#if you’re wondering when the next script/fic chapter will drop

[bookinit02]

Hi!

Completely lost here, when should the next installment of your season 5 fic be out?

hi anon! i uploaded my last chapter exactly one week ago, so nothing new will be out for a while. as i said in my notes, the earliest i can get up the episode 7 script would be next sunday, and since i am working 6 days a week now, it most likely won’t be actually finished until sunday the 25th. and then the fic chapter will drop the week after!

i’m really sorry to have lost a consistent posting schedule, but i’m genuinely trying my best to still get quality content out to you guys in a relatively quick timeframe. i don’t ever want to sacrifice the quality of my writing just for the sake of weekly uploads. i hope you can understand! as soon as i have a concrete idea of when the next script and chapter will be posted, i'll let you guys know. but no worries—it will absolutely be sometime this month!

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

When Clary meets Ash (Fan Fic)

Hey :) this is how I imagine Clary and Ash's reunion (after the events of TDA) in the fic I am currently writing.

It's Chapter 5 of "The new Shadowhunter Academy" (Ao3 link to the full fic is here but don't click or skip Chapter 4 if you are not in for Kitty sexy times).

Thanks to @amchara for providing beta work and to @blaidr for letting me bounce my ideas off him.

To give you context, Ash met Dru in Faerie and they exchanged their numbers. Clary seized the opportunity to obtain Ash's number from Dru and write him the following text message:

“Hey, Ash. Dru gave me your number and please don’t be angry with her, I am very strong headed and there was absolutely no way she could have refused. I am Clary. You may have heard of me. I am your late father’s sister. That’s right, your aunt. You can call me whatever you like. Emma told me what you did in Thule, how you saved her. How you saved everyone. That was very brave of you. In a way, both of us were faced with a very difficult choice and made the same. Doing what we thought was right. I would love to meet you and tell you about my mother – your grandmother – or just talk about anything. It can be things totally unrelated to the Shadow world. Hobbies, movies, books and games we like. You can pick the time and place. Neutral territory. Hope to see you soon. Clary.”

This is what happens following the text:

*****

Clary wrapped her oversized woolen coat tighter around herself, as she made her way through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The route was familiar. She took it almost every week to meet up with her parabatai and have what they called their “mundane hour”. They talked about everything, from Clary’s art to the latest TV shows they had binge watched. No topic was off the table, save for anything related to Shadowhunter duties, and the Shadow world in general. As co-head of the New York Institute and since recently, artist owning her own gallery, her weeks were very busy so she looked forward to those rare and precious moments when she could escape with Simon. Her heart rate seemed to accelerate with each of her steps, and it didn’t help that she also had the strange feeling she was being observed. When she reached her destination, she took a deep breath and opened the double glass doors leading her inside the coffee shop. She and Simon had their regular routine there, and her gaze went automatically to their usual spot, near the large windows.

A broad-shouldered jock with a baseball jacket was already sitting there, speaking loudly to his cheerleader girlfriend. Two of his friends were standing next to him, mock punching his muscular arms. It made her realize that Ash probably never had this. High school friends and romance. Ash. She was still struggling to figure out why he had asked her to meet up at this place, at the exact time she usually got there with Simon. Was it him being considerate, a clumsy way to make her feel comfortable in familiar surroundings? Or was it a warning? I know your habits, and precisely where you take your coffee, when and with whom.

Her gaze swept over the crowded room - her heart seemed to have moved up her throat, the frantic pulse almost choking her - and zeroed on a tall, white blond haired boy ordering coffee at the counter, standing with his back to Clary. She sucked in a breath. Ash. He was fully clothed in black - Dru had told her that was his usual style - and huge headphones were covering his ears. She slowly and cautiously approached him and when she was close enough, put a tentative hand on his elbow. “Ash,” she whispered. The boy glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes quizzical and… it was not Ash.

She mumbled an apology.

“Clary,” said a voice coming from behind, and she froze. It was not a boy’s but a man’s voice, the sound beautiful and ethereal. She just stood there for a few seconds before she slowly turned.

What had she expected? Merely a taller version of the young boy with pointy ears and a sour expression that she had met three years before, dressed in the same refined velvet clothing threaded with gold that identified him as fey royalty?

If so, she had clearly been mistaken.

She blinked a few times to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks. He was tall, as she had anticipated (Sebastian had been after all). At least two heads taller than her and probably taller than Jace. But he was also very different from the Ash of her memories, from the sketches she had drawn of him after they had crossed paths. He had amazingly grown into his features, his face now the best combination of the Seelie Queen and Sebastian’s. As if he had picked the most alluring colours of the palette. And the result was… Stunning. Clary’s hand twitched, aching for a pencil.

He was not dressed in black, but in plain blue jeans and he had stuffed his hands in a very elegant, long pale gray cashmere coat. His white blond hair and pointy ears were concealed under a deep green beanie, the same colour as the scarf around his neck.

He arched a silvery eyebrow at Clary, his expression bemused, and she realized she was staring.

“Clary, seriously?” he said, his gently scolding tone at odds with his enchanting voice. “This guy isn't even half as good looking as me." He glanced pointedly at the patron in question, who was gaping at him, and shrugged. "No offense, dude,” Ash added as an afterthought.

He turned his attention to the barista. She was beautiful, dark skinned with long braided hair and pouty lips. “Hello, gorgeous. We’ll have a double espresso with oat milk and a dash of cinnamon for the lady and a plain black coffee for me.”

Clary stifled a gasp and tried to hide her discomfort. He knew exactly how she took her coffee, and she didn’t know how she felt about this.

The pretty barista nodded eagerly, her cheeks red and her big dark eyes dreamy as she stared at Ash. “Why don’t you… Go sit at your table and I’ll bring you your beverages when they are ready?” the girl offered enthusiastically. The long line of patrons that had formed behind Clary and Ash would probably disagree but she didn’t seem to care.

“That would be lovely,” Ash said in his euphonious voice. “And so are you.” He winked at her, and Clary wondered if she would need to catch her while she swooned. He paid before Clary even had a chance to reach for her purse.

“Come,” he said in a commanding tone, as he made his way to Clary and Simon's usual table. This was unnerving.

The jock seated there paused in the middle of his conversation with his girlfriend when he saw Ash stand casually next to him. Clary braced herself for a heated exchange, but she should have known better.

“You want to sit somewhere else,” Ash said evenly, one hand inside the pocket of his designer coat and the other stretched out in front of him as he studied his fingernails.

“I want to sit somewhere else,” the jock repeated in a monotonous voice, his gaze blank. He stood, as if in a trance, and his girlfriend and friends followed him, puzzled, to an empty table at the far end of the room.

Ash drew a chair for Clary and she sat. He did the same, opposite her. He pulled off his beanie, and shook his silvery hair, like a crown of liquid white gold. He wasn’t dressed for the part but he had never looked more like a prince.

“Ash… please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Your mind tricks.”

He cocked his head and observed her, his face unreadable, for what seemed like an endless minute.

“You’ve been my aunt for what? Five minutes? And you’re already trying to boss me around?”

“I am not trying to boss you around, Ash. Simply asking you not to abuse your powers.”

A shadow flickered across his green eyes.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Clary. I spend much more time and energy holding back than using my powers. If I did let go, trust me, you would know.”

Clary opened her mouth to reply but was cut short as the barista popped in front of them and placed the mugs on the table. She slid a paper napkin to Ash, her phone number scribbled on it. Clary tried not to roll her eyes, as Ash flashed his dazzling smile at the girl, who almost tripped on her own feet as she returned to the counter.

Clary lifted her cup to her lips and paused, as she caught sight of the cinnamon powder floating on the surface. She put it down.

“What about this?" She pointed at her coffee mug and waved around them. “ What is it, if not a show of power? What are you trying to tell me? That you know everything about me? That you’ve been spying on me?”

Ash pulled on a fake shocked expression, mouth open and green eyes wide in mock innocence. “Spying on you? What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Ash. The evidence is right here.” She lifted her cup abruptly, and hot liquid splashed out of it. “You know exactly how I like it. When I take it, where I take it.”

Ash’s mouth twitched. “Where did you pick up these lines? From the script of some lame X-rated movie?”

“Adult movies have storylines?” Clary asked, arching her eyebrows.

“Of course they do. Where do you think the Grimm Brothers took their inspiration from?”

He grabbed the paper napkin and started mopping the coffee she had spilled on the table. The blue ink faded and the barista’s phone number vanished.

“You lost that girl’s number,” Clary noted.

Ash shrugged. “I have a girlfriend now.”

Right. Drusilla Blackthorn. From the moment she had met her, Clary had known that the smart and quiet turquoise-eyed girl would someday turn heads.

Clary knew that Dru hadn’t really confirmed their relationship status yet, but it was neither the time nor place to broach the subject with Ash. She was, after all, on a mission to win over her nephew and had not been doing a very good job so far.

A young lanky boy with pink hair and piercings covering his skin walked by and dropped a glossy flyer of the upcoming Mortal Instruments concert on the table between them. Clary hid a smile. It reminded her...

“I have something for you.” She said as she fumbled inside her bag and took out the drawing she had made of Jocelyn, Luke and herself, in front of Luke’s upstate farm (before it was turned into the new Shadowhunter Academy) and laid it on the table.

Ash looked at it hesitantly, like a kid who really wanted to grab the candy but was afraid there was a mouse trap under it. He hunched his shoulders forward and clasped his hands under the table, as if to keep himself from temptation.

“I recognize your art. I like it. I also appreciate Julian Blackthorn’s but I may not be as objective where… one of the subjects of his drawings is concerned.”

“You’ve seen my art?”

He leaned back on his chair, crossing his long arms behind his head. Somehow, he managed to make it look graceful.

“Which Shadowhunter hasn’t? I noticed that you often drew Jace with angel wings.”

“Yes. That’s how he used to appear to me. In recurring dreams.”

“Was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Jace. In your dreams.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Someone who looks like him, but who actually has wings.”

“You mean Kit.”

Ash shrugged. “It would make more sense.” His gaze flickered back to the drawing, which still lay on the table, untouched. “You look a lot like your mom.”

“So do you”, Clary blurted before she could take it back.

Ash shot her an unfathomable look.

“How is she?” She asked.

“You mean, the Seelie Queen? You tell me. You must see her more often than I do.”

“Well, not really. I am not that involved in politics, even though Alec is Consul. Julian Blackthorn is the one who deals with her most of the time. She appears to have... a fondness for him.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Clary’s mouth quirked up.

“I am glad you are getting along with the Blackthorns. They are such an incredibly strong and talented family.”

“They are.” He turned his face away, but not before she could see the expression of longing plain on his delicate features.

She swallowed. She was painfully reminded that Ash never had a shot at a happy family. Born of a political union, and dragged here and there, though interdimensional portals, by people more interested in his powers than anything else he had to offer as a person. And judging by how Dru talked about Ash, he had a lot to offer.

“I imagine it must have been awful living in Thule… But what you did for Emma and Julian back there... if it hadn’t been for you…”

“I don’t want to talk about Thule,” he interrupted her. “Can I borrow this?” He asked, his long fingers brushing the Mortal Instruments concert flyer.

“Sure.”

She watched as he started folding the paper, realizing with a jolt of surprise that he was making an origami and wondering what shape would come out of it. It was odd seeing him doing such an innocuous thing, as if he was not a faerie prince with a heavy heritage and a giant target on his back, but an ordinary boy. She remembered what Emma had told her of her encounter with Ash in a nightclub in Thule. The way he had shown no interest, playing a video game in a corner of the room, while Sebastian was committing atrocities. Had he really been as indifferent as he looked?

“Ash, we don’t need to talk about Thule if you don’t want to, but if I can help you… If there is anything I can do-”

“Why?” He looked up sharply. “Are you able to create a rune that could undo the things I saw?” His tone was even, but his delicate fingers had started slightly shaking and he suddenly dropped the paper - his work unfinished - to fold his hands under the table to hide it. From that moment, she knew.

“No…” Clary said, drawing the word out. “But trust me, coming from someone whose memory has been tampered with... it’s not a solution.”

“I said undo. Not forget.” He snapped. “I am not such a coward that I would choose blissful ignorance over knowledge.”

He caught himself, blinking, then clenched his jaw and looked away. As if he was ashamed he had allowed himself to show any emotion at all. But Clary had managed to catch a glimpse of what lay underneath the mask and wanted nothing more than to see the rest of it.

“I don’t think you are a coward,” she said.

He looked over at her, a silver eyebrow raised. “I let it all happen, didn’t I? I didn’t lift a finger.”

“Because you couldn’t. Sebastian would have killed you. And you, Ash, are just like me. A survivor.”

He snorted and crossed his arms in front of him, leaning back on his chair. He had stretched out his long legs and Clary realized that he was tapping a foot nervously next to hers.

“Wrong. I could have. I chose not to. Because I am selfish. I don’t care about other people’s fate.”

His face split into a lazy, wicked grin. Clary could see Sebastian’s influence in his leer, but she wouldn't let it deceive her. Just as she wasn't fooled by his laid-back demeanor.

“I think it’s the opposite, actually. I think it’s because you care too much. It’s not death you are afraid of. The thing is, you have such a tender heart, you need to protect it from an affliction far greater than any physical pain you could endure. So you’d rather lie to yourself and pretend you feel nothing.”

From the long conversations she had with Tessa about her ancestors, Clary knew of a Fairchild boy who had been too compassionate for his own good. And he had been surrounded by loyal friends and loving parents, even though he had shut himself, putting on a facade while burying his grief in alcohol. Ash never had that kind of support. Throughout his life, he was left to figure things out on his own. If he was as empathetic as Clary thought he was, Ash probably had no other choice but to deal with his sensitivity alone. It was a miracle he had turned out the way he did.

“You have a lot of imagination,” he said after a moment. The ghost of a smile was still playing on his lips but something had passed across his eyes. “Then again, you are an artist. You seek beauty in the ugly. You find colors on a blank page. I admire your faith, but in this case, there is nothing to see.”

Clary jutted her chin stubbornly and they held each other’s gaze - his green eyes glittering in amusement and hers dead serious - in a staring contest.

“Still,” he said when he finally broke, first. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I am sorry.”

Clary softened. “Don’t be. I am glad you are finally showing your true self. You don’t need to wear your mask around me, Ash.”

He chuckled. “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

“It’s funny that you would quote Oscar Wilde.”

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “Just another thing you share in common with a Fairchild I heard stories about.”

“Clary,” he said in a gently reproving tone. Her name sounded like a caress in his melodious voice. “Are you being purposefully cryptic to arouse my curiosity?”

She moved closer, so she was sitting at the edge of her chair, and leaned forward, hands folded over the table.

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” she whispered. “Let me in. Shed all pretense.”

“I can’t promise you that,” he whispered back in confidence, leaning closer still so that their faces were inches from each other. “It’s like fabric that burns and melts into skin. If you peel it off, the skin goes with it.” He grimaced, reclining on his chair. “It won’t be a pretty sight. I don’t think even my level of hotness could sustain it.”

“Ash…” Clary said, sensing that she finally had an opening to say what she had been brooding over ever since she had learnt of Ash’s return from that forsaken land. “I wanted to tell you… I am sorry.”

Ash’s green eyes widened.

“Sorry for what?”

“I should have looked for you. I should not have given up on you.”

Ash’s jaw clenched and he looked away. “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do. Seb-...Ash, we...”

“What did you just call me?” He snarled. His eyes snapped back to her, suddenly cold as ice.

“Sorry, Ash. What I meant to say is… we are family."

“I already have a family.”

“I know that you care about Janus…”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he cut her off.

“And we don’t need to. I just wanted you to know… I understand that he’s been like a father to you, and I don’t plan on moving against him, unless he strikes first or makes it impossible for me to overlook his actions.”

“Because of me?”

“Of course, because of you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Ash… You are my nephew, my blood. You may not feel the same way about me, but that’s how I feel about you. I want you to know that, if things go wrong, for any reason, you can always turn to me. My home is your home.”

“What you are actually telling me is, Ash, if I kill the one person who has ever really cared about you - and it might definitely come to that - you can always grab my hand, still sticky and warm from his blood. Well, how nice of you. To quote Oscar Wilde again, true friends stab you in the front.”

“That’s not what I am-”

“Clary,” Ash interrupted as he stood. “Do not make me choose between you and him. Because…” Looking down at her, he swallowed hard, as if the words pained him. “Because you will lose.”

She knew exactly what he was telling her. Because they were the same in that way. Ruthless, even with their own blood, when it came to protecting their loved ones. If I had to choose between killing him and you, I would not hesitate. I would end you. Yet, despite his cold statement, despite his sharp and resolved tone, his eyes seemed to carry a deep regret.

“Ash, I understand what you're saying and I swear I am not trying to make you pick a side”, Clary said, suddenly desperate, as she mirrored him and stood. “Please don’t go. I am sorry I brought it up. We will stop talking about him. Starting now.”

“This was a bad idea. Never try to contact me again.” He drew his green beanie from the pocket of his coat and put it back on. He turned and strode toward the exit. She grabbed the family drawing that still lay on the table, stuffed it in her bag and followed him, half-running, as he was quickly losing here with his long legs.

“Ash! Please. Give me another chance. I am so sorry.”

He paused right outside the coffee shop, closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t be. It didn’t change what I had planned to tell you anyway. I don’t want to know anything about you or your mother. I don’t want to have anything to do with either of you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, and he whipped his head around to look at her in surprise. “I know you were under house arrest. You probably had to break out of whichever place they were holding you in to come here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you wanted something. Something from me. Tell me, Ash. Tell me what it is.”

He turned his face away so she could not see his expression. A full minute passed and she had almost given up on receiving an answer, when he finally spoke.

“My fa… Sebastian. How different do you think he would have been if not for the demon blood?”

“Oh. Ash.” she whispered. She brought her knuckle against her sternum instinctively, as if to cover the gaping whole in her chest. “I saw him, you know. The brother I should have had. The father that should have raised you. If only for a few minutes.” She paused to bite back tears. “In those few minutes, he told us how to get rid of the Endarkened and said he was sorry. It’s not much to go for, but… that’s not all. I have recurring dreams of the green eyed boy that was robbed from us. And I know in my heart he would have been the best brother a sister could ever dream of.”

He was still looking away and she could see the sharp line, the stubborn set of his jaw. She wanted to hug him, to tell him she would not fail him again. That they could mourn her brother, his father, together. That he didn’t need to bear the anger at everything that was wasted alone.

He finally turned to look at her. A tear had escaped to run freely down his cheek. He had completely shed off his mask, and what Clary saw was like a stab in her gut. She shivered. Wordlessly, he reached for his deep green scarf and tied it gingerly around her neck. The way Sebastian had when they had walked down the streets of Paris. Ash looked nothing like her brother had then. His green eyes held an infinite sadness that spoke of a grief deeper, older than the short years of his life.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He said - she hadn’t imagined his beautiful voice could sound so hollow - and turned to leave.

“Ash, wait.” She grabbed him by the elbow and he froze. His eyes widened as his gaze zeroed on the fingers covering his coat, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She realized she had never touched him before.

“Clary, what do you want from me?” He asked in a tired voice.

“I just want to get to know you.”

“Trust me, you don’t. I am not the brother who was stolen from you. I cannot replace him. If anything, I am just like Sebastian was before me... my father’s broken toy. There is no way to fix me.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” she said, almost frantic. “And I don’t want to find my brother's replacement, I want to get to know you! Ash. The real Ash.”

“I already told you. That’s not happening. Don’t ever try to contact me again. I am serious.”

“So that’s it?” She tried not to sound too whiny but panic was eating away at her stomach and she thought she would throw up. “You went through all this trouble spying on me, learning how I take my coffee to simply disappear from my life from one moment to the next?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression unfathomable. It seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

“I was not spying on you, Clary. I was merely following your stalker.”

“What? You were… protecting me?”

“Take care of yourself, Clary.”

He said as he stepped away from her and vanished into the crowd.

****

Clary threw herself in Jace’s arms as soon as he opened the door to their bedroom at the New York Institute. He froze, then started stroking her hair in a soothing gesture.

“Clary, what happened? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Tell me, Clary. What is it?”

She pulled away and wiped tears with the back of her hand. Jace’s face was a mask of shock. Clary couldn’t blame him. She almost never cried.

“I messed up.”

“What did you mess up?”

She walked to the bed and sat on the mattress. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for his reaction. “Ash. I met up with him earlier today.”

Jace tensed and his hands clenched into fists. “WHAT- Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have insisted on coming.”

“Damn right, I would have. And I would have been right, too. Look at you, you look miserable.”

“It’s my fault,” she said in a small voice. “I pushed him too far.”

Jace sighed and came to sit next to her, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I am sure you did nothing wrong, Clary.”

“I thought- When I showed him the drawing… the way he looked at it, Jace. He is not indifferent. He cares.”

“What drawing?”

“The one I made of the family,” she said absently, as she grabbed her bag and started fumbling inside.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The drawing wasn’t there. Peeking out in its stead, and folded out of the flyer of the Mortal Instruments concert, were origami faerie wings. The Fairchild family symbol.

[plumoh]

[Yuumori] tethering touch

Rating: G

Word count: 1846

Summary: “Sherlock's soft and long fingers don't shake in the slightest when he touches William's hair, brushing aside uneven bangs that were covering the scar of his eye.” A touch, no words, and trust. / pre-chapter 57.

Note: AO3 link. The fic is set right before chapter 57, during the timeskip, and was written before the release of chapter 62.

The window is open.

A carriage drives at a brisk pace and causes someone to hurl half-shouted insults at it, probably due to its close proximity to the sidewalk. A dog barks, terrified, while its owner murmurs reassurances. The cries of children running around and playing games travel from one street to another, clear and innocent.

The wind blows gently against the thin curtains; the weather is nice, a good day to take a walk and enjoy tea outside to relax.

The second chair at the table scrapes on the wooden floor, and Sherlock winces as he lets himself drop into it without grace. He at least had the forethought to put his mug of coffee on the table beforehand; William wouldn’t have cleaned the stains for the third time in as many days.

“It’s too early for chairs to make that much noise,” Sherlock mutters.

“Perhaps yanking on a chair without lifting it from the floor isn’t the right way to sit,” William says, the corner of his lips curling upwards.

Sherlock shrugs, his face giving no hint of a change in behavior in the foreseeable future. William thinks he can manage watching chairs being poorly treated for a while longer, since a month or two are meaningless compared to three years of cohabitation.

“Did you leave the window open all night?” William asks, glancing at the slightly damp ledge that got rained on during the night.

“I smoked too much last night, I figured it wouldn’t be pleasant to walk into the living room with that stench in the morning.”

It tugs at William’s heart, a gentle grip that can turn forceful any time. No matter how long he spends observing Sherlock, no matter what truths and secrets they’ve told each other, one way or another William finds himself always, always surprised at small gestures and reasonings that make up Sherlock’s strange character. He’s grown over these past three years—they both have, though not everyone would be satisfied with whom they’ve become, most likely. But they are the only judges of themselves, uncaring of the opinion of others.

But it is unlike Sherlock to forget something as basic as opening the window when he smokes. William stares at him, searching for a sign of discomfort or doubt that wasn’t apparent the night before. There is a small crease between Sherlock’s brows, pinching his face into an expression of both focus and concern that hardly belongs on these cocky features allowing nobody to think he’s hesitant.

William brings his cup of tea to his lips, carefully, biding his time.

“I was under the impression your habits have improved, and that you have been smoking less in the last few months,” William says. “Did you get enough sleep this week? We could re-institute our nightly games of chess, if it helps you relax.”

Sherlock, mirroring William in a deliberate and casual gesture, sips his coffee and stays silent. His gaze never leaves William’s, assessing and critical, like he’s expecting to be teared open from the inside out if he lets too many emotions slip through his fake calmness. William smiles at the thought behind his cup.

"Of course, I don't believe that losing to me every night would give you the desired effect. Your brilliant mind needs rest, too."

"You have a way with words that makes me wonder if I should be amazed or frustrated, Liam."

Sherlock puts down his mug and sighs deeply, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling. William places his cup on its saucer, and gets up. He pushes back his chair like he's handling something precious, his gaze focused on where his feet are and what his hands are gripping to avoid stumbling, then he makes his way around the table to stand next to Sherlock. Sherlock cuts a glance at him, half-sprawled on his chair and half-stiff with unnecessary worry.

"I'm not saying this lightly, when I suggest you should let your mind rest," William says in a low voice. "You are filling your head with cumbersome thoughts that have no reason to exist in the first place."

William doesn’t understand why the air is so heavy with doubt this morning, so stifling when they’ve agreed on the plan a long time ago already. Being overwhelmed with the panicked need to back down at the last second before the act is not an option permitted in the life they’ve chosen to live; they go through with their decisions and succeed. Failure is rarely brought onto the table, because they can’t afford to fail.

Sherlock’s body relaxes ever the slightest upon hearing William’s words.

“You’re right,” Sherlock whispers. “I just have to act like I always do.”

William smiles. “I’m sure three years aren’t long enough for you to forget how to act around your brother and the MI6. You’re still the same.”

Wild, unpredictable and straightforward Sherlock Holmes—a person that slips through people’s fingers when they think they have him in their palms, someone that uses flamboyant methods to get out of unpleasant situations. His words are sharp and awkward in their honesty, grazing at skins without the intention of hurting, but he’s too earnest. William is nothing like Sherlock at all, from their opposite dressing styles to their obvious different way of thinking, and yet.

And yet, William shares half of his mind with Sherlock, and Sherlock listens to him.

William slides a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, feathery-like touch leaving behind trails of phantom strokes. He smoothes a wrinkle here, dusts off a spot there, then pulls lightly on the shirt’s collar, prying it open easily without a tie holding it together. The underlying message doesn't go unnoticed, judging by Sherlock's soft laugh. When he looks at Sherlock’s face, William finds hawk eyes watching him with rapt attention, scrutinizing him like he’s harboring all the unresolved wonders of the world.

“Well, mostly the same,” Sherlock points out with a grin. “My tie’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it later.”

“You will make a lasting impression, I’m sure.”

“Yes, reappearing three years later with a tie strangling me will do that.”

A laugh escapes William’s throat, and Sherlock keeps looking at him like he will never tire of watching the blooming of roses. Sherlock shouldn't make this kind of expression; he should know better than to let such naked feelings dance on his face and in his eyes, hiding none of the bizarre, fiery affection he's nurtured over the years for William. It's a dangerous train of thought that William lets fester in a corner of his mind without doing much about it—maybe when it fully takes root and can't be plucked off anymore, then William will acknowledge it and will no longer run away.

Sherlock wrenches his gaze away and glances at the table. William follows his movements and watches him pick up the abandoned black eyepatch next to the tea pot, pinching it gently by the thin strap.

There are no words exchanged. William withdraws his hand from Sherlock's collar, and Sherlock rises on his feet with a smile. His soft and long fingers don't shake in the slightest when he touches William's hair, brushing aside uneven bangs that were covering the scar of his eye. The scar is an ugly thing, a mess of tissue and discolored skin surrounding the hole where his eye should be, but they've never been one to flinch at the physical manifestations of the cruel trials of life. There is warmth oozing from this gesture, as quick as it is intense. The two of them are not people who are used to the touch of others, preferring the cold and grounding sensation of a weapon held in their hands. In spite of it, William closes his good eye.

It's permission as much as it is curiosity. How long will they keep doing this, allowing small acts of service and reveling in the peace they bring, without ever addressing the meaning behind them? William isn't one to let anyone stand so close to him, at a distance where any threat is invisible and any counter-attack is ill-timed. Sherlock could grab him by the sides of his head and hurt him, and William wouldn't be able to stop him. In another world, where their shared future is written in stone, it could have happened. They could have been facing each other like this, silent as a tomb, following the script of a justice punishing all criminals equally, one of them delivering it and the other accepting it.

But it isn't that harsh and implacable reality. In the world they live in, William feels the eyepatch placed over his eye, the two ends of the strap traveling behind his head to be tied together. Never once does he stop sensing the warmth of Sherlock and his hands. They are close enough they can hear each other's heartbeat; one second passes, then two, and then three, and Sherlock's fingers are still in William's hair. A careful and tender pressure, a steady touch he savors.

"I could do this with my eyes closed," Sherlock says quietly.

He slowly, slowly extracts his fingers from William's hair and lets one hand linger on his cheek. William opens his eye, already knowing what he'd find staring back at him. Sherlock has always been unable to hide his emotions, even in his touch.

"That's good to know," William replies just as calmly. "You can be my two eyes, as well."

"I'm anything you want me to be, anyway."

Sometimes, Sherlock's words are so honest they are hard to parse. Abrasive, frank and sincere—how did such a man end up with someone like William? He caught him, and he's not letting go.

"You are too trusting," William settles on saying.

Sherlock grins. "I trust you as much as you trust me, Liam. Don't forget that."

"That is assuming you know how far my trust in you extends."

"That's because I do know. You haven't left yet."

William chuckles. Bold words coming from a shameless person.

"I suppose I haven't, no," William agrees.

William lifts a hand, and in turn, he cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, much longer than it was when they first met. He makes it more presentable, less wild, smoothly. Sherlock's eyes are locked on his, like he has nowhere else to look.

Small acts of service that punctuate their shared life, charged with significance they cherish without uttering a word.

"Finish breakfast and go retrieve your tie, Sherly. It's almost time for you to go," William tells him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do that. You should get ready too."

They came back to England and are continuing their fight. It leaves no room for hesitation.

William drops his hand. Sherlock does too and smiles at him, and if it were yet another universe, where he isn't a coward, William would have kissed him.

But not yet—this isn't the right time yet. The way they look after each other is enough, for now, and William will protect it, until they are ready.

[you-cant-spell-subtext-without]

what would you say is your best method to beat writer's block? i've been writing this fic for weeks but i get blocked very often :(

okay so a few things I do:

1. don't write the fic! write when it feels fun. (this is hard, however so also when you are practicing this one, do the below:)

2. write something else! anything that does feel fun and easy. a poem, a diff fic, a drabble. a description of a blade of grass in a text to misha. whatever, etc.

3. do something creative that's not writing. draw. sing. color. cook. watch the bees. make up a dance that a butterfly would do.

4. listen to music. music ALWAYS helps me; it's why I have a playlist for every chap of my WIP. think ab songs that would be on a soundtrack for your fic. then think about songs that would be on a soundtrack for the next parts you're writing. I swear then the story will write itself.

5. watch the show. whatever mood you're trying to evoke - watch an episode w it. for ex: my chapter for Angels this week was a very Dean-centered one, so I watched: Skin, Dream a Little Dream of Me, Despair, and Inherit the Earth (I know but I had to for a scene). if you dont have time to watch an ep - read the transcript/script.

6. watch a show NOT related to your fic (Lucifer has been giving me lots of inspo lately)

7. read something. I find this lubes the brain. even a chapter of a book (or fan fic if it works for you, personally I find non-fan-fic reading is better for me when writing) or a short poem (Mary Oliver never misses, Mish ain't wrong ab her) does wonders.

8. go for a walk or a run outside. listen to music (see no. 4)

9. text misha and ask him to send you good vibes.

