#also because they spoiled what was meant to be a twist and a delicate moment just to score cheap brownie points during pride.

[hazbinbabbling4ever]

amazon marketing is so good at marketing itself as very pro lgbt+ but only if it means spoiling the series to people (see good omens and the leaked "every" spoiler*), but when it comes to actually marketing the single lgbt+ serie? I've never seen either good omens or hazbin hotel on the front page.

HELL YESSSSSS! (I am a bit salty that you don't see it in their Amazon Originals section on the "front page", but whatever)

[ruewrites]

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

AO3

TaBoL

Ship: Solomon/Asmodeus

Word Count: 2082

Warnings: Mild Violence

A/N: Day 4 of Solodeus Week! I decided to mix Royalty!Au with Curse. I will be updating TaBoL again after this week, but I hope you enjoy the lightness of this oneshot with the heaviness going on in the main story right now!

Asmo was more than delighted with their little predicament. Solomon, however, didn't exactly share his enthusiasm.

"Asmodeus, my palm is getting sweaty."

"But we get to hold hands!" Asmo squealed, "You love holding my hand!"

"True, but I also love to do things with my hands."

It was incredibly hard to read his spells right when the fifth born prince of Arcadia was on top of him and in his lap. It was incredibly hard to focus when he was also moving his hips against him and kissing along his neck. He was lucky that it hadn't been a more dangerous spell. But he also couldn't blame Asmo. After all, he was more than happy to be an active participant in his actions.

It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with curses, no, in fact he was very familiar with them. Some minor ones could be useful for catching thieves, or wiggling the truth out of liars, but he never imagined that one like this would stick him to Asmodeus. Perhaps he should be wiser when choosing readings in Asmodeus’ company.

With a sigh he grabbed his book with his free hand and dragged Asmo with him to the edge of the bed. There had to be a way to undo this spell. Not that he didn’t like holding his hand, he loved holding his hand, but certain situations would call for him to use both of his hands. Not only that, but he and Asmo couldn’t always be together, and being stuck together when they needed to be in two places at once was rather inconvenient.

Asmo leaned against his shoulder, eyes glancing down to the book and back up to Solomon. Solomon’s lips moved ever so slightly as he looked over the words, trying to make sense of the text before him.

“This is nice,” Asmo chirped, interrupting his train of thought. “I like watching you read, you look very attractive when you’re focused.”

Solomon couldn’t help but roll his eyes, “Well thank you, but focus requires quiet, and I’m going to need that in order to figure out what we need to do to fix this.” If he was able to poke Asmo’s nose he would have. So instead he placed a small kiss on it.

“I don’t think we need to fix it so quickly. I don’t think it’s that big of a problem."

"You'll think differently when we have things we need to get done, I don't think it is incredibly possible for us to function like this."

"But-"

"Shhhh. We'll be holding hands while I figure out what we need to do.”

Asmo seemed slightly satisfied with that answer and remained silent as Solomon continued to scan through the book.

***

“Solomon! Slow down!” Asmo squeaked, stumbling along behind the king. He’d called a carriage to take them to the outskirts of the kingdom. Just as their luck would have it, it appeared that Solomon was only missing one singular ingredient needed to fix their little screw up.

All the sudden he felt himself jerk back as his fiance dug his heels into the earth, “Asmo-”

“You almost took me through a mud puddle Solomon. A mud puddle! Do you realize how hard that would have been to get out of my clothes? You’re being such a reckless man!”

“Alright, alright, I apologize,” Solomon said, “But darling, you need to keep your voice down, we don’t know what could possibly be prowling around these parts.” As he spoke he noticed Asmo’s eyes go wide, fixed on something behind him.

Great.

Perfect.

Did he dare turn around or should he just curse his luck further?

Before he even had the chance to turn around, Asmo was yanking him out of the way. His eyes just managed to catch quills slicing the air where his head had been moments ago. The two of them stumbled off into a tree where Solomon finally got a glance at the creature. It had a humanoid face, surrounded by sharp quills, it’s body was that of a large cat, and it’s tail was spiked, thrashing widley. It’s fangs were bared towards them as Solomon tried to put himself in front of Asmo.

“I can’t get to my dagger,” Asmo whispered, “Not with my dominant hand anyways.”

Because Solomon was currently glued to it.

His eyes never left the beast. He couldn’t risk it pouncing and catching them off guard.

Being stuck together wasn’t too bad.

But being skewered together wasn’t something Solomon was looking to try.

“Just stay close,” Solomon whispered, bringing Asmo closer to him, “Listen and do exactly what I say when I say it."

Asmo's nod was so slight that Solomon barely registered it. They waited, letting their hunter circle them. Swaying back and forth, looking for an opening. This was the downside of being stuck like this. Yes Asmodeus was strong, and Solomon knew he could take care of himself, but he didn’t like the idea that he was the one putting him in danger. He should never intentionally be putting him in harm’s way.

He would put himself down first, but if something happened to one of them, they were both doomed. Asmodeus would have even less of a chance of surviving if he was stringing along his corpse. The stakes were higher than they normally would be.

His eyes drifted downwards to those sharp talons, the way they curled in the soil. He just needed the right moment, an opening.

Then the beast stopped.

"Left!" Solomon didn't give Asmo time to respond, yanking him along as the beast lunged for them. They stumbled onto the ground together, narrowly avoiding being slashed open.

But the beast was quick and agile. Solomon barely had the time to raise a shield above them before it pounced again. He could feel the strain on his body with each blow that came down onto the barrier. This creature really wasn’t going to give up until it had them both between its jaws.

He’d failed his kingdom.

He’d failed Asmo.

He’d failed.

At least he could die in his love’s arms.

“Solomon-”

“Asmo, I’m so sorry that things are going this way. I-”

“That’s great darling, but look underneath us,” Asmodeus sounded oddly calm. Solomon debated if he should take his eyes off of the furious creature before them.

“Darling,” he could hear the exasperation in Asmo’s voice, and soon a flower was in his line of vision, “While I love the dramatics you’re putting on, isn’t this the little flower that was in your book?” If they weren’t about to be eaten by a giant beastie, Solomon could have kissed him. His absolutely wonderful Asmodeus.

Solomon’s grin was wider than the maw of the creature, “Perfect! That is exactly what I was looking for, now put a petal in my mouth.”

“Excuse me?”

Solomon hissed as the creature threw itself against the shield once more and his magic flickered. “Asmodeus please just do it.”

Asmodeus quickly placed a petal on his tongue and Solomon started to chew. Then, once he thought it was good enough, he spat it onto their hands.

“Ew Solomon!” Asmo screeched, but Solomon would make it up to him later.

Their hands were now freed, but Solomon wasn’t sure how much he would be able to do after he drained more of his powers trying to keep the beast at bay. All he knew was that he’d do anything in his power to keep Asmodeus safe, even if that meant providing a distraction long enough for him to run. All he had to do now was prepare himself to take the wall down. All he had to do was breathe and think of Asmo’s wonderful smile.

But he didn’t even get to think too much about anything aside from that.

As the beast reared, Solomon lowered the shield, and then a figure darted past him. A terrible screech echoed all around them as Asmo plunged his dagger deep into its chest and twisted. He didn’t let up, didn’t let go. Even as it toppled backwards, Asmo pressed forwards staying on top of it until it’s thrashing movements came to a halt.

Asmo’s back rose and fell as he removed his dagger. Blood splatter sprayed his front and his arms, his dagger glistened a dark crimson. His hand raised to his head, and then he hesitated, a look of disgust crossing his face.

Solomon wasn’t sure what it was, but something about the image sent a wonderful red color straight to his cheeks. Something inside of him wanted to ravish the prince. But Asmo smacked his hand away as soon as he went to reach for him.

“Oh no. Nuh uh. Who told you it was okay to spit on my hand? My husband should know better! That was absolutely revolting,” he snapped. The tip of his dagger rested on his chest, but Solomon didn’t even flinch. Instead he brought his hands up and gently cupped Asmo’s face.

“I’m sorry my love, I did what I had to, but I promise that I can make it up to you.”

Asmo raised an eyebrow.

“How about a nice warm bath where I tend to you and spoil you?”

Asmo’s eyebrow raised a little higher.

Oh he was insatiable.

“Perhaps I could call the tailor in? I could get new clothes made and ordered for you, maybe even get your crown shined?”

Asmo let out a sigh and dropped his dagger from Solomon’s chest, “I suppose we can talk about it.”

He was forgiven.

Solomon took that moment to press a kiss to Asmo’s lips, “Good. Now, why don’t we head back and get you cleaned up before more trouble manages to find us.”

The walk back was a lot less eventful, and Solomon could feel his bones start to ache. His eyes glanced over to Asmodeus, his hand gently laying by his side. He couldn’t help himself. Testing the waters, Solomon moved closer to brush their fingers together. Asmo glanced at him and Solomon repeated the action before intertwining his fingers with Asmo’s.

“Now King Solomon,” oh Solomon loved the way he said that, “I thought you didn’t want to hold my hand anymore.”

“Of course I want to hold your hand. I do love how soft they are, and I love how your fingers look wrapped around your dagger.”

“Oh you would love something so brutish wouldn’t you?” Asmo teased, “Refined King Solomon, who is always so deep in his books, loves watching the delicate little Arcadian prince slaying a big ugly monster because of how his spit-covered hands look wrapped around a dagger.”

Solomon wrapped himself around him, not caring in the slightest if blood got on his cloak, “And if I do?”

“And what if you do?” Asmo challenged.

There was so much Solomon loved about him, and that fire in his eyes was one of the things he absolutely adored. Asmodeus was strong in more ways than one, and Solomon knew this to be true. All he could hope was that he helped Asmo flourish and grow.

“Isn’t that the question,” Solomon said leaning in, “But now all I wish is to hold your hand.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“But will you let me?”

Asmo met him halfway, letting his lips meet Solomon’s. His heart soared at the tiniest bit of contact with Asmo, and when they pulled apart, Solomon could feel his body begging for more. He could never get enough of Asmodeus, and he would never get enough of Asmodeus. How could he? He was beautiful and powerful all in his own right.

“So may I hold your hand?” Solomon asked again.

“You said you would attend to me in the bath as soon as we got back?” Asmo asked, leaning in close.

“That I did.”

“Then I suppose I could let you hold my hand. Perhaps I’ll even let you hold it the rest of the way back.”

“Oh my Asmodeus is too kind to me.”

And so they walked back to the palace, hand in hand. Solomon didn’t intend to let go any time soon. Asmodeus always had a grip on him. His hands held his heart so tenderly, and his very presence always had him in such a captivating grasp.

Asmodeus was wonderful, and Solomon considered himself lucky that he had the honor of holding the Arcadian prince’s hand. It was one he didn’t deserve, and yet Asmo blessed him every day.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober 19: Survivor’s Guilt

TIMELINE: Takes place in the Iris Michaelson, Teen Badass AU of the Fillis Angst Parade AU - look, @whump-tr0pes and I make our own fun, and by “fun”, I mean we make “Isaac and Finn suffer”.

Basic Plot: Fourteen years ago, Finn Dunham and Ellis Price were taken captive. The team has never been able to rescue them, and knows only that Finn lives life as Patrick Michaelson’s plaything and Ellis teaches at a Syndicate dayschool and tutors the Michaelson’s adopted teenage daughter. When Iris Michaelson sends a message to the famous rebel Isaac Moore, he can’t help but answer it.

CW: Referenced noncon/dubcon, referenced torture

“If this is a trap, I’m going to owe Gavin fifty bucks.” Vera checked and rechecked her handgun, as though it would suddenly be less loaded than it was just a few minutes before. Her jaw was set in a grim line, eyes flashing a kind of damped-down fire, embers ready to spark. Her thick black hair, showing growing hints of gray, was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a pair of black pants and a tucked-in t-shirt, ready for the fight she was definitely expecting. “I don’t want to owe Gavin money, Isaac.”

“It’s not a trap,” Isaac replied, making his own nervous check and recheck of the table and chairs. “I don’t think it is, anyway. My instincts are saying it isn’t.”

“Your instincts-”

“My instincts have been spot-on for a decade, Vera. Just trust me on this. She let us pick the day, the time, the location… she let us give her the location with less than four hours’ notice, even. If this is a trap, she’s piss-poor at setting it.”

“Hm.” Vera snorted, and checked the second gun, the rifle they had leaning up, hidden on the other side of a doorframe, where Vera could pick it up and keep shooting if she had to.

If they needed the second gun, it would be because she was buying time for an exit, not because they had a shot in hell of getting a win.

“She wouldn’t have let me pick the spot with such short notice if she was planning on killing us,” Isaac said, but he felt less certain than his voice sounded.

“She’s a teenager, isn’t she? Who the fuck knows why teenagers do anything?”

It was Isaac’s turn to snort, then.

Their scheduled meeting space was a busted-out house an hour outside of the Michaelson Syndicate's largest stronghold city, a hidden place they had used, in the past, to run dissidents out of the city north, always north. A few years ago it’d been compromised, the house was half-burned down in the attack, but there was a room at the back that was still standing… more or less.

The girl had agreed readily to meet here - which Vera didn’t like, such a quick agreement made her think the youngest Michaelson child had some kind of plan, but it was a cleared space and Isaac had put his people all around. If the girl was bringing weapons, well, so were they. 

Isaac had sentries watching for miles around, covering every road. It paid to have his reputation, and have so many people willing to sign on to help him out with this. It didn’t hurt that his reputation meant he’d managed to scrape together enough money to pay them.

Not in money, no - Isaac had traded pallets of flour with boxes' worth of packets of yeast, a couple of beat-up cars that could at least be broken down for scrap, and cough syrup from their carefully hoarded medical supplies. But it had been enough to draw in some people willing to take the risk.

Sentries had reported by radio - one car, following the directions Isaac had given it. No escort cars, no one caught sneaking through the scrubby woods around the house. Just one, single, shining black Michaelson Syndicate vehicle, clearly marked, making no effort to hide.

She was following every rule she’d been given, right down to the tiniest detail.

Still, his nerves were on edge. What the youngest Michaelson child could possibly want with them - what had made her reach out to schedule a face-to-face - had had him up at night ever since the first message had come in, sent via dissidents who didn’t even understand what they were carrying in the envelope that no one dared open until it got to him.

My name is Iris Michaelson and I need your help. I know Finn Dunham and Ellis Price. Please call me. Then a number, everything written in a childish looping cursive, and the sight of Finn and Ellis’s names had meant Isaac could never have stopped himself from calling.

“I wonder-”

“If she wants a way out, I’m not doing it,” Vera snapped, interrupting Isaac’s thoughts, her fraying nerves given away by the edge in her voice. “We can’t handle that kind of heat, Isaac.”

“I can find her someone to go to for that,” Isaac said, not quite in agreement. “We’re not in the business of hiding Syndicate kids.”

“Oh, are we not?” Vera’s dry humor edged on sarcasm. “Because I’m wondering what exactly you think we did with Gavin, then-”

“Anymore. We’re not in the business of hiding Syndicate kids anymore. That was fifteen years ago, are you-”

“Ever going to let it go? Nope. I’m too old to escort a spoiled rotten rich kid into the real world again, and you’re sure as fuck too old to fall in love with another one.”

Isaac felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, and shook his head. “Calm, Vera.”

“Isaac, so far you’ve turned Gavin into your goddamn life partner and tried to give Danny fucking Michaelson a place-”

“All I did was give him my name to help him get as far as he and Nate could get, when he was ready.” Isaac ignored the twist of bitterness inside him. “And he never was, was he? He’s still there.”

Some part of Isaac would always wonder why - when given the chance to get out - Danny had chosen to stay.

He sighed, and kept talking. “In any case, that’s not going to happen here. I’m not going to give her safe harbor with us. I’ve already spoken to some other communities, just laying groundwork. If she needs a place to run, she can have it - but she’ll have to give up a tremendous amount of intel to earn her sanctuary.”

“What kind of intel does a fucking fourteen-year-old girl have?”

“Don’t know, but she might have enough. She didn’t drop Danny’s name to meet with me, did you notice? She dropped Finn’s and Ellis’s names instead.” He shifted the chair on the other side, the one she’d sit in, this way and that until he had it just right. His own weapons - he carried two, one under his left arm and one on his right hip, plus another hidden taped under the table on his side - were fully loaded, too. All this to take on a single teenage girl.

Granted, it wasn’t just a teenage girl. Iris Michaelson happened to be the daughter of Patrick and Corrine Michaelson. Danny’s parents, and she was the beloved youngest child of the fucking assholes that had stolen his family, and kept them. The last Isaac had directly seen of Finn and Ellis was them being surrounded by Patrick’s men fourteen years ago as the car with him inside spit gravel and sped away.

Isaac swallowed, tightly, wondering if it was a good sign or a bad one that he rarely teared up when he remembered the moment, now. He’d cried too much for them already, and Iris Michaelson would be here soon.

“Would you have met her if she’d namechecked Danny?”

Isaac shook his head, jaw set firmly. “No.”

“But you will if-”

“Listen, maybe it’s about Finn, or Ellis,” Isaac said, softly. He barely dared hope. “Maybe she’s willing to trade intel on them. We know they’re still alive. We know Finn is-... that Finn has-”

“Yeah,” Vera said heavily. “Maybe. Hell, maybe the daughter has a heart. Anything’s fuckin’ possible, right?”

“Right.” Isaac took a deep breath. He heard the sound of car tires on gravel and raised his head, jaw setting into a determined line. “Here they are.”

“Showtime,” Vera said, voice low. She shifted back until she was mostly hidden in a doorway, covered enough in shadow that she wouldn’t be immediately visible unless she wanted to be. “I’ve got you covered, Isaac, but if it looks like it’s going south-”

“I’ll drop so you can start shooting and cover me until I can fire, too.” 

“Right. Again, just for the record-”

“You won’t owe Gavin money. I promise.” Isaac took a seat on his side of the table. He knew his own people littered the woods around the clearing, weapons at the ready. He’d brought a full fucking team to meet with a teenage girl. But as far as Isaac was concerned, Iris Michaelson might as well be more dangerous than just about anyone else he might meet with.

Isaac knew enough, from his short time with the Michaelson family going on fifteen years ago, to know that their Syndicate wasn’t entirely human.

Crunch of footsteps - Isaac counted. The girl’s steps - lighter, but firm. Projecting a false confidence, Isaac thought. She was trying to sound stronger than she felt. He knew the feeling. A large… man, he guessed, from the time between heavy footsteps. Bodyguard, probably as armed to the teeth as Vera was. He waited to count more but… heard no one. 

Isaac’s eyebrows furrowed, frowning. “Vera-” He turned to look back over his shoulder.

“I heard,” Vera whispered. “Eyes straight ahead, Isaac. I heard it. She’s only bringing one inside with her. Gavin might just owe me money.” Vera’s smile flashed white in the darkness. “Now that idea I like.”

She melted back into the shadows, and when Iris Michaelson entered the room, Isaac would seem entirely alone. 

Iris moved into the room with the unconscious certainty of power that every Syndicate son or daughter carried, although her steps were a little hesitant and her breathing tightly nervous, but that wasn’t what caught Isaac’s eyes. Her head was slightly down, auburn hair catching the dim light, a thick braid down her back with two smaller braids that ran on either side along her head to join the larger on. She also had a small, almost delicate-looking handgun on a small holster on her hip. 

He froze watching the lanky, gawky, all-elbows-and-knees girl in her soft black off-the-shoulder sweater, jeans, and combat boots that cost more than the gun on Isaac’s hip enter the room. He hadn’t seen hair quite that color since…

“Iris Michaelson.” His voice somehow came out even, but he heard himself speak as if from some far away place. His heart had started to race. “You requested a meeting with me?”

She raised her head to meet his eyes, and Isaac’s world broke apart. 

The shape of her face was unmistakable, as was the color of her hair. Her eyes were wide and a strangely startlingly clear hazel leaning towards brown, but…

Isaac heard Vera’s soft gasp behind him and knew she saw it, too.

Iris Michaelson was the perfect spitting image of Ellis Price - except for the fact that she had Finn Dunham’s hair and eyes. 

Iris came to a stop, warily, the hulking bodyguard - a brute of a man who seemed to carry himself with an absurd gentleness, with cropped dark hair and dark eyes in a pale face - that followed close on her heels putting his hand to his gun. Isaac automatically raised both his hands, empty and open-palmed, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

My God, I know who you fucking are, now.

Finn and Ellis had been captured during their flight from the Michaelson stronghold nearly fifteen years ago. They had disappeared into the depths of the Michaelson’s mansion, and every attempt the team made to understand what might have happened had dead-ended into the common knowledge that anyone who went into the Michaelson mansion never came back out of it alive. Isaac had refused to believe they were dead at first, and when no one hunted them down - no one found the safehouses Ellis and Finn knew about, no attacks were made on places the two of them might have given up under torture… he had refused to believe they were broken, either. 

The team had never been able to go back for them, it had been too dangerous a risk even though Isaac had tried and failed and tried and failed again. They’d been… gone. 

Not dead - there’d have been some closure then.

Just… disappeared.

The Michaelsons had adopted a baby girl - philanthropic move, adopting the orphaned child of their employees, a couple killed in an attack by rebels. They'd named her Iris, and she'd been raised as just as much a part of the family as Ryan or Danny. 

Then, shortly after the public announcement of Iris joining the Michaelson family, Finn popped back up. They were kept at Patrick Michaelson’s side, his willing, branded plaything, photographed sitting in his lap at parties, glass of champagne tipped to their lips, eyes dead and empty above a gorgeous smile, head tilted to the side as Patrick's lips pressed into the brand on the left side of their neck. 

Isaac had been shown photos of Finn - with Patrick’s mouth on theirs or their neck or his hand between their legs, Finn with their back pressed up against Patrick’s car like Finn was just an object, even right out in public, even in plain sight. Finn wearing perfectly tailored suits, Finn half-wearing those suits, Finn wearing nothing but a harness of knotted navy blue rope with their legs wrapped around Patrick Michaelson’s waist, smiling and begging for more, harder, deeper… 

Broken and leaning into Patrick’s touch, over and over with that same dead-eyed smile. Standing with Patrick’s arm around their waist, leaning into him, a carefully crafted expression of adoration there. Isaac had shed bitter tears over being too late to save them. Whatever had broken Finn was something Isaac could never have brought them back from.

Ellis… Ellis had been gone for more than four years. The team had eventually assumed Ellis was dead - Isaac had grieved their fucking death. He’d thought losing them must have been what broke Finn, made them give up and resign themself to life in Patrick Michaelson’s bed.

Then… an envelope, and a set of photos Isaac had never expected to see. Ellis, nearly five years after Isaac had last seen them, teaching children at a Syndicate school, heavily guarded but still clearly themself. Smiling for children but expression set in a furious grim line the second no one was looking. Photos snuck out of the city by secret dissidents, Isaac had spent so much of what little money he had on every bit of information he could get about the two of them.

They were miserable, captives held behind enemy lines for more than a decade. But they never tried to run, never tried to contact anyone. Never took the chance. Isaac had managed to leverage people who owed him favors, new and old contacts, but every attempt to get Finn alone at a party had ended in their soft refusal - an insistence that I'm happy living this way, thank you or I love Patrick Michaelson, who could want to escape from living like this? or please, I can’t talk about it, I have to love him - and they’d move back to Patrick’s side - and Ellis was never fucking alone at all.

They weren’t trying to be alone, though, and Isaac just didn’t understand it.

Isaac hadn’t been able to grasp why Ellis could look so unbowed and so… utterly Ellis, and still be there. Still go day by day to the school, teaching children their ABCs, spending their nights and weekends tutoring the Michaelsons’ youngest child like it was nothing. Like it was a life they wanted, evenings and weekends helping raise a fucking Syndicate daughter, a pampered little princess.

It should have been something Ellis would rather die than do.

Isaac had wondered, again and again, what could possibly keep Ellis from trying to escape. Now, staring as Iris Michaelson crossed the room and settled herself in a chair across from him, Isaac understood. 

He understood, and he would have made exactly the same choices they had made, for this.

Ellis had been tutoring their own daughter, grasping for time with her. Doing anything it took not to lose her. And so, in their own way, had Finn. Ellis wouldn’t try to escape because they wouldn’t leave their daughter - Finn was at Patrick’s side to stay as close to Iris as they could get. The two of them had spent fourteen years like this. 

Corrine Michaelson hadn’t taken Iris from a dead employee to raise as her own. 

She’d taken Iris from Ellis. 

The two of them had managed to leverage their captivity to stay close to her, no matter what they had to give up, no matter how much of themselves they had had to give away. Isaac had to blink away tears that blurred his vision, wanting to stare at Iris for as long as he could.

Was this why Danny had stopped contacting Isaac about possibly leaving himself? Had he gone radio silent and stayed here because he didn’t want to leave Iris, either?

She looked up at him uncomfortably, rubbing at one arm with her other hand. It was… strange, to see the child’s roundness in Ellis’s face with Finn’s brown eyes, the hint of nervous shyness that he’d never seen in his friend, his family. But… he couldn’t look away. “What? What are you staring at? I’m adopted.” 

Isaac just blinked, until Vera cleared her throat behind him and Isaac jumped a little, startled out of his thoughts. The world felt like it had just tipped sideways, all of it made sense now, all at once. Puzzle pieces falling to the floor and magically into place. “I-I’m sorry, I just-... I know. I’ve met your brothers-”

“I know.” Iris’s voice was low, but held a sharp edge. “They told me.”

“They did?” Isaac almost asked her what exactly Danny and Ryan had had to say about him, but he could feel Vera’s eyes on his back, and he cleared his throat again. “My apologies. You wanted to meet with m-me?”

His voice was trembling. If he wasn’t careful, he’d cry right here in front of her. How are they? How broken? Is anything left? How much did they lose just to keep you?

