#and no television living room floral arrangements

[whitehousevsslippers]

Contemporary Living Room - Living Room

[fyeahhyolyn]

Living Room - Formal

[letmehavemyfictionalmen]

Love, Lunacy, Time: Ch 2

summary: As the front door swings open, you are greeted by faces that stir a sense of recognition deep within you. Yet, something about their demeanor feels off, their behavior slightly peculiar. It's as if they are familiar, but not quite themselves. With each passing interaction, you begin to realize that there's more to Westview than meets the eye. The town holds secrets, and the allure grows stronger, drawing you deeper into its intricate web.

pairing: Moonknight x afab!ScarletWitch!reader

warning: 18+ content, Eventual smut, Unprotected sex, Violence, Blood, Age-Gap, Kidnapping, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, a sprinkle of Angst, Strangers to Married, Flirting, Scarlet Witch!reader, Chaos Magic, Not an accurate representation of D.I.D.

previous

If it were any other situation, you would've gladly admired the beautifully decorated house you find yourself in. It's not every day that one finds themselves waking up within the walls of a meticulously decorated home in 1953.

Marc guides you down the wooden flight of stairs, ensuring that he takes the lead while keeping you safely behind him. You had observed the subtle shift in demeanor and accent as Steven relinquished control to Marc, and now you witness the embodiment of that change as Marc confidently leads the way.

When your eyes come in contact with the living room, you find yourself surrounded by an atmosphere that exudes warmth and comfort. The furniture, tastefully arranged in cozy clusters, invites you to take a seat and unwind. Plush, upholstered sofas and armchairs with floral patterns, beckon you to sink into their embrace.

The coffee table in the center of the room is adorned with a delicate lace doily, and a vase filled with freshly picked flowers sits as its centerpiece. The scent of the blossoms permeates the air, infusing the room with a natural sweetness.

Nearby, a wooden side table holds a stack of magazines, inviting you to peruse their pages and discover the latest trends and stories. You also notice a bookcase against the wall, filled with volumes of classic literature and well-loved novels.

The walls are adorned with framed black and white photographs, capturing cherished moments frozen in time. Pictures of you and your husbands. Smiles and laughter frozen in frames.

A long, white butler door stands on one wall, dividing the space between the living room and what you can assume is the kitchen. Next to the door, there's a three-paneled wood shutter that covers a pass-through window.

The windows, draped with floral patterned curtains, allow soft sunlight to filter into the room, casting a warm glow on the polished hardwood floor.

Nestled at the corner of the fireplace, within view of the sofa, stands a television, similar to the one you saw in the bedroom. Atop it sits a beautiful photograph of you, smiling at the camera.

Every corner of the living room holds a personal touch as if someone took great care in creating a haven of comfort and memories. Despite the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, a feeling of warmth and belonging begins to stir within you.

In the reflective surfaces scattered throughout the living room and the entrance area, you catch glimpses of Steven and Jake's reflections. Their reassuring smiles provide a comforting presence amidst the unknown.

But Marc's firm hand gently guides you toward the front door, diverting your attention from the comforting reflections. With each step, your senses heighten, and a sense of anticipation builds within you Marc reaches for the doorknob, his hand steady and composed. With a gentle turn, the door creaks open, revealing a sight that both shocks and relieves you in equal measure.

In front of you stand Layla and Bucky, their figures silhouetted against the soft glow of the morning sunlight streaming through the open door. They stand closely, their arms intertwined, and a bouquet of vibrant flowers rests gently in Layla's arm.

Marc's eyes fall upon Layla, a bit shocked by the dress she's wearing. The knee-length, short-sleeved dress is made of a soft, pastel blue fabric and the neckline is modest, with a rounded collar. The dress cinches at the waist, before flowing gently outward in a flattering A-line silhouette.

Layla is wearing low-heeled shoes and her curly hair is styled in an updo. Her wild curls still manage to peak out. This is the first time Marc has seen Layla embrace such a feminine look since he met her.

Your gaze lingers on Bucky, unable to tear your eyes away from your best friend. Don't let Loki hear you. That Drama Queen will prank you to the world's end. However, you can't deny the fact that you are caught off guard by Bucky's look.

For the first time since you met him back in 2013 when he was still the Winter Soldier, you have never seen his hair so short. Nor have you seen him in a suit and such a wide grin on his face. Your best friend only smiles like that for Alpine or if there are plums.

"Oh, my stars and garters! Look at you two lovebirds! Ain't you a dashing couple?" Layla greets you and Marc with a cheerful smile, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "We're your neighbours to the right. Our right, not yours."

Bucky steps forward, his grin widening, and extends his hand to Marc. "At your service, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, but you can just call me Bucky," he introduces himself with a hint of old-fashioned charm. "And this lovely dame by my side is my beautiful bride, Layla."

As you steal a glance at the mirror behind you, you catch sight of Steven and Jake's reflections. Their faces bear expressions of utter bewilderment, their gazes fixed upon Layla with a mix of surprise and shock, undoubtedly taken aback by her unexpected behavior. "What in the world?" you hear Steven exclaim from the mirror, his confusion mirroring your own.

Marc's eyes widen in astonishment, his brow furrowing as he struggles to comprehend what is going on. He can't help but echo Steven's sentiment. Why the hell is Layla talking like this? Sure, she had been exploring the dating scene, but married?

Marc hesitates for a moment, his confusion evident on his face, before he extends his hand to shake Bucky's in silence. His eyes dart between Layla's cheerful expression and Bucky's charismatic demeanor, struggling to find the right words in this peculiar situation.

Bucky, still grinning from ear to ear, releases Marc's hand and turns his attention to you. "Well, well, well, if it ain't the blushing bride herself," he says with a playful wink. "Layla here couldn't stop gushing about the two of you. Said you weren't able to keep your hands off each other in the lawn while moving furniture and whatnot."

Layla playfully swats her husband's chest, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "Oh, darling, would you look at them now? Still in their nightwear and as quiet as church mice! I do declare, they must have had themselves a jolly late night, if you catch my drift!"

Bucky, his eyes widening in mock astonishment, puts a hand to his chest in an exaggerated display of shock. "Well, I'll be! Late nights and quiet mornings, eh? Seems like our new neighbors here know how to keep the fire burning, even in the wee hours!"

hearty laughter

The sudden, uproarious laughter rings throughout the room, catching you completely off guard. It emerges seemingly out of nowhere, startling you with its unexpectedness.

You exchange puzzled glances with Marc, your eyes widening in surprise as the laughter continues, echoing through the living room. Both you and Marc are left bewildered, unable to understand where it's coming from.

Bucky and Layla, however, remain unaffected, their smiles unwavering as they carry on their conversation, oblivious to the inexplicable laughter surrounding them. Marc and Jake both snap into a state of hypervigilance, their body instinctively tensing up. In a moment of instinctive connection, Marc's hand instinctively seeks yours, intertwining your fingers together.

Layla raises an eyebrow and glances at your intertwined hands with a playful smirk. "Well, I do declare, looks like our lovebirds here can't keep their hand off each other!"

Bucky turns to Layla with a wistful smile, his voice filled with fond memories. "It reminds me of us, darling. Do you recall that first week after we tied the knot? I simply couldn't bear to be apart from you, so I took a whole week off work, much to the boss's chagrin!"

"Don't remind me, honey," Layla says, her tone tinged with playful exasperation. Her gaze falls upon the bouquet of vibrant flowers still cradled in her arms, a realization dawning on her. "Oh, look at that, I still haven't given this to our neighbors. And they still haven't introduced themselves to us. You and Marc exchange a quick glance, silently communicating your decision. It's best to maintain the illusion and introduce yourselves as if you are a couple living in this era. You two need to figure out where you are before you go revealing everything.

It's clear that Layla and Bucky are unaware of who you and Marc truly are. They have no knowledge of the fact that Marc is good friends with Layla or that Bucky is your best friend. You give Marc a reassuring nod, a silent message to convey your support, and he takes a step forward, gently squeezing your hand as if to gather strength.

With the warmest smile Marc can muster, ensuring it appears genuine and welcoming, he glances at Bucky and Layla, careful not to appear stiff or forced. "Thank you, Bucky and Layla for the warm welcome and the beautiful flowers," Marc says, graciously accepting the bouquet from Layla, "My name's Marc Spector." He then turns his gaze towards you, gesturing for you to introduce yourself.

You warmly smile at the two, before stating your name and saying, "We really appreciate your warm welcome and the lovely flowers. It's great to meet friendly neighbors like you."

Layla speaks with genuine enthusiasm as she responds, "Oh, you're most welcome, dear! It's our pleasure to make you feel at home. We're so glad to have you as our neighbors."

Bucky gives a firm nod, a determined glint in his eyes, before speaking in a protective tone, "You two just give us a holler if anyone's giving you the slightest trouble, and I'll take care of them.”

You bit back a smile, silently acknowledging Bucky's protective offer. It seems that even in this unfamiliar setting, Bucky's instinct to protect his friends remains unchanged.

"Thank you, Bucky," you reply with a genuine smile, appreciating the sentiment behind his words. "We feel lucky to have such caring neighbors. We'll definitely let you know if we need any help."

Layla claps her hands together. "Oh, I do hope we'll be the best of friends, dearie! Why, we'll have tea parties and garden luncheons, and who knows what other delightful gatherings we can plan together?"

Bucky turns to Layla and gallantly plants a gentle kiss on her cheek, his voice filled with admiration. "Oh, my darling, you've sparked a brilliant idea within me."

Layla gazes at Bucky, her cheeks flushing with a rosy hue from the kiss on her cheek, “Pray, do tell, my love. What idea has taken hold of your imaginative mind?"

Bucky turns to you and Marc, his wide grin showcasing his excitement. "Why don't we continue this warm welcome and celebrate our newfound friendship over a delightful dinner? I must say, my dear, Layla and I would be absolutely honored to dine at your place this evening."

"Absolutely! It would be our honor to share a meal with our charming new neighbors. We'll bring a bottle of our finest wine to toast to our newfound friendship!" Layla adds while nodding her head in agreement.

You and Marc exchange another glance, both surprised by the swift invitation and the seemingly unchangeable plans already set in motion. You had hoped for a moment to gather your thoughts and discuss the situation privately, but it seems that Bucky and Layla have other ideas.

As Layla and Bucky bid you goodbye, their cheerful voices ringing in your ears, you find yourselves momentarily stunned. The rapid pace at which events unfolded has left you little room to process the situation or devise a plan.

Your mind races, trying to find a way to politely decline their invitation without revealing too much. But before you can utter a word, Layla playfully interrupts, "Oh, now don't you worry your pretty little heads, dearies! We've already decided. Tonight, at seven o'clock, we shall grace your doorstep for a delightful dinner together."

Bucky steps forward, extending his arm toward you, inviting you to take it. "Until tonight then, my dear neighbors," he says with a charming smile. "We'll leave you to get settled and prepare for our grand gathering. Farewell for now!"

You and Marc, still slightly stunned, manage to bid them goodbye, your words laced with a mix of confusion and curiosity. "Farewell, Layla and Bucky. We'll see you tonight," you say, trying to maintain composure while secretly wondering how you'll navigate this unexpected dinner party.

As Layla and Bucky bid you goodbye, their cheerful voices ringing in your ears, you find yourselves momentarily stunned. The rapid pace at which events unfolded has left you little room to process the situation or devise a plan.

Marc's grip on your hand tightens, mirroring the tension in his expression. You can sense the unease and confusion within him, mirroring your own thoughts. As the door closes behind Bucky and Layla, enveloping you in a momentary silence, the weight of the situation begins to settle upon you.

You take a deep breath, attempting to steady your racing thoughts. This unexpected turn of events has left you grappling with a myriad of questions. How did you end up in this meticulously decorated house in 1953? What happened to bring you here? And most importantly, how do you navigate this unfamiliar era without arousing suspicion or revealing your true identities?

The living room, once a haven of warmth and comfort, now feels foreign and daunting. The photographs on the walls that once showcased cherished moments now appear as enigmatic artifacts from a distant past. The scent of the flowers, once pleasant and inviting, now serves as a reminder of the surreal nature of your current reality.

You turn to face Marc, his eyes searching yours for answers that neither of you possesses. In the midst of uncertainty, you find solace in the fact that you have each other. Your connection, forged through shared experiences and the inexplicable journey that led you here, provides a sense of strength and unity.

Silently, you communicate your desire to retreat from the unfamiliarity of the living room, to find a moment of respite and privacy. Without exchanging words, you both make your way back up the wooden flight of stairs, seeking the familiarity of the bedroom you woke up in.

Once inside the room, you close the door behind you, shutting out the outside world for a brief moment. The air feels heavy with anticipation as you turn to face each other, the weight of the situation palpable.

"I can't believe this is happening," Marc finally breaks the silence, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and concern. "We need to figure out what's going on and how we ended up in the 50s. But we have to be careful. If Layla and Bucky suspect that something is wrong, it could complicate things.”

You nod in agreement, fully aware of the delicate nature of your predicament. "We need to gather information discreetly, without raising any suspicions," you suggest, your mind racing with possibilities. "Maybe we can explore the house further, look for clues or any hints of how we got here. We should also try to find a way to communicate with Steven and Jake without alerting anyone else."

Marc paces the room, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "Yes, that's a good plan. We need to be careful and gather as much information as we can before taking any action. It might be helpful to see if we can find any documents or personal belongings could tell us how we're connected to them."

You both share a moment of quiet contemplation, aware of the challenges that lie ahead. The thought of venturing into this unknown world, where every action and word must be carefully measured, fills you with a mix of trepidation and determination.

"We'll figure this out, together," you say, your voice filled with conviction.

Marc's eyes meet yours, a spark of resilience and trust igniting between you. "You're right," he replies, a glimmer of determination shining in his gaze. "No matter where or when we are, we'll always find a way. We'll navigate this mystery and return to our own time, I promise."

With a renewed sense of purpose, you and Marc prepare to face the challenges that lie ahead. The search for answers begins, and as you step back into the unknown, you know that your bond and unwavering determination will guide you through whatever obstacles may come your way.

The first obstacle being dinner with the Barnes.

☼ Please note that I do not wish to have my work translated or published on any third-party reading websites. I claim the rights to my work.

☼ Where I don’t have any rights to the characters, many ideas and OC are my own creation. Please respect that.

taglist: @lalalily03, @cicithemess2000, @elliewilliamswhore

[homedaily]

Living Room Design Dubai

This living room design features a balanced layout with an emphasis on symmetry and style. The walls are covered with paneled wood, providing a classic framework that enhances the room’s structural integrity. The focal point of the room is the fireplace, flanked by built-in shelving units that offer both storage and display space.

The furniture selection includes two large, cream-colored sofas arranged to create a comfortable seating area. A pair of round coffee tables with intricate patterns inlay serves as the centerpieces, adding visual interest to the space. The tables complement the ornate rug that covers the floor, which ties the room together with its subtle patterns.

The lighting is provided by a central chandelier with red lampshades, adding warmth to the neutral color palette. Wall sconces are placed strategically around the room to enhance the ambient light and emphasize the architectural details. The large windows are dressed with heavy drapery, offering both privacy and a touch of elegance. The floral mural behind the television adds a decorative element without overpowering the overall interior design.

Materials used include wood paneling for the walls, marble for the fireplace surround, and fabric for the upholstered furniture and drapes. The design prioritizes stylish and exquisite interior design in Dubai while maintaining a cohesive, unique and beautiful aesthetic.

https://algedra.ae/

[1kook]

commercial break: fourteen

this is part of my netflix & chill series 

SUMMARY Jungkook needs you to know that you can always count on him. WARNINGS crying, comforting, slight doubting from oc, mentions of a period MISC talk of The Wedding, jk being sweet <3 WC 1.3k

Despite the evil villain facade you like to parade around in, Jungkook knows that deep down, you’re sensitive. You’re a bit of a crybaby, if he’s being honest, practically tearing up every chance you get. Of course, it doesn’t make Jungkook love you any less, but sometimes he truly does wonder where exactly you have the place to store all these tears. Slightly upsetting news reports, commercials from the local dog shelter, even animated movies meant for kids sometimes. They all make you cry, or at the very least, tear up. Those are all to be expected— who doesn’t want to cry upon seeing all those sad puppy faces? —but sometimes he’s the perpetrator of the sad tears that trail down your cheeks, and Jungkook never knows what to do about that.  

Tonight, it’s a simple wave of his hand that makes you cry.  

Jungkook is watching one of the Fast & Furious movies, doesn’t really remember which one really, just that the current action sequence is so intense, he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He’s both figuratively and literally on the edge of his seat, watching with wide eyes as cars whip across the screen. It’s approximately at this time that you come wandering down the stairs.  

Now to be fair, you’ve been under a lot of stress. Just last week, you had made the #BigMove, as you called it on Twitter, finally moving into Jungkook’s house after three years of dating Jungkook’s dream of keeping you every night and waking up to you everyday has been fulfilled. However, as happy as he may be, moving is hard. For both of you. The closet needs to be divided, the bathroom cabinets need to be reorganized. And the living room is littered in brown moving boxes, most of which you’ve sneakily mislabeled in a last attempt to keep any secrets from him.  

(While you were in the shower this morning, Jungkook had peeked into the box that said “makeup” only to find it filled to the brim with an entire collection of Barbie movies.)  

Furthermore, there’s… that. The wedding planning, most of which you’ve spearheaded yourself. You’re a bit of a Bridezilla, Jungkook has come to realize, with an incessant need to know every last detail down to how many leaves will be on the stems of the flowers in your floral arrangements. Yeah, it’s pretty intense. Jungkook tries to help when he can, but you’re dead set on having “the most perfectly beautiful extravagant wedding to ever happen” (your words) so there’s only so much he can do before you politely shoo him away.  

To top it all off, he’s pretty sure you’ve started your period last night, if the awkward waddle you made to the bathroom this morning is anything to go by.  So yeah. 

Needless to say, tensions are a little high in the soon-to-be Jeon household today.  

Whatever you were going to say upon walking in front of the television is cut short by a notification on your phone. Your mouth, which had only just opened, snaps shut again as your fingers fly across the screen. And as cute as he thinks you are, Jungkook really needs to see this car soar over a rising bridge. “Baby,” he calls out, and when you look up, he rather mindlessly waves you away. Just a simple gesture, kind of like he’s brushing you to the side.  

Big mistake.  

You pause for a moment, before silently slipping away. Jungkook honestly doesn’t think much of it until he sees your darkened figure move again, hands coming up to cover your face as you dissolve into sniffles. He just about jumps out of his own skin. “What the— baby,” he flounders, mostly shocked as he rushes to your side. “What’s wrong?” 

He catches your wrists, carefully pries them away from your face until he can get a good look at you. Your lashes are darker than usual, hanging heavy with tears you try to bite down on, chest rising and falling sadly with each trembling breath you take. “You don’t want me here,” you wail, and immediately Jungkook is awash with guilt.  

“That’s not true,” he says quietly, guiding you back over onto the couch. The television is ignored, action sequence be damned, as he settles down to soothe your worries. “I want you here forever, remember?” He runs the pad of his thumb over your ring finger, lets it catch on the diamond sitting there.  

It takes a second, but eventually you nod. “God, I’m sorry,” you blubber, roughly rubbing your eyes until the skin is sensitive and tender. “I’m being so annoying, but I just— I’m so stressed, Jungkook.”  

He gets it. “I know you are,” he hums, tugging you into his chest. You press your ear over his heart, clutch at his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll slip away. Jungkook doesn’t think he ever will. You’ve always been strong— in Jungkook’s opinion, you’re the stronger of the two, the one who grounds him when he’s a mess, always so sure of yourself —but today you feel impossibly small in his arms. You’re practically folding in on yourself, trying to disappear into his chest. And while Jungkook doesn’t mind letting you hide behind his heart, there’s things to talk about today, emotions to sort out. “You can take a break whenever you want to,” he says, patting the top of your head. “Just let me know what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”  

You nod but Jungkook knows you won’t take him up on his offer. It’s an aspect of yourself he knows you’re working on, accepting help from others, that is. You’re independent (which he loves) and headstrong to a fault (which he also loves). But sometimes those two traits combine in the worst ways, make you think asking for help is weak, that it’ll somehow take away from all the years you spent building yourself up. Even with him, Jungkook is aware that you often avoid asking him for advice in fear of bothering him.  

But if you’re going to commit the rest of your lives to each other, Jungkook needs you to know that you can always count on him.  

He grabs you by the shoulders, yanks you back a little roughly, but it’s whatever. “__,” he says, meeting your gaze head on. His straightforwardness has you owlishly blinking back. “Tell me what needs to be done.”  

A beat. “Um,” you mumble, slowly lowering your eyes. You’re trying to evade him again, but Jungkook isn’t having it.  

“Now, __.”  The commanding tone of his voice makes you snap into position, back as straight as a rod. “The, um, the dinner selection,” you stammer, glancing his way.  

“For the party hall?” he asks. You nod. He releases his grip on your shoulders, lets his hands trail down to your wrist. “Got it.” And then, still feeling a little distraught at how easily you cried today, he finds himself drawing your hands close, pressing his lips against your knuckles. “I’ll take care of the cake, too. And the seating chart.”  

You try to snatch your hands away. “You don’t have to! I’ll—“ 

“I’ll do it,” he says firmly, squeezing your hand in his. And then gently, “you can go upstairs and rest. Your favorite candle is on the closet shelf. Heating pad is in the top left drawer.”  

Gradually, you melt, swollen eyes softening as you call out his name, a fragile little, “Jungkook,” that sends an arrow straight through his heart.  

“Go,” he urges, eventually letting go of you. The TV speakers are still roaring with the hum of about ten muscle cars on screen, but all Jungkook can hear is the long exhale that escapes your lips as you give in with a nod. He rewards your compliance with a kiss against your temple, and then one against your lips. “We’re a team now,” he reminds you, voice hushed, “and teams work together.”  

“Together,” you repeat, as if you’re burning that line into your thoughts. Jungkook hopes you do, because he did a long time ago. 

[let-it-raines]

I Hope We Never See October (7/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I so rarely get the time to go through comments anymore, but I had some time this morning and just plowed through responding to a bunch but not all (I'm getting there). I want to let you all know that you're sweethearts, and I really appreciate you! ❤️

AO3: Beginning | Current Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |

-/-

“So tell me, what are your intentions with our dear Emma?”

Killian coughs on his water, but luckily, he swallows it before it can all come out on his shorts. They’ve finally dried after Emma pulled him into the water, payback for him tossing her in, and he’d like to not be chilled after the sun has set and the air around them has cooled. Most of the Nolans’ neighbors have left and returned to their own homes, but several still remain lounging in the pool or inside where it’s warmer.

“Excuse me?”

“Emma,” Ruby repeats. The woman’s a little drunk, but no one would know it if it wasn’t for the slight way she delays a few of her words. Ruby’s girlfriend is inside getting her coffee now, but Killian already knows the hangover in the morning will be a killer. “Our lovely Emma Swan. What are your intentions with her?”

“To be her friend,” Killian says, not sure how to answer. Emma’s inside with David and Mary Margaret, and he wishes she were here to save him from this conversation.

“And to fuck her,” Ruby adds, and Killian nearly chokes on his water again. “But let me tell you something.” She pokes his chest, and Killian laughs. “She likes you.” “Is that what she said?”

“No, but she’s my best friend. I know her, and she likes you. Emma doesn’t like anyone. She talks about you all the time. I think she has a crush.”

“Does she now? Talk about me, that is.”

“Maybe not an official crush, but she talks about you, so she might as well write Emma Swan likes Killian Jones on all of her notebooks.”

She’s drunk, he reminds himself. She’s drunk, and she’s not sure what she’s saying. He and Emma have an agreement, and even though they can be rather friendly with each other, that’s simply the aftereffect of spending so much time together. You have to be a good communicator in order to have good sex, and, well, he might not be good at a lot of things now, but he’s good at that.

“Okay, lass,” he starts, standing from the chair. He helps Ruby stand as well, but she quickly does it on her own. Like her words, her steps only barely fumble, and he thinks that has something to do with the ridiculous heels she’s wearing. “Let’s go inside with everyone else, and let’s not talk about Emma anymore.”

Ruby hums, but he knows she won’t listen. He braces himself for the fallout.