10. drop me an ask and ask me to send you good vibes.

11. re read the bits before. esp the ones you like. remember why you like them, and how excited you were when you started this.

12. ask the fandom for inspo!

13. close your eyes. breathe. count to 10. tell the universe you are going to write this, and its going to be fucking GREAT. repeat until you remember that you can.

bumps dont stop us, send me an ask!

[kettle-on]

(Oh woops, this is a lot longer than it was supposed to be, but I got carried away. Still not super happy with it, but I figured I'd post it sooner than later, before I changed my mind completely!)

Monty Python and the Barbados Fic

Eric x Michael x OFC

Chapter 4

attn: @jessm78 @coincidence-ithinknots-blog

Evenings at Heron Bay were lively, silly, rowdy, and populous. The Pythons had decided they would have guests to dinner every night, and surprisingly this proved not too difficult. Apparently Barbados was hopping with friendly famous faces at this time of year.

Mick Jagger continued his regular visits with Jerry on his arm, and one or two pairs of glamorous mystery Misters and Misses. It was revealed through many rounds of Charades that the Rolling Stone had an extraordinary talent for both miming and deciphering interpretive dance. His rendition of “the eruption of Mt Vesuvius” was met with roaring applause, and his “Sex Pistols” brought the evening to an un-toppable peak.

Things would take a turn, however, when an entirely sober Graham introduced a favourite game of his called “Poor Pussy” in which the chosen “pussy” approaches guests and, through meowing and distinctly feline behaviour, must make the guest laugh whilst they attempt to pet pussy’s head and say with a straight face three times: “poor pussy.” When one does laugh, they become the new “pussy.” This last rule changed quickly when it arose that multiple “pussies” had taken over the room, and hardly a word could be spoken from the guests through their laughter.

Perhaps the most uncommon news, however, came from casual chat. A visiting Keith Moon explained his plans for a new house in Malibu, anxious for acres of privacy and leaving behind his celebrity neighbours. Jagger the Charades king told of all-night New York City parties, to which Graham countered: “At least in London, one has the good sense to wrap up before sitting down to breakfast.”

Y/N was sure that, had she been keeping a list, she’d have been privy to the business of every star in modern comedy and rock and roll.

The next morning came too early once again, but Y/N was this time drawn to the bedroom window. From here she could see the team of gardeners hired to keep Heron Bay looking lush and groomed. She couldn’t help but feel that with each day that passed she was floating further and further away from what she remembered normal life to be like.

Not wanting to disturb a sleeping Eric, she made her way to the morning room that looked out to the curved courtyard. At one end of the room was a large painted screen of columns in some beautiful ancient scene. Each table surface in this room was topped with a floral arrangement, antique candlesticks, and photographs of visitors and houseguests. Decades of beautiful faces and elegant dresses, men in uniform, and posed portraits looked back at her from their frames.

What was this world? she had long wondered. Painted screens, stone pediments, beaches, house staff, tennis courts, and private ponds. Marriages, affairs, and cover-ups. Churchill, the Duke of Edinburgh, Lord and Lady Something of Somewhere Unpronounceable, and movie stars and rock n roll gods. And who was she in all of this?

From the near distance, she heard puffs of exertion and approaching steps. Michael had committed himself to continuing his disciplined daily morning jog and here he was returning.

“Ah,” he panted, “Morning.”

“Good morning. Nice run?”

“Well,” puff, “it’s not Holloway, but it’ll do.”

When he caught his breath, he noticed her uneasiness. With a smiling face and a tone he’d learned from his mother, he suggested:

“Tea?” --

It was much later that night that Y/N found herself again wandering the corridors alone. The afternoon had passed with a visit from Eric’s friend Ricky Fataar with whom he’d made The Rutles the previous year, and his wife, Heron Bay’s proprietress Penelope Tree. The couple had dropped in for what they called a “business luncheon,” and extended an invitation to the Python household out for a “business dinner.” The two Terrys and Eric accepted, (the Terrys hoping they might throw in a bit of “money talk” regarding their upcoming film budget) and by the time the day’s activities had come to a close, the outward dinner guests had yet to return.

In the rare quiet of the late-night, Y/N knocked on the door to the room where Michael was staying, and a friendly hum invited her into the room. A single lamp lit up the walls and floor, and a Michael in repose who was making edits to his well-kept journal.

“Do I recall correctly you said you’d brought a small library with you?” asked Y/N from the door.

“I did, indeed!” he responded, setting his journal on one of the nightstands next to the bed. “What’s the matter – can’t sleep?”

Y/N shook her head with an apologetic smirk.

“I see, and what sort of thing are you after?”

“Something, uh... gentle, I suppose. Something to escape.”

“Escape? From here? A tropical island and you’d like to escape – now that’s puzzling.” He drew back the thin blanket that covered his lower half, and swung his mostly bare legs over the side of the mattress.

“No, no,” she started, “Just something to, y’know, get out of my head for a bit.”

“Mm, is there something troubling you?” Michael eyed the three stacks of books casually adorning a side table, and inspected the choices of titles.

“Just feeling a little…” Y/N searched for a believable excuse, “homesick.”

He was not convinced. Putting his book task on pause he raised his eyebrows, requesting her further explanation. Y/N both appreciated and hated this look. Michael, though the gentlest and kindest of the troupe, would not let anything go unexplained or hidden for long, and his generosity and patience invited her to open up.

“I’m not really sure what I’m doing here,” she confessed. “I feel like I’m just getting in the way, y’know? You’re all working hard on what I’m certain will be a brilliant film, and what am I here for?”

“You’re on holiday,” he declared with what he hoped was an assuring smile.

“A holiday from what? What do I even do?” She felt the agitation rising in her voice. “It’s like I just exist day in and day out with no purpose or point. No goals and no…”

Michael’s stare was intense and he waited for her to continue.

“…future.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper when she noticed she’d drawn his undivided attention. A quiet Michael was a rare thing, and the silence stilled the air between them.

“So, I thought... maybe a… a book might help,” she attempted, but Michael was already smoothing down the bedspread, offering a space beside him which she gratefully filled.

“Is this what it’s like being famous?” she asked heavily, taking a seat. “Always surrounded by extremely talented, important people, and constantly comparing your own worth and accomplishments?”

“I suppose it is, yes. Sometimes.” Michael was usually very good at telling the truth in a palatable way.

Nevertheless, this acknowledgement only supported her anxiety. Her face fell and she closed her eyes, sensing exhaustion was on its way. She silently prayed for one of Michael’s rambling speeches, and he intuitively delivered.

“But it doesn’t have to be,” he began. “None of this comes with the expectation that you’ve earned your right to enjoy things. You don’t need to have won a Nobel Prize or sold a million records to deserve fine cutlery. But when you’re well-known, everybody wants to know you and bring you lovely things, whether or not you think you deserve them. When that happens, I think what helps is to recognize what’s there for you, and appreciate that there are all these things you can access if you’d like to. What’s important to remember is that you have options, and lots of good ones, too.

“And as far as goals and a future, well… I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that you’re already building a future just by living. And learning, and asking questions, and thinking, and wondering, and loving, and caring.”

Y/N had stayed quiet. The past few weeks of indulgence, creativity, and celebrity drama had left her feeling in a way excluded, and far away from herself. It wasn’t something she found she could explain to Eric without seeming ungrateful.

Michael continued:

“So right now, you’re on holiday somewhere you’ve never been, and learning how the other half lives. And what am I doing? Well at the moment I’m enjoying a few weeks on a beautiful island, with marvelous weather, with my wonderful friends. Together, we’re finishing up a script for a film which, if all goes well, we’ll be making later this year. That’s my job, and it keeps me working, but I’ve got the rest of my hours and days, too, and that’s when I’m living. That’s when life happens, you see, in the in-between time.

Y/N had secured a point of focus on the floor, and found it fitting that Michael’s was one of the few rooms in the building with wooden floorboards instead of the palatial stone. In this room she could be almost anywhere in the world, and at this moment she was happy to be somewhere closer to home.

“There’s no rush,” Michael added, noting her half-daze. “Life is short, but... there’s so much of it. You can stop and start and chop and change as many times as you like. It’s all life,” he slowed his pace, carefully observing her softened expression, “and it’s all yours.”

Y/N leaned back onto her elbows and contemplated her bare knees.

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one before,” she mused. “Hm. I’ve got a lot of time to fill, haven’t I?”

Michael gave a warm hum of agreement and joined her sideways, propping his head on an elbow, attentive as ever.

“And what are you going to fill it with first?” he asked.

This prospect was suddenly overwhelming, and it showed in her eyes. She took a breath and decided to choose levity for a change.

“I could work on this tan, I guess,” she playfully suggested, kicking a leg up and indicating her knees, “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” he approved. In fact, he had long admired her knees, and was grateful to the January Barbados weather for getting them out of trousers and wool tights. The previous summer at many a pub garden evening, he’d envied Eric’s long fingers resting atop Y/N’s knees, giving an occasional squeeze, and more than once catching sight of a slow glide up a thigh, disappearing under a skirt hem.

“Looks like you’re off to a good start there,” he said, allowing himself an extra-long, fully permissible eyeing up of her legs.

“And you?” she asked, “What’s next in the in-between time?”

“Well, I thought I might see what life by the ocean is like. I don’t see it very often. They’ve got waterskiing down at the bay - I might give that a go. I doubt I’ll be any good, but at least then I can say I’ve done it. Obviously a very valuable skill in London. I can see it: there I am, shooting across the lakes of Hampstead Heath. Or better still, an aquatic commute! I could start off from Blackfriars in the morning, and be in Molesey by tea-time, how’s that?”

Y/N laughed, tired from the day but grateful for Michael’s silliness. She liked this. Why couldn’t Mike be around more often? Or could she have a mini-Mike to keep in her purse and take out for impromptu pep-talks and compliments, please?

“I wonder,” he said carefully when her laughter died down. “Rather than in the way, do you think perhaps you might be feeling a bit overlooked?”

This caught her off guard. Overlooked? She never felt ignored or unappreciated. On the contrary, Eric’s attention and gestures of love came in spades. But what was it for? What really did she have to offer? She hardly expected to stand out next to her accomplished and celebrated partner and his career, nor did she wish to dull his accomplishments or stifle him. Stability would be very nice, but so too would making a name for herself be. So what did she want – life or recognition?

“Maybe,” she finally said in a small voice, too tired now to analyze any further.

How fragile she now seemed to Michael. She had opened her heart to him, and the sense of duty and the care with which he held it felt so natural. He wished he could hold it for a little longer.

Stroking kind fingers down her forearm, he took her hand, willing her out of her trance. With a closed-eyed focus on her hand, he drew her knuckles to his lips.

“So I’ve got options,” Y/N re-stated.

“Mhmm,” sounded Michael, whose lips were still appreciating her fingers.

“And I’m building a life every day,” she continued.

"Every day,” he repeated, his thumb now taking over addressing her knuckles.

“And mine is no less important than anyone else’s?”

She knew the answer, but the question brought their eyes to meet, and he held her gaze with tenderness.

“I think anyone who meets you feels lucky that they did. I know I do.”

Y/N felt whatever was left of her distress dissolve with a heavy breath. She had been heard, and she knew with certainty that her cares were safe with him.

Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his torso, and he enveloped her shoulders with a tight grip. His voice was low in her ear:

“You know, if it was a book you were after, I rather thought you’d have asked Terry.”

Y/N wasn’t going to bother mustering the energy to protest or to come up with a nonsense reason why she’d chosen to see Michael. She was here now, and she was perfectly content with it.

“I’m very glad you didn’t,” he confessed, and having exhausted all words, he began a slow exploration of her neck, starting with nuzzling the delicate space beneath her ear. Sensing no resistance, and hearing her approving sigh, he continued down to her shoulder, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he went.

He was kind and patient and open, Y/N remembered as she felt herself giving over to the moment’s tenderness, her curiosity duelling with her fatigue.

With restrained eagerness, he moved along the underside of her jaw before,

“Stop stop,” she hushed.

She was fighting with her enjoyment, but this was not a good time to discover feelings. All she wanted now was comfort and sleep. She looked at her kindred Michael half-apologetically, and he shifted aside, making a space for her to lie down and sleep. He reached over to switch off the bedside lamp, and gently pulled the sheet up to cover their spooning bodies.

Out on the patio under the moonlight, Eric lay on a lounge chair, gazing into the sky and contemplating several things: Ricky and Penelope’s marriage, Mick and Jerry’s affair, and the concept of unfaithfulness. And the very nature of frivolity, and luxury, and everything he learned from the swinging sixties of liberation and self-indulgence. And, unexpectedly, Michael.

He wriggled in his spot, unable to relax. I need to write this, he thought. He worked most things out through writing, and now he would turn to his typewriter, get his musings out on paper, and try to make some sort of sense of his brain soup.

[spooks-and-tea]

Entangled (Spencer Reid x femReader)

Summary: You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were watching Criminal Minds, and the next moment you were literally in the show. Can Spencer be the key to helping you find your way back home?

Warnings: minor character death, mentions of su*cide, bad explanations of quantum mechanics, sexual situations, the usual criminal minds-type content

A/N: wow I’ve been on this site for ages, nearly as long as Criminal Minds was on air, lol, but this is my first fic posted here. I plan to make this one into a few parts if people like it. If this has any relation to other fics it’s not intended. Literally just an idea that popped in my brain. I’ll also eventually add it to my wattpad .@ kittentastic

Word Count: 3,119

Chapter 1.  Chapter 2.  Chapter 3.  Chapter 4. Chapter 5.  Chapter 6.  Chapter 7. Chapter 8.  Chapter 9.  Chapter 10.  Chapter 11.

It was an average, lonely, autumn night. Halloween was nearing and you didn't have anywhere to be. Long estranged from the people you once called family, and friends, you were starting a new life in L.A.

Yeah, you were one of those small-town girls with big-city dreams. You wanted to be an actress, a dream your father had once encouraged. When he suddenly died, you had nothing left but a new step-mother who discouraged your dreams and was more than happy to disown you when you reached 18 years of age; a classic Cinderella story.

It had taken a while, getting yourself through university and saving up enough money to move out to L.A. Now you were 27 and living your dreams...partly. You worked at a coffee shop in Hollywood; a great way to meet people that could potentially cast you in a big production, but that plan had yet to come to fruition. Every audition would have someone else in mind for the part.

Today, you had finished yet another round of auditions for everything from small commercial bits to tv shows. You poured yourself a glass of red wine after finishing your microwavable meal-for-one dinner. Wine would always be your go-to drink after your dissappointing days, it was great at helping you sleep. You clicked on the tv and sipped your drink from your criss-crossed sitting position and soon found a Criminal Minds marathon that was just starting. It almost seemed like fate as tomorrow you had an audition lined up for the very same show.

You smiled as the bright, happy, Penelope Garcia came into the shot, followed by the rest of the BAU. You absentmindedly bit your lip as Dr. Spencer Reid came into frame.

Like a large percentage of the show's viewership, you found the handsome genius slipping into one or two of your fantasies. You may have daydreamed about the Dr. being a real person and walking into your workplace to order coffee and whisk you off your feet. You may have also woken up from a few dreams involving the handcuffs he was currently restraining an unsub with.

You wondered if you would get the part. Would it be odd having to pretend this dream-man was real? You'd hope you could contain your blushing around Matthew at least.

You finished your drink and stretched out on the couch, already feeling your eyes growing heavy. You found your mind wandering as you grew more and more tired, hardly paying attention to the episode. The last thought you had before you drifted off was, "what if Spencer Reid was a real person?"

Bright lights of assorted colors and shapes danced behind your tired eyes. You felt a tugging sensation that seemed to pull you from your core. It felt warm and safe, like it wanted to protect you. A hum grew louder and louder in your ear canal, followed by a crackling wind. It was like an electric storm. The smell of coffee and a woodsy vanilla filled whatever place you were in. It was odd, you knew this, but you weren't scared. Something told you this was right. Your body began to rise higher and higher until a loud snap echoed around you, shattering your surroundings.

"Whoa, sleeping on the job now Y/N? Did someone tire you out last night?" A woman's voice broke through the fog as your mind caught up with you.

Wait, am I still dreaming? That voice...it sounds like...

"Pretty Boy, you wanna check her for a pulse?"

And that is definitely...

"I-I don't think that's necessary."

You slowly lifted your head and opened your eyes wide. Your blurred vision slowly grew used to the bright indoor lighting. Your eyes widened as you saw none other than JJ, Morgan, and Reid. Yes, the fictional characters were standing in front of you.

How was this even possible? You had to be dreaming, or maybe you were forgetting and you were at a very strange audition. Yes, that had to be it, logically.

"Good morning Sleeping Beauty. Rough night? I didn't think Reid's Doctor Who nights were that wild, I might have to tag along and chaperone you two next time." Morgan greeted with a teasing smirk.

"How late did you two go for last night?" JJ asked, leaning against the desk that you had been sleeping on, and sipping her coffee.

She directed the question to you, but you didn't remember this dialogue in the audition script. When you didn't answer, Spencer spoke up.

"She texted me when she got home safe at 9:43pm. I made sure she left early as the rain was starting up. Now, of course, she could have stayed up longer, but we continued to exchange texts until she texted me goodnight at 10:15pm."

"Goodnight texts? Remind me and JJ here why you two aren't dating again?" Morgan crossed his arms looking between you and Spencer.

You blinked, taking a chance to finally look around. There were no cameras in sight. Above you was a tiled ceiling with office lighting. No directors or normal-looking crew members were around.

"Matthew?" You asked, directing your question to a stuttering, red-faced Reid.

Everyone turned their attention back to you. Reid, or Matthew, raised his eyebrow at you. And turned to look if anyone was standing behind him that you could be talking to.

"Who is Matthew, Y/N?" He asks, cautiously.

Oh my god. I must be dreaming.

You stood up and slowly reached out to Reid, who was standing closest to you. You gently poked his cheek. He looked almost afraid at your actions.

"Spencer?" You lower your shaky hand. He felt real, he was standing in front of you. You could smell his morning coffee.

"Yeah?"

"Pinch me."

"What? Why?"

"So I know that I'm not dreaming." You could feel his eyes prodding you, profiling.

"Maybe we should get you to a doctor-"

You grabbed his wrist and placed his hand on your upper arm.

"Pinch me. Hard."

Spencer winced as he did what you asked of him. He obviously did not want to hurt you. You felt your nerves fire off in pulses of pain where he pinched. You sharply inhaled and he immediately dropped his hand.

"Oh my god," you stammered, "ohmygodohmygodohmygod."

This is real. Spencer Reid is real.

You slid back down in your chair and looked at an open mouthed JJ and Morgan, staring at you in shock.

"What kind of kinky shit are you two into?" Morgan narrowed his eyes at Reid.

"This is no time for teasing Derek. I think she's suffering from a concussion." JJ reached out, concerned, feeling your forehead for a fever.

"She doesn't have any visible signs of bruising. Y/N do you remember hitting your head on anything, or experiencing whiplash today?" Reid, growing serious turned your chair towards him, raking his fingers through your hair to check your scalp for any tender spots.

For a moment you had to stop yourself from sighing, it just felt nice, and it was Spencer.

"No I'm-I'm fine, my head feels fine." You answered.

"What's the last thing you remember doing?"

You bit your lip, should you answer him truthfully? How would you even explain something so illogical.

"I-I remember. I fell asleep on the couch watching tv." In a different reality.

"Do you think it's possible you rolled off of the couch in your sleep?"

You frowned to yourself.

"It's possible."

It's never happened before, but you suppose it would explain things. This was definitely a hallucination. Maybe it was one of those Spencer-centric dreams.

"Spence, I think you should take Y/N to the hospital. I'll cover for you with Hotch." JJ suggested.

Spencer nodded in agreement while Morgan looked worriedly at you. JJ got up from the desk to seek out Hotch in his office.

"Do you have your keys?" Spencer asked, still looking you over.

"Um-" you checked your pockets and sure enough found a ring of keys in your pants pocket. You dropped them into Spencer's outstretched hand.

"Can you walk?" Spencer's voice went softer.

You shivered as you did whenever you heard that tone on the show. He could make a living doing ASMR with that voice.

You stood with Spencer's unneeded, but much appreciated, help. He seemed to have no problem holding your hands to help you, something you considered to be out of character for the germaphobic Dr. Reid. Then again, the show did not go this long without it's occasional inconsistencies. Was your subconscious hallucination really thinking these things out?

You followed him to the elevator with ease, taking in your surroundings as you went. As the elevator doors closed, Spencer frowned at you once again.

"Your pupils have been dilated since you woke up." He spoke.

Yeah probably because the attractive genius I've been dreaming of for years is vividly realistic and talking to me.

"Is that a sign of head trauma?"

"Actually yes, you could be experiencing a sensitivity to light as a result of your head trauma. If that's the case, then you're in luck because it's been raining all day."

You followed Spencer out to your car, or at least you thought it was your car. You didn't exactly own one before dropping into this hallucination world. You were saving up for one, but didn't really need it as you lived close to your job and took public transit when you needed to go further distances. This car was nice, you supposed the dream BAU job payed well.

Spencer drove you to the hospital and waited in the waiting room as you received a full check up and MRI. You hoped he wasn't too bored waiting. As the doctor returned with your results you asked if Spencer could come in to hear the diagnosis. The doctor asked if he was family and you lied saying he was your fiancé. The doctor really didn't seem to care and Spencer was allowed in. He looked confident, prepared to discuss anything scientific that you may not understand yourself.

"Well Y/N, after reviewing your MRI scans and testing results, I can confidently assure you that you are perfectly healthy. We can order some blood tests for you if you wish, but from the concussion symptoms you thought you had, and from the results I have in front of me, I don't believe they are necessary." The doctor said with a smile, probably just happy to be delivering some good news.

"That can't be right." You shook your head and frowned.

"Y/N was clearly exhibiting fatigue, light sensitivity, memory loss, and confusion at work. If she's not concussed, what is wrong with her?" Spencer asked.

"I'd say your fiancé is simply experiencing the effects of exhaustion and a lack of sleep. My advice? Take her home and let her rest."

Spencer firmly shut his mouth as the doctor said "fiancé."

The doctor turned to you. "If you'd like, I can perscribe you a sleeping sedative."

You shook your head "no." You couldn't believe it; you'd slept at a reasonable hour, and you didn't feel fatigued.

Everything was starting to feel so real. The warmth of Spencer sitting so close to you felt real. The rain that fell on your skin felt real. The medicinal scent of the hospital made your feel sick. You could only think of one final way to try to wake up.

"Spencer can you stop somewhere for me?" You asked as he drove you home.

"Sure."

"Is there a lake near by?"

"Yeah...you don't remember? You've jogged on the trails near it with JJ and Morgan."

"Can you take me there? There's something I need to do."

You were beginning to grow used to the worried look on his face. The way his eyes softened reminded you of a puppy.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to you. If this was a dream concocted by your brain, wouldn't Spencer be a bit more romantic? In your dreams he could range from a hardcore, post-prison, genius, bad boy to a nerdy romantic, but he was always, obviously, interested in you right away. This Spencer seemed to be your friend, just your friend. By now he would've usually confessed his undying love and maybe taken you in the back seat of your car. Yeah, you weren't the most creative person. What kind of dream was this?

You felt a blush coming on as Spencer side-eyed you. Your brain would never torture you with a long-con, would it?

Spencer took you to the lake, walking beside you without a word, most likely thinking you were going crazy and in need of sleep. You walked to the edge of the trail and looked down at the lake. It was a ways down, the point you were standing was more like a cliff. You determined that the water must have been about a 6 second drop down for someone your size

"Y/N, why did you want me to take you out here?" Spencer asked as he eyed the waters below.

You stayed silent as you took a few steps back. You took a deep breath, and before you could second-guess yourself, you ran to the edge of the cliff and jumped.

"Y/N!" Was the last, panicked thing you heard before the body of water came rushing towards you.

Your body submerged in the icy cold water and sunk deep down from the speed at which you fell. All you could hear was the echoing pressure of the water against your eardrums. This was your last resort. You knew if anything could wake you up, it would be this, your biggest fear.

Your father had drowned, he worked on a fisherman's boat and a storm had overturned the ship far out in the ocean. All that had been recovered was assorted pieces of the ship's wreckage. You'd never even had the chance to learn how to swim as the fear had already settled in before your step-mother could arrange lessons.

If you could drown in this confusing dream-world, maybe you would wake up in time for your Criminal Minds audition.

Your lungs protested as you let yourself sink. You closed your eyes and let your muscles relax. Your head screamed at you, telling you that you absolutely should not be doing this. Fear prickled at your skin. Why did this feel like you were actually dying?

A heartbeat later, you heard the water's surface explode above you, but you didn't have the strength to look up. Your brain processed something wrapping around you and tugging you up, but you could not open your eyes to see what it was. You held on to your last bit of consciousness as you breeched the surface of the water and felt the chilly air assault your skin.

Arms pulled you somewhere. Your body was dragged up something solid, the backs of your legs scraped against rocks. It must have been land. Hands applied pressure, pushing like a heartbeat against your center, you could hardly feel it. A hand held your mouth open while another pinched your nose closed. Lips pushed, rushed, against your own as air was forced back into you. The hand left your mouth and returned to pumping.

"Come on. Come back to me Y/N. Please." Pleading followed by more air.

The strange entity repeated the process once more before you felt everything come up, forcing you back to reality.

You coughed and choked up water and bile; the rain washed it all away. Your lungs were aching and your skin was ice cold. The only warmth was what lingered from the person's lips. A hand pat and rubbed your back, helping you cough up everything. When it was all over your whole body was shivering. Your muscles gave out and a pair of arms wrapped around you, holding you up.

"Y/N."

You weakly turned your head.

Spencer. He's still here. He's really here.

He was soaked, hair ringlets stuck to his face, and his eyes were rimmed red. He looked like an angel, hand carved by Michelangelo himself.

Your brain was trying to catch up with his words.

"Y/N, I need to get you back to the car before we both go into hypothermia. Can you walk?" He asked through chattering teeth.

Your throat was killing you, so you opted for just shaking your head "no" in response.

"I'll have to carry you then, okay?"

You nodded, doubtful he could, especially in his weakened state.

He stood, grabbing his bearings before scooping you up. You weakly held his neck and lay your head on his shoulder. Your pain was numbed, you knew, from the biting cold.

Spencer managed to carry you all the way back to the car, placing you gently in the backseat and turning the heat all the way up. He climbed in the backseat with you and began to remove his jacket and tie.

"We have to remove our clothes, they're soaking wet and we have to warm up. Do you need me to help you undress?" There was no hint of teasing or slyness in Spencer's voice. He was completely serious and you knew he was right.

"I-I can't. Everything is numb." You managed to croak out, wincing at the pain it brought your throat.

"Alright, um- I'll only remove your shirt and pants."

You nodded, weakly.

Spencer removed his own shirt before carefully lifting yours over your head. He made sure to keep his eyes on your face as much as possible and not linger his gaze anywhere else. Next he removed your shoes, socks, and peeled your pants down your legs. You managed to arch your back slightly to help him. Lastly, he removed his own pants and threw all the clothes in a pile on the floor of you car.

"I'm going to hold you now, if that's alright. We need each other's body heat." Spencer looked less confident now. You managed to nod a "yes."

If you weren't so close to death, you knew your brain would be shorting out at the thought of being held by a half-naked, and very real, Spencer Reid.

He helped you lay down across the seats and settled in next to you. He wrapped his arms around you and rubbed his hands along your shoulders and back in an effort to warm you and massage your tensed muscles.

A few minutes of this went by before you could finally move. You wrapped your arms around Spencer, holding him close as his body warmed your own, and you cried against his chest.

One thought repeated over and over again in your head.

This is real.

You worked for the BAU and Spencer Reid had just saved your life. 

Next Chapter

[queenbirbs]

surrender | Edward Mortemer x f!MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x Elena McTavish

Word count: 7.5k+

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: N*FW

AN: In the words of Kacey Musgraves: I’m alright with a slow burn. But when you want to speed it up a little, that’s what fics are for, right? Takes place pre-chapter nine and also kind of skirts around the very end of chapter eight.

**Re-post due to my dumb ass trying to edit the original on mobile and it wiped the whole damn thing. Cool. Cool cool cool. 

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“Good evening, Miss McTavish?”

The words aren’t so much of a greeting as a question. It’s silly, then, that her breath catches a little. She hides it with a stretch, raising her arm above her head and letting out a throaty noise of content when her spine lengthens. Dropping back onto her heels, she watches Edward finish his ascent up to the crow’s nest where she stands watch.

“Nothing but sea and sky,” Elena replies.

“Aye, should be more of the same on through ‘til morning.”

He settles at his preferred spot, just a few feet from her. She wouldn’t be surprised if his boots have worn divots into the wood from the amount of time he spends up here.

“I’m no Al Roker, but I’d say the nice weather will continue. The sunset was as gorgeous as ever.” She tips her head to the side and bites down on her lip, trying to pull a script line from her memory. “What’s that saying, ‘red sky at night, sailor’s delight’?”

“Al Roker?” he repeats the name, his brow furrowed.

“He’s... a person who predicts the weather. Sort of.”

Edward’s gaze flickers from the sea to her, and then back again, huffing out a short laugh.

“It seems that you speak another language, sometimes.”

“Comes with the territory, I suppose.” Elena shrugs. “What with being a twenty-first century transplant and all.”

She doesn’t miss the quick search he does of the ship below, looking out for any wayward pirates with curious ears, but she knows, just as well as he does, that most everyone is tucked away in the galley below deck. The only other soul around is Maggie back at the helm, who makes a show of feigning interest towards the starboard to give them more privacy.

“I hope you don’t find me rude, that I still don’t know what to make of your… claims.”

“No offense taken,” she assures with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “I thought about what I would do if someone suddenly appeared in my house, claiming they were from your time.”

“And what would you do?”

“Call the cops and then threaten to sick my dog on them.”

“The dog wearing the life preserver?” he lifts a single eyebrow at her, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “Aye, a truly terrifying sight to be sure.”

“Was that a joke?” she asks, her eyes wide as she makes a show of looking him over.

“You didn’t care for the one about falling in battle, so I thought I’d try out another.”

“Not bad. But I wouldn’t give up your day job quite yet.”

Edward hums his agreement and turns his sights on the ocean before them. Elena understands why he enjoys being up here -- she likens him to a king, high in his tower, or a lion, perched atop his rock; all the world is an oyster from such a height.

Tipping her head up, she takes in the night sky’s view. With little to no light pollution, especially this far out at sea, the stars come out in droves. The Milky Way is a cloudy, violet river that commandeers the horizon. It’s almost dizzying, the amount of stars visible, layers upon layers of them blooming across the sky. Elena’s never seen anything like it. Even when she and her sister would skip their Friday classes, drive up to the nearby state park, and spend the weekend up there, pretending they knew how to camp.

