#and in some ways i get it because his thread of trust frayed every time scully refused to believe what was so blatant for mulder

[loubetcha]

hi <3 like that wetwired post right now I am thinking about s6 angst and how it wasn’t really about Diana, not really, but about every lie Mulder has ever told her and Scully’s greatest fears. We know that Scully fears that Mulder will choose his quest over her; Wetwired tells us that her greatest fear is him allying himself with the people who were responsible for her abduction and her sister’s death— that he is lying to her. And in one fell swoop, with his callousness, he manages to confirm all of these.

It’s only her faith in him that keeps them together. Agh.

OUCH????

but you’re so right it wasn’t about jealousy or neglect it was about that by putting his trust in someone else who was exceedingly untrustworthy, it ultimately felt like the trust they held so close was shattered. “sleeping with the enemy” so to speak doesn’t imply jealousy on those who see it, but betrayal.

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

[yellowocaballero]

ncau supernanny?

That would be the rewrite of the Padme & Ahsoka & Rex fic! It's actually where I stalled out on the new no chip stuff: although Rex had been changed a lot to be more congruent with this version of him, Ahsoka ended up changing a lot and I needed to re-approach her. The completely rewritten Rex story also brought up some plot threads that needed to be resolved in it. So it got complicated and I took a break to write other things. I also really wanted to do justice to the Padme & Ahsoka & Rex dynamic, because it became extremely funny to me. You see a lot of their dynamic in these two scenes and it is incredibly weird and incredibly funny, they are all at rock bottom and making it each other's problem.

There's not too much of it, but here's two scenes that had alterations.

Rex had been against it from the start.

Not that his opinion mattered. Padme kept on trying to make his opinion matter, citing garbage decision making systems and theories of governance. She even played on his level, citing how any good leader accounted for the feedback of her respected clan members into account when making decisions. Objectively true, like most of the things Padme said. Practically useless, like most of the things Padme said. But she really wanted him to feel respected, so just tell me what you think about betraying the Empire. Yes? No? Maybe so?

“I think that it’s my duty as a clone to exterminate threats to the Empire,” Rex had said aggressively. About as aggressive as he had to be. “I think I’m shaming my people by not killing the dissenter and the Jedi now. So stop asking me what I think.”

“Hm,” Padme had said. She had turned to Tano. “I think we’re making real progress. He said Jedi instead of vermin.”

“He’s gonna kill us all,” Tano said. 

Unfortunately, they still needed a babysitter. Ergo, Rex.

The sedition was none of his business. He didn’t have an opinion on it. This was for the sake of his sanity and his ability to sleep at night. But if he was to weigh in on terrorism plots anyway - and Tano said that he had an excellent way of making his thoughts known regardless - he’d say that it was just too soon. 

The babies were too young. Padme was still nursing every three hours. They were all insanely sleep deprived - Padme and Rex from the babies, Tano from the babies and throwing up three times a night. They were whittled away by their three different flavors of insanity, and they were hanging on by a frayed thread of mania and democratic righteousness. Say what you will about terrorism - it gave Padme a hobby.

But Tano wanted to begin building their network, the sooner the better, and Padme wanted Organa to be their first contact. There was nobody she trusted more, supposedly. Rex politely did not point out Padme’s bad track record with trust. But Tano knew and trusted him too, so through a complex series of bounced signals and covert missives Organa was officially invited to their hiding place on the nothing little planet of Lothal. It was all grain farms. Very boring. 

It was a bad idea. Apparently Rex had made that very clear through judicious eyebrow usage. Tano deemed him relentlessly passive-aggressive. Rex deemed her a bitch. As demanded, Padme pretended not to take Rex’s opinion into account and Tano actively decided that something was a good idea if Rex thought it was a bad one. 

“Do whatever you want,” Rex had said. “Just leave me and the babies out of it. And stop telling me shit that makes me want to kill you. Hurts my head.”

Tano had crossed her arms, chronically unimpressed with him. “Your head, which is perfectly sane and normal and quite unbrainwashed. The head dunked in powerful Dark energy. That head.”

“At least my head has something in it, you damn -”

“Rex, I respect your right to free speech, but you have to stop -”

“Just tell him to stop cursing at me!” Tano snapped. “Make him cut this shit out!”

“What, and have him get more passive aggressive?”

In a compromise against Rex’s relentless passive aggression, Organa wasn’t to know anything more than absolutely necessary. Quite a bit was necessary, but Rex and the babies were not. Rex had meant to take the kids to the park when he was scheduled to arrive, and to stay there until long after Padme commed to let him know they were gone. The baby toys were quarantined in the nursery and the nursery was to be firmly locked. Nobody had to know about the babies, and nobody had to know about Rex.

That had been the plan. The plan had also been for Organa to meet them tomorrow. Apparently he had his own concerns about a trap. Rex didn’t blame him, but it screwed things up so royally that he wanted to murder him a bit anyway.

__________________________________________

Organa stopped and stared at Rex and the babies, who cooly stared at him back. He opened his mouth to say something, but Padme beat him to it.

“Rex, did you torture my friend?”

Rex snorted. “You call that torture?” Judging by Padme’s withering look she did, indeed, call it torture. “Wanted to see if he would snitch. He didn’t. Babies are hungry.”

Padme sighed and leaned back in the chair, and Tano helpfully stood up and went upstairs to fetch the nursing pillow and blanket. Organa watched with ill-hidden interest as Rex carefully deposited the babies on her lap, and when Tano came back with the pillow and blanket they set her up. 

For the first time, Padme looked a little self-conscious feeding her kids in front of Organa, but Rex watched her force herself to get over it. She focused on, seemingly, the important things instead, as she draped the blanket over them and helped them nurse. 

“I told you I trusted him. Are you going to harass everybody we ask to help us?”

“Depends,” Rex said blandly, “how many more of your book club are you going to pull into this?”

“Don’t pull that on Mon,” Tano said, smile half-tugging at her lips. “She’ll taze you before you could blink.”

“As if I can’t take a politician?” Rex was downright offended. “Any clone could have killed any senator in a blink.”

“It’s alright,” Organa cut in. He had finally gotten a handle on forcing his composure, and he stopped staring at Padme in favor of looking intently at Rex. “There’s no such thing as too careful. I’m sure Captain Rex, of all people, knows that.” Rex smiled faux-brightly at him. “Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

“Just Rex, now. And my name would make you think the 501st was around the corner.” Rex unabashedly checked underneath the blanket to make sure the babies were feeding correctly. Padme gave him an eye for micromanaging. “Should I start dinner, ma’am?”

Organa looked at Padme, still obviously turned around in a circle by the relentless addition of bizarre circumstances. “Did Anakin ask Rex to look after you before he…?”

The most awkward silence of all time descended upon the room. Organa flinched, sensing that he had stepped in it somehow. Padme brought the nursing babies closer to her chest. Tano looked away sharply. Rex had a lot of comments he wanted to make, but for once in his life he didn’t actually want to make things worse. He just looked at Padme, wondering what she would say. 

“Let’s not talk about Anakin,” Padme said quietly. 

“Oh. Yes, I’m sorry.” Organa looked down at his clasped hands, letting his shoulders sag with the weight of another dead friend. “Did Obi-Wan…?”

Padme put a hand over her face. Tano’s face darkened in anger. Rex knew that he couldn’t look much better. 

“I see.” Organa had aged ten years in a second. But he still nodded at Rex anyway, somehow dredging up sympathy for the captain of traitors. Rex had to agree. “My condolences, Rex. I know you two were close.”

Rex could not fucking stand natborns. “Don’t talk about shit you know nothing about.”

That didn’t go over well. Organa just looked a little sad, but Tano straightened from the wall and bared her teeth in pure anger. It was impossible to remember that this lady had ever been a Jedi. “How dare you act entitled to our grief? It was your damn battalion that shot him down!”

They had to feel so awful about that. Rex felt so much pity for the clone who had done it. Living with having accidentally killed Obi-Wan - how could any of the 501st do it? “How dare a natborn act entitled to Obi-Wan?” Rex snapped back. “You’re all pretending to give a shit now that he’s dead and you don’t have to deal with him. We’re the ones who raised the -”

Calmly, yet with the unmistakable durasteel that Rex wanted so badly, Padme said, “Rex, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to for a little while.” 

Rex bowed. Tano sneered, rolling her eyes. “Yes, my lady.”

Padme had to stop and breathe. Everybody was looking at her, but being the center of attention was her natural state. She was a lot like Anakin that way: they both navigated the world as if they were constantly being watched. Padme expected your attention, Anakin demanded it. He always liked it best when he felt like he had Rex’s undivided attention. Rex should be giving Padme undivided attention too, but - his attention was basically perpetually 80% on the babies. That was the job. 

Then Padme straightened, adjusting Leia a little and helping her latch. She watched Leia for a second, expression inscrutable, before she finally looked up and made eye contact with Bail. 

“There’s some things I haven’t told you yet. About Anakin.”

Organa’s expression fell - undoubtedly imagining that Anakin met some gruesome and tragic end. Well, he did, but not in the way he thought. “You don’t have to talk about it if you aren’t ready, Padme.”

“I’ll never be ready,” Padme said. “Let’s just get this out of the way.”

Padme told Organa everything. Organa’s face grew paler and paler. She told him a very curious version of the story: one where Anakin was just having A Pretty Bad Week and then decided to go evil about it. Her story about Anakin had some pretty huge Anakin shaped holes in it. Some Rex shaped holes. But Padme had told him not to speak. 

Silence fell after she finished. Organa was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his razor-sharp mind processing the information. Of the life cycle of Darth Vader: born, murdered, died. An ignoble life for what should have been a great man. 

Finally, after laborious thought, Organa said, “This is insane.”

“It’s the truth,” Padme said dully. “I feel insane for believing it was any different.”

“You should hear some of the things they’re saying at the Senate. Obvious lie after obvious lie that we’re all pretending to believe. There was no way that the Jedi tried to coup the Republic, that the clones had saved us. But that Palpatine’s a Sith, that - that there had been this galactic conspiracy for ten years with the clones as double agents…Padme, I know Palpatine said Anakin died defending him from the traitor Jedi, and I knew that wasn’t true, but I just can’t…”

“You have to,” Tano said curtly. “We can’t afford to stick our heads in the ground anymore. We don’t have the luxury of ignorance. You’ve known this day was coming for years, Bail.” Tano must have noticed Rex’s surprise and confusion - Rex hadn’t even known she was paying attention to him at all. “Bail didn’t spend three years protesting the war for his health, Rex. He knew that Palpatine was taking advantage of the war and eroding democracy. He just went further than any of us thought possible.” 

“Palpatine taught me everything I know about being a politician. I didn’t want to believe it.” Padme hoisted Luke carefully, helping him re-latch. “It took Bail hours to convince me that the man was a fascist. But it was already far too late.” Rex squinted at Padme, and she looked surprised. “Do you not know what a fascist is?”

Bitterly, Tano said, “It’s a very strong leader.” 

Rex relaxed, but some part of him tensed up too. “Why would being a strong leader be a bad thing?”

Padme opened her mouth. Then she speedran the five stages of grief, and closed it. “Let’s put that on the list of ethics lessons to teach you later.” Fuck, Rex never should have opened his mouth. He couldn’t get five seconds without a lecture on morality.

[leejenowrld]

ok i just binged the entirety of part 7 and it’s 2 am and i haven’t class at 10 am but this is more important

1. did jeno keep in touch with his other friends while off abroad, pls tell me this guy has at least one positive relationship in his life?

2. i know the meta reason is because you hadn’t funnily planned out bty whilst writing lmb, but i think it’s really funny that areum just doesn’t give a shit about nabi so all the crazy stuff she did (the bar, joining cheer, her project) was not important enough to her to be mentioned in her pov. girlie only cares about mark and that’s so real lmao

3. i hope jeno’s fiancée is an asshole!! i don’t want to feel bad for her when he breaks off the engagement to get back with nabi.

4. i actually have such to say about the ending and nabi and jeno’s relationship but it’s wayyyy too long i’ll send another ask lmfao i’m sorry

so so excited to answer your asks and super happy you’re sharing this with me :)))

1. did jeno keep in touch with his other friends while off abroad?

you will absolutely see this unfold properly in the future arc, i promise you that, first of all, i didn’t get to explore the depth of jaemin and jeno’s friendship in the first seven parts as much as i would have liked (trust me, praying fingers crossed i can fit it into the post college arc arc the way it deserves lol), but it’s so important to me that it’s made clear: jeno and jaemin are, in a lot of ways, attached at the hip. despite the intense programme both jaemin and jeno are in now, despite how brutal and time-consuming and punishing it is, that thread between them never weakens, it never frays past recognition. they stay tight. the foundation between them is solid, and not just because of history, it’s because they understand each other in ways no one else does. i whole-heartedly, fully believe (and will stand by this as fact) that jeno is closer to jaemin than he is to mark. it’s just a truth of their friendship dynamic. mark and jeno have history and respect, they have layers, sure, obviously they share blood and don’t worry they’ll stay close in the future arc but for obvious reasons mark will feel stuck in the middle. anyways jaemin and jeno have depth that cuts differently. it’s unfiltered. it’s brutal honesty, the kind of relationship where jaemin has always been the one to say the things jeno doesn’t want to hear but desperately needs to, and jeno accepts it because he trusts him that much. it’s not surface-level. it’s not performative. it’s raw, it’s real, it’s home. for all the internal chaos jeno has brewing inside him, jaemin has always been one of the few constants that feels like safe ground. you’ll feel it, properly, in the future arc. i’ll make sure of it.

now, regarding his other friendships, this is where things start to get interesting. because remember: friendship is a two-way street. it always has been, it always will be. and not everyone will walk down that street with you when things fall apart. jeno will have positive relationships in his life, yes, you can count on that but you have to note that some of the boys in the actual team, the ones who were a little too close to y/n, will… let’s just say, it will get messy. they’ll start taking sides. lines will blur. allegiances will shift. it’s very human, isn’t it? when things crack, people reveal who they’re really loyal to. you’ll see fractures between the boys — not all of them, but enough to stir the pot. enough to complicate things. and it’s not clean-cut. it’s not like they fully abandon him, but tensions rise in ways that make every interaction sharp around the edges. awkward. unspoken feelings simmering beneath the surface. especially when you consider that these friendships were not just rooted in basketball, but in the whole tangled web of y/n and jeno’s relationship too. some of these boys genuinely liked y/n, some of them respected her deeply, and those loyalties don’t just disappear because jeno’s hurting. they linger. they fester. they complicate the way they see him. and when push comes to shove? well… let’s just say people reveal their true colours in the most unexpected ways. also i want to remind you guys all the characters will be all over the world, there’s three main locations — seoul, america (new york, seattle) and wherever areum is gonna be 😭😭 so a lot of these characters won’t cross paths as much as they used to lol.

