#if anyone had any question about how much I love these stupid suspenders… welcome to the blog stranger!

[jjinpang]

drew a follow up

[keanureevesisbae]

But professor… - c.9

Summary: Walter and Penny can almost welcome their kid, however Penny starts to become very anxious

Professor!Walter Marshall x Penny Townsend (Asian ofc)

Wordcount: 2.3k

Warnings: Just mentions of punching people

Masterlist // But professor… masterlist // Previous chapter //

I’m thirty weeks pregnant and I know that I have around eight to ten weeks to go, however, this pregnancy has been pretty straining on my back, my pelvis and basically my entire body. Moving around is painful and my mom is over at our place a lot of the time to help me out. I’m thanking the heavens that I am not doing cosmetology school now as well, knowing for a fact that I probably couldn’t keep up at all.

If I’m not sitting on the couch reading, I’m crying because I am sitting in the nursery and think about having a little baby and all the bad things that could happen to them.

Walter is drained from a rough day of patrolling and he plops next to me on the couch. Just like any other day, I barely moved, however he still asks me the question.

‘How was your day, princess?’

‘Boring,’ I mumble. ‘How was yours?’

He simply shrugs, probably because something happened and he doesn’t want me to worry. I rest my head against his chest and without thinking it seems, he places his hand on my stomach. ‘Have they been good to you?’ he asks

‘They sure have been,’ I chuckle. ‘Just hate the fact that I’m practically glued to the couch.’

Walter nods, pressing a kiss on top of my head. I know he worries a lot and therefore confides to my mom, asking her what more he can do to help me out. Walter is being the perfect boyfriend, because even my mom said that he is doing literally all he can to help me out. One night I found him scrolling and searching for tricks to ease the pain and discomfort, though he never lets me in on it.

‘If you’re up for it, we could have dinner,’ he says, ‘somewhere other than our living room.’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know what you’re craving. I’m up for anything.’

‘Pizza?’ I ask. ‘I would really love a Hawaiian Pizza.’

Walter frowns for a second—probably remembering how I told him multiple times that I hate pineapple on pizza—but then he nods. ‘Of course, princess.’

✎ ✎ ✎

We’re sitting at a restaurant across from each other and it’s nice to be out and about again. I mean, I go to town with my parents a lot, I hang out with the ladies from the pregnancy class, but going out with Walter has been a while, especially because he has been working long hours and I’m tired after one trip to anywhere basically.

Walter actually stretched out his leg underneath the table, towards my side, so I can rest my feet on it. Every time I have a crust left, I hand it over to him and with a small smile he accepts them. ‘So,’ I say, ‘I’ve been thinking about a name.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I would say that for a girl we could call her Emma.’

Walter tilts his head. ‘Emma Marshall, sounds cute,’ he says with a smile. ‘You have a name for when it’s a boy?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I actually think they’re a girl.’

He starts to laugh. ‘Why do you think that, princess?’

‘Just a gut feeling,’ I chuckle. ‘What do you think?’

‘I have no idea,’ he says, holding out his hand for me to take. When I placed mine in his, he adds: ‘I actually have a name for a boy. Wanna hear?’

‘Always.’

‘Declan.’

Oh, that’s a lovely name. I don’t think I even know someone who is named Declan. ‘Declan Marshall. That sounds so cute. I absolutely adore it, Walter.’

Walter smiles and gives me a kiss on my hand. ‘We’ll see how we name them.’

‘Yeah,’ I chuckle. ‘Just around ten weeks or less,’ I say. ‘Kinda nervous.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’s giving birth, Walter. That’s scary. All these other ladies are so confident and proud of what their bodies can do and all. I mean, sure, that’s awesome, but it also terrifies me.’

‘Understandable,’ he says. ‘I’ll be there for you, every step of the way.’

‘I know,’ I chuckle. ‘It’s just that… I don’t know. With being pregnant, it’s just all a fantasy. With a newborn, it’s the real deal.’

Walter nods, taking in my worries. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you and I can manage.’

‘You’re being awfully nonchalant about it.’

‘That’s because I need to stay calm for you. Believe me, princess, I’m freaking out on the inside.’

I frown, because that’s the first time he actually told me those words. Usually he says that he cannot wait for this baby to arrive, though it is a little scary every now and then, but saying he is freaking out?

That’s new.

‘What?’ I ask him. ‘Are you serious?’

He nods. ‘I mean, being a parent is difficult. Growing up I didn’t have the love and support I needed. I basically raised myself and judging from the person I am today, I didn’t really do a good job.’

‘You did an excellent job,’ I retort. I know about his youth and how he had to raise himself, how you can still notice it in his day to day life. ‘Walter, please tell me about your worries. You don’t always need to be the protective big bear who prevents me from any harm. I’m a big girl and I need you to confide with me. Please?’

He sighs as he is looking everywhere but to me. This is hard, I can see it, but from the looks of it, he is gonna agree with me. ‘Okay, I’ll try.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Dinner ended not so great. As we were walking back from the restaurant to our car, two guys thought it was necessary to whistle at me (I didn’t even notice at first, but then Walter’s entire demeanor changed, so that’s how I was informed about the matter).

Let’s just say, it evolved into an argument and then one of the guys thought it was an excellent idea to push Walter. I applaud him for having the guts to push my boyfriend, but it was honestly one of the stupidest things for him to do, because Walter wouldn’t be Walter if he punched the guy and his friend.

Multiple times.

I have been ignoring him for the entire drive and once we’re home, I still don’t know what to say to him.

‘Princess,’ he whispers, carefully trying to approach me as I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in his shirt. ‘Please talk to me.’

I purse my lips together, as tears burn in my eyes.

He sits behind me, placing his hands on my upper arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For scaring you. I was just protecting you, darling.’

‘What’s wrong with just ignoring the matter, Walter?’ I ask him, turning to the side so I can look at him without craning my neck. ‘You scared me back there.’

‘I’m not gonna let some dip shit whistle at you, especially not when I’m next to you,’ he defends himself.

‘You’re an officer,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t think this is proper behavior.’

‘I wasn’t gonna let anything happen to you,’ Walter retorts.

‘That’s not the point. The point is you put yourself in danger.’

‘Hardly.’

I glare at him. ‘I don’t like this,’ I say. ‘Have you any idea how stressful it was for me? You know what, never mind. I’m going to sleep.’

He scoots back and I wrap my arms around the pregnancy pillow, with my back towards him. I love Walter, I really do, but this… I saw it all unfolding in front of my eyes.

It would start with an argument, some light pushing, until the other guys would pull out a knife, stab Walter, which would result in a trip to the hospital. Possibility of death. Me having to bury the father of my child.

I push my face in the soft fabric of the pillow, as hot tears slide over my cheeks. Walter sighs deeply next to me and starts to toss and turn next to me. His leg bumps into mine and it causes him to hold his breath. ‘Sorry, Penny,’ he says.

I dry my cheeks on the pillow. ‘Walter,’ I whisper, ‘you know I worry when you go to work.’

‘I know,’ he says, ‘but you don’t need to.’

‘You’re gonna be the father of our kid,’ I continue, ‘and I’d like to raise them with you, not in memory of you.’

‘Princess,’ he whispers, ‘we’re gonna raise this kid and eventual others together. You know, before I met you, I was an adrenaline junkie, detective or not. I got into a lot of shit, hence the reason I was suspended and started teaching. You, my love, made me realize that chasing danger like I used to, is not gonna get me further in life. Now I have you, I have the love of my life here with me and I’m never ever gonna do anything that’ll put me or you or our child in danger.’

‘Then why did you punch him?’

‘Because he started it,’ Walter says, only for him to realize how toddler like that sounds. ‘I just want to protect you against anyone,’ he says in a softer tone. ‘Because I love you, Penelope Townsend. You are my everything.’ He wraps his arm around my upper body, pressing a kiss against my temple. ‘I’m sorry I scared you, Penny. I never meant to do such thing.’

‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry for overreacting.’

‘No, no, no, you’re not overreacting. Maybe I was.’ He pulls me closer to his own body and places his hand on my stomach. ‘Just know that I will forever protect you and the baby.’

I chuckle. ‘I know that. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid anymore, not when I’m around at least.’

He smiles. ‘I’ll tone it down a notch, princess.’

✎ ✎ ✎

‘Is that that colosseum thing you were talking about?’ Walter gestures towards my chest and I look down, spotting two tiny wet patches near my chest area, before bursting into laughter.

‘Colostrum, Walter, not colosseum.’ Oh dear, he is totally blushing, because of his mistake. ‘Can you grab me another shirt?’

I barely asked the question, when he jumps up and rushes upstairs. I rub my stomach a little bit, slightly scared at how much it expanded. I’m close to the end of my pregnancy, having reached thirty nine weeks yesterday. I wonder how it’ll ever go back to normal.

Walter comes down again and without me asking he changes my shirt. ‘Have I told you I loved you today?’

‘A few times.’ I give him a kiss and whisper: ‘I’m proud of you.’

He frowns. ‘Why are you proud of me? You’re the one growing an entire baby here.’ He carefully places his hands on the side of my stomach. ‘The least I can do is to make things as comfortable for you as possible.’

‘But you always do it without complaining,’ I say. ‘I heard that Stacey’s husband is such a pain in the ass. Always complaining, groaning about how much he has to do nowadays.’

Walter scoffs. ‘Well, pregnant or not, I’d like to worship you, make your life as easy as I possibly can.’ He gives me a kiss. ‘What can I do for you, darling?’

‘Sex,’ I say, before I curl my lips in. Oh gosh, never have I been so straight forward. My cheeks heat up. ‘No, please, forget what I said.’

‘Is my girl asking me for sex?’ Walter starts to laugh. ‘The day Penny Townsend asked me for sex has finally arrived.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I laugh nervously. ‘It’s just been awhile.’ Awhile equals three months. I hate how he sometimes initiates, but I simply shake my head. It’s a combination of a very low sex drive, not feeling pretty and being in pain nearly twenty four seven.

He leans forward and kisses me. ‘Want to go to the bedroom, princess or is the couch acceptable as well?’

‘We can stay here,’ I whisper.

‘Then let me close the curtains and lock the door, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I mumble.

When he comes back, he takes off his shirt, so I can admire his beautiful strong body. There is something so special about Walter. He looks strong enough to left a car up with one arm, but he is a mushy man the second the front door closes and we’re together. He kneels in front of me, pressing open mouth kisses on my lips. ‘Shit, I love you,’ he says against my mouth. He disregards my shirt and admires me.

‘Stop,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

‘No, no, no, I could never stop admiring you.’ He places his hands on my expanded stomach and says: ‘You’re so beautiful.’

He gives me a long kiss and then I whimper. Not out of pleasure, but out of shock.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks me.

‘I think my water broke.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Twelve hours later, I am looking at Walter, who holds the little baby in his strong arms. He sits next to me on the bed and wraps one arm around my shoulders. ‘Penny, princess,’ he says, ‘I don’t think words can describe how proud I am of you and how much I love you.’

I nuzzle my face in his chest. ‘I love you too. Thank you for not freaking out.’

‘Externally freaking out you mean, because on the inside I was fainting,’ he chuckles. He gives me a kiss on my temple. ‘I’m a dad.’

I actually see some tears in his eyes and I cannot stop my own either. ‘I know.’ I place my hand on the little bundle and whisper: ‘We’re officially parents. It’s so surreal.’ I let out a deep and content sigh.

The little baby opens their eyes and I cannot stop my smile.

‘Hi, little one,’ Walter says. ‘Oh no, Penny, we’ve created an exact copy of yours.’

I chuckle. ‘Good luck saying no to him,’ I say. ‘We love you so much, Declan Marshall. So so much.’

[spacedikut]

my all ; spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid (criminal minds) x f!reader

summary:  “hey could i do a fic request for an x spencer? could u maybe do something with really touchstarved spencer (bc germaphobia) and him being at first too awkward to go n cuddle and then as he gains more confidence he gets much more touchy and huggy and stuff? and reader being shocked by how cuddly he is? plzplzplz? its totally ok if u dont write it but just wanted to send in the request!” 2689 words

a/n: i hope i did this justice! i love spencer reid!!!!!!!!!

masterlist

Spencer first realised how much he loves your touch after a case where he put himself directly in danger.

You ran up, flung your arms around him and pulled him against you so tightly he felt winded.

He was shocked, stunned, and everything in between, but the most important thing is that he hugged back. It felt natural, the right thing to do, and his arms felt so snug and perfect around you his heart stuttered.

You pulled back, noticed his expression, and winced despite his reciprocation, “Sorry. I just. You could’ve died, you moron. You scared me.”

All he did was give you a breathless smile and with a squeeze of his shoulders you let go, allowing him to get checked by a medic.

Spencer struggled to sleep on the jet home, plagued by the thoughts of you - you with your arms around him, how much he enjoyed how it felt.

It felt… wrong to like it as much as he did. Like, in theory, enjoying your physical touch went against his moral code – as a germaphobe, the thought of having to come into contact with anyone in any way makes him want to vomit. But, with you?

You smelt so good, even after running for God knows how long. You were so soft, yet so firm, so warm and welcoming and dear God Spencer has never wanted to touch every inch of someone so bad in his life.

The case was a rough one, so Garcia was waiting for you all with loving eyes and a pitiful smile, arms wide open for whoever may need it. Spencer instantly decides no thanks, but you swoop in and cuddle up to Garcia within seconds of seeing her.

You even place a series of kisses against her cheek, and Spencer is transported back to your hug.

If he was more like Garcia, open to any form of love as long as it’s love, would you have kissed him like that?

His pulse quickens, palms get sweaty and he has to clear his throat to bring himself back to Earth.

He can’t afford to think like that.

But your lips…

No. Paperwork? Let’s do that and not think about a colleague’s lips.

+++

You’re furious.

You told Spencer to wait for backup, to not do anything stupid or irrational and definitely do NOT go in there alone, genius!

And what did he do?

He didn’t wait for backup, did something very stupid and irrational, and definitely went in alone.

And now he’s dealing with a hefty concussion and flurry of other injuries; cuts, scratches, and bruises alike all dotted over him like he’s a connect-the-dots drawing.

The second he wakes up, you’re gonna kill him.

For the time being, you’ll gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp, and watch his chest rise and fall to ensure he’s alive and breathing.

“Mmm,” A groan, “That feels nice.”

His eyes flutter open. You lean towards the table next to him, pick up the bottle of water and the jello cup, and offer him both.

“Thanks,” He says, hoarsely.

You sit back in your chair. Spencer doesn’t take his eyes off you once. Not when he drinks the whole bottle of water, or when he cracks open the jello and inhales it with one slurp.

Your brows furrow.

“You’re banned from work until you’re fully healed.”

“I’m suspended?!” He guffaws.

“No,” You shake your head, “I’m personally telling you you’re not welcome back until you’re okay.”

“I’m okay now.”

“Do a backflip, genius.”

Spencer giggles, “I can’t do that in peak physical condition, Y/N.”

“Sounds like a cop out to me. So, again, you’re banned from work until you’re fully healed.”

He considers fighting back, but then he remembers what you were doing when he woke up, what he felt when he woke up.

He was confused and, you know, in pain, but there was this tender and soft, repetitive touch that immediately eased him. His subconscious knew it was you, in all your glory and sweetness, that had stayed with him for however long, looking after him even when he wasn’t conscious to know it.

So he just keeps staring at you, spoonful of jello in his mouth.

+++

When you get to Spencer’s place, he looks around like it’s his first time seeing it – awe and wonder painted on his face.

Everything he’s doing, everything he’s going through, you’re putting it all down to his concussion.

On the way here, he told you the whole history of car air fresheners after taking a good five seconds to get a good sniff of the cherry blossom scent you have.

“Let’s get you settled in, huh?” You say quietly, guiding Spencer to his bedroom. He walks a little like a mummy, kinda stumpy and heavy, and he flops on the bed.

You give a lopsided grin as you watch him. He’s mumbling incoherently, shuffling up to the top of his bed to fall flat on his back.

He moans.

“Alright, alright,” You placate, “Let me go… gather some things.”

You don’t know Spencer’s place all that well, so it takes you a while to find even the simplest things like a glass, a flannel, a snack. You get lost in snooping around, trying not to profile him, and the one thing you deduct is his apartment is so him. So Spencer, so lovely and comforting and a little odd.

You can’t get enough.

There’s a weak call from his bedroom: “Y/N?”

“Coming!”

He hasn’t moved an inch from where you left him. He looks so pitiful, bruised eyes and a cut right through his lip, and you almost coo at him.

“I’m not a good cook, so I thought we could order some food later.” You hand him the water and gesture for him to drink. “In the meantime, you need to rest. Mind if I borrow a book while I keep you company?”

You turn to leave, but Spencer’s voice makes you pause.

“Could you play with my hair again?”

A part of you wants to say no, like this is some overly intimate thing he’s asking, but then you remind yourself that he’s injured, which has reverted him to acting like a sleepy child.

“Please?” He looks at you with glassy eyes and he looks adorable, “Only for a little while.”

You say nothing, sliding into bed next to him. He scoots over a little to make more room for you, curling into you before your back hits the bed entirely. One hand rests above the covers, naturally placed on his arm, thumb smoothing him back and forth. The other, the one wrapped around his head, cards through his lightly tangled hair, all warm and loving.

He falls asleep instantly and, not long after, you fall asleep, too.

You both dream of eachother and wake up blushing.

+++

Spencer’s back in work within four days. You’re working a new case the second you arrive.

There’s been a shift in your dynamic and everyone’s noticed it. No one questions it, however, because they’re all aware you looked after him while he was away, and they witnessed how worried you were when you found him, but they can’t help but ogle and whisper.

They might be federal agents, but gossip is gossip and they love it.

You’ve noticed it, too, obviously. JJ tried to tease you about it, after Spencer bought you your favourite coffee and morning muffin on the way to the precinct, but you shut her down (and yourself from thinking about it too much) by reminding her you spent several days caring for him. He’s repaying you, even though you’ve told him he doesn’t need to.

Ever heard of transference, JJ?

A shiver runs through you as you look into the interrogation room. It’s not because of the suspect, though, it’s because the AC has been turned up – a tactic Hotch promises will be worth it despite your chattering teeth.

Something’s wrapped around you, suddenly, light but cosy and adds some heat to you that you need.

It’s a cardigan. Grey, much too big for you, the sleeves falling way beyond your arms and length reaching your mid-thigh. There’s a little red heart with eyes stitched on the left breast.

It’s Spencer’s.

“You’re shivering,” Spencer chastises, seemingly appearing from nowhere, “You know, when we shiver, it’s our bodies doing the opposite of sweating – it tightens the skin and shakes the muscles, a process that conserves and generates heat. We shiver to get warm. Do you not have a coat?”

“Alright, dad,” You tease, “It’s in the conference room. I wasn’t prepared for Hotch to make the unsub an icicle.”

Spencer breathes a laugh, moving closer to reach an arm around you. His other hand presses against your bicep, his grip sturdy as he vigorously rubs up and down your arms to generate heat.

Whoa.

It certainly works. You feel hot, suddenly, but not because of the cardigan or whatever the hell he’s doing, because Spencer has voluntarily touched you and is standing so close you feel like you’re on fire from the inside out. You’re sure your heart skips a beat and you stare at him in bewilderment.

He shrugs, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, “My mom used to do that for me when I was young and got cold. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

You give a shy smile, “Yeah, I appreciate it a lot, Spence. Thanks.”

When Hotch leaves the interrogation room, he half-halts when he sees you in Spencer’s cardigan. It’s the perfect Hotch reaction, combined with the rise of an eyebrow as he walks past you to reconvene with the team.

You don’t take it off when you all walk back to the conference room, and Spencer doesn’t ask for it back.

Everyone notices. A lot of eye contact is made with many questions silently asked.

You and Spencer pretend not to notice.

+++

There’s a knock on your door at precisely 10:12pm. You check because your first instinct is if I’m about to get robbed, I’m making sure the timestamps are correct.

It’s not a robber. It’s Spencer – frazzled, wrapped up all nice and warm like a pretty present, Spencer Reid.

His nose is slightly red from the biting cold outside.

Leaning against your doorframe, you say, “Hey there,”

“Hi,” He waves.

You stare for a couple of seconds, then remember the polite thing to do is invite him in: “Come in, come in! Do you want some tea? You look cold.”

“Coffee would be great, thank you.”

You move to your kitchen, not very far from your front door, but Spencer stays put and awkwardly glances around your place. He loves it, he decides. Very you.

You notice he hasn’t moved, “Make yourself comfortable, Spence. My cat is somewhere if you want to say hi.”

He slowly moves to your couch, removing his coat, scarf and satchel as he does it. Two drinks in hand, you join him and fling your fluffy sock-clad feet onto your coffee table.

“So what can I help you with?” You ask.

Spencer takes a sip of his burning drink, “What makes you think I want something?”

“Why else would you be here? You wanna watch Grey’s Anatomy with me?”

Spencer laughs lightly. You’re right. He’s here for a reason that isn’t to watch TV that he loves to correct with you.

He’s quiet, then, and does that thing where his tongue flicks out to lightly wet his lips in nervousness.

“Something’s been going on.” He starts, ambiguously, “And it’s left me asking a lot of questions.”

Your brows furrow. It’s not like Spencer to be cryptic like this.

“Did it mean anything?” He asks, finally, turning to look at you. “Any of it?”

“Did what mean anything?”

“The.. the playing with the hair, the over-all gentleness, the cuddling.”

Your shoulders tighten up and you hope he doesn’t notice.

He does.

“Spence,” You give a fake laugh, “You were hurt and I was comforting you. Looking after you. You know, like a friend does.”

“No one else did as much as you.”

“You wanted comfort, and I’m more than happy to provide that, Spence. Everyone else was busy.”

“You took time off for me.”

You don’t have an answer for that.

You’re trying to keep the conversation light and breezy to not show your true feelings. You’re not ready for that kind of conversation, but he’s right. You used your vacation days to stay with him and care for him.. and you know you didn’t do it platonically.

“You’re my friend, Spence,” You say, voice soft.

“That’s it? That’s all it was?” He doesn’t sound angry, or hurt, maybe peeved. He won’t look you in the eyes, though.

“What else would it be?”

Spencer scoffs.

He moves away from you, hands running through his hair in exasperation when he lets out a breath.

“We cuddled, Y/N. I haven’t done that with anyone in-in years! The last person was my mother when I was ten years old!”

“That’s supposed to mean something?!”

“I-I don’t know,” He sounds exhausted, as if the complications of his emotions are taking way too much energy out of him, “But I really liked it. And I really like you.”

You look at him, then, and he’s staring back. He looks… hopeful.

“I really like you, Y/N.”

You swallow deeply.

“I tried to show you with the uh, the cardigan thing,” He scratches the back of his neck, a laugh to mock himself leaving him, “But I’ve never been good with that stuff.”

He moves closer, shifting to face you, eyes remaining locked with yours.

“Say something.” He whispers.

“I-I-“ You stutter, “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I’ve spent the last week thinking about it non-stop.”

“Really?” You laugh in disbelief.

“Yeah!” He gives a small smile, “I-uh.. wrote to my mom about you, too. She told me that if I’m this caught up on you, you must be special. Which you are, by the way.”

“I’m special?” You grin teasingly.

“Very special.”

There’s a moment where you think he’s going to kiss you, but instead he shyly asks, “Do you feel the same?”

You bite your lip. “I do. Really, I do. I’m just.. a little apprehensive, I guess.”

“Of what?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing is stupid when it comes to you.”

God, he’s so infuriatingly sweet. You wish you could kiss him all over.

You might be able to, if all this goes well.

“I don’t want things to be weird if we don’t work out.” You admit, adding a shrug to appear casual. It’s not like you’ve worried about this since you realised you liked him.

Spencer tilts his head at you, “You’re already thinking about a breakup when we haven’t even gone on a first date?”

You giggle, which he returns with a smile, “I mean- I like you, Spence, and have for a while. I’ve thought about all outcomes.”

“All?”

You roll your eyes as he gives you a look, “Yes, all. I’d want us to work out but.. what if we don’t?”

He places a now warmed up hand on yours, “Well, we won’t know unless we try, right?” His hold tightens, “I’m willing to give it my all if you are.”

You look from your hands to his face, and decide yes, if there’s one risk you want to take in your life, it’s a risk that could possibly result in you spending the rest of your life with your favourite person on this planet.

So you nod.

“I’ll give you my all, and then some.”

He grins, “That’s quite the promise.”

You don’t reply, instead swinging your legs over his lap and leaning into his side to cuddle up to him. He reciprocates like it’s second nature, hand slipping from yours to wrap around your waist and tug you closer.

“Wanna watch Star Trek as a mini first date?” You look up at him through your eyelashes.

You really are perfect for me, Spencer thinks.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

[thatsadorbsyo]

Lucas - Threads

((this post references the events of the fall, a mission in the heartless ffxiv roleplay campaign. quoted sections were written by @way-to-the-future. cw: character death. art credit: papa ibra tall, seamstress of the stars, wool tapestry, 1970s.))

“I admire how much warmth you give. Like a furnace. Like you've got a blaze rolling at your heart, and you let it all out through your skin. I see it in your eyes, the way they glow when the lamplight hits it just right.”

I’ve got nothing but white static in my head when I try to remember the Rovers’ faces, and if that isn’t creepy as fuck, I don’t know what is. I can’t recall a single thing about them. No noses, no mouths, not a sliver of kohl smudged under an eye or a lock of hair curling out from under a helmet. It’s easier to hate them when I can’t see any facets of their identity, but I don’t wanna fall prey to this lazy fallacy, either. There must have been real men under all that armor. One of many, sure, but individuals all -- just like I had been, once upon a time. So why don’t I remember?

My memory is unfortunately selfish and selective. It picks up the threads of the things closest to my heart and weaves the best story it can with the loose ends. So here’s the stupid little details that stuck with me, where more pertinent information might have been written instead:

I can still tell you with absolute clarity the exact gem tones of the light reflecting off of Cheche’s upturned face, when the Allagan facility erupted in spells and gunfire all around us. Sapphire blues, emerald greens, and amethyst purples against her shining black scales at every obsidian facet, like a raven feather catching the light.

I can map with exacting precision the arc of Castor’s white braid when he whipped his head around at the commotion, taking the tactical measure of our situation the way only a forged-in-the-blood knight like him can. Even after turning away from him, I could still feel the bulwark of Castor behind me, a solid presence that I didn’t need to see to be able to sense, like an extension of my arm, a phantom limb.

To turn around and suddenly find them both gone, ushered down a different corridor in all the clusterfuck of our allies splintering when the Rovers betrayed us?

It felt like amputation.

If I could, I would keep them both in my heart, keep them like puppets suspended by vermilion strings that extend from their every joint to the cavernous arches of my beating muscle. With threads that absorb the shock of my mortal body and every twin hammer of blood, so that all my loves can feel is the gentle warmth of my fire, the spark of creation that burns in me to keep them, cradle them, shelter them close and alive.

Keep them, and I guess, in so doing, preserve them exactly as I want them to be. Is that fair? It doesn’t seem so, does it? I may love them, but they aren’t mine. They aren’t toys or dolls; not mine to keep. See, Castor has taught me that to love someone is to swap my puppeteer’s strings for the Spinner’s threads, and let them weave their own way through my story. Cheche has shown me that the beauty in anything -- in anyone -- is that they might evaporate at any moment. But if I let them, they both might even decide, all on their own, to stay with me for as long as they can. A stronger path, freely chosen and written in royal blue and bright fern green, threading in a perfect braid around my brilliant gold.

No, I couldn’t keep them -- and in the moment of amputation, it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because they’d already gone beyond my reach. My heart was alone, but still it burned for them; burned fit to melt straight through the iced Malbolge of all the hells, a judgement which I still believed must have been waiting for me just beyond the next door of this Allagan tomb, to welcome me to the justice that I'm owed for my crimes. This door, or the next door. The next one.

Amputation wouldn’t stop me. Hell wouldn’t stop me. I would have burned through that whole building like a live coal, if that was what it had taken to find the exit and bring us all back home.

“It's hardly poetic, love. I'm just telling you exactly how you are. How anyone could see you. Even if they weren't a poet. Maybe even if they didn't care for you like I do. Just, if they - stopped to watch you.”

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I had a brother once, before I torched the evidence of the life I used to live. Augustin looked so much like me even when we were young, but moreso now than ever before. We have the same bronze eyes, the same nose; I’ve grown into the size of our chin with time. He’s a beefier motherfucker than I am, and he’d always preferred braids, but even still you’d be hard pressed to tell us apart if you stood us back to back. Where do you think is he now?

Does he wonder what’s become of my punk ass? Surely the reports tell the truth about how I left. They wouldn’t keep secrets, not from a... fuck, he’s probably a Centurio now, isn’t he?

Shit... I bet he is. He always wanted to follow Mom’s path, even though every day that passes causes me to doubt her just a little bit more. I’ve learned too much about family not to begin questioning her motives for doing what she did, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.

But it was Augustin who first taught me how to shoot, you know? He took me behind our home and put a gunblade in my hands, adjusting my twiggy little twelve-turn limbs into the approximate shape of proper posture even when the weight of it threatened to topple me over like a top-heavy weed. He drilled firearm etiquette into me until I could recite its tenets by memory. For such a little bitch, he molded me into a decent shot.

