#i am guessing after a few weeks of hubbub things will go back to the way they were

[bananonbinary]

i cant say the murder of a ceo is my first choice for dealing with the problem, nor am i convinced it will actually have any real long term benefit

but. when you take away every other tool people have, then sooner or later they will use their teeth. you can hardly act surprised.

[writefightandflightclub]

Right behind you:(Bodyguard!Santiago “Pope” Garcia x M!Celebrity!reader)

This is my offering for this week’s #writerwednesday from @autumnleaves1991-blog, which this week is joint with @flightlessangelwings’ Jey’s Pride celebration! 🥳

The verbal prompt was: glitter and/or “I’ll always be by your side.”

The visual prompt is the photo below.

This gave me the idea for a very quickly written one shot with bodyguard!Santi and male celebrity reader! I hope you like it!

Warnings: food mentions; mentions of panic attack / hyperventilating. Mentions of sensory overload. One mention of Santi “sucking off” reader. Language. TYPOS, undoubtedly.

Rating: mature for mentions of oral sex but no explicit / actual smut.

Gender stuff: he/him pronouns / masc! terms of endearment used for reader. Implied that reader is a penis owner - no other physical descriptions besides reader wearing a suit and some make-up.

Genre: angst then mainly fluff and happiness! Hurt / comfort, I guess.

ALSO: BONUS CAMEO FROM ANOTHER OSCAR CHARACTER. Did you spot him?

You perch on the couch in your suite, taking steadying breaths and trying desperately to ward off hyperventilation as your bodyguard grips your trembling hand firmly in his. The air is quaking in and out of your lungs and you can no longer help the tears which spike in your eyes and spill over on to your cheeks.

He gives your fingers a squeeze as he crouches before you, and you can’t help the surge of guilt that this is so far outside of his job description. He’s meant to protect you, not comfort you. His work centres on your physical well-being, but you can’t count the times he’s bolstered your emotional well-being too. Then again, this is the only time he’s done so quite as blatantly in front of the rest of your staff, perhaps.

“Oh no, don’t you dare cry, sweetie,” your make-up artist - who will not be getting rehired you decide suddenly- flaps around you, attempting to fuss over you with a tissue. Her panic about her work being ruined at the worst possible moment is plain as day, and it only makes your chest constrict further.

“This isn’t helping” is the only thought blaring loudly in your mind, but you cannot for the life of you push the words out right now. You shut your eyes in an attempt to block it all out. To subdue the sensory overload.

You are thankful that your bodyguard intuits that sentiment on your behalf when you can’t, and you hear his voice is coming from a different angle now, his head whipped sharply sideward and up towards the offending MUA.

“For real? Ffff....” you close your eyes and hear Santi bite down on a curse. You’d laugh if you weren’t so preoccupied, trying desperately to focus on his voice amidst the chaotic, intersecting hubbub of the room. “Ma’am, could you please back the shit up?” He bites. Apparently he can’t stifle the cursing entirely.

Your limp hand travels along with his as he waves his arm around emphatically. “In fact. Out. Everyone out. Now. Please.”

His request slices through the nervous air in the room, his words deep and commanding and delivered with an authority that you doubt anyone would dare question. This man must be obeyed, and in the back of your mind you congratulate yourself for your decision to take a chance on hiring this moody ex-soldier with creaky knees. When he needed to he could certainly clear a room. And on top of that, he offers you a whole lot more besides.

Indeed, here he is, going above and beyond, kneeling on said creaky knees for you. Protecting you, and comforting you too.

Your eyes are still closed as the room gradually quietens, until it is so still you could hear a pin drop. Until you can hear the steady rise and fall of Santi’s breath. Until you can hear the delicate wet noise of his lips parting so his tongue can skim his lips. You can hear him swallow.

As you hear the sound of the final remaining person shuffle out, and the door gently click closed behind them, you are finally able to peel open your eyes. You are able finally able to release your bottom lip from the grip of your teeth, an indent having formed where you have bitten down so hard you have threatened to draw blood.

Santi is as still as death as he waits, and as soon as he hears that final click, he is moving. Only then, does he allow his (thin) veneer of professionalism to collapse. He allows the flats of his palms to snake up your thighs, rubbing reassuring shapes into you, and you feel the familiar heat and press of of him through the luxe fabric of your suit trousers.

“Look at me, cariño,” he soothes, in a deep, fond tone, entirely different to those bitten off commands reserved for the rest of your entourage. “It’s just you and me now. Look at me, baby.”

You do. You look into his big brown eyes and you and he could be the only two people in the world, never mind the room. You sniff, and you fumble away a stray tear before settling your palms on top of his.

You slow your breathing and Santi flashes you a small, proud smile. “That’s it, honey. Nice and slow. Just like that.”

Then, he flinches, his head leaning to the side as though he could physically retreat from whatever angry voice is no doubt blaring into his ear. Then, he makes a point of taking the earpiece out altogether, letting it hang over the collar of his white shirt.

He tugs in a huge exhale too, letting go of the tension he held in his body through his concern for you, although his eyes slit flit around your face in residual concern.

“They’ll be mad you did that,” you warn, with a nod to his earpiece.

“Whatever. It’s not my job to get you to the red carpet on time. It’s my job to look after you.”

“Your job? Hmm? That all I am to you?”

He flashes you a lopsided smile as you tease him. “I’m a lucky man. My job happens to be a thing I love doing outside of work too.” You lift your palm to his face, the familiar texture of his stubble beneath your fingers. “Now, honey. No rush. But do you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

You look away from him then as you realise he won’t let you distract him enough to avoid the true issue at hand, but his hands are still languidly smoothing your thighs, and you know he won’t make you do anything you don’t want to before you’re ready. He might dole out some tough love, eventually, but not until he is sure that you can take it. He lets you fumble until you find the words. “It’s... even the thought of it, Santi. This is the biggest thing I’ve ever done. All those cameras. All those eyes on me, I...”

Santi shushes you, as he hears the resurgent panic creep into your voice, even as your fingertips idly trace over his handsome features, a self-soothing unconscious thing, as he continues to kneel before you.

But while you may be panicked, he’s smiling. Looking up at you earnestly. “You deserve all those eyes on you, hermoso.” You don’t mind at all that when his voice comes out now it’s both fond and a just a little dirty as his own, very attentive eyes sweep over you.

“I don’t know...” You nibble on your lip again.

“Baby. You deserve this night. You’ve worked so hard for this. You’re so talented. And holy shit. You look so fucking hot in this suit I can barely function.” You let out a small, tentative laugh, which Santi seems pleased by, his own eyes creasing at the corners in return. “Besides,” he continues, tone more earnest now, his thick brows raised as he hammers his point home. “I’ll be right there. Just a few steps behind you, okay, mi Principe?”

You take one more deep breath, expelling it slowly and steadily through the “o” of your mouth, and Santi can’t resist your pursed lips a moment longer. Yet, for all his comments about how hot you are, his kiss is not as devouring as you might expect. It is a soft, tender thing, barely skimming your lips, and yet even so it appears to inspire a reverent heat in him, his eyelashes fanned on his cheek as his eyes remain closed a moment longer. As he expels a gust of disbelieving air at how you make him feel from this alone.

“Or,” he proposes, his voice breathy. “We could sack this whole thing off? We could order chilli cheese fries to the room and I can suck you off until you can’t think straight?”

You kiss him again, this time giving him just a hint of tongue, even as you laugh musically into his open, increasingly eager mouth.

“Appealing as that sounds, my love, I probably shouldn’t miss this...” you nod your head towards the door “...lil thing.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Santi concedes with a fond, lopsided smile, his eyes flashing with adoration, until he reluctantly schools himself back to something resembling professionalism. He gives you a few moments to gather yourself, and for his... eagerness to subside, before asking “You ready?”.

You nod. “Ready as I’m gonna get.”

“There he is. That’s my man.” Santi gives your thighs one more squeeze before he stands, and you swear you hear his poor knees creak; and then, he is replacing his ear piece, his face becoming all business as he presses two fingers to his ear. “Kolpakov? We’re ready to move out. Everyone in position?”

He awaits the response before turning back to you, practically gasping as he sees you stood there in all your glory for the first time. His eyes sweep up and down the length of you. He shakes his head incredulously, switching his mic off for a moment more. “Fuck me. You look like a fucking dream.”

“Not so bad yourself,” you respond in a loving, flirtatious tone, dancing your fingertips across his chest as you sweep past him towards the doorway and he turns with you as if in your thrall.

As you prepare, taking another deep breath and gripping the handle, Santi reaches for your arm, delaying you for just another moment. “Santi,” you laugh. “We can do the chilli cheese fries later, I promise.”

But that’s not quite what he has in mind. He looks at you intensely, and he cups your face in his broad palm. “Don’t forget. You deserve those eyes on you. But if you get overwhelmed, know that my eyes are on you. Wherever you go, I’ll be right behind you.”

The sentiment and sincerity with which he says this makes your mouth fall open in shock. Makes your chest constrict with happiness rather than nerves - but you aren’t afforded the opportunity to respond. In the next moments, the door is flung open, and your entourage is flooding you, barking directions and whisking you down the staircase and out on to the red carpet.

You are pulled away from Santi, and you don’t get to be near him again, besides a quick, surreptitious whisper into the shell of your ear as he follows you out the door “we need to talk about your ass in these pants because holy shit” - but that is all you can steal.

True to his word though, wherever you go he is right behind you. He is there with a firm arm to form a protective wall should a photographer come too close, or a fan get too handsy over a barrier. He is standing, stern and formidable to your rear as you provide sound bites to the tv stations forming a line up to the venue (and, trying very hard not to ogle your ass in these pants, probably).

He’s right behind you, designed to fade into the background in every sense. For all his charisma, he’s good at it. Not drawing attention. Even his suit is designed to be non-descript.

But... that’s not where he should be, you realise.

And, when you are almost at the end of the carpet, you stop in your tracks. You hesitate, and you turn around, your gaze instantly finding him in the crowd. He looks concerned, alarmed, as though you may have gotten the jitters again and like you might be about to do a runner.

But that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

In fact, you are more calm and sure than you have been all evening, looking at his befuddled, deer in headlights expression as all the attention suddenly falls on him. He has some big talk and a tough exterior, but the centre of him is soft, and you love that about him.

And so, a cautious smile blooms on your face as you settle firmly on your plan of action, and you walk determinedly in the “wrong” direction, going against the stream of attendees and making a beeline for your love, as he, for once -your man of action- stands frozen in confusion.

Then, when you arrive at him you stop, placing both your hands flat on the lapels of his suit, smoothing them down.

“What are you-?” he begins to ask, but you cut him off.

“Santi, my love. This is ridiculous. I don’t want you behind me. I want you by my side. Where you should be. So, fuck it. Will you do me the honour of accompanying me to this premiere?”

He answers with a smile. With sparkling eyes. With his arms flung around your waist. With the press of his curved lips against yours, and a slip of his supple tongue. “Baby. I’ll always be by your side.” His hands slip a little lower. “Or - you know - sometimes right behind you.” He winks at you. God, you adore this idiot.

So, you wrap your arms around him, guffawing fondly into his neck before kissing him again, more deeply, not caring who’s watching. Your face splits with a beaming smile as you break from the embrace and link your arm into his, proceeding to walk up the carpet again: together this time.

“Fuck me though, honey,” Santi leans over to confide in you as he straightens up his tie, as if suddenly noticing the photographers for the first time now that they are noticing him. “You could have warned me you were going to french me on the red carpet, I would have put on a better suit.”

You laugh warmly as he continues to babble, and you reassure him that he looks perfect.

You know he’s doing his best to mask it, but he’s the nervous one now - you can tell. “Don’t worry, handsome,” you reassure. “Just you and me, remember?”

No-one else in the world.

“Jesus. How do you do this?” he asks, balking at all of the camera flashes going off in his face, his voice choked.

Luckily, Kolpakov - his second in command- figures out what’s happening and takes the cue to intervene, shifting the line back just a little to give the two of you some space. A good job too as you see beads of sweat forming on your love’s brow.

“How do I do this?” you ponder. “Well, I always have you to protect me, right?” You squeeze his arm tenderly. “And I’ll protect you now, my darling.”

This- having him by your side? You have no doubt that this feels right. It is where he has been all along, albeit only in the shadows. In private moments. But tonight, as he encouraged you into the spotlight, you realised how little you cared for hiding. You need him with you.

“Jesus,” Santi chuckles, looking around and trying to take everything in. “The boys are gonna have a fucking field day with this one. I didn’t even tell them we were dating.”

“What the hell, Garcia?!” you chide fondly, mouth open in a shocked “o”, before beginning to chatter and banter away with him as you easily fall into step together. Distracting him from his nerves like he always does for you.

With Santi by your side, you no longer care about all of the other eyes on you. All of the camera flashes. The crowds. Those watching at home.

You’re proud of your achievements. You’re proud of your relationship. And besides, the only eyes on you which you pay any heed to are his. Santiago’s gorgeous brown eyes, which, right now, shine with nothing but pride.

Yours shine right back.

You think he is the one who deserves all eyes on him, tonight.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #8

"It happened. Feel it, and let it go."

Her therapist's words are easier said than done. Lena does her best, she really does, but every time she almost feels over Kara Danvers, she sees a film trailer or a tabloid headline and her world spirals again.

It's silly. Lena knows she shouldn't be so affected. She only knew Kara Danvers for a few days across a few weeks, but then again... as her therapist likes to say: Lena never learned how to love half way.

When news of a nude photo scandal breaks, Lena finds out about it with the rest of the world, but instead of watching in sick fascination, Lena feels only horror for the woman behind it all. Her heart, broken though it is, goes out to Kara, and the devastation she must be going through. Because Lena more than anyone else knows how carefully crafted Kara's image is, how carefully precise every word and movement is lest she lose the love of the audience and the industry itself.

But as much as Lena might want to, she doesn't call. She doesn't write. She doesn't even know if Kara is in Britain at all, until one morning there's a knock on her front door.

There, with an overnight bag, is Kara.

Her eyes are hidden behind large sunglasses, and her arms are crossed over her chest, tight with anxiety. Before Lena can think to do anything otherwise, she wordlessly steps aside to invite Kara into her flat.

"Thank you," Kara murmurs. Her voice quivers, her jaw clenched against brimming tears. Lena briefly scans the street outside before closing the door, relieved to find it empty of press.

They slowly migrate to the kitchen, where Kara pauses, uncertain of what to do next.

"Tea?" Lena offers.

Kara nods faintly. Over tea, the situation Lena had avoided reading about about in the tabloids comes spilling out as Kara vents, finally able to explain to someone-- anyone-- who would listen.

"I was young, and I was angry, and... and you want to know the saddest part? I enjoyed that shoot! It was one of the healthiest, most open working environments I'd ever been in. The level of trust, and respect... god-- they talked to me like a person, and I just-- for the first time, it felt like I had complete agency. Except I didn't, because they also filmed it, which they didn't tell me, and now... now my entire career, the only thing I've ever done in my entire life, might be over."

Lena listens to it all. She can't offer anything more than that. She doesn't know what to say, even if she could speak under the weight of being in Kara's presence again. Kara fills the entire room, even dressed down in jeans and a trim sweater.

The hurt of their last parting feels a million miles away for the first time since it happened, and all Lena wants to do is kiss her.

"What does your boyfriend think?" Lena blurts softly.

Kara blinks, staring at her. "I don't know," she confesses silently. "I haven't heard from him since before... I don't even know if I have a boyfriend anymore. I didn't even really know I had one then, until he showed up in my hotel room."

She pauses, finally meeting Lena's. "I am so sorry for what happened. I wanted to call so many times, I just-- I just didn't know what to say. And now-- now I'm invading your home like--"

"It's okay," Lena assures her, heading her off at the pass. She rises, taking Kara's hands in hers and offering a reassuring squeeze. "I'm glad you're here, and that you're safe."

Blinking away tears, Kara nods, sniffling.

"What do you need?" Lena asks. "Food, nap, bath...?"

"A bath sounds... really nice right now. And food. And a nap. Maybe in that order?"

Lena smiles. "Okay. We can do that."

---

After Kara's bath, they chat quietly over Notting Hill's finest fish and chips. It feels like no time has passed at all, like they didn't ever part that night at the hotel. Lena revels in it, and in the fact that Kara's nap is taken resting against her shoulder as Lena reads on the couch.

Her therapist would be so disappointed in her.

There's no boundary Lena could throw between them that Kara isn't already well past, and Lena finds she simply doesn't want to. As dangerous as she knows it is, she enjoys their time together. She's addicted to it, like a moth to flame.

The first night, Lena gives Kara her bed, and sleeps on the couch. The second night, after a day filled with running lines for Kara's next project, Lena's awoken from a light doze by a creak on the stair. Despite having a flatmate, Lena instinctively knows it's not Querl, and meets Kara at the foot of the stair.

"Is everything all right?" she asks.

In the dark, Kara nods, a dark shape bobbing in the shadows. "Yes, I-- I just wanted to say thank you. For everything you've done for me. I know you have no reason to help--"

Lena leans in and kisses her. Before her brain can catch up, Kara is kissing her back, burying her hands in Lena's tangled hair before slipping down to brush the edge of Lena's breast through the fabric of her tank top.

Lena covers the exploring hand, pressing it in place against her chest before it could go any further.

"Do you want this?" is all she asks.

Kara nods again, this time their noses brushing at the tips. "Yes," she breathes. "I want you."

----

Waking up in the morning, Lena feels as though she's still dreaming. Her body aches pleasantly, and today the sunlight streaming through her windows falls softly on the figure fast asleep beside her.

Kara Danvers' features are soft in sleep, unschooled for the first time Lena's ever seen. She looks younger, and impossibly more beautiful-- until Kara shifts, and wakes with a smile that puts Lena's previous observations to shame.

"Hi," Kara whispers.

"Hi," Lena whispers back. "Sweet dreams?"

"Mmmmmm," Kara hums, rolling to face her. "Remind me."

Lena obliges with a kiss, ignoring the sour taste of morning breath. Her hand cups Kara's jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against a soft cheek.

Before long, they're interrupted by a low growl in Kara's belly, prompting Lena to laugh against Kara's lips.

"Message received. Stay here," she urges, slipping out of bed.

She pulls on a pair of boxers and her tank top from the night before, wrinkled from being tossed unceremoniously across the room, before heading downstairs to make breakfast.

Lena barely has the bread in the toaster before warm arms encircle her waist from behind. Soft lips press against the join of Lena's neck, blonde hair tickling her skin. She hums low in her throat.

"I like that," she says. She leans her head against Kara's. "Butter and jam's in the fridge."

Kara grins against her and parts with another kiss, finding her way around Lena's kitchen as though she's always been there. Lena takes in the sight of Kara in one of her old oversized sweaters, barely enough to keep her decent. It's a pleasant sight, Kara's ease. Lena wants it to stick around forever.

Their peace is interrupted a moment later when the doorbell rings.

"I've got it," Lena says. "You stay here and butter the toast."

She hops down the narrow steps to the front hall, and opens the door without a second thought as to who could be behind it.

A barrage of camera shutters clicking and the bright flash of dozens of cameras going off at once stuns her. Blinded, she can barely make out the sea of paparazzi, and the questions she barely hears through the buzz of utter noise.

In the next moment, Lena regains her senses and slams the door shut. The heavy old door does well to muffle the sound, so that when Kara comes traipsing down the steps behind her she doesn't notice the hubbub.

"What is it?"

Before Lena can stop her, a shout on her lips, Kara opens the door and faces the sea of cameras with nothing but a piece of toast in her hand and an old sweater between them.

Kara reacts faster than Lena did, instantly whirling and shutting the door behind her. In that moment, Kara's ease disappears. Her body stiffens and her skin heats with flush of shame.

"They... you..." Kara stammers. She looks at Lena, then glares at her. "You told them I was here?!"

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well, if it wasn't you, it was that weirdo of a roommate!" Kara exclaims, voice climbing in pitch and volume. "Finally decided to make a quick buck by giving a tip to the tabloids!"

"That's uncalled for," Lena counters. Querl is odd, but he'd only ever been kind to Kara, in his own strange way. "Let's just... let's just breathe for a second--"

"You breathe. I'm leaving."

Without another word, Kara disappears back into the kitchen. After an urgent call to whom Lena can only guess is her publicist, Kara disappears towards the bedroom. Lena gives her space, lingering in the living room long enough for Kara to catch her breath. By the time she finally pokes her head into the bedroom, Kara is already dressed and throwing her items into her overnight bag.

"Kara..."

"Don't. Don't say my name like you know how I feel."

Lena swallows thickly. "I don't... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry they're here, but I'm not sorry you are."

"Well, I am," Kara snaps, snatching her top from the night before and slamming it into her bag. "I never should have come here. I have a boyfriend for Christ's sake!"

Lena freezes, her blood running cold. "You do?"

"As far as they're concerned I do! And now pictures of us are going to be on every paper from here to Star City!!"

Kara lugs her bag over her shoulder and storms out of the room. "And your friend, your friend owes you a nice dinner. Lobster at least, if he's smart enough to get the going rate on betrayal."

"You leave Querl out of this!" Lena snaps, her temper fraying as she chases after Kara. "Okay? I understand that you're upset, and I am too, but we don't know that he has anything to do with this!"

Kara rounds on her with fury in her eyes. "All I know is that they didn't follow me here, and we didn't go anywhere. So if wasn't me, and it wasn't him, who was it? Hm?"

Angry tears burn at the backs of Lena's eyes. She blinks them away, and struggles breathe past the lump in her throat.

"It's okay, Lena," Kara continues firing, "I get it. Okay? It's natural to want your name out there, to drum up business. Come, get a boring book about Egypt from the chick who fucked Kara Danvers!"

The accusation drives all the breath from Lena's body. She stares, and sees the moment Kara realizes she's crossed a line. She softens then, but not enough.

"You may only get fifteen minutes of this, Lena,  but I have had this my entire life. These pictures will last forever. They will follow me FOREVER, and I will regret this forever!"

The doorbell rings, cleaving through the moment of Lena's heartbreak. Surprisingly, Kara doesn't immediately leave, her shock at her own words evident in the gape of her mouth and the tears in her eyes.

Finally, Lena looks away, clearing her throat.

"You don't want to keep your team waiting," she grinds out, her voice full of gravel. It hurts to speak, to breathe, to even look at Kara. But watch she does as Kara's mouth closes to a resolute line before she turns and leaves without looking back.

previous / next

[polkahotness]

SHORTAKI WEEK DAY 1

FFN // AO3 

               Long Gone

Sometimes when I look at Helga, it's difficult to remember what it was like before we admitted our feelings for each other. Granted, Helga had admitted her feelings to me countless times and on numerous different occasions, but I had never been all that great at that sort of thing in response.

I supposed that my 'love language' just wasn't the same as hers and it made navigating through our relationship a tumultuous and difficult process at times.

Helga had always been so good with words—her feelings, though oftentimes hidden deep inside, were always so well-articulated. When she wanted to give up the truth behind them, her sentences were thoughtful; poetic, and they came out of her mouth with ease, despite inwardly struggling with that piece of vulnerability.

But me?

It seemed that I still hadn't quite figured out how to best voice my feelings.

It wasn't that I had a problem voicing them—I had no issue whatsoever telling Helga, Gerald, my next-door neighbor, or the entire world how I felt about her. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that I couldn't do it well. My attempts were often clumsy, and I had the tendency to ramble and stumble over each word like I was once again learning how to speak for the first time in my life.

Thankfully, Helga never held it against me. In fact, her response to my feeble attempts usually sounded something like, "Still struggling with that word thing, are we, footballhead?" Then she'd let out this soft little laugh while I blushed and would open my mouth to try and dispute her, though she never let me get that far. "I get it, babe. You love me. And I love you—" then she'd pause and smack my butt while following it up with, "—and that cute little ass of yours."

A lifetime of confusing feelings had changed a lot in the dynamic between Helga and myself—the last six of those years cementing our relationship in a way that 10-year-old-me could have never imagined.

We were the couple people oogled over. Our stories of the bully and the victim turning into lovers was one for the ages, and we never grew tired of talking about it or reminiscing over the foolish children we once were. While anyone with eyes could see the love that we held for one another, it was always Helga who seemed to vocalize it best. As the self-appointed designated speaker, she was usually the one who told our complicated love story as I draped my arm over her shoulders to hold her into me wherever it was that we sat.

Helga had figured out in our time together that I was the shower, and not the teller. My love for her looked like me making dinner when I knew she had a hard day at work and would be too tired to even heat up a tv dinner. It looked like me rubbing her feet while she lay unsuspecting on the couch with her legs on my lap as we binge-watched another series. My love was shown through buying her that book she'd been talking about for three weeks because it was the long-awaited follow-up to her favorite author's poetry book—and I'd even gotten the limited edition copy with the ornately designed cover and gold-lined pages because, while she'd never say it, I knew she preferred the special copy over the boring (and cheaper) paperback version.

It was all of those little things and more that told Helga how much I loved her. But all of those little things could never express what I needed to tell her next. The emotions and feelings I had to say this time around would require me to put my strengths of showing and my weaknesses of telling together so I could be bolder than I'd ever been before.

Because there was nothing in the world that I wouldn't do for her.

It may have taken us a while to realize just how deeply our love for one another went. Even after we'd admitted our feelings, we struggled to get to a place where we mutually realized we were each other's end game. I'm sure Helga already knew this fact because she seemed to have always known, even when we were children, but me? It had taken me much longer.

With Helga, I was always just a few steps behind.

But it was okay.

Helga always managed to wait patiently…always somehow knowing that I was making my way to her.

