Y/N could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of her thighs, and she couldn’t tell if she felt grateful or embarrassed that she had decided to wear a tiny summer dress that day.

There she was, ass up in the air, the floral print fabric barely covering anything at all, and Mr Barnes tried to look away - he really did - but the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other sent the fabric swaying from side to side and just for a fraction of a second he could see that the underwear she was wearing was baby blue in colour and that it left very little to the imagination.

Mr Barnes cleared his throat.

“Didn’t I tell you to take the day off today?” He asked between sips of his drink, strolling over towards the counter and picking up the newspaper that rested on top. He unfolded it and mindlessly began to flick through the pages, though his eyes kept drifting towards her as if out of curiosity.

“Was that today?”

He smiled. “Yes, Y/N. It’s been officially a month since you started. I believe my wife has emailed you the details of the small thank you gift we’ve gotten you?”

Y/N smiled shyly. “She did. A spa day sounds amazing but it’s really extravagant. You shouldn’t have.”

He chuckled, taking another sip of his coffee. “You deserve it, Y/N. You’ve been doing an amazing job the last month.” He took a short pause, eyes darting over the newspaper for a short moment. He didn’t look up, seemingly interested in something he was reading and for a second Y/N wrongly thought the conversation was over. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping in on your day off? It’s what, half seven?”

She bit her lip and looked away, feeling embarrassed and shy under his gaze. Her raspberries suddenly left forgotten on the counter, Y/N felt her heart speeding up at the curious look in his eyes and the way he was patiently waiting for an explanation.

“I, uh- I couldn’t sleep.”

He frowned and looked to her with a hint of concern.

“Everything alright?”

She nodded her head quickly, trying to seem calm and collected but feeling like she had failed miserably. She always felt so damn shy around him; it was infuriating. “It’s nothing. I’ve just been a little bit more stressed than usual.”

Mr Barnes chuckled. “And let me guess... It started when my wife got back from her trip last week?”

Y/N remained quiet and unmoving, knowing damn well that he was right. The atmosphere in the house was different when his wife was away. Normally she was gone four days out of seven, and when she was home, she always had urgent business either in the office or elsewhere. Y/N barely ever saw her at all.

Over the last week, however, she was taking some time off and she had been present in the house almost constantly. The only exceptions were a few trips shopping or to the gym. 

In fact, she had spent a lot of time with Y/N, too. Whether it was joining in on play time, contributing to helping the little boy with homework or taking him and Y/N out for ice cream one sunny afternoon, Y/N was spending a lot of time with her recently and the whole thing made her feel even more guilty about her strange relationship with Mr Barnes. 

Feelings were beginning to get messy. 

Not that Mr Barnes cared.

“Don’t worry, sugar. She’s leaving again soon and then both you and I can finally relax,” he teased, and sent her a little wink before retreating towards the stairs leading to their bedroom, coffee in hand. 

He stopped just before he reached them and turned his head to look at her again.

“Oh, and Y/N,” he began, a hint of an amused smile playing across his lips.

Y/N hummed quietly to signal that she was listening. She was leaning on the counter, nervous as she reached out to grab her own steaming mug of coffee. 

“As much as I enjoy the little summer dress you’re wearing, didn’t we have a discussion about your attire when my wife is around?”

When Y/N blushed, clearly embarrassed by the whole thing and looking like she was truly, truly sorry for breaking his rules, Mr Barnes laughed quietly and continued.

“You wouldn’t want her thinking you’re trying to tempt me, now would you?”

-

The gift Y/N received was an overnight stay at a luxurious hotel and an all inclusive access to Mrs Barnes’ favourite spa in the city. Y/N felt grateful for the opportunity to get away from the weird atmosphere in the house and welcomed every massage and trip to the sauna with open arms, finally getting the chance to relax after the stressful week she had had.

The thing was, she still felt intimidated by his wife. She was a curt and serious woman, and Y/N knew that her politeness was forced. Especially after that whole ordeal with Mr Barnes by the pool during her first week in their home. Y/N felt uncomfortable around her and she much preferred it when it was just her, Mr Barnes and their son.

She enjoyed their evenings together and although she tried to keep their relationship friendly and polite, Y/N quickly came to the realisation that Mr Barnes could always find a way to turn the topic of their conversation to things less... professional. And as much as she hated herself for feeling this way, Y/N liked it.

She realised the wrongness of it all. He was a married man. A married man with a five year old kid, at that. But there was something so thrilling about the attention he gave her, the knowledge that the peculiar atmosphere between them was wrong. Y/N enjoyed every second and despite knowing that she should set some boundaries between them, she simply hadn’t had found the motivation to do so. 

She liked it too much.

It was nearing the end of her stay at the hotel when Y/N returned to her room after a whole day of pampering. Her muscles felt relaxed and there was a smile on her face when she scanned her key card and pushed the door to her room open.

Slowly, she made her way inside, set her things down onto the table and felt her brows knit together at the sight of a stack of elegant black boxes resting neatly atop the crisp white sheets.

For a moment, she assumed they had been delivered to the wrong room but when she noticed an envelope with her name written on the front resting at the very top of the stack, the confusion turned to guilt. 

“A small thank you for your wonderful work...”

Y/N felt her breath hitch when she finally opened the smaller box resting just beneath the envelope. Within was a necklace; a sparkling white gold choker that Y/N didn’t even want to consider the price of. If she had, she feared she might have gotten a heart attack. The dim lights of the room reflected off the many crystals that encircled it, and as guilty as she felt about it, Y/N was stunned by how beautiful the gift was. 

When she placed the small box aside, she noticed there was another envelope hidden between the two boxes. She shook her head at the extravagance of the gift and pulled the note out, allowing her eyes to skim over the familiar hand writing.

“And something to help take the edge off - James.”

Confused, Y/N set the note aside and pulled on the ribbon that kept the box securely shut. It was soft to the touch and when she pried the lid back, Y/N realised there was a red piece of silk covering whatever lay beneath. Heart beating frantically inside her chest, Y/N wrapped her fingers around the hem of the fabric and peeled it back, revealing the contents.

Her stomach dropped at what lay hidden beneath the fabric, but she wasn’t sure if it was out of guilt or excitement, or maybe even a perverse combination of both. Laying on a silk red cushion was a sleek rabbit vibrator that looked way more expensive than any other she had had in the past. 

With shaky hands, Y/N wrapped her fingers around it and slowly picked it up, not knowing what she should be feeling about this. She couldn’t believe he’d get her something like this this. 

Sure, the conversations between them had been teasing and flirty for a number of weeks now, but this was something else entirely. This was him crossing the boundary between what was acceptable and what was very much unprofessional. However, despite realising this was bad, Y/N felt compelled to press and hold the button that switched the thing on. 

Sliding onto the floor by the bed in nothing but disbelief at his nerve, Y/N sighed and just watched the toy buzz in her hand. It was powerful, the vibrations feeling deep and rumbly, and when Y/N looked towards the box again, she found the manual, a charger and a selection of miniature lubricants hidden beneath the cushion. 

She couldn’t help but shake her head at it all. He really had thought of everything and the idea of him doing this - buying her this expensive and highly inappropriate gift without his wife’s knowledge - was doing something to her. The secrecy was arousing, and when Y/N realised the toy could be controlled from an app, she was quick to download it onto her phone and allow the experiments to begin. 

She didn’t know if it was the thrill of having a new toy, or the fact that it was Mr Barnes who got it for her, but the longer she played around with it in her hand, the more tempted she was to take it for a real test drive. 

Slowly and cautiously, Y/N ran the head of the vibrator down her stomach and between her thighs, allowing it to gently buzz over her clothed clit. When she realised how good the vibrations felt, she was quick to discard her underwear and slip the thing inside.

It was bliss, vibrating in the most delicious of ways, the shape allowing her to stimulate her g-spot and clit at the same time. She thought of him, and how bad this whole thing really was, allowing herself to drown in wicked thoughts of the things she wished he would do to her. The thrill of getting caught, the authority he possessed; it was all so fucking hot and Y/N quickly lost her grasp on her phone, the device plummeting to the floor as she fucked herself silly on her new gift. 

The ears of the vibrator fluttered perfectly against her clit, the low frequency and high power of the vibrations allowing the deepest of nerve endings to be stimulated and pulse with sweet, sweet satisfaction. It wasn’t long before Y/N could feel her orgasm beginning to bud and decided to up the power of the vibrations.

With shaky hands, she picked her phone up from the floor and realised there was a message across the screen. It was from Mr Barnes.

“Having fun, sugar?”

Confused, Y/N quickly unlocked her phone, eyes scanning the full length of the screen. The app was still open but there was a notification in the centre of the screen. Big, bold, white letters that read, “Invitation to play sent to: Mr Barnes”.

Mortified and feeling that familiar feeling of dread, Y/N reached down and attempted desperately to switch the toy off.

This was a disaster, and as she attempted to figure out how to power the damn thing off, Y/N was already trying to think of things to say to him to apologise. Her heart was hammering wildly inside her chest, seemingly in sync with the pulsating vibrations of the toy, and soon enough, the buzz of her phone in her hand was added to the mix.

It was another text message and Y/N felt her stomach churn at the embarrassment she felt. With the toy suddenly forgotten - still vibrating - Y/N looked towards the screen of her phone.

“Sit back and enjoy.”

The toy made a strange beeping sound, and when Y/N looked at the app again, she realised that Mr Barnes had accepted her accidental invitation. No, this couldn’t be. 

Y/N found she didn’t really have much time to consider the possible consequences of this little indiscretion because suddenly the toy changed settings and Y/N quickly realised it wasn’t by happy accident. 

It was Mr Barnes, controlling the toy from his phone, likely at work at this time of day.

Y/N tried to be responsible and convince herself to put an end to this, but whatever setting he had chosen felt better than any other she had tried until this point. The vibrations were hard and powerful, sending waves of pleasure to the deepest parts of her. The unwelcome images of what he could be doing at that moment in time began to flood her mind and cloud her judgement, the idea of stopping this suddenly forgotten.

She wondered if he was at his desk, tapping away at emails. If he was sitting back in his leather chair, thighs spread apart, the top few buttons of his shirt undone as he slaved away over his usual daily workload.

Or maybe if he was in the midst of a meeting with some important business partners, glancing at his phone and attempting to remain unbothered in front of everyone in the room. Maybe he was excusing himself for a moment, saying he had an important phone call to take and apologising for the interruption.

Or maybe he was out for lunch with his wife, listening to her talk about her upcoming business trip and the many things she had to get done before leaving. Maybe she was mad at him for looking at his phone the whole time, convinced he was dealing with business instead of listening to her talk.

Whatever it was, Y/N felt herself spiralling thinking about the possibilities, and when the power of the vibrations increased, alternating between deep pulses and continuous buzzing, it wasn’t very long before she felt her cunt clenching around the shaft with the intensity of her sudden orgasm. Thighs clenching, chest heaving, Y/N came hard around her new toy and bit her lip to stifle her little screams of pleasure.

It lasted longer than it had any right to, and by the time Y/N felt herself coming down from her high, her body was glistening with perspiration and the walls of her cunt spasmed with overstimulation. She was out of breath, head feeling heavy, drowsy from the effects of her orgasm. It had taken everything out of her, the magnitude of the feeling leaving her drained, exhausted, fulfilled. 

She slipped the toy out and looked at it, slick with the remnants of her orgasm. She shook her head in disbelief, finally finding the button to power it off and just started up at the ceiling, refusing to accept what had just happened. Could this be considered cheating on his part? Y/N wasn’t sure.

It was a long moment before she felt her phone buzz again and she took a deep breath before picking it up off the floor. 

“Done so quickly?”

It was Mr Barnes, and despite it only being a text, Y/N could imagine the smirk across his face; the satisfaction in his eyes and the amusement of his demeanour. 

Drowsy but satisfied, shy but spurred on by a new found confidence, Y/N’s thumbs hovered over the screen, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She thought about it long and hard; what she should say to him. Should she apologise for the accidental invitation? Should she feel embarrassed and sorry for the whole thing?

In the end, all she sent him was a short message, fuelled by the satisfaction she felt deep in her core.

“Thank you, Mr Barnes.”

-

NEXT PART

[sevi007]

Baltheir must've seen Fran go ballistic like that once, knows that Mist can have a pretty strong effect on Veira, so this is probably isn't much of a surprise for him now. But consider, first time he saw her like that, wide eyed and feral, he's trying to calm her down cause she looks like she's scared or in pain, hugging her close until she calms down not caring about the wounds she's causing. When she comes to Fran tries to apologize but Baltheir wouldn't have any of it. 1/2

once he's done dressing his wounds, and hers, they have a long conversation about how Mist can effect a Veira so they can be better prepared next time. And Fran apologizes once more for that "ugly display" and Baltheir scoffs, "Fran, dear, you're a lot of things, but ugly? Never." She stares at him in shock for a moment before she smiles. and then, "if anything, you were even more beautiful, now that I have a chance to look back on it, you're very pretty when you're mad" she pinches him. 2/2

@rex101111 is absolutely my greatest enabler, and nobody should be surprised anymore when I take one of the prompts he gives me and just write an entire One-Shot out of it. Like I did here. In a rush.

(It is not quite what you had in mind, Rex, but I really had only so much influence over where this story went. I think the FFXII characters just possessed me halfway through and wrote this themselves. I hope you still like it as much as I liked writing it!)

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ XII ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fran knows it was a mistake, following Balthier’s lead. It does not matter what treasures awaited them, or how sure of their success he was; the moment he had told her their next trip would take them to the fallen city of Nabudis, she should have turned heel and walked out on him.

And yet, here she is; breathing in mist rather than air, feeling it claw at her throat and her mind, while she follows the hume man through this laid-bare bones of what was once a glorious city. Because it is Balthier who asked, and Balthier who lead the way. And Fran always, always followed his lead, ever since they had met each other. This, she knows, is a weakness.

She should have known better, than to let herself be weak. The forest taught her that. Life taught her that. Weakness means death.

The thought thrums through her, clear like a bell. It is the last clear thought she has before the burning of the mist ignites inside her, explodes in an inferno, and her head feels like it is being split in two. She thinks she screams, but she cannot be sure; the next thing she knows she is on her knees, doubling over onto all fours, and she is burning alive as the mist rages through her, her world tinging red.

With blurry eyes she watches her fingers curl together and her nails elongate, and tries to choke out a warning, but it never comes. Her head tips back and she catches a glimpse of Balthier, whirling around towards her with his eyes wide, before she opens her mouth and screams.

It is every nightmare she ever had, combined. She has feared such a moment for several reasons, and only one of them being what will he think of me, seeing me so unhinged?

The other, much more potent fear, was for his fragile hume life.

She is Viera; hers is the strength of nature, of the very forest which gave birth to her. With the mist clouding her mind, there is nothing to reign in that strength. She is a storm, an earthquake, a beast let loose. Her nails are claws slashing, her limbs like whips clashing, and her power enough to shatter stone and steel, so, so easily crush bones into dust.

And Balthier, the brave fool, takes one look at her twisted features, at her trembling body ready to pounce and rip him to shreds, and does exactly what she feared he would do: He runs towards her instead of away from her.

Fran wants to scream at him stop, you foolish boy, stop, but all which comes forth is another heart stopping howl and then Balthier is already crushing into her at full speed.

Instinct moves her; her body bucks and rears and tries to throw him off while she snarls and hisses at him. His arms come around her and he holds on with all his might. To her, it might as well be paper stripes trying to hold her back.

Not that he is trying to hold her down. It is from far away that the tiny part of Fran which is still her, which can still think, notices this. He is not holding onto her arms, trying to contain her. He simply cradles her protectively wit no care for his own wellbeing. As if her claws are not at present tearing into his shoulders, cutting through cloth and skin alike. And he is talking; a low, gentle murmur which should have gotten lost in her own thunderous roars but somehow rings louder still in her ears.

“… this why you did not want to come here? Forgive me, Fran. I should have listened to you.”

Perhaps it is the proximity to him. Perhaps the surprise of him being the one apologizing filters through. Whatever it is, her mind clears, if only a little, even while her body is still wildly out of her control. The rush of blood in her ears takes second place to the horrible sound of cloth tearing, skin ripping, and her own monstrous roars.

And over it all, Balthier’s voice, right there. “I will listen better from now on, I promise on the Strahl I will. You won’t have to endure this ever again.”

The hand which finds her cheek, thumb stroking infinitely gentle and too close to her sharp teeth, is a glaring contrast to her own vicious movements. Even in her rage, her body stiffens in surprise at the perplexing kindness of the gesture.

“You have every right to be angry with me, Fran. But right now, I need you to come back, you hear me?” The arms around her tighten as if trying to hold her together. “I know you are still in there, Fran. I know you can come back. Come back, please.”

Please.

It is that little word, the tremor of it, which stills her completely then. Fran is still breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, a mutinous growl rumbling in her chest. Yet she is no longer lashing out against the hume in her arms, her claws lying uselessly against his torn shoulders.

There is two equally strong urges fighting inside her - to destroy, and to protect.

Hurts. Pain. Lash out, her body burning under the mist thrums. The warm body pressed against hers is a nuisance. A danger, in her state. An enemy. Rip. Tear. Crush.

No. No. This is not an enemy. Fran clings to the blurry thought, as viciously as her inner beast, refuses to let it go again. This is no stranger. This is not any hume. This is the boy turned man who had taken one look at her and decided to reach out and give her a place to stay. This is her friend and partner who always has her back, no questions asked. This is Balthier.

Her Balthier. Who would hold onto the beast she had become to comfort it rather than cut it down in self-defense.

He has seen me, and he has not ran from me.

I will nothurt him.

She howls once more, but this time there is another sound wrenched in between; a sob. A mixture of fear and relief. It is like a rain drop onto a wildfire, but it is a start. It repeats itself, again and again. Her hands loosen, relax into something more natural once more. She drops in Balthier’s arms, slumps over like a puppet with its strings cut loose. She does not even notice when the world tilts around her and her back meets the ground.

The last thing she sees is Balthier’s face above her, pale and horribly young, mouth moving silently; or can she simply not hear him? His eyes look red, she thinks and moves to reach out and do something about it – but her body feels far, far away. Her arm simply will not do as she wants.

She cannot even worry about it before darkness takes over her senses and she knows nothing anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ XII ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I am quite sure a potion would have done the trick just as well-…”

“Be quiet, Balthier.”

He tries, for her sake. Even from behind, Fran can see him try valiantly to bite back the words, jaw working, before he does finish just like she expected, “You should save your energy.”

They have been going back and forth on this for a while now, so Fran decides it is best to let it be and simply do her work. In the silence, she focuses on drawing the tiniest bit of mist from the air and spin it into the most potent Cure she is capable of at present.