“Yes. I, um. I thank you for-... meeting with me today. For agreeing to meet.” Iris’s voice was carefully even, but it shook, too, giving away that Syndicate daughter or not, she was nervous. Probably scared - she didn’t have any good reason to believe Isaac wouldn't just kill her or take her hostage. She’d shown a lot of trust, having just the one bodyguard and probably a driver come with her. She’d shown a lot of courage.

That’s Finn and Ellis for you, Isaac thought, and his throat nearly closed again.

“I-I’m not here for my own sake,” Iris said, quietly, looking slightly down, as if reciting something from memory. Her face was red, and Isaac decided this might be as close to seeing Ellis blush as he was ever going to get. “I don’t-... I don’t. Um. I’m sorry, this is just. Wait, I was supposed to start with-... shit.”

Isaac’s lips quirked in the slightest smile - he heard Vera huff a laugh from her hiding spot. There’s Ellis’s daughter, through and through.

Iris’s bodyguard leaned over, putting a hand on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. He looked up at Isaac, then, without the instinctive loathing or derision that Isaac usually expected from the Syndicate guards he’d gotten into fights with in the past. 

“Right. Right, thanks, David.” Iris put a hand up over the bodyguard’s, looking back at Isaac, sitting up straight again. Her black sweater fell just lightly off one bony shoulder. Loyal to her, Isaac thought, watching the bodyguard. Not Patrick and Corrine. We can use that. He’s not a Syndicate bodyguard - he’s Iris Michaelson’s bodyguard. There’s something there, if I can just figure it out.

Jesus, what had Ryan and Danny said years ago? Not everyone in the Syndicate was human. Was this David human? Or something else?

His heart was pounding. He had to make it through this meeting and then he was going to let himself be crushed under the weight of what he could see only in hindsight, only with Iris sitting here in front of him. Now that he understood that his attempts to save them had been fruitless because they didn’t want to be saved - not if… not if it would take them from their daughter.

He understood, now. He got it, all at once. Finn wouldn’t leave Ellis. Ellis wouldn’t leave Finn. And they wouldn’t leave Iris. 

God, he could feel fourteen years crushing him, all at once. Freedom he’d had and they hadn’t, could never get back. And they’d only been caught because Isaac had been running from being turned into Danny’s unwilling plaything, against both his and Danny’s will.

If he hadn’t let himself be rescued, he could have stayed with Danny and Nate. Danny would have… would have tried to make it feel as close to normal as he could. 

Stop it. You couldn’t have known. You could never have known. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t-... this isn’t your fault.

Felt like it, though. If he’d just… belonged to the Michaelsons - spent his days with Danny - then Finn never would have, would they? They’d be a rebel medic still, probably, not a plaything who spent their time being felt up or worse by the Michaelson patriarch-

Stop it. She’s fucking talking, listen to her, Isaac.

“Ellis,” Iris was saying softly, “is my real mother. And they told me to tell you, um, something that proves-... that proves that I’m here for them. They said… it’s been a while, motherfucker. Is-.. is bitchboy behaving?” 

Isaac closed his eyes, briefly, wanting to laugh and cry and do both at once. Vera huffed a laugh from her position behind him and Iris jumped, glancing back at David, who had a gun up, out, and pointed right at Isaac in less time than it took for Iris to flinch back when she realized Vera was there.

“Hands where I can see them,” David said, voice deep, low, and flat.

Vera stepped out into plain view, holding her gun pointed upwards with the safety on and her finger off the trigger. “Here I am,” She said, carefully. “I’m going to lay this down on that side table. No shooting. Yeah?”

David held steady. “No shooting. I don’t put this down until yours is down.”

Isaac’s hands slipped down, as if lying in his lap, the get a grip on the gun under the table, ready to pull it free and aim. “She’s with me. I promise we’re not planning on hurting anyone today, if you’re not.”

“So have her put her gun down,” Iris said, lifting her chin.

Isaac felt a stab of surreal pride that this near-stranger made her voice so strong, that she seemed so brave. It fit, that Ellis’s daughter would be good at hiding her fears.

“Vera,” Isaac said softly. 

“I’m doing it.” Vera laid her handgun down on the side table and then backed slowly away, hands still up, until she was leaning against the wall. When David’s gun lowered, so did her hands. He reholstered his weapon and everyone let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding simultaneously. There was a round of nervous laughter from them all.

Isaac tried to remind himself to just keep breathing. "So... they're still Ellis, definitely. Angry?”

Iris smiled, and you couldn’t mistake that smile for anything but someone who was talking about her mother. “Angry all the time. They’re good with the dayschool, though. I go see them every day, mostly.”

“And… and Finn?"

There was a pause, and Iris’s eyes dropped. She picked at a loose thread on her sweater. "They're, um." Iris paused, and Isaac heard her shift in her chair. "They're… very sad. All the time. With my father-”

Isaac winced. “He’s not your-”

“I know. But he is my father, too. Please don’t-... please let me talk.” Her voice did tremble, then, and Isaac went quiet. “With my father, and around everyone who works with us, they seem mostly happy, I guess. I know my fathers love each other-”

“Bullshit,” Vera said, her voice flat. “They don’t love him.”

Iris didn’t look up. “They do,” She insisted. “They do love each other, but… but when I’m alone with Finn, they’re… they’re very sad. And they don’t love him any longer. Did you… do you know them? They told me stories, but they didn't-... there were always other people around, so-"

"So they didn't tell you everything."

"No. But… but I-... I want to get them - Ellis and Finn - away from my, um. My family."

Isaac wasn't thinking about self-protection. If Iris had wanted to, she could have had her bodyguard kill him, in that moment, his eyes closed and his guard down. He leaned slowly forward and put his head in his hands, the silence drawing out. No one drew a weapon. No one fired.

Isaac felt the punch of pain, anyway, the tears running down his face. 

That's not your family, Iris. We are. Or we were supposed to be. 

“Do they know-”

“Ellis knows. I mean, my mother knows.” Iris laughed, airily, and Isaac looked up through his hands to see the piercing sadness in her features, the blend of her mother and father so deeply written in every single gesture, each expressed emotions. “I’m not allowed to call them that, so, so I hope you don’t mind if I just do it all the time, for right now? My mother knows. But-”

“Finn doesn’t know?”

Iris swallowed, and glanced back at David, who looked impassively down at her, but he kept his hand on her shoulder. “No, Daddy doesn’t know.”

Isaac’s breath hitched. Daddy-

“I can-... I’m sometimes allowed to call them that. I call, um, my father is just… Father. Or Da, sometimes, he likes Da. But Finn isn’t-... Finn doesn’t know that we’re meeting today. They know I want to, and they know I’m doing something, but we can’t tell them what or when or any details.”

“Why not?” That was Vera - but there was a set to her jaw, and a tension to her words, that suggested she knew the answer before Iris ever spoke it out loud.

“Because… if Father asks them, they’ll tell him anything. Everything. Anything they know.”

Isaac breathed out. Slowly, slowly, trying to control the despair threatening to well up inside of him. “They’re tortured?”

“Um. Not… not exactly. They just… will. Father will ask, and he’ll… kiss them, or something-” Iris’s nose wrinkled in something like disgust. “Which, watching your fathers kiss is pretty weird, for the record-”

“No doubt,” Vera murmured, “When one of them doesn’t want to.”

“Um. Sort of.” Iris’s expression shifted - something Isaac couldn’t read there - and she shrugged. “In any case. He’ll ask, and they’ll tell, sooner or later. So Ellis - my mother, God, it’s so nice to say that out loud just like that - says they can’t know, it has to be a surprise for them. So we, um, we kind of have to abduct Finn, but-... but they’ll go, we just-... have to make it a surprise abduction.”

“As opposed to the usual kind, where you send a note they can RSVP to,” David rumbled behind Iris, and she shot him a brilliant smile over one shoulder, bumping her shoulder into his side.

“Anyway… my uncles Nate and Danny know. Nate and Ellis trade books a lot, they’ve been hiding messages in them.”

“Nate Vandrum,” Vera said. “Loyal to Danny Michaelson, not his last name. Which means…”

“Which means Danny wants in on this, wants to get them out.” Isaac ignored the odd little thrill of nostalgia. One week, fourteen years ago, and it had ended in disaster. And still part of him leapt at the idea of seeing Daniel Michaelson again. “Why now?”

“Because…” Iris took a breath, closed her eyes. Opened them again, and Isaac was caught all over again by how thoroughly Finn those eyes were, but full of all the sparkling life and light that was missing from Finn’s in every photograph taken since their disappearance, since they’d been turned into a plaything, but something worse and more than that.

Playthings are discarded. They die or get paid off to disappear. 

But Finn… Finn had been at Patrick Michaelson’s side for fourteen years. They were far more than a plaything. Patrick introduced them, Isaac had been told, as his consort. Like a fucking monarchy. 

What were Syndicates, really, but petty fucking kings and queens with little kingdoms where their word was law? Why wouldn’t Patrick style himself king, and style Finn something like consort, or concubine, or-

Or royal fucking whore-

His hands had closed into fists, palms aching where his nails were digging in. Isaac forced himself to slowly, carefully relax them. 

“Because what, Iris?” Vera had moved closer up behind Isaac, and he felt her hand settle warmly onto his right shoulder. A comfort - and Vera could reach down and take a gun from Isaac’s underarm holster in less time than it took to catch a breath. 

“Because, um.” Iris picked at her manicured fingernails, then looked up from under her lashes at them both. “Because I want to go with them, with you. I want-...” She swallowed, again and again. “Because I don’t want them to hurt anymore. Because Daddy’s so fucking sad, for me, and-”

“It’s not your fault,” Isaac said, his voice strangled, caught in his throat.

It’s mine, for taking the opportunity to run and never seeing that my freedom would be paid for with theirs.

“They’re ready because I’m ready. I want to be with my family, just the three of us. I want-... I want them to be my family. And Ellis said Isaac Moore was the only person they could think of who could ever get all three of us out alive.”

“No pressure, though,” Vera said softly.

“None at all,” Isaac said. He was floating. He was a thousand miles away. He was barely tethered to earth. “Well… fuck.”

“Fuck indeed.” Vera’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “We’re doing this, right?”

“Of course we are.” Isaac watched Iris from across the table, and then did his best to smile for her. “Okay, Iris Michaelson-”

“Iris Dunham-Price,” She countered, and Isaac nearly choked on a mix of pride and grief. “I mean. I hope to be. Once we’re out.”

“Iris Dunham-Price, then. You have yourself a deal. You want to help your family escape, and escape with them. I’ve-... I’ve been waiting to bring my family home for fourteen fucking years. So let’s both get what we want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Isaac held out his hand, and Iris held out hers. Her fingers were thin, but she shook his hand with a firm grip. 

“Deal,” Iris said, nodding once.

“Ellis teach you to shake hands that way? Thought you’d crush all my bones for a second.”

Iris laughed, really laughed, for the first time she’d entered. 

Her laughter sounded exactly like Finn’s.

---

@astrobly @slaintetowhump @finder-of-rings @orchidscript @burtlederp @whumpiary @sableflynn @moose-teeth

[regrettablewritings]

Well I recently watched Trouble in the Heights, so let's go for Nevada Ramirez & Love, even if he perhaps has 1 bare inch of it in his whole body.

(I’m still fucking wheezing oh my gOD. Nevada Ramirez is 5′9″, and that ninth inch is composed completely out of the one inch of love he can actually express like a normal human being.) Similar to the Bruce Wayne one, though, some of these were sorta referenced in past Nevada pieces (what few there comparatively are). So, just in case, I included links to those pieces because they generally go into more detail in certain areas. Hope that’s all good!

Who said “I love you” first?: Well, you said it in that way first, so technically it was you. But if we just meant the actual soul of the phrase, of someone vocally expressing to another their love and interest in their well being, even without the exact words in place? It was Nevada. And even he didn’t necessarily notice it in the moment. Granted, even a sentence like, “Hey, don’t be stupid and just go straight home, understand me?” can slip Nevada’s notice as a sign of his own affection. He’s not nearly as in tune with his emotions as he’d like to think, really.

What are their primary love languages?: It’s really hard to place what a guy like Nevada’s love language could possibly be -- mainly because it’s hard to picture a guy like Nevada and a concept like love even inhabiting the same room. Being a gang leader and, well, just being Nevada Ramirez in total, he likes to give off the air that he doesn’t really necessarily need anybody — that everyone, from his underlings to even his past lovers are more or less side dressing he allows near him. But don’t be fooled: This little shit gets by on spoiling you and the affirmations he earns from them. The great thing about gifts is that in theory you could present them without needing to say much or even say anything at all. And given ‘Vada’s . . . less than delicate manner of speaking, this can be a good thing. And don’t get it twisted, he ain’t no sentimental pussy or nothing; he just sorta likes how your face glows when he just so happens to remember things like your favorite candy, or artist you mentioned wanting a framed piece by. He don’t need you to tell him he’s the best (he already knows he is), but it doesn’t hurt to hear you cry it as you practically fling yourself at him and smooch him silly. He also appreciates acts of service. Shady as his business is, it still demands a lot of the man. He won’t always express it completely but those nights when you show up at his place with his favorite takeout, or he comes home and finds the sheets have been cleaned or that you’ve done whatever he’d meant to have completed earlier that day? He almost wants to drag you to the edge of the bed and express his thanks to you. He appreciates it more than you would think.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?: Frequently, actually. There is hardly a moment wherein Nevada doesn’t have some part of him touching you: His hand resting on your hip or place in the back pocket of your jeans; your rump resting comfortably on his lap; his arm around you as you lean back in the VIP section of a club; or even just your legs over his own (or vice-versa) as you rest on the couch at home. Many would assume it’s just for show; that El Trujillo is simply asserting his dominance to all who might consider approaching you with sexual intent. They wouldn’t necessarily be wrong -- Nevada does intend to wordlessly yet loudly tell people that you belong to him. However, in addition to this, ‘Vada also just likes to show you off to everyone. And what better way to show the world his beautiful girl than to have her perched on his lap like a pretty bird on a branch?

What are their favorite things to do together?: To the surprise of no one, you two don’t have too, too much in common in terms of interest: Nevada, with his silver palate, enjoys eating out at restaurants with no less than four stars, and you enjoy going out to live shows, specifically on or even off-Broadway musicals. You don’t really care much for the strange food he likes, and he’s extremely particular about what sorts of show’s he’ll even bother with, but you do it for one another. But when it comes to what very few things you do enjoy in common, it ultimately gets narrowed down to two things: Cuddling on the couch and watching TV. Typically old shows or telanovelas because they’re both enjoyable and so terrible that neither of you can help but jeer at the bad acting, awful storylines, and cheesy sets and costumes. It’s a very strange bonding activity -- and certainly not one that anyone would associate with Nevada (and he wants to keep it that way). But it’s the one that you two enjoy the most after a long week, and a surefire way to help both parties relax and cheer up.

Who’s better at comforting the other?: Well, you’re one of the only one who can make him genuinely laugh if that says anything. Nevada isn’t an easy man to comfort, mostly because in his stubbornness, he’s become convinced that his power comes from his anger. So really, it should be sign enough that he even decided to go steady with you that he finds some sort of comfort in your presence (regardless of what he might tell you).

Who’s more protective?: Being a dealer of some infamy, Nevada is aware that he’s made more enemies than friends both in The Heights and out of them. As easy as it is to assume he doesn’t care too much about you, the reality is far from the truth: He cares deeply for you in his own Nevada way. When you go to one of his clubs, he’s never far away or not without you in his line of sight. There’s always a hand resting on your hip or your thigh, or he’ll, you’re always on his lap. Call it primal, but smart enough people who value their lives can take one look at ‘Vada’s hand resting on your ass and just know not to even bother with you. Slightly less smart may need to look at the man’s cold, murderous glower just for confirmation. And those with no sense of self-preservation have essentially signed their death warrant. But that’s in an environment he can control. Outside of his bars, his clubs, his restaurants where he’s a VIP? He’s a lot more quiet about it. Originally, he made sure you always had at least two Men-turned-bodyguards nearby you at all times, but you complained about how difficult it made everything from going to work to simply going shopping. “I don’t need your boys to know what types of tampons I use, Nevada!” you bristled. After much arguing, he eventually agreed to go another way about it: There’s actually more people with their eyes on you, often in disguise or paid off, but he’s made sure to put more distance on them so that you won’t feel as skeeved (or that you’ll even know they’re there for that matter). (For extra measure, if he can get you to agree to it, he’ll also have you equipped with a “Saturday Night Special” so to speak.) But be aware: The moment anyone so much as indicates even thinking about making you a target? That calm, cold demeanor rises to a simultaneously freezing yet infernal rage: You will be put on lock down or even ushered to a safe house until the threat can be dealt with. You will be escorted about the house at every moment by an armed man. And you will be kept safe until the threat has been literally disposed of.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?: Physical, because at least then he doesn’t have to say anything. Asshole behavior aside, Nevada knows damn well that he’s the absolute worst with words and that it honestly doesn’t take much to set you off. He figures that so long as he doesn’t have to actually say anything, he stands a better chance at not ticking you off and screwing himself over.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?: “The Wolf” by SIAMÉS. “Silvertongue” by Young the Giant. “Love Me Dead” by Ludo, if the roles were reversed . . . Nevada is just plain symbolic of something that’s bad for you but just feels so good to have. That in spite of how poisonous he actually is, he is capable of using just the right words and moves to have you addicted to him after just one drop. And in spite of everything he might insist or do, it works both ways: You’re both tragically and constantly craving the other, and it can wear you both out. But then again, that’s just what addiction is: Craving to the point of depletion. Though if you want something more optimistic, there’s also “Body Talks” by The Struts: Nevada doesn’t understand it himself but all he knows is that the very moment he laid eyes on you, he was going to do whatever it took to make you his — and, judging by your body language, you were perfectly happy to do that, so long as he worked for it. And let’s face it: El Trujillo ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?: The problem is that Nevada does have the ability to give nicknames, but he’s mostly crap at it unless there’s an ulterior motive involved. Like when he wants to keep you from being mad at him or to stop you from pouting, he’ll teasingly run a finger along your jawline and pout back a cooing “Cariño” or “Muñequita.” If he means to seduce and tease? You’re his “Good Girl.” If it’s more like he’s for once asking you to do a favor, he’ll give out a quick “Babe” or something of that nature. But if he’s just trying to apply a nickname for the sake of using one? Don’t trust him with that. Trusting him to pick a pet name based on a characteristic of yours, or in reference to an event is just not a good idea. His bluntness almost always causes him to pick the wrong thing to focus on! For example: If you have a green thumb and have taken to keeping a small windowsill garden or a corner for your plants, he’s not going to reference a goddess of greenery or even a flower or spice — he’s going to try calling you “Dirtworm” or something! (And then get frustrated when you express distaste over the name.) You’re honestly probably going to have to guide him to what sort of names you’ll tolerate and what you won’t, which shocks every and all witnesses who know anything about Nevada. A romantic interest? Telling Nevada what to do? It’s more likely than you think! Even though he’ll go along with it to pacify you, the hot-tempered man obviously can’t help but feel as thought you’re being unreasonably picky. After all, he’s more than satisfied with the nicknames you usually give him. Granted, they’re just the same nicknames he’s been going by for years now: El Trujillo, Jefe . . . He used to be called “Daddy” in the VIP sections of his haunts, but that title has since been reserved only for you. That, and ‘Vada. And “Baby Boy”, but only very, very sparingly. Which is still more than he’d let anybody else get away with.

Thank you for your patience!

[sams-sass]

Cursed Pt. 6-Final

GIF not mine

Hello!!!! Here is the final part to Cursed. Thank you so much for all the love for this series. I loved writing it. Let me know if you want an epilogue. 

Read Parts One through Five here:

Part One

Part Two 

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Summary: Wedding bells are ringing

Characters: You, Sam, Dean, Cas, Jodi, Donna, Claire, Alex

Parings: Sam x Reader

Warnings: Language, Foreplay (kinda), Fluff, Fluff, Fluff

Y/D/N: Your daughters name

Y/S/C: Your skin color

Y/H/C: Your hair color 

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

18 Months Later

“Will you just sit still!” Claire said as she brushed blush across your cheek. You smiled and leaned back into the chair, closing your eyes and letting her take over. Your Backstreet Boys greatest hits CD was playing in your bedroom's background that you, Claire, Alex, Donna, and Jodi were all getting ready in. Your hair was rolled into curlers, a glass of champagne sat next to you on the dresser, and all of your dresses were hanging in the closet. Alex was in a chair on your left; her delicate hands painted your nails, she sang along to the music softly. Jodi and Donna were already on their third glass of champagne; they were laughing about god knows what behind you.

“Are you nervous?” Alex asked you, looking up at you. You took a deep inhale and smiled a small and soft smile.

“I mean, yeah…” You started. “I’m nervous because this is big, like huge, and it’s just a lot to process, but I love Sam so fucking much. I am in no way nervous about marrying Sam.” Alex gave your fingers a squeeze and got up to put her dress on.

“Open your mouth slightly,” Claire instructed; you parted your lips instantly. She ran the red lip stain over your lips, holding your chin slightly. She leaned back at the same time you opened your eyes; her face was scrunched slightly.

“What? Is it bad?” You asked, turning to look in the mirror and stopped in your tracks. Claire had added just enough to highlight your natural features while still making you look different than you did every other day. You turned to her and nodded in approval. She gave you a small smile and went to put her dress on. Alex stood behind you and began to remove the curlers from your hair. You all jumped at the bang from the door opening.

“Not yet!” You heard Cas say as he fell through the doorway, his arms flailing. Your daughter busted into the room; she ran in circles around Cas while he tried desperately to catch her. You heard Claire snicker next to you, and then you all fell into laughter at the scene before you.

“Mommy!” She screamed as she raced towards you. You lifted her up onto your lap, and she immediately wrapped her little arms around your neck.

“Hey, buggy.” You said, kissing her temple and running your hand down her hair. She looked at you and gave you a smile, showing off her dimples. She had Y/S/C and Y/H/C hair that fell in loose curls down her back. Her almond-shaped eyes were the same ever-changing hazel shade as Sam’s; they sat above her high cheekbones. She was a perfect mix of you and Sam, and it melted your heart.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, she woke from her nap and just took off.” Cas apologized, walking towards you.

“No problem, Cas, we should probably get our dresses on. Thanks for watching her.” You smiled at him as you spoke; his shoulders fell as relief flooded him.

“Right, well, I will leave you to it.” He said, walking towards the door; he paused and turned back to you. “You look beautiful. You all do.” He said, turning the knob and stepping into the hallway, closing the door behind him. You looked at your daughter and placed her on the floor; you stood up and grabbed a snack for her from on top of the dresser.

“Here, baby, have this while mommy gets dressed, and then we will get you dressed.” She grabbed the snack and sat down on the floor to eat. You sat back down in the chair, and Alex got back to work taking out the curlers. She pulled out the sections and ran her fingers through them to fold the curls into each other. Then she gathered the top half, pulled it back into a mess of curls, and secured it with a flower pin. You stood and turned to take off your robe. Jodi stood in front of you with your dress open for you to step into. Donna zipped the back and ran her hands over the fabric to make sure it laid flat across your skin. You turned and looked in the mirror. Your heart rate picked up slightly as you looked at this gorgeous bride looking back at you.

“You look amazing,” Jodi said, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you. Thank you all so much.” You smiled at all of them as you turned around. Alex stepped over to Y/D/N and wiped her hands and face with a cloth before helping her remove her clothes. You picked up her dressed and unzipped it before you crouched down in front of her. “Here, buggy, let's get you dressed.” You helped her into her dress and zipped up the back.

“Pwincess!” She said, grabbing the sides of her dress and twisting back and forth.

“Yes, you are the most beautiful princess in all the land! And every princess needs a crown.” You said, grabbing a flower crown off the dresser and placing it on her head, pinning it with bobby pins. She smiled at you and giggled, touching the crown slightly. You stood and took her small hand in yours, grabbing your bouquet with your other hand. There was a knock on the door, and you knew it was time.

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

Sam ran his hands through his hair again as he paced back and forth.

“Dude, sit still. You're making me nervous,” Dean said, grabbing hold of his brother's shoulders and looking into his eyes.

“Sorry, right, yeah. I just…well, I’m just so fucking happy. I love Y/N so much, and we have made this beautiful little life together, and now…well, now I’m going to marry her. I am going to be her husband; I’m going to get to call her my wife. I’m just so happy, and I have all this nervous energy in me because this is big like this is a big moment, and I don’t know what to do with all of it, hence the pacing.” The words tumbled out of Sam’s mouth; his breath was coming in large and heavy breaths. His dimples were showing from when he smiled in between words, and his eyes were swimming with amazement. Dean let a small breath, and then his features softened as a smile broke across his face.

“You deserve this. Sammy. You two deserve to have a family and a life; you deserve happiness. You almost lost her, and I saw you do whatever you could; I watched you take care of her like she was the most important person on this planet. You two deserve all of this, you guys are perfect together, and I am so happy for you. Also, thank you for giving me the most beautiful niece in the world that I can spoil rotten when you guys don’t know.” Dean laughed lightly. He was horrible, letting her eat whole candy bars, sleep in his bed when you were practically begging her to sleep in her own bed, throw her veggies on the floor at dinner.

“We always know.” Sam cracked back, the two of them falling into a fit of laughter. They heard a bang and then some talking and laughing before Cas opened the door; he looked out of breath. He leaned slightly against the door and took a deep breath.

“Y/D/N.” He said as an explanation.

“Ah.” Sam and Dean said in unison, knowing fully what he meant.

“It's time,” Cas said, nodding at Sam. Sam nodded back and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, and pulled him into a tight hug.

