#THE FACT THAT YOU ALLOW DUSTY MEN IN YOUR LIFE IS HUMILIATING

[sosuigeneris]

why is being feminine seen as catering to patriarchy?

I enjoy putting on my make up, heels, I like looking good, I enjoy traditionally “feminine activities” like baking and cooking, I love a good gossip session with my girls, I’m empathetic and warm when I want to be, I can be very nurturing if I choose to be, I want kids someday and I want to be married. I can do all these things and still work my ass off in my business, close massive deals, be invited to speak for interviews, and conferences, be perceived as a leader without emulating alpha male behaviour.

By saying that doing feminine things caters to the male gaze and patriarchy, you’re putting women down. You’re inherently stating that being masculine is “correct” and “cool” and enjoying being feminine is “weak” and “vulnerable.”

oooooh buT YoUre doInG aLL tHiS fOr a MaN-

and even if I did, sometimes, do those things because I like a boy - what’s the issue?? If I’m invited on a date and I like him, and I want to look great, what’s the ISSUE? If he’s going to show up dressed well and groomed to look good for me, why won’t I? And if you’re going to choose to go out with a man who is an absolute dusty rat that doesn’t care about his appearance and hygiene, sorry but that’s on YOU. The first date might be a human error of judgement which happens, but going on a second date with said rat is unforgivable.

“meN aRe NeVeR subJecTed to tHesE stAndarDs”

by YOU. I sure hold men by the same standards that I hold myself. My standards are high. Just the way I hold myself to a certain standard, I hold men to the same. I’m not going to muck around with a guy who clearly does not meet my expectations. I’ve told off men for bad breath, bad manners, I ensure that my brothers and my closest guy friends are always looking good when needed, and I tell them when they do and don’t. I surround myself with good male friends I know I’d be ecstatic to marry my sister off to. Don’t pretend like your shitty low standards and mine are the same.

I don’t believe in blame game and low standards and it shows.

You guys really need to understand that it is alright to be multifaceted. Just because I enjoy baking doesn’t mean that I don’t like adventure sports, just because I enjoy doing my self care and meditation doesn’t mean I don’t understand politics and history and “Big Boy Subjects.” I may not enjoy F1 and sports but there are girls out there who do, and they also enjoy wearing dresses.

stop the unnecessary labelling and categorisation of people.

[writingwitchly]

Sunrise

Hey! ;-) I have a request. could you write a oneshot with young sirius black where his gf like gets poisoned and then faints and sirius catches her but then her life is in danger and she might not survive and sirius worries like crazy. thanks!xx ~ an Anon who gave me some quite hard work

Pairing: Sirius Black x fem!reader Word count: 2,2k  Warning: FREAKIN BLACK FAMILY / poisoning / bullying / dark thoughts / sadness / a much needed hApPiE eNdInG A/N: Ok, let’s be honest. At first, I didn’t know how to write this, I didn’t get ideas for the request, but then it just clicked in my mind and it’s such a relief to share with you the extremely odious and shallow creatures that the Blacks are in my head (Andy, Reg, and Pads deserved so much better, imma cry). Also shiiite, but this got me exhausted, wrote the final part listening to Halo, by Queen B, and it definitely gave me the feelzzz. ’m also kinda proud of how it turned out? Thanks for the request, Anon, feel free to send more in. Enjoy.

“I am sorry I brought you here.”

Yeah. He can be.

The cold air seeps through your pores, and tears have formed two little streams on your cheeks. You wipe them with one of the sleeves of your cardigan, the one you had bought especially for today.

“Y/N.”

Sirius grabs your elbow and forces you to a halt. His eyes are so full of regret that you almost feel ashamed for crying. Almost.

“I-” But the words die in his mouth.

They are replaced by anger, an ugly anger that hardens your boyfriend’s facial traits. What you just suffered in the house of Orion and Walburga Back bears no name, and deserves no justification.

Two weeks ago, when they heard about their elder son’s girlfriend, Sirius’ parents immediately wrote him a letter. Your boyfriend was quite happy: his family was showing a hint of interest in him for the first time in long years. He was diffident, of course, but even if they are the most horrible people on Earth, they still remain his family. He is proud of you, and thought they would be too.

Like the naive girl that you are, you let Sirius convince you. Maybe it would somehow calm Walburga to meet her future daughter-in-law, you thought. As if this woman was capable of motherly love, or feminine complicity.

When you arrived at the Black manor earlier this evening, a strange weight appeared in your belly at the sight of the abandoned garden and dusty entrance. You told yourself it would disappear soon, believing it was just hunger, but the sensation became heavier when an unhealthy-looking house-elf opened the door, bowing his sad, grayish head until it touched the floor.

Inside, the whole Black clan was waiting for you, superiority and derision already displayed on their faces. The women were sitting in their extravagant dresses, listening to the political discussion that the men were emphasizing by moving their richly jeweled hands in the air. The atmosphere, already full of untold reproaches and hypocrisy, was worsened by the undulating column of smoke that the expensive cigars released in the room.

Sirius was standing next to you as you observed his family members. Even if he looked disgusted by their behavior, you had to admit that, with his immaculate clothes, his perfect hair, and sophisticated features, he fitted well in the picture. A very unpleasant picture of extreme wealth. One to which you do not belong.

As soon as you stepped in, the humiliation started. ‘Her skin looks like a troll’s,’ ‘The load of rags she wears doesn’t even deserve to be called a dress,’ ‘What do you reckon happened to her hair?’ are some of the whispers that filled the place. Almost every present host criticized you blatantly, ignoring the fact that you were standing right in the middle of them all. You felt your boyfriend boiling with rage next to you, but calmed him down with looks of patience and resignation.

Everybody got more bearable when the news that you are pureblood sank in. ‘At least she’s not total garbage,’ laughed Walburga. She even offered you a drink.

Wanting to make a good impression, you lowered your guard, throwing shy smiles here and there, and placing some words in the conversations. You really wanted to help Sirius. You thought things could get better, but their masquerade didn’t last long.

The word ‘mother’ slipped from your tongue, addressing Walburga.

An icy veil fell on the house. All eyes were on you. Sirius’ mother raised from her armchair, and told you to leave. As you didn’t react, she screamed at you. She claimed that she would never allow somebody like you to call her ‘mother’.

Like an automate, you stood up, and your legs carried you toward the door. Behind you, screams and laughter echoed in the living room. You heard Sirius yell something, gasps, the muffled sound of a fist on a jaw, several more hits, and the door closed behind you.

Seconds later, the door slammed again, this time with such an intensity that it could have brought the whole house down. Sirius’ steps joined yours, and you exited the neglected garden in a mutual hurt silence, his nose dripping blood and the sinking feeling in your stomach a million times worse.

“Let’s- Let’s just move over this, okay?”