She thinks of the text on her phone from Gabby and the plans they were in the process of making for her to come visit Elena in Los Angeles. When she dropped out of college to follow her dream, the few family she remained in contact with ceased their feeble attempts at communication. When she made it to LA (or, rather, to the one-room hovel she could barely afford), Gabby was the only person on the other end of the line, trying her best to cheer her up. The pang of loss strikes her hard, somewhere behind her ribs. Other than her sudden departure from the set, Gabby might be one of the only people that notices her disappearance -- which is kind of sad, when Elena thinks about it, given that her sister still lives back in Austin.

That thought launches a thousand others. How long has she been gone? Is time moving at the same speed in the future? Is she even going to make it back home?

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Edward’s voice jolts her from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she agrees, clearing her throat of the emotions that clog it. The railing is steady below her hands; she clings to it, trying to ground herself as best she can.

“Tis... not the same, where you’re from?”

“Where I live, it’s hard to see this many. I feel like if I could get a little bit higher, I could almost touch them.”

Edward looks back to the east, where the moon hangs low in the sky.  

“I don’t see why not,” he murmurs, making a show of leaning close to continue, “if what you say about the moon is true.”

“The stars are a lot farther. And the moon isn’t exactly suitable to live on. At least, not right now. Or,” she pauses, her lips twisting into a grimace, “well, not in my time, it’s not.”

“I’m glad, then, that I’ve made the sea my home.”

If his words are tinged with melancholy, Elena doesn’t mention it. Though she could encourage him to elaborate, she doesn’t want to ruin this peaceful moment. The thought brings with it the memory of their afternoon swim: of his arm wrapped tight around her waist, of the hungry look in his eyes as he took his fill, of the ache in her chest when their moment was broken by the need to surface.

The crystal-clear, turquoise water of the cove brought its own reminder of the summer before her sophomore year of college. It was Gabby’s idea to use their open water diving certifications for something other than taking up space in their wallets. Having spent so much time after her gender affirming surgery entertaining herself with shipwreck documentaries, she booked the trip to the Florida Keys, flights and all, before informing Elena -- in typical Gabby fashion.

“I would never get tired of the views, that’s for sure,” Elena sighs. “Or the constant opportunity to explore whatever island I sailed upon. Like that tiny island we stopped at, I would love to dive there, spend some time exploring underwater.”

Glancing over, she spots Edward’s furrowed brow; she sifts through what little historical knowledge she has of diving. Have those weird, space-age looking suits even been invented yet?

“Sometimes, Miss McTavish, I wonder if I have not happened upon a selkie, with the things you claim.”

“Selkie?” she repeats, rolling the word around in her head, but recognition never comes.

“Aye, a creature of myth, though some people believe they do exist. My mother used to tell me stories when I was little, of the women who came from the sea. Once they reach dry land, they shed their seal skin and transform into a human.”

“So... kinda like a mermaid?”

Edward tips his head in consideration. “In a way. But selkies are usually considered to be gentler. Unless their seal skin is stolen, they favor their time spent among humans. And, when they tire of us, they return to their skin and resume their life under the sea.”

“That sounds sad, in a way. But I promise I went down in a diving suit, not a seal skin.”

“I’ve heard rumors coming out of England, of a man who salvaged sunken ships by trapping himself inside of a barrel. I assume that is not what ye mean, though.”  

“No, not in a barrel,” she grins, pulling her phone from her pocket. “I can show you, though, if you’d like to see.”

“Ah, the black box of witchery.”

He moves closer as he speaks, though, clearly interested in taking another look at it. If he was truly frightened of it, she supposes, he could just lob it into the sea. Her grip tightens on the phone at the thought.

Navigating to her photos, she taps at the folder (embarrassingly titled we’re in miami bitch!!) and turns the phone so the images can expand into greater detail.

“Some of these I took with a disposable camera, so they aren’t the best,” she laments, swiping her thumb across the screen every few seconds. “But my sister -- she has this fancy underwater housing, so her pictures are nice and clear. I would message her for more, but I don’t think Verizon has that great of service.”

She can’t help but chuckle at her own bad joke. Edward, it seems, couldn’t care less -- entranced as he is by the colorful images of the coral reefs and the sponges sprouting from the USS Spiegel Grove’s rusted frame.

“These paintings are exquisite.”

“Pictures,” she corrects.

“You say that as if I’m to know what it means,” he counters.

She swipes to a selfie her sister had taken, the image capturing little else but their masks and the blue world around them. The next photo is better: a full-body shot of Elena in her wetsuit and gear, a cloud of bubbles floating above her head. “I suppose this explains you being such a strong swimmer, when you jumped in after Ginny.”

She shrugs at the veiled compliment and returns the phone to her pocket, avoiding his intense look that she can feel burning into the side of her head.

“Well, swimming in thirty-foot waves is a bit different from the calm waters of Key Largo, but thanks.”

Edward reaches down and skims two fingers under her chin. He tips her head up to meet his gaze, his dark eyes flashing with certainty.

“Make no mistake, though: I am to see that you do not perform such a stunt again.”    

Elena knocks his hand away; irritation bubbles up inside her, heating her cheeks and neck.

“I wasn’t performing. I’m not the Wonder Twins. And I’d do it again, if Ginny or anyone else went overboard. Even for you.”

His expression sharpens, his mouth twisting into a frown. She crosses her arms across her chest and serves him a look right back. Whatever he’s about to say, she cuts off as she continues, “Just because I haven’t been sailing the high seas or… or crossed swords with some real buccaneers as long as you all have been doesn’t mean I’m not capable. I fought Robert and won -- I even got his fancy-schmancy sword -- and I sailed our ship through a storm, didn’t I? You need to learn to trust me and-- and… why are you smiling?”

The irritation fades from his face in one fell swoop, there and then gone, replaced by a soft smile that he seems to reserve only for her.

“Something you said, Miss McTavish.”

“I said a lot of things,” she points out. Despite the opening she leaves dangling for him, he doesn’t elaborate. She’s not sure why she expected him to; the man is stubborn to a fault. “Okay, fine. You can keep your charming and mysterious act. You certainly have it down pat.”

“As you do with your… turns of phrase.”

The tension between them cools, aided by the winds that blow towards them from the north. Elena settles at his side once more, the railing at her back. He gives a cursory glance over the horizon.

“You know,” she says, “I realized today that I never said thank you.”

“For what?” he returns his sights to her, curiosity warming his eyes.

“For getting me the hell off the Admiral’s ship. I knew he wasn’t a stand-up guy when he shot one of his own men, but knowing what I know now, I’m especially grateful.” She reaches out to touch his wrist, squeezing it for a long beat. Edward brings his other hand up and covers hers. “I know you took a risk, not knowing if I was a navy spy, but you brought me aboard anyway.”

“Even when we made you stand trial to prove such innocence?”

“Do you think I would’ve been given such a chance on his ship?” she asks, her tone thick with sarcasm.

“No, I do not.” Edward’s face darkens for a moment. “A man capable of such depravities would have treated you… terribly, no doubt.”

“Hey, like I said: white dude of high rank in the eighteenth century? He’s got about a two percent chance of not being an awful person.”

“You--” Edward pauses, lowering his voice as he continues, “are things… different, in your time?”

Elena bites at her lip, wondering how much she should divulge about the twenty-first century. Hope works much better if the outcome is still uncertain, and she doesn’t want to dash any he has for his own future.

“Different, sure, but also very much the same. There’s a famous expression: ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.’ It’s -- let’s just say it’s been accurate more than once or twice.”

“I’ve never heard of such a phrase, but I understand its meaning rather well.”

“And, hey, that’s the second time now that you’ve referred to my ‘situation,’” she marks the term with air quotes. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Edward makes a show of heaving out a sigh. “I am making a valiant effort to do so. Your box certainly helps your case. It -- all of it -- ‘tis still rather wonderful and strange, though.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Edward, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“You’ve read Hamlet?”

“I’m an actor by trade. Of course I’ve read it. And by read it, I mean that Shakespeare’s works were forced on me in every English class in school.”

That gets an exasperated chuckle out of him. She can’t help the smile that forms; she really enjoys the sound of his laughter. For as much as he tries to play up the stoic, unfeeling pirate captain, he seems to lose the battle whenever she’s around. “It’s all right, you know, if you don’t believe me. I know this is kinda crazy.”

The humor on his face is there one second and then gone the next.

“’Tis… not that.”

“Then what is it?”

No answer comes.

“Charlie was right,” she teases, knocking her elbow into his. “You’re really not great at changing the subject.”

That gets her a snort of amusement, but nothing more. Before she can prod, a cold gust of wind sings through the rigging, whipping up past them and sending her hair into disarray. Despite the residual heat of the sun-warmed railing, Elena can’t help but shiver, and hugs herself to conserve what little heat she can. Edward wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close, his hand running up and down her back with gentle strokes. Her heartbeat quickens at the gesture, now familiar since he helped pull her up out of the raging waters.

“I apologize, Miss McTavish. I shouldn’t have kept you up here so long. You should go down to the galley -- you missed dinner, after all, while on watch. Can’t have you on a chameleon diet. And you’ll be much warmer down there.”

Elena shakes her head and reaches up, placing a hand on the warm plane of his chest where his shirt parts. His breath catches under her palm.

“No, I’m alright. I’m glad you were the next on lookout duty, actually. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you really think the Admiral cares about getting his property back?” Edward’s body tenses under her touch; she shoves down the wiry ball of nerves in her stomach at the movement. “That lieutenant I ran into, he didn’t mention anything about--”

“Need I remind you of what I promised on our walk from the mayor’s estate?” he interrupts.

Confusion sweeps through her. Elena quirks her head to the side, trying to connect the dots between that conversation and her current fears. “You are no man’s property,” he spits, his voice gone rough from obvious fury. “And for as long as you are here, you are under my protection.”  

The wave of realization hits her.

“I was, uh, talking about the compass.”

“Ah.” He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. The hard line of his shoulders softens. “I… see.”

“But it was interesting, to say the least, to see you puff up like that. I’m sure it would make any other lass swoon. I mean,” she lifts her hand from his chest and holds her thumb and pointer finger inches apart, “I was this close.”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Aye, I’d pay top coin to see you swoon.”

“I can think of a few things you could do to make that happen,” she teases.

Edward takes her hand in his and drops a kiss to her knuckles. Before that familiar swell of longing in her chest can rise, though, he shakes his head.  

“I will not risk it.”

“You would sail your ship into every storm across the Caribbean, but this,” Elena glances down to their entwined hands, “you won’t take a chance on?”

“That should tell you how serious I am.”

“I can’t follow your line of thinking, Edward. Do you think the Admiral will suddenly know? That he’s some omniscient god, overseeing all that goes on?”

“People are fond of gossip.”

“Who? What people? Because if it’s the crew, I trust them with my life, just like you do, and I don’t--”

“Not them. But anywhere we’d go, we’d have eyes on us -- eyes that could report back to the Admiral. And if we were -- there would be no world where I wouldn’t want to have you by my side.”

“But we--”

“Jealousy is a hideous trait to have, but I’m afraid I would not be able to stop it from affecting my actions. I’ve seen the people at port, the way they flirt with you.” Edward frowns at the dark sea ahead. “You don’t think I wouldn’t challenge anyone who tried to -- to woo you? I would not be able to stand idle while--”

Elena barks out the short laugh she’s been holding in. “What is so humorous?”

“Because you already do all that.”  

Self-awareness rushes in like the tide, flooding his brain. His jaw goes slack, as does his hand in hers, before he collects himself. Elena feels pinned under those eyes of his. She watches them drop down to her lips before returning to her gaze.

“May I?”

“You really have to ask?”

“Aye, of course.”

He starts to say more -- probably a long-winded explanation about his gentlemanly values -- but she’s waited too long for this to be delayed another second. Elena leans up and silences him with a kiss. He doesn’t turn and flee, like she expects; when he breaks the kiss for air, she gets but a second to collect her own breath before his lips return to hers. She hums her encouragement when he lets go of her hand to sink his fingers into the loose wave of her hair.

His lips, cold from the ocean breeze, warm under hers. Elena finds that his kisses are exactly like him: brash, and quick, and intoxicating, with the slightest hint of steel. When she draws her tongue against him, she can taste spiced rum and saltwater. He growls from the deep well of his throat when she bites down on his heavy, bottom lip. His arm cinches tight around her waist and hauls her against him; their bodies meet in a delicious roll of pressure.

“Miss -- Miss McTavish--”

“Elena,” she corrects, her hand skating up his back, searching for purchase so she can drag him closer.  

“Elena.”

His breath is hot against her skin where his lips trace the line of her jaw. The world dips and sways suddenly, the railing digging into her back. She clings to him when the sensation of weightlessness shoots up her spine.

It takes her a moment to register that it's only the ship underneath them, crossing over a rough wave. Concerned that she’ll end up pitching over to the deck eighty feet below, he picks her up and spins until her back meets the mast. Elena reaches for the lapels of his coat, but he’s faster, and snatches her hands in one of his and pins them above her head.  

“I have dreamed of this,” he murmurs, skimming the pads of his callused fingers along her throat, his mouth trailing behind with fervent, open-mouthed kisses.

She swallows back the moan that wants to form. A shiver dances under her skin, now damp from his attention.

“I have too,” she admits with a sigh. “Except mine deserve an NC-17 rating.”

“You know I don’t understand what that--”

“I certainly fuckin’ can!” someone shouts from below.

The wonderful spell they’ve found themselves under shatters. The voice might as well have been a gunshot, with the way Edward leaps back from her. Elena mourns the loss of his mouth on her as she adjusts her waistcoat and smooths down her hair.

Flipping and tumbling their way across the deck, Ada and Ax continue their argument about who can reach the top of the main mast first. Charlie, Jonas, and Ginny trail behind them, wagering their bets. Maggie’s thick accent carries across the ship, telling them off for circusing about, and ordering them to stay away from the rigging.

It’s not as if their tryst could have continued much longer, Elena considers, given that the crow’s nest wasn’t exactly a secluded spot. The twins make a good show of pouting, but eventually head for their quarters, Ginny giggling as Ax twirls her round.

“Maggie deserves a raise,” Elena tells him.

“Because she knows how dangerous ‘tis for them to be climbing about with no light?”

“Because she knows they would’ve caught us up here, making out like a pair of horny teenagers.”

“Ah. You--” his hand lifts in an aborted move towards her before he redirects it through his tousled hair. “--you should get down to the galley. I’m sure Henry is waiting on you, by now.”    

“Okay,” she says, because it’s the only thing to say. Swinging down onto the rope ladder, Elena starts to descend but pauses, peeking over the railing to catch his eye. “But don’t think this conversation between us is over.”

“Aye.” A wry grin flickers across his face. “I know much better than to assume that.”

+

Edward is right -- about the food, at least.

When she makes it down to the galley, Henry sits her down with a covered plate. Well, as covered as it can be with the dirty rag he’s thrown over it. She’s learned not to make a fuss, though, especially to the man cooking the food.

“Thanks for keeping it warm for me.”

“Took ye long enough,” Henry huffs, but makes a show of looking over his shoulder at her. His face, streaked with ash that he sifts with a makeshift poker, makes it easier to spot his sly grin. “Find somethin’ interestin’ up there, hmm?”

“I was distracted by the view.” Which is the truth, although she doesn’t include that Edward’s lips were part of said view.

“Nothin’ beats a clear night at sea, to be sure.” Swinging the stove door shut with a satisfied grunt, he jerks his chin towards a small barrel on the nearby shelf. “Charlie made some punch, if ye want more’n water to wash yer food down.”

She shakes her head; she’d made the mistake once of drinking their ‘punch.’ It put the jungle juice she drank back at college parties to shame. Charlie now called it Caribbean moonshine, thanks to Elena and her fiery round of swearing after taking a sip.

With the comforting noise of Henry’s humming as he cleans up, she takes a seat on the tin-lined floor and eats her dinner. Not for the first time, she notes Maggie’s touch in the confined space. Fitted across the shelves are iron bars to keep the contents from taking a tumble in rough waters. Tied round the necks of bottles with twine, scraps of parchment label each oil and spice in her spidery handwriting.

“I worked up a new dessert for ye to try, if ye’d like.” He produces a bowl of something that might come out the other end of her garbage disposal back home. Elena inspects the concoction with interest. “I boiled some hard tack in a little bit o’ rum and brown sugar, and then boiled mangoes with some sugar to mix in with it.”

“Ooh, like a compote?”

“Aye, sorta.”

In another world, three hundred some-odd years in the future, she could easily imagine Henry with a cafe or food truck, selling ‘deconstructed desserts’ and other kitschy items. Scooping up a sample, she’s surprised at the delicious flavor of it. The enjoyment on her face must be obvious, because a grin appears behind the ash. “Good, init?”

“Really good! Except, and this is going to sound weird, but maybe add a pinch of lime juice? I think it would really bring out the sweetness of the mango more.”

“Yer right, lass. That might do. And then maybe I can finally get the others to try it.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” she promises after sampling another portion. “Unless I die of food-poisoning tonight, and then you’re shit outta luck.”

Henry shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. “Edward’d have my head first.”  

“Did he at least try it?”

“I doubt he would’ve, if he’d come down for dinner at all. Too busy broodin’ in his cabin, I suspect.”

Elena hands off her empty plate when he motions for it. Curiosity, instead of hunger, gnaws at her insides.

“Can I take this with me?” she gestures to the bowl in her hands.

“Aye, have the rest of it -- and see if ye can convince the cap’n to get in a few bites, hmm?”

She doesn’t bother asking him how he knows where she’s going; the rest of the crew isn’t as blind as Edward claims them to be. “But if ye break it, yer buyin’ me a new one.”

“Deal. Thanks, Henry!”

+

Elena climbs up to the deck carrying her pilfered bowl.

From where she’s manning the wheel, Charlie throws her a two-fingered salute from the bridge. High overhead, Jonas wishes her goodnight from his post in the crow’s nest. Grateful that she won’t have to try holding onto the bowl while climbing up the rope ladder, she continues on towards the stern.

“What can I do for you, Miss McTavish?” Edward asks before his door is fully open.

“How’d you know it was me?”

He shoots her a deadpan look. Moving aside to allow her entry, he shuts the door behind her.

“No one else would dare bother a captain’s sleep, lest there was an emergency.”

“Henry told me you skipped dinner, so I brought you something to eat.” Elena gestures to the bowl in her hand. Stepping close to give it a thorough once-over, Edward grimaces.

“I will take my chances with starvation.”

“Hey,” she scolds, “it isn’t that bad.”

He does a double-take between her and the food. “You ate it?”

“In college, I once ate stale Wheat Thins drizzled with an expired bottle of honey mustard. And before you say anything,” she holds up a hand to stop the statement she knows is coming, “I know you don’t know what either of those are, but trust me: it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“And this bowl of slop is better than that?”

“If it weren’t, would I be forcing you to eat it?”

He mutters something under his breath, too faint for her to catch, but seems to concede. After a brief hesitation, he takes the bowl and spoon she offers him and shovels in a mouthful of the mixture. His eyebrows pinch down at the initial taste, and then lift in bewilderment.

“Not bad, right?”

“Not… horrible, no.” He sounds just as surprised as he looks. “This is one dessert of Henry’s that I may live to tell the tale of.”

“Good. But that’s not the only reason I came.”

“Aye, would it have anything to do with continuing our conversation from earlier?”

“All that time, Robert was accusing me of being a witch, but here you are, able to read minds.”

Edward gives a soft snort at that, collapsing into his chair. The desk in front of him is littered with maps and parchments and various trinkets. Elena crosses the room and comes round the side of the desk, taking in the starry view from the windows. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the spoon swirl round and round in the gruel as he assesses her.

“Ye would’ve been a good jester, Miss McTavish, in a previous life.”

“It’s just us,” she murmurs. “You can drop the surname.”

“No, I can’t.” The grief in his voice is as clear as a bell. “In another life, yes, but here--”

“--here,” she interrupts, turning at the waist to study him, “in your cabin, alone. Not even then?”

Edward sets the bowl down onto the desk and glares at the floorboards. “We can’t let our emotions cloud our judgement.”

Folding her arms across her chest, she lifts a single brow at his attempt to backtrack.

“Says the man hell-bent on playing cat-and-mouse with an enemy to exact revenge on him for something he clearly feels guilty about? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

His gaze shoots up to her, those dark eyes of his flashing in the candlelight. “That phrase I indeed do know.”

“Then you should know that you can’t kiss me like the world is ending, and then shoe-horn me back into a neat, little box, Captain Mortemer.” Elena doesn’t see it coming, she’ll admit that. She’s too busy ranting at the starry night, too pissed off with the man beside her, too afraid she’ll lose the runaway train of her thoughts if she focuses on him and sees all the emotions he claims to be above, all that longing and heartache and desire, painted across his face. “Since you’re so insistent on using surnames to avoid--”

In the second it takes her to draw a breath, Edward surges out of his chair and crosses to her. In the next, his lips are on hers. That passion she saw the mere beginnings of up in the crow’s nest roars with intensity. He cups her cheek and tilts her head just so, deepening the kiss; she can taste the mango’s sweetness on his tongue.

All at once, he pulls away. She mourns the loss of him with a quiet moan.

“My -- my apologies. I’m--”

Before he can worry himself into the ground with another fit of propriety, Elena holds up a finger to his lips.

“Stop being so polite and kiss me again.”

That familiar grin breaks free, lighting up his face with a naked delight that sends her heart racing.

“As you command.”

His mouth claims hers again. A muscled arm circles her waist, one hand splaying wide across her back to pull her close. She comes easily, readily into his embrace. His shirt twists in her hand where she holds on for dear life, parting for a quick breath of air, before diving back in. His other hand strokes a molten path up from her waist, brushing over the beaded point of her nipple. The moan she releases is louder this time, wanting more than anything for him to do it again.

For all his faults, he’s no fool. Sure, he takes his sweet time with it, dragging his fingertips along her collarbone and up into her hair to push the blonde curtain back, but he eventually makes his way back down. Cupping her breast, his thumb rubs circles against her -- even through the layers of lace and cotton, Elena’s breath catches at the immediate flare of pleasure.

Emboldened by her response, Edward backs her up against the cool, glass panes, his mouth leaving hers to suckle at her throat. Elena tips her head back, her lips parting as his stubble prickles against her skin. His thumb works steadily over her and she’s dizzy with the primal need to have him.

Braced by the window behind her, she hooks a leg up and around his ass. He needs no more encouragement to invade the space she’s created, his hips rocking tentatively against hers. Frustrated with the buffer of all her layers, Edward retreats to the buckle at her waist, his eyes searching hers.

“May I?”

Elena swallows to free the words from her throat, but they won’t come; instead, she nods her permission. The belt hits the floor with a thwack. Her waistcoat comes next, which she tosses off with a flourish. Edward captures her hands and tugs off her gloves. Spotting the gleam in his eye, Elena distracts him with a roll of her hips and frees her hands, chuckling when he mutters a curse at her.

“You’re a cunning lass.”

“I can’t wait around for you to strip me of my garments.” Her fingers making quick work of the corset’s laces. “Besides,” she drawls, “between the two of us, I’m probably the one with more experience taking off a lady’s corset.”

His eyebrow raises in response to her claim. The image of her and another tangled together plagues him; his jaw clenches tight at the thought.  

“That may be so,” he growls, reaching down for his own shirt and tearing it off, “but it won’t be their names you’ll be calling soon enough.”

Her blood flash boils at the promise. She grabs the hem of her blouse and yanks it up over her head.

“Jealousy is a good look on you,” she teases, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingernail.

Seizing her hand, he laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to her wrist. Goosebumps raise across her skin as his mouth trails from the tendons in her forearm to the curve of her shoulder. Nudging her bra strap down, Edward continues his trek to the rosy flush blooming across her chest.

Not one to play the passive participant, Elena cards a hand through his shoulder-length locks and nudges him down. He takes the cue and moves further south; she whimpers at the wet heat of his mouth closing over the lace of her bra.

“God, stop teasing and--” her gasp echoes across the cabin at the sharp bite of his teeth closing around her nipple. His tongue darts out, soothing any hurt, and turns to lave at her other breast.

Once she regains motor control, Elena unlatches her bra and flings it to what might possibly be the furthest reaches of the universe -- she doesn’t care, as long as Edward will keep doing wondrous things to her with that mouth of his.

“Miss McTavish,” he rumbles, tilting his head to run his stubble along her naked flesh, enjoying the ragged, little noises she makes. “You are well on your way to looking thoroughly ravished.”

Her wandering hand smooths over the tight curve of his ass and grabs hold. She smirks as he bucks up into her.

“Then get on with it, Captain.”  

Deft fingers pop the button on her pants and dip down below the waistband. Elena stretches up and rests her bare shoulders against the glass, tipping her hips up to encourage his exploration. She cries out when he slides two fingers inside of her. He gives her a moment to adjust to the intrusion, nuzzling the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.

“I’ve long wondered,” he murmurs, his tongue skimming across the salty sweat of her skin, “what you taste like.”

At the sudden loss of his hand, Elena opens her eyes to tell him off for his teasing -- but her throat goes dry when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. It’s a long moment before her world centers on its axis once more for her to ask.

“How do I taste?”

“Decadent,” he growls.

Crowding against her, he props himself up with one hand spread wide against the window above her head, while his other draws a wet trail down her belly. A short grunt of pleasure sounds from both of them when he slips back inside her.

Elena reaches a shaky hand up to hook around his arm, her nails digging into the muscles there. Arousal clogs her veins like molasses -- slow and syrupy and sinfully sweet. The movement of her hips turns clumsy and erratic. Sweat beads across her forehead as his fingers work her open, the heel of his hand circling her with delicious pressure.

“Edward -- fuck, I--” she cries out.

“Will you come for me?” he asks, his gaze snapping to hers. Desire clouds his eyes, the brown irises eclipsed by the black of his pupils.  

“Please--” he cuts off her begging with a kiss.

“Will you?”

“Yes,” she answers with a gasp.

Covering his hand with her own to guide him exactly where she likes, she stretches up for another kiss and grinds down against his hand. The heat inside of her reaches its critical point, flaring to life and scorching through her bloodstream. Clenching tight around him, her hips convulse as she rides out the quake of her orgasm.

Edward slides his fingers out, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head when she whines with oversensitivity. He brings her into his arms, smoothing a hand over her hair as her body shudders with the last of its tremors.

“Fuck,” she sighs, a delirious sort of giggle bubbling up. “Well, how do I look now?”

“Exquisite.”

Leaning down, he captures her lips with a kiss. She blames the blush from her recent orgasm.

“I think it’s my turn, then, to ravish you.”

“We don’t have to--”

Elena silences his gallant protest with a heady kiss, raking one hand through his hair. Her other runs along his side, where she hooks two fingers into his waistband and yanks him closer. Continuing down, she runs the flat of her palm against the obvious sign of his arousal. Edward groans into her mouth; he ropes an arm around her waist and carries her to the desk. With a wide sweep of his arm, he knocks documents and equipment to the floor before depositing her atop it.

“Careful!”

He jerks back at her yelp, casting a worried eye over her form. “Have I harmed you?”

“No, no -- I promised Henry I wouldn’t break his bowl.”

Edward rolls his eyes and grabs the dinnerware before she can reach for it, then tosses it to the floor.

“I will buy him a new one when we stop at the next-- why are you laughing?”

Elena shakes her head at him, avoiding any explanation by dragging his mouth back onto hers. It’s a rather effective technique, as she’s finding out tonight. Their remaining clothes join the messy pile on the floor. Edward huffs a laugh at her threat of injury if he rips her underwear, but seems to heed her words and takes care to drop them onto the desk. Moving into the space between her thighs, he grabs two handfuls of her ass and drags her closer. The soft giggle that sounds from her delights him; he leans down and savors the taste of it on her lips.

Elena’s hand wanders over his stomach and down the trail of coarse hair to take hold of him. He thrusts into her touch with a grunt, choking on an inhale when she twists her wrist on the next upstroke.

“May I have you?” he manages to rasp.

“You may,” she purrs, and guides him to her entrance.

With a surge of his hips, he plunges into the slick heat of her. At her gasp of encouragement, he slips out and then back inside, grinding his teeth against the clench of her. Pleasure is a ripple on the surface, building into a wave that banks higher and higher as they move together. The world outside slips from its perch, losing what little control it has over the confines of the cabin. There is only the two of them, lost in the frantic rocking of their bodies.

A shameless staccato of moans falls from her lips as he fucks her. Edward wraps a fist around a length of hair and pulls her head back, exposing the long line of her throat; he nips at her pulse point and then at her bottom lip, swallowing her cries of pleasure.

“If you shout any louder, the whole ocean’ll hear you,” he playfully scolds.

Spotting her opening, Elena tightens her legs around his hips and digs her heels into his lower back. Retaliation sings its sweet tune as she jerks him forward on top of her, the both of them crashing back onto the desk.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Nay, I would never.”

Edward props himself up with one hand next to her head, his other clamped firmly around her thigh as he drives into her, the angle somehow that much sweeter. “God, but yer a pretty sight, spread underneath me.”

It’s impossible -- that she’s here, that the desk underneath her is scattered with papers that would be considered treasure in her time, would be framed in a museum and ogled by historians. A quill digs into her spine and she’s certain they’ve spilled a pot of ink, but Elena can’t find it in herself to care. If she’s lost in time, then at least she has Edward to guide her through it; her beacon of light, keeping her adrift, illuminating her way through the confusing, treacherous world she’s been transported to.

“Elena,” he gasps, his chest gleaming with sweat in the candlelight. “Elena.”

His hold slips from her thigh and down to where they’re joined, rubbing quick circles against her bundle of nerves. Whatever he’s asking of her, she gladly surrenders. The wave of her climax rushes over her, flooding her veins and drowning her with euphoria.

The sight of her lost in the throes of pleasure is an anchor; he sinks.

Edward curses with his release, collapsing beside her onto the desk. Their sweat-slick bodies heave as they catch their breath. Something catches flame in Elena’s chest and simmers there when he folds her into his embrace, his palm cradling her head against his chest. His heart thunders against her temple.

She sees no better time than now, lying naked in his arms.

“I have a question.”

He hums with what little strength he can gather for her to continue.  

“When we were up in the crow’s nest, after discussing our love of Shakespeare--”

“--as I recall,” he interjects, “I am the only one who willingly read his works.”

Elena makes a waving motion with her hand, which would prove more effective if his fingers weren’t laced with hers.

“Whatever. What I want to know is, when I said that it was okay if you didn’t believe me, why that made you…?”

“Disquieted?” he finishes for her.

“Yeah.”

She can feel the weight of the sigh that empties out of him.

“Because I do believe you. Your mannerisms, your accent, your magic box with its…?”

“Pictures.”

“Pictures, aye. Everything about you should not fit here. But it does, you do. You’ve adapted remarkably well, given what’s happened to you. You are a strong woman, Elena.”

“I would blush, but I’m too tired from our activities.”

He brushes a kiss against the crown of her head and huffs out a laugh.

“Yet, despite how well you’ve adapted, I know that this is not your home. Your true home, that is. I promise you, once we stop the Admiral, I will do everything in my power to send you back home. But, I confess, I will be… terribly upset to see you go.”

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes; she shuts them against the fading candlelight.