“See you out there,” Dean said as they pulled away. Sam and Cas went outside and walked into the woods. They took the path to the pond and came upon the scene of your wedding. There were a few chairs for the hunters attending, most of them already there and seated. Sam got caught in the decorations for a moment, his pace slowing. The trees were lined with white mesh fabric that wrapped around the tops of hanging lights, creating a whimsical look in the forest. An archway sat in the grass right before the pond; it was wooden and had flowers placed all over it. Across from the pond was a small field where Dean, Cas, and Sam had put up a tent and built a dance floor. Dean had set up a bar, and Claire and Alex had hung more lights from the posts. There were candles everywhere, on the dance floor, leading up the aisle, in the archway, across the bar. It was beautiful. Sam and Cas took their respective places at the archway and waited. Jodi and Donna were the last to join the crowd, taking their seats and holding back their unshed tears. The music started, Claire and Alex followed Y/D/N down the aisle. She was practically running with her basket and throwing flowers in every direction, giggling happily.

“Daddy!” She screamed when she saw Sam, and the crowd gave a collective laugh. Claire lifted her into  her arms and placed her on her lap as they took their seats. Dusk was beginning to descend upon the woods making the diffused sun rays come through the branches. The sky was painted with pink, orange, and purple watercolors against the stark contrast of the dark trees. You walked into view, and Sam thought he might faint. All the air left his lungs, and his chest tightened. He swallowed and licked his lips, feeling all the moisture leave his mouth and everything faded around him. He couldn’t see anything else but you, couldn’t hear anything else but your laugh, you were perfect. Sam had to collect himself for a moment and wipe the sweat from his forehead. He finally was able to breathe again, and he touched his chest, feeling his heart stop.

Your hand was folded into Dean’s elbow as you started to walk. The decorations were amazing; you were distracted for a moment until you saw him. The moment his hazel eyes connected with yours, everything else fell away. You couldn’t hear the music, couldn’t see anyone else but him. Your breath came out as a shaky laugh as you and Dean approached the archway. Dean pulled you into a hug, kissing your temple before he took his place next to Sam. His hands took yours; his skin was so soft and warm against yours, it helped pull you back into the present. You licked your lips, finding your mouth suddenly dry as your heart was pounding in your chest. You were drawn out of your daze by Cas saying your name.

“Y/N, repeat after me.” You repeated the vows after Cas said them, never taking your eyes off Sam. You two exchanged rings and immediately grabbed each other’s hands again. “I now pronounce you husband and wife; you may kiss the bride,” Cas said with a smile. You practically jumped on Sam, your arms flying around his neck. He pulled you to him and lifted you off the ground slightly. You laughed against his mouth, his hand coming to twist in your hair. It was then you heard the clapping and cheering coming from around you. Sam placed you down on the ground, and you turned to face your family and friends. Y/D/N ran over to the two of you, and Sam lifted her into his arms, cuddling her against his chest.

“I love you.” He said, turning to you and wrapping one arm around your shoulders.

“I love you too.” You said, looking up at him.

“I give you for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester!” Cas said behind you, and the applause ramped up again as you and Sam walked down the aisle and over to the tent. Everyone followed you to the tent, Sam handed your daughter to Dean, and you two took the floor. Your song started, and Sam wrapped you into him; you gladly let your body melt into his. The two of you swayed to the music, getting lost in each other again. Slowly people started to join; Dean and Donna were first. Then Cas took your daughter onto the dance floor, spinning her around. As soon as the song ended, the party started. Drinks were poured, music was danced to, games were played. It was perfect. You were sitting at a table, resting your feet for a moment, when you felt hands on your shoulders. You looked up to see Sam; he smiled down at you and handed you a glass of champagne. You sipped on it as he took a seat across from you.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” Sam ran his hand under your dress, squeezing your thigh.

“You can tell me as many times as you want.” You joked, taking another sip.

“You look ravishing.” Sam leaned toward you, his eyes never leaving yours; you put your glass down and leaned forward too. He took your chin between his forefinger and thumb, pulling your face towards his. He pressed his lips against yours, swiping his tongue along your bottom lip. You softened into the kiss, his fingers spanning across your face. Suddenly, you heard the sound of glasses clinking. You and Sam pulled away to see your guests pointing at you and hitting their silverware against their glasses. You both started laughing, and you pressed your face into his shoulder. Claire walked over to you with your daughter on her chest.

“I’m going to put her down.” She said, stroking her back slightly.

“We can do it.” You offered.

“No, it's ok. You guys enjoy.” She smiled and walked into the bunker to get Y/D/N to bed; you stared at them, walking away. Sam wrapped his hands around your waist, leaning his chin on your shoulder. He kissed your neck, running his nose into your hair.

“I want another one.” You said, still staring at Claire and your daughter.

“Really?” Sam said, standing up as you turned to face him.

“Yeah, I do.” You said, placing your hands on Sam’s chest.

“I do too.” He smiled at you and kissed your forehead. “And I want them close in age.” He said against your skin.

“Well, we better get going then.” You said.

“I guess so.” He smiled at you. You loved the silent conversations you and Sam were always able to have just by looking at each other. Right now, he was letting you know to look forward to a night of passion in the near future.

The rest of the night passed with smiles, dancing, and running out of alcohol. You and Sam stumbled into your bedroom, giggling the whole time. He helped you out of your dress while you tried to get the pins out of your hair. You ran to the bathroom and showered together, grabbing each other like teenagers the whole time.

“Hair wash for my wife?” Sam asked you with a horrible British accent.

“Why yes, please, husband.” You were laughing so hard Sam had to almost hold you up. Sam’s fingers worked the shampoo into your hair and then ran the rest of the way down your body. He spun you and tilted your head back into the water. His hands were on either side of your face; he took a step towards you. His body was pressed against yours under the stream of water. He lowered his head so his mouth was inches above yours; his fingers traced the outline of your lips before he kissed you. His mouth overtook yours as he took your breath away.

You knew this was forever. He was forever. You had made a family together, and there was nothing the two of you couldn’t do. Your life with Sam Winchester already had a few chapters, but this felt like a whole new book. You were bound to each other by more than just a piece of paper, you were his, and he was yours, for the rest of your lives. As you started down this new path, you were so lucky to have such an amazing man to call your own. He was everything you needed, and you balanced each other perfectly. When he held you, you were at peace. You were safe. You were home.

Tags: @supernatural3002​

[sprnklersplashes]

written in ink (cadnis one-shot)

Ever since Janis could read, she's known one of the biggest plot twists in Harry Potter. Not because she worked it out, but because it's been tattooed on her skin all her life. Her soulmate spoiled Dumbedore's death for her.

The AU where the first words you hear your soulmate say are tattooed on your body, Cadnis style.

Since she was old enough to read, Janis had wondered what her soulmate’s first words to her could mean. It’s pretty scary, especially for a kid, knowing that the first words you ever hear your soulmate saying will be about someone dying. She’s puzzled over who the future death might be even more than she has about who her future soulmate might be. She doesn’t want to ask her parents for fear it’s someone close to them, nor does she think to look it up at her young age and so for the first few years of her life her world is dominated by one, huge, unavoidable question; who in her future dies, and what they are to her soulmate.

But then she’s old enough to know about Harry Potter, and she doesn’t need to wonder any more.

Her soulmate tattoo, etched in black across her ribs, reads I just can’t believe Dumbledore died.

She got two pages into Philosopher’s Stone before she made the connection and flung the book across her bedroom, her eyes popping out of her head and her jaw on the floor. The first question on her mind is “what kind of insane author kills off the main character’s mentor?”, but soon she’ll learn that frankly, that is the least of JK Rowling’s problems. The second question is “so… my soulmate is into Harry Potter?”. And then the third question comes slowly, creeping into her brain with tentative steps and simmering excitement, “so when do I get to meet them?”.

She doesn’t get a quick answer to that last one.

It’s a bit of a pain really, having a major spoiler to everyone’s favourite book series permanently written on her body. For one, there’s always a surge of pity in her chest when she sees people with the books, oblivious to the impending death of a beloved parental figure. Like God’s cursed her with forbidden knowledge that places her above her classmates, where she can watch them live in blissful ignorance until they reach the fated book or movie or just Google it because they’re too impatient. Janis is denied that luxury, her knowing of events yet to come too much for her to even give the books a chance. They’re not worth the way her heart clenches painfully in her chest whenever the wise old wizard comes in.

Okay that was an exaggeration. There are far better books out there that she’s happy to read. But that doesn’t change how the words seem to burn on her skin. No one likes spoilers after all.  So when she changes before PE it’s in half the time it takes the other girls and she covers it up with make-up during the summer. And then kids start to get nosy and what should be an intimate secret is tossed around carelessly, and she starts teaching herself the art of lying.

Regina’s the one who asks first. They’re 12 and it’s a sleepover and she’s sprawled across her bed, her chin resting on her closed fist, her eyes glinting dangerously in the half-light.

“Okay Janis. Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” she chooses. She’s not scared of dares, but she’s smart enough to know better than to take a dare from her.

“Okay,” she says, her lips curling into a sly smirk, one that makes Janis bite on the inside of her cheek and wish she could take it back. Sometimes she forgets how slippery Regina can be, especially on days like today when she’s been nothing but bouncy and fun and kind. She forgot that this side to her best friend even existed, the side that takes jokes too far and tries to pry Janis open like she’s a treasure chest. All that comes back to her when she tosses her perfect hair over her shoulder and raises her eyebrow, and she’s reminded that sometimes she doesn’t actually like hanging out with Regina.

She’s also reminded that she hates Truth or Dare.

“What does your soulmate tattoo say?”

“That’s private,” Janis reminds her, hugging the pillow tighter against her chest. “You’re only meant to tell your soulmate.”

“I know,” she scoffs, rolling off the bed and shuffling towards Janis. “But everyone tells people. And if you can’t tell me, your best friend, who can you tell?” Her tone is like the satin sheets on her bed, soft and comforting and familiar that Janis almost falls for it and tells her. Besides, Regina doesn’t even read Harry Potter, right? So it’s not like she would care… But other people might. And Regina might tell other people. Or Gretchen. Or Karen. Most likely Karen. And Karen could tell who-knows-who, who could tell who-knows-who, and then before she knows it she’s ruined Harry Potter for her entire grade. And then anything could happen to her. Taylor Wedell got her head shoved in a toilet for spoiling the end of Gossip Girl. And Janis really likes her head.

“I’m not telling, Regina,” she says, shrugging. “I’m sorry. That’s private.”

But there’s no word Regina George hates more than ‘no’. Her eyes narrow and her face falls into a pout even as she shrugs it off, telling Janis that she’s making a big deal out of nothing and if she won’t tell her that’s her problem. Janis tries to make it up to her, saying that she can ask anything else, but Regina won’t listen, deciding she wants to braid Karen’s hair instead.

They spend the rest of the night in a prickly silence and it takes a week before Regina returns to normal after that.

Damian is her next friend and he’s far better company than Regina is. He shows her his tattoo of his own volition, proudly extending his arm so she can see the words ‘can you do that again?’ written there in a rushed scribble. He confesses that he’s compared it with every other boy’s notes in their year, trying to see if he’s already met his other half and just forgot.

“I don’t think you can do that,” she tells him as they walk home from school one day, aged fourteen. “My mom said that when my dad first spoke to her it changed everything else. Like the minute she heard those words, nothing else mattered. She described it as some flower opening up in her chest.” She rolls her eyes a little, unsure if she’s inclined to believe all that. “It was really poetic.”

“Sounds beautiful,” he remarks, kicking up a pile of leaves. “Is that why you won’t tell me yours?”

“Sort of,” she sighs. “Hey, do you like Harry Potter?”

“I guess,” he replies. “I mean I’m more of a fan of the lore than of the books itself, what’s your house, I’m a Hufflepuff-”

It’s months later when they watch the sixth movie for the first time. The two of them on the sofa in Damian’s basement, Janis half-paying attention, half-working on a drawing. Damian is on the edge of the couch, his eyes wide and his hand slapping Janis’ leg every ten minutes. Despite telling herself she doesn’t care, she does, but it isn’t in the way Damian thinks she does. Her heart hammers against her ribs through the whole movie and nearly stops in every scene Dumbledore is in as she wonders if this is it, the moment she’s had carved into her skin her whole life.

She lets out a loud, relieved “finally!” when he eventually up and dies, prompting Damian to turn to her with his mouth open and his eyebrows shot up to the ceiling, a silent ‘Janis, what the fuck’ on his face.

And it’s then she tells him, tells him about the words on her chest and the secret she’s kept and how someone she’s never met ruined one of the biggest franchises in pop culture for her.

Damian laughs so hard his cat has to run over and check he’s not dead.

                                                                                                    *****

Janis sits on her desk in the art room, studying her piece from every new angle she can find. Not many people are in, given that it’s only the second week of junior year, which gives her a space to work on her own. Thanks to her spending the better part of her freshman and sophomore lunch periods in here, the art teacher gives her free range over the place and leaves for her cigarette breaks when she comes in, telling her not to touch anything and help herself to the cookies in her drawer but not to tell anyone else. And with just two seniors in and devoted to their work, she sits on the desk, her foot on the chair and a paintbrush between her fingers, trying to find the right colour.

“Good morning starshine!” Damian sings, earning him glares from the seniors. “Ooft, tough crowd.”

“They’re trying to focus,” she tells him, handing him a cookie. Sure Miss Peters said not to give the cookies to anyone, but Damian’s not anyone.

“My apologies to them,” he says in a low voice, leaning against the table and taking in her newest piece, a mermaid with flowing black hair and delicate purple eyes, the little fangs on her mouth the only allusion to the danger she holds. “That’s cool.”

“You think?” she replies, pride thumping in her chest.

“I know,” he says firmly, a smile on his face and the kind of wholesome honesty that only moms, grandmas and Damian Hubbard know how. “Did you hear the tea?”

“What?” She avoids school gossip like the plague, knowing all too well how it feels to be on the receiving end, but if Damian is telling her it’s either important, completely harmless or hilarious.

“There’s a new girl in our grade,” he tells her. So it’s the first one. “The student activities committee was telling me. Apparently she moved here from…. Kenyaaaa…” He drags the ‘a’ out for as long as his mighty lungs will allow, wiggling his eyebrows for dramatic effect.

“That’s neat,” she remarks, secretly getting a kick of Damian’s wounded puppy ‘why aren’t you appreciating my dramatics’ face. It’s a little more than neat, new kids aren’t really common in North Shore, especially ones from Kenya. “What’s her name?”

“Katie Heron, apparently,” he says. He opens his mouth to say more but he’s cut short by the bell ringing, ending their free period. With a sigh, Janis places her picture back in her folder and tucks it under her arm. Damian skips along beside her, filling her in on the whispers of the drama department about the upcoming musical and telling her he’s secured a room for their LGBTQ+ club movie night on Friday. She chats along, suggesting some more movies to add to their list and agrees what snacks to bring and asks him to get a list of dietary requirements from everyone. The normal kind of stuff that she deals with on normal school days.

But in the very very back of her mind, the name ‘Katie Heron’ sticks, and she’s not entirely sure why.

As fate would have it, she sees the new girl at lunch. It’s pure chance, she just happens to look up at the right moment in the right direction and sees an unfamiliar face in the cafeteria. And quite frankly, she’s pretty. She’s tiny, impossibly tiny, as in a kind of tiny that should probably not be legal, with long, caramel-coloured hair, braided at the top and the rest falling past her shoulders. She’s not too far away from her and she can see the wide smile on her face, innocent and excited, dimples in her rosy cheeks, and while she can’t see what colour her eyes are, she can see them lighting up as she looks around the cafeteria. She stands out, even in her cargo shorts and plaid shirt. Like the rest of the cafeteria-including Janis- was drawn in pencil but she was drawn in pen.

There’s something in her gut, something pushing her to go say hi, maybe invite her to sit with them even though that wouldn’t be normal for her. Damian’s the one who does that anyway and she’s just the arm candy. There’s no reason she should single this girl out other than the fact that she’s new. And she looks a little lonely, wandering around tables, her neck craning for an empty seat. Maybe Damian can do the talking and she can just smile.

Janis very nearly does approach her. She pushes herself up and makes to head in her direction. But one thing, one crucial thing, stops her.

Regina. Regina slides up to the new girl with a beaming smile and a no-doubt sweet, breathy voice, touching new girl-Katie’s-shoulder and tugging on her arm, asking her to come have lunch when them at their table, all the way on the other side of the cafeteria. She happily agrees and Regina links arms with her and escorts her away from the art freaks and towards Plastic Land, where Regina’s word is the word of God. She can tell her anything and New Girl will believe her.

Janis slumps back down, a cold, heavy weight in her stomach. She scoffs at herself and shakes her head, no clue why she’s so upset, since she doesn’t even know her. Damian’s eyes meet hers and he pats her shoulder sympathetically, a ‘maybe next time’ said softly to her. But when she spies her at the Plastic’s table amongst the pink and gold, she wonders with a heavy heart if there will be a next time.  

She crosses paths with the new girl three times in the following week. During that week she learns that her name is Cady with a C, a D and a Y, not Katie. She also learns that she’s taking AP calculus, she really likes math and that she used to live with animals. She also works out that she’s in her French class but was sick that day, and that the empty seat captured her attention more than anything their teacher said did.

She’s also learning that she might be becoming a stalker.

“So are you going to talk to her?” Damian asks her during gym.

“Why would I?” she replies, slowing down her pace once she’s out of the coach’s vision.

“Because you like her,” she replies, drawing out the ‘like’ for as long as his lungs will allow, as though the longer he says it the more Janis likes her.

“I don’t even know her,” she reminds him. “You probably know her better than I do.”

“Yes, and I know you better than you know you. So I know you like her.” She rolls her eyes, unable to find it in her to correct him. It’s not untrue. “I also watched you obsessively stalk her Instagram and Facebook accounts for a solid thirty minutes so...”

“Oh stop,” she scoffs, laughter in her voice. “You didn’t stop me so that’s 90% on you.”

“Oh so I have to steer you straight?”

“Well that would be an accomplishment,” she grins. “Considering.”

“Hubbard, Sarkisian!” the coach barks at them from the middle of the field. “Pick up the pace and stop the chatting or it’s two more laps!”

They speed ahead and lower their voices, privately discussing what they think of the coach and his new shorts and what they’d like to do to his head with those dodgeballs.

                                                                                               *****

By Friday, Janis has almost forgotten about her crush-that’s-not-a-crush on Cady. Well, she’s not forgotten it but she’s put it to the side. Well, not to the side, but it’s away for now. Well, not away but… Cady wasn’t the first thing on her mind when she woke up, so she’s calling it progress.

At least the LGBT+ movie night provides a welcome distraction. They only have the hall for the next few hours, just enough time for Pride and Love, Simon and finishing off with a few episodes of One Day At A Time, which is a cheat, since they’re not movies, but they’re the only thing short enough to fill the remaining time.

Janis takes charge of snacks while Sonja and Sophie argue with the IT guy over how to use the projector, Sophie’s hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder, pulling her down when she gets too heated. Janis tries not to wonder if her girlfriend will do that for her one day. She’s trying to banish all thoughts of romance entirely, but Sonja is leaning on Sophie and holding her hand as they look at the computer together and it makes Janis’ chest ache and images of a certain brunette creep into her mind.

The more she tries not to think about Cady, the more she does, so much so that when the doors open and Cady jumps in with the Mathletes and their matching jackets, Janis is half-sure she’s imagining it.

And then she panics.

“Holy crap,” she whispers, slapping Damian’s shoulder again and again until he acknowledges her. “Damian, Damian, Damian!” There’s a knot in her stomach and a familiar feeling of being pulled towards her, like there’s an invisible rope around her waist.

“I see her!” he replies, grabbing her hand both to comfort her and stop her from slapping him again. His hands come around her shoulders, straightening her back and holding her up as Cady wanders over in their direction. Her eyes happen to find them and her face breaks into a smile, and for an insane moment, Janis thinks she’s smiling at her. Which would be ridiculous because they’ve never said one word to each other. The only reason she might smile at her is if she was being extra-friendly or if she was her-

No, she tells herself sternly. Not the S word.

“Oh, Janis, Damian!” Kevin hollers, jumping down the hall to them with the rest of his crew. Janis wipes her hand on her shorts, giving what she hopes is a normal smile. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey Kev,” Damian replies, offering a high-five.

“You guys met my girl Cady?” he asks, gesturing to her. Met is a funny word in this scenario. I wish is the response Janis thinks but doesn’t say out loud.

“We haven’t had the pleasure,” Damian replies, eyeing Janis and grinning. “Hubbard comma Damian. This is my amusing sidekick, Sarkisian comma Janis.” His introduction makes Cady laugh and it sounds like a bell ringing or part of a melody being played.

“We’re introducing her to American pop culture,” Marwan adds just as Cady is opening her mouth to speak. She closes it, a pleasant expression on her face but her hand is clenched into a tight fist. “But we need a break from Harry Potter. That’s too dark. We watched Half-Blood Prince and oof” He makes a cutting-your-head-off gesture with his hand, his features twisted into over-dramatic "yikes". Cady nods along enthusiastically and opens her mouth, a sense of urgency in her face, as though one might cut her off, and Janis is almost excited to hear her. Holy crap, is this having it bad?

“I just can’t believe Dumbledore died!” she exclaims. "I mean who does that?"

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

It doesn’t happen the way Janis’ mom described it. Rather than a flower blooming in her chest it’s a truck hitting her at full speed and sending her flying, her mind turning to static at those words and the pieces don’t even have time to connect in her brain before she yells-

“It’s you! You’re the one!” And at that, Cady’s mouth falls open and her eyes bulge as her hand flies to her forearm. For years, this girl has occupied Janis’ mind, and now she’s face to face with her, and in her most dire moment, rational thought has abandoned her. “You ruined Harry Potter for me!”

“Well… that’s not how I thought this was going to go down,” she mumbles, her pale cheeks turning pink.

As she comes back to herself, Janis looks around her, finding a face looking at her everywhere she turns. Some are amused, some shocked, some annoyed, some confused. But they surround her and the room starts closing in on her, making her feel like caged animal in a zoo, a spectacle for people to discuss over lunch. It’s a familiar feeling all right.

Her eyes meet Cady’s, terrified brown meeting bewildered blue and alongside the heavy cloud of embarrassment and the jagged anxiety, she feels a stab of guilt for doing this to her and it all threatens to crush her. So she does what feel most normal for her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she finds herself running towards the doors and out into the hallway.

“Janis, wait!” Cady calls after her, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floors. She catches up to where Janis is standing, taking in deep breaths and pulling herself back together. Cady hovers in front of her, unsure of what to do, which isn’t what Janis expected. Shouldn’t soulmates just know?

“Sorry,” she repeats, straightening up. “Sorry I shouldn’t have flipped out like that.”

“S’okay,” she replies with a shrug, tapping her toe against the floor. She gives her an adorably sheepish look, one that makes Janis want to hold her tight forever. “Sorry I ruined Harry Potter for you.”

“Oh it’s fine,” she scoffs. “Seriously. Percy Jackson’s the superior children’s series. I wasn’t losing sleep over it.”

“I’ll make a note to read those,” she says softly, stepping a little closer to her. When she looks up at her, Janis feels it. The feeling her mom told her about. The flower opens in her chest and her worries begin to fade at the edges. Right now is the moment she begins hoping and daring to be brave, which is new for her. But there’s something, always something, or rather someone that looms over her and threatens it, even when she’s not physically here. She got her claws into Cady first and Janis can’t not be freaked out by that.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” she begins.

“I’ve not heard anything,” is what Cady replies in a firm voice. “Not anything worth repeating.”

“You haven’t?” Janis asks. The urge to pick at her nails rises in her. “Because… I know people-”

“Regina?” she says. She stuffs her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, her expression half-smile, half-grimace. “Yeah. She told me stuff. But…”

“But?” That makes her laugh again, and even though it’s soft and more of a breath, it’s beautiful to her.

“But you know… I’m not going to trust someone who uses slurs that freely,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “Or who keeps a burn book about other people.” It takes a lot of self-control not for Janis not to hug her right now. Her anxiety dissolves almost entirely, replaced by feelings that are new and exciting and safe, above everything else. She feels safe with her. Maybe that’s what a soulmate means. Having someone be your safety net.

“You know…” she begins, sneaking a glance back inside the gym, where the movie has already started playing. “These things are great, but they seem to have it under control. Maybe you and I could go to the diner down the street? Get some milkshakes? Hang out? Talk a little?”

“I’d love that,” Cady replies, her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkling. She bites her lip and after a moment’s hesitation, holds out her hand. Her face is expectant but her fingers wiggle nervously. Her fingernails are painted green and on her wrist is a braided leather bracelet. Her hand looks soft and tiny and perfectly suited to hers, just like Cady herself, she supposes.

After more than a moment’s hesitation, Janis takes it, and nothing before has ever felt so right.

[thechildoflightning]

Growing Roots Ch2- Plumule

Title: Growing Roots [Masterpost]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic Prinxiety, background Logicality

~~~

Chapter Title: Plumule- Chapter Two

Summary: 

A plant, much like friendship, doesn’t grow in a day. To grow, a plant requires the right nutrients, proper soil conditions, and correct lighting to grow to its full potential. Even with this perfect balance, not every plant makes it. A friendship is much more delicate, and a lot more complex.

Or: How exactly did Roman and Virgil become friends?

Warnings: PTSD, Flashback, Pet Death (past), Assumptions, Aggressive Male, Unsafe Situation, Lack of Consent, Date Rape Drugs (past), Sexual Assault/Abuse/Rape (mentioned)

[ao3 link]

~~~

Plumule- Chapter Two

Roman would be the first to admit that things were not the best between Virgil and him. It was all to clear, but Roman was trying to fix that, okay? He really, really was. The main issue that continuously thwarted Roman’s plans at friendship was that sometimes Virgil would get angry for no reason at all. Roman was doing his best to respect Virgil’s boundaries and what made him uncomfortable, but it was made pretty difficult when Virgil wasn’t willing to share most of those boundaries with him. 