I haven’t felt that kind of brotherly guidance in a long time, but I think I felt Augustin’s ghost behind me when I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sister Lux in that facility, fighting our way out.

Do you remember that door, the one I had thought stood between me and the hells? It was really just another hungry bulkhead between us and freedom; a sun and moon puzzle that should have been, might have been harder to solve if I couldn’t feel the juxtaposition of her fire right next to me. Sun and moon. Astral and umbral. It was so simple; this was a test. I had let my aether lay fallow, and in order to progress I had to reach inside and drag all the burning potential straight out of my mouth. Furious, destructive, so obscenely fucking alive.

Hungry, that’s the key word. The door had to feed -- on us. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow she and I put our hands to the door at the same time and knew exactly what to do. It was time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot, and all she had to do was correct my posture a little bit, just like old times in the backyard with my brother and a weapon I didn’t know how to hold.

I picked up my brass and ruby cudgel, and she told me how to feel the fire of my aether and let it simmer in controlled brilliance, and how to sit back and watch, patient and observant, as an umbral reckoning blazed all the way up into my nose, through my nostrils, eventually bubbling out in an oozing black ichor like tar. Until we were both painted with blood and the door finally gave way after growing fat on our offerings. Freedom, and not a moment too soon.

It’s funny. It’s funny in that way where I have to laugh to keep from considering all of the circumstantial leaps that had to happen to get me there, in that moment, with that exact mentor and the tools available to me. Did you know that I bought my thaumaturge focus the same day -- at the same damn merchant stall -- that I bought the bracelet that Lux still wears? The cudgel was a leap of faith (I thought maybe, someday, I would use it), and the bracelet was a tithe for her attention, but I gotta fucking wonder if that wasn’t the Spinner herself cinching an amethyst purple thread, until two distant ends of a rich black fabric pleated and bunched together, suddenly close, in a moment of coordinated function.

Like this had been the plan all along.

“They treat you differently because of it. Everyone on this ship - they know they can talk to you, Lucas. That you'll hear them.”

I started this mission as an empty vessel, asking everyone I came across to pour their faith into me so that I might taste it and gradually build a competence in teasing apart the flavors of the gods. The truth is that I was searching for the one most likely to offer me forgiveness, or at the very least the god who might hand me a penitence that I felt like I could swallow. I thought I deserved it, you see. That’s how all this started. On bad days, I still do.

Asking about faith isn’t just a window to the spiritual soul -- it’s also a mainline straight into the source of everyone’s irreconcilable fucking damage. Picking your god is a perilous choice, but mostly because it ultimately determines what kind of personality malfunction you’re going to have down the road. I already know why I’m awful: Delusions of grandeur and megalomania, with a curious tendency to self-flagellate. I’m the smartest, most impressive architect you’ll ever meet. I’m the greasiest, grimiest hunk of motor oil in the gutter.

The only way to reach the middle road between glorifying and hating myself, I’ve found, is to count the threads that wrap themselves around my ribs when I recount the conversations that I’ve had on the Salemtaza’s Voyage.

Here’s a taste: I’ve got Caelrin in deep ochre around my midriff where my abs are just starting to take shape. Ignera sits in flaming orange around the hollow of my throat, slapping my hand away every time I try to choke on my own self-loathing. Captain Kharn wraps in garnet around my face, shielding me from unwanted eyes when I don’t feel quite how I should in my skin. W'kana and W'buki in yellow and black, swaddling me so tight around the chest I fear for my next fucking breath. Reinette, a gentle evening blue curling in petals around my fingertips. Rizzo, a shining onyx black stitching up my lungs telling me to breathe, just breathe, don’t stop breathing until it gets easier.

More even than that. Staelufre in neon magenta, Fugetsu in an unknowable shade of grey, Killian in sunset orange, Strelec in obscuring maroon, Hikari in daisy yellow, Camille in cloudy crimson, Jancis in healing olive, Lune in jumpsuit orange, Jeanne in oil-slick purple, Hanako in fresh lavender, even Kat, yeah, even her, in that same royal blue as Castor.

Nathaniel threading in loops around every one of my fingers in a dazzling gold that fades into the electric yellow of potent aethersand.

I could go on. I could list twice as many names and colors as I already have, and I must ask myself: How do I carry them all? How could I possibly hold them all, without attaching them directly to my meat, my bones, this hideous and imprecise flesh that rightly should be cogs and metal? All that thread would just gum up the whole works, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’s better that I am man, then, and not machine.

For all my flaws, I can still stretch my arms and accommodate all these dangling ends.

“They see it in you, in the way you carry yourself. You're curious. Empathetic. You want to understand people, not just love them or hate them or think nothing of them at all.”

Sui tried to warn me about all this, back at the pumpkin patch at Cloudtop. It was raining, weighing down all my sashes on my brand new armor, and Sui had laughed when the skies parted to reveal the sun setting in a field of rose gold and the softest lavender. It seems like she and I can never properly talk if we aren’t both looking at the sky, like this is the only way we can perceive each other. Never head on -- only in the periphery. Or maybe it’s just easier to talk about certain things when you aren’t looking someone in the eye. Maybe it’s that.

She was so startled by the questions I needed to ask her, like she hadn’t thought it was possible that anyone had been watching her reaction to Nathaniel’s speech, like she didn’t think anyone would have noticed that she was upset. Is she so used to passing under the radar?

But I’ll give her credit. Sui tried to warn me that my friends would die. I watched the sunset fizzle out on the horizon from its soft pastels into a creeping ceruleum and a deeper indigo while she told me every horror that had befallen her family before, and what she knew would happen to us again. Sui could feel the same threads of fate starting to twine around our edges, and she wanted me to be prepared. I listened. I let those fibers stitch themselves into my lungs in the golden rose of a cloudless twilight sky.

I just never thought it would come down on us so quickly, and with such brutal force. I’ve never had to pray for another person before, and out of nowhere I found it necessary to summon the script to beg for twelve of my friends’ lives.

The truth is that I never learned how, and I’ve been too afraid to seek the answer. I know how to make wishes; I know how to toss gold coins into a running fountain and watch the sunlight flicker off the scattered mess of them along the bottom of the pool. But I don’t know how to pray.

I know who I would ask. It was Tieve who introduced me to Gridania, and if Sui and I speak most openly under a yawning sky, you might say that Tieve and I communicate best among the trees, under a cathedral of roots. The memory of the hearer’s chapel is stitched in bark brown and moss green bracelets around my wrists, reminding me that while I may have been invited to someone’s sacred space, I have to mind my boundaries, too. I am not the infallible creator of my own conceit, but nor am I outcast from Spoken kindness and community. To know temperance is to know yourself, to dig into the well of your Spoken dignity and grant the same to others.

I still have this embroidered Gridanian sachet of wood chips and herbs that she gave me, telling me it was for luck, and I didn’t know back then how much I would come to rely on Nymeia for hope. That I would need to believe that she’s writing me into a greater tapestry, that I need that grandeur to feel like my dumbass mistakes have meaning and purpose. And even with Tieve beyond my reach, it occurred to me that she might have already given me everything I needed to weave my own prayer. A level head. A god. A talisman.

I’m just fumbling through this. We all are, but I made my own prayer by pulling that sachet out of my pocket and spinning it over and over in my hands as I remembered the names of those our enemies had taken from us. Who better to beg than the god of fate? Keep their lines anchored to me. Keep them in the tapestry. Keep them safe.

“It's the most noble thing about you. It's - It's more than just what you do, it's who you are. It's what I love about you.”

I recite their names:

Aidan, the hound with apologetic eyes who slinks around the edges the crowd until someone notices him, at which point he deflects attention from himself with a self-deprecating joke straight out of my own fucking toolbox. He could be a brother to me, if he let himself be; if he told me the truth about who he is and where he’s been. I can smell it on him. The stench of ceruleum doesn’t fade as quickly as any of us would like, but I wait for him to tell me on his own terms. Aidan weaves around the periphery of my eyelids in a shadowy kohl black.

Izar, the mercurial seer who obscures themselves in riddles like a smug sphinx playing at being a whimsical faerie. They have never passed up the opportunity to toy with me like a blind white kitten with an oversized brown moth, but the teeth of their humor has never once felt like a cage to me. They are kind, and curious, and helpful even as they delight in your confusion. They dangle at my elbow in marble white, furiously tickling my arm like a loose hair caught in a sleeve.

Adhi, the wandering sage of Dalmasca who the gods had to gift with such big fuzzy ears so that she could better capture every single story that ever came her way. I don’t know how to even begin to thank her for what she’s done for me; she’s returned things to me that by all means should have been my birthright but were taken from me before I was even aware that they were being stolen. Her thread spirals in a shell around my ear in an entire spectrum of colors, one for every tale she carries with her.

Still, there’s more: Tieve, the witch of the wolves (mossy green); Percy, the son of a shadow (cobalt blue); Bride, the bashful goldsmith (periwinkle blue); Swozbhar, the towering cook (mint green); Valeriaux, the scarred philanthropist (leather brown); Silya and Livia, the sunniest Fists I’ve ever met (pale pink and soft teal); Farid, the most visibly haunted man I know (muted purple); and Iron Deer, the entrepreneurial engineer (metallic steel) -- all of them familiar faces, all of them colleagues, all of them threaded through the chambers of the same priceless Heart that gives our mission purpose.

The same Heart that we traded away just to get them back.

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll string them all to my own heart. I’ll suspend them all in cocoons deep in the burning hearth of me -- I will fight my way out of this facility that wants desperately to become our tomb -- until those that still live can crawl back out, fragile but alive and free to keep fighting for whatever comes next.

But one of them is gone, beyond the veil and permanently out of my reach. Just like Sui tried to warn me about, and all of Tieve’s lucky charms were not enough to protect me from this single ungentle truth. The Spinner does not stop the march of destruction -- she merely directs it. She cuts the threads of our fallen friends when they begin to fray and weaves new ones in their place; a different color, a fresh fate.

One of them is gone, their thread knotted off in a sudden stop on the tapestry of our story. But who?

Who did we lose?

“I've seen it. I've heard it. I've bloody felt it. Everyone I speak to says the same. Every one of them knows what a great heart you have.”

Percy and I first met at that bonfire by the chocobo stables. I was shivering, fresh off the fucking ship and completely unprepared for the weather, and he stood next to me and promised me everything I could ever possibly want, if only I made a promise in return to be a loyal friend to the Family. I was so desperate for a place to belong, I would have signed anything, done anything -- what had mattered was that he would have me. In this brave new world, I had people looking out for me. A place to call home. Structure. An institutionalized, freshly liberated fuckhead like me desperately needed structure.

So what if it came with a little price? The list of my sins is long, and breaking and entering is pretty far down at the bottom. Bar brawls are inconsequential, when you’ve already essentially aided and abetted war crimes. So, I’m wanted by both House Desrosiers and House Beaumarchais for stealing a thing or two from their daughters’ manse. So fucking what. Percy and I -- There are bonds that can only be forged at three in the morning, sitting on a crows’ perch halfway across the city under the moonlight, doing pre-job surveillance on some fart-sniffing nobles through their window. I’m not saying we kissed. I’m not saying we didn’t, either.

This is what I’m thinking about, when I look down at Percy’s lifeless face, drained of the rosy pink that always sat on his cheeks during those cold-ass stakeouts, huddled together at the shoulders for warmth. If I touched him now, he would be so cold, so unnaturally fucking cold, so I don’t. I can’t bring myself to touch him; to do anything but stare with my mouth half-open and a sob dying somewhere between my sternum and my throat, turning into just another burning pit to fizzle and die in my stomach.

Except it doesn’t have the good sense to die. It turns to steam, turns to pressure, backs up the entire clockwork machine that keeps me chugging along, and it must be vented or else I’m going to fucking explode, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It stutters inside me like a hitched gear. The whine seems to come from my chest, high-pitched, like a kettle about to scream. Is that me? Am I screaming? I don’t know myself. I am not me, in this moment. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who is on the cot below me, whose silver close-cropped hair sits on this head, whose too-round spectacles reflect the light in the room too thoroughly for me to be able to see if their dead fucking eyes are open or closed. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

I leave. I run. My boots scream against the floor of the ship, clap against the dirt outside, and I don’t stop running until I can drop to my knees and bellow to the impassive clouds. This is my fault. Judgement rings in my head in a cacophony of voices. My fault. My fault he’s dead.

What am I doing here? What have I done?

Percy’s line, cobalt blue, is so cleanly snipped from my fabric that all I can do is finger the empty spot where it might have kept going. Maybe one day we could have found compromise; a future where the three of us could get along without jealousy, without miscommunication or hurt feelings. I’ll never fucking know.

I have always thought of myself in big terms. I am man, I am machine, I am god. I’m the architect of my own form, and I have crafted myself in my own image. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than looking in the mirror and seeing my face look back at me; the face that I sculpted, the body that I shaped. The people that I’ve been in the past are not dead, but rather they have been stitched into my organs. The girl that I was lives in my marrow and feeds my blood, and I am never alone in the cathedral of my body. I am holy. I am enduring. I will move beyond the ghosts at my heels and continue forging a forward path, with those I love woven into the never-ending project that I call my self.

But even a god looks puny as shit, crying into the dirt over a fallen friend. I need to feel this. I need how small this makes me, how insignificant I am in this moment. I gotta remember how crippled it makes me feel. This humility -- it needs to be sown into me, too. So I don’t make the same mistake again. It’s the least I can do.

I can’t forget. I won’t forget his face.

“What a precious, precious thing we've gained.”

[starkergames]

Title: New Years Artists: @lilsoshie (Sketch), @iammagicfishhook (Lineart), @marveling-marvelous (Color) Writer: @darker-soft-starker The years will change and people will change as much as they stay the same. Some changes though, Tony finds, he really doesn’t mind.

Fic below the cut

Some things never change.

Like, being riddled with nerves whilst attending big events. 

Or, the little ticks he’s adopted to mitigate the uneasiness, like bouncing his leg up and down, firing off questions to anyone in earshot like, do you think they’ll have sushi at this thing, I have a craving. 

Or Pepper singing along to whatever is playing on the car ride over, and Morgan answering his inane questions with things like, ew, sushi.

Some things do change, though.

Like, coming back to life after five years of being dead. 

Or being delegated to the backseat next to his daughter, despite the honourable resurrection. Or having his wife remarry in the years following his death. 

You know, typical resurrection things, like realizing that the entire world and everyone you knew has changed. 

Tony’s got a thing about control. Always has. He likes to know, has to know, all of the variables. He thought he knew all of them before he snapped his fingers and prayed to the stones in his gauntlet.

Here’s the thing about infinity stones: they’re sentient. They like balance.

They’re also assholes with a perverted sense of symmetry.

Somehow, perfect balance and perfect symmetry translated into bringing Tony back to life after five years. Or, being suspended in the ether that was neither life, nor death, the holding cell between worlds. 

That was the airy-fairy, hand-wavey way that Strange explained to him. Sparkles and mystery. But Tony doesn’t remember any of it. The not being alive. One moment his heart was giving out, the next he was clawing himself out of the earth. 

That was pleasant.

Emerging dirty and naked to find he’d missed five years of his life was also a barrel of laughs. Missing five years of his daughters growth, finding out his wife had moved on? Hilarious. Best cosmic joke to have happened to him yet.

Though, Tony supposes this is how the recovered Snap victims felt, after. Chasing and chasing the years that were missed, feeling as if they will never be completely caught up.

But that was months ago, his resurrection. Reawakening. Whatever. Seven months and three and a half weeks, if he’s counting. He’d say he isn’t, but he definitely is. 

He’d used the time mostly caught up on the life of his friends and family, shed his tears. He’s lamented Steve, grieved over Natasha all over again. Wondered why the divine equilibrium didn’t include her sacrifice. 

But he’s learned to be okay. He’s living back at the re-built compound with Clint and Wanda and the old-new crowd of super-people that populate the place he used to call home. 

He doesn’t don the suit, hasn’t since he came back, worried that the moment he activates the housing unit that it will all be over, and Morgan will lose her father for the second time. 

He’s a consultant, now, for the new team. Financier. Benefactor. It’s very boring.

“You sure you want to go to this thing,” Tony says again, stretching his legs so his knees hit the driver's seat in front of him, where Peppers’ new husband sits. “You don’t want a quiet one at home? Ring in New Years with the llamas?”

“Morgan wants to go,” Pepper repeats, peering back to smile at her daughter. “Right, sweetpea?”

Beside Tony, Morgan looks up from her hand-held video game and nods vehemently, smiling brightly. Tony feels betrayed by her enthusiasm.

“Are they paying you to say that?” he leans in, whispering close to her ear. “You can tell me Morgasboard, name your price. I’ll beat it.”

His daughter flicks her gaze between her mother and Tony. She leans into her father and whispers loud enough for the entire car to hear, “Uncle Peter is going to be there. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

Tony sighs exaggeratedly, nodding along, even though he knows she saw him two weeks ago. 

“Forever is a long time,” he agrees. 

That was another change that Tony feels weird and wonderful about. 

Somehow, in the time that he was six-feet-under, his former protege had become something akin to family to his daughter. Which, if he’s honest, in the years after the Snap, was the goal, the dream as he skipped through time with the Avengers, the proverbial what if that drove him to say yes that one, final time. 

Happy families, he’d thought. What else could two wayward orphans hope for?

Tony’s at least glad that Peter got that part of the deal. That Morgan got Peter. 

Even if Tony didn’t really have either, after.

“Uncle Peter could go back to the compound or the penthouse with us,” Tony offers, nudging his daughter. “You could ask DUM-E to be your new years kiss.”

“You have a speech scheduled, right, babe?” Peppers husband, Greg, cuts in. He was hired as CFO of SI three years ago and it was heart eyes at first sight, Tony is told. He watches as Greg frees one of his grubby hands from the steering wheel to reach across the console and squeeze her knee.

“Sure do,” Pepper smiles, snaking her hand down to clutch his, squeezing their fingers together. 

Tony’s not jealous. No, really. He’s adjusted, he’s over it. 

But he’s still Tony Stark, so he’s unapologetically petulant. And it’s Pepper, what kind of ex would he be if he didn’t properly field the prospects of the one woman he truly loved?

Feigning a stretch, he kicks his feet out again and jolts the driver's seat, delight welling up when Greg huffs irritatedly. Morgan giggles as if it’s some kind of game, and all the adults pretend that it is to please her. 

The unimpressed stare from his ex-wife caught through the rear-view mirror does little to dampen his satisfaction.

It’s the little wins, Tony thinks, as they pull up to the building, paparazzi huddling around the rope barriers that flank the red carpet, flashes firing through the tinted windows as they come to a stop.

Just because some things change, doesn’t mean he has to.

It’s that mentality that gets him through the dreaded, interminable walk from the car to the ballroom entrance. This is old hat, he tells himself as he waves to the crowd. You could do this with your eyes closed. God, he used to be so good at pretending to care about this kind of crap.

Reporters brandish their network-issued microphones at him, at his family. Fans shoulder against security, all of them yelling out in a cacophony of noise he might call white were it not the sound of his own name, in all of its iterations. 

Although he’d rather make a beeline straight to the ballroom he stops and greets a few fans, shakes a few hands, high-fives a few kids. After a slew of signings and selfies the comparatively calm interior of the ballroom is blissfully welcomed. The quartet supplying tunes in the far corner is a reprieve. 

So is the way that Pepper clutches Greg’s hand and leads him away at the same time Morgan clutches Tony’s. She looks back and says, be good. Tony doesn’t know if she’s directing it to him or their daughter.

Socialites swan around them, but Tony just looks down at his daughter and smiles. He squeezes her tiny fingers.

“You wanna dance, Morgarita?”

Her serious expression turns gleeful as she drags him to the centre of the room to dance without a shred of shyness. 

She’s a lot like she was before he died. Smart and mischievous, cute as a button. But she’s markedly different, caught in that pre-teen phase where she’s gaining modicums of independence. Tony’s getting used to not needing to make all her meals or do her hair for her. He kinda misses it.

Little things. It’s always the little things.

She’s taller now, too. That was a change, to have his daughters head rest against his chest when she hugs him. She’s too tall to be picked up, too proud when Tony offers. So she wraps her arms around his midsection and they sway together on the dancefloor. 

Only a few couples are dancing. The night is still young. But, like anything in high society, it’s all smoke and mirrors. 

Which means most guests are mingling, telling each other how beautiful and fabulous they are, filling the room with so much re-circulated pomp and hot air the room is practically a hotbox.

Of course it’s a business event as much as it is a philanthropic one, so not even Tony can avoid the inevitable schmoozing that comes along with it. When Morgans tired feet demand a break they seek out seats and snacks - and they too, are sought out.

To his ire, associates come and go like a conveyor belt to shake his hand, politicians and socialites thank him for reversing the Snap, the Blip, the Click, the Dusting, all of the stupid names and his daughter is sitting right there, growing more and more morose at each mention of the worst thing that ever happened to her.

So Tony looks down at his daughter, mid conversation with a senator and says, “Hey, sweet child of mine, wanna go to the dessert table?”

She perks up at that and is off like a rocket to the other side of the room where swathes of mouth-watering sweets are spread over an eighteen foot table. 

Tony follows her beeline without saying goodbye to the senator, mentally rubbing his hands together at the grub. He’s sure he will pay for directing his daughter to a trove of sugar and hyperactivity. But desperate times. 

Who is he kidding. He’s going to need all the sweet stimulation he can possibly consume to get through this shit-show himself. 

When he catches up Morgan already has chocolate smeared on her lips. Fancy desserts perch daintily upon gold lined plates, on tiered stands. Thin streams of velvety, liquid chocolate trickle out of apex fountains, flakes of edible gold cover the setting.

She points excitedly with messy fingers to the ones she wants Tony to try. He should resist, right? He’s really isn’t supposed to eat dairy. That, along with his faulty levels of serotonin, was something the all powerful stones failed to fix. Which was really just plain lazy, if you ask him. 

But he spies a flamboyant looking fruit-pastry and thinks, fuck it.

Then he sees a yellow-treat that makes his mouth water and thinks, I can work it off tomorrow.

He reaches over and crams an entire portugese egg tart in his mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk. Morgan laughs, tipping her neck back in unbridled delight.

“Do it again!” she says, bouncing on her feet.

He does. And then again, and again.

Which is how Peter Parker finds him no more than ten minutes later.

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony nearly chokes in his haste to chew and swallow the pastry when Peter swans into view, dressed to the nines and grinning a mile wide. He hears Morgan gasp delightedly beside him, running off to catch up with the younger man while Tony tries not to quietly asphyxiate.

Swallowing roughly, Tony gives him a thumbs up.

Several feet away, Morgan throws her gangly arms around Peter. She buries her head into his chest, just like she does with Tony, brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she embraces him tightly. Peter settles his arms around her neck and leans down to kiss the crown of her head, whispering something to hear that Tony can’t hear.

There’s a weird pang somewhere behind his ribs at the sight. 

He swipes his half-empty flute of champagne and downs the remainder in one gulp to cover it. 

“Mr. Parker,” Tony greets, rocking on his feet when his daughter and former protege walk back to him hand-in-hand. “Didn’t know you owned a suit in your size.”

The younger man holds his free arm out, twisting it to test the fit. It’s a grey suit with a maroon dress-shirt, tailored to perfection. It looks new.

Peter smiles. The action has creases forming at the corners of his eyes; a small, subtle nod to the years Tony missed. Gone is all of his baby fat, his face angular and defined. He holds himself with more self-assuredness, even now. 

He wouldn’t say it aloud, but Peter grew up handsome. 

Worse, he grew up to be Tony’s type.

“Oh, this? I didn’t pick it - but it’s nice, right?”

“Yeah. You, uh,” Tony swallows roughly, eyeing the man from head to toe. “You look good. You clean up well, kid.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly at the compliment. 

“Thanks, Mr. Stark. You - you too. You look... good. Really good.”

Peter meets his gaze, his cheeks a furious shade of pink. 

The motion of the room slows as he watches the sparkle reach Peter’s eyes. Everything in his peripherals becomes dull, unfocused. His own heartbeat jackrabbits against his chest and his sure his face is doing something without his permission. 

Tony’s throat clicks when he swallows. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, stepping closer. 

Now, Tony thinks, staring at Peter’s face, the earnest smile still tugging at his lips. Now is the time he would say something to curdle the mood. 

Peter being a full-fledged, rent-paying adult adult is new. Being on an even footing with Tony as a person and a professional is new. There’s so much new about him that Tony still has to learn.

There’s plenty that has stayed the same. His soft-spoken, courteous nature, his ethics.

But Tony can read the unfamiliar in Peter’s posture as much as he does the carefully curated vocabulary, how he stops himself from stammering into subjects he might have stepped into, before. The barely-there lines of age around his eyes, the confident squaring of his shoulders. 

And how Tony finds that his imperfect teeth compliment the ever-wayward hairs of his eyebrows - and how all of it, all of Peter, is now somehow charming, rather than awkward.

“How have you been, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling forward

“Good,” Tony says, lips stretching onto the first genuine smile of the night. He’d try to tug those corners down, were it not for the infectious way Peter’s mouth does the same. “You?”

“Good, yeah. Super busy.”

“That’s good. Good to keep busy, as they say.”

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “It is good. Keeping busy. And how are you? -- Wait, shit, sorry, I already asked that.”

“This one keeps me going,” Tony tugs on a lock of Morgan's hair, taking mercy on him. “You been too busy to see the news about Spider-Man? I know you’re a fan.” 

Peter steps closer again, clasping his hands behind his back, smiling coyly as those around them perk up in interest.

“Which news?”

“Taking down Kingpins empire. Fisk behind bars.” 

“Oh, I think I heard something about that.”

Tony nods.

“What a guy. New York’s never looked cleaner. Although, take that from a guy who hasn’t seen the city for five years.”

“That’s some high praise,” Peter says, wringing his hands together as he nears. 

“He’s a hero,” Tony looks to his daughter. With an affirmative nod of dark hair she concurs.

“I think he’s just a regular guy,” Peter huffs, snorting when Morgan giggles knowingly.

Before Tony can inch closer, maybe to do something impulsive like what his hands have been itching to do and grip the lapels of Peter’s suit jacket, the moment is broken by a nearby cry.

“Peter! There you are!”

Sweat beading along his receding hairline, a heavy arm slung over Peter’s shoulders, Otto Octavius swims into view, nodding politely at Tony and Morgan.

“You’re a slippery one, Parker,” he says, shaking Peter’s shoulders. “Been looking for you.”

“Otto, this is --”

“ -- Got some guys that want to meet you,” Octavius interrupts, thick fingers squeezing Peters bicep. He leans in and and whispers in a way Tony is sure is meant to be discreet, “They’re keen to meet the brains behind the project; come say hi.”

Another change Tony never counted on was the trajectory Peter’s life took after his passing. 

Peter never went to MIT like Tony had dreamed for him. He went to Empire State University.

Pepper informed Tony that she in fact had reached out prior to his graduation and offered him a position. But Peter had declined. He hadn’t said why, but he’d chosen to work under Otto Octavius at Octavius Industries instead. 

One thing that Tony learned in his short time back in the land of the living was that Otto was infamously proud of his new employee and favoured immensely. 

It’s what Tony would have wanted for Peter, really. Doing what he loves, being given the respect his intellect and kind heart deserves. He seems to be happy and all grown up. As if Tony needs the reminder.

It’s just that Otto was always an insufferable do-gooder. Save the trees, save the bees. ALl noble notions that Tony agrees with - but Otto is like the human personification of a PETA ad. He’d never been a fan of Tony’s, even after he reformed, literally. 

Still, do-gooder or not. There’s something about him. Something that Tony doesn’t like. Just a vibe he has. He’s got good instincts after all of these years and he knows he’s got a solid hunch. There’s something about that man, he knows it.

It’s got nothing to do with the proprietary hand Otto has on Peters shoulder, like the younger man is just a thing to show off. Or how Tony wanted to be the one doing that.

It’s got nothing to do with the way Peter’s suit perfectly fits his frame, or how the maroon and grey compliments his clear, milky skin.

It’s definitely not related to the way Tony’s heart beats just a little bit faster when Peter is in the room.

Yeah.

“Um, I’ll just be a minute,” Peter smiles apologetically at the Starks, eyes softening at Morgans pout. “I won’t be long, you owe me a dance little miss, remember?”

Tony waves dismissively at him, reaching for another flute of champagne from a passing waiters tray. He swallows another generous mouthful, bubbles burning on their way down. 

With Morgan munching on a gold flaked cheesecake at his side, Tony watches as the young hero is led away. Otto’s hand on his back, guiding him to make nice with some university hacks. Five years ago Peter would have fumbled through these introductions. He would have gone bright red and blurted some weird factoid to make conversation. 

But he’s polished now, Tony watches. Not perfect, but his posture says confident adult, not awkward teenager, like the last time he wore a suit around Tony. This suit really does fit him like a glove. His handshake looks strong, too. Firm.

Were Peter’s hands always that big? 

Tony sips his champagne, observing the girth of his former mentee’s fingers. It’s not until he feels the burn of Morgans stare on the side of his face that he breaks his gaze.

“What,” he says.

She points a chocolate covered finger at his face. 

“You know how I feel about people holding up one finger at me. If you’re gonna do it, it should be the middle one.”