Throughout our years of syncopated dating habits, a funny thing happened that I could never push away. Helga never left my mind. No matter where I was or what I was doing with who, Helga always remained. It may have taken until we both hit 21 for the stars to officially align, but that night six years ago when we reconnected on our favorite bar's balcony that overlooked the bright lights of Hillwood… that night forever changed my life.

I could only hope it would provide that same luck tonight as we stood together, once again, on the bar's balcony while looking out at our hometown on a quiet autumn evening.

"You know, Arnoldo," Helga said after taking a swig from the bottle she was holding, "I was kind of surprised you wanted to come to this joint on our anniversary of all days."

Smirking at her statement, I shrugged my shoulders. "The balcony here is nice. I like looking out at the city, don't you?"

"Well, sure," she replied while focusing her attention out on the dotted lights of the faraway buildings that made up the skyline. "But we could have easily done it from somewhere less…" Twisting her body, she glanced behind herself towards the hubbub of noise from within the bar. Turning back around, she returned her gaze outward while finishing her sentiment. "I don't know, somewhere less… cheesy."

"Cheesy?" I intoned while eyeing her carefully. "What do you mean by that?"

"You know," she simply said while fixating her eyes ahead without so much as a flinch in my direction. "Taking me to the same place where we first 'officially' rekindled our relationship. I guess I would have thought you'd pick some fancy-pants restaurant to propose to me at."

My jaw instinctively dropped as I stared at Helga with my mouth agape.

Slowly she turned her head to look at me with a wicked grin. "I like the sentimentality part though," she offered as some kind of consolation prize. "But if you were to take us back somewhere and be all romantic by talking about the past, I would have chosen P.S 118 or something. Now that's a good throwback."

I was still in shock as she spoke; my mind not comprehending that Helga had so easily figured out my plans and then called me out on them without so much as a care in the world.

It seemed that, yet again, Helga was still one step ahead of me.

"But you… how did you… but," I shook my head while struggling to force out a somewhat-coherent response. "Didn't you, how could you have—"

"Arnold," she deadpanned, though a hint of a smile twitched at the corner of her lips, "You were at Gerald's for four hours the other day. You really think I didn't hear about your little 'plans' from Phoebe?"

"Phoebe told you?" I repeated in shock. "Phoebe. She's smarter than that, Helga. Why on earth would she think it was okay to tell you something this important?!" I exclaimed and Helga remained unphased; merely tilting her head in thought before looking away from me again.

Casually, she explained, "I never said she thought it was okay. I mean, criminy, I practically had to force it out of her."

"And you did that because…?"

Helga let out a chuckle before fully turning her entire body to face me directly. "I've been waiting for you to propose to me for years now, Arnold. Years." I could feel heat beginning to rise and fill in my cheeks. "Honestly, I was about ready to propose to you, and then Phoebe kept telling me that I couldn't do that because our anniversary was coming up so then I told her that it was the perfect time to propose, then one thing led to another and—"

"She didn't actually tell you, then, did she." I finished for her in a statement rather than a question, and Helga let out a heavy sigh.

"She didn't have to tell me," Helga said with a twinge of humor beneath her tone. "By the way she acted, I knew immediately what you were up to."

Silence settled between us and I fought the urge to explode in anger, frustration, and sheer disappointment. How was it that I was still so incapable of surprising Helga? How was it that even after all of this time, I was still that dense little boy unable to catch up to Helga and be the first to admit something for once.

How was it that I was somehow perpetually in the fourth grade, avoiding acting on my feelings?

Impulsively, I grabbed Helga's hand and began pulling her towards the inside of the bar, "C'mon," I told her as she followed along with an inquisitive set of eyes. "We're going somewhere."

"Where?" She scoffed out. "I thought you were going to ask me to marry you…"

"Oh, I am," I answered immediately and in a firm tone. "But I'm not doing it here."

"Ahh, a field trip, I see," Helga replied as we dodged and weaved our way through the drunken crowd of dancers cluttering the small bar. "And just where is it you have decided to take me for this romantic gesture?"

"Somewhere you won't be expecting this time," I told her with about 86% certainty. "At least… I hope."

As she set her half-empty bottle on a table that we passed by in pursuit of the door out, we finally exited the bar and began making our way down the sidewalk. I led us forward with determination while Helga trailed along in my wake; her longer legs allowing her to keep at my pace with ease.

"Seriously, what are you up to, Hair Boy?" Her tone was becoming almost nervous, and it only heightened my confidence that this new destination was where I should have brought her in the first place. It was a deep-seeded memory that we hadn't discussed since we were teenagers. This had to be the perfect place for a proposal.

This had to be it.

Continuing to drag her along, Helga's eyes shifted to take in her surroundings. Her brows furrowed as she tried to piece together the strange environment that I was leading her through—an old part of Hillwood that had been long forgotten. Most everything on each block had either been abandoned or demolished; the promises of new complexes and mini-malls now only graffitied rubble lost to the recent economic recession.

"Do you even know where we are?" Helga continued to try and coax my true purpose out of me. "You do realize that if we're lost, I am not paying for the taxi back."

It was a backhanded joke that signaled Helga was out of her element. I knew her tactics by now and she was currently baffled as to what was in store. The fact that I was going to propose tonight was already out in the open and there was no pretending it wasn't still going to happen. The way it was going to happen, however… now that was going to be vastly different.

I just hoped I was going to be able to pull it off. I didn't exactly have the greatest track record with speaking my feelings on the fly, but maybe that was for the best. In fact, by doing this completely unrehearsed, Helga would know that my words—as jumbled and clunky as they may come out—would be directly from the heart, my heart. Unrehearsed. Unpolished. Unfiltered.

Pulling Helga to a stop as we reached the corner of an unassuming block hidden in the outskirts of Hillwood, the two of us stood in place in front of a small building. Inside the window was a faded, 'For Lease' sign, and the cement that made up the foundation was filled with cracks that had allowed wild weeds to spurt from the ground and wiggle their way up towards the sky. At first glance, the building was old and decrepit—absolutely nothing special and certainly not somewhere worthy of a marriage proposal.

Glancing around at where I'd brought her, Helga eyed the building carefully before slowly turning to face me. "An abandoned building? What's so special about this place? There's nothing here."

"Exactly," I answered as Helga's brow raised in curiosity. "There isn't anything here. Not now, anyway." Looking over my shoulder, I gestured towards the dilapidated structure before continuing my thought. "It's been a lot of different things in the past, though."

"Oh really?" Helga humored me while letting go of my hand to cross her arms loosely over her chest. "Like what?"

"A clothing boutique. A tailoring company. I'm pretty sure there was a craft store in here too at one point—"

"What in the hell does any of that have to do with—" Helga interrupted, though I didn't allow her to keep talking.

Instead, I finished my sentence by asserting dominance and talking over her as she unsuccessfully tried to speak over me. "—but before all of that, this was a daycare."

Helga's eyes widened minimally, though she remained silent as if to give me the chance to continue.

And that's exactly what I did.

"Not so much a daycare as it was a pre-school, though."

More silence settled between us as Helga's eyes drifted from mine to look at the run-down building she hadn't recognized. "Urban Tots," she muttered out as though it were an afterthought rather than a declaration of acknowledgement.

At her fixation towards our old pre-school, I took the opportunity to shakily get down on one knee; my hand fumbling to reach the small box I'd been hiding inside the pocket of the jeans I was wearing. Pulling it out, Helga's eyes returned to me; water gathering at the base of her vision as she looked down at me with laser-focus.

"Helga," I began precariously, though I tried to keep myself calm as I turned the blue-velvet box over and over in my hands anxiously. "As you've proven tonight, you are and always have been one step ahead of me. Since the moment we met, something in you had the wherewithal to know that we weren't just classmates in some random neighborhood in a random city in this random universe we find ourselves living in. Something inside of you knew that we were more than that. It knew… you knew that we were so much more, that we were… that we are, soulmates."

"Arnold," Helga breathed out, but I held up a finger to stop her from saying anything else and throwing me off of my groove.

"Do you remember when we were fifteen?" I started and Helga smirked while staring at me incredulously. "You told me that you had loved me from the moment you first saw me which, to be fair, wasn't the first time you'd told me that, but I asked you when that was, when you had first seen me."

A small laugh escaped Helga as she recalled the moment I was referencing. "You'd never asked me that before. It was a stupid question."

"Not really," I countered while adjusting from where I knelt on the pavement; my knee suddenly telling me that I'd chosen the wrong time to begin kneeling. Unfortunately, it was definitely too late now to get back up, so I instead took a deep breath to calm my angry kneecap and proceeded with my story. "It's funny because the memories that I have of you and things you've done or random conversations and moments we've shared… they're different than your memories."

"How do you figure?" Helga pressed and I knitted my brows together while trying to find the most effective way to explain my thoughts.

"You have a whole other set of memories that I don't remember because, at the time, they didn't mean anything to me yet. Just like some of my memories don't align with yours because they weren't as significant to you as they were to me in that moment." I took in a sharp breath before finalizing, "A lot of your memories are different because you've known about us a lot longer than I ever did."

"Long before there even was an us, you dingus," Helga chuckled out, and I rolled my eyes at her comment.

"Anyway," I emphasized before pressing onward. "You told me all about that day, that day back at Urban Tots when we apparently first met—a memory I had never actively remembered but suddenly did as you told your side of the story. It was one of the first times you broke down that wall, completely destroyed it to bare your soul to me without insults or nicknames or jokes to cover up the raw truth. You told me about what happened before you got to the pre-school, about Olga and your parents and the rain and your lunch and-and…"

I had to stop myself because the rambling had begun to rear its ugly head. Taking a moment to collect myself, I inhaled deeply before re-routing my conversational direction so I could get back on track with the task at hand.

"I never forgot that story," I admitted while looking down at the ring box I was still playing with in my grip. "You went back to the casual bullying and nicknames, both of us knowing how we felt about each other, but I never forgot that story. Each night I'd lay in my bed staring up through the skylight at the stars and imagine that memory I'd forgotten over and over again. Your pink overalls covered in mud. That sad look in your eye. It was like you'd never been loved… like you didn't know what it meant to be loved or to love another person."

Helga chewed on her lip for a moment as though trying to find the right thing to say—something she didn't typically struggle with. After a moment, she settled on, "What's your point. Aren't proposals supposed to be romantic or something? Not some… excuse to go drudging up my messed-up past and all of the memories that I've worked really hard to forget—"

"I know, I know," I tried to subdue her before she could indulge any further in the anger that was rapidly bubbling up inside of her. "What I am saying, is that the little girl who stood right here all of those years ago… that unloved toddler is gone now, Helga. She's long gone, okay?"

Her deep azure gaze bore into me as I kept talking; my knee now completely numbed from any pain or feeling as my body began to follow suit from nervousness alone. "The woman who stands before me isstill the same feisty, stubborn, thoughtful, smart, talented… and amazing person she has always been, but unloved?" I shook my head a couple of times. "That girl from long ago and the woman of now and forevermore is not unloved. She never will be or feel unloved, ever again. And that's something that I can and do promise you."

With that, I at last presented the box and carefully opened it to reveal a golden engagement ring with an opal at its center. Surrounding the stone was a halo of small diamonds; the ring itself appearing as the most dazzling of flowers attached to a plain gold band. The ring sparkled effortlessly under the glow of the moonlight, though the sky threatened its romantic lighting with oncoming and fast-moving storm clouds.

As Helga's eyes went back and forth between the ring and myself, I kept talking; the next set of words something I had always planned to say no matter where I ended up proposing. "Helga G. Pataki, you have been my bully for as long as I can remember. You teased me relentlessly and never stopped giving me attention, no matter how much I thought I didn't want it. You confessed to me time after time that you loved me and yet, even after all of this time, I've never confessed how I feel to you—at least, not entirely. So, I guess… well… here goes."

Nodding her head for me to keep going, she pressed her lips together in a tight line as though trying to hold back the tears I could see pooling in her eyes.

"I love you. I'm head over heels, wildly, desperately, endlessly in love with you, Helga," my words were earnest; genuine. Each sentence I said with the utmost care and sincerity. "I don't just want to have you in my life, I need you in my life. I need your nicknames, your teasing, your each and every thought, your embrace… your everything because you are my everything. And this ring—" I took it out of its box and held out the specifically-chosen engagement ring for her approval, "—I chose it for a reason."

"The opal," I said while using my other hand to point to the main stone, "it's iridescent. It looks like one color, but it never really ever stays that way. It changes and evolves and looks different under whatever light is shining on it—and yet it always somehow stays the same. And that's us. That's our love. We've always loved each other. It may have looked different as we grew, but it's always been there. And if you marry me… I promise that it will always continue to be there."

Swallowing hard, Helga let out a tidbit of her own, "I thought opals had to do with love and passion," she paused for a moment before adding, "and desire. Seduction. Are you trying to get in my pants, Shortman?"

"Always," I admitted which made Helga giggle; a few stray tears jiggling loose from her laughter. "But yes, those are the other reasons why I picked it. Every time you look down at this stone, you will know that I love you. That I desire you and to be with you. That I want you passionately in every meaning and interpretation of the word. That I will be faithful, and loyal until my very last breath. With this ring… I promise that you will never, ever, ever spend another second of your life being a muddy little girl who doesn't know what love is. I will spend every moment of my life proving to you and showing you and making up for all of those times when you needed love and didn't have it."

The two of us stared at each other as I held the ring out towards her, my arm growing more tired with each second that passed. Our eyes remained locked on one another as eons, and decades, and lifetimes seemed to happen while I agonized over her answer. Why wasn't she saying yes? I'd shown her the ring… she knew what I was doing… so why hadn't she accepted yet? Was she not going to accept? Worry fluttered through my mind as a sudden thought filled my senses, What if she doesn't want to get married?

As I lost myself in my thoughts, the clearing of Helga's throat brought me back to reality; her eyes no longer wet with tears and instead looking down at me skeptically. "Hey Arnold?" She asked me and I blinked my eyes a couple of times to refocus my attention on the current moment. "I'd love to say 'yes' here and put on this super sexy and seductive ring you've so thoughtfully picked out for me—"

"Well, my mom helped…"

"Of course Stella did," Helga affirmed with a smirk before sucking in a deep breath of air. "But the whole point of a marriage proposal, as nice as your words were and all… well, you kind of left out one very, very important part."

"…huh?" was all I could manage as I stared up at her in horror.

A sly smile spread across Helga's face. "You haven't actually asked me anything yet."

"Oh god," I mumbled while shutting my eyes in utter embarrassment. "Oh, god, I just… I got so caught up in all of this and then I kneeled way too early—"

"I know!" Helga exclaimed in amusement. "Your knee must be killing you right now."

"Eh," I quickly dismissed, "I stopped having feeling in my kneecap about a minute in so you might need to help me up—"

"Because you're an old man, now. Yeah, I know," Helga teased before sighing and tilting her head slightly. "You're only getting older the longer you wait, Footballhead."

"Yeah. Yes, of course. Right. Okay," pushing through the numbness of my knee and the nervousness I still felt for no reason at all, I held the ring out once again and looked deep into Helga's ocean blue eyes. "Helga G. Pataki. Will you marry me?"

Her smile widened to reveal a toothy grin. "Criminy, Arnold. I thought you'd never ask."

As I slipped the ring onto its new home of Helga's finger, she helped to yank me up from where I'd potentially done permanent damage to my left knee.

I didn't even care.

From where the two of us kissed under the moonlight at what remained of Urban Tots Pre-School, I knew that the Helga and Arnold who had once occupied this exact spot years ago were long gone. And as the sky at last opened up, allowing buckets of rain to downpour on us, we laughed while getting soaked to the bone because this time, the rain itself didn't matter.

The only umbrella Helga needed was one made entirely of love. And, just like when we were mere toddlers, I was happy to provide it for her. Not only in the rain, but through every storm we may weather and every warm day that is enjoyed safely under the shade.

For Helga, I was prepared to hold that umbrella over her for the rest of our lives.

And I couldn't wait.

[aster-aspera]

Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds

CW's for this chapter: minor character death, semi-graphic descriptions of injuries, parental death, unsympathetic Remus

Relationship: romantic logince

This prompt was suggested to me by the lovely MizzMarvel on ao3

Chapter title is from thistle and weeds by Mumford and sons

This is Logan’s backstory in my superhero AU. You can find the whole thing on ao3 here  or on the masterlist here

As Logan walked home that morning, he felt invincible, untouchable. All the grey days at school fell away, all the teasing and bullying and all the fear was suddenly gone.

He felt like he was soaring, floating somewhere high above his life. He was so much more than himself in that moment.

Maybe, he didn’t want this to end. However terrifying chasing after criminals was, that particular high almost made the danger worth it. He mourned the fact that it would be over soon. That they would put the gang away, file away the info they had collected and go back to school, alone in the knowledge of what they had done.

The ecstatic feeling faded when he entered his garden and noticed the front door was open. His blood ran cold.

Logan dropped his bag to the floor, frustration written in the lines of his posture.

“Hey sweetheart, how was your day?” His mother called from her office.

“It was uneventful as always and I am not in the mood to discuss it further.” He replied shortly.

His mother rounded the corner and took in his drawn face and the force with which he set his books down on the table.

She held out her arms invitingly and Logan let himself be wrapped up in her embrace, savouring the feeling of safety it gave him.

“Are the other kids giving you trouble again?” She asked.

The other kids were the least of his worries, currently. He could handle their childish taunting. His other problems were related to the more dangerous, night time aspect of his life. But he couldn’t exactly burden his mother with that.

She would worry too much and while he wouldn’t exactly blame her for that, he didn’t need her nagging atop all his worries about Roman and Remus.

So he just nodded and left it at that.

His mother didn’t pressure him to say more. She understood that he didn’t always feel like talking.

Once he was finished with his homework, he locked the door to his room and grabbed the locked box he kept hidden away at the back of his dresser. He opened it and carefully arranged the papers inside into orderly stacks.

The box contained a wealth of information, information that could likely get him in serious trouble if it got into the wrong hands. These files were the fruit of months of research and careful surveillance.

Supply routes, lists of buyers, lists of couriers, the entire ledger, even the names of the most elusive members.

This information could dismantle the entire gang and that was their goal. A few more weeks and they had all the evidence they needed.

Public scandals that would knock the leaders off their thrones, accounts of crimes and evidence so solid no judge would be able to refute it.

They would just have to drop it off at the police station and the gang’s fate would be sealed. It made Logan feel a little better whenever he looked at it. Despite the dangers, they were doing something good, something that would make this shithole of a city just a tiny bit more liveable. And hopefully, would help Remus.

Logan had to admit, he didn’t have that much faith in Roman’s plan. In theory, rolling up the drug rink so Remus lost his debts and could leave without fear of repercussions made sense.

But that theory was heavily relying on the fact that Remus even wanted to leave. He seemed way too comfortable in the criminal environment than Logan cared to see.

His phone started ringing and Logan picked it up without looking away from the supply route he was copying onto another paper.

“Hey erlenmeyer trash, you ready for tonight?”

Logan sighed at the nickname.

“Hello Roman, I told you at school I have everything prepared for tonight. I don’t see why you felt the need to call.”

“It’s just...something feels off. I’m scared something’s gonna go wrong.”

“Did something happen to make you feel like this?”

“No, not really. Well, I haven’t seen Remus in a while and he was acting weird the last time I called.”

“Remus dropping off the map or acting strange is not usually a cause for concern. He is prone to doing things like that.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” Roman sounded uncharacteristically quiet. He must really be nervous.

“Is there anything else that caused this concern?”

“No…”

“Then we will be alright. We know what we do is dangerous, but there are no signs the gang is aware of what we are doing. We have gone undetected for months, it is improbable they would suddenly know now and not give us any sort of indication. But, if you really are worried, we can call tonight off.”

“No! No, the sooner we get this done, the better. And if you say we’ll be alright, I believe you.”

“So you’re listening to me for once. How novel.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, specs.”

Logan rolled his eyes.

“Just don’t forget the flashlights this time.”

“You’ll bring back up ones anyways. I don’t see why I bother.”

“It’s important to be prepared, definitely if you’re trying to fight crime with someone as scatterbrained as you.”

“You sound like Batman.”

“Good, that’s what I’m going for.”

“Well, caped crusader, I gotta go make dinner. See you tonight.”

“Yes. Don’t forget your scaly panties, robin.”

Roman signed off with a snort and Logan continued looking through the documents. But Roman’s words kept running through his head and his feeling of unease grew. Maybe it would be better to call it off for tonight.

No, Roman was right, they had to get this done as soon as possible. The longer they waited, the more time the gang had to discover what they were doing.

He decided to head downstairs. He had done all his prep work for tonight and sitting in his room feeling anxious wasn’t helping anyone.

Downstairs, music was playing and his mom and dad stood in the kitchen. They held each other close and were sloppily slowing along to the music, horribly off beat.

His dad noticed him standing in the door opening and beckoned him over.

They took him up in their embrace and his dad kept trying to dance, even though Logan was tripping over his own feet and his mother was laughing too much to follow along.

“Logan! Don’t tell me you don’t know how to slow.” His dad exclaimed as Logan bumped awkwardly into his mother again.

“It’s not like I’ve ever done it before. Nobody slows anymore, dad.”

“What a disgrace. My son should at least know how to slow. What if a pretty boy asks you to dance?”

Logan rolled his eyes but his dad was not to be dissuaded and grabbed him.

“Just follow along to the music.” He instructed.

They ran through the steps slowly and after a while, Logan felt himself loosen up a little. His steps became less mechanical and more like an actual dance.

He smiled as he imagined himself dancing like this with Roman, the other boy was sure to enjoy it, always one for outdated romantic gestures.

His mom laughed and then grabbed his father.

“As important as teaching our son outdated school dances is, I still need your help with dinner.”

They finished making dinner together while Logan set the table.

“ Lettuce eat.” His dad called as he set a bowl of salad down on the table and Logan groaned and hid his head in his hands.

“That pun was souper bad.” His mom groaned.

“Stop.” Logan whined.

“What, don’t you loaf my jokes?” His dad asked.

“They’re terrible.”

“I think they’re sub lime. ” His mom laughed.

Logan lay in his bed, the light from his phone lighting up his face as he waited for his parents to go to bed.

Finally Logan deemed it safe enough to leave and he slunk out of the house.

He walked through the silent neighbourhood till he reached the busier, less ideal parts of town.

There, he found Roman leaning against a wall, in a red leather jacket and heavy black boots, blending in with the crowd of people out on a friday night. Logan felt his heart stutter at the careless way Roman was slumped against the wall, his face cast in stark shadows by the neon lights from a nearby club.

He reminded Logan of the devil, of the incarnation of pride, everything about him inviting yet dangerous.

Logan stopped staring and walked over to join him, trying to lean against the wall with the same graceful abandon but only managing to look like an awkward stick.

“Hello, my dark night.” Roman said.

“You forgot the panties.”

“Oh no, what a tragedy. Guess I can’t be your Robin tonight. Maybe I can be your batwoman?”

“Batwoman’s gay, you dolt.”

“I mean, same.”

“And they’re cousins.”

“Yeah, nevermind.”

“Come on, we have a job to do.” Logan reminded him.

They stayed out all night. Skulking in the shadows and trailing couriers all over the city. Logan felt a strange thrill every time he looked over at Roman. His eyes glinted with excitement and adrenaline.

During the day, they were just teenagers, being pushed and shoved and keeping their heads down as they walked to class.

But now, they were so much more. They became a part of the city, let her bustling energy envelop them. They slipped out of their skin under the streetlights and let themselves disappear into the hubbub and danger that prowled the city streets.

They were angels bringing her justice, they were devils tearing her apart.

They hid behind dumpsters in cold alleyways and walked along the busy promenades, holding each other and pretending to get lost in the others touch, all the while keeping their eyes trained on their mission.

Finally, when the sky was turning a murky gray and Logan’s eyes felt gritty with sleep, they ended up on a bench two streets from Logan’s home. In the suburban neighbourhood, nothing was stirring and, even in the city, it was too early for even the earliest risers.

Roman curled up on the bench and stared at him. Logan stared right back, too tired to care about being seen as weird.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Roman asked, his voice breaking the quiet of the park.

“The evidence we have collected is irrefutable, as long as we take care to deliver it to the right people, there is no reason it shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know that. I meant Remus. You said he might not come back, even if he is relieved of his debts. What if he’s really just in it because, I don't know, he likes it? Or he just feels like he fits in there?”

“I don’t know your brother as well as you do. If you have faith in him, then I believe it will work.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know if I have faith in him. He’s just… So different nowadays. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.”

“Roman, it will be alright. Your brother may have made some mistakes, but it doesn’t mean he is changed forever. Sometimes people just have trouble figuring themselves out. And either way, whether he makes the right choice or not, at least we did our best.”

Roman smiled at him, his mascara smudged and the glow of the street light lighting up his frizzy hair in a halo of golden light.

“You’re a great friend, you know that right?”

“I try my best.” Logan said with a soft smile.

Roman sat up and leant forward. He reached out and gently traced his thumb over Logan’s jaw. Logan looked up into his eyes, his breath stopping somewhere along the path from his lungs to his mouth. Roman’s thumb came to a stop on his lips.

“Is this alright?” He whispered.

Logan just nodded, his usual eloquence rendered mute.

Roman moved in closer and gently, ever so gently, slotted his lips onto Logan’s.

It was soft, and sweet and when he drew back, he pressed his forehead to Logan’s with a bubbly laugh. He threaded his fingers through Logan’s hair.

Finally, after a long moment of his brain incoherently looping the last moment over and over again, he managed to regain some mobility and placed his hand over the one Roman had cupped around his cheek. He turned his head and placed a kiss on Roman’s palm.

“We’re going to change the world.” Roman breathed, ecstatic with sleep deprivation and adrenaline.

“Together.” Logan whispered back.