At this point, Roman pretty much knew three rules for dealing with Virgil: one- don’t touch Virgil without consent (even for the smallest things like a hand on the shoulder or bumping him gently); two- if Trixie was bugging Virgil, Roman needed to leave them both alone (sometimes Virgil would just take a breath, but other times he would slide to the ground and Trixie would clamor on top of him); three- if Virgil says ‘no’ that’s it, that’s the decision and there would be no arguing it (Virgil would only say no to things that made him uncomfortable and would instead say things like ‘I don’t want to’ or ‘I would prefer’ for things he had no real issue with but still didn’t want to do).

Roman did his best to respect those three rules. The problem was, there were a lot of things that didn’t quite fit into those categories that made it a lot harder for Roman to navigate the treacherous waters of being Virgil’s maybe-sorta-kinda-working on it friend. (Last week Virgil had freaked out over some hot tea. The week before he had requested that Patton didn’t leave out his Anatomy book when he came over).

Roman didn’t get Virgil. But he was trying to. Which made tonight the perfect night, while also the absolute worse. 

Tonight was Movie in the Quad. Logan, Patton, Virgil, and Roman himself had all been planning to go. In the end, Patton and Logan canceled last minute, due to the fact that Patton was having a bad pain day. Virgil and Roman had immediately offered to come over instead, so that Patton didn’t have to leave his room. After Logan had prompted him to be honest with what he needed and wanted, Patton had refused their request citing the need for space and rest. 

Logan’s insistence at Patton’s honesty made Roman wonder how often Patton had lied about his pain levels and needs before. He vowed to work on being more observant in the future. 

Patton had also insisted that Roman and Virgil still go see the movie, since all four of them had been looking forward to it. Considering it was Patton insisting and it was pretty impossible to tell him no, Roman and Virgil had both hesitantly agreed and committed to still going 

This was where the chance to get to know Virgil better came in. The problem- Roman and Virgil has never really talked without the presence of Logan and Patton around, making the interaction extremely awkward. 

But it was a little too late to back out. 

Roman had spread out a blanket early on and sprawled across it. Virgil met up with him a few minutes later, hands fiddling with the short leash on Trixie. He had joined Roman on the blanket, but had elected to sit in the furthest corner away from him. Virgil then had Trixie lie down next to him, and she settled her head in his lap. 

If Virgil wasn’t such a grouch, Roman might call it adorable. 

So there the two of them were, awkwardly on the same blanket waiting for the movie to start. (Which was looking to be awhile because at first the projector had been too low and then it had a weird tilt and then for some reason the image was flipped upside down and now it didn’t seem to be working at all and they were trying to fix it). 

Around them, people chatted to pass the time. Virgil and Roman seemed to be outliers, instead giving each other awkward looks and refusing to talk. Roman decided to make an attempt and go with the less creepy version of the ‘adorable’ thought. 

“Trixie’s really cute,” he mentioned. 

Virgil’s head jerked up to him, as if completely caught off guard by Roman talking to him. 

Come on, it couldn’t be that weird that Roman was instigating conversation between them, right? Roman had started a conversation between the two of them before, hadn’t he?

(He couldn’t remember a single time he had).

“Oh,” Virgil said with a smile, as he looked down at his dog. He petted her a few times and she thumped her tail on the ground. “Yeah, she is pretty cute isn’t she?”

Roman hummed and wondered where to go from there. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to figure it out, because Virgil was doing that for him. 

“Y’know, she has this one spot on her- Here, just come here for a second, yeah?” 

Bits of curious confusion stumbled through Roman’s brain, but he shrugged and did as requested. 

Virgil said the word, “Break,” and Trixie’s entire demeanor changed. She didn’t actually do anything different- besides roll onto her side at Virgil’s instruction- but she seemed completely changed. Roman had never seen her seem so much like, well, like a dog before. Which was weird considering she was a dog, but that was the best way he could describe her demeanor in that moment.

“Hand?” Vigil requested, holding his own out. 

Roman shrugged, but dropped his hand onto Virgil’s. He noted that the other boys was surprisingly warm. Roman thought he would of ran cold. It just seemed like a Virgil thing. Guess he was wrong. 

Virgil placed his hand on Trixie’s lower belly before moving it quickly from side to side, effectively petting Trixie with Roman’s hand. 

Instantly, the dog’s hind leg came up to shake and thump, as if scratching herself in mid air. 

A surprised laugh escaped Roman and a grin raced across his mouth. Virgil offered his own smile in return. He removed his own hand, and let Roman continue to let her by himself. He continued to do so with dedication, attention completely focused on the dog’s leg. 

A minute later, and the abnormal movement stopped. 

Roman frowned, admittedly disappointed. Virgil just laughed, rolled his eyes, and moved Roman’s hand slightly, before nodding for him to continue. 

Roman did so, and was excited to see Trixie’s behavior return. 

When Roman finally got bored, he stopped petting the pup quite as rigorously and moved to give her long stroking pets instead. Her tongue hung out of her mouth and she twisted a bit to move more into her back, her legs suspended in midair. 

Virgil rolled eyes at the behavior. 

“Yeah, you like that don’t you girl? Yeah, you do. Roman spoils you, huh? Spoils you with all the belly rubs?” he teased her.

Trixie made a little huffing noise and closed her eyes in pure bliss. Virgil laughed. Roman found the sound surprising and nice. Separate adjectives. Not surprisingly nice, surprising and nice. In fact, Roman would have bet money on Virgil’s laugh being adorable. 

He blushed and continued to pet Trixie. He accidentally hit the same spot on her lower belly, causing her to kick her hind leg a few times again. 

“Yeah, she’s done that since she was a pup. Dolly would do it on occasion, but she wasn’t quite as sensitive or really ever had like, a specific place that would get her to do that. Trix has always had that one spot.”

As Virgil explained, an expression Roman hadn’t seen crossed his face. His smile was sweeter than normal and his voice was soft and fond. 

Roman had never seen Virgil nostalgic before. He thought that was maybe what this was. 

“Dolly?” he questioned, because he hadn’t recognized that name. 

“Yeah, Dolly was my first service dog.”

“You had a service dog before Trixie?” Roman asked, a fair amount of shock coating his words. 

He didn’t know why he was shocked. He had thought- well Roman hadn’t known what he had thought. Roman knew Virgil was different. He was pretty sure that Trixie wasn’t for any sort of physical disability or illness or something, which meant that Trixie had to be for something mental. 

Roman also knew that service dogs were a pretty serious thing. He knew that. At the same time, he hadn’t ever really taken the time to consider that Virgil having Trixie probably meant something fairly serious. Again, Roman had known something was different about Virgil, but he had also kinda expected- he didn’t even know- Virgil to change or something? To move on? Roman hadn’t really considered that whatever was going on with Virgil would potentially be a lifelong thing. The mention of another service dog made a lot of things click into place. 

Roman should not of needed evidence to realize any of this. He should not of needed proof of longer support through a previous service dog. He should not have expected Virgil to change or move on. But he hadn’t known, hadn’t realized. But he knew now. He could respect that. He could change his behavior (again, because Roman could never seem to get it right because he really was that much of an absolute failure at this whole thing and sure he was trying but did that even matter if it didn’t change anything?)

“Yeah,” Virgil said, “Yeah Dolly was actually my first service dog. She uh- she actually just passed away a few months ago.”

“Oh,” Roman said. His hand stilled on Trixie. “Uh, sorry.”

Virgil shrugged and curled in on himself.

“Is what it is,” he offered. His voice was toneless and the sentence dry. Roman felt like he should offer something here. He just wasn’t really sure what.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Virgil sighed and a hand gripping the sleeve of his hoodie came up to wipe at his eyes.

“No,” Virgil said, “No. It’s okay. I’ve- I’ve like, come to terms with it. It’s not a big deal anymore. It’s just… It just makes me sad sometimes.”

“I think I get that,” Roman validated, “My mom- well she was already sick, but she died giving birth to me. I never knew her, y’know? But every once and awhile, I just get, sad about it.”

Virgil nodded in what was probably agreement or understanding.

He opened his mouth to say something more, but just then, there was a loud whoop from the crowd. Both Roman and Virgil’s heads shot up, and they caught sight of the opening credits on the large white screen the school was projecting the movie onto. They got the projector fixed then. Good.

With that, the music started to blare, and Roman and Virgil settled in to watch.

It was about an hour in that Roman had to pee. He got up, and turned to leave, before catching sight of Virgil’s face.

The other boy- who had taken to cuddling with his dog just moments ago- was now half sitting up and gazing after Roman, mouth slightly open.

“Just headed to the bathroom,” Roman remarked.

Virgil hesitated. Trixie shifted slightly, settling her head on one of Virgil’s legs. His gaze moved towards her, before looking back up at Roman.

“Okay,” Virgil said, “See you in a minute.”

Roman nodded and turned to leave, expecting to do exactly that.

He did not see Virgil in a minute, because just as he was headed back across the lawn to rejoin Virgil after using the restroom, he ran into a guy, quite literally. 

The guy stumbled a few steps before catching his balance. Roman apologized, half holding a hand out in some attempt at help. The guy’s gaze dropped to it, and seemed to note the rainbow bracelet Roman wore on his wrist.

“It’s alright sweetheart,” the guy slurred a little, and Roman was immediately put off.

The man was obviously more than a little buzzed, which made Roman a bit uneasy in the first place. The second issue was the way that the guy had started eyeing him. Roman wasn’t one to mind being checked out, but something about how this guy did it was just off and made Roman’s skin crawl.

“Hi,” Roman said, voice curt, “Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me, I’m trying to get back to my friend.”

The guy laughed and Roman’s body started to feel a little heavier than normal.

“Noooo,” he whined, “Don’t worry about your friend right now. You’ve got me! And I can be quite good company, if you know what I mean.” He threw in a wink that sent Roman’s stomach rolling.

“Sorry,” Roman insisted, “I really do need to be going.” He turned away, knowing that staying in this situation any longer wouldn’t do him any good.

“Hey!” the guy shouted, and then Roman felt a hand grasping his wrist.

Roman had always been a flirt, he would admit that freely. He enjoyed it, but he also only enjoyed it when it was consensual. Usually that meant that Roman- as the flirtee- would need to make sure that the guy he was flirting with was comfortable with said flirting.

In this case, the tables were turned, and this guy certainly didn’t seem to care about Roman’s comfort levels or consent. This wasn’t flirting or showing interest. This was being inappropriate, and creepy, and borderline dangerous.

“Please let me go.”

His voice came out as a whisper, and he was- quite frankly- disappointed in himself, even if he wasn’t the one that should be feeling any shame in that moment.

“C’mon, at least tell me your name, pretty thing. Don’t I deserve that at the very least?” the guy asked. His gaze was unfocused, but stiff as steel, and it was then Roman regret not taking a single self-defense course in his life. The man might have been drunk, but he had a firm grip on Roman’s wrist, and he was much bigger and stronger than Roman. Roman was tall but had never been extremely athletic. He had never regretted it until now.

“Come on, honey,” the stranger cooed, “Your name?”

Roman didn’t know what to do.

“Let go of him,” a new voice demanded, stepping into the fray. Roman blinked a few times because- because it was Virgil.

“No need to worry,” the creeper purred, turning his attention to Virgil, “Everything’s fine here, right darling?” He shot an expectant gaze towards Roman.

“Let go of me,” Roman insisted once more.

The man didn’t.

“You heard him,” Virgil said.

“And if I don’t?” The guy asked, sizing Virgil up. If Roman was smaller than this guy, than Virgil was tiny compared to them; this guy would overpower him in a heartbeat. The guy seemed to know it as well because his grip didn’t loosen and his smile refused to drop.

“You don’t want to find out,” Virgil threatened.

The guy then had the gall to laugh, which was the exact moment numerous things happen.

With the lack of focus on him, Roman was able to twist away from the man and free his arm. At almost the exact same time, Virgil planted himself firmly between Roman and the stranger and threw a well-aimed punch, setting him stumbling back a few paces in surprise. As he did so, Virgil yelled one singular word as loud as he could.

“FIRE!” he screeched.

Everyone turned to look their way, muttering voices looking for the danger. The man, who had recovered from Virgil’s shove, stopped in his pursuit back towards him as over a hundred eyes turned to stare at them. He scowled and stalked away. People also started to glance away, now eased by the knowledge that was definitely no fire. Roman wasn’t even sure if any of them had noticed what had happened.

Speaking of…

“Hey, uh, thanks,” Roman offered, turning back towards Virgil.

Virgil nodded, and Roman realized he was shaking. It was then he realized he was also shaking. 

After what seemed to be only a moment later, they were back in Roman’s dorm. Roman knew it had to have been more than a moment but the only thing he could remember was Virgil and him looking at each other and now he was opening his door with his key.

The instant it opened, the two of them plus dog stumbled inside. Roman fell onto his bed, Virgil at his desk.

Roman couldn’t believe what just happened. What had happened? What was going on?

(He was still shaking).

He took a breath, and everything started to fit back into place. He took another and the world slid back into focus. He took a third and he was okay.

He was okay. He was going to be okay.

Thanks to Virgil.

Roman looked up, planning to thank him again now that the situation had calmed down exponentially and Roman wasn’t freaking out quite as much anymore, the adrenaline fading away. He expected Virgil to be in about the same mental state as he was in, but when he caught a glance of him, it was very clear that he was not.

Virgil was crying. Loud, ugly, wheezing, thick crying. Tears and snot and fluids covering his face. Trixie was draped across his lap in his seated position. He didn’t seem to notice her and then he began to scream. Loudly.

Roman winced and fought the urge to cover his ears. He was loud.

Virgil was screaming and crying and he was huddled in on himself and Trixie was trying to stay on top of him but it was hard when Virgil was curling up into a ball. 

Roman didn’t know what to do. 

He never knew what to do. 

“Virgil,” he called cautiously.

The boy didn’t respond. He wasn’t quite screaming anymore, but he was loudly begging. For what Roman couldn’t quite be sure because Virgil kept cutting himself off and slurring his words and talking over himself. 

Roman knew a pleading tone when he heard one. This went a step further. 

Roman hesitated, before getting up and took a step forward, trying to be of some assistance. 

Virgil flinched backward violently and Trixie stepped in between them. Virgil also stopped his pleading and turned instead to apologizing. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the boy whimpered, “I’ll do better. I promise! Just please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.”

Roman’s heart thudded because those words suggested things he wasn’t quite ready for. He took a step back, hoping that would help. 

It didn’t. Virgil continued to apologize. His volume did lower, but Roman had no idea if that was a good thing or not. 

Trixie returned to his side and tried to nuzzle apart his hands that had been gripping onto his opposite upper arms. 

Roman didn’t know what to do, but trying to help didn’t work, so he decided to wait it out. (Virgil would be okay in a little bit, right? He had to be. Because if he wasn’t, well Roman wasn’t sure what to do next. Should he call someone? A doctor? 911?)

He should call someone, he realized, and he knew who to call as well. 

The phone rang twice before a familiar voice picked up. 

“Roman. Why are you calling?”

“Hey Specs, so Emo Nightmare’s freaking out and I don’t know what the hell to do,” he blurted out instantly. 

If anyone would have a solution, it would have to be Logan, right?

“Okay,” he replied, “What do you mean by freaking out? Also, if you don’t know what to do, you should probably learn.”

“I am trying to learn,” Roman insisted. He ignored the rest of Logan’s words, working on the second half first because that was the part that had stung some place deep inside of him, so it was the part he was going to focus on, “That’s why I called you. I thought you would know what to do.”

“I know you’re trying. I wasn’t suggest that you weren’t, and I apologize if that’s how it came off as. That was not my intention Roman.”

Roman shifted, cast a gaze back at Virgil who was still giving pleading apologies. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. 

“I can try to help. What’s going on?”

“He’s- he’s. I don’t even know. He’s not looking at me and doesn’t seem to even realize I’m here. He’s curled up in a corner and apologizing and asking to not be hurt. I tried approaching him but that made it worse.”

“Is Trixie with him?”

“Yeah?”

“What is she doing?”

“Uh, at first she tried to like, sorta jump and lay on top of him? And then when I tried to approach him she stood in front of him. I backed away and she went back to him and was nudging his arms. He’s curled up, so she can’t lay on him anymore, but she is pawing and nudging him.”

“Okay. I think Virgil’s having a flashback.”

“A flashback?”

“Yes- a flashback is a disturbing immersive memory that can cause extreme panic while seeming completely real and current to the person experiencing it,” Logan rattled off. 

“No, no, Logan I know what a flashback is I just don’t know why Virgil is having one.”

“Well they can happen to anyone that experiences a distressing enough experience, but is often common in those who have dealt with intense trauma or have PTSD.”

“Yeah but Virgil hasn’t- I mean, Virgil?”

“I couldn’t tell you which category Virgil falls into, but I probably could form an educated guess, though that is not important right now. The important thing is that he is having a flashback.”

Which he still was. Roman was expecting this whole phone conversation to much quicker and for this situation to be much easier. 

“Okay so what do I do?”

“Was there a triggering incident?”

“A what?” Roman asked. 

“A triggering incident,” Logan repeated, “Something that may have been a catalyst for Virgil’s current state.”

“Uh, I mean yeah,” Roman said. Because they clearly had been. A guy had gotten handsy and aggressive with Roman in a situation that implied- 

Holy shit had Virgil been in a situation like that before? Was that why he was freaking out? Had Virgil been- had Virgil been assaulted before? Had he been sexually abused? Raped?

More and more suggestions filled Roman’s head, each one as unpleasant as the last.

It would explain his fear and apologies. It would also explain why he freaked out when Roman got closer. It explained the dog at his side. It explained almost everything.

“Okay, well if you can identify the trigger, you need to remove it if it hasn’t already been removed. From there you need to approach the flashback with that trigger in mind. Try to avoid triggering Virgil again. That can help stop the progression of the flashback. To actually help soothe or stop the flashback, Virgil will need to be grounded in reality. Grounding techniques like reminders of the present and breathing exercises can help immensely. I can send you a few things, give me a minute.”

Roman held his breath. 

Virgil continued to cry and apologize and how long had he been doing that now? It had to have been a long time now. Jeez, what had Virgil been through?

Roman’s phone buzzed a second later. He pulled it away from his ear and looked down to see a text from Logan. He pressed the phone back to his ear and promised to check it in a minute. 

“I suggest starting with one of those. If it doesn’t help, or if you feel like you need more assistance, call me back. I can come over if you need me to. I also sent over crisis lines if things get worse for any reason. In most cases I would recommended calling one of those lines before calling the police or similar services. The police can be- well they aren’t exactly trained in this area and might not be able to help Virgil. Plus, they make assumptions, and Roman you are a Muslim man with a white-passing guy panicking in your dorm room.”

“Yeah got it, no police. But, uh what do you mean if things get worse?”

“If things get too much for you to handle. If Virgil severely injures himself. If he passes out and doesn’t immediately regain consciousness. If he gets violent due to a perceived threat. If you at any point feel threatened or that harm could come to you. If things get unsafe, then you need to call one of the lines, okay? Some have different purposes, read what they’re for.”

“Okay,” Roman agreed, “Okay. I’m gonna try and help Virgil now.”

“Sounds good,” Logan said. 

“Okay, okay bye.”

“Bye, Roman.”

“...Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

The line went dead. 

Roman sighed, and checked the massive text Logan had sent, scrolling through it. 

Virgil let out a loud gasp and continued to cry in the corner. The muttering has gone down somewhat but he still seemed largely unaware of his surroundings. 

Roman clicked one of the links that looked promising. Here went nothing. 

“Uh, Virgil?” he said. 

The boy looked towards him for a second before glancing back towards the floor, eyes distant and chest heaving. But it was recognition, which was more than Roman had gotten so far. 

“Hey uh, can you do me a favor? I think, I think it might help you.”

Virgil’s mouth moved. At first Roman thought it was a response to his question, but then he realized that the boy had just taken to muttering his apologies under his breath instead of out loud. 

“Uh,” Roman said. Should he still do it? Roman was sure if Virgil would be able to do it considering it didn’t really seem exactly here. But Roman had to try something. “Uh,” he repeated, “Uh can you, Virgil can you name five- is it five?” He checked his phone. “Yeah five things you see?”

What was this bullshit? Five things Virgil saw? How was that supposed to help. Especially when he seemed to not even be aware of where he was or what he was doing. Who came up with this shit?

“Floor,” a voice mumbled, “Dog… Bed. Desk… Person.”

Roman blinked. That was five things. Virgil had just listed five things. Was this working?

“Uh, four things you can touch?” Roman asked, after reviewing the article on his phone. 

“Jacket,” Virgil started. He shifted his hand, letting it fall onto Trixie. “Trixie.” He let his hand travel further down her back. “Trixie’s vest.” He reached up to touch his own face. “Tears.”

It was working. Virgil still didn’t seem well and he was still crying, but it was a definite step forward from whimpering like a wounded animal. Roman couldn’t believe that this was working.

“Yeah. Uh that’s really good Virgil. Three things, three things you can hear?”

Virgil completed the next task, and together they worked their way down to one. When they did reach one, Virgil’s eyes were much more clear. 

“Welcome back,” Roman offered. 

For the first time since all of this had begun, Virgil met Roman’s eyes. His face instantly dropped. 

“Are you okay?” Virgil’s voice was desperate and demanding. 

“Am I okay?” Roman asked incredulously, “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” Virgil insisted, “but uh- I only got there after he grabbed you. Are you- Roman I- Did- Are you okay?”

“Nothing happened,” Roman was quick to confirm, even as his heart thudded harshly is his chest, “I’m fine.” (Something could of happened, he realized, it could have been way worse, and that was a frankly terrifying thought).

Virgil frowned, not believing the rather obvious lie. Which Roman thought was totally unfair because Virgil had said he was fine and Roman was letting him get away with it. 

“Roman- You- It’s okay to not be fine after something like that. Even if nothing happened.”

“I was roofied last year,” Roman blurted out, “Theater party. And well,” Roman pointed to himself, “Muslim. Drinking is haram. I don’t do it. So I noticed pretty quick. I- Uh- well I told a friend and he took me home and called my parents. They were out of town so he then also stayed with me the entire time. To make sure I was okay and safe. But things could have been a lot worse. Things tonight could of been a lot worse.”

Virgil nodded, showing zero signs of disagreement. Roman hadn’t been expecting Virgil to disagree, but in a selfish way Roman wished he would have. Because maybe if Virgil told him nothing would have happened and he would have been fine Roman would start to believe it himself. 

“Are you okay? Actually?” Roman asked. If Virgil wasn’t going to deal with Roman’s bullshit answer, Roman wasn’t going to accept Virgil’s. 

“I will be,” Virgil promised. He hesitates and shoving his hands into his dog’s fur, gripping it softly. “I- I have PTSD. So I- I uh, get flashbacks once in a while and stuff.”

“Oh.”

“Uh yeah,” Virgil said. He then stood, hands tightly gripping the short leash that was attached to Trixie’s vest. “It’s uh late. I should- I should probably go.” Virgil shifted from foot to foot and cast his gaze down. 

At the thought of Virgil leaving, Roman’s heart twisted into a knot. From fear, Roman realized. He was afraid. He was afraid to be alone. 

Something must have shown on his face, as Virgil spoke back up. 

“Or- Uh- I, if you really want I could stay?” He offered. 

Roman wasn’t sure why he offered, considering Virgil very obviously did not want to stay. He was probably just being polite. 

“No no, I’m fine,” Roman promised, because he wasn’t about to make Virgil do something for him that he didn’t want to do. He wouldn’t waste Virgil’s time an energy like that, especially when Virgil had already done so much for him. “Go back to your dorm. I’ll be fine.”

Virgil hesitated. 

“I’m serious,” Roman insisted, “go.”

Virgil hesitated once more, but nodded and left. Roman hadn’t expected any different. Roman didn’t expect Virgil to actually care about him. They weren’t even friends yet, even If Roman was trying.

Roman didn’t sleep that night. 