Your whisper costs you a big effort, because your tongue feels incredibly dry, but it softens the young man’s expression.

“It’s not your fault,” you try to comfort him, hating the thought that he is feeling guilty about the whole story. “It didn’t go that bad.”

Your eyes have a hard time focusing on him. The stress must have gotten to your nerves.

“Of course it didn’t.” His voice is as tense as a violin’s strings. “My whole family just showed how odious they are by being total jerks to the woman I love, my mother threw you out of the house, and I punched and got punched by my father. Funny, isn’t it?”

He furiously wipes his mouth, wet with blood.

With a flick of your wand, you attempt to fix his injury. Your mind is racing to find something to say, because Sirius just entered a vicious cycle of blaming himself for having the worst family ever.

“What I’m saying, love, is that it could have been worse,” you try to sound peaceful, but the pounding veins in your skull only allow you to frown. With a lame smile, you try to joke, “I mean, at least your mother didn’t poison me when she gave me that dri-”

A sharp pain in the ribs makes you buckle, but Sirius retains you before you can fall.

“Y/N? Are you okay? Y/N!”

He holds you to his chest, cupping your lolling head with one hand.

“Y/N! What’s happening?”

Suddenly, comprehension washes over his face.

“Y/N! What did she put in the drink? What color was it?”

Your legs are noodles. The world is spinning. Your mouth involuntarily forms a rictus.

“Y/N! For Merlin’s sake, answer!”

Why does he sound so desperate?

Don’t worry, Sirius, I’m fine here. Stop yelling. The world feels… cold… and empty. But… There are people. They say they are friends. Why can’t I see their faces? Oh, they are shadows.

Spare bits of sentences reach your brain in your semi unconsciousness.

“The drink-”

What drink?

They tell me to take their hands.

“Color-”

Oh yeah, that drink. I didn’t like it. It tasted sour.

But my friends, the shadows, they say I’ll be fine with them.

“Answer!”

Why is it so important? If it makes him happy, I can remember. It was… Like his hair. Like his family.

“B- black.”

As soon as the word leaves your mouth, the world becomes darkness.

Frantic pounding resonates in the hallway.

The very last thing that Filch expects to find as he opens the school’s doors on a calm Saturday night is one of his worst nightmares, covered in blood and bruises, holding in his arms an ill-looking body.

“You!” he shouts. “What are yo-”

But Sirius pushes him aside and hurriedly steps in, his face lightening as he recognizes the silhouette standing in a velvet red night robe behind the caretaker.

“Minnie!”

“Black,” the woman exclaims in return. “I’d rather have you to call me-”

Her eyes widen in shock as she notices you.

“For Godric’s sword, what happened to her?”

Without waiting for an answer, she levitates you from your boyfriend’s arms and they both stride toward the Hospital Wing.

“Black,” she shouts, not caring to wake up half the castle, “How did L/N-”

“Poisoned,” he bitterly admits.

No more words are said until they burst into the Hospital Wing.

“Poppy!” calls Professor McGonagall.

The next moments are of agitation and worry. Madam Pomfrey and her assistant examine thoroughly your skin, eyes, and mouth, while the Head of Gryffindor walks past the exit and runs toward the Headmaster’s office. Sirius is unable to do anything but staring at your inanimate face and biting his nails. With his free hand, he desperately grasps your hand as to keep you in this world.

“When did she take the poison?”

The healer’s voice is so high-pitched that she has to repeat her question before the young man can get the sense of it. As he answers, her expression becomes unreadable.

“Mr. Black, I must ask you to leave this room.” Her cold voice makes Sirius’ hair stand on end.

“What does it mean?” He presses her.

“It means that you need to leave, please. Now,” she answers.

But the boy doesn’t like the idea of it. He doesn’t like the fear in her eyes.

“I won’t! I’m staying with her!”

His voice is hurtful, but the nurse doesn’t change her mind.

Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, who just arrived in the room, have to force him outside.

As the massive wooden doors lock in front of him, Sirius lets out a cry of pain and frustration and kneels on the floor. It’s all his fault.

If anything happens to you, he will never forgive himself.

Hey, Sirius, look! It’s the same shadows! But they don’t sound as friendly anymore. Why are they laughing?

Oh… It’s not them. It’s your family. It’s the Blacks.

They’re laughing at me. And at you. And at Andy. And at Reg.

Why? What did you do to deserve this?

I thought they would accept me. I thought that in their heart there was a place for you. I thought that they didn’t mind Andy’s silence and different interests. I thought that they loved Regulus, because he does what they want.

But they’ll never accept me. There was a place for you in their heart, except it’s buried under bigotry and pride obsession. They don’t like Andy because she’s not as loud and hypocrite as them. They mock Regulus because he believes in making things better.

They are not laughing anymore, Sirius. They are grabbing my arms. And yours. They want to tear us apart.

Their fingers are icy.

Why can’t I see anymore? I want to open my eyes! I want to scream! I don’t want to leave you!

Sirius?

Where are you?

I need you.

Please stay with me.

I love you.

“I love you…”

Sirius’ words are barely audible, but it’s not like there is anyone to hear them. You can’t hear them.

Madam Pomfrey finally let him in, and he took a seat by your side.

His eyes travel from your strangely colored skin to your grayish hair. The healer said that you’re out of danger and will recover soon, but there still is a ball of concern blocking his throat.

A ray of light caresses his cheek. It’s sunrise, the time of the day you prefer. You always say that it is the best moment to start over. If only you were awake to witness it, to see the glint of light on the glass panels, to observe the clouds’ movement in the sky, to hear your voice saying his na-

His head jerks to face you.

“Y/N?” he whispers, afraid that louder sounds would break you into a million pieces.

He sighs. Was it his imagination?

“Sirius…”

No, it was not! Your lips moved! It feels so good! He grabs your hand and presses it to his lips.

As you feel his touch, warmness travels through your body, and you force yourself to open your eyes, just a little bit. Through the thin crack, his perfect smudged face and perfect tangled hair come into focus. Also his smile. His perfect bright smile. The one that got you. That made you fall in love.

“Sirius,” you breathe again.

His smile widens.

Yes, this is how he looks better. You want to see him smiling for the rest of your life. You want to make him smile for the rest of your life.

“I love you, Sirius.”

Your mouth feels dry, but it costs you nothing to say it. It’s so natural.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he fondly answers. “But now you should rest.”

The sunlight comes from behind him, and it shines like an aura around his body. Is it sunrise? It’s the time you prefer, the best moment to start over.

“What are we going to do, Sirius?”

You let your words sink in.

Now that you understood that you can easily lose each other, what are you going to do?

He is aware of your anxiety, because he shares it.

“We are going to love each other forever, Y/N. We’ll buy ourselves a house wherever you want, grow our children there, and live the happiest life ever. I’ll keep you away from the bad things, I’ll never let anything happen to you. Never ever again. I love you too much.”