“Me too.”

His palm skims up and down the soft skin of her back, marred here and there by the cuts and scrapes from life aboard his ship.

“Stay.”

For a terrifying moment, Elena isn’t sure what he means -- and is terrified all the more that she isn’t sure if she wants to return home, at least not so soon. Realizing that he’s probably (hopefully) meaning for the night, she musters up a reply.  

“The crew will talk.”

Edward scoffs. “They do little else.”

Her shoulders shake from her smothered laughter.

“Is this what passes for pillow talk in the eighteenth century?” she wonders aloud, making a show of stretching and enjoying the noise of interest he makes. “But yeah, okay, I’ll stay. I might even make it worth your while.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

+

+

+

References: an LMFAO song (it was between theirs or Will Smith’s “Miami,” but MC skews younger to me, so I went with the former), a line from Peter Pan, the ‘those who forget history are doomed to repeat it’ is actually a misquote, but I consider it enough of a ref to list it here. There’s a few slang terms from 17th/18th century and various pirate research sprinkled throughout. The USS Spiegel Grove is a real artificial reef, located off the shore of Key Largo. You can dive it with an OWD certification, though it’s recommended to have an AOWD to properly explore it. ~~the more you know~~

Thanks for reading!

[jamielea81]

Just a Simple Lie

Chapter 5

Description: Having worked on small independent films for the better part of a decade, your friend tells you about an opening for a script supervisor with a large studio. Wanting to advance your career, you apply and get an interview. The only downside, they prefer to hire crew who are married. It’s just a simple lie, right?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Maybe some cursing, talk of drinking

A/N:  Surprise! Coming back a day earlier than planned. This fic is simply for fun. I know nothing about the personal lives of the two actors in this series and mean no harm. I am also totally guessing regarding the studio talk. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always welcome.

Catch up with Chapter 4

**

Oh boy were you hungover. After you finished that fifth beer, David brought you back to your hotel where you promptly passed out on your bed, makeup and all. The fact that you were so drunk, kind of helped you with the embarrassment of the slipped comment about your lack of a sex life. From what you remembered, it seemed like your quick reply had done the trick. At least you hoped it had. You remembered Monica chucking a pillow at you at some point in the middle of the night. She mumbled something about you snoring like a chainsaw. You were drunk and it could not be helped. There would be no more drinking for you.

Call time to set was three in the afternoon and you took advantage of the precious hours by sleeping until noon. After a shower and all-day breakfast from McDonald's, you felt human again.

Outdoor shooting would start tonight once it got dark, which this time of year meant another hour or two at the most.

**

You made your way to the studio via the studio shuttle. It was empty this time of day which you appreciated. You dressed in a sweater, jeans, and jacket. You had on a pair of winter boots, but brought a bag that held your trusty sneakers to wear when inside.

The one thing you weren’t a fan of with the new office set up was the lack of an enclosed room. The volume in the building was loud. Not school gymnasium loud, but loud enough for that you were finding it hard to concentrate. Everyone was excited. New location, outdoor shoots, whatever it was, no one wanted to be quiet about it. Even though the sleeping in and shower helped, you were still a tad hungover so you just wanted everyone to either move to a new location or go to their cubical and shut up. That wasn’t happening.

Monica came barging into your cube about an hour later. Okay, she didn’t barge in, technically. There’s no door. Kind of hard not to barge in.

“Can you believe this place? I’m going to hit my ten thousand steps within three hours each day. Way bigger than Cali,” she said taking a seat on the edge of the desk.

She was right of course. It was a series of massive warehouses where they shot a lot of action-packed movies and television shows. Those films often required a lot of space with massive sets. This movie wasn’t that and your team would not need all of the space, but it didn’t mean you didn’t have to trudge your way from one warehouse to another.

“You need better shoes,” you said motioning your hand to her pointy slip-ons. While they were cute, you would be crying at the end of the day wearing those. “Those aren’t going to work with this place. Unless of course, you hide out in your cubical all day.” A small smile peeked out from behind your lips.

“I would normally agree with you, but if I have to wear boots whenever we are outside, I’m wearing my cute shoes where I can,” Monica said, sending a wink your way.

**

The sun had set and you found yourself back on the shuttle with Monica and about ten others. Only Keanu and Chris were filming tonight and as far as you knew, they were being driven in a separate vehicle to the location.

“Are you still hungover?” Monica asked. She sat directly across the aisle from you on the shuttle. Since there weren’t many people on the bus, you each got your own row.

“Not drinking with you people again. I can tell you that,” you said with a shake of your head.

“Even if Chris is there? That’s some eye candy if I ever saw some,” she said wiggling her eyebrows. “Wonder if he’s single?”

“You’re horrible,” you giggle out.

“Hey! Not all of us have a fiancé. Not like it matters anyway.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Maggie thinks he’s hot and have you seen that girl? I stand no chance. Keanu has a girlfriend,” she said with a shrug.

Interesting. So, Maggie thinks Chris is hot. But really, who doesn’t think that man is hot.

“I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon to date the actors anyway.”

“Who said anything about dating?” she replied with a wink.

“You are horrible. I stand by that.”

**

The temperature had dropped by about twenty degrees and you were feeling like such a rookie. You grew up in the Northern Midwest for goodness sake and you failed to bring a hat or gloves with you. This was not ideal for outdoor filming where you needed to hold on to a script and pen for hours. Apparently, you were doing so with bare hands.  

Much of the first hour was spent helping with stage setup. You didn’t have to help unload the props, but it was certainly aiding you with the keeping warm factor. You eagerly carried box after box and then helped coordinate stage design.

Keanu and Chris arrived about twenty minutes later in separate vehicles which you found odd. They were filming together tonight and seemed to get a long as far as you could tell all through the shoot in Los Angeles. Chris and you were friends, but you didn’t feel comfortable enough to pry into that quite yet.

**

There’s a log cabin façade set up in a heavily wooded area made to look like a two-story cabin built in the 1950s. Once you open the door, it’s nothing more than plywood sides that only go back maybe 20 feet. Just the entryway or what can be seen by the camera is designed to look like a house. All internal shots of the “cabin” were shot back at the studio. Unfortunately, the “cabin” wasn’t any warmer than the outside temperature. Your plans to hide in the house between shots was crushed within minutes.

As the guys filmed their first take, you stood next to Hugh, the director with Monica on your other side as your backup since none of the actors she was working with were filming tonight. The first take was cut with Hugh calling for a reset. You spent the next ten minutes jogging in place to keep warm. The script was dropped to the ground with your hands burrowed into your coat’s pockets. Chris gave you an amused look as his face was being powdered by his makeup artist. You sent him a wink and continued on your jog to nowhere.

Take two and three were called and by this point you could no longer stand still. Not wanting to make a lot of noise while the film is rolling, you opted to dance in place. Billie Eilish’s All the Good Girls Go to Hell is playing in your head. You wiggle to the beat, careful not to let your feet shuffle. It helps, but just a little.

“Let’s just get one more and we’ll move on,” Hugh calls out.

“Can someone tell Y/N to stop dancin’ over there? It’s mighty distracting,” Chris yelled.

If you weren’t already frozen solid, you’re pretty sure your face would resemble fire at this point.

Keanu turns around to face you and gives you a bit of a smirk.

“I’m cold!” you said loud enough for everyone near you to hear. “You don’t like my dance moves?”

“You’re distracting. Hugh, tell her she’s distracting,” Chris responded with a chuckle.

“Y/N, stop distracting Chris,” Hugh repeated nonchalantly.

“Aren’t you from Minnesota? Why aren’t you dressed warmly?” Chris asked, coming to stand next to you.

“I lost my mind this afternoon,” you said with a shrug.

**

After one more take, Hugh called it and ordered the next scene to be set up. You and Monica made your way to the food tent that conveniently had heaters blowing inside.

“This is like heaven. Who needs the sandy beaches of Aruba when we’ve got this wonderful tent in paradise?” You plop your butt down at a table ignoring the food and lean back in the chair, arms hanging like dead weight at your sides. “Go on without me. You can have Keanu and Chris. I’m just going to stay here forever where it’s warm,” you sighed happily.

“So dramatic,” Monica replied, grabbing two cups of coffee and depositing one on the table in front of you. “Two sugars and two creams?”

“One stevia or Splenda, whichever is there. Three creams.” You slip off your coat figuring you’ll only be colder once you leave the tent if you leave it on.

Monica drops the containers and packet in front of you, taking a seat next to you stirring in her own add ins.

“How much time do you think we have? I’d like to defrost a bit longer if we can.”

“Probably another ten. Drink up,” she replied holding up her own paper cup.

Downing your hot beverage that did little to warm you up. You got up and put your coat back on, zipping it up as far as it would go. Something warm and heavy was placed over your shoulders suddenly. Looking down, you could see it was a dark brown wool coat. You spun around to see Chris standing there, soft grin on his face.

“Keep it. Just make sure you give it back to wardrobe before we leave.”

“Don’t you need it for the next scene?” you asked furrowing your brow.

Chris shook his head no. “Next scene has me in that denim jacket with the white wool lining. It’ll be my turn to freeze.”

You gave him a thankful smile while buttoning up the coat over your own. “Thank you. Really. Didn’t realize you hated my dancing this much, but I do appreciate it.”

“Didn’t say I hated it. Said you were a distraction.” He runs his hands up and down your coat covered arms in his attempt to warm you up. The goosebumps that erupt are luckily hidden by the layers, but you can’t help but pray he doesn’t hear the increased beat of your heart. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t layer up.”

You can’t seem to speak so you just hum in response.

**

Somewhere between the second or third take, your helping with costuming. The Polaroid pictures from the interior shoot aren’t agreeing with the way Keanu’s hair is now. It could be the way his hat is hanging, but you grab his stylist to assist.

“Yeah, that’s so much better,” you said after his hair is moved behind his ear no more than an inch.

“You certainly are particular,” Keanu said with a chuckle.

“S’always a pet peeve of mine when watching a movie if it doesn’t match exactly. Call it over kill if you will, but I call it doing my job,” you replied with a smirk.

“Warm enough over there Frosty?” Chris asked from a chair while he waited for you to be done.

“Yes! Thanks to you,” you responded back.

“This Chris’ coat?” Keanu asked.

“Yeah. Well, technically William’s coat.”

Keanu hummed in response before turning away to stand on his mark.

**

After filming wrapped for the night, you made your way to the wardrobe tent, catching Chris as he was leaving.

“Returning William’s coat?”

“Yep. Told you I would.”

“Here. I’ll take it in. M’sure you want to get back to the hotel,” he said, holding out his hand.

Quickly unbuttoning it, you pulled it off missing the warmth immediately. Chris took it, holding it over his chest with his arms crossed over it.

“Damn, did I miss this coat over the last two hours.” He ducked his head down for a second and then looked back at you. “Smells good.”

You let out a cross between a gasp and a laugh. “Did you just smell the coat?”

He bit at his lip and looked away. “Wasn’t trying to. Caught a whiff of it and had to investigate further. Just smells nice is all.”

“Okay Evans,” you said slowly. “Have a good night. Gotta catch that shuttle before they leave me.”

“Ye-yeah. Alright. See you tomorrow Y/N.”

“Night, Chris.”

**

You were positive it wasn’t half a night in the freezing cold that did you in. It was probably the travel, along with the stress of being away. No matter how you spun it, you were sick. Head congested, sore throat, the occasional chill while you were indoors. Yeah, you were sick. Monica turned out to be a germaphobe and you hadn’t seen that coming. It started as soon as you two were awake. She noticed the change in your voice.

“It’s just dry in here. Stupid winter. I just need some water,” you played it off not willing to accept your fate as well.

“Yeah okay. I know I saw a few water bottles in the mini fridge,” she replied.

You grabbed one and brought it into the bathroom with you. Taking a few chugs from the bottle, you set it on the counter then hopped into the shower hoping the hot steam would kick you into gear. It didn’t.

Maggie was shooting tonight along with Joe and Daisy. Chris and Keanu had the night off although you thought they maybe had some dialogue they were re-recording this afternoon. You were set to be Maggie’s backup tonight but really you wanted to do was go back to bed.

The two of you made your way to conference room B for the breakfast buffet they set up for your group each morning. It wasn’t much, but it was free and available from seven to ten each morning and you managed to wake up early enough to check it out. Grabbing a plate and filling it with a muffin, scrambled eggs, and two sausage thinks, you joined Monica at a table with a couple of other crew members.

Your throat started to tickle just a bit after your first bite of eggs. Taking a sip of orange juice did nothing to ease that feeling. You coughed into your napkin much to Monica’s horror.

“Too much pepper,” you replied.

She rolled her eyes but carried on eating her own breakfast until you coughed again. She stood up and moved a seat a few chairs away.

“Just a precaution,” she said with a shrug.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Reaching back into your pocket you quickly pulled it out.

Chris: You de-thaw yet?

Y/N: My shoes are soaked from the melted ice

Y/N: I slept great. That cold took a lot out of me. Thanks again for coming to my rescue.

Chris: 😎

Chris: No big deal

Y/N: Well, I appreciate it and will be better prepared tonight.

Chris: Captain’s orders

You shook your head at his comment.

Y/N: Wow. He went there.

Chris: Yeah. Yeah. Let me know if you have time to grab food later. Little harder for me to grab desserts here and bring them to your office.

Y/N: I’ll let you know.

The tickle was back and you couldn’t help but cough to clear it. Getting up from your seat, you averted Monica’s eyes as you dumped your plate and opened the door to leave.

“Better not be sick, Y/L/N!” she called out just as you stepped through the door.

I’m not sick. There’s no way. It’s just in my head.

Making a quick stop at the hotel gift shop, you paid double the amount you would pay at Target for vitamin C drops and Cold Eeze. These were for in case you were coming down with something. Not that you were or anything.

Back in your room, you applied moisturizer and light makeup. You hoped that trying to go on  with your day as normal would make you feel normal. By the time you got to the bathroom to do your hair, Monica came back to the room.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” you replied putting the final touches on your hair.

“Just okay? That sounds specious.”

You let out a quick chuckle. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m just getting my bag. Maybe open a window. Let some of the germs out,” she said sticking her tongue out at you.

“I’ll see you there in a bit,” you said as she opened the door.

Except you didn’t. Somewhere between digging out your mittens, hat, and scarf that you apparently put back in your suitcase, along with returning a few missed calls from your family, you were tired. Deciding to lay down for just twenty minutes, turned into a couple of hours. The sound of pounding on your door was what woke you. Bolting up right in bed, you reached for your phone, seeing that it was already one in the afternoon. You had two missed calls from Chris along with a few text messages from him, Monica, and David.

“Coming,” your voice coming out hoarse. Your hand gently touched your neck as you swallowed, noticing it was slightly swollen and tender.

Swinging open the door, Chris stood in front of it, tired look on his face. His hands immediately going to his waist.

“Okay. You’re alive,” he said, bobbing his head as he said it. You giving a confused look in response. Chris nodded his head again, turned and started to walk away.

Keeping the door propped because you didn’t have on shoes or your room key on hand, you leaned out the door. “Chris! Come back! Please don’t make me yell.”

He stopped walking and turned back to face you. The same tired look was still on his face as he made his way back to you, stopping once he was in front of the door once again.

“I was--we were worried about you,” he sighed out. “When you didn’t respond to my text or call, I stopped by your cube and you weren’t there. Monica said you should have been there no later than eleven because you were on your way shortly after she was.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Then when you didn’t respond to Monica or David, we got concerned.”

“I’m sorry. I was just really tired and fell asleep too long,” you said softly, stepping back into the room and motioning for him to come in. “I didn’t mean to make you guys worry.”

Chris followed into the room, flicking on a light before taking a seat on Monica’s bed.

“It’s fine,” he sighed again. “Just didn’t know if something happened since you didn’t show up at the studio or answer your phone.”

“Don’t tell Monica, but I’m sick. I think that’s why I slept longer than I intended to. I’m sorry you came all the way out here,” you said, taking a seat next to him.

“I’m sorry you’re sick. That sucks.”

“It does,” you said getting up. “Should probably keep my distance. Don’t need the talent getting sick,” you said, giving him a wink.

“Good one. I’ll let it slide since you’re sick.” You grabbed your bag, checking to see that your worn script was still in it. “Where are you going? You’re sick, missy.”

“Missy? Really? It’s called life doesn’t pause just because of me,” you said slipping on your coat and putting your hat on.

Chris gabbed his phone from his pocket, clicking it a few times and bringing it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said. “Yeah, I found her. She’s sick and was sleeping when I got here. Trying to convince her to rest up… Yeah, she’s stubborn… What? No. No. I’ll take care of it. You don’t need to do that… I’m sure. I’ll get it sorted…Yeah, I’ll see you later… I’ll tell her… Bye Monica.”

“What are you telling me?” you asked as soon as he dropped his phone to the bed.

“You have the night off.” You were about to protest but Chris put his hand up. “Not my choice. She said she can handle it tonight and rather not have you breathing on her,” he chuckled prompting you to roll your eyes. “She said to rest up.” You nodded and started to unzip your coat. “Keep your coat on! You’re not staying here tonight.”

“Chris, I’m not hospital sick. I can stay in my own room,” you protested, hands instantly going to your hips.

He shook his head. “Monica was going to bunk up with someone else, but I told her I’d find you somewhere else to stay since she wouldn’t be back until late. You’re coming with me.” He stood up, grabbing your scarf from the desk and wrapping it around your neck.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“You’re staying with me and before you say anything, it’s fine.”

“Chris…”

“Y/N…” he responded in the same tired tone. “It’s a three-bedroom condo. I have the room and no you won’t be in my way.”

“Okay…Let me just grab some things.”

Chris sat back down on Monica’s bed while you grabbed your carry-on, throwing in some pajamas, a change of clothes for tomorrow, your hairbrush, and makeup bag from the bathroom.

“Alright. Let’s go see how the other half lives,” you said with a smirk.

“Such a smaht-ass,” Chris said with a shake of his head.

“And that’s why we’re…”

“…we’re friends,” he cut you off. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s get a move on sicko. Cahs waitin’ downstairs.”

This is totally normal. Doesn’t look inappropriate at all. What the studio doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone.

**

Tag List: @chrisevansfanfic @zsuzstyina @peach-acid @hista-girl  @trynnabemultifandom @mrsshiddleston @tfandtws @heyyouwiththeassbutt @denisemarieangelina @evanlys19 @cheeseburgersstuff @linki-locks11 @whymalu @straightforwardly @lakamaa12 @deidrashouseofpain@samsgoddess @fanfictionaffair @sweet--rabbit @imaginesofdreams @captnstarryeyed @tanelle83 @pinknerdpanda @allaboutthebooz @estillion14 @panicfob @patzammit @heartislubbingdubbing @collinsstanharbour @ab-baybay @rda1989 @impalaimages @jesseswartzwelder @rainbowkisses31 @xostephanie @smoothdogsgirl @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @xxloki81xx @thenormreedus  @firstangeldragonranch @soitmightgetweird @maeleeme @rvgrsbrns @icanfeelastormbrewing @velvetwonderbucky @kitkat1690 @smilexcaptainx @suppu97 @dangerouslovefanfic @dwights-new-plague @kelbabyblue @sweetlittlegingy @chrisevansforever @evansxxx​ @twittytelly​ @southerngracela​ @bitterstar88​

[artificialqueens]

The Damned, Chapter 1/14 (Branjie) - Freyja

a/n: hello! i’m back, and with a new pet project! i’m a little bit into the next chapter, but i can’t promise anyone any sort of a date. i promise to work diligently on it, though - i just need a little encouragement to do so ;) i hope y'all love it as much as i do. special thanks to @freykitten for betaing!! i love you! and if you’re interested, here it is on AO3 - and a playlist to go with it.

fic summary: Vanessa is a renowned pirate framed for stealing the Cup of Light by the goddess of Chaos, Willam, to whom she owes a debt. Princess Yvie, her best friend since childhood, offers to take Vanessa’s place on death row in order to give her a chance to go and retrieve the Cup to prove her innocence.

Vanessa’s plan is to just flee to Fiji and away from her problems, but she soon finds she has a stowaway: Brooke Lynn Hytes, Yvie’s betrothed. She’s here to make sure Vanessa keeps her promise. She’s not here to fall in love with her, but we can’t always get what we want, now can we?

-

The envelope is heavy in Vanessa’s hands.

The paper is thick, scented with lavender, and completely foreign to touch. It’s smoother than the thin parchment she’s used to, the only imperfection a small dent from how far it must have traveled. It certainly hadn’t come from anywhere near Providence Island.

From the moment she’d touched it, she’d known this letter had come from a place of wealth. The sight of the royal seal tells her that she’d been more than right.

She’s tempted to fling it overboard.

She’s done it with every royal arrest warrant she’s gotten before: recieve it, slide it out the window at the back of her cabin once she’s back on the ship, and blacklist the port that had given it to her. She shouldn’t be hesitating like she is - she knows the patchwork quilt of The Damned’s sails acts like a target painted on the back of her head, so changing ports and tossing letters has become second nature. What’s catching her off guard, however, is that this one is addressed to ‘Vanjie’.

She hasn’t been called Vanjie in years.

The handwriting is shaky, the loop of the ‘j’ almost pointed, the hand that wrote it unsure and pressing too hard as a result. Yvie never could get the hang of calligraphy, never as light and delicate as her mother wanted her to be. Vanessa’s breath catches at the memory, bursting into her mind without warning.

Vanessa hasn’t seen Yvie in twelve years. She hasn’t spoken to her for longer. A familiar, dull ache blooms in the center of her chest as she traces the loop with her fingers, her breathing shaky and her heart beating so hard she can feel it in her fingertips.

She can’t say she regrets leaving, but if there’s one thing she would have done differently, it would have been to take Yvie with her.

God, she misses her.

She sits down heavily at her desk, pressing her fingers to her temple as she stares at the seal. Yvie probably isn’t the same person Vanessa remembers. She’s had over a decade to be educated as wealthy, as royalty, from history to diplomacy to how to wear her dress so that it just brushes the floor like so. Vanessa had even heard news of an engagement just last year, to a kingdom further north, and she remembers thinking that Yvie was now just that much further from her reach.

Vanessa knows Yvie was already making her way towards that person when she’d left, her usually bright grins fading into polite smiles, and she feels another pinch of regret and loss.

She almost doesn’t want to open it, but the chance that it’s a letter, a real attempt to reach out, is too great not to.

She pops the seal. Her hands shake as she unfolds the papers, and she reads eagerly, her heart in her throat with anticipation.

It takes her a moment to register exactly what it is, half of her convinced that it isn’t real, even as she holds the paper in her hands. She has to read it three times before she finally accepts what it says, the small, black script sending a small shock through her.

BY COMMAND OF HIS MAJESTY THE KING

Vanessa Mateo, friend of the royal family, is hereby cordially invited to attend the Coronation of Princess Yvette, soon to be Queen of Syracuse, on the date of June 28th, 1716. Guests are req–

Vanessa laughs.

It’s all she can even think to do, the absurdity of the situation hard to wrap her mind around. Not five minutes ago she was making plans to change ports, all in an effort to avoid getting a ‘P’ branded on her cheek and probably hanged afterwards. She’s been skirting around the Royal Navy for years. Now, she’s been invited personally by their new ruler to dance the waltz with them.

It could be a good way to fuck with them. To show up at the castle gates and flash the invitation before they can arrest her, royal seal and all. The idea is tempting - Vanessa’s never been one to deny herself a chance to gloat. She could see Yvie and try to heal the old wounds that she’s stupidly reopened. But the idea of seeing Yvie fills her with more nerves than hopes, and she thinks that perhaps going isn’t such a good idea after all.

It could be a trap. A way to lure her in, get her defenceless. She doubts they’d let her take in her crew, so it would just be her and maybe one other against the entire Royal Guard. She’d be fucked. Her friendship with Yvie has done the opposite of casting her in favor with the kingdom - her betrayal is considered one of the kingdom’s worst. It doesn’t matter that the friendship had been fading for two years before, or that she’d been seen more as Yvie’s pet than her friend. The Guard would tear into her and no one would stop them.

She looks back at the invitation, where she’d tossed it on her desk with a snort. She wonders if Yvie really had addressed it to Vanessa, if she would be disappointed if Vanessa never showed up. She wonders if seeing her in the crowd would make the crown heavier on Yvie’s head, if the act of swearing in as Vanessa’s enemy holds any weight at all.

She can’t do this.

She can’t meet Yvie’s fiance. She can’t stand in a room full of people who think she’s the worst thing to happen to Syracuse since the Black Death, and she definitely can’t look Yvie in the eye when she knows she’ll be the figurehead behind the greatest threat to her life. She feels a small spark of anger, and she grabs onto it, willing it to flare brighter.

It does.

She left for a reason. And Yvie - Yvie had been part of that.

She grabs the letter and crushes it into a ball, her newfound anger behind the sheer force of it. She hurls it across the room, not even bothering to watch where it lands, whirling around to sit at her desk properly, grabbing a quill and the ledger, and bending over it with the intent to update the numbers and forget about the letter sitting six feet behind her.

She takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the way the ship rocks with the waves even at anchor, and puts the tip of the quill to the paper. She can hardly concentrate. Scarlet is usually the person who fills out the ledger, her ability to keep track of money something like that of a tax collector, and Vanessa usually only reviews it. Even still - she should be able to fill it out, to do simple addition, but her mind refuses to cooperate.

She feels like she’s making a mistake. She feels like she’s throwing something away, missing something important. It’s bothering her, an itch at the back of her mind, and before she can stop herself, she’s reviewing the entire situation again.

It could be a trap, or it could be an olive branch. The cons definitely outweigh the pros of going. The outcome will either be a reconnection she doesn’t even know if she wants, or it will be certain death. Besides, it being a real invitation sounds more and more unlikely, especially with the current king on the verge of death already. They wouldn’t allow a potential threat to come so close to their last hope.

Vanessa has everything to lose by going, and nothing to gain. Nothing to make risking her ass worth it, except–

Shocked realization drops like a weight into her stomach.

Nothing would make it worth it, except for The Cup of Peace. Syracuse’s pride and joy. The source of its wealth, of its success, of its life. It’s priceless. It’s the greatest treasure in the world. The man who yields it is the man with everything.

Vanessa could steal it. Easily.

An event like this will have the guards spread thin. She knows the ins and outs of that castle like the back of her hand. She has years of using the secret passages under her belt, always encouraged to use them in order to prevent ambassadors and diplomats from seeing such an unseemly thing as a servant. She can pay off her debt. She can finally free herself completely, finally cut from all ties. Cut from her.

She can’t deny that she also thinks showing up to the coronation with an invitation would be a great way to fuck with the kingdom that’s given her so much pain.

If hurting the kingdom that chewed her up and spit her back out is the only way she can earn her freedom, then she is all too happy to take that deal.

…

Vanessa has never used the main gates before.

She’d hardly left the castle when she was a kid, work and home wrapped in one, but when she had, she’d always used the servant’s door at the side of the building. They’d been forbidden from the main entrance, relegated to the longer, dustier backways.

Now, every eye is on Vanessa as she strolls through the gates, bypassing the dwindling line of sparkling ball gowns and silk waistcoats in boots she hasn’t bothered to wash in at least a year.

She’s never been more pleased with herself.

No one tries to stop her when she cuts to the front of the line, eyeing the sword she has slung across her back, the handle catching the light of the setting sun. She tips her hat at them all, not quite able to keep a smirk off of her face.

Before, she would have been nothing. A piece of the background. A hand to help with coats and furs. Now, she’s something to be feared.

She’s beginning to think that this was a good idea, after all.

She steps up to the doorman confidently, smirking at the alarm that makes his eyebrows arch almost comically. He doesn’t turn to the guard standing beside him, though - the staff must have been alerted to her potential arrival. It kind of takes some of the fun out of slapping the invitation onto his chest, but the disgust on his face when she does so makes it more than worth it.

“There you go!” she says cheerfully, giving him a grin. “By special order of the king himself!”

He sneers at her, but his hand comes up to hold the letter in place against his uniform, allowing her to draw her hand back. “I was beginning to hope that you weren’t going to show up,” he says, revealing a haughty accent that makes Vanessa want to punch him in the teeth.

“Well,” Vanessa says, twisting her lips. “I’m here now. You gonna let me in, or what?”

“I have to stamp this, first,” he says. The words apparently taste like lemons, because his face puckers up as he says them. “And, uh, those,” he waves a delicate hand towards Vanessa’s sword, and the pistols resting at her hips. Luckily, he can’t see the knife hidden in her boot. “They have to go.”

Vanessa scowls at him as he proceeds to unfold her invitation, bending over to inspect it like the possibility that she’s somehow orchestrated the whole thing still exists, and that a forged letter is what’s going to bring her down.

“You’re not takin’ my weapons,” she tells him, and he looks up at her from beneath a raised eyebrow.

“If you want to get even an inch inside of this castle, ma’am,” he spits it out like she’s unworthy of the term (and she probably is), “then yes, we are.”

Irritation and anxiety ball up in her chest as the guard next to them steps a little closer, making his intent to follow through with the doorman’s threat clear. She wishes she had Scarlet with her. Or A’keria. A’keria would know how to sweet talk them into leading her straight to the Cup, no tomfoolery required.

Unfortunately, Vanessa has not been allowed a plus one. How surprising.

“Fine,” she says stiffly. At least she’ll still have her lucky knife, the pearl handle just barely visible when looking straight down into her boot. They won’t spot it. “But you’re gonna take good care of ‘em.”

“That’s assuming we’re going to let you have them back,” the doorman says primly, and a flash of red-hot anger strikes Vanessa like lightning. The fucking nerve–

“That’s assumin’ you’re gonna get them at all, you motherfucker, considerin’ I’m the only one standing here with a gu–”

“Jesus Christ, what did you say to her?”

Vanessa feels the world dip underneath her, shock making her flinch like a gun’s just been fired.

She didn’t expect–

Her entire body freezes in place, her heart the only exception, beating so hard that she can feel it in her throat. All she can do is stare at the woman who’s just appeared behind the doorman, her maroon velvet gown just barely touching the floor and her dark hair pulled into an elegant twist.

Yvie looks different than she had at sixteen, obviously. She’s still gangly, on the edge of too skinny, but she’s grown into it. Her eyebrows are still sharp, as well as her eyes, but something about her face has softened. She looks settled into herself. She looks like a queen.

Vanessa briefly feels the urge to straighten her jacket, to tie up her shirt, and try to comb out her hair. She feels inferior to Yvie, and she hates it. Even when she’d been Yvie’s handmaiden, even when she’d helped the other girl dress and bathe and eat, she’d never felt like they were anything but equals.

The thought makes resentment harden in her chest.

“What did I say? She’s the pirate!” the doorman says, voice loud with affront, and Vanessa tears her eyes away from Yvie, glaring at the doorman and hardening herself against the torrent of emotions swirling around in her gut. She’s come face to face with the Kraken - she can handle a stranger from the past.

Even if that stranger used to be her best friend.