2. areum not giving a shit about y/n and only caring about mark (so real lmao).

exactly. you’ve clocked it perfectly. you’re right lol. also y/n and areum were never close, not then, not ever (...👀💀) their lives only tangled out of pure circumstance, not because there was ever warmth or fondness between them. it’s almost comedic when you think about it, because you’re spot on: all the dramatic chaos y/n went through, all the pivotal moves she made in that timeline — from the bar to joining cheer, to the exposé, to even their shared project — none of it was ever significant enough in areum’s pov to warrant more than a passing thought. areum’s world has always, always orbited mark, and she’s unapologetic about it. she’s that girl. ruthless, narrowed focus, her entire narrative shrinks down to: does this involve mark? no? not my concern. it’s hilarious when you look at it from the outside, but in her mind, it’s just logical efficiency. areum doesn’t do side plots. she’s tunnel-visioned, and in that way, she’s one of the most honest characters in the entire cast. girlie said: i only play the games that win me the man, thanks. (but yeah you’re completely right i didn’t have bty planned as in depth during lmb LOL).

3. i hope jeno’s fiancée is an asshole so i don’t feel bad when he leaves her for y/n.

the truth is, it’s meant to mess with your head. you will get to know her, that’s all i’ll say. and it’s not as clean-cut as “evil fiancée” versus “true love.” you know how i write — you know i love making you feel frustrated, conflicted, dirty with your own sympathies. this is no different. i want you to question yourself. you will feel that discomfort and confusion because nothing about this story is easy. not the love, not the betrayal, not the loyalty. i want you to suffer deliciously, watching it unfold. she’s not a cartoon villain, and that’s all i’ll say for now. keep your eyes open. you’ll see.

excited to answer the rest !!!

[myvelvetvows]

The moment Edward mentioned her money, something inside Alice shattered. It was a small crack at first, but swift and deep—splitting through her like lightning striking stone. “How dare you.” The words cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. Alice’s hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched, though whether from rage or restraint even she couldn’t tell. “You speak of my money like it’s yours. Like you gave it to me. Like you know where it came from.” Her voice cracked, not with weakness but with something deeper—an old, sealed-off pain threatening to bleed. “You don’t. You have no idea what I had to do, what I had to survive, to stand in my own shop and hold my head high.” Her chin lifted, daring him to speak again. “So do not ever look at me like I’m some fortunate girl who should be grateful for your scraps.” Her body went cold, breath tightening in her chest as the truth of what he’d touched—what he’d unknowingly trampled—roared to the surface. Rage was safer than grief. Anger steadied her when her knees threatened to buckle. And so she latched onto it with both hands.

She turned her back to him, swallowing the heat behind her eyes, the roiling storm of memories better left untouched. “You think you’re angry? You think this—this chaos you bring into my life—is something I should be grateful for?” Her laugh was hollow, frayed at the edges. “Your money may have bought a stake in this business, but it did not buy me. You invest, you meddle, you challenge me at every turn, and I let you, God help me, I let you—but I never needed you to build what I have. Not truly.” He stood here, tossing words like stones, not knowing which ones drew blood. Part of her wanted to scream, to strike him, to demand he take it all back. But another part—the smaller, more dangerous one—just wanted to understand why he kept coming back. Why she let him.

And yet—something in her, traitorous and trembling, shifted beneath all that steel. “You talk to me like you hate me, Edward. But then you look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And I don’t know what to do with that. Do you think this is affection, Edward? Is that what you’ve learned? That love looks like a wound well-aimed?” She didn’t know how to make sense of him. Edward was supposed to be a business arrangement, a necessary evil—an investor with too many opinions and a wicked tongue. But over time, he had become something else entirely. Something unruly and magnetic. He infuriated her, challenged her, saw through her. And worse, she had begun to look for him in the doorframe. She had begun to crave the arguments, the sparks. That realization felt like betrayal—to her pride, to her past, to everything she had built alone. Her voice dropped, quieter now, unsteady. “I don’t want to care. I don’t want to think about you when you’re gone. But I do. And it frightens me more than I care to admit, because I don’t trust you. I don’t even think you trust you.” She turned back to him, meeting his eyes. Her own were glassy, but fierce. “You confuse me. You make me feel too much, and it’s never safe when I feel too much. You twist your words into knives and then pretend you’re surprised when they cut.” Her breath caught. “And then you say half a sentence—just enough to make me wonder. You leave it unfinished, like a cruel little thread left dangling, and I’ll spend days trying not to tug at it.” He was feeling something. For her. A man who had made himself into smoke and shadows, suddenly struggling to hold form. It should have flattered her, and perhaps it did. But it also made her feel vulnerable in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

She looked at him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I won’t do this. Not tonight.” So she turned from him, her spine straight and her heart splintering. Her voice, when it came again, was cold and certain. “Get out, Edward.” Her jaw tightened. “You can come back when you remember how to speak without turning it into war.”

Edward was quiet a beat too long.

Not because he didn’t have something to say—he always had something to say—but because, for once, the words weren’t charming enough, weren’t clever enough. They came to him in fragments, fractured and jagged, like the thoughts he’d tried to keep buried under a veneer of smirks and careless ease. He exhaled, short and sharp, and tilted his head, regarding her not like a man in control, but like one who had stumbled into territory he’d never meant to map. “Hellfire, Alice,” he said at last, and there was a strange edge to his voice, something not quite anger and not quite awe. “You’re impossible.” He laughed, but it didn’t carry the usual lilt—it was hollow, laced with something far too earnest. “You think I’m trying to save you? I couldn’t save a damn thing if I tried. That’s not what this is. I—” He faltered, scoffing at himself, as though the very idea of struggling with his words was absurd.

“You think I gave you something? That you owe me something because I put coin in your business? Alice, if you believe I made you, then you are the most boring, forgettable woman I’ve ever met.” Anger prickled under his skin, but it wasn’t for her. It was for the way his words had failed, twisted themselves into something sharp instead of reverent. He hadn’t meant to belittle her. God, no—he had meant to exalt her. He had meant to hold her above the fray, above every pale imitation of a woman society preferred. But she’d heard chains where he meant wings. She’d seen control where he saw awe. And wasn’t that just like him? To ruin the very thing he meant to protect. He took a step closer, the fire in his eyes not theatrical but real, old, scorched-down anger mixed with something more volatile.

“Whatever wealth you had—whatever power, ambition, mystery—that was yours. Long before I walked into that bloody shop.” His voice was low now, not soft, but intimate in its rawness. “If you had come to me with nothing but a battered sewing needle and a crooked hemline, I’d have still backed you. Why? Because you’ve got more fight in you than most men I’ve known, and none of that came from me. I’ve known women who would kill to be seen as sweet and small and safe.” He leaned in, as if daring her to flinch. “You terrify the ones who pretend to love women like that. And you should. Because you’ve earned everything. You think I don’t see that?” She was right, in a way. He hadn’t given her anything that wasn’t already hers. The business, the reputation, the wealth—earned, not gifted. She could’ve spit in his face and walked away and still come out richer than anyone he knew. And he admired her for that, resented her a little too—because it meant she didn’t need him. Not even a little. And for a man like Edward, who had always found his value in being needed, that realization was a wound he hadn’t expected to feel. “I didn’t mean to insult you by comparing you to her,” he added, quieter now, eyes searching hers like they might tell him if there was still hope to salvage whatever this was. “I only meant—damn it—I only meant that you deserve something more. Someone more. Not some gentle, simpering fool who’d mistake your ferocity for insolence and ask you to soften yourself just to fit in his fragile little world.”

His voice caught at the end, his mouth curling like he wanted to smile but couldn’t bear the weight of it. And then the words cracked. Split open like something raw and unfinished: “I care because… because I do. That’s it. I care. And I don’t want to. I’d rather be shot again, frankly. But you—you make me want. You make me think about what I could’ve been if I hadn’t gone half-rotten inside. You make me—hell.” He bit the word off and looked away, as if ashamed of the trembling in his voice. Then, softer, more dangerous than anything he’d said before: “You frighten me, Alice. Not because you’re too much. But because I could fall—” Edward can’t make the words come out, a paralyzing fear crossing him over what he was about to admit. I’ve spent the last ten years making sure I never feel like this again. Damn her. Damn her for seeing him when he’d spent years perfecting the art of being unknowable.

[mrsgiovanna]

The Escape Route (Yan! Don Giorno x Fem!Reader)

A request from a lovely nonnie mouse asking how the Don would handle his darling attempting to escape from his home. A bit of a drawn out scenario... I really hope you enjoy the read.

TW: Manipulative relationship dynamics, possessive behaviour, yandere behaviour

Word Count: 2.7k

Your brisk walk was slowly turning into a run as you worked your way through the busy streets of Naples. With your breathing ragged and eyes darting around to make sure nobody was on your tail, you tried to think about how best to put your escape plan back on track.

You knew that Giorno’s influence extended further than most, but you hadn’t expected him to have the power to derail every single option you had thought of to escape from his overpowering grip. You had been running around for hours now, from station to station, none would book you a ticket to anywhere, every cab ride was hastily halted after a dubious phone call… resulting in you being unwillingly ejected from the vehicle each time. So there you were, running into the more dangerous parts of Naples, frantically looking for some kind of shelter to house you while you thought of what you would do next.

Thankfully, you found a tiny inn, sparse amenities, small and far removed enough you thought, to not be on Giorno’s radar. The kindly old lady didn’t ask many questions, and you paid with the cash you had been slowly hiding away for such an event.

You couldn’t pinpoint when your relationship with Giorno had descended to this but you knew that if you stayed any longer his charming brand of captivity would best your common sense and you would be trapped forever. With Giorno, you had access to anything, no request was too demanding… in exchange though he required you to be within his confines at all times, listen to and obey his honeyed instructions with minimal fuss, and to not run off in the occasions when he did take you out of the mansion. I’m just keeping you safe he said… little did you know that the most dangerous one of all was the Don himself with his hypnotic gaze.

To give him the benefit of the doubt, it could have been much worse, he never harmed you physically, never pushed the intimacy boundaries further than you allowed… in your moments of weakness, it was you who had sought out his embrace. The absurdity of it all- vacillating between love and hate for this man, and so to protect the fraying thread that held your sanity together, you decided to make a run for it. It was not an impulsive idea, you had spent the better part of the year planning your grand escape, trying to imagine every way in which your plan could go awry and possible solutions to the problems. Ironically, this was a habit that you had picked up from Giorno himself, and should your plan actually work, it would be quiet poetic- escaping using the traits of your captor against him. You had gathered small amounts of cash here and there, not enough to rouse anyone’s suspicion, and made sure that any and all evidence of you memorizing the layout of the surrounding areas was completely erased. Perhaps the most difficult task of them all, was to lure Giorno into false sense of security regarding your disposition towards your situation. In the weeks leading up to your escape, you had flawlessly played the part of the dutiful ‘wife’, listening attentively, spoiling him with gentle touches and loving gazes, making sure to build up your affections gradually, as if they had been blooming naturally so as not to trigger any suspicion.

Finally, you saw your opportunity to make your move that morning. Giorno had to leave early to meet with a few associates from Japan, so you rose with him, and watched as he got ready, helping him with his hair and doing up his tie. Looking up to meet his crystalline eyes, you noticed he considered you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before.

“What is it tesoro? Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked in a gentle tone.

“You’re… just so beautiful… would you like to come with me today? I’m sure they would love to meet you… I call them associates but in actual fact one of them is a relative of mine. You’ll only be bored for a little while; after that we can do whatever you would like to,” he asked with a gentle smile. You thought about how you were going to answer, ultimately you knew you didn’t want to go, favoring your grand escape instead, but denying him that quickly would definitely set off alarm bells in his mind.

“Ah! Perhaps next time my love, I’m not going to be good company today, I woke up with a bit of a headache… I’ll probably go back to bed and sleep it off after you leave,”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make you feel any better bella, I hate the fact that you’re hurting,” Giorno cupped your face in his hands and gently stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, “get some rest bella mio, I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can,” kissing you on the forehead he left without another word. Waiting for him to be completely out of the villa, you watched as his car exited the driveway before quietly packing what you could, mentally going over your checklist more times than you cared to count. Since your change in attitude, the staff at the villa were more accepting of your whims, partly to do with the fact that Giorno had instructed them to do so - within reason, but also, because you had won over their trust and if you had to be honest with yourself, there was nothing you could fault them for. The dynamic Giorno had with them was not ruled by fear, but rather by admiration… all of them being drawn in by his charisma. Managing to maneuver your way through the mansion and out an exit that saw you climbing over a hidden portion of the eastern wall surrounding the villa, you had finally been outside the confines of the villa on your own for the first time in well over a year.

In the car on the way to meet with his guests Giorno was preoccupied. He had noticed the gradual change in your behavior and as much as he would have loved to give you the benefit of the doubt, a nagging inclination that you might be lying always clouded his thoughts. He loved you- entirely- even though there were days in which you rejected his affections, he was patient with you… eventually you’d understand, the dangers that lurked in every corner made your captivity, as you so unceremoniously called it, a necessity. He had grown so accustomed to making decisions with little to no advice, he had adopted that stance in his personal life as well. He rationalized that once you had accepted the fact that his actions were all borne from his desire to protect you, your lives would be peaceful, until then, he would be patient, enduring your tantrums and snide remarks with the grace of an aristocrat… which only upset you further. To Giorno, you were to be looked after, protected- treasured, and so no matter how much you had tested his patience in the beginning, not once were you ever hurt or taken advantage of. Violence and shackles were much too unrefined for a gem like you, so to correct your behavior, the young don resorted to other, less threatening means of discipline.

“Don Giovanna? We have arrived,” shaken out of his musings by his consigliere, his attention was drawn to the fact that they had arrived at their destination ready to discuss the matters at hand.

“Thank you Lorenzo, would you check if the staff has everything ready while I greet our guests?”

“Of course, excuse me,” with that, Lorenzo had left, hastily attending to a call as he walked.