Fran understands his worries, she does. After all, she had needed to be carried back all the way to the Strahl after her breakdown and even then it had taken several hours before she had come back to consciousness once more. She knows he caresand that that is why they had nearly started wrestling with each other when she had tried to get up at first, and once more when she had started to tear at his shirt to try and assess the damage shehad done to him while he protested and tried to wave it off as nothing.

Fran knows all that. But as is usual with them, Balthieralso understand that she needs to do this without needing to hear it, and so he lets her, despite his grumbled protests and all his eye-rolls. It is for her peace of mind that she spins the magic and pours it into his body. Each bit of skin which knots back together and smooths out is a tiny piece of her own heart healed, a weight lifted of her shoulders as she watches her sins be wiped away slowly.

Once she is done, her hand hover uselessly over Balthier’s back for a moment, torn between reaching out and touching the skin there. As if to make sure it really is healed and hides no further injuries.

Injuries I caused.

“All done?” Balthier’s voice startles her. Humming in answer, she watches when he pushes to his feet and stretches his arms over his head with a relieved sigh. “Ah yes, so much better. Remind me to ask you for white magick lessons again. We save a fortune on potions that way.”

“I will.” Her gaze follows him while he moves about, checking the range of his motions, shooting her a distracted smile as he does. She means it; it will do him good to know healing magic himself, should she not be around… or lose herself once more.

“Thank you. Now. How does it look?”

At the prompt, Fran instinctively finds her gaze rack one more time over his bare skin, counting blemishes which are not there anymore. A few shadows remain; places where a Curaga would have done more than a mere Cure. But those were mere bruises, and a lot less than pains Balthier was more than used to.

Still the knowledge of the source of these shades sits as a knot in her belly, and she clenches her traitorous fists tightly.

A throat being cleared snaps her out of it. When her gaze meets Balthier’s, his eyes are dancing with laughter. “My dear, you are welcome to look all you want of course, but I was talking about my shirt.”

Despite herself, Fran feels her eyes crinkle with her own smile. Somehow he had always had the ability to make her smile once more, no matter what. With only a little derisive snort at his peacocking – he never grew out of that one, did he – she holds up the stripes held together by mere thread, lets the remains of the shirt dangle from her fingers. “Beyond all rescue.”

Balthier pulls a disgruntled face as if, somehow, this is the worst thing that has happened to him all day, and sighs deeply and dramatically. “A shame. That was my best one.”

The knot in her belly tightens once more, but before it can get too much, Balthier already keeps talking with a flourish of his hand. “Well. Once we’re both well-rested again, it seems to be time for another shopping trip. What would you say if you charter the course after getting a good night’s sleep? I will follow your lead.”

Fran blinks, and feels her ears swivel forward, as if she has somehow misheard him. “… me?”

“Why, yes,” Balthier is already up to his shoulders in the closet he has pilfered as his wardrobe and his voice is muffled, but she can hear his amusement clear as day anyway. “Who else should I ask? Bless his heart, but I would not trust Nono to steer us right. He understands the Strahlwell enough, but reading a map, well…”

“Why not pick a course yourself?” Fran interrupts him without thinking, still baffled. This is unpreceded; it has always been Balthier who led, and she who followed. A role-reversal feels much more significant than Balthier is trying to make this seem. After all… “Are you not the leading man in your story?”

“Our story, Fran. Ours.”

Balthier is busy pulling on a new shirt – of much lesser quality than its predecessor– over his head once he resurfaces and thus Fran has an unobserved moment to school her features and make sense of this grand declaration, handed to her so casually.

She barely manages to get a grip before Balthier smooths down the cloth and runs both hands through his unruly hair to tame it. He is still not looking at her when he continues, voice suspiciously light and casual.

“I had time to think.” While you were unconscioushe does not say but it rings loudly between them. “I might be a master thief and an even better pilot, that much is true, but I do not seem to have a knack for picking the our next destination. So I will leave that honor to you, and no one else.”

He turns, then, and whatever astonishment she has not gotten under control must show plain as day, for his smile spreads easily over his entire face, chasing away first hints of apprehension there. He has the gal to wink, this man, eyes bright. “Every good sky pirate needs a good navigator, after all.”

Something settles in Fran’s chest then, and suddenly, she understands. Understands that this is not only him apologizing again, but also a sign of trust. A reassurance that whatever happened today has not shaken his faith in her.

Fran is not prone to great outbursts of emotions. No Viera is. And yet. Once the real meaning of this gift Balthier is handing her with a boyish smile truly sinks in, she finds herself looking down at the torn shirt in her hands, blinking rapidly and struggling to keep her breath even.

The decision is a laughably easy one. Once she feels more in control again, she does not hesitate to push the shreds of cloth aside as far as possible and looks up at her friend. “No need to charter a course. Let us head for Nalbina next.”

Surprise flickers in Balthier’s features before he is already smirking again, head tilting. “To restock, I assume?”

Fran smirks right back, gestures at him; at the shirt with the too short cuffs and yellowing from age. “To get you something proper to wear.”

His crooked smile blooms into real delight and he throws his head back in a startled, happy full belly laugh, just like she had hoped he would. The sound fills the room and unravels the knot inside her completely, and she finds herself smiling at him much less smug, much gentler than she had wanted to.

“Why, Fran, don’t tell me you don’t like what you see!”

“Not particularly. Once you look into a mirror you will agree with me.”

“Ouch. You do know how to pick your words,” Balthier presses a hand to his chest, his eyes still laughing even while he has quieted down to mere chuckles. “But fine, as the lady wishes. Nalbina it is. Now?”

“Nothing is holding us here,” Fran points out. Knows that he will hear what really means. Let us not stay here any longer.

Sure enough, his expression turns serious ever so briefly before he smooths over it once more and dips low in a bow, hand outstretched. “Shall we, then?”

“We shall.”

Reaching out for him is easy. It always is. This time, Fran takes a tiny moment longer to admire her long-fingered hand in his shorter one. Hers is so very different from his. So very dangerous. Now, he knows that all too well.

And still, he does not hesitate to take it, hold it gently, and draw her to her feet so they are eye to eye once more.

He really is a marvel, this Balthier.

She is smiling with her entire face when she teases, “Choosing our course… Will that not make me the leading woman, then?”

“Please, Fran.” There is too much fond warmth there to make it sound like a reprimand, and they both know it.

She laughs, and says nothing about it anymore. It is simply not necessary. They both know that between them, there is no leader, and no follower.

There is only them, together, moving in tandem wherever they went.

And Fran would not want it any other way.

[sparkkeyper]

Variations on a Theme

I’ve been working on this one for a while and finally managed to finish it up for the Ace Omens discord prompt - Dancing.

The music I had on repeat while writing the second half was “So Close” from Enchanted. I like to imagine the record they end up with is one of those piano-only arrangements of it.

Also, you can’t tell me that Crowley didn’t jam to every Top 40 since music charts were invented.

(Now on AO3!)

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

"You mean you've only danced the gavotte?"

Crowley's sunglasses were barely hanging on to his nose as it was, what with the both of them being several drinks into their first bottle of the night. It didn't take many to banish the glasses these days, not when the pair of them were nestled comfortably in the back room of the bookshop, the failed Armageddon several weeks behind them. The demon stared incredulously over the tinted lenses as Aziraphale straightened from where he had begun to slouch with his wine.

"And why is that such a surprise? Angels don't usually dance at all."

"Yeah but you're not a 'usually' angel, you're you!" Crowley waved a hand wildly but did his glasses the mercy of setting them on the end table before they could fall. "You like the...the singing and the harmonizing and stuff. Humans have been moving to music since the Beginning and you really never, ever wanted to learn?"

"I did learn," the angel pointed out.

"Never wanted to learn more than the one?" Crowley amended. "Just the one in six thousand years?"

"It just didn't strike me as something I wanted to try," Aziraphale shrugged and refilled his wine glass. "The humans seemed to enjoy it sure enough, but it looked like such a hassle to attempt."

"A hassle!" Crowley threw his head back and grabbed his hair, and goodness did Aziraphale love to watch him wax dramatic when embroiled in a topic he was passionate about. "Dancing a hassle! Dancing a ha- It's not a job, angel, it's for fun!"

"Yes but in order for one to dance well, one must put in a certain amount of work."

"It's not about dancing well, it's about letting loose." Crowley rolled his eyes, stalking over to the angel's record collection next to the gramophone. "Unless you're in a professional stage company, you're not required to dance well."

"Somehow that sentiment isn't the least bit surprising coming from you."

"Oi, I'll have you know I'm an excellent dancer even though I'm not required to be. Come on, there's got to be something in here you can dance to."

"I don't know the proper steps to anything else."

"Bah, steps!" Crowley waved him off. "Don't need steps. Just make it up."

"I most certainly cannot."

"You most certainly can so. Oh for Satan's sake-" Crowley gave up his hunt and snapped, materializing a record in the gramophone and giving the handle a few solid cranks. "There we go!" His shoulders began moving to a heavy clapping beat that had definitely never been released on 78.

He turned back to Aziraphale, a grin on his face as his hips twitched to the music. "No steps, see? Just freestyle it. Come on, off the sofa, let's see it."

"This hit, that ice cold,

Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold,

This one for them hood girls,

Them good girls, straight masterpieces-"

He made a get-up gesture and Aziraphale rose uncertainly. "I really don't think I know what to do with this-"

"Don't have to, that's the best part. Just move to the beat. "

Aziraphale tried to imitate his friend, he really did, but there was no pattern to follow. One moment the movement was in Crowley's shoulders, the next it was in his hips, and now his feet were acting out a stomp-like rhythm on the carpet. It was a fascinating thing to watch, how dancing seemed to take over his entire corporation. With the gavotte, one's back remained quite straight. There was a level of control and skill to it that Aziraphale had greatly enjoyed: maintaining some parts of yourself in position while moving others. But with Crowley's dancing, the entire line of his body twisted and flowed. A movement that started in his neck might end in an arm, or maybe it would travel up one leg and come back down the other. He made it look effortless, like it took no thought at all.

"I'm too hot! Hot damn!

Call the police and the fireman.

I'm too hot! Hot damn!

Make a dragon wanna retire, man-"

The demon's eyes flicked over his stilted attempts to copy the motions and Aziraphale watched him bite back a smirk. "No, angel?"

"Perhaps it's this century's music - goodness, there's not much melody, is there? - but I really don't understand this sort of dancing."

"Not much to understand, really, but here. We'll step it back a few decades." He snapped again and a new record appeared in his hand, which was quickly swapped out for the one on the gramophone.

Crowley snapped his fingers to the beat, hips moving in time. "Oh, don't give me that look. You can't possibly dislike Bill Haley and His Comets."

"One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock, rock.

Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, rock.

Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, rock.

We're gonna rock! Around! The clock tonight!

Put your glad rags on and join me, hon',

We'll have some fun when the clock strikes one-"

"It's not that I dislike it..." Aziraphale did his best to imitate the hip thing, and the demon's stifled snort told him exactly how unsuccessful he was at it. "I just don't...connect with this style of dance, I suppose. That's the only way I know how to put it."

"So try your own style. It's not a right and wrong, it's just whatever motion speaks to you." Crowley threw his torso into a shimmy and goodness, what were his knees even doing? Aziraphale gave up trying to copy any of it.

"That's just it! Motions don't 'speak to me'. Dancing isn't...isn't...aimlessly gyrating! It's about form and style - about using form and style to bring the music to life. There's a language to it the same way there's a language to literature. Every kick and dip and bow means something and it's all spoken into being through movement! But there needs to be a form in order for that to happen."

"No no, that's the problem! That's so limiting! So much of the universe is already made up of forms and rules!" Crowley threw his hands up to encompass the heavens. "Laws and etiquette and physics, everywhere! Inescapable! Dancing is freedom! Music is emotion distilled down into pure audio form precisely so you can do what you want with it! How does it make you feel? What does it make you want? You take it and you process it and you feel it and move however it moves you! It's speaking, yes, but in a way no one else has control over! The thing about dancing is you get to be purely you, no matter what anybody else wants."

"I already am me," Aziraphale insisted. "And I like knowing what movement comes next. I like having straightforward expectations to fulfill. That's what's satisfying - completing the steps and knowing you've gotten them right!"

The moment stretched out between them as they both let this soak in. Somewhere along the way, the gramophone had made the executive decision to go silent.

"Certainly can't fault you for that," Crowley said slowly. "Preferring a solid plan. Expectations outlined and all. It's very you."

"Nor, I suppose, could I fault you for preferring more freedom in your movement. You've always had a penchant for finding new ways to express yourself. What with the clothes and the hair and all." Aziraphale fidgeted with the corner of his waistcoat absently. "It suits you, it really does. But not me. If that were my only option, I'd rather not dance at all." He shook himself with a tiny smile and sat back in his armchair. "Ah well. I had a good run with the gavotte, anyway. Got a few good decades out of it."

Crowley pursed his lips for a few moments, then switched the record again to fill the room with a smooth piano. "Can't have that, though, can we? One dance goes out of style and you're done? I don't think so. Come on, angel, get back up." He made a come-here motion until Aziraphale stood again.

"Look, I'm really not-"

"You want defined steps? I'll give you defined steps."

Aziraphale paused, considering. "What sort is it?"

"Easy one. Simple, can use it for a lot of dances. Waltz, foxtrot, all kinds of things."

Aziraphale chewed on his lip. He wasn't anxious to make a fool of himself stumbling over a completely unfamiliar style. But goodness, he missed dancing.

Crowley held out a hand to him. It was a hesitant thing, far enough out to be an offering but close enough in to be passed off as a casual gesture if it went unaccepted.

Aziraphale braced himself and accepted it. "Right. So how does this work?"

"Easy. Here, I'll lead. So you just - hand here... Other hand here..." Crowley positioned Aziraphale's right hand on his shoulder and loosely grasped his left. They stood like that together for a moment, a good distance apart so the angel could look down at his shoes. "And I step like this..." Crowley moved one foot forward. "So you step backwards to match me. Go on, then."

Aziraphale stepped as instructed.

"Right. And then I move here -" His other foot came forward and to the side - "And yours comes back and over along the same route. Yep. Now feet together, like they were at the start. Good?"

Aziraphale made certain he had his balance and nodded.

"Good. Now I step back, like you did, and you come forward this time... No no, leave your other foot there. Right. Now bring your other foot forward as mine comes back and over. Just stepping in a big square, that's all we're doing. And feet back at the start. Make sense?"

Aziraphale pulled in a deep breath. "Simple enough in theory."

"Here, we'll try it again. Back-two. Side-two. Forward-two. Side-two...that's right. Now we just add a bit of a turn to it and that's all it is. Like this... Back-two, side-two-"

Aziraphale clutched at him as they worked their way around the room to the music. (The furniture wisely backed itself up to give them space, twisting physics occasionally to avoid being tripped over.) The problem wasn't the steps, exactly. It was combining the steps with everything else: holding tight to Crowley to keep his balance while still trying to keep enough distance to give his legs room to work, figuring out which foot to have his weight on and when, incorporating the dratted turn into the rest of it, moving precisely in time with Crowley so that they didn't step on each other.

Humans had so many pieces to keep track of. So many parts moving a specific distance at the same time. He'd been in this corporation for thousands of years and usually had an excellent handle on how it operated, but that only made new movement patterns more difficult to master. It took so much work for him to commit such things to muscle memory. Each misstep threw his rhythm off and dammit, there, he was so close to overbalancing them both -

But Crowley kept him in place.

Crowley's palm rested just under his right shoulder blade, guiding the motion of his body through space. Holding him so steady even when he felt himself floundering. Wasn't that always the way? he thought distantly, eyes trained on his feet. Even after stepping repeatedly on the demon's toes (and heels, and instep, and in one spectacular fumble the back of his left knee) Crowley was a solid anchor keeping him upright.

Dancing of any variety did not come naturally to Aziraphale. Angels were built to be sturdy, immovable. It had taken him ages to make any headway at all with the gavotte. But Crowley didn't seem to mind. He chuckled a bit when Aziraphale stepped too early. He murmured advice, a smile on his lips. And his eyes sparkled. Goodness, how they sparkled.

Letting the music wash over him, Aziraphale put his trust in Crowley. Let the demon guide him here in their own little circle. Slowly, slowly, he was getting the hang of the steps - treading on toes less at any rate. It was nice, dancing like this, it really was...

And then Crowley spun him.

He didn't realize what was happening until it was practically over. The motion of Crowley's arm coming up and turning guided his whole body smoothly around and he clicked back into place against the demon like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

Aziraphale's feet faltered to a stop, eyes wide and all steps forgotten.

Crowley froze with him. "Too much?" he asked quietly.

"I - I..." Aziraphale felt like he was still spinning, heart beating entirely too fast. "I don't..."

"Too much," Crowley answered himself, releasing his hold and taking a step back. "Thought I might try mixing it up, but I misjudged. Won't do it again."

"Mixing it...oh. Of course." Aziraphale looked down at the space between them. It was barely two feet but it suddenly seemed so much farther. "This is holding you back, isn't it? This repetitive step. You'd much rather be improvising."

"I...well I didn't say that..."

"Like you said before. You'd prefer to let the music move you rather than be limited to a predetermined pattern. I can understand that even if I can't relate. You shouldn't be beholden to this."

"It's good," Crowley blurted out, making the angel pause. "For music like this. The down-tempo, largo stuff. This is a good way to dance to it. I like it." He swallowed hard and tried for a nonchalant shrug. "I mean, don't ask me to dance like this to Uptown Funk but for this style it's...y'know. It's good."

"Right. Good." Aziraphale fidgeted, hands feeling incredibly empty. "I admit, I'm very much out of my depth here. Angels don't... I don't know what I'm doing.”

"We can stop. No sense pushing it."

"I didn't say... I'll get used to it."

"You don't have to get used to anything you don't want to." Crowley made to step back but Aziraphale, in an instant of panic, stepped forward after him.

"I want to!"

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft piano. Crowley stood frozen, as though his next movement required the most careful consideration of his life.

Aziraphale steeled himself and raised his hands back to their dancing positions. "Please."

The demon looked over the two of them and very hesitantly replaced his hands, as though doing so might scare the angel off.

They stood there for a long time. Not moving, just holding on to each other with the breathless tension of men on the gallows, waiting for the trap door to open beneath them.

Aziraphale pulled in a deep, steadying breath. "I'm afraid it's going to take a long time for me to get this right. All of this. I'm not very good at this sort of thing when I don't know the steps."

"Take all the time you need," Crowley replied softly. "I'm just sort of making it up as I go, honestly."

"It might be very long. I can't improvise as easily as you can."

"I wouldn't expect you to." The demon tightened his grip ever so slightly and Aziraphale suddenly couldn't conceive of pulling away. "No spinning, promise."