As Logan walked home that morning, he felt invincible, untouchable. All the grey days at school fell away, all the teasing and bullying and all the fear was suddenly gone.

He felt like he was soaring, floating somewhere high above his life. He was so much more than himself in that moment.

Maybe, he didn’t want this to end. However terrifying chasing after criminals was, that particular high almost made the danger worth it. He mourned the fact that it would be over soon. That they would put the gang away, file away the info they had collected and go back to school, alone in the knowledge of what they had done.

The ecstatic feeling faded when he entered his garden and noticed the front door was open. His blood ran cold.

Had his parents noticed his absence? He had no idea how he would explain this to them.

He entered the house quietly, trepidation burning in his stomach. Should he call out? Maybe he had just left the door open?

But Logan distinctly remembered checking it was locked before leaving.

Downstairs, all was quiet. Everything looked as it should have been except that muddy footprints tracked in from the door to the stairs.

That was disconcerting, there was a very strict ‘no shoes upstairs’ policy in the house.

Logan’s unease grew. He crept upstairs.

“Mom? Dad?” He called out hesitantly.

The house stayed dead quiet.

With a deep breath, he kept moving. He looked in his room first, as it was right next to the stairs.

The door was pulled open. Strange, Logan could swear he had closed it.

His breath hitched when he saw his room. All his drawers were pulled open. His papers were strewn out over the floor.

The box!

Logan found it upturned and shoved in a corner of the room. All the papers were gone. All the evidence they had collected missing.

Ice cold terror clenched around his heart.

They knew.

Without a second thought, he tore out of his room and ran to his parent’s room.

“Mom! Dad!” He choked off when he entered the room.

No! No, no, no, no!

This wasn't real. This was just a nightmare. He would wake up any second. This just couldn't be real.

Blood painted the walls and bedsheets. It looked like a scene from a horror movie, almost comical in its goriness. If he had seen this in a movie he would have scoffed at the overuse of fake blood.

He hesitantly stepped closer and kneeled next to his mother, who was sprawled out on the floor, her entire back a mess of torn flesh and blood and glistening things Logan didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Mom?” His voice came out waveringly.

He reached out. A pulse, he should look for a pulse. He tried to take her arm but recoiled from the blood that covered it.

It was warm and sticky and already seeping through his pants.

“Mom, wake up.” He whispered.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I’m sorry I stayed out all night, just please, wake up.” He begged, like apologizing would fix anything.

She still wasn't moving and neither was his dad. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Logan was aware that begging wasn’t doing him any good. He needed to call for help.

But all that came out of his mouth were more pleas.

“Mom! Stop ignoring me! Just wake up!” He yelled and then he started crying, great gasping sobs that tore all the air from his lungs.

He needed them to wake up, he needed to feel their arms around him, needed their comfort. They couldn’t be gone. Not like this, not now, not when just an hour ago, Roman had kissed him, not when outside he could hear the trucks thundering by. This wasn’t real. It just couldn’t be.

He screamed, desperate and heartbroken.

Wake up .

His eyes got caught on a flash of green on the walls and he looked up.

On the wall, painted in a bright neon green, was the symbol he had been studying for months, the gang's symbol, a sword pointed downwards, and underneath it, like an artist’s tag, a sloppy R.

Remus.

Logan felt anger curl in his gut. After everything they had done to help him, this was his answer.

He would pay.

This wasn’t the end. If they thought they could stop him with this, they were wrong. He would get his revenge, he would burn that gang to the ground and he would destroy Remus.

This was personal now.

[isitgintimeyet]

Road To The Aisles

AO3

Previous

Happy Sunday. Hope it’s a good one for everybody. Another chapter and the wedding is getting closer. Time for a hen party...Warning: nsfw

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge @wickedgoodbooks @happytoobserve and to everyone who reads, comments, likes or reblogs x

Chapter 20: A Convivial Carousing

“What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"

"Ask a glass of water!”

― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Claire thought she had been quite clear about this to Geillis. She distinctly remembered sitting in her office a few weeks ago when the subject had first been broached. Geillis had run through a list of possible suggestions for a hen party; beginning with a weekend in Benidorm (“imagine, sangria by the bucketful and eye candy in speedos”) all the way to a meal out with friends (“nice and safe”) detouring via an Ann Summers’ sex party (“It’s jes’ like a Tupperware party, ye ken, but with more cocks”), skydiving (“that adrenaline rush, as good as sex, I reckon”) and a burlesque dance class (“yer man’ll thank ye fer it later”).

When Claire had vetoed all the suggestions apart from a meal and drinks with friends, Geillis had then changed tack and began listing some well prepared ideas to “make the evening go with a bang, aye?”. Using the power of veto once more, Claire had made clear her thoughts on ‘pin the cock on the hunk’, any games involving dares or forfeits, any performers of the semi-(or un-)clad variety or costumes announcing that they were a hen party.

Geillis had tutted vociferously but eventually shrugged and agreed to Claire’s conditions.

So, why was she now sitting in this cocktail bar, wearing a sash proclaiming her to be a bride, while sucking her (admittedly rather moreish) cocktail through a plastic penis? She looked along the table at her friends, each wearing a matching sash and all busy writing on cards provided by Geillis, sharing their tips for a sexually successful marriage.

Jenny caught her eye and smiled. “I dinna think I ought tae be suggesting sex tips fer ma baby brother. It’s a wee bit —“

“Yucky? Disturbing?” Isobel ventured.

Geillis just caught the tail end of the conversation. “Only if ye’re doing it right.”

She winked before resuming her writing.

Claire drained her cocktail and moved on to the next already waiting for her. She studied Geillis over the rim of her glass, noting the glint in her eye as she wrote her contribution on the card. No doubt sharing some tips from her and Dougal’s activities, Claire told herself, interesting to read but maybe not her and Jamie’s type of thing.

As Geillis worked her way around the table, gathering up the cards, the door of the bar opened and a ‘fireman’ came in, tall and broad shouldered in his overly tight uniform. He carried his helmet in one hand and a portable speaker in the other. He stood for a moment glancing around before spotting Claire and her friends. He strode towards them, a cheeky grin on his face.

Claire felt herself redden and prayed for the ground to swallow her up. She cursed the sash proclaiming her to be the bride again; she cursed the balloons, spelling out H-E-N, tied to her chair; but most of all, she cursed Geillis, who had promised faithfully that there would be absolutely no adult entertainment this evening.

She glared across at Geillis, who returned her gaze with a confused expression of her own and shook her head slightly. Claire quickly watched the rest of her friends for any knowing smiles.

By now, the fireman had reached their table.

“I’m here on an emergency. Someone,” he looked directly at Claire. “Someone is too hot to handle.”

He sucked the air through his teeth noisily, in a parody of a passionate sigh. Claire did the only thing possible. She drained her cocktail and reached for the next one waiting for her.

“So,” the fireman drawled in a fake American accent, rotating his hips suggestively. “I’m going to have to use my hose… my extra long—“

He stopped abruptly as one of the bar staff tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, gesturing to a room off the main bar area.

Shamefaced, the fireman shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, hen,” he now spoke with a broad Glaswegian accent. “This isna the right party. I’d best be heading.”

His eyes lingered on Geillis, now smiling coquettishly, before he turned and followed the barman. His arrival at the correct party was heralded by a series of loud whoops and cheers, clearly audible even over the hubbub of Saturday night two-for-one cocktail drinkers.

Claire breathed a sigh of relief and felt her stomach muscles unclench.

“Ye ken, Claire, I wouldna do something like that tae ye.” Geillis patted her hand. “I kent how much ye didna want that kind of thing. So, why don’t we have another cocktail, I’ll collect up the cards and we’ll see what kind of perverts ye have fer friends.”

Whether it was the sheer relief that Geillis had no embarrassing entertainment on the agenda, or the heady mix of cocktails coursing through Claire’s veins, but she finally decided to give in and throw herself wholeheartedly into the silly and potentially embarrassing hen party spirit.

Clearing her throat dramatically, she read each of the cards out loud, everyone trying to guess the originators. Some were obvious; who else but Geillis would have written about, in great graphic detail, a suggestion involving handcuffs, floggers and a black leather dominatrix outfit? And it was clearly Isobel who gave advice about the healing power of a hug. (“Not necessarily sexual,” she clarified. “But vital.”)

But Claire would never have guessed that it was Mary, the shy but efficient theatre nurse, who advised her to have a ‘toy cupboard’ next to the bed and always have spare batteries to hand. And as for a now clearly drunk Jenny’s confessions about her role playing adventures with Ian (a somewhat complex plot involving a Highland warrior and innocent serving wench fleeing the redcoats), well, Claire felt that was something best kept between the girls, and not to be shared with her future husband.

The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of chatter, laughter and alcohol. Claire knew she was drunk, not steaming drunk like Jenny, whose eyes were closed and her chin propped up with her hands, but in that tipsy phase when everything is wonderful… and shiny... and hilarious… and full of love.

Suddenly the bright overhead lights made Claire’s eyes begin to water. “What’s going on?” She asked.

Geillis began to gather up her belongings. “That’s it. It’s one am. Time tae go home.”

“But… but… can I not have another drink? I liked the..er.. orange one. Can I have another orange one?”

Geillis laughed and picked up Claire’s bags. “Ye’ve had about half a dozen different orange ones, Claire. It’s time fer the taxi.”

“Where’s Jenny?” Claire looked around.

“Ah, Weel, Isobel is seeing her home. I tell ye, it’s jes’ as well ye’ve some sensible friends, otherwise I dinna ken how ye’d go on. C’mon now, taxi’s waiting.”

Claire stood up as Geillis reached across and untied the balloons. Claire grabbed her arms and pulled her close.

“Can I thank you, G, for tonight, and for… well, for everything.” Her breath was warm on Geillis’s cheek. “You’re a real friend and, amazingly sober, I must say even after…”

Claire tried, unsuccessfully, to peer at her watch over Geillis’s shoulder. “...even after ...after lots and lots and lots of cocktails.”

Geillis kissed her cheek. “Nae bother, I didna have a lot tae drink. I knew ye wasna a big fan of the whole hen party thing and I wanted tae make sure this night was jes’ right fer ye. Now let’s get ye home. Back tae yer fiancé.”

“Thank you, G… have I already said that?” Claire started to follow Geillis out of the bar then stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her mouth.

“What’s the matter? Ye’re no’ going tae puke are ye?” Geillis quickly began to search for a plastic bag.

“No… no, I’m not puking, but, G, imagine… it’s all thanks to you that I’m here, getting married to Jamie. If you hadn’t given him my number in ED, we would never have got together, never dated, never fallen in love…” Claire sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

“Och, away wi’ ye. I tell ye, the pair of ye were born fer each other. Ye would have met either way. Mebbe me giving him yer number was jes’ a shortcut.” Geillis gave Claire a quick hug before pulling away. “Now come on, the taxi driver will have started his meter and I am no’ paying any more than the price I agreed on the phone!”

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

Jamie glanced at his watch as the doorbell rang. He yawned, stretched and switched the television off before walking to the front door.

The doorbell rang again. As he unlocked the door, it rang for a third time, a prolonged, urgent ring. He opened the door to find Claire giggling as she leant against the door frame, her shoulder pressing into the doorbell.

He waved to Geillis in the waiting taxi before following Claire into the hall. She spun around and flung herself into Jamie’s arms, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Ignoring his sudden exhalation of air, she kissed him noisily on the lips before nuzzling his neck and blowing raspberries against his skin.

“A good night, I take it. And a wee bit drunk too,  are we?” Jamie ventured a guess.

Claire pulled away, indignantly. “No, I’m not. Are you? You seem a bit unsteady there on your feet.”

“Well, what have you been drinking then?”

“Oh, some absolutely scrummy cocktails. I started with a slow comfortable screw. Have you had one of those?”

Jamie smiled. “Frequently.”

“How about a slow comfortable screw against the wall?”

“No’ fer a while.”

“And I had a silk panties martini… to match what I’m wearing.” Claire undid the zip on her jeans to confirm.

“Then I had a couple of flaming orgasms… mmm, so good.”

“Ah so, multiple orgasms. I tend tae stick tae the one, myself.”

“And I think there might have been a slippery nipple in there somewhere,” she hiccuped.

Jamie steered Claire to the stairs. “You head up tae bed, Sassenach.”

“Are you not coming too?” She pouted.

“I’ll be up in a minute. Just locking up.”

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

Armed with a bottle of water and two paracetamol for the morning, Jamie entered the bedroom, fully expecting Claire to be fast asleep and snoring. On the contrary, she was still very much awake, lying on top of the covers, clad only in a red thong and matching red bra. The rest of her clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

“See, red silk panties,” she giggled, flicking the elastic on the thong.

“Aye, not quite silk though, jes’ a wee bit of lace as far as I can see. Now, come on, get in tae bed. Ye’ll be needing yer sleep.”

“But I’m not tired,” she protested as she scrambled onto her hands and knees and worked her way down the bed to where Jamie stood. “C’mon, Mr. Fraser, let’s have some fun.”

She knelt up and let her hands run around the waistband of his jogging bottoms, her fingernails lightly raking the skin.

Jamie inhaled deeply. “Claire, Sassenach, no. I dinna want tae take advantage of ye when ye’re drunk.”

“Jamie,” Claire’s voice was stern. “I may have had a few to drink, but I am fully aware of what I am doing...”

She edged the waistband down over his hips, his cock already standing proud. She ran a finger down its length, watching Jamie’s stomach muscles tense as he tried to calm the sensations she was arousing. He could feel her breath warm against his thigh.

“... And so it seems does our friend here. Don’t fight me, Jamie. I’ve had a plastic penis in my mouth for most of the evening. Now it’s time for the real thing.”

Grabbing his buttocks, she pulled Jamie closer to her before bringing one hand to cup his balls, massaging them in her palm. She wrapped her other hand around the base of his cock as she took him fully in her mouth.

Jamie closed his eyes and finally allowed himself to succumb to Claire’s ministrations. The warmth of her mouth as she rhythmically worked up and down, her tongue stroking and caressing made him harder than he thought possible. He entwined his fingers in her wild curls, encouraging her to take more of his length into her mouth.

He pulled back slightly as he felt his excitement building, keen to try and prolong the experience. Claire moaned, a small mew of disappointment, and brought him closer to her again, resuming the same relentless rhythm.

His breathing grew ragged. “Sassenach,” he groaned. “Sassenach, I canna … I canna…”

She felt his release, warm in her mouth as he stilled then withdrew. Jamie, panting, opened his eyes to see Claire, kneeling back on her heels, her curls in wild disarray, cheeks flushed, breasts nearly escaping from the confines of her bra. Her nipples, dark and erect, were visible through the red lace, her panties clearly damp.

She smiled, a lazy smile of self satisfaction as she swallowed then licked her lips. Jamie gasped at this wanton image in front of him.

“Sassenach,” his voice was husky. “I’ve an idea. Can I get our special camera?”

Claire nodded. “Ooh, yes. I’ve a couple of ideas myself, Mr. Fraser.”

As Jamie went in search of the camera, Claire lay back on the pillows and laughed. All those tips tonight for a successful sex life, she told herself, and I don’t think we’ll need any help in that area… ever.

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Endings And Beginnings (chapter 18 plus epilogue)

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might  help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

-

*draws deep breath* 

*slowly exhales it*

Okay. Okay. Wow. I can’t quite believe this is it. I’ve been writing this story for more than a year, and now it’s done. That is... well, it’s something. 

I have to take a moment to thank some people, people who helped me through when it felt like no one was reading this thing that was carving pieces out of my heart with each chapter, people whose support is the only reason the thing is finished, and that I’m even still writing. I was so, so close to giving it up but they wouldn’t let me and I am deeply grateful. 

Krystal, who inspired the thing in the first place and whose enthusiasm is a true joy to behold. Ro, whose wisdom and compassion are so vast and who was the shoulder I needed exactly when I needed it. Katie, who sees everything and understands it all, even the things I don’t say. Lisa with her amazing comments, Masha with her brilliant art, Alma with her generous soul. Devra, so insightful and thoughtful with her incisive analysis and appreciation of so many of the things I love. And Stephanie, my other half, I can’t believe I had to live forty whole years without you but this last one with you has made up for all of them. 

Thank you all. So, so much. 

-

a/n: this chapter is actually two chapters because it just got SO LONG, but I’m posting them together - or at least within a few hours of each other.

-

Endings: 

The sea was calm, that peculiarly soft and eerie calm exclusive to the hour just before the day breaks, when the air is cool and the light is grey and mist shimmers over gently undulating waves, and even the birds know it would be a sin to break the silence. Across that calm sea a boat glided, smooth and true and though no wind filled its sails, quite remarkably fast. It was a small boat, made of wood with a mast, two sails, and an oar, just enough to suit one man in decent comfort for a journey far longer than most would wish to undertake in such a vessel, but Oisín—for naturally the man was he—was quite extraordinary in his way and crossing a wide ocean in a tiny boat posed no challenge for him. 

He was nearing the end of his journey now; the thick mist and low light obscured his vision but not the pull in his blood that grew stronger as his homeland drew nearer. It is a pull we all feel after long days or weeks or years, decades even, spent away, but for a man who counts centuries as beads on an endless chain the call is stronger still. 

He dipped his oar into the water, skilfully steering the boat through the treacherous shoals that shielded his island from unwelcome travellers and into a cove perceptible only to those who already know it’s there. The boat slid onto the shore with the rough whisper of wood over sand and Oisín’s soul sighed in peace. He was home. 

He stepped from the boat and tugged it up more firmly onto the shore, looped its rope around a slender column of stone sticking up from the sand and when he turned around again she was there. The mist embraced her and the sun even now rising over the horizon cast a gentle light upon her face. A face as young and ancient as his own, smoothed by magic and profound with the weight of ages. He drank in the sight. 

“Niamh,” he said. 

“Is it done?” she demanded, in a voice drawn as from the strings of a harp, melodious and resonant. 

“It is done.” 

“Our debt is repaid?” 

Oisín nodded. “He will still have challenges to face, some magical, some of the more mortal variety. But never again will he face them alone. I can see the threads of his life, of their lives, woven together to the end.” 

“Not too soon an end?” 

“Fewer years remain by far than what he has already lived, but that remainder is still generous for a mortal man. And they will be happy years, on the whole. For her as well. For all of them.” He stepped closer and stroked her silken cheek. “Worry no more, my love. He is free now of the demons that so long tormented him, and he will be happy.” 

She sighed, and smiled, and leaned her head against his hand. “Then I am happy too.” 

Oisín smiled indulgently, an answering platitude ready upon his lips, then blinked in surprise when he realised that what he planned to say was true. “As am I,” he said softly. “Very happy indeed. Now let us go home.”

~

When Regina and Robin materialised in the sheriff’s station they found the others still there and awaiting their return. Killian was sitting on the edge of one of the desks with Emma nestled between his legs, his arms around her waist and his cheek on her hair. Henry and Neal were leaning side by side against the wall of Emma’s office, talking animatedly, and Zelena lay unmoving on the cot in her cell, staring blankly at the wall. Despite herself, Regina felt her heart twist at the thought of her sister’s bitter loss. 

“Hey, Regina,” Emma greeted her. “How’d it go?” 

“Exactly as I hoped. The magic is back in the Enchanted Forest and dispersed enough to be harmless. I put a temporary seal over the portal. It’s done. The curse is broken and its magic is completely gone.” 

Henry ran over and threw his arms around her. “Great work, Mom. Both moms,” he said, grinning at Emma. Regina hugged him back, tightly, but a hard knot of apprehension still sat like a stone in her chest. The curse was over but that didn’t mean her troubles were. 

“We should get to Granny’s,” said Emma, pulling out of Killian’s arms and going to stand behind Henry. “My parents are there and probably most of the rest of the town. We need to let them know what happened.” 

“Yes. Of course. Um. You go. I’d like—actually, I’d like talk to you for a minute, Killian. If I could?” 

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded. “Aye, if you wish. Emma, why don’t you take yourself and and the others straight to Granny’s and Regina and I will follow on foot. We’ll meet with you there in a few minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

“Should I not come with you?” asked Robin, giving Killian a dubious look, clearly wondering if he could be trusted to keep Regina safe from whatever he imagined might threaten her. Regina’s tense expression softened. 

“You can, though I really need to talk to Killian privately.” 

“I’ll keep my distance,” Robin promised, narrowing his eyes at Killian. “But I’ll be there.”  

Killian gave him a single brisk nod. Though it was very clearly not reciprocated he felt an odd kinship with Robin. After all, if anyone knew what it was to love a headstrong woman who took no care for her own safety it was he. Robin’s protectiveness may be unnecessary in this case but Killian understood all too well what drove it. “I’ve no objection,” he said. 

“Okay.” Emma gave Killian’s hand a squeeze. “We’ll see you in a bit then.” 

“Aye, love. See you soon.” 

~

The noise in the diner was deafening and the scene chaotic as people shouted greetings from across the room and elbowed each other aside to get to friends and loved ones, exchanging hugs and handshakes and recounting their lives under this most recent curse at the very tops of their lungs. Snow caught sight of Red behind the counter and ran to greet her while Charming shook hands with the Merry Men and assured them that while no, he couldn’t say where Robin Hood was at that precise moment he was sure to be fine and show up soon. 

Gradually the hubbub began to die down and Grumpy once again raised his voice. 

“So you gonna tell us what happened with the curse?” he demanded. “Who is Zelena and why did she cast it?” 

“Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West, like we said before,” Charming replied. 

“Really though? Like with the flying monkeys and the big crystal ball?” said Grumpy.

“Yes. We don’t know how she cast the curse or why, but Emma does and she’ll be here soon. Until then, can we just… just….” He trailed off as a peculiar noise filled the air, a low-pitched hum like a distant swarm of insects, accompanied by a prickling sensation against his skin. Voices began to rise again, in consternation this time.  

“What is that?” growled Grumpy. 

“I don’t know.” Charming’s eyes sought Snow’s and she came to stand next to him, slipping her hand into his. 

“Feels like magic,” remarked Will Scarlet. “Magic sort of—loose in the air.” 

“It does kind of feel like that,” Snow agreed. “I’ve felt it before, when Regina does a spell.” 

The worried muttering increased, and Charming realised he was losing command of the situation. 

“Look, nobody panic—” he began, just as the door opened and Belle burst through it. 

“I don’t want to make anyone panic,” she said. “But there’s some sort of—something going on outside.” 

There was a moment of silence, then a rush of noise as everyone ran to the windows. 

“What the fuck?” snarled Grumpy. “Your Highnesses, you’d better come see this.” 

This was like nothing any of them had seen before, or rather nothing they had even not seen before. A sort of sideways tornado, a swirl of distortion in the air, invisible, perceptible only in the way it bent and refracted the light around it. It twisted and twined its way through the sky over the town, heading towards the forest. They all stood together and watched it go, every breath bated and each heartbeat quickened as they waited anxiously for something they had no idea how to articulate, and then, abruptly, it was gone. 

“Well,” said Charming heartily, attempting once again to regain control of the situation. “I guess that’s—well, that.” 

“Sure, yeah,” said Will. “Of course. But also what the bloody hell was that?” 

“I’m sure Emma can—” 

“Yes, yes, Emma can explain, so you keep saying. But where is this Emma?” 

“She’ll be here soon,” Charming insisted. “I promise. Until then, everyone please just stay calm.” 

The muttering began again as the crowd milled anxiously around and Charming was just reflecting on how much easier it was to lead a war council than a mob of disgruntled citizenry when white smoke swirled in the middle of the diner and Emma appeared, Neal and Henry at her side. 

Immediately the crowd erupted with a roar of noise, shouting questions and demanding answers. Emma ignored them, hurrying over to her parents with Henry close behind. 

“Grandma!” he cried, “Grandpa! I missed you guys!” 

Snow and Charming folded Henry into a double-hug, and Charming caught Emma’s eye over the top of his head. 

“You guys okay?” she asked. 

“We’re fine. Everyone else though...” He nodded to the crowd behind her. “Well, you remember that reassurance you were going to give everyone? Now’s the time.” 

“Right.” Emma turned to face the crowd. “Everyone!” she shouted. “Hey! Can you all please shut up for a minute!” 

The noise quieted as inquiring faces turned towards her. “Good,” she said. “Okay. Now I’m sure you all have a lot of questio—”  

“Is it true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West?” shouted Grumpy. 

“Yeah and why’d she curse us?” Sneezy piped up.

“Oh and why—” 

“How do we—” 

“When can I—” 

“ENOUGH!” Charming’s voice boomed through the diner. “Let her speak!” 

Grumpy opened his mouth again then closed it with an audible click of his teeth as Emma and Charming shot him identical glares. “Yes,” said Emma, “it’s true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West. She cast the curse to get revenge on her sister. Regina.” 

Shocked silence fell, broken just before it grew uncomfortable by Granny’s mutter. “The Evil Queen and the Wicked Witch are sisters? That’s a Thanksgiving dinner I would not want to be at.” Several people nodded their agreement, and then Grumpy piped up again. 

“So if Zelena cast the curse to get back at Regina, then the curse is actually kind of Regina’s fault even though she didn’t technically cast it,” he said. “Right?” 

“No,” said Emma. 

“But if it weren’t for her Zelena may never have—” 

“Okay maybe a little,” Emma interrupted, holding tight to her patience. “But the point is Regina didn’t cast the curse, and also she actually contributed a lot to breaking it.” 

“But—” 

“No going after Regina, Leroy,” said Emma firmly. “She’s on our side now and I for one would like to keep her there. She’s a lot more useful as an ally than an enemy.” 

“Fine,” grumbled Grumpy, and Emma extended her stern glare to the rest of the crowd. “Everyone got that?” she said, raising her voice so they all could hear. “No mobs. This curse was not Regina’s doing and Zelena is being dealt with. Just—let me handle it, okay?” 