But to his surprise, she doesn’t make a beeline for Emma. She goes straight to Mulan, hugging her as she makes Ruby’s coffee. Killian, however, does head for Emma. She’s on the couch in the living room. Her hair is freshly combed through, and she’s wearing what he can only assume are a pair of Mary Margaret’s pajamas. He’s seen an assortment of Emma’s, and there are very few floral sets like this.

Killian slips onto the cushion next to her, keeping his space. They’ve crossed a few of their own boundaries lately, but sometimes it’s good to keep them in place, especially around other people. Not that it matters here when everyone knows what he and Emma are to each other.

Well, what he thinks they are to each other. He’s trying not to put too much stock into what Ruby said, but the words have settled directly into the middle of his mind.

“What are you wearing?” he asks since everyone else seems to be occupied by the baseball game on the television.

“Mary Margaret’s. I didn’t bring extra clothes, and some asshole threw me into the pool.”

“What a wanker.”

Emma laughs and pulls a blanket up further over her, wrapping her body in it. “Do you want to leave soon? Go back to my place? It’s closer than yours.”

“You sure you haven’t had enough of me today?”

Emma exhales and pats his knee. “I’m sure.”

They drive separately to Emma’s place. Killian parks in his usual spot across the street while Emma parks in the driveway and leaves the front door unlocked for him to follow through. She’s already tossing her wet clothes into the washing machine by the time he gets inside.

“Hand me yours. I’ll wash them too.”

Killian glances down at his clothes. “I won’t have anything else to wear, darling. Though, I’m sure that’s your intention.”

Emma rolls her eyes and holds her hand out. “I don’t have to fake doing your laundry to see your dick, Jones. Just give me the clothes. You’ve left stuff upstairs.”

Killian slowly pulls his t-shirt off, making it as seductive as possible, but Emma only starts tapping her foot. He laughs and tosses his shirt into the machine before doing the same with his shorts and briefs. Emma does a bland wolf whistle, and Killian adds a small amount of sway to his hips as he walks upstairs to find the clothes she claims he left behind. There’s a pair of joggers in one of her drawers, which he quickly pulls on before going to her bathroom to brush his teeth. She joins him to do her nightly routine that he knows as well as his own now.

Wash face. Moisturize face. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Put lotion on arms and legs. Get in bed.

It’s far more intimate than he’s been with a woman in a long time, since Tink actually, but nothing about it is truly complicated. There’s no wondering if he’s taking her out enough, if he’s being supportive enough, if he’s being emotionally vulnerable enough, if he’s being enough. His arrangement with Emma is simple, even if sometimes little slivers of complicated slip in.

He likes her, likes sleeping with her, and even if he knows this all ends when he returns to his real life in England before October, he’s going to enjoy it for now.

Ruby’s words poke at the back of his mind, but he brushes them away. Again. And again until they disappear, at least for now. He knows they’ll sneak back in because if Emma likes him the way a drunk Ruby thinks, that could be complicated in more ways than he’s willing to think about.

More ways than he can handle without his own head becoming a messy place when this is the first time in a long time it’s been clear.

(But who is he kidding? The messy is already starting to slip in.)

Killian joins Emma in her bed, getting comfortable underneath the covers, and Emma flips over, the strap of her ridiculous floral pajamas falling over. Killian reaches for it and tugs it back up, his thumb running underneath her collarbone. Her skin is always ridiculously soft, which she always claims is from the lotion.

It’s not.

“Today was nice,” he whispers, still running his thumb along her collarbone. He leans in, gently and nudges his nose underneath it, breathing her in. She still smells of chlorine. “Thanks for letting me come along.” Emma hums and runs her hands through his hair, scratching along his scalp. Damn, that feels good. “I couldn’t stop you if I tried…not that I would. I guess you’re allowed to spend time with my friends.”

“Your generosity overflows.” Emma laughs, and Killian continues to work his mouth along her collarbone. “Your laugh is spectacular.” He drags his nose down her chest until he’s pushing aside her shirt and freeing her breast. “This is also spectacular.”

She laughs again, and Emma quickly unbuttons her shirt so Killian can have a better grasp on her breast. She arches her back and pulls down her shorts, and while Killian wasn’t planning on this being anything more than some light teasing, he now knows it isn’t that.

Not that he would ever complain.

His mouth dries when Emma reaches between them and grabs his cock underneath his joggers. It feels damn good, like it always does, and he moves away from Emma’s stomach to help pull down his joggers so Emma can get a better grip. Her hand is warm and soft, and he could let her do this all night.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Emma smirks. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“I’m hysterical. Get on your back.”

“You know I like a woman in charge.”

“Alright, don’t get on your back.”

Killian huffs and kisses just above her navel before flipping over onto his back, propping his head up with pillows. Emma moves to straddle his thighs, rubbing herself over him in order to tease, and Killian places his hands on her hips, helping her balance. It’s slow when she guides him into her, and Killian curses at how good it feels, how good she feels. It’s even slower when Emma begins to move her hips, a gentle back and forth that has her hair falling in damp waves over her shoulders. It’s a good view, a good feeling, even when the room is only illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window on the opposite side of the room and the light coming through the hallway door. It makes Emma’s hair glow nearly silver, and he grabs the ends, running it between his fingers.

Emma begins to talk about the party, telling him he missed a rousing rendition of Chicago, courtesy of a drunk Mary Margaret, and Killian doesn’t even want to imagine that. Emma does a pretty good impersonation, however, so he really has no choice other than to think about it.

This is good. It’s nice. For the last couple years, sex has been nothing but scratching the itch. It’s been fast, simple, and maybe only involved a few dates. There was no talking or laughing, and there definitely was not any impersonating drunk friends doing musical numbers.

Emma is so damn closed off most of the time, but there are moments like this, like earlier when she shared a little about her past, that he wonders if she’s becoming a little more open.

He thinks he’d like to get to know her more. At least as a friend since he knows more won’t be possible.

There those thoughts come again, invading his space just like Emma is.

Emma’s movements become a little stunted, the roll of her hips not as smooth, so Killian tightens his grip on her thighs and slowly moves them over. When he slips out of her, he quickly thrusts back in as they settle into their new position. The air is tight in his chest, his release coming faster than he expected, and he whispers so to Emma as his hand reaches down between them while her legs wrap around his ass and her hands trace the muscles in his back.

It’s good.

It’s all so bloody good, and he doesn’t want it to end.

But it does, of course, in several hissed curses and whispered words, and Killian grins into Emma’s collarbone before rolling off her.

“I was not expecting that,” Emma mumbles, patting his stomach, “but it works for me.”

“Glad to be of service,” Killian chuckles.

Emma hums and then gets out of bed to walk to the bathroom while he cleans up around them before grabbing the joggers off the floor and putting them back on. Emma comes out of the bathroom in a pair of shorts and a tank top, a much more Emma-like outfit, and he smiles before getting comfortable in bed. He could go home, go back to the big house with no one around, but he knows Emma will let him stay here until she has to go to work in the morning.

“I’m exhausted,” Emma sighs before getting into bed and yanking the covers up to her neck. “Do you think I could get away with playing hooky tomorrow?”

“On a Sunday morning? At the Blue Dog?”

“Ugh,” she groans, “you’re right. I hate when you’re right.” “So you hate me all the time then?”

Emma rolls her eyes and kicks his shin. “Goodnight, Jones.”

Killian leans over and kisses her cheek. “Goodnight, Swan.”

-/-

The sun is beginning to rise when he wakes, the dark sky being infiltrated by little bursts of orange light, and while Killian tries to bury his face in Emma’s hair and fall back asleep, he can’t. Despite his best efforts, he’s awake, and after spending nearly an hour answering texts and emails from Ariel, Elsa, and Scarlet, he slowly climbs out of bed, making sure not to disturb Emma, and goes downstairs to fix breakfast. His stomach growls with hunger despite how much he ate yesterday, and surprisingly, Emma has food in her fridge. She’s a fan of take-out and leftovers from her places of work, so rarely is there ever food in the fridge.

Killian takes the eggs and milk out, grabbing some fruit too, before he grabs some flour from her cabinets. It’s been years since he used a waffle maker, and despite a disastrous first attempt, he gets the hang of it enough to start making some eggs on the stove. Emma can sleep like the dead, but her alarm should be going off any minute now. Usually, she heads straight for the shower, but Killian knows Emma can’t resist food, especially if it’s something different than what she eats every day.

There’s a creak upstairs, obviously Emma’s footsteps, and then he hears a door open, and Killian flips the waffle over.

“Emma, love, do you want fruit in your waffles? Or maybe some chocolate. I know you must have chocolate around here.”

There’s no answer, at least not from Emma.

“Are you my mom’s friend?”

Killian jumps and turns to see a kid standing in the kitchen. What the hell? Who the hell is that, and what is he doing in Emma’s house?

“Who, uh, who’s your mum?” Killian asks, scratching his ear and hoping Emma comes down the stairs at any moment. Maybe this is a neighbor’s kid who decided to have a little fun today. “Who are you, mate?”

“I think the better question,” an older man holding suitcases says, “is who the hell are you? And what do you think you’re doing in my son’s house?”

-/-

-/-

@qualitycoffeethings @marrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @elizabeethan @jrob64 @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @galadriel26 @galaxyzxstark @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @onepunintendid @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @andiirivera @itsfabianadocarmo @captain-emmajones @ilovemesomekillianjones @taylrsversion @dramioneswan @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @gloriousfemaleworrier @spartanguard @snowbellewells

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.  

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed. 

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality. 

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit. 

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge. 

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face. 

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this. 

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him. 

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate. 

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509. 

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player. 

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said. 

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill. 

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

.

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts,  and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him. 

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home. 

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

.

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken. 

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected. 

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight. 

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well. 

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee. 

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra. 

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. 

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin. 

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex. 

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it. 

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

[omg-imagine]

⊱ Forget Me Not (2/15) ⊰

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 2.7k

Warning: Angst

A/N: Thank you all for the lovely feedback, I truly appreciate it! This series might turn out to be 15 chapters long unless I decide to tweak it. But anyways, I hope you enjoy this next part!

Part 1

There was a stillness in the air once you opened your eyes, a stream of daylight blinding you as it slipped past between parted curtains. Your head throbbed excruciatingly, but your body felt numb. When the bright light subsided, you glanced around the room but saw it as a blurry haze. Slowly, your vision settled, only then realizing where you were.

You were in the hospital.

You blinked once, then twice, trying to recall what had happened, but nothing was coming to mind. Deciding that your memory would return eventually, you took a moment to survey your surroundings. You couldn’t do much else, not when you have an IV needle hooked into your arm and were also attached to a monitor.

Fresh floral arrangements decorated your space, bringing some much-needed vibrancy inside the dull and gloomy room. In one corner, you caught sight of a sleeper chair with a white blanket folded neatly on top of a pillow. You wondered to yourself who would choose to stay the night, sleeping on that small uncomfortable recliner.

Other than those, there was nothing else remotely interesting about the room. As you laid in bed, you matched your breathing to the lulling sounds of the machine beeping at your side. You stared up at the cold white ceiling, counting each gray speckle that you could find on the panels above. You had reached fifty before you were startled by the door opening, a nurse then stepping inside the room.

“You’re awake,” the woman commented, quickly walking over to your bedside. She was around the same age as your mother, perhaps slightly older. Her graying hair was tied neatly into a bun with a few loose strands framing her face. Her kind eyes glanced over yours, and you felt calmness washing over you. “My name is Sam. I’ve been checking up on you for quite some time now.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but your throat was so dry that your voice came out as a rasp. The nurse took notice and immediately filled up a cup of water from a nearby dispenser then brought it over to you.

“Thank you,” you said once you finished drinking.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she responded, taking the empty cup from your hand and setting it to the side. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you answered her after thinking the question over. Aside from that and the pounding headache, you were also confused. You still didn’t know why you were in the hospital.

“It’s the pain medication. The drowsiness is one of its nasty side effects, but it does the job,” she spoke, giving you a gentle smile.

“It’s a good thing I can’t feel anything else right now because my head alone is killing me.”

With a nod, Sam then went on to check your vitals. Judging by her relaxed attitude, everything seemed to be just fine. She jotted down a couple of notes on her clipboard before her attention returned to you. “I’ll let your doctor know that you’re awake, but it’s really a miracle that you’re up right now.”

“Why do you say that?” You asked her curiously. “How long have I been out?”

“Three weeks, dear,” she informed you, much to your surprise. “You got into a pretty bad car crash. Don’t you remember?”

You shook your head slowly, a puzzled expression appearing on your face. “No, I don’t.”

Sam sighed, clicking her pen closed. Her smile suddenly fell, and it worried you. “I’ll fetch Dr. Henderson so that he could do a full evaluation on you.”

“Okay,” you told her as she fluffed the pillows behind your head and smoothed out your blanket. “Are my parents here?”

“Yes, they are,” she nodded her head. “Your father’s waiting right outside while your mother and your partner are downstairs at the canteen. Don’t worry, I’ll let them know that you’re awake. They could all probably use some good news right now.”

Sam’s smile returned, reassuring you one last time before she headed to the door. That’s when you realized what she had just said.

“Wait, excuse me,” you called out, and Sam stopped in her tracks. “I-I don’t have a partner. Not anymore, at least.”

She furrowed her brows as you stared at her quizzically. Maybe, she might have mistaken a family friend for one, but you weren’t sure. You had just broken up with your boyfriend a month ago, but for a good reason. He was an asshole who had made your life a living hell, and it wasn’t until recently did you find the courage to end the relationship. Because of that, you were fairly certain there was no way he would be here along with your parents.

“Sure, you do, honey. I mean, that’s who he introduced himself as,” Sam replied. “He never stops talking about you, and it’s very obvious that he loves you. Ever since you got here, he’s never left your side. You definitely got yourself a keeper.”

“But I don’t… that’s impossible,” you mumbled. Again your mind tried searching through your memories, but doing so only triggered a searing headache, making you groan out in pain.

“Darling, you need to relax,” Sam warned you. “You may be awake, but you’re still healing.”

Once the migraine passed, your eyes welled up in tears. It was frustrating to not know what was going on. It felt as though chaos was swirling inside of your head, and you couldn’t understand why it was happening.

“Shh, honey, it’s okay,” the nurse murmured softly, calming you down. “Do you want me to turn on the tv? Maybe you should watch something while I get the doctor in here. It can help ease your mind up a little.”

“Alright,” you muttered, and Sam plugged in the television, handing you the remote.

She excused herself shortly after as you surfed through the channels available, trying to find a show or a movie to distract yourself for the time being.

Coming across a live weather report, the broadcast had left you baffled. The reporter talked about the temperatures in Los Angeles this week, which was unusual since you were living on the other side of the country. Not to mention, the date shown on the graphic on the bottom of the screen was wrong.

July 11, 2020, it had read.

But wasn’t it the winter of 2015?

---

Keanu had gotten used to the stale taste of cafeteria food though he didn’t have that much of an appetite to begin with. He would usually order the day’s special, eat one or two bites of it before pushing it off to the side. He must have lost ten pounds already from skipping meals these past three weeks.

“Keanu, sweetheart,” your mother Nancy began, noticing that once again, he wasn’t eating. “Y/N needs you to be strong for her when she wakes up.”

Letting out a sigh, his eyes then flickered up to the woman sitting across from him, a slight frown on her lips. She was right, of course, but he just couldn’t help it. Every time he visited the hospital and saw your unconscious body, it was like a piece of him wilted away each day.

Truth be told, Keanu was much worse in the beginning than he was now. He had spent the first several nights sleeping in your room, or at least, he attempted to. It was difficult staying asleep when every night, he was forced to relive the night of your accident. Unfortunately, it would always end up the same way with you losing your life, and Keanu not being there at your side.

The media had caught wind of what had happened and made it much more stressful not only for Keanu but for your family as well. There would always be paparazzi waiting by the entrance of the hospital, ready to bombard him or your parents with invasive questions and take pictures of them. Security had done the best they could to keep them off the premises, and Keanu felt horrible for subjecting your parents to one of the downsides of fame.

But both your mother and father had been understanding, and they didn’t want Keanu to worry more than he needed to. If it weren’t for them, he would have never left the hospital for any reason. They had convinced him to go home each night, reassuring him the best they could that you would be there the next morning.

Keanu listened and did just that. He was able to get some sleep in as the nightmares started to die down. He would ride his motorcycle for hours on end to clear his mind, and it had been meditating. Slowly, he was getting much better dealing with the aftermath. Still, it was only the uncertainty of the situation that continued to perturb him.

“I know,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes. “It’s been hard, you know. For all us, I mean.”

Nancy nodded, setting down her fork on the tray and looking at Keanu sorrowfully. “I know my daughter, and she’s a fighter. I’m sure that she’ll get better, and it’s only a matter of time. But the last thing she would want is for you to get sick because of her. She wouldn’t like it if you stopped taking care of yourself, Keanu.”

“Yeah,” he agreed after pondering for a minute. “She wouldn’t like that.”

“Good,” Nancy smiled as she pushed her tray next to Keanu’s at the edge of the table. “The food here isn’t the best. Let’s go out and buy lunch somewhere else instead, hmm? My treat, and you can’t turn down free lunch.”

“No, ma’am. I can’t,” Keanu chuckled as he stacked the trays before getting out of his seat.

The two of them had reached the exit when your father Peter came running down the hall. His chest heaved heavily as if he had sprinted all the way from the fifth floor to the first.

“Peter, what on earth was that all about?” Nancy asked her husband as Keanu held him steady. “You know, there are elevators in this building.”

“It’s our baby girl. She’s awake,” Peter panted, his eyes filled with so much joy that Keanu could feel it radiating from him. “Y/N’s finally awake.”

---

“Are you sure, Keanu?” Peter questioned him as he stood in the middle of the doorway. “You’re practically family, I can tell the doctor that.”

“It’s okay, go,” Keanu waved him off with a smile before sitting down in one of the plastic chairs right outside of the room.

Dr. Henderson had just finished evaluating you but had asked to speak with your parents first. It seemed a bit of an unusual request, though he didn’t want to overthink it. He was okay with giving Nancy and Peter time with you first. They were your parents, after all.

As he sat there out in the hall, Keanu cracked a smile for the first time in weeks. The last three weeks had been hell for him, and he was ready to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Very soon, he would finally be able to see your open eyes and hear your sweet voice. Keanu was already coming up with what he was going to say once it’s his turn for him to see you, and he wanted the first words for you to hear from him was that he was sorry.

It took a while until Dr. Henderson stepped out of the room, leaving you with your parents. Keanu got up from his seat, a thank you ready to roll off his tongue until he noticed the solemn look on the doctor’s face.

Just before he could ask if something was wrong, Peter appeared from behind him, his hand coming to rest on Keanu’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“Son, we need to talk,” Peter spoke with a downcast gaze. “It’s about Y/N.”

Keanu eyed your father nervously as he gestured for the two of them to sit. “What is it? Is she okay?”

Peter released a deep breath before shaking his head. “She’s doing fine physically, but mentally, there’s something wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Retrograde amnesia,” Peter stated, glancing at the tile floors beneath his feet. “Dr. Henderson said that she needs to undergo tests to confirm it, but he thinks she’s likely suffering from it.”

“Amnesia?” Keanu’s voice faltered as the word fell from his lips. “What did she forget? The accident?”

“Yes,” he revealed, pausing for a brief second before continuing. “Y/N can’t recall the accident nor anything from the last five years. Not a single memory, Keanu.”

Five years? That meant… No, it couldn’t be.

“What’s the last thing she can remember?”

Peter looked at Keanu regretfully. “She remembers breaking up with her ex Eric and moving back with us. This was way back in—”

“February,” he finished, shutting his eyes as he felt his chest tightened. “That happened in February 2015.”

Keanu was at a loss for words. Here you were now, finally awake after spending weeks in a coma, only to have five years worth of your memories erased. He could only imagine how confused you must be not knowing what had happened. There had been a significant amount of changes in your life within that time frame—moving to LA, getting a new job, meeting Keanu.

The last part hurt him the most. You had forgotten him and all of the memories you had together. Right now, Keanu was nothing but a complete stranger to you, and thinking about it made his heart feel heavy. Of course, he wanted to be there to help, but at the same time, he didn’t want to overwhelm you. What if you didn’t want him around? What if you pushed him away?

Keanu glanced at Peter, the question slightly trembling out of his mouth. “Did the doctor say it was permanent?”

“He doesn’t know. There’s a chance that it could be temporary, and the memories would resurface later on. But, it could also end up being permanent.”

Leaning back against his seat, Keanu ran a hand over his face. The silence which followed gnawed at his insides as nausea churned in the pit of his empty stomach. “I’m a part of those memories she’s lost. She won’t remember the last five years we’ve spent together. Y/N won’t even recognize me if I walk in there.”

“Keanu?”

Nancy calling out his name caused him to glance up. She stood before him with red eyes, cheeks still stained with tears. “Do you want to see Y/N?”

The answer was obvious, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to voice it out loud. “I-I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Nonsense, dear. Perhaps all Y/N needs is to see you, and she’ll remember everything again,” Nancy suggested with fervent hope flashing across her face.

“Maybe,” Peter shrugged, sharing a glance between Keanu and his wife. “It’s up to you, son.”

Keanu didn’t want to be disappointed, but he needed to at least try. He was reminded of the promise he made on the night of the accident, that no matter what, he would never give up on you. Pushing aside his fears, he stood by the foot of your door and opened it before stepping over the threshold.

Instantly, his gaze met yours as you sat up from your bed. Seeing you awake made him feel so relieved, and he had to fight back the tears that were threatening to fall. All he wanted to do was cross the room and gather you into his arms, hoping his touch would bring back the memories you’ve forgotten. But Keanu decided against it, choosing to linger closely by the door instead.

“Y/N?” He spoke your name in a soft tone, waiting for any reaction to come.

A pause. From the hospital bed, you looked at Keanu with merely a blank stare, not even the slightest flicker of recognition showing in your unwavering eyes.

“I’m sorry, but... do I know you?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but the room was silent enough for him to hear your words.

You should know him, but you don’t.

You don’t remember him at all.

Part 3

Tags: @penwieldingdreamer​ @fanficsrusz​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @awessomness​ @meetmeinthematinee​

[shannygoatgruff]

My Brother’s Keeper - Chapter XII

Genre: Psychological Thriller

Modern Ivar X Modern Hvitserk

Rating: MA+18

Overall Warning:  Dark story told from an emotionally distributed person’s POV with graphic and sadistic material including rape, terror, torture, kidnapping, drug use, slash, implied incest, necrophilia, and insecurity. Heavy trigger warnings.  

Summary: Mama always said to be their brothers’ keeper. Now there is absolutely nothing these two won’t do for each other.  Boys will be boys…

Chapter XII

Everything is the way she said she had always pictured it. They even got the table setting right including the fancy dinner plates and the two-toned table cloths she’s always talking about.  So maybe this choosing this expensive ass restaurant wasn’t so bad. 

After all, this place does use the Waterford Crystal glasses that she loves so much. Honestly, I could do without the violins playing in the background, that’s a little pretentious, but these floral arrangements are nice. These people didn’t spare any expense when it came to the ambiance.  At first, I was a little skeptical, but now that I'm here, it’s totally worth maxing out Bishop’s credit card.    

The only thing more beautiful than this place is the woman sitting across from me. Thora’s wearing a new dress. The silver sparkles from it make her blue eyes shine most remarkably.  Plus, she did something different to her hair. It looks terrific. But, I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. It’s all swept up, making her neck look longer and more elegant. She looks pretty like that, but I think I’m just used to her wearing her hair down. When it’s down, her face looks softer; she looks younger. She looks more like my girl, the one that needs me to protect her and less like this woman that’s sitting across from me right now.   

I have to say though, those little whips of hair falling just at the nape of her neck, make me want to kiss her soft shoulders.  At least with her hair up, I get a better view of the solitaire diamond that I got her for her birthday pulsating in the hollow of her throat.  With each tear she tries to suck back, that pendant moves deeper and deeper into the hollow – I have to close my eyes to stop imagining Aud’s throat as she cried.

"Hvitserk," She rests her hands in her lap as the slow tears course down her face.

Those tears do something to me. When they're sad tears they hurt, but these tears bring a smile to my face. "Well?"

It's funny that when I'm around other people I always seem to notice how lonely I am. But, when I'm with Thora I'm too busy making sure that she's happy to pay it much attention. The same thing goes for Ivar. Well, when we're out together, it's usually because we're about to party, but even then I don't seem to mind. Just like with Thora, I know that Ivar will make sure that I'm happy. That feeling of contentment on both sides is enough to drown out anything else that is going on around me.