“You like him.”

Tony huffs, rolling his eyes. “Of course I like him. He’s your Uncle Pete.”

“No, dad, you like like him. You want to be his boyfriend.”

“What -- I do not,” Tony says, casting her an incredulous stare.

“You do. You want to marry him,” she says, scrunching up her face and making kissy noises. 

“Do not.” 

“Do too.”

“I --” he huffs, gesturing to the room at large as his words run away from him. “Do not. I’m the adult. You’re the child. I’m right, you’re wrong. Case closed.”

“Dad.”

“Fine, here,” he fishes out his wallet from his back pocket and slips a crumpled fifty out. He waves it in her face. “Take this and never speak about it again.”

“Can I speak about it to mom?”

He slips out another fifty and hands it to her.

“No.”

She smiles, neatly folding the notes and tucking it into her little bag. Tony stuffs another tart down his throat, knowing he’s been played.

She really is his kid.

----

It’s not that Tony doesn’t know.

He knows.

It’s familiar after decades of experience. That weird feeling he gets. The fluttering of his heart, the topsy-turvy motion in his stomach, were he any younger he might call them butterflies.

He just doesn’t get it.

There’s a lot of things that were jarring when he awoke, soil under his fingernails as he tore through the earth in the desperate search for oxygen. He remembers waking up, confused and naked, body restored to the moment before he snapped his fingers. He remembers stumbling onto a rebuilt compound, unable to speak, learning that the entire world had moved on and changed without him.

With FRIDAY as his guide Tony had seen all of the monuments and the altars in his name, fresh bouquets propped against them, even years after his death. The adoration and the glorification immortalised in murals and statues, in grants in his name, in tell-all books. 

They’d even made a shitty movie about his life. 

The actor who played him was too short and the woman who played Pepper wore a wig. It was funny. Not like, funny haha, but funny in that uncanny, meta photo-within-a-photo kind of way.   

But when Peter had come to the compound that first time and they talked after they both finished crying -- it was different. And every time after, it was different. 

It was… awkward. At first, they didn’t know how to be around each other, automatically falling into old molds of mentor and protege. It was almost immediately clear that their old roles weren’t going to work -- too much between them had altered to fit back into the old model. 

They needed to recalibrate, and quickly.

Their dynamic did change. If Tony thought about it long enough, innocently enough, he might dare to call it a friendship.

He would, but there was that feeling in his chest. Beat, beat, bang.

It was a work in progress, to reconcile the flutter in his stomach with the Peter now, with the Peter that was, before. A man who had lost all his baby fat, who was old enough to have colourful stories and a wealth of life experience, who had remarkably broad shoulders looked damn good holding a wrench.

It was the hands. 

They looked very dexterous. Capable.

But that didn’t stop him from spiraling into deep, existential pockets of despair as he wondered if the stones really thought it was best to revive him so he could actively thirst over someone he used to be responsible for. 

Peter is barely fifteen years older than his daughter. He’s lost count how many real and missing years are between them now between death and the Snap. Five a piece.

He can’t tell his road-runner heart if that’s better or worse, though. 

But, too high on the adrenaline of seeing Peter, he forgets to tell his body to stop, to remind his stupid heart that this one is not available. 

----

Sometime after eleven the gala is in full swing. The mood perks right up in anticipation of the New Year.  

Most of the remaining guests are pleasantly tipsy by this point, if not outright drunk. All of the stirring speeches have been made, Peppers included. 

Tony tried to listen, however got distracted by - well, anything. But the effort was there. Something about giving and starting the year fresh, clean slates. 

The relaxed atmosphere has more couples dancing on the floor. The Mayor and his wife stumble over each other, moguls and A-Listers mingle and take selfies against attractive backdrops. 

Even Morgan grew tired of Tony’s ornery approach to the evening, departing with a kiss to his cheek to dance with her mother.

Tony forgets, sometimes. That people expect something of him, something more. Like his resurrection was divine intervention, and if the universe intended him to be here, surely it was for a purpose higher than acting like a morose old man, hiding in the corners of ballrooms.

It’s just. He doesn’t know where his place is anymore.

Norman Osborne stops by to crow about his latest achievements, his contract with the NYPD to provide surveillance towers all over the city. Tony’s seen them. They’re hard to miss.

“Design’s a little archaic, don’t you think? Not very discreet. A pettier man would say you were overcompensating for something.”

He’s not really paying attention as he’s speaking, too distracted by the debacle before him. 

Harry Osborn and Peter dance together in the centre of the room, leaned in close to one another and snickering at what the other has said. 

They look loose and comfortable around one another, as if they were old friends. Or something else.

Peter leans in close to Harry’s ear to whisper something, the flush on his face creeping down his neck. In one swift movement Tony throws back the rest of his champagne, wishing the liquid would drown him, stomach turning to cement.

Whatever Norman says in response goes unheard. 

With the crowd dispersed, Peter catches Tony’s eye and waves exuberantly, nearly hitting Harry in the face.

Tony raises his glass, wincing. 

At least some things stay the same.

“They roomed together at ESU,” Norman breaks Tony out of his musings.

Clearing his throat, Tony tries his best to appear indifferent. Why should he care? That’s right, he doesn’t. Not even remotely.

“I see.” Play it cool, he thinks. “They look close, are they —?”

Nailed it.

“No. They tried, but it didn’t work out. Harry’s engaged now.”

“Huh.”

“But Peter is always welcome in our home,” Norman drawls. “He’s like a second son, really. Wasn’t he your protege once?”

Osborn is so smarmy. All at once Tony remembers why he hates this man and his dumb, weathered face. His covetous tone makes Tony want to hurl, or send a suit to the nearest Oscorp building and play rain of fire.

“Good god, imagine if he was your son,” Tony says blithely. “As if you need another one of those to mess up.”

Norman huffs.

“You’re hardly the authority on raising well adjusted children, Stark.”

Ire spears up hot to his throat, but before Tony can deliver a withering reply, he’s interrupted by the arrival of Pepper and Greg. 

Morgan trails behind, dragging a laughing Peter with her by hand. She weaves her thin body through the crowd, having pulled the man away from his dance wearing identical grins.

He watches his daughter cut through swathes of the elite in a trail of chiffon, delight clear in the laughter that follows her. Tiny heels clack against the polished ballroom floor, and Peter indulges her mischief, catching Tony’s eye and winking as they near him.

It’s the first time he’s seen his whole family look truly carefree since he came back. 

And Tony is where he should be. An inscrutable mass against the beige, peeling wallpaper. 

The look of distaste on Normans face as he walks away is enough to dampen some of his churlishness as his family form before him. Pepper makes small talk with Peter and Greg smiles awkwardly at a passing senator. Morgan dives for a profiterole before anyone can stop her. 

For a moment Tony feels like he’s in a McDonalds playground instead of an upper-class charity event.

Pepper must have had a hand in choosing Morgans dress, Tony thinks, because it has pockets. And, watching her as the adults talk, she sneaks handfuls of tarts and truffles into the grooves of her dress. Tony wants to laugh, to wink at her conspiratorially at the same time he wants to tuck her into bed, new years or not. 

Morgan beckons Peter closer to the sweets table. The younger of the two piling her favourite sampled sweets onto a napkin and thrusts them towards Peter, fervently requesting that he try them, they’re so good, Uncle Peter. 

“Not everyone wants dessert for dinner, little miss,” Tony reminds her, swiping a napkin off the table and wiping the melted chocolate off the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not a baby, dad,” she complains, taking the napkin from him.

He forgets that too, sometimes.

Peter smiles between them, delicately plucking a single strawberry off one of the offered miniature flans and popping it into his mouth. 

Lust spears through him so suddenly Tony sways on his feet. Fuck. 

His daughter and ex-wife are right there. 

“Mr. Stark. Would you - uh,” Peter breaks off to swallow audibly. “Would you like to dance?”

Otto is by the bar. Harry, by the French Ambassador. Tony is in his self-made corner of the room, nibbling on vol-au-vents and sashimi to pass the time. 

He can smell Peter’s cologne and his sweat when he steps closer and sheepishly offers his hand and Tony’s entire damn body wants to just reach out and interlock their fingers, to pull Peter close and breathe him in. Never has Tony wanted to bury himself in another body before and not come back out, not like this.

Tony would consume all of what Peter had to give, if Peter let him. The offering look in Peter’s eyes say that he would let him.

“I… uh,” Tony begins, searching for a quip to cover his falter. Smiling at his companions, Tony smooths his hand down his tie, pretending the curious looks of concern are just the alcohol. “I need fresh air.”

“Tony --”

“Mr. Stark --”

He waves them off and smiles apologetically at Peter.

“-- I’ll just be a sec. Is it hot in here? Is anyone else hot? I’m like, sweating here, wow. It’s just pooling under the armpits. I’ll just be a minute, excuse me --”

The crowd parts for him like the red sea as he marches through it in search of the nearest door. But he’s never felt less powerful in his entire life.

Or lives, as it were.

----

Outside, the air is blissfully fresh and cold. The rooftop is far less crowded than indoors, only a few patrons lean against the railing, cigarette smoke curling up from their fingers, some in quiet conversation with another.

There’s a carefully constructed pyramid of wide, vintage wine glasses brimming with champagne. He’s careful not to topple the entire thing over when he goes to reach for one. Overheated, even as the winter wind nips at him, he takes his drink and finds a quiet corner to sulk in.

Perching upon a stone bench away far away from the others, Tony tips his head up at the starless sky and huffs. 

What the hell does he think he’s doing?

The New York City skyline is alight before him in all its glory, but the memory of how Peter’s face dropped flashes across Tony’s mind on a loop. He looked taken aback. Hurt even. 

Shame wells up low in Tony’s stomach and doggedly stays there. 

It’s for the best. Right? It has to be for the best. Peter deserves the best and Tony is not that.

It’s not right for him to want to fit himself into Peter’s life when he seems to be happy and successful without Tony - there’s one thing he knows unequivocally about himself is that he would ruin that. Ruin Peter, one of the few good things he has left.

His heart doesn’t get the memo. 

Because when he closes his eyes, all he imagines is the way Peter’s firm body would feel against his. What it would feel like to curl together on the sofa, in bed, under the sheets. How his curls would tickle the underside of Tony’s chin, and what it would be like to trace the lines that branch from his eyes when he smiles, or to stroke the narrow slope of his nose as he sleeps. 

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong because Tony doesn’t fit there. Not there, nor in all of the places he used to. He’s not Iron Man or a businessman. He’s not a husband or a full-time father. He’s not even Peter Parker's mentor. 

What he is, for all of his resurrected glory, is an afterthought. A spectre, hovering in the fringes of all of the places he used to be the centre of.

He smiles, raising his glass to the smoking couple as they nod politely at him.

It’s fine. He’s happy that everyone is happy.

But it’s been months. He ain't Jesus, but surely by now he’d find some sense of purpose.

“Mr. Stark?”

When Tony opens his eyes Peter stands before him, clutching a perspiring glass of wine.

Tony doesn’t want to notice, but he does anyway. The look of concern written on his face is unmistakable, even in the dim lighting of the rooftop, the nearby flamelight serves to deepen the frown lines on his young face.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark? Sorry to follow you out here, you just seem kind of...”

“Surly?” Tony guess. “I’m fine, kid. Just had a few too many. Didn’t want to hurl all over the drapes. No need to worry.”

“I was gonna say overwhelmed, but yeah,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony’s bent knees hit the top of Peter’s thighs - his stomach swoops, again. “I’m gonna worry anyway.”

“Yeah, well, happy New Year,” Tony says dryly, knocking their glasses together. 

Peter taps his smart-watch with a finger. 

“Still got five minutes before that. Can’t break into Auld Lang Syne yet, Mr. Stark.”

“We could if we were in Halifax,” Tony counters. The younger man tilts his head agreeably and Tony calls the easing of tension from Peter’s shoulders a win.

“Let’s stick to New York.”

“Sure,” he agrees. “You don’t have somewhere you’d rather be? You got four-something minutes.”

“Right here, actually, if that’s okay with you.”

Tony doesn’t know if that’s frankness or fiction, but he smiles all the same, patting the slab of stone he’s sat upon invitingly. 

“Well, come aboard, Mr. Parker.”

Without pause, Peter hoists himself on the bench with a single hand, delicately balancing the glass of champagne with the other. He shuffles to get comfortable, swinging his legs as he settles.

The firelight catches onto the curve of Peter’s curls, slicked down into wilted tendrils from the sweat dotting his hairline. 

His heart is positively thunderous in his chest. He raises his hand to soothe it and at once, sickeningly, painfully misses the comforting heat of the arc reactor.

“You wanna talk about it?” Peter asks, after a moment.

Tony smiles wryly, mostly to himself. Of course, there’s nothing that escapes Peters notice.

“Trust me, kid. There’s not much to say.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Peter says, fishing something out of his pocket and handing it to Tony “I, uh, thought you liked those. I took the last one.”

It’s a portugese egg tart, Tony notes, warmed slightly from Peter’s body heat. Fuck. He does like them. They’re his favourite. 

Tony pretends like his heart isn’t swelling to the point where it feels it's going to burst and breaks the tart in two, passing over the other half to Peter. 

“Thanks, kid. Try some.”

They eat their halves in relative silence, save for the sound of chewing and Peter’s shoes hitting the stone as he swings his legs. But the mood grows quieter, noticeably pensive after they finish eating. It makes Tony’s skin crawl.

“You know,” Peter says softly, as if raising his voice would shatter the moment, “you’re not the only one to come back to find years lost. To find the world different. I know it’s not easy. Especially on nights like this.”

Tony swallows roughly, chasing it with a mouthful of champagne. 

“You seem to have managed well.”

Peter huffs. “Oh yeah, real well. God, you don’t even know how --” his voice breaks off, voice wet with emotion. He looks away, throat bobbing as he gathers himself. “You just -- you don’t know.”

The moment feels fraught with enough gravity that it would bring the moon down between them.

“Hey,” Tony chides, trying to diffuse the heavy emotion with what levity he could utter. “Come on now, it’s supposed to be me out here maudlin. Don’t steal my thunder, Charlotte's Web.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, cracking a smile. “I’ll try to pencil in sad hours for later.”

“Appreciated.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. A woman, visibly drunk, passes them and raises her glass to Tony, the liquid sloshing out from the glass and down her arm. She doesn’t seem to notice, smiling and stumbling away.

That would have been Tony ten years ago (in his lived years). On the weekends without Morgan, sometimes it still is.

“Got any resolutions, Mr. Stark?”

Tony snorts. “Shit, kid, I don’t know. Take Morgan to Saturn. Run for president, get back on the Cosmo’s Bachelor of the Year.” 

“Most people just join a gym.”

“I didn’t come back to life to break my hip on a treadmill,” Tony says, offended. “What about you, Peter Rabbit?”

Peter takes a sip of his drink as he visibly deliberates. Wayward drops of champagne gather at the corner of his mouth before he scoops them with his tongue, eyes drifting to the glittering skyline.

“Yeah. I’m trying to get this guy that I’m into to take me seriously.”

Tony hums, stomach dropping.

“Some guy, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve known him since I was fifteen and I’m like, super into him, but he still sees me as a child.”

His stomach swoops back up.  

“Well,” Tony clears his throat, daring to hope, “this guy’s an idiot if he can’t see you for the man you are. You’re a catch.”

Peter shrugs, inching closer as he adjusts his balance. Their hands are nearly touching and Tony can feel the heat radiating from the man's body and he hates himself for it, just a little bit, he’s too old to feel like a kid with a crush again. 

“He’s not an idiot. Well, he is, sometimes. Not all the time.”

“You sure this guy is good enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, looking out at the skyline again. “He’s just lost. I can wait.”

“What if he’s not right for you?” Tony says, throat closing unexpectedly. “What if he’s not worth the wait?”

Peter shuffles closer. 

“He has been so far,” he says, bravely extending his pinkie so it curls atop Tony’s. In the cool night air the touch of skin against skin is scorching. “Worst case scenario has already happened. I’ve already lost him in the worst possible way. I could do without him calling me kid all the time though.”

“He makes no promises on that.”

“I thought as much.”

“You deserve better than lost, Pete,” Tony says around the lump in his throat. For a moment he can’t speak, the memories of electricity ripping through his body in a moment of love much like the feeling he has now. “You deserve the best.”

But Peter doesn’t say anything. He tugs on their linked pinkies to intertwine their fingers, resting them in the interstice of their pressed thighs. Tony doesn’t miss how Peter’s palms are damp against his, how they tremble ever so slightly. It’s grounding, to know Peter is as nervous as he is.

When he gets brave enough to stroke the back of Peters hand with his thumb some of the mired shame melts away.

“Deserve is subjective,” Peter says, squeezing Tony’s fingers. “And I decide he is the best.”

“What if he wants you back,” Tony whispers, shifting closer on the stone until their sides are entirely flush together. “But he has nothing to offer you. Doesn’t fit in with your life.”

“What about what I can offer him?” Peter clutches his hand tighter, raising it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on the back of Tony’s hand. “What if I'm there while he finds his way?”

“Pete.”

“You have time, Mr. Stark. You can figure the rest out as it comes to you.”

“And until then?”

“You go with the flow.”

“How?”

“Like this,” Peter whispers, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. 

Closing his eyes, Tony leans into it and lets himself fall. Peters lips feel soft, pillowy, the kiss chaste and unassuming. When Peter pulls back he looks dazed, which is silly, because that was a tease for Tony. 

Eyes on the glistening bow of Peter’s lips, he wants to dive in and tug it between his teeth. So he does.

“That’s -- yeah,” Tony says, sliding their noses together, “Were you -- were you always this confident?”  

“I’m not confident,” Peter replies, kissing him again, pulling back to exhale shakily against Tony’s lips. “Holy cow. That was, like, a super big risk for me. Wow. Did I fool you? Are you fooled?”

“Bamboozled,” Tony says, staring at Peter’s lips again. “Just to confirm, I’m the guy, right? Resolution guy?”

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

 “Good,” Tony says, cupping his cheeks and kissing him again.

Fireworks bathe the couple in an electric array of neons, and crowds can be heard cheering from all around them. Tony pulls away to see Peter illuminated in brilliant colour, lips wet and swollen.

“Is this okay?” Peter reaches his free hand up to cup Tony’s cheek. “Is it weird? It’s a bit weird. Right?”

“It’s weird. But weird-different,” Tony amends. “Good different, right?”

“Right.”

“I should, maybe, keep kissing you to be sure.”

Peter’s answering grin against his lips vivifies the lights exploding around them.

To the soundtrack of waning fireworks, Tony gets lost in learning how Peter kisses, the shape of his lips, how the heat of his tongue feels against his own. 

Struck suddenly by a memory Tony pulls away from Peter to groan.

“What?” Peter queries, flushed and panting. “What’s wrong?” 

“I literally paid Morgan a hundred bucks to not tell you I was hot for you.”

Peter balks, staring at Tony as if he were stupid.

“Um, I have enhanced hearing, remember? And she told me, like, two months ago.”

Tony squints. 

“That little brat.”

——

The knowing smiles when they walk back into the ballroom from their family is a little uncalled for. Morgan is asleep in Peppers lap so she isn’t even awake to crow about her victory.

But the way Otto splutters as his eyes dart between the bruise on Tony’s neck and their joined hands is deeply worth it.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Octavius!” Peter beams, swinging their hands together. 

“And - and you. Mr. Parker.”

“Sorry to drop this on you last minute, would you mind if I get another ride home?”

“Well, I --”

“Let me compensate you for the cab,” Tony offers, dropping Peter’s hand to wind his arm around the younger man's waist, pulling their sides flush together. “It’s the least I can do. Don’t worry, Peter’s ride will be very enjoyable.”

“I take it you’re not coming back to the penthouse,” Pepper cuts in, sharing a look with Greg.

“Yeah,” Tony nods, already pulling Peter away. “When Morguna wakes up from her beauty sleep tell her she owes me a cut of the winnings, okay? Good. Happy New whatever.”

They stop by the dessert spread on their way out.

-----

Their taxi driver sends them scalding stares from the front seat.

It’s fine, Tony will compensate him generously in tips. Though, if he were the driver, he’d probably be pissed too. 

For all of his stealthyness as Spider-Man, Peter is not quiet right now. He bucks into Tony’s touch, rubbing his crotch against Tony’s hand. He breaks their kiss to moans lewdly into Tony’s mouth, breath hot against his face.

“Oh god,” he exhales shakily, tugging on Tony’s tie to bring their lips together in a filthy kiss.  

“Good?” Tony mumbles against his lips, grinding his palm down harder. Peter nods, tilting his head back to groan as Tony’s mouth latches onto his neck. The creamy skin is mottled with teeth marks and barely blooming hickies. 

Tony sucks and and laves his tongue over the heated skin to hear how his breath hitches, those high ahh-ahh’s that fall breathlessly out of his mouth, to hear him moan --

“M-Mr. Stark!”

Tony winces, pulling back.

He sighs. “Kid, if we’re doing this, you really gotta call me Tony.”

In an instant Peter’s face turns stony, somehow looking stern despite his swollen lips and wrinkled shirt. He looks like a petulant pitbull.

“If we’re doing this you really gotta stop calling me ‘kid’, Tony.”

Tony undoes the first button of Peter’s dress shirt, then the second, parting the folds of fabric to get a view of his collarbones.

“I suppose I would be amenable to such amendments, Peter,” he nods, “on the condition that you let me take you on a date.”

As Tony snakes a hand over the curves of his clavicle, Peter’s deft fingers undo the knot of Tony’s tie until it lies loose from his neck.

“I would be amenable to that. Conditions accepted.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yeah. I’m going to kiss you again now.”

“Okay. Yeah. Good.”

-----

With a heavy arm slung around his midsection, Tony finds out what Peter’s body feels like curled around his body when he wakes up the next morning.

There are a lot of little discoveries on New Years Day.

Like the feeling of Peter’s morning wood pressed pleasantly against his ass. Or how Peter squints adorably as he wakes up, as if he were confused by his own consciousness, his bedhead a mad nest of curls. Or how much Tony doesn’t mind the humid exchange of morning breath. 

“Do you always take your first dates to bed?” Peter queries over breakfast, the ghost of a teasing smile on his face.

“That was not a date,” Tony points his fork at him. Scrambled egg falls from the utensil onto the table. “And we didn’t even have sex. That’s misleading, mister.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tony sniffs.

“You’ll find out when we have our first date, won’t you? Friday at seven. Yes or yes?”

Peter sips his coffee to hide his smile, but Tony still sees it.

“Yes.”

-----

They got their date. 

Six months after the New Years festivities comes Morgans eleventh birthday. 

Tony’s had a lot of dates with a lot of people, including Peter, but nothing quite trumps this. 

It’s a double date. With his ex-wife and her new husband. Plus twelve other kids and their parents at a McDonalds. 

All four are seated at a table, Peter to his side, squirming on the terrible, hard chairs while Pepper and Greg sit opposite. Several servings of burgers and fries lay cold between them. Mostly melted McFlurries ooze off the provided plastic spoon when disinterestedly stirred.

It’s terribly romantic.

Morgan wanted McDonalds with her friends for her birthday, and before the big move to middle school. It fell on date night. 

The garishly decorated diner is alive with the sounds of yelling and laughing, kids and their siblings running after one another, pushing each other down slides and following each other through narrow, plastic tunnels.

Tony’s never really been a double date kinda guy, particularly when it involves the mother of his child and his new, twenty-something lover. It was stilted in the beginning, made more awkward by Tony’s foursome jokes, but Peter keeps the conversation afloat, dipping the congealed fries into Tony’s melted ice cream. 

He rubs Tony’s lower back as he speaks. Soothing, grounding circles that inadvertently keep Tony in the present.

Peter likes being in constant contact, Tony found. Now that he has the permission. Whether its holding hands, a casual grip on Tonys knee, his thigh, his back. 

It’s… actually nice. Maybe because he does it too.

It’s not always about comfort though, Tony concedes, as Peter’s hand dips a little lower, brushing over the swell of his ass.

They share a knowing look. 

Tony knows now, what that odd twinkle in Peter’s eyes mean. That little pervert. He knows it in the way Peter bites his bottom lip, as if canary feathers are about to flutter out of his guilty mouth. He wants to lean over and kiss the look right off them.

Greg keeps a close eye on the playground, loafers tapping anxiously on the tiles when a kid pulls a daring move and nearly misses their landing. 

He’s not the worst, Tony concedes, wearily assessing the other man. He cares for Morgan which is a plus. But he’s greying gracefully and is genuinely so nice and humble that Tony can’t help but test him every now and then. How earnest can he truly be with Tony stealing a fry here and there and knocking his knees ‘accidentally’. 

The conversation turns to Morgans transition to middle school. Pepper thinks she’ll outgrow her peers in months and will pursue a more scientific-focused academic curriculum. 

It’s one of those rare, transient moments of life that Tony’s here to witness. He’s getting used to feeling like everything is going to be okay, like maybe he wasn’t brought back just to be a part of another fight. But there’s a lingering anxiety, he just doesn’t know how to deal with without a solder or a suit to tinker on.

He’s working on it though.

“Should we manhandle her highness back in for the cake?” Tony asks, hand snaking down to squeeze Peter’s firm thigh.

Peter, not missing a beat, sends him a smirk that says I’ll manhandle you. 

It’s only right that Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s thigh, smiling proudly to himself when Peters breath hitches.

A kid knocks into the back of Tony’s chair, screaming as they run towards the playground. Tony winces, the moment broken.

“Need I remind you two that we’re in a family establishment,” Pepper stresses.

“Yes,” Tony rolls his eyes, gesturing to the playground of rambunctious, screaming children. “How could I forget.”

“Tony.”

“You heard her, Pete, keep it safe for work. You’re making people uncomfortable,” Tony says, clamping down tighter on Peter's leg. Speaking to the couple, he gestures to Peter with his thumb. “Real horndog this one. Insatiable.”

“Me?” Peter says accusingly, jaw dropping.

Pepper raises an eyebrow cooly. “Please, Tony. Don’t think Morgan hasn’t told me about the time she walked in on you two. One time you told her you were checking each Peters temperature. With your long thermometer -- honestly, Tony. Try not to traumatise our child.”

Peter visibly colours at the mention.

“Wait,” Tony says. “That little -- I paid her twenty bucks not to tell you that.”

“So did I,” Peter frowns. “And I gave her the rest of my Reeses to seal the deal. Ah, crap.”

“You got played,” Greg snickers. Tony hates him again.

He nods at Pepper. 

“She gets that from you.”

Pepper smiles, unbothered, looking every ounce the image of class as she raises her plastic cup of milkshake to them.

Tony sighs, not even mad.

Some things never change.

-- Thank you to our wonderful artists and writer who participated in the first Starker Games! <3 <3 <3 this is fabulous and we hope you enjoyed yourselves!

[liloelsagranger]

Chapter 7: Navigation of memory - Viridian Love Story (pokémon fanfiction)

My dear friends,

it’s been so long ago since I last updated my current fanfiction. Let me tell you why: My mother spent 60 days in hospital and 30 days in rehabilitation. She suffers from a severe liver cirrhosis due to a hepatitis she had as a child.

I visited her every single day and sat at her bedside. The doctors in my hometwon gave her 2-3 more days before she would die and my father and I were able to get her to a better hospital just in time, where she slowly made progress. It was terrible to see how my mother was feeling bad and she could hardly do anything on her own anymore. But now she is feeling much better, she is walking again without aids and has regained some courage. Nevertheless, she is on the waiting list for a liver transplant and I am in the test phase to see if I am a suitable donor. That’s why I was hardly ever active online, but that should change now, because I still love Team Rocket, there were simply more important things in the last three months. I hope you understand. Thank you!

Now, enjoy the new chapter!

«What’s the story with Mew?” Ash spoke up. Jessie and James exchanged meaningful glances. They weren’t sure if they were allowed to talk about a top-secret project of Team Rocket. After all, they would pass on confidential data to third parties and thus risk their jobs. On the other hand, they had long since gambled away another pardon from their boss.

“Go ahead!” Jessie let James go first. He cleared his throat, still not sure if he would enter forbidden territory.

”Giovanni has been working for years on his so-called Mew project. The goal is to find clues and possible whereabouts of this legendary Pokémon. To do this, they interview dozens of people to find out more and get to the bottom of Mew. Anyone who is questioned in a lengthy interrogation is then arrested and shipped off, because they don’t want important information to leak out. Only a few know the exact whereabouts of the deportees and the rumors and stories circulating about them make your blood run cold.” Team Rocket felt in error. The disclosure of such important information would have an aftermath.

Misty could not believe that there was a faint hope of finding her parents alive. “Where are the deportees taken to?” she wanted to know. Jessie and James were humming and hawing, they didn’t want to get more involved. Slowly, Misty’s patience tore. “Come on, guys! You know exactly where my parents could be! So pull yourself together and do the right thing for once” she demanded.

James sighed. “To find them we would have to break into the main base on a pretty deserted island that is not easy to reach. It is surrounded by high fences with barbed wire. Surveillance cameras have been installed everywhere. They can control every single spot on the island, stop intruders and lock them away. It won’t be easy” he explained.

