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unmaskedagain · 5 years ago

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Rock Star

I was feeling a bit of writer’s block this morning. So I went through my prompts and found this awesome one. It has a bit of angst.

She lost her friends. The boy she was in love with broke her heart. No one in class apart from Chloe would even speak to her anymore. Lila’s lies had taken root in class, leaving Marinette in the back alone and abandoned. The worst part was that Marinette didn’t even know if she could be friends with any of her classmates again after the truth was exposed. In the effort to cling tighter to the coattails of someone who promised them the world, they had abandoned a childhood friend as if the friendship meant nothing; as if Marinette meant nothing. And as if that wasn’t enough, Akumas were getting stronger every day. Chat Noir was pushier than ever before. Most days it was all too much.

Most days Marinette didn’t want to get out of bed. She rarely smiled anymore. She couldn’t find it in her to design. It was like the life force had been drained from her. It didn’t take long for her parents to notice. However, after weeks of trying, when it became clear that Marinette wasn’t going to talk to them and that she wasn’t getting better, they sent her to a therapist. After they managed to get her to promise to at least try.

Dr. Vanderbilt was a kind woman with greying red hair and a Scottish accent. It took multiple sessions before Marinette started to open up about her problems at school; about feeling overwhelmed. One day after a session, the doctor gave Marinette a notebook.

“What’s this for?” Marinette asked taking the black notebook. The front of it said it had a 1000 pages.

“Whenever you’re feeling overwhelmed, I want you to write.”

“Write what?”

“Whatever you want,” Vanderbilt smiled. “What you’re feeling. Poetry. Songs. Quotes you know. Write a story. Whatever helps you get what you’re feeling out, lessen the load you’re carrying a bit.”

So Marinette did.

It was a struggle at first. She never thought of herself as much of a writer. Then she started writing random quotes she knew. Then Marinette started writing a bit of poetry just to try to express herself in a way she could understand. However, during a particularly troublesome day, when Alya accused her of being lazy and not being a good class president, Marinette resigned her position much to the shock of the class and started writing song lyrics.

One of the recommendation from Vanderbilt was to always stop doing things she didn’t want to do just because it made other people happy; especially if it was at harm to herself.

The doctor made Marinette write 100 times: I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.

Marinette always hated being class president; the stress alone could kill a dozen elephants. She hated doing free commissions so she stopped that too. She hated doing the whole birthday celebrations, when everyone was quick to forget her that year. Or plan parties and fundraisers for trips that class made sure to make clear they didn’t want to her go to or on. So she stopped that too.

It was freeing.

Writing lyrics to songs were freeing. Soon she was writing them during class, lunch, after school, when there a moment of free time when helping out at the bakery.

And Vanderbilt was right. It did help her.

Marinette to smile a lot more. The pep in her step was back. She started hanging out with Chloe and Luka more and more. She made friends with others kids in class. She created a website and started selling custom designs.

One Friday, after school, Marinette found herself in Jagged’s Hotel room with Chloe and Luka. Jagged had asked Marinette to bring his new concert wardrobe that he had commission from her. He had and Clara Nightingale were going on tour together.

After Jagged had reviewed the clothes and approved them, proclaimed each outfit to be, “Rockin!”

Marinette found herself writing a song in her notebook while Luka and Jagged discussed musical influences. Chloe and Penny discussed a potential internships.

She was so invested in writing that she didn’t notice when the talking stopped. Or when Jagged asked her if she wanted Pizza.

Marinette jumped back when a hand suddenly waved in her face. “Wait! What!” She looked around and saw the amused faces of Jagged, Penny, Chloe, and Luka. Even Fang had a long grin on his face.

“What’s this love?” Jagged asked pointing to her notebook. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

The bluenette blushed and tried not to hide her notebook; it would only make them more curious, “Nothing; just a notebook for ideas.” Technically that was true.

“Right on, can I see?” Jagged asked.

Marinette instantly pulled the notebook to her chest and her blushed turned a dark red. She was not going to show a Rock Star the song she wrote. She’d rather die. “Nope! Nah ah, nothing to see here.”

Chloe rolled her eyes, “Yes, because that’s totally what someone with nothing to hide does.” The blond looked at Penny. “She writes song lyrics. They’re pretty good.”

Marinette glared at the blond, “Traitor.”

Luka looked a bit curious. Jagged had a full blown grin on his face, “I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew there was a rocker in you. I had just had to wait a bit, love. Come on. Let me see then! Show Uncle jagged your songs.”

It took about twenty minutes to get Marinette to agree and then another ten to pry the notebook out of her hands. She watched with a pit in her stomach growing bigger and bigger as she watched Luka, Chloe, Jagged, and Penny flip through her notebook. Reading the lyrics that came straight from her heart.

What if they hated them? What if they thought she had no talent? What if they thought she was a freak? What if! What If!

“This is good, mate,” Jagged suddenly said. An impressed look on his face. “These are really good.”

“Told ya,” Chloe said smugly.

Penny nodded, “I wouldn’t mind commissioning some songs from you.”

“I’d like to jam together,” Luka said. “Maybe we can do a duet.”

Jagged suddenly shot up, “Penny! Call the guys. We need a band! Marinette’s gonna sing for us!” He ran for his guitar.

“Marinette’s going to do what now?” Marinette shouted.

Marinette was going to sing.

She sat on a dark brown wooden stool, in front of Jagged’s backup band, with Jagged and Luka on guitar. Chloe and Penny watched in the background. An assistant help up a camera.

Jagged had decided to give Marinette a rockstar makeover; well as much as she would let him. Her hair was pulled back in a faux hawk with a few curls framing her face, her makeup was flawless, her face was painted to look like she had been crying and her mascara had gotten everywhere.

It took a while for Jagged, Luka, and she to work out the music would be good for her songs and what songs she’d use. She decided to let the four: Jagged, Penny, Luka, and Chloe decide on the best ones. Marinette was too bias, she knew.

They had practiced. Everyone assured her she had an amazing voice but Marinette thought they were a bit biased too. They loved her too much to hurt her by saying anything mean.

“Hey fans watching!” Jagged said into the mic. “Today, I got a special guest here. My honorary niece and personal fashion designer; Marinette. She’s written some kick ass songs and agreed to prove that she’s a rockstar like her Uncle. Give her some love!”

Marinette got up and waked to the mic.

The drum beat started slowly. Marinette took a deep breath. The guitars and piano started.