She swallows hard like there is a lump in her throat. She doesn't say anything. She won't even look at me. Her hands come to the top of the table and I notice that she's been chipping away at her nail polish when they were resting in her lap. Red nails. I don't like red nails on her, but I'm not going to let that spoil the moment. "Why?"

I don't know why. It just feels like what I should do. "Because.”  I can’t say it. I've never said it, not to her. I want to mean it when I say it. No, that's not right. I know I'll mean it, but I want to feel it. I just don't know what it feels like.

I love Thora. At least I think I do. I love the idea of her and spending the rest of my life with her. That's love, right? I mean, what is love anyway? I love Ivar and I love Thora, just not the same way. I know what I mean when I tell Ivar that I love him. I know that I don't question it. There's just this overwhelming feeling of vulnerability, safety, and protection with him. There's a warmth, peacefulness…contentment. I guess with Ivar, I feel… complete. 

With Thora, I feel masculine, like I'm finally in control. I feel empowered because she defers to me and not the other way around. I feel wise, like she's looking to me to guide her. With Thora, I feel, well… happy.

I don't know how much sense it makes. I guess the biggest difference in the way that I love them is with Ivar I feel wanted, with Thora I feel needed. I love them both very much for their roles in my life. Now the question is do I love her the way that I'm supposed to? I just feel like, with her, there's another level to it that I should be on. I just don't know what it is or how to get there. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

I watch her eyes lift to mine and her chin quiver. "Yes, I’ll marry you," she whispers, licking at the gloss on her lips. Her hands are so delicate in mine and I know they haven't seen or felt nearly as much as mine have. The ring slips easily on her dainty finger and she looks at it while my thumb traces over the stone. "It's beautiful."

It is beautiful. This ring is almost as beautiful as Aud was. It was her last gift to me. I didn't know Aud that well, but she did so much that I will always be grateful for it. Aud was the one. I always knew there would be one that would change everything for me. She started me on the path to the life I'm supposed to have. And now it's within my grasp. She wanted me, she cured me and she even gave me something to ensure Thora to me forever. Aud is a martyr in my eyes. "So are you."

Her watery blue eyes meet mine and in that instant, I know that I have to take those tears away. "Ivar isn't going to like this." I barely hear her due to her whispering, but I have a pretty good idea of what she just said. Thora is worried about my relationship with Ivar. She loves me that much that she would rather jeopardize our happiness to make sure that I'm happy.

"This isn’t about Ivar." Everything is about Ivar, even if I don't mean for it to be. Everything I do is for or about him. Is it wrong that I just want something to be about me? No. It's not wrong. I'm done with the partying and whatnot. Ivar will always be a part of my life; he promised that to me. And he'll understand that I can't keep doing what we do, not when I'm going to have a family. Besides, he loves me enough to help me find a balance between what I need and what I want. He knows that I want Thora, but that I need him. "It's about us." I want nothing more than for the two loves of my life to love each other, but that won't happen. They both think the other is trying to take me away.  “Besides, my brother will love you, once he gets to know you.”

It's ridiculous really. I'm not going anywhere. They have nothing to worry about. There's no competition between them. I've managed to divide myself between the two of them this long, what's the rest of my life matter? Still, I know his initial reaction will be nothing like Thora's. I don't think he'll be too happy about it and he most certainly won't be crying tears of joy. If nothing else, after Ivar blows up, he'll come around because he wants me to be happy. And this life with Thora will help me find that.

She stands from her seat still holding my hand and sits herself down on my lap. The warmth from her arms around me isn't as comforting as when Ivar does it, but it's peaceful. Her body shakes with the cry she's been holding in and I trace gentle circles on her back to calm her. This is what I need. There's a settling feeling in me of being the one that takes care of her. "Shh." I can feel her nod against my shoulder and the smell of her apple-scented hair puts my mind at ease.

I'm going to be a husband and eventually a father. That life that my father once had is so appealing. It's what I was always brought up to know is right. I can leave my hobby behind and concentrate on living a real-life now. The only problem is I have no idea how to do it. I'm hoping Thora does. I want that mundane, everyday shit that I see on television. I want to pay the bills while she's in the kitchen making me dinner. After the kids are in bed I'd like to snuggle up on the couch and be able to watch TV without feeling like I'm going to jump out of my damn skin when an actor or actress has that vibe I thrive on.

Of course, we'd have to move away from here for that to happen. There's too much temptation here, too many people. Maybe if we moved out to the country where the closest house is miles away? Yeah. That could work. Nothing but us and isolation.  That far removed from the rest of the world are the perfect places to party…

Stop it. I'm looking forward to my future with Thora and shedding this past. God, I only hope it's as easy as it is in my fantasies.

I feel her weight shift and look up at her as she stands. She takes my hand in an attempt to get me up from the table. I love this look on her face.  It’s the one where she can't meet my gaze because she wants something that she doesn't think that I'll do. Her eyes are fixed on my chest and there is the shyest smile on her face. Curling my finger under her chin I lift her head. Her lips are warm and soft against mine and when I suck in the breath she lets out, I feel goosebumps on my skin.

Normally I would feel awkward or out of place, but right now I don't. Don't get me wrong, I always feel out of place only I don't seem to notice it as much when Thora's in my arms. We make small steps not really going anywhere, but I manage to keep up with her. Her head rests on my shoulder and one arm is safely around my back. Her other hand is holding mine tightly and is wedged between us. My arm around her waist feels the gentle sway of her hips as her weight shifts from one foot to the other.

Ivar would be so proud if he saw me dancing. I can almost imagine his beautiful smile from across the room. For years he's tried to teach me how to fit in. He's told me time and time again to just let go of the fear and to start living. Well, I'm doing it now.

It's amazing how Thora can feel the music. I mean, I can hear it, I can even feel the vibrations from it, but I don't feel it; not throughout my entire body. I’m too busy concentrating on over things. If I overthink this, I'm going to misstep. But the pulse in her neck keeps the rhythm that I'm supposed to follow while my lips are pressed against it. See how she calms me? Everything awkward about me seems to go away around her.

There's something about the fragile that makes me seem like I have it together. I know she's had a rough past and that's made her afraid of something. My job now is to make sure that there's nothing for her to ever fear again. That knowledge is what makes me strong in her eyes. What I'm providing, I know will comfort her for a lifetime. We are going to have that happily ever after.

This is right.

I lift my eyes for the briefest second and notice the hostess walking guests to their table. I can't explain it, but the straight arch of her back and the sway of her hips…I can already feel my mouth get moist. There's something about her, I don't know what it is, but a dull ache starting just below my navel makes me aware of her presence.   There are only fifteen steps between where she’s standing in the restroom.  I could easily pull her in there in under three seconds.  No one would even know.  I could have the hostess and be done in less time than it would take me to have a cigarette.  

But, Thora's hand is on the back of my neck, gently soothing away the chaos that so quickly overcomes me. It forces my eyes away from her. This is what I need. I want to build a normal life with this woman that will teach me how to be normal. Knowing that she needs me and that she is choosing me to protect her can keep me from all of the shit I'm trying to put behind me. My eyes tear away from the hostess and back onto Thora's smiling face. "What?"

She shakes her head but her smile gets wider. "I love you."

I've never said before, but I think I mean it. "I love you, too." No. I know I mean it, but this time, I think I feel it.

Previous Chapter|| Next Chapter

Tags: Let me know if you want to be added/removed from tags:

@youbloodymadgenius @idea-garden @kol--mikaelson @mooniemouse @didiintheblog @waiting4inspiration @tempt-ress @where-beauty-goes-to-die @crazyaboutmotleycrue @oddsnendsfanfics​ @geekandbooknerd​ @ivarthebloodyking @honestsycrets​

[secretlynestaarcheron]

Chapter Nine + Ten

Reposted Chapter Nine because I wanted them together, it would have bothered to have two by themselves haha. Enjoy! 

Also I think @sjm-things asked on the last post but I deleted it before answering but yes, feyre and rhysand will meet! I outlined the story and I hope to have 25-30 chapters so it may take awhile but they will forever be endgame!

tagged: @sjm-things  @justgiu12 @blxckbeaks @justabunchoffandoms @swagbookmaster @my-fan-side @heyitsrhysand

Chapter Nine: Nesta 

Ianthe walks in with a new pep in her step and her hands full of binders, “Good morning ladies!” she says cheerfully, dropping the binders on the table in the center where Vanserra and Tara were sitting. They look taken aback as Tara reaches forward to grab one as if it was an unfamiliar object to her. 

“We have a big day ahead of us, I can’t believe the King threw this at us so late,” Ianthe replies, grabbing a few binders and putting some on each table. She places two at Nesta’s and she reaches forward to grab one, flipping it open to see that it was full of color patterns and floral arrangements and gown designs. 

“The King’s family will be coming in late tonight and we will be having an outdoor picnic themed get together tomorrow,” Ianthe replies, excitedly, she was practically beaming. “You will each pick a design for a gown your maids make for you, we must have the best for our guests!” 

Nesta frowns, she wasn’t the best sewer but she couldn’t imagine designing and making a gown fit for a future queen by the next day. She looks up at Rita to see if she was feeling as overwhelmed as she was but Rita seemed nervous as she fidgeted in her seat. “Are you okay?” Nesta asks. 

Rita nods but she doesn’t look like her usual spunky self. Nesta decides not to push her and looks over at Ianthe who had finished handing out the binders. “You’ll each partner up with one another and work on one aspect of the party,” 

Rita stands up, moving over to Ianthe quickly, she whispers something to her before leaving the room in a rush. Ianthe turns to Nesta, “Looks like flowers are all on you, be careful the King’s sister in law has allergies!” she exclaims, dropping a couple magazines on the table before moving to the next one. 

“Wait, what does that mean? What type of allergies?” Nesta calls after Ianthe but she either doesn't hear her or doesn’t care to answer. Nesta slumps in her chair, feeling very overwhelmed and all she had to do was pick flowers. “Alright ladies, you have to have your choice by 6pm tonight when we come together for dancing lessons,” Ianthe says, cheerfully, “And you all are dismissed!” 

Nesta rubs her temples, how was she going to find hypoallergenic flowers? She takes her stack of binders and decides to head out to the gardens for some inspiration. She moves down the stone stairs towards the rose bush maze, Elain would love to see it. Her movements were restricted by the large binders and tight bodice. 

She takes the last step, looking around on where she would want to sit down and begin working. Across the garden there were a couple of guards working on combat, Cassian and a girl stood watching at them. He glances up catching her eye, he says something to the girl before moving across the garden in long strides. 

“You aren’t supposed to be out here,” Cassian says as soon as he’s close enough for her to hear. 

“Hello to you too, Officer Cassian,” she retorts, blowing a strain of hair out of her face, “I have to pick the flower arrangements for the party and thought I could get some inspiration from the garden.” 

“The King’s sister in law is allergic to almost all flowers,” Cassian replies drily, “And its Captain.” 

She rolls her eyes, “This is a disaster, I am going to cause someone to go into allergic shock. What if she dies, is that considered treason? Maybe I shouldn’t even have a flower display at all, but that makes me lose those little competition.” 

He reaches forward to grab the binders from her hand, she’s thankful, she didn’t realize how out of shape she had gotten over the past two days with all the heavy foods. She felt slow and out of breath a lot easier now that she wasn’t living off a piece of bread a day and running around town. 

“You can’t tell anyone I told you about this,” he retorts, beginning to move down the trail towards the garden. She quickly catches up having to take a couple steps for one of his. “I am sure that no one is supposed to help you with this challenge but seeing how I don’t really want to see any of you thrown in prison for killing a member of the royal court.” 

She chuckles, “Come on, I won’t tell anyone if you just admit I am the favorite,” she replies, a new edge to her voice that she regrets immediately. She wasn’t trying to flirt, she didn’t even think she was flirty, but he was close to the prince and who knows what he will say to him. 

He shakes his head and says, “I don’t think it matters who I like and don’t like.” She raises an eyebrow questionably at his back but stops when he brings her to a small nook off the edge of roses that were full of different kinds of flowers. 

“These were planted for the King’s sister in law,” Cassian explains, “she loves flowers, so as a welcoming gift the queen had this garden installed for her so she could enjoy it.” 

Nesta feels relieved, “If only my sister was here, she would be able to name them all in a heartbeat,” Nesta replies, looking around the small garden. There weren’t a lot of vibrant colored flowers, but she didn’t mind she could make something beautiful out of them. 

“Well, since your sister isn’t here, you can head to the libraries and take out the book The History of the Royal Palace Gardens, it’ll have an eleclopedia of every plant in the garden, including these,” Cassian says. 

She feels a surge of excitement run through her. “Thank you,” she says sincerely, turning to face him, “I really appreciate your help even if you despise all of us.” She means it as a joke, but there is some truth behind it. 

He chuckles, “He’s my best friend, of course I am going to be protective of him. You didn’t hear it from me but he’s pretty naive about all things related to girls,” he retorts. 

She can’t help but laugh at that. “I definitely figured that out already,” she replies, thinking about the conversations she has already had with him and what the girls have said about their dates. It was a comforting thought that although he looked to be a stuck up businessman through the television he was still just a twenty-something year old who was trying to make his way through the chaos of his life. 

“I’ve been trying to help him,” Cassian admits and she’s not sure why he's being so honest with her. Maybe they were on their way to being friends. 

She purses her lips as she turns away from the flowers to look at him, “Ah, so the infamous Captain Cassian has a player streak, interesting,” she hums. 

“The truth would come out eventually,” Cassian replies with a shrug, “All the time I have in between rebel attacks I use to swoon the ladies of Prythian.” 

Nesta gringes, “Oh Stars, maybe you shouldn’t be helping him. Swoon the ladies,” she pretends to shiver, “No wonder he’s suffers from being unable to sweet talk if he has a teacher like you.” 

“You haven’t even heard the best of it,” Cassian retorts, before nodding down to her binders and adding, “I wish I could stay and chat but I actually have a job to do. I’ll have a guard drop these off at your room.” 

“Thank you!” she calls after him as he exits the small enclosure of flowers. Nesta twirls a little before sitting down on the bench in the center of the enclosure thinking about how much trouble she would get into if she acted upon the feelings she felt when she was with him. 

~*~

She stayed in her room the rest of the day, channeling her inner Elain has she thought up the perfect boutiques for the party. An array of weigela sonic blooms, chinese evergreen, and  bamboo palm. They weren’t colorful and vibrant as most of the flower arrangements at the special occasions were but she thought they’d do. 

She even had time to flip through the dress inspiration magazines Ianthe had handed out and pick out a few designs she liked. As if on cue Beatrice and Hanna entered the room cheerfully talking they stopped when they saw Nesta sitting on her bed and curtseyed. “Apologies, we didn’t realize you were in here, m’lady,” Beatrice replies quietly. 

“Its okay, I enjoyed the laughter, reminded me of home,” Nesta replies with a shrug, “I’ve been trying to find a dress I love for the party tomorrow.” 

Beatrice and Hanna look at each before coming over quickly to go through the magazines with her, pointing out different dresses and what they could do differently. She felt like she was back home packing with her sisters. 

It feels like they talk for hours, Beatrice pointing out everything they can do and Hanna sketching designs. There’s a sharp knock on the door and then Prince Rhysand walks in, Beatrice and Hanna stand up quickly. 

“I came to escort you to Ianthe’s impromptu dance class,” Prince Rhysand says to Nesta. 

Nesta chuckles, “More like Ianthe’s impromptu pain and misery boot camp,” Nesta retorts, pushing herself off the bed and moving towards him. She takes his extended arm, waving goodbye to her maids, before exiting the room with Rhysand.

“You aren’t a fan of dancing?” Rhysand asks quizzically. 

She bites her lips instinctively, but stops herself, he wanted to know about her home. He wanted to know what she went through and she needed to tell him even if it seemed dumb so he would know. “As a four, I wasn’t invited to many parties and there was rarely any dancing, as a seven. Well, no one can afford to have a party let alone have the time.”

Rhysand purses his lips in thought, “That’s a shame, so that means no one has done this before-,” he replies, moving quickly as he pushes her away before twirling her back towards him. 

She lets out a noise of surprise before chuckling as he tries to dip her. “See,” he says, “You’re a natural.” 

“I appreciate your support, but I am more scared of being taught a box step for the first time by Ianthe with every other girl in this competition and off duty guard watching me fail miserably,” Nesta replies, realizing what she was actually scared of. 

He steps, turning to face her, “Then I’ll teach you.” 

She raises an eyebrow, facing him, “We don’t have much time,” she replies, glancing down the hall where she could already hear the music playing. 

“Then I’ll be quick,” he replies, taking her hand and placing her empty hand on her shoulder. “Ready?” 

She nods unwillingly, as he steps forward making her take a step back. “Look at you already getting it, now to the left.” 

They go through it a couple of times before he begins to add the side stepping making them move in a circle. “Stop watching your feet,” he says. She looks up at him sheepishly, “I am trying not to break an ankle or step on your feet,” she counters. “I am sure I have to go home I break the prince.” 

Someone clears their throat and they both stop looking down the hall to see Cassian standing there. “Sorry to interrupt, your majesty, but your father would like to see you,” Cassian says, turning away as if to give the two privacy. 

“Good luck there, I’ll see you tomorrow for the party,” Rhysand says. 

“Unless I break an ankle in there,” she retorts with a chuckle as she waved goodbye to Rhysand and nodded towards Cassian who barely looked at her before disappearing into the ballroom where lessons had already begun. 

The sun was barely peeking through the windows when Nesta was awoken by her maids. “We finished it! Just in time!” Hanna exclaims, hooking the hanger onto her wardrobe and unzipping the garment bag. Nesta sits up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, as Beatrice moves over to the curtain and opens them allowing the light to pour in. 

Nesta gasps, whipping the covers off of herself and taking the few steps of the dress, she took in the emerald color that was simple in the bodice but pushed out by her waist with a cascade of little flowers running down to the hem. “Its beautiful,” Nesta says in awe, the color would have looked beautiful with Feyre hair and gorgeous against Elain’s skin. She couldn’t wait to write to her sisters about it. “This is incredible, more than I could have ever asked for.”

“It was our pleasure, Lady Nesta,” Beatrice replies softly while Hanna nods along eagerly. 

Nesta can’t help but pull them into a hug. “I am so glad I was paired with the two of you,” she replies. 

Beatrice pulls away first clapping her hands together to get them all to focus. “Okay, we have a lot to do, let’s start with a bath,” she replies. Nesta spends the rest of the morning being pampered by them until she is dressed and ready to go. 

“You look beautiful, Lady Nesta,” Hanna says behind Nesta reflection as Nesta turns to take herself in. She never thought she would get to wear something so extravagant before. There’s a knock on the door and then a guard yells, “The Queen and Ianthe have requested to see the girls before the party begins.” 

Beatrice squeezes her shoulder and yells “Good luck!” as Nesta exits the room. 

The guard escorts her down the hall toward the women’s room where all the selected girls were filing in. “Ladies, I am so proud of the work you have done to make this a success,” Ianthe says, before turning to the queen. 

The Queen smiles in thanks, “I am very excited to welcome the Kings family in the palace, it’s been a long time since they have visited. I hope you will treat them all with the utmost of respect and welcome them as if they were your own family,” she says looking over all of them. 

It was hard for Nesta to believe that she came from the caste seven, she was so respected and held herself tall. Nesta wonders if she was always like that or if she learned it through being the Queen. 

“There will be many guests out there that you do not know. I expect you all to be on your best behavior,” the Queen says, “and of course, enjoy your hard work.” 

The girls clap at that as they follow the queen out the doors and towards the white tent that was sent up in the middle of an open field. There were chairs and tables lined up by the shade next to a game of croquet. 

The girls made their way into the tent to begin introductions, she stayed behind wanting to enjoy the sun against her skin before being forced into small talk. 

A group of young boys walked by her talking loudly. One of them ran straight into her. He pauses, glancing her up and down. She feels uneasy under his stare, when he gets to her face he smirks. Lifting his half empty glass up to her, “Mind getting me refill, doll face?” He asks. 

She grimaces, thinking back to her tavern days that seemed so long ago. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him to get his own drink but the presence of someone standing next to her. She turns to see Cassian with his arms crossed. 

“She’s one of the selected, Tamlin. Most of the girls here are, you would do well to remember that,” Cassian snickers. The two eye each other before Tamlin chuckles as he leaves. 

Cassian runs a hand through his hair as he turns to face her, “That's Tamlin, Rhysands cousin,” Cassian explains, “He’s also the worst person I have ever met. Are you okay?” 

Nesta chuckles, “Yes, trust me, I have been treated worse than that before.” 

He looks at her with a weird expression that she can’t quite grasp. “I am sorry to hear that, Lady Nesta,” he replies and she wonders why he’s being so formal but as she turns and sees Ianthe making her way towards her she understands why. 

“Enjoy the party, your flower arrangements look beautiful-,” he pauses as if he wants to say more but he shuts his mouth, gives her a curt nod, and then walks away. 

She doesn’t have much time to dwell on what he was going to say because Ianthe grabs her elbow and pulls her into the tent to socialize.

Chapter Ten: Cassian 

Cassian hits the bag with more anger than he realized, he was mad at the king, made that he had to deal with Tamlin again, and mad about feeling mad about stumbling into Nesta and Rhysand dancing in the hall. 

Nesta was in a competition to fight for his best friend's heart, just because they had a couple conversations didn’t mean that she was going to leave the competition, he didn’t even know if he wanted her too. He just knew he had some weird connection with her. 

Sweat dropped down his back as he glanced down at his watch, he had an early morning and should probably get some sleep. He slips in his jacket leaving it unbutton since he doubted he would run into anyone from the training room to his room. 

The cold air sent a shiver down his back as he locked the door behind him and began to move across the guards towards the palace. He couldn't wait to shower and go to bed, the day had been long and exhausting. 

He pauses when he passes the Rose hedges when he hears sniffling, he glances towards the palace before moving towards the nose. Inside the small cove dedicated to the Kings sister in law was Nesta seated on the bench. 

She was still wearing her dress from the picnic, her hair no longer in the braids from earlier but cascading down her back as she sniffled into her hands. 

He steps forward, a crack from a branch quickly catching her attention. She turns, wiping her tears as she stands, he tries to mutter an apology but she beats him to it. “I am sorry, I know I shouldn’t be out here,” she says and he can hear the sadness in her voice. 

“It’s okay,” He says, stepping into the enclosure, noticing how her eyes shine in the moonlight. “Are you alright?” 

She turns away embarrassed, maybe he should have pretended that he didn’t hear her just scold her for being out and let her be but he knew that she would be in his thoughts if he left her. 

“I think the homesickness is finally kicking in,” Nesta explains with a slight shrug of her shoulders. She's still looking everywhere but him. “I just keep thinking about how much they would love to be here and how selfish I am for being here without them.” 

He furrows his brow, “How are you being selfish?” he asks, sitting down on the bench. She follows suit a second later. “I don’t think I need to explain where I came from, I think blatantly obvious that I am out of place here. I would go hungry for days so my sisters could have plenty and here I could ring a bell and a maid would bring me a tray of expensive treats,” she rants, standing back up and crossing her arms, “I know so many girls more worthy than I am of this opportunity, why do I deserve to have such luxury as all of this when I know there are fives, sixs, sevens, and eight choosing between their electricity or food.” 

He frowns, it was a luxury in her mind to be able to eat, whereas most people thought a luxury was a private jet or multiple cars. He doesn’t know what to say to her, his mother passed away when he was young and he didn’t have any siblings, he didn’t know how to be comforting. 

“You shouldn’t have to feel worthy to eat, it’s a human necessity,” he begins as she gives him a soft smile. “They didn’t just pick your picture because they thought you were pretty, they saw something in you that made them think you could be a good queen. The fact that you have experienced it and are so passionate about improving is what would make you a great queen.” 

She chuckles to herself as if she knew something he didn’t about her being a future queen. “Thank you,” she replies sincerely looking over at him as she sits down again. “I really appreciate you talking with me, I know you’re probably busy.” 

He shrugs, he didn’t mind talking with her if he was being honest and it worried him. “Anytime, but we should probably head inside. It’s late and who knows what Ianthe will put you through tomorrow.” 

They walk in a comfortable silence back towards the palace, a new air between them. When they went their separate ways he can’t help but feel like something is missing with her absent presents beside him. He falters as he hears noises coming from the opposite side of his room. 