“Why would you break into the main base? You guys work for Giovanni. Don’t you have a member card or something?” Ash thought there something fishy about the whole story. “Sure we would! But we’ve been suspended, because apparently, I screwed up!” Jessie threw an angry look at James. “Please, stop arguing now! There are more important things right now. For once, can you help us and bring us to this island? I’d be much obliged” Misty did not ask for much. She clung to the last straw of her almost extinguished hope.

Team Rocket turned their backs on them. “Brief review of the situation” Meowth whispered. “Should we help them or should we let them fidget?” Jessie and James considered their options. “The twerpette is looking for her mother, I can understand how it feels to be completely alone in the world, this loneliness can seriously drive you crazy. On the other hand, we have been suspended and another faux pas is out of question. We would have to be even more careful and rely entirely on our spying techniques. Do you think we could bring them in?” Jessie looked into the round. James nodded. “We have already mastered many hurdles. Just think of the Training Days many years ago. We were so inexperienced and green behind the ears, but we still passed with flying colors. Over the years we have acquired innumerable distractions, we can make ourselves practically invisible and nobody would notice that we are sneaking into the taboo area. Maybe we should risk it and should we finally loose our jobs, yes then you know my answer, then we will build up our own business.” He smiled gently but could not win Jessie over yet. They turned around. “We’re going to help you!”

“So is there a truce between us?” Ash asked. “For now,” Jessie shook his hand.

Team Rocket led the young students towards the harbor. There they would board a Rocket transport vehicle disguised as a cruise ship. They took two cabins and would only talk to each other under certain circumstances and when it was really necessary. They were not allowed to attract attention, but Jessie, James and Meowth had some costumes in their luggage that would help to hide their identity.

When Misty, Ash and Brock headed for the dining hall in the early evening, they were welcomed by a brightly lit room. The smell of delicious food wafted towards them, so that their mouths watered. They sat down at a round table a little aside and waited for the promised welcome drink. At the piano, the entertainer showed his talent and invited guests who had already dined to a slow waltz accompanied by violins. Nothing reminded of an undercover mission of Team Rocket. The guests chatted and enjoyed themselves, food was brought on silver trays. Men and women were treated to the most delicious meat and fish dishes they could find on the menu. “Are they serious?” Misty had to refrain from laughing when she discovered Jessie, James and Meowth in their seemingly unremarkable disguise. Jessie and James were dressed as if they came from a Puritan village. Meowth sucked on a pacifier and had a bib on. Ash rolled his eyes. “So much for not attracting attention!” They laughed.

For James the evening went on endlessly. No matter what Jessie was wearing, he could never take his eyes off her. She was a real beauty, even in rags and he was an absolute fool for having missed the chance. Jessie hardly paid any attention to him but stared at the dance floor and the many happy couples, who seemed so carefree. At some point, James could no longer stand the tense atmosphere and left the dining hall under the pretext that he needed some fresh air.

James reproached himself terribly. How could he deceive Jessie like that and put all the blame on her? He was pathetic and a real comrade pig. He had let her down several times before, but this time he had really screwed up. She was hurt and angry and wouldn’t forgive him so easily, even though he had saved her from the ghost Pokémon. It was up to him to smooth things over. A fresh sea breeze blew through his lavender locks. From far away he could see the harbor of the forbidden island. Each time, it reminded him of the time in Maiden’s Peak, where Jessie had for the first time indirectly admitted that feelings were involved in her rescue operation. James had been obsessed with this deceased beauty and he and Brock almost fell victim to a joking Gastly. James enjoyed reminiscing about their time in Kanto. They were still young and wild and had their whole life as beginner criminals ahead of them. He and Jessie had spent so many nights together, talking, laughing, and sometimes even crying when the situation was simply overwhelming. He found comfort in her and was able to unload his whole burden of the past on her. She listened patiently and could understand only too well how a messed-up childhood made them both what they are today. They were so similar, they simply belonged together, and James wished with all his heart that this strong bond between them would be reborn.

“Am I disturbing you?” Brock had approached him. “There’s quite a lot of air between you and Jessie, right?” James nodded his head but remained silent. “I don’t want to interfere with you too much, just this much: you two are meant for each other. I understood that already as a teenager. You were an unbeatable team, you supported each other and even if you got into each other’s hair, the waves were soon smoothed out. You won’t believe how much I wanted such a relationship back then. You are one heart and soul, and nothing can separate you, not even a stupid argument over trivialities. Tell her how you feel, tell her that you’re sorry and tell her better too early than too late. Please, don’t loose her, you guys are a perfect match!” With these words Brock turned away and left James standing at the railing. “Thank you” the Team Rocket agent muttered and took new courage.

Just as he was about to turn around, Jessie came towards him. It was time to ask her for forgiveness. His breath stopped, he was so nervous. “Jessie, can we talk?” A gentle smile played around her lips, but she shook her head. “Not yet.”

[skyechaser]

Bumbleby: The Musical

She did her best to go unnoticed and yet she was seen She did her best to be the star and and yet she found something better.

This idea has been on my mind FOREVER and I finally decided to publish it. This is what the name implies: a Bumbleby story with songs. Most will be from musicals with some degree of adjustment to match the story. I hope you enjoy.

................

Yang doesn't like reading. All her life she's struggled with books and school work and, to be honest, it hasn't gotten any easier with time. Teachers would tell her she was lazy, one even dared to call her stupid when she refused to read out loud in the third grade. She didn't want others to know how bad she was at it so she learned to play the "I'm too cool for school" card and it made things bearable. Yang excelled at other things though, like lacrosse. She loved lacrosse and lacrosse loved her back. She was good at it, probably one of the best in the whole league.

Ever since she joined the team in the sixth grade, she was considered the star both by the coach and most of her teammates. Now, in her senior year at Beacon High, she had been named captain. It was the best day of her life. Her dad was so excited he took the whole team, and her younger sister Ruby, out for lunch. They had a blast. Even her nemesis, Cinder, seemed to enjoy the evening. She had been jealous of Yang ever since she had joined the team. It was hard to be under the shadow of the "Golden Dragon", as she was known in the lacrosse world, and Cinder was tired of being second best.

She came to understand, as years went by, that getting good grades was not necessary to gain her classmate's respect. Most of the smart kids ended up being bullied in the end. She was cool, she was tough and she had scored the final goal that gave them the championship on her sophomore year. Yang Xiao Long was someone not to mess with. Still, no matter how well she could handle people and sports, she struggled not to fail every single class. She was glad her status as the school’s sports star was appreciated by the teachers, who would always make sure she didn’t flunk their classes, even if she barely made the passing grade. That was until she met her world history teacher: professor Glynda Goodwitch. She was tall, blonde and strict and Yang didn't like her. She'd leave impossibly long homework and made it very clear that the Golden Dragon was to be evaluated in the same way her classmates were. As the first term of her senior year came to an end, professor Goodwitch assigned them an essay that would count as 40% of their final grade. She said they could make it about any topic as long as they could relate it to something seen in class and had at least one actual book in their bibliography. Yang had absolutely no idea what to write about and, to no one's surprise, she waited until the last minute to start working.

The blonde girl was clearly out of her comfort zone in the middle of the school's library. She looked at the book titles, some of them she could read, some of them she couldn't understand. She'd never get how other people could make sense so fast of the ever changing letters that made up the english language. She couldn't even find the history books. It was probably the second time in her life that she had entered the library. The last time it was after school hours with two of her teammates, Pyrrha and Nora, to smoke a joint. Well, Pyrrha didn't touch it, but she was there nonetheless. So, basically, she had no idea where anything was. Yang looked around, trying to find someone to ask for help. The place was pretty much empty except for a couple of freshmen studying and she was not going to ask them. That would be too embarrassing.

She was about to give up when she saw her and everything else disappeared. She had long black hair and yellow eyes and she was reading a book. Yang remembered seeing that girl before in the back of the classroom all by herself. She had transferred from another school that same year and the blonde was pretty sure she had never heard her speak. Still, she was desperate and this girl was very unlikely to tell anyone about her struggle to find books in the fucking library so she went for it. What was the worst that could happen?

"Hey" she said as she walked towards the girl. She didn't even flinch, her eyes still fixated on the page she was reading. "Hello?" Yang raised her voice slightly and yellow eyes looked up into hers.

"Are you… are you talking to me?" she asked sincerely puzzled.

"Well, yeah" the blonde replied. "Do you know where the history books are?"

"Oh, well… they're over there" the black haired girl answered as she pointed to her left.

"Could you… Ehm… Take me there? I don't really know this place a lot" Yang admitted as she scratched the back of her head. She felt embarrassed but something about that girl made it easy to ask her for help. Maybe because she looked at her with absolutely no admiration at all. She was probably unaware that she was talking to the Golden Dragon. It was refreshing.

"I guess so… Yeah" girl replied, still clearly confused about the whole situation. She stood up, leaving the book on the table beside her, and started walking away. Yang followed closely behind her. It didn't take long for them to reach the history section, or so would the sign on top of the shelves imply. "What are you looking for?" She asked as soon as they stopped walking.

"Something for Goodwitch's class?" Yang snickered. The yellow eyed girl seemed genuinely surprised at the statement.

"That's due tomorrow" she said with a straight face.

"Yeah" the blonde replied. "I screwed up" she grinned.

“Have you chosen a topic?” the girl asked again with a defeated tone.

“Not really…”

Silence.

“Get this one” the girl suggested as she picked a book from the shelf. “It has a bit about everything. If you make an effort you might be able to present something tomorrow”.

“Thank you so much...” Yang replied as she grabbed the book from the other girl’s hands. “What’s your name?” she asked. The girl looked down, a light blush on her cheeks. She was adorable.

“I’m Blake”

“Thank you so much, Blake. I’m Yang” she introduced herself for the first time in a while. Most people in town already knew who she was. “See you in history class!” she said in a very inappropriate volume for a library. Yang walked towards the door but Blake called for her, stopping her right in her tracks.

“You have to register with your library card before you can leave”

“Library card?” the blonde said as she turned around. “I… I don’t have one”

Silence.

“You are in your senior year and you do not have a library card” the girl said and it kinda sounded like a question even though it wasn’t.

“I do not” Yang replied “How long does it take to get one?”

“Two days” Blake said, her face still showing disbelief.

“Well fuck” the blonde said a bit too loud. The librarian looked at her over the book she was reading. She had white hair and small glasses and her desk was a few meters away so she more than likely had heard her curse.

“Watch that mouth” she scolded in a cold voice.

“My bad” the lacrosse player replied, her tone more under control.

“I’m so sorry Miss. Schnee” Blake whispered at the woman and then turned towards the blonde “I’ll take the book out for you”

“Will you really do that?” Yang asked with a shine in her eyes that made the black haired girl blush.

“Well… Yes, but you have to promise you’ll return it in two days or my card will get suspended”

“Yes! I promise!” Yang smiled into her words “Thank you so much, Blake!”

“You… You’re welcome”

Blake grabbed the book and walked towards the librarian. The Golden Dragon stared. There was something about that girl that she really liked. She just couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe it was that she didn’t seem to know or care she was the school’s sport star. Maybe it felt really good to be treated like anyone else for once in a very long while. Blake turned around and walked towards her, the book in her hands.

Or maybe she was just really cute.

...........

Yang was pretty sure she had forgotten something. She just couldn’t bring herself to remember what it was. The feeling was there for the whole day but she had a lot going on with the upcoming tournament and dealing with Goodwitch and the fact she didn’t finish the freaking essay. Surprisingly, her teacher had given her one more day to present the work. She stood up all night and had actually finished it. Yang didn’t really know if it was any good (nor did she care) but she was able to finish it and that was more than she actually expected to achieve. It should be enough to get a passing grade. It always was. Glinda Goodwitch looked at her with disbelief as she handed her the essay when her class was over. It was her last one of the day so when the bell rang she made her way out of school. She had done good and all thanks to… The realization hit her like an oncoming train.

“Blake” the girl’s name rang on her head as she ran towards the library. Maybe she could make it in time. Yang made a closed turn and crashed into something. Well, more like someone. “I’m so sorry!” she said as she looked at whoever she had practically ran over. Black hair and amber eyes.

“I’m okay” she replied as she stood up, accepting Yang’s had to help her do so “But you are late. My card is officially suspended for a week”

“I’m so sorry” the blonde said “I so so so so sorry”. Yang, who pretended not to care about anything at all, felt sincerely bad for the girl. She had helped her in a time of need and she couldn’t keep her end of the deal.

“Now I won’t have any books to read at home for a whole week…” Blake said almost in a whisper and the blonde wasn’t really sure she was talking to her.

“Don’t you own books yourself?” she asked, not understanding why an active library card was so important for this girl.

“I don’t” she replied “I left them back home… I couldn’t bring them with me when I… When I was transferred”.

“Today’s friday, right?” Yang said, an idea in her mind. “Let me make it up to you. Let’s go to the mall and I’ll buy you a new book for the week, ok?”

Silence. Blake stared at her as if no one had showed her kindness in a while, her eyes half in shock and half happy. When she realized the face she was making she looked down, her body once again shrinking down, as if she wanted to take up as little space as possible.

“You really don’t have to…”

“Let me” the Golden Dragon said. “Please”.

“I’m not really sure…” Blake whispered, a faint blush in her face. She turned away, not used to other students actually noticing her. She had done her best effort to stay under the radar and yet this girl had seen her.

Something there (Beauty and the Beast)

[BLAKE] There's something sweet, and almost kind But she was late and pretty much absent of mind But here she stands and then she smiles I wonder why I didn't see see this girl before.

[YANG] She glanced away, a blush I saw Something about her makes me stare at her with awe No, it can't be, I'll just ignore I wonder why I didn't see this girl before

[BLAKE] New, and a bit alarming Who’d have ever thought I’d make a friend True, that she’s loud and rowdy But there's something in her that I simply cannot miss.

“So… We going?” the blonde asked with a genuine smile. Blake turned around and stared at her own feet.

“Okay”

“Great! Let’s go grab my bike”

“Your what?”

[creative-poptart]

SKSZS *DONATES u another poptart again* Is2g i live for angst & fluff; *trigger warning for anyone btw* s/o lives w their skeleton, and one day UT/UF/SF + US Pap come home from work only to enter a chaotic home and both the lightly drunk s/o & the s/o’s drunk dad fighting (verbally and almost physically, like throwing lamps etc, s/o doesn‘t get along w their dad v well)

Oooh, angst is something I haven’t covered all that often, so here we go! Warnings for mental and physical abuse in here guys, so I’ll put it under the cut. Read at your own risk.

UT Papyrus/Creampuff: Right from the moment he heard that commotion in the house, he’s on high alert and looking for you. Your safety is of the utmost importance to Creampuff, so the moment he hears you yelling and screaming, he’s rushing to you. Your father is screaming at you, the scent of alcohol heavy in the air between the two of you. How he got there is a mystery, but you’ve told him multiple times that your father is not a welcome presence in your life. Creampuff will attempt to be diplomatic, separating the two of you and reasoning with your father without touching him. However, the moment that your father decides it’s a good idea to pull one of your kitchen knives on you, the gloves come off. The tall skeleton has already phoned the police, but some blue magic to prevent your father from moving won’t hurt too much. After your father is arrested, Creampuff is going to help you to take all the necessary legal action to make sure he stays out of your life. 

“I AM NOT SORRY TO SAY THAT YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME HERE, AND I WOULD HIGHLY ADVISE AGAINST EVER COMING BACK!”

UF Papyrus/Fell: Even before he makes it into the house, Fell knows that something’s amiss, and he has a bone spear in hand. It doesn’t take long to identify the source of trouble, and he has no problems going in to stop the situation from getting out of hand. When he walks in to see your father rearing back to punch you in the jaw, screaming obscenities at you, he takes no time in pinning him down. While Fell would love nothing more than to beat the ever-living snot out of this poor excuse of a human, he’s going to check on you first. It’s clear that you both are intoxicated, but aside from being shaken, you’re okay. He’s very calm throughout the whole situation, keeping everyone else from coming to blows. Fell is only one small moment away from snapping and killing the dude if he so much dares to look at you again. Once the police arrive, he’s more than happy to pass your father over and give a witness statement to make sure he’s not going to come out any time soon.

“YOU DIRTY ROTTEN MAN!! HOW DARE YOU COME NEAR MY DATEMATE!! IF YOU EVER COME BACK HERE, YOU WON’T LEAVE WITH YOUR LIFE!!!”

US Papyrus/Stretch: When he makes his way back into the house, he smells the alcohol before he hears any trouble. Stretch is not happy that there’s liquor out and about, but what’s much more concerning is that he can hear you crying from another room. Your father is towering over you, spitting angry comments, and telling you how stupid you are for wanting to date a monster. He seems to be on a tirade when Stretch makes his appearance, glaring up a storm at your father. The very second that a lamp goes flying across the room, smashing against the wall, he’s had enough. The police are already on their way, but when they get there, your father is suspended in the air by some bones Stretch has summoned to keep him in place. Once the questioning and statements are all taken, he’s got you bundled up in his arms and is checking you over near frantically. He’s not going to let you out of his sight for the rest of the day, maybe for the next two weeks because of how bad it shook him.

“hey there, bud, you might want to keep yourself away from my datemate there, or you’re going to be in for a horrible time, got it?”

SF Papyrus/Rus: He really isn’t one for much violence, but having grown up in it, he knows all the signs of it. The front door being open when you never have it open while he’s not home is a major red flag, and he can hear the fight from the front yard. Rus is halfway in the door when he hears something smashing and breaking on the ground, which makes him almost panic. You’re on the ground amidst a sea of broken glass, which looks like it’s from a beer bottle of some kind, and your father is screaming names at you. You look utterly distraught, trying to fight back, but you don’t have to when Rus steps on the scene. As much as he hates violence, he can be pretty intimidating, and he’s using that to his full advantage now so he can get your father out of here. If that fails to work, your father is going to experience what it’s like to be trapped in a bone cage and deposited outside for a few minutes until the police arrive and take him away. You won’t have to worry about him ever stopping by again. 

“there’s not a whole lot of people that get this kind of treatment, bucko, so it’s best if you just keep walkin’ an’ go outside, but don’t come back here.”

Thanks for the ask, Donation-Anon!!

[seraph-novak]

To the Future

Summary ~  It's been almost two years since Cyrus left TJ to go direct his first movie, with the promise that their engagement would still be on when he came back home. Cyrus is eager to be reunited with his fiancé, but it's been months since TJ last responded to his texts, and he's starting to worry things have changed beyond repair. Will TJ accept his invitation to the premiere of his movie, and will they be able to go back to the way things were before?

All likes/comments/reblogs are very much appreciated ♥

P.S. This fic is set roughly 12 years after the finale, so all the characters are around 25/26.

(T.W. for mentions of cancer).

~~~~~

Cyrus stood on the edge of the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his navy blazer as the thickening snow speckled the ground beneath his feet. It was numbingly cold, despite the welcoming glow of the theatre warming his back, silently luring him inside. His cheeks were starting to sting from it, his breath turning sharp as it hit the back of his throat. If he didn’t move soon, he’d probably freeze to the sidewalk, suspended in a never-ending cycle of reluctant hope and inevitable disappointment. There was only one reason he was still standing here, after all. But with every passing second of snow-studded silence, Cyrus could feel his resolve slowly crumbling, his disappointment starting to overshadow what little hope he’d had to begin with.  

“Hey,” a voice said from behind him, followed by the gentle pressure of a hand squeezing his shoulder. “It’s time to go inside.”

Cyrus turned to find Buffy and Andi standing in the snow, regarding him with sympathetic smiles. The pity in their eyes made him wince. Today was supposed to be one of the best days of his life, and here he was: tears sticking to his cheeks like shards of glass as his friends watched on in silence, their expressions grim and condoling. Behind them, Marty, Jonah and Amber were huddled beneath the marquee, rubbing their arms and gritting their teeth against the biting cold. Cyrus spotted his name on the poster above Marty’s left shoulder, and a defeated whimper stumbled from his lips. This was his moment. His movie. The day he’d been waiting for since he was thirteen years old was finally here, and all he could think about was dirty-blond waves, sea-green eyes, and a dimpled smile that felt like home... Speaking of which, had he even sent his invitation to the right address? After almost two years, it wouldn’t be surprising if the house they’d used to share was no longer theirs, but Cyrus had been too naive to even consider it. Maybe this whole endeavour had been pointless from the beginning.

“The movie’s about to start,” Andi said, taking a cautious step towards him. She lifted her shoulders, a weak smile ghosting her lips, and nodded at the poster with his name splashed across the bottom. “You don’t wanna miss your own movie, right?”

Buffy shook her head. “This is huge, Cyrus. You can’t let TJ ruin this for you.”

At the mention of his name, Cyrus crumpled against the metal barriers lining the sidewalk, his stomach lurching as the memories of that dreaded day came hurtling back. He could see TJ sitting on the edge of their bed, frantic tears spilling down his cheeks as he held onto Cyrus’ hands, desperately trying to make him see sense.

“You have to go,” he said, cupping Cyrus’ face with a trembling smile. “This is your dream, Underdog.”

Cyrus swallowed a sob as he clung onto TJ’s wrists. “No. Not without you.”

“You know I can’t go, Cy... My mom –”

“Then I’ll stay.”

“No way.”

“I’m not leaving without you!”

“Hey.” TJ dropped a soothing kiss between his eyes, palming the back of his neck as he pressed their foreheads together. “Listen to me, okay? As soon as my mom is feeling better, I’ll come join you. Just like we planned, alright?”

Cyrus sniffed. “That’s not what we planned.”

“I know, I know... But it’s better than you staying behind and throwing away your dream.”

“We can push the movie back, Teej. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“For how long? This is cancer we’re talking about, Cy. She’s not gonna make a miraculous recovery overnight! It could be months. Years. She might not even...” He trailed off, his hands slipping away from Cyrus’ neck with a shuddering breath. “I don’t know if she’s gonna make it this time.”

Cyrus captured his hands and held them to his lips. “Hey. Don’t say that, Teej. Your mom is strong, okay? She fought it once, she can fight it again.”

“And I need to be there for her while she does.”

“Of course, but –”

“And you need to go make your movie.”

“Teej...”

“You know I’m right,” TJ whispered, bumping his nose against Cyrus’ cheek as he kissed the corner of his mouth. “I know it’s hard, but... I need to focus on my mom, and you need to focus on your career. At least for now.”

“But, the movie... I’ll be gone for over a year, TJ. Maybe two.”

“I know.”

“What about the wedding?”

As if by instinct, they both glanced down at their joined hands, the matching bands of silver glinting off their fingers in the dewy, morning light. It had been less than a month since TJ had proposed, and Cyrus had committed every single detail of that night to memory: the velvet sky of milky-white stars; the whistle of the wind between the chains of the swings; the goofy smile on TJ’s face as he’d gotten down on one knee, so sure of Cyrus’ answer before he’d even asked the question... It was perfect. They were perfect. So why was the universe forcing them to say goodbye like this? It made no sense. It wasn’t fair.

“This isn’t goodbye,” TJ told him, effortlessly reading his mind as always. “You’re gonna go make your movie. My mom’s gonna kick cancer’s ass. And then I’m gonna marry the hell out of you. Okay?”

Cyrus huffed a wet laugh. “I’ll be on the opposite side of the country, Teej. What if we can’t make it work?”

“Hey.” TJ brushed his knuckles across Cyrus’ cheek, drying his tears with a lopsided smile. “You’re the love of my life, okay? Nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

“But what if you meet someone else while I’m gone?”

“You know that’s a stupid question, Cy. There’ll never be anyone else for me.”

“But it’s two years! I won’t even be back for the holidays. What if we lose contact? What if we drift apart? What if we –”

“We’ll find each other again,” TJ said, not a shred of doubt in his words as he squeezed Cyrus’ hands. “We always will.”

Cyrus blinked, and the memory disappeared, the warmth of TJ’s touch swallowed by a flurry of roaring snow as he was wrenched back to the present. Buffy’s hand was still gripping his shoulder, as if she was scared he might run off at any moment, and Andi was cautiously snaking an arm around his waist. Within seconds, he was safely contained in their loving embrace, and there was nothing he could do but close his eyes and let the tears fall freely down his cheeks.

“I really thought he’d be here,” he admitted with a pitiful shrug, resting his head in the gap between Andi and Buffy’s shoulders. He could feel the weight of the ring on his left hand, cruelly digging a cold reminder of what could have been into his flesh. “I guess I was just deluding myself.”

Andi held him tighter. “It’s okay, Cyrus.”

“We’ve got you,” Buffy concurred, carefully steering him back towards the theatre. “Let’s get you inside.”

He threw one last glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see TJ emerging from the snow, then allowed Buffy and Andi to guide him off the sidewalk and into the lobby. As soon as he stepped inside, he forced himself to take a deep breath and embrace the electric atmosphere brimming inside the building. All around him, people were grinning in anticipation as they filed past, talking in hushed, excited voices about the movie they were about to see. The movie Cyrus had written. It was so surreal, he could hardly believe he wasn’t dreaming. But then Jonah gave him a hearty clap on the back, and Cyrus knew it was real. He was here, with all his friends, at the premiere of his very first movie, and even the notable absence of one particular person wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face as he let it all soak in.

“I made it,” he murmured, his heart fluttering as they approached the door to the theatre, where his movie would soon be shown to a roomful of strangers. “I actually made it.”

Buffy nuzzled her head against his. “Hell yeah, you did.”

And with that, Marty held open the door, and Cyrus followed his friends inside.

~~~~~

As soon as the applause died down, Cyrus could feel his joyful satisfaction dulling to a deep, distant ache. He glanced at his friends, returning their grins with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and acknowledged their congratulations with a stiff, awkward nod. The movie had been a success – that much he could tell – but his enthusiasm felt artificial, as if he’d spent the past two hours watching a mediocre movie through a stranger’s eyes. He could barely muster the energy to return Buffy and Andi’s hugs as they threw themselves over him, babbling words of pride and excitement that drenched him in a strange kind of guilt. He felt like a poser; he’d spent almost two years obsessively perfecting this movie, and yet his mind had wandered halfway through the opening credits. If it hadn’t been for the fervent reaction from the audience, he probably wouldn’t’ve realised the movie had even finished.

“Oh my god!” Andi cried, shaking his arm with an eye-crinkling smile. “That was incredible, Cy!”

“Docious-magocious,” Jonah added from the seat beside her, poking fun at his old catchphrase with a knowing wink. It was almost enough to wring a genuine smile out of Cyrus, but not quite.

“We’re so proud of you,” Buffy said, perfectly summing up the jumble of praise spilling from all of their lips.

Cyrus huffed. “Stop it, guys... You’re making me blush.”

“We’re just getting started,” Amber playfully warned him, her eyes glinting mischievously as she leaned across Andi and Jonah to pat him on the cheek. “The night isn’t over yet, Cyrus.”

“We made reservations at a fancy restaurant,” Andi explained in a mock-snooty tone of voice. “Only the best for our future-Oscar-winning friend.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes fondly. “What would you’ve done if the movie had been terrible?”

“We knew it wouldn’t be,” Buffy said simply.

“Yeah,” Marty agreed, giving him a brotherly clap on the back as he wound his arm around Buffy’s waist. “You’re insanely talented, man. We knew the movie would be great.”

Cyrus tried to smile, but he was too distracted by Marty’s hand as it settled on Buffy’s hip, his thumb absently stroking up and down her dark-red dress. It was such a quietly intimate gesture – one that perfectly encapsulated the fourteen years of unconditional love and support they’d shared together – and Cyrus found himself yearning for the distantly familiar warmth of TJ’s touch. He was on the verge of tears yet again, his hands shaking as he frantically balled them into fists, when Andi spotted something behind him and gasped.

“Is that... TJ?”

And just like that, the rest of the theatre melted away, his breath coming short as he glanced down the aisle and saw a familiar face staring back at him, half-hidden behind a drooping bouquet of soggy flowers. Cyrus stumbled back a step, blindly clutching at Buffy’s arm, and swallowed a startled sob. He was half-convinced his mind was playing a cruel game – twisting the shadows into what he wanted to see – but then TJ came into the light, that unmistakable half-smile tugging at his lips, and Cyrus was hit with the overwhelming reality that this was actually happening; TJ was here, standing in front of him, and everyone was waiting for him to respond.

“You came,” he whispered, his fingers absently twitching with the urge to reach forward and touch the other man, just to double check he was more than just a trick of the light.

TJ’s mouth hitched up at the corner, a breath of laughter passing his lips. “Of course I came.”

Cyrus winced at the faraway memory, and Buffy tightened her grip on his arm. Her voice was low as she leaned their heads together, her sharply dubious gaze never leaving TJ’s face, and murmured against his ear, “Are you okay, Cy? Do you want us to stick around?”

“No.” He shook his head, then flashed her a grateful smile. “No, it’s okay. I, uh... I think it’s best I do this alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not really.” He chuckled nervously, his free hand reaching for Andi’s wrist as he pressed against Buffy’s side, soaking in as much emotional support from his two best friends as he could before gently nudging them towards the exit. “Okay. I’m good. I’ll, uh... I’ll meet you at the restaurant, yeah?”

Andi smiled. “Do you want us to wait for you to order?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“We’ll wait,” Buffy said anyway, her eyes still lingering on TJ. “You won’t be long, right?”

“Buffy...”

“What? It should only take a few minutes to officially dump his ass.”

“You know I’m not gonna do that.”