No one replied. 

“Okay?” Emma repeated, louder still, and the crowd grumbled reluctant agreement.  

“Okay. Now, I know you must still have a lot of questions and so I’d like to propose that we all take a few days to calm down and think about what we want to do now that this curse is broken. I’m guessing a lot of you are going to want to change jobs, maybe find a new place to live. Think about it, and in a day or two we’ll have a town meeting to talk things out. Is that okay?” She turned inquiringly to Snow. 

“Um.” Snow looked startled. “You’re asking me?”

“Well, you are still the acting mayor,” Emma pointed out. 

“Huh. I guess I am.” She nodded. “That sounds like a good plan to me. All agreed?” 

There was a chorus of “ayes” and “yeses” and “I guess sos” and Emma smiled. “Good. Everyone go back home now, and if you see Regina remember no mobs.” She turned back to her parents with a relieved smile. “Ugh, I’m glad that’s done. I don’t know about you guys but I am dying for some onion rings and mint ice cream. Ooh, and maybe some pickles.” 

~

Regina took her time walking to Granny’s. Killian let her set the pace, clearly content to allow her what time she needed to collect her thoughts. They walked side by side with Robin trailing several feet behind, and Regina took advantage of the chance to look around. The streets were empty, and exactly the same as they had been before. The OG SB, as she imagined Henry would say. Curse 1.0. Her curse. 

 She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to ease the tension in them. 

“So,” she said. 

“So,” Killian echoed. 

“So, ah, things might get a little unpleasant. At Granny’s. After the last curse broke, the townspeople were out for blood.” 

“Your blood, I presume?” 

“Yes.” 

She could feel his eyes on her, observing with curiosity but no censure. “And you’re worried they will be again?” 

She nodded. “I’m sure Emma will tell them I wasn’t the one who cast it this time, but—well, there are going to be a lot of angry people. And confused ones.” 

“And anger and confusion are a bad combination,” Killian concluded. “Aye. That’s a recipe for mutiny.” She glanced at him and saw his mouth twist with an expression she couldn’t read. She wondered what he could be thinking of.

They walked another block before he spoke again. 

“There are likely to be people out for my blood as well,” he said. “There generally are. And Emma’s parents… well…” 

“Yeah.” 

“Dave will be wanting my head, no doubt. And likely other parts of my anatomy as well.” He raised a wry eyebrow and her mouth curved in an answering smile. “Emma will fight for me, but I doubt that will do much to appease their shock.”

Regina nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Emma will fight for me, he said, with a casual assurance that floored her. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to have such complete faith in someone’s love for you. 

“Regina.” She looked up to find him watching her with an odd expression, understanding and almost kind. “You know that Emma will stand up for you as well,” he said. “As will I. For whatever that’s worth.” 

She smiled. “It’s worth a lot.” 

They walked in silence for a few moments more. “I sense that wasn’t all you wished to speak to me about,” Killian remarked. 

“No.” 

He turned to her with an encouraging look. “Well?” 

“Do you—do you think they’ll ever really accept you? Snow and Charming, I mean. Do you think they’ll ever truly see you as part of their family?” 

“I don’t know. I hope they will. But perhaps the most important thing I have learned about this whole redemption business is that you can’t change the past or control other people’s reaction to it. Perhaps they never will accept me, and I can’t force them to. All I can do is apologise for the wrongs I’ve done and make what amends I can, and try to live better in the future than I have in the past.” 

“And what if you lost Emma? You’d still try to do that? You wouldn’t—er—” 

“Fall back into darkness again?” Killian’s jaw was tight, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. “No. I wouldn’t.” 

“How can you be sure?” 

“Emma wouldn’t want me to, and even if she were gone I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. But it’s more than just that. I hated who I became, after my brother died and then Milah… I loathed myself for all the things I was doing but that only drove me to do more, worse things. I didn’t know how to make myself stop. ‘This is who you are now,’ I remember thinking. ‘This is the only way for you to be.’ And that, as I’m quite certain you understand, my Queen, is a terrible way to feel. It’s a terrible way to live.” 

Regina swallowed hard. “Yes.”  

“I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. I didn’t want to live that life. Emma merely gave me an opportunity to walk a different path, showed me the way back to the man I had been long ago, a man I almost lost to vengeance. But I would still have wanted to be that man, for my own sake, even if Emma never came to love me.” 

He turned to her with an earnest expression, one she could imagine a young naval lieutenant may once have worn. “You have to want it for yourself, Regina, not for anyone else. If you’re trying to change for another person you’ll always resent it, and them. Do it for yourself alone. Do it because it’s the right thing to do, and because you deserve to be able to look at yourself in the mirror without shame. I’d like to think we all deserve that. Or at least a chance at achieving it.” 

"Thank you,” she said. “I’ll think about that.”  He’d given her a lot to think about. But Granny’s sign was looming less than a block away, and she still needed one thing more of him. 

“Can I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.”

“This curse of Zelena’s... I still can’t quite figure it out. It was weird in a way I’ve never even heard of before, almost like it was, I don’t know, sentient almost. Like it could act for itself.” 

“Hmmm. What makes you think that?”

Regina frowned, trying to recall the exact words that had triggered her bizarre theory. “Zelena told me once she had spies and alarms everywhere, and she certainly always seemed to know what was going on but I never saw anyone actually working for her. Or anything. I don’t think any of her, er, flying monkeys were even here.” 

“So you think she meant the curse itself was her spy.” 

“Yes. Does that sound crazy?” 

“Not at all. This curse certainly had some peculiar qualities. There was that wind, for example, the way it seemed to follow us around.” 

“Yes! And the way I always felt I was being watched.” 

“I suppose there’s no chance of getting Zelena to tell us, now she’s defeated.” 

“Probably not, though I plan to do my best to get it out of her. But who knows how long that might take, so in the meantime do you think you could write down everything you remember about it?” 

“Aye, of course I can. I’ll make a log of my observations, and Henry’s as well. His input will be more useful than mine since he knew the old Storybrooke far better than I did.” 

“That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They reached the gate of the diner and paused for a moment beneath the arch to allow Robin to catch up with them. When he did, all three exchanged a glance, and Robin took Regina’s hand. 

“Well,” said Regina. “Here goes nothing.”

~

Emma sat herself on a stool at the counter and placed her order with Granny, whose eyebrows rose almost to her hairline as she wrote it down. 

“I’ll get that for you right away,” she said with a probing look that Emma entirely failed to notice. She tapped her fingers absently on the formica countertop, smiling as she watched Henry greet all the people still in the diner and tell them eagerly all about how he had helped break the curse. 

“So,” beamed Snow, taking Emma’s hand and letting her thumb trail significantly across the ring on it. “Congratulations, you two.” She turned her head so her smile encompassed Neal as well. “I’m so glad you found each other again and can be a family.” 

“Ah,” said Emma, glancing at Neal. He gave her a shrug, and a smirk. “Um, actually—” 

“But when did it happen?” Snow was frowning now. “My memories of the curse are really foggy, but weren’t you both here the whole time? When did you have a chance to get married?” 

“Mom, it’s not actually—” 

“Who got married?” asked David, coming over to join them. “Emma?” 

“Yeah, actually I married—” 

A broad grin broke across David’s face and he took Neal’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Should I give you my protective father speech now, or is it too late for that?”

Considering our kid is nearly fourteen and was born when I was hardly older than he is now, I’d say yeah it’s a bit too late, Emma thought irritably. “Dad—” 

“We’ll have to have a celebration, of course,” said David, and Snow nodded eagerly. Emma felt the situation spinning rapidly out of her control and Neal, true to form, was being no help at all. 

“GUYS,” she shouted, drawing reproachful looks from Bashful and Doc, who were at the other end of the counter. “Please would you just listen.” 

Snow and David's jaws dropped in unison, and Emma seized her advantage. “I’m not married to Neal,” she told them firmly.  

“But the ring—” Snow began. 

“You’re still not listening, Mom! I’m not married to Neal.” 

Comprehension began to dawn on her parents’ faces. “But… who then…” stuttered Snow. 

Neal’s smirk deepened, and Emma took a deep breath just as the bell on the door chimed and Killian appeared, trailed by Regina and Robin. His eyes found hers immediately and she sent him a pleading look. 

“Killian,” she informed them, reaching out her hand to grasp his hook as he approached. “I’m married to Killian.”  

“What?” Snow cried. 

“Who?” asked David. 

Neal chuckled. “Hook,” he said. 

“Hook—” David frowned in confusion. 

“Aye, mate.” Killian came to stand behind Emma, his feet braced firmly on the floor and his jaw set. 

“Wait, wait…” David shook his head. “You’re married… to Hook?”

“To Killian, yes. For over a year now.” Emma slid off the stool and positioned herself in front of her husband, directly between him and her father, planting her own feet as David’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. 

“But he’s… he’s…” 

“Don’t say ‘a pirate,’” sighed Emma. “Please. You always say that like it’s the worst thing anyone could ever be, and it’s really not.” 

“I mean, it’s not great,” said Neal. 

“And anyway he isn’t one anymore,” Emma continued, ignoring him. “He traded his ship for a magic bean so that he could find me in New York and bring back my memories, and now he owns a bookstore.” 

“He traded his ship?” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” 

“Aye, mate, really.” 

“For Emma?” 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Emma,” said Killian, trying to infuse his words with all the weight of the emotions behind them. “I love her.” 

David’s jaw relaxed a fraction, and his glare grew slightly less murderous.

“So hold on,” Snow said, placing a soothing hand on David’s arm. “Let me try to understand this. Are you saying you two weren’t cursed?” 

“He wasn’t. I kind of was? It’s hard to explain,” said Emma. “Or, I guess not hard so much as long.” 

“We have time,” said David, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Emma sighed. “Okay. So basically, Killian learned that I was in danger in New York and he did what he had to do to get to me as soon as possible. He restored my memories and together we figured out what the danger was, and in the process we learned that Storybrooke must be back. I decided to come here to investigate. He didn’t want me to, but I insisted. As soon as I crossed the town line Zelena appeared in the middle of the road and when I swerved to avoid her I hit a tree and was knocked unconscious. While I was out she dosed me with a powder that had a similar effect to the curse. It took my memories away and gave me new ones. Of course I didn’t know any of this until I managed to break through the effects of the powder and remember everything again.” She shivered as she recalled how awful it had been, believing herself married to Walsh. Unable to remember Killian when she was awake, or even give him much useful information in their dreams. 

“It took Killian a year to make the preparations he needed so that he could get into Storybrooke undetected by any magic, and during that time he lived in New York and took care of Henry. He had to learn all about how our world works, how to drive a car and use a computer and run a business. He did that all by himself because I wasn’t there with him, because I didn’t listen when he told me to wait.” Her voice broke as tears began to flow down her cheeks. Snow moved to comfort her but Emma waved her mother away, instead leaning into Killian when he wrapped his arm around her waist. 

“He never gave up on me, though,” she continued, “and when the time was right he came to Storybrooke, helped bring my memories back again, and then figured out what we needed to do to break the curse.” 

“He took care of Henry?” David’s expression had softened to something very nearly not hostile, just on the edge of accepting. 

“Yeah, Grandpa.” The diner had gone silent as Emma told her tale, and now Henry came to stand next to Killian, pressing close against his side. “He’s my dad. Stepfather, technically, but my dad in every way that counts.” 

Killian found himself swallowing over a lump in his throat, and blinking back tears, and the next words he heard nearly ended him. 

“He saved my life,” Neal said quietly. 

Every eye in the room turned to stare, and Neal, for once, did not smirk. “In the sheriff’s station, earlier today,” he explained. “Zelena and Hook and me both pinned down, and I couldn’t breathe. Emma was headed for Hook, to save him, and he told her no, she needed to save me first. If he hadn’t done that, I’d be dead.” 

Slowly the eyes shifted their focus, fixing on Killian, who flushed bright red. “I was never in any true danger,” he said gruffly. “Some time ago, Emma placed a number of protection spells around me. They’ve proven remarkably effective against Zelena’s magic. I knew I could withstand whatever she threw at me, but Neal could not. That’s, er, why.” 

“You still saved his life,” said Snow. “Whatever the reason.” 

“Well, yes. I mean of course I did,” said Killian, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

David’s face was stern but his eyes warm as he uncrossed his arms and held out his hand. “Welcome to the family,” he said. “Killian.”

~

Some time later, after Emma had finished her peculiar meal and was tucked into a booth chatting with Henry and her parents, Killian found himself at the counter again, this time with a tumbler of rum and his thoughts, when Neal appeared at his side.

“So, I guess I owe you thanks,” he said. 

“I told you, I was never in any danger.” 

“Still. Thanks.” 

Killian turned to him, unsure whether to feel hurt or angry or something else entirely. “Do you really think I’d allow you to be killed if it was in my power to prevent it?” he asked. “Really?” 

Neal shrugged. “I mean, we’ve certainly had our differences. In Neverland, and then with Emma. You might want me out of the way.” 

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Because of Emma? I can assure you there is no need.” 

“Yeah, trust me man, I’ve picked up on that.” Neal accepted a beer from Granny and stared at it in silence for a moment. “You really love her, then?” 

“Aye. I do.” 

Neal nodded. “I can see it. In her too. She loves you, and so does Henry. And I—I’m really trying not to be an asshole here, but I gotta be honest. It feels like you’ve stolen my family. Again.” 

Killian took a gulp of his rum. “I do understand how it might appear that way from where you’re standing, though I promise you there was no theft involved. Either time.” He cast Neal a challenging look. “You wouldn’t ever let me tell you about your mother, in Neverland. Are you willing to listen now?” 

Neal’s mouth twisted. “Will it help?” 

“I suppose that depends on the way you listen.” 

“I don’t know if there’s any good way to listen to you talk about her.” Neal retorted. “You realise that you’ve fucked both my mother and the mother of my kid. Do you have any idea how weird that is for me?” 

“I absolutely do.” 

“It’s just—it’s gonna take me a while. And I’m not making any promises. I don’t owe you anything and you sure as hell don’t seem to feel you owe me. Did you think about me at all when you were moving in on Emma?” 

“No, I didn’t. Because I never ‘moved in on Emma’ as you so charmingly put it. And because my relationship with her has nothing to do with you.” 

“Then why did you promise to back off?” 

“At the time I didn’t know just how connected Emma and I truly are. I knew how I felt, and that there was potential that someday she might feel the same. But I also knew that putting pressure on her to make a choice between us when she’d only just rescued Henry, and when not very long before she’d thought you were dead, well, there was no way that could end well for me. And as I told you then, I intended to play a very long game if necessary.” 

“Not that long though, was it,” Neal sneered. 

“Some of the longest years of my life, being separated from her,” muttered Killian to the last drops of his rum. “Especially this last one.” He glared at Neal. “I meant that promise when I made it. But truthfully, when I learned about the way things ended between you—how you left her by choice when all I wanted was to stay by her side forever—I regretted it.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t have a choice.” 

“I understand that’s what you think. But your abandonment hurt Emma deeply in ways she still sometimes struggles with. And I find that very nearly unforgivable. If it were anyone else, Bae, anyone at all, I wouldn’t even try. But for the memory of your mother and of the boy you were, and for Henry’s sake, I am prepared to wipe the slate clean. If you will as well.”

Neal snorted. “Why should I?”

“Just because you and Emma aren’t romantically involved, that doesn’t mean you can’t be part of her life, and Henry’s. They both care about you, as do I.” 

“So you want me to be part of your sweet little family?” 

“I have wanted that for literal centuries.” 

Neal’s scowl deepened as he fiddled with a loose bit of formica on the tabletop. “Tell me about my mother,” he growled. 

 “She loved you,” Killian replied. “That’s the main thing you need to know. She thought about you every day, told me stories of you all the time. But she was not the sort of person who was really cut out to be a parent. Can you understand that? How she could love you deeply and still not be able to be a good mother to you?” 

“I—” Neal frowned, thinking of himself, and Henry. “I think maybe I can.” 

"She was desperately unhappy in the life she had before we met. I’ve done some reading on the subject and I believe she suffered from what the psychiatry of this realm calls ‘clinical depression.’ She felt hopeless to the point of despair, and though she tried to disguise it with carousing in the tavern and seeking any sort of distraction from her feelings she could find, she knew deep down that it could never be enough. She was worried that her pain would drag you down too, and she couldn’t bear to see that happen. She thought that by leaving you with a loving father who would give you the best life he could that she was giving you your best chance, and she hoped very much that when you were older she could seek you out and you might allow her a place in your life again. I’m so terribly sorry that never came to pass.” 

“So you can barely forgive me leaving Emma for her own good, but you justify my mother leaving me for mine?” Neal snarled. 

“The circumstances aren’t entirely the same, but I take your point. I understand you find it difficult to forgive your mother, and me. But make no mistake, Neal, Milah intended to escape her life, one way or the other. I offered her a preferable alternative to some of the others she was considering, and I like to think she was as happy with me as she could have been. Sometimes there are no good options available and you simply have to take the least bad one.” 

“Like I have to choose between hanging around here and watching you be happy with my ex, or leaving and not seeing Henry anymore.” 

“Aye. Like that.” 

Silence fell between them again, heavy with resentment. Neal drank deeply from his beer, his knuckles white around the handle of the mug. When it was empty he set it forcefully on the counter and turned to face Killian. 

“I’ll take that clean slate,” he said. “I’m definitely not saying I’m ready for us to be happy families, okay, and I might never be, but I’m tired of holding on to this  anger. And hey, if you can stop being angry anyone can, right?” 

Killian nodded, swallowing over the lump in his throat. “Aye. I’d say they can.” 

-

Epilogue coming soon! (like later tonight soon!)  LINK TO THE EPILOGUE

-

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[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 5 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 5 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may  reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 2: Maps

Climbing down the companion-ladder, into the lowest hold, Captain Mord inspected the live cargo vats.  They were so big and heavy that they had required a complete change of the ship’s ballast system.  Major changes in a ship were always a risk, and he was proud of his crew for taking this one.  The Longin now handled better than ever before.  It had paid for itself many times over.  He remembered how it had been and could still see, in his mind’s eye, the single, much smaller vat that had originally held the Longin’s mussel beds for weaving and rope fibers.  It had been used to bring their first cargo of live crabs to the Gathering.  That bed was still there, much enlarged, to the delight Master Cirde, the weaver, and Mistress Daeron, of the rope walk.

Now, one full half of the lowest hold space was devoted to live cargo, mostly crabs and lobsters.  The vats could be sealed to prevent slopping in bad weather, but the lids were normally off to allow for the continual inspection and feeding that living crabs needed.  A hand-crank powered bucket line brought fresh sea water up the side of the ship , where an adjustable sluice brought it to the desired vat. There was even a draining system designed to ensure that the vats did not lose too much water during changes.  The changed water went into the bilges where a second bucket line carried it up and discharged it over the side.

Silor’s voice could be heard through the hatches, “Crabs coming down!” The call was followed shortly by a loaded holding net, hanging from the crane line.  The deck-hand assigned to the cargo hold snagged the crane line deftly with a boat-hook and pulled it to a traveling crane, hung from the overhead.  He attached the net of crabs to the traveler and released the crane line, to which he fastened an empty holding net.

“Lift away!” he called up.  The holding net disappeared up through the hatches.  The deck-hand pushed the crabs down to the holding vat that he was loading and emptied them into it.  A few just did not want to release the net and had to be encouraged to let go with the boat hook.  From the holding vat the crabs were picked out, sorted, and their claws tied shut by older children, experienced in this tricky work.  The processed crabs were given to the deck hand who took them to the appropriate cargo vats.

Strolling over to the holding vat, the Captain looked in at the crabs.

“Good sized, aren’t they?” he asked one of the children who was tying claws shut to keep the crabs from hurting each other during their time on the ship.

“Yessir,” the child said, concentrating on not getting pinched.

Satisfied that all was well, the Captain went back up the companion-ladder. Shortly, one of the cooks came down and began selecting several hundred crabs.  They went back up by crane.

That night at dinner, the serving crew (serving was a rotating duty that everybody, including the Captain, got) brought in the usual steamed fish-cakes and seaweed salad, and water to drink.

Instead of sitting they remained standing, leaning casually against the ribs of the ship, next to the hull.  The ribs arched over from the hull and became the deck beams above them.  The servers were obviously waiting for something.  They were grinning.

Clard, Master of the Ship’s Drums, and formal announcer got up.  “Captain Mord Halyn has an announcement!”

That cut the usual dinnertime hubbub to nothing.  Smiling jovially, the Captain said, “It has been an interesting and productive day. Kurin has showed us something completely new.  We have found and proved a new crabbing area.  I know that most of you are curious about today’s demonstration.  The Longin’s Craft Masters have conferred and decided that it is not a Craft.”

Here Silor grinned triumphantly.

The Captain went on, “If it were a Craft, it would have to be registered with the fleet Council, and the basics of it shared to all ships of the fleet.  As a skill, it is ours alone, and that is what we propose.”

Silor looked resentful, and then even more so as Master Juris held up two fingers, pointed to his fish-cakes, and made a come-hither gesture. With ill grace, he handed them over.  As the Captain continued, Master Juris divided the two cakes with his fellow Masters.

“To celebrate all of this, the cooks have steamed up some of those crabs! Everybody gets a whole one!  Since Kurin found the place and gave us the new skill, she gets one for each thing.”  He paused and managed to look as if he’d just thought of something.  “I’m not sure that it’s at all fair,” he paused again and exclaimed, “She gets more than me!”  Then he grinned to show that he was kidding and sat to laughter.  The servers went into the galley, came back with laden trays to distribute.  Everybody started cheerfully cracking their crabs.

Silor glared darkly at Kurin who was tucking into her dinner with busy chopsticks at the journeyman’s table.  If she hadn’t been showing off, I’d have all of my fish-cakes.

The Captain waited until everyone was near done to make a further announcement, “The success of this experiment has been enough to convince me of the reality of Kurin’s gift.  What I propose, for the approval of the ship’s crew, is this.  We should leave off our current fishing at once.  We ought to take the time to make such charts as this,” he held up the chart that Kurin had made of the deep reef below them, “for all of our waters.  Such charts could greatly improve all of our fishing.  We have sufficient stores for the project.  This Ship’s Business is open for discussion.”

The Longin had three fairly widely separated patches of ‘home waters’ that she worked.  One, the richest, was a maze of reefs in the tropics, known as the Ship Killer.  In times past, it had earned its name.

The others were in the north temperate zone, over two weeks of sailing from the tropic.  One was in the Naral Sea and the other in the Cliftos Reach, separated by three days of fair weather sailing.

Everybody began discussing the proposal with their neighbors.  There was much excited talk and hand waving.  Cliques of crew-folk began to form. One group, mostly deck-hands, formed around Silor.  They were opposed to the whole notion.  It meant many course changes and much raising and lowering of sail.  In short, a great deal of extra work for them.

Silor paced as he formulated his opposition.  “Captain, Masters and crew, we deck-hands think that this notion is foolishness.  Kurin can draw her pictures as we work our waters, as she did for this one.  We can find no harm in letting the child do that.  Diverting the whole ship because she was lucky once is madness.  We are of the opinion that she simply  guessed that this shallows was here because of the turn that the Naral Current takes.  Anyone who studied the current could have thought of that.  Should we lose valuable fishing time to pamper the white-haired brat?  She has already gotten too much of this ship’s time.”

Cirde, Master Weaver responded, “As you say, Kurin is a child, now.  That will only be until the Master’s Council approves her journeyman’s status at the next Gathering.  However, she is welcome in the weaving shop, though she is not my apprentice.  She listens well and works hard.  I can never think of a time that she showed me a finished work that she could not repeat.  That is how we recovered the secret of Longin Lace after Cat left us.  She has just showed us a new finished work.

“I have never heard her brag.  I believe that she can repeat this charting, to our benefit.  But this is based solely on my experience with her.

“This is a matter of navigation.  Let us defer to those who are skilled in the art.  They have said that her talent is remarkable.  I believe them.”

Clard, Master of the ship’s tocsin and hailing drums, added, “I second that.  Anyone who thinks that what Kurin shows is only luck has their eyes closed and has left their wits on dry land.

“My experience of her is like Master Cirde’s.  I wish that she were my apprentice.  She has learned hailing drum talk faster than anybody in my experience.  She knows every tocsin beat as well, and has been allowed to stand watch.  In spite of this, I have never heard her brag, either.  What she says she can do, she can do.  Every Craft Master here,” he gestured expansively, “knows her worth.

“As with Master Cirde, I will trust those who know navigation.  Remember this, as well, she predicted twenty fathoms depth.  The sounding was twenty one.  All of her chart that has been checked is as good. These charts could mean profit in both the short,” he waved a crab leg, “and long term.”

Master Juris stuck an oar in to hit Silor publicly once again.  In a sarcastic voice he said, “Kurin makes boats instead of breaking them.  I trust her.  Let us vote.  I am in favor.”

Captain Mord called the vote, which went to the charting expedition.  Only a seething Silor and his adherents voted against.

The Longin began the first of the many carefully spaced passes back and forth over the first of her three fishing waters.  Kurin’s mapping table was placed near to the stern, just out of the tiller-walk. This was an arc of deck, specially roughened to give good footing to the steersman.  The table itself was a giant tallow-slate with several different styli to make an assortment of different kinds of marks.

As often as he could spare the time, Captain Mord would look on at the growing rough chart.  When he took sightings, he told Kurin the latitude and longitude, so that the information could be used to give the chart scale.  It was an odd collection of lines at the moment. With the Captain looking over her shoulder, she nodded to herself, made a counting type bobbing motion with her stylus hand and reached for the table.  She quickly drew several lines with different styli.

“Would it distract you to ask what you are doing?” the Captain’s mellow voice came over her shoulder.