He tenderly squeezes your hand, making a mental note to kiss you as if his life depended on it as soon as you’d get better.

Your fingers intertwined, a smile on your lips, and your heart in peace, you allow the sleep to take over you.

Yes, it’s definitely sunrise.

Permanent tag list: @daytodayfun @miss-nerd0905 @funnymrspotter

Sirius tag list: @glitteryfreakslimeegg

[ladyoftheshrimp]

When The Canary Stops Singing VII

Heed the tags people! One more instalment to come after this.

Previous parts are: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6

The difference between determined and stubborn was a fine line. Theseus could tightrope walk across the divide and people could call him either. It was why he continued to visit both Graves and Newt in hospital. They weren’t the men he knew from before the war but they were shadows of them and he felt he owed them enough to warrant his somewhat unwelcome visits. The two men were not allowed to see each other, they were moved further apart in the hospital after Graves rampaged through the corridors several nights a week to find Newt. After weeks of hospital care there seemed to be no difference in either of them. Graves was still violent, unpredictable, and non-verbal. He was all but feral, the way he attacked without any provocation. He was fiercely protective of his food and Theseus was saddened to note that more often than not he’d purge after eating. At first the healers thought he was just hungry because of all the energy he’d exerted on both healing and the attacks. So they supplied him with endless amounts of food. Each time Graves would polish it off, no matter how much he was given. The cleaners would later find the piles of vomit artfully hidden. At first they were hidden by papers so they got removed from his room. Then the bedside cabinet moved and underneath it was another pile. That’s how the bedside cabinet got spelled to the ground with a sticking spell. The day Graves’ pillow was taken away because it covered another splatter of vomit was the day Theseus had had enough.

He’d been to see Newt first. It was always the harder visit of the two because Newt could converse with him. It was pleasant, superficial and absolutely flat. They’d talk about current events, how Theseus was doing, even how Newt was doing (though the answer was unerringly always “fine”) but it wasn’t the same. There was no spark of life in Newt, none of his childlike wonder and not once did he ask about his case. For all his seeming normality Newt could have been an animated cardboard cut-out caricature of his former self. Theseus was sitting on the chair a proper distance from the bed. Long gone were the days he and Newt could curl up in bed for a chat. The only time he’d tried to sit on the bed in the hospital Newt had gone quiet, stock still with forced even breaths. Theseus still didn’t know if it was the proximity or the wrinkles in the sheets that set Newt off but his panic was palpable despite its invisibility.

It was purely by accident that Theseus noticed. Lunch had been served and Newt moved it around on his plate until everything was evenly spread. The salad sorted by leaf types, the side dishes of peas and sweetcorn sorted into tidy triangles on the plate while the meat sat at a perfect right angle off them. His utensils were then meticulously wiped and placed perfectly aligned next to the plate.

“Not hungry?” Theseus asked bitterly.

“Nope.” Newt didn’t smile cheekily like he would have done in the past at such a blatant lie. Instead he stretched forward to smooth an invisible crinkle out of the sheet. His shirt rode up his side with the motion. At first Theseus thought he could see the outline of his brother’s ribs, neat lines down his side. But ribs didn’t extend down to hips. Nor were they so surgically precise. Horror dawned on Theseus. He’d seen such marks before. In the battlefield first aid centres. Victims of slicing hexes who weren’t fortunate enough to suffer a quick death. Before he could think his arm was on Newt’s shoulder, the other hand pushing up his shirt. Under his palm Newt stilled his motions but the trembles of fear were easy to feel. Ashamed of his actions Theseus stopped trying to see the wounds and in the silence he could hear the shaky, heavy breaths as Newt fought to control his fear. Theseus sprang away the instant he realised Newt was only a few breaths away from a full blown panic attack. He gave him the space and watched as Newt pulled his arm back, crinkle in the sheets forgotten. His eyes were hazy and distant in a way Theseus hated. It was a painful few minutes where Theseus could only watch his brother claw himself back from whatever hell he’d been catapulted into by a simple touch.

“Newt?” he ventured, voice soft in the silence.

“Yes?” came the shaky yet flat reply.

“Are those cuts on your side?”

“Would it matter if they were?” Newt stared at him without blinking.

“They weren’t in the initial assessment report when you were brought in.”

“Why would they be?” Newt’s gaze left Theseus uncomfortable and suddenly he wished for Newt’s annoying habit of staring up through his fringe to resurface. The question raised an uncomfortable question in Theseus. One he wasn’t sure how to ask. Deep down he knew the scars looked too new. Too fresh to be weeks old festering wounds that healed too late after being inflicted. He’d read the reports too and nowhere did Newt nor the medical reports mention slicing hexes. Whipping and belting marks by the dozen, curses of an almost eyebrow raisingly creative variety sure but never magically inflicted cuts. Theseus took a deep breath.

“Did you…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t think of Newt late at night in his hospital bed, pointing his wand at his side and gritting is teeth as magic split the flesh. The glimpse he got of the still knitting together scars was enough to tell him that they were getting deeper.

“Would it matter? I have enough scars that a few more won’t make a difference.” Newt replied to the unspoken question.

“It would matter to me. Why? Newt, why do this to yourself?” Theseus wasn’t going to cry. He was the bastion of calm that needed to anchor Newt, and to an extent Graves, to this reality. He couldn’t afford to fall apart.

“Because.” Newt shrugged.

“Because?”

“It makes me feel real. That I’m not in some coma back in that dark pit. Because I control my pain and not them. Because I deserve it and it’s the only way I feel clean.”

Something cold and heavy settled over Theseus’ shoulders like a mantle. He’d been kept up to date with Newt’s progress but nowhere had it mentioned the cuts. The self-inflicted suffering. In fact the reports were talking of releasing Newt because he seemed to be doing okay. He showed no outward sign of struggling to cope except for a rather flat demeanour which was, it their eyes an okay response.

“What if I asked you to stop?”

“What if I asked you to stop biting your nails when you’re stressed?” the monotone delivery added such an awful air to the question, like a demonic child in those wireless plays about possession Theseus once upon a time enjoyed listening it.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Theseus couldn’t hold it together any longer and he walked out the room. Newt wasn’t any better than when they rescued him. He hid everything under a façade of indifference that was so thorough he wondered if even Newt knew just what he was feeling or should be feeling. It’s beyond Theseus’ coping skills and he had to leave. Graves at least would be easier to cope with because while no less damaged it was at least a visible kind of brokenness that Graves couldn’t make any effort to hide.

The room was stark, empty and cold. A mattress was spelled to be stuck to the ground and there was a light blanket on it, nothing more. Graves was rocking in the corner muttering his serial number and Theseus saw red. The room was not much better than the cell they’d been kept in, it had a small amount of comfort and it was bright and clean where the cell had been dark and filthy but it lacked all civility and was worse than a prison cell in Azkaban. Behind Theseus a healer walked by and he whirled round to get answers.