"I - I didn't say that." Fingers itched to trace a familiar nervous pattern - straighten bowtie, adjust waistcoat. They tightened in Crowley's hands instead. "Just...warn me before you do. Let me prepare."

"I can do that, yeah." The demon held him so carefully, as though giving him every chance to break away, and started them off into their pattern once more.

The hesitant grip grew more sure with each rotation around the room, and it was impossible to tell if it was one or both of them. Each successful round of the sequence made Aziraphale feel a little bolder. It was the reassurance of a task set and completed: the very ancient satisfaction of expectations met. That desire had been ingrained in his bones since bones were invented and in a way it calmed him. There was so much he suddenly felt unprepared for but at least he could do this. 

He wasn’t successful every time, of course. He still fumbled, still trod on snakeskin shoes. But the guiding hand was back under his shoulder blade and God, did it make a world of difference. It stayed with him through each failed attempt and carried him through to try again. Any wrong positioning of his legs seemed less important when he was sure Crowley would keep him where he needed to be. 

He could see the tension draining from the demon as well. The sense that he was holding something fragile and afraid to break it was melting slowly back into the confident strides Aziraphale had seen from the start. The lines of motion flowed through him the way they had earlier, though more predictably at present. He was still amazing to watch, all moving lines and sharp joints. Aziraphale blamed more than one stagger on it.

"All right if I spin you?"

The angel braced himself. "All right."

"'Kay. Three, two-" Crowley twirled him again and for a single, dazzling moment it felt like flying. It felt free and easy and the most natural thing in the world -

And then he stumbled over his own feet coming back in and nearly collapsed against the demon's chest and drat, now he'd lost all the steps-

"Forward-two, right-two, back-two, you've got it, come on, forward-two -"

Aziraphale clung to the instructions and managed to get back on track within an eight-count, concentrating fiercely on the movements of their feet together.

"That's what I'm talking about. Look at you. Angel dancing something other than the gavotte. Who would have thought, eh?"

"Who indeed." There was a warm fluttering in his chest. So much to keep track of with these human bodies.

He was still going to need a lot of time and a lot of practice. He had a feeling there was a lot of unknown territory ahead regarding the two of them.

But he had Crowley to keep him steady. So they’d be all right.

[rallamajoop]

Some musings on symbiote morphology (AKA when size does matter)

So, back when Venom was still in cinemas, I saw it with a friend who (like me) enjoyed it mightily -- though said friend did roll her eyes pretty hard at the She-Venom scene, because of course the female!Venom has to be skinny and sexy. Of course she does.

I mean, the sexual dimorphism on display here is, uh... pretty extreme.

Usually, this would’ve gotten to me too. Few issues in genre film stick in my craw like the double standards applied to male and female bodies (ask me my thoughts on the likes of Wonder Woman or Gamora at your peril). So it was a little surprising to find that this was one I was mostly willing to shrug off.

Why? Well, that requires a bit of backing up and some more context. But mostly, it’s the perfect jumping-off point for a whole lot of rambling about visual shorthands and how symbiote morphology has been handled in the comics over the years, which apparently I had a whole essay’s worth of thoughts on. So here we go.

Now, Comic!Venom =/= Movie!Venom. They aren’t the same character, don’t have the same history, and their biology doesn’t follow the same rules.  But one is still the basis for the other, so we’re going to start waayyy back at the beginning.

Since the symbiote's introduction back in '84, precious little about the species has remained consistent through the many writers and retcons, but one detail that Marvel was -- mostly -- consistent on back in the early days is that the shape a symbiote takes depends a lot on the body of its host. So when Spider-man was wearing the symbiote the result was (by design) literally just Spider-man-but-in-black:

But Venom's next host did not have the muscularly-lean body of Peter Parker, he had the jacked-up muscle-mountain that was Eddie Brock’s -- and the result is the Venom we all know and love.

Whereas when completely-normal-human-woman Anne Weying first bonds with the Venom symbiote in Sinner Takes All, we get a much slimmer She-Venom.

You can see the same trends at work with the Life Foundation Five and various other examples. So, in the comics at least, there’s some internal consistency explaining why He-Venom and She-Venom should look so very different. (Why Eddie and Anne should be such wildly different sized humans is a whoooole other topic, but best left in the Don’t Get Me Started pile for now.)

Of course, when the guy you've cast as Eddie has the physique of Tom Hardy rather than, say, He-Man, the logic of why Venom looks so huge falls apart. 

  ⬥ Venom and She-Venom, actual size comparison.

While comic book writers of the 80's may have been able to convince a generation of fans not to question why a professional journalist would be jacked enough to dwarf Captain America, film adds a layer of realism and audience expectations that would make that a much harder sell (not to mention limiting your casting options to a much smaller pool). Casting Tom Hardy was inarguably the right call. 

If Eddie no longer looked like Venom, the other solution would have been to make Venom look more like Tom Hardy--but good luck getting that past the existing fanbase. When it comes to pleasing the longtime fans, it's safe to say that Venom, not Eddie, is the character who has to look the part. Plus, Venom is entirely CG, so casting and realism no longer have to matter. Fanboys can have their giant Venom and tiny She-Venom, and the fangirls can have Tom Hardy getting all prettily roughed up. There are worse solutions.

Don't get me wrong: they could and absolutely should have evened up the difference on screen by giving She-Venom some extra body mass (she is on screen for like ten seconds, the fanboys can effing deal). But when the key decision that fucked up those ratios is making Eddie so much slimmer and sexier than he was originally supposed to be, I am unusually willing to give them a tentative pass. I mean, I love comics!Eddie too, but I can’t see him working on screen.

While I’m talking symbiote-bodies, it’s worth going into some of the other reasons to make Eddie+symbiote so huge, the obvious ones being to a) make him more threatening, and b) emphasise that Eddie's bonded with the symbiote in a way Peter never did. As a shape-shifter, Venom can make his host look bigger but not smaller (which is presumably why Rad Eddie may look younger than regular!Eddie, but is still suspiciously large for a skateboarder hanging with teens).

But size isn't the only way to make a character like Venom threatening. Compare Carnage, who is much more dangerous than Venom -- but (along with his host) fairly consistently drawn as smaller and leaner than the original.

He's still plenty threatening, though -- not because he's huge, but because he's completely bugfuck nuts and into murder for recreation. His design gets this across with a texture less like skin than a mass of veins and tentacles. Size is a good visual shorthand for danger, but it's not the only shorthand that works for symbiotes of the 90′s heyday.

You can see the same logic at work in Toxin too (a lesser-known and sadly mistreated Carnage-spawn from the early 00's). Precious little about Toxin's look remained consistent from one creative team to the next, but the impact of the host body is still there. His first host, Pat Mulligan, was a pretty average-sized dude, which is reflected in his bonded form (left), but when Eddie gets the Toxin symbiote later on, we get a much bigger Toxin (right). And Eddie's Toxin has more tentacles and rougher skin, so we know he's not going to be friendly (Eddie was really not in a good place at this point in his history).

Perhaps the most interesting example is Agent Venom, who turns up when the military bonds the Venom symbiote to Flash Thompson: disabled vet and card-carrying Spidey fan. His Venom-look is a brilliant bit of storytelling-through-design: the face and overall build hearkens back to Spider-man's time in the symbiote, the equipment signposts his military connections (past and present), and black will always be the signifier of a guy working black ops.

Perhaps most important, there's no mouth (compare both Spidey and Toxin #1), which is our sign that the symbiote's under control -- drugged into submission by the military, in fact.

But key to Flash's time in the role is that the Venom symbiote doesn't always stay drugged and docile, and whenever it starts to break free, Agent Venom morphs into Venom's traditional look -- gaping mouth, no belts or shoulder pads, and lots of bulky muscles a la the original flavour Eddie Brock (you can see him mid-transformation on the left below).

Does that make sense, when Flash is the host? Probably not, but comic book logic, as usual, is suspended for the sake of visual shorthand: fans know what Venom is "supposed" to look like, so that's what he looks like when the comic wants to telegraph that Flash is losing control. And that, I suspect, is why Lee Price's Venom (above right) looks more like Eddie's, even though Lee Price looks more like Flash. Price may be the one in charge, but he’s also a madman, so his Venom has to look out of control. The comics have officially hit Tom Hardy territory: Venom is huge now because people have come to expect Venom to look like the original Eddie-Brock!Venom, regardless of who’s inside.

There are bigger exceptions to the rule, however -- two of the more interesting turned up almost simultaneously in 2015, when both Venom!Flash and Toxin!Eddie got significant redesigns in the pages of Venom: Space Knight and Carnage (2015). Now Flash's Venom is the bulky muscular one, while Eddie's Toxin looks slimmer than Eddie has ever been before or since. What's going on here? Did the artists just screw up?

Well, not entirely -- the characters haven't just flipped looks, they've flipped roles. Now Toxin's the one being drugged into submission by a US agency (and we can only assume those drugs somehow prompt a symbiote to produce pouches, because we're two-for-two on that front). Meanwhile, Venom's been "purged of corruption" and has finally bonded with Flash as a full partner, which may be why they opted for something closer to his original look. Note that Venom has no mouth, and Toxin's is positively restrained by symbiote standards, which tells you a lot about the temperament we can expect from both of them.

That said, I don't think either design really works. Venom's new look is a real step back in creativity from his Agent Venom days, and the helmet-face would be better suited to a mech design than a symbiote who's being treated as a real character for the first time. Meanwhile, Toxin’s look doesn't really work for Eddie, for all the same reasons it did work for Flash: Eddie isn't a trusted agent in this scenario, he's more like an intelligent animal on a short leash. It isn't just the builds that are wrong -- none of the story comes across well in these designs.

All in all, the longer Venom’s been around, the less the standard host=symbiote rules seem to apply. Venom is huge because his look is sufficiently iconic that that’s what the fans expect, regardless of who’s on the inside, or whether we’ve just rewritten his entire backstory and made the jump to film.

Speaking of which, it’s worth pointing out that there is actually precedent in the comics for female symbiotes who aren't drawn like a bikini model in a layer of black body paint. One is Patricia Robertson, who bonds with the "Venom" symbiote (read: not actually the Venom symbiote) in the 2003 Venom series.

Though Trish is a woman of fairly average build, her "Venom" is virtually indistinguishable from Eddie's (too much so, if anything -- it's very hard to tell which is which when they clash). Unfortunately, the 2003 series is otherwise an ugly, incomprehensible mess of a comic, containing almost nothing that has ever been referenced again. I can really only recommend it to absolute completists.

Somewhat better handled is Tarna, a skrull Agent of the Cosmos who appears in Venom: Space Knight. Tarna's symbiotic look is not remotely feminine, and one suspects that's the point: it's ugly, threatening, and gives no clue as to who's inside. (Her symbiote can also separate from her while maintaining form, making the comparison pic unusually easy for me).

But as a shapeshifting alien bonded to a shapeshifting symbiote, Tarna perhaps doesn't make the best example for general principles. It’s worth keeping in mind that every design has a storytelling function too: Patricia’s Venom needs to be mistakable for the original Venom for plot reasons, and the reveal that Tarna is a humanoid woman under her symbiote is set up as a surprise. But the creators of the film wanted us to know that was Anne under the symbiote from the moment she appeared, so sexy!She-Venom it is.

All that said, at the very end of the day, I’d much rather not have to make these excuses for the film. I’d much rather see more Tarnas and fewer She-Venom’s, and both film and comics have a long way to go before we get there yet.

[xsteriism]

Good luck on your exams!!!! And WELL DONE ON GETTING 30O FOLLOWERS YOU DESERVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM!!!!! I have a prompt if you wanna do it? Peter likes to take a lotta photos but doesn't tell anyone and one day Tony finds his camera and it's full of all these amazing pictures of himself and the ironfam and ned and MJ and loads of other pretty things so he buys him a camera and one day Tony gets a picture of everyone asleep and hangs it up! Do it if you want!! Good luck with everything! 💕

hello!! im SO SO sorry i took so long to write this prompt, i havent been feeling myself lately, but i wanted to write something after two months, so here! 

i would like to tag @technically-a-little-dragon because i hope this makes you smile :) and @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad because you always support me!

(click on the title to read on ao3)

——

Peter’s Camera

——

Tony is one of the best people to photograph, in Peter’s opinion. Once the genius gets into the mood, there isn’t much that can be done to stop or distract him, which makes him the perfect candidate to photograph. Peter has gotten snaps of him where sparks are surrounding him as if he’s some kind of angel descending from heaven or where he’s sleeping peacefully after days of intense creating, with Dum-e prodding him but to get no reaction in return. 

Peter got the camera from Ben as a birthday present, a small second-hand Canon camera. It was old, a little broken, but with his genius brain and some stray parts he found in a dumpster, Peter managed to fix it within a night. However, it was at the expense of neglecting his homework, which he had to rush through the next morning. He didn’t care if the camera had buttons that weren’t working or if it glitched at the worst timings— the camera was Peter’s camera, gifted by his Uncle Ben, and that was all that mattered. 

The camera rarely left Peter’s being since he got it, so it was usually always accessible. After he became Spiderman, Peter would bring it on patrol, taking scenic pictures of the city or himself in action. He takes pictures of anything and everything and has to transfer the pictures to his computer every month because of how quickly he fills the memory card. 

Maybe it was because he didn’t talk about it, or maybe it was because he only took pictures of people when they weren’t looking, but nobody has found out about his hobby yet. He isn’t ashamed of it, just doesn’t see the need to talk about it when he already has so many things going on in his life. Peter wouldn’t deny it if someone found out about it someday, but for now, he likes that photography is his little secret. 

——

Tony isn’t sure what he’s looking at. 

Is that a camera from the 1970s? Do those still exist? What on earth is this doing in his lab? 

Frowning unconsciously, he picks the camera up, feeling it in his hands, examining it like some specimen. Just as he’s about to put the camera down and leave it, his finger brushes over a button, showing the pictures in the memory card. Eyes widening with mild shock, Tony clicks through the pictures of his family.

He sees himself, surrounded by tools, the light illuminating his face, making him seem otherworldly. He smiles at the picture of Ned, in which he’s grinning at Lego, with his face stuffed full with food. He huffs out a laugh when a picture of Harley teaching Morgan how to use his potato guns pops up and snorts when a picture of MJ smiling softly at a bird shows up. The billionaire snickers at the pictures of Pepper, who looks like the CEO she is as she glares at Clint and Scott or when she’s reprimanding grown adults (see: The Avengers) about safety and rules. 

Tony lets out a tiny gasp when he sees Natasha, the notorious Black Widow, smiling softly at a kitten. He chuckles lowly when the picture of Thor, on the verge of tears at the sight of a mouse, appears. And he smirks when he sees Bruce, who looked like he was in the middle of panicking, with a wildly out-of-control specimen in the background. He beams as he sees Bucky and Steve, roleplaying a scene in a book to Morgan, who has a wide grin on her chubby face. 

All these pictures, yet not one of Peter. Could it be that… this camera was his? 

Of course, it’s his. Whose else could it be? 

Tony sets the camera back onto the table, dialling Happy as he exits the lab. 

“Let’s go camera shopping.” 

——

“Boss, where do you even find the time for photography?” Happy asks as he begrudgingly follows Tony into the camera shop. Why was he always dragged into stuff he didn’t want to do? Better yet, since when did Tony like photography?

Tony rolls his eyes, not that Happy could see. “You wouldn’t get it. Now, which camera do you think is best?”

Happy gapes at the billionaire, looking to and from between Tony and the cameras on display. “How would I— Why would you think—”

“Oh, look at this… Leica S… Typ 007?” Tony sounds unsure— unusual, but not unexpected since this was something he wasn’t familiar with. “What? What does this mean?”

Based on what he knows, this camera is for Peter. Tony cares about him so much that he’d willingly go out to buy him stuff and risk himself running into paparazzi. Sighing in resignation, Happy glances through the specs and the prices of the cameras because Tony obviously wouldn’t and if he accidentally buys a $27k camera, then Peter will definitely freak out. 

“Boss, look at the price,” Happy sighs again, “do you really think Peter would accept this?”

Tony almost had whiplash from how fast he turned his head to face Happy at the sound of Peter’s name. “How did you know I was getting this for the kid?”

Happy rolls his eyes, walking past the nervous saleswoman who had been staring at them with a wobbly smile for the entire time they’ve been at the store. He picks up a relatively light camera, something he knows Peter would like and shows it to Tony. The clueless billionaire takes the camera, inspecting it as if he knows everything about it and nods approvingly. 

——

Tony isn’t going to lie. He’s a little excited and a little nervous— something completely new from what he usually feels when gifting. He did snoop around in his camera, after all. 

Jumping a little when the doors to his lab open suddenly, Tony tightly clutches the box in his hands, forcing himself to face the sweet, sweet teenager and hopes he won’t get mad. 

“Hello, Mr Stark!” Peter greets with a chirp in his voice, beaming at the billionaire. “So, I was thinking about some updates I want to do for the—”

Tony interrupts him before the kid can immerse him into his ideas as well. “Pete, I have something for you.”

Innocent, brown eyes bore into his and Tony offers him a nervous smile. He beckons Peter over with a wave of his hand and forces the wrapped box into small arms. The teen cocks his head to one side, looking at him in mild confusion and all Tony’s thinking is, ‘why is he so cute?’

He motions for him to open his very impromptu gift, uncharacteristically wringing his hands in anticipation. Peter gently undoes the tape holding the wrapping paper in place, unwrapping it diligently, unlike how it was wrapped. 

“Mr— Mr Stark!” Peter splutters as soon as he sees the camera. “This— isn’t this too much? You already give me an allowance on top of my salary as an intern. I can’t—”

Tony grins, secretly happy that Peter isn’t angry with him for snooping around and discovering his secret. He frowns playfully, sitting on his hands so that the teen wouldn’t be able to force his gift back. “Well, your camera is an ancient relic, and we can’t have that in my very futuristic house, now can we? Besides, why didn’t you get a new one if you had the money?”

Peter smiles, a little forlorn, a little reminiscent. “Uncle Ben gave me that camera and I just never really thought of upgrading it.”

“Hey,” the billionaire holds back a wince at the mention of Ben, knowing it was a sensitive topic. “You can display the camera in your room, no need to get rid of it. Heck, I’ll even make a glass display box for it if you want.”

The teenager smiles again, this time a little brighter, happier. He hugs the camera to his chest, before shyly thanking Tony, as if the billionaire checked the price before paying for it. 

A few weeks later, after Family Friday Night, Tony finds a printed picture of the whole family— Avengers and Non-Avengers alike— sleeping in the makeshift blanket fort, on his table. And if he encases it with a handmade frame, hanging it up where everybody can see, then it’s nobody’s business but his. 

——

please ❤️ if you liked it! comment if you want? follow me for more, i guess?

[vagrantblvrd]

Twist of Fate (1/1)

Summary: Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while.