He moves to open his own bedroom door brushing it off as something is falling but before he can step into his room he hears hushed whispers and then silence. Turning back to face the door across from him he furrowed his brow, the room across from his was just a storage closet that was hardly used. 

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as a million thoughts crossed his mind of what he was going to see. Best case scenario a broom or something fell and worst, he had too many to choose from. He grabs the door handle twist and pushes it open fast enough that whoever was in there would be surprised. 

His eyes adjusted to the dark room but it was clear that there were two figures in the room. He reaches around the door, hitting the wall until the light comes on. A new recruit stood in the middle of the small space, his uniform jacket unbutton hanging off one shoulder, he pushed it up quickly. 

“Your name?” Cassian asks, his eyes flickering to the small figure behind him, he wonders if they really thought he couldn’t see her behind him. 

“Private Bronson,” He answers and Cassian can hear the nervousness in his voice.

Cassian cocked his head to the side, looking beyond Bronson. “And your name?” he asks. Bronson clears his throat, looking anywhere but Cassian, as he shifts to the side to allow Cassian to see one of the selected girls, Demetra, standing behind him sheepishly. She held her dress to her chest to cover herself. 

He looks away from her and back at Bronson, “Mind explaining to me what was happening in here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow quizzically. 

Bronson glances back at Cassian. “I think you know what was happening, Captain.” Cassian can’t help but hear the sound of defeat in his voice. “We didn’t mean for it to happen, we were both threes, when I was drafted we didn’t think that we would ever see each other again.” 

Cassian looks up at the ceiling, he couldn’t let them be put to death for treason when he had been finding himself wanting to be near one of the selected himself. “You’ll be reassigned to the borders,” Cassian says looking away from Bronson and towards Demetria, “And I would pack my bags if I were you. I am telling the prince you were caught gossiping about the other ladies. I am not sure what else he will do but I did not see anything so I will not say anything regarding what may or may not have been happening before I opened this door.” 

They nod quickly and he turns to leave making his way back to his room deciding to deal with all of it tomorrow. 

~*~

“So why did I receive word that one of my new recruits was being sent to border patrol? That’s basically a death sentence to a newbie like him,” Amren says, catching up with Cassian in the hallway, he had been on his way to talk to Rhysand about the girl. 

“Trust me, Amren. This was a mercy sentence for what he did,” Cassian retorts. 

Amren chuckles, “What exactly did he do to get on the captain's bad side that would make him deserve something worse than border patrol?” she asks, nudging his arm with her elbow. She meant well but he was in no mood for her jokes when he saw himself in the couple. 

“You don’t wanna know, Am, believe me,” he retorts. 

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question him on which he’s glad about. “Where are you headed?” Amren asks a harmless question in her mind but the fact that Cassian was going to tell Rhysand to kick a girl out it only made him more anxious. 

“I have to discuss one of the girls with the prince,” Cassian replies, turning the corner that leads to the royal family's wing. He hoped Rhysand would be here, he didn’t feel like tracking him around the castle or having to have this discussion near the fellow selected. 

“Oh, which one? There was one crying this morning no one could calm her down or the one who was caught trying to sneak through this very hall towards the prince’s room,” Amren asks, “Or maybe it’s the one in the green dress yesterday that you saved from Tamlin’s claws.” 

He rolls his eyes, “I didn’t save anyone from anything,” he retorts, before glancing back towards Amren, “Which one tried sneaking to the prince room? Why wasn’t I notified?” 

“You were too busy sending my troops away,” Amren replies, she laughs when he gives her a pointed look, “I think it was that girl Rita, I am sure she was just trying to get more moments with the prince, I think he’s planning on eliminating a few today.” 

“Good,” Cassian replies, at least it wouldn’t seem weird that this girl was being sent home by herself, It wouldn’t seem weird. “I want this to go as quick as possible.” 

“Just think, one of these ladies will be your queen,” she replies, shivering at the thought, “I hope there's a diamond hidden in all of this fluff.” 

He thinks back to his conversation with Nesta last night, how she felt selfish for being here, she would be a diamond. She could do so much for all the castes because she lived through it. He knew that if Rhysand picked her there would be change. 

He shook his head, pulling himself from the thought, he had to stop thinking about her. He pauses in front of Rhysand door and knocks. Rhysand opens it a second later, surprised to see them, “I’ll see you later Cas,” Amren says, continuing down the hall as Cassian turned to his friend to have a conversation he didn’t want to have. 

[iwillbeinmynest]

I’m Not Crazy, Am I?

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader (Platonic)

Author’s Notes: Okay I really want y’all’s honest opinion on this one because I just can’t shake the feeling that this doesn’t flow right- despite what my wonderful beta @itsanerdlife​ has told me. So, let me know. It might just be because this is my first time writing Frank. idk lol

 Also, a HUGE thank you to @frankcastlexreader​ for this super awesome moodboard for this fic!!

Word Count: 7.8K

Notes/Warnings: I was actually trying to make this one a little scary so, yeah, needles, feeling crazy, anxiety, fires, violence and abuse, mentions of blood, mentions of drinking, talk of mental illness (I really tried to be careful on this topic so please let me know if I did anything wrong with this topic!)

Masterlist

 Eleven days.

 She’d been stuck here for eleven days. When she’d first been taken, she spit threats of her impending rescue and the price these people would pay for the wrongful imprisonment of her, all while fighting as hard as she could physically. When they grew tired of her fight, they forcefully gave her a shot of who knows what that put her to sleep. 

 When she woke up, she was dressed in white scrubs and locked in a small room with almost nothing in it. There was a sad excuse for a cot, a desk with small sheets of paper but only crayons to write with, and the smallest window she’d ever seen. 

 On her second day she figured she’d make as much trouble as she could. She beat on her still locked door, she screamed at the top of her lungs, and drew all over the walls. People passed by the frosted glass in the door. Some stopped and lingered for a moment, while others passed by as if she didn’t exist. If was after the third or fourth person stopped that she noticed they, too, wore white scrubs.

 A guard would beat on her door every once and a while, telling her to shut up but she never did. She continued to scream and bang and vandalize. Eventually four guards showed up. She was actually scared of them this time, even though she refused to show it. They overpowered her and with another sharp pinch in the neck, she passed out.

 She woke up on day three with her room looking as pristine as it was on day one. Or maybe they’d put her in a new room; if that was the case, she wondered how many identical rooms there were in this place. She tried to repeat her awful din from the day prior but she found that she’d lost her voice and her whole body ached from trying to fight the guards. She spent that morning in the uncomfortable cot resting, telling herself that if she could just conserve her energy, she’d use it to fight the guards again. She figured that had been her mistake yesterday. She’d wasted so much of her energy on being a pain that when the guards opened the door she didn’t think of trying to get out. She ended up in the bed most of that day, scheming up a plan for escape. 

 It wasn’t until she woke up on day four that she’d realized she’d even fallen asleep. She’d spent that whole day being angry. She hadn’t eaten since she arrived which wasn’t helping her mood but, more than that, he hadn’t come yet. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t come for her and she was already thinking of berating him whenever he did show up.

 In the afternoon of day four, there was a knock on her door. She could see the shadow of a man but he wasn’t in the same tan colors as the guards, he also wasn’t in white like so many of the other residents. After a beat of silence, she heard the door unlock and a thin man in a cardigan and glasses walked in.

 “Hello, Y/N.” He said with a thick accent and smiled. He held a tray over what looked like a small notebook and a manila folder. “My name is Dr. Kallstrom.” He set the tray beside her bed and she swallowed hard. He gestured to the tray, “Please, eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

 What she now recognized as a Swedish accent somehow made her even more suspicious of him.

 “It isn’t tainted with drugs Miss Y/L/N. Please, you need to eat. Malnutrition is not something we take lightly. Our goal is to make you better and keep you healthy.” His smile looked rehearsed. 

 Y/N weighed her options quickly. If she didn’t eat, she’d be proving her rebellion to being here but if she didn’t and her rescue took any longer, she wouldn’t be strong enough to fight her way out if she needed to. She took the tray and ate what little was there. 

The doctor took the chair from her desk and pulled it out so he could sit facing her in her bed. “This is only something small to tide you over.” He inhaled as he opened his notebook and took a pen from his pocket, clicking it open. “You know these are only temporary arrangements. We would love to move you to a more comfortable living space but we need to be able to trust you.”

 Y/N looked up at him incredulously. Trust? This had to be a joke. She scoffed and continued eating.

 “I know your admittance here to Calming Waters was less than enjoyable,” He said as he began writing something in his book. He looked back up at her, this time without the smile. “But that wasn’t entirely dependent on us. You caused quite the disturbance that day.”

 She shook her head, keeping here eyes on the food. Calming Waters was a crazy house. A fancy insane asylum. It was marketed to look like assisted living and people joked that the ‘assisted’ part was from all the drugs they doped their residents with. Some people say it was in the water and some people said it was in the food. She looked at her plate, it was almost empty now, and she wondered if she could hit the doctor hard enough with this plastic tray to get away. 

 “Y/N, do you know why you’re here?”

 She didn’t answer, she just stared at him. Yeah, she knew but she wasn’t telling him that. She wanted to know what he thought.

 He sighed. “I’m not sure if you’re aware but you…” He looked like he was struggling to break some news to her. Y/N thought he should win an Oscar. “You’ve had a bit of a break down. When the police called us, you had gone...well, to be frank, you’d gone completely mad.”

 Y/N wanted to laugh and while she was able to repress that, she couldn’t fight her smile at his audacity.

 He frowned. “You killed four people, Miss Y/L/N. I know this is hard to hear but it certainly shouldn’t be funny. You’re record is clean, you have no reports of misconduct anywhere, all the way down to kindergarten. You’ve never even gotten a traffic citation. I believe, Miss Y/L/N, that the stress of your day to day has caused you too...snap.”

 It was too much, she snorted and chuckled under her breath. “I’m not crazy and I didn’t kill anyone.” Her voice was scratchy and barely there. Maybe screaming wasn’t the best choice the other day. It definitely didn’t help her to sound as resolved as she was.

 He nodded his head as if he knew she would say that. He leaned forward and handed her the manila folder. 

 She took it carefully, eyeing him until he sat back and was away from her. She opened the folder and was met with a collection of gruesome images. Four men, slaughtered in a style she recognized. She remembered this but it wasn’t her handiwork. “This is why you dragged me here?” She was furious. “This is why you locked me up in this crazy house?!”

 At the tension in her shoulders and the scowl on her face, the doctor stood up and backed towards the door, where a guard had stepped in. 

 “I didn’t even do this.” She threw the folder, sending the pictures flying all over her room.

  “If you didn’t,” The doctor stood beside the guard now. “Who did?”

 “The Punisher did this. He was protecting me!” Her voice broke into a whisper as she tried to scream on the already strained vocal chords.

 The doctor shook his head. “No, Miss Y/L/N, you did. The evidence proves-”

 “I don’t care what the evidence proves!” When Y/N stood up from the bed, the guard stepped forwards.

 “Calm down.” The large man commanded.

 Y/N stopped moving but continued in her broken voice. “This is wrong and you know it.”

 “When you are ready to stay calm, and tell me the truth, let me know.” He left with a sigh and the guard took her empty tray and eyed her hard as he followed behind.

 On day five, Y/N woke with a different drive. She picked up the pictures that were still scattered all over the floor of her tiny room, she placed them neatly in the folder and then made her bed. She knocked on her door and a few minutes later, a guard opened it. 

“What?” He asked shortly.

 Y/N voice was still hoarse but she tried to clear it and said, “I’m ready to talk to the Doctor now.” 

The guard squinted, examining her suddenly soft demeanor and now cleaned room. “I’ll let him know.” He pushed her back from the door, shut it and locked it before he disappeared from her frosted window.

 It wasn’t until day seven that she finally got to see the doctor but after having remained calm she was getting meals more frequently. When the guards came to collect her, there were three of them. Two at either side of her and one behind. She was taken to a separate building, one much nicer than where she’d been staying. Here the hallways resembled that of a country club- dark woods and florals everywhere. From what little glances she could steal, the rooms in this building had living rooms and bedrooms in them. Like tiny apartments. They were even furnished with couches, televisions, side tables and bookshelves. 

 They turned down another hallway and she could tell she was near the offices now.

 The guards shoved her towards a door that read ‘Dr. Kallstrom' in gold letters. One of the guards opened the door and jerked his head, signaling her to get moving.

 Dr. Kallstrom was typing away at his laptop when she walked in. He looked up for only a moment and smiled. "Come in, have a seat. I'll be right with you." 

 His office was large. One wall was entirely books. There were multiple forms of seating; from pillows on the floor by a short coffee table, all the way to couches and plush chairs. His desk was large and made of polished redwood to match his bookshelves and end tables. It sat in front of the two large windows and faced the door. It was littered with papers and full folders but he had a small section cleared where his laptop could fit. 

 He finished typing and closed his computer. He faced Y/N, who hadn't decided on where to sit yet, crossed his arms and said, "What can I do for you today?"

 Y/N stood still chewing her lips. "Well, you said I should talk to you when...when I was ready to."

 He nodded and stood from his leather desk chair. "I did," he walked around and came to Y/N. He gestured to the couch and she followed his lead. "How are you feeling today?"

 "Better, but my throat still hurts." She sat on the couch while he sat across from her in an armchair.

 He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. "I can prescribe something for you if you'd like."

 She shook her head. "No, just some cough drops would be fine."

 He nodded then took a deep breath. "I want to apologize if my methods seemed harsh when we first met but I believed that you needed to be confronted with the truth so that you could begin to remember the trauma you faced. We can't heal your mind if you are repressing the memories altogether."

 Y/N sighed. "But I don't remember doing that. I remember being there but I thought…"

 The doctor leaned forward. "Y/N, The Punisher- Frank Castle- is dead. Has been for sometime now."

 Y/N paused. Dead? That can't be right. "But, I saw him. He was there." Her quiet scratchy voice broke.

 Dr. Kallstrom looked at her with pity. "You made him up. Your mind couldn't handle what you did so it made up a more plausible situation. Did you recognize the men in the photos?"

 She nodded slowly, still thinking of Frank. "It was my boss and other higher-ups in the company. He...he tried to kill me. He beat me, harassed me. Wanted me to steal and fudge the books. And when I refused…"

 He nodded as if he already knew. "You snapped, Y/N. And before you go beating yourself up, you should know that you are not the first person to respond like this to immense pressure. What happened was an accident. But...it was you."

 "How'd he die?" She asked. Y/N sat staring at the floor.

 "Your boss?" The Doctor's head ticked to the side in confusion. "I told you, you-"

 "No, not him. How did Frank die?"

 The doctor sat back. "Oh, um, he, uh, the cops got him. He shot at them and they shot back. But that was last year."

 Ah, last year, right. "Oh, I see. So, it really was me?

 The doctor nodded sadly but was relieved to see that she understood.

 "How did I…?"

 The doctor stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. "I think it's too soon to go into details like that. Let's start by moving you over into a nicer room, huh? Maybe some new clothes, too."

 Y/N nodded and offered a weighted smile. "I'd like that." She stood and let him escort her into the hallway. When she saw the guards, who no longer seemed interested in her, she looked at Dr. Kallstrom. "I'm sorry for how I acted when I came here."

 The doctor smiled and patted her back. "Never mind that. Let's just work on getting you better. I'm going to ask that you see me every morning at eleven so we can talk and try and work out what happened, okay?"

 She nodded. "Okay."

 Kallstrom grinned as he opened the door to a fully furnished room with her last name near the knob, "The meal schedule is on a pamphlet by your bed and if there aren't any books here that you like, you can go down to the library. You are free to roam but please be respectful of the other guests and restricted areas. We have a two strike policy here so be mindful of that."  He began to close the door behind him then stopped.

 "Oh, one more thing." He looked at her in a slightly stern manner. "We distribute medications everyday at lunch time. I will be prescribing you something to help relax your mind so that we can further unlock the mystery behind your actions. It's a small dosage and absolutely nothing to think twice about but I do recommend that you take it and I expect your full cooperation."

 Y/N gave a nervous smile. "Of course."

 "I'll see you tomorrow." He smiled and shut the door behind him.

 And here she's been ever since. Wandering the halls, meeting other guests and reading in the library. Y/N also tried to meet as much of the staff as she could but so far she's only made friends with the receptionist and the housekeeper. 

 Everyday at eleven she'd seen the doctor and everyday he'd treasure her that Frank was nothing but a figment of her imagination. She'd needed a hero, a reality where she was safe and, as best as the doctor could figure it, the Punisher had been on the news so much that her mind must have attached to him. 

 As the days went on, Y/N couldn't help but wonder of the doctor was right. Had she made up Frank? She was single, her boss was a jerk and she was feeling helpless… Maybe she did.

 Now, it was the lunch hour. Y/N sat alone, as she'd grown accustomed to, and ate in silence. A nurse came around with a tray of little cups. He took the one with her name on it and gave it to her. He stood over her and waited.

 Y/N took the tiny cup and tossed it’s contents into her mouth. She took her water and drank. She opened her mouth wide, stuck her tongue out and then lifted it.

 When the nurse was satisfied, he nodded and walked away. Y/N watched as he turned his back to her to distribute more medication. She took the pills from her cheek and stuffed them into her mashed potatoes. She took her tray to the trash, scraped off the left over food and placed her tray above the bin.

 Later that night, after curfew and after the doors were all locked, Y/N stood in her bathroom and stared at the blurry reflection in the shower-fogged mirror.

 She wiped away the mist and began to brush out her damp hair. After she was dressed and in bed. She wondered how it had come to this. She was in an insane asylum. It didn’t look like the ones in all the scary movies but that’s what it was and if that wasn’t enough, all of her neighbors confirmed that even though the staff never said the word ‘crazy’, the people here absolutely were crazy.

 First there was Lady Margaret, and yes, you had to address her as such, She was a tiny old lady who insisted that she was a member of the royal family in the year of our king, Richard the third. She even put on a British accent despite having been born in Reno. Then there was Jerry, he believed that he suffered from multiple personality disorder and that all of his alter’s names were also Jerry- which was convenient for everyone.

 Not to mention the several schizophrenics and critically paranoid persons and the ones who believed themselves to be other people or creatures. Y/N was particularly fond of the man who believed himself a mermaid stuck in his human form. He was kind and always made her things out of sea shells when ever there were craft hours.

 Y/N tried to find the good in this place and as she searched for an answer she drifted to sleep.

*   *   *

 The office was empty, or at least it was closed and almost everyone had gone home. Everyone except Y/N and Jason Harvey. Y/N had worked for Jason for five years and the only reason she’d stayed was because she knew she couldn't afford to leave. He paid her well and even though she was just a secretary by title, she handled a lot of his business.

 Jason stepped out of his office laughing on his  phone. “You boys don’t get started without me! I’ll be there in about,” He looked at his watch, “Fifteen minutes. Okay. Yeah, up yours, too!” He chuckled before ending the call. He closed his door and winked at Y/n as he sat on the edge of her desk. “How’s it going, sweetheart? You pullin’ another all nighter?”

 Y/N pursed her lips for a moment. “Please, I’ve asked you not to call me that.” 

 “Why?” His chin pulled back and he shoved off her desk offended. “No body’s here.”

 “Because it makes me uncomfortable.” Her stomach turned and she wanted to throw up from the nerves inside her. 

 Jason called her something obscene under his breath but he was close enough that she still heard. “Whatever. Just get done and get out of here.”

 He started towards the elevators and huffed in annoyance.

 Y/N returned to the books that she was working on and frowned when she saw a discrepancy. She grabbed the book and rushed after Jason. “Mr. Harvey, wait!”

 He rolled his eyes and stared up at the elevator watching the numbers light up towards his floor. 

“Mr. Harvey, I’m sorry but I need you to check this for me, please.”

 He snatched the book from her. “What?”

 “It’s just,” She swallowed hard. “Um, it’s just that these numbers are off and it’s saying that you-”

 “I can read a ledger, Y/N.” He cursed at her. “There’s nothing wrong here. Just sign off on it.”

 “I can’t sign off on it unless it’s correct, sir, and I don’t think-” 

 She was cut off when the back of his hand collided with her mouth. She gasped and stumbled back, clutching her cheek and jaw.

 Jason swore at her again as the elevator dingged and the doors opened. He grabbed her by the throat and pushed her into the elevator with him. “Listen here, I pay your bills, I take care of you, you got that? All you gotta do in return is sign some papers and file the ledger. It isn’t that big of a deal. Now,” he shoved her against the wall and she shrieked. Her head hit the mirrored wall hard and the tears that welled with the force of his hand on her throat now spilled over at his increasing violence. “Do you want me to explain that again?”

 She shook her head and sobbed, still trying to pry his hands from her neck. 

 He pulled her back and slammed her head into the wall again, causing it to crack. “You want me to keep hitting you?”

 She shook her head again and her knees began to buckle as he squeezed tighter. “Please…” She choked out.

 “It really is a shame,” He said as he got uncomfortably close to her. His breath, hot on her cheek, already smelled of alcohol. “I hate to make this pretty face cry but,” He shrugged. “I’ll do what I have to. You keep your mouth shut or I’ll ruin you.” He somehow got even closer, so close that his lips brushed against her skin. “In every sense of the word.”

 Jason let go of her and she fell to the floor. Just then the elevator doors opened and she scrambled to her feet and ran out. She didn’t even know what floor she was on but she didn’t care. She found the stairwell and kicked off her heels, running down them. 

 She ran from the high-rise to the train where she cried all the way to her stop. She ran, in the rain that had just started pouring, the few more blocks from the station to her building and buzzed her door. She left everything at the office, including her keys and phone.

 “Yeah,” A rough voice called from the box. 

 Y/N tried not to sob. “I left my keys.”

 The door buzzed and she flung it open. She ran up the stairs to her floor and rushed to her door. 

 Frank opened her door and his jaw dropped slightly at the sight of her. She was soaking wet, her make-up was running down her face, her mouth was bleeding and her neck was bruised in the shape of a hand. He pulled her to him and shut the door behind her.

 Frank had been staying with Y/N for the last few weeks after she’d stumbled upon him bloodied and bruised after a particularly rough night. She’d been kind to him and he was desperate for some of that. He allowed himself to give in to her hospitality and after only a few days he knew that he’d protect this girl from anything and everything if he had to. Their relationship only went as far as friends because that’s what they both really needed. She provided him a home and he kept her safe. They were a symbiotic relationship for the books.

 He held her in the front hallway for a few minutes as she cried against him. He held her close and rubbed her back until he couldn’t take it anymore.

 He backed up from her and pulled her into the light. He checked her mouth, finding only a busted lip and slight bruising on her jaw. But when he tried to tilt her head up and she winced he was worried. “What happened?” His voice was low and thick with concern.

 “Jason…” Y/N’s chin quivered. 

 He'd heard about Jason. His nose twitched and his lip curled as he huffed like a bull. "I'll kill him." Frank told her.

 But Y/N shook her head. "It's only as bad as what you see." She pleaded with her eyes for him to stay. "He's not worth your time."

 Frank shook his head and chewed the inside of his lip. He nodded. "For now. Okay, but I swear, Y/N, he doesn’t touch you again got it?"

 Y/N sobbed and nodded. She took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "Oh," She remembered her things. "I left my purse at the office."

 Frank led her further inside and towards her room. "You need to change, maybe shower. We can deal with everything else in a minute, okay?" He raised his brows until she nodded. He leaned over and kissed the side of her head, "Go on."

 He made her a hot drink and something to eat while she showered. When she finally came back out, she looked much better. She offered him a smile but it only went so far from the pain of her busted lip.

 "Tell me what happened." His deep voice was soft as she sat down at the table.

 She spoke quietly but quickly. Explaining more about what he'd done both physically and financially. "He's fudging the numbers and stealing a whole lot. And he was not thrilled when I called him out on it."

 "What made you do that?" He asked.

 She scoffed and smirked. "I thought it was something you would do."

 Frank chuckled. 

 "I thought...I don't know." She huffed.

 Frank cussed. "I guess I am a bad influence."

 Y/N smiled. "Well, don't leave on that account."

 "Nah," He took her hand. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

 Y/N smiled. "Thanks for letting me cry on you." She rolled her eyes at herself.

 "Don't apologize for that." He looked at her serious. He patted her hand before he let go of it.  "You said you left your stuff at the office?"

 The thought of the office made her sick. "Yeah, the only thing I made out with was my badge."