“Why’s his room so empty?” The healer looked startled at the sudden question.

“He gets violent and will use anything as an offensive weapon. When he isn’t acting out he hides vomit in his room. We can’t keep cleaning up after him all the time. Last night he slept in his own sick because he could only hide it in his bed. Can you imagine the mess the morning rounds became? It was disgusting.”

“So feed him less.” Theseus growled and the healer laughed.

“You think we haven’t tried that? Even if he’s starved for a day and given only an apple after 24 hours he’ll still throw up. There’s nothing physically wrong with him.”

What Graves couldn’t voice, couldn’t tell anyone was that no matter how hungry he got after the first few bites all he could taste was the rotten flesh of his captor. The awful taste of putrefied meat that clung in his throat and nose every time he ate. He could remember the way his teeth sank into the decay softened muscle and fat that he had to force down to survive. Graves had to live and for that he had to eat. He didn’t know why anymore but he knew he had to keep breathing.

That afternoon Theseus kicked up a fuss. He got into screaming matches with the head healer, with MACUSA representatives and anyone else who stood in his way. There was no visible improvement in Graves’ condition, he was probably never going to return home by himself let alone to work. He was going to be put in an institution, squirreled away from public sight so at least he didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of people gawking at how the mighty had fallen. When all was said and done Theseus signed the paperwork and returned home. He had three days to make his old family home habitable again rather than a shut away, dusty old mansion. It was hard work but with the help of friends and handsomely paid staff it was done.

The rooms he’d allocated Newt and Graves were next door to each other despite advice from the healers. What little he had seen of Graves and Newt together is seemed that they needed the other nearby. If a few months apart hadn’t done them any favours then a lifetime apart wouldn’t either. The two men arrived separately, Newt was easier so he was shown to his room where he stood, almost helpless and lost in his own home. Theseus tried to reassure him but in the end he closed the door behind himself as Graves was due to arrive, leaving Newt still standing in the middle of the room.

Graves was sedated for transportation. The forced sleep did not ease the creases between his brows and he was tied down with magically reinforced cuffs. None too gently he was deposited on his new bed before the transport team scurried out, Graves was no longer their concern and they had no desire to be there when he woke. To keep himself busy Theseus set about arranging a light dinner for them all. He wasn’t sure about Newt and Graves’ preferences for food so he kept it light and easy, just some fruits and cold meats. The sedative had Graves thoroughly under for most part of the afternoon and into the evening. Before he was due to even stir Theseus made his way up to Newt’s room. He knocked and opened the door. Immediately he wished he’d waited for Newt to invite him in. In the middle of the room Newt stood with his back to the door, he’d twisted wide eyed to see the intruder. One hand held his wand the other’s palm was covered in blood from a deep gash on the soft bit of his side between protruding hip bone and ribs.

“Newt.” Theseus gasped, automatically summoning healing potions, bandages and anything else he could think of. Frozen to the spot Newt watched with alarm but made no move to even put pressure over the cut to staunch the flow of blood. It seeped into his trousers and turned them a black-brown. In his efforts to help Theseus never noticed the ragged breaths Newt was drawing as his eyes remained fixed on the door. Theseus fussed over the wound, completely focussed on sealing the wound and keeping his brother as pain free as possible. He moved Newt’s arms out of the way, crouched in front of him to inspect the deep cut and tried to summon the dittany essence to help heal the wound. The sharp stench of urine pulled him out of his mission. He looked up at Newt who stared at him wide eyed, his trousers wet. Newt swallowed shakily as tears threatened to trickle down his cheeks.

“Jesus fuck Newt.” Theseus gasped and shoved himself away. “I’m not going to. Did you think I was-? Oh fuck. I’d never hurt you.”

Newt stood frozen in place and didn’t reply, he didn’t blink either. Just stared at his brother with huge terror filled eyes.

“Okay, okay.” Theseus ran a hand over his face. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Here’s the dittany, you apply that to your cut. Then bandage it with these. I’ll go get you some clean trousers. I’ll knock when I’m back and can just hand them in through the door if that would make you feel better. Okay?” He got no reply but he moved anyway, mind reeling.

By the time he got back with clean clothes Newt was mostly tidied up, the mess of bandages potions and everything else was militaristically stacked, tidied away. Theseus passed over the clean clothes and Newt took them unabashed and uncaring of the state he was in. It made something tighten in Theseus chest.

“You know I’d never hurt you.” He had to tell Newt.

“I know.” Was the simple reply he got and Theseus had to look away. Newt seemed to have no shame anymore as he stripped in front of his brother to change. The clothes he took off were precisely folded and placed in the laundry hamper, edges aligned and creases smoothed out.

“I thought you might like dinner in the dining room this evening.” Newt looked at him silently, dressed and presentable once again. But he was too still, standing in the middle of the room where Theseus had left him.

“Or I could bring it to you, if you’d prefer to go to bed early.” Theseus offered but got no reply. A crash from the room over finished any chance of them reaching a conclusion. “Get in bed, I’ll bring you food.” Theseus threw over his shoulder as he rushed to try and calm Graves.

In the darkened room Graves had pushed himself into a corner and he growled fiercely as Theseus approached. Noises seemed to set him off, a book was hurled towards Theseus when he tried to speak. So Theseus adapted, he stopped making noise, crouched down, made himself as small as possible and when he was close enough he began humming. It was an old lullaby his mother had hummed to her children. Graves watched him with wary eyes but eventually, after many minutes in the dark something relaxed.

“Newt’s in the room over, if you want to see him.” Theseus offered quietly when the melody died away. He didn’t expect to be pushed to the ground as the wraith that Graves had become launched past him. It took Theseus longer than he wanted to admit to pick himself up and only as he got to the door did he think that perhaps the two men would hurt each other. Instead he found them both on the bed, not quite touching but closer than either had let anyone else get. Theseus remembered all the times Newt quivered and shook when somebody touched him but it seemed Graves was an exception.

“I’ll bring dinner up.” Theseus muttered but it seemed neither men had heard him as they stared off into the distance. Down in the kitchen Theseus pulled the food onto a tray and grabbed some water while he was at it too. No doubt his new charges would be hungry. Slowly, he made his way up the stairs and pushed the door open with a shoulder. On the bed Graves and Newt were seemingly fast asleep. They faced each other, foreheads pushed together. Newt’s hand rested lightly on Graves’ neck, fingers on the steady, strong pulse. Quieter than when he entered Theseus left and tried not to think of the other times the two men had slept like that, Newt’s fingers desperately pressed to a thready and erratic pulse, the only confirmation that Graves was still alive and with him while they slept.