“After everything he’s done?”

“No one’s at fault here,” he said, giving her hand a placating squeeze as she finally tore her murderous glare away from TJ. “He didn’t do anything wrong, Buffy. You know that.”

“I beg to differ,” she said with a huff. “He broke your heart.”

Cyrus sighed. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“He was late to the premiere.”

“I know –”

“He stopped replying to your texts!”

“I know –”

“He didn’t even try –”

“I know, Buffy! You think I don’t remember?” he hissed, sparing a hasty glance at TJ. The other man was standing just a few rows away from them, and Cyrus knew he could probably hear every word they were saying about him. But his head was ducked, his eyes pointedly fixed on the bouquet in his hands as he fiddled with a browning petal, and Cyrus was grateful he was at least pretending not to eavesdrop. He felt humiliated enough without TJ knowing just how difficult these past few months had been for him. 

Andi touched the back of his hand, and he felt his shoulders sag. “We’re just worried about you,” she said. “But we’ll support you, no matter what you decide. Right, Buffy?”

Under different circumstances, Cyrus would probably laugh at the sour expression twisting Buffy’s face. But now he just felt sad. Back before his relationship with TJ had crumbled, Buffy had been one of their biggest supporters; she’d even helped TJ pick out the perfect engagement ring before he’d proposed. It filled Cyrus with an empty kind of regret to realise just how much her attitude towards TJ had regressed. He felt like he was in Middle School again, torn between his best friend and the boy he loved. How could he ever hope to go back to the way things were before? Maybe he’d been naive to ever think such a thing was possible.

“He’s a good man,” he said to Buffy, not missing the way her eyes softened briefly. “You have to trust me on that, okay?”

Buffy pursed her lips and looked over at TJ, her eyes narrowing as the other man cleared his throat and turned away. When she finally looked back at Cyrus, there was a tight little smile in place of her former scowl. “Okay,” she said, giving his arm one last squeeze. “I trust you.”

Cyrus swallowed thickly. “Thank you, Buffy.”

“We’re still gonna wait for you to order though, so don’t be too long.”

“Okay.”

“And if you’re not there within the next twenty minutes, I’m gonna come and find you.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t even think about inviting TJ, because I only booked a table for six, and I’m not waiting around for an extra hour for them to find us a bigger table –”

“Okay!” Cyrus said, laughing as fresh tears sprung to his eyes. He couldn’t tell if they were sad or happy tears, but it felt good to let them out. He’d spent far too long keeping everything trapped inside. By the end of the night, he was determined to let the weight of grief and uncertainty finally slip from his shoulders. And as scary as that sounded, at least he knew his friends would be there to help him re-find his balance, no matter what.

After a couple more claps on the back from Marty and Jonah, and a rare hug from Amber, Cyrus watched his friends head towards the exit. It was a slow process, what with Andi practically having to restrain Buffy from pouncing on TJ, but they were soon the only two left in the theatre. It was a large room, and the silence was deafening, but Cyrus somehow found the strength to stow his fears and make the first move. TJ had made the effort of showing up, after all, so it was probably his turn.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, anxiously smoothing down his blazer as he took a step closer to TJ. “I-I waited outside for you, but...”

TJ flushed. “Oh. Yeah, um... I actually saw you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I wanted to go over and say hi, but... I guess I was just nervous.” He shrugged, toeing at the ground with a shiny black shoe. Cyrus vaguely remembered picking those shoes out for him almost nine years ago, when TJ had been fretting over his first college interview. You can’t show up in sneakers, Teej, he’d told him with a fond roll of his eyes. I’m taking you shopping. End of story. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory, and the fact that TJ was still wearing those shoes to this day. Had he been too lazy to go out and buy a new pair, or was there sentimental value to the slightly scuffed (and likely undersized) pair he was wearing now? Cyrus couldn’t dare to hope the latter was true.

“Why were you nervous?” he asked, forcing himself to look away from those stupid, sappy shoes.

TJ snorted. “Why do you think?”

“You didn’t have to come, you know?”

“That’s not what I –” TJ stopped, shaking his head and handing over the sad-looking flowers. When Cyrus took them, TJ clasped his hands together and started twiddling his thumbs. It was a nervous habit he’d had since he was a kid; he’d spent the majority of their first date twisting his fingers together, until Cyrus had taken his hand and offered him a welcome distraction from his own frantic fiddling. “I’m sorry, I just... I’m not good at this.”

Cyrus gave the flowers a sniff. They might’ve looked a little parched, but they still smelled sweet. He knew he should probably say thank you, but he was struggling to form any coherent sentences right now. He was too busy internally debating whether these flowers were simply a gesture of friendly congratulations, or possibly something more...

“I loved the movie,” TJ said, thankfully breaking the silence for him. “It was amazing. And the audience seemed pretty into it, too. There was a couple next to me bawling their eyes out.” He grinned, a hint of shyness in his eyes as he regarded him quietly. Cyrus could feel his cheeks turning warm as TJ came towards him, a nervous sense of giddiness fluttering inside his stomach. “It was exactly how I pictured it, from what you told me. It’s like you brought your vision to life.” He licked his lips, his eyes darting down to Cyrus’ mouth for a split second. He seemed to be holding back from something, and Cyrus was this close to grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming at him to get on with it, to do whatever it was he seemed so eager to do. “I’m so happy for you, Cy,” he continued, his voice now dropped to a whisper. “You did it. I mean, I always knew you would, but still... You actually did it. You’re living your dream.”

No, Cyrus thought to himself, his throat rippling as TJ’s eyes fell to his lips once again. Not without you. My life could never be a dream, unless you’re in it.

“Thank you,” he said, his words slightly raspy. He took another step forward, having to adjust his head to look up at TJ now that they were standing so close. His nose was still dusted with freckles, so light you could barely see them against his pale skin. It’s not like he’d expected them to disappear in the two years since he’d seen him, but still... It felt like a reaffirmation of some kind. Despite the years apart, this was still the same boy he’d fallen in love with as a teenager. The same boy he’d gone to prom with. The same boy he’d said yes to spending his life with. The same boy whose barely-there freckles had always seemed like a secret, only visible when you were close enough to trace them with your lips. The boy who still owned his heart, even though it was broken.

“You’re welcome,” TJ said. It was his turn to take a step closer this time, and he did, the hint of a question in his eyes as he added, “I hope I get an invitation to the next one.”

Cyrus smiled shakily. “Only if you want one.”

“I mean, if you’ll have me...”

“Of course.”

At that, TJ’s face erupted with another grin, and Cyrus felt like he was staring into the sun. He could hardly breathe as TJ’s eyes trailed slowly down his face, so sure they were going to land on his lips yet again. But instead, they kept going, sliding from his face entirely as they followed the path of his arms all the way down to his hands, where he was clutching onto the dripping stems of the bouquet. There, they found the silver ring adorning his left hand, the one he’d worn every single day since it was placed on his finger two years ago, and Cyrus felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t even considered how TJ might react to him still wearing it. Would he think he was pathetic? Childish? Naive? Desperate? He could hardly lift his eyes to meet the other man’s gaze, too scared of what he might find when he did... But when he took a deep breath and looked up, he was graced with the same dimpled smile he’d fallen in love with at thirteen years old, and suddenly, for the first time since saying goodbye, everything felt okay again.

“TJ, I –” He froze, his arms falling limply to his sides as he spotted the blank space on TJ’s finger, where Cyrus had slid on a ring of his own just days after accepting TJ’s proposal. He’d bought him the exact same ring – a few sizes larger, of course – and had their initials engraved on the inside. TJ had sworn he’d never take it off, even when Cyrus was away. He’d promised he’d wear it forever. And yet...

TJ frowned, reaching for his hand not holding onto the flowers, but Cyrus flinched away, his cheeks burning with mottled embarrassment. He’d spent the past two years stubbornly believing everything was going to work out in the end; even after TJ had stopped responding to his messages a few months ago, he’d kept the ring on his finger, constantly telling himself that there’d be a reasonable explanation when he got home. TJ was his fiancé, after all. He wouldn’t just cut off contact with him for no good reason. His mom was sick. And Cyrus was busy. It was difficult keeping in touch, he knew, but everything would be resolved once the movie was wrapped up. That’s what he’d told himself every day, in order to get by... Had he really buried himself so deep in denial that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him? That TJ had moved on. That he no longer wore his ring, because he no longer considered them engaged. Had Cyrus really been living in a fairy tale of his own making all this time?

“Cyrus, what –”

“Your ring,” he said dully, blinking back tears as he hid his own ring behind the bouquet in his other hand. “You’re not wearing it.”

TJ’s eyes grew wide. “Wait, that’s not –”

“It’s okay, TJ. I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, you made it pretty clear how you felt.”

“What are you talking about?”

Cyrus scoffed, heartbreak giving way to anger. “Don’t play dumb, TJ. You’ve been ignoring my messages for months. You didn’t come to see me when I got back. You left me waiting outside the theatre for almost an hour, like an idiot! I should’ve taken the hint a long time ago.”

He turned to leave, but TJ stepped in front of him, desperation flaring in his eyes as he reached for Cyrus’ arm. “No, wait! This is all a big misunderstanding, okay? I’m a moron, I get that, but you’ve gotta hear me out!”

“What else is there to say?”

“A lot!” TJ cried, the grip on his arm reaching bruising levels of intensity. It was only when Cyrus winced that TJ got the memo and let go. “Shit, sorry! I just... You don’t understand, Cy. I screwed up, I know, but that has nothing to do with how I feel about you, okay?” Before Cyrus could beg to differ, TJ reached under his shirt collar and whipped out a silver chain hanging around his neck. Threaded through the chain was his engagement ring. “It got so hard, seeing it on my finger every day. It just kept reminding me how far away you were. How you were slipping away from me... But I couldn’t bear to take it off, so... This seemed like the logical solution.”

Cyrus gazed down at the ring, caught between confusion and delight, then snapped his eyes back up at TJ. “But... My messages. You stopped responding to them. Why –”

“I was scared,” TJ admitted, tugging at his hair in frustration. “You were getting busier. My mom was getting sicker. It felt like we were out of touch, you know? Our calls were getting fewer and further between, and I just... I dreaded the day when you wouldn’t pick up. I didn’t want it to reach a point where I felt like a burden to you.”

“So you decided to ignore me?” Cyrus asked, tossing the bouquet onto the nearest seat as he jabbed an accusatory finger in TJ’s face. “You wanted to hurt me before I could hurt you? Is that it?”

“No! I just –”

“You broke my heart! Do you realise that?”

“I’m sorry,” TJ whimpered. There were silent tears rolling down his cheeks now, but Cyrus refused to feel sorry for him. Not until he fully understood why he did what he did. “Every time we talked, you seemed so happy... You were off having fun, doing what you love, and I... I was at home. Looking after my mom. Missing you. Wishing every single day that I could be with you. And it was hard, Cy... So, so hard. Some days I could barely stand it. I mean, there were times when I just... I didn’t see the point, you know? My mom wasn’t getting better, and you were so far away, and I just... I felt so alone. And I didn’t wanna drag you down with me. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t stand the thought of making you feel guilty, or risk the possibility of you coming home... Even though that’s exactly what I wanted.” He sighed, wiping at his tears with the heels of his palms. “I was a selfish idiot. I would’ve done anything to be with you again. Even if it meant you coming home early. But I couldn’t do that to you, Cy. Not when you were having such a great time. And the only way I could trust myself not to ask you to come back was if I stopped talking to you all together. I know that’s a crappy excuse, but... It was getting harder and harder not to tell you the truth, and I... I didn’t know what I might do.” He looked up at him blindly, his eyes brimming with pain behind a shiny veil of tears. “I’m so sorry, Cyrus. I should’ve... I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve listened to my mom... But I was a coward.”

Cyrus faltered, his mind desperately trying to process a thousand different thoughts and feelings all at once. But the one thing he kept coming back to was Riley. TJ’s mother – the sweet, caring woman who’d single-handedly raised one of the best people Cyrus had ever known – had been suffering these past couple years, and Cyrus hadn’t even bothered to ask TJ how she was doing. He felt ashamed of himself.

“Your mother,” he said, his previous anger long forgotten as he dared to place a hand on TJ’s shaking shoulders. “Is she... How is she doing?”

TJ sniffed hard and exhaled a shaky breath. “She’s, uh... She’s doing good. She actually got the all-clear a few weeks ago, so that’s, um... That’s something. She’s still pretty weak though. And with cancer, you never know, so...” He shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing his lips as he finally registered the hand on his shoulder. “She asks about you all the time, though. She still doesn’t understand why I gave up on us so easily. I’m not sure even I understand, to be honest.”

Cyrus allowed his hand to slip away from TJ’s shoulder, inching slowly down his arm until his fingers were brushing the back of his hand. “And what do you say? When she asks about me, I mean.”

TJ looked him straight in the eye. “I tell her that letting you go was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“You really mean that?”

“Yes,” TJ breathed, his hands coming up to cup Cyrus’ face. “I still picture a future with you, even though I don’t deserve it. I can’t help it, you know? I’m just so... I’m so insanely in love with you, Cyrus. And I know I messed up. I know I should’ve tried harder, but... I’m here now. And if I didn’t tell you how I feel, I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life. So... There it is. I’m not asking you for anything, I just... I need you to know how sorry I am, and how much I care about you. Because you deserve to know how special you are.”

Cyrus blinked up at him, completely in awe of this beautiful idiot of a man. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at him like that, his mouth hanging open and his cheeks ruddy from the warmth of TJ’s touch, but it must’ve been a long time, because TJ eventually dropped his hands from his face and took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t’ve... I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable... I should probably go –”

“Don’t you dare!” Cyrus cried, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him forward. With their chests pressed together, he could feel TJ’s heartbeat aching against his skin, and it felt good to know he wasn’t the only one freaking out right now. “There’s no way I’m losing you again.”

TJ startled. “You mean... You feel the same way?”

“I’m still wearing my ring, aren’t I?”

“So –”

“I’m in love with you,” he said, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his chest as he pressed their foreheads together. “I never stopped loving you. Not for one second. Even when it hurt. How the heck could I ever get over you?”

“After the crap I pulled, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Shut up.” He squeezed his eyes closed, simply breathing in the familiar, boyish scent clinging to TJ’s cheaply-made suit. It was dark grey, and way too big, and so utterly TJ it made him want to cry. He’d missed this so much: his stupid, lanky fiancé and his stupid, terrible fashion sense. How had he ever survived two years without him? Whatever the answer was, he never wanted to put it to the test ever again. “You’re right. You messed up. But I don’t care. Maybe I will in a few hours, but right now? I honestly couldn’t care less.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” TJ promised, peppering the side of his face with kisses that were long overdue. “I’ll never give up on you again. I won’t let my stupid insecurities get in the way. I’ll do better.”

“I know you will.”

“I swear –”

“I know.” Cyrus pulled back slightly, allowing their noses to brush against each other. “But right now, all I want you to do is kiss me. Think you can do that?”

TJ grinned. “If you insist.”

It wasn’t anything spectacular – just a featherlight brush of lips, almost childish in its innocence – but it was enough to make Cyrus’ toes curl with two years’ worth of repressed longing. His arms were wound around TJ’s waist, clutching at the back of his suit, and his heart was throbbing with an intense combination of joy and relief. His lips were still moving when TJ slowly pulled away, his eyes fluttering open like a pair of sun-peeled flowers. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was all a figment of his imagination. The real world couldn’t possibly be this perfect, could it?

“So,” TJ said after a moment of aching silence, slightly breathless and glowing with giddiness, “does this mean you’ll still marry me?”

Cyrus spluttered a laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am! I mean, I’m happy to propose again, if you want...”

“You don’t need to make a fuss,” Cyrus assured him softly, his hands sliding up the back of his neck and carding through the spill of dirty-blond waves on top of his head. He smiled, relishing the blissed-out expression on TJ’s face, and kissed him sweetly on the tip of his nose. “Just ask me again after dinner. I can’t make such a drastic decision on an empty stomach, you know.”

TJ chuckled. “What about Buffy? She only booked a table for six, remember.”

“We can draw up another chair.”

“Well, it’s your funeral...”

“She’ll be fine,” Cyrus said, referring to more than just the table. “They all will be.”

“You sure?”

“They’re your friends as well as mine,” he reminded him. “And they all know what you’ve been through lately. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

TJ dropped his head against Cyrus’ shoulder with a groan. “I lost contact with them after you left, you know? You’re not the only person I froze out. What if they’re not as forgiving as you are?”

“Just give them time, Teej. They’ll come around.”

“I hope so.” He lifted his head, a pained smile thinning his lips. “I want things to go back to the way they were before. The seven of us. I miss that, you know? I miss having people in my life.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I’m so sick of being lonely all the time.”

There were tired lines bracketing the corners of his drooping mouth, and Cyrus smoothed them away with the pad of his thumb, his fingers dancing a silent tune down the hollow of his throat until they reached the silver chain hanging around his neck. With a gentle smile, he freed the ring and tucked the empty chain back inside his collar. TJ was watching him the entire time with a dazed kind of expression, his lips softly parted and his eyes alight with reluctant hope. It felt like an eternity passed as Cyrus cradled TJ’s hands against his chest, completely lost in the other man’s unwavering gaze; he could hardly remember where they were when he finally shook himself out of his trance and slid the ring onto TJ’s finger, back where it belonged.

“There you go,” he said, pressing his lips against the silver band. “You’ll never be alone again.”

TJ gulped, his entire face quivering with barely-supressed emotion. “I love you so much, Underdog.”

Cyrus smiled at the old nickname. “I love you too. And I promise, when my movie takes off, and I become a famous director, I’ll buy you an even fancier ring.”

“That’s okay,” TJ said, spreading his hand in the air to admire his freshly-adorned finger. Beneath the warm lights of the theatre, the ring appeared to be winking, and TJ was admiring it with a proud little smile that made Cyrus’ heart stutter for a few beats. “I think it’s pretty perfect already.”

Yeah, Cyrus thought to himself, reaching for TJ’s hand so their rings were glinting side by side. I guess you’re right.