Without looking up, she replied, “No, Sir.  It would probably help me to keep track of things.”

“Good. I would like to understand how this is done.”  He gestured to the others that he had gathered to sit quietly.  They did.

After a few moments of collecting her thoughts, she began, “Around here, the main deep wave comes from that direction.”  She pointed.  “It has a length of twenty pulse beats, and it has a very slight rise and fall, which means pretty deep water over there, say two hundred fathoms, at a guess.  When I do the area functions I will know for sure.”  Then she pointed off to the starboard bow.  “From over that way I feel another wave, crossing the main wave.  It is short and high.  It has been getting shorter as we sail along this course. It is down to 9 pulses long and it is over three times as high. There is a high spot in the bottom over there that causes the main wave to pile up and bend as it goes around it.  That is what makes the high short wave.  The intersection of these waves is subject to a geometric analysis that will yield contour lines.  I drew that in like so … .” she trailed off as she realized that more than just the Captain’s shadow had fallen on the charting table.

She turned to discover ten people, some of them older children, a few of the Craft Masters and the ship’s off duty-officers.

Captain Mord said, without apology, “You said that you could teach people. I have drawn together your first class.  I have set up another for two Wohans hence.  That may not be enough time for the first class, but perhaps we can work around that.  This knowledge is too important to the ship not spread it so that it cannot be lost or forgotten.”

Kurin looked at him in surprise.  How could it be that important?  I’m just a kid.  I expected to improve our crabbing a bit, that’s all. Me, teach the Captain and Masters?  I wish Cat were here, or my dad.  They’d know how to do it.  The emptiness within her where being loved and safe had been, threatened to engulf her.  I expect the Captain’s right though, he usually is.  If I have people around me close, I won’t be so alone.  Aloud, she said, “Very well, Captain.  Students must be a able to read, write and figure.  Time will tell if they can learn to do the navigation and charting.”  She turned to the class.  “You will all need tallow-slates and styli.  You will also need a pair of dividers and a straight edge.”  She paused, looking absent for a moment, and marked her chart.

“Did anyone feel the change in the waves, just then?” she asked.

It was one of the younger of the children, a cabin boy named Bron who held up a hand.  “It was feeling kind of irregular, like you said, there was two different waves sort of bumping across each other.  Now it feels smoother, like  maybe one of them has gone away?” he questioned cautiously.

“Yes,” said Kurin, “it has.  We have passed the high place in the bottom and the wave change it made.  I’ve put that on the chart like so . …”

The arduous task of covering every mile of the Longin’s home fishing waters, east to west, then north to south, produced a chart like none ever seen before in the Naral fleet.  It showed the contours and depth of the bottom, the location and direction of all of the permanent currents, and where the tidal currents flowed, with a table to calculate their speed and direction by the phases of the moons and the elevation of the sun.  It also showed the shape, direction and patterns made by the long, deep waves.

The results surprised everybody.  There were more shallows than anybody had dreamed, and there was a monstrously deep chasm that cut across the bottom, dividing sea-floor into unequal halves.  Its depth was beyond what Kurin could detect.

After a week of charting, they moved on to the next of their three home waters, further south.  This one proved to be a mostly level plain, varying in depth but averaging only a few hundred feet below the keel, sloping up to the east, where there were high humps, rising to within seventy or eighty feet below the surface.

Nothing betrayed the presence of the underwater hills except a permanent seaweed mat that was anchored to them.  The paddle ducks in their coop up forward squawked and cackled at their wild cousins nesting on the mat.

The Ship Killer reefs of the Longin’s tropic home waters proved trickier.  The reefs stopped most of the long waves that Kurin’s ability relied on.  She mapped what she could, but it was less than a third of what was needed.  She found a compromise.

TO BE CONTINUED

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[clad-in-sunshine]

Annie of Anglesey

My submission for @arowrimo I hoped to get this in earlier - as it is I’m a day late for the week 2 prompt of self-love. It’s based on the song ‘The Bonny Lass of Anglesey’, and ended up far longer than I intended. The main character is aplatonic and aromantic.

Title: Annie of Anglesey Word count: 4,676 Language: English Genre: Historical fiction/folk tale (I guess? Idk) Theme: Subverting romantic tropes Prompt: Self-love CWs: Past marriage, Unwanted romantic interest, Public proposal, Grief

Summary: Annie is living quite happily alone in the mountains, when the king comes to her for aid in a competition. Hoping to get something for herself out of the situation, she agrees to help him.

The castle grounds were awash with a hubbub of excitement and jubilation. It unnerved the king. He stood atop one of his watchtowers, following the procession of nobles through the festivities with rattled nerves and shaking hands. 

    “They can’t win- won’t win. Will they?” he asked, not tearing his eyes from the approaching men. “Will they, guard?”

    “No sire. Absolutely not, sire.” An unseen salute, and he returned to position.

    “Of course. Of course...” The king mumbled mostly to himself, before straightening and turning. “Well, I must greet the newcomers...”

Arriving like a tidal wave, groups of men dressed up in extravagant finery swept up to the castle gates. The air around them filled with a jumble of expensive and rare perfumes, and exotic spices. 

And then the gates were opened, letting them pour out into the huge ornate entry hall; their perfumes colliding with the delicious smells of food to create a chaos for the senses as tray after tray was rushed through into the dining hall. 

The floor of the entrance was a deathly smooth marble that shone their faces back at them, and the walls were lined with huge and detailed tapestries: the most recent of which depicting the king’s marriage to the late queen Penelope. The king’s likeness stood tall and confident beside him as he descended the stairs with small and wavering steps. He stopped where the two halves of the staircase joined, and lifted himself to his full height.

    “Welcome!” he cried in one breath, “Welcome... “ Another pause. “Welcome one and all! We all know why you’re here, and we will get to that this evening. But for now at least, my servants are laying out the very best food and drink we have to offer - so let us feast!”

The silence was quickly overwritten by an eruption of cheering from the men, who bundled themselves into the well laid out hall, to seat themselves around the table of epic proportions. Across the surface were pastries, fine cheeses, fruit, preserves, breads, cakes, wines, jellies, cider and nuts. A spread that could put most others to shame. The nobles, now seated, dismissed their servants as they relaxed into their chairs for the evening.

Ruddy faced and jovial, the gathering ate with a lack of elegance and poise that only the very wealthy could afford. Very few words of substance were passed between them; instead bowls of food and bottles of wine were constantly moved from one to another, not from noble hand to noble hand but by the dedicated effort of the king’s own servants. As the food began to dwindle, and fire petered out, an anticipation built. It grew in drips, until the final fork clattered to the table and it spilled over; bringing all eyes up to the king, who swallowed and pushed his chair back to stand.

“My Steward, if you will?” With a hand, he beckoned forward a small and unassuming man who had been standing unnoticed in the doorway for some time.

The Steward hurried beside him at the head of the table, unfurling a scroll and clearing his throat.  “In the matter of the upcoming competition, the event has been decided. It is to be…” He looked around the room, all eyes looking back. “Dance.”

A silence as everyone looked around in turn.

Then a fist hit the table and there was an explosion of noise. 

----

Leagues away from the castle, nestled between the hills at the foot of a mountain, lay a small cottage surrounded by blooming May trees. Within it, Annie looked up from her book to watch the pinpricks of light that flickered about the castle grounds through a gap in the thorn and flower-strewn branches. The evening sun had long since hidden its face behind the mountain that sheltered her, and the lights of celebration were rendered as bright in the darkness as any of the stars in the sky above.

There was no finer place to enjoy the view than that; sat on the sil with a fire to warm her, and with no company but the chatterings and murmurings of the animals that shared these hills. She sipped from an open bottle of elderflower wine, brewed by herself from fresh flowers she’d picked the previous summer. It drew a smile meant for no one but herself.

She had almost everything she could want.

Almost.

After a short time of watching the lights, a sound pulled Annie from her daze. She’d long had a tendency to pick up on noises before someone else might, aided here by the amplification from the mountains, and she could soon make out the distinctive rhythm of hoof-beats approaching.

It was easy enough to deduce that anyone entering the area was coming to visit her, being the only one to live on the mountain. It was uncommon for her to have visitors however, and she wasn’t keen for strangers to find her house, so she prepared to leave and meet them: pulling on her white cloak, and beckoning Fiore to her from the forest.

Fiore swiftly appeared before her door, huffing huge clouds of breath that hung visible in the cold spring air. She was wondrously ghostly; a large white hind that cut an imposing figure in the silver moonlight. She’d been Annie’s friend since she’d rescued her as no more than a foal, having been orphaned by hunters. Nowadays she lived in the woods nearby, visiting occasionally to offer, or ask for, assistance or companionship.

After a quick and kindly greeting, Annie threw a leg over Fiore’s sturdy torso and directed them to a hilltop closer to the approaching horses. 

Seated on the elusive animal with the white cloak billowing out behind her, she could be easily taken for a ghost or one of the fair folk. Just how she liked it. 

They stood astride the crest of the hill, easily within sight of the oncoming strangers when they came close enough.

Finally a score of horses emerged through the valley, bearing well armoured knights that wore knotted strips of the castle’s colours. At the head rode a young man with the self-important stature typical of nobles. As they emerged, his face turned up to see her and he stopped dead. Behind him, all horses followed suit.

“Are you the bonny lass who is rumoured to live in these here mountains?” he called. His voice was carried further in the enclosed valley, so he didn’t need to shout to be heard; even so, he sounded quiet.

“More than rumoured, as I’m sure you know. I take it you are someone of importance - what use have you for me that you travel here?”

“Are you so ignorant as to not know your own king?”

“You hardly knew my own name, nor whether I exist or not. It seems fair that I do not know yours. Last I remember we had a queen, and few bother to keep me updated on the comings and goings of monarchs. Either way, it is you who’s come to me, so I ask again: what do you want?”

The king stepped down from his horse, puffing up to his full height, seemingly unaware how little difference it made to Annie above him.

“I have need for your skills. I am in the position to fight for my own status, and there are many who would seek to deprive me. I hear that you have skills that exceed most in many things, and I hoped that you may represent me.”

“What kind of fight?”

“A dance of sorts. The last one standing is to claim the throne and its wealth, but I feel it’s hardly becoming of a king to engage in such a competition.”

“I see.”

“We would compensate you generously, of course. I could grant you a stretch of land - a farm - and servants to work it of course.”

“Land?”

The king appeared concerned suddenly, and looked about before following up with:

    “And-” The king looked to his men uncertainly, before looking back at her. “And the chance to marry the fairest noble in my court - I’m sure a woman such as yourself would enjoy the opportunity to marry. And into status and money, no less!”

She considered his offer; perhaps she could make this work for her. 

    “Very well,” she said, “I’ll represent you as you wish. Will there be stabling for my hind? She will not share with horses, and will need a space away from people. And I expect gold as compensation too.”

She mounted on Fiore quickly, bolting down the side of the mountain ahead of the men before the king could reply.  “Shall we?”

The journey back took less than four hours, though it felt longer in the company of those with so little to say, and they were soon settling her into her chambers in the castle. She was filled in on the details on the way: the competition would be in five days, she would be expected to remain silent about her position, and she would remain out of sight as much as possible in the lead up. 

It was quickly evident by the next afternoon, however, that the last would be impossible. Word had quickly spread of the king’s female guest, who was kept quiet and hidden in the upper floors of the castle; those rooms usually reserved for royalty themselves. The rumour spread quickly. The king had been alone since the passing of Queen Pen a year prior - despite this, many women had tried and failed to gain his favour, making his romantic life a regular topic of idle conversation.

To Annie, it had become apparent very early on that while the rumours might not have followed the truth, they did seem to predict it. The king was gaining a fondness for her. 

Somehow he would find himself in all the places she explored, waiting for her and making himself as appealing as possible.

On the second afternoon she spent there, he was once again waiting when she visited his sizeable yet bare music room. He was dressed up in his finest casual wear and sitting at the piano; a sad smile frozen on his face, and his fingers producing yet sadder music. 

    “It reminds me of Pen,” he stated forlornly as she entered. “I always used to play this for her… I have been wondering if I’d ever have such a thing again.”

Annie sighed, weary and disappointed that she wouldn’t have time in the room to herself. “I’m sure you will find someone,” she said reluctantly, perching on a stool and trying, for the sake of pity, to sound reassuring. He turned back to the piano with a look of disappointment, before disappearing back into his music. The playing was impressive at the very least, and enjoyable for what it was, so she remained there to listen for a time. It was interesting to note the places where his high class upbringing coloured his music; formal and so different from her own. Intriguing as it could be at times, she was feeling bored of the palace’s extravagant finery. By the end of the second day, she desperately longed to return to her little cottage and the beautiful wilds. She managed to convince the guards to let her visit Fiore on the morning of the third day, and she happily breathed in the forest smells that lingered in her fur as they embraced. 

“I’m sorry about this Fi, we won’t be here too much longer. Just two more days.”

With an acknowledging huff, Fiore lay down in the warm straw. Annie followed quickly to lay down and curl against her warm side; she felt more at home in that stable, rocked by Fi’s gentle breaths, than at any point in those few days. She was drawn into a relaxed and shallow sleep; her mind painting pictures on the backs of her eyelids before a stablehand came and prodded her awake.

    “Wow,” they said, gawping, as she stood up “It won’t even let me near it... is it yours?” 

    “She doesn’t trust strangers. I’m Annie, and this is Fiore. We help each other out. And who are you?” Annie asked.

“I’m-” They stepped back uncertainly. “I’m sorry, are you the girl who’s been staying in the castle...?” A shake of their head before they apparently remembered their manners. “Oh, uh, I’m Ren.”

“Ren. Yes, I am the ‘girl’ who’s been staying in the castle.” 

“Are you really going to marry the king?”

“Marry?!” She spluttered, quickly descending into great convulsions of laughter that roused the sleeping Fiore into a startled headbutt; throwing Annie forwards and doubling her over further.

Ren jumped back at Fi’s actions, to awkwardly shuffle from foot to foot as she regained her composure.

“Sorry. Sorry. Just- never mind. No, I am not marrying the king... Are you?” she challenged.

“Er- No. I’m just a stablehand ma’am.”

“A fine stablehand that would refer to their guest as ‘it’,” she accused, “But don’t let that stop you! I’m just a wild woman from the mountains, and apparently I’m eligible,” she continued with good humour, enjoying this chance to speak with someone from outside the castle walls.

“That’s you?”

“Didn’t Fi here clue you in a little?”

“Heard you were one of the fair folk. ‘S all I heard, actually.”

“I wish! The rumours keep unwanted guests away though. Mostly,” she said, “Anyway, I was raised in a little village east of here - Durside.” Annie sat against Fiore’s side, and beckoned Ren to sit beside her. “How about you?”

“I’m from here; father’s responsible for these stables, and mam works as a seamstress for the king.”

“I suppose you hear a lot then. I know there’s a competition coming up soon - would you tell me about it?”

Time passed quickly as Ren explained the sad and unusual story of the king’s reign:

He had been Queen Penelope’s second husband, after the first had plotted her death to claim the crown for himself. Having been caught in time, the first was imprisoned, and hung for treason shortly thereafter. So when the Queen married again she’d established a will; one that said that, should she be survived by the king and have no children suited to the crown, then he would reign as ruler for a year while the people came to a decision. Then, in a manner chosen by the common people, nobles and those chosen by the king to compete would fight for the crown and its connected riches. The winner would rule until any heirs came of age - or permanently where no heirs are present - dependent on approval by the people. According to Ren, the marriage had lasted 5 years before Pen fell ill and died. Many suggested she was still bearing the wounds of her first marriage, which even the present king couldn’t heal. 

Afterwards, they went on to discuss a little about their own lives - differences and similarities. She had to dodge their questions as to her reasons for being there , but compared to any conversation with the king, or the few noble’s she’d managed to speak to, she could breathe a lot easier. While she loved to be alone, and friends were not her style, it was nice to have an opportunity to talk to someone and catch up on the goings on for the folk she’d left behind.

-----

The next day she surprised herself by managing to feel something for the king, in a smaller and less planned moment than their previous ones. He sat at one of the high arched windows off the tower stairs, looking out nervously on the grounds; a guard stood by him, and while he addressed the guard, he spoke more to himself.

    “... and I miss having real conversations. Penelope was someone I could talk to - all these people are after my wealth or status. Or fearful of my wrath. Even you, guard, can be nothing but what you are.” He leaned his head against the window, breath fogging it slightly. “I envy you common people sometimes.”

Annie kept herself out of sight as she listened. She too had found the sharp edge of being cut off from others, as much as she cultivated it for herself. It was the cost of freedom, so far, and it was worth it. But many things were lost to her thanks to it.

Rather than outstay her welcome and hear more than she’d like, she stepped away to spend more time in the library that she’d made her second home. While the king might be a somewhat sympathetic figure, she knew from Ren that he’d been enclosing common land and taxing the poor to pay for his extravagant feasting. Not the best of behaviours for one who’d want friends among their subjects, and she had no interest in soothing his troubled soul.

The library never failed to make her breath catch, and her head whirl; the light pouring in through stained glass and coating the shelves and shelves of books in stunning rainbow hues. The impossibility of reading all of the text in the place was incredible, and she ran a hand along the neat rows before slipping an intriguing one from its shelf, and removing it to a quiet alcove to slip inside its world for a time.

-----

The remaining days passed much like the previous ones had, with the king finding more excuses to see her, and by the evening of the competition she was in low spirits and desiring more than ever to simply return home. Earlier that day, the king had surprised her with a bottle of  “the best wine in the palace” - When she revealed that it had, in fact, been made by herself, she couldn’t tell which was redder: the wine, or the king.

It was truly emblematic of the king’s distance from the food and drink he so gratuitously served and supped on that he never thought to ask of the source of it. She had accepted the wine regardless, but been left nothing but homesick and disappointed, as it tasted nothing like it had when she was sat, alone, in her own space.

She was very ready for the competition to be over, before it had even begun.

Nobles began to file in past where she sat at the king’s right side. They moved to stand proud and tall around the edge of the wooden flooring she assumed would be the stage; some with a knight by their side, and others dressed in more practical garments, presumably to compete themselves. There were fifteen nobles lined up by the time they finished, before common folk began to file in around the edges. They blended into a great mass of faces, so energised and excited that it was hard to pick out any one face from the others. A few fingers were thrown forward to point at where Annie sat, and suddenly the sea of faces was still and talking in hushed whispers. 

The steward made use of the proximity to silence to announce the competition, which Annie listened to keenly.     “The dance shall begin shortly. The challenger, or their representative, and the king, or his representative, will each have a kerchief knotted to his or her wrist. The first to acquire the other’s shall be declared winner. Should either cease to dance, then they shall forfeit the challenge. “Those who are successful must challenge all other contenders until they are beaten. The first to defeat all challengers shall be declared the new king or queen, and receive two thirds of the king’s wealth and lands along with that offered by the contestants.

“Let the first willing challenger step forward!” 

After a moment of discussion a knight with a blue cloth stepped forwards, not even bothering to remove his sword.

“Elric, representing Lord Randall of Tyne. Annie of Durside shall represent the king.”

The musicians began a waltz from behind, led by a strong drumbeat. Annie rose and stepped to him, and the audience let out a collective gasp. Annie silently bowed and reached out a hand.

    “Shall we dance?” she asked, taking his.

Dancing with someone was not where her experience lay; she tended to dance alone. However, her thirst for learning had driven her to learn every dance she could - and not just that, but both parts of them. 

Once she began, she let the rhythm carry her, like a leaf tossed every which way by a raging sea. By the time Elric fell into her way of dancing, she’d change it again; often switching to dance the man’s part and throwing him off. When the music itself changed to a jig, she caught his sword and brought him crashing to the ground. As his chin hit the floor, the steward declared him defeated. 

The next nine went similarly; the knights themselves were all decent dancers with reasonable stamina, but they were weighed down by their heavy attire. They’d arrived prepared for a fight, not a dance, and not one knew how to react to her flexibility. Many times they attempted to approach from behind, only to be let down by the rattle of their swords and Annie’s keen hearing.

Then the lords stepped up one after another; dancing more subtly and skillfully. They proved the harder challengers, though far more deficient in stamina. Annie danced with them, avoiding their frustrated attempts at her wrist until they tired; sweating and panting as she finally tripped them or tugged the silk from their trembling wrist. 

By the time her fourteenth dance partner was left frustrated and hopeless, the sun had long set, and they were bathed, instead, by the cold moonlight. He fell to the ground with a cry of frustration, and left her proudly holding up his strip of yellow silk. She tossed it back to him dismissively, and turned to the last remaining man.

The knight, who until then had simply held back and watched, strode forwards. His body held the tension of a coil ready to snap, and his face was carved into an image of fury. He threw his sword to the ground, and stripped of his belt and coat, until he was wearing nothing but his cotton tunic, breeches, and the pink fabric at his right wrist.

He bowed wordlessly, and she did the same. 

Much of the audience had thinned out by this point. When they both stepped up to dance, the rhythm of their feet played a perfect percussion for the hornpipe ringing out behind them.

It might have been a competition, but it felt great to dance with someone who knew what he was doing. 

She smiled and laughed, as he cursed in between beats. 

The broader her grin grew, the more it seemed to take from him, and the heavier his steps. Neither approached the other for this hornpipe, nor the reel that followed. And not for many after that. They simply watched, and danced.

By the time the sun began to show itself again, staining the sky a brilliant pink, Annie’s heavy and aching feet pushed her to put an end to it. She still had the strength to go on, however; she took it from the mountain she called home, where the air was weaker, and the terrain far more punishing. She jumped and tapped in time to the jig as she approached him; where his face grew grim, and feet raised slower from the ground. 

With little effort, she grabbed his wrist and tugged the sweat drenched fabric free. She raised it high so the steward might see, and coaxed a small amount of applause from the stragglers of the crowd. 

“The king wins!” he cried, waking up the now peacefully dozing king as the music played on.

Startling out of his sleep, the king jumped up and ran towards Annie with words of appreciation and praise falling from his lips. 

The king removed one of his ornate rings in haste, and spoke softly with trembling breaths. “Everything I promised you is yours…. But in the matter of marriage, I think you could do better than a noble.” He held it out, as the audience looked on in a stunned silence.

Annie smiled.

“Do you take me…” She left a pause, in which she delighted as the king’s face lit up a little brighter. “For a fool?”

“What?” the king asked in shock and confusion, “why?”

“No man shall have me as a wife; now or ever. I could take the land you’ve offered me, that you have no right to own. Or I could beat you and take it all.” She took his hand and tied the pink kerchief to his wrist. “Dance with me. I will be your queen, but you shall not be beside me.”

The steward looked anxiously between her and the king, stiffening when he caught her gaze.

    “Steward - she can’t do this!” he exclaimed, looking between him and his wrist. “Can she?” 

    “I’m afraid, sire, that she can.”

    “But why?” the king entreated, turning to Annie. 

    “You have been taking the people’s land for your own, as something to give or take as you pleased. While people struggle to feed themselves, you host feasts far beyond any of our means. You are not my king.”

The king froze.

    “So dance then, if you wish to hold onto your crown.”

The music changed to a waltz again, and Annie held out a hand. Hesitantly, the king took it. He stepped forwards; moved in time with the music and with her. Every step, the king kept up, but she was soon able to slip a hand down his unguarded arm to loosen the band.

Then a swift retreat, as his hand searched for her own cloth, and back to the dance. She led the two of them back and forth, constantly pushing where the king tried to pull. Then the music changed and threw him off; they split from each other to shift into an energetic percussive rhythm, where the king’s feet fell a second out of time.

One unbalanced moment for him, and she skipped up to him with an outstretched hand.

The ribbon pulled free, leaving his fingers to grasp at it hopelessly. She pulled it away in a smooth motion, and held it in the air triumphantly; her own cloth was still tied tight.

The small crowd burst into applause, turned to silhouettes by the sun behind them. The sound drew yet more of them to the borders, and there was the indistinct sound of many excited conversations. 

The lights of celebration burned brighter, and music louder, that night. Annie was surrounded on all sides by people who excitedly questioned, and thanked, and asked favors of her. The lords, meanwhile, left exhausted and beaten, with far less to their name than they arrived with.

-----

It took days for her to return private land to common, and ensure everyone had the right to work it as they had done; spreading the word through messengers to other towns. It took yet longer to find someone else who could competently rule in her stead: her place was not as a leader, after all. 

Fiore bore her back home then, before giving a quick farewell before racing back into the woods where she belonged. Annie also returned to her cottage. Where she truly belonged. 

For now she needed days filled with nothing but the sounds of the wilds, and the thoughts of none but herself and those whose voices were bound in leather. 

Eventually she would return to the town and take advantage of the many offers she’d received: to be taken as an apprentice in music and wood carving; to join in on dances and festivities; to share food, drink, and song. To do and share those things she could not do alone, while beholden to none but herself.

She smiled, sitting on her sil again, and drinking her wine that tasted as it should. 

She had everything she could want.

[skipscabin]

Come What May

Character: Jim Hopper x Reader

Word Count:1986

Rating: Fluff, with a dash of angst

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy 

Summary: Tensions are running high at the station, it isn’t easy being married and working to the Hawkins Chief of Police. When you get a feeling, however, there's only one person you can tell.

AN: This is un beta’d and written in the early hours of the morning. Also, my first time writing for Jim, so I'm hoping all is well! 

Your stomach turned, seeming to sway back and forth as you remained still at your desk. You never knew your organ was such an acrobat. You set down the pen you held in your hand pushed your chair away from your desk, looking out to the changing fall leaves on the trees through the station windows. There was a big hubbub at the high school with a few teenagers earlier in the week and you had been tasked with writing the incident report. You knew you had to get this done today and had to send a copy to the school officials for their own disciplinary purposes. For the past several days, however, that was the last thing on your mind. 