“She’s only here to trick us,” the doorman continues, sneering. “You’d be a fool not to suspect her. My lady,” he tacks on hastily, his face turning a cherry red. Luckily for him, Yvie doesn’t seem to mind the lack of formality.

“She’s a guest,” Yvie says sharply, and her tone makes a bolt of familiarity strike Vanessa like lightning. “With a personal fucking invitation. Your nose should be touching the fucking floor when you greet her.”

There’s a brief moment of shocked silence.

“Language, my lady,” the doorman eventually says, voice weak. Yvie raises an eyebrow.

“Are you questioning me?” she asks, frowning severely even as her cheeks take on a dusky pink. Vanessa snorts despite herself.

She watches as the doorman stammers out an apology, affection rising in her throat. She feels fourteen years old again, watching Yvie bite into the Head Servant for yelling at Vanjie just a little too loudly.

Maybe Yvie hasn’t changed as much as she thought.

“You’re lucky she ain’t the queen yet,” Vanessa points out, eager to pile on. “Otherwise…” she draws a line across her throat with her thumb, and the doorman’s nostrils flare with annoyance. Yvie just laughs, loud amongst the quiet titters of the guests still waiting to be let in, growing restless now that the sun is almost completely set.

“I missed you, V,” Yvie says, still grinning, and Vanessa’s heart aches. Part of her believes it.

“Can’t say the same to you,” she jokes, but her voice comes out a little softer than she wants it to. She can tell Yvie understands, even if Vanessa can’t get out the words she wants to say - I missed you too, so much - and Vanessa doesn’t know if she resents the fact that Yvie can still read her like a book, or if she finds it comforting.

“Pardon me. I forgot - you’re a big, bad pirate now,” Yvie says, rolling her eyes, and then, with no regard for the pistols still strapped to Vanessa’s hips or the sword strung across her back, she grabs Vanessa’s hand and pulls her gently into the castle.

Vanessa lets her.

The halls are as long and winding as Vanessa remembers, the portraits just as looming, and cold, painted eyes follow them as they make their way to the ballroom. The chandeliers have been lit, casting everything in a warm light, dark shadows yawning across the hardwood, and Vanessa can just barely hear the noises of a celebration. She allows Yvie to tug her along for part of the way, the cold fingers of being back in this place creeping down her spine and Yvie’s a weak sort of comfort.

Being back after over a decade of freedom feels stifling, and she has to push down the growing urge to run. Has to remind herself that they’d sooner kill her than try to put her back in the servant’s quarters.

She isn’t a servant anymore. She’s independent - a captain. No one controls her except for herself, at least not like that.

In that way, she’s even safer than Yvie.

“So,” Vanessa starts loudly, tearing her eyes away from the paintings on the walls. She shakes her wrist out of Yvie’s grip, jogging a little to catch up to Yvie’s long strides. “What were you doin’ out there?”

Yvie frowns at her, slowing her pace seemingly subconsciously. Vanessa pretends like she doesn’t notice, although she’s grateful to not have to stretch her legs to their limits. “What?”

“You know,” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes. “Ain’t you the guest of honor? Shouldn’t you be in there, talkin’ to other princesses and shit?”

Yvie snorts at her. “It’s like you’ve forgotten who I am,” she says, and it’s clearly a joke, but Vanessa feels it like a punch to her gut.

“No,” she says, after a beat. She thinks she does a good job of sounding unphased. “I just thought all that training might have actually gotten through that big head of yours.”

Yvie tries to gasp with offense, but she ends up ruining it with a loud cackle. “Don’t forget that I can have you hanged,” she says, and Vanessa should be running cold with fear. Instead, she just laughs. She’s missed this.

“Damn,” she says, widening her eyes sarcastically. “Is that really the last straw? Tellin’ the truth?”

“It’s the worst thing you’ve ever done,” Yvie says haughtily, and Vanessa laughs.

“Worse than robbin’ Captain What’s-His-Face last year?”

Yvie raises her eyebrows. “Worse than stealing my mother’s rubies, even,” she says, and Vanessa sucks in a breath. She’d forgotten about that.

She laughs weakly, guilt curling deep into her belly. “Damn,” she says, and she can’t think of anything else to say, surprise making her mind blank.

“I know,” Yvie teases, “so watch your mouth.”

She sounds like she couldn’t care less about it, but Vanessa knows that can’t be true. Yvie’s mother has been dead for a long time, and Vanessa had taken those rubies from her nightstand with the intent of hurting her. She can’t imagine that Yvie had just shrugged it off when she found them missing.

She’d used the rubies to pay her way onto the merchant ship that had taken her away, a final ‘fuck you’ to the kingdom that had never cared about her. Even still, regret pinches sharply in her chest. She tries not to think about the fact that she’s here now to do the exact same thing.

She takes a deep breath in an attempt to assuage the guilt curdling in her chest. She has to do this. If Vanessa wants to be free again–

She has no choice.

“Remember what we used to do at things like this?” Yvie asks, and it startles Vanessa out of her reverie. She glances at Yvie, trying to gauge how she’s feeling. She doesn’t look bitter, nothing but excitement and naked hope in her expression. She quickly glances away again.

“You mean when we stole all the tarts from the kitchens?” she asks, and Yvie’s laugh makes a smile curl up at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“I always ate way too many,” Yvie sighs. “I always threw up afterwards. You, though, you’ve got a stomach made of iron.”

Vanessa slaps her stomach, giving Yvie a shit-eating grin. “What? Jealous?”

“Of that?” Yvie raises a skeptical eyebrow, chuckling. Yvie still remains the only woman Vanessa has heard honest-to-god chortle. “No. It’s probably for the best that the Queen doesn’t need to eat five servings before she’s actually full.”

Vanessa lets out a little shriek, giving Yvie a light shove. “That was just because I was in the middle of a growth spurt!”

“What growth spurt? You’ve been the same size since you were like, eight.”

Vanessa gasps. “I’ve killed people for less, Miss Yvette, don’t even try–”

“Ooooo, the big, bad pirate is going to get me! Whatever shall I do?”

“There ain’t even any guards in here, stupid, so I’d watch that sarcasm real good.”

“Oh, and have you been keeping track of the guards? Aiming to steal that portrait of my uncle?”

Vanessa freezes for a split second. Well. Is it the most precious artifact on the continent?

She almost wants to laugh at how comically close Yvie is to guessing the truth.

“No,” she manages to get out without too much time passing. “No one would buy his ugly face.”

“I was thinking it could be for your captain’s cabin,” Yvie says, stopping briefly to narrow her eyes and frame her hands in front of her face, like she can see Vanessa’s cabin in her mind’s eye. Vanessa glances at the open doors to the ballroom, just a few steps away. “Right above the bed.”

“Ha,” Vanessa says, and she keeps walking. She hears Yvie jog to catch up. “You’re right. I came here to steal some new decorations.”

“I knew it,” Yvie says, and there’s a brief pause. “But actually - why did you come?”

Vanessa’s breath catches. She’s been dreading this question. She’s always been a terrible liar - she can’t possibly look Yvie in the eye and tell her anything but the truth without her knowing. “What?”

“Why did you–”

Desperate to avoid the question, Vanessa speeds the rest of the way into the ballroom, the noise of the celebration washing out the rest of Yvie’s sentence. Large hoop skirts press against her from all sides, leaving barely any room for Yvie to follow, but the guests make sure to clear a path for her when she follows Vanessa in, grabbing her wrist once again.

“See why I came out to join you?” she asks, face close in order to be heard, and Vanessa snorts at her.

“No!” she says, shaking her head, and Yvie rolls her eyes fondly. Vanessa has always loved parties, loved to be around people and booze and fun, but Yvie’s always preferred to be alone in her room, either with Vanessa or with a book. Stealing the tarts had been a compromise between them, an idea of Vanessa’s invention. There was the thrill for her in stealing them, and the quiet for Yvie in eating them afterwards, giggling quietly in her room.

She remembers the secretive giggles they used to share, mouths stained with berries as they hid behind some curtain or plant, and a feeling she can’t identify wells up in her chest. She almost wants to stomp her foot with frustration, tired of looking at everything and being hit with some memory, some hard emotion that she can’t shake.

Returning here is starting to feel less and less like a good idea.

“Come on!” Yvie says loudly over the noise, jerking Vanessa’s attention back to her. “There’s someone I want you to meet!”

Vanessa nods, and she allows Yvie to lead her through the crowd, most of it parting in the presence of their soon-to-be queen and a known pirate with blood on her hands. It makes Vanessa smirk, a little, and she starts scanning the crowd for guards with a little more confidence. She’s here for one reason, and that reason isn’t reconnecting with Yvie.

No matter how much it’s starting to feel like it.

The soldiers seem to be all lining the walls, stoic faces watching the crowd closely. She grins as she counts, realizing that the majority of the king’s guard have been placed in the ballroom, likely ordered to protect the royal family from assassination. Judging by the number she’d seen outside, the rest have been assigned weapons duty. She hadn’t seen any in the hallways, and she can’t quite decide if the king is so hubristic that he thinks no one would dare to try anything, or if he’s too foolish to even think about the possibility.

Either way, it seems as though her luck hasn’t run out just yet.

Yvie drags her all the way across the ballroom, near the set of thrones that she’s intended to be crowned at. But instead of ascending the steps towards her father, perched on the left seat, she takes a sharp right, towards one of the servant’s exits. Near it waits a tall woman, alone with a glass of champagne, wearing a dress that shifts like silver pieces in the moonlight.

As they approach, Vanessa realizes two things.

One: this woman is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, with curled blonde hair and dark, severe eyebrows. Her blue eyes are hooded and piercing, her lips a dark ruby color that split to reveal pearly white teeth when she smiles at them. Just looking at her makes Vanessa’s heart flip around in her chest, and all thoughts of guards and Cups and treasure drop out of her head as she stares.

Two: this is definitely Yvie’s fiance.

“Yvette,” she greets, the name still not-quite-familiar in her pronunciation. She gives them a smile that Vanessa has seen on hundreds of other diplomats, and the butterflies in her stomach fade a little in the face of it. “Who is this?”

Yvie beams. “This,” she proudly announces, dragging Vanessa up to stand by her side, “is Vanessa Mateo. Vanessa, this is Brooke Lynn Hytes, my betrothed.”

Brooke’s eyes sear into her as they give her a once-over, and Vanessa tries not to shift under her gaze, making sure to meet her eyes when they come back up to rest on her face. “A pleasure to meet you,” Brooke says stiffly, and she gives her a small, barely there nod. Vanessa can tell she doesn’t even want to do that much. “Miss Mateo.”

Vanessa can practically feel the disdain dripping off of her words, and she grins to prove that she doesn’t care. She’ll be damned before she lets someone think they’re better than her. “Miss Hytes,” she greets, and she does a mocking curtsey of her own. Brooke’s eyebrow twitches up, betraying her surprise, and Vanessa is once again struck by her beauty.

“How are you enjoying your visit, Miss Mateo?”

Brooke’s tone makes it clear that she thinks the ‘miss’ should be dropped off of Vanessa’s name entirely, and Vanessa doesn’t disagree with her. The glance Brooke shoots at Yvie, though, makes it clear that the ‘miss’ will be staying. Vanessa smirks.

Brooke doesn’t want to make Yvie upset.

Vanessa has no such qualms.

“Please,” Vanessa says, waving a dismissive hand. She almost knocks Brooke’s champagne flute out of her hand, and Brooke jerks it back, spilling a little. Vanessa has to swallow back a laugh at the glare she receives as a result. Jesus, woman. Relax. “It’s just Vanessa. And as for my visit - it’s nice to be off the ship for a night.”

Interest flickers in Brooke’s eyes, and Vanessa frowns at the sight of it. She’d expected Brooke to sneer at the mention of what she is, not - not this. “You mean The Damned?”

“You heard of it?” Vanessa laughs, but she tucks that interest into the back of her mind, trying not to let her eyes linger too curiously. “She ain’t as pretty right now. We still need to fix the paint job after a run in with Thunder. That whore put fuckin’ spikes on her sides! Who does that?”

Brooke’s eyes are almost gleaming with interest, but her expression remains flat. Vanessa is intrigued by it - is she going to ask something? Is there some hidden part of her that Vanessa hasn’t sussed out? - up until Brooke actually opens her mouth to say something.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says lightly, smiling like she’s joking even as her eyes remain perfectly serious, “I have a pretty good idea what it’s like on there as well, with you talking like that.”

“Like what,” Vanessa asks flatly, expression dropping and irritation already creeping its way through her chest. Brooke’s eyebrows arch like she’s surprised Vanessa’s asking.

“Harshly,” she says smoothly, but Vanessa understands that she wants to say uncivilized. Understood even before she’d asked. It makes anger flare in her chest, and she sets her mouth in a straight line as she meets Brooke’s judgemental gaze.

“I’m a harsh woman,” she says, and there’s that interest again. She decides she doesn’t care anymore.

“And what do you thin–”

“Enough about me,” Vanessa interrupts, because why bother following the rules when no one expects it of you? “How’d you two meet? Was it mutually arranged or is someone desperate for money?”

Brooke’s eyes widen, her brow furrowing, but before she can snap back, Yvie steps in with a sharp “Vanessa.”

It hurts more than it should, and Vanessa avoids Yvie’s gaze as she rolls her lips between her teeth, swallowing the emotion that wants to well up in her throat. She keeps a glare firmly on Brooke. “Sorry,” she says, after a beat of silence, and she risks a glance at Yvie. She knows she doesn’t sound genuine, but Yvie still looks appeased, perhaps a little relieved.

Had she thought Vanessa would make a scene? Draw her sword and threaten Yvie for a stern look?

A feeling that Vanessa doesn’t recognize balls up in her chest at the thought, and she decides it’s anger. Anger is always easiest.

“It’s alright,” Yvie says, and her eyes dart towards Brooke. “No big deal.”

They stand in awkward silence for what feels like ages, none of them quite knowing how to break the tension that’s fallen over them like a thick blanket. Vanessa takes the opportunity to scope the hallway they’re standing near for guards, resolve hardening in her chest. She reminds herself that she’s here for the Cup. Nothing else.

The minute she can get away from Yvie, she’ll–

“Princess!” a voice calls, and relief breaks over the three of them as they spot an older woman hurrying towards them, an urgent expression on her face. Her pink ball gown is so wide at the hips that it looks like she could fit two full grown men underneath either side, and her graying hair is piled on top of her hand in a towering mess of curls and flowers. Vanessa recognizes her as a duchess that comes to visit around once a month, a dear friend of Yvie’s mother that stuck around even after her death.

“Come! Come!” she calls, waving a beckoning hand at Yvie. “We haven’t seen you in ages. My husband - he wants to meet you and that beautiful fiance of yours!”

“Of course!” Yvie calls back, and she looks at Vanessa, an invitation in her eyes. Vanessa shakes her head before she can even start speaking - she knows an opening when she sees one. Besides, the last thing she wants to do is tag along with the happy couple to meet more people who will look down their noses at her.

“I gotta go p– uh, powder my nose,” Vanessa says, stumbling over more crass language and immediately cursing herself for it. Why does she care what they think of her? “I’ll see you in a bit, alright?”

Yvie looks hesitant, but she nods. Vanessa tries not to stick her tongue out at the way Brooke presses her lips together. “Have some food and have fun, okay?” Yvie says, and Vanessa is still nodding when the duchess finally just grabs Yvie’s arm and yanks her back towards where her husband must be waiting, Brooke following reluctantly.

Vanessa waits until Brooke’s silvery gown disappears into the crowd, and then she looks for any other onlookers. Once she determines that everyone else is either occupied or drunk, she slips into the hallway, Yvie’s wary face still burned into her memory.

She’s a pirate. If Yvie can’t forgive it, then why even bother feeling guilty?

…

The halls are relatively empty, with everyone and their mother dancing to celebrate their new queen, but Vanessa sticks to the servants’ passages just to be safe. She darts in and out of them, depending on which is making the most amount of noise, the thrill of nearly being caught each time only encouraging her more.

The quickest way to the tower is through the courtyard, so after weaving her way back to the center of the castle, Vanessa ducks out into the garden. The moon is shining brightly, illuminating the flower beds almost as well as the sun itself, and she slips behind one of the hedges lining the perimeter to get her bearings.

With the lack of anything taller than her shoulder and the moonlight lighting everything as if the courtyard were a stage, it’s nearly impossible to sneak through to the other side. Vanessa can’t see past her hedge well enough to check for anyone, nervous despite the eerie silence. Silence doesn’t erase the risk of stoic guards at position, nor of guests trying to find somewhere private to fuck around.

She sucks in a deep breath, craning her neck around to see past the leaves as far as she dares.

Nothing.

She spends what feels like years watching the wind gently move the flowers, allowing her body to settle as she waits for whoever might be out there to tip her off. She’s on a time limit - the faster she gets in and out of that tower, the less time anyone has to notice her absence - but she won’t even have that if she gets caught before she’s even in the right section of the castle.

She waits for a little while longer, holding her breath. She counts to sixty for the fifth time.

Nothing.

She has to move now, if she wants even a chance at getting the Cup.

Deciding that the best move is to make her way across the courtyard as quickly as possible, reducing the amount of time she could get spotted, she darts out from behind the hedges and begins making her way through the garden at a brisk walk. She could run, but on the off chance that someone sees her, she still wants to retain at least a hint of an excuse. Running doesn’t provide very many.

She winds her way through the flowerbeds, her eyes fixed firmly on the archways on the other side. She’s almost–

She nearly collides with another woman, moving so quickly that Vanessa misses her face entirely, only the flash of blonde hair making any sort of impression. That, and the way she’d almost been gliding with the speed of her pace.

The movement reminds Vanessa of her, and a bolt of fear spikes through her at the thought as she spins around to look behind her, still moving. What was she doing here? Vanessa’s holding up her end of the deal, why would she–

The woman is gone.

There’s no sign that anyone had passed her, no trace of anyone having ever been in the garden, and Vanessa is still trying to come up with an explanation for it when she does actually crash into someone.

She nearly falls over with the force of their collision, the person she’s practically run into head first surprisingly sturdy. She makes an undignified yelp as she leaps back, desperately trying to regain her footing and schooling her expression into something that isn’t the panic currently crawling through her limbs like ants. Hands suddenly grip her biceps, effectively pinning her in place, and Vanessa’s stomach drops down to somewhere around her ankles. Only a guard could possibly have a hold this strong, and one guard always means more to come.

“I knew it,” someone hisses, and Vanessa’s heart rate spikes dramatically. Fuck. She’s completely screwed, and she hasn’t even made it to the right side of the castle yet.

She’s starting to think that she never will.

“No,” she says automatically, struggling, but the guard only squeezes tighter. Vanessa tries to slow her breathing in a vain effort to not look like she’s been caught with her hand in the goddamn cookie jar, and she stills, raising her eyes up to meet the guard’s coolly and calmly, an explanation on the tip of her tongue.

Relief floods through her veins the moment her eyes meet cool blue, however, and it severs her excuse at the root, her voice bubbling up in a relieved laugh instead.

“Miss Brooke,” she says, unable to keep the relief out of her tone. “I thought you was a guard.”

Brooke raises a cool eyebrow, her expression hard. “A guard?” her tone is suspicious, and Vanessa raises her eyebrows at her, plastering an innocent expression over her face, like she doesn’t quite understand what Brooke is getting at.

“Who else would be grabbin’ me?” she asks. “Besides you, apparently.”

She glances pointedly at where Brooke is still holding her, her eyes flickering back up to Brooke’s for her response. She’s suddenly all too aware of how close they are, close enough that Vanessa can smell the rose perfume on Brooke’s skin, see the way the moonlight shines through her blue eyes like glass. Her breath catches, and Brooke’s stutters and she’s suddenly releasing Vanessa like she’s just been burned, taking several steps back. Vanessa can only watch her, her heart pounding like she’s just run a marathon.

“Worried about being caught?” Brooke asks, and her voice only wavers slightly. Vanessa barks a laugh. She’s normally good under pressure, but she’s sweating like a man on death row. What the fuck is happening to her?

“Doing what?” she asks, looking at Brooke like she’s stupid, even if she’s clearly the opposite. “Lookin’ at the roses?”

“Yvie doesn’t keep roses,” Brooke says flatly. “She thinks they’re tacky.”

Vanessa should have known that. She does know that. It just hasn’t been important for years. “Tulips, then. Does it matter?”

“It matters that you don’t seem to know what you’ve been looking at for the past fifteen minutes.”

Vanessa blinks. “I’ve been gone that long?” It had felt more like ten.

“Give or take.”

“Well. The garden’s bigger than I thought.”

Brooke’s eyebrow twitches imperceptibly. “The garden, or the castle?”

Vanessa meets her stare easily. “The garden.”

Brooke breathes in through her nose. Her expression is unmoving, but she’s still giving off the impression that she’s about to snap. “I don’t trust you.”

Vanessa huffs disbelievingly, her laugh so soft it’s barely a puff of air. “Yvie trusts me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Anger suddenly balloons in Vanessa’s chest, the truth of the comment wedging between her ribs like a knife. Yvie does trust her, and both she and Brooke know it. They also both know that trust is going to be broken. Vanessa resents her for it.

“Yvie knows me,” she hisses. “Since we were kids. Shouldn’t you trust her?”

“It’s been twelve years,” Brooke says flatly. “Something tells me you’ve changed a little.”

A lot.

“Not so much that I can’t be trusted,” Vanessa says, and Brooke just looks at her. Vanessa steels herself against her stare, holding her head high and stubbornly refusing to look behind her, to check if she isn’t still there.

A sudden bolt of panic lights up within her at the reminder, and her eyes flick to the doorway just behind Brooke’s shoulder. She’s running out of time.

She racks her brain for solutions, turning back to Brooke and holding her stare. There’s no way Brooke is letting her continue on her own. She’s paranoid to a fault - not that it’s a fault, in this case. Vanessa needs to shake her, somehow, scrape her off of her like gum off of a shoe.

“I need to use the ladies room,” she says, and Brooke looks a little startled. She’d clearly expected more of a fight. “Can you lead me to one?”

“Again?” Brooke asks suspiciously. Vanessa shakes her head.

“I got lost trying to find it,” she explains. “Can’t do that again with a guide, though.”

Brooke takes a moment to think about it, and Vanessa uses the time to admire her as she stands in the moonlight, her hair nearly white where the light shines off of it. She’s tall and broad, with strong shoulders and a collarbone on full display in her sleeveless gown. Her arms are well-toned - she’s clearly been trained in combat. Vanessa wonders what sort of kingdom she comes from, if they train her in that. It’s attractive. She wants to run her fingers over that collarbone, wants Brooke to pick her up with those arms and just–

“Fine,” Brooke says shortly, and Vanessa knows she jolts like she’s just been electrocuted, but she can’t help it. Brooke frowns at her. “Follow me.”

She turns, and Vanessa lets out a relieved breath as she leads her towards the doorway behind her, her dress almost ethereal in the silver light of the moon. Vanessa wonders if she looks just as beautiful, despite her yellowed shirt and scuffed boots. Maybe she looks dead, like the songs say the cursed look when the moon shines on them.

It’s just a myth, obviously, but sometimes Vanessa does feel dead, like her entire life has been signed away.

If you get this Cup, she tells herself, it won’t be.

Once inside, Brooke leads her up the hall and to the left, just a few turns away from the tower housing the Cup of Peace. She gestures towards an old oak door, her gaze slightly softened from what it had been in the garden. Vanessa feels like she could look at her for hours.

“Thanks,” she says, and she opens the door. Brooke catches her arm as she starts to slip inside, making a thousand tiny lightning bolts spark across her skin.

“Five minutes,” she says sternly. “Then we’re going back to the party.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vanessa says, only a little sarcastically. She salutes Brooke with her free hand, and then she’s stepping inside of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her and locking it with a snick.

She takes a moment to calm herself down, leaning back against the door and staring at the mirror across the room. She looks out of place against the white of the walls, her dark hair in knots and random braids, and the kohl she’d smeared across her eyes yesterday smudged to absolute fuck.

She thinks that the softer look in Brooke’s eyes might have been trust. The thought makes something in her stomach pang, and she ruthlessly smothers it down, guilt threatening to bubble up to the surface. She hadn’t been expecting to break the trust of two people.

She sucks in a deep breath. Her freedom is worth more than Yvie’s feelings, much less Brooke’s. She’d made that decision twelve years ago, and she’ll gladly make it again.

She straightens, adjusting her jacket and admiring herself in the mirror. She tilts her hat, allowing the blood red of her bandana a little bit of spotlight. She’s a pirate. She steals. She’s good at it. She just needs to remember that.

She gives herself one last nod in the mirror, and she steps towards the wall to her right, pressing her hand to the shelf there. The wall swings open, revealing a dim passageway lit by flickering torches. She knows it will curve back around, leading right to the staircase leading up towards the top of the tower.

Brooke had led her right where she’d wanted to go, and with less hassle than if she’d snuck here alone.

She’ll have to remember to send her a thank you note.

[maximumninjavoid]

Mining for Unobtanium Chapter 28

Oh ho......... Why yes, I am.  And here’s some more for you thirsty wenches. The twenty Eight installment of my fic. I know, right? I just can’t stop.

Un Beta’s, we die like chocolate in a child’s pocket.

The usual warnings, I suppose18 AND OVER, nsfw,  BDSM and all that,

Dinner was lovely. The roast turned out perfectly, precisely mid rare, and while Henry wasn't looking someone must have given Kal  trimmings. I have no idea who that could have been. Oh. I imagine you're wondering about whether or not we talked about ethical ownership over dinner. We didn't. Someone was still butt hurt  that the whole cock warming  thing didn't go the way he had read about it. When there's no friction, even as randy of a buck as he is, one's member won't stay throbbing and tumescent. And if I'm not supposed to move, well, then, that's less friction. So,it sounded good in theory, but it was not as fun as he thought, having me kind of in his way and not really getting any benefit. I could sort of sense that it wasn't entirely what he had planned, and so, good girl that I was being, I got up, apologizing profusely for OBVIOUSLY doing something incorrectly, and laying myself face down over his lap for *correction*. We're always at least three steps ahead of you. Don't kid yourselves. He place one hand between my shoulder blades and told me to count and that other hand came down on my ass like a big meaty brick. "One, Sir". He smacked my ass again. "Two, Sir" I could feel him getting hard now, so I squirmed and wiggled, because, friction. He slipped his hand between my cheeks and commented about how this was getting me wet, and smacked my ass again and then fingered my cunt. "Three, Sir, I'm sorry" and I can feel my walls gripping his fingers, and I'm thinking maybe he's not thinking about spanking me anymore. As sure as God made little green apples, he grabs a fist full of my hair, right at the base, oh GOD THAT FEELS so good, I moaned and he practically tosses me over the arm of the sofa and jams that huge dick all the way home, one stroke. I gasped. Ok, maybe I screamed. But, not in a bad way, and he had one hand at my waist the other in my hair and I was definitely going to be walking differently Every snap of his hips shoved his cock to my cervix, and threatened to split me in two. And I kept trying to push back for more. "Oh God Daddy, please..." "Please, what?" Please let me cum all over your cock, Daddy" "You're forgiven darling, cum for Daddy." And I came apart, Shuddering, tears, unglued. And he roared like some animal, and I felt him pulsing ropes of his seed into me, and he collapsed on top of me like a weighted blanket with hair.  This was heaven, surely. Consciousness returned. He got up, I moved to get something to clean up with, I brought him a drink and a damp towel, because, service. I asked permission to check on dinner and popped out for a few drags off a cigarette. I plated and served dinner and returned to tell him that his dinner was ready. There was only his place set at the table. He gave me that eyebrow thing again. "Assumptions, remember? It may not be my place to dine with you. What if you were having guests? What if you preferred I sit at your feet and eat only what you feed me from your hand? " "If I have guests?" "Sir. If you wished it, I would cook for guests. And serve." "Wearing what you're wearing now?" "That would be your choice, and I'm not wearing anything now. I could wear only what you allow, choose or what you tell me." It was a bit to process. He bade me get a plate and eat with him, and we talked about the scripts, and the music I had picked and he didn't appear to want to talk about heavier things. So we had a delightful dinner, filled with small talk. It was comfortable and I enjoyed every minute I spent in his company. He was so well versed, about so many topics. I tried to tempt him with dessert. I should have known he would refuse. I sent him off to relax and do whatever and I did the washing up, tidied up the kitchen and asked if he wanted tea or coffee. He asked me to come sit with him, and I did. Happily. We watched a movie, cuddled on the couch, heaven. I asked to get up for a moment, he nodded. I got upstairs before he did and turned down the bed. I fluffed his pillows and smoothed the duvet, and went back down to tell him that all was ready for him to retire, unless there was anything else. Did he want a bath? A massage?  He looked at me and took my hand and said " Come darling, let's go to bed" I followed him, with my hand in his, We got to the bed and I asked his permission.  "What?"   " Well, you didn't say that this is where I sleep. If you'd prefer, I could sleep at the foot of the bed, or, if I had not earned it, then I should sleep on the floor. One never assumes. Privileges are gifts." " You really ARE a good girl, aren't you? I'm never going to get to spank you again " " Not for disobeying, no. But I am yours to do with as you see fit. If you desire to spank me, or flog me, or what have you, you don't need a reason." "Well there's my plan for tomorrow then" and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me thoroughly.  We got into bed all wrapped up in each other, Kal making room for himself and safe and happy I drifted off to sleep. I awoke the next morning melting. Between the blast furnace that was Henry and the baby bear known as Kal I swear, I was going to melt. I had to figure out how to get out from between them, one of them tightened their grip and the other one made a growly noise. I pried his arm loose and inelegantly slid out of the bottom of the bed. I headed for the shower and my morning routine, and managed not to wake either bear. I tiptoe downstairs, made coffee and brought a cup for him and set it on the nightstand. I couldn't help myself. I just stood there and looked at him. Committed it to memory. Tried to burn it into my brain. I thought about waking him up with a blow job, but figured Kal needed to go out . I tossed on a hoodie and jeans and took the puppy for his morning ritual. When I got back, I took off my clothes, put them away and brought fresh coffee for His Lordship.  He was in the shower, so I stepped in to wash his back. "Good morning ! Did you sleep well?" "Mmm yes, I did but it was odd waking up in the bed by myself" "Oh, do tell? Hot and cold running starlets Sir?" He laughed."No, I was referring to Kal. And you, of course." "Oh, I melted. You both throw off a great deal of heat. " He turned and kissed me. I put my arms around his neck, and came in closer, loving the feel of his chest against mine, the hair on this chest making my nipples hard. I slid down the front of him taking him in my mouth and cupping his balls with my hand . Eagerly I began to slide my mouth up and down his member, loving the feel of him growing as I sucked. He leaned back against the tile and held my face in his hands . I looked up at him and he began to fuck my face. Breathe through your nose, if you don't breathe through your nose on the down stroke you'll gag, and that's NOT sexy. I tried to relax and take him deeper down my throat but the angle wasn't great. I settled for wrapping my other hand around what wouldn't fit and trying to coordinate my movements. He began thrusting faster, and I felt his muscles tense. Protein for breakfast. My favorite! I ducked out of the shower, dried myself and had a towel waiting to hand him, brought his coffee in from the bedroom, kissed his shoulder and asked what he wanted for breakfast and when. " My God, woman, you spoil me so. I could get used to this." After breakfast we started playing with toys. We went through a bunch of impact toys, floggers of various weights and feels, stingy, thuddy, canes, paddles, from neck to knees I was quite marked. We did a bit with different kinds of restraint, but I admit, I'm not that great of a teacher. Bondage and restraint has never been my thing. In between toys, or implements, Henry was very sweet and caring, telling me how good I did and being very affectionate. It was loads of fun, really. I don't bottom that often, he's a very apt pupil, I was so incredibly turned on. My thighs were shiny with arousal, I swear, if he'd have so much as looked at me right, I would have cum without him touching me. My cunt was throbbing and it was all I could do not to try and squeeze one off. There were a couple of bumps, I suppose. I mean, I expected them, really. Henry really liked caning. I don't know if it's cultural, or a boarding school thing, but he really liked it. He probably would have loved it more if he got to push my skirt up over my hips and yank down my knickers, but he was SO enthusiastic, that I wound up with some really nasty ugly bruises a day or two later. Remember, canes, that's deep tissue bruising, hard to see immediate results.  Luckily I'm an indestructible old beast, and the wince when I sat just made me wet. Henry felt terrible, poor dear. That wasn't the bad one. The bad one was my four foot signal whip. It had been hand made for me, always behaved like an extension of my arm. But while I call it a toy, that's a weapon. I mean, I have other weapons in my toy bag. Knives, scalpels, needles, but Henry was really drawn to this whip. We negotiated. I walked him through its use, we discussed where not to strike, we talked about how that crack is the end of the whip breaking the sound barrier, and I put a brand new cracker on it, in case he broke skin. Because, no blood transfer. We aren't fluid bonded in that way. He was doing really well, and I was really enjoying that fiery kiss of each strike. I knew I'd have some lovely marks, too.  But then Gigantor leaned into one. Doesn't really know his own strength. It's not his fault. But the whip did what the whip does, and opened up a three inch slice on my hip, and you could see meat. That was going to leave a Mark. Henry dropped the whip and rushed to me, taking me down from the frame we had fashioned. I was according to him a bit pale. He scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom and cleaned up the wound. I bit my lip and didn't scream, but I knew he was going to have difficulties moving forward. I'm on bloodthinners. And I knew it wasn't going to stop easily. He applied pressure and I told him why it wasn't working properly and where the steri strips were in my things. He's got great hands. He really does. Handles himself well in a crisis. Very solid. So I'm all put back together and now he's fussing. He's taking care of me, while I should still be taking care of him. Haven't let me get up, much less do anything, and he's really being way too hard on himself for something that frankly could have happened to anyone. "Henry. HENRY. Darling boy, STOP." And with that tone of voice ,he stopped, and the control was once again not his. " Come here, please, love" Henry came and sat next to me. "I'm sorry. I apologize for 'pulling rank' but I couldn't get you to stop fussing. Please, love. I'm fine. I promise. I won't ever lie to you. This is not that kind of a relationship. In fact, I've quite fallen for you, and that is going to hurt worse than this oops ever could. Why you've stolen my heart Cavill. And every minute that I have with you is a precious gift. Please, STOP berating yourself. Everyone, and I mean everyone had a story like this to tell. Now you have yours. It's a rite of initiation I  guess. If you meet someone down the road and they say they're one of us, ask them for their oops story. If they don't have one, they've never played." " Now if I were a horrid human, I'd pout and say you should take pity on me and feed me, and then make love to me to make it all better, but ill settle for help me up so I can go to the bathroom and freshen up?"