Marinette opened her mouth to sing,

“Someday I won't be afraid of my head

Someday I will not be chained to my bed

Someday I'll forget the day he left

But surely not today.”

The beat picked up a bit.

She fought not to close her eyes as she sang. Instead, she thought of why she wrote the song; all the pain, all the mess going on inside. Her blue eyes got a faraway look to them.

“One day I won't need a PhD

To sit me down and tell me what it all means

Maybe one day it'll be a breeze

But surely not today

But surely not today”

Admitting she was in therapy was hard. Penny comforted her and admitted she went a lot too. Jagged hadn’t been happy when Chloe told the two adults just what was happening in Marinette’s class.

“Oh you don't know what sadness means

'Till you're too sad to fall asleep

One day I'll be snoozing peacefully

But surely not today

Surely not today.”

Marinette voice carried across the room. She let herself get lost in the music. Otherwise, she’d be too panicky over the fact that she more or less admitted to being depressed.

“One day I'll swear the pain will be a blip

I'll have the hardest time recalling it

I'll be the king of misery management

But surely not today.”

This song was a promise to herself. That she would move on. She would get better. Somehow, someway, Marinette would conquer all that she was going through and be better for it.

“One day that song won't make me cry anymore (oh no no)

One day I'll get up off the bathroom floor (hey yeah)

Oh, piece by piece I'll be restored

But surely not today (surely not)

Eh, not today”

Marinette swayed to the music, dancing in place. The other people in the room watched, entranced by her voice.

“oh you don't know what happy means

If it's only in your dreams

I'll be acquainted with my jollities

But surely not today

Yeah, surely not today.”

There were days when Marinette swore she forgot what it meant to be happy; questioned if she had ever been really happy. Or if she had just fooled herself into thinking she was. She knew better now. And Marinette refused to let the dark thoughts win.

“Surely not, surely, surely not

Surely not (surely not today)”

Marinette sang that part softly. She knew she wasn’t going to get completely better right away. But she would… One day.

“One day the thought of him won't hurt the same

Won't need distractions to get through the day

I guess I hope I'm gonna be okay

'Cause I'm not today.”

The song slowly died down. Silence filled the room. Then there were claps and cheers. Jagged’s new manager Harvey Boyd looked ready to wet his pants from excitement.

“Yes!” jagged yelled. “That’s how you do it!”

Marinette blushed again and ran off stage as Luka readied himself to perform. Penny and Chloe both assured her that she had been amazing but Marinette couldn’t stop her heart from racing in her chest.

Chloe helped prepare her for her next song as they watched Luka perform.

He had gotten used to being Solo since Kitty Section kicked him out the band. Luka sang a called, She will be loved. A sad melody that was fit him to a T.

“I don't mind spendin' everyday

Out on your corner in the pourin' rain

Look for the girl with the broken smile

Ask her if she wants to stay awhile

And she will be loved, and she will be loved”

When he was done, once again Harvey Boyd had that hungry look on his face.

Then Jagged performed one of his hits. After that he brought Marinette up on their makeshift stage again.

Marinette didn’t feel any better performing the second time. She’d be singing the song Jagged chose.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

So much for my happy ending

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh”

The song was definitely more Rock than her last one. And she wrote it most about Adrien, some of it geared toward Alya and the rest of her friends.

“Let's talk this over

It's not like we're dead

Was it something I did?

Was it something you said?”

Marinette had wondered for months what she had wrong. Why it was so easy for them to just ignore her; disregard her, end their friendships.

“Don't leave me hanging

In a city so dead

Held up so high

On such a breakable thread”

They left her alone. Adrien left her alone. She trust them, and just left her.

“You were all the things I thought I knew

And I thought we could be…”

Marinette closed her eyes for just a moment as the beat of the music changed.

You were everything, everything that I wanted

“We were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it

All of the memories, so close to me, just fade away

All this time you were pretending

So much for my happy ending

So much for my happy ending.”

The song went on for a few more minutes. She had let the music as the guitar solo slowly died down. The song was met with applause.

Marinette performed a few more songs, along with Luka. After one of them, Harvey had come directly up to her and Luka and offered to be their manager. Apparently, Jagged’s label had been watching them and wanted to give each of them a record deal. If Penny and Chloe hadn’t been there, both Luka and Marinette wouldn’t fallen her their butts in shock.

Jagged called Boyd away to discuss something.

Luka gripped his guitar so tightly Marinette feared it would break, “That didn’t just happen, did it?”

“Nope,” Marinette shook her head, earnestly. “It’s the fumes from all their hairspray. It must have knocked us out. We’re in coma right now.”

Chloe glared at them. “Oh. Shut. UP! You were amazing. You both were. Marinette you screamed Girl power. And Luka, there’s probably a million girls planning on marry you right now.”

“I have to call my mom!” Luka and Marinette said at the same time.

Her parents were excited about the news. But they made it clear as long as it didn’t interfere with her school work, she could do whatever she wanted. Sabine and Tom were just happy their little girl was back.

Luka said his mom was the safe. School first, hall of fame second.

Jagged pulled Marinette on stage for one last song. The song was chosen by Chloe. It was the song Marinette wrote once she realized she was done. She was done with the drama in class, done with fake friends. Done with game and lies. Done with mean comments and ice cold glares. She was over it. And Marinette didn’t care anymore.

“You wanna play, you wanna stay, you wanna have it all

You started messing with my head until I hit a wall

Maybe I shoulda known, maybe I shoulda known

That you would walk, you would walk out the door.”

Marinette watched Penny smile as she turned on the big fans pointed at her.

Said we were done, you met someone and rubbed it in my face

Cut to the punch, she broke your heart, and then she ran away

I guess you shoulda known, I guess you shoulda known

That I would talk, I would talk

She remembered Alya standing in class renouncing their friendship, and nearly everyone joining her. The look on Lila’s face as she finally fulfilled her promise. Adrien not doing anything, and avoiding contact. He never stood up for her; not once. He blocked her calls, stopped answering her texts, until finally he let Nino and who else in class convince him to end his friendship with Marinette outright.

But when got over the loss, the heartbreak; she decided it was for the best. Marinette didn’t need them. She didn’t want them. Marinette swore she’d never be friends with them again.

“But even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies.”

