#i am incapable of making short posts it seems. heavy sigh

[starry-bi-sky]

I saw a post a few months ago (and damn was it really months? In PLURAL?) that was a cracky dpxdc au where the LOS were making Damian clones but the clones kept getting snatched by ghost portals and dropped into Danny’s lap and Danny just goes “ok ig this is my life now” and takes care of each one until he has his own mini army of Damian Clones.

And I remembered it a few days ago, and now I've been thinking about it again. Because I love clone aus (see: clone danny au, the 'danny is thomas wayne' au) because it itches the part of my mind that loves exploring personhood and the exploration of identity and what it means to be clone.

(What do you do when nothing about you is unique? When your face, your eyes, your hands, your hair, your voice, all the way down to your heart, all belong to someone else?)

(When it comes to nature vs nurture what of you came from your environment and your experiences, and what of you was already programmed into you from the DNA that made you?)

(What do you do to make it unique? What do you do to make you unique?)

And if I could remember who made that post I'd @ them right now because it was their original post that inspired this, but I'm just thinking of if the au only had One Singular Damian clone that fell into Danny's life.

(a read more because im apparently incapable of making posts that are less than 1k words...)

One Damian who knew he was a clone and knew that he was to either bring the original back to base or kill him to take his place, who was being trained the same way but kept getting compared to his original over and over again. Like an older sibling who you can never match up to. Who is still a child who craves adult affection and validation and praise, and can't get it because nothing about him is original.

One Damian who, at six years old, in a twist of fate is sucked through a swirling portal and lands in Amity Park, directly on top of, in front of, or in line of sight of one Daniel Fenton, half-ghost extraordinaire and local hero.

What happens next?

Well, for one, Danny recognizes him immediately. He would recognize the face of Damian Wayne anywhere because his best friend was ranting about him all week about Damian Wayne's environmental stuff he does.

And for two, he would recognize that the Damian Wayne in front of him was not Damian Wayne. Because Damian Wayne was a teenager. And the Damian Wayne in front of him is a child. Six years old.

Getting this not-Damian but also-Damian to go along with Danny is not, not an easy task. The tiny Damian is aggressive, regal, and at this point in time, six years old, barely understanding english. He also has a sword.

It takes all day and a google translator to get this Tiny Damian to finally agree to go home with Danny. It's a miracle. Seriously. A tried and true miracle. And its also only when Danny has to fight a ghost does he finally agree, saying something in arabic that Danny doesn't understand.

Danny flies them both home, carrying Tiny Damian like a koala. The ensuing conversation in his room is not any better. It is tiring, long, and exhausting. Tiny Damian is six years old, and every single thing he says when Danny asks where he came from is met with a poorly translated "that's classified".

Danny keeps an eye on the news. There are no reports of Damian Wayne going missing, in fact he's been rather public. Bruce Wayne is not one to lie about his children going missing, and Damian's secretive behavior and young age draws Danny to one conclusion: Damian is a clone.

He doesn't know why Damian Wayne is being cloned. Frankly he doesn't really wanna know, because whatever organization that did it doesn't seem too pure-of-heart if tiny-Damian's immediate attempt of murder when they first met is of any indication. But he's too busy taking care of his city, that he doesn't have time to deal with whatever shady business Tiny-Damian was produced from.

In the end though, he decides that this Tiny-Damian is not going back to whatever place he came from. Tiny Damian disagrees. It is a long, nebulous problem of Damian trying to run away, Danny catching him, and Danny pulling him back home.

In that time, Danny downloads a language app and starts learning Arabic so that they can talk to each other properly. Damian slowly, slowly, starts picking up English.

In that time, Danny also has to inform his friends and his sister about Damian. Tiny Damian is not a fan of this. That is another argument they have. Tiny Damian does not like Sam or Tucker for a long, long while. He only really "listens" to Danny, citing something in arabic that Danny still cannot understand, but has a repeated use of the word "lieazir". It's the only word that Danny can catch in a sentence immediately, because its what little Damian calls Danny.

Tiny Damian, in that front, is very interested in Danny's powers and in his parents work. He finds tubberware of ectoplasm in the fridge once while they're down in the kitchen and calls it something with the word lieazir in it. The other word is something that Danny later learns means water in arabic.

It makes him feel even more uneasy of whatever place little Damian came from.

It takes weeks for little Damian to finally give up on escaping, and then a few weeks more for him to almost entirely lose his spunk. Danny isn't sure what started it. It was as if he'd been flipped with an off-switch.

(Damian had been so confident that the League would go looking for him after his disappearance. He was wrong, and he is crushed. He is still a child, alone, in a country very big and very busy, where nobody understands what he's saying. He feels powerless, helpless.)

(The lazarus boy who calls himself Danyal is nice to him in a way the league has never been, and he's making an effort to learn Damian's language. But he leaves for hours at a time and Damian doesn't have much else to do but wait in this house for him to come back.)

(He tried leaving, many many times, but he doesn't understand the street signs, the roads, the people. He doesn't know where he is, and he feels scared in a way that he's not felt in the League. Danny finds him every single time, hours later when Damian is lost somewhere in Amity Park)

(And he never yells at him. Never. The first time this happens, Damian puffs himself up and prepares himself for this strange lazarus boy to yell at him. Damian feels like he's tripped on the last step of the stairs when Danyal doesn't yell at him.)

(He can tell he's frustrated by the tone of his voice, but when Danyal lays eyes on him he just looks relieved. He gets scolded on the flight home, but Damian doesn't understand any of it other than Danyal just sounds worried. Not angry. He gets a proper scolding once they get back, with Danyal typing into the google translator and playing it for Damian to hear.)

(This happens every single time until Damian finally agrees to stop running away.)

It's with Jazz's help that Danny finally realizes that Damian was depressed. It's with her help again that Danny tries helping with it. It's like trying to get a stray cat to trust him. And with everything else they've done, it takes a long time.

And it is so, so worth it when it all works out.

Tiny Damian doesn't really like Sam, or Tucker, but he likes Danny. And he finally starts calling him his name. His full name, but his name nonetheless. Danny doesn't bother correcting him. He's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. And it's endearing hearing Damian call him Danyal.

Damian in this time, also begins to take more initiative into learning English. And they teach each other words they know. Danny buys flash cards and writes the english alphabet on them, and then finds a book on arabic to teach himself and Damian. Sam and Tucker and Jazz start learning as well.

And then when Danny knows enough arabic and Damian knows enough english, and Damian trusts Danny, Damian tells him he's a clone. It's a quiet moment, late at night when Danny takes Damian up to the ops center to look at what stars they could see through the light pollution.

It'd be very easy for Danny to tell him, "I know. I could tell from the start.". He doesn't, it's not the time nor the place, and Danny's matured enough to know when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut. He lets Damian, almost seven now, tell him that he's a clone of Damian Wayne. Lets him tell him why he was made, what his purpose was.

(Danny will need a minute later to process the fact that Damian Wayne originally came from some kind of... assassin league with an obsession with immortality. But he's focused on Damian.)

In the end, he puts an arm around Damian Wayne's clone and pulls him into his side. Thanks him for trusting him, it must've been hard to tell him, that he's brave for being able to. And if he wants to, they can find a way to get into contact with the Waynes and let Wayne know about him.

Damian hides his face in Danny's ribs and holds him tight, and tells him he doesn't want to. Danny leaves it at that.

Perhaps it would be more morally ethical to alert Damian Wayne that there was a clone of him running around, that his... uh, grandfather was making clones of him. Hell, Danny would have liked it. But little Damian has asked him not to say anything, and little Damian needs someone to rely on; someone he can trust.

And in the end, its not that hard of a decision to make. Danny knows little Damian more than he knows Damian Wayne, and while Danny likes to think he's a good person, he knows he's not a great one. Nor a perfect one. He cares more about someone he knows than someone he doesn't.

If Sam tries to argue with him about it, then Danny will just double down. If Damian doesn't want to tell Wayne about his existence, then it's not their place to say otherwise.

There's a lot more to talk about over Damian's cloning, like what he wants to do moving forward. But that's a long conversation not meant to be one taken late at night. Little Damian is falling asleep at his side, seemingly much more relaxed than he did before, and Danny wasn't gonna ruin that.

And later he's right, it is a long conversation, and a slow one. Talking with Jazz about it helps him figure out what to do moving forward, and their best bet is to let Damian figure out what he wants to do. So he sits Damian down at the dinner table the next morning and tells him before breakfast that he doesn't need to be Damian Wayne.

He doesn't need to learn all the same things Damian Wayne did. He doesn't need to do anything that Damian Wayne does. And little Damian is seven, and he's smart, but Danny still has to word it in a way that's not too complex for him to realize.

And in the end, what he says essentially boils down to "You are not Damian Wayne, you are just you. Don't be anyone else but you." and it'll take more time to drill that into his mind when all he's ever heard and learned from is that he was a copy of Damian Wayne, and he must act like Damian Wayne. But it'll happen.

It's a hard task when Danny's the only person Damian really trusts and he can't be by his side all the time, but he starts to warm up to the rest of Danny's family. The Fenton parents know of him, it's hard to keep a six year old child a secret for as long as Danny did without eventually having to come clean about it. His parents, much to Danny's relief, are very welcoming to Damian.

Damian figures out what he likes. Slowly. He's six years old, almost seven, and nobody expects of him to figure out who he is immediately. No child knows who they are right off the bat. So like any child he begins to explore. His english is better but still rough, and he struggles to read said language, but the Fenton family are happy to help even if Damian learns words that no normal seven year old does. (Many of them scientific.)

Damian realizes he likes stars, even if said interest is influenced by the association to Danny. Danny is all too delighted to tell him all about them, and in the process takes him flying out somewhere where the light pollution doesn't reach and showing him where constellations are.

Damian is six-almost-seven, so he doesn't find all of them, but Danny helps him figure out the easier ones. He tells him the scientific facts behind them, and then tells him about the mythos of the constellations. Later on they make their own constellations and make up stories about what they are.

(Damian adores Danny out of anyone else in the Fenton Family. The name Danyal turns to Dany. If anyone asks, Daniel Fenton is Damian's big brother.)

(He still refers to Jazz as Jazmine, and Danny's parents as Mrs. and Mr. Fenton.)

He realizes that, like his original, he loves animals, and he becomes vegetarian too. Sam is smug and Tucker is disappointed, but Damian doesn't super care about their opinions. ...he's getting better at liking them, even if he thinks Manson is a bit snobby and Foley is too much at times.

Its inevitable that the conversation of school comes into play. Damian can't stay home all day and he needs proper schooling. So after a long talk with Damian, they agree to send him to elementary school.

...And before they can do that the Fenton Family goes through with legally adopting Damian into the family as Damian Fenton. It takes convincing to get the administration to enroll him into the first grade without a proper schooling background.

(On his adoption form, Damian asks to change his birthday to the day he met Danny. Perhaps its not the most responsible thing to agree to, but Danny wants Damian to find himself. And its not like they know when his actual birthday was.)

And despite where he learned it from, Damian quite likes sparring. And he quite likes sparring with Danny in particular. Danny makes it fun, something that was foreign in his old league training, and Danny never hurts him. It's a lot like roughhousing.

Danny tells Damian how he got his powers, and how his parents don't know. Damian wakes up late at night to Danny sneaking out of the room (their house is not big enough to give Damian an individual room, and Danny agreed to share his) to go fight ghosts.

It's upsetting. Damian knows that Danny gets injured in those fights, even if Danny never comes home until after those injuries have been fixed up. He wants to help, and he voices it, and Danny shoots him down.

It becomes an argument, something that has happened less and less over the months.

Damian is experienced.

Damian is a child.

Damian knows how to fight.

Damian is mortal and fragile. He is a tiny, squishy human boy and the people Danny fights are ghosts who are near-indestructible. Who are intimately acquainted with death but also do not remember that humans are capable of it. Especially when they're fighting.

Damian says that Batman's rogues are capable of the same thing, that he lets his Robins help him fight.

And Danny says he is not Batman and he will not allow Damian to fight ghosts with him. Those ghosts will kill him and it will hurt. Dying hurts in a way that is terrifying and unimaginable and he will not risk Damian experiencing it. Not even Sam and Tucker help him in his fights most of the time, they are not able to. Not in the way Danny can.

Damian doesn't talk to him all day the following morning, but Danny does not budge on his decision. Damian tries to follow him out the next night, and Danny catches him and takes him back. Over, and over, and over again.

Until finally he gets intercepted by Skulker while taking Damian back home and is forced to fight him in front of Damian. (If it had been his choice, he would not have let Damian see it at all.)

It's not pretty. Skulker has new weapons, weapons that hurt, a lot. Danny is stuck between trying to take him down and trying to protect Damian from Skulker's attacks at him and from all the debris being created from the fight. It's with Damian's quick thinking and fast feet that finally helps Danny take Skulker out. But Danny is badly injured in the aftermath.

He doesn't have time to take Damian home and get medical attention. So he takes Damian with him to wherever he has his supplies stashed. He doesn't call Sam or Tucker or Jazz, and has to stitch himself up alone, with Damian watching.

Damian is quiet the entire time, he feels awful. Danny's not mad at him -- well, he is. But not because he had to protect him. He's just tired, and a little disappointed in him. Damian doesn't sneak out again. But he still feels helpless.

Danny tells him that that is why he doesn't want Damian to help him. Ghosts, his ghosts, are hard to fight. They are powerful, and his 'rogues' are mean. They will not care that Damian is a mortal child, if he picks a fight with them, they will fight back. And Damian is not immune to certain ghost powers like Danny is.

Damian is silent. He wants to help. But Danny is right: he is a squishy, mortal, living child. There is not much he can do to help Danny. Not without any gear to do it. Not without any powers to do it. He wants to help. He cannot.

Damian, almost-seven-years old, begins to cry. It is the last thing Danny was expecting, and for a moment he is at a loss of what to do.

Damian reaches for him -- in the Fenton family, physical affection is expected. Damian is getting used to it, but Danny is the only one he likes touching him -- and then stops, cringing away like he only just remembered that Danny was hurt.

He only cries harder.

Danny meets him halfway and pulls him into his arms, situating Damian between his knees from where he's sitting. Through his tears, Damian says he wants to help. He wants to help. He doesn't want Danny to get hurt anymore. He doesn't want Danny to fight ghosts alone anymore. He's scared that Danny will stop coming back.

Danny doesn't have anything to say to reassure him. Can't say anything to reassure him. It'll all just be lies. He's not going to stop fighting ghosts, he can't. He's not going to stop getting hurt, he can't. He's not going to bring Damian with him, he can't. He'd never be able to live with himself.

"I'll always come back." He says though, because that is something he can promise. Whether dead or alive, he'll come back.

When the tears finally stop, Damian doesn't say anything again. He sniffles, and presses his ear to Danny's chest, listening to the steady, slow heartbeat. If he puts his ear to his sternum and strains his ear, Damian would almost hear the low hum of Danny's ghost core, like a small dwarf sun.

"If you die, I'll drag you to the Lazarus pools myself." Damian mumbles eventually, his voice sleep-full. It's spoken in arabic, and Danny only understands half of it.

He laughs quietly, and smoothes his hand over Damian's hair. He hasn't had a haircut since he arrived, it's gotten long and there are curls beginning to form. "Okay."

Damian falls asleep shortly after, and with much consideration to his own injuries and Damian's sleeping form, Danny flies them back home.

It's hard to say, but not much changes in routine afterwards. Damian hovers close to Danny, more than usual. Danny still goes out at night, he still stitches himself up before going back, he still goes back home where Damian is waiting worriedly for him. Damian doesn't like falling asleep without knowing Danny is there.

Now the hard question is: when does little Damian finally meet the Waynes for the first time? There's plenty of ways to go about it, both easy and hard. Perhaps we go this way:

The Fenton family are visiting Maddie's sister in Arkansas. And Damian is dragging Danny around through the surrounding forest. It's his first time being in a forest this large since he moved in with the Fentons. Safe to say he is delighted by all of the nature, and he's dragging Danny along with him.

Danny likes the peace and quiet it gives him, he's found that he enjoys the rural area more than he likes the city. He's happy to let Damian point out every plant he recognizes, even if some of it is in arabic.

They walk around all day until Damian gets tired, and then at night when the sky is clear Danny and him go look at the stars. It's peaceful at first.

On the third day of their visit, Damian drags Danny out far from the house. It's slightly worrying, but Danny can always fly them back if it gets too late.

It's in the woods that Danny and Damian stray much too far from Alicia's house, and from there in the early evening that they run into Batman and Red Robin, both of them in rough 'just got out of a fight' shape.

Safe to say, it was the last thing any of them expected to run into. Damian and Danny had stopped at a small crik to rest, and the two vigilantes came through the tree line on the other side.

It was... quite the staring contest.

Damian, now seven years old at this point, forgot to mention that the Waynes were vigilantes when he told Danny he was a clone. But he was told that Batman was his original's father.

Before anyone can say anything, little Damian wraps his arms tight around Danny's middle and stares Batman and Red Robin down. His sharp edges have softened around the Fentons. But he makes no exceptions to anyone else outside of Danny's immediate social circle.

Danny's arm automatically goes around Damian's shoulders, and he looks between both Red and Batman uneasily. If they were here then it meant that there was something unsafe nearby. Danny did not fight the living, and he wasn't going to put Damian in the crosshairs of anything that does.

"Should... should we leave?" He asks, brows knotted together with a frown. He stands. "Is there something going on nearby?"

Batman suddenly grunts, and looks at him. "It's been handled." He says, and his voice is gruffer than Danny imagined it. Lower. Danny is not all that comfortable with that answer.

"Do you guys live nearby?" Red Robin asks, and Danny can't help but notice that he keeps looking at Damian. Warily. In fact, so is Batman.

He pushes Damian behind him slightly, and Damian's grip tightens on him. "Not... exactly." He says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "My family's visiting my Aunt and my brother wanted to explore since it's his first time out of the city, I guess we wandered too far away if we're running into you."

There's no visible indication of whether or not both Bats reacted to him calling Damian his brother. But he can all but feel little Damian preen at the title, it makes Danny's mouth twitch into a smile as his hand finds Damian's hair.

"Would we be able to go back with you?" Red Robin asks, startling both Danny and seemingly Batman, who looks at him instantly.

"Red Robin." He growls out, and Red Robin throws Batman a look of annoyance.

"We are lost, B. They jammed the comms and our trackers back there and it hasn't come back on yet, his aunt may have the signal we need to let the others know where we are."

They end up walking back with Danny and Damian. It's silent, and awkward, and Danny has Damian walking on his opposite side so he's not near the vigilantes. Red Robin is fiddling with a phone but still can't get a signal.

Batman is silently brooding.

Red eventually gives up and shoves the phone into a pocket on his belt, then turns to make conversation with Danny. "I never thanked you for letting us walk with you. Thanks, by the way."

Danny blinks at him, and smiles awkwardly. "No problem, man," he says, "I'm uh, Danny." He glances down at Damian, who looks up at him with big green eyes, and Damian nods quietly.

He looks back at Red Robin, and says, "This is my little brother, Damian." And Damian peers over his side and glares at Red Robin -- and Batman, who looks over when Danny says his name.

"He looks like Damian Wayne," Red Robin notes, head tilting like he's inspecting him.

Danny huffs dryly, "We get that a lot."

Red Robin smiles at him, its a tilted thing. It makes Danny uneasy. "Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Danny says bluntly, and he really doesn't want to tell them where he's from. Not when Red Robin was acting strange, but they're vigilantes and notorious for their detective skills. If he's suspicious, they'll look into him. "But I'm from Amity Park."

Damian in that moment, peers around Danny again and scowls at Red Robin. Full on scowls at him, as if it were the first months when he met Danny. "You're being nosy." He sneers, his hand squeezing Danny's.

"Damian," Danny hisses, suppressing a smile. Damian jumps like he's been startled, and looks up at him with big green eyes. "He's just being curious."

(He lets his smile slip through briefly, just to let Damian know he's not that upset. A tension leaves his little brother's shoulders.)

"But he is." Damian continues, a whine leaking into his voice. Danny jabs him in the ribs with his fingers, and Damian jumps, swatting away his hand with a squeak.

"Would you rather have us walk in dead silence, Dames?" He goes for Damian's ribs again, a grin stretching across his face as Damian jumps back again and swats his hand. "Hm? Hm? We could just walk in awkward silence for the entire trip back, I know you just love awkward silence, little brother."

(It's funny, saying little brother always sounds so uncomfortable when he reads it in books and watches it on tv. But Jazz always makes it sound so natural when she does it, and Danny finds that he sounds the same too.)