When it came to your “lady days”, you were spot on. The third Sunday of every month, boom. The Red Baron was coming in hot, yet here it was the third Friday, and nothing. After Monday came and went and it never happened, only a small part of you was worried. You knew it had been a busy week (which turned into two) at the station and you assumed that perhaps the stress offset you for a little while. It was close to 5 pm on Friday now, however, and you didn’t feel a thing. No cramps, mood swings or anything. In a small, gossip ridden town such as Hawkins, there was really only one person you could tell first. Cheif Jim Hopper. Your husband and boss. 

Since then you tried to conceal any notion that anything was off with you, not that it was hard. While you both lived and worked together, a string of occurrences around town hindered you getting really any alone time with each other. Either one or both you were at the station or you were just too exhausted to try and tell him your troubles. The nervousness also plaguing you heavily.

You tap your pencil on your report, the final section finally filled. You looked at the clock and decided you had enough time to talk to Hopper before dropping it off.  You two were the last officers left, Flo just about ready to leave herself and she tuts about the station. You take a deep breath and sign your name on the document, tucking it into the folder neatly. You skirt around your desk and down the hall to Hopper’s office with it under your arm. You knock on the door and wait a moment before opening it and popping your head in. You see he is on the phone while his gaze is cast down, writing something down in one of the case files. 

“Yes, yes sir we’ll have it sent off by 5 o'clock, one of our deputies will drop it off. Yes, not a problem, glad the kids had a level head with the aftermath of it. Yes, goodbye.” He hangs up the phone and continues to write. You step into the office and take another deep breath. He seems to finally realize you’re there and looks up quickly. 

“(Y/N) you got that report done for the principal right?” He asked, his brow knitted together as he speaks, seemingly to have forgotten if he had even checked in with you about it any other time today. 

“Yes, I just finished it up, I was wondering if-”

“Could you give it to Powell to drop off on his way home? I know he drives right by the school and they just called asking if it would be in today.”

“I would, but he’s gone home. It’s been a long week so the boys finished up pretty quick to get home. I also took a little longer than usual writing it up, I’ve had some stuff on my mind.”

“Ah...Well, then there goes that. I guess one of us will have to. See, best to leave anything that bothers ya at home so then we could have left a bit early too.” He shrugs going back to his folder. You bite your bottom lip, half in anger and in sadness that he seemed so dismissive in this moment. 

“Hopper I need to talk to you about something.”

“Babe, can’t it wait until we get home? I told them it would be there at 5 o'clock and its 10 minutes too. So either you or I will have to take it.” He replies the only move he makes is to twist his wrist to look at the numbers on his watch.

“Jim it's just really important and I haven't been able to-”

“(Y/N) please I promise you you can tell me any and all of your problems when we get home I just need this one last thing done before the week is done.” 

That's it.

You take the folder from underneath your arm and slam it down on the desk over his work, a few papers flying off in the process. 

“Fine then. If it’s so god damn important than you can take it to the school by yourself on your way home. I’m leaving. Don’t wait up for me.”. You turn on a dime in your boots and stomp out of the room, slamming his door behind you as you go. You’re heading for the car as Flo appears, wondering what the door slamming was about. She quickly sees that you’re upset, your eyes filling with tears quickly, threatening to come spilling out. You put your hand up to her and your lip quivers.

“Flo don’t, everything is fine I just need to go.” You hear Jim’s booming voice call your name as he emerges from the office, triggering you to bolt out the front doors, pulling your keys from your pants and quickly climbing into your car. You turned it over and peeled out of the parking lot, headed for you didn't even know where.

Hopper runs out to the parking lot but just catches your tail lights as you go, clenching his fists at his sides. Flo walks up beside him and watches you go.

“Jim Hopper, what have you done now.” 

*****

You stand on the rocky beach of the lake, tossing stones into it as far as you could. Winding your arm back and throwing them with all your might. The ripples making the reflection of the late evening sky tinting it an orange colour. Leaves fall from the trees and skim across the water, dipping over the ripples made by your angered pitching practice. 

“That stupid, stupid man. Fucking Jim Hopper want, want, want. Can’t take two god damn minutes out of his day to listen to someone other than himself.” You kneel down and grab a stone about the size of a baseball, hurling it and watching it hit the water with a heavy splash. 

“Sounds like a huge asshole.” You hear a familiar voice say from behind you. You turn around and meet a pair of sulking blue eyes, wiping the tears from your own with the sleeve of your pale blue deputy uniform. 

“You have no idea.”  You say coldly turning back away from him, hoping he would just walk away and leave you in peace, and yet a small part of you hoped he wouldn’t.

“Actually I can guarantee I do. I’ve been dealing with him for even longer than you have. He gets a little pigheaded sometimes.” Jim makes his way across the rocks, the stones crackling against one another under the broad man’s weight You’re still looking on when your glance is brought down by your hat being stuck in front of you. “You left this at work, can't have my deputies running around with bare heads.”

You snatch the hat from his hand, brushing the stray hairs the water’s breeze had taken off of your hot and tear stained face. Again saying nothing. 

“(Y/N) will you say something please, I’m trying. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention to you before when you needed it, but I’m here now and I want to listen.”

“Maybe you should have done that when we were at the station. I've been wanting to talk to you for a few days now but I knew work had been hectic for both of us so I didn’t bother. You know me, Jim, you know I wouldn't bring up our personal problems at work unless it was urgent. It’s been hard trying to find the words to tell you.  If we didn’t draw a line between us and work we would have been done a long time ago. Being with someone almost 24/7, at work at home, hell in bed every night is stressful.

“I know, but there’s no one else I’d rather be stressed out over. I’m sorry about today, this afternoon. I am. You understand why I was wound up, you were too, I just didn't know you were even carrying extra.” Hopper turns towards you and wraps his arms around you, placing his head on top of yours as you go on your tiptoes to wrap yours around his neck tightly, your hand still holding your hat tightly. Your eyes squeeze shut and more tears start to cascade down your cheeks, your heart hammering in your chest. You loved this man so much, so matter how much you growled to each other, you felt it. In the top of your head to your toes and everywhere in between. He pulls back and runs the pad of his thumb over your shivering lip, smiling warmly at you with his kind cool eyes. “Now, will you tell me what's been bothering you, please?

You take a deep breath and exhale,  the shaking breath coming out through your mouth, trying to find a way to explain your worry. He places his hand on your cheek and you put yours over it, leaning your cheek against his warm palm. “Hopper, my, I’m, I’m late. I'm never late.” He furrows his brow and tilts his head slightly.

“Never late? What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean. You were late for your first day on the job, I remember that and-”

“No, no, no. Late as in-” You take his hand from your cheek and place it on your stomach. “I’m late, my period is late Jim.” 

His eyes immediately dart down to where his calloused hand is holding your shirt, feeling your skin move underneath it as you breathe. His own breathing becomes heavier, he swears his heart might beat out of his chest, or burst with pure joy. 

He removes his hand from you and wraps them around you, picking you up and holding you close and he spins you off your feet for a moment. He sets you back down and presses his lips to yours, kissing you deeply and lovingly as he held you so tight. 

“Hop I’m sorry I should have tried telling you sooner but I was so scared and we were all so busy and I didn’t know what to do. I know we talked about kids but I assumed we didn’t mean right now and I-” He kisses you again, silencing your ramblings of the past week and let it all melt away. He leaned down and places his forehead on yours, letting you see now his eyes becoming glassy with emotion.

“No, no I am. You've known this whole time and I never had time to listen. I’m sorry. You're right we weren't exactly banking on having one so soon but that doesn't matter. We can call the doctors office tomorrow and they can get you in and see if that’s what's going on. If we do have a baby I promise, I will be the happiest man alive. You know that right? I love you so much, you’ll never know how much. I’ll always take care of you, and the little one, whether it happens, sooner or later.”

[tenroseforeverandever]

The Perfect Blend Chapter 3

Characters: Tenth Doctor (aka James Noble); Rose Tyler; Clara Oswald; Amy Pond; Jeanne Poisson; Donna Noble; Sylvia Noble; Wilfred Mott; Mickey Smith; Martha Jones; Clyde Langer

Tags: Human AU; fake relationship AU; coffee shop AU; stalkerish!Reinette; hurt/comfort; angst; romance; fluff; Christmas; New Year; New Year’s kiss

Story Summary:

Trying to escape from an predatory ex-girlfriend who will not accept their break-up, James Noble (aka The Doctor) finds himself in a coffee shop where he meets a barista (aka Rose Tyler) who makes him the perfect cup of tea and lends a sympathetic ear to his tale of woe.

Chapter Summary: James and Gramps discuss James’ Christmas announcement; and on New Year’s Eve, Clara and Mickey are concerned that Rose is mooning. 

Chapter Notes: Sorry for the wait. Real life is messing with me, right now. I hope the next chapter won’t take quite as long.

As always, a big hug of thanks to @rose--nebula and mrsbertucci, for taking precious time out of their lives to beta my work. As always, all mistakes are mine.

Read also at: AO3; Tsp; FF

THE PERFECT BLEND - CHAPTER 3

CHRISTMAS DAY

James trudged up the darkened hillside at the back of the house, carrying a large flask full of tea in one hand and an old car blanket under the opposite arm. He took a long, clean breath of fresh air, relieved to have been able to slip away and leave the hubbub and bickering behind him. Despite the (rather deceptive, he thought) sense of freedom, he was feeling self-conscious, and he hesitated as he approached the old lean-to at the top of the hill.

“You don’t really have a date for the gala, do you son?” Gramps’ voice emanated from the rickety little shelter. “C’mon out from behind there, James. I know it’s you. I’d know those footsteps anywhere. Yours and Donna’s both.”

James couldn’t help the fond smile that crossed his face. “I brought some hot tea,” he came around the corner of the lean-to to the familiar sight of Gramps sitting on his tattered, old lawn chair, the box for the new telescope opened before him, “and I thought you might like some help putting your new toy together."

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact both would be very much appreciated.”

James spread the blanket on the ground and knelt on it. He handed the flask to Gramps, pulled the telescope box toward him, and unpacked all the bits in front of him, organizing them and piecing them together.

“I don’t think I’d get through that lot without your help. Thank-you, son.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. You know how I love tinkering with things. And it’s a brilliant evening for stargazing, even if it’s a bit cold. I should have this in working order in no time.” James turned his eyes to the stars and sighed. “It’s always so peaceful up here.”

“Tonight, especially so, I’ll wager.” Gramps took a long sip of tea. “After that bombshell you dropped on that lot.”

James snorted. “Dropped it on myself, if I’m being honest. You were right, I don’t really have a date for the gala. I never planned on taking a date at all. I was just looking forward to meeting with some of my colleagues out of the office and… they’ve asked me to put together a little firework display to bring in the New Year, so I can’t just back out. The Uni wants something spectacular, something special this year. This gala is all about fundraising for the new Medical Sciences wing, after all.”

“Blimey! Pyrotechnics?” Gramps gawped at him. “You’re not creating that yourself, are you? Surely there are all sorts of regulations about that sort of thing.”

“Weeell…” James ran a hand through his hair, “actually, its digital pyrotechnics. I’ve developed a holographic interface to create some 3D fireworks indoors.”  

“I have to admit, I’m a bit relieved to hear that.”

“Oh, there are still plenty of ways for it to go wrong, and if I have to spend the evening fending off her… But don’t worry, it won’t be like the blender… I swear,” he added at the sight of his grandad’s dubious expression. “Besides, I’m collaborating with a bunch of people from Computer Sciences and we’ve already had a few test runs, but I’d like to give it a bit more pizazz. A few tweaks to make it ultra-realistic.

Gramps sighed. “You know the old saying? If it ain’t broke...”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Well, I would never have guessed you knew much about that sort of thing. You’ve never actually studied computer graphics, have you? Never mind something so grand as all that holographic stuff.”

“Nah,” he sniffed a bit boastfully, “but it isn’t really a big leap from the programming I’m doing for my bionics research… Weeell, not that big. Weeell… I’m a quick study.”

“My clever boy! But the question is, if you can’t back out of the gala altogether, what are you going to do about the fireworks currently going off back down there?” He waved an arm in the direction of the house.

James groaned in response. “All the studying in the world won’t help me with that... Oh, here, Gramps, have a look! Your telescope’s ready to go.”

“Oh, blimey, will you take a look at that beauty.” Gramps marvelled at the telescope, rubbing his hands together. “You shouldn’t have spent all that money, though…”

“C’mon… have a look.  There’s Saturn.” James pointed to the sky. “Something easy, first, to get the hang of it. Then the universe is yours to explore.”

They took turns, well into the night, peering through the telescope, sipping hot tea and discussing possible solutions for James’ “French dilemma”, as they’d come to refer to Jeanne.

James reminded himself he had nearly a week before the gala. He was clever and not too bad looking, if he did say so himself, even if he was a “skinny beanpole” by Donna’s assertions. Surely, he wouldn’t have any problem finding a suitable date by New Year’s Eve, someone who would convince Jeanne, once and for all, that he had moved on.

 NEW YEAR’S EVE

The bell jingled above the door, and Rose looked up from where she was clearing a table to greet the latest customer. It was New Year’s Eve and the shop had been busy over the lunch hour as people dropped in to grab a coffee and a bite to eat before heading home to prepare for the evening’s festivities. No matter how busy, she always made a point of trying to welcome everyone with a bright smile whenever she could. It was just good customer service, building loyalty, welcoming her guests. Goodness knew her little shop needed all the help it could get to stave off the competition of the big chain coffeehouses.

But perhaps she’d been trying a little harder than usual over the last week or so, her chest filling with a faint, fluttering hope that, when she looked up at the sound of the bell, it would be to the sight of tousled brown hair and sad, earnest eyes and a request for the best cuppa in London.

But it never was.

And that wisp of hope would fade, drifting away on Rose’s soft sigh, her heart emptying a little more every time.

A wistful smile playing over her lips, she brought the used dishes to the counter. As she passed Clara, who was serving the latest customer, her friend arched her brow at her. Rose ignored the shrewd look and handed the dishes through the passthrough to the young dishwasher who took them from her with an overblown sigh.

“You can go home soon, Clyde. Just do this last load for me, yeah? Then a quick mop of the floor and wipe down those counters, and it’ll be all spic and span, ready for the New Year.”

“You sure, Miss Tyler?”

“Yeah, course. The lunch rush is over. Everyone’s heading home now. I can take care of anything else that comes up.”

“Thanks, Miss Tyler!”

Rose turned back to the service counter where Clara was completing an order of a Peppermint Hot Chocolate with a flourish of whipped cream and candy cane crumbs. She called out the customer’s name, handed them their chocolate, then spun to face Rose. “You’re mooning.”

Rose fixed her with narrowed eyes, shaking her head in a teasing warning. “I am not!” Then, latching on to a perfect way to change the subject, her eyes shot to the clock. “Hey, shouldn’t you be heading out by now?”

“Don’t worry. I’m just about to go. The baking’s all set to go for tomorrow.” She grinned. “Besides, I’m not meeting Jenny at the salon for another hour. We’re both going to get our hair and nails done, then we’re going out to bring in the New Year in style.” She winked at Rose.

Rose couldn’t help but feel a bit melancholy. As much as she loved her shop, she sometimes wished she was going out to celebrate, too. But she tried to sound upbeat, for Clara’s sake. “Ooooh, sounds like fun!”

“See, Rose,” Clara offered her perkiest know-it-all smile, “this is one advantage of same-sex relationships. There’s so much extra stuff you can do together. You should seriously consider it. You’re a catch! Better that than mooning after boys.”

(So much for the change of subject…)

“I am not mooning! It’s just a quiet afternoon, yeah. It’s just the letdown after the lunch rush. And, though I know we’ve had this discussion before, I’ll remind you again: I’m not like you. My options remain limited to…” she blew her breath past her lips, and rolled her eyes, “…boys. Such as they are.”

“I suppose… but you have been mooning… for nearly two bloody weeks, ever since that Doctor bloke dropped in.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“Shut up!” Rose’s cheeks burned and she forced herself to maintain eye contact with Clara. “I have not.”

“Pu-lease!” Clara chirped over her shoulder as she disappeared into the little staff room. She reappeared a few minutes later, tying the belt of her coat around her waist.

“I’m not mooning,” Rose insisted, failing to hide the slightly petulant tone from her voice.

“Oh, relax,” Clara scoffed gently, as the bell above the door rang again, “I’m just taking the mick.”

“Hey, did someone mention my name?” the familiar voice sounded from the doorway and both girls turned to greet Mickey Smith with wide smiles.

“Only in jest,” Clara quipped.

Mickey stuck out his tongue at her. “See if I ever cover a shift for you again!”

Everyone laughed and Rose piped up, “Oh, you can’t stay away. Not when you get to spend New Year’s Eve with me.”

“You’re right, there, babe.” Mickey gave Rose a soft, friendly peck on the cheek as he walked past her to the staff room. “Although,” he called out through the door, “Martha might have something to say about that.”

Mickey was Rose’s oldest and closest friend. She had known him literally all her life. He was a few years older than her, and they had grown up on Powell Estate together. They’d even dated a few years back but had quickly realized they were destined only to be the best of friends. Being lovers hadn’t worked for them, much to Rose’s mum’s chagrin. Jackie Tyler had chided Rose about getting airs and graces, thinking herself above dating a mechanic. It had taken a firm word from Mickey to get her to listen to reason, although she still lamented from time to time that Rose would end up an old maid.

That had been years ago, and now Mickey was dating a young surgeon, Martha Jones, who worked at the local hospital. They had met when she had brought her car to him to be repaired and had hit it off right away. A year later, he’d asked her to marry him. Rose, who had rapidly befriended Martha, was thrilled for them both.

Mickey often came to Pete’s Coffee Dimension, after work at the garage, to help out and to make sure Rose, Clara, and the other employees had time for a dinner break. He often stayed the evening, chatting, when Martha was working a night shift. Tonight, he was covering Clara’s shift, so she could have the evening off with Jenny. Martha was on call at the hospital and would be dropping by later, if she was free, to ring in the New Year with her fiancé and Rose.

“Right then, I’m off,” Clara announced, “now that you’re here to help hold down the fort, Micks. But I should warn you,” she grinned, gesturing toward Rose with a jab of her thumb, “this one is mooning…”

“Oh, what’s this then? Mooning? You’re going to be a right misery all night, ain’t ya?”

Rose snapped her arms over her chest. “You,” she fixed Clara with a fierce glare, “are going to be late. And for the record,” she turned her glare on Mickey, “I am not mooning! End of story.”

“All right, all right!” he held his hands up defensively. “You’re not mooning. Blimey! Don’t kill me. Not a great way to start the New Year, yeah?”

“’M not gonna kill ya.” Rose drew Mickey in for a hug, then turned to Clara, pulling her in for a hug too. “Happy New Year, you. Thanks for looking out for me, both of you. Now off you go, Clara. Wish Jenny a happy New Year for us, yeah?”

“Definitely! Happy New Year!” Clara cheered, giving Rose and Mickey a last big squeeze and calling through the passthrough to Clyde before heading toward the door. “Give my love to Martha.” She gave a parting wave and backed out onto the street, the bell tinkling behind her.

 The shop remained quiet, a few customers straggling in through the afternoon. Clyde had long since left and Martha had texted to say she would be by shortly. Rose glanced up at the clock: just gone three.

“So, babe,” Mickey fixed Rose with narrowed eyes, “I have to agree with Clara: you’re not quite yourself. Deny it all you like, you are mooning. Not after some bloke, is it?”

Rose groaned.

“It is!”

“Look, I’m just feeling a little, I dunno…” she shrugged, “…not exactly sad, but jus’…”

“Mooning.”

She smiled. “It would just be nice to have someone special to share the holidays with, ya know? To dress up and go out somewhere nice. I love the shop, I mean… it’s my life, my dream. But it would be good to get out once in a while.” She leaned back against the counter and laid her head on Mickey’s shoulder, as he wrapped a comforting arm around her.

“You’ll find someone.”

“Yeah, maybe. No one as good as you, though.”

“You kidding me? I was a rubbish boyfriend… at least to you. I hope I’m doin’ okay with Mar.”

“She thinks you’re bloody wonderful. But us,” she nudged him with an elbow, “we were just never good together like that. To me, you’ve always been a lovely friend, a big brother, yeah. Always there when I need you. But sometimes, I just feel like I want someone to be a bit more than a friend. I’m just afraid…”

“That you’ll end up with another–”

“Yeah, Jimmy Stone…”

Mickey growled, “If I ever get my hands on that tosser… how he treated you…”

“Enough,” she shoved him a little, knocking him off balance, “you’ll scare away all the customers, looking all aggressive-like.”

“Like there are so many of those…”

She frowned at him, unimpressed.

“Fine…” He grudgingly relaxed, and Rose snuggled against him again. After a few quiet moments, he spoke again, “So tell me about this bloke?”

“What bloke?”

“The one that you’re mooning over. You can’t lie to me, babe, I know there’s someone…”

“Not really…”

“C’mon! Give.”

“There’s nothing to tell you. I hardly know him. It was just… a feeling… he seemed sweet. That’s all. But I’ve only ever seen him the once.”

“And…”

Rose shrugged. “He was nice, but waaaay out of my league. Working on his third Ph.D.”

“An older man! Shit, Rose!”

“No, no! He looks like he’s only a couple of years older than me,” Rose giggled. “I don’t think he’s even thirty. He’s just really clever. Says he’s a genius. Like I said, out of my league. Not that it matters. He’s only come in the once.”

“Wait a minute! This isn’t that… erm… what was it… Doctor-bloke who went gaga over your cup of tea, was it?”

Rose flushed, biting her thumb.

“It him, isn’t it? Clara told me about him. Said you thought he was a bit fit.”

“It was none of Clara’s business! Nothing happened. I don’t even know his proper name and he doesn’t know mine. So, it don’t matter, yeah.”

“Well, he’s an idiot if he didn’t bother to come back and get it, that’s all I can say. Not worth all the mooning.”

Rose opened her mouth to say something more, but at that moment the bell jingling heralded another customer entering the shop.

 About an hour later, Mickey huffed to himself as he wiped down the tables. Martha had arrived a little while ago, given him a quick peck on the cheek, and then she and Rose had disappeared into the kitchen ostensibly to get a start on a thorough New Year’s cleaning… but Mickey knew what really was going on was a good old gossip. Either way, it left him as the front man, taking care of the customers who occasionally wandered into the shop.

The bell chimed above the door. Mickey gave the table he was tending to one last wipe and looked up to greet the man who burst into the shop on a cold blast of wintery air from the street. “’Lo,” Mickey said, “Happy New Year, mate! What can I get you? Something to go?”

The man looked frantic. Even his hair looked frantic. He dragged a hand through it, making it stand up even more on end. “No… erm… no thanks. For here, please. I think I’d like to stay here for a bit.” He loosened the black bow tie at his neck, leaving the ends to dangle, and unfastened the top button of his shirt. “Blimey, that’s a bit better. Always feel trapped in a tux… unluckiest suit in the world. Never liked ‘em… Nothing good ever came from wearing a tux.” This time, he ran both hands through his hair.

“Yeah, mate, I get it. I don’t like a monkey suit much either. Look, take a seat and I’ll bring you a menu, but to be honest, you look like you need something a bit stronger than a posh coffee.”

Mickey left to grab a menu from the stand at the front of the service counter and returned to the man, who had seated himself at a table by the window. His legs were jittering with nervous energy. He took the menu from Mickey and glanced over it with glazed eyes.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he looked up from the menu. “Just putting off the inevitable. My life is over after tonight.”

“Mate, you have a brand-new year coming up! New opportunities. How bad can it be, yeah?”

“You don’t understand. If I don’t show up with a date to the Uni Gala… she’ll…” he spat out the word, “she’ll… Fuck! I’m doomed.” He slumped over the table.

“I’m sorry, man. Wish I could help.”

“No,” the man straightened up, “I’m sorry.” He looked down at the menu again. “I’ll have… hmmm… I’ll have… You know what I need… I need a cup of tea. It did wonders the last time I was here.”

“I can do that! Nothing like a good cuppa, yeah? Oh, blimey, my best friend, Rose (she own’s this place!); well, her mum is known for making the best cuppa, and taught Rose everything she knows. But,” Mickey added conspiratorially, “I honestly think Rose makes it even better. But don’t tell her mum I said so… she’d flay me alive.”

“Rose?” The man’s expression relaxed as he muttered the name, a small smile toying with his lips. “Her name is Rose…”

This man was a bit odd, Mickey thought. Not a bad sort, just a bit odd. “Can I get your name for the order then?”

“Oh, right!” He broke out of his daze. “My name, of course. The Doctor.”

“The Doctor…” Mickey repeated slowly. The name was so familiar, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Yup! That’s me! Just ‘The Doctor’. It’s easier that way. My real name’s quite common.”

“The Doctor…” Mickey mulled the name around in his mind again, and suddenly all the pieces fell into place. “Wait! You’re the Doctor! The Doctor who was in here a few days before Christmas. You ordered a cup of tea, yeah?”

The Doctor quirked a suspicious left eyebrow at Mickey. “Yeeess… a brilliant cup of tea. What about it?”

“Oh, mate! You said need a date for tonight?” Mickey had never considered himself to be much of a matchmaker. If he was being honest, it would never normally have crossed his mind. He was much more of a live-and-let-live sort of bloke. But this time, it was Rose’s happiness at stake, and when it came to ensuring Rose’s happiness, there were no holds barred.

“Erm… yes… yeah… but, it’s too late. I’m never going to find a date at this time. I told you, I’m doomed.”

“Nah, not tonight, you’re not. Mate, I think I may just have the answer to all of your problems!”