The fire in Marinette’s eyes caused a few people to step back; including Luka. Then a wide smile spread over her face and

“Oh I really don't care

Even if the stars and moon collide

I never want you back into my life

You can take your words and all your lies

Oh oh I really don't care

Oh oh oh I really don't care?”

When the song ended, everyone cheered.

Jagged grabbed the mic, “Wasn’t she pure Rock and Roll, or what?” He picked up Fang. “What do you think, Fang? You loved it! For those of you who don’t know; this is my pet,” He told the camera. “Totally coolest guy ever. I’d never do anything mainstream like get a cat or anything.” He said with a wink. “For those of you who loved today’s acts; I’ve got some good news. All songs are going to be on itunes. Just look them up! In Addition; my label wants to offer both Luka and Marinette records deals. Who knows, maybe I’ll reach out to Clara about them coming on tour with us; we could use a couple of awesome opening acts.”

Marinette went home with the biggest smile on her face. She didn’t think much what happened. She figured the record deal wouldn’t go anywhere; someone would realize just how lame she was and stop it dead in her tracks. Marinette also figured that Chloe had exaggerated about how many watched; no one wanted to see some Amateur sing, even if it was on Jagged Stone streamed it.

It wasn’t a big deal, Marinette thought when she went to bed, tomorrow no one would even remember her. Still, it was a pretty fun.

By Monday morning, Marinette would learn just how big of deal it really was. Little did she know that, overnight, her song ‘Not Today’ was downloaded over 2 million times? Her song ‘Happy ending’ sold over 3 million. But ‘Really Don’t Care’ broke records. The rest of the songs had had performs sold well too; each selling over a million copies. The world was listening to her music, and she had no clue. Luka did pretty well too; his songs were just trailing after Marinette’s in sells.

Marinette had been helping her parents in the bakery’s kitchen, listening to the radio, when a new song started to play. Marinette turned white as a sheet, “M-Mom! Dad!” She said, her voice trembling.

“What’s up, honey?” Tom asked, worry clear in his eyes.

She pointed at the radio with a shaky hand, “That’s mine.”

“What?” Sabine asked confused.

“That’s mine,” Marinette repeated. “That’s my song!”

Her parents looked even more confused. Until they listened closer to the song and recognized their daughter’s voice.

Sabine dropped the pans she was holding, “You’re on the radio,” She whispered. “You’re on the radio.” She yelled, cheering.

Tom pulled his daughter into a giant bear hug, “My sugarplum’s a Superstar!”

�� After Marinette’s song

Once, she finished in the bakery, Marinette ran to Chloe’s. When she was let into the penthouse, she rushed to Chloe’s room, and as soon as she saw the blond, she yelled, “I’m on the radio!” And screamed. Chloe screamed with her.

Then Luka called and screamed, “I’m on the radio!” The sound of his mother cheering the background. As far as he was concerned it was the best day of his life. The year had sucked so hard; first his sister became one of Lila’s groupies, then he got kicked out of his own band, he realized he and the girl (Marinette) he had a crush on were better off as friends, and he broke his lucky guitar and had to fork over his savings to buy a new one.

But getting a record deal, being on the radio, nearly made all of it worth it. Luka still really wanted his sister back though.

The three friends spent the rest of the weekend hanging out and being amazed at their luck. Chloe got the internship she was after in the PR department. Thanks to Penny, she’d be Luka and Marinette’s promotor. Or least learning firsthand how everything works.

When Monday morning came, Marinette was still oblivious to just much had changed in so little time… Until she got to school, and some random girl asked for her autograph. Marinette stuttered out a, “Sure.” And signed the girl’s notebook. While she was doing it, four other kids lined up behind her. She signed each one with a smile.

“I really like your song: Not today,” One guy told her. “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one that gets that way sometimes.”

Marinette was so touched, she nearly started crying right there. She would’ve if Chloe hadn’t dragged her away, with a hiss about not crying in front on fans.

On the way to class, a few kids stopped and asked her for a picture. She agreed. But when more and more kids tried to get her attention, Marinette, once again, had to be saved by Chloe.

“You are not getting mauled on my watch,” Chloe tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I’d never get to work in PR again.”

Marinette giggled. Chloe rolled her eyes with a fund smile.

The smiles died when they reached class. They had gotten there early. Marinette was rarely ever late anymore sense she had lighted her work load. Only a few kid were there. Max, Nathaniel, and Mylene; they all looked at Marinette with wide eyes.

Marinette ignored them as Chloe and she went to their seats. They made light talk and ignored the looks of the other students as more and more arrived. Most didn’t say a word to her; not knowing what to do or say.

When Rose arrived, she immediately rushed over to Marinette, “I love your music. I didn’t know you could sing!” She chirped. “I can’t believe you performed with Jagged Stone. You’re so lucky.”

The bluenette gave the other girl a small smile, “Yeah it was amazing. Luka was great too,” She added. “He’s ecstatic about the record deal. He was so bummed when Kitty Section kicked him out; something about him holding you guys back. Did you guys ever find a new singer and lead guitarist? It’s been months, right?” It was spiteful. It was the meanest thing Marinette had ever done. And they deserved it.

Rose visibly wilted. So did Ivan and Juleka. Every member of Kitty Section regretted kicking Luka out of the band the moment they saw him performing with Jagged Stone; getting the break of a lifetime. And when they heard about a potential record deal… well, let’s say regret didn’t begin to cover it.

“Oh, we’re working on it,” Rose smiled, a big fake smile on her face. “We got a lot of people we’re considering.” The truth was, and it was hard for Kitty section to learn, that most people who had a fraction of Luka’s talent didn’t want to work with a bunch of teenagers. And without Luka there, no one was reminding them to practice or book gigs.

Rose returned to a seat, feeling more bummed than she had when she got to the class. She had been happy for Marinette, and for Luka. But she had so many dreams for Kitty Section and herself that just because she was happy for them, didn’t mean she wasn’t unhappy for herself.

Chloe pulled Marinette back into the conversation, just as the last of the students arrived, “So, once you sign the record deal, are you going to go on tour with Jagged and Clara. Luka said he’s going.”

Marinette frowned. She hadn’t really considered it much. Clara had reached out to her congratulate her on the record deal and tell her how much she loved Marinette’s songs. Clara had hinted hard that she’d love Marinette to come on tour with her. But Marinette didn’t know. Being a rock star wasn’t ever one of her goals in life.

“I still want to design,” Marinette admitted.