Damian continues to bat away his hands, but it's not enough to prevent him from squealing with laughter when Danny gets a good hold on him and starts tickling him. Danny's grin only gets bigger, and he swoops Damian up with his arm and holds him like a football.

"Is that it? Huh? Me, you, and two vigilantes walking back to Aunt Alicia's cabin in complete, utter silence." He says, "You won't get to hear any of my amazing jokes."

Damian's wriggling, trying to pound on Danny's ribs, he's giggling uncontrollably. It's the best sound Danny's ever heard. "Your jokes are awful! Laeazir! Put me down!" He cries, grinning from ear to ear.

(From the side, both Red Robin and Batman tense up.)

Danny chuckles, and through a short series of flips, has Damian sitting on his shoulders. "I will not. You're sitting up in air jail for insulting my hilarious jokes."

Damian tugs on his hair in revenge, harrumphing at him but making no move to get down. Danny squeezes his ankles playfully, and looks back to Batman and Red Robin.

Both vigilantes look at him like he's grown a second head.

....Red Robin looks at him like he's grown a second head. Batman just stares, and then looks away. Danny tilts his head at them, his smile waning. "You guys look like you've seen a ghost or something."

(Damian tugs on his hair again. A silent boo at him.)

Red Robin jerks, "Oh, sorry." He says, not sounding all that sorry. "It's just... I've lost count to how many times I've saved Damian Wayne from the occasional kidnapping and he's always been very... serious. It's just weird seeing a kid that looks like him be... not serious."

From his shoulders he feels Damian hide his smile in his hair, that's another thing they can put on their "Things That Damian Does That Damian Wayne Does Not" list. It started as a joke, but it's been surprisingly helpful for when Damian is questioning himself.

However, Danny is not a fan of the comparison, and he smiles widely, perhaps a tad passive-aggressive. "It's a good thing that my Damian isn't Damian Wayne then." He says, giving him the slight stink eye.

Red Robin picks up on it quickly, and nods.

The rest of the way is spent in idle conversation. It's oddly casual, even if most of the conversation is Danny talking about himself. It's annoying, but he unfortunately understands the reason. Secret identities and all that.

Damian interjects a few times, some parts to talk to Danny, and other parts to throw shade at Batman and Red Robin. Mostly Red Robin, who seems begrudgingly used to it.

("I'm surprised you haven't asked me much about myself." Red Robin says at one point into the conversation. Over his shoulder Batman glares at Red Robin. "A lot of civilians do when they're able."

Danny stares at him. "You're a vigilante." He says, frowning, "Isn't it superhero 101 that you don't ask superheroes for their secret identity?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Huh. Well, no. I'm not gonna ask you about yourself. I quite like talking all about me.")

When they finally reach the cabin, it's late into the night and Danny has moved Damian from his shoulders to his front in a koala-like carry. Damian's fast asleep with his head on Danny's shoulder.

His family was also frantically searching for him, and Jazz sees him first. She immediately turns behind her and yells "I FOUND HIM!". And then sprints over to him, his parents thundering not too far behind.

Both vigilantes are subsequently ignored as Jazz dotes over him and Danny, and soon enough so is his mom and dad. They're all talking all at once, asking him where he was, they were worried sick, did he know how late it was.

He shushes all of them, loudly. And whispers that Damian is sleeping. His family then immediately quiet themselves, and go back to yelling at him in a more appropriate manner.

"Me and Damian walked too far by accident." Danny finally says when he can get a word in, and then he jabs his thumb in Red Robin and Batman's direction. "We also found two superheroes who need assistance."

The speed of which his family all snap their heads over to the direction he's pointing is almost comical. As is all of their expressions of shock.

His mother is the first to regain her senses, and she sighs at him. She sighs! "Only you, Danny." She says, and Jazz snorts into her arm.

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Chapter 1: Thieves Alley

The first chapter of a canon divergent kind-of fix-it set after Season 3 as encouraged by @whenimaunicorn. The beginning looks familiar because I posted it as a WIP, but it continues.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and profanity

Words: 2034

Charles Vane once heard that a man can only truly possess that which he cannot lose in a shipwreck. For all the times he’s had to run with nothing but his life in his hands, and those times are many, this most recent is the hardest to bear.

The late autumn sleet beats against the drafty window of his rented room by the wharves. Nor'easters, he learned these storms are called, blowing in off the Atlantic, bringing traffic in the harbor to a standstill and turning the muddy streets into debris-strewn rivers.

Until recently, he spent his entire life in the heat of the West Indies. New York City is cold and unceasingly raw. Its damp chill seeps into his bones and makes old injuries ache damnably. Vane finds himself taking a liking to these storms anyway; they match his mood.

Perhaps he should head to the tavern where he works instead of huddling by the small fire trying to ignore the past. The tavern owner is a freedman, known to give a hand to other former slaves. All Vane had to do was show the brand on his chest and scowl a little, and he was given a job as a bouncer. The irony of it: Charles Vane, notorious scourge of the seas, reduced to breaking up drunken brawls and preventing grown men from pissing on the floor under an assumed name. Still, he’s alive and free, right under the noses of the fucking English…

He’s definitely being followed. He dislikes being followed. He turns to see that several of the tavern-goers are coming toward him, an assortment of weapons in hand. He dryly thinks that times must be hard indeed if they intend to rob him of his pay; split several ways it wouldn’t even be enough for a mug of ale each. A pistol goes off, grazing a leg just barely recovered from the last time he was shot, and Vane staggers. His attackers are nearly upon him when a slightly-built figure leaps between them. A low-pitched female voice, an oddly familiar voice, calls out something in what Vane recognizes as Dutch. There is laughter from the others, and they withdraw.

The woman approaches, her hands empty, reaching down to assist him. He gets the impression of large eyes in an angular face, a dark coat wrapped tight against the mist. Is it? Can it be?

She looks at him as if seeing a ghost, albeit a ghost with whom she is slightly cross. Then she remembers herself. “Charles.” Her expression turns wry. “Did I hear them refer to you as ‘Mr. Thatch’ back there at the tavern?”

He checks her face for any sign of fury, and sees none. “I can’t very well go by my own name now, can I, Miss Teach.”

“It’s Mrs. Sullivan now. And no, I suppose you can’t. I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind you using one of his last names; you’re more his child than I ever was.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, without bitterness.

He forces a levity to his voice that he does not feel. “So you married Sully? How is he, anyway?” At least she wedded a brave man and a kind one.

She shuts her eyes slowly, shakes her head, then reopens them. “He’s been dead three years. Took a bullet to the head in a raid.”

“Margaret, I’m…”

“Save the platitudes, Charles. They don’t suit you.” She looks tired, her eyes far away. “He was right beside me when it happened. He died free and he didn’t suffer.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. What can he possibly say to that. Memories of the three of them as teenagers, skylarking in the rigging of the Revenge. Vane was the strongest, Margaret was the fastest, and Sully, well, Sully was acrobatic and fearless. And Sully made her laugh, something she did far too seldom. Vane envied him that ability.

She turns her sharp gaze back to him. "If you’re wondering what I said to your new friends back there, I told them that while it is clear that the only thing you use your head for is growing hair, entering Thieves Alley alone as you did with a pocket full of coin, it would be cruel to deprive you of it."

In spite of himself, he huffs out a short laugh. She’s studying him, and he thinks she sees the question that he cannot bring himself to ask aloud. I missed you. Did you miss me?

“My last words to you were cruel.” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “I regret them. I’m glad I have the opportunity to tell you so.” Why did I get you out of there if you’re going to go do her bidding, be her attack dog? She doesn’t love you, Charles, she’s incapable of loving anyone. And now you’re walking right back into another kind of slavery and it was all for nothing. If I never see you again, it will be too soon. She jumped into one of the longboats and never once looked back at him as the men rowed it out to the ship. He wanted to call out to her to stay, that he changed his mind, but youthful stupid pride made the words stick in his throat. In the end he watched her climb the rope ladder to the Revenge, watched her sail out of Nassau Harbor, watched her disappear over the horizon...

Vane holds her gaze because he’s certain that she would not welcome him holding her body. “Everything you said to me was true, though I couldn’t see that at the time. You had every reason to hate me.”

Margaret tilts her head to one side. “I never hated you, though I tried. Never even resented you, really.” She sighs. “I resented my father for wanting a son so badly that he all but ignored me once you arrived, and I resented the hell out of myself for trying so hard to win his approval.” She pauses. “You’re shivering.”

He starts to deny it but Margaret rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, I know, you’re tougher than the rain and wind and you’re made out of pain and hunger, but you’re not dressed for this climate. Let’s get you in front of a fire. I didn’t come to your aid yet again for you to catch consumption in fucking stinking Thieves Alley.” Vane knows better than to argue with her when she takes that tone.

He falls into step beside her and follows her through a series of alleyways, up some back stairs to a garret. It’s two rooms, sparse but clean, a fire burned down to embers in the small hearth. She drags two chairs and a small table closer to the fireplace and gestures for him to sit while she sets about stoking the fire. He finds himself admiring the quiet confidence with which she moves, the deft precision of her hands. That hasn’t changed. The wooden chair feels like heaven after a night on his feet, and the fire quickly warms the small room. He slouches back and stares into the flames while Margaret bustles around, hanging her coat on a peg, boiling the kettle. Unconsciously, the fingers of one hand worry at the scar on his neck left by the hangman’s noose. It’s slight, but it’s there. In most ways he’s recovered from his brief hempen jig. He can sometimes go hours without thinking of it, but there will always be reminders. Much, Vane muses, like his years sailing with Edward Teach and daughter.

Everything hurt. The latest flogging from the taskmaster tore his back open from shoulder to waist, and he could barely stand. His whole body was wracked with fever. He heard a girl’s voice, and a man’s voice, both unfamiliar, distorted-sounding, and then he was being carried. He must have lost consciousness; when he came to, the whole world was swaying and he heard the creaking of boards, waves lapping against the...hull? Why was he on a ship? Had he been sold again? And then a girl about his own age was looking down at him with a grave expression, her hair in a braid and her big eyes curious. “Where am I?” he asked her. “You’re on the Revenge,“ she said, and, seeming to intuit his next question, she added “you’re free now. We’re all free here. We’re pirates.” There was pride in her voice and her posture at that last. He later learned he was free because Margaret Teach talked her father into taking him with them.

In the silence that has fallen between them, his stomach growls. He tries to ignore it, but she’s heard. She fetches bread and cheese from a box on the windowsill, a bottle of rum, and a pair of dented tin mugs into which she pours tea, putting it all on the table between them.

That’s what seemed off. She’s wearing a dress, and it’s all wrong. It flatters her well, but it’s all wrong. A proper pirate like her, dressed like a merchant’s wife.

Margaret raises an eyebrow at the look on his face. “It isn't poisoned, Charles” she says dryly as she pours rum into her tea. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now. I wouldn’t waste good rum.”

He takes the offered bottle and adds a heavy pour to his own tea, then takes a sip and lets it burn all the way down to his belly. “Thrown your lot in with civilization, have you?”

“No.” Her knuckles whiten on the edge of the table and she scowls. “I fucking hate it here.”

He reaches over and places a hand on hers, and is gratified when she doesn’t pull it away. “You’re like me, Magpie. We belong at sea.”

“We do.” Her voice is quiet, wistful. “Nobody’s called me that since Sully died.”

Sully grinned at the way Margaret's eyes tracked the doubloon that Vane set dancing back and forth across his knuckles. “You’re a magpie, that’s what you are.”

“ What’s a magpie?” she asked.

“Very clever little bird, a bit like a crow. They’ll steal anything that catches their eye, especially if it’s shiny, and they’ll have a go at birds of prey many times their size. They live in England.”

Margaret curled her lip. “Fuck England.”

“Fuck England,” Sully agreed. “Rest of it suits you, though.”

Vane thought it was apt for the clever dark-haired pirate girl. His fierce little Magpie.

She turns her hand over in his and gives it a brief squeeze. “I don’t mind you calling me that.” They finish their meal in silence, but it almost feels like the silence of old times. As in old times, it’s easy to fall back into task organizing without needing to discuss it much; he clears up the remnants of their meal while she makes up a cot for him near the hearth.

He hadn’t expected her to invite him to her bed, not really; she never did in the past, and the disastrous choices he made when he was a young man likely destroyed any chance of that in the future. They’re no longer children with a habit of falling asleep in a pile among coils of rope like a litter of alley cats between their watches. But now, all these years later, they’re reunited. It will have to be enough.

From the other room, he hears a sob, quickly stifled. Vane knows Margaret doesn’t want him to know she’s crying, perhaps wants it less even than he wants her to cry, yet how can he ignore the pain she’s in? He tries her door, only to find she’s bolted it from within. He returns to his cot. Eventually sleep takes him, and by some mercy, he does not dream.

[capricornus-rex]

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (9)

Chapter 9: His Ward | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: Hi guys, I’m really sorry for taking so long to post! I’m going through something and it’s taking quite a toll on my emotional health. I can’t brush it off that easily of course, but I’m trying my best to not let it devour me and ruin my routines and habits entirely. I still try to write, but my breakdown episodes are taking too much of my time during the day and I hate for just deciding to sleeping it off—though, it actually helps, plus a good cry. I’m sorry for rambling like this, but I’m not in slump just yet and I hope this situation of mine isn’t gonna drag me into one. I hope you all have been liking the story, if you do, I super duper appreciate it as always! Also, I’ll get back on the tag games you guys have put me in as well! They look super fun!

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927​

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 | Previous: Part 7 | Next: Part 10 | Masterlist

10 of ?

You are weak…

Incompetent…

Incapable of taking care of a child, what more if two?

An ominous, heavy voice burdened these words to Owen. The man felt paralyzed in his own bed. His knees and elbows locked in place, his calves and arms frozen stiff, and his lungs tight and narrow. He had hoped Beru would be woken up by his squirming and help him out of whatever is happening to him right now.

But his wife was nowhere to be found.

Owen found himself surrounded in darkness, standing in the middle of nowhere and nothing. He feared if this was purgatory. After he had spun a considerable amount of times just to orient himself on where he is and what is going on, the voice took shape—a towering figure armored in black, with his wife and nephew suspended between them while they’re on their knees. Owen could feel his heart sink to the soles of his feet and his legs were failing to hold his balance.

And for that, you shall pay the price of your negligence!

The sharp, ragged ignition of a lightsaber brandished through Beru’s breast and she fell right then and there. There was almost no death cry. Beru was mute as she jolted from the final sensation through her body and slumped to the dust, without waiting for the woman’s corpse to touch the soil, the beam swung sideways to poor, little Luke.

The boy had a death cry, albeit short it was haunting and gut-wrenching, and his cry faded out as he fell to the floor next to his aunt. Owen, in that dream state, was frozen in place. He wasn’t bound to the floor or anything, he was simply incapable of moving. The only thing he can do is watch—as penance imposed by the tall, monstrous figure brandishing a red sword made of light.

“NO!”

Owen sat up screaming and awake. He’s quite lucky they have no neighbors, but the creatures in the desert might have heard him, maybe even old Ben Kenobi in the off-chance that he’s out in the dunes at night.

“Owen!” Beru gasped, woken up by her husband’s nightmarish episode. “Owen, it was a dream!”

“Oh gods!” her husband gasped, clutching his chest so tight that his shirt crumpled. When he realized that it was indeed a dream, he cupped Beru at the neck so tightly that he almost choked her. “Oh, Beru!”

“Owen, dear…” she sighed, unable to comfort her husband.

It’s been only two nights since Irele disappeared, and the toll has already taken her brother.

–

Irele was brought immediately to the command ship when the transport boarded its hangar. She was thrown into a cell unconscious; hours have passed when she came to. Her body was disturbed by the sudden change in temperature, she was more conditioned for warm, temperate climates. The inorganic, air-conditioned room was an unpleasant surprise for her nerves.

She patted herself in different parts of her body to see where it hurts. Nothing. She was completely unscathed—except, of course, the few light scrapes and bruises she got during her hallucinogenic episode though they were nothing she can’t brush off and heal from.

“Where am I?” she asked to no one in particular.

She looked at the door and saw that it was a solid blast door; the small rectangular window that could only frame the eyes was sealed shut, there was no way of telling if there was someone on the other side of the door.

“Hello?” she knocked on the door, it was worth a shot, she thought.

She said it again, the knocking had gotten louder.

Irritated, the guard outside the cell banged the door with the pommel of his blaster.

“Quiet!” his voice was muffled through the helmet, but the manner of his speaking was sharp and strict. The sudden loud clang startled Irele, forcing her back to the slab that stuck out of the wall that’s meant to be her bed.

She stands up again to walk back to the door, to get some answers from the guard.

“Where am I?” she slapped the door, prompting for answer. “Hey!”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

“Ugh, you know you’re making the noise twice as worse,” a second guard groaned, though more indifferent towards the prisoner, as well as his companion.

“The little brat won’t shut up.”

“She’ll shut up when Lord Vader comes in,”

“Can’t expect him to come any sooner, can I?”

“Maybe you can turn up in his chambers and tell him yourself,” the second guard chuckled, quite amused by his own snark.

“Yeah, whatever,” the first guard said dryly, completely feeling the opposite.

Overhearing their small talk, Irele picked up the name and tried to familiarize herself with it. Lord Vader? She pondered. But she’s never heard of it. Understandably so, even upon the establishment of the Empire, Tatooine remained uninvolved with the affairs of the now Galactic Empire—as it was in the prime days of the Republic.

Even if the name never rung a bell, she found herself shivering—both by the cold and by the imminent confrontation of this unknown entity that she already fears.

A uniformed crew marches to Darth Vader’s personal chambers. From Vader’s end, the door to his room opened and the cadet let himself in after the Sith Lord allowed him.

“My Lord, the prisoner has come to,”

“Very well. Leave her to me, I’ll deal with her myself,”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Go.”

The cadet bowed and his lungs loosened. He had puffed up his chest for a minute or two after leaving the chambers. Darth Vader stood up from his shell and strode regally out of his room; it was not an uncommon sight to find the lord of this ship wandering alone without an escort or two.

Vader made way to the prison block, where the teenage captive would be doing nothing except sit and wait. He isn’t expecting her to recognize him, though he almost wished his did—at least the human part of his being. The door shot open; Irele—seated at the very center of the slab—threw her back flat against the wall. She hasn’t even gotten a good view of Vader and she was already terrified. He had to bow his head before presenting the hulk of his height in his cybernetic body.

Irele’s breathing skipped a rhythm. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, she has never seen anything quite like him. The sound of his breathing made her pupils dilate.

I see him in my nightmares… Irele thought.

Her heart dropped to her stomach when she heard him speak.

“I have been looking for you, child.”

Vader could clearly see that Irele was just utterly petrified. She may not realize it, but their gazes lock—even with the two bulbous globes where his eyes should be obstruct his own—he could clearly see his little sister: his truest next-of-kin. He saw the way her hands latched onto whatever surface it could grab on the metal wall, and goodness did they shake! He remained indifferent—he tried to be.

“W-Where am I?” the poor, shaken girl shuddered.

“That is of no importance.”

“But I’m so far away from home…!” she couldn’t bring herself to raise her voice, only to speak up a bit. “What did I do wrong?”

The dark lord answered none of those questions, but perhaps he could answer the next one.

“Who are you?”

“Your new master. You shall be my ward.”

To Irele, that declaration didn’t sound as ominous as she had hoped; yet, her heart sank when she realized that she’s now bound to this dark lord. In whatever word he paints it to be, she is his prisoner, and she will be here for a very long time. Another pill that’s hard to swallow for her is that she must remain tight-lipped about her family’s whereabouts for the rest of the time she’s here—which is probably forever.

Not realizing she didn’t actively react to this, Darth Vader had been suspended in silence for a few moments.

“You seem unsettled.”

“I don’t know this place. I don’t know you really are, either. The only thing I want right now is to go home. My friends might be looking for me.” She bit her tongue after that last one, keeping mum about her family if ever this lord will hunt them down after the slightest shortcoming.

“This is your new home now… Irele.”

Irele could not accept it. She looked around: nothing in this place is nowhere near to be called home! This is a prison that Vader is desperately convincing the girl to see it as one, to accept it as one.

“It would be wise if you do not object, child. My leniency could only go so far.”

Behind him, the door opened to let inside a black orb with silver apparatus, it hovered into the cell while its internals hummed. The floating globe’s most prominent appendage would be the syringe protruding from its left-hand side; Irele spotted a drop of liquid dangling at the edge of the needle’s tip.