Notes: Prompt fill for Anon who wanted Battle Buddies with one of them trying to win a stuffed toy at a carnival booth. :D?

(Read on AO3)

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while. Always a critical mission here or world-threatening crisis there. Enormous mountain of paperwork to forge through with command breaking down their necks, that kind of thing.

So this?

A chance to unwind for a few hours on (relatively) friendly soil before someone back at HQ secures them transport back home is a nice break.

Jeremy’s charming a booth operator, Ryan can hear him from here. He’s using that atrocious southern accent of his that slips every other sentence. Can never hold on to accent for long, will swing from southern to some mangled form of British or other to an approximation of Australian.

Irish, sometimes, when he’s feeling a little family pride.

Half a dozen other accents that would rightly insult their native speakers if they even recognized them for what they were. (Jeremy...he’s just bad at accents.)

Ryan can’t help the fond little grin that breaks out as Jeremy walks towards him. Smirking like an asshole and two heaping plates of amusement park food.

Greasy, covered in cheese, and likely to contribute to heart problems somewhere down the line just looking at it.

“The hell is that?” he asks, as Jeremy hands Ryan one of the plates, gesturing towards an area with picnic tables under canvas awnings.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, shrugs and shovels a sporkful of the stuff in his mouth.

“Who knows,” he says, “Lorna gave it to us for free and promised there’s less than ten percent rat meat in it.”

That -

Okay, yes.

They are in Los Santos, cesspool of the great and beautiful state of San Andreas, so that’s a thing. (Only here, Ryan knows, would that kind of statement be something to be proud of.)

“Let’s never come back here again,” Ryan says, because any percent of rat meat in anything is too much.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, laughs at him like he thinks Ryan’s joking. (He’s not, but really, what are the odds they’ll end up back here again anyway?

========

Ryan must have been a horrible human being in a past life because they end up in Los Santos again.

To be fair, it’s probably the safest place for them to be now what with the whole thing with the agency and all.

“Wow,” Jeremy says, limping a little. “This places smells worse than I remember.”

To be fair they didn’t exactly take the scenic tour through Los Santos’ sewers the last time they were here.

Oversight on their part because it’s just lovely down here.

“Less talking, more walking,” Ryan grunts, and it’s mostly the bruised ribs talking. “Also, yes.”

Jeremy snorts, moving closer and being all so subtle about worrying about Ryan falling on his face and into ankle-deep sewage as they trudge along.

One of Ryan’s old contacts has set up business in Los Santos, ought to be able to help them out, if they can find him.

Just gotta keep the cops from finding them after the commotion they got pulled into. Daylight robbery and comical ineptitude on the part of the cops that had them mistaking Ryan and Jeremy as the robbers, and they’ve only been in Los Santos for a few hours.

It’s been a hell of a day. (Week? Month? He’s lost track by now.)

========

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for time off in a while. Always a job here or a heist there. Cops on their assess because Jeremy just won’t let this whole damn Rimmy Tim business go and people notice. (People in Los Santos are just different than people anywhere else. Sniff that shit out like you wouldn’t believe.)

Still.

Every once in a while they manage to get some time to themselves away from the chaos of the crew. Get the opportunity to walk around the city without someone looking at them and pegging them as public enemy number one.

They end up back at Del Perro Pier where they got their first real look at Los Santos all those years ago.  (A lifetime ago.)

It’s changed a lot since then, chic little restaurants and cafe’s replacing most of the outdoor eating areas. Food vendor booths with their questionable foods boasting about the lack of rat meat in their dishes like that was the selling point that would convince people to hand over their money.

Although...he’s not so sure the food these chic little restaurants and cafe’s are selling are much better when he thinks about it.

Ryan still doesn’t know what they had for lunch, but it was tasty enough and odds are good they won’t live to deal with the consequences anyway.

Not with the way the Fakes approach life, all chaos and anarchy and this careless disregard for their own mortality like they’re racing the clock. (Everyone’s always running out of time, more so here in Los Santos than anywhere else Ryan’s been.)

Jeremy nudges Ryan with his elbow, tips his head towards the midway and waggles his eyebrows.

“You know,” he says, grin on his face and mischief in his voice. “We never did get the chance to really check this place out before.”

That sounds ominous, given it’s Jeremy and nothing’s exploded or even combusted around them for, oh, a good couple of hours.

“Huh,” Ryan says, and lets Jeremy drag him towards trouble.

========

So here’s the thing, right.

The two of them, they’re doing alright for themselves these days.

The agency’s one of those bad memories behind them they don’t have to worry about anymore thanks to a judicious application of explosives and planing and petty vindictiveness. (Mostly the explosives.

They’re part of a crew that doesn’t want them want to claw their own skin off, might even feel like family. (The stupidly annoying kind you’d do just about anything for, but would be a mistake to let certain members know because they’d never hear the end of it, but there you go.)

High up enough in the food chain here in Los Santos without their status in the crew they could get by just fine if things ever fell apart. (Unlikely as that is.)

So why, Ryan wonders, why is he losing his goddamned mind over an amusement park game booth?

Ridiculous little pellet gun in his hands and the faces of horrendously drawn clowns laughing at him as he fails to hit a single bullseye even though he’s a damn good marksman. Hell of a sniper, even if he’s gotten a little rusty over the years with Jeremy on overwatch while he gets up close and personal, uses his size and reputation for maximum effect.

The booth operator is a bored looking teenager with this tiniest of tiny smirks tugging at the corner of her mouth and obviously laughing at Ryan and his repeated failure to win the grand prize.

A whole stack of consolation tickets and one or two low-level monstrosities meant to be some form of adorable animal, but no luck with the giant purple and orange abomination Jeremy had eyed before moving on. Or trying to, before he realized Ryan had forked over money trying to win it for him. And failed and failed and failed.

Ryan shouldn’t even care about it this much, he knows that.

They’re hardened criminal types now, and battle-weary spec ops operatives loaned out to some hush-hush secret agency before then. No room in their lives for sentiment or nostalgia and all that because those were weaknesses they didn’t need.

Jeremy had done the smart thing, passing the stupid little stuffed animal by, but Ryan?

Stupid, idiot Ryan had noticed the little flicker of a smile on Jeremy's face, some bit of childhood nostalgia or something else, and in all his infinite stupidity decided he’d give winning it a try because why the hell not?

They’d sacrificed enough to get where they are, and something frivolous like this was more than deserved.

All Ryan had to do was hit the bullseye on all the targets in a set amount of time and the damn stuffed dragon was theirs – Jeremy’s, whatever.

Seemed simple enough, which should have been a warning sign.

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan hisses, and sets down more money for another go at the stupid targets in front of him.

Jeremy’s not quite at the point of laughing at him, but the asshole’s certainly enjoying Ryan’s complete failure to win this game.

Stupid goddamned rigged game.

Ryan was one of the agency’s best marksmen, had all these certificates and cute little trophies from “friendly” competitions – and all that to back it up. (Not to mention the carefully redacted files and trail of bodies that set of skills netted him.)

He’s up there when it comes to snipers you can find in Los Santos – maybe not as good as Ray, but then again who is anymore – but he can hold his own.

And yet somehow he’s finding it nigh impossible to shoot a goddamned clown in the goddamned nose.

Nightmarish renditions of the things painted on wood and laughing at him every time he clips the outer ring around them.

“Ryan,” Jeremy says, the way he does when the situation has spun out wildly out of control in a manner that isn’t exactly life-threatening but still the kind of disaster where Ryan just wants to set the world on fire. “Oh my God, Ryan.”

Ryan glares at Jeremy because that’s not helpful, and – still laughing it up – Jeremy takes the toy gun from him and takes a turn.

Hits the bullseye every damn time even though his aim’s sure to be off with the way he’s still giggling like an idiot.

Grins up at Ryan as he shoves the stuffed dragon in his hands and a moment later gasps in overblown surprise at the sight of it in all its tacky glory.

“Oh, Ryan,” he says, hands on his face like that kid from that one movie, look of surprise and utter delight on his face. “You shouldn’t have!”

The feigned surprise and soft joy is ruined by the giggling he can’t seem to stop, but when he takes the dragon from Ryan and leans up for a quick kiss to his cheek, it’s a little more tolerable.

Okay, a lot, because Jeremy is happy, even if it’s at Ryan’s expense.

All bright joy and clear laughter and Ryan’s heart does this little flip in his chest because it’s been a long, long time since they’ve had the luxury for either and he intends to hold on to it as long as he can.

[thewritewolf]

True Sight - Chapter 1

I’ve been too busy to finish the August Fluff Month prompts, with most of my spare writing time being devoted to my main fanfic - True Sight. I don’t like going without posts for too long, so I decided that I’d post the first thousand words of the True Sight chapters. To get us started, I’ll have the first two thousand words up.

If you like it, then I encourage you to read the full chapters on AO3 - I post a new chapter each Friday.

Enjoy!

“Ladybug, look out!”

Marinette didn't have time to look back as the black-clad form of Chat Noir barreled into her. A thrown car sailed over their prone forms, crashing nearby. They scrambled to their feet in preparation of the next attack from the riled up akuma – a tow truck driver who had suffered one too many screaming citizens that day. Now he terrorizes Paris as the Tow-rrible Demolisher!

She made an effort to keep her heavy breathing under control in an attempt to look less exhausted than she felt. The fight had been going on for three hours now and they'd each already had at least four transformations. This needed to end.

“Lucky charm!” Marinette called out once again for the power of creation. She winced. She could hear her voice getting hoarse from all the yelling she had done today - warning Chat Noir, shooing off citizens, calling on her powers; it was all getting taxing. “A wheel lock? How am I supposed to – oh, right.” The lower half of the akuma had taken the form of a tow truck, its hook swinging wildly for more ammunition. What else would she have used it on?

Chat Noir jumped past her. He shouted to the enemy, “I can't believe it. Hawkmoth finally found someone even worse at fighting than him!” The Tow-rrible Demolisher roared in fury as he tracked the feline hero's erratic movements. Whispering thanks, she charged towards the villain, securing the lock onto his front wheel. “He's stuck! Hit him now!” Marinette called out, wrapping her yo-yo around the monstrous enemy and pulling while Chat Noir's extended staff slammed into his side. Just as the Demolisher clattered to the ground, her partner smashed the chains and tossed the tow hook to Marinette, who shattered it in her hands.

“Bye bye, little butterfly.” Soon, the city was set back to normal, but she was no less exhausted. A quick glance at the hunched frame of her black-clad partner confirmed he wasn't feeling too great either. Their fist bump lacked any enthusiasm and they wearily watched reporters funnel out of the safety of nearby buildings. She exchanged a glance with Chat. His eyes darted between her and the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

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

Four hours later they met up for patrol on the Eiffel Tower, having let their kwamis rest before transforming again that day.

“As much as I enjoy the time with you, my lady, these fights are becoming too much.” Chat got straight to the point as he sat down next to her.

Skipping the banter since you're late? She thought to herself. She remembered his (many) complaints about an uncooperative kwami throughout their year of partnership and allowed herself a fleeting smile as she imagined Chat bargaining with a tiny floating kwami to meet with her. It disappeared as she remembered the aches in her muscles from the fight earlier that day.

“I can't argue with that. I don't know how Hawkmoth is doing it, but these akuma have only gotten stronger.” Perhaps he is getting more familiar with his miraculous, just as Chat and I are? Marinette thought back to the last five fights – all in the last week. She was glad for the restoring powers of her miraculous, otherwise Paris might have already been leveled.

“There hasn't been any super-villain tough enough to beat us, but I definitely don't want to rely on my luck in the next fight.” Chat's gaze stayed fixed on a point in the distance, clearly thinking about the numerous close calls that day.

“Don't worry, kitty, I have enough luck for the both of us.” Marinette bumped shoulders with Chat, hoping to break him out of his thoughts. She took stock of their options to meet the challenge ahead of them. Not that there were many, of course. Catching Hawkmoth was ideal, but they weren't any closer to finding him than they were after defeating Stoneheart.

Her thoughts wandered to Master Fu, and the wisdom he had dispensed in the past. Not to mention those abilities he had unlocked. “The potions that Master Fu made us are great and all but if the fights are going to last so long, their powers will wear off way before the akuma is cleansed.”

“If there were magic potions in that book, do you think that he might have found anything else in there? Maybe spells to make us even stronger? Faster? More dashingly handsome? Although, I don't think if you'd be able to resist me at that point.” Chat Noir stopped himself here to flex.

Marinette rolled her eyes, but allowed herself a giggle. She was about to say expecting magic spells to solve their problem was ridiculous, but at this point she wasn't sure. It was certainly worth checking out. Nothing would be lost if they stopped by to ask.

Chat was disappointed when Ladybug pulled away from him and said, “You know, you might be onto something there, chaton. Lets see what Master Fu has to say about all this. Even if he doesn't have any spells, he might have advice for us.”

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

It was the first time they'd both gone to Master Fu's store at the same time, and also the first time they had visited him while transformed. Still, Marinette wouldn't reveal her identity to Chat Noir over something so small.

If Master Fu was surprised at their late night appearance, he did not show it. Instead, he waved them in with a wide smile. He disappeared and a few moments later he returned with hot tea for them. Ladybug and Chat Noir accepted, and sat down at his table. They started to relate the difficulty of their recent fights, often talking over each other in their excitement.

“...an entire city block, wrecked! Thankfully all civilians had fled at that point...”

“Teeth the size of my leg! It took bites out of the cars as if they were a croissant!”

“...I swear I still can't get the smell out of my hair...”

Marinette tilted her head at that last one while Chat continued on with the rest of the villains of the week. Yeah the sewer monster was gross, but he had to be joking. Surely even smells are covered by the restoration wave?

Master Fu absorbed their stories as he put his hand to his beard. “Of course, Hawkmoth's minions have been growing ever more fearsome and monstrous. While you have risen admirably to your heroic roles, it is difficult to prepare for an enemy whose powers – and sudden appearances – are unpredictable. I am glad you came. I have been working hard to find any mysteries still in the book, and I may have discovered something of great importance.”

He walked over to his electronic copy of the book, soon followed by the superhero duo looking over his shoulders. He flicked through the pages till he found one with all seven miraculous surrounding the strange text of the guardians. “I am still struggling with deciphering the ceremonial text describing this spell, but from what I understand it is designed to empower the chosen in times of great need. Fortuitously, it requires the recipients to be present for the casting. Hawkmoth will be excluded.”

He picked up the electronic notepad and carried it into a darkened room, motioning for Ladybug and Chat Noir to follow. Instead of reaching for the light switch, as Marinette expected, he went to light a number of candles arrayed around the room. She heard Chat Noir gasp lightly. Right, he had night vision. As the tiny flames began pushing back the darkness, Marinette could take in the room's decor.

A double-layered circle had been drawn in a silvery powder, with very angular markings, all straight lines and right angles, carved between the two circles. They were just as meaningless to Marinette as the guardian alphabet was, and they were clearly different, but she could see similarities. They were harsher, less elegant. They felt... ancient and rough. Maybe these markings came first? Marinette theorized while waiting.

Master Fu finished by lighting candles at seven focal points in the circle. When he finished, the fires of the candles took on a different color, one for each candle: Red, black, orange, yellow, purple, green, and blue. The entire effect was a hypnotic pattern that drew the eyes toward the circle. Moments passed before Master Fu cleared his throat and asked, “Young ones? Did you hear me?”

The effect was broken. She heard Chat cough nervously as she shook her head to clear her mind. The old man was watching them expectantly. Marinette pointedly cleared her throat before speaking. “No, we were distracted by the ritual circle.” That was a guess on her part – both that Chat was as distracted as she was, and that all this was a part of the spell.

Her guess must have been right, since Chat didn't disagree with her when he responded. “So, what do we have to do? Say the magic words and then we'll be feline stronger than before?” He grinned at his own pun, waiting on Master Fu's confirmation.

Instead, the old Chinese man – who she noticed wore a faint smile at Chat's pun, much to her dismay – shook his head and gestured to the open space in the center of the circle. “Most of the spell is simply getting the runes correct – which, judging based on the colored flames, they are. All that needs to be done is for the chosen who seek the blessing to step in the circle.” He pointed at the inner circle which would be just large enough to hold the both of them. If they stood back to back. “Then I will sound the gong, and the ritual will be complete.” He caught her staring at the small size of the circle. “I'm sorry for the cramped space, Ladybug. Silver powder is unfortunately expensive and my supplies were low.”

She gasped at the implied cost and hurriedly said, “Oh, it’s fine, Master Fu! Chat and I are no strangers to close encounters.” She elbowed the cat with the suggestively waggling eyebrows next to her as Master Fu stepped out of the room. Marinette looked up at Chat Noir, who was rubbing his side, and met his bright green eyes. She saw uncertainty hiding behind his bravado.

“Don't worry, kitty” She cooed, patting his head. “I'm here to protect you from the spooky magic if you're scared.”

This seemed to set him at ease as he retorted, “Oh, don't worry about me, my lady. Black cats and witchcraft go together purrfectly.

“Whenever you are ready, young ones.” They turned back to see Master Fu had returned with a small gong in hand.

They nodded to each other, eyes now set with determination. They stepped into the circle – a tight fit, as expected – only to be startled as all but two of the seven candles went out: The black flame and the red flame. The gong began to sound and the other candles arrayed around the room went out, but their light remained. Small motes of illumination gathered onto the heroes and they shifted their weight nervously.

It feels like I'm being watched, Marinette thought, but the lights are beautiful regardless.

As the motes touched the heroes, they shifted color from the pale white they were originally into red (if touching Ladybug) or black (if they landed on Chat Noir). The room took on an ominous appearance as it was bathed in red light, the echoing of the gong beginning to have the same hypnotic draw from earlier. Once all the motes landed, the two remaining candles were snuffed out. A crescendo was felt somewhere beyond the five senses, and Marinette closed her eyes...

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

The last echoes of the gong left her mind. She opened her eyes, greeted by the worried face of Master Fu. Behind her, Chat Noir groaned. They had fallen to a sitting position, backs still against each other. She turned her head and said, “Feeling any different, Chat?”

“A bit fuzzy – I certainly wouldn't call myself the cat's meow right now. You?”

“I feel a headache coming on. What went wrong?” This last question was addressed to Master Fu. His downcast expression shifting from concern for his charges into doubt.

“The spell was successful, but nothing seems to be any different for you two. Go home, rest on it. I will look over the ritual again, perhaps there is something that I missed. Perhaps the answer will reveal itself to us, in time.”

They said their goodbyes after putting themselves back together. No sooner had Marinette detransformed back home than she was getting changed. Tikki had already fallen asleep when Marinette collapsed onto her bed, out like a candle the moment she hit the pillow.