Chloe shrugged, “So do that too.” She suddenly gripped Marinette’s arm. “You can wear design your own dress to the Teen Choice Awards, and the MTV music Awards. You can design my dress!”

Marinette laughed, “My song came out like three days ago, and you’re practically writing my acceptance speech; I might not get nominated.”

The blond scoffed, “Oh you’re getting nominated. Do you know how many people downloaded your songs? Records were broken. Even my mother played ‘Really don’t care’ whenever she wants someone to stop talking to her now. Go on tour!”

“I’d need more songs,” Marinette said. “I’ll need to release like an actual album.”

“Penny went through all yours songs, remember?” Chloe said. “She sent me a list of all ones that she think would top the charts. She wants to record, ‘Fight Song’ as soon as you sign with the label. And she swears, ‘I kissed a Girl’ is going make people lose their minds.”

Marinette sent her a smirk, “That song’s half yours remember; we wrote it after you and Kagami got closer.”

“Won’t even hide the body, Dupain-Cheng,” Chloe growled.

Marinette laughed, “Fine! If I go on tour, I want you there with me. I couldn’t do it with you! You’re only one I’d trust me my social media accounts.”

“How could you invite Chloe,” Alya asked hearing the end of the conversation as she arrived just after the bell rang. “I’d be a much better social media influencer than her!”

Chloe raised an eyebrow, “Uh huh, and how’s the traffic for the Ladyblog?” She asked.

Alya flushed with anger. It was bad. They all knew it was bad. Ladyblog had died dramatically after Ladybug vocally for the other press to hear told Alya she didn’t work with reporters who didn’t fact check. “Marinette’s my bestie; I should be going with her.”

Marinette snorted, “Last I check your bestie was Lila. Or don’t you remember ending our friendship?”

“Well, I, uh,” Alya stuttered out. She had completely forgotten disowning the bluenette. She had been so excited when her mother told her friend’s name was trending, thinking she’d see Lila Rossi, only to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng on the top search list of the day. Then she watched the video of her performing, when Jagged mentioned the record deal, Alya lost her mind. Her mind was filled with images of her and Marinette at music awards shows and on tours; movie premieres. It was all going to be amazing.

Except it wasn’t. She and Marinette weren’t friends anymore. A balloon popped inside Alya.

Marinette gave her a sad smile, “What did you think I forgot? Or you must have.”

“The chances of that happening or as likely as Jagged Stone owning a cat,” Chloe smirked as Lila walked into the door. “Or did you forget that part too? Wonder how Lila saved something he never owned?”

To her credit, Lila didn’t bat an eye. “He doesn’t own one now. He must have forgotten the poor thing once he got really famous and they went out of style. I wonder what happened to it.” It was good performance. Lila even got teary eyed.

Still, Lila was met with suspicious looks. The class started to wonder if she was really their golden ticket. Or if the pissed of the real one instead.

“Congratulations, Marinette,” Lila simpered, jealously flaring in her eyes. “Who knew Jagged Stone was your Uncle?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Chloe poked yet another hole in her story. “You said you were oh so very close.”

Marinette smirked, “I had get my rock and roll genes from somewhere.”

#ml fic #ml salt #marinette dupen chang #luka couffaine #chloe bourgeois #Marinette deserves better #adrien salt

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atmilliways · 4 years ago

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On the 2nd day of Dethmas this writer gives to thee…

Dec 14 - Kissing under the mistletoe (or office party shenanigans)

Charles gets roped into the role of Santa Clause at the holiday office party.

Charles/Pickles

The dreaded Dethklok Inc. office Christmas party was coming up—dreaded not by the band or most of the employees, who typically had a blast, but by the CFO who had to arrange and organize everything before and after, up to and including the inevitable handful of resulting funeral arrangements.

Charles was looking forward to it even less than usual, because the band had thrown an absolute shitfit to get him to agree to play Santa this year. He didn’t know why they wanted him to do this. The party didn’t even normally have a Santa. His first thought was that it was Toki’s idea, but on second thought Toki tended to lack the charisma to get the rest of the guys to throw in with him on niche interests like that.

But fine. Whatever. He’d agreed to do it once, and next year he could simply point to whatever came of it this year as an argument against repeating the experience.

He kept telling himself that right up until donning the red and white Santa suit, the iconic hat, and the fake beard. (The damn thing was so big that practically all he could see of his own face in the mirror were his eyes. At least they were letting him keep his glasses.) Then he took his seat in a throne-like chair that had been special ordered for the occasion, specially decorated with carvings of presents, the most unsettling depictions of Christmas elves that he’d ever seen, and skulls with real candles balanced on them, lit and already beginning to dribble red and black wax . . . and immediately felt that somewhere in life he must have made a grave, grave mistake to have ended up here.

The band took the stage in the center of the hall, half the room away from where Charles sat, and went into a jumbled “Merry Christmas, go fuck yourselves!” sort of speech. He mostly tuned it out until—

“And hey, errybody,” Pickles slurred into his mic, “don’t ferget ta sit on Santa’s lap and tell ‘im what you want fer Christmas!”

That had not been part of the discussion, let alone the agreement, but at this point what was he going to do about it? Besides hope that grown men and women hired for their professional abilities would have no interest in sitting on the lap of the man who signed their paychecks.

“You can’t have a pony,” Charles said flatly. “There isn’t space for one in the employee barracks, and even if there were it would be both impractical and unsanitary.”

The Klokateer perched on his lap, crushing the feeling out of his legs, tittered and took another sip of his holiday punch through a straw poked up under his mask. “Oo-kay Mr. Grinchy-claus, no pony for me then. Aren’tcha going to say ‘ho ho ho, Merry Christmas’?”

“Ho ho ho. Now go away.”

Laughing drunkenly, the man lurched up and made his way off the Santa podium to get a refill of punch. The next Klokateer in line had an Online Division pin on one shoulder and a spiked eggnog in her hand. Charles braced himself for yet another request for fewer blocks on searching for porn using company computers.

“Hey look, it’sch Schanty Clausche!”

Charles grimaced behind his beard. “Hello, Murderface.”

The first of the boys to visit him, Murderface seemed to be in unusually high spirits. His ass landed on Charles’ knees like a ton of bricks. “Wow,” he crooned with exaggerated delight, “Schanta really does know all the namesch of the good little boysch and girlsch!”

“Very funny. Would you mind telling me whose idea this was?”