[regrettablewritings]

All the Write Words, Pt.V (Library AU!Vladimir Ranskahov x Reader)

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Since his humiliating secret had nearly been caught by his brother, Vladimir made it a goal to work on his assignments once he was in the privacy of his room in the apartment he shared (read: took up residency as it was under Anatoly’s name alone). The problem with this could mostly be traced back to the fact that he and Anatoly tended to work late often or wind up heading out for drinks with the rest of the men at the end of a particularly uneventful or sometimes stressful shift. Either way, Vladimir’s pre-homework ritual would include him scrambling to do his work or mentally groaning that he had waited until last minute to do it. It reminded him way too much of his school days and he wished he could avoid those as often as possible but alas, no prevail. To be honest, the only thing keeping him from giving up altogether was his pride: the pride he managed to grasp and maintain as a man who was never afraid to back away from a fight. He especially refused to back away from the fight currently being presented by some 5′2″ poofy-haired pipsqueak who willingly dressed like a bum.

To be perfectly honest, however, there was another reason Vladimir kept doing the work even when he was often too tired or feeling too drunk to really want to try. And he discovered it the very next day he was due to work at the library, right after the occurrence with Anatoly in the office.

“ – like so,” (Y/N) chirped. Vladimir gave an obligatory hum of understanding when in reality he couldn’t care less. (Y/N) was showing him how to set up the Kid’s Corner for whenever the library was hosting a storyteller’s visit. The storyteller wasn’t scheduled for another week but today had been particularly slow enough for (Y/N) to decide that Vladimir needed to know the very minor ropes. Personally, Vladimir couldn’t comprehend why it mattered which way he did it: preparations for storyteller time just meant dragging a large, worn velvet seat (the kind you saw in old movies where an old man would blabber on from), placing it by the large tree-shaped bookshelf (“Atmosphere,” was all [Y/N] explained), and surrounded it with numerous seats and beanbag chairs for the snot-nosed little brats to plop their asses in.

Then you had to set up a table nearby and fill it with some juice boxes and granola bars but the rest of its contents were totally up to the idiotic soccer moms who thought their kid should only ingest organic snickerdoodles or some crap. This last part, of course, was seen through Vladimir’s point of view but (Y/N) more or less hinted that that was what was to be expected. But then, every thought of Vladimir’s seemed to go in a similar fashion: filled with boredom, disgust, anything and everything exhibited by a king forced to interact with such squalor. It was for this that hearing (Y/N) suggest they look over his first workbook assignment came as a split-second blessing; emphasis on the split-second.

A small grim feeling bubbled in the man’s gut as they reached their usual spot in the faculty lounge. Vladimir had never been a good student. Even when he was surrounded by his more approval-seeking classmates as a small child, the blond’s mind would wander elsewhere – any elsewhere, really, so long as it wasn’t in school. He had the potential, or so he had been told. But it just never set in well with him. Maybe he found it too boring, maybe the teaching methods didn’t suit him? Whatever it was, nobody ever found out and soon enough, nobody cared to. Not when they had Anatoly to depend upon.

“Oh, my little Tolya,” their mother would coo. “Such wonderful marks”, “Such lovely diction”, “My son could write the next opera if he so wished it”, blahblahblah. Anatoly never was forced to sit in a dusty old library and learn how to read like a stupid child. Anatoly never had to hand to any of his teachers a colorful workbook made for small children because that was the easiest he could read. Anatoly ‘s teachers didn’t look at his work the way (Y/N) looked at his. Anatoly’s teachers never hummed like that, grabbed a red pen, and made that many check marks alongside circles –

Wait. Vladimir’s brows furrowed, for once out of confusion rather than dismay. Did he see that right. A small smile grew between (Y/N)’s cheeks and it made Vladimir’s stomach unsure of what to do; his teachers never smiled at him whether he failed or he did decently on his work but then (Y/N) could’ve been more openly sadistic. When she turned the quickly-graded sheet towards him, he tried to make sense of what was making the little demon smile. With her red pen, (Y/N) had made five checkmarks, coupled with a few choice circles. The circles were always on letters that looked alike (facing a certain direction or tails in the wrong place). Was that a good thing?

His muddled mental state translated to his physical state undoubtedly. It made (Y/N) smile even more.

“The checks are good, circles are things that need work,” she explained. That was all Vladimir needed for his brows to become unknitted and raise ever so slightly. There were no bones about it: There were slightly more checkmarks than there were scribbled circles. He . . . did okay?

“You did great, especially for your first time!” (Y/N) beamed. She got up from her chair at the circular table and stood by the taller being. Vladimir felt a small hand give him gentle, pleased pats on his back. “I’m proud of you!” And that did it.

Immediately Vladimir tensed up. “Proud”? But . . . But that term was for Anatoly. “I’m proud of you” was never directed at Vladimir. Usually, it was Anatoly raking in the praise and approval. Even during their rougher years when the eldest Ranskahov brother accompanied the younger on heists and trades, Anatoly seemed to get somewhat less of a scolding than Vladimir himself. It felt wrong, it felt strange, it felt completely misplaced, it felt . . . good. And it felt completely different than the feeling of being proud of oneself as he had become accustomed to.

Like a tickling in the heart. Or soul. Somewhere inside that Vladimir hadn’t acknowledged or brought up the existence of in ages if ever. It was during the slight daze of slight shock from the words that Vladimir began to recognize another feeling pride came with: his face felt like it was burning. It felt tightened, like the skin was being both tugged and squished together all at once.

“Uh . . . You okay there, Vlad? You’ve been awfully sil – Oh! You’re blush – You know what? You want a cold cup of water?” And just like that, the small, warm presence of a hand that Vladimir forgot was even there vanished. It was replaced with a small coldness near the small of his back.

He glanced up at (Y/N) to see her pulling a dixie cup from a dispenser on the cooler. Surely she had some idea of what she’d just done? But judging by the coy, closed-mouthed smile she wore when she handed him the cool-down cup, she had no idea. And for once, Vladimir trusted that that’s what one of her smiles actually meant.

It had been about a week or so since Vladimir’s first fix of approval. Seven days or so that had gained some peculiar hybrid existence as both agonizing yet brief. Not quite schoolesque, not quite relieving. His eagerness for the approval-fix had become quite a motivator, if he would allow himself one moment away from the denial of just how much he was working for it. He still certainly made more of an effort to do his assignments at home. And while he groaned at the workload (Y/N) would assign him four times a week, he found himself more surprised at how often he waited for that moment where (Y/N) would pull a pen out of her pocket (or curls), give the occasional hum, make a mark or circle here and there, and say those words: “Good job!” or “I’m proud!”

The assignments where he had fewer checkmarks than circles would be initially met with disdain and slight, licking flames of anger. At any other point in his life, he would have probably thrown a temper tantrum worthy of the five year-old that may or may not have inhabited his mind and body. But by the time Vladimir would reach home and the sanctity of his bed, the flames would give way to tamed fire, ready to fuel his determination to do better and prove himself capable. It was a rush in all kinds of ways.