Again, she pressed herself harder against the wall as soon as she caught the glint of the needle under the light of her cell. She tried to scream, but even opening her mouth felt like a laborious feat, so all she could do was taking deep yet short breaths as the droid approached her. The arm with the syringe extended to angle itself better. Vader watched from the far corner of the cell—incapable of helping his sister—and imposing a penance of sorts on himself, to torment him over the fact that even if he had all the means to do so, he is constrained from any sort of humane thing to do to at least ease off the pain from Irele.

The prick of the needle was slow, long, and agonizing. Vader could see Irele’s right arm tensing, shaking uncontrollably, and her hand violently jerking sideways. He saw the liquid leave the syringe and enter Irele’s bloodstreams, but the droid made it sure that it was equally tormenting. Irele tried to fight but the substance had temporarily paralyzed her. She threw her head back, slamming against the wall, and with a great effort she lolled her head to Vader…

A tear escaped from the corner of her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes; her mouth trembled opened to release a grunt that should have been a cry of pain. The look in her face was a plead for mercy or of help—even by a miracle. She looked to the one and only person who could stop this, and there he watched within the blackness of the room, her cry was replied with nothing but Vader’s rhythmic breathing as he stood there and watched. Even with a helmet on, if one could see closely, he was in an irredeemable state of regret for remaining a bystander in Irele’s moment of suffering.

She must learn to live with this… Otherwise, she may not live at all. He reinforced himself, albeit quite a twisted mindset.

The interrogation droid had pulled out the injection. The pinprick drew blood and Irele only had the clothes on her back to clog the bleeding. Weakened by the shock and pain, she melted to the slab and fell unconscious.

He turns to leave the cell, the droid followed, and quickly sealed Irele in. The guards straightened their backs at the sight of their master and awaited his orders. With a raised finger, he commanded them to ready a personal bunker filled with all necessities like new clothes for Irele.

“By the time the substance wears off, see to it that she is brought to the medical bay immediately. I want her in optimum shape if she is to be subjected to training in due time.”

Training? The uniformed men thought.

No questions were actually asked, for Vader strode away back to his chambers, and left the guards to do what is asked of them.

[cannibalisticapple]

So around a week or two ago I sent an anonymous ask to @corndog-patrol suggesting Villain Mic finding a Cat!Shouta. When I saw it on my phone in the car, I had to stop myself from reading until I could get home and look at it in full on my computer. It has been so much better than I could have ever imagined.

Seeing all the doodles and artwork so far has been a HUGE inspiration for me, and I ended up writing this over the past week. Because I am physically incapable of writing anything short, it kinda ballooned to almost 8k words, partially because I ended up adding to it as more art was posted. The majority of it was written before the bowtie pic though, including the opening scene. (Fun fact: I originally called Shouta “Pepper”.)

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, well, anything to Tumblr, so apologies for any weird formatting issues! And thanks again to @corndog-patrol for making such a great Villain Mic AU! Anyways, enjoy!

The Adventures of Puddles

           Given his known fondness for cats, most of Shouta’s friends and colleagues often teased him about how getting hit by a Quirk that turned him into a cat would be a dream come true for him.

           They were wrong.

           The hero-turned-feline felt thoroughly irritated as he loped down the street, the heavy downpour soaking him thoroughly and weighing down his thick black fur with water. He’d been turned into a cat while heading to UA just that evening, and since then he’d been rather unhappy. Nemuri had laughed her head off when she found him halfway to her apartment with his goggles around his neck and his capture weapon dragging along the ground behind him, which really hadn’t helped much.

           Considering he’d been found by Nemuri relatively fast, he should be safe and dry right now, but then Nemuri had taken him to UA. Logically it made sense of course, Shouta would be safe there and he’d have easy access to a support network to find a way to reverse the transformation. Unfortunately, he hadn’t accounted for how the kids would react. One of them had sighted Nemuri carrying him inside, and Nemuri had no hesitation dumping him on the student with a sadistic grin while she went to meet with the other staff.

           After spending an hour being assaulted by his students cooing over him and ruffling him from twenty different directions at once (literally), he’d desperately craved some space and alone time. The sight of Snipe and Cementoss sneaking around with cameras and phones ready, clearly intending to take photos of his ordeal, had been the last push he needed to jump the wall and get away from UA for a bit. He knew the area well enough, he should be safe to walk around a couple hours even as a cat. Key word: should.

           It was just his luck he’d get chased by someone’s dog for what must have been half a mile, ending with him lost in an only vaguely familiar part of town. His attempts to find his way back had only succeeded in making him more lost over the ensuing hours, the vaguely familiar scenery giving way to buildings he absolutely did not recognize. And of course, it also had to start raining shortly after that.

           Right now, he just wanted to get out of the heavy rain. He was wet, cold, tired, and felt sore in ways he didn’t even know possible until being turned into a cat. Turns out having your body undergo a radical physical transformation tended to put some stress on muscles and preexisting injuries. Go figure. At least his dry eye hadn’t seemed to transfer over, but that didn’t make him any less stressed.

           The feeling only amplified when he stepped in a puddle and proceeded to plummet into it with a startled yowl, water splashing everywhere. Of course this sidewalk would have a giant hole in it that flooded with water and turned into a miniature, cat-sized bath. The hole was deep enough his head barely stuck above the water, the chilly temperature making him shudder. He scrabbled at the edges with an annoyed growl, trying to pull himself out.

           “Hey, you okay little buddy?” The voice behind him made him freeze, the fur on his back standing on end. Shit. He knew that voice. His head whipped around to see a man crouching behind him, and while he wasn’t wearing his costume, Shouta couldn’t think of anyone else with a loud voice who also sported a stupid mustache like that. This had to be Present Mic.

           Great, just great, he thought sarcastically. For some odd reason the idiot wasn’t wearing a raincoat in this weather, his long blond hair partially pulled into a bun with the loose strands plastered to his face and shoulders by the rain. How the guy could even see with all those water droplets on his glasses was beyond Shouta. “Oh man, I always said someone was gonna fall into this stupid thing. Come on, let’s get you out.”

           Shouta silently glowered at the villain as he reached out to him but made no effort to push him away. Trying to get a good grip on the pavement was tricky with the rain making everything so slippery. Maybe if he could figure out how to get his claws to pop out, but he’d yet to figure out a lot of his new form’s functions. Frankly, the fact he could walk at all was a miracle considering he’d never used a four-legged body before.

           So the sulking cat allowed the blond villain to carefully slip his hands around Shouta’s... armpits? Well, his hands went between around the edges of his front legs and shoulders, so, close enough—and pull him out of the hole. Rather than put him down like he expected though, Mic shifted his hold to carry the grumpy feline, turning to walk to a nearby apartment building. “Come on, let’s get you inside so we can dry you off. My place is just over there!”

           ...And now Mic was taking him to his apartment. Crap. Shouta naturally began to struggle, wanting to get the hell back to UA instead, but Mic had a surprisingly strong grip. In the end he gave up and just sulked in the villain’s arms with a grumpy scowl as the blond draped a towel over him, resigned to his fate. At least he was out of the rain.

           “Oh man, you’re lucky I found you!” Mic commented, looking down at him with a concerned frown. “A lil’ fella like yourself could drown in all that rain!” He switched on the light switch by the door, illuminating one of the most rundown and shabby apartments Shouta had ever seen. And considering his meager salary as an underground hero, he’d seen a lot of crummy places while apartment hunting. “You’ll be safe here, just make yourself at home you little cutie!”

           Shouta just silently scowled at his current predicament. He just wanted to get warm and dry and take a nice, long nap until this stupid Quirk wore off. (It better wear off.)

           The Quirk did not wear off.

             Morning found Shouta still very much a feline, much to his ire. He woke up well before Mic, the blond snoozing away in his bedroom (Shouta had chosen to sleep on the couch, which had literal patches sewn on it, he’d never seen that outside cartoons), and Shouta felt no small amount of irritation at the fact he still had this stupid feline body. At least he was warm and dry now. That didn’t make him any happier about the situation though.

           A glance at the bathroom mirror had revealed himself to be particularly mangy and stocky rather than sleek and agile-looking like most cats. His long hair had turned into thick, shaggy fur, the black coloration adding an air of dirtiness as opposed to the soft and fluffy feeling exuded by Mic’s actual cat. Sprinkles, if the name written on the food bowl was accurate.

             Speaking of the food bowl, Mic was now beaming down at Shouta as he sat next to the now-full bowl. “Come on, it’s safe to eat!” Mic goaded—nay, practically pleaded with him, his mouth pulled into a pout as he looked down at Shouta. “You have to be hungry, little guy!”

             Shouta just glowered at him, ignoring the bowl. Nope. Not gonna eat that. He might be a cat for now (seriously this stupid thing better wear off on its own), but he was NOT going to eat cat food.

             Mic sighed, seeming to accept the fact as he turned to begin rifling through the cabinet. Good, looks like he got the picture and was looking for something else to feed him. “It’s the bowl, right?” he muttered. Wait, what? Mic turned around holding a cracked plastic soup bowl, dumping another scoop of kitty kibble into it before setting it next to Shouta. “There! This bowl doesn’t smell like Sprinkles, so it should be good, right?”

             He beamed down at Shouta, clearly proud of his understanding of cats. Shouta just stared at him blandly, making no move to touch it, and Mic soon deflated. “Eh, you’ll get hungry try it eventually,” he muttered, turning away with a sigh and trudging off to his bedroom. Shouta watched him leave with a blank face, still pointedly ignoring the bowl of cat food.

             As he sat there Sprinkles sauntered over and plopped down on the floor next to him, blinking her large eyes at him as she studied him curiously. Normally, Shouta would be happy to be in the presence of a cat, especially one who seemed as sweet and friendly as Sprinkles. Seeing as he himself was currently a cat, however, he found his joy slightly diminished. He couldn’t exactly pet her with paws, which sucked since her fluffy white fur looked particularly soft and silky.

             For now, he settled for patting her leg with his paw to try to satiate the urge. Sadly, it did not have the same effect as running his fingers through her fur. He sulked up until he heard a gasp, and turned to see Mic staring at him with sparkly eyes from the door to his bedroom. He bounced over with a giant grin and bent down next to them. “So adorable!” he gushed, rubbing Shouta’s head affectionately.

             At this point, Shouta’s broody mood outweighed the urge to claw off his hand.

             “So, I already have Sprinkles,” Mic mused aloud, “So what do you think of the name... Pickles?”

             Scratch that. Shouta proceeded to do so literally, highly satisfied by the startled and pained yelp from the blond.

             “Ow! Ow! Okay, not Pickles! Ouch, that really hurts!”

              Day two of being a cat. Shouta was now covered in clothes while Mic loudly rooted through his dresser.

             “Where is that shirt?” Mic grumbled to himself, tossing a pair of jeans over his shoulder. Why he apparently stored pants and shirts in the same drawers, Shouta had no idea. Why did a person need this many clothes? Granted, he barely bothered with more than the minimal amount needed himself. But still.

             Also, what was that guy even aiming at? Shouta was sitting in the doorway, not even fully in the room!

             Mic made a sound of triumph as he held up a shirt in an eye-searing chartreuse, on the more yellow end of the spectrum. A fact Shouta knew only because he’d spent an hour arguing with one of his students over demanding to use the color in their costume two years ago. Why. Why did anyone have clothing in that shade.

             Mic turned around with a grin, but his smile quickly faded to a look of confusion. “Puddles? Puddles, where are you?” Shouta’s eye twitched, still displeased with the name (seriously, what was with this guy’s preoccupation with English words?), but it beat literally every other suggestion the villain had. Even if he didn’t like the whole reminder of being pulled out of a puddle.

             He gave a displeased mrow and Mic blinked and bent down next to the discarded pile of clothes, lifting up a pants leg to see Shouta’s eyes glowering up at him. “Oh, there you are, you silly baby!” Shouta glared at him, willing all his disdain to show through his eyes. Mic was unfazed. “Aw, geez, now I need to wash the hair off this stuff!” Mic playfully scolded as he started picking up the clothes.

             You literally threw it on me, Shouta thought silently. You have no one to blame but yourself for this. He waited patiently for Mic to lift the clothes off him, depositing them on his bed to be washed later. Shouta took silent pleasure in the glimpse of black hairs stuck to them.

             Mic pulled on the eye-searing shirt while Shouta continued to sit and brood, chattering all the while. “Man, I am so stoked to see this band tonight! I feel kinda bad leaving you alone here all day when you’re still getting used to the place, but you’ll have Sprinkles to keep you company so you shouldn’t be too lonely!” He grabbed what Shouta presumed to be his work uniform and folded the shirt over his arm, giving Shouta a final pet as he strode past him. Shouta remained in place, pointedly ignoring him as he continued to sulk and brood.

             Approximately ten seconds later Mic returned, looking notably dejected. “Your bowl is still full,” he said glumly. “Are you seriously on some sort of hunger strike?” Shouta made a rumbling noise halfway between a meow and a grumble, and Mic groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “C’mon, Puddles, I’m on a limited budget here! Do I need to steal expensive food for you?”

             Shouta responded with a pointed glare. He would NOT condone Mic stealing cat food for him. As a hero, he couldn’t allow even the most trivial of crimes, even if they had good intentions behind them. Plus, he had a feeling the blond would try feeding him a wet canned food next, and the thought of the slimy-looking can-shaped meat chunk just made him want to shudder.

             (He pointedly ignored the fact he stole one of the pieces of chicken from Mic’s dinner last night when the blond wasn’t looking. He was a cat right now, cats did not need to obey any laws, and snagging food from someone’s plate wasn’t exactly illegal anyway.)

             “I still have that concert tonight so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” Mic sighed, and then nodded to himself with a look of renewed resolve. “I can’t let you starve though! We’ll have to improvise for now!” He marched off to the kitchen, and Shouta followed silently, letting himself feel a glimmer of hope. That hope was soon rewarded when he found Mic rooting through the fridge, pulling out a can of sardines.

             Not my first choice but I’ll take it. Shouta trotted over as Mic put it on a paper plate, hopping onto the counter to begin chowing down before he could even pick up the plate. Relief visibly flooded Mic’s face as he ate, his shoulders slumping and a breath of air escaping him. “Oh thank goodness, I was getting worried there! Kinda picky for a stray though, aren’tcha?” Shouta just rumbled in the back of his throat, too busy eating to respond otherwise.

             “Welp, I gotta run if I want to get to work on time,” Mic said, glancing at the clock. “See you later, cool cats! Sprinkles, make sure Puddles doesn’t get into trouble while I’m gone!” The white cat meowed in response, and with a jaunty wave Mic departed, the click of the door shutting and locking ringing particularly heavily in the ensuing silence. Shouta’s head snapped up, eyes locking on the door.

             Okay, he’s finally gone. Time to see if I can find an escape route. Shouta had no intention of staying here absolutely longer than necessary; the sooner he found someone he knew, the better. Finishing off the sardines, he leaped off the counter and made his way to the door, determined to get out.

             Ten minutes of trying to open it later, he found his resolve faltering though. Cat paws just weren’t good for turning round doorknobs, even with the advantage of knowing how they worked. And that didn’t even account for trying to just reach it. There were no convenient surfaces near the handle to stand on, so he spent most of those ten minutes just hopping up and down trying to reach it.

             As he found himself clinging to the knob with all four limbs trying desperately not to slide off, he finally conceded this probably wouldn’t work.

             Letting himself fall to the ground, he proceeded to sullenly slink to the rest of the apartment to search for an alternate route. He’d neglected to explore the apartment the previous day beyond the bathroom and the main living space, as he’d rather not look around a villain’s place too much. Beyond the whole “don’t intend to stay more than a day” thing, he didn’t really feel keen on the “invasion of privacy” thing. The man might be technically a villain, but honestly, Shouta viewed him as more of a nuisance than dangerous.

             After checking the window in the living room and confirming it would be even more of a hassle to open than the front door, he reluctantly turned his attention to the bedroom. The door was half-closed, and he felt apprehensive as he crept towards it because, again, invasion of privacy. He’d only sat outside the door that morning because Mic was being noisy and he was curious. He hadn’t been able to see a window then, but there could be one on the wall outside his view, and if he got lucky it would be open.  So he nudged open the door, looking around, and—

             ............

             That was a lot of Eraserhead merchandise.

             Shouta just stared at the collection of posters and other objects in the corner where two dressers met, as if staring would make it disappear or somehow become... something else. Anything else. But nope, it all stayed in place, from the folded shirt to the homemade banner with ‘ERASERHEAD’ written in large English letters.

             I don’t even HAVE merchandise. What the actual hell. Those looked like replicas of his capture weapon and goggles, though the color was slightly off, and... Was that a plushie of him? Hopping onto one of the dressers and prodding at the small doll curiously, he confirmed it was, indeed, a hand-made plushie of him.

              Mic returned several hours later to Sprinkles pawing at Shouta as he hid under the couch. Mic, naturally, just assumed Shouta was spooked and proceeded to spend about half an hour trying to coax him out. Shouta pointedly ignored his cooing and just remained curled up in the safe embrace of the darkness, wishing desperately he could unsee what he had seen.

              Day three of being a cat. Shouta had finally emerged from his spot under the couch to dine on more sardines, having resumed his usual cool demeanor after the initial shock and embarrassment at seeing the shrine. What shrine? Shouta saw absolutely no hand-made plushies or other merchandise of himself, Mic’s room was absolutely normal. Well, as normal as a bedroom belonging to Present Mic could be.

             More important than nonexistent merchandise, he was starting to wonder if the Quirk had a time limit. Was he doomed to be forever a cat? No, no, he’d give it a week before he started to panic. A lot of long-lasting Quirks had a week-long time limit, there was no reason to assume it didn’t have a limit. No need to freak out just yet—

             What was that spot?

             Shouta froze, transfixed by a yellowish dot moving on the floor next to him. Gaze following it intently, he tentatively slapped his paw over it, only for it to appear on top of it. He blinked in mild surprise, and when he withdrew his paw the spot didn’t move with it instead, remaining in the exact place on the floor.

             Had he been human he would have frowned at it, so for now he settled for squinting. What is this thing? After a few seconds the weird spot moved away and bounced in a small circle along the tile floor. Eyes narrowing, he slowly crept towards it and pounced again, only for it to once more appear atop his paw.

             Another confused blink, and he quickly retreated, circling it warily. He slowly reached out to tap it, watching the spot overlap with his dark fur before quickly withdrawing his paw. Nearby he heard Mic give a soft giggle, which he chose to ignore as he inspected  the spot more thoroughly. Obviously it wasn’t a bug, or even anything physical.

             Is it a light? he thought. It was the most reasonable explanation. But what kind of yellow light is that small and able to move like that? The only light he could think of were—wait.

             Shouta abruptly froze as the spot zoomed away, just staring into space as gears clicked into place in his mind.

             Did I seriously fall for a laser pointer? he thought in disbelief. Another soft giggle from Mic drew his attention to the blond, and he confirmed his suspicion instantly upon seeing him pointing a pen-like device towards the wall. His left hand pressed against his mouth as he watched the two cats from a distance, an amused smile peeking through his fingers.

             I fell for a laser pointer, Shouta mentally reiterated in mild shock.

             In his defense, his new eyes had a more limited range of color so he couldn’t exactly tell the light was red. Had he been able to see its color, he would’ve made the connection right away. Somehow, his newfound red-green colorblindness had slipped his mind with everything else going on. Come to think of it, that hideous shirt Mic wore yesterday might not actually be that hideous. Huh.

           As Shouta stared at him Mic’s smile faded, his hand lowering from his mouth as he frowned. He looked kind of... disappointed? Shouta blinked, briefly confused by the change in expression, until he saw the laser zoom past his paws again. Oh. Mic was still trying to play with him. Yeah, Shouta got pretty dejected too when his own cat lost interest.

             As he watched Mic’s shoulders slump he felt a twinge of guilt, and decided to take pity on the man. He abruptly spun and pounced onto the light, the laser bouncing wildly as Mic startled. As the laser swerved away and Shouta chased after it, he snuck a glance at Mic to find him grinning brilliantly, his eyes sparkling. That looked much better than the sad look he’d been sporting.

             Shouta was only doing this because he was bored. Cats had very limited options for mental stimulation, it was only logical to take advantage of a distraction when he had the chance. The fact it made Mic happy had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

              Day four of being a cat.

             Shouta was learning more about Mic than he ever wanted to, and not just because he was forced to inhabit the same space as the man. No, Mic had apparently decided that cats made perfect receptacles for venting.