The bassist shook his head. “Hey man, I’m not here to narc on my bandmatesch, I’m here to tell Schanta what I want for Chrischtmasch. ”

“Alright. Fine. What would you like for Christmas.”

Murderface looked around furtively, then leaned in and whispered, “A dischguische kit.”

“A . . . disguise kit.”

“Yeah! I’m tired of being mobbed whenever I go out in public, scho I need it. For camouflasche. ”

Charles couldn’t remember a single incident of a fan mob forming for just Murderface; it only ever seemed to happen when one or more of the other band members were with him, though there were probably a few people who did wander up and ask for an autograph. There had been one unfortunately memorable band meeting a few months ago where Murderface had bragged about someone wanting to touch his penis for good luck, pleased at the recognition but at the same time calling said fan an ‘incredibly fucking gay regular jackoff.’

“I’ll, ah, make sure that’s added to the list,” Charles assured him, and breathed a sigh of relief when Murderface nodded in satisfaction and stood to leave.

“Hey, knock knock.”

Charles sighed from the depths of his soul at this second Dethklok visitation. “Who’s there.”

“Nathan Explosion,” said Nathan Explosion, dropping unceremoniously onto his lap.

Luckily, the beard hid Charles’ wince at the impact. He was probably going to have a lot of weird leg bruises tomorrow. “Nathan Explosion who.”

“Nathan Explosion, here to tell you you’re the party ho ho ho! ” Nathan broke into riotous laughter and clapped Charles good-naturedly on the back, causing him to accidentally inhale a mouthful of fake beard.

After a moment to catch his breath, Charles nodded along. “Very amusing. What would you, ah, like for Christmas, Nathan?”

“I need new pants.”

Well, that was unexpectedly straightforward. “New pants. You got it.”

“One hundred pairs. Exactly one hundred.”

“Okay.”

“Just, uh. A couple inches bigger in the waist. For the holiday weight that I am definitely going to lose in January.”

He couldn’t feel his legs; this was not the time to point out that Nathan wouldn’t have time to wear all one hundred pairs of new pants between December 25th and the start of January, nor that January as a deadline for such a drastic fitness undertaking was probably an unrealistic deadline.

“That’s fine, Nathan. One hundred pairs of pants. I’ll make sure, the, ah, elves get the message.” Maybe he would throw in some math flash cards while he was at it.

Toki weighed less than the first two, but was unfortunately so excited that he landed on Charles’ lap hard . Definitely, definitely going to have bruises.

“God Jul, Charles —I means Santa!” the guitarist chirped, bright-eyed and swaying slightly. Charles fervently hoped he wasn’t about to throw up; he didn’t even think being covered in vomit would do much to get him out of this holiday circle of hell. “Merries Christmas!!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Toki. What do you, ah, want to ask Santa for this year?”

He didn’t have a watch, but he estimated that Toki’s list, plus miscellaneous excited chatter, took at least half an hour and mentioned many things he knew for a fact that Toki already owned.

“Eeuyghh, looks, it ams everys-ones favorites butler,” Skwisgaar said, then folded himself gracefully into a sitting position. After an hour or two of being sat on like this and having plenty to compare it to, Charles wondered if the man was eating enough.

This was in spite of the fact that Skwisgaar was toting around a small plate loaded with various cheeses, fruit, and greasy finger sausages skewered on toothpicks. Party food. To Charles, who hadn’t realized that this gig would take so long and therefore hadn’t eaten in advance, it smelled wonderful.

The Swede must have noticed him eyeing it, or perhaps heard the growl of his stomach over the noise of the surrounding party somehow, because he smirked and held it out in offering. “Pickle says for you to haves this. Gots to keep yous strengths up, you knows.”

Pickles, Charles noted as he balanced the plate off to one side on one of the less obvious and candle-less Christmas skulls. He also pulled one of the sausages free of its toothpick and reached under the beard to jam it in his mouth. Still warm.

“Thank you, Skwisgaar,” he said once he’d finished chewing. “Now, what can I get for you? Ah, as Santa. Ho ho.”

“Everyones know it ams three ‘ho’s, dildo.” Skwisgaar steepled his fingers. “But I woulds like five ins mine room to enjoy ons the Christmas morning. You know the kinds I likes?”

Charles didn’t know what he’d expected. “It’s my job to know, so . . . yes.”

“Greats.” The guitarist patted him on the shoulder of his Santa suit. “Glads that ams sorted outs. Keeps up that good works, yous.”

Then he got up and wandered away, leaving Charles to realize that he hadn’t had a chance to ask him who was behind this whole Santa idea.

Charles finished the plate of food before Pickles made an appearance. He also realized that he could persuade his increasingly inebriated employees to bring him more food, and also drinks, by threatening them with cleanup duty after the party. (He was not in a generous mood; the ones that tried to weasel out of it at first would get cleanup duty regardless of whether they eventually caved or not.) There was no way to escape the alcohol content in the drinks—even when he asked for water it came spiked with vodka or peppermint schnapps, because everyone wanted to see the company’s CFO hammered.

At least they knew better than to roofie him, because Charles would have them killed.

He saw Pickles coming from a mile away. Maybe it was because Charles knew that once all of Dethklok had a chance to visit with “Santa Clause” he would be allowed to escape this torment; maybe it was because he really wanted to know if Pickles was, indeed, the mastermind behind this whole thing; and maybe it was just a tiny bit because he was annoyed the drummer had forgotten to wander over earlier.

But being annoyed at any of the guys was a nonstarter. Putting up with their antics was just part of the job.

“Heeeeeeeeeeey,” Pickles greeted him as he swayed his way over and plopped onto Charles’ lap. Unlike everyone else who had visited Santa this evening, he didn’t stick to perching closer to Charles’ knees but scooted in as close as he could until they were practically nose to nose. Mingled notes of every kind of booze available at the party wafted the short distance from the drummer’s mouth (and shirt, and hands, and dreads), until all Charles could smell was Pickles. “Lookin’ hot in that suit, dood. Is the temp in here okay? Gettin’ a little warm in there?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Charles said, trying not to be too aware that Pickles seemed incapable of sitting still and his ass was rubbing against . . . things. “Ah. Merry Christmas.”

Pickles snickered. “Did Nat’en make that ho joke?”

No one could see for the beard that Charles’ lips twitched toward a smile at that. “Yes, he did.”