 Frank looked at the clock on the microwave. It was past one a.m. "It's pretty late. He shouldn't be there, you want me to go get it?"

 Y/N thought about it. "I appreciate it but you can't get it without a badge. I'd have to go with you."

 "You're gonna quit, right?" Frank wasn’t really asking. He knew he might be crossing a line but something just didn’t sit right with him when he thought about her continuing to work for Jason. "If we go tonight, you're gonna get all your stuff, okay?"

 She wanted to argue. What job could she get that would pay as well as this one? But she knew Frank was right.

"I know some people in Law that could get you a job somewhere." He reassured.

 Y/N sighed. "Okay." She nodded. "He was going out with his friends, he definitely shouldn't be there."

 Frank nodded. "Alright, let's go then."

 Going back to the building was easy. With Frank beside her she was almost fearless. The dark and shady New York streets and allies didn’t seem so daunting with him in her corner. Y/N got in and, thanks to her high status with Harvey Inc., was able to get Frank in too.

 They made it up to the thirtieth floor and to Y/N's desk. Frank grabbed a box and helped her put what little belonged to her in it. He was even able to crack a few jokes and make Y/N smile to ease the tension of being there. Y/N had found the ledger right outside the elevator where Jason must have dropped it before hitting her. She handed it to frank who now sat at Y/N’s desk taking pictures of the fudged pages with her phone.

 Then, the elevator dingged.

 Y/N's heart immediately dropped at the sound of Jason's laughter. She snapped her head to Frank as tears began to well in her eyes. 

 Frank took the box of stuff and put it under Y/N's desk and took her hand. He tugged her around the corner and held her close. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

 He put a finger to his lips. And then leaned down and whispered ever so slightly in her ear. "You remember what I taught you."

 Y/N nodded. Frank had been teaching Y/N to fight every night since he moved in. She was desperate for some self defense training and now she at least has enough to get away if someone tried to hurt her on her commute home. Although, she was ashamed to say she'd been too scared to try it on Jason.

 The laughter got louder and it made Y/N jump. She bumped into the bookshelf they were next to and the men's voices stopped.

 Frank took a deep breath. They'd definitely heard that and it was only a matter of time until they were found. Well, he wasn't the kind of man to wait. 

 He stepped back around the corner with Y/N in tow. 

 "Well, well, well." Jason started, clearly smashed. "Lookie, lookie what we have here. Did you come back to play?" He chuckled darkly.

 Frank stepped over to cut off Jason's view of Y/N. "We were just going. Let us leave." He demanded.

 Jason looked back at his friends, the other higher ups at this company. He'd actually considered it for a moment but when he saw the Ledger open on Y/N's desk he made up his mind. "Mmm, nah. I don't think we will." He laughed. 

 "You don't wanna do this." Frank warned.

 "I think we do." Jason smirked like the devil.

 The next thing Y/N knew, she was ripped away from Frank and being pulled on by two of Jason's friends. She swung her fist and it collided with the taller one's nose. He cursed and let go of her.

 The second one got a knee to the groin and then the face. She scrambled away but froze when she saw Frank fighting off both Jason and the man she knew as Dylan. 

 "Frank!" She screamed for him and then, without thinking charged and tackled Dylan. 

 Frank hit Jason hard and ran to Y/N. He pulled Dylan off of her and threw him on top of Jason. The two other young, drunk, executives came after Frank and he pulled a knife from his waistband. 

 Frank's nose was bleeding as well as a cut from a solid punch near the eye. "Run!" He shouted at Y/N without taking his eyes off the others, who now paused. 

 "I won't leave you." Y/N put her back to Frank's.

 He shook his head. "You're not ready for this."

 "I know…" She admitted.

*   *   *

Y/N jerked upright from her sleep. She was drenched in sweat and heaving every breath. She checked the clock, two forty-seven. She sighed and rubbed her face and she went back into the bathroom.

 A quick cold shower and she was back in her living room. Images of that night danced in her head. Blood everywhere. Jason dead over his desk. Dylan and the others scattered elsewhere. Y/N remembered the fight. 

 She remembered fighting them. The bruises on her knuckles were only faintly there now, the slightly yellow skin a physical reminder of what she'd done. Frank had done the difficult part, even though, to him, it probably wasn't that difficult anymore. 

 The way Y/N figured it, security had seen the  fight on camera and called the cops because soon there were dozens of flashing lights below them. They'd had nowhere to go, the only ways out were the elevators or the stairs so they split up and hid. Y/N hid on the floor below them in a cabinet of a break room. She was found and dragged away in cuffs. Police harassed her for the details of what happened before she was put in a van and sent downtown.

 Y/N tried to shake away the memory. Thinking about it might be good for the doctor but not for her sleep. 

 A knock on the door pulled her back to the present and that's when she smelled it.

 Burning wood. Burning...something. 

 Just then, the fire alarm went off.

 Y/N opened the door and a guard pulled her  into the hallway. "Fire drill," He lied. "This way."

 When Jerry ran past screaming and without any clothes on, the guard cursed. He watched Jerry run off and said to Y/N, "Just follow the others and stay near a nurse if you don't know where to go. Got it?!"

 When Y/N answered 'yes', he took off. 

 She did follow the crowd for a while, this facility was bigger than she realized, though, because they kept turning down one hall after another. But after a while she wondered if they were going in circles. When she couldn't take it anymore, she slipped down an empty hall and hid in a deep doorway. She listened to the shuffling of feet and mumbling of nonsense and when the noise faded she peeked around the hallway. 

 A shadow passed the corner of her eye and her heart slammed in her chest. She saw a figure standing 50 meters away from her at the very end of the hallway. He stood tall and dark with broad shoulders. She couldn't even see a face, he was all shadow. He began to jog towards her, pausing at every intersection and checking to make sure no one saw him.

 She bolted in the opposite direction of the shadow. She tried to keep her breathing even as she hurried down the hall. The intermittent windows cast eerie shadows on the floor. She rushed to the next doorway, hoping that if she moved faster, she wouldn't have time to be scared. It didn't work.

 She looked back and panicked when she didn't see anyone. She silently opened the door and found herself in the kitchen. The lights were off and all the metal shelves and supplies seemed to glow in the moonlight from the large window. 

 She crawled on the floor to the next door, begging and praying that the chef wasn't in here ready to butcher her. The soft clang of gently touching pots startled Y/N so much that she shot up and ran as fast as she could.

 When she burst into the cafeteria the back of the room was engulfed in flames and unlucky for her that's where the other two exits were. She held her hands over her face when the heat began to burn her skin. 

 She turned back to the kitchen doors only to freeze at the shadow in the small window. The door began to open and Y/N went numb with fear.

 In her panic she turned back to the fire. Maybe she could get through. Pieces of the ceiling were falling as they burned and the flames were creeping towards her.

 All at once, a beam above her broke and the man from the kitchen grabbed her and pulled her back. He rolled on top of her and covered her as the beam hit the ground hard and embers flew into the air. 

 Y/N screamed and fought the man on top of her. He was shouting but she was too scared to know what he was saying. She struggled beneath him but found a sheathed knife at his waist. She grabbed the grip and jerked, freeing the knife and raising it, ready to stab her attacker. The man grabbed her wrist before she could strike and pinned her hands to the floor.

 "Y/N! Y/N, it's me!" He let go of one of her hands and ripped the hood off of his head. "It's me!" Frank shouted.

 Y/N finally opened her eyes and when she got a good look at him she cried even harder. He let go of her only to pull her into a hug.

He rocked her for a moment as she clung to him. "Where were you?" She sobbed into his jacket.

 "I'm so sorry, I couldn't find you. I've been looking everywhere, I swear." He told her. Another beam fell and he pulled her to her feet. "We have to go. If these flames make it to the kitchen, this place is gonna blow."

 He pulled her through the kitchen and back up the dark hallway where she'd first seen him. A crash in the kitchen and Frank pulled her into the nearest room and under the huge desk that was in there.

 Within a second of getting behind the desk, the kitchen exploded from the flames hitting the gas line. The door to the room blew open and the window behind them shattered out.

 Y/N clingged to Frank who shielded her with his body. When the room settled, he checked around carefully as he stood up. He tensed when he saw a man huddled in the corner of the room. 

 Flames from the hallway now illuminated Frank's already frightening glare. He raised his gun at the man who offered up trembling hands in surrender.

 Y/N rose from behind the desk and glared at the man she recognized to be Dr. Kallstrom.

 "Who are you? Frank asked but Y/N answered.

 "This is the guy who tried to convince me I was crazy and that you were dead. He also tried to dope me up."

 When the doctor looked at her she all but bared her teeth.

 "That's right, tried. I never took your pills." She spit at him.

 "I-I-I'm sorry. I only did what I was paid to do!" He defended.

 Frank stepped closer and put the gun to his head. "Paid by who?"

 Kallstrom stuttered in fear. "I-I don't know! Some lady came and paid me to take her in and give her meds to make her shut up about The Punisher! Said no one could know about him!"

 Frank jerked the gun forward, pushing Kallstrom's head back too. "What lady?" 

 The doctor was tearing up. "I don't know! Older lady, always in a suit. She tells me to collect someone every once and awhile, pays big money to have them shut up about supers and vigilantes."

 "Who's gonna shut you up, I wonder?" Y/N asked with hatred in her voice and crossed arms over her chest. Tears still stained her cheeks but she somehow was able to convey her absolute disgust for him.

 "Shut me up?" He begged. "Why would I need to be shut up?"

 Frank smirked. "Cause I'm The Punisher." And he hit the doctor in the head with the butt of his pistol, leaving him collapsed on the floor.

 He took Y/N by the hand and they escaped through the broken window. They ran until they were certain that they weren't being followed. When they came to a hillside above the asylum, Y/N paused as she looked back. 

 "I wonder who all was sent there because they knew something that the government didn't want getting out?" She wondered.

 Frank stood beside her as they watched the buildings burn. "Don't know. But maybe someone who isn't being paid off will come in and actually help the people who need it."

 Y/N nodded. "Maybe."

 After a moment, Frank chuckled and looked at her curiously. " 'Who's gonna shut you up'? Where'd you come up with a line like that?"

 "Really? You show up almost two weeks late to rescue me and you wanna talk about my dialogue choices?" She sassed but the mood shifted again.

 "I really was looking for you. I had to call in some help after a few days and it took her some time to find you." Frank wrapped and arm across her shoulder and they turned from the asylum and kept walking. "I found you a lawyer to work a lawsuit against Harvey Inc, by the way."

 "Oh, really? You think anyone is going to take my case when I've been in a psych ward?" She leaned her head on him.

 "These people are pretty crazy themselves. You ever heard of Nelson and Murdock?"

 *   *   *

 “The Court finds Miss Y/L/N innocent of all charges. Harvey Trading will compensate Miss Y/L/N at the price of fifty thousand dollars and will be shut down indefinitely during the ongoing investigations of money laundering, various forms of harassment, fraud and theft.” The judge smacked his hammer and  dismissed the courtroom.

 Y/N jumped up hugging Foggy. “I can’t believe it!” She pulled back and ran her fingers through her hair with wide, wet eyes.  “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you.” She laughed in shock.

 Karen hugged her and rubbed her back. “You don’t need to thank us. You deserved this.”

 “Uh, you do have to pay us, though.” Foggy reminded. After a look from Matt he added, “What? We’re broke too, remember.”

 Matt smiled. “The entire company is littered in scandal and I have no doubt that the police will find everything they need to shut them down permanently.” He assured. “I think you should have gotten more but I’m not the judge.”

 “Well, I’ll give your card to all my old coworkers. Most of the women there had been harassed by Jason or knew someone who was.”

 Matt nodded. “We appreciate that. Come on, I believe we get to go celebrate, now. And I know there’s someone you haven’t hugged yet.”

 The moment the roof door opened Frank was there to wrap Y/N in a hug and spin her around. “I told you!” He grinned while Y/N laughed.

 “You did.” She smiled as he put her down. 

 He hugged her again and kissed her head. “I’m happy for you, kid.”

 Y/N looked over to see Matt, Foggy and Karen smiling at them. “Well, I can’t take any of the credit.”

 Frank walked over to Matt to give him a firm handshake. “Thank you.”

 Matt nodded. “She deserved it.”

 Karen rolled her eyes lightly and gave Frank a hug. “He did it for you, too.” She pulled back at him. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

 Frank smirked. “Yeah, I’m makin’ things work.” He said as he stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned to see Matt, Y/N and Foggy pulling out drinks and talking. “She’s a good kid.”

 “You keep calling her that, but she’s my age.” Karen wondered with a rock on her heels.

 “She’s definitely younger than you.”

 “Not by much.”  

 He looked at Y/N briefly. “She keeps me good, ya know? She reminds me of...” He trailed off at the thought of his daughter.

 Karen nodded, “She told me what all you’ve done for her.” She looked proud of him.

 Frank’s brows went up for a second and that bashful half smiled came out. “Me? Nah, she’s the one takin’ care of me.”

 There was a pause, and unspoken moment of uncertainty. They both inhaled to speak but laughed and offered the other to go first. 

 “No, you go.” Frank insisted. 

 “I was just going to say that I, uh-”

 “Do you…” Frank took a deep breath. “Want to get a drink sometime?”

 Karen flushed and fidgeted with her nails. “I’d like that.”

 “Yeah?” He swallowed. “Good, good.”

 “Ugh, just make-out already!” Y/N yelled. “It’s a roof, not a library, we can all hear you. ANd If you’re not gonna then why don’t you two teens come celebrate with me.”

 Frank huffed and shook his head and Karen bit her lips. He jerked his head back and held out his hand which she took. They joined the group and Foggy gave them both a bottle.

 “To Y/N and the downfall of Harvey Trading!” Foggy toasted.

 “To the well deserved,” Karen added.

 Y/N raised her drink. “To not being crazy.”

 Frank chuckled. “I don’t know about that.” He teased.

 Y/N shoved him and grinned. They all took a drink and Y/N sighed in the comfort of this new found family. 

 “Did you ever find out who the woman was who paid the crazy doc to take Y/N in?” Frank looked to Matt.

 Matt sighed. “No, we’re still trying to figure that out but my guess- and I have no evidence yet- but I’m thinking it’s CongressWoman Newman. She’s had strings on every case you’ve been involved with and with a few others from Hell’s Kitchen.” He nodded. “I’m putting my money on her but I’ll get something solid soon.”

 Frank nodded and put an arm around Y/N’s neck, pulling her close. “As long as Y/N stays safe.”

 “Well, she can definitely afford a better apartment, now.” Foggy chuckled.

 “What’s wrong with my apartment?” Y/N looked at the group.

 Karen bit her lip and Foggy looked at Matt who chewed his bottom lip.

 “Everything.” Frank admitted.

 “Hey! I worked hard to make that place home.” SHe pouted, in mock offense.

 “Don’t get me wrong,” Frank defended himself, “You did great with what you had but you didn’t really have much to work with.” He snickered.

 Y/N rolled her eyes and took another drink. “Whatever. I like my apartment.”

 “Well, you’re going to want to move into someplace nicer, now.” Frank nudged her. “I think I’ve earned my own room, not just the couch.”

 Y/N raised her glass. “I’ll agree with you on that. Fine, I’ll start looking tomorrow.”

 Frank smiled, happy for Y/N. She deserved this. She deserved to live somewhere safer, somewhere nice. Somewhere he didn’t have to worry about her if he ever needed to take off again. He took a sip and winked at her. 

 “But I’m gonna get a place where the bedrooms are on opposite ends of the house,” She smirked and looked at the floor. “So, when Karen comes over I don’t have to listen to the beating of the headboard.”

 Frank choked on his drink.

*   *   *   *

Forever Tags:

@heismyhunter @sgtbxckybxrnes @pickledmoon @whimsicalrebirth @marvel-lucy @thisisthelilith @james-bionic-barnes @thedreamingowl @poemwriter98@kimistry27 @annie-lujan @buckyandsebsinbin @lilasiannerd @gypsy-storm-15 @cassiopeiassky @earinafae @the-stuttering-kiwi @obsessedwithatwell @shortiiqt16 @shifutheshihtzu @elaacreditava @nikkitia7 @theonewithallthemilkshakes @gallifreyansass @storytellingwanderer @palaiasaurus64 @iamwarrenspeace @engineeringgirlcve @magnolia-wanders @carameldaemoncakes @canumoveyourseatup-no @melconnor2007 @movingonto-betterthings @spideytrxsh @fantasticmiraclehologram @kapolisradomthoughts @iamwarrenspeace @melconnor2007 @yesiamdeliciouslycaffeinated @mcu-avengerrs @archy3001@mmauricee @barnesvogue @feelmyroarrrr @beyondbarnes @marvelous-avengers @veronicalei @cornflax01 @kudosia @witchymarvelspacecase@beccaanne814 @inumorph @thisismysecrethappyplace @artemis521@darkhologramblaze @palaiasaurus64 @awkwardfangirl2014@diinofayce @youclickedthislink  @lille-kattunge @patzammit @amiquette @destiel-artemis​ @nea90sweetie​ @miraclesoflove​ @nickimarie94​

Crazy Tags:

@evilxcupcakexnik​ @harrysthiccthighss​

[southeastasianists]

In the unassuming Bangkok condo that serves as Wan Hertz’s classroom, one wall is devoted to her certificates. Some are her credentials as a legitimately trained fruit carver; others are government endorsements attesting to her skills. And a handful are awards from global competitions, placing her in the top tier of fruit carvers in the world.

“Anyone can be good at this, as long as you have perseverance,” says Hertz, who is helping Oklahoma couple Shevaun and Terrance Williams coax petals out of a stubborn carrot. All the same, she says, “the best carvers in the world are Thai.”

Out of the many culinary stars spawned by social media—pastry chefs towering over edible replicas of city landscapes, fresh-faced vegan chefs preaching the joys of clean living—fruit carvers may have had the most to gain. Their work, birthed over hours or even days, hunched over alone and in obscurity, can now literally blossom under the watchful eye of the camera, revealing itself via video or snapshots on Facebook and Instagram. Today, fruit carvers can be stars like Massimo De Vita, with thousands of followers and his own television show.

In Thailand, the art of fruit carving, or kae sa lak polamai, was once showcased at every major event and banquet. Whereas Chinese carvers specialized in shaping human figures or animals and the Japanese preferred patterns, Thais excelled in floral motifs. Every main dish at a Thai restaurant with fine dining pretensions was accompanied by fruit or vegetables carved into flowers or leaves, and the artists themselves were featured in dining rooms, displaying their craft to the masses.

Today, it is considered a dying art. At the same time, Thailand’s long history of fruit carving is being shunted to the background as international news stories trumpet the craft as a rising trend in the West.

“There is no child who wants to do this,” says chef Supapit Opatvisan. A Thai culinary instructor at Le Cordon Bleu Dusit in Bangkok, he counts himself as having been one of those children, forced to learn fruit carving at school because the flower arrangement class was full.

Learning to artfully carve fruits and vegetables is a traditional skill for Thai chefs, but there’s a catch. “You see the results slowly,” explains Opatvisan. “You discover you are good at it in six months, maybe a year.”

“If you don’t know fruit carving, you can still be a Thai chef,” he continues. “But if you do know it, it makes you that much better than the average chef.”

In the early 20th century, the very best Thai chefs worked at the royal court. Strict rules governed the appearance of royal dishes, where food was expected to satisfy three precepts: aharn pak, aharn tha, and aharn jai, or food for the mouth, eyes, and spirit.

“When you serve food to the royal family, the food must be delicious, but also very beautiful,” says Sidhorn Sangdhanoo, a Thai language professor whose mother worked in the royal kitchens in the beginning of the 20th century. A red curry needed to include green eggplants; a green curry had to hold accents of red. Once a week, a nam prik, or chili relish dip, was served with herbs and painstakingly carved vegetables. When the king was especially pleased with a dish, he placed four baht (about $20 today) on the tray as a reward to the cook.

“When we praised mother for a very good dish, she would always reply, ‘Give me four baht,’” says the 86-year-old with a laugh.

Not surprisingly, the ritual of dining in the royal court contributed to the aura of prestige that surrounded the Thai throne. Every household in the palace—headed by a different wife—vied for the honor of having the best table or excelling at a particular domestic art.

Of course, fruit carving was one of those arts. It’s said to have originated in the Sukhothai era (1238-1438), when a concubine decorated a floating lantern with flower and bird shapes carved from fruit. Such was the importance of fruit carving that a famous legend tells of a king discovering that his long-lost mother worked in the kitchen, after she carved his life story onto the side of a green melon and served it to him as a soup bowl.

“Fruit carving shows refinement,” says Tom Vitayakul, owner of the upscale Bangkok restaurant Ruen Urai. “There are some things that Thai people love. We love details.”

But fruit carving was only one of the food-related signifiers wielded by the palace to display the power of the monarch, says Sirichalerm Svasti, who grew up in the palace as a child.

Svasti—better known as the TV cooking personality Chef McDang—says that royal kitchen rules were myriad: no bones, pits, or seeds; no extremes in flavor; only prime, seasonal ingredients. Diners were served Russian-style, with servers bringing trays to the table from which people could help themselves. Food was already cut into bite-sized pieces, so there were no knives in the table setting, even when Western food was on the menu.

The monarch, seated at the middle of the table, had his own set of cutlery and dishes that no one else could ever use; his own food was served wrapped in muslin and closed with a wax seal. The seal could only be broken by his taster, who had to test his food for poison; as a result, the monarch’s food was always lukewarm at most. When he finished, everyone else had to be finished too.

Naturally, every dish was garnished with beautifully carved fruits and vegetables. “There are 30 servants in the kitchen. They need something to do!” jokes Svasti. But “you don’t eat that, okay?” he says. “It’s a decoration. Don’t be an idiot.”

Although Thai fruit carving is taught in schools and considered a cherished part of national culture, there are fewer and fewer places for carvers to display their craft. Hertz used to carve fruit for a host of hotel kitchens, from the Mandarin Oriental to the Marriott Riverside. Fruit carving at hotels has since gone by the wayside, replaced by a focus on spas. Today, she runs the Siam Carving Academy out of her home.

There is less of a focus on fruit and vegetable carving in fine Thai restaurants as well. “We used to do more of it,” Ruen Urai’s Vitayaku admits. “I see it as fuddy-duddy and old-fashioned. It is also a waste. You throw it away after two days.”

Still, the Khon Kaen-bred Hertz, who has been carving since she was seven, continues to compete internationally. In her opinion, the most difficult mediums are taros and turnips, as they’re too brittle for rough handling. It takes her 15 minutes to carve a rose from a tomato, and an hour for a melon. Although some carvers boast a whole arsenal of carving tools, Hertz only uses her meed keed, a flexible blade extracted from a hacksaw.

Winning competitions usually only results in a little money and a certificate. “But those certificates help when you are applying for your next job,” Hertz says.

At the same time, the spirit of fruit carving lingers on in a younger generation. Subphachittra Dinakara Sukarawan, third-generation owner of the ML Puang Dinakara cooking school, presents a modern, more glamorous image of a Thai fruit carver through her social media accounts on Facebook and Instagram.

Sukarawan sees the internet as a boon to fruit carving, both in Thailand and abroad. “Today we have open sources of information and knowledge available to those who are interested in fruit carving, such as YouTube,” she says. “This is totally different from back when all of this knowledge was only conveyed to certain groups, within family members or the palace.”

Even “when someone learns to carve an exquisite motif on a guava,” she says, that means this most traditional of Thai arts has a chance to spread and live on.

[misssophiachase]

Reality Bites - Chapter 4: Gimme Shelter

Synopsis: Caroline is the long-suffering producer on America's number one reality television program Meet the Mikaelsons. The wealthy, English family are difficult but Caroline has to stick it out so she can get the promotion she's been eyeing. Enter arrogant, second-eldest sibling Klaus Mikaelson who has every intention of messing with her plans. 

Playa Palmilla, San Jose del Cabo

"Oh, come on, love, don't be like this. I'll let you pick which bedroom you want?" He offered by way of an olive branch as they collected their bags from the trunk of the cab.

Yes, maybe he felt a little bad. What with crashing her flight and cancelling her accommodation and then insisting she stay with him. Klaus decided it sounded a lot worse than it actually was. He told himself before the flight that it made perfect sense for them to fly and stay together but upon further reflection, and her outraged reaction, he was starting to get a complex.