             Shouta felt ready for a villain to burst through the wall and end his misery now as Mic laid on his bed, venting to him in a manner eerily reminiscent a teenage girl. The comparison was more apt than Shouta expected actually, given the man’s obsession with appearances and melodramatic tendencies in his villain persona. He kind of reminded him of an unholy fusion of Ashido and Jirou.

             So far he’d heard everything. Rants about the awful music selection played at the convenience store on the way to his job. The atrocious battery life of his cell phone and the hassle of carrying a charger everywhere. The apartment manager who always drew out and loudly over-enunciated her words after she first noticed his hearing aids, making it even harder to understand her (actually a valid grievance, Shouta admitted).

             And Shouta just sat there with a grumpy look, trying to convey his utter lack of interest through his sour glare. Part of him contemplated just leaving, but he had actually been quite comfortable sitting on this pillow before Mic came in and flopped onto the bed with an exasperated, “You won’t believe the day I’ve had!” Aside from the noise, this pillow was still quite comfortable, much moreso than the couch, which was worn enough he could feel the springs creak under his weight. So he just tried to ignore the venting.

             It was not as easy as he hoped.

             “—And then there’s my shitty job—god I hate that place!” the blond muttered, poking Shouta’s ear. His ear twitched away from the touch, just squinting at him with disdain. You seem to hate a lot of places, he thought sarcastically. “They treat me like shit!” Most “villains” would try destroy a place if they really hated it that much.

             “It’s all just so horrible!” the blond finished with a dramatic groan, while Shouta watched on with absolutely no sympathy. Screw this, the couch is lumpy but at least it’s quiet there. He was about to get up and leap away when the blond perked up, a bright smile lighting up his face. “But y’know what makes everything better?”

             No, what? Shouta thought sarcastically, knowing he’d find out either way.

             “Eraserhead!” Wait what? Shouta tensed at the mention of his name, staring wide-eyed and starting to feel rising panic as Mic began gushing about him. “Seeing him always makes me so much happier!” Okay, he really should have seen this coming, since the villain was pretty overt about his romantic intentions towards Shouta in... literally every encounter they had. “He’s my boyfriend y’know? Sooo cute!” Wait, wait, what—no, back up!! We’re not dating— “He kicks my ass a lot but only ’cuz that’s his job!”

             Don’t say it like! That makes it sound like an abusive relationship!! A distressed hiss nearly escaped Shouta, but it was silenced by the all-consuming panic and embarrassment that had gripped him. Mic had a dreamy-looking smile on his face, his eyes almost glittering as he loudly proclaimed, “I love him a lot!”

             Oh my god. He really IS a teenage girl. Shouta felt like he was watching a disaster movie play out in real time, and in a way he was. The disaster that was Mic’s delusional take of their relationship. Did this idiot even understand how healthy relationships worked!? Why do you even love me so much!?

             Maybe his feline features were more expressive than he thought, or maybe Mic was just in a mood to gush over him, because the blond gave a dreamy sigh and proceeded to elaborate.

             “Man, you should see him in action. He’s so graceful and agile, like a cat.” More literally than you know right now, Shouta thought sullenly. “And he totally doesn’t back down even if the other guy’s, like, ten times his size!” That would be a sixty-foot-tall person, Mic. That would be unrealistic and just makes me sound reckless. “And he manages to take them down with nothing but his skills and his awesome scarf!” I wish I could take down a sixty-foot-tall giant with just that.

             “And plus, he totally punched a reporter in the face this one time!” Mic continued, and that one admittedly caught Shouta’s attention. Usually people highlighted that incident as a bad one, not a good quality. “It’s just, there’s so many heroes out there who only seem to care about the press, y’know?

             “Don’t get me wrong, I love big and flashy stunts as much as the next guy—I mean, as long as I’m not, you know, actually facing All Might myself, haha, oh thank god he’s retired now and that won’t ever happen—but some of them just feel... hollow.” Mic waved his hand with a vague frown. muttering. “Like, they do it more for the cameras than a feeling of doing good, I guess?

             “But Eraserhead,” he breathed with a small smile, rolling onto his side to gaze at the totally nonexistent shrine as he rambled, “He doesn’t care about that stuff. He’s willing to put his life on the line to save everyone! Hell, that poster of him over there” which does not exist “doesn’t show it, but he has this big scar under his eye. Like this, see?”

             He twisted his torso to face Shouta again and traced a crescent-shaped line under his right eye, mirroring the one currently visible on Shouta’s face at that very moment, seriously how dense could a guy be!? “And you know how he got it?” Mic asked, and yes, he did. It was hard to forget having his face slammed into the pavement and ground against it by a Noumu while his students were watching nearby—

             “He got it protecting his students, barely even a full week after meeting them.”

             The sheer reverence in Mic’s voice silenced any snarky internal commentary, Shouta just blinking slowly. Any lingering traces of the dopey smile had faded by this point, replaced by a more serious look he rarely saw on the blond. “Eraserhead almost died then. I heard he was lucky to even still be able to see. I sent him a card of course, and took over his patrol route for him until he got better,” wait, was THAT why there wasn’t a massive spike in crime while he was gone, “but man, it was such a close call...”

             He sighed, letting his head flop back onto the mattress as he stared into space. “It’s just... He went to work expecting a normal day, and instead he ended up facing a giant ambush of, like, two dozen guys or more. And he just went in anyway, knowing he’d probably die. And that—that takes a lot of guts. Guts, and heart.”

             Shouta remained silent, just... staring at him. Slowly he slumped atop the pillow and rolled onto his side, staring into space. He had a lot to think about now.

              Night four of being a cat. Shouta was currently in Mic’s bed. Repeat: Shouta was currently in Mic’s bed.

             Don’t move, he silently commanded himself, staring wide-eyed into the darkness as he remained perfectly still. At some point after listening to Mic confess his undying love he’d fallen asleep, and apparently Mic had taken it as invitation to use him as a teddy bear. The sleeping blond had one arm tossed over Shouta essentially trapping him in place, the hero-turned-feline pressed close to his front. By “close”, he meant he could feel Mic’s breaths tickle the fur on his ears, feel his steady heartbeat against his back.

             Had he been human Shouta would probably be blushing right now. Actually, he might still be doing so underneath the thick fur judging by how warm his face felt. This was the most intimately close he’d gotten to another person in... well, ever. Aizawa Shouta was not a tactile person by any means. ...But even with his limited experience he’d never been this physically close to someone.

             They were sharing a pillow, for crying out loud!

             Part of him wanted to worm his way out and abscond to the couch, pretending this never happened, but... at the same time, he didn’t really want to move. Mic’s body felt so warm. The arm draped over Shouta didn’t feel heavy, but instead oddly comforting. The rhythm of Mic’s heartbeat and the steady rising and falling of his chest gently pushed against his back, providing a silent lullaby that put him strangely at ease.

             This was so illogical. Mic was a villain—well, more of a public nuisance, but still—Shouta shouldn’t feel so safe around him. But something about being pressed so close to the blond, half-covered by the blankets and with his head laying against the surprisingly soft pillow, just filled him with an odd sense of contentment.

             He could feel Mic shift in his sleep, unconsciously pulling Shouta just a little bit closer. “Soft,” he mumbled, the word slurred and quiet, barely recognizable, yet still full of a deep fondness that tugged at Shouta’s heart. He exhaled slowly before closing his eyes, willing the tension to fade from his body as he curled a little closer to Mic.

             Just one night won’t be too bad. I just need to make sure he never finds out I’m the cat.

              Day five of being a cat. Shouta took back anything nice he ever said about Mic.

             “How do you like your new bowtie Puddles?” Mic asked enthusiastically, hugging a very unenthusiastic Shouta with a giant grin.

             “Mow,” he replied dejectedly. This is the worst thing I’ve had to endure in my entire life.

             “I agree!” Mic proclaimed cheerfully.

             “Mow.” No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be doing this to me.

             Now that he was aware of his current colorblindness, Shouta had no idea what the bow tie actually looked like, but he didn’t think any color scheme could make it look less tacky. It had polka dots. Nemuri might claim Shouta had a horrific fashion sense (not that he cared enough to agree or disagree), but even he acknowledged that a polka dot bowtie was the epitome of stupid looking.

             Sprinkles mewed loudly as she pawed at Mic’s leg, blinking up at them with those large green eyes of hers. Similar to Shouta, she also wore a bowtie, this one a sparkly sequined thing that might be either green or pink. Unlike him, Mic positioned it so the bow was on the back of her neck, which Shouta found to be a perfectly practical and overall lovely choice for a female cat. Clearly she was used to being dressed up, as she made no fuss over it.

             “What’s that, Sprinkles?” Mic asked, bending down and finally releasing Shouta from his hold. Shouta promptly began tugging at the bowtie with his paw, silently cursing his lack of opposable thumbs to aid in removing it. His tiny toes couldn’t get a good enough grip to do anything but pat it, much to his dismay.

             While he sulked over that Mic held out his arms, Sprinkles jumping into his hold without further prompting. As she did her poofy tail coincidentally whacked Shouta in the face, making him jolt and sneeze. He shot her a sour look, while Mic just laughed as he swept her up and hugged her to his chest. “Hey, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he accused playfully. The white feline meowed and bumped her head against his chin, eyes sliding shut as she purred.

             The accusation made Shouta’s eyes narrow, his glare growing harsher. Mic snickered at his expression before turning his attention back to Sprinkles, his grin softening to something more gentle and fond. “I get what you’re doing. You’re just jealous of all the attention I’m giving Puddles, aren’t you?” He adjusted his grip to scratch her chin and Sprinkles seemed to melt in his arms at the attention, a look of pure bliss on her face. “But you don’t need to be jealous. You’re still my adorable sweetheart.”

             As he watched the pair Shouta felt his ire melt away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment. The love and adoration in Mic’s face as he gazed down upon Sprinkles was nothing but genuine, the relaxed slump to her body an indication of total trust and happiness.

             A guy who cares about cats that much can’t be that bad, he thought to himself quietly.

             Half an hour later, he rescinded that thought when Mic posed with him and Sprinkles, all three wearing matching hats and bowties as he tried to angle his phone for a good selfie. He silently vowed to get his paws on that phone and dump it in the toilet as soon as he had the chance.

              Day six of being a cat.

             Mic had returned from his job a few minutes prior, which was just as well since Shouta had unfortunately confirmed that operating a laser pointer without thumbs was hard. He had a feeling Sprinkles had been more frustrated by the erratic movement and blinking of the dot than usual during his attempts to play with her. At some point she’d clocked onto Shouta as being the source of her frustration, because she had decided to ignore the laser in favor of jumping at him.

             “Wow, you two did a lot of roughhousing today, huh?” Mic asked as he sat on the floor with Sprinkles in his lap, running a brush through her fur. Strands of black had gotten mixed into her otherwise pristine white coat, the usually fluffy and silky texture more ruffled and messy from their small wrestling match. Shouta himself looked no better; he could see white furs spot his paws, almost seeming to glow against his own pitch black coat.

             He had taken refuge atop a cabinet in the far corner to get away from Sprinkles, and now took advantage of his vantage point to just... observe them. Mic clearly brushed Sprinkles often judging by her reaction. She purred contently as he gently dragged the brush along her head, her ears briefly flattening beneath the bristles before popping back into their usual perky position. She leaned into the strokes, arching her back slightly while her cheek rubbed against his chest.

             The sheer love in Mic’s expression was visible to anyone, his smile so much softer than Shouta ever thought the loud and hyper man to be capable of. Plucking a few lingering strands of black fur, he set the brush down and lightly nudged her off his lap. Sprinkles hopped off his lap and strutted away, the blond watching with obvious fondness.

             Those warm green eyes turned to Shouta, making him stiffen. “Okay, your turn,” he said, patting his lap invitingly. When Shouta didn’t move he got up and walked over, stopping next to the cabinet. “Come on, time to get down.”

             “...Mrow,” Shouta responded in a surprisingly meek way. I would, but I’m kinda stuck, he thought sheepishly. Climbing the cabinet had been one thing, but now that he was on top of it... well, the drop to the floor looked much higher than he thought.

             This is so illogical, he thought sulkily. As a human he’d made plenty of larger jumps (with the support of his capture weapon of course), but as a cat the drop seemed a lot bigger. He also lacked the fine-tuned reflexes and familiarity with his body he’d developed from years of training with it, so he felt considerably less confident about his ability to safely jump from such a height without hurting himself in some way.

             Mic seemed to pick up on his unease, a small frown settling on his face. “Hey, Puddles, are you nervous?” he asked. “Here, come on, just hop on down. I’ll catch you, okay?” He held out his arms, and Shouta blinked, slow and catlike. Seriously? He was asking a cat to jump into his arms? The rational part of him scoffed, since he knew a normal cat wouldn’t be able to understand such a thing.

             But... the less rational, cat-loving part of him, understood. How many times had he tried to coax a cat to jump down from a branch, to leap right into his open arms, logic be damned? Seeing that earnest look on the blond’s face, the encouraging little smile silently asking him to trust him... It made something feel content in Shouta’s chest.

             And so, he jumped.

             His jump was clumsy and awkward, his mobility just as hindered by his lack of familiarity with this body as he suspected. One of his hind paws ended up catching on the edge of the cabinet, turning a would-be graceful leap into a fumbling tumble. Mic shot forward and caught him, the drop to his arms nowhere near as long as it would be to the floor.

             Shouta blinked dumbly as he stared up at the blond, cradled almost like an infant. He had a perfect view of the blond’s smile, relief clear in his face. “Oof! Almost slipped there! Don’t worry though, I got ya buddy.” He carried Shouta over to where he’d left the brush and sat on the floor, rolling Shouta onto his stomach with the feline settled in his lap. He picked up the brush and pulled off the fur already caught in the bristles before he began running it through Shouta’s fur, the strokes light and gentle.

             Shouta tensed, memories of painful attempts to brush his own hair flashing through his mind. Tugging his brush through particularly bad knots sometimes felt just as painful as getting slammed into the wall by a villain, and he didn’t look forward to feeling it all over his body. To his surprise the strokes were light and gentle though, each one strangely soothing, and—dare he say it... nice.

           He practically melted in Mic’s lap as the bristles stroked through his thick fur, Mic using his free hand to pluck individual white furs that the brush couldn’t capture. “I bet you’ve never been brushed before, have you?” he mused aloud. “You look like you’ve lived your whole life on the streets, you poor thing. Don’t worry though, those days are over.”

             Shouta gave a throaty hum, his eyelids sliding shut. It was exactly the kind of thing he had told his own cat when he’d first brought her home, some distant part of his mind noted. He didn’t know how much time passed with Mic brushing him, his mind slipping into a content haze.

             It felt like all too soon Mic finished, setting the brush down. He didn’t nudge Shouta off just yet like he did with Sprinkles though, instead pulling Shouta into a small hug. The mellow haze which had consumed his senses lifted slightly at that, a single golden eye peeking open as he felt the blond scratch his ear.

             “Hard to believe it’s been a little under a week since I found you.” Mic had a gentle smile as he stared down at Shouta, his eyes soft and lidded. “It already feels like you’ve been part of the family a lot longer.” His hand fell away from Shouta’s head, joining his other arm to wrap around him in a slightly tighter hug. “It might be silly, but I’m glad you’re here—it gets quite lonely at times. Pathetic, I know.”

             The blond gave a self-deprecating chuckle while Shouta just sat in his arms, staring forward blankly. Right now, he could feel nothing but pure love radiating from Mic, his genuine and powerful fondness for what he believed to be a normal cat quite evident despite only knowing “Puddles” for less than a week. And hearing him call himself pathetic so easily didn’t sit right with Shouta.

             Before he knew it he’d twisted in Mic’s hold and bumped his head against the man’s chest, purring lowly as he rubbed his head against him. He could feel the blond perk up, sitting a little straighter. “Oh! You’re a cuddly kitty!”

             Shouta just kept purring, eyes sliding shut as he felt the blond gently scratch his back.

             This, he thought distantly, was contentment. This was happiness. Just being in the arms of someone who cared about you, and showing you cared about them back, even if just a little.

             Maybe being stuck as a cat wasn’t so bad after all.

              Morning seven found Shouta rousing to consciousness slowly, his eyes feeling crusted shut and refusing to open. His muscles felt notably more sore than they had the past week, making him groan lowly and curl up a little tighter. Ugh, stupid cat body... He forced his eyes to blink open, and for a moment he was confused.

             Doesn’t the room seem a bit... brighter? He frowned, squinting blearily at the shrine (not a shrine, what shrine, those were just random posters of a random guy who happened to resemble him) which seemed a bit more colorful than he remembered. The sand crusting his eyes made it hard to focus, and he reached a hand to rub it away before pausing. Wait a minute, is my hand human?

             Behind him Hizashi slowly stirred to consciousness as the mattress shifted, a distant part of his mind registering it dip heavily to the side. A sleepy little moan slipped past his lips, barely audible to even the keenest ears, his eyes drowsily fluttering open to see something dark and furry in front of his face.

             Puddles? he thought hazily, but as his vision came into focus his still-drowsy mind quickly registered that it was not his feline. No, it was the back of a human head, a man sitting up on the other side of his bed. A flash of peach near the blankets drew his eyes to an arm with a starburst-shaped scar on the elbow, the blanket falling slightly as the man lifted his torso and wait his back was totally bare, holy shit this guy’s totally naked and he’s in my bed. Any lingering drowsiness vanished instantly as he bolted upright.

             “What the fuck!?” Hizashi screamed as he bolted upright, Quirk unconsciously activating in his shock.

           Shouta flinched and sat straight up, his hair whipping around his face in the voice-fueled blast of wind as he gripped the blanket against his chest. Well, the Quirk finally wore off at least. Okay, he doesn’t have his glasses yet. Hopefully he won’t be able to recognize you and you can just run before he gets them—

              “Wait, wha—ERASERHEAD!?”

             So much for that. As Mic’s voice devolved into a high-pitched squeak of horror Shouta rubbed at his eyes with a quiet groan, doing his best to ignore the sudden silence that fell over the room. After a few seconds past he turned his head slightly to look at the blond, finding him staring at him with an ashen look of shock and disbelief, mouth open but for once producing absolutely no noise. Only took waking up next to me in bed to finally get him to shut up.

             “So,” Shouta said awkwardly. “Got any pants I could borrow?”