It had become slightly easier to get Vladimir to do things as well, such as sitting him down to read. Which, to the staff of the S. Lee Library, was a trickle of a blessing at this point – it was storytelling day and the last thing anyone needed was for a bunch of nervous mothers to take one good look at the 6’, scarred Russian with the mug of a hellhound and immediately yank their child out of the building, calling off books that didn’t come from her tablet. Really, (Y/N) had confidence that Vladimir wouldn’t even care about people coming in enough to want to interact with them. But to be safe, she shoved a small pile of books into the man’s arms. Each one was rather thin and bore a seal with a funky-looking cat wearing a tall, striped hat. He was instructed to spend the next hour and a half reading them as (Y/N) manned the front desk (of course, he was to sit behind the desk so that she could assure he was actually reading and not slacking).

It was about an hour and a half, maybe two hours later and Vladimir was still slumped on the floor, book in hand, back against the counter. He had managed to finish three books already: one about the same cat with the striped hat making a mess of two children’s house; one about the ABCs; and one about a man who could make cow noises. That last one had a few words that puzzled Vladimir and he found himself surprised at feeling guilt for deciding to move on but for the most part, he felt accomplished.

He was just starting to read a story titled Hop on Pop when he heard that all too familiar giggle of (Y/N)’s, yanking him back to reality. But upon arriving back, Vladimir noticed that (Y/N) was no longer beside him. And the giggle came from somewhere else in the library. He faintly recalled (Y/N) saying something about going over to clean up after the storytelling hour.

As strange as (Y/N) was in his eyes, however, Vladimir highly doubted there was anything humorous to be found as one cleaned up empty dixie cups and sticky granola bar wrappers. And indeed, the Russian was right – because (Y/N) wasn’t laughing at cleaning, and she certainly wasn’t laughing alone. Upon rounding the corner, Vladimir found his mentor in the Kid’s Corner, sitting a small chair made for children, positioned next to a young man about her age who was sitting in the storyteller’s chair.

He had brownish-red hair combed in a lax manner that still managed to portray an air of certainty. It didn’t matter that his eyes were shielded behind a pair of strange, red, round-framed glasses; they were probably just as warm and welcoming as the smile he wore. Basically, he was everything Vladimir wasn’t: closer in age to (Y/N), warm, and smiling. Vladimir had to seriously consider whether or not to throw up in order to catch (Y/N)’s attention.

Fortunately for the carpet, he didn’t have to; the brunette stopped laughing and turned to his general direction.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Were we being too loud? I understand that it’s a library, quite unprofessional . . .” Vladimir’s eye twitched slightly. His voice was low and warm. Like hot cider. Was every person who stepped into this goddamn place so pleasant and gushy? It was at this point that (Y/N) finally managed to stop laughing and turned her attention to her protégé.

“Oh, hey, Vladimir! I was wondering if you’d ever drop by,” (Y/N) smiled. “Hey, look, most of the kids’ mothers wouldn’t let them eat too much sugar or whatever so we got tons of leftover sugar cookies and chocolate chip granola – help yourself!” But Vladimir’s eyes remained fixed on the shades-wearing man before him. He wasn’t sure how to feel about him: part of him wanted to give his usual glare. “Oh, sorry, uh – Vlad, this is –”

“Matthew Murdock. Er, Matt. I’m not so much a formal person,” Matt said, offering his hand in Vladimir’s direction. However, it wasn’t as direct as it should have been. Vladimir wasn’t certain what to do besides inch closer to hesitantly take it. He did it only out of obligation and the knowledge that not doing so would summon a lecture from (Y/N) on rudeness. But that didn’t stop him from thinking: Maybe if this idiot would take off those stupid glasses, he could see. Must all Americans be so arrogant? Hell, why do peasants feel the need to be unnecessarily flashy?!

“Uh, I’m blind . . .” Matt threw in, as if he were reading Vladimir’s mind. It was only after he said that and when he pulled back that Vladimir noticed the white and red stick by the man’s side. Oh. Well.

“He’s real philanthropic, comes to read to the kids every so often. You know, when he isn’t abandoning us for that ‘big lawyer student life,’” (Y/N) beamed. But Vladimir was hearing none of what she was saying, only how she said it: That tone she used; it was shining, bright. That same gold-colored tone she used whenever she told Vladimir she was pleased with his work. Subconsciously, his fists balled and his jaw clenched. He didn’t like sharing golden things; no king should ever have to worry about sharing with a goddamn peasant.

“—and we specially order books in braille just for him and he reads, like, Harry Potter and all that good stuff in braille! It’s a great way to introduce diversity to the kids and teach them that anything is possible no matter what comes their way. Isn’t that great!” (Y/N) affectionately nudged Matt’s shoulder, earning a bashful, crooked smile from the man.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I just like giving back to the community,” Matt insisted. “Hell’s Kitchen is a shit place but that doesn’t mean it always has to be. Besides,” he shrugged, “the kids seem to like the fact that their storyteller can’t see them and tell them to stop wiping their boogers on the carpet.” The snide comment earned yet another shared laugh. Just the two of them, of course. Vladimir shifted uncomfortably, fist flexing on and off. He didn’t like this. Shit was too weird and somewhat invasive somehow.

“Oh, hush, Matty, and just lemme praise you a bit,” (Y/N) cooed. It was that sentence that made Vladimir sharply inhale and tense. His mind began to fill with familiar sentences, all of which came in the form of his mother’s voice: “Hush, Anatoly, I must brag about your marks to Mrs. Romanova, she will be so jealous!” It was in Russian, of course, but pride knew no language barriers.

“And guess what!” (Y/N) almost seemed to vibrate in her chair, the excitement rolling off in waves. “Matt’s even offered to teach me some braille – for the heck of it! I mean, he ought to teach me for free . . .”

Matt waved his hand as if to ward off the indications. “Just think of it as a something from friend to friend.”

“So sweet,” the woman gushed. If her curls could project her emotions, they would have curled and bounced ecstatically. It unnerved Vladimir to hell and back.

“But man, Vlad, his fingers just move along the bumps so quickly! I doubt I’ll ever catch up, y’know?”

Matt’s crooked smile returned. If Vladimir were a different kind of person, he would have allowed himself to admit that it was a lovely smile. How fitting that a lovely smile would belong to a lovely-looking young man. “It just needs time and you need practice. Don’t feel bad about it. Hey, if it makes you feel any better, at least you’re not stuck with Punjabi like a certain someone we all know.”

The last part of the sentence was delivered slightly louder than at first and was quickly followed by a “Screw you, Matt!” being whisper-yelled by Foggy from a few aisles down. Matt and (Y/N) shared yet another laugh; Vladimir just clenched his teeth.  