Yes, Klaus Mikaelson usually got his way, not because he insisted upon it but because ever since he could remember that was just the way things were. Of course, coming from a famous, wealthy and powerful family dynasty that was expected and it had just become second nature to Klaus. 

Until Caroline Forbes breezed into his life. 

Rather than feeling put out by her adverse reaction, Klaus reveled in it. He was so used to people doing and saying the right thing around him, but Caroline Forbes had absolutely no filter and wasn't ashamed to tell him when he was being an ass, as she liked to put it. Judging by how frequently she did it, Klaus really should have learned his lesson but, when it came to her, he was greedy for more.

Caroline didn't bother to respond or wait for him, just powered off bags in hand to the private villa on Palmilla Beach they'd booked for the week. Klaus was trying to ignore just how good she looked in that floral dress with her blonde hair hanging loose around her shoulders in soft waves. Although, Klaus was beginning to realize that was just her default setting.

She opened the door ahead of him and stepped into the open plan living area. He'd be shocked if she found a problem given the picturesque views from the floor to ceiling windows, simple but modern furniture and its spacious and airy feel.

"Well, that's the least you could do," she growled, finally responding. "I want the one with the biggest bathroom."

"I think you'll find there's only one joint bathroom between the rooms," he explained. She walked over to inspect the layout and noticed the interconnecting doors from both bedrooms to the bathroom.

"Unbelievable!" She muttered. "I can't share a bathroom with you, I mean what if I'm in there and you walk in on me in the shower?"

"Well, you could just as easily walk in on me, love," he winked teasingly. He could tell she wanted to bite about that particular endearment but she obviously thought there were more important battles to win today.

"You do realize that if I still had my original booking I wouldn't have to share at all?"

"You do realize that your original room is a shoebox compared to this, right?"

"Yes, but it was my shoebox," she insisted, her blue eyes blazing angrily. "One that apparently wouldn't be available any longer because it's peak season, except your assistant managed to find both Kat and Bonnie rooms at short notice."

"Well, when you're a Mikaelson…"

"Yes, life is so easy when you're a freaking, Mikaelson," she shot back, and Klaus couldn't miss the venom in her voice. It felt almost like a slap in the face. Why did she hate him and his family so much? Being a producer of their reality show would be a good start but Klaus knew there was more to it. She marched towards one of the bedrooms before he could properly respond.

"I take it I've got the other bedroom then," he assumed, placing his bags on the bed.

"Why can't my friends just stay here?" She asked, appearing again, hands on hips. "There's plenty of room. We could have a sleepover and paint each other's nails and then have a pillow fight in our underwear."

"You seriously do that?" He was joking but it didn't stop her from rolling her eyes in his direction.

"We both know the rules about fraternization amongst the crew and the ban against friends visiting the set. In fact, a little birdie told me you actually came up with those," he replied, taking a seat on his bed and patting the spot next to him.

"Trust me, Elijah will be thanking me for that rule," she replied mysteriously, making him curious about exactly what that meant. "And I am not sitting there. It's already bad enough we are staying together, I mean it's hardly professional given the aforementioned rules."

"We are co-producers, if the rest of the crew has a problem, they can speak to me about the accommodation arrangements."

"The crew I'm fine with given they're my rules and I'm also their boss, it's your brother. He sent me a text with a childhood taunt about us K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree accompanied by multiple, kissy-face emojis."

Hearing her say that, Klaus immediately felt a stab of something right in his chest, he decided to blame it on the interesting food they served in Coach. They'd briefly run into his family outside the airport but he'd happily ditched their too-close-for-comfort limousine for a cab with Caroline.

"Please tell me you're talking about Henrik?"

"Do you really think Henrik would do that? He may only be sixteen but the kid is one of the most mature teenagers I know and given the circus he's growing up in that is impressive." Klaus immediately felt pleased that she thought as highly of her little brother as he did. But back to his younger, more wayward brother.

"Wishful thinking on my part, I guess. How exactly does Kol have your cell number? I remember it took me at least a month to procure that."

"He asked," she replied, shrugging her shoulders lazily. "I thought it would be rude not to oblige."

"Unbelievable," he growled. "What else does he send you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. I'm his producer and he's one of the cast," she explained. "It would be unprofessional of me to divulge those details."

"Why are you so hard on me?" The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. It was something he'd been wondering for the longest time but never had the courage to ask. Klaus knew he could be difficult and a little arrogant at times (he blamed his upbringing for that particular trait) but when it came to his family, he was the least of her troubles.

"I'm not," she murmured, although her indecisive tone was telling Klaus she was lying. "But you definitely give me more grief."

"I give you grief? You do realize I have immature Kol and spoilt Rebekah as siblings, right?" He shot back. "I'm no trouble at all, in fact, not only have I lightened the workload with the producer duties, but I also suggested this little trip so we can rate the pants off the competition. I mean who wants to watch five conceited brunettes whose names start with the same letter shop?"

"Plenty of people but I'm not going into our competition with you again. However, I need to correct you on a few of those outrageous claims, Mikaelson," she argued stomping on the spot briefly. Klaus had discovered that's what she did when she was trying to make a point. "Number one, you stole half my job without asking, I might add. I never gave it to you and I was handling the workload just fine. Number two, I still maintain that you brought the entire team down to Mexico to hook up with your ex and ogle other women on the side." He stood up to interrupt before she held up her finger to stop him. "Yes, I said ogle. And number three, I'm going to go shower now for dinner with my friends before I say something else I might regret."

"Wow, so much restraint, Forbes," he scoffed sarcastically and moved closer, the distance between them not so far anymore. "Number one, I didn't steal, I asked for the producer job and number two sounds like someone is very jealous about who I do and do not ogle."

"Oh, you are way off-base, mister," she huffed, poking him in the chest accusingly. "I could care less what or who you do, I'm just stating a fact. Although, please refrain from doing it so close to my bedroom."

"Well, I'm sure you can ask the set medic to keep you warm at night if you feel left out, sweetheart." It just came out, and he immediately regretted it. Klaus was starting to realize she had that effect on him but she didn't retreat and neither did he, their gazes held, heated and intense.

He'd be lying if Doctor Wonderful hadn't taken him by surprise after showing up on set to swoop in and save the day. His mother Esther was still frothing at the mouth over his 'soulful, brown eyes' and Klaus had found himself wondering just how close he and Caroline were. Not that he liked Caroline in that way, Klaus was only trying to make sure things on set were professional. Given Caroline invented the rules she should be happy he was adhering to the protocol.

"I cannot believe you just went there," she drawled, finally looking away. "My love life and who I choose to sleep with is none of your business."

"You started it," he muttered thinking it sounded much more mature in his head. "But you can't go out with your friends tonight, mother has summoned us to a private dinner at her villa to discuss the shoot."

It was kind of true, Klaus insisted that he'd only attend if Caroline was invited too. He couldn't explain why he wanted her around all the time especially given how much of a hard time she gave him.

"I don't do family dinners, especially with the Mikaelson Brady Bunch, I would need way too many Margheritas to deal with that." He cocked his left eyebrow thinking that was a strange thing to say. About the family dinners and not about the excessive alcohol.

"Welcome to my world, trust me mother will have more than enough alcohol. How do you think we survive Christmas and every other holiday each year?"

"Mikaelson," she groaned. "You really hate me don't you?"

"Yes," he scowled, thinking she should have her own show because she could be just that dramatic. "Look, if you don't want to go then, by all means, let her know. I'm sure you have her cell number too and text her regularly."

"I cannot believe you," she muttered. "It truly is your mission to destroy what little social life I have, isn't it?"

"You do whatever you need to do sweetheart, I'm going to shower," he strode past her and towards the bathroom.

"But I said I was showering first!" She whined.

"Well, it looks like you're going to have to wait your turn," he teased, giving her one final smirk before shutting the door behind him.

Fifteen minutes later and Klaus was enjoying his shower, well except for the constant interruptions.

"Mikaelson get your butt out of the damn shower." She banged on the door in short, sharp bursts. The frequency of her interruptions was increasing. Klaus smiled evilly, he was having way too much fun annoying her.

"You know it would go a lot quicker if you didn't knock so often, love. Maybe it would be easier if you just came in and helped me with all the hard to reach places?"

"Over my dead body," she muttered. It seemed to work as her knocking finally stopped. Klaus chuckled to himself thinking that he'd won this latest battle. It was only when he turned to put back the cake of soap on the dish, that the water went freezing cold. Klaus screamed, jumping back in fright. It was only when he heard her laughing on the other side of the door that Klaus knew who was responsible.

"Ooops, I turned the faucet on! Was I not supposed to do that?" He leaned in and shut off the faucet, shaking his head as he did it. Maybe this particular battle went to her but Klaus knew the war was far from over.

You can read and review on AO3 and FF

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Bedside Stories ch.1 (baon)

Summary:  In the aftermath of Internal Disputes. Everything is going swell.

Tags: Spicyhoney,  Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Hospitals

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

One of the first things Stretch had done when Edge was able to remain more awake was to sign in to their Netflix account on the hospital room television. Or rather, Red’s Netflix account since they still hadn’t bothered to get their own. He suspected Red took some minor glee at allowing others to pirate his account and who was he to steal his brother’s joy. He’d keep his thefts to digital streaming services.

But the television was currently dark, hunkering in the corner and silenced from the bevy of cooking shows played non-stop since that morning, ones like Sugar Rush and Cake Wars. Edge finally snapped on the second episode of ‘Nailed It’ and turned it off to relish the silence. His pain was currently at a tolerable level without any medication and he preferred not to add to it with awful programs.

On the table beneath the tv was a lovely floral arrangement sent by Asgore, one that he’d quite likely made himself and Edge truly appreciated that Stretch only put it where Edge directed and made no comment about who it was from.

It wasn’t entirely a surprise; Stretch had been on his best behavior for the past couple days and if the shrill voices of the hosts from that awful show had grated on his nerves, a well-behaved Stretch was nearly worse. He loved his husband as he was, snark and puns and all. It was nearly better to have him briefly gone, with the hopes he’d be more himself when he returned.

Much as Edge appreciated the current silence, there wasn’t much else to do in the hospital room. There was a stack of books sitting on the side table that he didn’t want to read along with his cell phone which gave him an apologetic message stating that his account could not currently access the Embassy servers, along with a terrible stick figure drawing resembling Janice with a word balloon that said, ‘Get well soon!’.

On top of the books was a rubix cube that Jeff brought in for him, a thoughtful gift that Edge solved in less than a minute, to his laughing dismay.

He was actually starting to reluctantly consider playing Simcity on his phone when a hammering knock at the door almost sent him flying to his feet. Or foot, rather, since one of them was currently firmly encased in a plaster cast.

“Come in!” Edge called irritably. He really could do without anyone testing whether skeletons could have a heart attack for a while.

He wasn’t surprised when the door flew open to reveal Undyne, grinning unrepentantly. She all but slammed the door behind her and flopped down in the chair by the bed, propping her booted feet up on the bed rail.

“Heya, tough nerd, where is your pretty honey bunny?” She glanced around the room as if she expected to find Stretch stashed away in the closet or under the bed.

“Must you call him that?” Edge sighed. The soles of her boots were leaving smudges on his sheets and he reached down to give them a slap, knocking them to the floor. Undyne only laughed.

“Touchy.” She shifted to lean with her elbows on her knees, hands hanging between them. “I’m the one whose knocked up, shouldn’t I be having the mood swings?”

“Thinking of you with mood swings is terrifying. Congratulations, by the way.” Edge knew very little about pregnancy, but he couldn’t really see a change in Undyne. He thought she might be wearing a slightly looser shirt than normal, but nothing else seemed visible, not even the ‘glow’ often mentioned in books and movies.

“Eh, thanks,” she grinned. “But let’s back up a step. I figured that honey of a hubby of yours wouldn’t leave your side.”

“You would be correct, even if I want him to,” Edge said dryly. “Much as I adore him, he was starting to get, shall we say, antsy. I sent him home to check on his chickens and to bring me some clean clothes.” Today was the first day Edge was in a position to despise the hospital gowns and he was, with great distaste.

“Uh huh. When are they springing you?” The way Undyne’s gaze fell over him was familiar, assessing damage and calculating potential weakness. It was automatic and came from a place of concern, he knew, but it was difficult not to bristle.

“Hopefully tomorrow, for a week’s rest and then a walking cast.”

Her eye narrowed, flicking back to his leg. “Bad?

“Not as bad as it could have been. For one, it’s still attached.” Undyne barked a laugh and pounded on the arm of her chair, which was the hoped for reaction. He’d tried that particular gallows humor with Stretch earlier and he had not been amused in the slightest. “It was mostly healed before we even got to the hospital, but the bone needs support until the doctors deem otherwise. Now that we’ve discussed me, can we…?”

“Yeah, sure.” She leaned back in her chair and spread her hands over her belly, pulling her t-shirt taut. That revealed the soft swell of her belly. “Alphys and I decided it was time to have a rugrat to chase, so us and the pop-sicle are on it.”

Popsicle? He didn’t want to know. But he did ask, curiously, “When are you due?”

“‘Bout two months.”

“Two months!” Edge blinked at her in shock. “I thought you’d be...more…” He held his arms out in front of his own empty stomach cavity in a wide circle.

She scoffed loudly and flexed, the firm ball of her bicep popping. “When you’re swole like me, the baby’s gotta fight the abs. And let me tell you, they’re trying.” She smirked then, a fiendish sort of glitter in her eye that filled Edge with equal parts fondness and terror. “You wanna feel the baby?”

“Well, I—”

Too late, she already stood and snatched up his hand, plopped it the slight curve of her belly. It was oddly firm, not at all what he was expecting and before he adjusted to that, there came a wiggle, like a fish was caught in her stomach which it might very well be. Ugh, that was disturbing. He preferred children after the creation process was finished.

She let him pull away and from her grin, she knew exactly how Edge felt about it; some of her glee rather resembled Red’s...or another Undyne, from another world. She flopped back in her chair and gave her belly an absent scratch. “So, when are you and Stretch gonna--”

“Please don’t ask.”

She frowned. “Oh. Sorry.”

It wasn’t her concern or her business, it was private, between him and Stretch, and Edge was as astonished as anyone to hear himself say, “He doesn’t want children.”

“What?” Undyne’s face twisted into disbelief. “Get off it. He loves kids, he’s always getting into trouble with the local ankle-biters. Bet you could talk him into it.”

“I don’t want to talk him into it.” Edge barely kept his testiness down, he knew Undyne, and knew she didn’t mean any harm, and he was the one who’d opened the topic. "I never want him to feel like a child is something he needs to agree to to keep me. I—“ He hesitated, thinking of Stretch, and his irritation faded. His faint smile was automatic, as natural as breathing when it came to thinking about his husband. As terrible as their anniversary had been with him mostly in a drugged sleep and Stretch curled up against him in his arms, Edge would have rather done it that way a dozen times over than to not have it at all. “I love him and I’ve accepted that we won’t have children. That’s our choice.”

For the first time, that honestly felt true. He supposed there was a faint hope lingering after their brief discussion last year, one that nagged at the back of his mind, tugged at his soul. But if he forced himself to truly consider it, Edge was happy with their lives the way they were and that wasn’t simply from Stretch’s preference; if they had a child, he would need to severely limit his other commitments to the Embassy and the Monster community as a whole. Plus there were the children at the Y to consider, children whose home lives were far from perfect, who craved a stabilizing influence.

Those children needed him more than he needed to speculate on an imaginary child. Even the children in New New home, who had loving parents of their own, needed to be protected from a world that was not yet as accepting as they might wish. The glaring white cast on his foot was proof of that.

That little pang he sometimes got when he thought of having a child of his own eased, fading, and Edge was content to let it go.

Undyne was looking at him with unusual shrewdness. “Yeah, I get that. Well, you’ll be a great uncle, both of ya, and I’m betting we’ll be trying to hook you up with babysitting duties.”

“I’d like that,” Edge said honestly. “And all the other neighborhood children seem to enjoy having a spare uncle or two. I’m sure your tadpole will be delighted to join the rest.”

She slapped her knees and stood. “Well, I gotta get back to the shitshow...and don’t even bother asking, I’m not supposed to tell you anything yet, that’s orders from on high. Just wanted to check in on you.” She sobered, and said with unusual softness. “And thank you. If I’d been there--” She shuddered, her hand falling down to rest on the slight swell of her belly.

“You don’t need to thank me, but you’re welcome,” Edge said sincerely.

Her somberness split into another wide grin. “But while I’m here….”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a Sharpie, waggling her eyebrows as she held it up.

Ugh. They’d only put the cast on this morning and thus far, no one else had been around to attempt signing it. Grimly, Edge nodded. This was a bonding ritual of sorts in this world, and he would not be so churlish as to refuse it.

“Nothing obscene,” he warned. Undyne scoffed, but obediently signed only her name, adding in a clumsy sketch of her own face saying ‘get well soon, nerd!’

The door opened as she was finishing, Stretch barrelling inside with several bags in his arms. “okay, i know it’s cold out, but you won’t be able to do any turns on the catwalk soon anyway, so i figured gym shorts would be easier to get on you--hey!” He stopped, outraged. “i was gonna do that!”

“I left you plenty of room,” Undyne snorted.

Stretch harrumphed and started digging through one of the bags. He pulled out an entire package of sharpies in a startling array of colors. “my canvas is the world!”

“Your canvas is on my body,” Edge said dryly. “You may sign your name and sketch a small picture, Van Gogh.”

“salvador dali had a better moustache. and both ears.”

“Considering you have neither--”

“yeah, yeah. hey, undyne, congrats on the bump.”

“Thanks,” Undyne said easily, but Edge noticed she didn’t try to grab Stretch’s hand and drag it over to feel any kicking. Neither did Stretch ask and that seemed best. “See you two nerds around!”

“See ya,” Stretch called even as he plopped down to sit next to Edge’s carefully propped leg. “oh, yeah, here, i got you this.”

From the depths of his bag came a couple of books, not novels, but crosswords and sudoku, both with bright titles declaring them ‘World’s Most Difficult Puzzles’! There were also two metal squares about the size of his fist and when Edge inspected them, he found that they were latticed, dozens of different parts that appeared to be a whole.

“those are supposed to be really tough brainteasers...shit!” Stretch had been struggling with opening the packet of pens and when he finally pried the plastic apart, they fell out in a burst, scattering over the bed. Grumbling, he gathered them up in a messy rainbow pile near Edge’s cast.

Edge added a blue sharpie that had made it all the way up to the pillow to the pile, then set books and puzzles on his other side. “Thank you.”

“sure. i figured you were tired of watching other people baking when you can’t stand up and do it yourself.” Stretch contemplated his pile of pens, his face screwed up comically, and his expression brightened into an ‘aha’ as he picked up one in bright orange. Of course.

“Stretch?”

“hmm?” he said absently, pen poised over the rough plaster.

“I love you.” Edge said it with all the deep, longing sweetness in his battered soul, the warmth that rose merely from thinking of Stretch, trying in some small way to project the depth of his love.

Stretch blinked and lowered his pen. Undyne might not normally be shrewd but Stretch very much was and his look was assessing. Wondering, perhaps, what happened while Undyne was here.

“i love you, too.” Then his mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. “but you’re interrupting art here.”

Edge smiled back and shook his head. “Far be it from me to play the part of philistine.”

“actually, this might end up more picasso,” Stretch mused, “guess we’ll see.” The tip of the sharpie touched down as Stretch began, but Edge didn’t watch his dubious attempt at art. Instead, he began inspecting the brain teaser his husband brought for him.

As if Stretch wasn’t a walking, talking brain teaser every day.

Edge lightly touched each joint as he contemplated how to begin, listening as Stretch hummed down by his feet, sketching something that would likely be terrible for him to love.

-finis-

[naomixhill]

22 February 2020

All I want to do is make it work. So while you are spending Saturday morning in the office, I am making arrangements for a romantic night. I book a hotel off 3rd St. and make us a reservation for The Guild House, a stained-glass, floral-filled, new age American hot spot in the Short North. 

You seem happy about the effort when I tell you, but I am always wondering if I am doing the right things, saying the right things, being the right person. I am in a constant and gripping state of agonizing fear: Do I really know you at all? Do you really want to be here in this present moment with me? My anxieties are uncontrollable and insane. 

When we get to the hotel room, it is exactly as I imagined. Executive suites probably mean something to most people, but to me they are an ordinary depiction of the world. I was practically raised in Ritz Carltons and Four Seasons Hotels. I grab my makeup and head to the bathroom to get ready. When I come out, I see it, and I see you. 

You’re sitting in front of the television watching the new XFL on ESPN. On the stool nearby is a handle of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky. I can’t stand the smell of it, I can’t stand looking at it. You don’t know this, but it was his drink of choice. The smell reminds me of being thrown down a flight of stairs in a college house off Indianaola and Lane on my birthday. It reminds me coming home and crying to the mirror, saying how it’s my birthday but it never feels like my birthday anymore and covering my bruises with powder. 

I can only remember one other time that I have ever seen you drink it, you know. You just had a multi-million dollar deal go up in smoke, and I found you on the couch with the handle pressed up to your lips and your head slung back. I wonder if I make you feel like you lost a multi-million deal. I wonder where the connection is. 

We go to the hotel bar and drink. I am in a lacy black dress that I refer to as my designer fishnet. I order a glass of wine. You order a cocktail. I am struggling to read you. 

We make it to Guild House and as I am climbing out of the taxi, you accidentally shut the door on me. I can feel a bruise coming tomorrow. I wonder how drunk you are. But we go to dinner, and drink some more, and you complain of the husband and wife next to us. I didn’t even notice them; I am totally focused on you and wanting to make you happy and wondering how I keep you happy. 

Back at the hotel, the room is spinning. All I wanted to do was connect with you and have a night out with you, away from this hell. Somehow you can’t get rid of it when it lives inside you. 

[rueitae]

Once More, With Feeling

For @paliseizy‘s Coran Week! I had this idea lurking in my head for a while, but this event kicked me in gear to finish! Much thanks to @sp4c3-0ddity for her usual encouragement. For the prompts Ship (Coran and an OC, though its not the focus) and AU.

When given the option to try and change the past for Allura's sake, he takes it. It's just a bonus he gets to change Keith's life for the better.

Or, canon compliant Coran time travels and raises Keith in canon divergent AU.

Warning for Major Character Death (of old age, and at the beginning).