[shamelessselfpromotingsite]

Free Read I hope you love my short story below.  If so, please review it on my twitter account or here. @lindeenen.  Enjoy THIRTEEN By Linda Deenen Thirteen claps, fingers fully extended, not to fast, not too slow, followed by thirteen emphatic blinks. This is how I start every new activity. It’s not lost on me how ridiculous I appear to anyone forced to watch this senseless ritual.  Hell, I don’t want to watch this senseless ritual, let alone perform it, but I’m powerless to stop.  Two years ago, after the death of my husband, the clapping started.  Thirteen, no more no less.   Yes, of course, I saw my doctor. (My boss politely insisted.) Doc assured me it was a traumatic stress disorder manifested from my grief and said I should give it time.   Time didn’t help. Instead of getting rid of the clapping, my routine expanded to include thirteen comically precise blinks, performed immediately post clap. This new affliction didn’t garner as much sympathy,as you might think. People around me, now suspecting it was an attention getting tactic, were becoming annoyed. My physician soon recommended I speak to a psychiatrist to help resolve the internal conflict I was having.  Personally, I think she was incapable of sitting through one more appointment with me and passed me on for another to bear. Thirteen claps and thirteen blinks.  The psychiatrist found it fascinating. The specific number and precise aspect of my affliction were things he hadn’t encountered before, but was certain we could figure out together.   “Do you feel uneasy if you don’t clap thirteen times exactly?” he asks me, inquisitive eyes boring into mine.  “Have you tried twelve times to see if that would work as well?”   A lock of dark hair breaks away from the carefully coiffed style and slides attractively over his arched eyebrow. His lips are pursed, expression concerned, his head nodding encouragingly as I explain I’m unaware of when the clapping will start or stop. He appears less sympathetic when I reveal that the act leaves me no more or less satisfied than I’d been before. Neither did it relieve stress nor create euphoria. His jaw drops with outright disbelief, when I mention that the episodes occur even while I’m sleeping and actually wake me up. “Most, uh, no, that’s not right.” He struggles “Really, I have to say all of the syndromes I’ve treated over the years were initiated by the patient.  They might be in denial and blame something else, but ultimately, with my help, they realize they’ve created these behaviors to counteract a buildup of anxiety within them. “   He shifts his bulk uncomfortably in the massive black leather chair and feigns interest in a small squeak from the cushion. I assume he’s searching for the correct words to tell me I’m crazy. Not a surprise really, I suspected as much and would actually be happy with a confirmation. “Ahem” Having given up on the inscrutable creak, he clears his throat and pontificates.  “The subconscious mind is quite capable of bringing things to the surface when we aren’t paying attention, for example,” he gestures sideways, “sleeping.   Thoughts, memories, that kind of thing, but initiating gross motor movements, like clapping, shouldn’t happen.” He lowers his chin and peers at me from under his bushy eyebrows. I smile and shrug.   “You’re likely waking up anyway when you start the clapping routine.” The corners of his mouth turn up as he intertwines his fingers and rests them on his plentiful paunch certain the mystery is solved. “Do you understand?” I understand. He thinks I’m either faking or exaggerating. Been there, heard that. I smile and shrug. He glances at his watch, probably hoping my session is finished.  It isn’t, there’s still an hour left.  He emits a loud sigh. “I won’t be able to help you if you aren’t open with me and since you either can’t or won’t discuss your feelings, I think we should try hypnotherapy.”  He stands up smoothing out the wrinkles in his tan linen pants. “Why don’t we move to the couch so you can lie down.” I knew I shouldn’t be flip, but given his pompous attitude, I can’t help myself.  As soon as the clapping and blinking stops… I smile and shrug. He rubs roughly at his scalp as if something there is bothering him. Mission accomplished, I stand up and move to the couch. When the clapping and blinking allows, I close my eyes and focus on his voice directing me to relax. I’m just acknowledging that the tone and cadence of his voice might actually put me to sleep, when I hear him insisting that I open my eyes. When I do, he’s standing above me, forcefully snapping his fingers and calling my name. I want to sit up in response to his emphatic request, but I’m unable to comply.  None of my muscles respond, not even to clap or blink.   I’m not unsympathetic to his distress at my not obeying his demands, but this is something I haven’t experienced before… inertia. My life has changed dramatically in the two years since my husband’s death, and not for the better. I lost my job for spending too much time performing a ritual that not only disrupted my performance but that of all those around me. Worse than the job was the loss of my constant companion, my beloved Australian Sheppard, Kitty, who stood by my side at the funeral home and the gravesite, giving me support.   Yeah, that one sucked, but my clapping and blinking was eating up so much of my time, I had none left to take him on walks or even feed him.   Grab his bowl – blinking – get the leash – clapping – put on a shoe, blinking, etc., you get the picture, and It’s not like I just left him on a street corner or something. Hmm… well I guess I kind of did. I gave him to the homeless guy who had installed himself at the off ramp near my home.  It seemed like a win – win to me.  Kitty would get walked back and forth all day and the homeless guy would attract more sympathy because he had another mouth to feed. My point being, it seemed to the doctors and even to me, that at least some of these events should have caused me stress, but, not so.  Except for the clapping and blinking, I’m having the time of my life.  Of course, I am using the life word loosely, because the here and now is where I am.   Sleeping, I don’t dream, awake, I have no memories or regrets and I don’t waste any time looking forward.   Emerging from my self-indulgent reverie, I notice the psychiatrist is red in the face and has given up snapping. Maybe his fingers cramped? But he still, obviously wants me to get my ass off his couch. I give it a try and, surprise, surprise, the clapping starts, only this time, it’s not thirteen precise claps, it’s a frantic slapping of limp palm flesh against limp palm flesh, in a flurry of unstoppable blows.  What the hell, this is fantastic.  I can hardly wait for the blinking to start. The psychiatrist, apparently unwilling to wait for the astonishing show my blinking will make, grabs my hands, which immediately puts a stop to the clapping.   I wait. I wait.   Nope, no blinking starts.  A shiver of disappointment at having been denied this heretofore unseen spectacle, rushes through me.  Seriously, what is wrong with me? I’ve obviously given up control to the seriously stricken psychiatrist, because he has raised me up from his couch, taking time for a quick glance to make sure I haven’t soiled his lounge, and moved me forward to my previous perch by his desk. Suprisingly,  he doesn’t reclaim his position of authority upon his leather throne, but maintains his unwelcome hold on my appendages and kneels before me like a peasant in supplication. I want to look away but for the first time in recent memory, I have a shaky, queasy feeling I assume is the one called, anxiety.  Fearful now, my heart beats fit to burst, and I desperately try to pry my fingers out of his sweaty grip. “Don’t panic,” his warm breath flutters on my cheek and he moves his hands on top of mine, pressing them heavily into my thighs.   I’m positive if he releases them,  thirteen claps will appear, but he doesn’t give them a chance.  As if reading my thoughts, he presses harder into my legs. “I can see you’re feeling uneasy, but I would like you to do something for me” his insipid, half smile looks hopeful. Not likely, my inside voice quips, but focusing is getting tough. Another time, I might have enjoyed the wobbliness of feeling semi drunk but now, I am concerned. Uneasy? I’ll see your uneasy and raise you one hysteria. Heat is streaking up my limbs, threatening to vaporize me. I have a primal urge to flee.  I order my legs to stand, but not one neuron makes an effort to perform this feat and I remain a prisoner in my body. “Can you  picture your husband, before he became ill. While his body was being ravaged by cancer, you had many conversations with him about his impending death and how much he wanted you to survive.”  I could feel the hair on the back of my head moving softly back and forth.  Was he patting me? I really need to leave. Even the years of clapping, blinking, clapping, blinking, did not distress me llike this, in this moment, I’m terrified.  I don’t know why, but I can definitely identify this emotion as terror.  What’s happening? Dully, I understand that while I have been focusing on my terror and need to get out of here, a sticky, heavy haze has oozed in my right ear and is blanketing my thoughts.   Nope, not happening, no friggin way. I’m in control and I ‘m going to leave. I see now, I made a huge mistake coming here today and as I am apologizing to the doctor for taking up his valuable time (huge effort expended vocalizing that lie by the way), he interrupts me. “Julie, you know this body is not yours” he proclaims loudly as he stands, hands on hips, legs spread defiantly. “What the #**k?  I don’t have to sit here and listen to these ravings.” Well, ultimately I do, because nothing works yet, no feet, no legs and definitely no arms or I’d clock him up the side of his head - no hollow apology to follow. “Julianna, now is the time to assert yourself.”  He looks remarkably like a tent gospel healer ,raising his arms over his head while making this proclamation.  I wonder stupidly if my smiling might help him out. He seems pretty upset. “If you don’t at least try, you’ll remain a prisoner of this pseudo-personality for the rest of your life.” I’m having trouble figuring out who the heck he’s talking to, or about, since my focus is still slipping.  I don’t like being called Julianna. My name is Julie. Why’s he not calling me Julie? “Your husband showered you with his love and trusted you to recover.  You’ve let him down.”  The doc is sitting on the side of his desk now accenting his points by pounding on the dark wood. I’m furious. “Stop it.  Stop talking to me!  We’re happy the way we….” What? What did I say?  We?  We who? “No, I misspoke, I meant I. I’m happy the way I am.” But still he continues. “Under hypnosis, I met the real Julianna. I know you want to be free.  You told me that when Tom died, it felt safer to let Julie take over, and I understand that impulse.”  His voice feels cool, like a summers rain, soothing, but dangerous, as if concealing a shaft of lightening, waiting to strike. I just know this train isn’t stopping any time soon.  The doctor adjusts his tie, tugs on the gold tip of his belt, confident, and gaining momentum. “Julianna, you didn’t just hide, you disappeared and when you wanted to come back, it was too late.  Julie was too strong.  She has no interest in your life and does whatever amuses her day to day. “ “One day you managed to push through enough to make your hands clap.  Thirteen times. One for each year you and Tom were married.  But no one paid attention and focused on the other signs Julie was exhibiting.  They couldn’t know clapping was just the tip of the iceberg.  You got a little stronger when Julie’s boss forced her to see a doctor and you were able to move your eyelids as well.”   He slides down to a squat in front of me and I see him touch my knee, but I don’t feel it. Funny. “You’d have won this battle eventually Julianna, but it might have taken years.  Now, with hypnotherapy, I’ve seen you and I won’t let that happen.  The time is now, Julianna, now, please.” I’m using all accessible effort to keep my sluggish attention on the shrink because I deem him to be the immediate threat. Wrong! All this time, covertly, I’m being pressed gently, but steadily out of the light and into a dim corridor of interminable length. My heart rate quickens but then I realize, it doesn’t feel that bad, being in the cool dark, and for a second or 2,  I’m seduced into relaxing the emotional control I’ve maintained for two years. With my eyes closed, I see a crack has appeared in my wall. I know I need to shore it up but a friendly soft breeze floats across my cerebellum and feels amazing. I succumb and allow myself to be beguiled and soothed. When the sensation ends, a deep sigh escapes my lips and I try to raise myself to my former level of attention.  It’s not there! I try again, squinting my face with effort, but I can make nothing work. Within that brief respite, I allowed myself to be conveyed.  Now you’d think I would have an answer to “Conveyed where?” but I don’t.  I’ve no sense of what or where I am, except for the certainty that I’m in a confinement.  Am I doing this? I whisper to myself. I attempt to sense the edges of my inky cubby; it feels the size of a postage stamp. A tiny stamp hidden away in the corner of some museum, never to be found.  Sounds are all dampened and dull, as if the energy has been sucked out of them. Adrenaline floods my system in fear of my invisible shackles; it pumps and beats looking for a way to escape my body. I can scarcely make out the form of the psychiatrist now.  He appears to still be talking. No surprise there, I reassure myself as I impotently battle to maintain control. With no limbs available to me, my battleground is the grey matter nestled in my skull.   With sticky toes, I climb one wiggly hill after the other, moving forward to the front, where I used to live.  Each footfall squishes deeper, preventing me from gaining ground. I rest, trying to sense the doctor. I find him, an indistinct presence, very close. But now, I discern he’s got a smile on his face, and he’s holding someone’s hand, saying “Welcome back Julianna.” My vision goes black, I want to reach up to see if my eyes have been gouged out, but my hands are stuck in the viscous guck separating the lobes. The effort is too much. It’s all too much and as I allow my cheek to finally rest on the neural tissue and dendrites that surround me, I hardly notice as I disappear.

[until-theend-oftheline]

Romantic Annoyance

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Squares Filled: Engagement for @marvelfluffbingo and “Come here and kiss me, Dummy” for @goodthingshappenbingo (mcu rpf)

Warnings: Traveling sucks. A jump scare.      

Word Count: 2500ish

A/N: I was having Chris feels… And Scott stars a bit too cause why not!

Betaed by: @queen-of-the-avengers - Thank you Jordan!

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

Normally, you loved your job. More than that, it was part of who you were. You loved telling people’s stories. You loved fighting with your words and laptop against the injustice of the world. You were opinionated and fiery, and you still had yet to come across a rich white guy or a politician that scared you. You were a reporter and you were damn proud of it. 

Today, as you sat on the crowded plane flying business class to Spain where you were supposed to cover a political conference and interview a guy who supposedly had some big secrets to tell. Your boss had been vague and truthfully when it came to the really big stories that were usually the way that she was, but today it annoyed you. 

You had dropped everything and jumped the plane because she asked you too, just like always. But this time it wasn’t completely without regret. Actually, it was with a lot of regret, and as the toddlers behind you threw the third toy to the back of your neck, you sighed wishing you were back in the Boston airport. 

You loved your job, but it kept you apart from your boyfriend, who also had a job that took him all over the world, far too much. Chris Evans was an actor and had spent the past eight weeks in South Africa shooting his newest movie. You had spent most of those eight weeks at home in Boston following up on a few different stories for the Globe. Sometimes, you were able to do the job you were proud of and stay fairly close to home. 

As soon as the plane touched the ground, you sighed deeply.  Of course, the eight weeks where Chris was on another continent, was the eight weeks you had barely had to leave Boston, and the day he was due to return home had been the day you had been ordered to a third continent yourself. Sometimes you were wondering how the two of you had made it this far.

You knew those thoughts were only you missing him. Chris was an amazing man, and he always made sure the two of you spent time together. Even when he had to travel with you across the world when he finally had time off to relax. You had gotten better at saying no, and valuing your free time with both your families. 

You sighed once more as you got into the taxi, heading towards the hotel your boss had booked for you. Traffic was awful, and you soon realize you’d probably had to spend a good few hours in the cab, especially since the driver didn’t seem to have a clue where he was going. 

You groaned to yourself after trying to point him in the right direction a few times, but soon gave up when he rambled about short cuts and backroads. Deciding it was pointless, you leaned back and looked out the window, taking in the city. At least it was your boss paying the bills, and you didn’t have to cash out for the long way round cab ride. 

You closed your eyes, trying to relax. It had been a stressful morning, to say the least. Your boss had called you early this morning, making you rush into the office hardly without getting your morning coffee. You had tried to vessel out of the assignment, but she had guilted you into taking it anyway which meant rushing back home to pack while trying to arrange a dog sitter for Dodger. 

Chris had left his dog in your care these past few weeks, and up until now it had been absolutely no problem, but you didn’t want to leave the pupper alone for you didn’t know how many hours until Chris made it back home tonight. Finally, you had managed to get a hold of Scott, who for some reason always seemed incapable of hurrying up. He was an absolute sweetheart, but he was one of the most laid back while still peppy people you had ever met. You weren’t sure how that combination was possible within one personality but it was in Scott, who always managed to make you laugh but also even later than you already were as he kept trying to sneak fancy clothes and bikinis into your suitcase. 

“Scotty! I’m going there to do actual work. Not to work on my tan,” you whined as you tried to regain control of your packing, but no such luck. 

“Who knows, you might meet some hot guy over there,” Scott shrugged, and jumped when your fist landed against his upper arm. “Hey!”

“I’ve been dating your brother for three years now you idiot. We practically live together. I’m not gonna meet any hot guys,” you scolded, making Scott bend over laughing. You shook your head deciding Scott had to have lost his mind. 

Somehow you managed to make it to the airport just in time, kissing Scott’s cheek and telling him thank you for the ride before ruffling Dodger’s head and rushing towards the terminal. You didn’t see Scott smirking after you or how he quickly fished his phone out of his pocket as you ran to the desk to get your passport stamped and board your plane.

All you could think about as the cab finally pulled up in front of the hotel was that you hadn’t been able to reach Chris all day or even tell Scott when you’d be back home. You’re already shitty mood hadn’t improved when the manager at the front desk told you no rooms had been booked, and they didn’t have any rooms available. You had been on the verge of tears, which was not like you at all when he told you all the hotels in town were booked for the political convention, you were there to cover. Being this emotional over something as stupid as an overbooked city and a fault in your booking wasn’t normally something that would get to you. You were a practical person, and usually, you’d have gone into problem-solving mode and figure something out. Right then, however, it was all you could do to keep your tears at bay as you thought about Chris’ comfortable huge bed and his arms that could have been wrapped around you for the first time in weeks had you just stood your ground this morning and said no. 

The manager at the hotel looked almost panicked when they realized yours were fighting back your tears. He quickly told you he had a friend that might be able to help. He rented outhouses by the beach, and there was a chance he had something available. 

You thanked him profusely as he hung up the phone, scribbling down an address for you before handing it over. You had tried to pay him, but the man had refused, telling you his friend would drop by within a day or two to sort it all out with you. It was incredibly generous, and you knew you should be happy, but you weren’t. You just wanted to fly back home. You wanted to see your boyfriend and cuddling bed, and not on some stupid assignment in an overpacked big European city.    

You drew a sigh of relief when the cab pulled up in front of the beach house. It was secluded and kinda perfect for when you had to write up your article or just go through whatever research you’d end up doing. You paid the cabby and thanked him before throwing your backpack over your shoulder and dragging your suitcase behind you. You never packed this heavy normally, but thanks to Scott you didn’t pack like a reporter going on assignment, but as a girl going to a sunny beach or honeymoon with her hot husband. 

You groaned in annoyance as you managed to drag the bags up the stairs before dropping them inside the door. You closed your eyes, leaning against the hallway and letting out a deep breath as you wished you could just go to sleep rather than starting prepping for the convention you knew nothing about and were going to attend tomorrow. 

Suddenly, your heart stopped in your chest as you noticed a flicker of light from the private beach across the hallway and dark living room. Maybe someone was still here and the guy had given you the wrong house number? Or maybe someone had just decided to squat in the empty vacation home?

You felt your stomach do a flip as panic started to settle in you. You looked around the dark house, but there was no indication anyone was here except for the flickering lights on the beach. You took a deep breath, slowly moving towards the patio doors. 

You froze when you heard ruffling outside. Someone was definitely here. You weren’t sure what possessed you to bend over and take off one of your shoes, raising it over your head as a weapon as you slowly pushed the door open. 

Before you had a chance to comprehend what was going on, a man jumped away from the door to prevent being hit by it. You screamed in surprise by the sudden movement and flung your shoe at his face before he could say anything. You turned around, ready to run for safety before stopping after only a few steps. 

“Ow! Fuck!” the man grumbled, making you freeze and slowly turn back around.

“Chris! What the hell are you doing here?” you scolded, still not over your shook as you quickly approached him. You reached up and removed his hand from the side of his face where you assumed your shoe must have hit him. An angry red mark was forming, but thankfully, you hadn’t broken the skin. 

“A shoe, Baby? Really? Suddenly, I’m worried about you traveling alone so much,” Chris joked, clearly not mad about you almost taking out his eye. Lucky for him, you always traveled in flats.

“Well strange men don’t usually show up at the places I rent,” you rolled your eyes before realizing how strange it really was that he was here. 

“How did you even know? The travel was last second, and the hotel was fully booked. No one knows I am here, not even my boss…” you ranted, stopping when you saw the smirk on Chris’ face. Before he had the chance to say anything, you felt the anger build inside you. You weren’t sure if it was from being scared shitless not a moment ago or from the stressful day you had getting here. 

“There is no job is there?” you hissed, ignoring the surprise on Chris’ face with how harsh your tone had grown. “I haven’t been able to reach you all day because you made my boss fake a job so I would get on a plane, battle the Spanish traffic to a hotel only to be told they were fully booked which I am sure wasn’t true either was it?” 

You only stopped long enough for Chris to shake his head. You didn’t take in how mortified and apologetic he looked before you continued your rant. “And then I get here, and I think there is a burglar or squatter or something in the house, which is in the middle of nowhere I might add, and I have zero clue who to call to not get killed. Chris have you lost...”

You suddenly spotted the beach behind Chris, and you stopped with a gasp. The flicker of lights you had seen had been candles. Candles that spelled out the words “Marry Me?” Suddenly all the emotions from stress, to fear, to sorrow to anger to happiness, you had been feeling throughout the day, became too much as tears started flowing down your cheeks. 

A look of absolute panic appeared on Chris’ face when he saw you start to cry. He quickly took a step towards you, fiddling with his hands, clearly not sure if it was okay for him to touch you with how angry you had just been with him a second ago. 

“Y/N/N, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for the day to be this stressful for you. I didn’t think… I just wanted to surprise you. I’m so sorry,” Chris ranted before a single word from you made him stop. 

“Yes,” you whispered, not really paying attention to Chris’ stream of words as you just looked at the beach behind him. 

“What?” 

You slowly turned to Chris’, laughing at the look of absolute confusion and disbelief on his face. “Yes. I’ll marry you. Come here and kiss me, dummy.”

“You…” Chris blinked and shook his head as if he was trying to comprehend what had just happened and then he started laughing himself. He stepped towards you, wrapping you in his arms and pressing a tender kiss to your lips, before pulling back to fish a small black velvet box out of his pocket. 

“This is really not how I pictured this,” Chris mumbled, lowering himself down to one knee, causing you to laugh again. 

“I already said I’ll marry you, you goof,” you teased and Chris’ pulled a face at you.

“Just let me do this woman,” he playfully growled, and you bit your lip, trying to hold back your laughter as happiness bubbled in your chest. 

“I know being with me is not always easy. I’m spontaneous, and I, in some ways, stopped maturing past twelve,” Chris confessed, and you could no longer hold back your laughter as you ran your fingers through his long hair. 

“Only in the best ways,” you interrupted him, biting your lip, not looking the least bit apologetic when he sent you a playful glare. 

“You’re infuriating and stubborn. I’m annoying constantly wanting to surprise you. Our jobs make everything seem impossible at times, but this still works. I love you and I feel whole when I’m with you. You’re my missing piece Baby, and nothing would make me happier than if you’d be my wife?” Chris’ opened the box and showed you a simple silver diamond ring. 

You felt yourself tear up again and the sight of him holding it, looking up at you with so much hope and love in those beautiful blue eyes of his. You nodded, sniffling and quickly drying your eyes with the back of your one hand and offering him the other. 