“‘M glad yer not a ho, Charlie,” Pickles slurred affectionately. “A'least, not no much'a one. That’d be a bummer.”

“Ah . . . okay.” He didn’t know what to make of that, or the continuing subtle lap dance, so he said, “What would you like for Christmas this year, Pickles?”

“Weeeeell. . . .” Grinning, Pickles waggles his double-pierced eyebrows. It seems like he’s trying to be suggestive, but Charles has no idea what that’s supposed to suggest. The drummer leaned even closer, lips brushing against Charles’ ear as he murmurs, “I kinda already got my present right in front’a me, chief. Just gotta unwrap it.”

All of this was sending shivers and goosebumps down Charles’ spine under the (admittedly warm) Santa suit, but for heaven’s sake, it was just Pickles. When wasted, which he was more often than not, man oscillated between being a destructive drunk and clingy one. Apparently tonight it was . . . very much so the latter. Not a good time to ask about the Santa plot, really.

He had dealt with this before, just not with Pickles literally draped over and inconspicuously grinding on him. Come on, Offdensen, pull it together . Do not get a boner at the holiday office party. No matter how long it’s been!

“Well, ah, sounds like you’re all taken care of then,” Charles hazarded. “All that’s left to do is, ah, enjoy the party. Why don’t you go do that.”

Pickles chuckled, a low, sultry sound that just made the situation even more difficult. “Workin’ on it dood, I’m workin’ on it.” He shifted thoughtfully again, then bit his lip through a grin. “And it feels like we’re gettin’ there, huh chief?”

“I. Ah, what?” At least the big fake beard was concealing his blush better than he’d been able to contain his body’s mounting interest in the increasingly distracting ass squirming around on top of him. This is a public place , he wanted to protest, but didn’t want to risk pointing out something that might be completely unintentional. After all, it was Pickles , who did this sort of thing fairly regularly.

But the next murmured words out of Pickles’ mouth stopped every single one of Charles’ thoughts in their tracks.

“Fuck, even in this stupid suit yer sexy. How d’you do that?” A brief nip, teeth closing and tugging on Charles’ earlobe before releasing with a soft wet pop .

Nothing but overwhelmed static on the other side of that ear; the quiet gasp was completely involuntary.

“C’mon Charlie,” Pickles all but whined, “you don’t have to do this anymore. Jest call it a night and meet me in the bathroom or somethin’, okie?”

The amazing thing, Charles thought distantly, was that from a distance, it wouldn’t look like anything was happening. Just a grown man, swaying drunk off his ass, sitting on Santa’s lap to whisper what he wanted for Christmas. Regular office holiday party shenanigans for a laugh. But under the surface, Charles was starting to feel like a shaken champagne bottle.

“You, ah,” he managed. “You do realize that you, ah, seem to be prepositioning me for, ah. Sex?”

Pickles leaned into him with a laugh. “Like I said, dood, that’s what I’m tryin’ ta do. Fer like, fuckin’ forever. For a smart guy you can be pretty stupid, y’know that?”

“Ah.” Charles shifted awkwardly and nearly choked when Pickles very pointedly pushed into it at the exact right moment. “There’s . . . a chance I’ve been told that before,” he hedged, already vowing to himself that he would never admit how many times. This isn’t something he ever would have looked for, but mistaking Pickles hitting on him for god only knew how long for just being an affectionate drunk? That was pretty fucking funny if you thought about it, and he'd consumed just enough alcohol so far to really give it some very serious thought.

And . . . his job was to keep everyone in the band happy.

“So, ah. There are several bathrooms off this hall. . . . Which one did you have in mind?”

#metalocalypse #metalocalypse fanfic #chuckles #12 days of dethmas

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scotsmanandsassenach · 5 years ago

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OUTLANDER FAN FICTION: Murtagh

Here is an enjoyably long list of stories featuring Outlander’s one and only Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser! If you have written or know of a Murtagh-centric story (or moment) that’s not on this list please DM or comment below - there‘s no such thing as too much fanfic to read! SANDS x

After Culloden by @phoenixflames12

Weakened by fever, Jamie struggles to come to terms with the loss of Claire and the child and the fact that despite his best efforts, he is still alive.

All It Takes by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

Prompt: Imagine the conversation in S4 between Jamie and Murtagh when he tells his godfather about his second marriage.

An Ardsmuir Man Found by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

Prompt: Would love to see Marsali and Fergus finding Murtagh and bring him and the baby home to Jamie and Claire. The old and the new x

An Extended Stay At River Run by cantletitgo

The moments immediately following the season 4 finale (if you haven’t watched it, there are spoilers in this work!)

Before Light by @westerhos

Murtagh comforts Jamie after Faith’s death.

Can’t Do it For Her by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

Prompt: Hiya! I was wondering if there could be any Murtagh POV from first book/season? Related to either Jamie’s, Claire’s or both’s actions or circumstances? Thanks!

Cross That Line by MooseDeEvita

While traveling from town to town to lure Jamie back to them, Murtagh and Claire turn to each other for physical comfort. After all, confessions of lost love go so well with an ocean view and a sky full of stars. A bit of a deleted scene in episode 14 “The Search” after they hug in the cave by the sea.

Every Breath by thatsoccercoach

“It was there with every breath.”

Explaining Geneva by @renee-writer

A missing scene from Blood of my Blood where Jamie explains what happened with Geneva to Murtagh.

Faith’s Story by Judybrandtner

Murtagh tells Faith the story of the night she was born.

For Love by @redstarfiction

Imagining a conversation between Murtagh and Jamie before the wedding when Murtagh realises his God-Son is in love with the Sassenach.

Guardian Scotsman by @writtenthroughtime

Prompt: What about a story about Claire as a child or a teenager and somehow gets raised by Murtagh?

Hold On by @abreathofsnowandwaffles

“Frank and Jamie are two very different men, but I can tell ye, they both loved ye. Jamie loved ye so much- he sent yer mam back to him, to see ye safe. He was willing to give up his life so ye stood a chance.”

Hope in Change by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

Prompt: Imagine that the first significant person Bree meets in the colonies is Murtagh. It is through Bree that Murtagh finds out that Claire and Jamie are also in the colonies. What if it was Murtagh rather than Lizzie who witnessed Roger being a bit rough with Bree through the window that day?

In This Together by Awilding

During their search to find Jamie, an untimely encounter compels Claire and Murtagh to return to the caves to seek refuge. Their pursuit interrupted, Claire and Murtagh’s companionship is put to the test as they must rely on each other to make it through several days of considerable challenges. Set within the 14th episode of Season 1, “The Search”.