[wolfpawn]

I Hate You, I Love You, Chapter 60

Chapter Summary - The Hiddleston's deal with Emma's words to Danielle before Christmas, but Danielle pleads with them to drop it.

When Tom and Danielle get talking, they discuss matters that require Luke's input, which quickly leads to Tom begging her for something.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog​ @jessibelle-nerdy-mum​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @damalseer​ @hiddlesbitch1​ @winterisakiller​ @fairlightswiftly​ @salempoe​ @lys-syl @youcantcatchafallingstar

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

Tom and Danielle walked over to Diana’s with Danielle still in her nightwear and Tom in the jeans and hoodie he went to the shops in. As soon as they entered the house, the thick atmosphere was the first thing they noticed.

“Right, first things first, Yakov, get your daughter and go to mine,” Danielle ordered, Yakov nodded and rushed upstairs to get his daughter out of the horrible atmosphere. “Ready?” She asked, looking to Tom.

“For what, Emma deserves this.”

“Tom, no good comes from holding grudges, I told you that after everything with Taylor, now, she is your sister, and this is all out now so we move on.”

Tom did not seem so sure but nodded in agreement in the end. “Fine.” He conceded grudgingly as they made their way into Diana’s kitchen.

Inside, Sarah and Diana stood at one side of the room while Emma and Jack stood on the other, the older Hiddleston women glaring at the younger, her husband looking almost ashamed next to her. When Tom and Danielle entered, Sarah and Diana immediately looked to them.

“Is what I heard true Tom?” Sarah demanded as soon as Danielle closed the door. “Well?”

“Sarah…”

“I’ve sent Yakov over to mine with the Duchess, it’s not healthy to have her hear this.” Danielle began, the other adults looked somewhat ashamed. “The other day, Emma was slightly annoyed and tried to extend something of an olive branch to me, but I had just gotten out of bed and was wearing Tom’s shirt, she saw that and got pissed off again leading her to say that she wanted me to back off, she had lost time with her brother of late and I was to give her time with him and the family, I did so, resulting in my less than fine moment of fracturing my wrist, but since then she has apologised to myself and Tom and we have to her and have tried to get passed everything that happened, so please, can we continue to do that?”

“She...she actually told you to back off from us, wait, is that why you didn’t ring to say you were in fucking hospital.”

“Sarah.” Diana chastised.

“Mum, you are worried about my language right now?”

“Look, Emma felt betrayed, you and she both know, hell, even Diana knows that people have become obsessed with using you guys to get to Tom, and well, can you blame her for getting pissed off with me? I was supposed to be her friend and next thing she knows, I am dating her brother, it’s not exactly nice. So her anger is somewhat understandable, as is Tom’s for how she has acted when all he wants is for everyone to be happy.”

“So those two are arguing and you are not mad at Emma?” Sarah asked in disbelief.

“No, I’m not, she is my best friend, and recently I haven’t had a lot of time to show her how much I actually care for her as my best friend and I should have, I’m sorry.” She looked at Emma as she spoke. “I really miss you.”

Emma swallowed and her eyes darted around. “I…” But she said no more.

“It’s done, please everyone, can we not argue about it, Em’s sorry, Tom and I are sorry, and all I was is my breakfast which is going cold for no reason because we are all arguing over a non-issue.”

“She never even got you a present, that is how petty she got, and you are not getting pissed off?” Sarah questioned.

“So what? I got enough this year, seriously, the only thing she needs to give me is a chance to prove I wasn’t using her to get to Tom.”

“You realise for the youngest person here, you’re the most mature one.” Diana smiled fondly looking at her.

“Obviously, I’m Irish,” She tossed her hair dramatically as she spoke before looking over at Jack and smiling “The good kind of Irish.”

“Ha-ha, forever with the jokes, Galway Girl.”

“You know the real one was actually red haired, but it didn’t match the song,” Danielle informed him.

As though the tension had finally gotten too much, Emma burst out laughing, “Why do you know this?”

“You know I know way too much stupid information, that;s why you are always trying to get me to do Table Quizzes with you.”

“You know about American football.”

“I used work nights, there are no other sports on at four am but basketball and American football, you learn fairly quick.” She shrugged. “Came in handy, got me a job next summer with a company from the States because I was able to know who Tom Brady was, and not just that he is married to Gisele Bun-whatever her name is, supermodel lady.”

“That got you a job?” Sarah asked in shock.

“Studio people are stuck around each other for stupid amounts of hours a day, they want people they can talk to, converse with, I clearly just said the right things.”

“Wait, when are you going to America?”

“May or June, I can’t remember, the contract signing is in March.” She dismissed before looking back at him, “Why?”

“I just didn’t…”

“Are you upset I’ll be going away for a few weeks?” She asked with a knowing smile. “Well, who knows, maybe if you’re not busy you can come.”

“It’s weird being the one that will be left behind,” Tom commented.

“We will have to do so from time to time. Now, are we all calm and back to normal?” She asked, looking around; everyone nodded, though she knew they were all still quite awkward with one another. “Fine, I’m getting breakfast, it has been a fairly weird morning.” She stated, much to the confusion of everyone but Tom before towards the back door. “I feel like trash, I am walking around in my pyjamas, I swear, if today is the day the leeches try to get a new pic of Tom, I am going to die of embarrassment.” She growled as she left.

Diana and his sisters looked to Tom for an explanation but all Tom could do is chuckle and shrug before looking to Emma, his face becoming serious again. “On a serious note, she really does want to fix things between you. She is the one fighting for everything to go back the way it was, remember that.” He stated before following her back to her house.

*

“Elle?”

“Bedroom.”

“You changed your study/office.”

“I know, I was going to start studying for a few days while I was home, but I guess I’ll be having to pack it all for London now.” She smiled. “Actually, that’s why I’m in here, I am going to need more than a week’s worth of undies and t-shirts.”

“Well, I have a new suitcase that can help.” He grinned, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I am actually looking forward to this.”

Really?” She turned her head toward him slightly.

“Yes, having you to myself.”

“You had me to yourself before now.”

“But you were working too much.”

“I still have to work,” She reminded him.

“As do I, but we’ll make time, won’t me, to just watch a film?”

“Get a takeaway, perhaps Netflix and Chill.” She smiled turning to look at him. “Maybe even go for a walk in the fresh air, together.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, probably away from the city first, then when we are found out, in the park.”

Tom kissed her passionately. “I cannot tell you how much I want that.”

“Good, we also have to talk to Luke about our plan, regarding the picture and that.”

“I’ll text him in a minute, we can organise something then, but I think he will like it.”

“Text him now, no procrastinating, call if you can.” She ordered.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He gave her a military salute as he did so and took out his phone, and got up Luke’s number. “Hello Luke, how was your Christmas?”

“Tom, what’s happened?” Luke’s voice was fearful down the phone.

“Nothing.” Tom rolled his eyes, “Wait, you never used to answer the phone to me like that before.”

“I used never have to worry about you and publicity tramps before.”

Danielle frowned next to Tom. “Hang on, are you talking about Danielle?” Tom began to get annoyed.

“Tom, the only controversial thing about Ms Hughes is what way to spell her first name, she is a publicist’s wet dream in comparison to others,” Luke growled.

“So why bring up others?”

“Because I am terrified that you’re about to tell me something regarding said others.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well then, my Christmas was quite pleasurable, though I think I may never be able to look at poultry again and I may need new pants, these seem tight,” Tom chuckled. “Though I doubt this is a friendly call, so what is it?”

“Elle and I were talking.”

“And?” There was apprehension in Luke’s voice.

“About when it is found out that we are together.” Luke remained silent on the phone. “Danielle came up with an idea and I wanted to run it by you.”

“I’m listening.”

“If we find out someone has spotted us and put it online, we immediately release a photo and statement giving the basic details, her name, where’s she from, and some other tidbits that we want to be known, and if it gets as long as we can, we want to release the information ourselves a few weeks before a wedding or something so the hubbub will die down beforehand.”

“That is brilliant.” Luke was chuckling.

“So you like it?”

“I do, I think it is genius.”

“She wanted to have some control in it, she knows they will snoop regardless, but it gives her some power.”

“It makes sense.” Luke acknowledged. “I am not going to lie, Tom, people are going to go for her no matter how this comes out, some good, plenty bad, but if she remains stoic in public, if they don’t smell blood, they tend to get bored very quickly.”

“She’s nodding here next to me, she knows.”

“Well then, I suggest getting together what you want as the official line and we will keep it ready.” Luke’s smile was blatant down the phone. “This is, without a doubt, far saner Tom, honestly. She...I think she is what you’ve been so sure you could not find, so don’t be an idiot and look after this, right?”

“Okay, I hear you.” Tom grinned.

“There is one thing I am concerned for, though, her home, is it safe? I mean is it properly secured, has she a high wall and gates on it?”

Tom thought it an odd question. “She has a basic wall, about five foot or so at the front and no gate.”

“She’s going to have to get it more secured, they are not supposed to enter her property, but let’s face it, Pap’s are bottom feeders,” Luke explained.

Tom looked to the side where Elle was chewing on her bottom lip apprehensively. “Okay, we’ll get on that.” He informed Luke. “But for the time being, she is going to be in London with me, she wants to study more and her work is based in London studio’s for the new few months.”

“Well, all things considered, that is actually safer for her, but it heightens the risk of you being seen together.”

“Hence the phone call.”

“So long as you are both aware this could erupt at any time and as long as you are both prepared for that, then send on everything you wish to be publicised and I will have it ready to go at the first sign of a story,” Luke instructed.

“Will do, thanks, Luke.”

“Anytime, I also am going to need Ms Hughes’ phone number, and give her mine, if she has any issue…”

“Of course, right away.” Tom agreed.

“Then enjoy your holidays and I will see you on New Years?”

“I said I would be there.”

“And Ms Hughes?”

“Her name is Danielle, Luke, you are going to have to start calling her by it, and I will extend the invitation, should she wish to go.”

“Good, well, have a nice day Tom.”

“You too.” Tom smiled as he hung up the phone. “Luke is having a get together for clients and friends on New Years, I promised weeks ago I would go if you’d rather stay home…”

“Where is it on?”

“Private venue, no outsiders, no photographers, underground carpark so little risk of them.”

Danielle thought for a moment before walking over to her wardrobe and looking at its contents. “I think I don’t have anything for something like that,” she frowned.

Tom walked over, and as Emma had said, right at the back were a few outfits he had never thought Danielle would wear, much less own. “Darling, I know I am sounding pushy, but I am imploring you, please,” He got on his knees as though adding dramatic effect, “Please wear this to the party.” He pointed to a dress that still had tags on it.

“Oh, Jesus, that thing.” she groaned looking at it. “I have no idea what was going through my mind buying that, I could never…”

“Darling, I am begging you, you will look ravishing in it.” His eyes glinted with honesty and arousal.

Danielle looked between him and the dress anxiously. “Okay.”

Tom rose to his feet again, an elated smile on his face. “I mean it, Elle, you will look even more gorgeous than normal, which, in itself, is a difficult feat.” He grinned. “It is classy and sexy.”

“My boobs are going to be showing.”

“Showing, but not hanging out,” Tom pointed out, before grinning wickedly. “And you already know my thoughts of these delicious assets of yours.” He cupped her breasts and bit his lip.

“Insatiable.”

“That’s Mister Insatiable to you, my love.”

[straykidsscribbles]

Flower Boy

Just something short and sweet inspired by a tumblr prompt I’d seen ages ago... it was cute and I thought I’d put my own spin on it! Happy Valentine’s Day!

Summary: Jeongin knew he wasn’t imagining things. His flowers were vanishing right before his eyes and he was not going to rest until he figured out who was responsible for the disappearance. 

Word Count: exactly 2000 words (for funsies), Jeongin x neutral reader

Note- this is fluffy and dorky but it mentions a relative who died and if that’s a trigger please don’t read this. 

Check out my masterlist (in my description) for more of my work!

Jeongin frowned thoughtfully as he counted the irises still blooming on the bush. One, two, three, four, five.

He could have sworn there had been at least seven yesterday.

“Jeongin, why are you staring at the bush? If you glare anymore, they’ll catch fire,” Chan chuckled softly from the porch of their house.

“But hyung, they’re vanishing! I’m telling you, there were seven yesterday, and now there’s only five! And the lavender bush looks more sparse too!”

Chan slid his feet into slippers and made his way over to the edge of the garden. After a few moments he let out a small thoughtful noise.  “You’re right. Your flowers are vanishing. Maybe its one of the others playing a trick on you or something?”

“I’m going to keep watch until I find out. I spent hours on the flowers; whoever’s messing with them is going to get it.”

A laugh escaped Chan as he went back inside to the kitchen to check on his pasta. “Call me if there’s blood kid.”

Okay, maybe I won’t make them bleed, but I swear if it’s Minho hyung’s cats messing them up or Kkami tearing things someone is going to pay for this.

Jeongin had a plan. No one was going to mess with his flowers again.

---

Dew was twinkling lightly on the pretty green plants and grass in the front garden. The light breeze was blowing the wind chimes every so often, filling the air with pretty tinkling noises. It felt peaceful and calm, so unlike the normal hubbub that would fill the house once the rest of the boys dragged themselves out of bed.

Shifting slightly behind the stack of soil bags and various gardening implements, Jeongin shivered slightly in the crisp morning air. He’d counted the days that the flowers went missing, and it was always a Tuesday morning when he’d discover the theft.

So naturally, his Tuesday morning was now being spent crouched in the middle of a flower bed with his phone in hand, ready to snap photos of whomsoever was taking his flowers. This way he’d have proof to accuse the pets—it really was unreasonable how Hyunjin believed Kkami was a perfect angel who could do no wrong.

And that was when he heard the humming.

Someone was walking down the lane, humming quietly to themselves as they approached the fence that bordered the garden. Jeongin ducked lower behind the pile hiding him from view; being caught at this stage would probably not be very pleasant.

He peeked out from behind the edge of the shovel, to see a figure in a hoodie and sweats slide their hand through the fence and pick a few of the marigolds growing at the very edge of the garden. “Sorry about this,” the stranger murmured as they pulled their hand back through the fence and turned to go on their way.

Jeongin stared after the retreating figure in shock. He’d expected an animal of some time, but a person? Picking his flowers?

He needed a new plan to catch them in the act.

---

“Jeongin, let it go, they’re just flowers!” Seungmin rolled his eyes from his perch on the kitchen counter.

“They’re not JUST flowers! I spend time on those! I work hard to make sure they stay alive, no thanks to you people. Do you think every college house looks this nice?” Jeongin was spluttering at this point. “Whoever that jerk is taking my flowers they’re in for it.”

Felix grinned from the dining room table where he had his homework all spread out. “How are you planning on confronting them Jeonginnie?”

“I’ll think of something. But I’m not letting my poor plants be terrorized another week.”

Just at that moment, the door swung open and Changbin, Chan, and Jisung entered, dragging their feet after another long night of composing and even longer morning of classes.

“Excellent. Channie hyung help me knock some sense into this kid. He’s ready to set up this elaborate Rube Goldberg-esque trap to stop someone from stealing his flowers. I mean really?”

“Oh cool! I think I built something like that for a high school project!” Jisung bounced over to his room, energy already refueled at the mention of a new project.

“Wait Jisung! Get back here!” Changbin ran after the younger boy, trying to stop him before he tore through the old papers piled under his bed.

Jisung was something of a pack rat.

“Why don’t you just ask the thief what they need the flowers for?” came the mutter from a half-asleep Minho on the couch.

Jeongin looked taken aback for a moment.

“You mean just… wait for them and ask why they’re stealing flowers?”

“Yeah. There’s probably a reason.”

“Huh” Jeongin frowned to himself. “That would probably work.”

“Great now you can go tell Jisung to not get to crazy planning some wild complicated thing,”

“I heard that! Fuck off!”

“Language!”

The house slowly dissolved back into the chaos that had characterized it ever since the nine of them had moved in together. But Jeongin felt slightly more at ease. He had a plan now.

---

You padded down the sidewalk early Tuesday morning, hands jammed inside your pockets to keep them warm in the cold temperatures. Light frost sparkled on the lawns around you, glittering in the dawn light.

You could make out the flower house—as you’d dubbed it—twenty or so feet away from you. Muttering a small apology under your breath, you quickly covered the distance to the flower garden in a corner of the front yard and slipped your hand through the fence to pick the pretty daisies that were lining the edge of the brick retaining wall.

“So. Who are you stealing flowers for? They’d better be really cute to be worth it.”

You let out a little scream, wheeling around and almost falling over. There, in front of you, was a boy. Where did he pop out from?

He was staring at you with one eyebrow raised, amusement and disdain warring on his face. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was tapping one foot against the ground impatiently.

“I was—”

“Well? I’m assuming you’re stealing my flowers to give to someone, and I want to meet them. Might as well see who’s been getting the products of my hard work this whole time.” The boy frowned at you. “Go ahead, grab the marigolds, a couple of the stems are already broken.”

You gaped at the unknown boy. This is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened in my life. I thought some sweet old lady lived here, not a cute boy.

“Come on then!” Realizing you were still in shock, the boy reached through the fence himself and plucked five marigolds and a sprig of baby’s breath.

“I’m so sorry I just… broke student life you know? I’m really sorry about stealing your flowers…” you trailed off, realizing the boy had never introduced himself.

“Jeongin. Apologies won’t get you out of it that easily. I’m coming along on your date and telling your partner where you’ve been getting them flowers. What’s your name? Or should I just call you flower thief?”

Arguing was probably not going to get you anywhere. The only way out of this was going to be the truth… maybe Jeongin would take pity on you once he saw where you were going.

“I’m ______.”

“Cool. Now that we’re introduced, I can follow you without being a weirdo. Let’s get going, can’t keep your friend waiting for their flowers.”

You nodded slowly and began walking once more. Jeongin fell into step with you, flowers dangling from his long fingers. The two of you walked onwards in silence, turning the corner and nearing your destination.

After a couple of blocks, the graveyard came into view. And you heard Jeongin let out a tiny little gasp as the reason for the flowers dawned on him.

You pushed your way inside the wrought iron gate, taking the now familiar path towards the grave under the oak tree. You knelt next to the headstone and smiled sadly at the worn granite.

“Hi Grandmum. I guess it’s time to come clean about the flowers… Jeongin’s been the one growing them. I’m sorry I couldn’t… but then you know how bad my green thumb is. I’m more likely to bring you half dead cacti.”

Jeongin bent down next to you and placed the marigolds on the grave. He was quiet, no longer brash and belligerent.

“Anyways, I’ll come see you next week… love you.” You wiped away the tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as you stood up and turned to leave.

There was silence as you made your way out of the graveyard. Jeongin followed you quietly, not really daring to even look you in the eyes. You held the gate open for him and then closed and latched it behind him, before turning back to head to his house once more.

“So, pretty enough to warrant me stealing your flowers?” You asked, cracking a light smile at the boy.

It was almost as though a dam had just burst. “Oh my god I am so sorry I had no idea! I was so rude and harsh I—I’m so sorry!” The words flooded out of his mouth, tripping and twisting him up.

Your smile grew a little. Jeongin was pretty cute when he was all flustered like this.

“It’s okay, really. She’s been gone for a few years, but I still try and visit her once a week… thanks for the flowers by the way. I can never keep them alive myself, and when I saw yours… I didn’t think anyone would miss them.”

“About the flowers,” Jeongin scratched the back of his head nervously, before turning to face you once more. “I could maybe teach you a couple of my tricks, and you can grow some of your own? You could help regrow all the flowers you’ve picked from my garden.”

“I’d take you up on that offer, but I’d probably just kill all your flowers.”

Jeongin laughed, a sound that made your heart skip a beat. “Trust me. One of my friends almost killed a potted iris by watering it too much. I think we’ll be fine.”

You looked down at the cracks in the sidewalk, turning the offer over in your head. Maybe it was worth it? Jeongin seemed really sweet and kind.

“Alright, but you can’t blame me when all your green children die.”

“They won’t.”

You’d reached the gate of Jeongin’s house, and he paused next to it. “Are you free tomorrow around this time?”

You felt your cheeks heating up, but you nodded. A bright smile spread across his lips and you couldn’t help but return it.

“Perfect. I’ll see you then for your first lesson.”

He waved as he closed the gate behind him and latched it before running up to the door. You watched him go before turning back towards your own home.

He was really kind of cute. And sweet.

You couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning. Even if you had to wake up ridiculously early just to see Jeongin, you had a feeling it would be worth it.

Bonus:

“So, who’s your flower thief kid?” Minho asked as Jeongin entered the house.

To his surprise, Jeongin blushed heavily, turning towards the kitchen without saying another word.

“Hey! I was talking. No respect from you youngsters these days,” Minho cribbed as he followed Jeongin. “Guys! He’s hiding something.”

“Don’t bother Minho. I saw the whole thing.” Woojin smirked at Jeongin’s blushing face. “So, you’re going to teach your flower thief gardening? Careful they don’t steal your heart along with those flowers.”

“SHUT UP HYUNG!” Jeongin flounced off to his bedroom, cheeks fully aflame now.

Woojin just high fived Minho as they watched.

“You up for teasing the kid after his date tomorrow?”

“Is that even a question?”

[xpouii]

Docthor Day 4: AU Day

This is Day 4 of of Docthor Week by @lostcybertronian

               Dr Edward Iplier climbed out of the taxi and pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was cold this close to the coast, and Mythea Asylum backed right up to the seaside. He took a moment to look over the beautiful building, and the few residents milling about the grounds all dressed in white. He climbed the stairs and went inside, cradling his briefcase under one arm. A few nurses ignored him, some even giving him dirty looks, until finally one man stopped and reached for his hand, “Dr Iplier it’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

               “You must be Director Trimmer,” Edward said, smiling, if a little overwhelmed by the man’s enthusiasm.

               “Oh please, just Mr. Trimmer. I don’t have use for big titles. You’re early! That’s admirable for someone who’s traveled so far to our little slice of paradise.”

               Edward looked around the sprawling entrance hall, nodding, “It’s an old habit, Mr. Trimmer. So, tell me why I’m so popular here already.”

               “Oh ignore the nurses,” Trimmer said, beckoning him down a long hallway. “Your treatments and philosophies are new, and most of our nurses would prefer to just tie down patients or send them off for a lobotomy. I’ll personally be glad when the whole practice stops!”

               “Well I hear your facility performs a record low amount of them,” Edward said. “Only two last year. That’s almost unheard of. It’s part of the reason I agreed to work with you.”

               “Very good sir, very good,” Trimmer said. “I have given you an office on the lower level with an adjacent bedroom. It’s a little dreary, but it’s the furthest away from the hubbub so that you can conduct your work in relative peace. There are three patients in the same hallway, but they’re all relatively harmless. I’ll introduce you once you are feeling up to it.”

               “Oh, please, right away,” Edward said. “I’d love to meet my neighbors.”

               Trimmer smiled and clapped his hands together, opening a door that led onto a landing with stairs going down. It smelled cold, and wet, but not moldy or mildewed, and Edward liked the space already. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs he stopped to admire the old sodium lights with a smile. Trimmer was patient, letting him sightsee as they went at a crawl down the corridor. “Here is our first gentleman,” he said when they reached a door marked 178. Trimmer knocked smartly, “Wilford! It’s Bim. I have someone to introduce!”

               The door was opened and a large, burly man with an expressive face and a vibrant mustache emerged into the hallway, “Well hello! I’m Wilford Warfstache.”

               “This is Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist.”

               Edward extended his hand and Wilford shook it. He was strong, and his eyes betrayed his wily intelligence, “Great to meet you, Doc. I hope the nurses don’t run you off!”

               Edward chuckled, “Thank you, Wilford. It’s nice to meet you, and they’ve already given me an icy reception.”

               “Wilford here works as a custodian on the night rotation,” Trimmer said. “He has grounds privileges and if you’re ever unsure where to go, he’ll get you there.”

               Wilford gave a little salute, then returned to his room with a flourish, “He’s great,” Edward said.

               “He wasn’t always,” Trimmer said. “He was in a fairly ugly battle in the war, came home and murdered his best friends and one of the men’s wives. It’s truly tragic how those who defend us are often abandoned to their own broken minds once they return home.”

               Edward nodded, his eyes lingering on the door as he followed Trimmer on, “Such an impressive turnaround. Has he been-“

               “No,” Trimmer said. “No Lobotomy, but he’s had extensive hypnosis sessions and we monitor him closely. Any attempt to break him out of his delusions usually ends in a backslide, but he is completely harmless as long as you play along.”

               “Good to know,” Edward said. “I’d like to see him, as a patient if I could.”

               “You have access to any and all of our patients,” Trimmer said. “As long as you promise not to break him. I have a bit of a soft spot.”

               Edward chuckled, “Of course.”

               The next room, 179 was on the opposite side of the hallway from his own, and Trimmer had to knock twice before it was opened. A young woman emerged with a shadowy expression, “Yes, Mr. Trimmer?”

               “Yan,” Trimmer said with a gentle voice. “This is Dr. Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist. Remember I told you that you would be seeing someone new?”

               Yan folded her arms, leaning against the doorway, “What good it will do me. Thanks, Mr. Trimmer.” She looked Edward up and down, giving him a stiff nod of greeting, and then disappeared back into her room.”

               “You have a teenage girl down in the same hall with-“

               “Yan is a very special case,” Trimmer said. “She’s an androgyne.”

               “I believe they go by transsexuals now,” Edward said. “So she was born male?”

               Trimmer nodded, “I’ve yet to find a doctor who can work with her beyond wanting to cure the one thing that I think isn’t wrong with her. Other than that she has a rather violent attachment tendency. She isn’t allowed around any of the male orderlies or patients her own age as a result, thus why we keep her sequestered with the two gentlemen down here. I do desperately hope you can do her some good.”