“Ah, welcome to Italy, I take it you and your associates have settled in well?” said Giorno with a polite bow, being mindful of the cultural conventions of his esteemed guests. Drinks were ordered and everyone present had settled down in the private lounge, except for Lorenzo who had been animatedly conversing on the phone for enough time to make his absence felt. Frustrated by what he was tasked to do, he abruptly ended his conversation and sought out Giorno to give him the news, finally, the staff at villa Giovanna had realized you were gone.

“Don…”

“The expression on your face can only mean one thing… when did they notice?”

“A few minutes ago, she couldn’t have gotten too gar given the timeframe… what would you like me to do?”

“You stay here and keep our guests company, I’ll handle this…” not even bothering to alert the driver, Giorno collected the keys from the valet and zoomed off. Making a short drive even shorter, he arrived home in foul mood, although he did assign some of the blame to himself, recognizing his fatal error when he ignored his gut feeling, he was disappointed at how easily you had managed to slip from his grasp and wondered if his staff had been plotting with you all along. He would have to address that later on though, his primary concern now was to locate you and bring you back home.

“Mista, I have a special request to make, please come to the villa, bring Fugo with you,” said Giorno in a quick call, there were few who he trusted more than his underbosses, and this task was something that required only the most competent people. After a short explanation of the situation at hand, both men had already started making calls to the relevant people in an attempt to thwart your plans.

You would think the most frightening thing about Giorno would be his god-like requiem ability. But over and above the raw power he possessed was his reach, the world seemed so small, as if it had rested comfortably in his elegant hands- and you had been getting reminders of this inescapable fate over and over again. By the time you had given up on the idea of escaping through any traditional means of transportation, you must have tried fifty different avenues, each attempt failing more spectacularly than the last. Having had enough, you resigned yourself to the fact that you would not be leaving Naples immediately, and found refuge in the outskirts of the city. You climbed the rickety staircase behind the lady as she prattled on about her day.

“Shall I get you something to eat dolcezza? You look like you could use something warm and comforting in your system. In fact, let me do just that, you get settled in so long,” said the innkeeper before you had a chance to interject. Deciding to take a shower to wash off the day, you took comfort in the fact that this place was so remote, you were almost certain you were safe for the meantime. The tiny bathroom was a far cry from the palatial one you had grown accustomed to while being in Giorno’s villa, but it served the same purpose, only this time, you had your freedom. The place was peaceful though aside from the sound of what must have been a car backfiring and the small creaks from the natural expansion and contraction of the dwelling, it was quiet enough for you to calm down and organize your thoughts. Now that you were comparatively more at ease than before, you felt the strain of the day in your body, aching muscles, sore feet and cuts and scrapes that began to smart affixed a slight grimace to your face as you rummaged through your belongings to find some sort of pain relief.

A sharp knock on the door disrupted your search. You stayed silent for a moment, contemplating if you should ignore it or answer.

“Dolcezza, I’ve brought you a small snack, you’re going to enjoy it,” you just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the day you had, but you also didn’t want to snub her kindness, you reached out to unlock and open the door.

“Buongiorno tesoro… enjoying your little excursion? Marina here was kind enough to show me to your room so I could surprise you… seems like it worked, look at this charming expression,” turning to the smiling woman, Giorno nodded for her to leave. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, you wanted to cry, to run, to jump right out through the hazy window but your feet were rooted to the ground.

“Well (y/n) … you’ve been running around Naples for the entire day, have you found what you’re looking for?” his usual honeyed tone was laced with derision as he critically eyed your surroundings. “is this what you were so desperate to escape to? Look at this place… look at the condition you’re in… how is any of this better than everything I’ve given you?”

“I have my freedom here…” was all you could muster as your mind raced thinking of how he had still managed to find you despite all the precautions you had taken. “Giorno, how…”

“How did I find you? I always have my ways…” he said, sauntering over to the window, opening it just enough to make eye contact with whoever was outside, dismissing them with a nonchalant wave of his gloved hand. Pulling out his cellphone, he showed you the opened application, explaining that he had been using it to track your location, following the signal from the diamond earrings he gifted you on your birthday, carelessly left on when you had made your hasty escape. In all fairness, you hadn’t considered that the dainty gems were anything more than that. Feeling your legs starting to give out under you at the revelation that you were the cause of your own undoing, you sat on the bed hanging your head in defeat.

“Freedom, you say? Tell me how has that worked for you?”

“That’s not fair! You’ve basically controlled every single encounter I’ve had, and even when I thought I had escaped you by coming here, you still somehow managed to manipulate the situation…” you shouted, tears of frustration running feely down your face.

“Stop being dramatic, the world is full of horrible people, everyone is looking out for themselves, I wish you would realize that… tell me tesoro, how many people turned you away? Threw you out of their cars, made up excuses to deny your requests? Not one of those people looked into those pleading eyes and thought you were worth helping. Why? Because people are selfish…”

“You… you threatened them all, you…”

“You give me too much credit, it’s not like I was going to kill them, I hate violence, despite your disappointingly low opinion of me, even you have to admit that I’ve never done anything to physically harm you… all I want is to protect you, you don’t understand how things work out there,”

“It’s not like you’ve ever given me the opportunity to find out how things are… I”

“Some people are just meant to be loved and protected tesoro, isn’t that enough? Why would you want to risk being hurt to get a taste of something that’s actually not even worth it… you’re not cut out for this life… I’ve been here so I know this isn’t what you deserve. You’re coming back home with me,”

“But, I- “ you attempted to interject but his intense glare halted you.

“(y/n), I’m very patient under most circumstances, but please don’t test me now, I won’t say it twice…” said Giorno with a slight bite to his voice, it was clear he was growing tired of this conversation, and you were losing your will to fight back. With a quivering lip and misty eyes, you moved to gather your belongings but was stopped by the young don, arguing that he can replace whatever is there, wanting no other reminders of this transgression to follow you both back. Resigning yourself to this fate, realizing there was nowhere beyond his reach, you grasped his outstretched arm and followed him to the car to return to your life of opulent captivity. Months and months of planning all resulting in nothing, it became glaringly obvious to you that escaping was futile…

[sequencefairy]

shyan + 'shane uses non-sexual kink techniques to calm ryan down after an spn shoot' setup?

It’s the hand around the back of his neck that does it. 

Suddenly, in the midst of the buzzing static of his brain, Ryan finds silence in the grip of Shane’s fingers on the back of his neck. It’s not a tight grip, and it’s quick, just a fleeting moment of pressure, enough to reel in all the loose and fraying threads of Ryan’s ability to reason and logic himself through the rest of this shoot. It’s not on camera, because Shane would never, just that quick reach up, the close of his fingers around the back of Ryan’s neck, and then, blessed silence in that brief warm squeeze. 

The rest of the shoot goes as well as can be expected, and Shane doesn’t touch Ryan again. He won’t, Ryan knows, he never does. It’s only these little moments of grounding, to remind Ryan of the lines and borders of his body, to bring him back inside of them, contain the ever-expanding spiral of anxiety back inside of his flesh where Ryan can beat it back with measured breaths and catching the steady gaze of his partner out of the corner of his eye. 

At the hotel, Ryan’s restless again. He usually is after a shoot, but this is different. It’s humming under his skin, buzzing in his ears, like the panic is still trying to win. It fades out under the pounding of the shower on his shoulders, but it’s back with a high-pitched whine when he turns off the light in the bathroom and steps back out into their room. 

Shane’s sprawled out on the bed closest to the window, all eight hundred miles of his limbs spread across the dizzy pattern of the comforter. He’s not asleep, Ryan knows, because he’s tapping a rhythm against his sternum with one finger. It’s steady, slow and even, and Ryan’s eyes catch on the movement of Shane’s hand, the tap of his nail against the button on his henley. 

Shane’s eyes open when Ryan sinks down to sitting on the bed he’d claimed as his own when they’d dropped their shit off here earlier in the day. 

“Still buzzing, hey?” Shane asks, voice low. He always knows, seems to be able to read it in Ryan’s body language, no matter how much he tries to hide it. Ryan nods, because even if he tried to lie, Shane would know and Ryan tries very hard not to lie to Shane. 

Shane sits up on the bed and turns so he’s facing Ryan, his long legs crossed. He looks at Ryan.  For the first time in their long partnership of not saying anything about the elephants they keep bringing into every room they’re in, it looks like Shane might say something after all. Ryan holds his gaze. 

Shane looks away first. Something that’s fine in the dark and under the cobwebs seems not to be fine in the low light of a hotel room across town. Ryan looks down at his own knees. His palms are sweaty where he skims them against his thighs, the fabric of his sweats catching. He shivers, shrugging his shoulders up and then rolling them back and down. 

He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. He’ll need to settle, find his way back into his own skin, pull in the scattered shadows of his fears and seal them back inside the boundary of his own physical form. If he doesn’t, he won’t sleep. 

There’s a touch to his knee, then a grip, just above the joint, Shane’s fingers pressed into the pressure point, enough that it draws Ryan out of his breathing count. Shane’s sitting on the edge of the other bed now, feet flat on the floor. He’s leaning forward, and when Ryan doesn’t shake off his grip, he grabs hold of Ryan’s other knee. 

“This helps.” It’s not a question but Ryan nods anyway. Shane squeezes a little tighter, and Ryan feels something in the top of his spine come loose. Ryan breathes out, and Shane shifts forward, close enough that their knees brush. When he looks up this time, Shane’s watching him, eyes dark. 

“Get on the floor,” Shane says, letting go of Ryan’s knees. He leans back to give Ryan some space. 

Ryan hesitates. If he does this, what does it mean for them? If he lets Shane put him back together like this, what does that change about who they will be in the morning? If Shane sees him like this, sees him coming apart at the seams still, even hours after, what does it change about how Shane sees him? 

What if it changes nothing at all?

Ryan slides forward and then off the bed entirely, going to his knees in front of Shane. He looks up. Shane’s watching him, eyes searching Ryan’s face, hands pressed against his own thighs. There’s a wild feeling behind Ryan’s ribs, something untethering him from himself as he kneels here, for Shane. It’s just kneeling, Ryan tries to tell himself, but he knows it’s not. He knows it’s more than that, that is has been more than that since Shane gripped him by the back of the neck so many hours ago. 

The thick carpet and soft bedding deadens everything in the room, snuffing any extraneous sound before it can begin to ring. 

The energy under Ryan’s skin seethes. 

Shane’s watching him. Ryan shivers in a breath, the tension in his spine still ratcheted tight. 

“Hands behind your back,” Shane suggests but Ryan knows it’s not. Something about Shane’s tone makes Ryan want to scramble to do whatever Shane is asking of him. “Lace your fingers together.” 

Ryan does what he’s told. Shane reaches out and pushes his fingers into Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan locks up his core to resist the overbalancing. Shane nods to himself. 

“Stay like that,” he says, and sits back on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Feels okay?” 

Ryan nods. Something warm and longing curls in his belly, but Ryan ignores it. Eventually this position will be uncomfortable, what with the way his shoulders are pulled back and the pressure against his knees, but for now, Ryan feels like he could stay here for hours. Feels like he might want to stay here for hours, with Shane giving the instruction. He packs that thought away to examine not here on his knees in front of Shane.

“Tell me about the property again,” Shane says, after a moment. 

“What?” 

“You heard me. I want a history lesson.” 

“A what?” 

Shane sighs. He scuffs a hand through his hair. “You’re still keyed up from earlier, right? So, stay there on the floor, and tell me a story.” 

“I don’t see how this is going to help.” It comes out as more of a question than anything else. 

“Why don’t you just trust me and see,” Shane says. He turns on the bed and settles against the pillows, arms crossed under his head. He looks like he’s ready to sleep. He gives Ryan a few seconds of silence to fill and when Ryan doesn’t he pushes himself up a little on his elbows. “Well? Go on.” 

So, Ryan does. 

It takes a couple of tries to get into the rhythm of telling the story, but once he’s found it, the words just keep coming, until his voice starts to get hoarse and the ache in his knees and his shoulders becomes too pressing to ignore. 

What he stops feeling is the thrumming anxiety.

 When he pauses for a deep breath, Shane sits back up. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Knees hurt,” Ryan says. He shrugs his shoulders as best as he can. “Shoulders, too.” 

“Okay,” Shane replies, and reaches out, big hands landing on Ryan’s shoulders. “How’s the rest?” 

Ryan takes a moment to check. Aside from the physical ache of kneeling on the floor for however long it’s been, he’s fine. He yawns, ducking his head to hide it since his hands are still laced together behind his back. 

Shane’s face softens. The slight smile that curves his mouth is full of a fondness Ryan knows Shane will never attach words to. “Think you can sleep now?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan croaks. 

“Good,” Shane answers. “Unlace your fingers for me, okay? Then slowly roll your shoulders out, you’ll get stiff otherwise.” 

Ryan rolls his shoulders out, reaching up first one hand and then the other to rub at the muscles that have stiffened while he’s been kneeling. 

“Standing’s gonna suck,” Shane says, when Ryan’s finished moving his shoulders. “Let me help.” 

Shane offers his hand and Ryan takes it, letting Shane steady him as he pushes himself up off his knees, one leg at a time. His knees both pop when he straightens, and it makes Ryan shiver. He feels laid out like he does sometimes after a hard run, the good kind of exhausted. He looks up at Shane. Shane’s looking down at him. 

For a moment, they stand there, until Shane reaches out with one hand to brush his fingers along Ryan’s jaw. The tenderness of the gesture makes Ryan’s toes curl into the carpet. The moment is broken when Shane steps back out of Ryan’s space. 

“I’m beat,” Shane declares, rocking back onto his heels with a dramatic yawn that he covers with one hand. 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. He looks over at the bed he’d claimed and then back at the rumpled one Shane’s been lying on. 

“Just get in,” Shane says, slipping around to the other side of the bed. “Grab the light when you do.” 

By the time Ryan remembers how to move, Shane’s already under the covers. He’s got his glasses in his hand and he waggles them at Ryan when Ryan reaches to pull down the coverlet and get in. 

They get situated, Shane on his back, one hand thrown up behind his head, and Ryan curled up tight on his side. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, into the dark. “Chill. Just sleep, dude. You need it.” 

“Shane?” 

“Yeah, bud,” Shane says, and Ryan can hear him moving behind him. 

“Just--”

“C’mere,” Shane says, from much closer than he was previously. Shane’s hand curls around Ryan’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Stop getting in your head so much about this,” Shane suggests, “you’ll undo all that work from earlier.”

Ryan takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose, forcing himself to relax. As he does, he realises that Shane’s snugged up almost directly behind him, warmth of his body bleeding into Ryan’s. Shane’s hand smooths down Ryan’s arm and then lands in the dip of his waist, the weight of it soothing in a way Ryan hadn’t expected. 