@fishcustardandclintbarton @indigosaurus @whyyoudothistomecavill @michellemybelles-world @henrythickcavill @angryschnauzer @littlefreya

[dayasbun]

Fame - Angus Cloud (2)

Summary- a luckily timed audition leads to you falling for your new and unexpected co-star.

Warnings- okay HI welcome to my first multi chapter series woah?! this is actually so exciting for me like wow especially since angus doesn't have any fics yet im just really really excited- so warnings! smut for sure, bad words, lotsa fluff, angst- everything in one basically. here comes a ride and I hope you enjoy :)

Part 1

Part 2 {reading now}

-

You didn't do happy dances often, because usually there weren't many things that made you happy enough to dance for. But when you woke up after having the most splendid dream to an email that read:

'Hello Ms. Y/F/N Y/L/N, and thank you for applying for the role as Jess. We have reviewed your audition tape and were quite pleased with what we saw. For the next step in the hiring process, we ask that you come to the same site yet again today at 3 PM for a go through with your possible costar, without the script. If that time isn't good for you, please return this email in its entirety so that we can reschedule, and if the time sounds good we can't wait to see you today. Thank you.'

...a happy dance seemed to be necessary, right?

Your excitement bubbled as you put on a light pink crop and a pair of simple blue jean shorts. The look was overall simple- too simple for you, so you decided to top it off with a few hair-clips, a coat of lip gloss on your lips, and lastly some sweet-smelling lotion on your bare arms and legs.

It seemed as though 3 came quickly, but you made sure you were there by 2:50. 'Better to be early than late', you always told yourself. You always stuck by that.

Walking into the building with your pink jelly wedges clicking against the marble floor you signed in. To your surprise, they called you in at 2:55, earlier than you were expecting.

"Y/N! Punctual and looking gorgeous as usual," said one of the co-producers, Mary, and to your surprise she greeted you with a hug. She was the woman that showed the most hospitality to you through out the time you had been auditioning, a sweet, short little woman that smelled like this mornings coffee.

"Aw thank you, you're so sweet," you smiled letting off of the hug and readjusting the crop.

"So Angus is running a bit late, it happens a lot so feel free to sit over there with the other girls and we'll just see where this takes you guys sound good?"

You wondered how he was running late when it was only 2:57, but you just agreed with a smile and walked over to sit with a small group of girls. All of them glared at you as you sat down, so you decided to weigh out the competition.

You weren't one to judge- or you tried not to be- but god these girls were bland. No hair-clips, no lip gloss- not even a smile. Almost all of them wore the same, a white button up blouse with black slacks, black ballet flats, and kept their hair tied back with a colorful scrunchie. Blonde, with perfectly painted nails and you would bet money they had pedicures to match. There was nothing wrong with them, but they seemed to not know how to have fun from the energy they were giving off, and how boring it must be to have no fun. You honestly almost couldn't help but to feel worried though, was there a dress code in the email that you missed?

More girls began to filter in as the next 10 minutes passed, at least some of them seemed to actually have a personality.

"Okay well imma call you back, I got some business to do- oh you know it you feel me!? Nah wit' the show, like auditioning with all these girls or sum. Yeah okay bet imma call you later anyway, bye."

3:13.

"Angus, you're late." Mary spoke up with a sigh, "I don't want any excuses from you, lets kick this into high gear shall we?"

"Who was giving excuses though like... I just be cancelling my alarm, nobody got time for waking up before 2:45 anyway."

That made you laugh a bit, and apparently louder than you expected, because the whole room, Angus included turned their heads to look at you. Mary shook her head and just looked at the list she held, and you lowered your eyes to look down at the carpeting. "Alright let's start. Girls exit the room, the auditions are one on one with just us, you, and Angus to avoid pressure and judgment."

You all stood up, heading towards the door to pile out.

"Y/N, stay."

Why'd you feel like you were about to get in trouble for laughing or some shit?

You turned around and walked to the center of the room by Angus, but you didn't look up at him. You could feel him watching you and considering you had no idea what he was thinking, you hated it.

"Well you two know what to do, start when you feel comfortable. Y/N has the first line."

You turned your body towards him and looked up, he was a lot taller than you...you felt like a little person.

Before you got too flustered, you let out a shaky breath and started. "But baby, come on you can do so much more, you can- we can travel the world or some corny shit like that, that's what you always wanted to do when we were kids. You don’t have to sell, and we can bring Ash with u-"

"Yeah well we ain't kids no more. Traveling takes money, I put all I got into stuff that's actually useful. I shoulda never gotten attached to you and shit again, damn you always do this."

"Fez..." your voice softened as you remembered this part of the script: 'Jess stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around Fez's neck, pulling him down to her. Fez places his hands on her waist and...'

You did as the script said and he did as well. Feeling his hands on your bare waist you looked into his eyes- they were quite gorgeous- and continued on. "You say you want me but you don't act upon it. How am I supposed to be here if you don't open up to me-"

He let go of you and rolled his eyes, "Girl I got shit to do. So you can leave if you finna do allat."

"For fucks SAKE you're- God you're just frustrating! What do you have to do? Go sell? Go talk to Mouse and risk your goddamn life again because there's a drop of blood on money that you stole?! Its so hard to love you and you don't get that!"

"Its hard to love me? Me? Come on. How hard do you think it is to love a bitch with daddy issues that wants to watch Sailor Moon every night- I hate that shit! But I watch it for you- and you just complain about your dad not loving you and how he never coming back? Well maybe you should realize that shits true and move on from it all you do is-"

Your eyes begin to fill with tears and you immediately turned to walk away but were quickly pulled back into Angus- excuse me, Fez’s chest, your back against him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that shit."

You elbowed him in the chest- softly- causing him to groan and let go "You know you meant it. That's it Fez, I'm done." You walked away slowly ruffling your hair-

"Scene! Holyyyyyy wow that was amazing! The passion- are you guys sure you've never acted together before?"

You turned around jokingly bowing as you wiped your tears from the corners of your eyes. Angus laughed and came over to you shaking your hand. "You're good. I like yo' energy too, I hope to see you around set or sum."

You swallowed thickly, if you got this role you could not be this nervous around him everyday.

"It's not hard when I'm acting with someone so talented." You said softly, letting go of his hand after he shook it. He smiled with a chuckle "Thank you, thank you."

There was a strange tension between you two- why? You didn't know exactly, but you knew it wasn't only on your end. You thanked everyone for their time and they said they'd keep in touch. With one last glance at Angus- who had never stopped looking at you- you gave him a gentle smile and then walked out.

You rushed to the bathroom and into a stall, letting out a breath you didn't even know you had been holding in. You thought everything over, the tension, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the look of approval Mary had on her face when you two finished. You'd surprisingly never felt more confident about a role you'd tried out for, and due to that you couldn't seem to stop smiling.

[uniqueleewritten]

Little Monster: Movie Trailer (script)

Finally making this little snippet public! I really wish I had the time to work on this, though if someone commissioned the first chapter of this I wouldn't be mad, even if it would be burying me in more work.

This is not a full fic, it's just a synopsis/ snippet of the fic written as if I was writing a movie trailer for the actual fic. That's confusing I know but I swear it makes sense to me. It's not super long and I'm really proud of it so give it a read!

I had no Betas for this so there are probably a few errors here and there, sorry about that.

She was taking a drink when she heard the noise, a simple sound, a rattling. Some else would just think it's an animal, something in the garbage outside maybe, she knows better.

She clicks her tongue before tossing her long dark brown hair over her shoulder, regretting that she had freed the mess from its braid earlier. She raises her glass and gulps down the juice before chucking the glass against the wall, shattering it completely.

Her body moves quickly, pulling her gun from its holster that was draped across her chair and faces the intruder. Standing there, slowly coming out of the shadows of the hallway is Nick Fury, staring her down with one eye.

He raises an eyebrow at her before motioning towards the gun.

She clicks her tongue again.

"You're needed with us at S.H.I.E.L.D." He tells her, sitting down at the table, a glass of juice in front of him, and the carton in front of her.

"Why should I, Fury?" she asks him

"Because it's the right thing to do."

She laughs at him, cold and dead, but a laugh nonetheless.

"'The right thing' huh? You've gotten funny in old age Fury."

She's riding a motorcycle, sans helmet, down a highway road. She moves past trees, still bright and green. As she moves past the background changes, the trees are orange and the leaves are flying around her. The background changes again, she's driving through a desert. Once more the background changes, she's driving past snow-covered hills.

She's standing now, pointing a gun at someone, frowning most likely at their words. She pulls the trigger. Once. Twice. Again and again and again. She's going to do it again but she turns, just her head as her gun stays pointed at the person. She shoots the person, their blood splattering over her before she opens her mouth, her eyes are lifeless.

"Hey Cap," she says, bitter and resigned all at once.

"He wouldn't want you doing this." Captain America says, eyes sad as he looks at her.

"No, he wouldn't." The grief is clear in her voice.

"Look, Fury, I don't give a fuck what you want from me. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't find him and neither can I but I sure as hell ain't stopping."

She's killing, the gun firing, the bullets falling, the blood spraying. She's not sad, she's not resigned, she's not lifeless. She's wild. She's unstoppable. She's angry.

"Those monsters have had him for almost 10 years now." She yells, her fist slamming down on the table, teeth ground together, eyes wet with tears at the thoughts racing through her mind.

A body, floating, trapped, in a tube chamber, wires coming out from them, a breathing mask over their face.

"Who knows what the hell they've done to him." She's ignoring the tears down her face, letting the anger, the rage is what drives her instead.

"Look here little girl," someone speaks, an agent or an avenger, she doesn't know, she doesn't care. the anger takes over.

She's in a conference room with the avengers, Fury, and Hill. She's up, pointing a gun at him before Hill or Widow can point at her.

"I can kill everyone in this room before they get three bullets into me and you know it, Nick. My father never wanted this life for me. But you, you and your fucking organization COULDN'T FIND HIM!"

A shot of a little girl standing in front of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent holding a piece of paper. the agent is patting her on the back trying to comfort her. She runs outside and hides. she stares at the paper wiping at her tears.

"My mother died before I could ever know her because you couldn't keep her safe. My dad gave me to S.H.I.E.L.D. hoping I would be happy and safe but HOW THE FUCK am I supposed to be happy when my dad has been missing for almost my entire life?"

A different room, a workshop, a mechanic's room. Tools are thrown around everywhere, vials of a red liquid are behind glass casings. There is an Ant-man and a Wasp suit on display, behind a thick wall of glass.

A woman with a dark smudge across her face while dressed in overalls and gloves comes to greet them, her wrench still in her hand.

"Hi, I'm Cassandra Lang, Stinger."

Cassandra Lang is dressed in the Stinger outfit, her wings slightly smaller than Wasp's and the yellow of her outfit slightly brighter, shrinking and de-shrinking quickly. Knocking appoints out while using a repertoire of gadgets to incapacitate them or to tie them up.

She's shrinking to go fit inside of machines, disarming them before the enemy knows what's happening. She is very clearly Ant-man and the Wasp's apprentice.

A figure flying past skyscrapers, a dark suit, and the backlight keeping their identity in the shadows. But the people of New York know that form, know the way he jumps and dives and flips. Knows the way if they yell for him he will help. Knows that he stands on top of the roofs, keeping them all safe.

Spider-Man in his signature black and red suit, looking up at the night sky, his fists clenched at his sides.

"The first Spider-Man-" He starts, the light of the conference room he's in is being swallowed up by his suit. There is no fading it's coloring.

"He died, years ago." Cassie interrupts, trying to spare the man any more grief but not understanding.

"They never, never, found his body. It's out there somewhere, in who knows' whose hands."

Spider-man is standing atop the statue the people had made, had called it art, and demanded it never be taken down. It's Spider-man but not the one who stands before New York. The statue is of the one who stood there all those years ago. The one who saved them before anyone else thought too. The friendly neighborhood kid who they heard and watched grow up.

The one they now all grieved over. Spider-man was a part of New York and the people watched as his successor grieved with them. Cassandra Lang couldn't begin to understand, the loss of a hero, the grief that comes from loving them, that never goes away. Not truly.

A tube chamber, light glowing purple around the body, the wires, and mask hiding any features they could be made. The body does not move, it's just suspended there, held up by the wires and tubing. The glow fades and so does the body.

"You think you would give up by now Fury. Been trying to get me to stop for how long now?"

"Eleanor" Maria Hill starts, lowering her gun, eyes filled with sympathy. An emotion Ellie didn't know the woman still possessed. "We have a lead."

Ellie's face crumples into anguish.

The purple glow is back once more, surrounding the tube chamber in its light. The wires and tubes are wrapped around the body, it's impossible to make out any features. Their mouth is opened, bubbles are swirling into the liquid surrounding them. They must be screaming.

Ellie and Cassie are shaking hands, Spider-man hanging above them, the entire room of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents surrounding them, waiting. Treating the two women as if they were caged lions about to fight each other.

"Eleanor Camacho, Monster," Ellie tells her, amused at the agents surrounding them.

"Like Little Monster!?"

"Trying to drop the "little" bit."

"Oh man, I get you," Spider-man says to them. "Took forever for people to stop calling me Spider-kid."

Spider-man, Ellie, and Cassie are inside of Cassie's workshop. Cassie was packing pieces up, cases, and cabinets of the lab shrinking all around them. She was easily sliding them in various cases or clipping them to keychains.

"I've never really worked with a team before," Ellie told them as they all stepped outside.

"That's ok," Cassie tells her, tossing a shrunken van in front of them. "I don't think we're really a team. At least not yet anyway."

She presses a button and the car changes to its full size.

"Man-" Spider-man starts. " No matter how many times I see it, that it's still so freakin' cool."

Spider-man is chilling on top of the van, bopping his head to the music as Cassie drives, following behind Ellie's motorcycle. Cassie grips the steering wheel tighter, frowning as she looks at the red glow of taillights.

Fury is handing her what seems to be a flash drive and is glaring down at it and in some way her.

"Remember what I said." He tells her. "Eleanor Camacho is in no world stable. She is to be considered a high-level threat. You are to keep her under control."

Ellie is driving ahead of the van, her sunglasses on, and her long braid whipping around in the wind. She tightens her grip on the handlebars as she makes the turns, her face stone as she thinks on the mission.

"I'm coming, dad." She thinks, taking the next turn with pure recklessness. "I'm gonna find you. I don't care that everyone says it's impossible. I'm Deadpool's kid, impossible is in the blood.

There's a man dressed in a long white lab coat, his glasses reflecting the purple glow, his wine glass glowing the same purple as the chamber. He smiles and takes a sip before looking back at the chamber. The glow begins to fade, the shadows devouring everything in sight.

"Hello Experiment L. Wonderful to see you awake finally."

[wittystarkk]

The Last Five Years || Bucky Barnes || Part Six

author: wittystarkk

word count: 3.8k

relationship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

chapter title: The Shmuel Song

A/N: Hello everyone! So - real quick. This is one of my all time favorite chapters of this fic. It’s cute and dumb and loving. I really hope that you enjoy it and I would love feedback! Thank you for reading. (-:

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Bucky’s head snapped up from his script the moment he heard (Y/N)’s keys in the door, the deadbolt sliding out of action. He stood from his seat on the lumpy, old red couch, throwing his script down onto the table. “Babe,” he greeted with a bright smile, watching her walk into the apartment. She looked pissed off. Her nose was flared and her eyes were narrowed, her shoulders slumped forward in exhaustion. The corners of his mouth pulled down in his best ‘yikes’ expression, looking her over from head to toe. “How was work?” He asked, though he knew the answer. 

“I hated it,” she declared in a voice that radiated the very anger he saw in her posture and on her face. “Stupid fucking bar.” She grumbled, walking around him and past the living room. She removed her jacket from her shoulders, throwing it on the couch just before she had cleared it. He bit his bottom lip, deciding to let her change out of her work clothes before he tried talking to her. He watched her discard her shoes by her side of the bed, his hand in his fist. She was storming around the apartment like she wanted to break something, or punch something at the very least. 

“You look very nice,” Bucky tried. She gave him a glare in response. 

She wrestled the belt out of her jeans and threw it on the floor beside the bed, huffing loudly. He watched her with raised eyebrows, wondering what her next move was going to be. “Did you get good tips at least?” He ventured, being met with a grunt. 

“Are you writing a book?” (Y/N) wondered, resting her hands on her hips. “Cause, if so. You should leave this chapter out.”

Bucky frowned, he hated when his girlfriend was snappily sarcastic with him. The two were at a standstill again. She returned to changing, and he was left standing there feeling kind of bad.

“Are you working on anything tonight?” He wondered, trying again to have a conversation with her. He knew when she got like this that it would be hard to pry her out of her angry mood. 

“Like what?” She asked.

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “Maybe that story you were writing the other night? Or that episode for that show you wanted to pitch? Maybe that scrap book your friend wanted?” He stopped offering ideas when she seemed more aggravated with him. She walked out of his line of sight and he was just about to follow after her when he heard something drop. She let out a scream of anger. Bucky bound towards the bedroom just as she was storming out of the bathroom, yanking a sweater on over her head. (Y/N) didn’t say a word to him, nearly bumping into him on her walk to the couch. She laid down on her side, facing the back of the couch. Bucky’s face fell as he watched his girlfriend tuck her arms against her chest, curling up against herself. He knew her working at the bar would end badly, and he hated that he was right. 

He crossed to the couch, leaning over to pick her legs up, moving them onto his own lap when he sat down. She grumbled something he couldn’t understand. “Don’t you have a thing sometime later this week? A pitch or something?”

“I’m not going,” her voice was half muffled by the couch and the sweater bunching up around her neck. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed, “why?”

“They’re not going to buy it,” she said, adjusting her legs on his lap, rolling over just enough to be able to look at him.

“Don’t say that,” he took a deep breath. “You know that it’s good, (Y/N). You’re just upset because you had a bad day at work.” Bucky began softly rubbing her leg, giving her calve a comforting squeeze. 

“I’m saying it because I suck.”

Bucky sighed heavily, squeezing her calve again. He lifted her leg, pressing a kiss just below her knee. “You don’t suck,” he reassured. He kissed her knee again, a smile on his lips. “Hey! I have a little surprise for you, in the form of a story.” 

“Baby, no, please.” 

“Come on,” he laughed, pushing her legs off of his lap to stand up.

“No, I’ve had such a shitty day,” (Y/N) whined, rolling over to her back. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching him sit down at her crafting table across the room from her. 

“I have been working on this for like, hours. So, you’re gonna sit up and listen to this for five minutes.” Bucky wrapped her measuring tape for fabrics around his neck, picking up a spindle of thread.

“You know,” (Y/N) cleared her throat. “You’re no writer or story teller, babe. You’re an actor. You remember that, right?” 

Bucky mockingly stuck his tongue out at his girlfriend, “I’ve learned a thing or two by being with you. Just. Give it a chance, okay?” 

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, “do I have a choice?” 

He laughed happily, “no. But don’t worry! It’s a Christmas story.. Sort of. You like Christmas. It’s the tale of Shmuel, the tailor from Klimovich.” 

“Is Klimovich a real place?” She snarked.

“Silence from the audience, please. Thank you,” Bucky cleared his throat. He took a second to continue, deepening his voice a tad. “Every day Schmuel would work until a little past ten at night in his little tailor shop -”

“In Klimovich?” (Y/N) interrupted, liking the way the word sounded.

“Hey, this isn’t a kindergarten group reading, babe. Keep it down.” 

She smirked, mouthing the word ‘sorry’.

Bucky nodded his acceptance of her apology, continuing with his story. He turned a little in his chair, fiddling with the fabric (Y/N) had draped over the body form she had standing in front of the desk. 

“Hey, don’t touch my things!” 

He sighed, putting his fingers to his lips. “Shmuel would sew and mend, his fingers knobby and rough from constantly handling pins. He had spent forty-one years in his little shop, creating things few could imagine him possible. He was an expert at his craft, a master some would say. He was showered with praise from anyone who purchased one of his suits, or had him alter someone else’s. He never once received a single complaint. Everyone thought Shmuel, the little old tailor, had everything he had ever wanted. But there was one thing Shmuel missed.”

“Babe,” she whined, wanting the story to end before it really began. Bucky ignored her in favor of continuing the story he’d worked so hard to come up with. 

“It was closing time at his little shop, and Shmuel was feeling particularly down about his life. You know, because when you’re old you get upset about things a lot.”

“Sounds like you,” she teased. 

“‘If I only had time’, old Shmuel said to his empty shop. The lights were all off except for the one above his sewing table. ‘I would give up the suits, and sew a dress. The gorgeous dress I’ve been thinking about for decades. A dress so beautiful it would light a fire in the hearts of any girl from here to Minsk. But I have no more time left to sew. ’ Shmuel hung his head, tears in the old man's eyes. He felt sad and remorseful over not being able to sew his dress.”

She rolled her eyes, “Klimovich and Minsk? Where the hell did you come up with these places?” He glared at her as she shifted from her back to her other side, propping her head on the arm of the couch to watch him as he mimicked what she could only assume were Shmuel’s actions. 

“Stop talking,” he repeated. She sighed, motioning with her hand for him to continue. “Just then, the clock on the wall began glowing. Shmuel grabbed at his chest in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing!” Bucky leaned back against the chair, holding his hand over his heart like an old man being terrified. “The clock cried out to Shmuel, “wait, Shmuel. I have heard your words, and I am going to grant you time. Unlimited time.” 

Bucky stood from the chair, picking up an umbrella. He stretched on arm above his head and held the other out, the umbrella gripped tightly in his hand. “I’m a magical clock,” he supplied for her. 

“I got that.” She looked him over. “You know, I’ve never been more attracted to you?” 

Bucky smirked, “hush.” He took a deep breath and straightened his posture. “The clocks hands began reversing.” He did a spin, conveying the clocks actions. “And it called to Shmuel, ‘go! Sew Shmuel. Sew the dress that’s in your head!” 

He dropped the umbrella to the floor, returning to sit down on the chair. He hunched his shoulders forward a bit to present himself as an older man. “Shmuel, believing he was going mad, shook his head at the clock. ‘No’, Shmuel had said. ‘No, it’s not right. I’ve got to accept the little time I’ve got.’ Shmuel looked at the clock that was on his wrist, seeing that it was once again the exact time to leave the shop. “‘Oh, look.’ Shmuel said. ‘It’s time to go’. And so he stood and began packing his things, but the clock wasn’t ready to give up!” 

He stood again, back hunched. He began picking up a few items from the desk, placing them into a small box. (Y/N) groaned, holding her hand out. “Why do all of my things have to come into this?” She complained. “Use your own stuff if you wanna tell some damn story.” 

He ignored her, finishing his process of packing up. “Shmuel finished packing up, ‘really it’s time I leave,’ Shmuel said again to the shop. ‘Goodnight, old Klimovich.’ Shmuel called out, pulling his coat onto his frail shoulders. He was nearly ready to go when the clock cried out ‘wait! Not yet!”

Bucky bent to grab the umbrella again, standing up straight. “Pretty good right?” He asked (Y/N), winking at her as he put his arms in the position for the clock. 

She scoffed, “I’m riveted.” 

He blew her a kiss, straightening his arms out. “The clock spoke loudly to Shmuel, ‘Even though you may not be the wisest, or the richest, you certainly are the finest man we have in Klimovich. Listen to me, Shmuel. Make the first stitch of the dress, and you’ll see that you will get what I have promised.” 

He dropped his arms back to his side, hiding the umbrella behind his back as he hunched over again, going back into his role of Shmuel. “Shmuel gave a sigh and shook his head, ‘clock.’ Shmuel said, ‘it’s gotten so late. It’s fine. I’m happy. I’ve made peace with my life, clock. I’ve accepted that this is my fate.” 

Bucky once again took on the posture of the clock, “the clock was growing frustrated with Shmuel. It wanted to convince him immediately and was beginning to find his reluctance headache inducing. The clock spoke to him again, ‘Shmuel. Just make one stitch, and you will unlock all of the dreams you have let slip through your fingers.’” 

He hunched over once again, “Shmuel gave in, deciding he was dreaming. That he had fallen asleep at his desk and that he should just entertain this stupid clock dream. He grabbed his thread, and a bolt of velvet, and settled down to get to work.” Bucky sat down in his chair, pantomiming Shmuel gathering his things. “As Shmuel prepared to start working he stopped and turned to the clock saying, ‘I sure hope I took out my teeth before I fell asleep. God, Shmuel. Dreaming of talking clocks’. And he would shake his head, and then for some reason I figured that the clock and Shmuel would dance.”

She shook her head quickly, “there isn’t a chance in hell I’m dancing with you.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, “I figured.” He grumbled, getting back into character. “Anyway, so Shmuel put the thread in the needle, and he got ready to sew. And the moon was full and bright and it was lighting up the whole shop from the big windows in the front, and there were no stars, which I only note because I saw it all in my head and you need to too.”

“I couldn’t care less, baby. But. Continue, please.”

“Anyway. He began sewing the black velvet into this gorgeous gown that I’m sure women would fight each other for. And the clock was reversing rapidly, minutes rewinding the entire time Shmuel worked. You know, like VHS tapes? That was the clock. And Shmuel was so concentrated he couldn’t even bother looking back at the clock to see that it was real. That time really was going back.”

Bucky sounded a little breathless after rambling but continued nevertheless. “Shmuel cut pieces of lace and attached them to the dress, adding buttons and ribbons in the back to make that - that kind of - what the hell are those things called?”

“Corset?” She supplied and he gave her a big, thankful smile. 

“He added buttons and ribbons to create the corset in the back of the dress, and the entire time the world was continuing to wind back.” Bucky motioned for (Y/N) to sit up, which she did just out of curiosity for what he would do. He gave her a smile as he draped garland around her neck, smiling at his decorated girl. He grabbed bows from the desk that were meant for presents, attaching them to the garland. “I’m decorating you, like the dress.” Bucky explained, kissing her nose. She gave him an amused smile, going along with his weird antics.  

Bucky took a deep breath, delving back into his story. “Anyway. Every single thing Shmuel did to this dress was like it had been destined by God. And it was perfect. Every cut and stitch was made without a single error. Shmuel had never sewn something as effortlessly in his entire life. It was clear to him that this was meant to be. In a fit of amazement, Shmuel realized that time was turning back. He began crying and he shouted to the clock, ‘take me back! Take me back all forty-one years!” Bucky held his hands out in front of him as if he were begging with all of his might. She had to hand it to him, he was a decent actor.

“It went on and on in the small little shop on that silent little street in Klimovich. The clock reversing as Shmuel worked and sweat and cried over his gown. And of course, Shmuel took his time making sure that not a single swatch of fabric or inch of thread went to waste as he perfected his dress.” Bucky turned, removing a sheet from the wall that (Y/N) hadn’t even noticed before. “The sun began rising on that endless night, as Shmuel stretched his body. He was finally finished with this dress, this magnificent dress.” Bucky leant under the desk, plugging in a cord. The wall that had been previously covered with a sheet lit up. Strings of Christmas lights had been tacked up onto the wall in the most hodgepodge of way, and all (Y/N) could do was smile. 

Bucky removed the tape measure from around his neck, dropping it back to the desk. He smoothed his fingers through his hair, breathing in deeply. He could feel his mouth beginning to get a little dry. He reached his hands out to (Y/N), who took a moment before reluctantly giving in, allowing him to pull her up from the couch. He spun her a little before holding her close to him, swaying ever so slightly while he continued his tale. “Shmuel at last was finally happy, finally felt complete. He’d managed to sew 41 years worth of dreams into the seams of that dress. Dreams that Shmuel could feel were beginning to become real, just as the clock promised. He had done it. He’d finally accomplished the one thing he’d always held himself back from. He’d finally made it. His perfect, wonderful dress.”