Read on Ao3. Roughly 10,600 words.

~~~~~

Coran pauses, arm outstretched to open the door before him.

It hasn’t gotten any easier, his greying hairs an outward expression of his aged body and mind. Although he’s spent the trip from Altea mentally preparing himself for this, it hasn’t helped. Even though everyone has greeted him kindly upon arrival he’s terrified to open the door, not because of who he’ll see - never who - but what.

The grip on the flowers tighten. He must. He’s paid the same to the others, his children by choice, and he’ll be quiznaked if doesn’t give Keith the same comfort.

Taking courage from their memory, he turns the knob, hands sweaty under his gloves.

The hospital room is more cheerful than he remembers them being, painted in a beautiful light orange. Vases full of floral arrangements both Earthly and alien crowd the tables and chairs. Coran’s heart twinges. There’s been no visitors lately, only mailed in well wishes.

A nurse with familiar auburn hair leans over the single bed, and upon his entry rises to greet him with a smile. “Good evening, Uncle Coran. Welcome back to the Garrison.”

Coran nods politely, a smile pushing up on his face. “A pleasure to see you again, Samantha. How are classes going?”

She beams at him. “Aced my last set of tests. I’ll be a doctor before you know it.”

Coran whistles. That soon? Just yesterday it seemed she’d graduated from secondary school. “She’d be proud of you, all of you kids,” he tells her.

Her face glows with the praise, a light flush around her cheeks. Quiznak, she’s the spitting image of her great-great-grandmother.

He misses Pidge so much. And Hunk and Shiro and Lance.

And Allura still.

Her gaze wanders briefly to the bed. “He’s just napping, but you can stay with him until he wakes. He’ll be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, taking her hands in his and giving them a gentle pat. “Give your parents a fond hello for me.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and his mustache tingles with joy. He gives her familial hug before she leaves the room.

With great care he sets the flowers aside to sit on the chair at the bed.

Coran’s heart is at ease as he watches Keith sleep peacefully. The man has outlived his fellow Paladins thanks to his Galra heritage, but his white hair, thin arms, and wrinkles are all so human. Time has helped, but it’s still hard on his heart to see the young man he met and nurtured, so full of life, bound to bed at the end of it.

To be the last has been a burden on him, one that Coran must soon carry.

Keith’s eyes lift slowly, but smiles. “Hey Coran,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Coran pats his arm, careful of the IV keeping him hydrated. “I came as soon as I could, my boy. How are you feeling?”

Keith cracks a wry smile. “Been better,” he quips. “How’s Altea?”

“Getting along just fine without me,” Coran jokes back. He hasn’t done much governance lately, a task for the younger generation now.

Keith nods slowly, his eyes focusing on a point on the far wall. “I’m tired, Coran. I thought I’d go out fighting.” He chuckles, smile fond. “I still hear Shiro’s voice telling me to be patient.”

“I think of them too,” Coran tells him. He files them in the same category as Alfor and the original Paladins now, to be remembered for the vitality and joy brought to his life and the lives of all who knew them. “Allura could have used that advice back in the day, she was quite vivacious as a child. I can’t count the times I had to lure her to the duflax pond or juniberry fields while Alfor worked - she wanted so much to help him.”

Keith laughs, an easy one that was so hard to come by when they first met. “She did that and more,” he says sincerely.

Quiznak, he can’t cry yet. “She did,” he agrees as his eyes scrunch shut, holding back the tears.

A hand rests lightly on his. The simple action leaves Keith near breathless, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I want you to do it,” he rasps.

Coran can’t stop the light gasp that escapes his lips. He knows exactly what Keith speaks of, but, “It’s a fantastic dream, Keith. We barely had a chance with all of us, I can’t finish on my own.”

“Lance finished it,” Keith says quickly.

Coran’s eyes threaten to bulge out of their sockets. Lance had been no idiot, but to finish what they’d been working on…

“He learned a lot more from Hunk and Pidge than he let on,” Keith continues. “He applied some old movie logic and it worked, Coran. We used it on a toy. It was the last thing he did before he...”

Died.

Coran remembers the funeral well; family and friends around the open casket while the universe outside mourned. His gifted Altean markings glow too brightly for the naked eye and when they look back, his body is gone.

There’s no wondering where he’s gone. His name is carved at the base of the statue of Allura on Altea, underneath Pidge’s and Hunk’s and Shiro’s - where Keith’s will join them one day.

Coran’s heat thumps with hope. What was once throwaway gibberish from Slav turned into Pidge’s offhanded theorizing and Hunk’s idle tinkering. A chance grew - not just to correct mistakes but to give her a chance, a chance to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

“Time travel is a dangerous beast, Keith. Can is one thing… but should we do it?”

Keith exhales and relaxes into his pillow. He closes his eyes for a long moment. When they open, Coran can tell he’s decided.

“If there’s a chance, we should take it. Please, Coran. Do it for her. Let her live a full life with us. Make sure everyone gets a happy ending.”

Keith coughs, his body lurching forward, the machine monitoring his heart rate going wild at the sudden movement. Coran steadies him, holds him close until he’s finished.

“Do you have everything in order?” Coran asks as he helps Keith back to his resting position.

Keith catches his breath before responding. “Yorak has the blade, you have the key to the lab. I don’t have anything else to take care of.”

Coran nods and takes the man’s hand, squeezing it tight as the intervals between beeps on the monitor become longer.

Keith squeezes back, tears in his eyes. “Thank you for being here. I miss… I miss the team… I miss Mom… and I miss Dad…”

“You’ll be with them soon,” Coran chokes. His own tears filter his vision. Another dozen deca-feebs or so and Coran can start to contemplate when he’ll join them. “I know they’d be so pleased with everything you’ve done in their stead.”

Keith closes his eyes and smiles. “Dad…”

The monitor flatlines, a term Coran has come to despise. He cries, arms trembling as he holds Keith’s hand tight. “Rest easy, Keith.”

Samantha and others come in, but Coran does not move a muscle as they remove the equipment and pay their own respects.

It’s truly the end of an era

~~~~~~

Keith didn’t want pomp and circumstance. Surviving relatives of the Paladins visit while television stations run biopics on all the former Paladins day and night, back to back.

When they close the casket for the last time, Coran doesn’t miss a bright white glow from between the cracks. Coran relaxes. Keith is in good hands now.

After the funeral, Coran finds the strength to enter the lab. It’s mostly unused since Pidge passed on, but one corner clearly has seen more traffic than others.

Coran takes the cut of Balmeran crystal from his pocket, a gift from Shiro.

She’d want you to have it. Don’t mourn me forever, I’ve made the most of my borrowed time.

A platform unfurls, the design lovingly based off of the IGF-Atlas. He places the crystal on the place made specifically for it.

The machine hums to life and Coran takes a moment to glide his hand along the surface of the pod. It looks so much like Castle’s ships and it triggers his nostalgia for Pop-Pop and the days where he traveled with Alfor across the galaxy, and then the universe with Allura.

There’s only room for one, and the trip is one-way.

The young ones of the generation remember Voltron only in the stories of their grandparents, or parents for longer lived species. Alteans do not live as long as they used to.

The universe no longer has a place for him.

It’s time to do something good.

Coran enters the date they’d calculated so long ago, the point where he can enter their lives early without shorting out the machine. He settles himself into the chair and closes the chamber.

It will be too late for Altea and much of the universe.

But enough time to make things right for the Paladins - for Allura.

~~~~~~

The machine does as it’s supposed to. The lab fades away and leaves Coran with a view of the desert outside of Plaht City, the sun setting on what has been a very somber day.

Sparks fly within the machine and Coran jumps out moments before it explodes, engine fried from the trip - as theorized.

Coran gets up and dusts himself off. He can’t introduce himself without looking his very best after all!

Carefully he removes the now blackened Balmeran crystal from its place. It falls to dust in his hands.

Despite knowing this exact thing was going to happen, Coran falls to his knees on the desert sand and mourns. Its an object, he knows, even though it was a gift of the Balmera, but it's his last link to the past.

So eventually, when he’s given himself time, he takes a small vial from his coat pocket and reverently deposits the black dust into it. If Coran wishes to see it in its pristine form, he must see it on Allura’s circlet.

A timeline where she lives. He has his mission. For the universe, for the team, for Alfor.

Somewhere out there the Blue Lion waits patiently for Lance, a meeting that will not take place for another several years. Coran’s destination is the two story house that looms in the near distance.

A woman answers the door - and his breath is taken away. The long lonely week feels far away as he takes in the most beautiful curly red hair he’s ever seen - even his own! He gapes, barely taking in her frazzled and tired eyes. She looks at him as if he’s Voltron itself.

“Oh thank heavens you’re here,” she breathes. Her lips too are a pleasant shade of red akin to the second sunset of Altean equinox-- “Mr… ?”

“Smythe,” Coran says blankly before shaking his head, breaking himself out of a stupor to shake her hand. “Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe at your service.” He chuckles nervously, flicking his round ear. Humans were so strange. “What seems to be the hullabaloo?”

“The boy won’t talk. He keeps himself locked up in his room. He has a knife! Who gives a knife to an eight-year-old?” The woman breathes heavily, near panic. “I was just about to call the police.”

Coran takes her hand in his, gently as if they were delicate juniberry petals. “Fret no more, my lady. I’ll take care of everything,” he says with a wink.

And he means it. At the risk of changing too much of the future, Coran has decided on one variable.

The woman blushes and Coran’s pride swells. He’s still got it. And Lance called himself the smooth one.

(Number Three never did get to Coran’s level of ‘game’, though he tried his best to mentor the Paladin.)

She leaves in relief after making him sign some paperwork. He has half a mind to ask her to stay… but he has a job to do. Coran climbs the stairs and leans up against the only closed door. There’s sobbing on the other side.

“It’s a bit late for a growing boy to be up, hm?” He airs.

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

Coran smiles at hearing the young, but familiar voice again. Inside his heart breaks at how angry, upset, and alone he sounds.

“I don’t have the slipperies at the moment, so I’m afraid I’m staying put, my boy. Are you hungry?”

Tiny feet scamper further from the door. “No!” Keith says, inflection full of anger and tears.

It’s been a very long time since Coran has dealt with a stubborn Keith and even longer since he’s cared for children. Allura always reacted well to a distraction though, once Coran found a suitable topic for rambling. He’ll just have to do the same for Keith.

“I hear you have a very special knife,” he begins. “I’d very much like to see it if you’d let me.”

An almost feral growl permeates through the drywall. Humans wouldn’t recognize it as anything more than primal, but it is most definitely a Galra cry for assistance. He’s heard Zarkon’s more times than he can count - mostly due to Alfor’s reckless tendencies. Coran can barely make out the dialect, but it’s definitely the cry the Blade of Marmora has settled into over the years.

Though he doesn’t know it, Keith remembers Krolia’s voice.

“So you can try and take it away from me too?” Keith spits.

“Not at all,” Coran assures him. “I’m a bit of a connoisseur of weaponry, actually. I could show you a thing or two about your knife. Anyone so protective over their blade is deserving of some tricks of the trade, wouldn’t you say?”

Keith doesn’t speak right away - he doesn’t need to. He steps lightly to the door, and opens it ever so slightly. His violet-tinted eyes watch Coran with caution.

“Are you telling the truth?” the boy asks with, for the first time, hope.

Coran doesn’t plan to disappoint. He kneels and meets his gaze.

“I was knife-throwing champion of the Castle for twelve deca-feebs straight!” he declares proudly. “You’d be hard pressed to find anyone on this planet who knows more than I.

Keith’s brows furrow in confusion and Coran can practically see the wheels turning in his mind, none of them hostile. Perhaps he’s given the boy a little more to unpack than necessary.

“What’s a... deca-feeb?” Keith finally asks.

“A measurement of time for students of the Blade!” Coran winks, leaning in as if making a fine deal in the Unilu black market. “I’ll be able to teach you all that and more. Mind if I come in?”

Keith stares for a long moment before unhooking a chain and opening the door wide enough for Coran to enter. It’s his bedroom. Pictures of Earth-ships hang on the walls and toys lay scattered across the floor. Keith scrambles onto his bed, holding Krolia’s blade close - the business end blessedly wrapped up. A picture of him and his father lies on the disheveled sheets next to him.

Coran’s heart breaks, and is reminded of his mission.

“Thank you, my boy. Mind if I have a seat?”

Keith shakes his head, but doesn’t move.

Coran sits at the edge of the bed, a respectable distance away. “May I see it?”

Keith holds it out to show him, slowly, with an edge about him that still doesn’t quite trust. Coran makes no move to take the blade, and gives it a look over. It’s remarkably well preserved. Krolia must have given Keith’s father the correct care instructions for luxite.

He hums for a good while, though he already knows what to say. “It’s a fine piece of work, perhaps the best craftsmanship I’ve ever seen!” he declares. “It must have belonged to someone very special.”

Keith hardly seems to know what to do with the blade still in his hands. He examines it thoughtfully with the new information. “My Mom. Dad said that I have to take care of it until I can give it back to her.”

“Your mother was an excellent swordswoman then. It’s a rare gift, she must have loved you very much to entrust you with her prized blade.”

Keith holds it close to his chest and looks Coran in the eye. “Is she coming back? I want to go where she is.”

Coran dares to rest a comforting hand on Keith’s back. “Your mother is in a very dangerous place right now, Keith. She wants very much to see you, but you’d be in great danger if she did.”

His eyes widen, but to Coran’s relief he does not flinch away. He’s gaining trust.

“She’s in trouble?”

“Not right this tick, no,” Coran assures him. “But there are very bad people who would hurt her if they knew where you were.”

“Oh,” Keith says, lowering his head, crestfallen. He sniffs. “I want my dad…”

“I’m sorry about your father,” he begins somberly. “He was a good man. He’ll be remembered fondly.”

The boy’s body shakes, eyes clenched shut. “I don’t want to remember him, I want him here.”

Coran tries not to feel guilt. If only he’d had the power to add just one day to his trip Keith could have grown up with his father. Happy, healthy, and prepared.

Coran can prepare him, keep him healthy, and do his very best to make him happy. Most importantly, he can assure Keith that his mother is out there, and that she loves him.

“I know, Keith,” he says softly. “Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

Maybe it’s because he says it with conviction, like Keith himself in his best of times leading Voltron or the Blade of Marmora, or just the blind trust of a child with whom he’s started a connection with - a re-connection, but the young boy beside him curls into his side and cries.

Coran wraps his arms around him protectively, stroking his back in comfort, and lets Keith mourn.

This time will be better. For Keith and for Allura.

~~~~~

“Who needs pee-butter and jeyl-lo when you can have…” Coran whisks out a napkin, tying it around Keith’s neck. “A classic Paladin lunch!”

Coran sets the loaded plate on the table with flourish, directly in front of a wary Keith. After finally admitting to being hungry, Keith allowed Coran to lead him to the kitchen and cook for him.

After decades of exposure to Hunk’s cooking, Coran is familiar enough with Earth cuisine - but none of it is as decadent as Altean. Keith’s cupboards turn out to be painfully bare of anything he’s used to, but after a taste test or five Coran is able to scrounge together most of the ingredients for the classic Paladin lunch.

Keith's nose scrunches in distaste. "Is it... safe?" he asks.

Coran huffs. It's a good thing he's introducing Keith to his cooking early. "Of course it's safe," he insists. He's using all human food, how could it not be safe? "If it was good enough for King Alfor, it's good enough for young Paladins."

The boy gives him a funny look, confusion etched into his features. He wants to ask who King Alfor is - wants to ask what a Paladin is - it's an expression Coran is all too used to seeing from older Keith during meetings and explanations of long extinct civilizations and their politics. But he doesn't, instead choosing to interest himself in the Paladin lunch.

His small stomach rumbles and Keith gulps in apprehension as he collects as spoonful and inserts it into his mouth.

Green Paladin Keith is not, and Coran is fairly certain humans can't turn green either - not like he can.

Keith swallows thickly, and with tears in his eyes practically inhales his glass of water.

Coran waits with bated breath. "Well, what do you think?"

"It tastes like dirty socks," Keith says, sticking out his tongue.

Relief fills him, and he sighs, resting a hand over his heart. "Good. That's an improvement over the sewage canals of Thravia-4." Or, that's how Lance had described it once. He gives Keith a reassuring smile and a pat on the back. "It gets a bit better once you get to the middle bits!"

"...I don't think I'm hungry anymore," Keith says simply, pushing the platter towards the middle of the table.

Coran sighs. He had years still to get Keith on his side. "It's been a long day, my boy. I think you could use a bath and a good sleep."

This lowers his spirits, eyes downcast. "...I miss Dad," Keith says suddenly, a hiccup in his voice. "He gave me a bath and I had sand in my hair and - and - "

Keith tries to hold back his tears. Coran swiftly drags a chair with one hand over and sits on it next to Keith. He gently places a hand on his back.

"Tears are nothing to be afraid of, Keith," he says. "It is how we show love and grief. You will never stop loving your father, missing him is nothing to be ashamed of."

His stomach takes the brunt of the hit from Keith's tiny head, the boy's arms just able to reach around his waist in a hug. Coran wraps his arms around him, anchoring the boy's trembling, sobbing figure.

"It will always hurt," Coran continues, "losing loved ones."

Melenor. Alfor. Gyrgan. Trigel. Blaytz.

"No matter how long or short your time is with them."

Allura.

"But we are the keepers of their memories, the lives we shared with them are stories we can pass on to others."

Hunk. Pidge. Shiro. Lance.

"So they will always be with us."

Keith.

"Miss him and mourn his loss. I'll be here as long as you need me."

"I don’t want to, I want him here," Keith chokes out.

Coran holds him closer. The Keith he knew never received this kind of attention. Coran is determined to make sure he does now.

“You can want all you’d like, Keith, but we still must live our lives. Stay here as long as you like," he reassures. "Then that bath and bed, hm? I think that’s what your father would want."

Keith sniffs, his voice muffled in Coran's shirt, but no less hopeful. "...Then t-tomorrow you'll teach me how to use my knife, right?"

Coran can do one better than that. He can give Keith a history lesson he normally wouldn't learn for another fifteen deca-feebs and he can do it tonight. A lesson about the Blades and of the Galra and of what to expect - things that his mother really should have taught him, but knowledge that will be crucial for his early years in space

"That and more, Keith." He hopes Krolia won't be too angry with him when they meet again.

~~~~~

"You're a brave, kind man Mr. Smythe," the judge says. "We're glad to have you at the agency."

Coran tips his new hat to her and pats Keith's mop of hair. The boy clings to his pants as if he expects to be separated at any tick. He is doubly thankful for the foresight to bring his papers back to the past; without the knowledge of other beings, humans will see exactly what they need to see on his files. In this case, the fact that he's already working with the foster care unit.

And that's enough now that he can adopt Keith. He'll be able to relax for the next ten Earth-years.

"I'm just doing what I can. Need to settle down after that last assignment, and Keith here seems in need of a helping hand."

She shakes his hand. "The paperwork should be nearly done..."

The courtroom doors burst open and - Coran’s jaw drops, his heart pounds in his ears. Gorgeous red hair, nearly orange in the halogen lights. Coran holds a hand over his chest as if it will slow his racing heart - he can’t believe she’s here again, the same woman he met at Keith's house the day he arrived in the past. She holds a bundle of papers in her hands. "Sorry I'm late - it took forever to find Keith's birth records. They were at the Galaxy Garrison hospital."

Keith clutches him tighter.

Coran laughs it off. Of course Krolia wouldn't have gone to the Plaht City hospital.

"I'm not terribly surprised, eh Keith," he nudges the boy. "After all the house is much closer by hover bike to the Garrison than the city. A stroke of genius of you to look there in the first place," he tells her with a wink.

Her cheeks flush at the praise and hands the papers over to the judge before tucking a curl of brilliant red hair behind her ear. "Of course, I'm glad to help Mr. Smythe. You've been a great help with Keith."

"Call me Coran," he winks. "We're hardly strangers."

"Synthia!" she proclaims as she shakes his hand. "A pleasure to actually meet you properly, Coran. If you need anything at work, here's my personal number." She smiles brightly at him, a love struck look in her eyes that pulls on his heartstrings.

He takes the card and twirls his mustache. "Perhaps I'll give you a ring and we can discuss work over a cup of tea? What do you think, Keith?"

Keith sticks his tongue out. "I don't like tea."

Coran pats him on the back. Keith never did acquire the taste. "That's quite all right, you won't have to join us if you don't want to." He turns back to Synthia. "Perhaps during the school day sometime?"

"I would be delighted," she beams.

A smug feeling wells up in his chest. He's absolutely still got it.

Perhaps he'll enjoy himself in the past more than he thought.

~~~~~

“Make sure you pack a jacket!” Synthia says as she shoves one into his chest. “The desert gets cold at night - surely you learned what while you were stationed in Australia?”

Coran sniffs the jacket with a raised eyebrow. A recent purchase from a local ‘thrifty shop’, it smells of smoke - and not that of a campfire. He attempts to hand it back, but her emerald eyes sparkle with concern.

With a heavy sigh he puts it on, if only to ease her fears. It takes only a tick to shift his internal organs into a Yorlanian - a people who adapted long ago to naturally deal with temperature gradients far more severe than that of Earth.

How is she to know that? He’s Coran the human here, and he won’t be Coran the Altean for another fifteen years.

A deep breath soothes the ache in his chest at that thought. Fifteen years is nothing compared to ten thousand asleep in a cryopod.

“As you wish, my lady,” he bows, earning a delighted blush from his target - enough to hopefully take her mind off his long pause. “Although, it could certainly use a wash…”

“There’s a washing basin at the park you can use.”

Coran whips around, and there’s Keith at the bottom of the stairs, having descended so silently he hadn’t even heard. He’s dressed for the trip, hiking boots and a red jacket over a worn t-shirt. A backpack sits firmly on his shoulders, his knuckles white as he holds the straps.

He's better; not that he ever will be completely fine, nor should he. Krolia often said she saw much of his father in Keith - brave, selfless, kind, helpful, so Coran knows he hurts.

Hopefully this trip will be healing for him.

"Ah, well fortune is with us then!" Coran says cheerfully. He turns to Synthia. "Perhaps you and I could take a trip into the wilderness sometime."

Synthia clasps her fingers over her mouth, a delighted giggle escapes her. "That would be wonderful. I haven't spent a night under the stars since I was a scout camping with my troop." She sighs longingly. "I miss the fresh air."

Keith raises an eyebrow. "You were in the scouts?"

She huffs, hands on her hips. "Of course I was! Granted it was when dinosaurs roamed the Earth," she says with a wink and a laugh.

This gets a crack of a smile from Keith. "You're not that old."

"Old enough to remember Plaht City before the Galaxy Garrison!" She pinches his cheek, and while Keith tries to pull away, he's grinning the whole time. "You boys have your bonding. Come back with some woodwork - Coran says he's been teaching you how to use that knife of yours properly?"

Amazing how a simple blanket phrase 'teaching Keith to use the blade' could mean both woodworking and how to dismantle a Galra sentry in the same breath. Coran chuckles nervously, faking a wide smile. At least it meant Synthia and Keith got along.

"Come on, Coran," Keith says, grabbing his hand. "The park closes at dusk and we have to get the tent set up before then!"

Coran allows himself to be dragged along by a pint sized Number Four (or was he Number Five right now? He needs to see how the other Paladins are faring without interfering)

"I await our next meeting with bated breath!" he calls out as he hobbles out the door.

Synthia waves. "The house will be in good hands while you're gone! Bring back some good pictures of animals or--" her eyes dart around, looking around for anyone else who might be listening "-- aliens. You know what they say about the desert at night."

Coran doesn't have the heart nor the time to tell her.

~~~~~

Coran has the jacket packed away, far from their campsite.

It's just him and a small Keith, no one else for miles. Their fire dwindles, creating a faint glow against their two person tent. The two of them lay on the gravelly ground, comforted only by their sleeping bags, and stare at the stars.

The constellations are different here, but it's nice to see consistent shapes in the stars rather than constantly changing ones as they're on the run from Zarkon.

Another time.

"That one is Andromeda," Keith says, his arm and finger pointed up at the sky. "But I always look for Orion when Dad and I came out here."

...Shiro told him this one, but he can't remember for the life of him. "Ah," he starts, a bead of sweat running down his temple in embarrassment. "And why would that be?" he asks, saving the embarrassment of not knowing Earth constellations.

"He's got a sword. It's cool." His face droops, eyes on his feet. "And, I think about Mom." Dark eyes meet his, and when Keith speaks of his mother and the stars they glow with a beautiful purple - the only clue anyone will ever have that Keith is not entirely of Earth.

"Do you think that's where she is?" he asks earnestly. "On Orion?"

Coran hums as he thinks about where Ranveig's base is located in respect to Earth. "Actually, I think she might be closer to that Big Dipper." That one he remembers. Earth would name their stars after a ladle.

Keith grins. "Then I'll be able to find her one day if I follow the North Star?"

"I'm positive you'll find her one day, Keith. I know she wants nothing more than to be with you again."

The change in mood is complete. Keith's eyes shine with hope and belonging; he holds his blade close, the hilt wrapped in cloth to hide the Blade of Marmora symbol. "I can't wait."

But he'll have to wait many years before that happens and go through many dangers. In the meantime, Coran’s job is to prepare him for them. "Tomorrow we'll start getting you ready. Synthia is right, you'll have to learn to use that properly."

Keith rolls onto his side, facing Coran. "Are you always going to make kissy faces with her?"

Coran gapes. "Kis-kissy faces?" he repeats indignantly. "We have a far more sophisticated relationship than that!"

A tiny nose scrunches in disbelief. "You act like it. She's not mom though, and you're not dad; you promised."

"Indeed! Coran will suffice, or Coran the Gorgeous Man if you're so inclined. I'm sure Synthia would be quite happy if you just called her by her name."

For as long as she was in his life anyway. Did he have time for a relationship when his entire reason for being here was to give Keith a better childhood? He wraps his hands around the vial filled with the remains of Allura’s balmeran crystal - he’s attached it to a string, a necklace to make sure its with him at all times.

Allura - and Alfor for that matter - would have told him to enjoy himself.

Keith smiles and closes his eyes. "Thanks for taking me here, Coran. It feels like Dad is still here."

Perhaps he's already done most of the work. Now comes the fun part.

"Get a good night's sleep, Keith," he says, relaxing his hands behind his head. "Tomorrow I'll teach you everything about blades, the Paladin code, and how to extract scaltrite from a weblum."

"... a... a weblam?"

"We'll work on it."

~~~~~

"Coran, check this out!"