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

A darkened shadow appeared from midair a few feet off the ground. If anyone had been nearby they would have heard a metallic clang as the stranger hit the ground kneeling. He gasped, as if emerging from a dive underwater. One knee on the ground, a cloak obscuring his form, the figure rose to his feet and took stock of the area he was in.

Despite glaring at the skies for several minutes, he could not see any stars. While it was clearly night, and the moon was new, the city was illuminated. He stepped out of the alley, eyes widening inside his metal helmet as it took in the sights of Paris at night. He considered his options, adjusting the sword in its sheath at his hip. He remained shrouded in the shadows - he would find a hidden, abandoned place and rest until the sun came up.

Then, he would find the bearers of the cat and ladybug miraculous.

[navpike]

Dead Men Walking: Chapter 5

They don't always show it, but they've each got their own demons to battle. Peter keeps happening upon these battles.

OR a bunch of times that Peter was there for the Avengers in a moment of need, and one time they were all there for him.

Chapter Five: Thor

[on ao3]   [buy me a coffee?]

Peter is, in short, terrified to approach Thor. Thor is a god, and a very attractive one, and Peter’s tiny gay heart cannot handle it.

He’s fine when they’re all gathered together for Sam’s mandatory team dinners, or when Clint demands that Peter help him teach Thor about video games, or when he’s sitting with Bruce and Tony and Dr. Cho, talking science, and Thor will join in the conversation with things he learned while on Asgard, and through his travels of the universe.

Group settings are fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

And then, a few days after the Almost-Code-Green incident, Peter jerks awake with a strangled screech, his heart beating too fast in his chest. He looks down at his hands, expecting them to be covered in blood, looks up at the ceiling, expecting it to come crashing down on his head any second, looks wildly from side to side expecting to see huge vulture wings and Toomes’s illuminated green goggles swooping in closer, closer, closer--

Peter is very, very much awake.

He can’t remember the specifics of the dream, but there’s an overwhelming sense of urgency left over from it that he can’t shake, and he needs to get out of his room, huge as it is, to somewhere with more space, or he’s going to lose it.

He flees his room, taking off for the common area, not expecting anyone else to be there.

He is not alone as he expected he would be, when he gets to the kitchen.

Thor is sitting there, his head in his hand, looking over a sizable stack of papers, a mug long forgotten by his elbow. Brunnhilde is slumped over in the seat next to him, asleep with her head on the counter.

Peter freezes in the doorway.

Thor looks up and gives Peter a tired smile.

“Hello, Spiderling,” Thor whispers, and Peter almost cracks a smile at that. Thor almost never greets him with his actual name, coming up with various spider-themed nicknames, to rival Tony’s. He always comes back to Spiderling, though. It seems to be a favorite. “What are you doing up at this hour? You should be in your quarters, resting.”

Peter shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says softly, matching Thor’s pitch. He doesn’t want to wake Brunnhilde. “What’re you doing up?” he counters.

Thor’s smile widens just a touch.

“You’ve got me there, I suppose.” He sighs and runs a hand over his hair, and then leans back to stretch a bit and Peter thinks his heart is going to stop because wow, that little celebrity crush he’s had on Thor since after the Battle of New York has most definitely not gone anywhere.

Unfortunate.

Peter sets about boiling some water, because he needs something to do so he can remain calm and collected and not freaking out about being alone and having a conversation with a literal god.

This is fine.

Thor is still talking. “Brunnhilde and I were looking at plans for New Asgard. Setting up a civilization of refugees on a foreign planet is rather difficult, as it turns out,” he says, and the tone of his voice makes Peter pause.

Thor sounds… really kind of sad. Tired and worn out, most of all, but definitely sad.

Peter flips the switch to turn on the electric kettle and turns back to face Thor, who has gone back to staring at the papers in front of him. As Peter watches, Thor absently raises his arm, and gently cards his fingers through Brunnhilde’s hair, brushing it out of her face.

Brunnhilde lets out a rather unattractive snore. Thor smiles in response, and the look is so soft and adoring that Peter has to avert his eyes for a moment, because he feels like he’s intruding. He busies himself collecting mugs from the cabinets, to give Thor a second. He clears his throat before he turns around, for good measure, and holds up a mug in question.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink tea,” Thor says.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t either. I was gonna make some hot chocolate. Want some of that?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had it,” Thor says, a little distractedly.

Peter smiles, and places both mugs gently down on the countertop. As he goes around retrieving the hot chocolate from the cabinet, and whipped cream and milk from the fridge, and digging up cinnamon from the spice rack, he says, “You’ll love this. It’s how my Uncle Ben used to make it for me, when I was having rough nights right when I started living with him and my Aunt May.”

The electric kettle switches off, and Peter pours it into the mugs, mixes in the powder, a splash of milk. As he’s shaking the canister of whipped cream and trying to be quiet about putting a liberal amount of it into each mug, Thor speaks, and Peter almost sprays whipped cream all over the counter.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you’ve spoken of this Uncle before, and your lovely Aunt. I am aware you live with them. Why do you not live with your parents?”

Peter’s movements falter, but he recovers quickly, and answers softly as he sprinkles a touch of cinnamon on top of each veritable mountain of whipped cream. “My parents died when I was a little kid. In a plane accident.” He hands Thor a mug, careful not to spill on the paperwork on the counter. “My dad’s brother, my Uncle Ben, and his wife took me in. It’s just me and May now. Ben died a little while after I got these powers. That’s why I decided to become Spiderman, really. I don’t talk about my mom or dad or Ben much cause it always gets pushed into the ‘where are they, then?’ territory and that’s just depressing. I don’t want to be constantly reminding people of that, you know? So I just kind of avoid it, unless someone asks. Losing people hurts and being reminded that you can lose people hurts too.”

Thor gets a very sad look in his eyes.

Brunnhilde stirs, and Peter’s Spidey-sense scratches in his ears, and he gets the distinct feeling that she’s not asleep, anymore, but she’s trying very hard to pretend that she is, so Peter says nothing.

“I, too, have lost my mother and father, and a great many of my dear friends. Loss is never easy. Not even after centuries of living. Even when you gain new people in your life, even when they mean everything to you, the loss can weigh on your mind.”

Peter frowns at the look on Thor’s face, and nudges the Thor’s mug a little closer to him.

“You know, Uncle Ben always used to tell me this was the best way to fix a sad heart, when I was a kid. I’d have bad dreams, or I’d start missing my parents, and I’d go to him and he’d make us hot chocolate, and ask me to tell him what was making me sad. He’d sit there for as long as it took me to get it all out, and then he’d tell me funny stories or happy memories he had of my parents. He’d say,  they’re gone, but we haven’t forgotten them, and because we haven’t forgotten them, they’re still affecting how we live our lives, and that makes it like they’re still here, in a way. It always made me feel better, for a while, at least,” Peter says, and Thor finally really looks up at Peter, and takes the mug offered to him.

He smiles, when he takes a sip, licking whipped cream from his upper lip.

“This is splendid. I much prefer it to tea. Thank you, little one,” Thor says, and Peter’s not even upset about being called “little one”. When Thor says it, it sounds just fine.

“So,” Peter prompts softly, leaping up to perch on the counter across from Thor. Brunnhilde shifts again, this time tipping her head to the side. Thor doesn’t notice, but she’s definitely  awake, watching Thor discretely out of the corner of her eye. “What’s making you feel sad?”

Thor drains most of his mug in a single gulp, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I do not wish to burden you, little one.”

Peter shrugs. “Hey, it’s what friends are for. I’d say we’re friends, right?”

Thor takes a deep breath, and glances towards Brunnhilde, who snaps her eyes shut just in time, and nods once.

“I have a sister. Had a sister, Hela, that I didn’t know about. My father imprisoned her in Hel, because her power and bloodlust became too great to control. And when my father passed, she was released. While Loki and I were with Banner on Sakaar, she killed a great many of our people. In the end, We had to destroy her, and Asgard to stop her. I am saddened by the loss of my home, of course. But,” Thor lets out a long, heavy sigh. Peter thinks of different gods, of the sky balanced on backs and worlds carried on shoulders, and he thinks that not even a god should have to bear that sort of weight. “I think I am most saddened by the loss of a sister I never knew. I wonder if I had known her before, if we’d had the chance to grow up together, if maybe things would have ended differently, or if she was destined to become what she did, simply because she was burdened with the guard of the dead. I guess it’s pointless to wonder, at this point, but I can’t seem to help it.”

Peter sets his empty mug down beside him, and tugs one knee up to his chest, his other leg dangling over the edge of the counter. “It might not do anything, but I think it makes sense. I mean, you still love Loki, after everything he’s gotten himself into, cause he’s your brother and you care about him. Even though you didn’t really know Hela, I mean, she was still your sister, and you’re wishing you could’ve been there for her. But dwelling like that doesn’t do anything except make you sad. Mourn your sister, I guess, but don’t get hung up on what could’ve been. Maybe spend a little more time with Loki, and remind yourself that you’ve still got one sibling who doesn’t actually want you dead, no matter how many times he stabs you or whatever. I dunno.”

Peter wonders what it is about quiet conversations in the middle of the night that fills him with the courage to go dispensing advice like this. He thinks it’s the sleep deprivation. That’s probably it.

“Wise words, Peter,” Thor says, once again reaching out to tuck stray hairs behind Brunnhilde’s ear and out of her face. She turns, and kisses the palm of Thor’s hand, before he can draw back. Her smile is soft. Peter remembers seeing the same sort of smile on Aunt May’s face when she looked at Uncle Ben, on on his father’s face when he looked at Peter’s mother.

Brunnhilde must really love Thor, Peter thinks.

Thor snatches her hand and presses a kiss to each of her knuckles. She steals her hand back and gives him a playful punch on the shoulder.

“The child’s right,” she says, with one eyebrow raised. Her head is still resting on one folded arm on the counter. She doesn’t look like she’s moving any time soon. “You can’t keep worrying yourself with what Hela might have been, or what you might have been able to do. That sort of thinking is what drove me to Sakaar in the first place. It won’t do you any good, Your Majesty.” She says the title fondly and a little mockingly. Thor tugs on her ear in response.

Peter ducks his head for a moment, once again feeling like he’s intruding.

Thor hums softly, seemingly in agreement with what Peter and Brunnhilde have both said, and Peter looks up when he hears a mug scrape across the counter.

“Try this, love,” he says, and Brunnhilde finally lifts her head from the counter.

She sips the hot chocolate carefully, and then finishes the mug in one gulp.

“That was fantastic. What is it?” she asks, and Peter beams.

“Hot chocolate. Thought it’d cheer Thor up. He seemed a little stressed,” Peter answers.

“You’re perceptive,” Brunnhilde says. “His Royal Majesty seems to think he has to take on every responsibility for New Asgard on his own, despite Heimdall, Sif, Korg, Skurge and I offering to help him.” Brunnhilde lays her head down on her folded arms on the counter again, and looks up at Thor with an expression that’s caught somewhere between adoring and terribly, terribly sad.

Peter raises his hand like he’s in class waiting to be called on.

Thor looks to him and Brunnhilde raises an eyebrow.

“I know I’m still a kid and I have like, school and stuff to do, but I mean, if you want a hand with helping the Asgardians learn about Earth and Earth culture and stuff, I can definitely help you out with that? I can help you get together some things that’ll help them understand popular media and how a lot of our societies work and stuff like that. I’m helping Steve with Bucky doing the same sort of thing, right now, anyway.”

Thor cocks his head to the side and his forehead crinkles a little. Peter worries he’s done something to offend Thor, before he speaks up.

“Little one, that would mean a great deal. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

Peter shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I can like, go spend time in New Asgard teaching people. I got school. But I can set up a Stark tablet with all the things that are probably important to know about modern Earth culture? Asgardians are all good with Earth tech, right? I don’t know how big the disconnect is, cause you’re all pretty far ahead of us in everything in a lot of respects.”

“Most think it’s the other way around. That we’re inept because we cannot understand.”

Peter scoffs at that. “Asgard’s been around for millennia. That’s dumb. If someone sat them down in front of some tech from 1912 or something, they’d be confused too. Duh.”

Brunnhilde smirks. Her eyelids droop, like she’s seconds away from falling asleep again. She yawns, and through it, she says. “I like him, Thor. I hope our child will be like him.”

Thor’s eyes go wide, and so do Peter’s, and they both snap their attention to Brunnhilde, but she’s already asleep.

Thor’s eyes are big and Peter thinks they might actually be full of tears, so Peter makes a decision. He hops down from the counter, and scoops all of the papers up from in front of Thor, tapping them into a neat pile and shoving them back into the filing folder that was hidden underneath them.

“Get her to bed. I’m sure this can wait till tomorrow,” Peter suggests.

Thor nods, and scoops Brunnhilde into his arms.

“And congrats, man,” Peter says. Thor smiles, and then he’s gone.

~*~

A week later, when Thor and Brunnhilde announce to the rest of the Avengers that they are going to have a child, Thor doesn’t look so stressed. He looks well and truly happy.

Peter thinks he deserves it.

[snowbellewells]

“Caught Off Guard”

Last #Ouat Fandom Crescendo rerun I’ll flood your dash with -- I already should have stopped a week ago.  There were several others I considered, but Dave just had to charge into the action one more time - as he does in the fic! ;) - and so this one won out!

This little one shot was originally started for a group prompt event that I didn’t finish in time.  It’s written after Emma and Killian are engaged and long past the time her parents really should learn not to charge into Captain Swan’s house unannounced.  I thought it ended up pretty cute though, and there’s some Captain Charming as well as CS, which I love.  I have to end my #OuaT Fandom Crescendo revisit of old fics somewhere, so why not with this fun one?

Hope you enjoy it!!

(Clearly, I still don’t own them. More of this fun, fluffy stuff would have been seen onscreen if I did…)

“Caught Off Guard”

By: @snowbellewells (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

               David Nolan, the Enchanted Forest’s Prince Charming turned deputy sheriff, whistles happily as he climbs the front steps to his daughter’s new home, enjoying the crisp autumn morning and looking forward to the boys’ day out he has planned, and for which he’s come to pick up his grandson and best mate.  He raps his knuckles once sharply on the door, but doesn’t pause long enough to notice if anyone calls out a response – they should be expecting him and the door is unlocked, so he turns the knob and steps into the foyer.  He can smell the warm, welcoming scent of fresh coffee brewing and hear cabinets opening and closing, along with the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Chuckling to himself good naturedly, he heads in that direction, intending to help Emma, who has to be the one making so much noise.  As amazing and capable as his daughter is in almost every other area of life, she is a disaster when cooking.  If she is up trying to make a big breakfast to send her boys off, maybe he had better see if she needs a hand.

           However, as he rounds the corner and the kitchen comes into view, his smile freezes. His feet halt in their tracks and the happy greeting he’d been ready to speak dies in his throat as David nearly swallows his tongue instead. Right in front of him is his daughter, sleep mussed and tousled hair piled up on top of her head, one side of her shirt slipping off her shoulder to show too wide an expanse of skin, and legs bared all the way up to mid-thigh.  Too late to retreat, a shocked wheeze escapes him as she turns, sees her father gaping at her and grabs at the barely buttoned front of the black shirt she’s wearing as an entire outfit.  A shirt he realizes in turns of horror, anger, and embarrassment that he has seen before, on someone who isn’t his only daughter.  She’s wearing one of the pirate’s old shirts – and it’s barely covering her at that!

           “Dad!” Emma gasps, a blush staining her cheeks and spreading down her neck and more exposed chest than he really needs to see.  “What are you doing here? Don’t you knock?!”

           The prince stammers in his own shame, “Well, um…I…I did…once?  Sorry…I just figured you guys would be ready…since Killian and Henry are going with me.”

           “That’s tomorrow morning!” she yelps, sounding deceptively like the petulant teen he never got to meet.  “Henry’s not even here!”  She flaps a hand nervously, until she realizes it raises her hemline even more and jerks it back down, turning an even deeper crimson as she does and studiously avoiding his eyes.

           Just then, as if the moment needed to get even more awkward, footsteps sound on the stairs and Killian Jones’ voice calls out mere moments before he appears in the kitchen as well.  “Swan, what’s all the yelling?” he asks, rubbing his hand drowsily in his sleep-disheveled hair which is already standing up everywhere in dark tufts.  A lazy smirk stretches over his face as a wicked twinkle lights his eyes.  “Daydreaming about the Captain awaiting your return upstairs and catch the food on fire again?”

           He clearly hasn’t noticed his mate’s presence in the room yet, at least not until Emma only responds with a pained squeak and Killian’s gaze slides over to see her father’s eyes bulging wide enough to look as though he is having an apoplexy.  “Oh…hello Dave,��� Killian offers much more quietly, flushing a bit himself.

           With what piece of Emma’s brain is not completely flooded with embarrassment enough to think, her heart is almost warmed by the amount of chagrin Killian seems to feel, not quite meeting David’s eyes and clearly not wanting his mate to think less of him or to inadvertently make the situation worse. She had half expected him to tease or ‘poke the bear’ so to speak, roll his tongue salaciously against his cheek in that positively indecent way she loves, puff out his chest, smirk, arch that eyebrow, and basically send her father into a breakdown.  However, her pirate is clearly more focused on not wanting to make the royal rescind the welcome he has been granted into Emma’s family. “Didn’t see you there,” he nearly mumbles, rather unnecessarily, eyes now glued to his shuffling bare feet with a shy evasiveness Emma has rarely seen from him.  

           By the same turn, Emma’s eyes flick back over to her dad’s face, seeing him visibly trying to bring his reaction back under control and stay calm.  She is honestly torn between wanting to cross the room toward him, pat him on the shoulder sympathetically, and put him out of his misery, and to heed her desire to flee the room, run upstairs to change, and not show her face again until she is completely covered in her usual jeans, turtleneck, and red leather jacket.

           Killian does throw a slightly chagrined comforting smile to the side, as if to say, ‘It’s going to be fine, Swan.  We’ll laugh at this later,’ and it allows her to take in a deep breath and press on.

           “So…” she tries, hoping to help them move past their uneasiness and into something a bit more normal.  “Are we okay here, Dad?  Do you want to have some eggs and pancakes with us before we go into the station?  I’ll go get dressed while Killian dishes thing up, if you want…”

           David shakes his head gently, clears his throat, runs a hand over the back of his neck for a moment uncertainly, hesitating to cause offense, but not wishing to stay in this uncomfortable moment, lingering and extending it any longer than necessary.  “Ah, I ate before I left home.  Snow had to be at the school early and left a ham and cheese casserole she’d made for me. Maybe I’ll just let you guys get back to your meal, and I’ll see you later?”

           Emma nods, relieved that her dad isn’t going to drag this out and is trying to carry on normally, as though nothing has changed.  “Sounds good,” she offers simply, braving a tiny smile at him for his effort.  