Bucky kissed (Y/N) softly on the lips, rubbing his thumb over her cheek before letting her go. He motioned for her to sit on the bench before the bed, thankful that their studio apartment was small and practically completely open. She obediently did so, gripping onto the edge of the bench while he busied himself with the rest of his story. “This was the dress that he’d labored over for more hours than anyone would ever know, thanks to the clock of course. A dress that had been in his head since he was a boy. The dress was Shmuel’s true masterpiece. Anyone who looked at that dress would have fallen madly in love.” 

He winked at her, reaching beside the fireplace to produce another string of Christmas lights which he began wrapping around the body form. “And according to the papers this was the very dress that a young girl in Odessa wore on the day she got married to a young man named Shmuel.  A man who she vowed to love for the rest of her life.” Bucky shrugged, “I heard that it was a beautiful ceremony.” He plugged the end of the light strand into the wall, letting the body form light up. 

Bucky stood beside the body form with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling lovingly at (Y/N). She couldn’t help but return his smile, her eyes a little watery at the effort the love of her life had put into this work of fiction. “That was pretty good,” she acknowledged. “A little choppy, but it was fun.” She joked, smiling the entire time she’d spoken. 

“I’m not done yet,” Bucky informed her. “Many had hoped and dreamed and even prayed to any higher power to get out of their small town of Klimovich. Though, they never could seem to get away. Could never get their break, could never escape their home.” Bucky closed the distance between him and (Y/N), kneeling down in front of her. “You know? I think that if Shmuel had been a cute girl, he’d have looked a hell of a lot like you.”

(Y/N) gasped, eyes going wide. “I’m Shmuel?” 

Bucky nodded, laughing a bit. “Oh, yeah.”

(Y/N) glared at him, pointing at her own chest. “I’m not the girl from Odessa?” She asked, having assumed the entire time that Bucky would have been Shmuel. That this story would have ended with him saying that was just his way of telling her he loved her. She felt a tad embarrassed. 

“Maybe it’s because you’re afraid to go out on to a limb-ovich?” Bucky tried, pleased when (Y/N) laughed, her face losing the shock it had just held. “No?” He asked.

“No,” (Y/N) confirmed. 

He shook his hand dismissively. “Maybe it’s because your heart’s completely in it, but you know, maybe your brain just can’t follow through?” Bucky sighed, taking (Y/N)’s hand in his own. “But baby.. Shouldn’t I want the world to see the brilliant, and gorgeous girl that inspires me every single day?” 

(Y/N) bit on her lip, watching him carefully. She knew where he was headed and she was less than prepared. “Bucky,” she whispered, trying to stop the course of this conversation. 

“Don’t you think now’s a good time to be the ambitious freak you are, (Y/N)? C’mon. You can’t keep wiping ashtray’s at the bar. You can’t continue temping, baby. You’re so much better than that. You’re so talented it’s insane. Someone has to see that, acknowledge that. You know? Stop letting yourself get discouraged. Stop getting in your own beautiful little head and telling yourself you aren’t good enough. You’ve got to believe in yourself, babe. You know I do.” He brought her hand up to his lips, placing a kiss to the back of it. “C’mon,” he said, standing up with her. He lifted her by her hips, placing her onto her feet on the bench. “Say hello to (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), a big time novelist.” He held his arms out, mocking the cheers of a crowd. 

(Y/N) laughed, hiding her face in embarrassment. “Bucky,” she said in between laughs, finally giving in. She shook her head, arms stretching out to her sides. She stuck her tongue out at him before bowing to him, pretending to accept a bouquet of roses. Bucky clapped for her, shaking his head at her theatrics. “You’re a ham,” he declared, holding his hands out to her to help her down from the bench. 

When she was on her feet in front of him he pecked her nose. “Here,” he said, turning from her to grab something from atop the dresser to his left. (Y/N) sat back down on the bench, furrowing her brows as she accepted the package from him. She looked at him for permission before tearing the wrapping paper off, smiling down at the package of paper in her hands. “For your printer,” he supplied before she could ask him what it was for. “So you can print out your manuscript.. Though, now I guess you have to finish it.” He winked at her, producing another smaller package from the dresser, placing it atop the package of paper before getting on his knees again in front of her. “And there’s the ink,” he told her while she unwrapped it. 

“Bucky, this is so sweet, but I don’t think I can.” (Y/N) shook her head, leaning forward to give him a kiss on the lips. Bucky shrugged, taking the paper and ink from her lap. He set them beside her leg before reaching underneath the bench, pulling out a small box which he held up to her. 

“Take a breath, take a chance, and take your time baby.” Bucky offered her the box, which she gladly accepted. When the string was untied and the lid was removed she saw a brilliant gold watch situated atop a bed of decorative tissue papers. “You’ve got time baby. You just have to do it.” 

Bucky removed the watch from the box, holding it out to (Y/N). She held her wrist up, allowing Bucky to slip the watch on her and fasten it. He kissed her wrist, just above the watch, before resting his hands on her knees, looking up at her. “Have I mentioned how lucky I am to be in love with you?”

~

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know!

Tags: @petlaufeyson​, @lovely-geek

[buriedinbleach]

The Goddess in the Glen - Pt. 1

When I originally signed up for the Big Bang, I requested prompts for the story that is now Kensei’s long ass fic. I promised that whoever’s prompt I used, I would write a fic as a prize! This is that prize. Well, the first part anyway.

I ended up going to town on this and splitting it into two chapters. Smut in both, so pace yourselves, drink plenty of water. Apparently, no one makes me spawn multi-chapter fics quite like Shunsui. He’s just so hot. Can you blame me? 

Train anon asked: Shunsui said he had a script idea but Nanao is all like "I do not allow any movie with the rating of adults only". Write Shunsui’s porn.

For reference, that exchange takes place in episode 298.

-The Goddess in the Glen-

Shunsui had locked himself away in his study every night that week as soon as he returned home from the Eighth division. It was rare enough for Shunsui to set foot in that particular room once a month, let alone staying there  –  working furiously  –  night after night. It was baffling. You had tried to find out exactly what he was doing, but every time you asked he simply gave you a wry smile and said, ‘Its a secret, Petal.’

Dim, flickering light trickled out into the hallway underneath the door as you crept close and pressed your ear to the cold wood.

“You look lost. Perhaps I can help.” It was definitely Shunsui’s voice, but it sounded odd. Almost… feminine? Well, at least as feminine as Shunsui was capable of sounding with his deep timbre.

You were torn between utter confusion and trying to stifle your laugh as you called to him through the door. “Shun? Are you coming to bed?”

“I’ll be there in a minute, love.”

You cast one last suspicious glance at the door, listening to his quiet, indistinguishable murmurs before heading off to bed.

***

Two days later, you went looking for Shunsui as soon as you arrived home from the Thirteenth division. You couldn’t wait to tell him what ridiculous idea Kiyone and Sentaro had come up with as your division’s entry for the film festival. Poor Jushiro.

You were still laughing to yourself when you headed straight to his study, expecting to find him hard at work on his mystery project once again. But when you arrived, the door was open and the room was pitch black. He wasn’t even napping on the couch.

“Hmmm…” You shrugged, wracking your brain, trying to think of where he could be when it hits you. Smiling, you know there was only one place you need to look  –  its the one spot no one else ever bothers checking for him. You walk out to the gardens, warm spring air swirling lightly around you when you see Shunsui leaning against a sakura tree, staring off into the foreground at the expanse before him.

Shunsui gently swirls his cup of sake  –  distracted. His eyes never leave the fixed point he regards in the distance. He didn’t need to look directly at you to feel your presence, he knew your reiatsu well enough by now. Instead, he raises his arm as you smile and curl in beside him.

“Is something wrong, love?” You ask, nuzzling against him, placing your hand on his firm chest.

He sips the cup of sake slowly until the cool liquid is gone, his brow is contemplative, but you wait patiently for him to speak. “Nanao-chan won’t let the division use my script for our entry in the film festival.” Shunsui reaches for his bottle, pouring another cup of sake, offering you the first drink before carefully nursing it once more.

So that’s what he had been working so hard on. You smiled softly, kissing his cheek and nuzzling in closer. Suddenly, excerpts from ‘The Rose Colored Path’ began swirling through your mind. It became slightly harder for you to fault Nanao for turning his script down now. But, that was also an easy fix. A few simple edits and Shunsui could try again.

“Why don’t I look at it? Maybe I can help make a few suggestions and then we can try talking her into it? Let me see your script.”      

Shunsui sighed lightly, downing the last drops in his glass before pulling out a rolled bundle of papers from behind his back and passing them to you. He knew there wasn’t much use. There was nothing you could have said that would make Nanao change her mind now, but a part of him was now eager to see your reaction.

“Hmmm… ‘The Goddess in the Glen’.” You sat up a little straighter, flipping open the first page. It was a little bit of a cheezy title, but that was kind of to be expected given his usual standard. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of sappy romance you were about to find. “Why did you say Nanao wouldn’t let you-”

Heat immediately began rushing to your face as you scanned through the pages, not bothering to read the script word for word. Your heart was racing, blood was coursing through your veins at a furious pace. All the while, Shunsui sat next to you looking as calm and casual as he always did.

“I believe her exact words were, ‘I will not be associated with any film rated ‘adults only’. But now I’m more curious what you think of it petal.” Shunsui smiled lazily, the heat of his stare only compounded the boiling fire roaring through your body.

“I-” you choked on your next words, trying to clear your throat, to make them come out but they were stuck. Taking a deep breath, you started over. “I had no idea you could write like this.” It was the first thing you could think to say. Truthfully, the script was good. Surprisingly good  –  and very hot. You couldn’t stop the flood of images that began racing through your mind. Your nails dragging through the dark hair on his chest; fingers groping his muscles and sinking into his shoulders; Shunsui’s lips against your neck; his callouses grazing your breasts-

Shunsui laughed, “What do you mean? You’ve read my column before!”

Your mind scrambled to free itself from your daydream, to cover your faux pas quickly. “Right! I just mean this is even better! But, I think I understand why Nanao wouldn’t allow you to make it. Even if she did, there’s no way Head Captain Yamamoto would allow it to be shown.”

“I’ll admit, you have a point there.” Shunsui conceded, relaxing back against the tree.

“But Shun, who exactly did you think you could talk into being the Goddess and this warrior she’s supposed to seduce?” Setting the script aside, you curled against him, bringing your hand to rest against his bare chest. You let your eyes drift closed, ready to slip into a lazy nap at Shunsui’s side where you could have all the time in the world with your fantasy  –  uninterrupted.

However, the way his fingers began inching up your leg underneath the hem of your Gotei kimono made you reevaluate those plans. For the better.

Shunsui turned, bringing his lips down to your neck, letting his deep voice sink into your skin and down to your very bones. “You and me, petal.” The sinful way his lips parted to lick and suck his way over your neck nearly blocked out his words, you would have agreed to almost anything if he would just keep going.

Almost.

“Wait, what?” You place your hands on either side of his face and reluctantly pull him away.

Shunsui leaned back against the tree, but his hand resumed its pace  –  inching up your thigh. “Well it doesn’t matter now.” As his hand moved higher, your heart began pounding with excitement, an interesting idea crept into your mind.

You sat for a moment, mulling over your choice, pulse now thundering in you ears. “Love?”

“Mmmm?” Shunsui acknowledged. His lips pressed against your neck again, this time moving lower. The vibration of his hum rattled straight to your core.

“Maybewecouldmakeit?” You blurted the words quickly while you could still get them out. You knew Shunsui heard  –  and understood  –  when his fingers paused just inches from his goal at your breast.

His eyes met yours while your face blazed with the heat of embarrassment. Shunsui’s pupils looked like deep pools and you were about to be swallowed by their depths. You were anxious to look away, but couldn’t bring yourself to pull your eyes from his sinful stare. While he had you awestruck and trapped, Shunsui wrapped an arm around your waist and maneuvered you to lay beneath him on the soft, cool grass. You cast a quick, sly glance around the garden, cautious of prying eyes, only to find the estate was silent. Shunsui’s private area of the gardens was completely undisturbed by anyone but the two of you.

The tickling stubble of his beard against the center of your chest pulls your focus back to him. His callouses graze over the swell of your breast, opening the collar of your kimono, softly kissing the newly revealed skin. “Maa… really? Its not even my birthday.” Shunsui resumed his present course - kissing his way to your nipple. But this time, he was watching you, hypnotizing your mind with his erotic, dark stare.

“Y-Yeah-ah!” You inhaled a sharp, gasping breath when Shunsui’s teeth grazed the sensitive bud. Winding your fingers through his hair, you held him against your body, arching up to meet his face. Shunsui worked to keep you at ease, nearly breathless; he wanted to hear every pleasure-fogged, uncensored thought crossing your mind; he needed to taste every whimpering moan that skipped past your lips.

“I mean, we  –  hhnn  –  w-would just keep it to-oh! Yessss,” you hissed. Shunsui’s finger drifted up and down your slit over your underwear, pressing lightly to test the fabrics resistance. He watches your face sharply. Though his smokey eyes seem hazy with lust, he catalogues every motion as you lick and purse your lips, memorizing the sound of your gasping breath. “For our  –  mmm  –  eyes only.”

Shunsui pulls your underwear aside, sinking a finger slowly into your heat; his lips covering yours, drinking down your moans. “Of course, Petal. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t really want anyone else hearing the beautiful sounds you make, just for me.”

He kisses your neck - licking and sucking just enough to lightly color and mark your skin. Once you’re lost in a haze, he slips another finger in to join the first, turning and curling his digits to brush your sweet spot again and again. “Hhnn  –  you’ll have to-” you hissed with pleasure, feeling warmth creeping over your body, “learn your lines. Yes! Shunsui! Mmm, right there!” Shunsui presses his lips to your neck, kissing as your pulse throbs and cries of his name are ripped from your throat; your release floods your muscles like the waves of a tsunami.

As your eyelids flutter, bringing you back into the present, Shunsui kisses your lips  –  long and slow. He settles between your legs, his kimono open and hanging loose around him. Shunsui frees himself from his hakama, never once pulling his lips from yours.

Your leg wraps around his bare hip, urging him closer. He smiles against your mouth before kissing along your jaw. As his lips trail over your jawline, Shunsui’s hand  –  calloused, wide, strong  –  smoothes over your leg. He starts at your ankle, dragging up your calf, caressing your thigh until he holds your leg against his hip. The hot head of his cock presses against your entrance, just lightly parting your folds, making you hiss and shiver with anticipation. Shunsui slowly pulls your leg up his hip as he inches forward into your heat  –  claiming and filling.    

Cool silk kissed the back of your hands, juxtaposing pleasantly with the warm, bare muscles of his back underneath your fingertips sliding underneath his kimono. “Are we really supposed to  –  mmm, Shunsui  –  to a-act through…”

A light breeze drifted through the garden, but neither of you felt a thing. Shunsui covered your body completely with his own, stoking a fire that promised to burn you from the inside out with each surge of his hips. He loved hearing your breathy voice climb higher as you desperately try to keep yourself together just long enough before he rolled against your clit again and you were lost.

“I don’t think either of us will be acting. I can’t keep my hands off of you.” His voice is like liquid honey trickling down your muscles  –  warm and satisfying  –  it only feeds the consuming heat stretching and filling your core. Shunsui pulls his hips back lazily, wanting to be sure you felt every ridge of his cock. He kisses away your hitched gasps and thrusts forward, burying himself again.

He was right, there was absolutely no need to act. Shunsui knew how to work every pleasure point on your body, how to turn you into liquid in seconds. But could you make his movie? Shunsui pulls your leg up, just an inch, but it leaves you dizzy and gripping his shoulders for more. Gods how you wanted more. Even if it meant filming a highly explicit home movie. Hell, the more explicit the better. You were aching to make it now.

One more precise tilt of your hips combined with Shunsui driving into your heat, rolling against your clit when he bottomed out was your undoing. Flames of pure ecstasy blazed out of control, licking and kissing your nerves. You wind the fingers of one hand through his thick waves, pulling him into a kiss.

Shunsui holds your hips tighter, thrusting harder  –  deeper  –  allowing the constricting, steady clenching of your core around his shaft to drive him higher. He chases his release right along with yours, managing to work you through one last, weaker orgasm before filling you with a satisfying warmth unique to Shunsui.

While you lay together recovering, his favorite floral kimono wrapped around your body in place of your own disheveled one, Shunsui huffed out a laugh and you giggled like a naughty child. The two of you were going to go for it. You would make his movie and keep it safely hidden away to be watched together whenever the mood strikes. Or when one of you was on a mission...

The sun was beginning to go down as you curled underneath his long arm and the two of you walked back inside. When you make your way into the bedroom, Shunsui walks silently behind you and stops to kiss your neck. You dreamily stroke his cheek, encouraging him to continue. “Shun, just one thing. How is this going to be filmed? I don’t want – “

“Relax, love.” That sinfully warm velvet voice of his poured into your ear as he stepped around to face you. Shunsui moved the collar of your borrowed kimono out of his way and kissed the skin before speaking. “I’m sure Kisuke could make something that didn’t require an operator.”

You froze. Your entire body went stone still until you narrowed your eyes in suspicion, pulling Shunsui’s eyes up to meet yours. He looked positively clueless as to your reaction. Clueless and gorgeous, but seemingly very aware of the warning edge to your voice.

“Kisuke Urahara better not get his hands on a copy of this.”

[thaisibir]

La Vie en Rose (Bede and young!Opal time travel fic)

La Vie en Rose (Life in Pink) Rating: T (for character deaths and language) Chapter 4/10 - Love Story (length: ~4k words) Summary: Bede doesn’t get why that loony old bat Opal wants him to be the next Fairy-type Gym Leader. To help him understand, Opal has Celebi take Bede back to the time of her youth.

(For other chapters, look up the tag “pokemon la vie en rose” or go to my profile)

The doctor at the clinic identified fatigue and dehydration as the culprit of Roger’s condition. The man had to lie in bed and receive IV treatment.

The doctor turned to Opal, who had been watching with quiet concern from the threshold of the treatment room. “Should be right as rain in a few days,” he said, “given enough rest and fluids, anyway.”

Bede could tell that she had a handful of questions at the tip of her tongue. Of course she would. He would too, if he ran into a strange, apparently homeless man in the woods.

Finally she told the doctor, “I’ll go see how his Pokemon are doing.”

Bede followed her to Ballonlea’s Pokemon Center across the street, where the nurse had been treating Roger’s Mightyena and Linoone. Their coats were no longer dirty and untidy, but clean and smooth. They perked their ears and wagged their tails when they saw Opal stride up to them.

“Don’t worry, you two, your Trainer’s doing fine at the clinic,” she assured them. “He still needs to be in bed, though. I’m here to pick you up and take you to him, if you’ll let me.”

The two Pokemon exchanged a glance, and Mightyena hopped down from the examination counter to stand at her side. She extended her arms, inviting Linoone to be held. It jumped into her embrace, then surprised her as it scrabbled at the fabric of her dress shirt to curl around her neck and shoulders.

She chuckled. “You prefer that, then?”

Linoone replied with an affirmative grunt.

“Poke balls really weren’t around back then, huh?” Bede asked Celebi. “I don’t think twice about having them. They sure are convenient.”

The two Pokemon accompanied Opal dutifully and quietly until she returned to the clinic. Roger sat up in his bed as soon as he heard Mightyena and Linoone calling for him. The doctor rushed into the room to click his tongue at the Pokemon.

“No jumping on the bed, now,” he told them. “And keep it down. You’ll disturb the other patients.”

Mightyena and Linoone’s excitement couldn’t be curbed until Roger had to repeat the doctor’s orders gently, with a smile behind his unkempt facial hair. Bede noticed that Opal tried to hide her own smile. It was clear to him and her that the two Pokemon found a kind and good friend in Roger.

��You’ll have to stay in the clinic overnight,” the doctor said to Roger. “Then you can be discharged if you’re stable the next day. After that, you’re out of my hands, I’m afraid.”

Roger scratched the back of his head. “It’s already been obvious to this young lady here, but I’m embarrassed to say that I have no place to stay.”

“There’s plenty of space at the theatre,” Opal said. “We can clear out a room for you.”

Roger’s eyes widened. “The Ballonlea Theatre? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly—“

“That’s the next best place. The inn’s under construction.” A mischievous light glinted in Opal’s blue eyes. “Between the theatre and sharing a house with me, an unmarried woman, the rules of society dictate that the first option is a bit less strange and a bit more acceptable.”

That made Roger laugh. “You have a point there. I appreciate your kindness, Miss—um...”

“Opal. My name’s Opal. How do you do?” She reached out to shake his hand, paying no heed to his embarrassment and reluctance to extend his own hand. Perhaps he thought she would be disgusted by his shabbiness. Her initiative seemed to surprise and delight him as his face lit up.

Bede thought he might’ve seen a spark of something as their hands linked. Maybe because he knew years later what would happen between the two.

The next day, after Roger’s condition improved and he was well enough to leave the clinic, Opal had the Ballonlea Theatre’s makeup department clean him up. She passed the time by training her Pokemon in the empty stadium. Well, empty when Bede and Celebi didn’t count.

It was like watching a rehearsal for dancers and actors, which didn’t surprise Bede at all. Weezing, Mawile, Togekiss, and Alcremie practiced their moves with finesse and grace. In between her orders, Opal called out encouragement and praise for their top form.

“Ms. Opal sure likes to put on a good show for everything,” Bede said to Celebi, who chirped in agreement.

He remembered one of the many pieces of unsolicited advice she had given him: “My boy, even in defeat, it is the duty of us Gym Leaders to give the audience a spectacle worth watching.”

Opal lived by that for a very long time. She never lost her flair for the dramatic. Small wonder that even to the present day, she had scores of fans when she otherwise might’ve been pushed aside and overshadowed by younger stars like Nessa and Raihan. Watching the early days of Opal’s passion not only for Pokemon battling, but for making it an art, put a smile on Bede’s face.

The training only stopped when a Gym Trainer showed up at the stadium entrance. “Miss Opal, we’re done,” she called. Then she winked and said, “Mr. Roger’s ready for you.”

Bede saw with amusement that Opal didn’t acknowledge the Gym Trainer’s suggestive tone as she gathered her Pokemon to her side and strode back into the theatre.

Roger emerged a transformed man. A dark, closely fit suit accentuated his tall, slender build. His beard was neatly trimmed. His hair was combed back and closely cropped. All in all, much closer to the dashing gentleman Bede recognized in the old photos.

Opal’s gaze briskly swept him head to toe. Bede noticed that her cheeks turned a bit red at the sight of Roger. A spark of something definitely went off there.

“How do you like your new look?” She asked.

“Very much, thank you, ma’am.” He shook his head and turned up his palms. ”How can I ever repay you?”

Opal held up a hand. “No need for that. My Gym Trainers and I don’t mind accommodating you. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

“Certainly,” one of them said before they all dissolved into light giggles behind their hands.

Opal silenced them with a pointed look under a raised eyebrow, then turned her attention back to Roger. “Besides, frankly you don’t look like you’re in any shape to repay us.”

Though she kept her tone gentle without judgment, Roger sighed and averted his gaze out of shame. “It’s true. I’ve been barely scraping by. My Pokemon and I have roamed far and wide, living day by day off of whatever battle money we can get.” He cracked a sheepish smirk. “And I’m not a very good battler.”

“Well, as you may or may not be aware, Ballonlea Theatre also functions as a Gym,” Opal replied. “We are fully staffed, so I have no need for more Trainers to keep our Gym challenge running. We do, however, need someone to fill in for a role in a play we are trying to put together.” She eyed Roger with interest. “You might just be the one we need.”

Roger tugged at his new tie. “You flatter me, Miss.”

“I say ‘might’ because you’ll have to audition first. I have no doubt that you’ll pass with flying colors, though.” Opal walked over to a table and pulled out a few papers to hand to Roger. “Here’s the casting call and script. We’re supposed to end the call today, but I’ll make an exception for you. Will you be up for auditioning tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes, Miss Opal, I can.”

“Very good. I heard you singing when you were on the verge of collapse. I look forward to hearing you sing at your best.”

Bede didn’t hear any more of the conversation as Celebi took his hands. The flash of light coming from Celebi was so short that Bede didn’t have time to shut his eyes. Must have been a tiny skip in time.

They jumped to the next day. Roger’s performance during his audition had Opal floored. She was so impressed that she actually went up on stage to sing along with him—something she had never done with the other candidates.

She treated him to dinner later at the Dancing Impidimp, Ballonlea’s premier cafe not too far from the Gym. Bede sat down at a table for two next to them, just in time for him to catch Opal exclaiming in disbelief, “You mean to tell me that you were never classically trained?”

She had almost dropped her cup of tea in the process.

“It’s true,” Roger said modestly. “I never went to school for theatre and singing. Couldn’t afford it.”

“Well, you must have learned somehow.” She sounded more curious and astonished than accusatory.

“When I was young, before I turned ten to become a Trainer, a traveling troupe would visit my home town once in a while to perform. I was enraptured. I committed the notes and steps of all the songs to memory. I wanted to dance and sing just like them. Unfortunately, when I became old enough to join that troupe, they disbanded. My family was too poor to send me to a proper school, so I tried my hand at making money as a Pokemon Trainer, but that didn’t work out so well, either.”

Opal inclined her head at him. “Where did you grow up? I gather from your lack of a Galarian accent that you’re not from around here, I know that much.”

“I’m from Hoenn, ma’am.”

She raised her eyebrows for a moment. “You’ve come a long way, Mr. Roger.”

“I’m from Littleroot Town, to be exact. Maybe you’ve heard of it? I won’t be surprised at all if you haven’t. It’s a sleepy little town, a blip on the map.”

“I can’t say that I’ve heard of it,” she admitted.

“Me neither,” Bede said, knowing that only Celebi would hear him. He had never set foot outside of Galar. It made sense that Roger came from Hoenn. Mightyenas were not local to the Galar region.

“I’m sorry to hear that you’ve had a rough upbringing,” Opal went on after a sip of her tea. “It’s a shame that your talents weren’t recognized. You have an amazing voice. You have the part, for sure. I’ll pay you generously for your contribution to the play.”

Roger raised his hands as if he was trying to stop her. “Miss Opal, you’ve already done so much for me. You gave me a place to stay, let me keep new clothes, and gave me work to do. Any more and you’ll make me very guilty.”

“Oh, don’t be guilty about it. I have a lot of money to spare. Trust me.” Then she raised a hand to her chest. “Oh, dear. That must’ve come off as quite snobby.” She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is that you deserve reward for your talent, and that I have no reservations about supporting you wholeheartedly. At least, until the play is done and you can get back on your feet.”

Roger beamed at her. “Thank you. I think I’m going to enjoy my time here.”

Celebi touched Bede’s hands once more and they jumped forward in time. He ended up back in the theatre, facing the stage, among a packed audience that sent up a rousing applause for the actors assembled for the final bow. Opal and Roger, decked out in stunning, classy costumes, were among those who bowed with broad grins and a flourish.

Celebi tugged at Bede’s sleeve, beckoning him to follow Opal and her Gym Trainers to the dressing room.

Bede frowned. “I don’t know, Celebi, that’s the room for women—“

“Bi!” The time-traveling Pokemon gave him a playful shove from behind. He had no choice but to duck into the door before the last woman inside shut it behind her.

“Stunning duet, as always, Miss Opal,” one of the Trainers remarked.

“You and Roger make such a great team,” another Trainer said.

“And a great couple, one day,” said yet another Trainer with a giggle.

Opal rolled her eyes as she scrubbed off makeup before the mirror. “Ladies, please. Don’t get all your skirts in a ruffle. The man’s twelve years older than me. He would be more interested in a woman his age.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the Gym Trainer with a gleam in her eye. “Have you seen the way he can barely take his eyes off of you when we rehearse and perform? He’s absolutely smitten by you.”

“Who can blame the poor man? You are a prime specimen of charm and beauty, Miss Opal.”

Opal snatched up a fan from the box of props sitting nearby and swatted at the teasing Gym Trainers. “Enough of this. He and I are just playing our parts. Nothing to it.”

“Oh, it’s much more than that, Miss Opal. You just don’t see it yet.”

The young Ballonlea Gym Leader huffed in exasperation. “I’ll never change out of costume in peace with you ladies around.” With a scowl and reddened cheeks, she put attitude into unbuttoning her dress while the women continued to laugh and tease her.

Celebi spared Bede from looking anymore as it took his hands.

Bede ended up back at the Dancing Impidimp, where Opal and Roger sat down for lunch.

“You would like the usual, I presume?” The waiter asked them.

“Yes, please,” Opal replied, and the waiter took their orders with a knowing smile.

“They must come here a lot,” Bede remarked to Celebi.

On the table between the two were a stack of papers bound by clips, so the breeze wouldn’t blow them away. Bede wondered what those were when Opal said, “Now I know why you insisted that you didn’t want your backpack thrown away with all your old clothes. All these plays you wrote...they’re brilliant. I can’t believe that no one would take them.”

“There’s no market for plays in Hoenn,” Roger replied. “Pokemon Contests are all the rage there. I tried taking them to Unova, but Pokestar Studios make films and have no interest in plays. So I made my way here, because I got word that the Ballonlea Theatre takes a chance on original plays.”

“You heard correctly. We’ve always had a reputation for being avant-garde. Yes, we usually run the classic and established plays, but when we find a story that’s good enough, we take that to the stage as well. And everything you have here is more than good enough, Roger. You are a born storyteller. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Roger laughed. “Well, I can barely put up a good fight in a Pokemon battle. Don’t believe me? Ask Mightyena and Obstagoon, the poor chaps. I’m just not cut out for thinking on my feet and following my intuition. I lost to enough Trainers half my age that it’s quite embarrassing. And I lost count of the number of times I was tempted to burn these scripts, just for a warmer fire at night.”

“I’m glad you didn’t throw them into the fire. I would love to have the theatre perform these plays you’ve written. We’ve run dry on originality these days. We could use a breath of fresh air.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Even if the ending’s tragic and everyone dies?”

“Especially that,” Opal replied. “I love the power and poignancy of sad stories. I love wringing a few tears out of the audience.”

“You are quite the sadist,” he joked.

“Says the one who writes those kind of stories.”

“Touche.”

Bede noticed the change in atmosphere since the two had shared a meal at the Dancing Impidimp for the first time. All throughout their banter, they leaned their heads closer, the space between them smaller. They had grown comfortable enough around each other to laugh freely and easily. Neither of them needed to reach over much to brush hands. It was only a matter of time before the two took their relationship further. But how much time?

Celebi answered that by clasping Bede’s hands. This time Celebi took him through brief snapshots, compounded into a compilation of increasingly intimate moments between Opal and Roger.