Ryan closes his eyes. 

He falls asleep thinking about whether it would be weird to reach back with one foot and find Shane’s calf with his toes. 

[cdroloisms]

maybe you could talk about the dynamic between c!wilbur and c!tommy / c!tubbo? i think it's very interesting and i have conflicted feelings about them, i'd love to see your takes

c!wilbur my beloved ,, he’s such an interesting character and his relationship w/ c!tommy and c!tubbo is simultaneously so ,, twisted and heartbreaking. i think he really did care about them, to the end, but c!wilbur had always been characterized with his ,, love for lmanburg, to the point of obsession - think him in the revolution, saying “we would rather die,” him and his unfinished symphony in the button room on the sixteenth. in the end, it’s this obsession that really comes to destroy him,, but i feel like he still *cared* for tommy and tubbo, you know? tommy, canonically, saw wilbur as an older brother figure, and i feel like to some degree that feeling was reciprocated - not in the healthiest way, especially as c!wilbur became more manipulative, but that came from his untreated mental illness and growing paranoia and other things. i think that he saw himself as a sort of,, mentor figure, to both tommy and tubbo, and he hurt them, in the end, in very very deep and unjustified ways ,, but he still cared. it doesn’t make it right, or even better, but i think that w/ the way wilbur thought, he wasn’t necessarily trying to be cruel.

anyway, take this mutually assured destruction au (credit to @dreamsclock for the au) interaction of c!wilbur and c!tubbo!

tw: mentioned abuse, death, manipulation, toxic relationship, unhealthy thinking, mental illness, derealization (? wilbur thinks of everything as a twisted story), c!wilbur critical (not really? but just in case)

“Do you know what he did to Tommy?”

Wilbur turns, blinks, smiles; Tubbo is standing in front of him, spine straight, shoulders pulled back; there’s a fire in those eyes, highlighted by the starburst scar that stretches over his face. He wipes the gunpowder with a quick snap of his wrists, one-two, and cocks his head to the side. Amusement bubbles under his skin; now this is interesting.

“Tubbo! Can’t say I expected you here,” the kid is wearing netherite, but doesn’t move closer, keeping himself just out of reach of a sword. Smart, Wilbur shifts, stuffs his hands into his pockets, he’s learned.

“Wilbur,” Tubbo’s voice is firm, tired. Wilbur stays silent, prompting, something satisfied becoming a curling warmth in his chest; he’s always been perceptive, moreso than Tommy. Tommy lives, breathes a sort of unpolished sincerity, drawing attention, bleeding heart and loyalty and emotion so brilliantly and shouting so loudly that everyone has no choice but to listen - to contain him is no easier than to cage a flame. Wilbur knew this, even back in Pogtopia, let his and Dream’s passion and drive and bone-deep feeling burn each other out.

Tubbo sighs, lifts his chin; his eyes are cold. Something amused pulls at the corners of Wilbur’s lips; where Tommy is fire, Tubbo is ice, waiting, watching, letting Tommy charge into the fray while he hangs back and simply observes. He’d known, even then, that when push came to shove, Tubbo would be the one to get the job done, that he was the one that would smile serenely with an arsenal of weapons hidden up his sleeve, had looked into those ice-blue eyes and seen the same snake-in-the-grass determination that he recognized from every time he looked in the mirror.

“I know,” he says, finally, every word carefully measured, just smooth enough to edge on the side of sincerity. He doesn’t miss the way that Tubbo flinches, the tremble of his bottom lip, but turns away and pretends not to notice. “He told me, and even if he didn’t, I still have Casper the friendly ghost’s memories, as much as I don’t like them.”

“Then-” Tubbo’s voice cracks, goes quiet, and Wilbur watches from the corner of his eye as the kid purposefully untenses, hiding his shaking hands behind his shield. “Why are you helping him?”

Wilbur pauses; it’s not a question he didn’t expect, but the weight of it is- startling, even so. Something bubbles, hot and vicious, in his throat, almost tasting like anger, revenge, love. He remembers his hand placed, calming, on a too-tense shoulder, nestled in wind-blown hair, remembers star-bright eyes following him, hanging onto his every word like they had the power to coax the sun into the sky. Remembers, even in the hazy joy and grief that had been the world falling to pieces under his hand on the sixteenth, that spark of blue-tinged sorrow that had almost felt like regret burning cold and quiet in the middle of his chest.

“Have you read Shakespeare, Tubbo?”

Wilbur turns away, but it’s not early enough to miss the way Tubbo jolts at his question, a mumbled, incredulous “what?” falling from his lips.

“His tragedies, specifically,” he counts the TNT in his inventory, thumbing through the rows and rows of dynamite. “If you haven’t, they all follow the same basic formula - it’s how tragic heroes work, after all. It all boils down to one flaw - just one mistake, that sends the entire house of cards crumbling down.” Just one button pressed. Just one person that shouldn’t have been trusted. Just one life.

“I don’t- I don’t see how this is relevant, Wilbur.”

And here’s the thing; once upon a time, these boys - they had been his.

Not his, as in family, or his, as in followers, but some muddled mix of the two. They’d been his to guide, to some degree, his to keep out of trouble, his to teach about drugs and blackmail and propaganda and respect and leadership and honor. And- maybe he never should’ve been trusted with kids, maybe they shouldn’t have given a damned man this responsibility - scratch the maybe, they definitely shouldn’t have - but the universe didn’t operate on “should have”’s so he ended up with these brilliant, lost boys anyway.

And he fucked up, more than anyone, more than even Dream, because these boys had been his in a way they never were for Dream, but Wilbur has always been a selfish, selfish man. He chose his unfinished symphony first and he’d choose it again because that was the flaw in his foundation, the chip in his soul that would send him collapsing from the outside in every time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try to guide the kid standing in front of him away from the path of self-destruction that Wilbur’s already too far down to come back from, that he and Tommy and Dream have been damned to.

“You’re a side character, Tubbo. You don’t matter,” Wilbur speaks, ignoring the hitch of breath that comes from behind him, “and this is a tragedy. Everyone that matters dies at the end of a tragedy.”

“Wilbur-”

“Cassio lives in Othello. Horatio lives in Hamlet. Dream, me, Tommy - we’re fucked. We’ve been fucked since the beginning of this story, since L’manburg. I signed our death warrant the moment I signed that declaration, Tubbo! We’re dead men walking. It’s only a question of how much we burn down before we burn out. But you?”

“You’re not like us, Tubbo. When the curtains close, when this story ends - somebody’s going to be left to pick up the pieces. You have people to live for now.”

“This- this isn’t a story, Wilbur.” Tubbo’s words tremble in the air, hang between them like a thread pulled taut - the thread frays, snaps, as Wilbur begins to walk away.

As he leaves, Wilbur remembers Dream, hair white in the moonlight, back when those eyes shone with something other than remembered pain - this isn’t a story - and hopes that Tubbo won’t learn the hard way, too.

[hannie-dul-set]

MISSED TIMINGS | l.ty

PAIRING. ex! lee taeyong x reader GENRE. post breakup! au (like a month or so), college! au, angst jdfj very bittersweet oops WARNINGS. swearing WORD COUNT. 887 PROMPT(S). “do i look like i’ve moved on?”

want to request? click here!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, come on, come on!

There was both panic and impatience writhing in your gut, only able to be relieved by a means of escape from the area and anywhere near it. Basically you needed to run away as far as possible and as soon as possible, but your only means of doing that was catching a ride on one of the taxis passing by, signalled by the headlights that lit up the dark streets every so often.

You hailed the yellow vehicle approaching. It completely ran past you.

“Goddammit.”

A croaky grumble sounded in your throat, and you stomped your feet against the concrete sidewalk in frustration. It didn’t help that you left the restaurant with an empty stomach— but that was something you could not help. After all, you almost bumped into the sole reason why you were running away in the first place. You scoffed, shoving your hands into your coat with a frown. This was ridiculous.

It was as if the world was trying to string you and your ex together in the same crowded enclosure, three times in a single day. First it was the bookstore, next was the park festival. And just earlier you nearly bumped heads into him at the fast food establishment. He wouldn’t let you go even after cutting all ties with him, unconsciously so.

Another taxi passed by, but once again you were left with false hope because it was occupied. You let out a sigh.

“You didn’t tell me you came back.”

It was like the blood that was supposed to rush underneath your skin froze altogether. You slowly turned around to face the owner of the hauntingly familiar voice, and there you saw Lee Taeyong— barely lit up underneath the dim street light, yet that was enough to squeeze your chest in a way that made memories flash by in a single instant. You stifled out a cough.

“Actually I, uh— I didn’t tell anyone,” you sputtered out. “Surprise? You know.”

“Ah...”

Closure was important in patching up wounds inflicted by a breakup, like closing the end of a rope with a tight knot. And it was something yours didn’t have, leaving the knot not only untied, but completely frayed. Taeyong’s eyes were down the concrete, sucking in a deep breath as he stood on the balls of his feet before dropping back down. He pressed his lips together before speaking. A single car sped by.

“How…have you been?”

“Same old,” you hummed. “Been pretty busy nowadays. I came back to get some papers from uni. Was missing some requirements.”

Taeyong nodded, the tightness of his chest slipping through the way he looked at you with his large, glassy eyes. You chose to ignore that. It was best to ignore that.

“And you?”

Your question weighed like an insult, but it wasn’t like you were faring any better. It wasn’t reflected by his black bucket hat that covered up the mess of hair underneath, the wrinkles folding his paint stained black jacket, but the heavy bags underneath his eyes told the tale that he had spent a few too many sleepless.

“You look like you’re doing good,” you managed a thin smile, inhaling sharply. “It’s good to see that you’ve moved on. I’m happy for you.”

The streetlight flickered.

“Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

You heard a  taxi passed by. You missed the timing to raise an arm.

“W-well— that’s because I have! Yeah, I actually— actually went to eat dinner with Minjee earlier, so—” he shuffled around in the same spot, flashing a close eyed smile that threatened to flicker away in any second. Taeyong couldn’t find your eyes despite standing in front of him. You couldn’t, too. “I’m sure you’ve moved on, as well.”

“Yeah...”

The busy street turned silent. Maybe it wasn’t long until a cab would pass by.

“You still keep labels on your paint and drinking water, right?” you asked, attempting to fill the suffocating silence. He couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Of course. It became customary when you wouldn’t stop scolding after that incident.”

And the irony came from the comfort settling in when the past was brought up, in the form of your matching, hollowed out laughter. You heard a car nearing, the street brightening once again, and you turned around. Finally.

“I thought you were saving up for a car.”

“It’s better for the environment to commute,” the corners of your lips were tugged upwards— a little fuller this time— just as you placed your hand on the handle. The light hitting the back of his head looked like fluorescent halo, making him look a little further away. You swung the taxi door open. “A—anyway, it’s nice to see you again ‘Yong.”

“You too.”

The last thing you saw before finally entering the vehicle, on your way back to the other side of town, was the look on his face— slightly smiling, slightly regretful, but you couldn’t trust what you saw with your own eyes when your heart was in control. And yet you held on to it, because maybe that was the last memory you’d ever hold of him.

Until the world would string you together again, but there was a chance that this was the world’s last thread.

© hannie-dul-set, 2021

[flameohotwife]

For the prompt thing, maybe 40 or 43? Maybe a combo of both?? I'll let you decide!!

40. "You are crushing me right now."

43. "You're an idiot" (which I kind of combined with 7. "You're an idiot." "But you love me." because why not)

From this fluff prompt list. Rated G-Tish. 1k words.

Katara was pacing back and forth in the tiny Middle Ring apartment she and Aang shared when they visited Ba Sing Se. King Kuei had tried to insist on an extravagant house in the Upper Ring, but they had both refused, partially due to Aang’s minimalist nature and partially because Katara spent most of these visits working at clinics in the Lower Ring, so their apartment was perfectly situated for them both to get to their jobs easily.

Katara stopped at the window and observed the darkening sky. Stars were just beginning to twinkle to life up above, and the rising full moon was making her antsier than normal. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for Aang to be out this late, but on her way home from the clinic today she had heard about an incident at the palace. Nobody seemed to know the details, but each story she overheard became wilder and deadlier than the last, and the uncertainty was causing her heart to race. She had rushed home only to find emptiness. Empty rooms. Empty tea cups leftover from breakfast, still sitting on the table. Empty apartment. Empty pit in her stomach.

Her nervous energy finally bubbled out and she couldn’t stop moving; first clearing the table and washing the dishes, then arranging their belongings and scrubbing the counters, then sweeping the floors, then pacing. She trusted Aang to come home to her every day. This was all part of being the Avatar’s girlfriend (the Avatar’s partner, really--they were everything to each other. It was only the world who saw her only as his girlfriend, as they were not yet betrothed). He would always have duties to the world. Sometimes she could be by his side, but sometimes she would have to let him take care of things on his own, and she always trusted him to make the right choices both for the world and for them. But it didn’t stop the worry.

She was just gathering her things to leave their now-spotless apartment--thinking she could head to the palace herself to see if they needed a healer--when the door swung open and Aang appeared. His robes were disheveled and maybe a little singed, but he was walking on his own and she couldn’t see any blood. There was a clatter as she dropped her bag and keys to the floor and rushed to him, relief coursing through her.

“Hey, Sweetie--OOF!” Katara clung to him like a spidermonkey. She could feel the exhaustion in his muscles, even as his heart still raced with energy. It was the weariness of continuing to fight battle after battle, either physically or in the meeting room. Her heart ached at his lost childhood. He shouldn’t even know he was the Avatar yet; his sixteenth birthday was still months off, and yet he spent his days (and many of his nights) cleaning up the messes of a century-long war. Katara knew that despite the progress he’d made with his chakras, he still held some guilt over his prolonged absence from the world, and that he attempted to atone by being everywhere at once. An impossible task. She squeezed him tighter.

“Katara,” he gasped, trying to wriggle free from her vice-like grip. “You are crushing me right now.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She smoothed her dress and discretely inspected his appearance for injury. “What happened, Sweetie? I heard so many rumors…”

“Everything’s okay.” Aang ran his hands down her shoulders and arms as he spoke, trying to relieve some of the tension there. “Some rogue Ozai supporters thought they’d try to assassinate the Earth King and take over Ba Sing Se, but they were subdued pretty easily. Just some minor damage to the palace but nothing too terrible. Kuei is a little shaken, but fine. Nobody was injured. Well… maybe a couple firebenders got hurt by the rock shackles. And their pride. That was definitely hurt.” He smirked down at her. He had only outgrown her in height in the last few months, and she was still getting used to having to look up at him when they were this close.