           Just as David turns to go, however, a little of Killian Jones’ insouciant nature seems to return to the pirate.  Stepping fully into the room and right up to Emma, playfully slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulders and smacking a purposefully sloppy kiss to her cheek, he then waggles his eyebrows cheekily at his friend and offers, “Good to see you, Dave.  Come again any time.”

           David glares at him, really taking the pirate True Love of his daughter under detailed consideration for the first time.  A ‘harumph’ of displeasure rumbles in his chest and his crosses his arms grumpily, looking ready to dig in his heels and fire back a response.  Emma can nearly read the expression on his face as if he has said out loud, ‘Really mate, since when are you Master of this Domain?’ but then David’s face blanches, his gaze focusing on a new detail.

           The Prince’s eyes pan lower to take in the comfortable flannel lounge pants Killian Jones wears low on his hips.  At first, the deputy finds himself wondering at the tough sailor wearing cozily checked, blue-and-red sleepwear and where Captain Hook would have even gotten such pajamas.  But as he looks a bit closer he realized he’s seen those sleep pants before – they’re old castoffs of his!  Realization hits that Snow must have donated them to their daughter’s pirate instead of Goodwill the last time he’d cleaned out his dresser.  Before he really thinks it through, David takes a step forward, gesturing wildly before finally sputtering out, “What are you doing with my old pajama pants, Hook?!”

           Killian looks down at himself, teasing grin sliding from his face and reddening blush staining his skin, nearly dark enough to match Emma’s, then slides his eyes over to meet Emma’s questioningly.

           Shrugging, Emma offers sheepishly, “When Killian first returned to life, I really wanted to get him some comfortable, modern clothes, but it’s not like we really got time to go out shopping in the real world with Hyde and Gold and all that chaos happening – as usual.  Mom gave me some old things for him to wear around the house that she said you didn’t wear anymore.”

           “Oh yeah,” her father mumbles, now the one shuffling his feet a bit and not meeting Emma’s or Killian’s eyes. “She’s right…that’s fine.”

           “Okay, then,” Emma says, clapping her hands once as if dismissing the matter and putting brightness and authority into her voice as she steps forward to usher David toward the front door while Killian moves to salvage the breakfast she had begun and then nearly let burn in her distraction.  “So, I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

           Dutifully, her father turns and walks ahead of her back to the entryway, clearly ready to escape the private moment he walked into.  Turning at the front steps as he opens the door, he looks over his shoulder and offers his grown daughter a wistful smile – all the time he lost with her, but his love for her and his joy at seeing she is happy as well showing in that expression.  “Though I wouldn’t have chosen to witness the details,” he offers, lips quirking up a bit further on one side, “I’m glad you’ve found love, Emma…that both of you have.  You deserve to be happy.  You deserve your True Love.  I’m glad you’ve found each other.”

           Impulsively, Emma throws herself forward into her father’s arms and hugs him to her tightly for several long moments.  Finally pulling away, her smile back at him is a bit shaky with emotion, but the embarrassment pretty much gone as she whispers, “Thanks Dad,” with fervent gratitude.

           Then he is gone, down the front walk to his pickup truck, and Emma closes the door to pad barefoot back into the kitchen where Killian is waiting. Leaning with intentional ease against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, arm braced on the countertop behind him and his maimed limb rubbing at the back of his neck, the one thing that gives his discomfiture away despite the playful wink he sends across the room at her.

           “Well, Love, shall I be facing your father in a duel at high noon?” he asks, his bashful concern showing through the playful bravado in his blue eyes as he gazes up at her from under those handsome dark lashes.  “Now that he knows for certain I have besmirched his daughter’s honor?”

           She shakes her head at him in fond exasperation and moves closer on silent bare feet.  “Really?’ she asks with arched brow just before slipping into his open arms, pressing her nose into his bared throat and humming in comfort at his welcome embrace.

           “Yes, Swan, really,” he continues, lips murmuring into the hair at the crown of her head.  “It’s one thing for him to know that we are together.  I dare say he has even come to accept me as your fitting choice, but I had never quite meant to flout our connection so obviously in his face.”  She can feel his bare stump running lightly up and down along her spine, whether intentional or not, making the hem of his old shirt ride up even higher on her hips and sending potent shivers running along her skin.

           Catching the shortened arm in her grip, she brings it up to the generously gaping neckline of the shirt, guides it inside and along her skin with her own hand. Mouth tilting up in tempting invitation, she whispers back at him, “Don’t worry, Pirate.  Remind me to tell you later about the time Henry and I interrupted him and Mom making tacos.  Let’s just say he was long overdue a similar uncomfortable moment.”

           “As you wish,” Killian husks, voice deep and rumbling and his rough stubble scratching along her neck where he bends his head to nuzzle along her skin. Their conversation derails after that, neither feeling capable of forming words over touching and connecting in other ways.  The pancakes Emma had mixed up and never finished cooking, as well as her father’s ill-timed visit, are both forgotten while they get back to the delicious slice of normal life they have finally found a moment to savor.

Tagging a few lovelies who may enjoy!  @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @hollyethecurious @laschatzi @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @bmbbcs4evr

@drowned-dreamer @celestial-fire-writer @ultraluckycatnd

@ps1473-4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @searchingwardrobes @branlovesouat @kiwistreetswan @captain-swan-coffee @ohmakemeahercules @revanmeetra87 @winterbaby89 @capswantrue

[velkynkarma]

April Fool's Prompt: would you ever write smol!Slav

A smol request? Only for you, onions. Only for you. (For the 2018 April Fools Prompt Day)

———

There’s an enormous, thundering crash from the adjacent room, followed by a high-pitched squeal of surprise. Shiro groans as he looks around, and sure enough, his charge has disappeared again.

But not for long. Five ticks later, something comes skittering out of the room on his right, surprisingly fast for its small size. The slinky creature scuttles on multiple legs and makes a beeline straight for Shiro’s foot.

In any other situation Shiro might think it was some sort of giant alien space-bug, and reacted accordingly. He knows better now, though. He resigns himself to his fate as the creature reaches his boot, claws its way up his pant-leg like a particularly insistent kitten, slithers across his back, and comes to rest curled around his neck.

“What did you do?” Shiro asks sternly, once Slav is safely situated over his shoulders again.

“I didn’t!” Slav—a much, much tinier Slav—squeaks in a much more high pitched voice than usual. “It fell. It wasn’t safe at all.”

Shiro sighs in exasperation. They still have no idea why Slav appears to have gotten so tiny, or so much younger. Coran says Slav certainly looks like a young bytor, and not just an adult that was shrunk. Based on his behavior he acts a lot younger, too.

But nobody knows how it happened. The Olkari reported heading for Slav’s lab to check in on the status of a project, only to find the engineer much, much smaller, and cowering away in the corner. He’d howled whenever any of the Olkari came near him, and the paladins—more specifically, Shiro—had been called in to fish him out.

The Olkari are working with Coran, Hunk and Pidge to try and reverse-engineer the instruments in Slav’s lab to figure out what happened. But in the meantime, they—more specifically Shiro, once again—are stuck with a much younger Slav until the situation can be remedied.

And if Slav was a handful as an adult, he’s nearly impossible as a child.

Shiro sighs. “What were you doing to make it fall?” he clarifies, as he pokes his head into the room. It’s one of the project rooms, where Pidge and Hunk frequently fiddle around in their spare time for useful enhancements, or just for fun. Some sort of device is now tipped over on its side on the floor, and parts are scattered everywhere. He winces despite himself. They aren’t going to be happy about that.

Slav hesitates. Shiro can feel him trembling, just slightly, against his neck. “I just wanted to see how it worked,” he whines, after a moment. “I could improve it. I bet it’s not efficient.”

That’s the problem with a younger Slav, really. Even young as he is, it’s clear his intelligence is still through the roof, and his vocabulary and basic understanding of science are exceptional. Unlike his adult counterpart, he’s still got the wildly curious nature of a child, and an inherent desire to get into and take apart absolutely everything—only to inevitably scare himself when it goes wrong.

“That’s not for you to take apart,” Shiro scolds. “You need to ask, first.”

“I could make it better, though,” Slav insists, stubbornly.

“Well, we’re not going to do that without asking,” Shiro says. “But you can talk to Pidge and Hunk later about your, uh…improvements. Maybe they’ll listen.”

He steps forward to at least clean up the mess and put the device upright again. But the moment he does, little Slav screeches directly in his ear, and digs all four sets of tiny hands into Shiro’s neck. He’s never been so grateful for his undercut, or he’s sure Slav would be pulling at fistfuls of hair. “No! Don’t go near it! It’s dangerous!”

“Ow! Stop that!” Shiro reaches around by feel and manages to find the scruff of Slav’s neck, plucking him—carefully, with his left hand—from his shoulder. Little Slav almost automatically curls like a pillbug, stubby little tail twirling into his multiple arms. “We talked about that. That’s not nice.”

Little Slav only looks the tiniest bit contrite. Most of him seems more concerned with checking how close to the device they are. “It fell! It tried to kill me! That means it’s dangerous. There’s a chance that it could still be dangerous!”

Little Slav hasn’t quite graduated to estimating by percentages exactly what the danger level is, nor has he rambled about realities—those must be things that he’ll develop later—but he is still a nervous little thing, when his excitement and curiosity don’t get the better of him. Shiro sighs. “Okay. Fine. We’ll leave it for now. But you ask first, next time, got it?”

Slav nods.

Shiro doesn’t expect much to come of it. The next time a distraction comes up, this will happen all over again. They haven’t even had Slav for a full quintent yet and he’s already gotten into more trouble than Shiro thought possible.

He’s already completely disassembled one of Coran’s handheld monitors, a holopad, the spare controller for the Mercury Gameflux II, and the food goo machine. The last had resulted in a complete mess in the kitchen, but when Slav had learned a bath was involved—in water—he’d fled into the Castle’s ventilation system. Then he’d gotten stuck, and squealed until even the mice had complained, and Pidge had been forced to crawl into the ducts to find him and haul him out. Figuring out how to clean the dust and the food goo off of him without submerging him in a tub (or, at his size, a big bowl) of water had been a veritable nightmare, and even cleaning him up with a wet facecloth had resulted in him screeching about everyone trying to drown him for the duration.

Keeping him still would be ideal, but activities that would keep most children occupied for hours don’t seem to interest him. Lance’s idea of hide and seek had turned out to be terrible—Slav had squeezed himself into a cabinet of tools, gotten stuck, and screamed bloody murder until Allura had found the codes to let him out.

“At least he was easy to find?” Lance offers sheepishly. But while not wrong, he’s banned from further babysitting. Which is a pity, because in any other situation, it would be easy to foist off most kids on Lance.

Movies don’t work either. Slav is indifferent to most cartoons, having little interest in animated animals from a planet he doesn’t know anything about, and bored with the songs characters burst into every twenty minutes. When they try other classics, he complains.

“The science is fundamentally unsound,” he squeaks, in the middle of Star Wars. “That doesn’t make sense. Hover technology doesn’t work that way!” He whines and complains through all of it, fidgeting incessantly, until Shiro finally gives up on that route—mostly to save Slav before somebody murders him for insulting a classic.

Coloring works, sort of. They find crayon equivalents in the Castle of Lions, and settle Slav down at a table to play. The crayons are half as big as he is, and take three sets of arms for him to use, but he draws happily, for a little while at least. Until Shiro eventually realizes it’s not a drawing of his favorite animals or people he likes or anything else kids normally draw. Instead it’s a surprisingly technical document detailing the schematics of some sort of machine, measured and labeled in meticulously precise detail.

“I think it would actually work,” Hunk says, bemused, when he sees the drawing. “Although I…don’t actually know what it does.”

“Should we put it on the refrigerator?” Lance asks, scratching his head.

But not even drawing keeps little Slav’s attention for long, and eventually he gets antsy. And starts disappearing on them, when his curiosity gets the better of him—only to come running shortly thereafter, when he realizes whatever he found is actually pretty scary. And considering how tiny he is compared to everything on the Castle of Lions, most things turn out to be pretty scary.

At least Shiro can sort of keep track of him. He’s not sure Slav actually remembers him from Beta Traz, but he does seem to trust Shiro over the others. More importantly, Shiro is the tallest person there. And when Slav gets scared, he climbs the tallest thing, where he’s safe. Which, most of the time, is Shiro, so he’s fairly easy to keep track of.

(A few times it’s not Shiro. It’s shelves, or crates, or on one occasion, one of the Lions. Once he gets up, he can’t get down, not unlike a kitten, and he wails until someone comes to get him down. Shiro’s almost glad it’s him most of the time; it saves everyone the hassle).

Like now. With a sigh, Shiro settles Slav back down on his shoulder, where the little engineer immediately sidles up to his neck again and curls around it as much he’s able. Adult Slav is long enough to curl over Shiro’s shoulders and around his torso like a python, but little Slav can’t even wrap fully around his neck from tip to tail. He’s still shaking a little, which guarantees he’ll stick with Shiro for at least ten doboshes or so. Until he forgets why he was scared and gets distracted, anyway.

Shiro needs to figure out something to keep him from getting distracted. Slav’s so small—annoying as he is, quite a few things on the ship could hurt him, and at some point he’s going to get himself into real trouble. “What do you want to do instead of that?” he asks, as he leaves the project room and closes the door behind him.

(A closed door won’t do all that much, unfortunately, not if Slav really wants to get in. He can squeeze into far too many place for his own good. But Shiro needs to at least make an effort).

“Experiments,” Slav says promptly.

Shiro blinks. “Experiments?”

“For science,” Slav says, and his high pitched little voice seems to get higher with excitement. “You can do all kinds of things with science. But you have to experiment to figure out how to do them.”

“What kind of experiments?” Shiro asks, cautiously.

“Building things!” Slav says. He slithers across to Shiro’s other shoulder in excitement. “Like a machine that can make you invisible. Or like your robot arm!”

Shiro rolls his eyes. Slav’s fascination with his arm has continued even as a child, although Shiro has to admit it probably is pretty cool from a kid’s perspective…provided they aren’t trying to pull it apart to see how it works. Which little Slav had already tried. Twice.

But this could be something he could work with. “Or the thing you drew earlier? What would you need to build things like that?”

“Yes!” Slav rattles off a number of tools and parts excitedly. It doesn’t sound terribly complex, and it might keep him occupied for a little while. Shiro considers, but eventually detours to a different project room. Slav seems curious and seriously ready to clamber down off of Shiro’s shoulders to explore, until a machine in the far corner makes a loud bang, and he presses close to Shiro’s neck again with a screech of surprise.

“It’s okay,” Shiro promises. “And we won’t stay. Just getting your, uh, supplies for your experiment, and then we can go back to the lounge. How does that sound?”

“Acceptable,” little Slav says. “But hurry. There’s a high chance that things get more scary the more we’re here.”

Shiro doesn’t waste any time, mostly because Slav is apt to forget why he’s scared if they stick around long enough for him to get used to the noise, and then Shiro will have to find him again. He grabs a hover tray and a box, and fills it full of tools, screws, interlocking metal pieces, and other bits and bobs when Slav points and says, “That, too!” Once he’s done, he takes the whole mess and pulls it back to the lounge, where he dumps it carefully over a table.

“There,” Shiro says. “Is that enough?”

“Yes!” Slav says. He sounds positively delighted, and swarms down Shiro’s arm like an excitable ferret, diving into the mess of parts. Shiro’s never seen his adult counterpart seem so enthusiastic. Even building the things he’s known for, like his gravity generator, seemed to bring  a sense of accomplishment, but never this level of outright wonder. It’s almost endearing—if one can forget Slav’s numerous eccentricities and bad habits.

Shiro is surprised to find his last-ditch effort actually works. Slav seems enormously content working on…whatever it is he’s working on…screwing things together, dragging things around, measuring and reorganizing. On occasion he’ll demand Shiro’s assistance with a wrench that’s too big for him, or instruct Shiro to weld two pieces together with his ‘robot arm,’ which mostly consists of pinching two bits of metal together and lighting up for a few seconds. He’s a bossy little taskmaster, but it’s still infinitely preferable to him disappearing, or getting himself stuck somewhere and screeching until somebody gives him attention.

In the end, two and a half vargas later, he’s built a…a something. Shiro’s not really sure what it is. It resembles the thing Slav had drawn, but like Hunk said, it doesn’t appear to have any practical purpose. It has a few moving parts that click and hum in a not unpleasant way, and it’s maybe as long as Shiro’s forearm, but that’s about all that can be said for it.

Slav seems pleased with his work, though. He preens as he crawls all over it, and gives Shiro a superior look. “It’s complete!” he says excitedly. “My experiment is a success.”

“It’s…very nice,” Shiro says, for lack of anything else to say.

“Because I made it,” Slav says, with his usual lack of tact, only amplified by his much younger age. Then he yawns. Apparently having worn himself out with all his science…ing…he scuttles over to Shiro’s Galra hand on the table, pushes it over so that it faces upward, and curls up in the palm.

“Wait,” Shiro says, “that’s not—“

But it’s useless. Little Slav, worn out by his very exciting day, is already fast asleep in Shiro’s hand.

“That can’t even be comfortable,” Shiro says, mildly exasperated. His hand is metal. Surely Slav would be more comfortable on something softer.

But little Slav seems content enough where he is. Two sets of hands are wrapped around Shiro’s metal thumb, not unlike a child hugging a stuffed animal close. The rest of his little hands curl close to his body. He’s just slightly too big for Shiro’s hand, and his tail and back legs flop awkwardly between Shiro’s other fingers.

It doesn’t look comfortable, but Slav is already snoring, and Shiro doesn’t want to risk waking him now. Little Slav is a terror by himself. A cranky little Slav would be infinitely worse. He supposes Slav can stay put, for now.

…Although that means Shiro is also stuck where he is. If he moves, Slav will surely wake.

He sighs. It’s going to be a long quintent.

[thorne93]

The Right Path (Part 3)

Prompt: (From request) Hi! I was wondering, would you it be okay to request a Charles Xavier x telepath!reader? Where they have a mind link since their ability first showed up and so they already know each other even before theyve actually met and then he finds her when he first uses Cerebo and he and Erik go to her first?? Its an idea ive had for a while, but im not nearly an amazing writer like you!

Word Count: 1874

Warning: language (maybe??), child abuse, mental and physical abuse, depression…

Note: I LOVED this request. Thank you for sending it in. I am so sorry it took so long to write. I hope I did it justice dear. Plus, thank you for the super sweet note ; ) Beta’d by none other than @like-a-bag-of-potatoes

Forever Tags: @capsmuscles @cocosierra94 @essie1876 @magpiegirl80 @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @harleyquinnandscarletwitch @iamwarrenspeace @marvel-imagines-yes-please @superwholocked527 @myparadise1982sand @missinstantgratification @thejemersoninferno @rda1989 @marvelloushamilton @munlis @thefridgeismybestie @bubblyanarocks3 @random-fluffy-pink-unicorn @hardcollectionworldtrash @igiveupicantthinkofausername @kaliforniacoastalteens @feelmyroarrrr​ @kaeling

James McAvoy:  @bohemianrhapsody86 @lenawiinchester

Charles Xavier: @bohemianrhapsody86 @lenawiinchester

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Midterms. Always a pleasure.