               “I believe I can,” Edward said. “I’m most certainly willing to try. Alright, who’s next?”

               Trimmer walked down another door, knocking gently. After a long moment of silence, the door opened, just halfway, and the patient stepped out. “This is Eric,” Trimmer said. “Eric, this is the new psychiatrist, Dr. Edward Iplier.”

               The young man stared at the floor, twisting a yellow cloth in his hands, “Hello.”

               “Eric suffers with debilitating anxiety and asked to be sequestered from the general population. He doesn’t feel comfortable in large groups, or any groups.”

               Eric glanced halfway up from the floor, head turned toward Edward, “N-new psychiatrist?”

               “That’s right, Eric. He’s here for you,” Trimmer said. “And a few others, but I’ve told him about your case.”

               “I’m certain that I can help you,” Edward said.

               Eric nodded, a shaky, unsure movement, and backed up a step toward his room, “May I?”

               “Of course,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Eric.”

               The young man closed his door so softly it barely made an audible sound. Edward cleared his throat, “Fascinating. He seems to be suffering from more than just anxiety.”

               “He had a trouble childhood and early adulthood,” Trimmer said. He witnessed the death of almost his entire family, and his father is extremely abusive. He is the one who brought Eric here, dropped him off like a dog at a kennel. This poor man has never been trained to handle social situations, and he still harbors fear and resentment for the things that happened to him before he came. Group Therapy is impossible, and one-on-one sessions don’t work well with most doctors as they just don’t have the patience it takes to treat Eric.”

               “I’m confident I can make some leeway,” Edward said. “I’ve worked similar cases in young children, but the symptoms seem to be similar enough. I’m sure I can apply the same actions to get the same results.”

               “Wonderful,” Trimmer said. “Now, let’s see your office shall we?”

               The room was dusty, but not overwhelming. It had recently been cleaned, as the dust was all in the air instead of settled on surfaces. There was a large, impressive desk, and several empty bookcases. “I’ll have to send for my books,” Edward mused. “I didn’t expect so much room.”

               “You’re a bit of a celebrity here,” Trimmer said. “At least to those of us with a vision of the future. I want to take this hospital out of the dark ages. It’s been a staple of my life since I was a child. My mother was a nurse here and my father was a doctor as well. I just want to make them proud.”

               “I know they would be already,” Edward said. “This place is beautiful.”

               “Every beautiful place has its dark secrets,” Trimmer said. “Speaking of, I believe you’d like to see the isolation ward?”

               Edward nodded, “It would be nice to know my way to it. A good deal of my time will be spent there, I suspect.”

               “Let’s hope so,” Trimmer said. “That means you haven’t given up!”

               Trimmer laughed and Edward smiled, indulging him, eager to lay eyes on the isolation ward, a chance to prove his theories and hypotheses on real violent offenders. It was the reason he’d agreed to transfer from his plush job upstate.

                 “This is the isolation ward,” Trimmer said. “Patients here don’t ever interact with the general population, and you’ll have to use the consultation room here to interact with them. This is, of course, a large part of why I invited you here. These individuals need our help, more than anyone else. They’re prime candidates for lobotomy if you can’t help them.”

               Edward nodded, “I’m guessing I’ll be meeting them through a door?”

               “A quick introduction, with names, so you can decide whose files you’d like first. Here we have Dark. Very aggressive and manipulative, but rarely becomes physically violent unless provoked. He has a bad habit of causing the other patients to become violent, and it’s almost impossible to monitor him. He’s smart, smarter than any one of us, I’m guessing.”

               The man inside had his hair in his eyes, and a heavy beard, “When am I going to be permitted to shave again?”

               “When you don’t threaten to decapitate the kitchen staff,” Trimmer said. “Dark, this is the new psychiatrist.”

               “Edward Iplier,” Dark said, standing up. “I heard about you. You’re a modern man. You don’t have that downstairs urge to shove an ice pick in my eye. What a strange personality trait for a doctor.”

               “So I’m told,” Edward said. “I look forward to our first session.”

               Dark grinned, but it was stilted, more of a sneer, “Oh as do I, Doctor.”

               Trimmer slid the window shut over the grate and sighed, “He’s a handful. I’m not sure there’s much to be done for him, but still. He’s very concerned with his hygiene. It’s the only way I can get him to do anything.”

               “This next patient is nicknamed The Author. He is responsible for a record string of murders, all described in detail in books he would go on to publish. He’s our little celebrity. He is the most violent, most dangerous man here, and he will not hesitate to attack you. Do not let your guard down. He opened the window of the door, “Stand clear for spit.”

               Edward chuckled, all too familiar with these sort of patients. “Hello, I’m Dr. Edward Iplier, your new psychiatrist.”

               The man appeared at the window, wrapping his hands around the bars of the window, “Why don’t you come in and we’ll start our session, Edward.”

               “Soon, although I’m told there’s a special room for it.”

               The Author grit his teeth, “Of course, too afraid to come into my world, are you?”

               “I hear you’re a successful writer.”

               “I hear you’re a pushover who lets your emotions rule you, and that this asylum is going to chew you up, spit you out and send you back where you came from. I hope I get to kill you instead. You would look so pretty bleeding to death, wouldn’t you? Those eyes wide in panic, blood trickling out of the corner of your mouth while I bathe in your chest cavity.”

               “Enough pleasantries,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Author.”

               “Pleasure,” the Author growled, and Trimmer closed the window.

               “We try not to indulge his threats,” Trimmer said. “He is very sadistic, and he gets great enjoyment from the fear of others.”

               “Don’t worry,” Edward said. “I don’t scare easily. Anyone else of note?”

               “Oh plenty of patients, but those are the five I want you focusing on the most. Two of them to save their lives, and three of them to hopefully reintroduce them to society. I think you can handle much more, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

               “I’ll offer some open office hours then,” Edward said. “If any of the less particular patients should show any interest.”

               “I’ll let the nurses know,” Trimmer said. “Although don’t expect a stampede at first. You’re going to have do a lot of politicking to get patients outside of the five I’ve handpicked for you.”

               “Sure,” Edward said. “Thank you, Mr. Trimmer. I’m going to do everything I can to fulfill your wishes for these patients.”

               “I know you will,” Trimmer said, taking Edward’s hand in both of his. “I’m counting on you.” He left then, disappearing into his office, and Edward made his way back to his own room.

                 The Author stared across the table, pulling against the restraints, testing them. “Are you certain this is necessary?” Edward asked.

               The orderly chuckled, and left the room, “Good luck, Doctor.”

               “Barbarians,” the Author said. “You see how they treat me?”

               “I expect it’s a lot better than you treated those thirty-four people,” Edward said. “But this isn’t a competition of depravity. Id like to talk to you about your mental well-being.”

               “No shit,” the Author said, chuckling. “Do you smoke?”

               “I don’t.”

               “The one fucking doctor who doesn’t smoke,” he growled. “Well, if you want anything out of me. It’ll cost you a cigarette.”

               “And I am to hold it to your mouth for you to smoke it?” Edward said, raising an eyebrow.

               “Unless you want to unstrap me,” the Author said. “You’re welcome to.”

               Edward chuckled, “It says here your father died when you were seven? And that your mother raised you until she kicked you out of the house at fourteen? Was she a prostitute?”

               “As you know,” the Author said. “I didn’t only kill women. I don’t have a hatred of women. My mother was a laundry worker, and she did the best she could. She threw me out because I tried to castrate her boyfriend. Honestly, she did me a favor.”

               Edward scribbled as the Author spoke, and the patient’s eyes fixated on the pen, licking his lips. Edward glanced up, “Do you like pens?”

               The Author glanced up, “I am a writer after all.”

               “Of course,” Edward said. “Well, maybe if you decide to stop being violent, or if we are able to successfully control your symptoms with medication, you can write again.”

               The author laughed, “Not unless you’re going to give me people to kill. Come on, Edward. Let’s start with that orderly huh? He treated you like a fool. Don’t let him do that. I could use that pen and split his sternum open. I could pull out his intestines and make you a scarf. I’d do that for you, in exchange for the pen.”

               “That’s really more of a threat than a deal,” Edward said. “I’m not sure an intestine scarf would go with my eyes. So tell me more about your time on the streets.”

               The Author snarled, fighting his restraints with vigor, testing each buckle and strap to its limit, and Edward watched, unaffected as he did so. Finally, he stopped, and his expression turned to a smile, “Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

              “If you decide you want to take this seriously-“

              “Oh come on Edward. They’re going to shove an ice pick in my eye and scramble my brains. That’s all they can do. There’s no fixing me. You can’t fix an evil man.”

               “There is no such thing as an evil man,” Edward said. “You’re an ill man. You’re mentally unwell, and I believe you could benefit from some of the new medications that-“

               “Medications? You trying to dope me up? Make me a drooling ragdoll? I don’t think so. I’m not taking any of that shit.”

               Edward cleared his throat, “This is different. Thorazine has been very successful at helping individuals with unpleasant urges to gain control over themselves, and no, once the medication has levelled out you won’t be a ragdoll. There are side effects but that can be handled.”

               The Author scowled, “I don’t think you get what I’m saying. I’m not letting you put any pills in me. I want to go back to my room now.”

               “We aren’t finished.”

               “That’s not your decision!”

               Edward smiled, “Actually, due to you being mentally unsound, it is my decision. We can sit here all day and talk about your childhood and each one of your victims and why you did what you did, but you don’t like that do you? Why’s that?”

               “What’s to talk about?” the Author muttered. “It’s all in the book.”

               “Almost every other serial killer loves talking about what they’ve done. You’re an anomaly.”

               “Don’t try to flirt with me now after you already insulted me, Edward,” the Author said. “Listen, I’m a lost cause alright? Just let me go and wait for the pick already.”

               Edward sighed, “There isn’t going to be any ice pick. Mr. Trimmer has already made that promise, so you’re going to sit in that cell until you decide to cooperate, or-“

               “Or?”

               “Until I medicate you without your cooperation. It would be much easier with your input, but I don’t necessarily need it.”

               The Author shifted in his seat, looking around the room, “So you really want to give me this stupid pill?”

               “More than anything,” Edward said smugly. “If it doesn’t work, we stop right away.”

               The Author grit his teeth, staring at the floor, “Fine.”

[ask-joyce-byers]

Small fanfic request please? Jonathan teaches Joyce how to play a video game so she can surprise Will and also the rest of their gang. Joyce isn't brilliant at first but Jonathan does notice she's got elements of skill there.

“Oh! That blasted… blasted-”Joyce broke off, clenching the joystick in a white-knuckled grip,lips folded tight as a pixelated explosion filled the screen and thesound she’d been hearing repeatedly for the last few weeks echoedagain through the living room. “How come I keep dying? It looks soeasy, and then… those things just come from across the top and Ijust… die.” She shook her head, sitting back on the couch andhanding the controller to her son, who was wearing a broad grin thatstretched his young face into an expression that was remarkablysimilar to that of the gargoyles on Susan Finnegan’s porch “What!”she exclaimed, lifting her hands up and letting them fall back to herlap. “I would be good if I spent as many hours playing as you boysdo.”

“Oh! That blasted… blasted-” Joyce broke off, clenching the joystick in a white-knuckled grip, lips folded tight as a pixelated explosion filled the screen and the sound she’d been hearing repeatedly for the last few weeks echoed again through the living room. 

“How come I keep dying? It looks so easy, and then… those things just come from across the top and I just… die.” She shook her head, sitting back on the couch and handing the controller to her son, who was wearing a broad grin that stretched his young face into an expression that was remarkably similar to that of the gargoyles on Susan Finnegan’s porch 

“What!” she exclaimed, lifting her hands up and letting them fall back to her lap. “I would be good if I spent as many hours playing as you boys do.”

“You like it, don’t you.” Will’ssmile only grew.

“I guess. If it wasn’t so hard.”

“Did Jonathan teach you any tricks?”

“Yes,” her eldest son’s voice camein from the kitchen and she leveled her gaze to her young son’s frombeneath her bangs.

“No,” she whispered. “Show me thetricks.”

“Start on the right, especially afterlevel five,” Will instructed, returning the game to the loadingscreen and selecting single player. “Dustin got to five hundredthousand last night, and he says its because he always starts on theright.”

“Five hundred thousand,” Joyceechoed, and before the incredulity could fully sink in, the doorbellbuzzed and Will launched to his feet.

“They’re here, they’re here –just…. go into the kitchen with Jonathan. Pretend like you’ve neverplayed before.”

“Oh, I’ve never played before? Youdidn’t tell me this was part of your plan.”

“Yeah, it only works if you look likeyou’re a natural!”

Joyce put her hands on her hips. “So you’re saying -”

“Sorry, mom, just… just pretendlike its your very first time playing, okay? We’ll call you whenwe’re ready.”

Shaking her head, Joyce returned to thekitchen and shrugged her shoulders up to her ears at Jonathan’s longlook. “What?”

“I did show you some tricks,” Jonathan began, grinning at the dishes on the rack, selecting a mug andcramming the towel in to dry it. Joyce took up a second towel andgave him a gentle swat.

“You didn’t tell me thestart-on-the-right-after-level-five trick.”

“That’s because I didn’t know thattrick,” Jonathan retorted and Joyce tipped her nose in the air.

“That’s because it’s Dustin’s trick.And now it’s mine.”

“Remind me why you’re doing thisagain?” Jonathan stowed the mug in the cupboard and turned toface his mother, brows knit. “What kind of respect does this get you inthe eyes of a bunch of fourteen year old boys?”

“And twogirls,” Joyce corrected, pointing a finger. “Max is the best ofthe bunch, Will says.”

“Well, Eleven is the worst,”Jonathan chuckled. “She just likes to run around on Mario anddoesn’t get any of the bonuses.”

“Eleven can do whatever she wants,”Joyce returned with a definite nod. “She’s learning, just like me.I fall in the hole on Pitfall, every time. And Will just now told methat Dig Dug is not about a guy named Doug. Give us abreak, we’re still catching up to the future.”

“Well, what’syour high score on Space Invaders?” Jonathan began, turning back tothe dishes, but before she could answer, she heard Will’s voice liftabove the hubbub of the living room.

“I feel like my mom couldbeat Lucas, and she’s never even played before.” A chorus of boosand jeering followed, accompanied by Dustin’s laughter which thesedays sounded like a parrot had swallowed a vacuum nozzle. Ah,puberty. The sweaty laundry never ended.

“On what game?” Lucas challenged,and Will twisted around on the sofa, beckoning to Joyce. “Mom,which game do you wanna try?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know,” Joycebegan, a very apt imitation of her reaction when Jonathan had firstdragged her into the living room to begin learning the previous week.“There’s…. one with spaceships, right?”

Lucas groaned, and Max clapped in glee.

“He’s the worst at Space Invaders.”

“Am not!” Lucas shot back, giving an affronted glare to his girlfriend. “I just like to spend my time onother more challenging games -”

“Like Dig Dug? Which I still beat youon?” Max beamed, and Lucas waved a hand.

“Inconsequential details. Anyway, Ihave less time for video games now that I have a job.”

“And muscles,” El observed withround eyes.

“Exactly.” Lucas gestured.“Muscles, and sweat, like a man. Not buttons and beeping and -”

He was drowned out by another chorus ofnaysaying and heckling, and the controller was thrust into his hands.

“Two player mode,” Will called,voice lifting over the others. “Lucas, versus my mom.”

El immediately scooted over on thecouch and Joyce made her way into the living room to theaccompaniment of cheers and each teen choosing a side. Joyce took herseat, patting the girl’s leg in a silent thanks, before accepting thecontroller with a look of profound confusion.

“I just – push the button?”

“Yeah, lean it the way you want yourship to go, and press the button to fire,” Mike instructed, hiseyes all eagerness, long legs folded up in a complex geometricalpattern on the floor.

“This is gonna be amazing,” Dustinproclaimed. “Lucas really is terrible at this game.”

“But I’m good at Dig Dug!” Lucasprotested, to which Dustin replied, “But Mrs. Byers didn’t pick DigDug, did she. She picked Space Invaders.”

“And… go!” Will announced, Lucasup first, and Joyce held her breath, watching the boy’s thumbs plythe joystick back and fourth, shooting between each laser canon andtaking out the first level of invading spaceships.

“Mom’s up!” Will sang, and Lucaspassed the controller to Joyce, confirming, “Seven-hundredtwenty-five.”

“Oh boy,” Joyce breathed, andangled the joystick all the way to the right, Dustin’s face lightingup. Firing at every incoming missile, and realizing a few steps inthat she could shoot through her own defensive barriers as well, thescreen read 695 with one final line of invaders before Joyce yankedthe joystick far left and took out the remaining wall in three deftshots, bringing her score to 735. The living room erupted in cheers, Jonathan entering from the kitchen, dish towel over his shoulder.

“Your mom beat Lucas!” Max keptrepeating, grabbing El’s arms and the two jumped in unison. “Ican’t believe your mom beat Lucas!”

“She’s our mom,” Will confirmed amidstthe commotion, going to Joyce and wrapping her in a tight embrace.  El joined in from the other, a wide smile stretching all the way across her face, and repeating, “Andshe’s better at video games than Lucas.”

[astoryorafew]

When Weird Names do Weird Things

I wrote this for class, the prompt was zombies. Because I like space I decided to make the story about zombies in space. Also the government is corrupt. I’m debating adding to this story, but I’m not sure yet.

Warnings: Zombies I guess?

________________________________________________________________

I open my eyes. The light is bright, and I have to squint to make out my surroundings. My last name, Pogrermmar, runs down the glass of my cryopod. There are large ice crystal deposits in the edges, probably having built up over a long period of time. I am very cold, numb even, almost as if I have been sitting buried in a snow bank for hours. At first, I don’t recognize where I am. Then it hits me. I’m on a pilgrimage to Earth. I left my home planet of Terger almost 300 years ago. 

After humans established colonies in space, it became traditional to go back to Earth to see where humanity once came from, usually in the 20th year, sometimes as old as 25. People have to enter a lottery to go, only the 25 luckiest people get to go with each ship, and ships only launch off Terger every seven years. Everyone enters the lottery, if someone doesn’t, they become an outcast. It’s completely free to those 25, the government sponsors it as a historical attraction, like a museum. Honestly, it’s a miracle I’m even here. At lottery time people kill to get a spot, once someone’s name is announced they automatically have a target on their back because people want their spot so bad. The government even encourages it. If someone gets killed whomever killed them gets their spot.

I had to say goodbye to my family and my friends when I launched. They send us to the stars in cryogenic pods, our bodies frozen in time, but our families and friends aren’t. They would be distant memories by the time I reach Earth. By the time I got back, they would have died half a millennium previously. Waking up is bittersweet. On one hand I am barely able to contain my excitement at finally getting to see the ancient home of humanity, but, on the other hand, if I’m awake, then everyone I knew back home, is dead. I don’t have much time to ponder the intricacies of death and waking up knowing everyone I know being dead. My capsule is being opened, and a rush of cold air accompanies the slight hissing sound.

I climb out of my capsule, and look around. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. My skin is waxy, my eyes look like I got punched in the face a couple times. I can see my ribs poking out. My skin is purple tinged, like a giant bruise. I look like a glass doll that could break with the slightest breeze. That’s not right. If 300 years had passed, then I should be back to normal, back to the way I was before the starship Nebula set off to Earth. That’s what the scientists said before we left, at least, that there would be no difference to us when we reached our destination other than being slightly cold. Then I hear Nebula’s AI, VIN, saying on repeat “malfunction in cryo units, all personnel, please assist, then go back to sleep”.

I hear other pods opening. I turn. Everyone else is coming out, and they all look as frail and bruised as I do. Everyone is visibly confused as they see each other. Then the questions start coming and VIN’s words are lost in the babel. “What’s going on?”

“Why did we get woken early?”

“Why are we so damaged?”

“Are we off course?”

“Are we at Earth?”

Other questions circulate in a jumbled mass of consonants and vowels, words that can’t be picked out of the hubbub in a sensible order. I am the first on to look to VIN for answers. All he says though is that there was a malfunction in Erstentot’s pod, and he has no registering vital signs. Having heard that, everyone looks the one remaining closed pod. Across the center of the pod ERSTENTOT is written. The monitor on his pod says he has no heartbeat, however slowed down it may be in the cold, no respiration, and no apparent cognitive function, not even the slightest electrical impulse connecting between synapses. VIN has had him designated dead for the last week.

As we begin to mourn the death of our crewmate, his pod slowly opens, and out steps a completely normal looking Karl Erstentot. His skin is slightly waxy, but not purple or bruised looking. He looks malnourished like the rest of us, yet he does not seem frail and frozen. He looks to almost be in the prime of his health. I, among others, begin to celebrate. Erstentot was easily the favorite of the crew, and we were all happy to see him. Harbingar, always the most on edge, was the first to question his apparent health. His unsteady gait, almost as though he was heavily drunk, his blank face, showing not even the slightest hint of wonder, joy, or confusion, and his slight moan and grumble as he shuffled towards us is all wrong. If he was living and healthy, he would be the same as the rest of us. Purple, bruised, and frailer than a dried-up leaf crumbling under a shoe.

Suddenly, Erstentot lunges at Harbingar. Within an instant, he had been bitten. Color slowly starts returning to his body, his face relaxes, and he lets out a small groan as he turns to the rest of the crew. The other twenty-three of us are sitting ducks and in the next moment three more have been bitten. Kirthen is the first to react. She grabs a backpack from under on of the pods and starts pushing Erstentot towards the inner airlock door. The rest of us, taking her example, start trying herd all of them out of the room and into the airlock. Many of my crewmates, high on adrenaline, don’t think to protect themselves from being bitten. Many of them end up getting the strange infection as well, making isolating them take longer, but, finally, everyone that had been bitten had been shut out.

I look around at those of us that are left. There are only seven. Seven against eighteen is not the best odds. Luckily Kirthen, the brains of the operation and the only one who can think on her feet apparently, was not infected. She suggests asking VIN what happened. VIN, being less than helpful, states “the infection was caused by” and then he pauses for a long moment and continues with “classified”.

Not the answer we wanted to hear from our AI that was supposed to be monitoring everything, on a trip promoted and sponsored by the government, especially since ‘classified’ usually means ‘the government doesn’t want to tell you this’. Kirthen turned to look at me, “I know we aren’t supposed to talk about our lives before, but Pogrermmar, in your introduction you said you were a programmer back on Terger, right? Did you work on government computers and do you think you’d be able to hack an AI?”

I meet her eyes, I want to lie and confidently say ‘of course I can, its not like its rocket science’ just to try to keep up morale, but I can’t bring myself to lie. I’ve never even gotten close to artificial intelligence. I was really good at normal computers, even the super computers that were just between AI and normal computers, but I have never been able to try my hand at AI. No, lying is not the best course of action, because if I fail that makes things so much worse. However, I know that bluntly stating the truth would also make the crew left unscathed panic and lose faith that there is a possible way out. I hate that how I answer might make or break the ability for all of us to live through this. Not knowing what else to do, I hold Kirthen’s gaze, while shuffling my feet nervously, and tell her “I can’t promise anything, but I can try”.

It’s not the reassurance anyone was looking for, but when we’re lost in space and have crazy cannibalistic people that used to be our crew mates in the airlock, its more than nothing. I walk over to the central computer screens, and realize I’m in way over my head. I know what most of the buttons do, but some of them I have never seen before. I decide the best first step is to take the ship itself out of autopilot, causing VIN to become a copilot rather than the mind of the ship. Then since I haven’t come up with any other better ideas, I start the same process I would take if I hacked any other computer.

Somehow it works, and I get access to all of the classified files. Except all of them is only one. It is a video clip of the prime minister of the Federation of Terger, speaking only to a camera. As far as I can tell there is no one else in the room with him. He seems nervous and fidgety, almost as if he’s afraid of being interrupted by someone. He starts out quiet, saying “If you’re seeing this, then you have been able to contain the disease, asked what happened and all you got was ‘classified’ in response, and been able to hack your AI. I can, and will, answer your questions, all of them, even the ones you haven’t asked yet. First, what is the disease? It is an extremely effective parasitic worm that can take over a host within a minute. It also reproduces at a quick rate, meaning that it can transfer to new hosts almost instantly. That we have found, there is no cure.”

He pauses before continuing on, “At first we were developing it as a way to quickly and effectively shut down threats. What we were not expecting however, was how fast and indiscriminately it spread. We found the only way to effectively stop it was to destroy the brain of the host. We barely contained it and kept it from killing the world. We shut it away for years, unable to kill it without it being in a killable host, and that was too risky. One day as the Earth started overpopulating someone brought it up again as a means of population control. Few remembered what had happened the first time, but those who did objected strongly. The only way to placate everyone was to send groups to space to ‘colonize’ the stars, only to release the parasite. When we went to one central planet-wide government we changed the planets name. Soon memory of Earth was forgotten other than as a distant planet we once came from. And then we started advertising trips back to Earth. When we realized that people would kill for a spot, we encouraged it. It was the best form of population control anyone could think of-” He breaks off, glancing toward what was most likely a side door, before he continues, “I’m not supposed to say any of this so I have to go, but if you get this, tell your AI to ‘take us home’ and your ship will bring you back. Make sure you get rid of the zombies before you do though, we don’t need them planet-side ever again. If you do make it back, please share this video with the world. They need to know the truth-”. He stops again turning to the door, and his body takes a hit, a sharp report sounding a second later. With that, he turns once again to the screen, presses a key and the video ends.

The seven of us left slowly process what I just uncovered. Kirthen is the first to move. She walks over with tears in her eyes to the airlock, and she opens it, sending all the bitten into space. Then she walks over to where I am sitting, puts VIN back on autopilot, and says “take us home VIN”.

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