“You’re an idiot,” she joked, rolling her eyes. She would never admit it out loud, but that cocky little attitude of his that he always had after a win made her heart flutter. She could tell he was still riding the adrenaline rush from the battle and needed an outlet. She needed one, too, frayed as her nerves were from worry, so she snaked her arms up his chest and around his neck, pulling him down to her.

“But you love me.” His eyes twinkled with something mischievous and he dipped to kiss her deeply, threading his fingers into her hair and pressing her against him once more with a hand on her back. Katara caressed the tattoo down his neck, arching into him when he shuddered.

“You’re right,” she said breathily when they finally parted. “I do love you.” She pulled him back down for a chaste kiss on the cheek, and he blushed, melting her heart all over again. She couldn’t stop smiling. They’d been together for years now but his face still reddened every time she did that, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he said quietly, reading her subconscious worry. He leaned his forehead against hers gently, and the air was thick with their love as they stood in the entryway, door still open and forgotten. “I know it’s scary sometimes with all the attacks, but I want you to know that the thought of you keeps me going and will bring me back every time. I couldn’t do any of this without you. You’re my anchor to the world and to this life, Katara. I love you so much.”

“Aang,” she whimpered, and leaned up to kiss him again, pulling him impossibly closer. Both their faces were wet, but their hearts were full. They would always come back to each other. They were each other’s home in a world that had destroyed theirs. Each other’s tether in a life that was constantly threatened. They could find safety and comfort in that knowledge, and in each other. She pulled him fully into the apartment and shut the door, determined to take refuge from the outside world in his strong arms for a moment. An hour. A lifetime. Just them.

[pollylynn]

Title: Devisal WC: 2000 Episode: Knockout (3 x 24)

What will she give to this? The thing she walked away from. The thing that gave chase. The thing she has since turned on and bared her teeth, her claws, but what will she give to this?

Time.

This has been the answer for weeks. It has been the answer for months.

She fetches down her mother’s ring from its nail behind the shutters, from the place where it stands watch among the photos, the ragged-edged news clippings, the tight scrawl of her own writing. She begins a new thicket of hash marks—sixteen weeks today. Sixteen times she has fetched down her mother’s ring.

She fetches her mother’s ring from its tucked away place inside her jacket, from where it nestles as close to her body as she can bear these days. She fetches it out and stares as it catches the sallow fluorescent light, as she waits for the buzzer to make the cage sting out. The tiny stone flickers with all its might, urgent as an SOS. The chain hisses against itself as the ring spins. It winds. It unwinds.

She mechanically thanks one guard—a different one each week. A different one much of the time? She’s not sure. There’s only the wait for the buzzer, the cage singing out. There is only the ring with its frantic shower of minute sparks.

And then there is the dance with the man beyond the cage. The man inside is a constant. Ryker. She knows his name. She doesn’t know his name. Now slides past then. This time swaps places with last time—with the last fifteen times. Time is what she gives. This is what she gets, a street punk’s game of Three-Card Monte. Find the Lady. Find the Lady.

She knows the man inside, but he does not know her. What will she give to this? Nothing of herself. Nothing of who she is. This is the bargain she has struck.

She grits her teeth. Officer Ryker, she says, and maybe it’s pleasant. Maybe it’s not. Either way, He has a smile at the ready and a lame joke teed up—today it’s a serial arsonist, an armed robber. For her part, there is the polite laugh. When did that start, she wonders? How much time trickled to the bottom of the hourglass before this became their version of Hi, honey, how was your day?

He—Officer Ryker—puts the kettle on, as it were. He dials up the next man inside, some other faceless inconstant, she thinks. A different one each week. A different one much of the time? Ryker rattles off Hal Lockwood’s prisoner ID from memory.

He does not know her. He has never asked why she comes, who Lockwood is to her, what it is she comes in search of, week after week. He simply does everything she does, backwards in uniform-issue shoes.

This is before, though. This is the fifteen times before, and time is suddenly not enough.

*******************

What will she give to this? The thing that has come for her at last. The thing that has the audacity to tell her that she is not predator, but prey. What is it now that she will she give?

A fucking show.

She blocks Castle’s apologies, his empathy, his pity, like so many blows raining down in the chaos of a bar brawl. She knocks him off balance. She makes a point of how off-kilter they are—how out of the loop he is. It’s all part of the show. He’s sorry about McCallister’s execution? He must not have the faintest idea what she’s been doing for all these weeks, all these months. McCallister’s murder goes in the win column. It’s the paper trail of her dreams. It’s Christmas in May.

Stricken by this, wounded and terrified, by her and for her, he still musters up the courage to point out that Lockwood’s cage is unlikely to rattle? She shows him her back. She struts away at speed, tossing revelations over her shoulder: Lockwood is the B-plot. He is nothing but a drop-kick lapdog. She’s going after the king of the beasts, armed with a chair and a whip.

And that’s all just Act I.

Act II. Interior: Bullpen. She is in constant motion. She she raps out unnecessary orders. The boys are on the case of who ordered Lockwood’s transfer. They are on the tail-chasing mission of trying to find something—anything—on the courtroom impostors. They are on the chopper and recordings of Lockwood’s calls. They are on the job of stating the obvious—say hello to Charlie and Mike: She is Lockwood’s next target, and that suits her just fine.

But it’s a plot twist. It’s an uproar. It’s a red herring? Maybe it’s a red herring.

Everyone’s blood runs cold when the Captain points out that she’d have already been dead on the courtroom floor if it were her back with a target painted on it. There’s no pause for a dramatic musical cue. Castle is on his feet. He is on exposition duty, desperate to change the narrative. his hands fly across the murder board, swapping file photos from slot to slot to slot until the letters that sprawl across each one to spell out deceased become nothing but a blur. Find the lady. Find the lady.

Her eyes are locked on her mother’s picture, the one fixed point she can find amid the frenetic show-time energy. Her ring is missing. The shutters and the nail that tips its head toward the ceiling are nowhere to be found. There is no shower of tiny sparks and no hiss of the chain against itself as it winds, unwinds, winds again.

.

And still, she’s putting on a show. They are putting on a show, and this is how it happens.

What will she give to this? Every poor player among them, piece by piece. Now. This is what she will give.

*******************

What will she give to this? The ravenous, undying thing that winds itself around her and drops its venom in her ear. There is no question of predator and prey now, there is only who she has been and this undying thing, entwined. The words of Gary McCallister, of Hal Lockwood bubble up—So much bigger than you realize. You can’t hide from him. These, whispers the ravenous, undying thing, are the only true words ever spoken. And for this truth, to this truth, what will she give?

Her mind. Her heart. The twanging snip of threads that have bound her to life—to everything other than this. She will give in. That is what she will give.

It begins in the hangar. It begins with the chopper, scrubbed down, reeking of bleach, looming. It begins with one pathetic bullet hole. Details swirl in the air—stolen, hedge fund, the Caribbean. Wherever her feet land, wherever her shoulders try to straighten themselves, the shadow of the hulking bird presses down on her. This is the metaphor.

Why now?

The question is hers. It is not hers. It is the slither and hiss of threads untangling in her mind, though her voice—out in the world—sounds normal. It sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to ask, and he shrugs. He calculates exactly the gesture, his tone, the glance delivered on an oblique angle. He is wary. He is managing her.

Time, planning, resources, he says, and every molecule of air in that hangar thrums with black suspicion.

What if it was something else?

There is is again, the slither and hiss. What if it was him? That’s what the ravenous, undying thing wants to know.

I will do anything that you need, including nothing, if that's what you want.

What kind of fool believes that, when he’s standing there, perfectly at home next to a two-million-dollar toy,? He gives a makes sense, yeah, that’ll happen nod as Esposito explains the owner might never have even realized the fucking bird was gone without her one pathetic shot dimpling its tail.

Makes sense, he nods, and what kind idiot would never think to wonder what strings he has been pulling since Dick Coonan, since John Raglan, since she was pathetic enough, needy enough to name him someone she trusts? She lives with his ego, day in and day out. She lives with his savior complex, and what if it was him who set all this in motion?

That’s it. That’s it. The frantic blur of bent plastic cards comes to an end. Find the Lady.

She gives in. She lets the black suspicion rear up and bare its fangs, and when he comes to her—when he dares come to her as though he knows her—she strikes.

What about you, Rick?

Is that what we are?

We are over.

And just like that, she is free. She is swallowed whole. She floats, weightless, in the black.

She gives in.

*********************

What will she give to this? What has she given to this?

Her family. The one she has built. The one that has built itself around her. The one that lies in ruins at her feet, because she let this thing blot out everything else in existence.

What has she given to this that she can never reclaim?

A decade and more of her life, spent in hiding—spent behind the cheap plastic mask of a heroine, an avenging angel, a dutiful daughter, a warrior. There is the twanging snip of a frayed elastic band, the almost silent fall of an unconvincing disguise falling, falling.

What is left to her—of her—after all she has given to this?

Nothing.

That is the slither and hiss again. That is cowardice that will not see the shower of tiny sparks, that will not heed the urgent SOS sent out by what little of her mother she can carry with her.

And she does carry her mother with her on this day of days. She wears the delicate links of chain next to her skin, beneath the suffocating weight of her dress uniform. She feels her heart beating, beating, beating, against the solid circle of it. She feels unworthy of it. She knows she is unworthy of it. But she carries her mother with her on this day of days. She heeds that urgent message at last.

What is left of her—to her—after all she has thrown on the pyre? Not nothing.

There is a sea of stalwart shoulders around her, bowed by grief that is hers, that is theirs, that is a terrible weight shared among them. There is a sea of tear-streaked faces brave enough to seek the sun, even now. There is a sea of warriors and dutiful daughters, of shining examples, giving and receiving grace. There is a wordless chorus that knocks around the hollow remains of her mind, her heart, as if to say This is how it’s done. This is how we mourn. Together. This is how.

This is what bravery is—to hear them. This is what is righteous and healing—to be a shoulder, a face, a spark of grace, given and received.

What is left?

He is left. She is left. They are left, despite her craven pronouncements, despite his lies of omission and barbed-wire truths. They are left.

She speaks this into being. A tremulous, unfamiliar voice that seems to be hers speaks this unassailable fact into being.

You find someone to stand with you.

It is a beginning. Not a harvest, but a tentative vision for what might grow here. It is not a question. Not yet. She is still in pieces. He is still in ruins. They are still dragon’s teeth, scattered on still-smoking ground, waiting to be human. Waiting to see if they can be human, alone and together.

But still, it is a beginning—a nascent question: What can she take from this?

A/N: So. After taking on a spur-of-the-moment, enormous editing project with a tight deadline, There was total lack of morphousness until 3 AM. Sprawling, writhing lack of morphousness that was only half of this. So I had to add a second half of absolute absence of morphousness this morning, obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

images via homeofthenutty

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Do you have any headcanons for Madame Red and a fem reader having to keep their relationship a secret?

you can’t even believe how disgustingly soft I am........

ANNE

She’s really no stranger to having to hide things, now, is she? It’s a toss-up as to whether or not you’ll know about her other activities, but for the most part, she’s near fully open with only two people ― you and Grell. And that’s only because Grell makes it impossible for her not to be. You, though… you, Anne chooses to share everything with despite the fact that you have to hide everything else about your relationship. Not only does she really, truly want to be honest with you, it’s also a way to make up for the fact that you can’t do anything romantic in public. “You’re such a good sport about this, sweetie. I love you, and I owe it to you to give you as much of me as you’re willing to take.”

… That doesn’t mean it’s easy for the two of you having to hide everything. There are always times when one of you will want to take the other’s hand or give the other a kiss on the cheek, and you can’t. If anyone else is around, you have to shove your passion down and pretend as if she’s not the woman you’re in love with. It’s hard. Thankfully, though, most people are accepting of close physical friendships between women; nobody judges you for hugging each other, at least. You can hold onto her for as long as you want when you first meet or when you part and no one will bat an eye.

Faking an injury or illness so you can sneak into her office, who? There’s a little privacy there, and if you’re convincing, sometimes you can have a makeout session while she’s at work. You can get yourself up on the exam table, have her lock the door, and she’ll happily kiss you. She may even get a little risque and let her hands roam over your body… obviously, expecting you to do the same. If you went to all this trouble, you must be aching for her. Though she probably won’t let it get much farther than that seeing as she’s still got other patients to attend you and the thrill of the risk isn’t worth actually getting caught, she won’t leave you completely unsatisfied. After all, she has to come home at the end of the day. Provided you’ve kept the spark going, she’s all too eager to pick up where the two of you left off.

Often she takes you shopping simply so you can dress each other up in different cute outfits. To anyone else, it looks like two friends having a nice day out together, but rest assured that whenever you disappear into fitting rooms to help her tie ribbons and laces, she’s going to steal a kiss or two.

You know she’s been through a lot in her life, and you know about almost every single bit of it. There are times she can’t sleep, where she wanders the house making sure that all the candles and lamps are put out. The image of that fire is burned into her mind and it makes her paranoid. Sometimes she can’t do anything but lie in your arms and cry, with both arms around her stomach, asking you ― if you want to be with a woman, there are plenty of others, so why the hell do you want a broken woman? On more than one night, she’s had to practically throw you into the carriage and drive to the Phantomhive estate so she can make sure that Ciel hasn’t been taken from her again. She’s frayed at every edge, and some days, your love might be the only thing that’s threading through and holding her together.

You, unfortunately, have to deal with Grell. Quite a bit, particularly if you don’t have a career of your own. Grell is home all the time playing butler for Anne, avoiding their own work, and because of your proximity you’ve become their new favorite toy. Sometimes they give you a cup of tea and make pleasant conversation. Sometimes they pretend as if you don’t exist. Sometimes they complain that you’re making Anne too soft and taking away the brutality that they love about her. At some point you’re going to have to seek out a job just to get the bloody hell away from them.

Flower language, like, to the umpteenth degree. Anne likes to mix and match which she sends you on any given day. If she’s feeling incredibly passionate, you’ll get a lot of justicia to remind you of your perfect, feminine beauty. Very soft and you’ll get bridal roses to declare her happy love. When she wants to be cheeky, you get honey flowers and yellow acacia as a display of sweet, secret romance. On some days, she will physically hand you milk vetch, its message very clear: Your presence softens my pains. Although she doesn’t expect anything back, she’d be delighted if you give her any flowers in return.