Just the Same by @bonnie-wee-swordsman for @imagineclaireandjamie

A short Murtagh POV from 1x07 during the scene in the stables with Jamie.

Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door by @abreathofsnowandwaffles

Murtagh finds his way up to Fraser’s Ridge and is greeted by a family of *three* Frasers.

Laying Just Vengeance by @gotham-ruaidh for @imagineclaireandjamie

Imagine Murtagh’s thoughts as he saves Jamie at Culloden

Murtagh and Rebecca’ Fraser by @renee-writer

Murtagh and Rebecca’s courtship and marriage from the Marine universe. A sweet and fluff end to the story.

Murtagh on the Ridge AU by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

If Murtagh survived Culloden and wound up on the Ridge with Jamie and Claire and company.

Now You’re The Outlander by orphan_account

Reader travels back in time from 2016 to 1744 and is found by Claire, Jamie, Murtagh and Fergus. The Reader and Murtagh develop a relationship but it doesn’t start off very well…

Only Hope by @magnoliasinbloom

‘The dank prison cell rustled and heaved slightly with the coughs and snores and groans of its inmates. Jamie tugged the rough blanket tighter around his shoulders, turning to face the heat of the peat fire.’

Other Grandfather Tales by AbbyDebeaupre for @otheroutlandertales

OOT explores the fairy tales and Scottish stories for children Jamie Fraser may have used for Grandfather Tales.

Peace by @bonnie-wee-swordsman

A very, very short moment from Murtagh’s Death at Culloden.

Playing After Bedtime by thatsoccercoach

Faith gets up after bedtime to play with Murtagh.

Reborn by @xlisaleinx

“Ellen?“ he whispered. Her name sounded strange in his ears; he hadn’t uttered it out loud for many a decade, and yet his tongue still remembered the way to form the syllables, calling her picture to him until he could see her as clear as day, as if she was standing right in front of him.

Sir Prize by thatsoccercoach

Murtagh tells a story.

Sit Still by @lenny9987

Brianna wants to paint Murtagh’s portrait but it proves a more difficult task than she anticipated. Part of my Living It Up at Lallybroch AU series.

The Astronaut and the Lepidopterist by thatsoccercoach

Faith has a school project requiring her to find out what her family members wanted to be when they grew up.

The Gorilla Dance by Judybrandtner

Faith and Brianna Fraser have a new obsession and they want to share it with Murtagh.

The Horizon by @lenny9987

Gaps In Canon: The morning of the battle of Culloden finds Murtagh watching the horizon and waiting for Jamie to return from Craigh na Dun.

The Knife by @whiskynottea for @otheroutlandertales

Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser is asked to craft a knife and finds love in the new world.

The River Runs Again by @whiskynottea for @otheroutlandertales

After so many years with his life chained to another man’s fate, Murtagh was free again.

The Son He’d Never Have by @akb723

Anon asked: “I wonder what Murtagh was thinking when he was watching Jamie and Claire the first time saw each other in their wedding finery outside the church and during the vow?”

The Storyteller by @thewhitelady

A collection of shorts, taking place during Jamie’s youth.

The Truth of You by Devildream69

When two people who’ve learnt the hard way what life could do to a person, find each other again- the inevitable happens. The truth of them becomes the only thing that matters.

To Sway a Heart by @lenny9987 for @imagineclaireandjamie

Can you imagine: Jamie’s reaction straight after Claire teases him about kissing Laoghaire, maybe brooding on it by himself or talking about it in a roundabout way with Murtagh? Maybe him deciding to do something about it?

Two Red Hens by @written-rebellion

An open letter from Murtagh to his dearly departed… (aka the au where everything is okay and nothing went wrong ever)

White Roses of Scotland by behzaintfunny

December, 1754. Ardsmuir prison. James Fraser is constantly surrounded by hundreds of people, yet more alone than ever. There appears to only be a single light in the everlasting darkness, however faint it may be.

Whither Thou Goest by fardareismai for @imagineclaireandjamie

I was wondering I always thought it was sad that Murtagh never got to meet Brianna so maybe you could do a story about Murtagh being alive when Bree came to Fraser’s Ridge

#murtagh #murtagh fitzgibbons fraser #Outlander #fan fiction #fanfic #olffrec

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starkergames · 5 years ago

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

Fic below the cut

Some things never change.

Like, being riddled with nerves whilst attending big events.

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

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

Some things do change, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was pleasant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forever is a long time,” he agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanna dance, Morgarita?”

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

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

Little things. It’s always the little things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does. And then again, and again.

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

“Mr. Stark!”

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

Swallowing roughly, Tony gives him a thumbs up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worse, he grew up to be Tony’s type.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s throat clicks when he swallows.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, stepping closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good, yeah. Super busy.”

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

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

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

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

“Which news?”

“Taking down Kingpins empire. Fisk behind bars.”

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

Tony nods.

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter! There you are!”

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

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

“Otto, this is --”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

Were Peter’s hands always that big?

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

“What,” he says.

She points a chocolate covered finger at his face.

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

“You like him.”

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

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

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

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

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

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

“Dad.”

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

“Can I speak about it to mom?”

He slips out another fifty and hands it to her.

“No.”

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

She really is his kid.

----

It’s not that Tony doesn’t know.

He knows.

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

He just doesn’t get it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They needed to recalibrate, and quickly.

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

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

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

It was the hands.

They looked very dexterous. Capable.

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever Norman says in response goes unheard.

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

Tony raises his glass, wincing.

At least some things stay the same.

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

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

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

Nailed it.

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

“Huh.”

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

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

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

Norman huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He forgets that too, sometimes.

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

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

His daughter and ex-wife are right there.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tony --”

“Mr. Stark --”

He waves them off and smiles apologetically at Peter.

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

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

Or lives, as it were.

----

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

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

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

What the hell does he think he’s doing?

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

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

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

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

His heart doesn’t get the memo.

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

It’s wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Stark?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter taps his smart-watch with a finger.

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

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

“Let’s stick to New York.”

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

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

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

“Well, come aboard, Mr. Parker.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, kid. Try some.”

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

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

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

“You seem to have managed well.”

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

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

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

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

“Appreciated.”

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

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

“Got any resolutions, Mr. Stark?”