The End.

~~~~~

Thank you so much for reading! This will probably be my last Andi Mack fic, at least for a little while... If we’re lucky enough to get a renewal in the future, I’ll definitely come back to these characters, but for now, it seems like the right time to say goodbye. I’ve had an amazing time being a part of this fandom, and I’m so grateful to all the people who have supported my work over the past few months. You guys are the best ♥

[thelawyerthatwaspromised]

Hi! I'm a jonerys shipper but I find your theories very interesting. I wonder though, how will you feel about the show/Asoiaf if Political!Jon is debunked with season 8? Do you think it will change your opinion on Jon? And will you still ship Jonsa if he truly bent the knee because he is in love with Dany? I suppose I'm wondering how a post S8 Jonsa faction will look.

Hello! I really appreciate the question because it’s not a bad one: what if political!Jon isn’t a thing? First, I guess I’ll explain what I think has to be true for political!Jon to not be true.

Jon has to have total faith in Dany’s ruling ability; not just her capacity as a conqueror. Jon has to have thought it was acceptable to give away the Stark ancestral home without consulting anyone about it. Jon has to have actually been unable to lie to Cersei at the Dragonpit. Jon has to actually believe that the stuff he warned Dany about earlier in the season (about northerners not wanting to follow a southern ruler) is either not true anymore - or - at least not as important as the urgency to give away his crown before he could even talk to them about it.

All of these have terrible, terrible implications on Jon’s character.

Because it will mean a number of things…

1) It would mean that Jon really didn’t learn anything from Robb and Ned and their respective downfalls. That’s tragic in itself. When it comes to Robb, sure he made mistakes that cost him his life - but he was also way too young and thrust into a position he should never have been forced to undertake. The same is somewhat true for Jon, except he’s now been in leadership and he knows his family’s mistakes. 

I don’t want “aww shucks” stupid heroes. I don’t enjoy that type of storytelling. I don’t think it’s something I can suspend my disbelief while I’m watching if I actively think “he is a complete and total idiot” and he’s supposed to be un-ironically a hero of the story. Beyond that, I think that’s the opposite of the point of Jon’s arc, most especially in the books but also on the show. 

Robb and Ned are there to be cautionary tales for good people who are struggling with the intricacies of dangerous political games. Jon being as dopey as not learning anything from their decisions cheapens Robb’s story, it cheapens Ned’s story, and it makes Jon simply a lucky idiot if he somehow survives.

Jon is also taking a gigantic risk throwing all his eggs in Dany’s basket even if he thinks she’s the most wonderful person. He has no idea what she’s like as a ruler. He didn’t know anything about her other than she’s come to Westeros and has three dragons. He doesn’t know anything about her tenure in Essos - or that it concluded with her very responsibly have Daario Naharis overlooking the biggest political transition in thousands of years over there. No big deal.

In the best case scenario, Jon would have been detained on the island, been “asked” to bend the knee to Dany on multiple occasions, and agreed to go on a mission that he otherwise wouldn’t have gone on (since he asked Dany multiple times to come North without regard to Cersei’s intentions) and almost died on that mission only to have seen Dany take another big risk by flying her dragons up North to try to save him.

That’s not even close to enough information for Jon to know whether Dany is in any way a good ruler. Flying dragons and ruling are two different things. He took a huge gamble whether it’s political!Jon or not; but at least with political!Jon it was because he felt he HAD to do it to ensure her commitment. The alternative is Jon handing that over without any clue as to whether she can do the mundane things like administer land dispute decisions or responsibly manage the treasuries of Westeros. 

2)  It would mean that Jon governs and makes decisions based solely on his own emotional impulses which would really suck. It’s practically inexcusable for Jon to behave this way. It’s irresponsible as a ruler for him to just hand Dany power like he did at face value without talking to anyone from the North about it first. You could have made an argument to me that Jon could legitimately think Dany should rule the North and it might be a plausible explanation without making Jon a terrible rule IF Jon had actually waited until he returned North to tell the lords in person that he planned to give away the crown for her.

By not doing so, it tells me that either Jon is inconsiderate and impulsive enough to give away something as sacred as an entire country (on the macro) and his childhood home (on the micro level) - OR - there’s something else in play for why he felt it absolutely necessary to “bend the knee” with the timing as it occurred. If there’s some 3rd explanation that I haven’t thought of - I’d actually be willing to read it first before I decided whether it’s an idea willing to entertain.

I don’t talk politics thaaaat much on here, but the analogy really would be that, after being elected, Donald Trump literally believed he had the authority and moral high ground to hand his presidency over to Putin. Not only would everyone hate him, but he literally does not have the authority to act like that and would be removed from his position before it happened.

[to be clear Jon =/= Trump and Dany =/= Putin. It’s an analogy on political leaders behaving in another context. If you want, you can imagine the PM of Canada and the the King of Wakanda as substitutes behaving the same way.]

By going solo in that process - Jon almost guaranteed at the very least a gigantic amount of political turmoil in the North…but it’s something I think he’s aware of and has anticipated. If he hasn’t - he has no business ruling anything ever. 

There is no reasonable explanation for the timing of Jon bending the knee (before consulting with anyone in the North let alone his very own travel companion Davos) other than political!Jon and realizing the exact moment was right because Dany had just promised to help fight the Night King and Jon wanted to cement her commitment as much as he could.

3) It would mean that Jon genuinely valued everyone knowing openly that he planned to fight Cersei in the war after the Night King over actually getting the truce to allow them to fight the NK. If Jon did what he did at the Dragonpit - then he proved himself a liar when he said just before that “there is only one war that matters” because he immediately (again, in the absence of political!Jon) affirmed his position in the war for the Iron Throne at the expense of the war to save the Realm. 

Beyond the silliness of the idea that Jon Snow is incapable of lying to Cersei - it really is highlighted perfectly in Jon’s scene with Theon:

“You risked everything just to tell an enemy the truth.”

I mean…is telling the truth generally good? Yes.

Is telling the truth still good if….

SCENARIO: Bad Guy has their finger on the button to launch a nuclear weapon on a Sunday and they say, “oh wait, these nuclear codes were only good until Sunday and now it’s after midnight so it’s Monday!” 

Bad Guy is momentarily confused. “Or is it still Sunday? Say! You, Honest Fellow! If it’s really after 12:00 AM, I’ll have to leave here and try to grab more launch codes, is it really after midnight? I don’t have my watch.”

Honest Fellow: “I’d like to tell you it’s 12:04….but alas, I cannot. It is 11:58-…”

*KABOOM*

Well…you’d rightfully be displeased with Honest Fellow. But, then again, I think Jon Snow would hate this honest fellow as well. How stupid is that if it’s the same story we heard at face value? 

“I just can’t lie!” 

That’s irredeemably stupid. It KNOWINGLY put everyone at risk and actually is LUCKY that Cersei planned all along to accept a truce so she could have time to replenish her forces with the Golden Company. 

I’d recommend that the Honest Fellow version of Jon Snow climb up that 700 foot Wall he’s supposedly been working so hard to protect and fling himself off. They could call it Lord Commander’s Landing.

4) It would completely upend the part of Jon’s story where he has yearned to truly be a part of House Stark, his residual guilt about not being there to help Robb when the fighting began, and his close relationship with Sansa after their reunion. 

I could say plenty of shippy things about how the absence of political!Jon would completely ruin the relationship with Sansa that Jon’s built since they reunited but I don’t even have to go there. Simply as a close companion and trusted adviser and family member, Jon would have spat right in her face.

People seem to misinterpret Jon feeling like an outsider with the rest of the Starks with Jon never feeling welcome and never wanting to be a member of House Stark. The exact opposite is true. Jon’s detachment was due specifically to his wanting very much to be Jon Stark but feeling like it was an impossibility because of his birth. Jon loved the Starks. He wanted to be known as Ned’s son. He craved acceptance from Catelyn but never received it. It’s caused him to feel unworthy of that. 

When they found the direwolf pups, Jon wanted each Stark to have a wolf first. It was essentially a gift of the gods that Jon “heard” Ghost (who is famously silent) after his noble self-denial in favor of the trueborn Starks. 

Immediately after winning the BotB, Jon makes sure Sansa takes up residence in the Lord’s chambers. He didn’t do that because he doesn’t care. He cares very deeply. He wanted Sansa to know that she is House Stark’s true representative. He doesn’t feel like he deserves that, hence the sadness in his voice as he says “I’m not a Stark.” He reiterates that Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell. Being the Lord or Lady (as opposed to “acting” Lord or Lady) means that Sansa has hereditary rights over Winterfell - something they both fought like hell to re-take.

Now I’m supposed to believe that the guy who didn’t even want a simple puppy before the other Starks, who fought like hell to re-take Winterfell, who tried to desert the Night’s Watch once and arguably did a second time to fight for the Starks, who very intentionally placed Sansa as the head of House Stark rather than himself, who then passed to her specifically ruling authority over the North while he was away - THAT GUY - is now supposed to think it’s fine and necessary and RIGHT to give ruling authority and his crown over to a woman before she ever even stepped foot in the North.  (The Gift, which is the territory along the Wall is owned by the Night’s Watch independent of the North. Even if you count the top of Eastwatch as Dany stepping foot up there, she’s still not in the political North)

All of this, too, without ever talking to a single person about the decision beforehand. 

That’s a Jon Snow I cannot root for or reconcile with the rest of his story. In my mind, it’s character assassination.

It would make me wonder what the point was of Jon Snow even coming back from the dead.

Thank you for the ask. Hope this answers your question sufficiently. You’re welcome to ask more anytime. 

[variantia]

An End

BELLUM.  ayyyyy ... finally done with this !  idk how things are gonna go down in the movie, but this is just one possible ending where Spinel wouldn’t change and ended up bubbled.

and Galaxite has to say goodbye, knowing she may never see her daughter again.

-

When Steven hands Galaxite her daughter’s heart-shaped gemstone, it’s like the weight of the universe drops itself onto the Matron’s chest.

She knows that Spinel might try to reform faster than she’s used to, and if she reforms, they’re all going to be in danger. She’s not sure that even she could stop her child at this point. The other Gem is too set in her ways, she felt unheard and as if nobody cared about her feelings, and her rage has made her too determined to give up.

It’s not like they can all just keep fighting her forever. She can’t ever be free.

A shaky breath accompanies Galaxite forming a bubble. It’s black, dotted with starry luster, translucent enough that Spinel’s stone can be seen. Through the bubble, she looks as if she’s suspended inside the universe. Being taken care of. It’s comforting in a way. This almost seems like an act of mercy.

“May I…?” Galaxite starts a question without finishing it, her eyes flitting to each of the Crystal Gems, ending on the half-human child. They must want this to be over so badly. It must be torture for her to be taking so long with saying goodbye… dragging this out. “Just… for a moment.”

Steven has tears in his eyes. So does at least one of the others, she notices. “Take your time,” he says softly, and he means it.

Galaxite nods, her gaze returning to the bubble. Her fingers trace over it, dark nails resting above Spinel’s facets. She wishes it didn’t have to be this way; she wishes she could have done something. If she hadn’t been so stupid… so BLIND… maybe they wouldn’t even be here right now.

She might have been able to save her daughter from this fate, and that is what hurts more than anything.

She let her daughter down.

Another breath passes her lips as she brings the bubble close against her chest. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Her voice doesn’t even sound like herself. It sounds thready and broken and too quiet. “You deserve better than this. You felt so alone and I – all – all I did was make it worse. You felt like you couldn’t come to me. Like all I ever did was judge you. Like I didn’t love you. Because that’s how I made you feel.”

She feels as if she might come apart. “You didn’t deserve that. I got so caught up in trying to do what I thought was right… in trying to change… that I… I didn’t realize… how badly I was treating you. I am so sorry, my darling. I should have talked to you. I should have tried to understand. Instead, all I did was push you away and make you feel like you couldn’t talk to me. You were suffering so much. I was being too selfish to help you.”

Stars, how could she have done this to her child? How could she have made her feel like she couldn’t count on anyone? Like she wasn’t good enough for her mother, or for anyone? Even if she didn’t want to do things differently, Spinel deserved to at least have someone to talk to. If she could have felt like there was someone on her side, maybe she at least wouldn’t have tried to hurt people.

Matrons were supposed to take care of their children. Love them, protect them, be there for them. Galaxite had failed her daughter on every single level.

“If I talked to sooner – if I hadn’t been – I could have – you might have–” She chokes on her words as if they’re poison. “Things might have been different. If I had realized how badly you were crying out to me for help, maybe… maybe things would be different. Maybe we wouldn’t have to do this to you.”

It doesn’t matter now except to make her feel guilty. If doesn’t matter now. Her daughter needed her, and she didn’t help.

Tears gather in her eyes, pooling before starting to run down her face. “But – but we do have to do this. And I’m sorry. Because you deserve better than this. I’m so sorry.” For a being who doesn’t need to breathe, Galaxite is doing an awful lot of gasping. “For everything I did, everything I put you through… I’m so sorry, Spinel. I love you so much.”

A tear splashes onto the bubble, prompting Galaxite to bite her lip and nearly throw the bubble at one of the Crystal Gems. She’s angry at herself and she knows she’s never going to see her daughter again and it’s all her fault. There were so many things she could have done, so many different paths she could have taken so that things didn’t end up this way.

There’s nothing that can change it now. As much as she wants to, she can’t go back in time.

“I love you,” she repeats, so quiet it would get lost if there was any sound but her voice. Black-painted lips press a kiss to the bubble’s surface, and if she were the kind of Gem prone to wishful thinking, she might consider the way Spinel’s gem sparkles as proof that her daughter heard her. That she knows. “I love you so much. I’ll pray to every Goddess I know that somehow, some way, you can be a part of the universe again. You deserve more than this. I love you. I always have and I always will.”

With that, her touch is tender as she passes the bubble over to Steven. “Please keep her safe.” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “I… I might visit her sometimes.”

Steven nods, and she notices that there are tears running down his face too. “You’re welcome to. Any time.”

Galaxite gives Spinel’s bubble one last touch.

This is not the ending her daughter deserved.

[shardclan]

Labrusca was still in the pre-dawn gloom of Bramble Step. Her figure blended in with the obscuring fog, but her golden eyes stood out sharp as the cinders of a burned love letter in the dark. Though she could never have denied that she loved Bramble Step and still aspired to the seat of its power that her mother occupied, it was proving to be a difficult path. She was shadow-raised, but light-born, and while there wasn't a soul who would say it aloud for fear of Caress, an acolight was not welcome as a proprietress to shadowlings. 

Not that any of that slowed her down in the slightest. It merely gave her things to think about as she observed the coming dawn. Like how fortuitous it had turned out to be that Eos had stolen the pearlcatcher scroll meant  for her. She had been too optimistic as a child to think a light pearlcatcher running Bramble Step would have been even remotely accepted. But the fact stood that she was light on her father's side and shadow on her mother's and just like Caress would crush anyone stupid enough to challenge her over marrying an acolight, Labrusca had no intention of entertaining any foolishness about her birth element when she was proprietress.

A young guardian materialized as a blurred splotch vaguely outlined by the sultry violet glow of a street lamp. She had spoken to him, once. When he had come there too young for even the lightest daytime activities the Step offered. Ever since, she had a certain affinity for Apokathisto. He lived in the sunlight, but he took comfort in obscurity, and not even because he wanted to do anything questionable. Labrusca had never met someone who craved to be no one the way Apokathisto did; who went into the fog and darkness the way dragons who wanted to forget went into their cups or into the nothingness of sleep.

Only problem was he had been born a somebody, and worse still, he was very good at it. He was out of breath today, and stopped short of her, dropping to hold onto his knees as he gasped for a second wind.

"Is he here?" he finally wheezed.

Labrusca examined her nails. They were immaculate, as usual. "Information isn't free."

"Then make a favor of it," he snapped.

"I'll do that," she purred, and tossed her head toward an alley. "Residential quarter or the Descent." Both destinations, while close together, were far deeper into shadow territory than Apokathisto usually went. While the whole borderland was in a constant bronze and brandywine twilight, the resident sector was firmly in the realm of black firs and bramble and shadow so deep it was practically solid. It was easy to get lost in. "Would you like a guide?" she asked with a grin.

"I would," Apokathisto answered with an expectant stare. "And since citizens of Aphaster are sacrosanct by Bramble Step laws, you are obligated to provide that guidance. Without extorting me this time."

Labrusca smiled approvingly and signaled for him to follow her. 

"You sure now is really the best time?" Carnelian asked. "Given the Hihi'o thing?"

"I asked you to look into it and you did," Arcanus answered, rolling a small map into a case. "I will trust Azricai with rest."

The edge of Carnelian's cigarette glowed hot for several seconds. "Was your family okay with that flimsy, non-specific answer?"

"They wouldn't have been pleased even if I said I was going out to finally end our conflict with the Talonok." He checked a vial with a hasty but still visibly painful sniff of the contents and corked it quickly. "There is nothing I can do about their displeasure. Nor yours."

"Who said I was displeased?"

"You did," Arcanus said, with a knowing look at the cigarette hanging from Carnelians mouth. "You've had 5 of those since I arrived."

Carnelian hissed smoke through a deeply unpleasant sneer. "Got dumped and now you know it all don't you."

Arcanus stiffened and shot back, "Better than you who found someone to love and is still no better at being honest with his feelings."

The cigarette burned down, leaving a precarious pillar of ash that seemed suspended by the tension between them. Carnelian sighed, and dropped the stub, grinding it out with his feet. "You're right." Sourly, he pulled out another cigarette, rummaging irritably but with genuine shame for his matches. "Sorry."

"I know," Arcanus said, and patted Carnerlian's shoulder forgivingly. "I'll miss you too, Carnelian."

"Don't," Carnelian growled. "Don't say my words for me. I won't let Atsushi do it, so you can bet your goody-goody guardian ass I'm not gonna let you do it either." He sighed, giving up on the search for his matches. He hadn't been prepared to be chain-smoking so early in the morning. So the cigarette hung unlit as he clumsily returned Arcanus' gesture. "Take care of yourself."

Arcanus nodded slowly, smiling as he lifted his bags up over his shoulders. "I will."

He looked down the great stairway that was the Descent. At it's bottom, the fog was so thick and the black junipers so oppressive that it was impossible to see what or who might be waiting there. It would have been simpler and safer to travel Trader's Walk, but Arcanus' mission was one of secrecy. While the ShadowBinder had sent an emissary of her displeasure with Aphaster, there was no way to tell if the debt they had incurred had truly been paid. So Arcanus would take the dark way to his eventual destination, and whisper at the Obscured Cresecent and nowhere else just what Telos had asked of him. If that did not put the clan back in Her Obscurity's grace, nothing would.

"Wait!"

Apokathisto came at him so quickly he almost sent the both of them tumbling down the steps. Had Arcanus been a smaller build, he very well might have. While he caught his breath in Arcanus' arms, Carnelian quietly excused himself. The last either of them heard was a faint 'got a light?' as he pulled Labrusca away with him.

Arcanus dropped his bags, and the two guardians sat together at the top of the stair. Apokathisto looked at him with watery eyes, and turned away. "You're not wearing your armor," he said in a thick, choked up voice.

"...I'm no longer Queen's Knight," Arcanus told him honestly.

The young guardian whirled back to him, eyes frantic with guilt. "Was it my fault? Was it because you told me to talk to Azricai?"

"There you are again, making all the world your trouble." Arcanus offered his hand. "It had nothing to do with you. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. If my eyes were not so clouded by personal affairs, I would have realized sooner. Maybe I could have done something that would have given you more comfort."

Apokathisto squeezed the older guardian's hand and shook his head. "You don't have to say that. Telos said it. Azricai said it. And I already know you did everything you could." He laughed, but it was obvious how much effort it took. "And I know the whole history of the clan already so I already know how easy it is to--to try to do a good thing and make mistakes you didn't mean to. Since I get to say no without any kind of penalty, I've been a lot calmer lately. I actually feel at ease, the way they wanted me to. So it's been easy to forgive it all."

"I'm glad to hear that." He leaned down, peeking at Apokathisto's face. "So why the tears?"

"Because you know I get anxious when I don't understand--" Apokathisto's breath hitched, and he held on tighter to Arcanus' hand. "And I don't! You left me a letter and all it said was that you had to go away and you wouldn't be back for a long time!" He leaned into Arcanus, weeping miserably. "I still haven't told Rebis, I don't know how. And what will I do if she accepts? What will the clan do if neither of us accept? Are you disappointed I won't take the responsibility--"

"Poka..." Arcanus interrupted, hugging him close. "I have raised dozens of offspring, and you are the only one who has been a son to me. As long as you follow your principles and do your best, there is nothing you could do that would disappoint me."

The words changed the tone of Apokathisto's tears. From the nickname to the open, confident admittance of something they had awkwardly and wordlessly affirmed when Arcanus let him sip his first taste of alcohol from his cup only barely half an eon ago, the whiplash was enough to leave him silent; caught up in both heart-fluttering joy and a bitter sadness that the one he could call father was leaving only now that he could truly enjoy it.

"Where are you going," he cried pitifully. "Why are you going?"

"To protect my current charge. And prepare for the next. That's all I can say."

The answer only made Apokathisto cling tighter to Arcanus. "I don't want you to go. I feel like... I still need help."

"There is nothing I can help you with that Hart cannot just as well," Arcanus assured him. "And you have always been the independant sort, you never trusted much of anything. What's changed that you're crying so much over me?"

"Everything!" Apokathisto sniffed heartily, backing away to wipe his face and try to articulate himself. The past week of his life had been a lot off his shoulders, but a lot more on his mind. "I just... I'm finally past it all. And I am a grown wyrm. I wanted to know you more. Like...like a.." The word tumbled giddily from his mouth in an embarrassing break of his voice. "--father... But like a person too."

Arcanus smiled, and now it was his turn to tear up. "It is unfair how much like me you are... I cannot abandon my task, but I will offer you this: If you cannot wait to find out who I am, go to Carnelian. Tell him I asked for him to buy you a Starmoss Mead, and he will tell you everything. If you can wait, I will share a Starmoss Mead with you--the ones I tasted when I was your age. And since we will have some catching up to do by then...we can get to know each other."

"I'll wait," Apokathisto said earnestly. "I promise, I'll wait! And I'll have great things to tell you."

"I hope so." Arcanus stood, bringing Apokathisto with him. They stood nearly eye to eye--Apokathisto might very well be taller by the next time they saw one another. "I have never been idealistic with you, Poka. Only truthful. So as father to son, please hear me that life is hard. Any number of painful things have the potential to happen at any time, and you may not have good things to tell me when I return. Even if I were to stay, I know I could not protect you from it all."

He clasped the younger guardian's shoulders. "You are already strong. But you are lonesome at times. I was like that too. And then my way of life was pulled from under me, and I met Carnelian in the aftermath. My first...and best, friend. And somehow being friends with that insufferable, chain-smoking melprin’s ass changed me into the kind of person you found worthy to see as a father. Before him, and before the painful things that brought us together, I cared, but didn't love. And love has brought its own pains on me, but has also given me much in the way of honesty and sensitivity. Do you understand?"

"I think so..."

"Good. I love you, Apokathisto." He pressed a kiss to Apokathisto's forehead. Though it brought a lump to his throat, he smiled warmly. "It has been a long road for me to become the kind of person who can say that so openly. And every bit has been worth it."

"I," Apokathisto stammered, red up to the very tips of his curling fins. "I-I... l-l--"

"Don't force yourself," Arcanus soothed, and gave him a final, fond ruffle. "I already know. And even if you're struggling when I return, I hope you'll be able say it then. In your own way, in your own time. Until then."

Apokathisto stood at the top of the stair as Arcanus descended. His tears were all cried, so he watched dry-eyed as Arcanus grew further and further away. Things to say kept rising to the top of his mind, but each one vanished like a popped bubble, silent and insubstantial. In the end, Arcanus melted into the deep shadow of the Tangled Wood. He didn't look back.

When Apokathisto finally turned and left the lofty first step of the Decent, he didn't look back either.

[nevillelongsbottom]

neville discovers conspiracies and the meaning of life (a journey in two seasons)  pairing: neville longbottom x newt scamander x credence barebone wc: 5195 for: @hptriadsnet holiday challenge playlists: getting lost with newt scamander, a float on the canal

Neville’s never been fond of trains, but taking one on his own is somehow even worse: he can’t find his seat, forgets that he has to pay money for food, compulsively checks his phone to make sure that they definitely aren’t about to approach his stop even though he knows he’s not due to arrive for another four hours or so, and drops his suitcase on his foot as he’s trying to heft it out with far too much desperation considering it’s another twenty minutes before the train even pulls into the station. He really wishes his Gran didn’t think he was this mature; sometimes he thinks he’s going to hit his twenties and have bills to pay and somehow forget them all, because it sure is in his nature.

He embarks with a gulp, hefting his slightly too small suitcase behind him, bulging awkwardly at the seams. He can see the town in the distance, and he double-checks his printed-out map, complete with written directions and arrows following the winding labyrinth of roads that make up Pinetree. It seems nice, he thinks: the sun is beating down on him, the beginning of summer showing its happy face, and he can even see the river that runs through the town. It’s like something from a quaint British TV show, he thinks, and with the onset determination that he’s sure he can’t get lost because he has everything written down, he sets off.

(He gets lost.)

It’s not intentional, but Neville’s directionless, and he doesn’t know how many feet he’s meant to walk before he turns, and the street signs are too high on the French balconies for him to read feasibly, so he doesn’t even know if he has made it to Birch Street and simply failed to recognise it from the glimpses he’s seen on the Internet, and his arm is starting to hurt from dragging his suitcase, and the seams are starting to look precariously taut. Even the seams on his jeans suddenly seem tight.

“I’m sorry, are you lost?”

Neville wonders if he’s accidentally gotten off in the wrong country, and he turns to the owner of the beautifully British accent: it’s a teenage boy, about the same age as him (Neville’s seventeen), all gangly with too-long limbs and radiating that air of just waiting for the day where suddenly he’ll burst and become some kind of well-proportioned man. He’s wearing a denim button-down and flecked black trousers with dark brown boots, with a slightly wild mop of hair that falls in a sort-of fringe in his face, and there’s a gentle curiosity to his face that soothes Neville’s terrified heart: he doesn’t look like he’s about to pull some kind of practical joke on Neville or beat him up, and so Neville nods.

“Yeah, I’m - uh - meant to be moving in at Birch Street, but I’m not really sure where I am,” he says shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a map, but it’s not really helping…”

“I’ll take you to Birch Street,” the boy says with a smile, gesturing with his head before setting off, walking with a peculiarly rambling jaunt. “This place takes a little bit of getting used to, but it’s okay after that. You must be the new boy. I heard about you in school; people have been talking about you.”

“What kind of things have they been saying?” Neville asks nervously, shifting the strap of his backpack.

“Just trying to predict what you’re going to be like. Fred and George have ten-to-one odds that you’re going to be a thug, but I for one am rather glad to see that they’re wrong,” the boy grins, pausing to jut out a hand, which Neville shakes with some surprise; he’s never really had anyone shake his hand before - nobody ever seems to have deemed him important enough. “I’m Newt. British, as I’m sure you can hear. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Neville.”

“Birch Street is just here. You really weren’t that far - and there’s a nice coffee shop a little further up that does good donuts, if you’re interested. We could always go together. I could introduce you to my friend, Credence. I think you’ll like him.” Newt pauses just outside the apartment that Neville does recognise from the potato quality pictures, running a hand through his hair and setting some of it on end.

“Credence?” Neville frowns.

“It’s Puritan,” Newt shrugs. “At least it’s not Praise-God. Or If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned.” He then proceeds to pull off a strange smile that seems to Neville to be a repository of trouble, but trouble in the kind of trouble that stealing a cat from an abusive household trouble is trouble, and though Neville doesn’t enjoy getting into any sorts of trouble, he has a feeling that he could easily fall down a rabbit hole with Newt.

He tries to hope that he won’t, but it’s slightly difficult.

-

Neville had his head flushed down the toilet multiple times in his last school, and so immediately deems that this one is better as his head remains firmly away from the lavatories. He doesn’t find Newt until lunch-time, but people aren’t necessarily mean to him and actually bother to inquire into his previous life instead of firing balls of scrunched-up paper at him; he makes a friend in a girl with a bob called Tina who’s steadfastly determined to get good grades and writes slightly too many pages of notes in class as a result.

And, of course, it turns out that she’s Newt’s friend. Newt has more friends than he let on to Neville, if he let on at all: his group of friends take up an entire table in the cafeteria, and it’s comprised of himself, the Puritan, Tina, her slightly younger sister who is wearing the best outfit Neville has ever been graced to see, a round boy called Jacob who seems to be a dispenser of baked goods, a gum-chewing punk with eyebrows noticeable from across the room, and a neurotic-looking boy who’s wearing a tie and looks as if his own existence stresses him out. Neville is welcomed easily, taking a place in between Newt and Neuroticism. (It sounds slightly to him like a Jane Austen novel, and Neville stifles a laugh at his own joke.)

The banter across the table comes easy, and Neville joins it effortlessly: nobody stops to stare at him as if to question his presence at the table, and he even earns a few laughs now and then, managing to capture half the table’s attention as he retells the story of how he got detention for trying to replicate a scene from Matilda.

Bizarrely, Neville feels like he belongs. It’s something he’s so unused to that it almost startles him, and as Newt and Credence walk him back to Birch Street (they prompt him for directions every now and then, and he fails every time; he doesn’t mind, though), he thinks he might cry.

“So,” Newt says at Neville’s door, pinging his navy blue suspender. “Would you like to go for coffee and donuts this weekend?”

-

Newt’s right: the donuts are good, sugary and filling. They also give Neville what feels like an immediate food baby, and for a few moments he makes a mental apology to every woman who has ever been pregnant, because the stretch of his stomach to accommodate the volume of donuts he has just consumed isn’t particularly comfortable, and he can’t imagine it going on for nine months; when he vocalises this to Newt, he bursts into that half-reserved English laughter and jostles Credence’s shoulder, who stifles his own laugh, a thing that Neville’s never even heard yet. Credence is quiet, painfully so, but there’s something about his smile and the sound that escapes of his laugh that’s addictive.

“You were talking about Matilda on Monday,” Newt says as he sips his tea (Earl Grey; he’s so typically British that Neville wonders if he’s wandered out of the television). “Have you read the book?”

“Oh, yeah. It was my favourite book, and it kind of still is, if that’s not stupid,” Neville replies, flushing - he doesn’t see anything stupid about it, because he loves Roald Dahl, but his Gran and everyone else seem to expect him to have moved up, to have a higher order level of favourites, but Neville just likes to take it easy, to twist his tongue over a Dr Seuss or explore the world of the fantastical with Roald Dahl. There’s time for classics, sure, but his choice will always be what’s fun.

“There’s nothing stupid about it,” Newt shrugs, and there’s something in the nonchalance of his tone that suggests to Neville that he’s not just trying to be polite: Newt really doesn’t think there’s anything stupid about Neville being seventeen and still leafing his way through Matilda with childlike glee - in fact, it almost sounds like Newt would probably join him, or at least watch the film with him and play Send Me On My Way on Pancake Day. “Have you seen Stranger Things?” Neville nods, and is about to start gushing when Newt continues. “Okay, but - don’t you think that Matilda and Eleven are some of the most incredible female characters ever?” Neville nods emphatically. “And that their powers are cool?” There’s something very wrong with the sound of Newt’s accent reaching around the word cool, but Neville ignores it and continues to nod like a bobblehead figure. “Well, what if I told you that Credence and I both have powers?”

Neville stops.

Newt has just punched him in the gut. (Metaphorically.)

How could he have thought that people weren’t going to make fun of him? How could he have ever made the mistake of trusting people, of thinking that people liked him? God, he’s an idiot. Newt was just too smart, playing the long con that nobody at Neville’s previous school ever bothered to, because kicking him in the shin just worked so well, too.

Neville shakes his head, and reaches for the armrest of his chair when Credence leans forward suddenly, a sharp movement in contrast to his usual self: Credence is reserved, like he’s been compressed or something, all his sharp edges blurred. “He’s not lying,” Credence says loudly, which for him is a tone just above a whisper, but it’s enough for Neville to pause from his path outward and downwards into a spiral of tears and glance back up. “Look.” Credence sits back for a moment, his back slumping as he looks to his cup of hot chocolate on the table: and, just like that, and as if it’s a moment plucked straight from between the pages of a Roald Dahl novel, the cup starts to move, sliding across the table until it lands in his hand. Credence giggles, softly, as if his own powers still surprise him with their novelty. Neville’s heart feels like it’s being tugged, because Credence is cute, warm; how could he be deceiving him? And yet Neville’s seen so much deception.