No, they were the worst. At least finals meant you could be done. Midterms just marked the middle of a dreadful era.

You sighed as you worked on your physics homework, your eyes straining from the numbers and symbols so badly that your vision actually got blurry. College wasn’t much better than high school, but at least you didn’t live with fearful and hateful parents. Your roommate didn’t want much to do with you, but you couldn’t blame her. You shut yourself off from her on day one. You couldn’t bear the thought of friends and knowing their every thought. At least if they weren’t a friend, their hateful and judgemental thoughts weren’t as hurtful. You had gotten to the point where you sort of tuned out other minds, but you could still hear them, all the time, no matter what.

“Y/N,” the dorm RA said as she came to the doorway and knocked on the bedroom door. You lifted your head from your studies and eyed her. “You have visitors in the lobby,” she informed.

You frowned at her, seeing the two men in her mind. At first, they weren’t recognizable to you, devilishly handsome, but no, not recognizable. You followed her down the lobby where the two men who looked like models spun to face you and you thought the wind had been knocked out of you.

A tiny gasp escaped you when you laid your eyes on him.

Charles Xavier.

He was real...And he was here. In front of you. You didn’t recognize him in the RA’s mind because she saw him for a brief second and she already contorted her memory of him. But in front of you now was the man who visited your dreams. He looked even more handsome in person. He was absolutely dashing.

“Charles,” you breathed without meaning to.

“You two know each other?” Erik asked, his eyes narrowing in the slightest.

Charles couldn’t take his ocean blues off of you though, they were permanently pressed to your face.

“Uh, yes, in a sense,” he answered. “She’s a telepath. She and I have had an unorthodox mindlink for quite some time now,” he informed with a handsome grin that made your insides melt. His voice...It was better than you could’ve ever imagined. And...He was British? Interesting.

“It’s so good to finally meet you,” you gushed as you ran forward and hugged him, happy tears spilling over. It wasn’t usually like you to hug or touch anyone but you felt so connected with him. Like he was the one person on earth you could trust.

He grinned widely in response as he hugged you back.

“You too.”

“How did you find me?” you questioned with glee.

“A long story. Do you have time to talk?” he asked.

You looked around, hoping to find a quiet place but everyone was chatting in the common area and it was rather loud and intrusive. You already heard the thoughts of the other students: “What are they doing here?” “Who are they?” “Why are they talking to her?” “How does she know two foxes like that?” “What could they possibly want with a nobody like her?”

Swallowing your insecurities you said, “Yeah, this way.” You lead them a few buildings away from campus to a small eatery, but only one other person was in there apart from the staff. “Do you want anything to drink? Coffee or...?” you questioned awkwardly, gesturing to the bar.

“No, we’re fine,” Charles assured with that glowing smile that you were sure would never tire of.

“Charles?” Erik said, an attempt to bring him back to reality.

“Right, right,” he quickly said, shaking his head. He gestured to the table in the corner with an open hand. “Shall we?”

You nodded and the three of you sat.

“I’m Erik Lensherr, by the way,” the other wildly attractive man stated as he extended his hand to you.

“Oh, charmed,” you said, taking his hand and shaking it. “You have no idea how thrilled I am to finally meet you,” you gushed your eyes going between the two of them.

“And I you,” Charles noted.

“Charles, you have a bit of drool on your chin, you might want to wipe that up while I talk to Y/N,” he noted sarcastically before giving you his full attention. Charles blushed, as did you, before you let a small giggle out, then you turned slightly more to your right to speak with Erik.

“As you may or may not have guessed, you have a mutation,” Erik started, “Charles tells me you're a telepath.”

“Is that what it’s called?” you asked innocently.

“Yes, it’s quite fascinating,” Charles began as he leaned his elbow on the table.

“Charles,” Erik chided again, his eyes going away from yours and in the general direction of his companion. “As I was saying, you’re a mutant, like us. Charles is a telepath as well and I can move metal.”

You frowned ever so slightly. “Well...while I’m really happy to know that there’s others like me, I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I’ve had these powers for four years, Charles has been contacting me through dreams, why are you two just now getting to me?”

This time, Charles answered, “Because I had no way of reaching out, but thanks to the CIA, they gave me a device that I could reach out to mutant minds. I immediately thought of you.”

“The CIA? Wha--what do they want?” you asked, panic rising in your voice as you tensed up.

Charles reached towards you. “Oh, no, no, it’s not bad. We...We have a job for you. We could use someone like you. We’re recruiting young mutants from all over the eastern coast. Would you be interested in joining us?”

You wanted to say yes...but you had a bit of a life here. And you still didn’t know them.

“How long would I be gone?” you questioned while your eyes darted all over the cafe, avoiding their intense gazes upon your face. Just having them look at you made your nerves, anxiety, and butterflies explode within you.

“We aren’t sure exactly,” Charles explained a little reluctantly, his gaze dancing to his friend’s. “We don’t know how long this job will take. Why?” he questioned incredulously. “Do you have something here?”

“Midterms?” you shyly answered, a gentle shrug coming into your shoulders as you re-made eye contact with him.

“Oh, well, midterms…” Charles noted, knowing how important education was, as he just graduated himself.

“What we’re facing is bigger than some midterm,” Erik said, his finger pointing down hard onto the table.

“I’m sure it is, but I’ve worked very hard to get where I am, I don’t think I want to throw it away for some random proposal to be in a circus of...freaks,” you spat, angry. They were just discrediting everything you’d worked hard for. Maybe it was because they were men, they didn’t get it, they didn’t get how difficult it was for a woman to get where you were.

“Y/N, please, hear us out,” Charles pleaded for a moment. “We want you with us. And mutants aren’t freaks, you’ve only been told that because of what your parents did to you,” Charles spouted quickly.

You narrowed your eyes on him.

“You think that you know because they cast me out that you know me? Or understand me?” you accused, getting angrier.

“He does,” Erik defended quickly. “He helped me. I was going to die, and Charles jumped into freezing waters to save me because I was blinded by rage.”

“Please...let us help you. We can help you learn to control your mind, your powers,” Charles informed. “You and I both know you want this. If you’re really worried about the scholarship, I’ll reimburse you,” he stated sincerely.

You pulled back from him as your eyes scanned him, wondering if he meant it.

“I mean it,” he reinforced, his eyes never once leaving yours. “But I really want you on this team. I really need to get to know you…So will you please help us?” he requested again.

After a moment, you nodded. “Okay, but I want a guarantee I can return to schooling.”

“I’ll write it with my blood if need be,” Charles promised, holding his hands up with a gentle face. You wanted to trust him, desperately. And they were mutants, like you, they weren’t like humans who would turn on you.

“So...what are we up against?” you tentatively asked, the butterflies still raging within, with these two super models sitting here gazing at you. But as soon as you asked the question, flashes of painful memories flickered in your mind. Your face whipped to Erik’s. “You poor man,” you gently said as your hand went to his cheek in an attempt to comfort what he just saw. His face contorted into confusion for a brief moment. “Shaw...What he did to you...Oh my gosh…” You shook your head. “I’m so sorry,” you apologized quickly. “I can’t control it, I just hear and see the things you think. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy…”

Erik shook his head. “That’s alright,” he assured, a soft smile coming to his handsome face. “So now you know what we’re up against. You can trust us.”

You nodded slowly. “So when do we leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready,” Charles answered, that delicate light glowing in his eyes as he stared at you.

“Okay, um, give me an hour to see if I can close out of my semester, grab a bag, and we’ll go,” you informed.

“We’ll be waiting by the car outside your dorm,” Charles said as the three of you stood.

You nodded. “Okay. Thank you again,” you emphatically said as you stepped forward and hugged Charles again, relishing in the feeling of his arms around you. He felt like home. He felt right. Everything about him made you want to trust him. You let go and walked over to Erik to hug him. He seemed to be shocked at first but recovered himself and wrapped his arms around you. “Both of you,” you stressed, your eyes meeting Erik’s, trying to ignore how being this close to him made you feel.

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

You took care of withdrawing from school, packed a suitcase of your small bit of belongings and met them out front of the dorms. Erik was leaning against the car while Charles spoke to him, before they both looked up to see who was approaching them.

“Ready to go?” Charles asked with a beaming smile that made your breathing stutter.

“Uh...yes,” you said, trying to keep some form of composure around them.

“Here, let me take that,” Charles offered before taking your suitcase to the trunk.

“Allow me,” Erik sweetly said before opening the door and gesturing for you to get inside.

“Thank you very much.”

You slid into the back seat, nervous and giddy for this new chapter in your life. Praying you made the right choice, you tried to relax as Charles got behind the wheel and began driving to your new future.

[wrino]

interstellar border control

Hi, anon! I’m sorry this is so late and if this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you requested that prompt; I had a lot on my plate this week and I rarely had enough time to write/browse tumblr. I did, however, really enjoy writing this, so I made time for it (though in hindsight I probably should have just studied lol). Plus, although I originally meant to write a long drabble, this ended up being an actual full-length oneshot (that you can read on ao3 here). Thank you for the request <3

Oh, and I might have gone a little overboard with the worldbuilding for this. There’s a glossary of terms at the end for if you get lost.

Kei stares at the tiny yellow spaceship from the control room window. He makes out a few details, like the green Kando flag on the roof and the heavily-tinted windows, but not much else. The ship floats, suspended in space, like some sort of cosmic yellow teki on the black sands of Gamuro.

“Carriage Alfa-15328, you are approaching Yooru territory. Please state your party number and party leader’s name, affiliation, and intention,” he drones into the microphone.

“Yamaguchi Tadashi, uh, traveling alone. Kando affiliation. Kuroo sent me to repair the nucleonic plasma splitter? Clearance code 3648,” the ship replies, voice echoing in the chamber through the station’s speakers. Kei verifies the numbers with the ones scribbled on his palm.

“Oh. Right. Come in.”

The ship slowly nears as the runway extends toward it. Yellow expands in Kei’s vision until the shape is as large as the palm he holds up to shield his eyes from the decidedly bright hue, and Alfa-15328 finally lands on the dock with a loud thud. Kei winces.

He didn’t think it was possible, but Yamaguchi’s bulky neon orange spacesuit and fluorescent pink toolbox shine even brighter than his garish vehicle. Light bounces off his tinted helmet as he walks toward the station. Kei looks around at his monochrome chamber and imagines the orange leaning against the black walls, the pink sitting by the gray nutriment conserver, the orange sleeping on his white too-short bed. It gives him a headache.

A sharp ring alerts him of Yamaguchi’s arrival at the door. The overhead monitor shows Kei a bright orange fishbowl peeking curiously at the security camera, so he presses a green button on his left. 

He’s still staring at the monitor when he hears a swish behind him. Heavy steps thump against the floor; Kei turns around when he counts three.

“Tsukishima Kei?”

“Hey,” Kei nods.

“Hi.”

Yamaguchi presses a button on his wrist, and Kei finds himself staring back at warm brown pools when they had just been an abyss of black space seconds before.

“Ah, you don’t need that,” Kei realizes out loud.

“Huh?” Yamaguchi’s voice is muffled by the spacesuit. His words scratch and thrash against the helmet’s material.

Kei taps his own temple twice. “The atmospheric conditions on this station are set to Yooru’s, and conditions on Yooru and Kando are pretty similar. Kuroo never wears a helmet when he goes here.”

Yamaguchi just gawks at him, or at least that’s what Kei assumes by the way his eyes widen. Kei can’t see his eyebrows, but he imagines Yamaguchi raising one anyway.

He sighs. “What could I possibly gain from tricking you into suffocating?”

“Money?”

Kei rolls his eyes. “I wish. Take off the helmet, Yamaguchi.”

Yamaguchi laughs, doesn’t stop laughing until his helmet’s off, and Kei hears it unrestrained. Without the obstruction, Yamaguchi’s voice is gentle and mellifluous. He places the helmet delicately on the floor.

When Yamaguchi looks up, Kei hopes the gasp he hears from himself is absolutely internal.

Yamaguchi has entire galaxies on his cheeks, on his nose, the tips of his ears. The spots on his face glow against his tan skin in soft old, completely unlike the noisy yellow parked outside the station. Kei’s grayscale room is suddenly bathed in the color. This random mechanic is a star and Kei’s own artifacts are the revolving planets in its solar system.

He wants to ask how Yamaguchi handles the light when all Kei himself has known is dark, murky Yooru and the tenebrific expanse of empty space. He wants to ask if Yamaguchi illuminates every room he enters. He wants to ask if the spots emit heat as they do light, if Yamaguchi’s skin feels thousands upon thousands of pinpricks of fire. If Kei runs his thumb across Yamaguchi’s cheek, will he burn?

“Wow. You’re really tall.”

And the moment is over. Kei blinks twelve times in rapid succession, sees gold-black-gold-black behind his eyelids every split second. He struggles to take back his breath. Does Yamaguchi not notice the room’s brand new decorations?

“Right,” Kei croaks. “The splitter is over there, right behind that panel.” Yamaguchi nods. He walks toward the wall Kei points to and kneels so he faces the only patch of gray on black walls. He procures a screwdriver – an average silver, Kei is more than glad to note – and works to release the panel until it clangs to the floor. The angry sound almost drowns out Yamaguchi’s gasp.

“What? Is it that bad?” Kei’s mind immediately goes to exploding space stations and his long, limp body, forever suspended just beyond his home planet’s atmosphere.

“No, no,” Yamaguchi laughs, waving away Kei’s panic with each lilt. Every bounce of his shoulders makes the gold dance across the walls. “It’s just… this is a really nice model. Do you know who does Materials Procurement for your station?”

“Shouldn’t you know? You work for the company that made it.”

“Ah, I’m just an intern. I’m training to be an aerospace engineer, so I have a background in cisthoron machinery. So…” Yamaguchi trails off, gesturing vaguely to himself and at the plasma splitter: a thin glass cylinder wedged shallowly in the wall.

He takes a flashlight from the toolbox. Kei furrows a brow at that. He considers asking him why he doesn’t just shove his head in the wall and light the work area with the dots on his face, but restrains himself when Yamaguchi flicks the flashlight on. Kei kneels down beside him.

“That’s definitely a fracture. Just a hairline one, though,” Yamaguchi whispers, as if scared his own voice will completely shatter the very thing he’s trying to repair. He points at a thin blue line on the glass that Kei has to inch closer to see.

“Um. Cool?” He whispers back, warming at their proximity. When had they gotten so close?

“Cool,” Yamaguchi affirms, breath hot against Kei’s face before he pulls away. “We won’t have to totally change it.”

Kei loses track of how many things Yamaguchi pulls out of his toolbox then. Haphazardly spread out in front of them are four different-sized wrenches, two gluckans, an assortment of nuts and bolts, and other tools Kei only mildly recognizes from Kuroo’s routine trips – Kando instruments.

“Why do you need all that for a hairline fracture?”

“Well, cisthoron materials are a lot more complicated than typical Earthen or hassium-based particles,” Yamaguchi starts, sharpening the larger gluckan as he speaks. “With this particular splitter, for example, it would be much better for you long-term to engage the uranium-rutherfordium links embedded in the glass’s lattice to accelerate the self-healing process, but to do that you’d have to, um, re-polarize the multiphasic generator – that’s the tiny cloud thing in the middle – or else attempting anything else with the splitter is pretty moot.” Kei stares at him.

“What, you thought I was just going to glue the break shut?”

Yamaguchi smiles up at him, like he knows Kei thought exactly that. He beams brighter than the glow on his cheeks.

More yellow takes over the room when Yamaguchi takes the gloves off his spacesuit. The spots on his knuckle almost twinkle as Yamaguchi takes the gluckan he’d been sharpening and lightly traces a square on the plasma splitter. The square turns blue, and the area inside it evaporates into thin air. Gas oozes out of the cylinder through the hole.

When Kuroo comes over, Kei naps or reads a book as he pretends to listen to the mechanic rant endlessly about work or fawn over his boyfriend. But Kei watches Yamaguchi work until he finishes, and until the blue light of Yooru’s third moon looms over the station and douses them in blue. Yamaguchi’s spots take on a green tinge.

“Okay. I’m done, Tsukki.”

He stares at the greenish dot on the tip of Yamaguchi’s ear. If Kei moves the slightest bit to the left, the blue from the window is blocked and it becomes yellow again. He forgets to respond.

“Er, I can call you Tsukki, right? Tsukishima is too long, and Kuroo said –“

“I don’t mind,” he cuts him off. He doesn’t. Yamaguchi says the two syllables simply but secretly, like his most favorite song, like a symphony he wants to keep to himself forever.

Kei’s head spins remembering the melody. He really doesn’t mind.

“Everything checks out. The transdimensional conduit’s giving off a weird ‘I’m broken’ vibe, though,” Kuroo says from the bottom bunker, exactly thirty-one cycles since Kei’s splitter was fixed.

Kei himself sits cross-legged near the bunker’s overhead entrance, peering down at Kuroo after every chapter he finishes of the book open in front of him. “There’s no such thing as a transdimensional conduit.”

“Gotcha. Well, almost.”

Yooru’s third moon peeks into the station’s window. Kei’s reminded of gold-sometimes-green spots. If Yooru’s second moon had greeted Yamaguchi instead, would the dots be orange?

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Is it about Yamaguchi?”

Kei drops his book, heart thundering wildly in his chest. He looks down at Kuroo through the bunker’s entrance. “Excuse me?”

“Routine activity check,” Kuroo explains, screwing a panel shut. “Oikawa told me to examine your browser for ‘suspicious activity’. He was laughing, so I expected porn, but the hundred thousand Yamaguchi Tadashi, Kando, glow spots – you don’t have freckles on Yooru? – Wimble searches were pretty funny as well.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’d give you his number, but his internship ended about ten cycles ago. He’s an engineer at Metsua now.”

Kei blinks at that, almost too embarrassed to be properly impressed. Metsua was the pinnacle of aerospace engineering. Only the richest had Metsua hovers, could afford transport with Metsua spaceships, could buy Metsua anything. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow. Too bad, too. We haven’t really found anyone else with cisthoric experience.”

No Yamaguchi ever again, then. Kei deflates. A pit the size of an ueshi finds a home in his heart. It cuts off his circulation, sends his insides into a frenzy he doesn’t understand and leaves his limbs limp and cold.