She introduces you to Ciel as his “other aunt”, but reminds him that he must keep that a secret. He’s the most precious thing in her life, aside from you, and if anyone can be trusted with this, he can. Though he’s awfully dour for a young man, he never treats you differently than he would anyone else. When Anne starts bringing you more often when she visits him, it’s a positive sign that she’s very much settled into the relationship; you’re part of her family now, wife in all but name.

[noctualilith]

What Friends Are For

This was a gift for the lovely @bkfstclubmember as a part of Hazelnoots Discord Server’s Secret Santa 2020! She listed a few wishes and one of them was Leo&Remus friendship, which my muse practically jumped at! The story works as a stand-alone, but is also a continuation of the LoganLoveLetter collab and would be happening a few days after Never Get Enough Of You if you want to read the story of the love letter mentioned ;)

My Santa hat is off to @jacklighting for running the magical place that is the SW/C2C Discord server and for organizing this Secret Santa exchange!

The Sweater Weather / Coast To Coast universe and beloved characters in this fic belong to @lumosinlove !

Merry and happy to all you wonderful people <3

“So, how are you doing, really?” Remus’ voice pulled him out of his thoughts and his hand that was absentmindedly stirring his coffee jerked in surprise, splashing droplets across the table. Leo looked up sheepishly, reaching for a napkin to wipe them away before they dried into an abstract painting on the wooden surface, giving himself a second to gather his feelings and try to put them into words. 

He texted Remus way too early that morning, Hey Loops, up for a breakfast later? and got a reply not ten minutes later. Sure! Come to ours? Sirius will be out in an hour. 

He had woken up before dawn and couldn’t fall back asleep, his thoughts circling and spiraling in on themselves, causing a phantom itch right under his skin that he couldn’t shake off on his own. Normally he’d talk to them about it, his two, currently tangled together under the blankets, Logan burrowed between them, head barely visible and Finn’s arm thrown across both of them, fingers pressing lightly into Leo’s ribs as if making sure he was still there, even in sleep. But this was about them and he didn’t know where to start. His eyes burned as he blinked against the dim light of the sunrise trickling through the curtains.

He loved them so much. He’d do anything to keep them. And still a part of him had been waiting for the day when they’d tell him they didn’t want him anymore, dreading it with a panic bordering on vertigo. He had watched them become more open and trusting with each other, their connection growing stronger and deeper with time, ever since that first time he had noticed there even was a connection, at that damn restaurant in Boston. 

Their missing piece, they’d call him. But what if they weren’t missing a piece anymore? Something had changed over the weekend while he was gone, a subtle shift in their energy that made all the difference and he didn’t understand where his place was now. He needed an outside perspective. He needed a friend. 

Taking a sip of his coffee bought him a couple more seconds, but Remus’ question hung in the air and Leo was wildly grateful for his friendship all of a sudden, of his kind but firm no-bullshit approach and his patience. How was he really feeling?

He took a slow breath and then let it out in a whoosh of air. “I don’t really… I mean, everything is fine?” He winced when he heard the question in his own voice. “Everything is fine. I don’t know what has me so on edge. It’s just a-- a hunch. A feeling.” 

Leo felt his hands dance across the tabletop in agitation, betraying the inner turmoil that he hadn’t quite managed to hide from his voice and even less from his body language. Remus leaned forward in his seat, raising one eyebrow and flicking his eyes down to Leo’s traitorous hands and then back up again, waiting him out silently. 

Leo sighed and closed his eyes. It’s been amazing, having Remus’ friendship and confidentiality, being able to talk to someone about their very specific, shared set of circumstances, but sometimes his no-bullshit radar was bordering on scary; especially when it was forcing him to confront uncomfortable feelings that he didn’t really want to unpack. That is why you’re here, Leo reminded himself. 

He needed someone outside of his bubble to tell him it was nothing, just his paranoia, his insecurity causing him to see problems where there were none. The trouble was, he knew his instincts were right more often than not and the rare few times he got lost in his own head, he got untangled quickly, helped by reassurance from Finn and Logan. 

Finn and Logan. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had changed. He left on a rainy Thursday afternoon and came back on equally dreary Monday, tired but glad he made the trip and even more glad to be home with his boys again.They had been texting and facetiming every day but he had spent the whole Friday at his cousin’s wedding, surrounded by his extended family and not being able to check his phone all that often. 

Saturday morning was for catching up on sleep and a late brunch with his parents so he only got to call them in the evening, finding them bright-eyed and happy, missing him but keeping themselves entertained and-- they had talked, Logan told him proudly. About their history, about their time at Harvard. Not all of it, but a start, a very good one by the sound of it. 

Actually, Finn jumped in, Lo wrote me a love letter. Can you believe it? It was amazing. I keep re-reading it. Logan turned to stare at him then, You do? Finn just nodded, laughing as Logan blushed and then tried to smother him with kisses. Leo felt the familiar rush of affection for the two boys, his two, but underneath it he could taste the bitter tang of doubt creeping in. The unwelcome feeling that he hoped he had banished for good when it came to the three of them. 

We forgave each other, they told him and he could only smile and tell them how proud he’s of them, that it must have been hard but he could tell they were lighter now, better for it. We love you, Peanut, they said, faces pressed close to the screen, jostling each other and laughing. His heart thudded painfully in his chest when he nodded in response, I miss you both so much. 

“What is bothering you then?” Remus asked him gently, pulling the now empty mug of coffee from his hand. His hands unoccupied, his fingers immediately started plucking on the threads at the fraying hem of his sweatshirt. Finn’s sweatshirt. They both kept stealing his, and he would sometimes pull on one of Logan’s bigger hoodies when they were staying in, but he’d only leave the house in Finn’s or his own clothes, the exception being Logan’s snapbacks that they both took to sharing all the time now. 

They were so intertwined, the three of them; he loved it and he was scared to death of losing it. He wasn’t ready to voice that frightening thought yet, but there were others that he needed to say outloud, if only for Remus to tell him that he was being stupid and there was nothing to worry about. 

“I feel like-- like I’m intruding? It feels like something has changed, like they are somehow even closer now and I wasn’t there for it and now I feel--” Leo closed his eyes and thought back to the first evening after he got back. Logan’s calm joy where there usually was a low current of agitation running through him at any moment, not allowing him to stay still for too long. The almost reverent way Finn was around Logan, constantly pulled into his orbit, unwilling to leave his side and radiating a quiet happiness. Their hands linking every chance they got, basking in this new chord they had added to their harmony and somehow seemingly unaware they were doing it. 

“It feels like I don’t have the right to join in. Like I’m one step behind. It feels so private and I can’t stand to be in the middle of it but it’s driving me crazy to be on the outside, too.” 

Remus hummed and leaned forward, elbows on the table and his fingers steepled under his chin, regarding him thoughtfully and mulling the information over before speaking in a soft voice that Leo grasped at like a liferaft. 

“It sounds like they started to heal some old wounds between the two of them and it also sounds like they would be willing and happy to tell you about it. Though they probably aren’t even aware of how you’re feeling right now. I’d expect them to still be caught up in the emotions of the breakthrough, because it seems to be a heavy topic for them from what you’ve told me, but it is affecting you a lot, too.” 

Remus waited for him to take in his words and Leo nodded, wanting him to continue. 

“What would you need to feel included again?”

Leo let himself think, as he turned his head to the side and stared at the sunbeams breaking through the windowpane and hitting the crystal prism placed on the windowsill in a burst of rainbow reflections dancing across the wall. He felt inwards for the answer and when he stumbled upon it, it rushed out unbidden. Things he had pushed down for later, for maybe even never because they weren’t his to ask for; now they burst forth and he welcomed the flood. 

“I’m not sure, but-- They have this history with each other that I can’t catch up to no matter what I’d do. It just is. I just-- I don’t quite understand it, I think. And it feels so hugely important, it is important to them, but they both weren’t even able to talk about it until now, so I don’t--” Leo sucked in a breath and looked to Remus who was nodding at him encouragingly. 

He still felt like he was grasping at vague shapes in a dark room and having no idea where the door was, but letting it all out might also let some light in, so he barrelled on.

“I don’t really know much about what happened between them back then. Bare bones, yes, but not really enough to be able to understand, or-- help, I guess? They would get this wounded look whenever the topic came up. Logan straight up wouldn’t speak about it and Finn had only told me bits and pieces. Said they weren’t ready to fully talk about it yet. God, Finn would tear up if any of us mentioned his first year with the Lions, after he got drafted. Logan would just clam up and go radio silent, disappear for a few hours.” 

Leo shook his head and pulled the sleeves over his hands, trapping the edges in his fists and then wrapping his arms around himself, the fabric of the slightly too small hoodie stretching over his back and shoulders. It almost felt like a hug, he could still smell Finn’s scent on it when he turned his head and pressed his nose against his shoulder, breathing deeply. “I kinda gathered that it’s better not to ask,” he mumbled into the soft fabric. 

Remus stayed silent, letting him finish his thought, but Leo couldn’t bring himself to speak the words that have been bouncing around his head for the past few days. He was irrationally afraid that they’d become real when he spoke them and the threat, however irrational, brought tears into his eyes. 

“Leo, it’s okay.” Remus rounded the table and pulled out the chair next to him, settling down on it and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, his eyes earnest and attentive. “That is a tough situation to be in. The way you’re feeling makes total sense in the light of everything you told me so far. So - what would you need from them now?”

Leo swallowed against the apprehension climbing up his throat and stated firmly “I want them to talk to me about it. I want to know more of what had happened between them before we met, at least the parts they’re comfortable telling me. And now they might be ready to tell me more, but I’m scared it has already changed things between us. And-- and I don’t want anything to change! What if they realize they don’t need me anymore? What if--” he trailed off with a gasp, gulping for air and searching Remus’ face, silently imploring him to tell him it’s all just in his head. To give him a solution to stop the rapidly spinning worries in his head. 

Remus squeezed his shoulder in encouragement, and then pulled him into a hug, letting Leo catch his breath and digest the words that were now in the room, fears named and spoken and challenged. Leo thought it would make it worse, saying them outloud, but as they both pulled away from the hug and settled in their chairs again, he had to admit he felt a bit lighter already. 

“It’s perfectly normal to be afraid of change, you know,” Remus said as he reached for their empty mugs and tilted his head in question. Leo nodded and watched him pour them more coffee and drop two sugar cubes into his. “Thanks,” Leo smiled up at him, the gratitude encompassing much more than the coffee. 

“Anytime,” came the answer in kind from Remus who was cradling his own mug in both hands and regarding him over the rim. “The way I see it, it sounds like they’ve had this shared experience that you weren’t a part of and they don’t quite realize how it’s making you feel. But you’re an essential part of their present and their future. Everyone who knows you guys can see it. You should see them when they talk about you, Leo, they both love you so much. Give them a chance to include you and maybe tell them what you told me? They won’t know what you’re worried about if you don’t tell them.” 

Leo groaned, hiding in his hands and then rubbing them across his face. “It sounds so easy when you say it like that. It sounds like something I’d say to them when they argue about stupid shit. Merde. You’re right. I just have to trust them.” He looked up at Remus, letting out a heavy sigh and feeling the resolve settle in his chest. “I do trust them. I’ll talk to them. Thanks, Loops. For the coffee and for the talk. I needed this.” 

“Anytime, Nut. ‘s what friends are for.” Remus’ tone was warm and honest.

Leo was grateful, more than he could say. He felt relieved and clear-headed, the fog of the past few days finally retreating enough to let him think without immediately spiralling out of control. He also felt brave; for talking about it and for deciding to trust the relationship they’ve built and the reassurances he realized Finn and Logan readily offered him anytime he voiced even the slightest doubt. Yes, things might have changed but that could be a good thing. It seemed to be good for Finn and Logan, and now he couldn’t wait to be with them again and find out how he fit into their new harmony. They would figure it out, together. 

The gratitude in his chest made him say it again, “Really, Remus, I mean it. Thank you. How do you always know what to say?” 

Remus burst out laughing at that, and Leo felt his own lips stretch into a smile, welcoming the change of the atmosphere, the heavy topics temporarily put aside. 

“I’ve been accused of that several times already. Seems to be a talent of mine,” Remus’ smile was audible in his voice. 

“Well, I’m glad, Loops.” Leo grinned and settled on his chair more comfortably, dragging his second cup of coffee closer and noticing the rumble in his stomach making itself known, now that the anxiety wasn’t tying it into knots. 

“Now, what about that breakfast?”

[sarcasticfina]

Fic Writer Tag Game

How many works do you have on AO3? 263

What’s your total AO3 word count? 4,901,188

How many fandoms have you written for, and what are they? including the fandoms on FFnet, that haven't yet been moved over to ao3, that'd be a total of 37. separating the larger fandoms (marvel, dcu) into their individual parts: Thor; Arrow; Smallville; The Vampire Diaries; Glee; Captain America; Supernatural; Teen Wolf; Iron Man; Life with Derek; Firefly; Friday Night Lights; X-Men; Fantastic Four; Harry Potter; Sons of Anarchy; Girl Meets World; Batman; Daredevil; From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series; Transformers; Lost Girl; Game of Thrones; Banshee; High School Musical; The OC; One Tree Hill; CSI: New York; Degrassi; Gossip Girl; NCIS; The Unusuals; Criminal Minds; iCarly; Secret Life of the American Teenager; Twilight; and The Listener

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. and I wonder (if everything could ever feel this real forever) - darcy/bucky - Steve tells him that Darcy's harmless. Bucky imagines, on paper, Darcy is harmless. HYDRA wouldn't give her a second glance. But he does. He can barely keep his eyes off her. He's not sure he wants to. | Kudos: 5576

2. I Climbed The Tree To See The World (When The Gusts Came Around To Blow Me Down, I Held On As Tightly As You Held On To Me) - darcy centric | darcy/steve - The path to self-discovery, including becoming Coulson's assistant-slash-liaison-slash-bff, Captain America's lady love, and rating fourth on the SHIELD BAMF scale, was like the yellow brick road; it was chaos and confusion around every bend. | Kudos: 3973

3. Take a little piece of my heart (and keep it for yourself) - oliver/felicity - A collection of Olicity prompts on Tumblr posted here for easier access/reading. | Kudos: 3498

4. You put your arms around me (and I'm home) - darcy/bucky - A collection of Darcy/Bucky oneshots, drabbles, and prompt fills. | Kudos: 3293

5. you (anchor me back down) - darcy/bucky - "I'll be right back." Famous last words. | Kudos: 2747

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? not all of them. i do try to keep up on them, especially on longer stories when there's been significant wait times in between chapters, or when a reader is asking a question or is unclear on something. and especially when someone writes a really indepth comment/review, i like to respond to those and talk about motivations and character growth.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I've written a number of fics that either had suicide or major character death, so i'm not sure if one outranks the other in terms of most angsty... hmm... i remember "be still and know that I'm with you (be still and know that I am here)" and "light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)" both got some pretty intense reactions when they were posted. And "It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Go On)" was basically just angst from beginning to end. buuuuut, i think i'll say "so you think you can tell (heaven from hell" was, only because there's a build up of everything going so right, only to pivot at the end, so it feels very bittersweet.

Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? i loooooove crossovers. i find writing in the marvel fandom makes things quite easy, but also smallville. as long as i can find a common thread, i enjoy finding a way to overlap two shows. i'll say the hardest one to write was "ruby red slippers (unavailable in her size)." I'm not sure why, but i found writing each personality together just felt strange. i liked the idea behind the story, but i definitely remember feeling like i was really forcing myself to keep going, like something just didn't fit right.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? oh, definitely. you cannot please everyone, it's impossible. for the most part, hate comes and i either argue back, take the criticism for what it's worth, or just ignore it when it's baseless. i think the hate that bothered me the most was a homophobic PM someone sent me re: "you know I will adore you ('til eternity)," on FFnet. i actually went and searched it up. they've since blocked me so i can't read our whole thread back and forth. but i did put part of it on tumblr so i could rant on it a bit, so you can see that here.

Do you write smut? If so what kind? ha. yes. depending on the story, it can be really detailed or really flowery. it depends on the ship, the plot, and how graphic i feel like being. i've definitely become more comfortable over the years with my writing. that said, i think everybody likes something different. i once had a reviewer tell me a sex scene was too much, just too intense. it was a stefan/caroline story and to be fair, that entire oneshot was just them fucking, lol, but it is what it is. to each their own.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Multiple times.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! for the record, i am always happy to have my stories translated and shared. i just like having a link sent to me and to be credited.

What’s your all time favorite ship? i have a list of OTPs, because interests change and as shows come and go, my love for a ship can be shelved for a while before it pops back up at random. currently, i can't get enough of buck/eddie from 9-1-1. and, historically, chloe/oliver (smallville) and felicity/oliver (arrow) have been two of my top OTPs. but i think i'd have to go with bonnie/damon. they had all the potential and the show dropped the ball by not exploring it. at the same time, that's kind of a blessing, because i don't trust those writers to properly explore what they had without eventually destroying it for the likes of de/ena. it means a treasure trove for writing where it could have gone and all the what if's.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish, but don’t think you ever will? the intention is always to finish. but given how i feel about allison mack and how that impacts my feelings re: chloe sullivan, pretty much anything with her as a main character is not something i see myself returning to.

What are your writing strengths? What are your writing weaknesses? i'm putting these together because my strength is my weakness. i love to write. when i get an idea, i go all in and i will skip eating and sleeping to just write write write. but i also eventually hit a wall and i get so many ideas that i hyperfocus on one until the steam is gone and then i hyperfocus on the next one to maintain that need to keep writing, accidentally leaving the last story in the dust for entirely too long. i also have clinical depression that comes and goes, which hasn't been super great mixed with covid and isolation, so more often recently, i find myself overly exhausted and despite wanting to write, can rarely get motivated to do so. so, pre-covid, wrote so much i left entirely too many stories dangling. during covid, i've just been reading and struggling to get myself focused enough to do what i love.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i appreciate the authenticity when possible, but i've recently been reading more about how native speakers of other languages feel when a) their language is butchered by google translate, or b) it's just not genuine in terms of how bilingual speakers act or speak.

What was the first fandom you’ve written for? it was smallville, but i remember adopting it out to someone else because i wasn't going to finish it. so if you look at my ffnet, the first fandom i wrote for appears to be x-men: the movie, but i remember writing a chloe/oliver story prior to that.

What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? i have a lot. i mean, on ffnet, i have 576 stories, many of which were transferred over to ao3, with a lot of oneshots and drabbles getting joined together into collections. so there's a ton to pick from that span a 14-ish year timeline.

"you know I will adore you ('til eternity)" and "let me break (the walls that surround me)" hold a special place in my heart.

honestly, each story is important in its own way. there are bits and pieces of each that i love. every time i write something new it feels like my favorite. my best. and then a new idea comes along. there are scenes i've written that i loved more than the whole of what they became. lines that stand out that are almost too good to be a part of the larger picture.

one of my all time favorite passages i've written was bonnie's thoughts on damon and herself in 'if you love me (let me go)":

He is far from perfect. He is a novel of red, corrective ink. He is frayed pages and torn binding. His life, his choices, his mistakes leave lasting effects on everyone he meets.

She is a lifeboat with a hole in it. An anchor that drowns in the sea while everyone else remains steady above. She is both the calm and the storm, and while she screams that she will not be tamed, she cries. Bittersweet tears that go unnoticed and uncared about.

there are other stories, other pieces of dialogue, that i've been proud of. that make me laugh when i re-read them. that make me cry. and i love them. there are others that make me wilt and cringe and regret. it's a process. love and pride and growth, all bound together.

Tagging: @absentlyabbie, @anonymous033, and anyone else who'd like to fill this all out, haha

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 7: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @claudeng80​′s birthday! I’m only a week and change late this time, but everyone knows what they’re getting into when they request this fic for gifts-- aka, me dithering for weeks on if a chapter needs to be cut and where it inevitably needs to happen. But here is an almost 5K labor of love...and a little bit of hope... :3c

It would easy to speak of good and evil, would it not? To condemn a sorceress for her conjuring, to pity a girl and her deception. That is the way such tales are crafted: for simplicity, moral lines drawn in the sand.

But life does not fit so easily into the pages made to contain it. A line of prose may distill it to its essence, but a word spoken, an act done by a living creature-- these contain multitudes.

“Well.” Lady Mihoko fixes a shrewd glance over the rim of her teacup, pinning Shirayuki to her chair. Bombazine may creak with her every breath, but when Mihoko sets her demitasse upon its saucer, it is silent. “You are much improved.

The words alone would make a compliment, but with the way her ladyship threads them through her teeth, it is an accusation. Her eyes narrow even now, a proctor determined to catch her pupil filching answers from across the aisle.

Still, it’s the kindest words Mihoko has ever managed to spare, and Shirayuki seizes them with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Mihoko.”

All her ladyship’s fine graces do not restrain her from a humorless grunt. “Do not think it so fine a feat. You could hardly have gotten much worse.” With another contemplative sip, she adds, “But your progress is at least...heartening. You might not be entirely hopeless.”

Polite, tea-appropriate smile firmly in place, Shirayuki casts her eyes down at her plate. How fortunate she is to be able to experience such a fine example of being damned by faint praise.

He mouth does not twitch; by now, she knows better than to allow any of her facial muscles free reign in the presence of the lady-- but it does waver. It was not her own voice lilting those words.

A toe nudges her ankle; the consort’s countenance is carefully composed of bland inquiry across from her.

“You are too kind,” Shirayuki manages, smile polished back to its original brilliance.

“I am.” She settles back in her chair, spine straight as a rod, conveying that her enjoyment of the meal now resides firmly in the past. “You are lucky indeed that Her Majesty deigned to take a girl like you under her wing. How fitting it is that my best student is responsible for righting my worst.”

“It is only because I had such a good tutor that I could even attempt to teach.” The consort sets her own cup onto its saucer, mouth rounded in a pleasant curve. Shirayuki’s never mastered the art of it, to smile to brightly with so little teeth or crinkling around the eyes, but on Haki the effect seems natural, right. “But I must say that Lady Shirayuki is a pleasure as a student. A quick mind and a dedicated learner.”

“What she lack in aptitude she certainly makes up with vigor,” Mihoko allows grudgingly. “In my day, that would not be near enough to make a lady.”

It would be easy to condemn the sorceress, would it not? To raise the roses from their bed and cast the bright light of truth upon them, to drag her into the village square and expose her as a deceiver, a most vile villainess to lead this stray girl astray. We would stretch our hands through the pages if we could but shake our girl awake, if we could put our hands around the throat of the conjuress and see she never bent another illusion--

But that would miss the point entirely. You were told, so long ago now, that life does not fit into the narrow confines fiction demands. Surely you have not forgot?

There is a reason for every action. Unfortunately.

“That is true enough.”

The consort speaks in honeyed tones, mouth composed in a thoughtful pout. But that, Shirayuki knows, is merely an inoffensive mask she wears, one that may be discarded at a moment’s notice. It is always her eyes betray her, burning with an intelligence she can never fully quench.

“But was that not also the era of the former Viscount Yuris? Or the Counts of Sui and Lido?” It should be an accusation, a condemnation, but from the consort’s mouth, it is little more than a polite conversation, small talk between two peers. “So many traitors in so few years.”

Shirayuki may have gained some dominion over her face, but not near enough to keep from glancing at Lady Mihoko.

“That is the nature of the peerage,” her ladyship says after a long moment, mouth pursed in a moue of discomfort. “There are always some that choose to overreach their bounds. It is up to every lord to manage his lands in his own way. Though I know Your Majesties have...newer ideas about such things.”

“Better ideas,” the consort reminds her, both silk and steel entwined. “Under the late king, the court grew indolent, as did the crown. If he had not passed when he did, Clarines might have become another Tanbarun.”

Shirayuki’s teeth grit down, stemming the tide of protest that crashes against  them. She had fled her home with little pride or trust in its royals, and it’s not as if she cares for the institution, but-- Raj was no longer the embarrassment he’d once been. It’d be a long time before he’d earn as lofty a reputation as Izana or Zen, but, well, he was trying. And as long as his father remained on the throne, that was enough.

She doubts either of them would appreciate the opinion. It’s not as if any of this is about Tanbarun after all.

Mihoko clucks her tongue. “I would not venture to say we had fallen so far as that.”

“No,” Haki agrees, so pleasant. “But I would.”

A silver spoon clatters to a dish, Mihoko’s aged fingers trembling above it. “That would be your prerogative, Your Majesty.”

“It is my prerogative to see to the quality of my husband’s court, my lady. While once this may have referred to the breeding of its members, I believe we have come beyond that. After all, Lord Zakura was hardly born with silver in hand, or Lord Sui, or Countess Yuris.” The consort hums, delicately setting aside her demitasse. “There would be worse things than to see one of the finest minds of our time raised to a position which suited it.”

Her ladyship does not smile-- a terrible business, nowadays, she would cluck, spoon chiming against the rim of her cup, men should know that every smile returns tenfold in ten years’ time-- but there is a softening in her face. Not of agreement, but allowance.

“We shall see,” she sniffs, waving away another tray of sandwiches. “In time. But none of that removes what a wonders you have wrought with this one, and in less than a month’s time.”

Haki dips her head, the barest bow. “Imagine what a lifetime might bring.”

“Yes.” Mihoko narrows her eyes above the rim of her cup. “Quite unforeseeable.”

What does it mean to conjure, to summon something from nothingness, to breathe life where there once was none? It is no mere illusion; not smoke and mirrors and lies shined until gleaming. Not just a lady’s magic, no substance nor thought, made of wishes and air alone.

No, it is creation; the act of sinking one’s hands into clay and forming something utterly unlike its origin, to take one’s will and give it form. It is any surprise that it is the provenance of women?

But that is the thing, is it not? For every creation, there must be a will, must be a spark. For man to be made flesh, there must first be clay. For illusion to be made real, there first must be a wish.

“One, two-- a sprightly pace if it pleases you, my lady! Lift your feet--”

Sweat spirals down her spine, but Shirayuki picks her heels up of the floor, her sashay the barest whisper of slipper sliding across wood. Far from the ethereal wood nymphs cavorting across the palace’s walls, but it carries her across the floor with far more grace than she’s ever managed before. Like flying, provided it was a hen across the chicken yard.

Shirayuki careens more than glides to the next sequence-- the turn, three, four, return, one, two-- and her heart lodges firmly in the vicinity of her throat. She’s never managed this one before, not without stomping on Arundo’s toes or gravity ruthlessly asserting it dominion over her, dragging her to the earth where she belonged, but--

Haki’s hand squeezes tight around hers before lightening into a lift, pulling right over her head. She curls under it, up-up-down, before swinging back, far less measured, but a thousand times more triumphant.

So many of these story children start with nothing-- unloved and unmissed, abandoned by their parents, scorned by those meant to replace them. But this girl--

This girl was loved. She did not have the mother and father that so many other had, one taken by fate and the other duty; but her grandparents tended her in their place. While other little girls were scrubbing floors, or chopping wood, or being chased into the forest with only the bread in their pockets, she was adored; a treasure on her home’s hearth.

And then, in a breath, it was gone. No time for tears, for contemplation. No time for grief.

She does what all bold little girls do: she moves forward, she adapts. All those fears and grief she locks away; a little drawer inside her mind that only opens in the dead of night, when sleep won’t come to her. How worn those memories are by now, frayed about the edges, folded and thin from neglect.

Strange how it is always children who bear the heaviest burdens. Stranger still that they can grow to used to them, that they can bear them even unto adulthood and hardly realizing they are carrying them at all.

That is, of course, until they are lifted.

“You did it!” Haki catches her arms, stopping Shirayuki’s body from crashing into hers, a smile stretched wide across her face. “With not a step missed.”

“I did,” she bursts breathlessly, nearly sagging in relief. “I did!”

A clap cracks in the cavernous room, but it is only Arundo, his own mouth parted in delight. “Brava, my lady! I am most impressed.”

“As well you should be!” The consort steps back, letting her stand on her own two feet. “There are plenty young ladies I have seen on a dance floor that have not done half so well as Lady Shirayuki.”

Even flushed with victory, Shirayuki knows that for an exaggeration; a thick bit of flattery to bolster her confidence. But it hardly matters, not when she traveled the whole floor without a single misstep.

“I truly despaired of ever teaching Lady Shirayuki much more than swaying in place.” Arundo glances at her partner shyly, color high in his cheeks. “I see it merely took a deft lead.”

“Ah, Master Arundo, it takes a woman to understand how difficult a lady’s part may be.” Haki huffs out a laugh that is far less dainty than one she uses in front of courtiers, sweeping long strands of gold from the frame of her face. “If I knew which place to help, it is only because I remember where I most needed it. As my dancing instructor used to say, we all start at the same place.”