He watched the two spend long hours in the theatre, collaborating to bring a creative vision from paper to stage. The table Opal had once occupied alone to assess auditions was now shared with Roger as they bent over stacks of scripts to discuss. They would share a pack of cigarettes during these sessions. Many animated conversations were held, and sometimes they escalated to heated proportions when the two disagreed.

To Bede’s dismay, Celebi brought time traveling to a halt to focus on their most heated argument.

Roger frowned across the table at Opal. “I don’t want to make that kind of change to the script.”

She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. “It won’t look good on stage. Please, Roger, you need to reconsider.”

“You’re asking me to butcher a character beyond recognition.”

She loudly expelled a huff of frustration and smoke from her mouth. “It’s not butchering. You call rewriting a few lines of dialogue butchering?”

“Yes, because those few lines are the essential pivot to the plot!”

Mightyena was curled up in a napping position close to the table, and at Roger’s raised voice, it raised its head and growled at Opal.

She briefly pressed fingers to her temple. “I don’t know any other way to say this without telling it to you straight: the way you portray this character is sexist. It’s painfully clear to me because I am a woman and you’re not.”

That statement from her stamped disbelief all over Roger’s face. “I’m not trying to be—“

“I know you’re not, but being unintentionally sexist is still sexist.” Opal folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not helping your case by challenging me here.”

“I still can’t see where you’re coming from. I tried. I really did. I think you’re looking too much into it.”

“What more can I do to make you see things my way?”

“Your way? These are my stories.” Roger stood up to glare down at Opal. “If there’s something that I don’t want to change, you’d better respect that.”

“And this is my stage.“ She rose from her seat to get nose-to-nose with him. “Your stories aren’t going anywhere without my say so. Your stories aren’t meant to sit on the shelves. They’re meant to be acted out on stage.” Her eyes narrowed to cold blue slits. “I’ve had years of training and experience on the place your stories are meant to be. So you’d better respect that.”

“We’re pulling out the education and fancy degree cards now? When you know that I don’t have one?” Roger’s voice was sharp with scorn. “I didn’t expect you to stoop that low, Opal, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Because you’re the most arrogant, stuck-up, controlling woman I’ve had the displeasure of knowing.”

Opal flinched back as if he had struck her with his hand. Wide-eyed anger rendered her speechless for a moment, then hurt seeped into her face as her brow furrowed and her lower lip quivered. She crushed the cigarette in her hand and let it fall into the ashtray. What she said next came out tight and clipped, but not to Roger. “Weezing, use Fairy Wind.”

She turned on her heel and stormed away from Roger just as her Pokemon floating nearby unleashed the attack on him. He cried out and threw up his hands, sneezing and coughing while Opal fled the theatre.

Bede too was taken by surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut despite not being affected by the sparkling puff like Roger. He blinked his eyes open in time to catch Celebi flying after Opal. He took off after it.

He heard Roger mutter to himself, “Roger, you idiot.” Then he called, “Opal, come back!”

In a time before Poke balls, Pokemon like Rapidash were kept in a stable. The theatre had a stable nearby. Bede ran outside to see Opal free one of the Rapidash from its stall in the stable. Tears ran unchecked down her face. Once she jumped on the Rapidash, she spurred it to a gallop. The Pokemon, startled and confused by her abruptness, reared back and whinnied before following her command. Bede jumped out of the way as the Rapidash hurtled past him.

“Great. How am I supposed to follow her now?” He asked Celebi. He was a fast runner, but there was no way he could catch up with a Rapidash.

But Celebi hovered in place, watching Opal and Rapidash take off in the direction of Glimwood Tangle. Not too far from Bede, Roger had burst out from behind the Gym doors, still coughing and blinking in confusion at the dwindling Opal.

“Opal, please, come back,” he cried.

But she disappeared with the Rapidash into the woods. A few seconds later, Bede heard a terrible scream. He and Roger broke into a run in response. When they reached the edge of Glimwood Tangle, Opal was sprawled on her back, her face and voice twisted in agony. The Rapidash she had been riding didn’t run off, but remained nearby, stamping its hooves in mixed agitation and guilt. Clearly Opal had fallen off the Rapidash.

Bede stood where he was, frozen in horror, while Roger ran up to Opal with arms outstretched, ready to pick her up.

“No, don’t,” she gasped. “I think I broke my back.” She crushed grass into her fists, and all she could get out next was a ragged, drawn out scream of pain.

Roger had to run back into town to get help, and Opal had to be moved onto a stretcher because she couldn’t even sit up. She spent the rest of that day bound to a bed at the Stow-On-Side Hospital. The doctors there found that she had fractured a few bones along her spine, and had torn several muscles of her lower back.

That explains her bad back, Bede thought. He didn’t think she had gotten it this young, though, in her early twenties. He had always thought it was just from her being so old.

Roger stayed close to Opal’s side throughout the medical evaluation and diagnosis. So did Bede and Celebi.

Opal had a tight grip on Roger’s hand through her painful ordeal, before the painkillers kicked in, and he let her hold his hand.

“Opal, I’m so, so sorry,” he murmured. “This is all my fault.”

“No, I’m the one who shouldn’t have jumped on a bloody Rapidash, of all Pokemon, while I was upset and not thinking straight.” She cracked a smirk. “Not a good idea, Roger. I don’t recommend it.”

He didn’t laugh to her weak attempt at humor. “I hurt you. That’s what led to all of this. I’ve thought about your input on the script since coming to the hospital, and you were right. I should’ve listened to you. I shouldn’t have been so harsh.”

“No. You were right to call me out. I had been arrogant, and...” She trailed off and blinked several times, apparently a bit loopy and scatterbrained from all the medications. “What else did you call me?”

“Stuck-up and controlling,” Roger said in a small voice.

“Ah, that’s right. I had to get off my high horse, so I did. Literally.” Opal laughed at her own joke, then looked like she regretted laughing as she winced.

Roger squeezed her hand. “I don’t know where I would be without you, Opal. I have a place to stay, decent clothes to wear, enough food to eat, a job that I enjoy, all thanks to you.”

She smiled up at him. “Well, I don’t do that for just anybody, you know. You have so much talent that I would be a fool to ignore. I love your vision and your voice, and...” She blushed. “I love you.”

Roger drew away in shock, but didn’t let go of her hand, and his own face reddened. “I...I love you, too.”

Coming from sixty years down the line, this came as no surprise to Bede. Still, suddenly he felt that he was intruding on a private moment, and that he ought to wait outside or something.

Opal drew in a sharp breath. “You...you really love me?”

“From the moment I laid my eyes on you, when you stumbled into me in the woods. Of course I didn’t admit it back then, but you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I thought I was hallucinating.”

Roger’s confession made Opal blush even harder. “I fell in love with your voice first,” she said. “You completely drew me in. I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt that...that enchanted.” She furrowed her brow. “Perhaps the last time was when I discovered my love for Fairy type Pokemon, when I was a little girl given a Togepi egg.” Then she averted her gaze from Roger, to fix it at the end of her white, clean hospital bed. “I was born into a wealthy and powerful family in Wynwall. I didn’t like growing up there. I wanted to escape. I wanted to prove to the world that I wasn’t a girl who only knew money and things handed to her on a silver platter. So I left for Ballonlea Town. Worked hard under my mother’s tutelage. I tried to leave my roots behind. Apparently I didn’t.” She shook her head against the pillow and sighed. “I am the youngest and only female Gym Leader in Galar, Roger.” Her eyes grew wet with tears. “I suppose, in my efforts to compensate, to prove myself to all the older men, I could never let go of being the stuck-up rich girl I was meant to be.”

Roger reached out to gently brush away the tears on her cheeks with his thumb. “I doubt that you would have given me a second glance if you really are that stuck-up. You can be a little haughty, to be honest, and comfortable with being in charge, but that’s because you run a Gym and a theatre. You have all my admiration and respect for that.” He lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. “You’re not just beautiful, but strong, passionate, and you care so much about Pokemon and theatre. I love you for all of that.”

He leaned over to plant a soft, tender kiss on her lips.

Bede let out a small groan and covered his eyes. Celebi uttered something close to a tinkering laugh and touched both of his hands.

Bede opened his eyes and lowered his hands to find himself back at the Ballonlea Theatre. The actors had finished performing a play and split up after the final bow. All except for Roger, who stood where he was at the center of the stage, and Opal, whose hand was taken by Roger before she could walk away. Along with everyone else in the audience, Bede gasped as Roger lowered himself on one knee and presented Opal with a ring.

“This is not an act,” Roger declared, not just to the audience, but to her. “This is for life. Opal, will you marry me?”

Bede knew that she would say yes. What he didn’t know until now was how that moment came about so publicly, and of course, theatrically. He found himself grinning widely and clapping with the audience as Opal threw herself into Roger’s arms and buried tears of joy into his costume.

Celebi interrupted his clapping by taking his hands. The time-traveling Pokemon never made him leave the theatre, but still transported him to a time when that theatre turned into a site for a wedding.

Amid the gathering of colorful flowers and Fairy type Pokemon, and standing with rows of witnesses, Bede looked up to see Opal and Roger, the bride and the groom, reciting their vows. Their Pokemon stood beside them—Mightyena and Obstagoon next to Roger, and Mawile, Togekiss, Weezing, and Alcremie next to Opal. Looking at her now took Bede’s breath away. Her pixie-like dark hair, coupled with the white, flowing dress and a sparkling lacy veil, made for a stunning, radiant sight. If he hadn’t known any better, he might’ve thought she was a princess. He had seen the old photos, but that didn’t hold a candle to seeing it for himself.

His voice was soft with awe and wonder. “Wow, Celebi...Ms. Opal is so beautiful.”

Opal and Roger sealed the ceremony with a long, deep kiss, becoming husband and wife. This time, Bede didn’t cover his eyes.

Notes: Sometimes I think I’m pushing the envelope with the 12-year age gap between Opal and Roger, but then I think of how the real Maria and Captain von Trapp, the couple who inspired The Sound of Music, were 25 years apart, and I don’t feel as bad. 

Speaking of The Sound of Music, musical inspiration for this chapter is: Laendler!

I imagine Roger to look like Gregory Peck, the actor best known for playing Atticus Finch in the film adaptation of To Kill A Mockingbird. He was in Roman Holiday too, another favorite film of mine. I just love old timey things, if you can’t already tell.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 44: Three Stories

Presenting the next raw and unedited chapter of my on-going, next-gen, My Hero Academia fic, Their Hero Academia!

Earlier chapters can be found here

Takiyo Aoyama Starts to Shine

When he had accepted the offer from Cellophane—the Number Fifty-Two Hero—Takiyo Aoyama hadn’t been certain of what to expect.  He was not close to most of his classmates, though he was probably closer to Akaya Koda than anyone.  And he maintained a—usually—cordial relationship with Kimiko Ojiro, due to a shared love of gossip.  He had even started speaking more with Isamu Haimawari, after seeing how hard he was working to prove himself, something he could understand.  But he could not claim to be close to Takuma Sero, despite sharing a floor with him in the dorms.

He had certainly spent time around the elder Sero; they’d all been around each other enough for that, but not in years.   So he had little basis to form his expectations on, save for the rather copious amounts of interviews and candid moments available on the internet.  These revealed only that he was personable, humble, and seemed to be rather behind the times in terms of slang.

That was… tolerable. Being able to cultivate a media presence was essential to being a Hero.  Many Heroes never rose very high in the rankings simply because, while they were effective in stopping Villains, they were patently unlikable.   There were exceptions, of course, but it was generally a truism.

He had failed to make much of himself at the Sports Festival, but perhaps he could begin to get the exposure he needed now.

Though he was beginning to wonder if exposure was worth… this.

To say Cellophane’s Agency was casual was putting it mildly.  All of the staff that worked there were in polos and khakis.  And as for Cellophane himself…  

“Yeah, I like to keep things casual when I first come in in the morning,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair.  His shirt was fashionable enough, well-tailored to accommodate his rather unique arms.  But as for the rest of him…  Sandals!  With socks!   Cargo shorts!  “Have a little coffee, catch up on e-mails and paperwork, then get set for a little bit of patrolling.”  He cracked his knuckles noisily.

The unfashionableness of this place was going to give him hives.  How could his papa not have warned him against this?

“You did good, kid,” Cellophane said, “but you’ve really got to learn to unclench.  I can see right now you’re about ready to have some kind of attack.  Don’t stress yourself so much.  Really, you’re reminding me of your dad, back before the whole cheese thing with Izuku. Why, I remember…”

The phone on his desk started ringing and he held up a finger.  He picked up the phone, “Hey, hon, what’s up?”

He went slightly flush as he listened to his wife.  “Yeah, sure, I can pick that up on my way home.  Yeah, that too.  And… sure… I can… do that… when I get…    Can we talk about this later?  When I don’t have a teenager in the room, listening?   Yeah, I know we talk about it in front of our kids, but they’re not a good barometer for that…”

Takiyo was rapidly wishing he’d gone anywhere else for this.

***

“Dump me, will she?” the Villain snarled.  He was large, larger than even Shoji or Koda, larger than All Might, and seemingly built out of black rocks, blazing red lines showing between the cracks.   “I’ll show her!  I’ll show that namby-pamby new boyfriend!  I’ll show everybody!”

He drew back his hand, like he was able to throw a ball, and when he launched it forward, he threw a hot blob of lava.  It struck a car, crashing through it, and melting what it did not smash.  People were screaming, people were running everywhere. If the target of his rage was actually in the crowd, Takiyo did not know.   Cellophane’s Sidekicks, whom Takiyo had not bothered to learn the names of (One had some kind of lubrication Quirk and the other did something with friction?  He really wasn’t paying attention.), were coordinating the evacuation of the area.  So far, all the Villain had done was property damage.  But the odds were increasing that someone, intentionally or not, would get hurt.

“…Well, he’s big,” Cellophane said.  “Maybe I should have left you behind.”

He pulled down the faceplate on his costume.  “Actually, think you could come up with a distraction?”

At that, Takiyo smiled and gave his cape a dramatic flourish.  “Getting eyes on me?  A piece of cake.”

“Good,” Cellophane said, firing off a line of tape and pulling himself with it.  “Just give me five minutes!”

Takiyo stepped into the Villain’s field of view.  “Bonjour, Monsieur Villian!” he said, letting loose a dazzling, strobing beam of light across his field of vision.  

The lava-man’s glowing eyes snapped in his direction, one hand up to shield them from further brilliance.  “Some kid?” he growled.  “That’s who they sent to stop me?  What’re you, twelve?!”

“Non!” he shouted, raising both hands.  He focused the stored light within him outward, raising his radiance until it was blinding.   “I am the one who is going to stop you!”  He flashed again, sending out another pulse of light.  “I am the Dazzling Hero: Radiance!”  Another flash.

“Argh!” The lava man took a step back, glowing eyes dimming and brightening in what must have been his version of blinking. “Damn kid!  You’re like some overgrown glowstick!  But I’ll put out your lights!”  He brought up both of his hands, gathering more lava there.

Fear gripped Takiyo’s heart.  He was going to die.  It was as simple as that.  Burned to a crisp, denied leaving even a beautiful corpse for the world to mourn over. He’d never be a Hero.  He’d never get the chance to make amends for what he’d done…

“STICKY STORM!”

Suddenly, the air was filled with long strands of tape, wrapping around the Villain until he was completely cocooned.  The lava he’d been forming fell to the ground it a heap, eating its way through the pavement, but at least it hadn’t come at him.   From above, Cellophane dropped down, then popped up the faceplate on his mask.  “Good job, kid!” he declared, giving a toothy grin and a thumbs up.  “You okay?  That looked pretty scary.  Didn’t think he’d get that angry like that.”

Takiyo had to wait until his heart started beating again before he could speak. “Fine,” he said, trying to project a confidence he did not feel.  “Only scary for a moment.  One more blast of light and he would have been taken care of.”

“Sure,” Cellophane said, though Takiyo was certain his lie was not believed.  Around them, people were starting to gather. Police, reporters, witnesses.  He put one arm around Takiyo and waved to the crowd with the other.  “Hero of the Hour, ladies and gentlemen!  My Intern!”

***

The picture on the front page of the paper the next day was… strange.  There was the wrapped lava Villain on the ground, there was Cellophane.  And where he should have been… was a vaguely person shaped bright blob.

Takiyo stared at it, mouth agape.

“Not bad, huh?” Cellophane asked.  “Not every day an Intern makes the paper on his first day.  

“I did not realize I do not photograph well,” Takiyo said.  “I did as a child.  My Quirk… it must be getting stronger.  Absorbing more light.  Even the camera flash.”

This was going to put a serious cramp in his plans for fame.

“Eh, relax,” Cellophane said, slurping his coffee.  “You’ll have plenty of photo-ops, I’m sure.  And, if you don’t, well, there’s always radio.”

Takiyo’s mouth opened and shut, but no sounds came out.  He really didn’t know what to say to that.

***

Daisuke Shoji Did Not Sign Up For This

“You idiots!”

Daisuke carefully set the weights he was lifting (roughly 1080 kilograms with each set of arms) down, before looking towards the doorway of the Real-Riot Agency’s gym.  Red Riot, Real Steel, and Shiro Monoma (somehow Red Riot’s intern, the way he was Real Steel’s) all paused in their workout to look as well.

“What,” the small woman said, looking like she was ready to kill the first person who said something stupid, “have I told you about agreeing to things without asking me?”

Red Riot looked a bit sheepish at the accusation.  “Kids, meet Shizuka Yamamoto, our Office Manager.”

“And the only reason you two haven’t done a lot more stupid things!” Yamamoto said, putting one hand on her hip and pointing at Red Riot with the other.  “Which one of you did this?  I need to know who to smack.”

“What’re you talking about?” Real Steel asked, squinting with confusion.  “We haven’t agreed to anythi… oh!  That!”

“Yes, that!”  She reached into her pocket and unfolded a flier. “Red Riot and Real Steel Home Exercise Videos: How to Get Hard!”

“Oh, yeah!’ Red Riot said, flashing a toothy grin.  “Isn’t it manly?”

“The video people thought it was a great name!” Real Steel added, giving an oddly similar shark-toothed grin.

Monoma shot Daisuke a glance.  “This might get bad real fast,” he said.  “If that happens, just run.”

He raised an eyebrow. The blond from 1-B had been unusually sullen since they’d both arrived at the Agency, lacking his usual arrogant sneer he had when dealing with members of Daisuke’s class.  Granted, Daisuke had very little to do with him even under the most ideal circumstances, but his limited experience suggested something was off here.  Surprising, really, considering he’d made it to the Tournament Round of the Festival, something Daisuke couldn’t say.  And yet here they both were, interning with the Heroes who shared the Number Ten spot.

“Yamamoto is incredibly frightening when she’s angry,” Monoma elaborated.  “I’ve spent enough time around the Tetsutetsus and Kirishima-Bakugos to know that.”

Yamamoto took a deep breath and Daisuke assumed she was probably counting down from ten.  She pinched the bridge of her nose.   “Do you two idiots remember the charity wrestling match you did?  When you went off script?  “The power of two hard men?”  It’s like you’re trying to make yourself look like idiots!  Do you know how much of a credibility problem it causes?  Every time?”

“But we are two hard men,” Red Riot said.

“The hardest!” Real Steel added.

Daisuke would later swear he hadn’t seen Yamamoto move, but in the blink of his eye, both Red Riot and Real Steel were on the ground, rubbing their cheeks like they’d been slapped. Yamamoto’s hair was slightly messed up, as though she’d been running the mind.  Did she have a speed Quirk?

“Do you know how much work I’m going to have to do to fix this, you idiots?!”

He felt Monoma give his arm a tug.  “We should run.”

Daisuke looked at him, then at the growing argument. While a Hero should always be ready to intervene when needed, he also made it a personal goal to stay out of other people’s drama.  Considering he lived on a floor with Sero, Sato, and Aoyama, that was frequently a challenge.

“Agreed,” he said.

***

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Daisuke said, as he unwrapped the first of the take-out sandwiches he’d ordered (he needed a lot of calories), “but are you all right?”

Monoma barely looked up from the soup he was (barely) eating, as the two of them sat in the Agency’s breakrooms.  “Mhm.”

Earlier, they’d joined Red Riot and Real Steel on a mutual patrol. The patrol itself had been easy enough. No trouble today, but Red Riot and Real Steel had both been experts at navigating rooftops.  With his Extendo-Arms, Daisuke could easily keep up. They didn’t have a lot of advice for him yet, but tomorrow promised some combat training, and both certainly had the muscle to help hone his fighting style.

While Monoma had more than been able to keep up with them (an impressive feat, considering his Quirk offered him no enhanced physicality), he had seem distracted and was quite jumpy every time Red Riot spoke to him.

“Look,” Daisuke said, “we’re not friends.  But we are in this together.  If you’re distracted out there, it doesn’t just put you at risk.”

That, at least, got Monoma to look up.  “I’m fine,” he growled.  “I’ll get my head back in the game.  Don’t worry about it.  Just having a bad day.”

That was fair enough, Daisuke supposed.  Monoma’s personal problems weren’t any of his business.  Maybe that was all there was to it.  He didn’t have the context to form a proper opinion.

Monoma returned to eating his soup, head down and avoiding Daisuke’s gaze. “Like you’d understand anyway,” he said, under his breath.

Most people wouldn’t have been able to hear that.  It was little more than a whisper and Monoma hadn’t been looking at him when he’d said it. While his Quirk did nothing for his hearing, Daisuke had spent a lot of time with his dad learning how to listen. He did it without thinking now, always listening and paying attention to the sounds others might miss.

“Excuse me?” he said, narrowing his eyes.  “Care to repeat that?”  Daisuke considered himself pretty even tempered, but to just say something like that right in front of him was not something he could just let go.

Monoma’s head snapped up and he fixed Daisuke with a glare.   “…You really don’t know, do you?”

He shook his head. “Know what?”

The blond boy’s eyes widen. “You really don’t know.”

Daisuke stood up. “Stop talking in circles.  What don’t I know?”

“That you’ve been voted the hottest guy in 1-A.  Hell, you’ve been voted hottest guy in the entire damn first year Hero Course. Pretty much everyone who likes men is into you.” Monoma pushed his chair back from the table and stood.  “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t know about this?”

At this, Daisuke had to sit down, grabbing his water bottle with his upper-right Extendo-Arm and bringing it to his lips.  He took a long drink before he answered, his other arms slumping.  “Really?  They’re all objectifying me?  Just like that?”

He knew, of course, that Mineta found him attractive.  That was hardly a surprise.  Her type was “has a pulse.”  He was even vaguely aware that Sero sometimes stared at him, though that seemed to have tapered off since he had started dating Iida.  And Tokoyami’s familiar Frog-Shadow was always far too happy to see him.

But all of them?  He knew he was in good shape, but he hardly thought he was so good looking at to be more highly regarded than any of the other boys in his year.

“At least according to Fukidashi,” Monoma said.  “Who’s an ardent follower of Ojiro’s webcast.  If anyone would know, it would be the two of them.  Ojiro’s actually got quite the well-developed analytic and observational skills… she just chooses poorly how to apply them.”

Daisuke just shook his head, closed his eyes, and let out a frustrated sigh. So he was being objectified.  By pretty much everyone.  Great.   “Nice job pivoting the conversation away from you, by the way,” he said.

Monoma let out a squeak. “Not my intention.  I wanted to shut it all down.”

He opened his eyes as a few details finished assembling themselves in his mind.  “Would your distraction have anything to do with Kirishima-Bakugo?  Is that why you’re so jumpy around Red Riot?”

“I… don’t have to answer that,” Monoma said.  His mouth slightly agape in surprise.  

Daisuke shrugged, a movement copied by all his arms.  “It’s not my business,” he said.  “It’s yours. But get your drama figured out.”

When Monoma had left the room, Daisuke pulled out his phone.  The lock screen showed himself, two of his three left arms around a girl with bright blue hair and dark glasses, a white cane held loosely in one hand. “Hottest boy in the Hero Course…? Emiko’s going to kill me.”  

***

Takuma Sero Gets the Money Shot

“Hey there viewers,” Takuma whispered into his phone.  The front facing camera view was a little bad, especially in the low light, but sometimes, sacrifices were made for fame.  “I’m out on Internship with Number Twenty-Seven Hero, Tsukuyomi.”

He adjusted the angle of his phone, to capture Tsukuyomi standing on the edge of the rooftop, peering out over the cityscape, his black cape fluttering in the night’s breeze, before returning it to a close-up of his own face.

“And remember, Kimiko Ojiro and Kenta Sato will be uploading their own video diaries of their Internships later!  Which you’ll get notifications of if you’re subscribed!”

He gave the camera his best grin.  “I gotta say, though, I don’t know about this, viewers.  Best offer I got, but he is a broooooder.  Not at all a fabulous ray of sunshine like me.  But if we’re lucky, you’ll get to see yours truly in action, viewers!  Maybe even a little Swing Cam!”

That was his name for when he affixed his phone to his chest, while swinging from spot to spot with his Acid Tape.  Like first-person roller coaster footage.  Very popular, especially with the adrenaline junkies.

“Oh, and if you’re watching this, Tensei,” he said, giving the camera another grin, a real one, not the stage one he used for his show, “miss you, babe.  Hope your Internship’s going good!  Air kiss!”  He punctuated that with some air kisses.

“Okay,” he went on, “so, tonight…”

Suddenly, something dark snatched his phone right out of his hands!  He turned to watch Dark Shadow flowing forth from Tsukuyomi, his phone in its hands.  “Hey!” Takuma cried out.  “That’s mine!”  He’d had just enough time to hit “post” before it had been torn from his fingers.

Tsukuyomi regarded him with a dark gaze, his beak pressed firmly together.  “There will be no phone use while on patrol,” he said.  

“Yeah!” Dark Shadow added, tossing the phone over the edge of the roof.  “No phones!”

Takuma watched it fall, feeling like his heart was falling with it.  True, everything on it was automatically backed up to wireless data storage.  And true, he’d been meaning to upgrade anyway (the newest model had a really great camera).  But it was the principle of the thing!

The bird-headed Hero recalled Dark Shadow back into himself, his gaze never wavering from Takuma. “Undisciplined, easily distracted, showboating.  All these and more are descriptions I could bestow upon you.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Takuma said, rolling his eyes.  Automatic reflex, he couldn’t help it.  He might be flunking English, but Sarcasm was a language he was much more fluent in.  

“Child, there are so many more words I could use.  Be thankful I chose to limit myself to those.  Your mother may have failed to instill proper discipline in you, but I will more than make up for it this week.”

“What are you talking about?” Takuma demanded, a hand to his chest in indignation.  How could he say he was undisciplined?  Didn’t he know how much effort it took to put together a regular web program?  With three different stars?  All while studying boring regular school subjects and learning to be a Hero?

“You and yours are a den of chaos,” Tsukuyomi said.  “I shall tame it.  And to do so, I have severed your material bonds.”

“But what about my followers?!” Takuma demanded.  If he had a week with no new content, he’d lose countless followers!  His hit count would be in the toilet!  He’d have almost no validation from people he’d never met!

And how was he supposed to talk to his boyfriend?  …If he told this story to anyone, he’d probably better put that concern first.

“They will survive without you, I suspect,” Tsukuyomi said.  “Whether or not you do is another matter entirely.”

“And Mom says you’re not funny.”

Tsukuyomi tilted his head to one side.  “Funny?”

“That was a joke, right? …Tell me that was a joke!”

***

Takuma had officially met his new favorite person.  His only regret was that he still hadn’t been able to replace his phone, because this really, really needed to be recorded for posterity.  This was literally the greatest blackmail material he’d ever been handed.

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. She’s introduced herself as Yuka, though her Pro-Hero name was Shadow-Dancer.   She was one of Tsukuyomi’s Sidekicks, though apparently she was just a few months out from starting her own Agency.  Her Quirk let her meld with darkness and then possess and animate inanimate objects in that darkness.  She was supposed to have been giving them an update on recent Villain activity in the prefecture.  But this was so much better.

“I’ve known Mister Bird since I was a little girl.  He actually helped me out when my Quirk first manifested.”

A mischievous grin crossed her face.  “I was a little afraid of him at first, but I got over it pretty quick.  Of course, he was wearing monkey ears at the time.  I think I even developed a little crush on him after that.”

Takuma felt his jaw drop. He pushed it back up with his hand. “Oh.  Oh.  Oh! Tell me there are pictures of this somewhere.”

She laughed.  “Probably in a box in my mom’s house somewhere.”

Tsukuyomi gave her a scowl. “Must you tell this story to everyone you meet?  I am trying to instill some sense of discipline in the boy and here you are, filling his head with nonsense.”

Yuka put a hand to her mouth, laughing behind it.  “So serious, Mister Bird.”

“And I have asked you to stop calling me that,” Tsukuyomi said.  His feathers ruffled in what Takuma knew from watching Tokoyami was a sure sign of embarrassment.  “For years now.”

“Sure, Mister Bird.”

“You do know I am your boss? Perhaps you should continue your actual presentation?”

“Oh, if you insist,” she told him.  But she gave Takuma a wink.  “Don’t worry. I’ve got lots more stories about Mister Bird.”

***

“Hey there, viewers!” he said, adjusting the angle on the camera, “I’m back!”  He was glad he’d been able to pick up a new model so quickly. Thank goodness for good insurance plans. Too bad it had taken until the third day of his Internship.

Mom was probably going to tear Tsukuyomi a new one when she found out he destroyed his old phone. Maybe if he was very, very lucky, he could actually get that on video.  That would generate a hell of a lot of hits.

It might upset Tokoyami though.  Which would be bad.  She was pretty much the Mom Friend of the entire class.

Maybe he wouldn’t then.

Still, he did have to be quiet about this.  He was supposed to be catching some sleep, bunked down in Tsukuyomi’s Agency.  One other Sidekick was “on duty”, sleeping away on the other side of the room, just in case there were any calls.  Not that he was getting much sleep to begin with.  Tsukuyomi preferred to operate at night, which left him trying to get his sleep during the day.

“And now with improved picture quality,” he added, “you can see my fabulous pinkness in higher definition than ever before.  But sorry, ladies, I just want to remind you I don’t swing that way.  And gentlemen… I’m off the market.  Still all yours, Tensei!”

He flashed the camera another winning grin.  “Seriously though, viewers, this Internship has been intense.  Tsukuyomi knows what he’s doing.  I mean, he is dedicated.  Takes down bad guys hard and fast.  And I am learning.  Got a couple cool new tricks I can’t wait to show off.  Guy really does care about people, behind all the brooding and intensity and brooding intensity and intense brooding”

Not the least of his new tricks was a whole new way to use his Acid Tape.  If he flicked his wrist just right, he could actually start wrapping the tape around his arms.  And if he changed the acidity vs. stickiness factor… he either had an Acid Punch or a Sticky Punch.  Both of which had a lot of usefulness.  Not to mention a whole lot of video potential!

The corners of his mouth dipped down.  “If I can get him to stop criticizing me, that is.  Seriously, dude destroyed my last phone.  Who does that?  And he accused me of being more concerned with my social media presence than being a Hero!  Can you believe that?

Anyway, that’s my update! Don’t forget to hit like and surprise, and leave some encouragement in the comments!”