Kuroo somehow notices. “If it makes you feel any better, he has the biggest crush on you, too. Wouldn’t shut up about how cool you are and how nice the station smelled. You know he calls you Tsukki? It’s cute.”

The pit in his chest buries itself deeper.

“And no. I don’t know why his freckles glow.”

It is incredibly hard to fracture a nucleonic plasma splitter.

Kei realizes just that when he wipes the sweat off his face for the twelfth time that cycle. An array of sharp, heavy, and sharp and heavy tools lay in between him and the splitter, some marked with red chalk. Those marked lie to his left in a messy pile of metal and condensed plasma, while the only three left unmarked lie to his right in a neat line. A multi-spacial theraknife, a silver nanoparticle abrasant, and a stainless steel nail clipper – just to cover all his bases.

He picks up the theraknife and waves it slowly near the cylinder. Nothing happens. He rubs the abrasant against the glass. Nothing happens either, but the rubbing does make a squeaky grating sound that grinds on his ears. The fracture has to be noticeable, but not big enough that it looks intentional. It shouldn’t be either too near or too far from where the last crack was. The splitter shouldn’t actually break, lest Kei’s station explode with him in it.

It is decidedly difficult to even scratch a nucleonic plasma splitter, but Kei is determined, if only to see Yamaguchi again.

Kei picks up the nail clipper and taps the side of the splitter. There, at the very corner of the cylinder, appears a slight crack.

He runs to the control panel. His legs move faster than his brain can interpret his actions, and he calls Kuroo without thinking.

“Tsukishima? It’s late.”

“Hey. My splitter is fractured again.”

There’s shuffling on the other line. “What? Again? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Kei replies, voice thick with fatigue. How long has he been awake?

A pause.

“Nucleonic plasma splitters are durable as fuck,” Kuroo says, finally.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Did you break your splitter so we’d have to bring in Yamaguchi? From another company, in another planet, four hundred light-years away?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Kei replies, slowly.

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Oh. Then yes.”

Kuroo groans, and Kei can only imagine the slapping sound he hears as an exasperated facepalm.

“Fuck you, Tsukishima.”

Kei hums. “So you can get it fixed?”

“If you don’t kiss him, I’ll kill you.”

Kei can’t say he doesn’t remember why he took this job. Being a Gatekeeper is thankless, but it pays glamorously – certainly much more than any work he could have done back on land. He’s almost never busy, given the fact that his side of Yooru is hardly a tourist spot, unlike the opposite side where Hinata is stationed. As a result, the only carriages he’s ever had to deal with so far were delivery ships, locals, and, of course, Kuroo. He passes the time by reading electronic books and using his exceptional Uninet connection to find obscure music from different planets.

His station’s only big enough for one person, though. Kei doesn’t ever regret being a Gatekeeper, but he’s a lot lonelier than he would ever care to admit.

“Can you pass me the pa – um, the green knife thing,” Yamaguchi says, holding out one hand while the other tinkered with the splitter.

“The paduin. I’ve seen Kuroo use it.” Kei sets the tool on Yamaguchi’s outstretched hand. Yamaguchi hums back at him.

Kei’s room is alight again, sixty cycles after it was last. His usually bland furniture seem as happy as Kei; gold kisses them over and over, even more so than last time.

“You know, splitter fractures are pretty uncommon. Like, really uncommon, actually. I know someone who’s kept his splitter perfect for years, and it wasn’t nearly as nice as this one, Tsukki.”

“Um,” is the only thing Kei can reply, lightheaded after hearing the nickname again.

“There. Done.” Yamaguchi wipes his hands on his suit before moving to put away his things. Kei helps him without beng asked to, picking up a bolt that had rolled away from them. It makes a clanging sound when he drops it in Yamaguchi’s toolbox.

They stand. Yamaguchi hesitates before walking towards the helmet on the corner table.

“Wait,” Kei says, before he can stop himself. Yamaguchi whips around to face him. “Wait.”

“Yeah?” Yamaguchi’s voice squeaks, and it is in it that Kei hears his own hope mirrored.

“Why do your spot – freckles, I mean – glow?”

“Oh, um,” Yamaguchi stammers, hands flying to his cheeks, as if he can hide them under his fingers. “Kando thing.”

Kei raises an eyebrow. “Kando thing?”

“People of pure Kando lineage usually have at least one spot on their body. Kuroo doesn’t have one because he’s half Vol, I think. But my friend Suga has one by his eye, and my mother has some on her cheeks. Not as much as me though,” he laughs softly. “I have them everywhere.”

Kei nods. He wants to ask so much more, but he’s deathly afraid he’ll never stop if he starts, like a dam will break and his confessions will come in tsunamis if he so much as makes a noise. Still, he wants to give Yamaguchi words he can keep in his pocket, even if they’re to be forgotten later, buried under the praise of more significant individuals.

“I think they’re interesting,” Kei says finally, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat.

“You can touch them,” Yamaguchi replies, almost immediately. And then, as though he catches himself: “I mean, only if you want to!”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” Yamaguchi gently takes Kei’s hands and guides them slowly toward his face, settling them on his cheeks. He keeps his hands over Kei’s as the latter runs his thumb across tan and gold – and red, because Yamaguchi’s blush is nothing less than violent.

It’s warm. The freckles themselves don’t emit any kind of heat, but Yamaguchi’s cheeks are on fire. Kei prefers it, especially because his own face feels just as warm.

“I broke the splitter,” Kei whispers. He doesn’t dare put away his hands. Neither does Yamaguchi.

“What? Why?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

Kei’s rarely ever this candid, but Yamaguchi’s flush encourages him. He keeps his eyes on Yamaguchi’s widened ones.

“I’ve thought about you every cycle since I met you.” He feels Yamaguchi suck in a breath, feels his head bob slightly up and down as he struggles to breathe.

“Is that… is that weird?” Kei asks, slight panic edging into his tone.

“No. No, no, no,” Yamaguchi shakes his head so vigorously the flashing gold makes Kei dizzy. “Not weird. Me, too, Tsukki. Me, too.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Great,” Yamaguchi beams. He squeezes the hands still on his cheeks.

Kei smiles back. The tips of his mouth reach out to find the last ounce of courage he has.

“So,” he starts.

“Kuroo said he’d kill me if I didn’t kiss you.”

GLOSSARY (in alphabetical order)

Alfa-15328 - the name of Yamaguchi’s ship. I made them use a variation of the NATO phonetic alphabet, so the ship’s name is actually A-15328.

carriage - more common term for “vehicle”

cisthoron - class of materials

cycle - an Earthen day

Kando - Kuroo and Yamaguchi’s home planet. It’s the most similar to Earth in terms of general content, but it has a lot less water and the colors are all different. Also what you call people from Kando.

Gamuro - a desert planet

gluckan - a common tool

Metsua - one of the biggest aerospace companies in the universe. Imagine SpaceX but in the future and actually in space. It’s on the planet Raghu.

multi-spacial theraknife - a common tool on Yooru. Basically like a swiss army knife but with more deadly lasers.

nucleonic plasma splitter - a component of most space vehicles. I don’t know what it does, but Yamaguchi probably does.

nutriment conserver - a refrigerator

paduin - a common tool on Kando

silver nanoparticle abrasant - like steel wool but with silver

teki - endemic to Gamuro, an insect that is as small as an Earthen ant (hence the simile)

transdimensional conduit - fictional thing Kuroo made up to fuck with Tsukki

ueshi - endemic to Yooru, an animal the size of an Earthen elephant (again, hence the simile)

Uninet - the Internet but in space

Vol - what you call people from Voluri

Wimble - Google but for space people

Yooru - Tsukishima’s home planet. It’s kind of dark and swamp-y and ugly. Sorry Tsukki.

[soy-em]

Wincest Writing Challenge: Not Forgotten

Written for @wincestwritingchallenge Round 9: Summer

Prompt: waterballoons

Pairing: Wincest (gen)

Partner: @erza155hasleftthebuilding

Rating: Teen

Tags/warnings: PTSD, including flashbacks/panic attacks

Summary: Sam didn’t like water any more

On A03

Beta: thanks, @nisaki-chan!

Note: Thanks to the mods for letting me post a second prompt, much appreciated!

There are kids playing outside the motel, despite the late hour. They’re shouting and laughing, having a great time, and it takes Dean back to days when he and Sam had been so carefree; alone and irresponsible in a motel forecourt with nothing else to worry about other than having fun. Those days had been few and far between, to be honest; particularly for Dean, who’d often spent them worrying about Sam; how he was going to feed Sam, whether the school was going to pick up on the fact that he and Sam were alone, worrying about how he was going to clothe Sam, and above everything else always worrying about whether their Dad was safe.

Those days are long gone now, of course; he feeds and clothes Sam through hustling pool, illicit poker games and credit card fraud, which is all much more under his control. He worries about Sam in other ways, of course, but usually if Sam is in danger Dean is just in front of him, literally shielding his little brother with his body.

That hadn’t been true recently. Sam had been taken from him, stolen by a bitch with a bad accent, and Dean hasn’t quite gotten over the shock of losing him or the joy of getting him back. Sam still hasn’t talked about what really happened in that basement, and from experience, Dean knows he probably won’t unless there’s a very specific reason to do so. Nevertheless, Dean has picked up on tiny things; the way Sam doesn’t seem to like the rain now, the way he flinches away from heat, the fact that he always asks Dean to light the matches when they burn bodies, the fact that his showers are as short he can make them. Dean might not be well educated or as smart as Sam, but he can put two and two together well enough to draw some pretty clear indicators that the answer is four.

Compulsively, he looks away from where he is cleaning his guns to check on Sam, but his brother is just where he left him; at the table in the corner, hunched over his laptop as usual. Dean’s chest relaxes and he goes back to listening to the kids outside with half his brain; reminiscing internally about summers with Sammy.

***

The kids are there again when they get back to the motel the next day. Their investigations have been a bust, and they’re leaning towards there being no monster in this town, just a ridiculous run of bad luck. Time to move on.

Dean notes, idly, that the kids seem to be shrieking at an even higher intensity than they were the previous evening; in the back of his brain he catalogues that it’s either going to be a long night in the room or that it might be one where he tries to convince Sam to head out to a bar until after little-kid bedtime.

What he doesn’t really clock is why the screaming is so intense, at least not until something splashes wet against him. Water balloons, he thinks with a grin, ready to turn around and give the kids hell for assaulting a Federal Agent, did you know that I could take you downtown for this? because there is something just so satisfying about lightly tormenting children sometimes. But that plan all goes to hell when the next water balloon hits Sam on the back of the head.

He can’t describe it, exactly, but it’s like Sam shuts down as the water cascades down over his face. His body stiffens imperceptibly, only visible to Dean because he’s watched his little brother like a hawk for so many years. Sam fumbles with the room key, fingers turned to jelly, and he slams at the door once, frustrated.

Dean doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but he knows its something. He moves forwards, quickly, until he’s pressed against Sam’s back and wraps his hand around his brother’s. Where he’d thought they were trembling, Sam’s fingers are actually locked in position, reflecting the tension radiating through his body. After a couple of seconds of fumbling, Dean’s able to get the door open and they almost tumble through, because Sam’s reactions are all off.

Before he can do anything other than save himself from ending up flat on his face, Sam has moved across the room, putting himself in the corner that’s furthest from both the door to the bathroom and the main entrance. He sinks to the floor and buries his head in his hands, first; but then starts to brush his hands through his hair, scrubbing wildly at his wet curls. His movements are frantic, and it’s obvious he’s not fully aware of what he’s doing.

Dean moves fast then. He might not know what’s going on but Sam is in distress and a distressed Sam is Dean’s responsibility. He’s on his knees in front of Sam within seconds, reaching up to try and gently slow his brother’s hands. Sam won’t be stopped, though; he’s almost pulling his hair out with his intensity.

“Sammy,” Dean says softly. “Sammy.” He ducks his head down, trying to make eye contact, but Sam’s got his eyes screwed closed. Unsure what to do for the best, Dean pulls Sam close against him, wrapping one arm tightly around Sam and trying to use the other to slow the movements of his brother’s hands.

“Breathe with me, Sam,” he says softly, instinctively, because Sam’s chest is heaving. It doesn’t work; Sam is clearly becoming more upset and starting to fight against Dean’s hold.

Belatedly, Dean realises that he should try a different tactic. Grabbing Sam’s left hand, he presses his thumb to the scar there, hard.

Sam’s eyes fly open, and lock on Dean’s. “There you are, Sammy. Look at me, just keep looking at me,” he says low and intent. Sam’s eyelids flutter for a moment, but then he focuses on Dean. “Breathe with me, Sammy,” Dean repeats. “In, out. In, out.”

Sam’s hand closes around Dean’s thumb, tight enough to cut off the circulation, but Dean doesn’t flinch. “In, out, Sammy.”

It takes a while, but Sam’s breathing finally syncs with his own. Sam’s muscles start to relax, and his body melts into Dean’s. Eventually, Sam breaks eye contact and burrows his face into the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. He inhales, audibly, back shaking; and then Dean feels the scald of hot tears soaking through his t-shirt.

Making sure to keep hold of Sam, he shifts himself from his knees, which are going to give him hell for this in the morning, and onto his ass, legs spread wide. He manhandles Sam a little until Sam is curled up against Dean’s chest, the way they always used to sit as kids. Sam’s still hiding his face, and still clutching Dean’s thumb; so Dean strokes his other hand up and down Sam’s back soothingly. He’d normally wind his hand into Sam’s hair and pet his little brother until he calmed if something like this happened, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good idea right now.

“Wanna talk about what that was, Sammy,” he asks after a while, hand still smoothing across Sam’s back.

Sam shakes his head as vehemently as he can against Dean’s shoulders. Dean sighs.

“Ok Sammy, not just right now,” he says. “But we’ll have to talk about why you don’t like water any more at some point soon, ok?”

Sam’s head jerks up, eyes wide and question obvious.

“I know you, little brother. I can tell when something’s bothering you, even if I don’t know what it is.”

Sam’s eyes flicker down, and he goes back to where he was, one hand fisted in Dean’s t-shirt and the other tight around Dean’s thumb.

Dean leans back against the wall and settles in to wait until Sam is ready to let go.

[queenofchildren]

I asked for prompts for Bellarke minifics and you lovely people delivered, so this is the first one: @lillebee suggested “ Maybe Clarkes reaction to Bellamy in the hazmat suit? (Of course he didn't tell her beforehand and he takes waaay longer than he should?)” and I took most of that prompt and turned it into this, whatever this is.

Clarke hates the hazmat suits they've brought from Mount Weather with a passion.

She hates having to wear one of them, because they're heavy and itchy and she's plastered in sweat within seconds of wearing them. She hates how they've come to signify death, because every time someone needs to put one on, it means a lot more people are probably dead somewhere, or about to die from poisoned rain. She hates that they need them in the first place, that this is the reality of the planet they've all dreamed of for so long.

But most of all, she hates when it's Bellamy putting one of them on. Hates that it happens too often, that he does it to go on dangerous mission as well as do things someone else could do just as well. She hates that, every time he puts on one of the olive-green atrocities, her heart slows down until her hands go cold and numb, and she knows the next few hours are going to be torture, wasted time spent pacing up and down and trying to be useful and failing to concentrate on any little thing.

And today, those hours have stretched on longer than they should.

8 hours, that's how much oxygen is in the tanks attached to the suits. They're not supposed to use more than 7, Raven has advised, to have a safety cushion in case something goes wrong or the suit starts to leak.

Bellamy is at 7 hours and 45 minutes and Clarke is losing her mind when the hangar door finally opens to reveal his hazmat-suited form.

Her pacing had just brought her to the far end of the hangar, and Clarke sets off towards the door at a run, only stopping herself from barrelling straight into Bellamy at the last second, whether to hug him or start pummelling him she's not sure herself.

She grabs the hose near the door and starts dosing him down, standing close enough for the jet of water to hurt when it hits him and not caring one bit. Once she's sure she got all the acidic rain off him, she yanks off his helmet, ignoring the few tiny leftover droplets of watered-down acid that still cling to it and burn into her hands when she fumbles with the clasp of the helmet.

Then Bellamy's confused face becomes clearly visible, and Clarke starts yelling.

“What the hell were you thinking staying out this long?“

“I got a little lost, and just when I was about to turn back, I heard people calling out.” He seems unfazed by her anger, or at least he tries to look like it as he calmly pulls off the suit’s gloves. “Their shelter was about to give out, and I managed to stabilize it to make sure they can wait out the rain under it.”

“You almost used up all your air.” Clarke manages to get her voice somewhat under control so she sounds a little less shrill, but when she starts working the multitude of clasps and zippers keeping the suit closed tight, her hands are shaking. 

“The readings weren’t that high today, I didn’t even need to use the oxygen, just the air filter. So it wouldn't have mattered how long I stayed.”

Clarke drops her hands to stare at him, incredulous at his answer. Of course, it should have occurred to her that the 8 hour time limit is only really relevant when it gets so bad out there that they need the extra oxygen - which, clearly, it wasn’t today. But returning before the 8 hours are up has become an unspoken rule that everyone adheres to - everone except for Bellamy, it seems. 

“It wouldn't have mattered?” she asks, voice breaking, but Bellamy either doesn't understand the problem or he's too focused on stepping out of the suit and hanging it up on its hook next to the door, leaving him in nothing but his boots, boxers, and a sweat-stained shirt which he promptly whips off. They've all gotten used to seeing people in their underwear as they change in and out of the suits in a hurry, and Clarke is much too agitated to take the opportunity to sneak a glance, the way she's sometimes on these occasions allowed herself to do.

Not now, however. Now, there's no room for such things. The only thing on her mind is the idea of Bellamy somewhere out there as his eight hours tick down, and her trapped in here with nothing but her fear.

“I would have thought you'd died!”

Her voice echoes in the empty hangar and this, finally, makes Bellamy freeze in his movements, the towel he's been drying himself off with hanging limply in his hands as he properly takes her in: hair dishevelled from running her hands through it, hands gesturing wildly, eyes red and puffy from forcing down tears she didn't want to shed, not while there was still a chance he'd return.

In the sudden silence, her voice seems to ring along the hangar's metal walls, the desperation in them palpable, her harsh breathing doing its part to drive home her point.

Bellamy's eyes widen, his mouth dropping open a little in surprise... and then his expression clears and she can see he finally understands what his absence has been doing to her. What it always does to her.

But just as surely as she knows he's understood, she knows it won't change a thing. Bellamy will always put everyone else's life before his own, and she will never not worry about losing him, and there's nothing to be done about it no matter how much she yells.

“Swing by the medbay for some iodine tablets later,” she says instead, voice calm and matter-of-fact, then turns and walks away. She's going to spend the next hours forgetting that it's possible to feel like this, and then she'll be right as rain – until the next time Bellamy puts on that damned suit and goes out again.