~

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[one-irrelevant-ghost]

Waking up on the cold tile of his kitchen floor was becoming a much rarer occurrence for Hank than it had been before Connor moved in. Mostly because the android refused to let him drink as much as he normally would have, fretting over Hank's health like the nanny bot he had never wanted. Still, there was part of Hank that could admit that, despite his grousing and the hard time he'd give Connor, he just didn't feel the need to get black-out drunk anymore. Or at least, he didn't usually. Everyone's got bad days, he had told himself, trying to justify just one more drink. Then another. And then another. Connor had been gone for three days now, visiting his revolutionary friends, and although Hank knew that he'd be back by that night, the quiet gloom of an empty house got to him. It always did. He knew he was getting spoiled, being so used to Connor's presence as it was. Their living situation was only temporary, had always been just temporary, and at some point Hank would have to get re-accustomed to lonely days where there was no well-meaning but pushy android to drag him kicking and screaming out of his dark moods. Sometimes Hank just needed to feel bad because he wasn't sure how to feel good anymore, and the thought that he might be learning how only to have it eventually torn away was…torture. And so Hank finished the first bottle and opened another. Strong stuff, well-hidden so that Connor couldn't confiscate it. When Connor first moved in, Hank had stressed the importance of boundaries--something he knew his partner had no true concept of at the time. Connor seemed to have taken the conversation to heart; he was allowed the complete run of the house, but his presence in Hank's room was kept to a minimum. Hank appreciated the privacy, and the fact that he had a place to keep things safe from the android's too-keen gaze. Things such as strong bottles of whiskey and a revolver, still loaded with a single bullet. The latter hadn't seen the light since the first few days after the revolution, before Hank had reunited with the busy new revolutionary that was Connor. After that, Connor had moved in with Hank for lack of anywhere else to go, and Hank had put the gun away and not taken it back out. Connor had already found him passed out with the revolver in his hand once; he decidedly did not want to put his partner through that again. "Hank?" The voice was loud with fear, bringing Hank back to the senses he hadn't realized he'd lost. Obviously, he didn't remember passing out, but he was fairly certain that that was what had happened. His back was stiff from laying on the hard floor, and he felt sore in several places that he was fairly certain were bruised. It took a moment for his swimming head and vision to stabilize as he opened his eyes, staring up at his partner. Connor's LED was spinning yellow, a sure sign that he was scanning Hank. Checking for health issues and all that jazz. Hank knew that Connor knew he was just drunk. That didn't stop the brief flash of disappointment that pulled at the android's mouth when he confirmed it. Hank's insides wrung themselves uncomfortably as he tried to pretend that he didn't see it. "Come on, Hank," Connor was saying, voice softer now. Sad? He sounded melancholy, his eyebrows raised in a way that crinkled his forehead, mouth twisted into something that was too gentle to be a grimace and too pained to be a smile. The android pulled Hank up by the shoulders before slipping a supportive arm around the man's waist. It was an almost familiar scene, but this time Hank didn't fight as Connor pulled him to his feet. Connor was far stronger than his lean frame would suggest, and he didn't stumble when Hank leaned his entire weight into him, unable to stand on his own. His limbs were sluggish, his reactions slow, and Connor half-carried, half-drug him down the hall. "Let's get you to bed." Hank took far too long to process that. His head lolled slightly as he considered the words. "Nah, I'm alright." Connor huffed, a sound that was entirely unusual for him. Technically, Hank knew that Connor did breath, but it wasn't strictly necessary. In his usual over-complicated way, Connor had once explained that his breathing was duel-purpose: for one, breathing in allowed him to take in extra sensory information--smell, Hank had gathered from that-- and for another, it helped to reduce the uncanny valley factor and subtly make humans more comfortable in his presence. It was a small detail, but then again, Connor was full of those. Cyberlife had really put their all into him. The way Connor had a hundred different tells in the ways he'd fidget, the light dusting of freckles across his face and trailing down every bit of skin that Hank had been able to see, his long lashes that brushed his cheeks when he blinked; every aspect served to make him that much more human. They all made Hank's stomach flip every time he saw them. "Really, I'm not that bad, I'm gonna stay up," he insisted. He didn't want to be deprived of any time with his partner, who he had so desperately, pathetically missed. Funny, for as much as he thought of Connor as his own android lap-dog, Hank was the one who got separation anxiety. He thought of those pictures of dogs who had destroyed walls and couches and things such as that, always captioned I thought you were never coming back and I panicked. How fucking apt. "How was--how was the thing?" "It was fine," Connor paused, not uncharacteristic in the slightest, "I missed you." Hank's chest twisted painfully. No one had ever been accused of missing Hank, and for obvious reasons. Case in point, the fact that his roommate had just gotten home and was already having to drag his useless drunk ass to bed. "Eh, don't flatter me," he muttered. Funny, he had meant to say I missed you, too. The words played on loop in his head, but they stuck in his throat and warped into entirely different sounds when he tried to force them out. Connor didn't bother to turn the light in Hank's bedroom on, depositing the man on the bed in the dark. Enough light came through the half-slotted blinds and from the android's own LED--a serene blue light that contrasted angelically with the yellow street lights as it illuminated Connor's face. His dark eyes watched Hank so carefully, so intensely, that Hank felt the blood creep into his face and neck. "You're so pretty," he muttered hazily, unable to take his eyes off his android's ethereal face. Someone had sculpted that face to be just the right mix of beautiful and human, and they had done such a good job that Hank really wanted to punch them right in their own face. There was no need for a machine capable of chasing down criminals over rooftops and murdering someone seventeen different ways to also look so delicate and soft, but he did, and it drove Hank crazy most the time. Connor smiled softly down at Hank and it was a struggle not to hold his breath. Smiles weren't exactly rare for Connor, mostly a result of his social programs telling him that humans find happy expressions appealing, but there were a rare few smiles that Connor seemed to keep on reserve just for Hank. The lieutenant's heart stuttered as he conjured each expression to mind at once; the small mouth scrunches when Connor was trying very hard not to laugh, and the wide beaming grins that were Hank's rewards for giving in when the android wanted him to forgo the burgers or alcohol for something healthier, and the small, hesitant smiles that ghosted along the android's perfect lips and make Hank want to lean in just a little too close. Usually, he had the presence of mind to resist the urge, but at that moment, he was drunk and his heart felt like it would tear itself apart if he didn't do something. So he reached out, arms still heavy with inebriation, and wrapped a large hand around Connor's wrist, tugging him gently. Connor would have had plenty of time to step out of reach or otherwise prevent Hank from touching him even if Hank had been perfectly sober, but he didn't. He allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bed beside Hank, and Hank felt his heart swell at that simple fact. Another slow but uninterrupted motion and Hank had his hand under Connor's perfect jaw. It didn't mean anything, of course it didn't. Touching Connor never meant the same to the android as it did to Hank; Connor just didn't have the sense of what was personal, intimate, not in the same way humans did. Androids--or maybe just Connor--had a different sense of boundaries and acceptable interaction. It was still nice, though, and Hank enjoyed the feeling of the android's soft synthetic skin under his finger. He dragged his thumb lightly along Connor's jawline before sliding his hand up and around his neck, fingertips burying themselves in the android's soft brown hair. Hank would never understand how Connor's hair and skin worked, no matter how many times the latter patiently explained it, and he was okay with that. Connor seemed tense, but he leaned into Hank's touch in a way that the man knew he had to be making up. The way Connor's eyes flicked shut for just a moment, the subtle twist of his head so that Hank's palm flattened more against his neck-- that all had to be wishful thinking on Hank's part. Wide brown eyes met Hank's in an expression that Hank was too drunk to understand, except that it made his heart pulse faster. It was stupid, so fucking stupid, but Hank leaned in, every ounce of his attention on the lip that Connor had pulled between his teeth. For a moment, it seemed like the android was going to let this happen, too, and Hank felt like he must still be unconscious. Yellow briefly interrupted the gentle blue light that lit up Connor's face, and he leaned away, putting a hand against Hank's chest to keep the distance. Something tore itself jagged in Hank's chest, but he wasn't at all surprised. "I don't want to do this when you're drunk," he explained quietly, voice barely more than a whisper, and Hank's stomach dropped before he had fully processed those words. When you're drunk. Connor was too analytical, his word choice was never careless. Still, he couldn't mean--there was no way… "You mean…You mean you want this normally?" Hank tasted the words on his tongue for a moment, disbelieving. He accompanied the word "this" with a clumsy gesture that encompassed the whole scene. This. A kiss, Hank himself, any of it. Connor seemed to understand. "Hank," he sighed, and the lieutenant suddenly became acutely aware of how much Connor had been using his name. It fit so naturally in the android's mouth, so much better than always calling him "lieutenant." Hank could have melted at the sound of his own name for the first time since ever. "Yes, I want this--you, I want you. We can talk about it in the morning, if you still want, but not now." Funny thing, the way Hank's mind simply stopped working when the android said that. It was worse than being drunk, which he most definitely still was. At least drunk Hank could still speak, albeit slurred and sloppy; at this point, Hank couldn't even think. There was just feeling, endless surges from every range of the emotional spectrum, and it was so overwhelming that he couldn't even put a name to most of it. After several minutes of staring at Connor, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water, Hank nodded slowly and forced some semblance of a logical response through the oppressive waves of emotion that choked him. "In…in the morning, then." Connor offered him that small smile again, relief clear in the way his shoulders dropped and his LED switched from pulsating blue to steady serenity. "Goodnight, Hank." "G'night, Connor." The android left the room, shutting the door gently behind him, and Hank wanted nothing more than to call him back. He didn't, but for a long minute he felt the android's name still in his throat, finally releasing it in a long, low groan that he knew Connor wouldn't hear. Sleep found Hank easier than he thought it would, his body already heavy and his thoughts too slow to keep him awake for long. In the morning…He didn't know, but he knew that for the first time in years, he couldn't wait for the morning.

[sunriseinorbit]

in 2018, i learned something about anime music and soundtracks in general: how you implement the soundtrack into the material is just as important as the soundtrack itself. no matter how good your composer is, if something goes wrong when you’re putting the music to whatever’s happening on the screen, it’s going to degrade the value of the soundtrack a lot. because let’s face it: unless you’re a die-hard fan (or you’re me), you’re probably not going to go out of your way to listen to the soundtrack on its own. sloppy implementation can easily turn a great soundtrack into something just okay, or a mediocre soundtrack into the bane of your existence. 

which brings me to banana fish. i’ll admit that i’ve been subconsciously nitpicking this show to high heaven, which is what i always seem to do with shows that oversaturate my twitter feed, but i’m here to talk about the soundtrack. and it’s good. it’s not bad - it fits its setting well, which is always a plus in my book, some of the tracks are really catchy, and it works as background music, which is exactly what it’s supposed to do - but in a year of amazing score after amazing score, it didn’t really stand out to me. (which is a matter of opinion. music is subjective, and if you loved this soundtrack, more power to you) and my view of the soundtrack may have been tainted by its repetition problem.

of course,  every anime has a repetition problem. unlike movies and, to an extent, video games, anime and other television-based media don’t just reuse themes and melodies throughout the score; they reuse the tracks themselves. and there’s a delicate balance between reusing them tastefully and beating you over the head with them. 

free! is the first example of the former that came to my head. like banana fish, the soundtrack stays mostly in the background, and to be fair, it’s pretty generic (don’t worry, i still love it), but there’s still enough repetition to keep things familiar. this is especially true thanks to the free! soundtrack’s use of different tracks that have the same emotional meaning; there are a bank of fun tracks, a bank of “ha-ha these swimming boys are dumbasses” tracks, a bank of emotional tracks, etc. but even the explicit repetition works really well: the song that plays during one of the first scenes of season 1 episode 1, when makoto walks to haru’s house on the way to school, plays again during the same scene in season 2 episode 1, but instead of being tacky, it’s nice, like a hug from an old friend you haven’t seen in a while.

on the other hand, we have season 1 of bnha, in which you say run is played every. single. fucking. episode. not to say you say run is a bad song, because it’s a great main theme to the series and a great character theme for deku, but there’s a reason “you say run goes with everything” is a meme: because it went with everything in the show itself, too. season 1 did go through a metrick fuckton of character development very very quickly, but did they need to play the theme song when deku threw the baseball in the quirk apprehension test? no, they really didn’t. when the same song is played over and over again just to be like “HEY DEKU DID SOMETHING HEROIC!”, it loses its meaning and gets tiring. (season 2 definitely toned this down, and season 3 actually had the opposite problem: they didn’t play you say run at all, even in moments where it would have made perfect sense, but i’ve ranted about the season 3 soundtrack implementation enough and i know you’re all tired of me)

now, back to banana fish. while making this post, i went and listened to the soundtrack to the show on its own, and i realized that there was so much more to offer than what we heard in the show. (or maybe i just wasn’t paying attention, that’s also a possibility) shinichi osawa wrote some really good tracks, and my criticism of the bf soundtrack is not the kind of criticism that can be directed towards him. 

but banana fish was robbed. because while i heard most of the others from time to time, there are only two tracks that make up the majority of the music you actually hear in the show: the return of the zen and dino’s theme. the former is a good song, though i did get a little tired of it after hearing it constantly. my real problem is with the latter.

see, character themes are hard, especially in anime, because of the aforementioned repetition problem. soundtrack cohesion is important, but you don’t want to overdo it. different shows and composers deal with this problem in different ways: some create variations on the established theme for different emotional circumstances or stages in character development, some keep to the established theme but only play it in important moments, and some do both. 

and then there are some that play the theme whenever the character is on screen. and i hated the living shit out of dino before, but if i hear that piano one more time, i may just explode.

and it’s a shame, because dino’s theme has a lot more potential than “hey look, it’s dino!”. it could symbolize his power or twisted desires, or it could be given some nuance, only being played in certain moments like when he has the upper hand. that way, when it plays, it’s important, we listen, we know shit’s going down. but instead, we just get “dino’s there i guess” 

to give an example of a character theme done right, there’s a scene in the bnha movie that used one character’s theme really well, and i won’t spoil who it is, but if you’ve seen it, you probably already know who i’m talking about. basically, this character isn’t in the scene. he isn’t even mentioned in the scene (which is a conversation between two other characters) until that point. but even though he himself was nowhere to be found, when his theme started playing, the whole theater knew what was up and lost their shit. i went to see it twice, with two different groups of friends, and both times, someone turned to me and whispered something along the lines of “oh my god what the fuck” before they even said his name. because the show gave us this really good theme that 1) wasn’t shoved into our eardrums constantly and 2) didn’t just represent the character, but everything he meant in the story and world. 

so yeah, i don’t really have a good ending for this, but tl;dr i wish banana fish didn’t shaft shinichi osawa’s beautiful melodies as much as it did

[marypsue]

Something Borrowed, Something Blues 8 / ?

Well, thanks to tumblr's absolute competence and excellent decision-making, I can't link to previous chapters posted on my blog and still have anybody see this post. So this seems like a great time to remind everyone that all my fics are available to read, in a convenient, user-friendly format, over on AO3! My handle there is also MaryPSue. 

Between this and the demise of tumblr fandom with the platform changes, I plan to phase out posting actual fic to tumblr at all. Next chapter will most likely only be posted to AO3, with an update notification posted here.

...

Once upon a time, there was a seed.

The greatest redwood forests start from a single seed, and so too it was with this seed. Dormant, it lay for decades in rich and fertile soil, waiting only for the right conditions to unfurl its tentative leaves. To put forth its questing roots.

...

The moment the words fell out of his mouth, Dipper knew he’d made a mistake.

But he’d been challenged! On his own ground! In his home, of all places, by one of his own creations! Who did the Woodsman think he was? The moment he’d seen those antlers twined into the branches of Henry’s apple tree - 

"Now hold on, hold on, back it up just a tick," Rosa said. "Who's this now?"

...

Once upon a time, there was a sapling.

It had grown from a seed, a seed nourished by magic both ancient and entirely new, a seed planted in rich and fertile soil. It was young still, its trunk no wider than a slender wrist, but its roots ran strong and deep.

The sapling grew tall and strong, entwined with the narrow trunk of an apple tree, so closely that their fruits intermingled, that they could not be told apart. Who watered one watered the other; what nourished one, nourished the other. Apple and sapling shared all things; water, sunlight, soil, the love of the one who tended their orchard, of those who sat in the shade and shelter of their branches.

And then, one day, the apple tree fell.

...

The apple tree arched shimmering branches overhead, laden with both delicate, almost translucent blossoms and glossy fruit so rich and red that Mira could swear they were dripping colour into the detritus of leaves and needles below.

In the strangest way, the scene was familiar. She couldn’t, if asked, have explained why, but - this tree was real and huge and healthy, and heavy with fruit, blossoms, and lush foliage (which, the closer Mira looked, seemed to be in all of the different seasons at once), but somehow it reminded her of nothing so much as the scrawny, spectral soul-tree she and Alcor had destroyed. 

She wasn’t scared.

That was strange, too. Maybe the strangest of all. Mira had the funniest feeling - maybe just because of the memory of that other tree, and what she’d seen and done that day - that she was supposed to be scared. And yet, the tree was unusual, maybe a little eerie, but it wasn’t frightening. In fact, just being under the canopy of its branches made Mira feel - warm. Safe. Sheltered. 

Protected.

Without, Mira realised with a start, the feeling of being maybe just a little bit...watched which came with the territory of being Mizar. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t felt Alcor’s all-seeing eye trained on her back. It was a feeling she’d learned to live with, long ago, a feeling that had been a comfort at times, even as it had been a giant pain in the ass at others. She’d gotten so used to it that she hardly even registered it anymore. Hardly noticed it was there.

And now it was gone. 

Mira didn’t know whether to feel worried or relieved.

...

Once upon a time, there was a tree.

It stood alone, and yet not alone. A forest surrounded it, a forest of old magic and older growth, a forest filled with seeds of its fruit. The number of those who sheltered under its branches grew and grew with each passing year, as the forest itself grew, as its canopy enfolded the mountainside.

And yet, the tree still stood alone. No longer intertwined with another, its trunk seemed gnarled and twisted, its branches barren but for its curious stolen fruit. Its roots ran so deep and wide now that no seed dared take root near it. No other tree dared risk tasting the soil that nourished it.

It had become an exceedingly thin and bitter soil.

Without the apple beside it, the tree was but half a tree, roots and branches spreading ever outwards, seeking after something that, in its heartwood, it knew it had lost. Something that it needed to be fully whole.

...

The hairs on the back of Ian's neck were standing on end.

That probably had something to do with the huge tree-monster with burning blue eyes roaring at them. Or the aura of power rolling off of Alcor's disintegrating human disguise. Or the redheaded figures ringing the clearing like guards, peering balefully at them from between the birches. Or the fact that, despite Alcor's accusation, Mira still wasn't anywhere to be seen. There were actually so many things to be frightened or unsettled by that Ian was starting to feel a little spoiled for choice.

But it wasn't just fear. At least, Ian didn't think it was, though, judging from the way the other two humans in their party had drawn closer together, they might be inclined to disagree. He was vibrating with energy, both nervous and strangely excited - literally vibrating, he realised, fingers drumming a staccato tattoo against his bouncing leg.

The sheer ambient magic hanging around the forest was making his mechanical eye go haywire, too, Ian realised, looking around. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to realise that what looked like indistinct red and green shapes when seen through his left eye, easily mistaken for drifting leaves or shaking branches or the dappled shadow on a tree trunk shifting, became ethereal, green-tinted human figures with shockingly red hair when seen through the right. 

But now that they were standing inside the ring of trees, what Ian could see through his right eye had gone practically psychedelic. One minute there was nothing there but the wind in the evergreens; the next, tall redheaded figures with greenish skin and unusually long fingers; the next, everything was black and white save for the fist-sized balls of blue fire hovering where the green people had stood, shedding leaves made of blue flame that shaded to autumnal yellow at the tips and edges. 

And it wasn't only the...dryads?...that Ian's eye had decided to warp. It flickered from the clearing in full colour, to black and white interrupted only by the glow of what Ian assumed had to be magic, to a greenish haze that made it hard to tell anything apart, to fire. The enormous tree monster in the centre of the clearing was now a slim, tall, antlered figure made of blue flame, now a pale human man whose eyes were black holes and whose antlers dripped with severed hands and feet, now a hideously gnarled, blackened tree rooted firmly in the earth and twined so closely together with the apple tree that stood at the centre of the clearing that they almost looked braided together. Alcor was now Tyrone, now a crackling ball of golden light as tall as Rosa with enormous wings sweeping out to encircle the clearing, now - Ian blinked, and it had vanished, but he could have sworn he'd seen a small, dark-haired boy, about twelve or thirteen, in strange, old-fashioned clothing, standing where Alcor had stood.

The view from Ian's left eye stayed constant, steady, while the view from his right jumped wildly from one vision to the next. It was enough to give a guy a headache.

And he was getting a headache. A slow, dull throb was starting to build behind his right eye, like the prosthetic was growing too big for its socket. 

It was a familiar feeling. Ian really hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it meant.

...

Once upon a time, there was a deep, dark forest.

It had stood for a hundred hundred years, and it would stand for a hundred hundred more. And, at the very heart of the forest, there was a tree.

It stood at the centre of a clearing, a clearing it had made for itself. And for years, for centuries, it stood alone.

And then, one day, a little rabbit came hopping along and nestled down in its roots.

...

"The hell kinda magic's goin' on around here?" Rosa complained, from somewhere behind Dipper. He ignored her. "Feels like I'm seein' double."

"You're not the only one," Ian muttered, and Dipper resisted the urge to turn and look. He was talking about his artificial eye and its artificial Sight. That was all. Nothing more.

"Oh, for - am I the only person here who isn't somehow magically sensitive?!" Sun-mi protested. "What's going on? Where's Mira? What is that thing?" Dipper was sure it wasn't his imagination that that last sentence sounded more curious than annoyed or frightened.

"Based on context, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it's an ancient forest spirit," Ian said. "And that it does not like us being here."

Dipper could hear the grimace in his voice, and, despite the fact that clinging to a human mask was growing more difficult and confusing by the second, couldn't help but echo it. Ian was no fool; he'd probably worked out exactly what Dipper had. If the Woodsman was walking again, these days, it almost definitely meant he felt his forest was under threat. And what greater threat than...

"Wait. You never met the Woodsman, did you?" Dipper broke concentration long enough to ask. If any of the other three noticed that the movement of 'his' lips didn't exactly sync up with the words, they were too polite to mention it.

Ian gave Dipper an odd look, made odder by the way his prosthetic eye was flickering and roving in his head. "On the one hand, you're absolutely correct, but on the other hand, I get the feeling you're talking about something else completely that I don't know if I should be agreeing with."

Dipper cleared his nonexistent throat and nodded in Sun-mi's direction. Ian winced.

"Oh, what?" Sun-mi demanded, planting both hands on her hips. "Look, I'm not exactly an idiot. I know there's something here you all aren't telling me, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of it! Especially if it has some bearing on the mysterious disappearance of my best friend! You owe me the truth. Spill."

Ian glanced over at Dipper. Dipper met his eyes with a wince of his own.

"Gruargh," the Woodsman said, and Dipper started. He'd almost forgotten the big guy was there.

"Hold your horses, we'll get to you," he said to the Woodsman, whose eerie, sunken blue eyes somehow managed a kicked-puppy look, before turning back to the three humans with him. "Ian? Do you want to...?"

Sun-mi crossed her arms over her chest, fixing Ian with a penetrating stare. "I don't particularly care who it is, but somebody'd better start talking. Now."

Ian pressed his lips tight together, glancing down at the waving grasses to his left. He shook his head, but didn't speak.

"Fine," Dipper said, with a sigh that rattled the remaining particles of his temporary meatsuit. "I -"

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

With a roar that literally shook the clearing, the Woodsman lunged. His impossibly long arm swept forward, knocking Rosa off her feet, and grabbed Dipper by the throat, hauling him up into the air. The Woodsman drew Dipper up close to his face, seemingly oblivious to the screams and shouts from the humans below, until Dipper was eye-to-glowing-blue-eye with the Woodsman. Through the sudden fear that spiked through him, Dipper realised the Woodsman's head seemed a lot larger than the last time they'd seen each other. Like, a lot larger. Like, the Woodsman's head was as tall as Dipper's entire meatsuit larger. It seemed the Woodsman had been isolated out in the woods for so long that he'd forgotten human scale.

Either that, or, the way he was one with the woods now, he'd grown with them.

Neither, Dipper thought stupidly, spelled good things for his very squishy human companions down below.

"Oh my stars!" one of the girls was shrieking, over and over again. Dipper hadn't pegged either of them as likely to lose their heads in a situation like this, but then again, he supposed, you never really knew until you got somebody there. Well. He knew, of course, he knew lots of things, but...when humans were involved, they could always surprise you.

"Uh," Dipper tried, into the baleful glare of that actinic blue eye. "Guess that was the wrong response...?"

The Woodsman answered by opening the gash in his bark that served as a mouth and letting out another bone-shattering roar. Literally bone-shattering. Dipper felt his meatsuit buffeted mercilessly in the wind of that roar, could feel the particles stripping away in that wind like confetti. He tried to hold them in place, but it was no use. The sheer power pouring off the Woodsman shredded his human disguise like wet tissue paper, leaving Dipper scrambling to put on an appropriately humanoid face and rein his wings back in. He'd been aiming to intimidate the Woodsman when they were only visible on the magical level, but now, without his constructed body and with his power laid bare for everyone to see, he didn't feel like burning out anybody's eyes.

The short shriek Sun-mi let out told Dipper that he hadn't been entirely successful.

"Alcor!" she yelled, waving an arm in Dipper's direction. "That's Alcor!"

Ian grimaced. "Got it in one."

"That's a demon!"

"And now you're two for two," Rosa agreed, with forced nonchalance, though Dipper was pleased to note that she did at least look pale.

"And you all knew about this?" Sun-mi demanded, the shock in her voice starting to shade towards anger. "Oh my stars, did that poor schmuck he was possessing just get obliterated!?"

"What? No! That meatsuit was all mine," Dipper protested.

"No humans were harmed in the making of this motion picture," Ian muttered, under his breath. Sun-mi's existential crisis didn't seem to be holding his attention any more than the Woodsman did, though - he was still busy looking around, watching the redheaded dryads who encircled the clearing, jumping at shadows. Dipper wondered if he was feeling the tug of ancient, familiar power too.

And that was all he thought about that, for a while, because it was then that the Woodsman started to squeeze.

...

Mira's attention was so taken by the tree that she almost didn't notice the man standing under its branches. She wasn't sure when he'd appeared, wasn't sure whether he'd been there the whole time, standing almost inhumanly still and silent, watching her look around. The lush green grass and the laden branches waving around him made his stillness all the more pronounced.

Mira took a half-step back.

The man under the tree raised his head to look at her, but the dappled shadows of the tree's branches still obscured his features. He was tall, though, the top of his head and his shock of bright red hair hidden behind the leaves and flowers of the tree, and pale as milk. He seemed strangely familiar somehow, but the more Mira looked, the less sure she was of what he actually looked like. Was he wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans? A dark, formal suit? Leaves and birchbark? Anything at all?

She took another step back, and the man reached out an arm towards her. She couldn't make out his features, couldn't tell if his nose was large or small or if his eyes were wide-set or close together, but somehow she could swear that his expression was pleading.

Against all her better judgement, Mira stopped moving.

Slowly, the tall man lowered himself to one knee in front of her. As the top of his head came down out of the branches, Mira realised that it hadn't all been branches that she'd been seeing. A rack of impressive antlers, shaped like a deer's but gnarled like wood, sprouted from the man's head. Rich, red apples hung from the antlers, their colour so deep and true that Mira's mouth watered at the sight.