“Yes. I’ll be your wife,” you smiled, and Chris quickly put the ring on your finger as if he was scared you’d regret your words if he didn’t seal them quickly. 

You laughed as Chris jumped to his feet, wrapping you in his strong arms. He lifted you off the ground and spun you around laughing, as you squealed with equal amounts of surprise and happiness. He gently lowered you back to your feet, kissing you passionately. The world around you stopped turning. In that moment, all that mattered was Chris and his silent promise of an amazing life together. 

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Chris Evans Tag Team

@feelmyroarrrr @princess-evans-addict @roxyspearing @jewels2876 @girl-next-door-writes @hellaqueerangelofthelord @danijimenezv @becs-bunker @smoothdogsgirl @blacktithe7 @grace-for-sale  @averyrogers83 @sorenmarie87 @docharleythegeekqueen @erosbellarke  @the-wayward-robot @super100012 @myfanficlibrarium @awkwardfangirl2014 @dottirose @panicatttckiss @kimmiestrawberrykiwi

[musette22]

Kiss the Boy

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Rating: G

Word count: 1419

A/N: Fic number two in my 700 followers celebration! I’ll be posting a short fic every Sunday for the next four weeks. A while ago (like, last year lol) I had a conversation with someone on here (pretty sure it was @safire182??) about that interview where Sebastian admitted he tried picking up girls with his rendition of ‘Under the Sea’ from the Little Mermaid. I wanted to see what would happen when he tried it on Chris. So, it took a little while, but here’s the fic - short but (hopefully) sweet! ❤

Read it on AO3

The blinds in Chris’s trailer are adorned with a hundred and twelve tiny, printed daisies. He knows this because he’s counted them. Twice.

With a heavy sigh, he picks up a pillow and puts it over his face, idly considering smothering himself with it. He’s just so bored.

He doesn’t usually get bored because there’s always some adventurer’s biography to read, some political travesty to rant about, but in his current hungover state he doesn’t think he can summon the mental energy for any of that. They’re doing a night shoot for The First Avenger today, meaning all the cast has the morning off. Which suits him fine in principle, since most of them went out on a bit of a bender the night before, but unfortunately, Chris is incapable of sleeping in when he’s had too much to drink. He’s been awake for three hours and already he’s going out of his mind.

On a whim, he digs his phone out from between the couch cushions and shoots Sebastian a quick text.

C: Bro, I’m bored. Are you bored?

Sebastian replies within thirty seconds.

S: OMG I AM SO BORED

C: Wanna come to my trailer and be bored together?

S: Omw

---

Being bored together is a lot less awful than being bored alone, but it still doesn’t change the fact that they’re both still bored as fuck. Usually, they’d be chatting a mile a minute, talking about everything from work to philosophy to space stuff, but today… You know, hangover.

“Let’s watch a movie?”

Slowly, Chris turns his head to look at Sebastian, who’s slumped next to him on the couch, long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him.

“Sebastian,” he says gravely, “you’re a genius.”

Huffing, Sebastian counters, “If I was, I wouldn’t have had those last three shots of tequila yesterday, now would I?”

Chris makes a face. “Meh, maybe not,” he grins. “So, what d’you wanna see?”

Seb rubs his tired eyes. “Nothing with explosions, please. My head’s doing a pretty good job of that all on its own.”

“Tell me about it,” Chris groans, cracking his neck and shoulders, then blows out a slow breath before casually suggesting, “So, Disney movie?”

Sebastian chuckles. When Chris just keeps looking at him expectantly, however, it seems to dawn on him that Chris is serious. “Really?” he asks, surprised, before suddenly snapping his fingers. “Oh yeah! You’re a huge Disney nerd.” He grins impishly. “How could I forget?”

Chris doesn’t even bother denying it. It’s not exactly a secret at this point, and besides, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Disney movies are works of art and he’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.

He hands Sebastian his laptop, open on Netflix. “You pick.” He’s feeling magnanimous.

A few minutes of humming and hawing later, Sebastian decides on The Little Mermaid.

“Oohh, excellent choice!” Chris crows, punching the air.

Sebastian winces. “It is?”

Chris nods and claps a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Did you know,” he says, leaning closer as if he’s letting him in on a secret, “that I know all the words to this one?”

---

Chris wasn’t kidding. He basically recites the whole first quarter of the movie verbatim, including all the different voices. Sebastian is reluctantly impressed.

When the first notes to Under the Sea start playing, Seb is suddenly hit with a memory from his childhood.

“You know,” he says, turning to Chris with a lazy grin, “I used to try and pick up girls with this song when I was little.”

Chris gives him a quizzical look. “As, like, Prince Eric? He’s not in this scene, is he?”  

Sebastian blinks. Does… Does Chris think he looks like Prince Eric? He can’t help but preen a little at that. He supposes he has got the hair for it. Still, that’s not what he meant, so he clarifies,

“No, no, as, you know – Sebastian?” He snaps his hands in his best impression of a crab.

“Oh my god,” Chris breathes, delighted. “That’s incredible. So how did that work out for baby Seb, huh? I bet all the pretty girls wanted to hold your pincers, am I right?”

Seb rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I wish,” he sighs dramatically, letting his head fall back against the backrest. “It was not a success.”

That makes Chris’ forehead furrow up into a frown, which Sebastian can’t help but find endearing.

“You’re shitting me,” Chris says. “Surely girls would totally dig that?” He huffs out a laugh and adds, “I know I would.”

Suddenly, an excited glint appears in his eye.

Uh oh, Sebastian thinks, and sure enough, a moment later, Chris pokes him in the side and orders, “Try it on me!”

When Sebastian just makes a face, Chris, the bastard, turns the puppy dog eyes on him.

“Aw, come on, Seb,�� he says, pleading. “I’m dying to experience this thing first-hand, buddy. You’ve gotta give me a sneak peek.”

Sebastian stares hard at Chris for a second, then lets out a sigh.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up and reaching for the laptop. He skips back to the beginning of the song and warns, “You asked for it, pal,” before clearing his throat and starting to sing along.

Although, ‘singing’ may be a strong word for it. Mostly, he’s just goofing around, imitating his crustacean namesake, trying and largely failing at a Jamaican accent. To be fair, he does know most of the words, and the ones he doesn’t he just sort of na na na’s, and it’s not long before Chris is cracking up, head thrown back and clutching his chest. His laugh is so infectious that it’s a testament to Seb’s acting prowess that he doesn’t break down laughing too, just keeps on singing, determined now to give Chris the full Sebastian experience.

When the song gets to the The newt play the flute bit, Seb decides to crank his performance up a notch. Turning to face Chris, he spreads his arms wide and basically starts serenading him, throwing in some shoulder shimmies and exaggerated winks for effect. That only makes Chris laugh harder, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes now as he lets himself sink back into the cushions.

As he nears the grand finale, Seb plants one hand on the back of the couch and hovers over Chris, who’s sliding slowly onto his back, dropping sideways until he’s slumped along the length of the couch, clutching his stomach. 

“That's why it's hotter, Under the water,” Seb croons loudly, singing the last lines directly into Chris’ face. “Ya we in luck here, Down in the muck here, Under the seaaaaaaaaaaaa!” 

As the last note dies out, it’s replaced by a rather abrupt silence.

All at once, Sebastian becomes acutely aware of the fact that he’s basically lying on top of Chris, as well as of all the places their bodies are touching. Since they’re both still breathing hard and there is also only about an inch or so between their faces, Sebastian can feel Chris’s warm breath fanning his face. Chris is still smiling, cheeks flushed and blue eyes sparkling, and his lips… Have they always been this pink?

Sebastian feels flustered all of a sudden, his eyes flitting restlessly over Chris’ features, feeling oddly like he’s seeing them for the first time. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest, and he’s still breathing faster than usual, but all of that’s no doubt due to his rousing performance. Nothing to do with his sudden proximity to Chris, no sir.

A few seconds tick by in which they wordlessly stare at each other. Then, gradually, very slowly, Chris’s smile starts to fade, and Sebastian watches in fascination as the look in Chris’s eyes turns from amused to curious, and then to… intent?

He has a split second to think holy shit, before Chris is surging up and pressing a quick kiss to his lips, there and gone again.

Sebastian sucks in a sharp breath, staring down at Chris with wide eyes, heart pounding in his ears.

“Wh- what was that?” he asks weakly, voice cracking on the last word. His lips are tingling, the phantom touch of Chris’ mouth on his.

Chris blinks up at him, looking a little shocked himself.

“Guess it worked,” he whispers, after a beat.

“Oh,” Seb nods, dazed, and then Chris is burying his fingers in his hair and pulling him down for another kiss.

Sebastian lets him.

[smolfangirl]

A little fresa wedding I

Kudos and Thanks are in line, because this fic isn’t only mine :D It belongs just as much to the wonderful @miris-xo WHO CELEBRATES HER BIRTHDAY TODAY YAAAAAY and who is like 99% of the reason this wedding fic exists and keeps motivating me with her moodboards and ideas and comments ♥ Also please please develop this love for my actual WIP it feels very abandoned

This will be a little series because, well, I am incapable apparently of writing short scenes and no one needs a +10k post. I truly hope you’ll enjoy it!

And as always: @ac-ars and @sky-girls used the name Rory first. I used my own brain to end up with this name (also because of my roommate who is obsessed with Gilmore Girls and keeps trying to talk me into watching it), which is why I didn’t give them any credit.

Word count: 3k

Pt. I – Getting there

The realization that she will marry Matteo hits Luna quite late.

It doesn’t come when they’re at home, packing their bags and double-checking every list until they both fall into bed exhausted. It’s not during their flight, where little Aurora cries and cries before she finally calms down after an hour of screaming. It’s not even when she hands her daughter over to her parents for the night and steps into her hotel room, where Nina already unpacks their suitcases.

No, the moment her wedding begins to feel real to Luna is when they arrive at the venue to see how the preparations are coming along.

Next to her, Nina gasps at the sight, not to Luna’s surprise. She remembers making the same surprised noise when she first saw the mansion about a year ago. Rosecliff is, without a single doubt, stunning. Its white bricks paint a bright contrast to the surrounding trees, and the air carries the perfume of the flower gardens, mixed with the scent of the ocean. Just one glance at the building, and Luna feels like a young princess about to experience her first ball night.

Only that this won’t be a ball night, but her wedding.

(If she keeps repeating it, will it stop feeling like a daydream?)

“How did you hear about this place again?” Gastón asks Matteo, and while her fiancé answers, Luna’s thoughts wander back to the stress of picking a venue. No matter where they searched, not a single place in Argentina fit their criteria. Ideas were traded back and forth, as quickly dismissed as they came, heads were shaken, tears were shed. More than once, when the task of planning their big day overwhelmed her, Luna considered to just grab Matteo’s hand and marry him on the spot, in jeans and t-shirt, without friends and family.

In the end, it was his cousin who made sure they’d get a gorgeous venue instead, far away from the eyes of the paparazzi and big enough to include all their loved ones.

Flor had mentioned Newport when she stopped by for a couple of days, admiring the ocean and the old, yet carefully restored buildings all around the island. She went on and on about the romantic potential and lamented that not a single picture managed to capture its true beauty.

That’s when Luna first caught the glimmer in Matteo’s eyes.

Still, they hesitated to fly over, despite Flor’s excitement and the promising results of a quick internet research. With less than three months left till her due date, Matteo and her wondered if such a long flight carried too many risks (yet alone the possibility of being spotted by the media or an over-sharing fan), but travelling here after she gave birth meant postponing the wedding for easily another year.

And they felt they had waited long enough. So, when the doctor gave them the green light, they booked the flights.

Luna knew it was the right decision the moment they entered the path towards the mansion. The rose gardens, the romantic fountain at the backside, the view on the ocean. Every little spot offered a lovely invitation for photographs, every detail the tour guide mentioned seemed more perfect for a wedding.

It wasn’t the gardens or the luxurious furniture or the huge ballroom that took Luna’s breath away ultimately, though.

No, Luna fell for this venue when she laid eyes on the breathtaking, heart-shaped staircase.

Made from white marble, it contrasts the black railing and burgundy carpet perfectly. Her eyes must’ve lit up, and that was when Matteo let them fall behind the group of tourists and asked her if she wanted to marry him here.

Her answer came fired like a shotgun.

///

Today, less than 24 hours before the ceremony, the air buzzes of excitement. Nina and Miranda – their wedding planner and fairy godmother, probably – hurry off like little bees, crossing lists and answering phone calls, while Gastón keeps an eye on the workers.

But with the explicit order to relax and be happy, Luna and Matteo decide to leave them be and stroll to the back of the house. Sunlight kisses her skin as she looks around, while Matteo by her side hums contently.

“It’s so beautiful,” Luna sighs, meaning it from the bottom of her heart. Little Aurora on her hips giggles, before she stretches her arm towards the ocean, waving it up and down rapidly. “Dada!”

Matteo caresses the cheek of his daughter, then presses soft kisses on Luna’s neck and lets his mouth wander up to her ear. “I think she wants to see the ocean,” he whispers.

“Well, she’s not the only one.”

Although the railing along the cliff isn’t far away, 70 meters at most, getting there takes forever. Matteo insists on showering her in kisses, occasionally giving Rory one or two if she manages to hold still long enough. It doesn’t help that each smile and soft giggle out of Luna’s mouth encourages him more, until he eventually starts to whirl her, around and around, faster with every turn. His little fresa laughs and laughs and laughs – and begins to cry.

“Oh no, Rory, sweetie, everything’s okay,” Luna mumbles to her daughter as she presses her against her chest.

“Sorry, little princess, I’m sorry, really, daddy didn’t want to spin you so much. He just got a little too excited over marrying your mommy.”  

“Shh, we’re here, darling.” Her hand wanders up and down her small back, a gesture their little girl usually loves, yet another minute of cooing and cuddling her passes before her cries turn into occasional hiccups.

Turning to her soon-to-be-husband, Luna raises an eyebrow. “No more spinning with her in my arms, okay?”

“Of course not.”

And with one last kiss on her temple, everything is good again.

///

When Aurora gawks at the waves crashing against the beach and Matteo’s arms wrap around Luna’s waist from behind, it sinks in that only one night separates her from her wedding day. One more sleep, and she will be Luna Balsano Valente.

One more sleep, and her eternity with Matteo starts officially and for everyone to be seen.

One more sleep, and she will walk on this grass in her wedding dress.

She will give her body and soul to Matteo, will promise to love him now and for the rest of time in front of their families and friends.

She will be his, and he will be hers.

Stealing a glance at him, Luna discovers this wide grin on his face that makes him look so young and carefree. Just the thought of being married to him by this time tomorrow fills her with an intoxicating cocktail of excitement and happiness.

Luna can’t wait.

///

Pt. II – The night before

The heavy curtains of the suite block every little ray of moonlight from sneaking into the room. Quietness surrounds the hotel, offer her peace and tranquility. The bed is so comfortable she considers taking it home with her. Overall, perfect conditions to get the rest she needs for tomorrow.

And yet, Luna can’t sleep.

Her eyes won’t stay closed, her mind won’t calm down. She’s awake, awake, awake and with every minute she thinks more about the wedding. Her wedding.

Maybe she could find sleep if Matteo was here. Over the years, he perfectioned the art of relaxing her. He’d listen to her worries, and her expectations for this day they’ve both been waiting for so long. He’d hold her in his arms, his fingers brushing over her skin while he comforts her. He’d guard her as she slowly drifts into unconsciousness.

He’d be here, but he’s not, because everyone insisted on following this old, stupid tradition.

It’s not even the first time she lays in her bed without him, and it certainly won’t be the last one. And it’s just one night anyway, this shouldn’t be such a big deal.

Still, Luna misses him. Him and little Aurora who’s with her parents, probably sleeping like an angel.

Next to her, Nina tosses and turns, shifts on the mattress until she settles into a new position. Then, her breathing returns to the same calm rhythm that fills the air for half an hour now. In, and out, in, and out...

Luna gives up.

///

Matteo’s room which he shares with his best man lays on the opposite side of the floor. Only Pedro’s and Delfi’s room separates her from her fiancé. Light slips through to the hallway from their room, though, accompanied by familiar laughter - Gastón seems to catch up with the Rollerband and their latest tour rather than to fulfill his responsibility of watching the groom.

Which definitely plays into Luna’s cards.

With featherlight steps, she hushes to Matteo’s door, knocks carefully. Seconds later, footsteps come closer and he opens, hair messy and mouth half open from a yawn. Upon seeing her, his eyes widen but he recovers quickly enough to pull her into the room and lock the door behind him.

“Luna, hi, is everything okay?” A little wrinkle appears on his forehead, while his gaze glides over hers, inspecting her.

She hugs him and inhales the scent of his skin. “I can’t sleep,” she mumbles.

“Me neither,” he admits.

///

They end up hushing outside.

The lawn under her naked feet feels soft as they sneak out on the spacious estate. Hand in hand, they stroll closer to the cliff, following the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. When they’re out of view from their friends’ rooms, they let themselves fall into the grass, giggling like rebellious teenagers on a school night.

Not a single person noticed them on their way out, and it gives Luna this exciting kick of adrenaline, knowing they’re not supposed to be together tonight. The same thoughts seem to pass Matteo’s mind – his heart beats fast in his ribcage when she rests her head on his chest.

“Hopefully they won’t notice we’re gone,” she says, sighing in content at the kiss he presses on her hair.

“I doubt it. And if Gastón catches me, he’ll just make a pun and we’re good.”

“Hm… let me try. Matteo, launched a rocket to the moon again? Soon they’ll build you a statue at NASA,” Luna snickers in her best (or worst) Gastón-impression.

Matteo laughs and shakes his head. “Jeez, that was terrible.”

Still smirking, Luna snuggles closer to him, letting her eyes wander over the clear night sky above her. The stars twinkle brighter than she ever saw them in Buenos Aires, and she feels calmer and better than during a single second in that fancy hotel room.

For a while, they stay there in silent harmony, enjoying the view and the peace of this moment.

“Do you think everything will go as planned tomorrow?” she whispers into the darkness. It feels like a little eternity passed, perhaps an hour, perhaps only a few minutes.

“Well, we’re paying Miranda a shit ton of money, so everything better work out,” Matteo snickers before his tone turns more serious. “But you know what, little moon?”

She tilts her head, so their eyes meet in the night, only for him to bop her nose gently. “It’ll be perfect either way, because you’re with me.”

The night keeps her rosy cheeks a secret. “You know you can be so corny, chico fresa.”

“Maybe. But it’s true.”

“I love you, you sappy fresa.” A kiss on his cheeks. One more at his palm stroking her face. “I love you too.”

///

Letting her go in the hallway is harder than it should be. Matteo feels like a stubborn kid refusing to let go of his favorite teddy bear for more than a second, which is stupid. She’ll be by his side for the whole day tomorrow, and after that for the rest of their lives.

But this is the last time he sees her before the ceremony. Before he will marry her, and she will be his wife.

His gaze glides over her, takes her in, so he can remember this moment for all of eternity. Her brown curls fall open over her shoulder, messy from his hands – the same hands he has to keep to himself now, so they don’t open the loose tie of her robe. Admittedly, the white fabric hugs her body, flattering her curves, but it also hides her beautiful, beautiful night gown.

And her smile. By the stars, her smile.

Looking at the curve of her mouth, he feels like a shooting star in the night sky, bright and hot and burning only for her. When he’s a shooting star though, Luna is the sun in his universe, and not even the tired yawn slipping out manages to diminish the light she radiates.

“I love you,” Matteo whispers. Simple and soft, while it means so much more. It’s a goodnight, a promise for tomorrow, and for every breath he will take on this earth after that.

“I love you too,” she echoes. Her arms wrap around his waist when he pulls her in for a hug, pressing a light peck on her forehead. He loves her, he loves her so, so much. If every clock on the world froze, he’d be completely fine with staying in this moment.

However, Luna pulls away soon. “I should go to sleep.”

“Yeah.” And so Matteo watches her sneaking into the suite, where Nina’s relaxed breaths fill the air.

///

He finds his own hotel room as dark as the night. Darker even, because the curtains block any faded light the moon or the stars have to offer. After walking through the lit hallway, the contrast of the furniture seems to barely exist, and his vision needs a while to adapt to the shadows once again.

Matteo blinks. Once, twice.

He recognizes Gastón lying on the bed. He’s not moving, his breathing steady and calm. Since he’s not the kind of person to fall asleep within seconds, he must’ve gone to bed a while ago – which in turn leaves Matteo wondering why his best man decided not to search for him in the hour or two he easily was gone.

Unless they didn’t walk far enough and Gastón spotted them.