“No,” says Neville. “That could be - magic. Like, sleight of hand.” He turns to Newt. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“We just want to be honest with you, Neville.” Newt sighs, exasperated, and rubs the back of his neck, watching as Credence sips his hot chocolate. “And my powers aren’t like his. I wouldn’t like to use them on you.”

“Show me,” Neville says, stubbornly, because if Newt’s trying to feign honesty, then Neville won’t be happy until he’s got concrete proof that he’s not about to be stabbed in the back, humiliated, have his pants pulled down in front of an audience of everyone in school. (It’s not happened, but it’s such a common recurring dream that he’s almost not sure that it didn’t happen.)

Newt leans forwards, and for the briefest of moments uncharacteristically locks eyes with Neville before shyly glancing away. “Your middle name is Frank, after your father. Your parents both died in a car crash when you were little and your Gran has been forcing you to live in their legacy ever since. You feel as if you’ll never be as good as they were, and you’ve been the target of frequent and almost neverending bullying. You moved away after you tried to stand up to a bully and were beaten up badly; your Gran is having to take a job here because you’ve used up all your parents’ money moving here and away, but you were desperate and couldn’t stay. You think that Credence and I are trying to make fun of you, and you feel incredibly betrayed by this because you thought I was cute, even though you also decided that you had no chance with me because I have too many friends and they’re all too nice and that I must, of course, be in love with either Tina or Queenie.”

Neville doesn’t think he can stay anymore, and holes himself up in his room for the rest of the day, drowning out the world with the Happy Mondays: he hears Newt trying to speak to his Gran, but she’s fierce. It’s one of the things he loves about her.

He watches Newt and Credence tumble along the street together, and feels lost.

Because Newt wasn’t wrong.

-

Neville is prepared for something happening, but what he’s not prepared for is opening the door at eight in the morning to Credence, who is wearing a ratty almost-suit and holding out a leaflet that proclaims ‘burn the witches’.

Neville stares slowly at the leaflet, attempting to decipher if it has any deeper meaning beyond renouncing all witches and calling for their incineration, but he finds nothing, and as he looks back up at Credence, he’s surprised to find the other boy giggling softly, a noise that sets Neville’s stomach into a whirling overdrive, because Credence is just so pretty when he laughs, his face lit up with all the colours of a summer road trip.

Neville feels a strange want to kiss him, which is in definite opposition to the voice in Neville’s head demanding that Credence be turned out on his ear. Neville tells the voice to fuck off.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says, taking the leaflet and starting as it crumples itself in the warmth of his hand, folding and crushing into a tiny ball. “I just…”

“It’s okay,” Credence says in that small voice of his, like a particularly amiable mouse. “We’re a little bit out there.”

Neville wonders if Newt will be able to tell that he’s thought this, that he feels this; does Newt know that Neville’s head is just a storm like this, or does he see clearly through to the eye? Maybe he’s wearing his windproofs - either way, Neville worries, and with the kind of reckless abandon that Pinetree seems to have instilled in his slightly overworked heart, he looks up and boldly asks Ozymandias, the question of questions:

“Can I kiss you?”

“Mm-hm.”

The response is mildly underwhelming; Neville was expecting fireworks or some kind of amateur dramatics, but Credence just smiles easily at him, and lets Neville hook his fingers at the back of Credence’s neck and kiss him in the kind of strange way that people who almost know how to kiss do, where they’re just about ready to let loose and kiss - but not quite, and Neville thinks he’s pretty fine with that. And with Credence; in fact, he’s more than fine with Credence, and more than fine with this town.

He thinks he actually might like this place; and he thinks he might really love the donuts, from the three he shares with Credence on his doorstep in the warmth of a Lionel Richie Sunday morning.

-

Neville actually starts to learn the layout of the town to the level that, when Newt invites him out to the canal after band practise (Neville has been welcomed with celebration as the school’s only double bass player, and, almost ritualistically, it had taken him three days to clean the layers of dust off), Neville finds his way there with relative ease, beaming with raw delight as he disembarks his bike (a moving present from his Gran, who decided he needed a way to get around besides his own two feet). Newt and Credence are already there; Newt is sitting on a small wooden platform floating on the water, trailing patterns with his bare feet and watching the water ripple where he moves, whilst Credence is sitting on Newt’s splayed checkerboard jacket, eyes red as he feebly sticks plasters to his raw hands.

“Neville!” Newt calls, waving cheerily. “Come over here. The water’s nice.”

Neville sheds his backpack by Credence, pausing only for a moment to ask if Credence is coming; the other boy just shakes his head and says he’ll be over later, so Neville settles onto the float with Newt, dipping his toes into the water with extreme caution only to find that Newt’s right and that the water is, surprisingly, an acceptable temperature; the float is a suntrap, and Newt is sprawled right in the heat of it, his freckled skin aglow.

“We didn’t get this kind of sun in England,” he says, sounding amused, as if there’s something hilarious about the weather; Neville’s sure that’s some kind of Britishism, so just nods like he knows. “It’s nice, if not a bit toasty.” Newt reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of large blue Aviator sunglasses that don’t suit him in the slightest, and Neville stifles a giggle, as does Newt as he leans back on the wood of the float, watching the clouds as they float by, lazy.

They sit like that for a long and comfortable moment before Newt half-turns his head to look at Neville. “You’re thinking very loudly right now, you know.”

“Am I?” Neville flushes. “What - what can you hear?”

“I’m trying not to listen. I don’t want to invade, you see, but it’s a little tricky not to hear you; it’s almost the equivalent of shouting. I can hear that you’re worried about Credence.” Newt sits up in a mildly terrifying gesture that dips the float, causing Neville a very small heart attack as his mind decides that he is about to drown. “He doesn’t have a very good home life. But he’s going to be okay. We’re working on it. My contribution is mostly just days out and donuts, but I’m trying.” Newt smiles, placing a hand over Neville’s; his hand is a little sweaty, and a part of Neville is repulsed at the same time another part is thrilled. “Am I that exciting?”

“Can you not read my mind?” Neville asks softly; it’s not so much that he feels invaded, because he knows he’s already having his privacy invaded daily by whomever it is that tracks every keystroke and Google search and stares through his mobile phone camera - it’s that he thinks that his emotions are stupid and uncontrollable and he just doesn’t want to see the mess and tangle of thoughts that lie behind his forehead.

“Not really,” Newt says, apologetically, even with a gentle furrowing of his brows. “I usually have to make effort to hear, but… not with you. You’re turned up to eleven.”

“You probably understand me more than I do,” Neville laughs, leaning in slightly to Newt’s shoulder.

“Only a little,” Newt shrugs. “Enough to know that I think we feel the same way.”

And with that, he seems to decide that he’s said to much or hit his extrovert bandwidth limit and leans back again; still, Neville joins him, swallowing his terror as the platform shudders, dipping as he shifts (it takes him a moment to convince himself that there’s not something under the water deliberately trying to push him and the float upwards). Everything about town feels new and shiny and different, but it’s comfortable, easy - and Newt is so easy it feels like they’ve known each other for years, grinning as Credence arrives, flourishing Newt’s coat over his eyes.

-

Neville takes to the canal - not only does it quickly become his framework for figuring where things are, a welcome replacement from ‘the ugly statue’, but it’s one of the town’s centrepieces: it’s home to countless boats that serve as offices or cafés or pop-up stalls, all of which Neville visits in a touristy circuit, particularly taken by a pop-up art gallery characterised half by Liechtenstein-esque prints and half by Polaroids hung on a piece of string, a record player spinning This Is The Story in the background. Newt is fond of the floating music shop, selling guitars and ukuleles and banjos and mandolins; he tells Neville that his brother Theseus used to play in a band in high school, and Newt’s no shabby guitarist either, demonstrating his talent with a riff from Scott Pilgrim on a dark blue Fender (“Theseus taught me,” he says modestly, “I’m no good, really”).

Newt’s also an enthusiast of all places food-related, and they stop often to have a coffee and a cake, his treat. Neville wonders how he stays so thin, considering his deep affection for sweet treats; perhaps it’s all the walking and cycling - Newt seems to get around town, that’s for sure. Credence eats a little less, mostly just drinking hot chocolates despite the sweltering weather outside. Every now and then when they wander along the canal, one of their other friends joins them: Tina, for a trip to a board games café; Abernathy, on the hunt for a secondhand copy of The Catcher In The Rye; Theseus, back for the weekend from college with a wad of money from taking place in an experiment on campus. They go after school one Wednesday, and Jacob gives them a whole star-patterned bag of cookies to eat, crowded together on their little float: Newt, Neville, Credence, elbow to elbow, knee to knee.

Neville has never felt more comfortable in his skin, or more comfortable with two other people in his life; in another life, the life before he moved here, he’d be embarrassed at the idea of being caught dead with a boy with a bowl cut and a boy loudly and badly humming You Can Call Me Al, but this is a life where he joins in, a life where he finds his hand drawn to the shaved hair at the back of Credence’s head and one where he thinks it’s okay to kiss boys when he wants to.

Not that he’s kissed Credence any more than that one time, mind you, but he’s pretty sure he could go for another one and it’d be fine.

“I heard that,” Newt laughs. Neville flushes, looking over as Newt tilts his head. “What about me? Would you - want to kiss me, too?”

It’s the first flash of insecurity that Neville has been privy to: Newt seems to be so secure in his ambling walk and dazed smile that Neville’s never even stopped to think that there might be any insecurity there, any thought that wasn’t part of a happy daze. He’s not sure he likes it, this slightly fractured part of Newt beneath the surface; if he could, he would just put everybody back together, fix them with superglue or a hot glue gun, but he’s also found that he can’t quite do that - the only thing he can fix with extreme glue is his shoe.

But he knows there’s something he can do now, and that something is leaning over and kissing Newt.

Credence reaches a hand over to pull Neville away, and smiles so brightly it’s like staring into the sun as their lips touch. “I like these afternoons,” he says - and most things he likes, he likes because they give him the chance to be away from his Ma and all those old thoughts; but this, this is something that blossoms with feeling in his chest, something that he thinks is more important than everything else, a hobby for the sake of enjoyment rather than just killing time.

Not that Neville and Newt are hobbies, he thinks. They’re full time jobs that make him love to go to work.

-

The rest of the summer passes in canal-walking bliss, and the fall in a snapshot of schoolwork and activities; the winter, then, is a time for change and new things: the town is different in the freezing cold with its residents packed like sardines under their layers of puffy jackets and thermals, the boat shops closing for the season as the canal freezes over, just a twinkle in the corner of Neville’s eye as he walks to school, all thoughts of his bicycle nearly stored away until it becomes a feasible mode of transport again.

He hears the occasional whisper of news and local paper article about disturbances on the canal - people seeing something moving below the wad of ice - but Neville grew up in a conspiracy county, and he writes them off. “It’s silly,” he says round the table, tucking into the cafeteria’s idea of a ‘Christmas menu’ (some sliced turkey in bad gravy with roast potatoes, and a Yule log with cream for dessert). “People are just seeing things. There’s definitely no Nessie here.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be, since we don’t have a Loch Ness,” Percival snorts, with raised eyebrow.

Neville flinches. “I just meant that - there’s no mythical creature, or dinosaur, or anything in the canal.”

Credence shifts, exchanging a short glance with Abernathy before gently pushing his bowl forward. “Here, Neville, you can have my dessert,” he says, as firmly as his timid demeanour will allow. “I got extra cream.” Neville tries to object, but Credence simply pushes the bowl further until Neville accepts it: he does love Yule log, after all.

“Thank you,” he says eventually; Credence smiles softly back at him.

“It’s Christmas,” he says.

-

Neville doesn’t spend a lot of time alone with Credence - Newt’s his boyfriend, too, after all - and it’s strangely refreshing when they agree to go Christmas shopping for Newt together. They have a lazy lunch at a fast food chain before embarking on what can only be described as an odyssey: they don’t want to buy just anything for Newt, who is by no means just anyone, and haunt record shops and independent art stores and even stop off at a small pet store in their quest before deciding on buying him a pair of gecko cufflinks and a pendant with a tiny version of the Hunky Dory album cover on it. Neville even buys some cute gift bags for them at the arts and craft store, on Jacob’s recommendation.

“Do you think he’ll like them?” Neville asks, zipping them away into the security of his backpack.

“I think so,” Credence says with a slightly hearty nod, setting off again: they’re following the canal, walking beside it, and he watches the frozen-over surface with piqued interest. “We thought a lot about it.” He looks up to the sky, dark and twinkling: shopfronts are beginning to darken as the night falls, a curtain over the day. The moon yawns down at him, and Credence smiles slowly to himself as the ice over the canal begins to crack.

Neville stops, turning to watch as lines shatter their way across the surface before wrenching apart into a Moses ocean: and, to his starting shock, from the chasm of clear water bursts a lizard-like head of a creature blue as bruises that shrieks wildly as it shakes, its mane of Medusa tendrils trembling with its movement. He falls back, landing hard on his butt and staring wide-eyed: fuck, he thinks, because from supernatural powers to screeching beasts he’s beginning to think that the conspiracy theorists weren’t so wrong after all, and guilt swallows in his stomach at the thought of his dismissal.

A gleeful whoop emanates from in the distance. “Here he is! What a beauty!”

“Isn’t he?”

“I think we should stop admiring him and get on with it!”

“Yeah, that’s what you think, ’mione - but c’mon, let the old animal loonies admire the thing! They’ve been waiting half a bloody year for this.”

Credence helps Neville to his feet just as the voices arrive in his eyeline: Newt is at their beady-eyed head, clad in a thick blue coat and scarf and holding tightly to a beaten old suitcase. “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell you, Neville,” he says, beaming, “but you wouldn’t believe us. I just thought that it was a sight worth seeing.”

“What is it?” Neville asks, grabbing Newt’s arm as he stares; he wonders if his lunch has something in it, since the kitchens didn’t look that reputable.

“I’m not sure, but I think it might be related to the occamy. We’re going to capture it and study it. We’re part of an organisation.” Newt gestures to his companions - Neville recognises Ron Weasley, whom he’s met before, and Abernathy is standing holding several monitors, consulting them with the help of a girl with bushy hair and an intensely thoughtful stare. “And, well, if you’re going to be with us, then - Credence and I want to welcome you to our lives, fantastical beasts and all.”

Neville’s not sure what he thinks of this town, or his new life: but it’s new, it’s an experience, and it’s amazing.

And he nods.

“Righty-ho, then,” Newt says, and turns around. “Into the suitcase.”

Neville raises his eyebrows. He thinks he might be asleep, or dead, or on drugs, or all three at once if such a thing is possible.

“The - suitcase?”

Newt smiles. “Nothing’s impossible, Neville.”

-

Neville is only convinced that the entire incident wasn’t a dream or hallucination when him and Credence pop over to Newt’s house to exchange presents and the creature - or at least, its miniature - is nestled on a pillow at the bottom of the bed, squeaking curiously at them.

Life is strange, but he thinks he rather likes it.

“Is this place better or worse than conspiracy county?” Newt asks softly, giggling. They sit in a circle, on bean bags and pillows like they’re playing preteen truth or dare, but instead they pass round gifts: Newt’s jewelry, The Perks of Being a Wallflower and a new scarf for Credence (fiction beyond the Bible and his assigned reading is disallowed in his house, but Neville and Newt help him smuggle books in anyway; Credence is keen), a book on conspiracy theories for Neville as well as a small cactus to add to his growing collection of plants, big and small.

He leans forward to kiss Newt first, and as their lips touch, he realised that - strange as it may be, Newt and Credence and the canal and their powers and the creature that can’t stay one size - he loves it. All of it.

And he loves the people, most of all. If there were two people in the world he’d most want to go crazy with, it’s Newt and Credence.

So he will: he’ll follow that star, because this life is new, and it’s the life he thinks he loves most of all.

[pebble-xo]

Painted Hearts (5)

part one; part two; part three; part four; part five; part six; part seven; part eight; part nine; part ten; part eleven; part twelve.

While Sehun drove out of the city, you sat back and quietly kept the conversation going, talking about anything and everything as soft music from the stereo drifted around the car. You tried to get him to tell you where he was taking you, probing him with questions like what food you’d get to eat and what landmarks you’d be able to visit. You had hoped that he would eventually slip up and give you a little hint as to where he was taking you. However, he was stubborn to the end and refused to give away anything, his handsome smirk never leaving his lips.

Giving up on trying to squeeze information out of him, conversation slowly turned to what your childhoods were like. It made you smile to imagine a little Sehun following his big brother around like a shadow, always wanting to do what Chanyeol did and go where Chanyeol went. Before meeting and getting to know Sehun, you would have assumed that the brothers despised one another, especially seeing as their father divorced Chanyeol’s mother in order to marry Sehun’s. But they were as close as can be. Hearing Sehun talk about how much he loved and looked up to his older brother, his admiration made him all the more attractive to you.

In comparison, your childhood story was nothing special. You pretty much grew up as an only child, doing fairly well in school - enough to get you to university anyway. It wasn’t until your mother found out she was pregnant that she started to pull away from your father, leading him to turn to the poker tables. Now with a huge gambling debt looming over the house, your father was the cook for a cafe that was barely making ends meet just to put food on the table while you tried to slowly pay off the debt.

Sehun wordlessly reached across the middle of the car, finding your hand in your lap and moving it back onto his thigh. “I wish you’d just let me settle the debt,” he sighed softly, peeling his warm chocolatey eyes off the road long enough to meet yours. There was no pity in them like you expected, just a desire to genuinely help.

His kindness warmed your heart but you would never be able to accept it. “I’m not a charity,” you told him quietly, turning onto your side to face him better. “I know you’re only trying to help but then we’d just be owing you the money instead of someone else.”

“Just consider it please,” he replied, squeezing your hand tightly and drawing your wandering attention back to his face. His features were perfect and beautiful, a soft smile turning up the corners of his pink lips making your heart skip a beat.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you leaned your head back against your seat. “I’ll think about it,” you relented, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand.

That smile was definitely going to be the undoing of you.

With Sehun’s focus back on the road and the radio filling any awkward silence in the car, you were given a rare opportunity to admire the handsomeness of the man who had quickly become such a big part of your life. His dark chocolate eyes contained flecks of toffee and caramel that you could stare into for hours without getting bored. Unlike anyone else, one glance from his breath-taking eyes was enough to reduce your insides to liquid. And his lips … soft and plump and deliciously tempting. The memory of his lips on yours was burned hot in your mind, like it had left a scar on your body that could never be forgotten. You’d never been kissed like you had in Yuri’s closet in your life and you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to be kissed any other way again.

Sighing contently, you dropped your gaze from his face, tracing the outline of his hard muscles behind his white t-shirt with your eyes. Eventually you came to his lap where your hand resided in his. The way his fingers wrapped so gently around yours, his thumb making constant soothing motions across your skin, they almost lulled you to sleep. In that moment, you felt completely happy and comfortable, free of all the anxiety you had been feeling leading up to this date, simply enjoying being with Sehun.

-x-

Maybe time passed quicker when you were with Sehun, but in less time than you were expecting, you had arrived at your mystery location. The car pulled up outside a very elegant looking hotel resort, complete with a huge water fountain and a line of men and women in a navy uniform. You couldn’t help but stare as you craned your neck to take in the full size of the hotel. It was much bigger than Yuri’s house and you didn’t think anything could get much bigger than that.

“Ready for our weekend to begin?” Sehun asked, shutting the engine off and taking the keys out of the ignition. He pushed his sunglasses back up into his hair and turned to face you, the smile on his face enough to make your stomach flip nervously.

You bit down on your bottom lip and nodded quickly. “Excited and nervous,” you replied honestly, ducking your head a little to hide the blush of your cheeks. The intimacy of the situation just suddenly dawned on you and it was all you could think about.

He chuckled lightly, reaching across the car to tuck a little strand of hair behind your ear and tilted your chin back up to face him. “We are just here to have fun,” he promised, his eyes scrunching up cutely as he flashed his dazzling smile in your direction.

Taking a silent deep breath in, you willed your nerves to calm, although Sehun’s smile wasn’t helping too much. “Let’s go,” you cheered softly, giving him a bright smile before you unbuckled yourself and leaned forward to grab your bag.

In that time, Sehun had gotten out of the car and hurried around to your side, opening the door before you had a chance to even reach for the handle. Like the perfect gentleman, he held out his hand for you to take, supporting you as you attempted to climb out of the car gracefully. “Don’t worry about the suitcases,” he said nonchalantly, just as a member of the hotel staff came up in his navy uniform and took the keys Sehun dropped in his hands. “Let’s get ourselves settled into our suite and then we’ll head out and get some lunch,” he commented, tucking your arm around his elbow and leading you up the stairs where a line of staff were waiting.

An old man with a black clipboard stepped forward and bowed low to you and Sehun, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at Sehun and smiled brightly. “Mr Oh, welcome back!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, bowing once again. “We’ve placed you in suite 1005 just like you requested,” he continued, handing you both a keycard each.

“Thank you Mr Lee. I hope everything is running smoothly,” Sehun replied with a handsome smile.

“Like a well-oiled machine,” Mr Lee answered, hot on your heels as he followed you inside the hotel.

For a second, you completely zoned out of the conversation, too mesmerised by the interior of the hotel to do anything more than let your jaw drop. The foyer was beautiful, gold all along the high ceilings with royal blue furniture scattered across the floor. Walking through to the elevators on the other side, you noticed the floor you were standing on was made up of tiny mosaic pieces, different pieces in every shade of blue imaginable fitted together perfectly to form a much bigger picture that you’d only be able to see completely if you were strapped to the ceiling.

Just as you realised that you had just walked through the entire foyer awestruck by the decor, being pulled along by Sehun while he exchanged words with Mr Lee, you arrived in front of the gold elevator. “If we need anything, we’ll be sure to call you,” Sehun assured the old man, stepping into the elevator with you and lighting up level 10 - the highest level in the hotel.

As the doors closed and you started to ascend, you looked up at Sehun with a little confused frown on your face. “Have you stayed here before?” you asked quietly. There was no doubt that he had met Mr Lee before. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time he had brought a girl away with him.

“Only for business,” he replied, smirking down at you. “Mr Lee does a pretty good job of running the hotel without me interfering.” When you still stared at him with a confused expression, he chuckled lightly and pulled you closer to his side. “I own the hotel baby,” he stated, still laughing as your confusion turned quickly into embarrassment.

Of course he would own the hotel.

“That makes a lot of sense,” you replied, ducking your head to hide your face in the sleeve of his t-shirt. Your moment of jealousy seemed a bit stupid now.

Quietly chuckling, he kissed the top of your head and started to guide you out of the elevator onto the 10th floor. He led the way down the royal blue carpet, passing a few white doors with gold trim before settling on room no. 05. Taking the keycard out of his pocket, he slipped it into the top of the handle and pushed it open, holding the door out for you. “After you baby,” he said, indicating with his head for you to enter first.

You let go of your hold on Sehun’s hand and stepped into the suite, completely amazed by what you walked into. “Oh wow,” you stammered in awe, eyes wide as you tried to take the whole room in all at once. The suite was utterly beautiful, a group of cushiony sofas taking up most of the room, all angled towards the large tv suspended on the wall. There was a little kitchen area in the corner of the room, not big enough to cook anything in but you could probably make a tea in there in the morning.

All of that wasn’t what caught your eye when you walked into the suite though. The entire back wall was completely made of glass, allowing you to look out onto the breathtaking stretch of water glistening pure azure in the midday sunlight. Walking straight to the window, you stared out at the ground below and gasped in amazement. You’d never seen the sea before - your life had remained completely landlocked until this moment. Already you couldn’t wait to run down the beach and throw yourself into the pure blue water.

“You remembered,” you sighed softly, spinning on your heels to see Sehun standing in the middle of the suite with his arms folded across his chest. In one of your many late night phone calls, you mentioned it to Sehun that you had never seen the sea … but it had been so late. You didn’t think he’d actually remember, let alone bring you to the sea himself.

He smirked, uncrossing his arms and running a hand through his hair. “Of course I remembered,” he replied, dazzling you with his smile. “Now your room is through there,” he explained, pointing to a closed door on the left. “Someone should be up with our luggage soon.”

“I’m going to go and freshen up before lunch,” you excused yourself, looking over your shoulder for another look at the sea before ducking your head and escaping into your room.

With the door closed, you took a shaky breath and flopped down in the middle of the fluffy white bed. You were alone for the first time since starting this date trip and you felt like you could finally breath for a moment and gather your thoughts. Things were going well so far and you were really starting to like Sehun, which equally excited and scared the hell out of you. All of your feelings were so new and fresh and raw and you didn’t know how to organise them so they just remained scrambled up in your head.

A soft knock at your door brought out of your daze. A hotel staff member was on the other side with your suitcase. Saying ‘thank you’ awkwardly, you wheeled it into your room and closed the door behind you, opening your case up in the corner. The weather was much nicer here, and hotter too, so you decided to get out of your jeans and change into a pale pink skirt instead. Then you took your makeup bag into the bathroom (which by the way was bigger than your whole apartment) and added some concealer and eyeliner in an attempt to brighten up your face. With a little touch of pink lipstick, you threw all your necessities into your bag and shouldered it, leaving the bedroom.

Sehun was patiently waiting for you on the long sofa, his fingers nimbly tapping away on his phone. Upon your approach, he locked his phone and stowed it away in his back pocket as he got to his feet. “Ready to get some lunch?” he asked, making sure his t-shirt was tucked into his jeans properly. He had changed too, swapping his tight black jeans for a blue pair that were a little looser and turned up past his ankles.

“My stomach definitely is,” you joking, checking you had your keycard in your bag before following Sehun out of the suite. “Where are you taking me to lunch then?” you probed, half expecting him to keep it a secret.

He reached out his arm and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking you up into his warm side. “There’s a nice little restaurant on the beach further down. I thought we could head there first, fill our stomachs and then have a look around the little market they have. Then we could walk back up the beach to the hotel, maybe go into the sea if we have the time and then we have reservations tonight at the top restaurant downstairs,” he explained, surprising you a little. He really had put a lot of thought into this trip.

“It sounds like you’ve got this entire trip organised,” you commented, reaching forward to call the elevator.

Sehun started playing with your hair absentmindedly, running his fingers through it and tucking it behind your ear. “I just wanted everything to be perfect for this weekend,” he admitted quietly, looking in the opposite direction to hide his face from you. He had no reason to be embarrassed though; the fact he cared so much for this trip made your stomach do somersaults with excitement.

Just then, the elevator arrived, the golden doors sliding back. You stepped inside, tugging Sehun along and pressing the button for the ground floor. “Today is already amazing,” you told him softly, watching the numbers descend so you didn’t have to meet Sehun’s eyes. “I’m here with you,” you added as a whisper, swallowing hard  past the nerves.

The rest of the ride down was in silence.

However, what he didn’t say with words, he said with actions. His hand slipped off your shoulder, fingertips tracing down your spine like the shivers he often caused. When he reached the base of your back, he moved his hand off your hip, finding your hand resting by your side and wrapping his fingers around yours like he practically always did.

Trying to hide the smile growing on your lips, you ducked your head and let your hair fall around your face, just as the doors opened up on the spectacular foyer once again. For a moment, neither you nor Sehun moved.

And then he brushed his thumb across the back of your hand, squeezing your fingers. His reassuring movement gave you an ounce of courage, making you look up and meet his dark, hypnotising eyes. “Let’s go and feed you, shall we?” he teased, tugging you closer and then pulling you out into the foyer.

“Are we driving there?” you asked, letting him guide you through the foyer so you could awkwardly gaze at the beautiful decor once more. Everything was just so amazing and you were determined to try and figure out what image the mosaic was on the floor.

Sehun steered you in the direction of the front door, weaving you past the small number of people who were filtering through the foyer. “Not this time,” he replied, keeping you close against his warm side. Not that you were complaining about being so close. “I thought we could walk and take the scenic route. It’s not very far down the beach.”

You smiled up at him. “Walking’s fine with me.” And it was. This way, you could savour your time with Sehun … so you could remember it forever.

-x-

Lunch was delicious, and the company was just as amazing. Sehun took you to a quiet seafood restaurant with spectacular views of the sea from your table and mouth-watering food that had been freshly caught that morning on the boats. The owners recognised Sehun as soon as he entered, fussing over him like they were his parents. Apparently this was the restaurant he would always visit when he was in town on business.

After eating until you couldn’t manage another bite, you and Sehun slowly wandered into the center of the little city. It felt a little daunting being in a place you’d never been to before but your hand was always firmly in Sehun’s, his touch drawing out your anxiety. Without him, you almost certainly would have gotten lost.

Together you explored the little market in the square, roaming through the aisles of stalls and buying little things that took your fancy. One stall in particular caught your attention - a small bookstore that was crammed with every sort of book you could imagine. If it wasn’t for Sehun beside you, it would have been easy to lose yourself within the pages for hours.

However, soon your feet started to ache from walking around so much. While Sehun left to buy some smoothies to help cool you down in the sun, you found a little bench on the edge of the market.

When he returned, he passed you a fruit smoothie and held out a hand for you. “Shall we walk up the beach back to the hotel?” he asked, intertwining his long fingers with yours and pulling to off the bench onto your feet. “Or we could get a taxi if you were too tired?”

Taking a sip of your smoothie, you smiled up at him and shook your head. “Let’s walk on the beach. I wanna see the sea,” you replied, already excited to finally getting to see the sparkling cerulean water up close for the first time. From the moment you saw it, you’d been dying to go to the beach - to stand on the edge where the sand met the water, to feel the waves wash over your bare water.

Happy to oblige to your wish, Sehun pulled on your hand and started to lead you around the edge of the market, away from the large crowd to more peaceful streets. While you walked, the pair of you shared smoothies, you reaching up to feed Sehun a little taste of your strawberry and banana mix while you winced at the sourness of his mango and pineapple drink. By the time you arrived at the strip of beach, your smoothies were finished and the empty cups were left in the bin.

“Stop for a second,” Sehun said, halting you on the spot just as you were about to step onto the sand. He moved in front of you and crouched down, covering your view of what he was doing with his cute mess of dark hair and his wide broad shoulders.

Then you felt something brush across your ankles. “What are you doing Sehun?” you exclaimed, taking a step back and finding your shoelaces untied.

“Being a gentleman,” he teased, looking up at you with a wide smirk before he got back to his feet. “You don’t want to get sand in your shoes, do you?”

Taken back by his moment of kindness, you pinched your lips together and ducked your head a little so your hair swung out across your face. You crouched down and slipped your trainers off, taking your socks off too and tucking them into your shoes. When you stood back up, Sehun had done the same and was rolling the hems of jeans up a little higher.

“Ready?” he asked, holding his shoes in one hand and reaching for yours with the other.

You nodded and folded your spare hand into his, smiling as a wave of happiness rushed through your body like a spike of adrenaline, leaving a warm cosy feeling in your stomach. “Is it lame that I’m a little bit nervous about this?” you questioned shyly, taking a few tentative steps onto the sand, your face scrunching up at the weird sensation of the individual grains of sand between your toes.

“It’s actually really cute,” he answered in your ear, tugging you close up against his side as you started to walk down the beach towards the glistening water.

As soon as it came into view, you were absolutely hypnotised by the sea, watching the frothy waves race towards the sand, rising up above it for a split second before crashing down on the beach and washing the shore before draining back into sea and beginning the whole process again. The rhythm was entrancing, luring you in like a ship to a lighthouse. And then suddenly it was in front of you … and you couldn’t move.

There was a tiny inch of fear in the bottom of your stomach, completely irrational and stupid but it was still enough to fix you to your spot.

“Come on baby,” Sehun exclaimed, moving forward until he lost his grip on your hand. He continued to run forward until the waves were crashing over his feet, the water creeping ever closer to you. “I’m going to throw you in if you don’t come closer,” he warned, flashing a cute frown in your direction before he crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows.

You stared down at your feet, toes buried in the wet sand while you willed them forward. In truth, you were all excited for experiencing new things, until the moment it came to actually experiencing them.

“Don’t you trust me?” Sehun asked softly, his voice carrying over the crashing waves.