( - for a second, she could swear they were dripping with it, bloody drops splashing against the leaf-littered ground - )

Mira took a cautious step forward, and then another. The tall man's arm was still outstretched, but the closer Mira got, the easier it was to tell that he wasn't simply reaching out for her. Something was taking form in his fingers, and for a second Mira recoiled, thinking she was seeing a little brown snake crawling out of his sleeve (leaves?). 

But it wasn't, when she looked closer, a snake at all. It was a slender brown root, twisting and twining itself into an empty, elaborate coil. Almost like -

The tall man raised his head, then, and looked Mira in the eye. She still couldn't seem to pin down his features, but she found herself frozen in place by eyes that were the most vibrant midsummer-sky blue.

The tall man held the ring up to Mira. She couldn't see his lips move, but the wind in the leaves, the rustle of the grass, the low buzz and hum of the bees dipping into the flowers, all seemed to come together to form one sound. 

No. Not one sound. One word.

Stay.

[littleredroseonthevalley]

St. Paul

Or, How the Ladies Take Their Tea in Grover

Summary: During a garden party at Edgewater, Ernest finds himself alone with Miss Beauchamp. She teaches him a thing or two about the arts of conversation and entertaining.

Rating: MA - for mature adults only. May contain explicit language and adult themes.

Words: 1522

Notes: So, this is yet another twist on Desire & Decorum. I seem to be full of those lately.

About tagging: since this is neither on the line of Drawing Room nor Mary Magdalene/St. Thomas Aquinas, I just went on ahead and tagged everybody I tagged for those other fics. If you happen to not like, sorry! I hope you do, though. Oh, and can someone talk to me on private to say whether you’re getting the responses for your comments? I answered them all, but I think some haven’t gone through. Crappy Tumblr, as always.

I hope you also find it exciting and humorous like I did. Because let me tell y’all, Ernest... well, you’ll see.

Before we move along to the story, answer me this: how do the ladies take their tea in Grover? With cream. Got it?

Enjoy!

“It is good for a man not to touch a woman.”

~ 1 Corinthians 7:1.

Ernest took as much haste as he possibly could down the gravel road, being hindered by the unsteadiness of his dress shoes and the discretion necessary for the completion of the task.

You see, he had seen Miss Beauchamp, the Earl’s natural daughter, racing that path a few moments earlier and he could not help himself but to wonder what was she doing.

It is how it is said about wilful little boys, they cave in easily to the whimsical flings that happen to enrapture their attention in any given moment. The country esquire could not resist the temptation to follow the pretty, new thing to see what she could be doing.

Fortunately for him, he did not have to walk far. She was pacing calmly by a pond on the edge of her father’s property. Her fan was in its intended use, producing a refreshing breeze into her lower neck and cleavage, which the stale air of early spring could not provide.

The exposed milky skin of the young woman glistened in the sunlight, while her cheeks seemed to be rather flustered. Her teeth were pressed delicately against her lower, crimson lip.

The man could not say how long he kept watching like a creep on the edges of the pond, but it was certainly more than any semblance of appropriate, and enough for the female to notice him.

Upon recognition, her head made a slight pend backwards, allowing her nose to stand tall and proud in the air. She released her lip, as she turned her expression into an arrogant smirk, half concealed by the now static, semi-opened fan.

“Have no-one told you it is rude to stare, Mr Sinclaire?” She asks, with that wayward tone she seemed to favour on every interaction between the two of them.

“Yes, they have.” He responded, oddly resembling of a child trying to escape a reprimand. “It is I who should ask about your manners, Miss Beauchamp. I am sure that even in Grover it is considered in poor taste to run off a party in one’s own honour.”

She chuckles, drily. “If you insist in admonish me, I must ask for you to step closer. I find discussions amongst shouting to be unproductive, especially those meant to be private.”

Minding himself, Ernest closes the distance between the two of them from about five meters to the minimum appropriate, which would be about an arm’s length.

“The Duke was looking for me. Undoubtedly to bore me to tears with yet another story about his greatness or bravery.” The woman says, clear disdain marred her words. Not that Ernest blames her in any way. “Miss Parsons was by me and suggested for us to escape to this area of the garden, but it seems she got caught up on something. I was enjoying the scenery until you interrupted me, and that should sum up my behaviour since we last spoken. Is it to your satisfaction?”

He supressed a side smile over the faux-spoiled act she was throwing and nodded solemnly. “I cannot fault you. Save for his title, there is little reason why anyone would willingly submit to the Duke’s conversation.”

“I am glad you see things my way, Mr Sinclaire.” She smiles softly at him before continuing, “I do not think Miss Parsons will be leaving the party soon. I assume it is your gentlemanly duty to entertain me before we, ourselves, re-join the celebrations.”

The blond man scoffs. “I am sure both of our reputations would suffer less taint if I just left you to your quiet contemplation.”

“You followed me here, Mr Sinclaire, to a quiet, empty corner of the garden. I think the good men down at the harbour put it best when they say that ship has sailed.” She stifles a giggle with the fan. “Besides, if I recall correctly, earlier this afternoon you complained about your difficulty with socialization. Think of it like practice.”

“And how do you propose to have me practice my social skills with you, Miss Beauchamp?” He asks, rather aggravated.

“I find myself to be a pleasant companion and a witty conversationalist, Mr Sinclaire, not to mention I am willing to be a patient mentor.” She says with a flick of her fan. “I daresay you will find no better alternative.”

He had to concede the logic of her argument. “Very well, Miss Beauchamp. Charm me with your accomplishments. Ravish my senses with your conversation.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “Don’t mind if I do. In fact, I have a crippling curiosity about you, Mr Sinclaire.”

“Is it? What about?” He questions, as she takes an arm that was not offered.

“How is it that a wealthy, handsome man like you, Mr Sinclaire, cannot find himself a lady for his manor?” She questions, with the neutrality of someone who talks about the weather.

Unsurprisingly, the blond chokes in his own saliva as he tries to make sense of the question, rendering the whole thing only the more entertaining for the young woman.

“I am a single man, it is no secret, but the matter of my perceived fairness is in your own account, Miss Beauchamp.” He says, masking his embarrassment in austerity. “Perhaps you ought to keep those observations to yourself.”

“Oh, like the enviable discretion you used upon studying my décolletage?” She asks, with ireful haughtiness. “God saw fitting to give me two perfectly functioning eyes just like yours, Mr Sinclaire, and a mind I do not believe to have inner workings much too different from yours. I see what I see, and I like what I like. It so happened to be you.”

“I… I…” He stutters. “Please, Miss Beauchamp. Do not talk those things, or a gentleman cannot be blamed for having the wrong idea.”

She chuckles, pulls his arm with her left hand and gently wavers the fingers of her right one over the buttons of his coat, bringing a pink glow to his cheeks and a tingling sensation to his midsection.

“I thought I told you.” She says, and, with barely a whisper, continues, “I tell only the truth. Lest to be misunderstood.”

“Miss Beauchamp…” He tried to say, but she was like a viper, having him surrounded and submitted to her ministrations.

“You talk about the way of the people from Grover. Perhaps I ought to teach you a trick that makes all the boys from the county town to lose their minds.”

Having his arm pinned the entire time, she used her free right hand to trail the entirety of his chest and stomach, up until it hovered over the top right button of his trousers.

“No!” He fought against her spell. “I can’t. You can’t! Your reputation… The taint!”

She chuckled once more. “Do not worry. Nothing that we will do shall jeopardize my virtue.”

Before Ernest could manifest yet another objection, she unfastened the buttons in front of his breeches and reached for the raging erection inside.

“This would be much more fun for both of us if we could remove the entirety of your garments.” She commented, with a pitch of taunt. “No matter, I am sure you’ll enjoy either way.”

The poor esquire could only stutter nonsense at this point, which worked fine for the lady lowering herself to her knees, as she could focus on the task at hand.

The young man’s sex was long and lean, an image of its owner, the pink, pulsating head testifying about its long neglect. It was, by no means, not the largest she had ever seen, but she conceded it had a respectable size for an Englishman.

Not to waste any more time, she covered her teeth with her lips and mouthed the whole thing in a swift move, letting the head hit the back of her throat. The first emissions hitting her tongue with a savoury, rich taste, typical of a man with an aristocratic diet.

Ernest, in turn, tried desperately to cling to the last remnants of dignity he had left by controlling his vocalization and his apex through thought exercises. First, he thought of his ex-wife’s annoying habits. Then, of his father’s saggy man breasts. Finally, he had to appellate to the Dowager Countess’ figure.

It was to no use, as too soon for his pride and for her wishes, Ernest almost shouted “Lord Almighty!” and filled Miss Beauchamp’s mouth with the white substance.

Raising to her feet once more, Miss Beauchamp nicks the handkerchief on Sinclaire’s breast pocket and softly cleans the corners of her lips.

“This has been most entertaining, Mr Sinclaire.” She smirked at him, as she hides the sullied handkerchief inside her dress, under her breast. “I will be leaving first.”

Without so much as another word, she turns her back and leaves up the gravel path that took him there in the first place.

Dazed in the afterglow, Ernest watched her retreating figure with his breeches still undone, no thought going through his head.

That woman would be the death of him.

Taglist: @choicesyouplayandmore @cocomaxley @laniquelovely @shelivesinthewoods

[quillovesdbz]

Submission for week 4 of @tpthvegebulmayhem (1/3)

Clandestine Downfall

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7

Chapter 5: The Lavender Lie

Rating: M

Genre: Cloak and Dagger, Fantasy, Fairytale AU, Dark Fiction, Mystery, Smut

TW: Violence, psychological abuse, physical abuse, light smut, homophobic ideology, depiction of intellectual disability.

Summary: Bulma continues her investigation, and she finds a lead. Vegeta pushes Bulma further and further away, but does he mean to hurt her so? Or is he trying to keep her safe? Bardock orders the arrest of Bulma.

Nearly two weeks later was the first time she talked to him again. She had been on a pointless mission, investigating and sticking her nose exactly where it didn’t belong. She had befriended some of the kitchen staff, namely Fasha and Marron, two chatty girls who she confirmed had a crush on her. Bulma spun this to her advantage, playing hard to get or rather, impossible to get. But they didn’t have to know that. As long as she toyed with them, they fed her information. As useless as that information had turned out to be, it was information nonetheless.

From the girls she had learned of a servant who had come as a cook, but had recently disappeared, leaving the kitchen matron, Mai, in charge. This happened on the exact day the prince and Nappa had left to arrest Bulma. So Mai became suspect number one, and Bulma had to share the news with the prince. She felt almost too excited to talk to him again, and nearly danced to his chambers in the middle of the night. As she knocked, she unconsciously grinned toothily, anticipating being able to speak with him.

For two weeks he avoided her. He now knew that becoming king meant he could never have her. It burned him deeply, but over the course of the two weeks he was beginning to let go of her. His heart had begun to heal, and he realized the mistake of falling in love with her.

“You come with good news, I hope. Because if not, leave my presence.” Vegeta spit harshly at the disguised Bulma. She was wearing a blue jacket with knee length coattails over a pale yellow doublet. Her trousers were a very plain beige, and her boots slightly darker leather. Her sword hung at her hip now, she had refashioned the belt to fit her slight frame instead of hanging loosely at her back. She was a vision of regal style, though not overly fancy. He eyed her up and down suspiciously, awaiting her answer.

“No news, my prince. However I have a lead,” she glanced past his shoulder and inside his chambers where it appeared he was enjoying tea… alone. “Perhaps I could join you to discuss?” She suggested, dropping her smile and adopting a more serious expression.

He said nothing, just rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned to make his way back toward the table. A very uninviting welcome, if Bulma had ever seen one.

The Prince’s chambers were over triple the area of her own, and contained several extra pieces that hers did not. He had a lavish bed with a full violet velvet canopy, tied to each of the four bedposts with golden rope. It had a plethora of fat purple pillows, and a thick purple comforter. Bulma was beginning to think his favorite color might be purple, but the rest of his room did not reflect that. He had a nearly identical desk to hers, though his was pristine, not a speck of dust upon it, and it looked decades newer. In the northern corner of the room there was a large grey brick fireplace. There was no fire burning at the moment but she could tell it had been recently used. It was nearing fall now, and the nights were getting ever colder. A small part of her hoped Yamcha was making sure her siblings stayed warm with lots of blankets.

Beside the fireplace was a large mirror, so large in fact it was on the floor and nearly reached the ceiling in height. It was framed in extravagant gold detail, delicately carved vines with dozens of golden roses. Each leaf had visible veins that must have been painstakingly shaped by a real artist. It was magnificent. On the floor near the mirror and the fireplace was the biggest brown bear pelt she had ever seen, three or four people could lay upon it comfortably without touching. It looked so soft, her hands begged her to touch it. But she withheld those urges, and took a seat at his small four chair dining table. The centerpiece was an exotic Asian vase, filled with fresh Lavender blossoms.

Without saying a words the prince sat adjacent to the blue haired girl and gestured for her to pour herself some tea.

She obeyed by taking the warm teapot in her hands and filling the small teacup closest to her.

“Milk?” she questioned, figuring that when in Rome, she may as well spoil herself. She eyed the handsome prince with reserved interest.  Lately when she had seen him about the court he had been dressing much fancier. In fact, ever since the announcement of his coronation, he had his small crown equipped every day. It suited him well, mostly covering up his large forehead and deep widow’s peak. Not that she minded those unique features, but it did well to accent them. Today he wore a dark doublet, almost coffee colored. It had golden embroideries running vertically from the base of his neck to the bottom of the shirt. His trousers were white, matching his gloves, and boots a deep and shiny black. His matching gold cloak was draped over one of the unoccupied chairs.

“No, I don’t usually take mine with milk, so they don’t include it when they bring the setup from the kitchens.” he explained.

“Well you should, there is nothing better.” Bulma replied, swirling the translucent brown liquid in her teacup.

Vegeta was beginning to get angry, she was wasting his time. She invited herself into his chambers, after two weeks of… nothing… and now she stalls by making small talk about tea! It was infuriating to say the least.

“And what is the information you wanted to discuss, woman?” he shouted, his voice and inflection fiery. Bulma was taken slightly aback by his sudden slide to extremes. He had avoided her for nearly two weeks, even though she had done absolutely nothing to deserve such treatment. Granted, she had been busy herself, but this sudden outburst was no way to treat her.

“Just what is your problem, Vegeta?” she retaliated, eyes wide and brow cinched.

“My problem?! What is your problem? I didn’t ask you here, you barged in, invading my private tea time, and you dance around telling me the information you promised in exchange! But I am the one with a problem?” his face began to flush with anger, and he slammed his gloved fist on the table with the end of his question.

“Why have you been ignoring me?” she plead, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. She liked him, genuinely, and maybe she loved him, so why did he distance himself from her?

He positioned himself closer to her, his face was inches from hers so that she could feel his hot breath. His face was twisted in a furious scowl that told her he wasn’t going to kiss her, but instead was attempting to intimidate her.

“Listen, whore, I want nothing to do with you, I only keep you here so you fulfil your duties and then I will throw you to the prisons like the scum that you are.” His words pierced her heart and brought the torrential fall of her tears to fruition. She gasped lightly at his attack, covering her mouth with her hand.

“You are but a low class harlot and your  infatuation spell has broken. I will be the king, and there is no chance in hell you will ever be worthy of me.” He stood from the table, looking down upon her. He placed his hand at her neck, and grabbed the collar of her doublet. His fingers ripped right through the delicate lace as he gripped the edge and picked her up from her chair.

She let out a small yelp in surprise mostly, but also in pain of her collar tightening on her neck.

He jerked her body toward himself, before throwing her down on the floor. She landed on her hands and knees, and she choked out an involuntary sob. She flipped herself over to look at him, and to speak.

“The maiden Mai was serving breakfast the day Nappa was poisoned,” Bulma informed him, letting out a small cry afterward. “I think she is a prime suspect, although I have been unable to gather concrete evidence.” she breathed hard, a side effect of the shocked crying she had been doing.

“Useless,” he uttered low and angry. “She has worked for the regent for as long as I can remember and she would never harm his most high ranking general.”

It was then they both had a thought.  

“Bardock…” Vegeta muttered under his breath.

The regent, Bulma thought at the exact same time.

“What motive would he have had…?” Bulma trailed, deep in thought.

“The treaty. Is it possible that Bardock is working with Frieza to ensure the downfall of our kingdom? Why else would he eliminate our most powerful and experienced general?” Vegeta pieced together small fragments of his theory, but he wasn’t fully convinced himself.

“He had no reaction when you announced Nappa’s death. However, he seemed to he surprised at the actual event of his death, because it didn’t match up with what he knew to be true, poison.” Bulma recalled from her first morning staying at the castle.

Silently the two young people stared at each other. They had a very solid suspect now, only a few doubts about it, but a dangerous suspect to be sure. And if indeed the idea that Frieza was behind the whole plot, puppeting the regent to gain control of the kingdom, the situation was far worse than either of them had ever imagined.

…

Broly was the son of a now disgraced ambassador, who was exiled for his crimes against the crown. When his father, Paragus, was exiled, the young boy stayed in the castle under the care of the regent. It was frowned upon by most of the other lords and ladies in the court, but Bardock didn’t believe that he was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps. So he hired the boy, then ten years of age, to be the dungeon keeper. He was a large boy, all muscle and tall as a horse. He would have easily passed for eighteen back then. Now, at twenty, he was a literal giant. He towered over every man Bardock had ever seen. He’s cursed, they would say. He talked simply, and couldn’t hold a conversation too long. He’s slow, they would say. And sometimes, he would get angry at their whisperings, and lash out violently. He’s dangerous, they would say. So, to protect Broly and himself, he confined the boy to only the cells and the kitchens. Occasionally Broly would be able to go outside to the stables where he enjoyed the company of the horses and one raggedy barn cat, but only after the court had gone to sleep, and the moon was high in the sky. He didn’t mind his confinement, in fact he felt pride in his occupation, and did his best to make Bardock proud of him too.

On this evening Broly had been ordered to clean out one of the empty cells, and dress it with less moldy hay for a new prisoner. To properly punish the criminals, they slept on hay, which would often become moldy in the dark and moist dungeon. Especially on nights it rained, which had been happening rather often lately.

So Broly prepared the new cell. He was almost giddy that he would have a new mate to talk to, as the last few prisoners had recently been executed. It always made him sad that his friends would be taken away from him, but he knew it was necessary, even if he didn’t know why.

…

Bardock paced his chambers restlessly. He now knew the mysterious squire to be none other than the blue haired girl, but he could not determine why she would be disguised, as a male of all things. The kitchen matron Mai, had informed him of certain lewd acts between the prince and his friend, and Bardock was able to piece the rest together when he recalled the boy’s hair color. He remembered that day that she sat in Nappa’s chair. It was the only time Bardock had seen her in her nearly two weeks of stay, but he remembered it vividly because of her audacity to take such a seat.

Immediately following Mai’s accusation, Bardock had Broly prepare a cell. Although he didn’t plan to imprison her immediately. He needed concrete evidence to support the servant’s claim. And if it were true it had the potential to damage the Prince’s reputation or at the very least, his trust in Bardock. So he needed to play his cards very carefully, to ensure the best possible out come.

…

Bulma had convinced her chamber maid to allow her to bathe in solitude, though it took some time. Finally, when she had gone long enough, the maiden agreed to it, if only because the blue haired squire was beginning to really reek. The maiden wondered what kind of deformity he had to be cause for such self consciousness. But she got used to their agreement and said nothing of it to anyone.

But her bathing time needed to be quick, because she was vulnerable to discovery at any moment. In case of intrusion, she lavishly filled the tub with bubbles, so as to cover her breast and kept a towel within reach. But what she wasn’t prepared for was a intrusion that she didn’t mind. The prince.

He came in as she was nearing the end of her bath, scaring the daylights out of her. Luckily it was the prince, because she yelped like a little girl before ducking her head beneath the water. He promptly closed the door behind him, and turned away from her.

Bulma knew she could stay under there forever. Plan B; apologize profusely and submit to the punishment she had incurred for her crimes. But when she came up she saw him. He respectfully faced away, allowing her to privately finish.

“Oh, your majesty…” she said with a tilted head and furrowed eyebrows. She wasn’t expecting him, but it was a welcome surprise either way.

“I’ve come to release you.” he nearly whispered, and Bulma sensed a small amount of pain in his voice.

“What does that mean?” she questioned.

“It means I am done with you. And it isn’t safe for either of us, to have you here.”

She rose from the tub and wrapped the towel around her body. Her arms and most of her legs were bare, and dripping soapy water.

“Do you mean I can go home?”

“Yes! Stop asking so many questions.” he comanded in a fiery tone.

“Just one more; can I ever come back?”

There was silence as thick as the snowstorms in winter, and just as cold. Vegeta thought it was a trick. She was teasing him. But the sincerity in her voice said otherwise, and what reason would she have now to trick him? He just gave her everything she wanted. The best possible deal for a harlot and scoundrel like herself. He turned to face her, his first mistake that evening.

Before she knew it she was directly behind him, close enough to touch him with an outstretched arm. When he turned to face her, she thought about what to say. Nothing was probably the best thing, but instead she said his name. And that was her first mistake that evening. And one mistake led to another and another, until they were breathless in each others arms. He had taken his pure white gloves off and thrown them to the side. The better to grab me with, Bulma thought as she quivered in anticipation. Nothing covered their bodies now; save for the maroon blanket that once only covered her mattress.

There was nearly no space between their bodies now; and what space there was, was hot a humid like the peak of summer. They were connected, one being. They said no words, it was far to heated for such nonsense. The quiet rang in their ears, only interrupted by the occasional sigh or moan. Their lips locked, and held there, each too afraid to let the other go. She held him, her nails digging into the skin of his back, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. Every inch of her body craved him, and could never satiate the hunger. He felt the same,  one hand holding her thigh closer to his body, the other hand supporting himself.

They made love like it was the first and last time. Pressed for time, but trying to learn every crevasse of each other’s bodies. They both savored and rushed the act, the prospect of an intruder at any moment making them go as fast as possible.

She was close, on the edge of an explosion. She bucked beneath him, wanting desperately to be closer. Her voice betrayed her, letting out audible cries of passion as she got nearer and nearer to her end. He noticed her involuntary noises and clasped the thigh holding hand over her mouth. The action sent her over the edge. His control over her had excited her, when she herself had no control over her body.

When he felt her convulse beneath him, a sure sign of her orgasm, he relaxed, and came in sync with her.

“Vegeta! P-pull,” she began, but shuddered in ecstasy.

He thrust with a final grunt, releasing his seed deep inside her.

“Out…” she finished. Oh well. She lamented at his naivety, hoping this didn’t lead to her being with child.

He huffed, breathless, and moved to dismount her.

Then the door opened.

…

Though they had been caught, it was only Bulma’s chambermaid. Marron. She figured the squire had been bathing long enough, and it was time to dump the tub. She was shocked to find him in bed, clad in nothing but their natural skins, seemingly finishing their carnal sin. With the prince, of all people. At first she was flustered. And then she feared for her life.

Vegeta sprung from the bed as fast as lightning, and held the door closed with the maid inside.

“You’ve seen nothing here, peasant.” he growled lowly, lips pulled back like a threatening wolf. She dared not look at him, and took her chance to bow so lowly, she was almost laying on the ground. She stuffed her head down, between her knees, her small hands clasped together above her head. She groveled at his feet, crying uncontrollably. She didn’t want to anger the prince, he could have her killed!

“Vegeta!” called the familiar voice of the squire, though much softer and higher in pitch than usual. “She will be quiet, you have my word.” Bulma looked at the girl, and gave her a knowing look. Then she dropped the sheets from her breast, revealing herself as female. Marron became wide eyed as she looked up at the blue haired squire. She was at a loss for words, but it all began to make perfect sense.

“Of course,” the maiden said, piecing the puzzle together.

“I will not hesitate to kill you if this ever got out. Know that in two weeks time, I will be king, and this woman will be my bride.” he declared.

At first Bulma hadn’t heard his words. Or rather, she did, and her head chose not to hear them. And then her head did this silly thing where she played the words back again in slow motion.

“I- what?” she questioned, entirely taken by the surprise of this declaration. Was he asking her to marry him, or telling her? And… what would that be like? Would she see her family, would they live in the castle with her? The hooligans would tear it up. Or would the people even approve of a marriage between a lowborn like herself, and the King? All of these questions were contained silently in the single “what" she had vocalized. And the prince knew it because he too, had the same questions.

“Do you agree to this?” he was asking Marron if she agreed to stay silent, or die. But both women spoke.

“Yes,” they said in unison, though Bulma had a different idea of what his question meant.

“Oh,” she said, realizing her mistake.

“Oh,” Vegeta said, acknowledging that she accepted his odd proposal.

The maiden said nothing, only cowered on the floor, wishing for a swift exit.

“Begone,” he said to Marron, opening the door slightly to allow her to leave.

“Yes, your majesty,” she said meekly, as she rose to her feet and exited the room. It was then Vegeta turned to Bulma and began laughing.

“What’s so funny?!” Bulma demanded, her face an angry scowl. The prince just continued to laugh as he found his trousers. “What?!” she demanded once again. Her face became red hot, like fiery oven.

“Nothing, its just,” he paused to cackle some more, “I only said that because she might think it a sin if we were laying together with no promise of marriage!” he bursted out with laughter at the end of his explanation. “B-but you thought,” he giggled, “you thought I was serious!”

Bulma felt a sharp stab in her heart. He wasn’t serious? Her heart nearly shattered. She felt her throat become thick and her eyes wet. How absolutely cruel, she lamented silently.