His heartbeat picks up its pace at the idea, and it takes him a few seconds to relax. Gastón isn’t subtle when it comes to Luna and him, never was, probably never will be. If he indeed saw them, he’d be up and down in the room, throwing puns around like confetti till the morning light, incapable of letting such an opportunity to roast his best friend go.

So, he didn’t possibly discover them, he’s safe asleep, and Matteo worried over a ghost in his mind.

Still, he tip-toes to his side of the bed. Every move he makes is followed by a glance in Gastón’s direction. When Matteo slips under the covers, he has no idea how hard his best friend desperately tries to repress a giggle.

///

“God, you two are so cute it’s seriously disgusting.”

Matteo isn’t even fully awake yet when Gastón’s voice rips the last pictures of his dreams apart. A groan hanging on his lips, he slowly opens his eyes.

Gastón stands by the door, staring at his left hand and shaking his head. The clock on the bedside table tells Matteo he could still nap for half an hour; unfortunately, however, his best friend has another plan.

“Here, Sleeping Beauty, this is for you.”

A card hits him on the chest before any words reach the tip of his tongue. It’s just big enough to fit completely into his palm, and he opens it with a frown on his face.

Good morning, chico fresa ♥

Before I will see you at the ceremony, I just wanted to say that I hope you slept well (or got at least a few hours of sleep…) and remind you that I love you the most in the world! I can’t wait for the rest of our lives to begin.

Always and forever, your chica delivery

PS: Please give Rory kisses from me, okay?

For a moment, he stares at this little note, not sure how he gets to deserve someone like Luna, or how he’ll get through those hours until she’s back by his side. “Where’d you find this?” he then turns to his best friend.

“It laid on the ground, she must’ve slipped it under the door. And, just so we’re clear, Nina and I weren’t half as bad as this on our wedding day. Your chica delivery will bring me some serious diabetes this weekend if she keeps that up.”

“You’re only jealous,” Matteo shoots back, pretending to miss the huge grin tugging on his best friend’s mouth.

Chuckling, he gets out of bed to throw a glance outside. A soft breeze swirls through the room when he opens the window, and the clear sky announces a perfect day to get married.  

His wedding day.

Maybe this is the moment he should turn into a nervous mess, but weirdly enough, Matteo feels at peace. Years passed since he decided she was the person he intended to wait down the aisle for, and almost two years passed since she said she wanted to be his wife. What should make him impatient or insecure, fills him with strength. Their love passed every test time threw at them, they worked through every obstacle, every fight, and he knows they will continue to grow, to forgive and learn.

And that today will be perfect no matter what happens, because they’ll be together.

“So, how did your last night as a free man feel?”

Confused, Matteo breaks away from the view on the ocean. Gastón leans against the door as he barely contains a grin, raising his eyebrow in a dare.

Much to his dismay, he can imagine where this is going.

“Well,” he hesitantly begins, “I couldn’t fall asleep, so I took a walk around the property. To help with that, you know? It… it was nice. Looked at the moon a little bit.”

“I see,” Gastón nods. “As long as you didn’t set foot on it.” A classic Gastón pun, and Matteo wouldn’t pay it no second thought if his best friend didn’t wiggle his eyebrows so passionately they’re almost dancing on his forehead. But he does, while grinning like a fool, so he figures Gastón wasn’t half as asleep last night as he pretended to be.

And he’s not even sorry about it.

[all-fandoms-fiction]

Do You Miss Me (at all) Sherlock x reader part 1

A/N: This took me forever to finish! For the love of god, I struggled with this hours and days! So, this will be two parted, and apologizes for not posting fanfics for awhile, I’ve been busy with other things (also tried to figure out how to continue the heartless, there will be a new chapter of it soon enough, hopefully) also this was supposed to be out at Friday, but I couldn’t get myself to finish this since this basically a dialogue done by shouting and fighting. But anyway, hope this is good in some sort of weird way.

Here’s a link for the next chapter http://all-fandoms-fiction.tumblr.com/post/157287362239/do-you-miss-me-at-all-2-sherlock-x-reader

You had been in a relationship with Sherlock for over four months now and not to get you wrong, you did love the high functioning sociopath even if it got rough. For example he barely told you he cared for you more than as a friend. It had taken him all his might to tell you that just that once when you started dating and you were as surprised as anyone would’ve been in that situation. To hear Sherlock Holmes, the detective incapable of understanding sentiment or compassion, say he loved you was enough to make you faint, but you didn’t. First you thought it had to be a trick, to test an experiment and one specific kind had slithered in your mind. He was probably testing how you felt about him, even having his own suspicions of you having feelings for him. Maybe he was waiting for your pupils to dilate, testing your pulse? Then he did something that nearly gave you a heart attack. He had kissed you. From there on you two had started dating, but it took some time from him to convince you he really liked you and it wasn’t for a case or a test.

It had been just once he had said he loved you, from that on everything had gone down hill. You knew he wasn’t into opening his heart, which you had become aware of that second he had opened it to you, but you couldn’t but wonder had he come to his senses of you and realized he had only fancied you for short amount of time and the feelings had died by now. At bad days he seemed he barely even acknowledged you were in the same room. He was snarky with his comments, nearly making eye contact and ignoring you at times. It wasn’t anything John hadn’t ever experienced with Sherlock but you couldn’t stop thinking that you would be even slightly privileged to be treated in better way than that.

Sherlock had been buried with work, now on his list at the top was a new case that hadn’t made any progress and it frustrated him. He was tense and easy to piss off. You were the same, but for other reasons. His acts had reflected on you, his now nasty personality and way of ignoring you made it impossible for you to stand him.

The two of you had just come back to Baker Street from a crime scene and you were fuming of rage. Once again you had been pushed aside and treated like you knew nothing. Even Lestrade, just like Sherlock always said, was capable of sensing the situation. Even the police inspector was able to make out Sherlock was doing a lousy job as a boyfriend. You couldn’t forget the wide eyes and the blank, puzzled stare he gave to you two when Sherlock pushed you, no, he literally pushed you more than once aside and kept telling you to keep quiet as your suggestions and deductions would just embarrass him, you and everyone around.

You stomped up the stairs to the flat, Sherlock following after you. You stayed close to the door leading back downstairs while Sherlock went to sink in his chair. He released a long heavy sigh and closed his eyes in disappointment. He muttered how useless the visit had been and how it had only cost his precious time on the case in hand. The crime scene you two just witnessed had, as he said, obviously nothing in common.

”Did you really have to do that?” You questioned after waiting enough, listening to Sherlock muttering and complaining about the case. Your hands were crossed over your chest and your right foot was tapping the floor in an impatient way. To this Sherlock answered with lowered brows and watched you in confusion. You huffed and looked away. ”Embarrass me in front of the whole Scotland Yard?” You corrected. Sherlock only rolled his eyes and went to correct you. ”There was nearly even half of the Scotland Yard present.” Sherlock shifted in his seat. ”I wouldn’t worry about them. They barely know anything so you being incorrect now and then wouldn’t make them any better than you.”

You could hang onto that statement, he had almost praised you just now and it was the best you had got from him for since he had been burdened with this particular case, but then again you didn’t need to settle for this. This wasn’t enough to wipe all the bad comments he’d made in the past though you weren’t even sure was there anything he could do, a one single act that would calm you.

”To you that was the entire Scotland Yard.” You pushed persistently. He had said it himself countless of times. The people in Scotland Yard that had ever worked with him were the only people that counted if you asked for his opinion.

”Well, yes, but obviously it wasn’t exactly the whole Scotland Yard.” Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin, resembling his mind palace position but he kept his eyes open and on you. He eyed you suspiciously, trying to deduce what you were going through in your head, but judging by his expression he had no idea what made you so pissed. ”Is something bothering you?”

To that you let out a sarcastic laugh. Had he really only got that out of you? He really was as magnificent and astonishing as John always said. Sarcastically saying of course. But this time he surprised you by how dumb he was.

”Are you really that blind?” You finally snapped. You humorously watched as Sherlock gave away how offended he was by your statement but without skipping a beat you continued. ”You embarrassed me in front of Scotland Yard! And that’s not all! You’ve treated me worse and worse the further we get down on this case. Hell, you even treat Anderson better than me!” And it was true. He had even praised Anderson today for stating something so obvious and simple that even a blind person would’ve seen it.

”I was being sarcastic.” Sherlock muttered seriously and looked down on the floor, clearly drifting away from the conversation and to his mind palace.

”Well, it wasn’t clear!” You yelled and threw your hands in the air. ”Everybody thought you really meant it. And don’t dare shut me off now!” You took three long steps and put your hands on either side of Sherlock’s armrests on his chair, your face inches away from his. ”Don’t treat me like this!”

”Treat you like what?” Sherlock shot up from his seat, you taking a fast step backwards to make more room between the two of you. He stared back at you coldly. His blue eyes were like frozen and he looked intimidating. Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he questioned you.

”I told you already! You ignore me! Like I don’t exist at all! You always pretend like I’m not there. You put your work first and I feel like I don’t even exist on the list of your priorities! You also have pushed me around, literally, and you won’t let me even speak when we’re out!”

”Stating the obvious shouldn’t be reworded! You want me to let you embarrassed yourself? By pointing out what everyone is able to witness with their own eyes?”

”Oh, so now I’m embarrassing myself? Thank you for saving me, Sherlock, for keeping me quiet when I could’ve said something dumb!” The room was silent for a second, until you took a deep breath. ”Look, you keep me around but make it feel like I am the one clinging on you and following you like a lost puppy, and when I try to advance you, you only shoot me down. You won’t show me I matter!”

”I have told you how I feel about you, do you really need me to do it several times a day? Because you know I won’t be up to it. I am not a man who keeps showering you with all the pleasantries and praises-!”

”I know that and it’s not what I asked!” You snapped back. You were wondering was Mrs. Hudson listening to you two shouting. If she was she was probably worried. Worried what you’d do if this would go further on and how you would end up like. Mrs. Hudson knew what Sherlock was capable of when he was bored or even drugged, but when angered? And with you against him? You couldn’t answer to that either.

”Then what is it? I can’t quit my job and forget all the cases just because of you. Just because of love.” He pronounced the last word with disgust, as if the whole word was ridiculous to even be said.

”I’m not telling you to quit, I’m suggesting you to leave it be when you clearly can’t work it out, not now at least. You’ve run out of clues and there is nothing you can do to make the problem solved. You have to wait!”

”I can’t just wait until another one gets killed!” Sherlock spit out and glared down at you.

”Well, there’s nothing else you can do.” You told him matter of factly. ”Just talking about the case makes you a mess, Sherlock. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, and how you treat people around you is horrible. Even if you have a problematic case in hand it doesn’t give you the privilege to act like a moron!”

”Oh so I am the one acting like a moron?” Sherlock looked down on you. ”You have done nothing to help me on this case, the reason I keep you around is only because I thought there would be use of you, but guess I was wrong with you. And here you are, waiting for me to sugar coat you with flatter and sweet talk. Like it wasn’t enough I told you once how I care about you.” He had struggled enough by telling you he loved you once, and what were the looks of it he wasn’t going to do it ever again and actually it made you want nothing more than him to never say anything to you.

”I knew what I was getting myself into when I started this relationship with you.  I know it’s hard for you to say how you feel, but I’m not asking you to tell me that. It’s just that you never show it! You never sit next to me, you never walk close to me, and you barely talk to me! If you could just treat me like a human being!” You didn’t let Sherlock answer, you paced around nervously, but not scared. You were infuriated. ”I really thought I wouldn’t be the only one to do things I don’t usually like to do. Like waking up at 3am in the morning to visit a crime scene, or running around London after a maniac without eating for a whole day! I still never complaint! But where I draw the line is when I am treated worse than even the people you can’t stand!”

”Enough with Anderson already!” Sherlock sighed and spin around.

”I’m not talking about Anderson! I am saying you don’t treat me like your girlfriend and even Lestrade saw what was going on today!” You felt bad at thinking about it again, your stomach dropped at the thought of it. ”The way you act towards me isn’t normal, Sherlock!”

”So I’m supposed to be all around you when we’re on a case? Oh, wake up, (Y/n)! I do not show emotions or am I even capable of feel certain of emotions. Love and sentiment do not get me anywhere and there for I keep them out of my life!” You flinched. That was it. You had enough.

”Then let me help you.” You said and went to get your bag.

”What are you doing?” Sherlock asked sounding bored and fed up by your attitude, his brows furrowed.

”Like you said, you rid yourself of certain feelings. There for I’m leaving. Sorry I ever bothered to step into your life.” You said and turned. ”Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.” And with that you left. You went down the stairs in a hurry and rage, stomping loudly. You heard Mrs. Hudson come out of her flat, now standing next to the front door, looking at you worriedly.

”Are you two having a little domestic?” She asked with a sad and nervous tone.

”Could say so.” You answered coldly and opened the door.

”When are you coming back, dear?”

”I’m not.” You deadpanned. You had stopped at the entrance and were looking at Mrs. Hudson with a serious expression.

Mrs. Hudson gazed up the stairs to the living room. ”I’m sure what ever he said he doesn’t mean it.” She assured you, but you knew better and you also had made up your mind.

”I’m sure he did.” You told, then closing the door and left Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson was left alone to wonder what had happened. She let her eyes wonder towards the stairs again, whispering sadly to herself, ”What have you done now, Sherlock?”

[ninasnon-sense]

The Beast and the Botanist, Part 1

The castle was a huge gothic monstrosity. It sprawled across the grounds, seemingly endless. Its spires numbered in the dozens and lanced up into the heavens, sharp and severe. The stone blackened as if charred, the gargoyles lurking like beasts upon the roof. It was a blatant show of power. A declaration of wealth and strength. 

It should have been garish. Instead Dahlia found herself oddly charmed. It was a peculiar place, but something about it was rather homely.  Perhaps the way the place blended seamlessly into the night, the embrace of darkness a comforting thing rather than anything to be feared. So, suitcase in hand, Dahlia took the steps and strode to the front door. Another over the top and huge thing that could not possibly be practical. Though there was a smaller door cut into the enormous one. A door that was actually usable, though still a little oversized. 

Time to make sure she made a good impression. She knew from experience that people this wealthy could be flighty and inconsistent. Her credentials might be impressive but that was no guarantee that some rich idiot wouldn’t take one look at her and decide that an out of place hair meant she was an ill suited tutor for their snot nosed brat. 

Carefully, she placed her suitcase on the ground, thankful that it had been raining through the day. With gloved hands, she pushed back the hood of her deep green cloak, not wanting it to get in the way of her face for her first meeting with her new employer. Nimble fingers quickly skimmed over her hair, making sure it was at least mostly in place before pushing her thin rimmed glasses up her nose. She pulled herself up to her incredibly tall height of five foot two (plus modest heels), took a deep breath and stuck her nose in the air as she knocked. 

Whatever the brat was like, they couldn’t be any worse than the Monroe girl.

 The door opened with a loud groan and Dahlia seriously considered raising her standards and turning right around then and there. An urge that was not exactly rendered moot when she saw the dark empty void beyond the door.

Buck up Dahlia. The money was too good to be scared off by something so silly as a door that opened on its own. Enough to fund her research for years to come. 

Squinting into the darkness, she bent down to pick up her suitcase again and took her first step over the threshold of the castle. Slowly, her eyes began to adjust, picking out the vague shapes of the foyer. The sweeping staircase, the skeleton of a chandelier, the opening of a hallway or two. 

“Hello,” she called out, trying in vain to spot some form in the darkness and succeeding only in spotting a single open door with a soft amber glow spilling out onto the floor of the foyer. It was almost inviting, but the eerie silence that followed the final echo of her greeting was a stubborn reaching thing that seemed to be trying to get down to her very bones. 

“Well, in for a penny, right Old Girl?” she murmured to herself. Eyes on the prize, she began to stride forward, the click of her heals on the marble floor rattling around the huge empty hall. The temptation to run into the lights embrace was strong, but it was also stupid. She had no idea what lay in that soft glow and running through the darkness to get there could do as little harm as making her look a fool and as much as getting her killed. 

She had mentioned in her acceptance letter that plenty of people knew that she was coming here, hadn’t she? She must have. It would have been utterly stupid not to. 

Stepping into the light felt somehow like stepping onto a battle field. The warmth of it at odds with cold exposure it caused. Still, she kept her nose in the air and her stride proud as she entered the room. 

It was ill lit by a fire in the hearth. The far corners of the room still lingered in heavy flickering shadow while the two large armchairs were well lit and separated by a dark bearskin rug. It was a peculiar room. Oddly savage even in its opulence. Caught somewhere between an office space and a parlour but with the trappings of an isolated hunting lodge. A impressive set on antlers took up most of the wall above the fire and furs scattered the room where tapestries and paintings should hang. 

“Hello?” 

“Mistress Bloomsdale,” replied a deep near growl of a voice from the thick shadows in the rooms’ far corner. “I’m glad you could attend.” Another step closer and Dahlia tried to squint into the darkness without being too obvious about it. 

“Well, it was a very polite invitation Mister Leroux,” she admitted. Was it too late to run? More than likely. What had she gotten herself into? 

“Please, make yourself comfortable. This is likely to be a long conversation.” She allowed herself only the briefest moment of hesitation, feeling foolish for even that. Then she made her way to the closest empty chair and placed down her suitcase once more. With sure fingers that were desperate to rebel into a tremble, she unclasped her cloak and draped it over the suitcase before carefully perching on the edge of the chair. Her corset didn’t allow her to slouch and her nerves didn’t allow her to fully settle in. A conversation with a shadow wasn’t exactly a calming activity.

“Thank you Mister Leroux. And yes, I agree. This conversation is likely to be somewhat lengthy. I do like to make sure that these arrangements are clear so there can be no misunderstands,” she replied once she was as settled as she was willing to get and began to take her gloves off to drop them on top of her cloak. “For instance, I am extremely rigid in the timescale I am willing to work to. My other job simply won’t allow me to change that.” There was a slight pause, then a shift from deep within the shadow. 

“And what job is that?” came the rumbling reply, curious but also a little put out. 

“I’m a lecturer. So I need to be back at my university in time to teach the students there.” 

“So you’ll be here when precisely?” 

“A month over winter, a month in spring and effectively the entirety of the summer. Almost half the year and the work I leave behind should be more than enough to maintain and sharpen the pupil’s skill in my absence. I have the dates noted down somewhere.

“Is my pupil a boy or a girl?” she asked, shifting a little to get more comfortable now she was hitting her stride. 

“Male,” was the deep yet hesitant reply. “Well, mostly male.” And that sounded like a delicate subject that she was absolutely not going to touch. 

“And their skill level?” 

“Assume you’re working with a blank slate.” Dahlia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at the shadow. In her experience there was rarely such a thing as a blank slate. Did this man think their son was an idiot? 

“Right. Their behaviour then. The posting made it sound as though there would be some difficulties in this regard.” An awkward clearing of a throat met her question, the sound deep and sonorous, bordering on a growl. 

“They’re easily frustrated,” Leroux began. “And they don’t sit still very well. And they’re, well, they’re not very bright.” 

Anger stiffened Dahlia’s spine. If the child was difficult to teach, that was one thing, but their parents should be the last ones to simply assume they were incapable. 

“Is that your assessment or another tutors?” she asked, wanting to know who she needed to punch in the face. 

“Many people have commented on it,” they replied sadly. It was an effort not to grind her teeth in irritation. 

“I take it the boy is already in bed,” she commented. “So I won’t be able to meet them until the morning.” 

“They aren’t a child,” Eroux admitted, at least having the decency to sound ashamed. 

“What?” 

“I apologise for putting some misleading information in the post, but I have been trying to secure a tutor willing to teach an adult for over a year and haven’t heard from anyone.” 

It took all of her composure to remain where she was. Every fibre of her wanted to drag whoever it was out of the shadow and deck them. Instead, she took a deep, calming breath. 

“Is there anything else I ought to know before I formally accept this position?” she asked through not quite gritted teeth. Another awkward shuffle came from the shadow. 

“I’m your student,” they admitted, their voice as small and meek as a near animal growl could be. 

The stuck like a punch to the stomach and Dahlia stared with her mouth hanging open. The harsh words, the assumption of stupidity, they were suddenly cast in a much harsher and more revealing light. Anger was flushed out to be replaced by something dangerously close to pity. 

“I can’t teach a shadow,” she told him, gentle and soft. “Please, come into the light.” A long pause met her request. The silence was oppressive and stretched on and on. Long enough that she thought her student had fled through some secret passage. Then a heavy sigh broke it. 

“As you wish.” 