Keith rams through the door like a rampaging klanmuirel, holding his Marmora blade up high for all to see. He doesn't bother putting his backpack down, or even taking off his shoes - that'll be even more to clean later! Oh how Coran misses the Castle's automated cleaning systems. Two Earth-years has been nearly undoable. How is he to survive another eight?

Before Coran can say anything, Keith flips the knife up in the air and, in one heart-stopping moment, is about to catch it with the unwrapped blade in his hands.

"Keith!" Coran leaps forward, digging deep in his old age to catch the blade before Keith cuts up his hand. He takes advantage of his Altean gifts and stretches his arms to grab it by the hilt, flipping onto his back as he lands on the floor the opposite side of Keith.

The boy himself has a loose jaw. "Woah," Keith says. "How did you do that?" He seems to blink away his wonder, driving into anger. "Why did you do that? I totally have that trick down!"

Coran stands and hands Keith back his blade hilt first. "You'd have ended up with a nasty cut otherwise," he scolds. Yet at the same time, he feels some pride in Keith showing him his progress. "You’re under rotating."

Keith frowns. "Oh." He fidgets. "Thanks, Coran. You're the only adult who understands."

"Oh, I can't be the only one," Coran says - though he knows Keith tells the truth in more ways than one. "What about Ms. Norris? She's a brilliant lady."

“She’s my teacher,” Keith replies glumly, averting his eyes in distaste. “Last time she found out I had a knife she called the police, remember?”

Coran winces. “Er, yes, that is true. Perhaps you should stop taking it to school. It’s very safe to leave here at home.”

“I can’t!” Keith protests. “What if Mom comes back and she needs this? Or the bad guys find this place and I need to keep it hidden? I can’t risk it!”

The determination is admirable, and on any other reasonable planet that’s made contact there would be no problem with allowing Keith to keep a family heirloom - no matter how sharp - on his person even as a child. But this is Earth, who still believe the creatures who live on Mars are green or grey with large black eyes.

(They’re actually closer kin with Pidge’s trash nebula friends.

“Keith, listen,” Coran says as he kneels and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I swear by Grogory’s beard your blade will be safe with me while you’re at school.”

Keith’s lips curl in, showing his upset face. “But Mom--”

“Wants you to be safe. You aren’t if you get in trouble with school. Promise you’ll keep it at home until the time is right?” Because Keith will need it one day.

Gaze dropping to the ground, Keith sighs. “Okay,” he relents.

Coran isn’t quite ready to believe him. “Promise with your pinky,” he insists.

Keith rolls his eyes. With pride, Coran watches as he creates the Altean royal symbol in the air with his smallest finger; the most serious of oaths.

“Thank you, Keith. That was very big of you. I’m sure you’ll have far less problems now at school.”

~~~~~

The silence in the car is deafening.

Treading down the dirt road, the hum of the (woefully inefficient) engine and tires kicking up gravel seems all the sound in the universe. It’s remarkably similar to the coming of age parties back on Novenia --

Keith huffs loudly from the passenger seat, looking sourly out the window and arms crossed for extra measure. Though his posture is closed off, the huff is Keith speak for ‘I want to talk’.

They have much to speak of.

Coran stretches his fingers and taps them over the steering wheel, looking for the right words. He tentatively gives Keith a side eye and winces even as he speaks with a nervous laughter, “I know you’re wanting to enroll at the Galaxy Garrison soon, but I thought you were interested in space ships, not cars.”

“He stole a Galaxy Garrison vehicle from an officer!”

This is a teaching moment, another chance to cement in Keith that there are people on his side and that love him - but they must talk about it. There’s a silver lining to this incident, one that aches his heart.

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Smythe. I think all Keith needs is a second chance. I’ll chat with him. Bring him by the Garrison tomorrow and ask for ‘Shiro’.”

He hadn’t been able to keep himself from crying as he spoke with Shiro (on the phone, not a video call) - seeing the young man (ever so briefly when picking up Keith, and making sure he wasn’t seen) before Galra captivity changed him. He’s the same, still kind and brave.

Coran can’t find the will to caution him about Kerberos. He’s not supposed to know, and what’s more Coran knows what the mission means to him personally - a dream, a way to prove everyone wrong about his capability.

But it only makes inaction hurt more.

If history is doomed to repeat itself, Coran only hopes it changes in the way that matters in the end. For Allura. For Keith to have comfort through the worst years of his life.

“...Ms. Burnt said I was a liar. She said I wouldn’t do well at the Garrison,” Keith admits softly. His clenched fists tell of the anger hidden just under his skin.

Coran knows why Keith’s teachers say as much. It sends a wave of guilt up his chest; perhaps he’s not been a father figure to the best of his ability; too many stories of space and what he’ll see out there. Keith still found the same schoolyard fights as in the original timeline.

“I have a hard time believing that,” Coran says with a bright chuckle. “You’re a very intelligent young man.”

Keith scowls. “It’s not my grades. The other kids… they don’t believe Mom is fighting bad guys, and that’s why she can’t come home and... ”

Ah here it comes. The other kids pick on him for not having his parents around, his mother having left. Though he’s told Keith a liquefied version of why Krolia can’t be here, it hasn’t made Keith miss her less, or given the other children or even adults reason to believe him.

His eyes flicker in Coran’s direction for hardly a tick, laced with sympathy. “They don’t understand you.”

Coran’s eyes widen and turns to Keith in disbelief. “What the quiznak?”

A car horn honks and Coran barely swerves the car out of the way of an oncoming vehicle. They roll off the side and into the desert, stopping just shy of a very worried looking cactus.

Keith’s classmates are making fun of him?

“Um,” Keith begins warily, his hands clenched around his seat belt, “sorry?”

Well, at least he doesn’t look like a - what was that expression that looked like the bi-boh-bi? Ah yes; a ‘wet noodle’.

But still, why him? He can’t stop Keith from regaling his classmates about his mother’s adventures fighting Zarkon - from what he remembers of them anyway. Keith has been in trouble with that before.

“Well, no offense Coran, but you’re a little… weird,” Keith confesses.

His heart stops; the world turns to dust around him. Coran feels as if he’s transported out of the car to a world of pitch black, a single spotlight on his heartbroken form.

“I’m… I’m not cool?” he manages to gasp. He’s only ever done everything awesome and hip - keeping up with all the trends!

Keith’s eyes light up with worry, shifting in his seat to face him. “I think you’re the best!” he says. “The kids don’t know what they’re talking about! Weblums are real - and so are aliens - they can’t prove otherwise! Mom’s trying to keep them away from here, right? So of course we don’t know about them!”

This isn’t the first time Coran just wants to tell Keith everything - that he’s from the future and in less than four years he’ll meet a different version of himself and he’s half alien and there’s a war out there and he’s going to be a Paladin of Voltron and please do everything in your power to save Allura.

But he’s changed enough by telling Keith stories of weblums and Altean fairytales, by just knowing his face. He’ll have to apologize to his younger self if it comes to that - there are sure to be fireworks when they meet and Sendak will still be on their tail.

Still, Keith’s enthusiasm warms his heart. For now, keep things on track. Shiro will help him get through the Galaxy Garrison just like before. This time though, Coran hopes he’ll make a few friends.

A few specific friends, that is.

~~~~~~~~

“There,” Coran says. He kneels before Keith, putting a finishing polish on Keith’s Galaxy Garrison lapel. “You look smart and dashing.”

The uniform looks good on him, even though he’s not yet grown into it. Coran imagines it in red, like he’s used to seeing on Keith.

It feels like the beginning of the end.

Keith shifts uncomfortably. “Coran, I’m not sure if I want to go back.”

“What? Quiznak, Keith, whatever for? This is all you’ve been talking about since you were yeh-high!” Coran exclaims, holding his hand above the floor barely to Keith’s knees.

At least he gets a laugh out of Keith. “I was not that little,” he protests lightly.

“Well you sure seemed that way to me,” Coran huffs before knitting his eyebrows together in concern. “Why the change of heart?”

Keith sighs, looking away and down. “The other kids are just like in school… some of them are even from my class. James has them all turned on me.”

Coran’s shoulder slump. That had only been orientation!

“I know it’s difficult, Keith, but I’m sure there are some kids who would be glad to be your friend. What about Shiro’s friend, Matt?” he waggles his eyebrows. “Doesn’t he have a younger sister?”

Keith’s eyes go wide. “Katie?” His face scrunches in disgust. “No - I - I don’t want to date anyone!”

Coran knows he shouldn’t laugh, but he does. “I never said anything of the sort. She’s closer to your age though. Perhaps she’d like to be your friend.”

Keith clearly isn’t convinced. Coran grins. It’s only a matter of time.

~~~~

“I made top pilot in my class again,” Keith says with a broad grin.

Coran stirs his tea and sits down at the table, where the video phone shows Keith’s proud face. He looks so young and innocent- but he wears the Garrison colors and every year he looks more and more like the Keith Coran remembers waking up to.

“Well done! I told you that you’d do it again! One more year and you’ll have all five eh?”

“That’s right,” Keith says, though he looks away sheepishly. “The only one who’s ever done that is… Shiro.”

Coran’s gut twists unpleasantly hearing the name of the man who will be leaving on the ill-fated Kerberos mission in less than a week.

Then Coran has one year. One year to say the right things.

“Then you’re in good company. We’ll celebrate with ice cream when you come home for break yes?”

Keith shifts uncomfortably. “Actually, Shiro’s invited me to stay for the launch, if that’s okay… I won’t see him again for a long time.”

Oh he has no idea.

“Ugh,” Coran moans, clutching his heart in fake agony. “Such is the cruelty of teenieboppers.”

Keith looks nervously to each side. “Teenagers,” he corrects. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Spend time with your friends, Keith. I’ve had ten glorious years watching you grow up.”

Keith smiles tenderly, “our families are all invited for dinner. You’re welcome to come. The Holts are coming too.”

“Oh I’m quite fine here,” Coran assures him. Although he misses Sam and their friendship, he isn’t sure he can look at the man in the eye any more than Shiro. “Have some fun. I’ll be right here when you need me.”

~~~

That time is four months later when without a phone call of warning, Keith comes crashing through the front door and falls to his knees with tears in his eyes.

Coran hugs him tighter than a yelmore grip and cries too without so much as a word exchanged between them.

~~~~~~

“I’m not going back,” Keith says when he comes down for breakfast the next morning. Coran barely stops himself from gasping, for Keith wears the same clothing that he brings to space one year from now.

“What will you do?” he asks with no judgement.

He already knows.

“I’ve always had this weird feeling when I’m out here,” he begins. “I never noticed it until I started school at the Garrison and it wasn’t as strong as when I come home for break.” He lifts his eyes, they shine with an alien purple glint, determined. “I think it wants me to find it.”

Coran nods. “I’ll help you.”

~~~~

It doesn’t take long for the house to fill with papers and corkboard. Keith writes math equations in his journal and Coran corrects them by asking pointed questions. The calculus is beyond what Earth teaches at universities, but it’s elementary for an Altean.

He finds the cave of the Blue Lion. Coran aches but comes with Keith anyway. He’s purposefully not come out here; it’s too painful a reminder of what is to come - of what he hopes will turn into a happy ending. He thinks the Blue Lions knows, too, Coran’s true purpose. The Lions were always smarter than they seem, even when Alfor was molding them.

He can’t help himself; while Keith takes pictures and mutters about what all this might mean in relation to him, Coran lays a shaking hand over an image of the creation of all five Lions. A single figure glows blue, a man set away from the five original Paladins and Allura.

The Blue Lion seems to know exactly who he is.

It’s strange even now to realize he was there in this event depicted by carvings over ten thousand years old.

The thought is just as sobering now as it was when he first woke from the cryopod.

“What do you think all this is, Coran?” Keith wonders from another wall. “What’s calling me is definitely here but… I don’t understand what it is.”

Coran pulls a thumb over the young woman in the creation picture. He closes his eyes. “You will one day,” he promises.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Coran,” Keith says softly, with relief.

~~~~~

“I think I’m stuck.”

Keith sits on the edge of the couch, hunched over and elbows on his knees as he reads the papers on the table. He has taken over the living room with his sketches and calculations. “Something is coming on December 14 and I have no idea what it is.” He sighs deeply. “I’m not even sure if my math is right.”

Coran sets down his book; Synthia will want to know what he thinks of it as soon as possible, but his priority is to help Keith. He is perfectly capable of telling Keith that his math is flawless - as Coran has taught him - but there is a better way.

“Why don’t you ask Katie?” Number Three will surely take up the task seeing as how she’s already decided to go undercover at the Galaxy Garrison in the next school year (only weeks away now).

Keith looks up, conflict in his eyes. “I couldn’t. She lost her father and her brother on the mission. Shiro was just a friend, it’s not the same.”

Coran looks at him sternly. Not sharing the same blood did not make them any less family, not between Shiro and Keith and not between any of the Paladins. “And I am a cooked duflax then?” Coran teases. At Keith’s horrified shake of the head, he continues, “Katie is hurting. You are hurting. You two should be supporting each other, not isolating yourselves. Family is family; blood or not.”

Keith smiles. “Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

~~~~~

“You hammered it, Synthia! It was the butler the entire time!”

Coran speaks excitedly into the video phone. Synthia on the other side, holding up the latest crime novel they’ve finished together.

“But you predicted the method!” she says, bending her knee and clasping her face with excitement. She’s curled her gorgeous red hair these days and it bounces around her face like a skipping xalax. Coran sighs longingly, placing his elbows on the table and setting his cheek in his palm - she looks even more radiant than the night they first met.

“I mean, to use the ink from the old printer to create the poison in the paint, knowing there would be a dare to drink it? It’s brilliant! How did you guess?”

“Oh, it was as easy as pi! If you remember--”

The now familiar sound of Keith returning with the hoverbike cuts him off, snapping his attention towards the door.

“Keith is home?” Synthia asks. She frowns, brows furrowed in concern. “I’m worried about him.”

Coran forces a smile. “Keith will be fine,” he promises. “He just needs time to find his place in the universe. Sometimes that can take some looking!”

Her ruby lips curl up the side of her face. “You’re the best thing to happen to that boy. I’m not sure what would have become of him if you hadn’t stepped in.”

“Oh, it wasn’t all me,” Coran admits. No, really his father should take the credit, and Shiro. He’s just repeating it all. “Keith is a good lad, he’ll get there with a little guidance.”

“He is. I’ll let you see to him. See you for dinner on… Sunday, right?”

Tiny weblums swim in Coran’s stomach. This will be a very important dinner - the biggest of his life here in the past. Synthia has been a marvelous companion, and with the days ticking down…

It is time he tells her the truth. She deserves to know.

“Sunday,” Coran confirms. Because he means to be gone before Keith returns home with Shiro and the other Paladins-to-be on Monday night. They will already have a more than capable Coran in space. “And not a tick past seven!”

Syntha says farewell as Keith walks in the door. He’s covered in dust - that jacket will need to be cleaned before tomorrow.

(The Castle washing machines won’t be operational for another week.)

“Did you find everything you need for your outing next week?" he asks.

Keith sets his helmet on the counter and leans into it, exhausted. "I have no idea what's coming, Coran; I'm not sure if I ever could be ready."

Coran hums and takes a sip of his tea. "One is not always ready for what is thrust upon them, but I am certain you will rise to meet whatever challenges that come at you." He winks. "You can be fiercer than a klanmuirel and wiser than a ivorkiv."

A laugh, the first real laugh he's heard in a while. Since before Shiro disappeared. "I don't know how you come up with these things, Coran. Where do you get all your stories?"

Altea won't do, not yet. Coran taps his head. "Right here in the ol' noggin."

"You need to write that book one day," Keith continues. "The one about the princess and the space castle."

Coran smiles. He'd hate to step on Lance's toes. The book will be an intergalactic success. "Perhaps," he affords Keith. "But where's all the fun in letting people look at you like you've grown five heads!"

Keith snorts, and grins. "You'd only need two. You're alien enough as it is, Coran."

~~~~~~

"At least wear a tie," Keith says.

Coran grinds his teeth. Earth clothing is so impractical! The ties on Altea are much more intuitive! "Synthia hasn't minded casual clothing for our rendezvous before and won't mind now."

Keith looks incredulously at him. "This is a big night. If you're going to propose, do it right."

"Who said anything about proposing?" Coran says as he ties the cloth around his neck in a knot.

"What?" Keith spits, surprised. "Coran, you two have been together since I was a little kid."

"And just because two adults enjoy each other's company does not mean marriage is inevitable," he says, slicking his hair back. Pivoting to his side, Coran waggles his eyebrows. Hmm yes, still got the look even with the grey. "I am however, going to ask her to go on an extended vacation with me. She just retired this past year and I want to treat her."

Keith perks up. "Oh? When are you leaving?"

And this is where it hurts. "I'm not sure yet. Very soon. You'll know," he says with a wink. Perhaps its cruel to leave him at this crucial time... but he'll also no longer be needed.

"Did you talk about tomorrow night with Katie?" he asked.

Keith folds his arms, looking away. Sworn to secrecy on her infiltration of the Galaxy Garrison no doubt. "She said she'd be there. I talked her into bringing her flight crew, just like you suggested."

"Oh good," Coran says mildly. Internally he's throwing himself a little party. "More friends for you to make?"

"Oh, I've already met Lance and Hunk," Keith says. He chews his lip. "They were both in my class. We hung out a few times."

Coran fights a large grin. "Oh did you? That's more friends than you claimed to have!"

"We didn't get along at first but... remember when you told me about how being at the top of the class can get on people's nerves? I tried to be calm about it and,” Keith smiles - genuinely happy, “I think we get along now.”

Perfect.

“...You have a good smile, Keith. You should use it more often,” Coran says. Mostly because he isn’t sure what else to say.

Keith chuckles. “You’re being weirder than usual,” he teases.

The car is packed. This is the last time he’ll see Keith before he knows everything. If he has it his way, never again. He’ll have his proper Coran and the other Paladins and Kosmo and his mother with him.

Coran won’t be needed any longer.

But as long as everyone comes home from this war alive, that’s all that matters. And seeing Keith happy has been well worth the wait. He can only hope his lessons come through.

“Tonight’s a big night!” Coran tutts back, wagging a finger. “And tomorrow doubly for you.”

The smile Keith so warmly held evaporates to a frown. He shivers, clutching his arms despite wearing a jacket in the desert heat. “I still don’t know what I’m going to find there, Coran.”

This is the last chance Coran will have to make a difference but…

He gently wraps Keith into a hug. The boy greedily holds fast to Coran’s shirt; as if he knows this is their last talk.

“You are smart and brave and kind, Keith,” Coran says. That part hasn’t changed from when he was a small child. “You will know what to do because your heart will tell you. You don’t need me to do that.

“Be good to your friends,” Coran continues as he pulls Keith closer. “Don’t let them go.”

“I’ll miss you,” Keith says through choked sobs. “You’ll call when on vacation right?”

Coran sucks in deep, and tries not to cry himself. “I will be there for you any time you need me. I swear it. Just ask. No matter what the situation, no matter how busy I may look, you can always talk to me.”

Even if it’s not him, exactly.

~~~~~~

Synthia takes the whole ‘being an alien from the future thing’ rather well - if jumping on him and nibbling on his pointed ears in a quiznakingly fantastic way is any indication.

(She eventually has the breath to say yes.)

~~~~~~

The first stop on their elongated vacation is the nearest national park - the one he and Keith frequented in his childhood. Synthia is in much better shape than he, Coran discovers miserably. Ten years of sedimentary living will do that, even to an Altean.

Coran wheezes, crawling as he lifts a hand to a perfectly nice sitting rock, pulling himself up. Never since visiting Balmera Alpha has he felt such an acute pain to his spine.

But it is nothing compared to watching the Blue Lion lift off into the atmosphere, with five humans in tow.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Synthia asks, cozy next to him on the rock. “If you’re trying to change the future, wouldn’t it be easier with them?”

“No,” Coran says sadly. “I’d be tempted to change too much. As long as they are loyal to each other, everything will turn out fine.”

She smiles, a wicked one that sends happy chills up his spine, a blessed relief from the burden of waiting. “So then it’s just the two of us then?”

He turns to her and twirls his mustache. “How do you feel about Madagascar?”

~~~~~

Between the two of them - Synthia’s passion for biology and her early scouting days, and Coran’s knowledge of everything else - the two make an ecological home in the jungle.

The Galra don’t find them when Sendak invades. It both relieves Coran, and renews the unsettled feeling in his stomach - for now he knows things are happening in the same way, but also things are happening the same way and people are dying.

Coran sees Voltron for the first time in years, flying overhead to combat Sendak’s fleet.

He isn’t sure what to feel. Pride, for one, they’ve made it this far - they’re still a team.

He’s also anxious, asking the same questions of himself that he has been for the last five years. Did Keith find his mother? What became of Lotor? Of Shiro and his clone?

Did Keith hate him when he realized who Coran is? For not telling him the truth about everything?

Synthia takes hold of his hand and gives it a most comforting squeeze as they watch the IGF-Atlas take a pummeling from the combined firepower of five zaiforge cannons.

What Keith thinks of him hardly matters now, he tells himself.

But it still hurts.

~~~~~

Coran is on the beach two quintants after the Atlas returns home.

He lays back in his hammock, the warmth of the sun no longer bothering him after years of it at this angle. Sunglasses shade his eyes and make spotting the Altean shuttle landing nearby crystal clear to see.

He fingers the vial of Balmeran dust he still wears around his neck. He has only two questions.

Rising, his heart skips a beat seeing Keith again. The boy - no, man now - jumps out of the pod along with Kosmo, a sight that is very encouraging.

Still, even though he knows Keith is not quick to smile, the serious way he stalks up to Coran makes jumbles of his stomach.

Kosmo sniffs him first… and whines in confusion.

Coran kneels scratches the cosmic wolf under the chin, exactly where he likes it. The wolf sits and whimpers in delight.

Then he looks Keith in the eye, the otherworldly purple tint shining through just as it had when he’d talk of space as a child.

“Are you well?” he asks first. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

And Keith melts, knees hitting the sand and arms reaching around Coran for a hug. “You could have come with us,” he says, nearly sobbing.

Coran exhales. He must have been holding his breath, for his brain and heart feel light. Returning the hug he says, “You had everyone you needed with you. The Castle just wasn’t big enough for two of me.”

His chest tightens - the moment of truth. “Allura?”

Keith squeezes him and Coran’s heart stops. All this for nothing?

No, not for nothing. Not for Keith.

But it hurts. Allura should be alive - enjoying life with the rest of them, her family.

“...waiting a bit impatiently for me to bring you back to the Garrison,” Keith finally says. “She says it isn’t fair for you to be away from us.” A sob catches in his throat. “I agree. You deserve to be with us - your younger self doesn’t mind.” Tears of joy give way to quiet laughter. “He wants to meet you just as bad.”

Coran lets the tears flow - the first time since he said goodbye to Keith in the hospital and came to the past a lifetime ago.

“Honerva and the other realities?” he says as he pulls away, he has to know. This reality is obviously fine but the others…

What did they sacrifice instead?

Keith grins, his cheeks stained with tears, wiping them away with the sleeve of his new black jacket. Maybe to reflect his role as the Black Paladin. Or maybe they never did the Lion swap in the first place. Coran doesn’t care. “Allura tried to sacrifice herself; we wouldn’t let her. The Blue Lion agreed, and so did Voltron. The Lions spit us out and we haven’t seen them again since.”

Voltron sacrificed itself.

Coran can’t help but think back to the day Keith found the Blue Lion’s cave - the glowing blue figure of himself. The Blue Lion knew him - why wouldn’t it also know his purpose.

Forged from the trans-reality comet, it knew, and granted his wish.

“Thank you, Keith,” he says. “Thank you for bringing her back.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Keith grins back, his eyes soft and kind. “Allura still has a long life to enjoy and you’re part of it - and a part of mine too, with Mom and Kosmo, the others and both Shiro and Ryou too. Whatever you did in the future… it was worth it.”

One name is unfamiliar. “Ryou?”

Keith smiles, clearly pleased with himself. “Shiro’s clone. Long story.”

Coran sniffs, inhaling enough snot he’s sure he’ll be sick later. All that’s left is to find Synthia and travel back to the Galaxy Garrison and he’ll be with his family again.

Plus one. He can’t wait to try wrangling yelmores with himself.

If his younger self can pry him away from Allura’s side.

(He has a lifetime and more to make up for.)