“Oh no,” he said with almost a slight joy in his voice. “You thought… you thought I was in love with you?” he said with an evil smirk. She couldn’t bare to look at him. She was so entirely embarrassed and heart broken, all she could do was keep her head down. It felt like she was floating as her head began to spin.

“Like I said before, I release you. Go home to your tribe of savages, and never come back.” He was actually disguising his goodbye with more hostility than he actually felt toward her. But the more ugly he was, the easier it would be for her to forget him. The truth was, he cherished the memory they had just made, and more than anything, he wished more than anything that she could stay. But it would never work, the kingdom would never accept her. And he would be going to war soon with the French, and he couldn’t bare to think what may come of her if they lost. Frieza would surely kill her, but not before torturing her. Afterall, his father had done that very same thing to the late empress. Or so Frieza thought…

The truth was that the late King Vegeta fell in love with the woman who was promised to Frieza. He staged her kidnapping, but she was more than willing to go, for she loved the king as well. And she married him, and bore him two sons before her death. But to Frieza, he believed the marriage to be against her will, and the procreation a product of rape.

Yes, it would be gravely dangerous to marry her, in more ways than one. So he hurt her, to let her go. And when she was fully clothed once again, she left.

…

Marron and Fasha were chatting in the kitchen when the blue haired squire zipped past them. She had a long dark cloak on, that seemed to purposefully conceal her face. She was holding her hand to her face, muffling her light cries.

“What’s with him?” Fasha poked, when Bull had exited the kitchens, headed toward the stables.

Marron felt she could trust her friend. They had known each other since they were very small children. Their mothers still worked in the kitchens together. Marron made the grave mistake of trusting her friend, and confiding the secret with her.

“Is that so,” Mai appeared behind the two girls, startling them.

“Oh, um yes, I was it with my own eyes Miss Mai…” Marron said meekly. “But the prince made me promise not to tell anyone, on pain of death. Mai’s eyebrows raised with intrigue.

“Then he shall not know,” Mai replied, her voice sly, with malicious intent. “Follow me.” she comanded of her subordinate.  And Marron did.

They made their way to the Regent’s chambers, on the far east end of the castle. It was a long walk, and silent. Marron had the feeling that Mai was mad at her, but she couldn’t be sure.

When they arrived, the Regent was leaning on the wall outside of his chambers. It was odd, but Marron thought nothing of it.

“Is that so?” the Regent purred. His voice was deep and smooth, like a creamed cup of tea. Marron liked her tea with cream, and she really liked the regent’s voice. That and his body. Though he was probably twenty years older than her, she felt instantly attracted to him. It could never be, she lamented with an audible sigh. “I saw it with my own eyes, but the prince cannot know. Please, protect me.”

Marron’s big doe eyes looked up at the much taller than her man.

“Very well. No consequence will come to the prince. And we will hold her trial on the same day as his coronation, that way he will not know.” His guarantee comforted the young maiden.

Bardock motioned for one of his guards to come closer. “M'lord?” the armor clad knight asked.

“If Marron is to be believed, the blue haired girl should be on her way to through the forest to her home. She lives in the old hospital, though you probably won’t have to go that far. Just arrest her and take her directly to the cells, I will keep the prince away from that area so that he is none the wiser.”

“Yes sir!” the knight saluted, and made his way toward the other end of the castle.

Marron had a tiny pang of black, dirty, guilt in the pit of her stomach. She hoped to God that she did the right thing.

To be continued…

[classywastelandbread-blog]

Serious Noodles vs Jokes

This could also be called “in which DC takes ~5 pages to tell two jokes.

Have more pretentious and serious noodles-that-are-not-to-be-eaten. Continuation of this.

Knock-knock.

Hanzo sighed but disguised it as a deep breath as a part of his meditation. He doubted it fooled the spirits but they weren’t paying attention to him anyway.

I do not understand.

Knock-knock.

What is “knock-knock”?

Hanzo peeked open an eye and found that Genji and Zenyatta had both done the same, covertly watching the three spirit dragons bob their heads in the center of their meditation triangle. (It could hardly be a “circle”, brother, Genji had pointed out and Zenyatta had only encouraged the cyborg so Hanzo gave up.)

Udon bobbed its head not unlike an agitated lizard; Soba peered interestedly at Ramen who bobbed its head back. It’s a joke.

A joke?

A joke. Knock-knock.

Udon and Soba bobbed and wiggled their heads in a way that Hanzo knew meant they were confused. Is that funny? Udon asked.

I don’t know, Ramen replied.

“You’re missing a part of the joke,” Genji said out loud and the three spirits scrambled to look at him, blinking their luminous eyes and flicking their fat, forked tongues excitedly.

Zenyatta’s systems hummed quietly as he drifted closer to Hanzo. “They are telling jokes?” the omnic monk asked in an undertone.

“Trying to,” Hanzo replied just as quietly, having momentarily forgotten that he wasn’t privy to the booming voices of the spirit dragons. “They don’t understand most types of humor.”

What is the joke? Soba asked.

Ramen tilted its head from side to side as if considering that. What part was missed? It wanted to know, climbing into Genji’s lap and twining around his torso.

“Who told you the joke?” Genji asked.

Song Hana, Ramen said, bobbing its head as if agreeing with itself. Unlike Udon and Soba, it was much more active and prone to almost nervous fits of motion.

“What else did she say?” Genji pressed, running a lazy hand along the fluttering tufts of mane along the spine of his spirit dragon.

Knock-knock. Ramen said. And then McCree asked who was there. But she was in front of him so I didn’t understand. What is “knock-knock”?

“Do I want to know?” Zenyatta asked quietly and Hanzo mutely shook his head. The Shambali monk pressed a hand to the seam of his faceplate that mimicked a mouth – as if hiding a chuckle or a smile – and fell back into meditation, his orbs bobbing and orbiting around him with gentle notes.

“It is the sound one makes when they knock on a door,” Hanzo said, reluctantly joining in. Soba, who had always seemed the shyer of his two spirits, scrambled into his lap where it curled up like an enormous cat. It didn’t work out very well, considering from shoulder to hip Soba was nearly a meter long with another meter and a half for its tail and neck. Still it made an effort, which unfortunately looked rather ridiculous.

Wrapping his hands around the spirit, he shifted out of seiza and let Soba attempt to curl up in the well made by his crossed legs. It still didn’t work but it was slightly less awkward.

A knock on the door, Udon echoed, a wrinkle on its scaly face appearing. Its long whiskers fluttered in an imaginary current. But a “knock” on a door is an action, so how is it “knock-knock” instead of “I am knocking on your door”?

Soba bobbed its head. It’s a sound and a verb, it corrected its sibling.

I don’t like it, Udon complained.

Genji hid a smile behind his hand and Ramen shook its head. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “Udon, I am knocking on your door.”

The spirit peered at Genji. Are you speaking to me? Or are you speaking of noodles. Because I am not a noodle and I am not for eating.

Soba and Ramen bobbed their heads though in amusement or agreement, none of them were really sure. Udon-who-are-not-noodles, Ramen said. I am knocking on your door.

Udon cocked its head to the side. Why are you knocking on my door? I do not understand. You are welcome in my home and my room so why do you knock?

“You ask ‘who is there’,” Genji told the spirits who all twisted their heads to look at him. “Because someone is knocking on your door and you want to know who it is.”

The spirits considered that. But why not just open the door? Soba wanted to know. Then you will know who is at the door.

Hanzo and Genji traded glances. “It’s just something that is done,” Genji said cautiously when it was clear that Hanzo wasn’t about to help him any more than he already had. Hanzo in turn combed his fingers through Soba’s mane. “And it’s a part of the joke. So, when someone tells you a joke and says ‘knock-knock,’ you say-”

Who is there! Ramen interrupted excitedly, bouncing a little in Genji’s lap. Udon hmphed and curled up on Hanzo’s other side. He obligingly ran his fingers along its crest and pressed gently along the curve of its jaw.

Hanzo wondered what kind of joke Genji would tell, given how difficult the lead-up had been. How long would it take for them to explain the punchline?

Is that the joke? Soba wondered, accidentally kicking Udon in the face with a flailing leg as it rearranged itself in Hanzo’s lap. He tried not to wince when its scales scratched him but it nosed his hand in apology anyway. I don’t understand how that is funny.

Absently, Hanzo scratched under Soba’s chin and it tipped its head back to let him. Disgraceful, Udon grumbled, nipping at Soba’s claw. Soba kicked it in the face and wiggled delightedly under Hanzo’s hands.

For all of Hanzo’s life his spirits had been dignified and aloof but having now spent time with Overwatch, with a more relaxed atmosphere, they were beginning to unwind a bit. Udon was still stuffy and crabby and none of them understood humor, sarcasm, or humans and omnics in general but it was moments like these, when Soba delicately leaned in to Hanzo’s gentle fingers or curled itself in his lap like a spoiled cat that Hanzo really realized how far they had come.

It wasn’t a very funny joke, Ramen observed.

“Well, it’s not done yet,” Genji explained. “There’s a punchline.”

The three spirits cocked their head. Well, two because Soba was too busy itching at the scales along its dewlap to react. A line of punches? Ramen guessed.

Why are there lines of punches for a joke? Udon asked with a huff. Does that not hurt? Why would you hurt someone for a joke?

“I’m amazed that you haven’t figured out jokes,” Hanzo murmured. “Especially growing up with Genji.”

Ramen tossed its head. Genji didn’t make jokes like this, it said reproachfully and then swiveled its head back to Genji. But why are there lines of punches?

“Well there is the lead-up for the joke,” Genji explained between chuckles. “That lays down the information needed to understand it. The punchline shows what is funny about the joke.”

The spirits considered that. Udon nipped again at Soba’s outstretched claws as it curled itself around Hanzo; Soba tossed its head in annoyance with its dewlap extended, though gravity worked against its threatening display.

Ramen huffed, settling down though it eyed Zenyatta’s lap thoughtfully. So we are missing the rest of the joke?

“Okay,” Genji said with a chuckle. “Let’s start over. Ramen, knock-knock.”

The spirit cocked its head to the side, looking up at its host. Are you speaking to me?

Soba wiggled in Hanzo’s lap. Ramen-that-is-not-a-noodle! It exclaimed. Knock-knock!

The green spirit wiggled around to look at Soba. Who is at the door?

Hanzo and Genji pressed hands to their mouths to hide smiles and swallow back giggles. The spirits all turned to Genji expectantly. Now what? Udon wanted to know gruffly. It was clear that it was getting tired of this silliness but it still rested its head on Hanzo’s knee, watching them all with slitted eyes.

“Cows go,” Genji said and all of the spirits’ heads swiveled around.

Where is there a cow? Soba asked, wiggling out of Hanzo’s lap to scramble up on his shoulders. When it could go no higher, it floated up a bit more. I don’t see a cow nearby.

“It’s a part of the joke,” Hanzo explained tiredly.

Why is there a cow? Ramen asked.

“It’s a part of the lead-up to the punchline,” Genji told them, far more patiently than Hanzo could have. “Let me demonstrate with Hanzo.”

Ramen bounced on his laps. No! We won’t understand it!

“We can explain afterwards,” Genji suggested.

“You just repeat what is said,” Hanzo tried. “Watch: Genji! Knock-knock.”

The spirits grumbled and Soba settled around Hanzo’s shoulders once more. “Who’s there?” Genji asked.

“Cows go.”

“’Cows go’ who?” The brothers both paused.

So you don’t know who is at the door? Udon asked. You ask who is at the door and when they give their name you do not know them?

Ramen huffed. It doesn’t make sense.

On his shoulders, Hanzo could feel Soba wobble as it bobbed its head. It’s a ritual! It declared with the air of having come to a great realization. For the first response you always ask “who’s there”. Then, when they respond, you repeat their response and add “who”. Right?

Udon huffed. This is a complicated joke.

Similarly, Ramen grumbled and scrambled up on Genji’s shoulders. He tugged its tail warningly before it could jump on the unsuspecting Zenyatta’s lap.

“You are welcome to join me, friend,” the omnic said, startling the brothers. He lowered the orbs gently rotating around him and Ramen wiggled its tail out of Genji’s hand before it launched itself into the omnic’s lap. There, it curled up the way Soba had done in Hanzo’s lap and graciously accepted the gentle petting from the Shambali monk. “I am curious to hear the rest of the joke.”

Ramen looked up at Zenyatta. Master Zenyatta! I am knocking on your door.

The monk glanced down at the spirit in his lap. “Hello, friend,” he said mildly as Ramen did a rather good impression of knocking.

“Ramen is starting the joke, Master,” Genji said. “Knock-knock.”

Ramen huffed. “Who’s there?” Zenyatta asked, gently rubbing the tips of his metallic fingers under the hinge of Ramen’s jaw. The spirit closed its eyes and tilted its head into the caress. On his shoulders, Hanzo felt the gentle brush of Soba’s dewlap as it bobbed its head. He obligingly reached up with the hand that wasn’t petting Udon’s mane to scratch at the thick scales along its spine.

“Cows go,” Genji said and not for the first time, Hanzo wondered how this would go. He doubted the spirits, despite their infinite wisdom, would understand such silly humor if the joke was what he thought it was.

Zenyatta perhaps thought something similar for he tilted his head to the side. In his lab, Ramen reached out and snagged on of his orbs with a claw and dragged it to their chest where they wrapped both arms around it. The remaining orbs adjusted their position to remain evenly-spaced and as much as a lizard-like dragon spirit could, Ramen looked put out.

“’Cows go’ who?” the monk asked.

With the most serious expression, Genji told him, “No, cows go ‘moo’, no ‘who’.”

Zenyatta’s disappointment was almost palpable, as was the spirits’. Hanzo swallowed back a bark of laughter but to his surprise, Udon’s head popped up. Ah! It said. That was funny. Then it clearly tried to smile or at least mimic human laughter but it didn’t quite work out: Udon bared its fearsome teeth, flared its whiskers out, and bent its head back as if its neck had snapped.

All in all, it was a rather disturbing sight.

That was actually what made Genji and Hanzo start laughing rather than the absurdity of the joke.

I don’t like that joke, Soba grumbled, bobbing its head again and floating off as Hanzo’s laughter shook it from its perch.

“That was a bad joke,” Zenyatta said with a staticky sigh of disappointment.

It was, Ramen agreed though it was clear that Zenyatta couldn’t hear it. I don’t understand it.

Udon bobbed its head which was back to its proper angle. The “go” is not like the verb “to go”, it explained, bobbing its head smugly. The “go” means “to make a sound”. So when it is answered that “Cows go” is at the door, the response turns into “cows make the noise ‘who’”.

The other two dragon spirits looked as disgusted as their scaly faces and unfamiliarity with facial expressions would allow. I don’t like that joke, Ramen complained.

It’s too complicated, Soba agreed.

They eventually shifted back into meditation, though the dragons continued to grumble about their dissatisfaction with the joke and jokes in general.

Late that night found Hanzo on “his” clifftop spot drinking with McCree.

The autumn nights were beginning to get chilly, so McCree hesitantly offered to share a corner of his signature serape. Though Hanzo made a show of complaining of how dirty and disgusting it was and how it smelled like whiskey and cigarillo smoke he still took the offered corner and leaned against McCree’s side. The nights were beginning to get cold and the serape was warm and the gunslinger was like a furnace, throwing off comfortable heat.

His only warning of something amiss came in a little shock along his tattooed arm, what could have been mistaken for a muscle spasm if Hanzo didn’t know better. He was just opening his mouth to warn McCree when one of his spirits – it was difficult to tell which, but he thought it was Soba – appeared over the edge of the cliff.

I AM KNOCKING ON YOUR DOOR, the dragon roared in Hanzo’s mind as McCree yelped in his ear and jerked back. Soba opened its mouth, baring fangs as long as their hands from the heel of their palms to the tips of their fingers. I AM SORRY FOR DISTURBING YOU, BUT I FEEL THAT I MUST INFORM YOU THAT I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU A JOKE. I AM KNOCKING ON YOUR DOOR.

“Thank you,” Hanzo gritted out as McCree pressed his gloved hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath after the scare. “Who’s there?”

McCree grunted. “What was that?” he asked as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“It’s telling us a joke,” Hanzo said flatly.

Soba bobbed its head excitedly, its dewlap extending proudly. WHAT DID THE OCEAN SAY TO THE BEACH?

“What did the ocean say to the beach?” Hanzo translated for McCree. From the resigned look on his face, he knew the punchline already and was preparing himself to react in order to make Soba happy. “I don’t know,” Hanzo said to one of his spirits. “What did the ocean say to the beach?”

NOTHING, the spirit proclaimed in a voice like thunder. Hanzo tipped back his gourd and let the sake flow into his mouth. IT JUST WAVED.

McCree snorted and laughed convincingly when Hanzo relayed the response to him. “Good one!” he told the ancient spirit who preened beneath his attention.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND THE JOKE, Soba admitted. BUT THANK YOU FOR PRETENDING YOU LIKED IT. Pushing itself off the edge of the cliff, it meandered away as if it walked on solid ground rather than the windy air of the seaside cliff.

“Don’t ask,” Hanzo muttered when McCree looked at him. 

He could hear Udon ask, DID YOU INTERRUPT THEIR DATE? THAT WAS VERY RUDE.

I KNOW, Soba replied. BUT THEIR CLOTHES ARE STILL ON SO I DIDN’T INTERRUPT ANYTHING IMPORTANT.

Never before had he been so glad that McCree couldn’t hear the spirits. 

He murmured a ‘thank you’ and passed his gourd of sake to the gunslinger when he was offered the corner of his signature serape again.

[your-brother-crutchie]

Sono innamorato

Spot has been avoiding getting intimate with Race for months and Race is starting to think something’s wrong with him.

Race and Spot had been in a relationship for seven months.

Seven months had gone by and not once had they had sex.

Race had even managed to prise an “I love you,” out of Spot but still, for some reason, Spot always managed to come up with an excuse to get out of any situation that could lead to something.

There was absolutely zero chance of doing it at Race’s house. Even if his parents went out all night, Race had five siblings and the likelihood of them all being gone at once was incredibly slim. Race refused to have his first time with Spot with his older siblings in the next room.

This left Spot’s house as the only option but every time his mum left for the night, Spot would come up with some excuse to stop Race from even coming over.

Race had only ever brought his worries up once and it had resulted in the most awkward conversation he’d ever been a part of.

“What now, Conlon? Washing your hair? … Scotty, do you not want me?”

“What?”

Spot had dropped what he was doing to assure Race that there was nothing going on, that it was just a few cases of bad timing. It had then gone on for another few months but Race didn’t care to mention it.

This time, however, Race had checked the diary.

He made sure that Spot couldn’t say he was sick by hanging out with him all day on old fire escapes and, when Spot’s mum asked him to, forgot to mention that she wouldn’t be home that night.

Race wouldn’t pressure Spot into anything, but if he could make it easier then why shouldn’t he? Even if this went wrong, and Spot told him that he really wasn’t attracted to him or that he’d found someone, at least Race would know. He couldn’t stand the uncertainty of not knowing why Spot was so desperate to avoid him. Race knew that Spot wasn’t like Davey, he wasn’t on any part of the asexual spectrum, and that almost made it worse.

When they reached Spot’s apartment, only to find it empty with a note on the counter that told them that Spot’s mum was spending the night with her sister, Race couldn’t help but tug on his ear with tingling fingers.

Deciding to take his chance, Race tapped on Spot’s shoulder and pressed him against the back of the doorframe, bringing his face centimetres from his boyfriend’s. He sighed contentedly and felt his knees weaken when Spot flipped them around, immediately taking control of the situation and watching the small smile spread across Race’s face, “Why do you look so smug?”

A shrug rolled from Race’s shoulders as he simply leaned forwards innocently. Race licked his lips once, flicking his eyebrows upwards as he saw Spot watching them with dedication, before kissing him as deeply as possible. He moaned a little around Spot’s tongue when he felt him tugging him forwards by the the shirt, closing every small bit of distance between them.

They’d kissed like that before; Spot had even taken Race’s shirt off and ran his hands over his bare skin but that was all Spot ever seemed to want to do.

Well, that wasn’t quite right.

Spot always seemed to want more but pulled himself out of the situation. He never left without lingering traces of Race’s body, struggling to pull away but always doing it.

Quite frankly, Race didn’t get it.

However, Spot wasn’t done just yet so Race decided to stop thinking and focus on his boyfriend’s fist tangling and tugging gently on his soft curls. Almost surprisingly, Spot was almost always completely respectful and gentle. Occasionally he would get a little rough but Race didn’t mind at all.

Race felt Spot tugging on him and followed breathlessly when he realised that Spot was trying to lead him to his bedroom.

It was finally happening.

Leaning him back onto the bed, Spot was careful to make sure that Race’s head hit the pillow gently before clambering up and on top of him and reattaching their lips. Race couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, making it difficult as Spot grumbled about his teeth being in the way.

Rolling his eyes, Race wrapped his hands around the back of Spot’s head before pulling him in closer to kiss him again. He felt Spot’s fingers fumbling on the buttons of his shirt, struggling to compose himself as his skin tingled under Spot’s touch.

It was only when Race couldn’t help himself that things started to go wrong.

Race was getting excited, it was finally happening and he could feel his jeans were getting a little uncomfortable. He was certain that Spot would be able to feel it too. What concerned Race slightly was that he couldn’t feel anything from Spot, whose crotch was positioned against Race’s thigh.

Wanting to make sure that Spot was enjoying himself too, Race went to slide his hands under his baggy t-shirt (he also really wanted to see Spot shirtless for the first time- if his biceps were any indication, Race would bet anything that it was going to be fucking glorious).

Instead of being able to trace Spot’s skin, however, Race’s fingers hit a thick material only a little way up Spot’s stomach.

Spot froze and Race felt it.

Without any sort of warning, Spot leapt from the bed and sprinted into the bathroom on the other side of the hall, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Confused was an understatement.

Although Race had absolutely no idea what to do, he didn’t want to leave. He had a feeling that if Spot came out and found that he wasn’t there, he might think that meant that the entire relationship was over.

So, instead, Race sat still. He twisted his fingers in Spot’s ironically striped bedsheets (Race had made the clashing joke often enough) and ran his free hand over his face.

God, what had he done?

After a few minutes, Race stood and padded carefully to the bathroom. He slid down the wall beside the door, not wanting to fall if Spot opened it suddenly, and rapped his knuckles as delicately as he could against the door. Race kept his voice soft and gentle as he rolled his head to the side to stare at the handle, “Scotty?”

There was a tense silence for a moment when even the sound of minute sniffles that Race had picked up on without realising it stopped.

“Go away.”

Race sighed gently as he realised that he’d forgotten to put his t-shirt back on and found himself shivering, “You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later.” He pulled his arms tighter around himself, only to find that it wasn’t the cold that was making him shiver. It was the threat of losing Spot.

A couple of tense seconds passed before Race heard the click of the lock and immediately went scrambling to his feet.

However, Spot didn’t follow.

Race took a couple of breaths before pushing the door open slowly to find him curled in a ball at the other end of the bathroom, really fucking trying not to cry.

Crumbling immediately, Race went to rush forwards but slowed immediately, remembering that Spot didn’t like fast movements in his direction. He lowered himself until he sat beside Spot, trying to make the fact that their sides were pressed against each other as tightly as possible despite the vast expanse of wall seem like an accident.

Spot took a long breath as he gathered himself before finally letting, “I have something to say,” out as one long word.

Unable to stop himself, Race snorted. He couldn’t help it. He knew that it was literally the most inappropriate time but Spot had to see the irony in there, “No shit.” If he didn’t have anything to say after an episode like that, Race would be worried.

“Tonio, no jokes now, please. I’m serious now.”

Just from the look on Spot’s face, Race was scared. What if he really didn’t want him or if he wasn’t attracted to him anymore? Was Spot about to break up with him? Race was really regretting the disregard of his shirt, purely for wanting something to hide behind and being left bare.

Spot leaned his head back against the tiles, obviously refusing to look at Race at all as he stared straight ahead, “Listen, first, I want you to know that it’s perfectly alright for you to turn around and walk away if this weirds you out or you’re not into it or whatever … ”

As Spot trailed off, once again, Race couldn’t help himself. He nudged Spot’s knee with his own until the boy was looking at him before beginning with a grin, “Oh god, is it a foot fetish?”

Raising his hand to cuff Race lightly over the ear, even Spot seemed unable to hold the smile from his face as he chastised him.

Race giggled as he swatted Spot away, catching his hand before it could fall and resting their hands together on his own knee, “Sorry.” He mumbled the words softly as he focussed on lacing their fingers together, gently raising them and pressing a kiss to the back of Spot’s hand before lowering them gently to his knee once more.

“Good to know that you’re taking this seriously … I also want you to know that you- you mean a lot- what’s that phrase you use all the time? Oh god, I’m about to butcher it … ” Spot dropped his head into his free hand, ashamed of himself as Race looked on in pity.

Knowing that Spot hated to be cooed over, Race tried to be as supportive as possible without coming across as condescending, “Go on … ” He didn’t have a clue what Spot was going to try to say but he really prayed that he got it right. It would certainly spoil the moment if he had to correct him half way through.

“ … Sono innamorato.”

Race squealed. He fucking squealed.

Race squealed because Spot never normally tells him that he loves him and he couldn’t help but feel that telling him like that was the sweetest way his stone-hearted boyfriend could have done it.

Rolling his eyes as he shrugged Race off of him, Spot seemed to worry for a moment that what he’d said was too forward before settling into Race’s calming hug, “Yes, well, here goes … ” Although Spot had been about to admit it, the words had died in his throat and he had had to start again, “I’m- oh my god, I’m trans.”

Race did not pull away. That was a start. There was a moment of quiet as he tightened his arms around his boyfriend(?), breathing in the scent of his cologne and nudging his nose against his neck in comfort, “ … You want to be a girl?” Race did not fully understand but he was willing to learn. That was enough.