In a flash, you looked up at his warm chocolatey eyes wide all and innocent. This was a man you had only known for a few short weeks and yet he’d managed to turn your entire world on its head, making everything seem a little bit happier and a little bit more exciting. You hadn’t noticed how boring  and uneventful your life had before you met Sehun, how often you were just going through the motions. Now, it felt like you were living.

All because of Sehun.

Forgetting your fear and your anxiety, you slowly started to walk towards Sehun, focusing solely on his twinkling eyes that pulled you in like a moth to a flame. Soon you were in front of him, the sea preparing to crash down and flood your feet. You placed your hands on Sehun’s strong shoulders and braced yourself for the water, scrunching your eyes shut.

Just like you expected, the waves washout across the sand around your feet, freezing you on the spot as the coldness of the water sent shivers through your body. “I’m in the sea,” you squeaked, opening your eyes and smiling up at Sehun. Now your feet were completely submerged, you didn’t feel any fear about the situation. If anything, you felt a little foolish for being scared in the first place.

“I knew you could do it,” he murmured softly, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you up close against his hard body.

As another wave crashed down and splashed water up your bare legs, his lips crashed down onto yours, sucking the air out of your lungs and leaving you breathlessly trying to gather your senses. His lips moved against yours with refined expertise, his touch so gentle you couldn’t help but lean in for more. You felt him crouch a little, his grip of your body tightening, and then suddenly he was lifting you into the air, your feet no longer buried in the sand.

Giggling against his parted lips, you leaned back a little to look around as Sehun waded deeper into the sea. Then you noticed the devilish smirk on his lips and realised what he might try to do. “Don’t your dare drop me in the water Sehun,” you cried in a panic, holding onto his shoulders tightly in case he decided to let you go.

He let out a low chuckle that made you even more wary. “It sounds like you don’t trust me,” he retorted with a cute frown, slipping you lower in his hold so your toes grazed the water below and his lips could place a little kiss on your nose. “The water isn’t even that deep here,” he explained, lowering you back onto solid sand. He was right - annoyingly - the water just skimming along your knees.

“I’m going to get you for that,” you warned, narrowing your eyes on him as you bent down. Scooping the water up in your hand, you flicked it in Sehun’s direction and laughed loudly as his white t-shirt was splattered with little water droplets.

And so started the water fight.

The pair of you chased each other around the shallow part of the sea, dodging each other and splashing whenever you had an opportunity. It was so nice to just scream and laugh and run around like idiots without a care in a world. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so carefree.

Eventually you called a ceasefire, both you and Sehun dripping wet from all the splashing. Instead you started back up the beach to the hotel, walking on the edge of the water so the waves still flooded your feet. You looked down at your hand wrapped around Sehun’s, smiling as it swung back and forth in the little gap between your bodies. It amazed you how you’d grown so accustomed to having his hand in yours. Since meeting Sehun, your hand had rarely been empty around him- something you were secretly beginning to love.

“You’ve got a thing about holding hands, don’t you?” you commented quietly, spotting the hotel in all its grand glory in the distance.

Sehun shrugged his broad shoulders nonchalantly and glanced down at your intertwined hands swinging between the pair of you. “I like the way your hand feels in mine,” he answered casually, a soft smile on his gorgeous lips.

You frowned. “What? Hot and sweaty?”

He leaned closer, pressing his soft lips against your ear and sending shivers down your spine. “Like they were meant to hold each other,” he whispered for only you to hear, before he ducked his head and planted a small kiss on your cheek.

Feeling the blush burn across your cheeks, you hid yourself behind Sehun and buried your face in his shoulder blade. The soft scent of his aftershave mixed in with the sea air made your heart flutter like a hummingbird. Why did he have to say things like that? It messed with your mind and scrambled your feelings between what felt good to you and what your actual feelings were.

“Who knew you were so cheesy?” you teased playfully, ducking out behind the tall man, stretching out your hold on him as you stumbled further out into the water. You peeked a look up at his face and saw his irresistible smile beaming at you, your stomach twisting into a fluttery knot.

He pulled on your hand and brought you back into his side where he could plant a solid kiss on your temple. “Only when you’re around,” he replied, kicking up a little water as he strolled along the beach. “I used to be so cool before I met you.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending to hit his arm with your shoes. “I don’t want the blame for your lack of coolness. I’m sure you were uncool before you even knew me,” you answered jokingly, giggling through your wide smile.

Sehun scrunched his face up in a sceptical expression, tilting his head from side to side. “Pretty sure I was born cool,” he boasted, his lips pursed together in a cute pout.

“Pretty sure I need to see baby photos before you make bold statements like that,” you responded quickly, reaching up onto your tiptoes to dot a little kiss on his soft lips. They were just too tempting to resist.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he replied with a smirk, raising his dark eyebrows.

-x-

Back at the hotel, you left to go and take a long bath while Sehun answered the large number of emails he had been blissfully ignoring all day. The new hotel was going through some teething problems which the manager apparently couldn’t handle without consulting him first. It was a tedious job but Sehun would rather get through it now so he could go back to enjoying his trip with you.

While he was on the phone to Chanyeol, asking him if he could drop in on the hotel that evening to make sure the crisis had been averted, you poked your head out from behind your bedroom door, hair still wet and dropping little droplets of water  onto your bare collarbones. Stopping mid-pace, he gulped hard and licked his lips, quickly telling his older brother to wait for moment and covering his phone with his hand. “Is everything ok?” he asked, his voice sounding a little shaking seeing you wrapped up in only a towel.

Yes, he had seen you in less, thoughts of you in your underwear flashing through his mind. But there was something different about seeing you in simply a towel, something more intimate. Maybe it was the water, beads of it trickling across the soft plains of your skin. Either way, it took him a moment to clear his head.

You pursed your lips together and tried to stop a little smirk from creeping onto your face. Clearly you had caught him staring not so conspicuously. “I was just wondering what time our dinner reservation is?” you asked, your gentle voice like music to his ears.

With a quick glance at his watch, Sehun looked up at you, making sure to keep his gaze completely focused on your face. “In just over an hour,” he answered, thinking that he should probably start getting ready soon too. “But you don’t need to rush. It’s my hotel. It doesn’t really matter when we arrive,” he added with a big grin.

Laughing a little, you rolled your eyes and started backing up into your bedroom again. “I’ll be ready in an hour,” you told him, flashing him a smile that literally sucked the air right out of his lungs, closing the door behind you.

It took a second for Sehun to gather his wits again, before remembering that Chanyeol was still on the other end of the phone. “Hello?” he asked, holding his phone back up to his ear and recommencing his rhythmic pacing along the glass wall.

“Dude, you’ve got it bad,” his older brother immediately teased.

Sehun scoffed, heading into his bedroom and collapsing onto his large bed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about Chanyeol.” Out of the pair of brothers, Chanyeol had always been the smart one, the hard working one. Dating had been pretty low of his list of priorities. “When was the last time you went on a date?” he joked defensively, trying to push the attention off of him.

“Aw, our little Sehunnie is in love,” Chanyeol cooed down the phone.

In response, Sehun just growled through gritted teeth. “Don’t call me Sehunnie! I’m not five!”

His older brother laughed in his low raspy tone. “Whatever you say bro,” he replied sarcastically. “I’ll check in on the hotel when I leave the office. You just go and enjoy the rest of your trip.” With a quick goodbye, he hung up and left Sehun staring silently up at the ceiling.

Did he love you?

Was that what his feelings were?

While he took a shower and got ready for dinner, he couldn’t help but think about you. Your twinkling eyes. Your breathtaking smile. Your melodious laugh. He loved spending time with you, holding your hand and doing anything to make you smile. When he wasn’t with you, his mind always seemed to fall back to you, thinking about what you were doing and wishing he could see you again. He’d only known you a short amount of time but he had never met anyone like you, never shared such personal things about himself with anyone else apart from family. There was just something about you that had him enamoured.

Having dressed himself in a crisp grey shirt and a pair of navy trousers, he fixed his tousled hair in the mirror and left his room. Your door was still closed so he assumed you were still getting ready. He turned on the huge TV while he waited, flicking through the channels for something mildly entertaining. In the end he settled on an old episode of The Simpsons.

“I didn’t think you were a cartoon kind of guy,” your beautiful voice called out from behind.

Sehun turned on the sofa, lips slightly parting as he took your beautiful self in. His eyes ran up and down, his throat gulping hard. You looked absolutely stunning, dressed in a frilly black dress with sleeves hanging off your shoulders so your collarbones were fully exposed. Your hair cascaded down in soft waves, framing your beautiful face. There was a pink hue tinting your cheeks as you blushed under Sehun’s admiring stare.

Clearing his throat, he jumped to his feet and looked guiltily at the TV screen before turning it off. “There are many things you don’t know about me baby,” he replied as smoothly as he could. However on the inside, his stomach was flipping somersaults with the sudden nervousness he felt.

“You are such an enigma Oh Sehun,” you teased, walking slowly in your black sandals until you were by his side, beaming up at him with your dazzling smile.

He wrapped his long arms around your waist, pulling your warm body up against his and reaching up to tuck a delicate wave of your hair behind your ear. “I could say the same about you baby,” he whispered in a low voice, watching your lips move closer and closer until they were an inch from his.

His heart was pounding hard against his chest, his palms a little sweaty from his nerves. Having your body pressed so close and hard to his, his mind was scrambled of thoughts. Instead his focus was on your face, watching your warm eyes flutter shut, your delicate pink lips tilting up to meet yours. No other girl had ever affected him like this.

Taking one last long look at your beautiful face, he let his eyes gently close and finally met your lips with his own. He felt himself melt into your touch as your fingers ran up the plains of his torso to cradle his cheeks and hold him close to you. Your lips were so soft and tasted of strawberries and mint toothpaste swirling on his tongue as he explored your open mouth, losing himself under your bewitching lips.

It took all of his self control to pull away, not wanting to push you too far into something you didn’t want to do. He kept a hand on the back of your neck, his thumb gently stroking the little patch of skin under your ear. “What have you done to me?” he breathed, his stomach churning at the twinkle in your warm eyes. The more time he spent with you, the harder he felt himself fall.

You leaned back a few inches, a confused expression crossing your beautiful features.

“Let’s go to dinner,” he quickly said, planting a soft kiss on your lips and then loosening his hold on. Like magnets, his hand instantly found yours, his long fingers pushing between your own and squeezing tightly. Looking up at him with beautiful doe eyes framed by long lashes, you nodded cutely - leaving Sehun stunned for a split second before he started to pull you out of the suite.

-x-

The evening had gone as well as Sehun had planned on the balcony of the hotel restaurant overlooking the dark waters of the sea below. An absolutely delicious five course meal was served, each course even more mouth-watering and delectable than the last. Every time the waiters brought out another plate of food, your eyes would light up with excitement and your lips would purse together in anticipation: a reaction Sehun thought was extremely adorable. By the time all five dishes had been presented (and then demolished), the sky was dark, the stars were shining and you were glowing with a satisfied smile on your lips.

“That was delicious,” you groaned in delight, finishing off your glass of wine and leaning back in your chair. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted so many different flavours before. I feel like I’m in food heaven. I could die now and I would die happy,” you sighed softly, propping your head up on your elbow and tilting your head to the side.

Sehun smiled warmly from behind his large glass, admiring the breathtaking view of you with the backdrop of the starry night. He felt like he needed to pinch himself to believe that this entire night was a reality. “I thought you were going to abandon the spoon and just shovel your chocolate brownie into your mouth,” he joked, stretching back and running a slow hand through his styled hair.

“I did consider it,” you mused with a timid laugh.

Draining his wine in one large gulp, he placed his empty glass on the table and waved off the waiter who stepped out of his spot in the shadows to refill it. “Can I show you something?” he asked softly, getting to his feet and holding out the crook of his elbow for you.

Your eyes lit up brightly. “Of course,” you replied, pushing your chair back and moving around the table to fold your arm through Sehun’s, resting your head on his strong biceps.

Smirking proudly at his sudden idea, he wordlessly led you back inside the restaurant. There weren’t many people dining that evening, leaving the perfect spot for what he wanted to show you empty. When he reached the glass windows, he nodded his head down to the perfect view of the foyer two stories below. “You mentioned the mosaic before,” he started, looking away from the beautiful image of two mermaids meeting with arched backs, to witness your reaction.

“Oh wow…” you stammered in amazement, your bright eyes widening and your bottom lip falling partly open. Sehun could tell the mosaic was enchanting to you, watching you take a small step closer to the glass window for a better look. “That must have taken forever to construct,” you murmured softly, your warm breath steaming up the glass a little.

“Two and a half weeks to be exact,” Sehun interjected, smiling at the look of pure astonishment written all over your face.

“Wow,” you murmured quietly, abruptly pulling your lips together when you realised his stare was fixed on you. “It’s beautiful,” you mused, peeling your gaze of the foyer floor to look up with a beaming smile.

Sehun felt his heart beat harder and faster under your warm eyes. “Beautiful,” he repeated breathlessly, not necessarily talking the mermaids in the mosaic.

After a little while longer looking out at the foyer, Sehun asked if you’d like to have a couple of drinks in the gardens of the resort. You agreed, letting him take your hand and lead you down to the dimly lit seating area. Already there were blankets waiting to keep the cold air that drifted off from the sea from setting into your bones. The pair of you curled up pretty close, drinking from tall glasses of wine and passing the time by talking.

Slowly Sehun felt his inhibitions lose themselves in the back of his mind, instead the realisation emerging from his subconscious that he did in fact love the girl in front of him. You were smart and funny and kind, not to mention absolutely gorgeous. Somehow throughout the days you had spent together and long phone calls that always ran on long into the night, he’d fallen head over heels in love. There was no other word for it.

Still, he didn't dare say a word to you about his growing feelings. There was a niggling sense of doubt in the forefront of his mind that warned him that you may not feel the same way. No matter how hard he tried, he could never get a read on you to figure out how you felt about him. Maybe his feelings were a little premature for the stage of the relationship you were at. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by sharing how he really felt.

After finishing a couple of bottles of wine together, you both walked hand in hand down the beach, staying clear of the water this time. With the clear night above you both, the moon hanging low in the sky and the stars twinkling into existence, the night was perfect. There was nowhere he would rather be and no one he would rather be with.

“I’m really glad we took this trip together,” he murmured softly, placing a soft kiss on the edge of your cheek. There was still another full day of the trip still to come but the first day had been bliss for him. He wished he could just stay with you in your little bubble of happiness and abandon the rest of the world.

You looked up at him with wide eyes that reflected the moonlight within them. “There’s no place I’d rather be,” you whispered, letting go of his hand and throwing your arms around his waist, your face buried into his chest.

“Me too baby,” he replied gently into your wavy hair, taking a deep breath in and surrounding himself with the fruity scents of your shampoo. “It’s a beautiful night and I’m with the most beautiful girl - what’s not to like about this trip!”

Stifling a little yawn, you propped your chin up on his chest and wryly smiled. “If I wasn’t so sleepy from all the wine, I’d totally argue with you about that beautiful comment,” you retorted cutely, hiding your face from him to yawn again.

He smirked, running a soothing hand down your spine. “I think we should call it quits tonight,” he insisted, already leading you back up the beach to the hotel. It was starting to get very breezy and the last thing Sehun wanted was for you to catch a cold from the chilly air.

Back in the warmth of the hotel, Sehun was surprised to find that you didn’t pull back or shy away from him like you usually did when people were around you both. He had quickly realised after getting to know you that you weren’t very keen on public displays of affection. However, as he pulled you into the elevator where a few other couples were waiting already, he didn’t expect you to stay holding onto his waist. He assumed that the sleepier you were, the cuddlier you got - something Sehun was not complaining about.

As the elevator whizzed up the building, and the elevator emptied until he was alone with you again. Peering down at your face, he let out a little chuckle at your heavily drooping eyes. “Almost back at the suite,” he murmured softly, waiting for the elevator doors to open before he guided you down the corridor towards your suite.

You hummed softly, nuzzling your face up to plant a little kiss on his jawline. “Are we there yet?” you asked cutely. Your antics were driving him wild, from your roaming hands to your angelic voice to the distracting kisses along his jawline.

When he reached out to put the keycard into the door handle, it was with a shaky, nervous hand.

“We’re here now,” he declared, realising how unsteady you had become on your feet and holding you up. With secure arms around your waist, he supported you on your feet and pretty much carried you into your bedroom. “Let’s get you into bed,” he managed to say, trying to peel back the covers before gently lowering you down.

You started shaking your head across your pillow. “You’re not coming into my bed Mr Oh!” you exclaimed, grabbing the covers out of his hands and wrapping yourself up in them, kicking your shoes off in the process.

Chuckling to himself, he perched on the edge of your bed, smoothing your hair back and watching your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll just stay until you fall asleep,” he whispered, continually stroking your soft skin from your temple down to your chin.

“Thank you Sehun,” you mumbled sleepily, letting out a long sigh.

Pretty quickly, your breathing began to slow and he knew you’d finally drifted off to sleep.

Sehun sighed wistfully, wishing he could stay and stare at your beautifully peaceful face for just a little bit longer. However, he promised he would leave once you fell asleep. Tucking the soft strands of hair off your face, he leaned forward and planted a small kiss on the middle of your brow. “I think I love you,” he whispered against your skin, savouring the moment for a second. Then he slowly got to his feet and made sure you were all tucked in, closing the door behind him.

That night, Sehun didn’t get much sleep - just like he didn’t get much sleep after the hotel opening. The thought of you sleeping so close, even if it was in another room, was enough to keep his mind whirring. And now he had realised what his feelings for you were, it was as if you had been permanently imprinted on his brain.

All he could do was hope you felt the same way.

[masterlist]

[ryumikaidan]

Part 4

(Kagetsu bursts out laughing.)

Aoki: What’s so funny?

Kagetsu: Those monkeys are so dumb! They dropped them right into where they wanted to go!

Aoki: ...Well, of course! Heh. (whispers) Our apologies to monkeys and other such primates everywhere for this portrayal.

(Scene: A swamp in the spirit realm. One by one, the group fall, screaming, into the bog with a splash. Ryumi is the first to recover, managing to regain her footing. She looks around for her friends.)

Ryumi: Shigeto? Hisaaki?

Shigeto: Ryumi!

Ryumi: Everybody okay?

Hisaaki: We didn’t die!

(Akako breaks the surface of the water, grabbing onto a floating log-like shape for support.)

Akako: Phew! We’re... We’re here!

Shigeto: Yeah. Good to know we all made it in one piece.

(Suddenly, the “log” Akako’s holding onto moves, rising out of the water. It’s not a log at all, but Maka’s extended neck. She raises her head out of the water.)

Maka: (groans) I’m in three pieces.

Shigeto: Hey, look who decided to come along after all!

Maka: I DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE, ALRIGHT?!

Akako: So, where do we go from here?

Ryumi: Uh... (looks around) Good question.

Hisaaki: Yeah, how do we get out of here?

(As they talk, they don’t notice bubbles forming in the bog. A green-haired head pops out of the water, looking at them in curiosity.)

Shigeto: Don’t worry, guys. All we have to do is go in one direction, and we’ll be out eventually.

Maka: Do you always think from the seat of your pants?

Shigeto: I do my best, okay?

Maka: I wonder what your worst is like.

Akako: Maybe you could use your neck to mark the path! That way, we’ll know if we’re going in circles.

Maka: My eyes are in my head, you know! I can’t always see what my body’s doing. How am I gonna make it out of here whole?

Akako: Don’t worry. Once we’re out, we can go back in while your head stays, follow your neck to your body and lead it back to your head.

Maka: ...It’s still out of the question.

Ryumi: Well, there’s gotta be something we can do.

(Maka attempts to sit down on a rock - only, the “rock” is actually the green-haired being’s head.)

Green Being: D’AH!

Maka: AAAHHHHHH!!! 

(As Maka jumps back up, the being in the water rises up to its full height, revealing itself as a girl in a green kimono. She is soaking wet from being in the bog, and cattails, lily pads and various other water weeds adorn her green hair.)

Swamp Girl: Hi.

(The group can only stare.)

Ryumi: ...Were you there the whole time?

Swamp Girl: Long enough to hear that you’re lost. Can I help?

Hisaaki: You, help us?

Akako: Sure!

Swamp Girl: Then, follow me! My friend’s house is just over yonder. He might help you reach civilization! 

Maka: Wait just a minute. How do we know you’re not trying pull a fast one on us?

Swamp Girl: Any human friend of yokai is a friend of mine. C’mon! Step where I step, I know this place like the back of my hand! (looks at the back of her hand) ...That’s new.

(The five follow the swamp girl through the marsh.)

Swamp Girl: ...Anyway, my friend is a pretty smart guy! I mean, he graduated from the School for Talented Tanuki and everything. He’s also very… well-endowed. Then again, all tanuki are.

Shigeto: So, he’s a tanuki? Not some hideous ogre who lures human victims to his lair to munch on?

Swamp Girl: Oh no, even if he was an ogre or something like that, he would never hurt anyone, human or yokai! He’s a nice fella.

Shigeto: If you say so.

(They arrive at an old house.)

Swamp Girl: And here we are! It’s not much, but a home’s a home!

Ryumi: He lives here by himself?

Swamp Girl: Nah, he’s got plenty of housemates. (calls out) Hey guys! I got some newcomers here! C’mon out!

(Almost immediately, a bevvy of living objects -tsukumogami- come out from the various nooks and crannies of the house to greet the group, who, except for the swamp girl, are taken by surprise. From the front door, a short tanuki man emerges.)

Tanuki: Ah, Zurui. Good to see you again. Who have you brought here?

Zurui: I... have no idea. But they just came into the spirit realm, and now they need to get out of the swamp. Which is kinda a pity, ‘cause this is a really nice place.

Tanuki: (to the others) Well, welcome to the spirit realm. It would be a pleasure to help you out anytime.

Ryumi: Thanks!

Tanuki: Won’t you come in? My housemates love having guests.

Ryumi: Sure! (to the other four) C’mon, guys.

(The others comply, Maka doing so hesitantly.)

Kagetsu: What a nice guy.

(Aoki nods. Cut to the interior of the tanuki’s house. Everyone is seated at a chabudai table.)

Tanuki: It’s been a while since we’ve had guests from the other realm.

Ryumi: Thank you for your hospitality, Mr...

Tanuki: Mochiie.

Ryumi: Mochiie. Anyway, we’re looking for my grandfather. He’s a fox. Do you know where foxes live around here?

(Maka is clearly becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the staring eyes of a nearby mokumokuren.)

Mochiie: Unlike us tanukis, foxes prefer to live in or near the civilized areas in the spirit realm. Kaii Town, especially.

Shigeto: Kaii Town?

(Fed up, Maka gets up from her spot.)

Maka: I need a drink...

Mochiie: The capital city of the yokai.

(Maka walks through the house, looking for a drink. Along the way, she passes by varying tsukumogami, who are playing with each other, pulling pranks on one another, and generally messing around. None of them faze her one bit. She passes by a butsudan, and a nuribotoke pops out.)

Nuribotoke: OOGAH BOOGAH!

(Maka doesn’t even flinch. She simply closes the butsudan on him and continues searching.)

Maka: ...Gotta be one around here somewhere...

(A ghostly white hand hands her a bottle.)

Maka: Oh, thanks.

(She takes a swig... but then spits it back out, as it’s full of water. She looks at the bottle, actually a kameosa.)

Kameosa: Hydration is important!

(Maka stares for a moment, then glares at the being who gave her the kameosa, a kosode no te. Back with the others...)

Shigeto: So, which way is this Kaii Town, anyway?

Mochiie: Just keep heading northeast, and follow the sparrows. You’re guaranteed to reach it, then.

Ryumi: Thanks for the advice.

Shigeto: Yeah, we’ll remember that. Northeast.

Hisaaki: ...What was that about sparrows?

(Cut to Shina’s castle. Inside...)

Shina: YOU INCOMPETENT FRUIT-EATERS! You dropped them into the realm?!

(The sarugami cower behind their leader, who is also stiff with fear.)

Shina: Obviously, I shouldn’t rely on a bunch of monkeys. Now, where is she?

(Behind her, an ogress crashes in through a closed window with the sound of shattering glass. Shina whirls around at the noise.)

Shina: Kan...?

(The ogress, Kan, rises to her feet.)

Kan: Hey.

(Shina’s eye twitches.)

Kan: Sorry about the-

Shina: FORGET THAT! You’re late, as usual.

Kan: I prefer the term “fashionably late”. It makes me sound good. So, I take it your latest scheme to wipe out humanity with a rock isn’t going well?

Shina: What do you think?! (takes a moment to calm herself) Thanks to the stupidity of the last yokai I hired, (glares at the sarugami) Sana’s daughter and her friends have entered the realm. I want you to reach Nakaari first before they do.

Kan: Pfft. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of them and get the jewel for you. But it’s gonna cost ya.

(Shina sighs heavily. Cut to her opening a door to a room filled with piles and piles of gold, gemstones and priceless artifacts which have been taken from humans over the years.)

Kan: Now, that’s what I’m talking about.

Kagetsu: (whispers) Spoiler alert: She only gets one percent of that treasure.

Aoki: Kagetsu! (tries to silence Kagetsu, to no avail, since she’s a shadow)

Kagetsu: (still whispering) One... lousy... percent!

(Scene change to the quintet, making their way northeast.)

Shigeto: So, as long as we keep going in this direction, we’ll reach Kaii Town.

Hisaaki: Yeah, but “follow the sparrows”? What did he mean by that?

Maka: Living with a bunch of talking tools for who knows how long probably scrambled his brains.

Ryumi: Don’t insult him, Maka. I’m sure he knew what he was talking about when he said that.

Akako: Yeah! ...What she said.

(From the nearby bushes, Kan watches, hidden.)

Shigeto: Y’know, Maka, you really should show a little respect for others.

Maka: Hey, I got respect!

Hisaaki: For whom?

Maka: What’s it to ya?!

Shigeto: We just wanna know if you really do have some respect in you.

Maka: It’s nothing to do with you, kid!

Akako: It’s a romantic thing, right?

Maka: WHAT?!

Akako: (hides behind the bow on Ryumi’s head) Uh-oh.

(Maka stretches her neck towards Akako, who backs away.)

Maka: Don’t ever assume that I’m in some kinda sappy relationship, Kinoshita!

Akako: What’s wrong with that? You could find a guy who accepts you and your neck-

Maka: NO! ALL MEN ARE IDIOTS!

(Akako falls off of Ryumi’s head at Maka’s outburst.)

Shigeto: Uh, Maka? We’re standing right here.

(As Akako recovers from her fall, she notices a single strand of hair suspended horizontally across the path. From her hiding spot within the bushes, Kan watches intently.)

Kan: C’mon, red thing. Touch the hair...

(That is not what Akako does. Instead...)

Akako: Hey guys, is this natural?

(The others look.)

Maka: It’s the spirit realm. When is anything ever natural?

Akako: No, look! (indicates the hair)

(Ryumi crouches down to inspect the hair.)

Ryumi: It... It looks like hair.

Akako: Huh.

(She reaches out to touch it. In the bushes...)

Kan: Yes. Yes!

(Just as Akako is about to touch the hair, Ryumi stops her.)

Ryumi: Akako, don’t! Something’s not right, here.

(Kan facepalms.)

Shigeto: Let’s just step over it and move on.

Hisaaki: But what if that’s what whoever put this here wants?

Shigeto: In that case, you go first.

Hisaaki: Wh-

(Shigeto pushes him forward. Resigned, Hisaaki takes one cautious step over the hair, then another. To his surprise and relief, nothing happens.)

Shigeto: Well, it’s safe.

Ryumi: C’mon, guys.

(One by one, they step (or, in Akako’s case, hop) over the hair. When Shigeto is in the middle of stepping over, Kan suddenly jumps out of the bushes.)

Kan: YAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Group: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

(The group immediately begin running, Shigeto breaking the hair in the process. This triggers a bamboo cage with spikes lining the insides to fall. Because Kan is standing where the group was, it falls on her.)

Hisaaki: What was that?! Who was that?!

Maka: Who cares?!

(Kan manages to break out of the cage, albeit with injuries from the spikes.)

Kan: That was the only plan I had! Shina’s not gonna like this... (thinks for a moment) ...unless she doesn’t find out.

(Suddenly, Shina’s voice rings out.)

Shina: Too late!

Kan: AUGH! S-Shina?! Where are you?

Shina: Check your right horn. I felt the need to monitor your progress.

(Kan does so, finding a spider with a crystal eye attached to its abdomen. It is through this “spyeder” that Shina is able to communicate from her castle.)

Kan: Oh, great. This trick again.

Shina: Just for you failure, you will only get one percent of what I offered you!

Kan: AW, C’MON!

(The crystal explodes, and the spider skitters away, unharmed.)

Kagetsu: Called it.

(In Shina’s castle, she storms through her corridors.)

Shina: That does it. I know who to send next, and this time, I’m going to personally provide assistance!

[halfblood-fiend]

11 Questions

Rules:                                                                                                    

Always repost the rules

Answer the 11 questions posted for you

Create 11 new ones

Tag 11 people

I was tagged by @gugle1980 so thank you, dear! I’m pretty sure I’ve been tagged in one of these at least three times in my Tumblr life, but I’ve never done them because I’ve sucked at thinking up 11 more questions. Lol. But I’ll tackle it today while my brain starts up. :)

1. If your LI in DA wasn’t romanceble, who would be your second choice?

Since you didn’t specify, I will overshare and do all of them.

DAO would probably be Zevran if Alistair was locked. He was the other lad my first Warden Markha flirted with.

DA2 would have been Merrill of Fenris if I couldn’t have Anders. When I first played and looked up possible romances, I thought Fenris was really hot, but while I was playing I thought Merrill was adorable. So it would have been a random toss up on who I would’ve settled with.

DAI would have been...Iron Bull? Or maybe accidentally Solas? See, this is difficult to say, because I played DAI specifically for Cullen. Lol. I’m going to say, Bull. Without Cullen, I would have romanced The Iron Bull.

2. Something you will never forgive to your other half?

I feel like you’re talking about an SO and I do not have one. Haha. So the closest thing I have is my dog.

Cosette, I will never forgive you for chewing up my one really nice pair of lacy underwear. That was rude.

3. Your dream job?

Suspend your disbelief, my friend, because I’ll take you on a trip:

Prolific author. I make enough to live on. Any extra I have is spent on funding my own dinosaur digs. I am a paleontologist author. Life is good.

4. What's your biggest pet peeve?

Oh. Oh. Where do I start?

I guess my biggest pet peeve in my daily life is when people squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle and not the bottom. Every time I see it, I fix it.

My biggest pet peeve at work is when people try to give me change AFTER I finished their transaction. Or ask for a bag AT THE END after I ALREADY ASKED THEM AND THEY SAID NO.

Okay, so I guess I have a lot of pet peeves.

5. The scariest moment of your life?

My mapping partner and I were half hiking and half climbing up this mountain ridge in Nevada. We needed to get up there because our professor had very obnoxiously pointed out to us that A Very Important Fault was somewhere up there and it needed to be on our maps. So we had to go find it, take measurements, and prove it existed by putting it down on our maps. Now, to her credit, I guess, our professor had no idea just how perilous this ridge actually was to hike up, and that by the time you’re at the top, it’s more like the side of a cliff. My partner and I, at times, were literally edging our way forward on a maybe foot thick lip of rock that dropped off into a cliff that would lead to Certain Death (or at least a couple of broken legs in the middle of fucking nowhere).

Look, we really needed that data, okay?

We get up there, take our Bruntons out, and try to take some measurements as we cling to the clifface, and a god damn tarantula hawk flies out at us.

And for anyone who doesn’t know what a tarantula hawke is, it's a TERRIFYING WASP that EATS TARANTULAS, with one of the most painful stings of any bug on almost every scale, and they are MASSIVE and in Nevada, out in the middle of nowhere, they are TERRITORIAL AF.

THIS FUCKER STARTED BUZZING ANGRILY AROUND OUR HEADS.

And I swear to god, I very seriously considered just letting go and taking my chances with gravity.

My partner and I were both basically frozen and crying as this thing flew around us, and after a few terrifying minutes, it went back to its nest or whatever and we tried to carefully climb away as fast as possible.

And that was the summer I was pretty sure I was going to die. Yup.

(also, YOU’RE WELCOME for finding a picture of this fucker! I almost started crying again doing the google search. I am already super scared of bugs and just remembering that this thing exists makes me very upset. Hahaha)

6. 3 things that make you happy instantly?

I NEED THIS NOW

My dogs, Cullen’s stupid face, the song, The Phantom of the Opera

7.  What animal best represents your personality?

Oh, gosh, probably some kind of dog? Loyal, loves pets, wants to play?

A hippo? Large, wants to chill in the water, cute af, will destroy you if provoked?

A cow? Cute, wants to eat all day, licks bread?

I dunno.

8.  If you could change anything about yourself what would it be?

I would change my brain for one that did not procrastinate so much.

9.  Do you have any lucky items, objects or traditions?

Over the years I’ve always wanted a lucky thing. So I’ve kept knickknacks and tried to claim they were lucky or tried to do the same exact things over again and claim they were a lucky routine but...no dice.

So, no, I do not. Haha.

10.  Do you keep a diary/journal?

I have stopped and started so much. I want to, but I cannot commit. The closest I’ve come is this cool app where everything is very fast and bare bones and I can make a “journal entry” in under a minute.

11.  Do you collect anything?

Rocks! :D

1) What did you want to be “when you grew up” when you were a child?

2) If you could have any pet, what would it be?

3) How many theoretical physicists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

4) Are you a “press Caps Lock and then type normally” or a “hold Shift down while you type” kind of capitalizer?

5) Do you believe in astrology?

6) What was your favorite Non-Main subject in school? (ie physics, calculus, philosophy)

7) How computer savvy are you?

8) What is your alignment?

9) Would you take the red pill or the blue pill?

10) What is your all time favorite meme?

11) Got any kinks?

I’ll tag @vaffaznculocolmpadrter @dalish-turian @scumbag-solas @thekeekster @ma-sulevin @quitefair @kikiauske @loonyloopy @jacob-fryes-cooking @badjoffery @queenofeire and of course, you don’t have to do it if you don’t wanna. :) Especially since I tried to tag people I normally don’t. Haha.