“Still,” Arundo insists, “for you to be able to dance the man and the woman’s part-- a most impressive feat!”

“Not at all!” Haki loops the last of her wisps around her ears, and just like that, the consort’s smiling mask slips into place. “This is but a simple waltz. You yourself must know a hundred or more, and dance both parts with skill besides.”

The dance master waggles a finger at her, playful. “Ah, but in the realm of grace and elegance, Your Majesty has far outstripped my paltry skill.”

With the high drama for which the Viandese were known, Arundo swept into a deep bow, bending near in half. Over his back, Haki glanced at her wide-eyed, mouth twitching, though any proof of it was gone before he rose.

“Please, Master Arundo, I am merely well-practiced.” The consort’s mouth tilts, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Izana and I often switch when we...”

Haki’s eyes pulse wide, her cheeks blossoming with a delicate pink. “In any case, I would not have done so well had Lady Shirayuki not already been through the best instruction.”

You see, Miss? Obi’s laugh is bright in her ears, as if he were only right beside her. Anyone can do it. And if you stumble, only stand on my feet and I’ll guide us both through it--

An arm slips through hers, the consort leaning close. “Won’t my brother be surprised to see such progress?”

Shirayuki cannot fathom why Makiri might care about her dancing. He’s seen it before, both of them often pressed into the same endless dinner parties at Lilias, the sort that always seemed to turn into dancing and awkward moonlight professions. He’d been light on his feet when any of the girls dared to approach, not a born dancer like Haki, but a competent one; when she’d clomped past him, dragged by regretful partners, he’d only raised an eyebrow-- an improvement upon the usual sneers she garnered from fellow revelers. He’d never been forced onto her dance card, but still--

Haki slips her a wink, and oh, it’s not her brother she means, but Zen.

You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all. Even in memory, Obi’s smile cuts like a knife’s edge. No wife dances with any man besides her husband.

Shirayuki’s palms sting where her nails cut crescent into them. This room, it’s-- it’s far, far too small. Too tight. So confining, little more than a cage--

“Shall we break for a moment?” Arundo’s jovial lilt crashes through her thoughts like a bird to a window. “And then we shall start the next!”

“A perfect idea, Master Arundo.” Haki smiles down at her, so bright that the shadows of her thoughts burn away. “I dare say my sister has earned a break.”

It was always just enough for this little girl: a grandfather, a grandmother, a loving home and hearth. There had been no dreams of another there, not even when she lost them, not even when she pruned her roses and found another set of hands to take hers. Not even when those hands became a home in themselves.

But with a single word, uttered so casually, a drawer springs open.

Sister. The word echoes through Shirayuki’s head as they walk. There’s an itch of irritation beneath her skin, a pebble in her metaphorical shoe, but still--

Sister. She’s damp, not gently dewed like Haki, so drenched in sweat that her dress clings to her. Fatigued too, every muscle aching, including a few that hadn’t been in her textbooks. She has every reason to want to bury herself in her covers, to try to find the reason her skin feels too tight.

But that’s not what her attention’s caught on, not in the slightest.

“I’m not your sister,” she says, wishing she hadn’t at all. It would be so easy for it to be taken away, for that soft glow in her chest to be snuffed out.

“No,” Haki agrees, looping her arm through hers as if it belongs there, as if she belongs. “But you will be.”

In the morning the girl rose, the cottage empty save for the scent of honeysuckle and forsythia. Her small feet padded across the floor, right to the window latched tight against the night. She pushed up to tip-toe, fingers flicking against metal, and--

And her first sight was a garden, piled high with blooms; a paradise that belonged on a canvas in oils, not at her fingertips.

Do you see? the sorceress asks, rising from where she tends her beds. I awake to this glory every morning. You could as well, if you wanted.

I can’t, the girl says, certain.

The sorceress blinks. And why not?

I... The girl stares out over all this beauty, its scent surrounding her. I do not remember.

Ah, well then. The sorceress smiles, the way she always thought her mother would, had she known her. Then stay a while, and perhaps we will help you remember together.

“May I...” Shirayuki hesitates, biting her lip as they take another winding curve through the halls. The longer she stays within the palace, the more she’s certain: she could live a lifetime here and never knows all the twists and turns it takes. “My I ask you a question?”

The consort peers down at her, both eyebrows lifted in gentle question. “You may.”

“How do you do this all day?” Shirayuki restrains herself from sagging in her stays, whalebone the spine that keeps her upright. “It’s hardly evening and if I hold my shoulder back a moment longer, I think I’ll...”

Collapse, she means to say, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, too sweet, too untrue. Scream is close, rend this dress to pieces closer still, but closest--

Her mind snaps tight around the thought, a steel trap with a wolf’s paw between its teeth. From the murmurings she’s heard since she first came to Clarines, Wistal has seen enough madness for a lifetime.

“Ah, you see, the secret is--” Haki leans in, looping her arm through hers-- “I don’t.”

Shirayuki blinks.

“You are still learning,” the consort continues, setting herself upright, setting their arms into the proper form ladies strolling. “And thus, you must memorize protocol every day, eat your meals under supervision, and practice the mazurka. I, however, have mastered all this, and thus, I cannot remember the last time I waltzed outside a ball.”

“But the etiquette--” the poise, the presence, the elocution-- “surely..?”

“Well, of course.” She shrugs, jostling their elbows. “But those lessons were a part of my childhood, much like how you probably learned to cook and clean and pick herbs instead of poison. It all becomes second nature to you, in time.”

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell her how easy it was to mistake mushrooms, but her point-- well, it’s a good one. “I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.”

“Perhaps not,” the consort allows mildly. “Certainly they will never seem as natural to you as they might to a lady born to manors and castles. And had you continued to try to learn manners from a book, than you would have had no hope at all. But--” Haki pulls her closer to her side, mouth curled with satisfaction-- “you are not alone, you have me.”

Her cheeks flush with heat; the very same as the flame that warms her chest. “Do I?”

“You do.” The consort nods, the sort that says she expects her will to be followed to the letter. “I have always wanted to share these things with someone. Alas, I was given but a single brother, and he my elder. But now I have you.”

What was it we said? A human heart has four chambers, beating in concert. A complex thing, a puzzle box of wants and desires, one buried beneath the other, a dangerous tower of longing crushed inside a container too small to hold it. And all of us live our lives never knowing its depths, not until a drawer springs open, and oh--

Oh how easy it is for our longing to sneak up on us, all unknowing. How easy it is to be blinded by it.

When the consort smiles-- really, truly smiles-- it’s too bright, like looking into the sun, and Shirayuki has to duck her head or be blinded. She’s light-headed from only a moment of basking in its radiance; she can’t imagine what might happen if she dared to look more.

“Besides,” Haki continues blithely, skirts brushing their slippers as they walk. “You could drop an entire tureen on my brother and I think he would adore you just the same. Maybe even more, if you dropped it on the right person.”

A laugh bubbles up from her, and oh, oh, it has been far too long-- it leaves her, a cage thing finally freed from its chains, and rampages through the hall.

Haki stares down at her, pale eyes wide and almost wary. For a moment her mouth works, rounding as if she might say, a lady laughs like a bell, not a gong, just like Mihoko--

And then she joins in, just as wild.

But how can she forget about her precious boy, you might ask? How can she forget about her home?

The answer is easy enough: one must only provide a new one. Oh, how easily a heart may be fooled when the illusion is so pleasant, when it is so wanted. Men on the verge of death imagine entire cities in the desert, oases just over the horizon, luring them yet another step to their doom. When there is no relief, no hope, when only doubts encompass us--

That is when we are most in need of fiction. Of an escape, of respite. How simple it can be to close ones eyes to harsh reality when it is paradise that lays before them.

But take heart-- such things never last. They cannot. It is folly to suggest there is no life without suffering-- an excuse to give breath to all kinds of evil-- but for plenty to have meaning, there must be a lack. To know joy there must be sadness, to know wisdom there must be ignorance, and when all one’s days are filled with a mindless, monotonous bliss--

Well, there is no paradise from which man does not escape, and no garden that will keep a little girl from what she seeks.

“Ah!” Haki’s jolts ahead, a filly at the end of her lead. Shirayuki nearly is dragged with her, her feet stumbling over the hem of her gown, but the consort extricates herself just in time, setting her to rights.

“Just-- just wait here a moment, if you would,” the consort tells her, fingers wound tight over the rounds of her shoulders. “It seems as though there is, ah, someone waiting for me at the door. I’ll only be-- a moment.”

Shirayuki blinks as the consort scurries away, skirts sweeping against the carpet in a rhythm and pace too hurried for Clarines’ stately queen. “But, your room is...”

Around the corner, she almost says, a better shorthand for not yet visible, which is what she means. Both points are moot; the consort springs away long before she can speak, the only part of her that remains the lagging lace of her train. And then even that is gone, all disappeared down the hall.

Perhaps it is the angle, Shirayuki allows. With her on the inside of the turn and the consort on the outside...?

Well, it hardly matters. She huffs out a breath, straightening her shoulders, and comes to stand in the intersection. This is a safe enough place to wait; the consort’s chambers are the first door on this hall, and--

And there is someone waiting. Or was, since all she catches of them the flash of a white coat.

The girl knows every inch of this garden in time, every undying bloom. For that is what they must be, at least for them to be so many, for so long. There are daffodils and daisies, dahlias and tulips, marigolds and gardenias, lilacs and lilies of the valley. A hundred flowers and more, too many to ever name crawling up lattice and sprawling over the bounds of their beds.

And yet, there is something missing. It sits at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said, but she cannot find the word, no matter how long she thinks on it. The only thing that comes to her is the memory of loam, and the warmth of hands brushing hers.

Don’t ever leave me, the sorceress would say, a smile on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

How could I, the girl would laugh, an inexplicable knot of dread tightening in her belly, when everything is so beautiful here?

“Shirayuki!”

Haki approaches her, smile wide and warm but also-- strain lingers at the corners. Maybe even displeasure. “I thought you were going to wait.”

“I was,” she says, wide-eyed. “I mean, I am. Who was...”

“No one.” The consort waves her off. “Just a delivery. A tisane. For my migraines. I ran out just the other day.”

“Oh.” Her mouth works, grasping for the words that had come so easily no so long ago, but now were like grinding glass. “From the pharm--?”

“Come!” Haki sweeps her arm up into her own, pulling her firmly against her side. “It’s time for dinner, isn’t it? We must see that you’re ready.”

It ends like this: she finds a petal.

It is no crimson red, no passionate pink, but instead a simple and clean white, not so unlike the gardenia. But it is too small for such a flower, too rounded, too plush. She presses it between her fingers and it is familiar as her own skin, as the scent of vanilla on the air, and yet she cannot find the name, nor envision the bloom from whence it fell. Surely it is nothing in this garden.

What it that you have? the sorceress asks, her voice suddenly sharp, like a blade placed between skin and bloated tick. Give it here.

The little girl has not reason not to. It must have blown in from elsewhere.

The sorceress takes it in her hand, slender fingers curling into a fist around it. When they unfurl it is gone, merely dust in the wind.

We need none of that world here, the sorceress says, kinder but firm. You will never leave me, after all.

Of course, the girl says, turning to her with a wide smile. The sorceress has a new hat on, black and covered in flowers, even finer than the ones she’s worn before. Why would I, when--?

Her teeth snap down, words stuck between them. It’s the only way to be safe, the only way to stop herself from saying now what she knows she cannot. Right there, painted on the cloth, next to a blood red dahlia--

--There is a rose. The sorceress’s hat has roses, and this garden does not.

Of course, she says again, stilted. This is where I belong.

Shirayuki stands frozen in the hall, mind churning like a mill’s wheel in the storm of her thoughts. The summer months mean whites and creams and ivories are in season, a playful palette that the consort’s court adorns with floral embroidery. But she did not see a floating train of silk, or the fluttering layers of linen, but instead--

A white coat. A brown paper package done up with twine and ink scrawled illegibly on the outside, passed so quickly from one hand to the next. The scent of herbs is fresh on the air, valerian among them.

She misses it. Almost as much as she misses...

“Shirayuki?” The consort tugs at her, a question writ across her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Haki...” Her hands clench at her side. “Has there been any news of Obi?”

That is the thing about magic: it is easy to weave wishes into illusion, but to maintain it-- a different matter entirely. A woman may send all her roses underground, never to be seen again, but to remember to remove them from every vase, from the back of a brush, from a hat--

Impossible.

“Obi?” The consort’s grip tightens, even as her smile spread wide. “No, none at all.”

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 20: A Line

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs. 

Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.

Read on AO3

It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.

That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage. 

Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.

He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.

Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.   

He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. 

“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.

“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.

“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.” 

Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.

But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.

He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.

Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.

He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.  

Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.

With a heavy tread, he kept walking. 

****

In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes. 

From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it. 

Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.

He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.

As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve. 

Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible. 

Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend. 

Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well. 

He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer. 

“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.

Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning. 

It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago. 

“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want. 

“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”

“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.” 

He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”

“I can leave right now. Your house?”

“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up. 

“Good.”

****

The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.

“Now follow this road for another two miles.”

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”

Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient. 

“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness. 

“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”

Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”

He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”

The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot. 

No, there was one thing. 

“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?” 

“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.” 

By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath. 

Counting. 

“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.

“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”

From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson. 

With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest. 

Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.

“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.” 

He stared. “You knew that would happen?”

“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”

Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.

“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”  

“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand. 

“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”

“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”

“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”

He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm. 

“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”

Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”

Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.

It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad. 

“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”

“Where?”

“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”

Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated. 

“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”

He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.

But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”  

Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double. 

“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.

He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”

He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”

“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”      

“And I’ve had to live with that--”

“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”

“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”

“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”

“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”

He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”

“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”

A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood. 

“As for Leona...?”

Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”

He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.

Until now. 

Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony. 

“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”

Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate. 

A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again? 

“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.

He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.

Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time. 

Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly. 

He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.

But Belle was gone now. 

And Jefferson was here.

Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him. 

They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.

But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.

Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.

Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.

When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered. 

“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again. 

It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same. 

They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.         

“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”

It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.

“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.

Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”

Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”

“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“To Belle?”

“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”

There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.” 

“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”

 In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs. 

His cock.

“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”

He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”

Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”

He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”

“And I thought six months was bad.”

“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”

“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”

Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?” 

“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”

He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”

“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”

Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft. 

“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.

“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”

Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”

It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.

Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.

Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” 

The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.

He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.

“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”

Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”