“Seriously, though, it’s not too hard. For example . . .” Vladimir watched in silence as he saw Matt take (Y/N)’s small, brown hand into his own larger one. He guided it to a bump-riddled page in the book on his lap. “There’s six potential dots per grid, so every letter is just a combination of those six dots. When I was a kid, I told myself that it’s just as important to feel for what isn’t there as it is for what isn’t.” (Y/N) nodded as she hung on to every word even though she knew Matt wouldn’t see it. Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, however. (Y/N) was a good student: comprehending, focused. A little too focused in his own opinion, though.

To get a better feel for it, (Y/N) closed her eyes. She allowed herself to become vulnerable and left completely at the mercy of her teacher. Matt appeared to appreciate and take the opportunity to guide her hand about the page, inspecting letters with every progression. Matt guided her hand upwards, Vladimir couldn’t help but notice that the gesture inherently made the woman inch closer. Their shoulders rubbed together. The further her hand was guided, the more she leaned in. And the more she leaned in, the more the underside of her breasts came close to brushing against Matt’s left hand, which was still sitting on his lap. Oh, hell no.

“So this dot in this corner? That means it’s an ‘M.’ And this one . . .” Once again, the blind man guided (Y/N)’s hand only this time they ventured downward. Under Vladimir’s unnerved and growing eyes, the woman’s little hand came too close for comfort to Matt’s groin.

“Judging by the positions, this is most definitely a ‘D.’” Oh, fuck that.          

“And how long have you been learning?” Vladimir coughed. Matt and (Y/N) simultaneously stopped their little lesson and looked up at the Russian. (Y/N) could see him shuffling and thought nothing of it; she simply assumed that his presumed social awkwardness was the cause of his apparent discomfort. But Matt could hear the shifting; could hear the heartbeat behind it. There was something else and he knew it.

“Uh . . . We’ve had only had about two other lessons . . . Matt doesn’t come in too often, what with schooling and all. Well, they’re not lessons so much as him giving me pointers; it’s a work in progress sort of deal,” (Y/N) answered.

“Yes,” Matt pressed. He wanted to see where this would go. “And with further lessons, she’ll be just as good as me.” He threw in as innocent of a smirk as he could give. He could hear the grit of skin rubbing against each other in Vladimir’s balling fist.

“Well, she cannot,” Vladimir’s thick accent uttered. Matt’s smile faltered slightly but his eyebrows cocked in an almost taunting manner.

“I’m sorry. May I inquire why?”

“Because . . .” Vladimir’s mind frantically grabbed at air, grabbing at all the floating ideas and hoping for a winner. He found one. Unfortunately, it was only when he delivered the excuse that he realized his most grievous error: “Am going to teach Russian. And is time-consuming.”

Both (Y/N) and Matt wore surprised expressions. (Y/N)’s was because she was excited. She was finally breaking through, he was becoming more comfortable with her, and he was going to teach her Russian – triple whammy!

But Matt’s was out of something completely different: the fact that judging by Vladimir’s palpitations, this claim was the truth.

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

hunger - chapter 14

Hunger master post.

When Stiles is pulled out of the truck nobody bothers catch him, and he stumbles to his knees on a gravel driveway. He looks around quickly. It’s dark, but he can make out trees. They might be on the other side of a chain-link fence, but Stiles can’t be sure. There are no streetlights here. The headlights of the truck illuminate a squat, ugly building. One of the men hauls Stiles to his feet and pulls him toward the building. Stiles struggles to keep pace with the man.

What was it his dad always said? You co-operate to make it easier on you, not on them. Don’t ever be an accomplice in your own murder. Stiles is a cop’s kid. His and his dad’s conversations over dinner would have raised a lot of questions in any other household, but mostly his dad was trying to set him straight after Stiles watched too many shoot-em-up action movies and thought that all it took to escape an entire cabal of armed terrorists was a single handgun and a couple of wisecracks. Which was not, his dad said, the way to survive a hostage situation at all.

Stiles doesn’t think either of them ever would have thought he’d actually need to know this stuff.

The first step is to open a dialog, right? To show them that he’s a person too, with thoughts and feelings and a life as valuable as any other.

“What is this place?” Stiles asks, forcing the words out against his panic.

“Shut your mouth,” the guy says.

So much for building a rapport. Stiles jerks his head in a nod to shows he understands, and concentrates on not stumbling again.

The guy unlocks the padlock on the door and pushes the door open.

It’s a metal door, and it opens inward on a clean but rundown room. The walls appear to be concrete. There are no apparent windows, just a series of ventilation ducts running across the ceiling, with grills to allow the air to circulate. The floors are tiled. There’s a table, an old fridge, shelves. On the opposite wall there’s another metal door. It’s painted red.

The place feels old, like Cold War old. Stiles wonders if it’s some sort of disused bomb shelter or bunker.

“Sit,” the guy says, and shoves Stiles toward a metal chair.

Stiles sits. He leans forward a little to try to take some of the strain off his shoulders. The cuffs are starting to get uncomfortable. Stiles decides to focus on that, instead of the fact that the man who put them on him was just incinerated by a colleague he thought he could trust.

He stares at his shoes, poking out of the ends of his too-short borrowed jeans. He doesn’t look up as Kate and the men move around the place. He keeps his gaze fixed down. Keeps his mouth shut like the guy said.

“You need us for anything else tonight, Kate?” one of the men asks, his tone gruff, and Stiles wonders wildly who the hell these people even are? Just set a cop on fire and abducted a kid, but all in a day’s work, huh? What sort of people are they if the idea of what they just did doesn’t freak them the fuck out?

“You guys are good to go,” Kate tells them. “Watch yourselves out there.”

The two men mutter their goodnights.

The metal door slams shut behind them, leaving Stiles alone with Kate Argent.

The air hisses in the vents.

The heels of Kate’s boots click across the floor.

She leans back against the table, and folds her arms over her chest. “I have to say, string bean, you don’t look like much.”

Stiles meets her gaze warily, and wishes he could say the same. Unfortunately, Kate Argent looks like she eats babies for breakfast.

She tilts her head to look at him. A smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to be nice to you and take those cuffs off. Are you going to be nice to me in return?”

His skin crawls, but he nods. “Yes.”

Kate straightens up. She moves around behind him. She jostles the cuffs for a moment, and then they open. Stiles carefully moves his hands around to his lap, and sits back. He knows better than to make any sudden moves when Kate’s carrying enough weaponry to start her own militia.

Kate moves back to the table and leans against it again. “Take your shoes and socks off.”

Stiles blinks at her.

“Shoes and socks,” Kate says.

Stiles toes his shoes off, and then leans down to pull his socks off. The dusty tiles are cold against his bare feet. “I’m not a suicide risk.”

“That’s not the point of this exercise at all,” Kate says. Her smirk grows. “Stand up.” 