Dahlia’s slight squint quickly morphed into eyes wide with shock. Her gaze had settled about where she would expect the face of an average man to be, but it quickly flicked at least a foot further up. 

There was nothing human about the beast that stepped out of the shadow. 

Fur was the first thing she saw. Grey like the coat of a wolf. Twisted black horns sprouted from between his not quite wolf like ears, curving around to point forwards like those of a bull. Amber eyes glinted in the flickering light from the hearth, his gaze unsure and perhaps even a little scared. He had a short muzzle with a slight over bite to allow for the small sabre teeth that protruded down. 

Hugs paws nervously fidgeted together, making him seem much smaller than his huge and bulky frame. A shaggy tail twisted and flicked like an agitated cats as he stood on animalistic hind legs. 

For a seven foot tall beast, he cut a timid and well dressed figure. Trousers that cut off at his knee, a poet’s shirt left open at his fluffy throat and an expensive looking embroidered waist coat. 

He was a mess of contradictions. A beast in the trappings of finery with the mannerisms of a nervous boy. It made for an oddly adorable sight and Dahlia rose from her seat, brushing off her deep green skirt before standing up straight to fully take in the creature she was looking at. 

Her stride was confident and sure as she walked towards him. Leroux cringed ass she approached, his own eyes going wide with fear before he took a deep breath of his own and rose to his full height as she came to a stop in front of him. 

“Well Mister Leroux,” she said, holding her hand out to him. “I accept the position.” He stared down to her, eyes wide in shock. Then his stiff postured melted and he took her hand in his paw, bending down to brush a kiss against the back of her hand, one of his sabres brushing against her skin as he did. 

“Thank you Mistress Bloomsdale,” he purred with a low rumble. “I look forward to our first lesson.”

[spacs]

hello! for the drabble prompts, can i sheepishly suggest ignoct, because i love how you write them. ;u; and for the number, 18?

Oh my gosh no need forsheepishness! Suggest away! Request all the numbers if you want to! Thank youso much this made me so happy! This got… way out of hand. It’s way longer than originally intended. I also did not read over it because I so badly wanted to get it posted for you since I won’t have much time tomorrow before I go to work. Hopefully it’s alright! When I get a chance to read over it (probably a day or two from now), if I make any changes, I’ll let you know!

They had to spend another night in Cartanicaafter they resurfaced from the mines. The train would wait until daylight fordeparture.

The group had fallen back into a semblance ofnormalcy, all four of them sitting down in the crappy diner for an evencrappier meal. Prompto made a joke about how Ignis should jump behind thecounter and teach these people a thing or two that the other three laughed atcautiously. Gladio, Prompto, and Noct played King’s Knight for a bit, the fourof them squished in the booth, but stopped sooner than usual because they feltguilty for leaving Ignis out. He insisted that they should continue, but theyopted out saying it wasn’t as much fun without him.

The past few weeks had been exceptionallydifficult for Ignis. He tried not to let it show, withdrawing into himself tomask the pain. Noctis was suffering and he refused to add his own pain to thatburden. He could handle this new obstacle on his own and Prompto had been a bighelp. Not playing King’s Knight seemed a small thing that he never trulythought he would miss, but he did. Despite his insistence to not be a burden tothe group, he knew that he would be, no matter what he did. But to not remainwith Noct’s was something he could not abide.

They finally decided it was time to sleep, but Ignis neededto speak with Noctis. “Noct, a moment?” he called as the three of them stood.

He could feel Noctis hesitate and he pretended that it didn’tsting. After a moment, Noctis sat back down across from Ignis. Gladio andPrompto said their goodnights and moved on. “What’s up, Ignis?” Noct asked asthe other two’s footsteps faded.

“I need to apologize,” Ignis said, directing his attentionto Noctis. He folded his hands together on the table.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Noct repliedskeptically.

Ignis sighed, bending his head down towards the table. “It’sselfish of me to ask to remain,” he pressed, ignoring Noct’s refusal. “Should Iprove incapable of following, I ask that you inform me before I am left behind.”The thought of staying back made him feel empty. Who was he if he wasn’t Noctis’advisor? Just a loyal, lovesick fool who was in too deep to think about his ownself-preservation.

There was a silence between them until Noct finally replied,“I’m not going to leave you behind, Ignis.”

Ignis lifted his eyebrows, looking back up at Noctis. “Truly?”he asked. “Noct—”

“Ignis,” Noctis interrupted, “I saw you out there today. Youjust need time to adjust, but you’ll get there.” There was a shuffle of fabric andIgnis pictured Noct shrugging his shoulder, trying to seem casual. “You’ll getthere,” he repeated, probably trying to sound reassuring.

Ignis swallowed. “There may not be time. We cannot afford to delay.”

“We can delay long enough for you,” Noctis insisted. “Aftereverything you’ve done for us – for me – the least we can do is move a littleslower.”

Ignis bowed his head, brow furrowing as he tried to fendoff the overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest. “Thank you,” he managed.

“Yeah,” Noct mumbled awkwardly. “Any time.”

They sat there together for a few minutes, not sayinganything. It was comfortable to just feel Noct’s presence with him. He couldalmost feel like they were back at Noctis’ apartment. It would be nearing thetime for Ignis to leave, but he was sitting on the couch with his head back. Along day of classes, meetings, cooking dinner for Noct, helping with homework,doing his own homework wearing him down enough to make him doze off.Noctis teases him relentlessly when he wakes. Ignis would leave with a smile onhis face as the two of them said goodnight to one another before going theirseparate ways.

But Ignis knew that if he opened his eyes this time,everything around him would stay dark. The Noctis in front of him was older,weathered, and had the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was no goingback now and no use pretending otherwise.

“One more thing,” Ignis said, breaking the silence. Helifted his head level with Noctis.

“Sure.”

“Promise me that, when the time comes, you won’t run off toface Ardyn alone.”

Noctis hesitated again and Ignis could hear his surprise athis request. Noct took a deep breath in before answering, “I promise.”

Ignis could feel every ounce of the lie in the statement.Thoroughly unconvinced he pursed his lips, shaking his head. He couldn’t helpbut smile sadly because even after his loss of sight and all this time, hestill knew Noctis well enough to know when he was being truthful.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Noctis scoffed. “I am not,” he retorted.

“You are,” Ignischuckled. “You always have been. You would sneak out and your lies werepainfully transparent. When you started dragging me with you, you left the liesto me. A better choice,” he praised.

“Not all the lies were bad,” Noct stubbornly pointed out. “WhenI got Iris out of trouble, after I first met her – I didn’t get caught in a liethat time.”

Ignis laughed. “Because youaccepted blame. Making an excuse to get outof trouble is where you always fell short.”

“I could lie to you,” he pushed.

That made him snort. That had never been the case. “Oh yes,”he replied sarcastically. “Noct have you finished your homework? ‘Yeah.’ Noctdid you throw the vegetables from your dinner out again? ‘No.’ Did you stay up until4 in the morning playing that game? ‘No.’” He shook his head, amused. “Yes youwere an excellent liar.”

“You fell for it every time,” Noctis bit back.

“It wasn’t the lies that I fell for.”

Ignis almost wanted to retract his words. But he held hishead up, keeping level with Noct. Silence fell over them again as they sattogether, and Ignis could feel Noctis staring at him.

“Maybe I’m not a great liar,” Noct admitted quietly.

“Indeed,” Ignis agreed.

He felt fingers brush against the tops of his hands and heseparated them, facing one palm up for Noctis to weave their fingers together.They didn’t say anything else, hand in hand and silence weighing heavy aroundthem.

It wasn’t until Noctis yawned that Ignis chuckled. “Time tosleep,” he said as he squeezed Noct’s hand. “We’ve a long ride tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Noctis acknowledged, but didn’t let go. He slid outof the booth, only briefly slacking his hold to adjust as he repositioned. Henudged Ignis, pulling on his hand lightly. Ignis obliged, following him out ofhis seat.

Slowly they walked out of the diner, hands still togetherand shoulders brushing, to their room, hearing Gladio’s snores. It felt likereality waited for them within and they stood soundlessly as they stared at thedoor. It felt like this was Ignis’ last chance to tell Noct anything. “Aboutwhat I said,” he started.

“I know,” Noctis stopped him. “You don’t have to sayanything.” Ignis smiled fondly and made to let go of Noctis’ hand, but wasstopped again. Noct pulled him down, kissing Ignis’ cheek, just below his scar.His lips parted and his eyebrows shot up in shock. He moved his head back, turninghis head toward Noctis, his question catching in his throat. “Me too,” he murmured.

Noctis opened the door, his hand finally leaving Ignis’.Ignis stood dumbfounded, slowly processing Noct’s words. He moved cautiouslyinto the room, his area to the right on the bottom bunk. Prompto slept over him,Gladio and Noctis on the other side. He sank onto the bed, bending to remove hisshoes. He heard Noct’s shoes drop to the floor on the other side. Ignis broughthis legs up, laying on his back, running over the events of thepast few minutes. His cheek still tingled from Noctis had kissed him and hereached up to lightly run his fingers over his skin.

“Goodnight, Ignis,” Noctis said quietly. His voice soundedcontent almost. It had a ring of optimism, something Noctis had sorely beenlacking since Altissia.

“Goodnight, Noct,” Ignis whispered back.

In the darkness of the room, Ignis let himself smile. Heslept soundly for the first time in weeks.

Like I said, totally got out of hand. But I hope you enjoyed! Again, thank you. These boys are my favorite and the fact that people like the way I write them just warms my heart, honestly. I get very gushy about them so that feels really good. I’m sorry I didn’t get to read over it before posting! But I couldn’t make you wait two days because I actually found inspiration from this and I needed to get it to you!

[eirlithad]

Calling on Song//Chapter Fourteen

Rating: M (subject to change)

Relationship: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan

Summary: Kasde Rhiannon Trevelyan was promised to the Chantry. Fate found her at the Conclave. The Maker saw her through it. As the world falls down around her, she decides to take a stand. With a little determination, and a fair amount of snark, she just might make a difference.

// Previous // Next //

Chapter Fourteen: The Threat Remains

           An unfinished letter crumpled inside the Herald’s pack:

           Josephine,

           The next time you decide to send me in against a pack of baying dogs

          When I said this was a bad idea

          I’m not sure how you expect me to get answers out of anyone with all these utterly horrendous masks.

          This is ridiculous.

 _______________________________________________________________

          Val Royeaux was disgusting. It was far too bright, and much too cheery, despite the chaotic and raw state of the world. The entire city was hypocrisy in practice. Masked nobles complained over trivial matters, either feigning indifference or blissfully unaware. They demanded that someone do something, all the while condemning the actions of those who had stepped forward. They hid behind glided fans and lace gloves, too frightened or ignorant to help.

          Kasde couldn’t decide which of those things bothered her most, and so settled for hating all Orlesians on principle.

          Cassandra kept a close watch, looking every bit the intimidating warrior she was, and then some. A menacing scowl was permanently affixed to her face, which served to ward off any attempts at idle chatter. She, too, seemed uncomfortable in Val Royeaux, but for perhaps entirely different reasons.

          As they made their way across the Avenue bridge, several ladies squealed at the sight of them. Unsure if they were pleased or merely terrified, Kasde ignored them, keeping her eyes forward.

          “My Lady Herald!”

          One of Leliana’s scouts – Watcher, if she recalled correctly – skidded to a halt and dropped to one knee. Her cheeks were flushed, slim eyes pinched fearfully.

          Kasde motioned for her to stand. “What have you found?”

          “The Chantry mothers await you,” the scout replied, “along with a great many Templars.”

          Ah. Kasde turned away, uttering a loud curse. “Nothing’s ever simple, is it?” she mused aloud, placing her hands on her hips.

          “People think the Templars will protect them,” Watcher continued.

          “From what?” Cassandra’s tone was incredulous.

          The Herald snorted and flicked a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What else, Cassandra? Us.” She turned to face the scout, a thoughtful look on her face. “Go back to Haven,” she ordered. “Tell my advisors what’s happened, in case we are…delayed.”

          “As you say, My Lady.”

          The scout took off at breakneck pace, not stopping to glance back. Cassandra moved closer, her dark eyes darting about nervously.

          “I know Lord Seeker Lucius,” she whispered. “I cannot see him supporting the Chantry, not after all that’s occurred.”

          Kasde shrugged. “It could be he’s not here,” she suggested. “Could be a small faction within the Order disobeying his command.”

          “I’m not certain which I would prefer. Let us hope they are open to reason, at least,” the Seeker sighed. “Try to mind your tongue.”

          “When have I been anything but polite?” Kasde guffawed, feigning offense.

          Cassandra eyed her suspiciously. “My point stands.”

          A large throng of people had gathered in the main square. Angry voices rang off the gilded parapets, most shouting nonsense in thick Orlesian accents. A gaggle of Clerics incited the mob from a small wooden podium. Two sets of armor glinted in the sunlight, bearing the flaming sword of the Templar order. The sight made Kasde want to spit. The Chantry was to be a gentle, guiding hand, not a clenched fist wielding barefaced lies and fear.

          Slowly and carefully, the two women wended their way through the crowd, earning them several startled gasps. The nearest Templar’s eyes narrowed, but she made no effort to move from her post.

          “Good people of Val Royeaux!” one of the Revered Mothers cried. “Hear me! Together, we mourn our Divine, her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!”

          Quiet, agreeable murmurs rose in answer.

          “You wonder what will become of her murderer,” the Mother went on. “Wonder no more!” She pointed an angry, gnarled finger in Kasde’s direction. “Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! She who claims to rise where our beloved fell.”

          Shit.

          Cassandra took a protective step closer, shaking her head. Let them say their peace, it said. Shouting them down risked starting a riot, and they were both loathe to injure innocent, albeit irritating, civilians.

          “We say this is a false Prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!”

          Kasde ground her teeth painfully, biting down the stream of obscenities that came to mind. “You say I am the enemy,” she cried. “The Breach is our true enemy. The Inquisition is here to do what you will not, too busy spinning self-serving lies to aid the people!”

          “It’s true!” Cassandra pleaded. “We only seek to end this madness, before it is too late.”

          Movement from the edge of her vision caught the Herald’s attention. A half-dozen livid Templars marched through the market, as though the whole scene were rehearsed. Cries of alarm filtered through the rabble.

          “It is already too late!” the Revered Mother roared. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry. They will face your ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!”

          Suddenly, one of the Templars struck the ranting Cleric. His closed fist met the back of her head with a sickening thump, and she dropped to the ground. The Templar who had been beside her flinched, his face contorted in anguish and uncertainty.

          “Still yourself,” a gravelly voice commanded. “She is beneath us.”

          Lord Seeker Lucius was a tall, lean man with unusually pale, craggy skin. The silver fall of his hair was gathered behind his head in a half-tail, which only served to bring attention to the alarming redness of his pale eyes. He moved with a surety of purpose that only came with experience and age in a life lived by the sword.

          Cassandra stiffened noticeably, and Kasde shifted her weight between her feet. Her skin was overtight across her tense muscles, but she wasn’t keen on starting a fight she stood little chance of winning.

          “Was that little display meant to impress me?” she snapped.

          The Lord Seeker smirked. “On the contrary,” he said, “It wasn’t for you at all.” Turning, he motioned for his men to follow, and abandoned the Chantry mothers to wallow in self-pity.

          Cassandra bolted after him, her voice plaintive in a way Kasde had never heard. Whoever the man was, he inspired obedience – perhaps even fear – in a woman she thought incapable of kowtowing to authority.

          “Lord Seeker,” she pleaded, “it is imperative that we speak with—”

          “You will not address me.”

          The words stilled her feet, confusion plain in her eyes. “Lord Seeker?”

          Lucius whirled on her. As he spoke, disdain dripped from each word like spider ichor. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. This ‘Marcher whore?” He spat on the ground. “You should be ashamed.”

          “And what of your actions?” Kasde demanded.

          “The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

          Her lip curled in disgust. “Purge? They’re people, not a sickness!”

          “You are the ones who have failed! You would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!”

          “There is nothing righteous about slaughtering innocent people!”

          Cassandra placed a reassuring hand on her arm, and moved slightly forward. It was a protective gesture, and a warning.

          “Lord Seeker,” she begged, “try to see reason.”

          He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

          “Then your only reason for coming here was to gloat,” Kasde snarled.

          “I came to see what frightens old women so, and to laugh.”

          The Templar who had looked so conflicted moments before stepped forward, his eyes flitting between the Herald and his Lord Seeker. He was young, she realized, and still believed in his oaths; an idealist. She pitied him.

          “Lord Seeker, what if she really was sent by the Maker?” he asked. “What if—”

          “You are called to a higher purpose!” one of his comrades bellowed. “Do not question!”

          Lucius squared himself in front of his recruits, lips curving into the sickest of grins. “I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition, independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition…less than nothing.” He gestured absently, and the gathered Templars turned on their heels in unison, heavy boots tramping toward the market gate. “Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection,” he declared. With a final, smug glance in the Herald’s direction, he too departed.

          Kasde threw her hands in the air, something she was becoming quite accustomed to. “Well, that was helpful,” she muttered to no one in particular.

          “Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” Cassandra asked, dismayed.

          “He’s definitely lacking in the charm department.”

          Cassandra ignored the comment. “I don’t understand. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition or grandstanding. This is bizarre.”

          “Decent men don’t condone the behavior we saw today,” Kasde said. “Whatever you knew of him doesn’t apply anymore. He’s clearly changed, and not for the better.” She shook her head. “The Templars aren’t our only option.”

          “We have no reason to believe things are any more stable in Redcliffe,” the Seeker argued. “For all we know, it could be worse.”

          Kasde chuckled darkly, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “Would you ally with that? They’re a few wagons short of a convoy, Cassandra.”

          “Don’t write them off so quickly, Herald. Surely, there must be those in the Order who see what’s the Lord Seeker has become.”

          The Herald rocked back on her heels, thrusting her thumbs through her sash. She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Either way, we should head back to Haven and inform the others,” she said with a growl. “Josephine will be thrilled.”

          She was halfway across the market when remorse wracked her gut. Glancing back, she saw the Revered Mother Lucius’s man had struck, still struggling to stand. In her anger, leaving the Chantry to clean up its own mess seemed poetic justice for decrying her as a heretic. They had chosen to alienate her, as they had so many others, rather than unite for the greater good. What did she care for the consequences of their actions?

          Still, Kasde had been raised under the Chant. The words were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat, and she could not ignore their message. She could not watch others suffer without offering comfort. Misguided though as they had been, forgiveness would prove a strong first step in the right direction.

          Kneeling before the platform, she extended her hand slowly.

          “You must be terribly pleased with yourself,” the Revered Mother spat.

          Kasde smiled patiently. “No,” she replied. “I’m just Kasde.”

          The older woman seemed perplexed, unsure how to respond her kindness. “I am Mother Hevara,” she said at last.

          “Are you all right, Revered Mother?”

          “I—yes.” The tension bled from her in a single, pained groan. “Shown up by our own Templars, my fellow Clerics scattered to the wind, along with their convictions…” She closed her eyes. “Maker, help us.”

          “The Maker helps those who help themselves,” Kasde murmured. “Help us.”

          Mother Hevara’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. Likely, she didn’t appreciate a potential pretender citing Chantry rhetoric at her. Rather than slapping her, as Kasde expected, she let out a tired sigh.

          “Just tell me one thing: do you believe you are the Maker’s chosen?”

          Kasde hesitated, pulling back her hand to clasp it around the other between her knees. “I…I don’t rightly know,” she admitted. “But I have to try, don’t I?”

          “That is…more comforting than you might imagine.” Hevara shifted, eliciting a sharp hiss. Her sudden fall must have done more damage than anyone realized. “Regardless, it is out of our hands now,” she continued. “We shall all see the Maker’s plans in the days to come.”

          “I will find a way to stop this,” she swore. “Do you believe me?”

          Doubt gleamed in Hevara’s eyes, just behind the sheen of unshed tears. “Andraste preserve me if I am wrong,” she whispered, “but yes. For you to be true, a great many things must be false. For you to be false, a great many things have failed.”

          Without thinking, Kasde reached out a second time, wrapping her fingers tightly around the other woman’s hand. “Have faith, Revered Mother.” Offering a reassuring squeeze, she released her grip and rose to her feet. “I will not fail.”

          When she turned, Cassandra was shaking her head, smiling bemusedly. “If only they had listened sooner, we might have avoided this whole mess.”

          Kasde brushed past without stopping. “No sense lamenting what’s already done, Seeker,” she called over her shoulder. “Come on, the world’s not going to save itself.”

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