Feeling himself being pushed away slightly, Race sat up straight and watched as Spot turned to sit, cross-legged, facing him, “No- god, no. I- I ‘used to be’ a girl.” Just seeing the air quotes and Spot’s disgusted expression, Race suddenly caught on. He also caught on to why this was an incredibly serious conversation to be having right now, based on what he’d wanted to get up to, “Dottie- well, Dorothy, but that’s dead to me now, that’s over. Spot came from Dottie and stuck. Scott actually came later.”

Race ran the information over in his mind, he remembered watching Spot, when he’d met him at Pride that year, and the way that he’d watched certain paraders with such a genuine smile, the ones painted in blue and pink and white. The ones that really understood what he was going through, “Oh my god. Spot, I had no idea.” So Spot hadn’t been proud of who he was, Race was going to make it his mission to have him out and happy by the next Pride that they went to.

Noticing that Spot had perked up when Race still used his new name, telling him his old one must have been a risky move and Race was incredibly happy that he trusted him in that way, Race nudged his way closer again until he was, once again, attached like a limpet to his neck.

Spot chuckled as he accepted Race back into his arms, sighing and running a hand through his hair, “That was the point. I just needed you to know because I haven’t ‘changed’ anything yet. If we were to do anything now, I’ve still got … You know.”

As he nodded softly into Spot’s neck, Race smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the exposed skin, “Do you want to change that?”

A content sigh escaped Spot as he turned his head until he could bury his face in Race’s curly hair, “That would be nice.” He took in the smell of smoke and vanilla, sighing when he noticed that Race was still smoking but deciding he’d bring it up another time.

Smiling, Race pulled himself up until he was face to face with Spot, keeping his eyes fixedly determinedly on his lips as he said his piece, “Then we’d better start saving.”

Spot smirked at that, finding that he could perhaps bring it up sooner than he’d expected, “Oh yeah? You gonna stop smoking again?”

Although he was, at this point, completely and utterly distracted by Spot’s lips, Race could manage to mumble a, “Mmm,” before he kissed him, bumping his nose and forehead in his haste.

Spot seemed to mumble, sounding surprised before gently pushing Race’s chest away so that he could speak, “Wait, you’re still- attracted to me?”

Tilting his head to the side, Race stared at Spot in confusion before thinking back to something his boyfriend had said earlier in the conversation, “Wait, back track. You thought I’d leave you over this?” Race’s heart broke as he quickly snuggled into Race’s side once more, wishing for him to never have to feel alone again.

The dark-haired boy remained silent for a moment as he looked down at Race, unable to hide his smile at his boyfriend’s confused tone, “Uhm … Yes?” He kissed Race’s head when it looked like he was going to move, wanting to just sit together for a moment.

“Perbacco, per carità, Scotty! Hell no, sir. Sono innamorato, remember?” Race took Spot’s hand and kissed the back of it, happy that his boyfriend was letting him baby him.

Spot couldn’t help himself. He hated it and Race knew that he hated it but he was blushing and he didn’t even know how to stop it. “Really?”

Chuckling, Race rolled his head to the side, until he was facing Spot’s neck again, and smiled dopily, “Voglio essere sempre con te.” He reached across and drew his finger lightly over Spot’s neck, only now noticing the lack of an Adam’s apple.

Spot breathed out shakily as he struggled to pull away from Race slightly, “Okay, so, the Italian is really sweet and super hot but I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”

As Race trailed his fingers carefully across Spot’s cheek, he simply smiled and nuzzled into his neck until he was, once again, hanging like a limpet from Spot, “Con te voglio invecchiare, Scotty, ti voglio sempre avere al mio fianco.” Race loved using his Italian to hide what he was saying so that he could get away with being emotional without having to see Spot squirming.

“Are you being sappy because I swear to god, Tonio-” Although Spot began his sentence, he had to leave it when Race placed a careful kiss on the corner of his mouth, suddenly taking Race’s face in both hands and pulling him in to kiss him properly.

A small smile lingering behind his eyes when Spot finally allowed him to pull away, Race chuckled and blinked innocently up at his boyfriend, “Never.”

Inspired by this post.

[sorahana]

So @a-hero-must-have-a-villain, I’m your Secret Friend! Since you mentioned that you like fluff, please have some domestic Sportarobbie being cute husbands together!

---

He felt a tug at his subconscious. The gentlest of touches brushed at the edge of his mind, soft yet persistent.

Wriggling his toes, Sportacus concluded that his feet were cold. He hogged the blankets again, was his first coherent thought of the day. It was filled with fondness that stemmed from a deep rooted love that would never waver, regardless if he was semi awake or not. It took about a minute before the fog of sleep evaporated enough for him to open his eyes. That was something that happened more often, which wasn’t a bad thing. It simply meant he was so comfortable that he wanted to prolong that feeling.

Sportacus’ vision was filled with the steady rising and falling of Robbie’s chest.

Well, more like his collarbone and neck. The villain had cocooned himself with the comfy purple blanket, almost completely covered sans his upper half. Robbie often got cold in the middle of the night so he didn’t blame his partner for stealing his half of the blanket.

Sportacus lifted his head slightly, sliding his hand underneath so he could support his head while his free hand went over to Robbie’s face. His fingers lightly danced on the cheek, eliciting a little twitch of his nose before they went up to play with the strands of blank hair splayed on his temple.

Robbie really should keep his hair gel free more often. While his normal style looked good on him, letting his natural hair fall freely was a whole different look that left Sportacus breathless each time he landed his gaze on it. The way his bangs fall just above his eyes, the longer strands framing the side of his handsome face…

Well, he was getting a little sidetracked. Though it was understandable, considering it was his husband he was mentally gushing over.

The room was bathed in a grey light, the morning overcast and dreary. While he loved sunny days, he came to enjoy this kind of weather, simply because of the time he could spend with Robbie indoors. The kids would prefer to stay inside, lessening the possibility of a rescue and maximizing the quality time spent with his partner.

Sportacus’ attention shifted from the window – when they tied the knot, buying a house was the first on their agenda, a place where they could call their own while still satisfying their respected needs – to his husband. His baby blue eyes dipped to Robbie’s covered chest, gaze slowly trailing up. He took in the lightly tanned skin ( Robbie was going out more, which brought endless joy to him ), those beautiful pink lips ( slightly chapped but very much kissable ), pointed nose and delicate eyelashes.

Robbie’s eyes were closed, lips curved up in a small smile. Sportacus couldn’t help but smile himself. He had been waking up next to Robbie long enough to tell that this was one of the rare moments where he was most definitely awake.

Sportacus eyed his husband, eyes calculating before a mischievous grin made its way on his face. He lay his head back down on the pillow, his free hand slipping under the covers to seek out Robbie’s warm hand. As soon as their fingers interlocked, Sportacus slid his feet inside the cocoon and immediately pressed them against Robbie’s calves.

“Ah!” A surprised gasp flew out before he could stop it. Sportacus giggled at his reaction, feeling his heart swell with warmth at the pout he received. Since the jig was up, Robbie cracked open an eye, sending a look that clearly said, “You spoil my fun.”

Sportacus’ giggle morphed into a soft, warm laugh. “Well good morning to you too.” He turned his head slightly, leaning forward slightly so he could place a tender kiss on Robbie’s forehead. “I don’t get to say that often. I wish I could say it more often. Why can’t that be a common thing?”

Robbie smiled at the gesture, rolling his eyes slightly at Sportacus’ ramble. Secretly, he absolutely enjoyed these mornings where he somehow managed to wake up early enough that Sportacus was still in bed and felt lazy enough to stay in bed, basking in sleepy affection.

“Well, good morning to you too. Happy?” Robbie mumbled back. “I need my beauty sleep, you know that. Plus, if it’s a rare thing, won’t that make it much sweeter when I do grace you with my presence so early in the morning?” As he said that, his arms slowly entangled themselves from the blanket, slipping out from the warm cocoon so they could seek out Sportacus’ warmth.

With their close proximity, it took a bit of maneuvering but gently grabbed hold of Robbie’s hand and brought them up to his lips. Sportacus peppered the tips of his fingers with soft kisses, moving his way up to the knuckles before he clasped it, rubbing the back gently with his thumb.

“You have icy hands,” Robbie whined but did not make any attempts to pull his hand away.

“This is what you get for hogging the blankets all night,” Sportacus’ teased, interlocking their fingers together so he could leech off more warmth. “If I wasn’t naturally warm, I would have become a human popsicle overnight. Then you’d have to deal with having a popsicle of a husband that you can’t even enjoy because I’m frozen.”

“Well…” Here, Robbie’s face gained a tinge of red, eyes half lidded as he smiled innocently at Sportacus. “I could think of many different ways to enjoy a Sportacus’ popsicle. I mean, it involves a whole lot of, how you say, licking…”

“Oh my god Robbie,” Sportacus murmured, his own face going red. “I regret making that comment. Why must you twist my words and soil my virgin ears with such implications.”

Robbie snorted. “And I thought I was the overdramatic one.” His tone quickly shifted into a playful one. “Also my Sportadear, we both know that’s a huge lie. Your ears have long since crossed the line of virginity, figuratively and literally…”

“Robbie. No, bad Robbie,” Sportacus replied without heat, face flushing even more. “We’ve only been awake for ten minutes. I’d prefer to enjoy this rare time together being lazy.”

“What’s this? The active sports elf wanting to be lazy? Oh my, have I been rubbing off on you?” Robbie placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “I’m definitely the best villain that ever was. This is going down in the history books.”

This time, it was Sportacus who rolled his eyes. “Yep, you’re still the overdramatic one.” His hand went to Robbie’s, grasping it gently. His expression softened into something raw. “Though, you’re definitely the best villain in my eyes. You’re my number one, now and always…”

Robbie’s mouth opened and close uselessly for a moment, finding himself blindsided by the sudden sappiness amidst the playful bantering. While he was surprised, it did fill his heart with love and affection for this wonderfully adorable elf.

“Yes, well, I’ve always been the best,” Robbie replied, puffing out his chest before he returned the gesture, squeezing Sportacus’ hand with tenderness that was unbecoming for a villain. Then again, when he decided to marry the loveable hero, he supposed he threw all of that out of the window. “And the best villain deserves the best hero, even if he’s a flippity blue kangaroo.”

“Are you implying that there are other flippity blue kangaroos in your life?” Sportacus asked, trying his best to keep his expression steady. His wobbly lips fooled no one, however. “I need to know who they are so I can politely tell them to stay away from my villain.”

“Please, I could only handle one flippity blue kangaroo in my life at a time. If there were two of you around, I think the exercise would have ended my beautiful existence.” Sportacus opened his mouth but Robbie beat him to the punch. “And no, your brother does not count. For one thing, he’s clad in that yellow and orange monstrosity. Besides, if I were to make a move on him, Glanni would most certainly do the same to you out of spite and that is something I wouldn’t want even on my worst enemy.”

Sportacus huffed out a laugh. “Speaking of them, it’s been awhile since we last spoke to each other. Wonder what they’re doing right now.”

“Knowing Glanni, he’d be neck deep in some sort of trouble and getting his ass saved by Ithro. It’ll probably end with some back alley make out session or something,” Robbie replied casually, laying back down with a sigh.

Sportacus wrinkled his nose. Now that wasn’t a mental image he wanted to entertain right now. Before he could make some sort of retort, his stomach chose that time to growl angrily, demanding that he fed it the most important meal of the day.

“Guess it’s time for breakfast.” And they were having such a good time too, regardless of the sidetrack to the imagery that must not be imagined. Sportacus reluctantly pushed off he covers, sliding his legs to the side before standing up, hissing at the sharp cold that met his feet.

“Make me something too,” Robbie mumbled from the bed. The moment Sportacus left the bed, he bunched up the rest of the blanket and curled back up into a human cocoon, sapping off the lingering warmth of the covers. He was past the point of burying his nose and inhaling the blanket for his husband’s unique scent. Everything that they shared together smelled like sunshine and apples, anyway.

“Yes, of course your majesty,” Sportacus replied dryly, though there was a smile on his lips. Like he would let his Robbie sleep in without eating breakfast. Absolutely scandalous. “I hope you’ll enjoy a bowl of oatmeal with some chopped up sportscandy on top of it.”

Robbie shuddered. “Ugh, are you trying to kill me? I thought you loved me.”

Sportacus snorted before he shook his head fondly. “I mean, death by oatmeal isn’t so bad. Maybe pathetic but not bad.”

From the cocoon, there was something red sticking out from the small opening. “So mean.”

“I love you too,” Sportacus replied cheerily before he left the bedroom. Heading into the kitchen, he took out the necessary ingredients to make a nice batch of pancakes. He made two batters, one sweeter than the other before he started cooking them.

As much as he would love to flip around like the pancakes, Sportacus refrained himself from doing so. The first time he did acrobatics near the stove, it nearly ended up in a disaster. Robbie scolded him throughout it all as he snip at the burnt edges of his hair. As a reminder to never do it again, the villain made him wear a shirt with the words ‘I nearly burnt down my house by being a flippity blue kangaroo’ for an entire week. Needless to say, he got the message loud and clear.

By the time he finished stacking up the pancakes, the coffee was just about done. He was pouring in a mug for Robbie when the man in question skulked in, sniffing the air like he was some sort of bloodhound. The moment his eyes landed on the plate of pancakes and the coffee, he looked at Sportacus like he was some sort of angel.

“God, I’m so glad I married you. Fresh made from scratch pancakes for breakfast and getting to see your biceps? All day every day,” Robbie uttered as he took a seat. He wasted no time in dousing his stack with maple syrup, topping it with a dollop of butter.

Sportacus watched as his husband attacked the pancakes like he was a tiger feasting on its prey. The noises he was making sounded downright indecent and he was glad that it was just the two of them in the house. The elf ate his own pancakes a little slower, savoring the flavor instead of just inhaling it.

“I could just kiss you right now,” Robbie managed to say in between bites, letting out a low moan at the wonderfully delicious sweetness.

“After you washed out your mouth. I don’t fancy a meltdown so early on in the day.” They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. It was when Sportacus had downed the last of his juice that he pose the question. “So, what do you plan on doing today?”

Robbie sipped at his coffee, humming in thought before replying. “I have some inventions I’d like to work on. Those suckers are taking longer than I expected because some of the procedures ended up being more complicated than the initial draft.” Another sip. “What about you?”

“… Well, I was planning on just staying home for the day. The kids are out on a school field trip so I don’t think I have to do much saving. Plus it looks like it’s going to rain soon…”

“On second thought, my schedule is completely free. Those inventions could wait another day, In fact, what inventions?” Robbie replied with no hesitation, fixing Sportacus with an intense look. “I think I’d like to watch a couple of movies at the living room with snacks, soda and something warm to keep me company.”

Sportacus resisted the urge to laugh. Instead, he returned the look with an equally intense one. “Well I was planning on relaxing in the living room with some sportscandy to munch on. I could use a movie and a good something to cuddle with to pass the time.”

The stare off continued. “Mystery.”

“Action.”

“Action and mystery?”

“Action, mystery and some comedy.”

“All of those plus a dash of romance because we’re both saps at heart.”

Sportacus stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

Robbie grabbed the hand and shook it heartily. “Deal.”

Then both of them burst out laughing. All in all, it was just another day at the Rotten household.

[seeknot2alterme]

Dumbledore Guy

Summary: When Emma was born she was marked with, in her opinion, the worst soulmate mark anyone could ever have. People are born marked with the first words their true love would ever say to them, and Emma’s happened to spoil one of the greatest plot twists of all time.

Rating: T (because of Emma’s lovely foul mouth)

Word count: 2,233

Also on: Ao3

a/n: I’ve been working on this for an embarrassingly long amount of time and was super nervous to post it. If there’s enough interest I may add another chapter in Killian’s point of view and maybe a little more about what happens after.

Emma Swan was twenty-eight years old and had yet to meet her soulmate. She may be the only person in the world to be thankful, but when you have a life altering spoiler tattooed in lovely delicate script across your shoulder blade all your life, you tend to be a little resentful.

She was no different than any other poor sap on Earth; born with a tattoo revealing the first words her soulmate would speak to her. However, in her opinion it was by far the shittiest, most embarrassing soulmate marking she’d ever heard of and she didn’t even know what it meant until 1998 at the age of ten.

                                                         *** Growing up in a group home was hard, to say the least. It was very rare for kids in the system to receive any special attention at all, even rarer to receive nice and new things. Especially books that had all their pages and didn’t smell of mildew, but the year Emma turned ten, they did. A very generous donor gave a box full of new books, and Emma, always ready to escape the world around her grabbed the biggest book she could get her hands on.

Little did she know as she curled up on her top bunk in a room she shared with three other girls, she’d find the inspiration behind her tattoo within the first chapter of the book she’d grabbed.

Suddenly the words, “Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died,” made a whole lot more sense. She’d spent quite a few years worried about this Dumbledore guy, so she did feel a bit relieved when she found out he was a fictional character.                                                          *** Even though Emma grew up keeping her mark as much of a secret as possible, for fear of spoiling it for someone else, and even though she was carrying around this huge spoiler literally on her shoulders, she couldn’t help but fall in love with the books. She’d wished, and hoped, and prayed for a Hogwarts instead of a new foster home, a Hagrid instead of a new foster parent, and a Dumbledore instead of a new case worker.

However, no matter how much she loved the books, as each new book came out she despised her soulmate more and more. With the release of each book she fell more in love with every character and the fact she knew one of those characters wasn’t going to make it was terrifying, because she never knew when it was coming.                                                         *** When Emma was sixteen and had long since given up on finding a family, she was finally given a break. She’d only been back in the system for three months after running away with a guy whose first words to her were, “hey baby, got a light,” when the Nolan’s came to visit.

The Nolan’s, probably the loveliest couple anyone had ever seen, took one look at Emma with her golden haired head buried in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and they were sold.

“Man, I can’t believe you like Harry Potter too!” had been David Nolan’s first words to Emma. He’d plopped down on the couch right next to her, while his wife sat down gracefully on his other side.

“Yes, David and I just finished it a few days ago. It may be the best one yet,” Mary Margaret added.

Emma, though hesitant, was a little bit sold on the two of them as well. Their words so close to those inked on her shoulder, their kind loving faces already smiling at her. She’d never had anyone look at her the way these two had. “Just don’t spoil anything yet… I haven’t finished yet,” she responded quietly.                                                          *** The first time Emma shared her mark with the Nolans was nearly a year later. They’d all decided to read the newest book, Half Blood Prince, together. They would end their evenings in the living room and would normally take turns reading, though Emma liked it when David read best. He’d make faces and change his voice and even though Emma was seventeen, it was something she’d missed out on as a kid and she couldn’t help but love it.

To say the Nolan’s were surprised when Emma’s response to Dumbledore’s death was, “Oh thank God, finally!” would be an understatement.

“Emma! What do you mean finally? Have you been reading without us?” Mary Margaret asked, the look on her face more amused than anything else.

“No! I mean, I’ve kinda known about it my whole life,” she said cautiously. As she stood, she took a deep breath before pulling her left arm out of her sleeve. “As you can see, I’m destined to be with an asshole.”

“Emma, I think that’s amazing!” Mary Margaret squealed, temporarily forgetting to correct her language.

“Amazing? How in the hell is this amazing? I’ve carried around one of the biggest literary surprises of my generation on my shoulder! This guy ruined one of the biggest plot twists of my favorite book series. My soulmate is the worst!” She spat, fixing her shirt before plopping back down on the couch.

“Oh Ems, think about it. You already know he likes something you like! He didn’t spoil it before you got a chance to read it yourself, well he didn’t spoil it in person. Poor guy, he doesn’t know what he’s done! You can’t help who you love and you can’t help what their first words to you are,” David said as he moved to put the book away for the evening, dropping a kiss on Emma’s head as he passed.                                                               *** With Dumbledore’s death came expectancy. Try as she might, there was a big part of Emma; the part that wasn’t angry, that now hoped her soulmate would be right around the corner. Surely, if she had to wait for some loser that had only ever seen the movies then she really wasn’t going to like him.

However, teenage Emma suddenly became grown up Emma. The final book came out when she was nineteen, the last movie when she was twenty-three and still no soulmate.

On Emma’s twenty-fifth birthday she added her first voluntary tattoo to the inside of her right wrist, one word. This word meant that while the books were finished and the movies were done and that while she’d probably missed her soulmate in the midst of all of it, that she would always remember.                                                              ***   “Have you met anyone special recently?” Mary Margaret asked as she placed a warm plate of cookies and a steaming mug of hot cocoa in front of her daughter.

“If you mean Dumbledore guy, the answer is still no,” Emma groaned, as she scooped up some whipped cream with her finger.

“Well, what about someone else? You don’t have to be alone. I saw men before I met your father.”

“Oh gross. I don’t want to picture you with anyone other than Dad,” Emma said with her nose scrunched up. “There aren’t exactly people lining up to have meaningful relationships with someone that’s not their soulmate. So, one night stands are about as far as I ever go.” “Oh! Please warn a man before you have these kinds of conversations! I don’t need to be hearing this about my little girl!” David said from the front door. “Oh hush you! She’s a grown woman David.” Mary Margaret said getting up to take David a cookie and give him a kiss on the cheek. “I mean, I’m twenty-eight years old! If I haven’t met him by now, then I’m not going to and that’s fine! I still think he’s probably an ass and I have my job and I’ll just go buy some cats and get a head start on the rest of my life.” Emma responded dryly. “Plenty of people meet their soul mates later in life.” David reminded softly.

“Yeah, except my mark is about a book series that ended years ago. If it mentioned prune juice or how much retirement I’ve accrued then maybe I’d feel differently,” she said before stuffing an entire cookie in her mouth, ending the conversation.                                                            *** Emma never made a habit of reading Half-Blood Prince in public, it always felt like she was pushing fate. Not that she believed in fate, because she absolutely didn’t. Fate couldn’t exist in a world where you’re born with a tattoo on your shoulder telling you who you’re supposed to love. So, Emma Swan didn’t read Half-Blood Prince in public, except the time she did.

She was in the middle of one of her many rereads of the Harry Potter books. She was just past the halfway mark in Half-Blood Prince when the electricity in her loft went out. That’s how Emma found herself tucked away in the corner of a very busy coffee shop, breaking her one rule.

As she read chapter twenty-seven, the chapter that gave her the mark on her shoulder, she had to wonder if the reason she’d hung on to Harry Potter so tightly was because of Dumbledore Guy. Sure, Harry’s life was some twisted and much more magical version of her own. He’d been her only friend when she’d had none, her only family until the Nolans, but maybe it was more than that.

Maybe she loved Harry Potter because she knew one day it would lead her to her own family, her true family, her missing half. It brought her to the Nolans after she’d given up on ever belonging somewhere, why couldn’t it do the same for her again?

“And maybe I’m becoming too sentimental in my spinsterhood,” she mumbled bitterly as she turned the page.

“Man, I can’t believe Dumbledore died.”

In that moment Emma’s world stopped. She didn’t hear the chatter of people around her. She didn’t hear the coffee machines whirring across the room. The only thing she could hear was her heart beating rapidly. This was it, this is the man. Dumbledore guy.

Her eyes slowly left the pages of the now forgotten Harry Potter book to scan over the man that leaned lazily with one hand on her table. Dressed in black slacks with a white button down rolled to his elbows. She could make out the last few letters of a tattoo that seemed to be written down the inside of his forearm. His eyes as blue as the ocean and his hair looked like it’d been in a windstorm instead of a quaint coffee shop.

“Oh. You’ve got to be shitting me,” she nearly growled, her eyes still wide with shock.

Emma watched as realization hit him. She knew it’s him but he didn’t. Not until she said her first words. Her first words that had contained a curse word. She watched his eyes widen and a blush flush his face, just visible under his well maintained scruff. Emma gasped and let her head fall into her hands.

“Ah, so we finally meet,” Dumbledore guy chuckled, his laugh only making Emma blush more.

“You’ve had, you’ve got to be shitting me, tattooed on your body your whole life? That may be worse than mine,” she groaned, finally looking back up at him.

“Well, I’m guessing I spoiled one of J.K’s best kept secrets. My apologies, love. I will say, I’ve always been quite fond of your colorful vocabulary. My mother on the other hand, not so much. Though, no one was really surprised that would be a lass’s first words to me.”

“So you’re a troublemaker then?” she said, her voice more flirtatious than she intended, almost as if she couldn’t help herself.

“I prefer dashing rapscallion,” he grumbled with wink.

Emma just stared at him dumbfounded for a minute, not believing this guy was real. “Wait… How did you know I’d even read these books! You could have totally ruined this secret for me on purpose!”

“Two things,” he said slinging his bag off his shoulder on to the table and took a seat, “you read that book like I read that book. Like nothing else matters, like all your worries are gone.” He spoke assuredly as he pulled a well loved Prisoner of Azkaban out of his satchel. “And I saw your tattoo,” he said taking her hand in his and turning her wrist upward, revealing the one word written in delicate script, “really didn’t think you were my soulmate.”

Emma’s reaction time was slower than usual but she quickly jerked her hand out of his hold.

“Not that I’m not pleased! Erm, that is you’re very lovely. Not that I wouldn't… Oh this is a lot harder than I’d imagined,” he said, as his hand ran nervously through his hair.

“Have you… Have you thought about this? Me?”

“Bloody hell woman, of course I have. Almost given up at this point if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, me too. Especially when, you know… Harry Potter’s been gone for so long now I didn't… I figured I’d missed you.”

“That’s why I came over. I um, I’m a sucker for girls that like Harry Potter. Especially girls named…” He said, a cheeky grin on his face.

“Very smooth. My name is Emma Swan. I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m terrible at this.”

“I’m Killian Jones, I’m thirty and I happen to be wonderful at this. Now, would you like to get married now or would you like me to take you on a few dates first?”