Stiles stands.

“Take your clothes off,” Kate says.

“Wh-why?” Stiles asks, his heart freezing.

“Take them off.” Still smirking, she drops her hand to her side and unclips the holster on her belt.

Stiles has the feeling that there is nothing idle about one of Kate Argent’s threats. He pulls his hoodie off. The shirt he’s wearing is Scott’s too. It’s advertising some breakfast radio duo that Stiles has never heard of. He tugs the shirt over his head and drops it on the floor with his hoodie.

His shaking hands pause at the button on the fly of his jeans.

Kate cocks an eyebrows.

Stiles tries not to shiver as he pushes his jeans and underwear down and steps out of them.

Her gaze rakes down him, and Stiles is suddenly deathly afraid.

Strange how this fear hits him some place different that the fear that she’s going to kill him. Why should it matter to Stiles why the hell she wants him naked? At this point, when Stiles is staring his imminent death in the face—he saw her kill her partner, he’s not walking away from this—what the hell does anything matter? Except then he thinks about what the autopsy report will say, and how, one day, his dad will read it and it will break his heart, and he wants someone to be able to say to him, “It happened quickly. Stiles wouldn’t have felt a thing.” That’s what he wants. He wants his dad to be able to hold onto that.

He doesn’t want him to know that he was hurt first. That he was humiliated.

“Arms out,” Kate says. “Turn around for me. Slowly.”

Stiles fights the urge to close his eyes as if that will protect him from her scrutiny. Protect him from whatever she’s got planned for him now.

 “Huh,” she says when Stiles has shuffled in a full circle. She nods at his clothes. “Put them back on.”

Stiles is too shocked to move.

“You can get dressed again,” Kate tells him slowly, raising her eyebrows. “Unless you’re enjoying putting on a show?”

Stiles scrambles for his clothes and allows himself to breathe again, just for the moment. She was checking him for weapons.

“No offence, string bean,” Kate says, “but I prefer my boys with a little more muscle.  A little more meat on their bones. And in other places too.”

Stiles doesn’t take the bait. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and ducks his head.

“Jesus,” Kate says after a while. “You know, Jamie, I just can’t quite figure you out. Why you, huh? What’s so special about you?”

“Nothing,” Stiles rasps out. “Nothing special.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Kate says, “I really, really hope that’s a lie. I really hope you’re someone, Jamie.” She sighs. “I mean, I liked Parrish, dammit.”

“Right,” Stiles says, because sometimes he just can’t help himself. “Sorry for your loss.”

Kate’s laugh is horrifying in its sheer brightness.

“I like you, Jamie,” she says, tilting her head to look at him. “You are going to make this interesting, aren’t you?”

And just like that his blood runs cold.

“Sit,” Kate says.

He sits.

He twists his fingers together on his lap. Counts them. Twists them again.

He forces himself not to think of the things that matter.

Not to think about Parrish. Not to think about the McCalls.

Not to think about his dad.

It could be minutes, it could be hours. Tremors run through him; his fear and agitation working underneath his skin even though he’s trying so hard to stay still. Some Adderall would be really great right about now. It’s getting colder too, the longer he sits. And as much as Stiles hates the growing tension, he’s not dumb enough to break it intentionally and kick start the next phase in his abduction, whatever it is.

He glances up once to find Kate watching him carefully.

“What’s your name?” she asks him. “It’s not Jamie Williams, is it? You don’t match any missing person reports.”

“Maybe they didn’t report me,” Stiles suggests.

Kate laughs. “Oh, sweetie! Do you really think that Parrish didn’t try to track down every damn Jamie Williams between fourteen and eighteen on the west coast?” Whatever sob story you told him, it got him right here.” She puts her hand over her heart. “Whereas I know you’re a liar. So why not save yourself some pain, and tell me the truth?”

How…

How can she not know who he is? How can this woman who has ruined his entire life not even know who he is?

“My name is Mieczyslaw,” Stiles tells her, because he wants to see the look on her face. “Mieczyslaw Stilinski.”

 ***

 The moment doesn’t feel as momentous as it should.

Stiles watches Kate’s face. He sees the moment realization dawns. The moment she places the name Stilinski. The moment the penny drops. And then the moment she shakes it off.

“The sheriff’s kid,” she says, as though somehow this isn’t the revelation she’s expecting. She looks at him curiously. “Huh.”

“You framed my dad.”

“That was a team effort, string bean,” Kate says. She shrugs. “You dad should have done what he was told.”

There’s an ache in Stiles’s chest. He doesn’t know what he expected here, but not this. He expected this to mean something. He expected this moment to have gravity.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Kate asks, and reads his expression with a rueful laugh. “Holy shit. I don’t believe it. You are nothing.”  

 ***

Kate hauls him to his feet, and keeps a hand on his shoulder as she steers him toward the door on the other side of the room. “Now, I’ll be honest with you, cutie pie, I don’t know what’s on the other side of that door right now, but I’ll bet he’s glad to see you.”

“Wh-what?”

Kate wrenches the door open and pushes Stiles inside.

The door slams shut behind him.

The only light in here is coming from a flickering bulb set high in the corner of the ceiling. The floor is tiled, like the other room. The concrete walls are painted a kind of pale green. There are chains bolted into the walls.

There’s—

Stiles’s stomach roils.

There’s a naked man curled up on the floor, with a chain around his throat. His eyes are half-open, but Stiles can’t tell if he’s even awake or not. He might not even be alive. Stiles steps toward him, breathing heavily. His heart thumps loudly.

He looks… familiar?

Stiles kneels down on the floor, half afraid to reach out and touch the man, and half afraid not to. Just because Kate’s a monster doesn’t mean this guy isn’t crazy or something too, right? Just because he’s clearly being held against his will doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. What if Kate threw Stiles in here just to see what the guy would do to him?

But also, what if he’s not a psycho?

He reaches out, his fingers hovering over the guy’s throat.

The guy is pale. He’s thin. Stiles can count his ribs. He can also count his muscles though, so he’s in better shape than Stiles. Which isn’t saying much, probably. He looks…

Stiles reaches closer.

Holy shit.

He looks like the boy Stiles saw in the photo from the Beacon Herald. The boy wearing a basketball uniform and a smile. Add six years and a hell of a lot of hard living to that boy and—

“Derek?” Stiles whispers, his cold fingers finding a faint pulse in the man’s throat.

The man’s eyes open fully. His brow furrows as he turns his head to look at Stiles. His eyes widen in something like horror, and his mouth opens and closes a few times but he doesn’t seem to be able to push any words out.

“Derek Hale?”

The man’s mouth moves again. “St…Stiles.”

Stiles rears back, his heart pounding. He lands on his ass on the filthy tiles. “How do you know my name?”

Derek Hale stares at him. He blinks, and tears spill from his eyes. “My Stiles.”