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

“Most people just join a gym.”

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

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

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

Tony hums, stomach dropping.

“Some guy, huh?”

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

His stomach swoops back up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter shuffles closer.

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

“He makes no promises on that.”

“I thought as much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pete.”

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

“And until then?”

“You go with the flow.”

“How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony squints.

“That little brat.”

——

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

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

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

“And - and you. Mr. Parker.”

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

“Well, I --”

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

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

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

They stop by the dessert spread on their way out.

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M-Mr. Stark!”

Tony winces, pulling back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantastic.”

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

“Okay. Yeah. Good.”

-----

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

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

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

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

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

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Tony sniffs.

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

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

“Yes.”

-----

They got their date.

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

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

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

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

It’s terribly romantic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They share a knowing look.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s working on it though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tony.”

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

“Me?” Peter says accusingly, jaw dropping.

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

Peter visibly colours at the mention.

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

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

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

He nods at Pepper.

“She gets that from you.”

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

Tony sighs, not even mad.

Some things never change.

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

#Starker #starker games #starker fanart #PeterxTony #TonyxPeter #New Years

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randomfandomfamily · 5 years ago

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what have you thought of " be very afraid" varian feelings in this episode and lance solo and cassandra inner conflits toward rapunzel?

---

This is gonna be a long one, y’all brace yourselves:

So. Varian. I think I’ve made it pretty clear where I stand with this kid, I frickin’ love him. I was so afraid S3 was just going to go ahead and write this kid off, but I’m loving the development we’ve gotten so far!

We already knew in S1 that he adored Rapunzel, Cass, and Eugene. He did pretty much whatever they asked without much complaint, he kept his promise to Rapunzel even when it put his village in danger, he told Cass it was okay that she didn’t help even though she promised, and he is literally Eugene’s biggest fan.

They were his best friends, he just wasn’t theirs. But he wanted to be, and that’s why we saw him trying so hard all the time. And as soon as he felt like that effort wasn’t being reciprocated, he lashed out, which is what happened in Queen for a Day (not to mention he was grieving his encased father and his destroyed village, etc).

Varian’s betrayal did what it was supposed to do: give us a sympathetic bad guy. And he was really good, well-written bad guy. But he is also just a kid who wants his best friends back, which is where Be Very Afraid comes in.

And ooooOOOOOOOH BOY did I love this episode! He is genuinely terrified of losing his father again, and he’s afraid of the people of Corona because he knows what he did. He’s not trying to play down what he did at all, he’s owning up to it, and even says he doesn’t blame the people of Corona for hating him.

It’s a very mature response from Varian. He knows what he did, and how it affected people. He doesn’t try and make excuses for it, he just tells it how it is: he did a lot of really bad things.

But he’s actively trying to be better.

And that nightmare is such a realistic response to what he went through, I’m glad they touched on the trauma that caused him. Stuff like that doesn’t just... go away, you know? When everyone’s biggest fears starting being revealed, I was curious to see where they might go with Varian because so far we had seemed some pretty kid-friendly funny fears. A cowlick for Eugene, Mrs. Crowley for the lady-in-waiting, and I just wasn’t expecting them to go so... dark with Varian’s. (Or Rapunzel’s for that matter)

Dude, I don’t wanna imagine seeing a parent being encased in amber ever. And I definitely wouldn’t wanna see it everywhere I looked and hear my name being screamed everywhere I went. His reaction to it was appropriate too, convincing himself it’s fine even though he knows it’s not, and then finally breaking down with Rapunzel when she tried to talk to him. And that makes sense because, again, he’s just a kid.

They went deep with Varian in this episode, and I appreciate that. Varian is a complex and interesting character. I can’t wait to see how he progresses from here.

Now Lance? Look, I don’t care who you are, that song was a bop. Despite his brilliant song, I do have one slight issue with his fear. Which is... what was it? Was it clown-spiders or singing in public?

The whole thing just sort of played out like a kid-friendly IT Chapter 2. Clown-spider thing presents you with your biggest fear and is beaten when you make it feel small (that’s literally what happened at the end of the movie).

And then there’s Cassandra. I’m just- I... look, I’m angry, okay? I’m just angry.

So we saw in Beginnings that Cassandra already had her feud with Rapunzel. But in the end she gave up joining that lady because she deemed her friendship with Rapunzel more important, which is awesome character development that they just threw out the window with Cassandra casting their whole relationship aside for the sake of “destiny”.

So which is it writers? Does she value Rapunzel’s friendship over greatness, or is she willing to destroy her relationship for greatness instead? Well, we got our answer in Be Very Afraid.

I thought they were doing a step in the right direction with Cassandra questioning herself. The red rocks, I thought, were for sure going to help Cassandra realize that what she was doing was wrong.

Even though Cassandra has been consistently written as a strong, independent character, she is somehow easily swayed by the words of a ghost kid in a frilly dress. So now she went from being hesitant about killing Rapunzel because that’s her best friend to not really caring about their friendship at all.

They could sense each other through the rocks, right? To the point that Rapunzel could feel that Cassandra was afraid. So that should have gone both ways, Cassandra should have realized that Rapunzel was also afraid and in no way trying to strip her of her power.

But hey, who cares about the unrelenting terror of your best friend when there’s evil conspiring ghost children that can tell you what to do?

Okay, this was much longer than I though it was gonna be.

TLDR: I love Varian and his development is absolutely astounding, Lance’s song was a bop and he would have survived IT Chapter 2, and the writers are still doin’ my girl Cassandra dirty and I’m mad at their inconsistent-- and all around just bad--writing for her.

#tangled #tts #varian #rapunzel #cassandra #lance

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scripting-life · 4 years ago

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FFVII: returning to my first love

*peeks out of the corner of my lurking spot*

Hello? Anybody out there? It’s only been, oh you know, four-ish years since the last time I’ve posted anything here. I apologize in advance for anybody who’s still following me from my Castle days. If you couldn’t tell from my extended absence, I’ve mostly moved on. Castle and Beckett were fantastic characters that let me to play with some deep-dive analyses, and Castle will always hold a special place in my heart as my comfort show and my first real and extended experience with online fandom. I’ll always be grateful to the community I’ve had the joy of interacting with (or, the community with which I’ve had the joy of interacting, as Castle would correct me my dangling preposition).

I honestly didn’t think I would ever have reason to come back to Tumblr after Castle ended. But the FF7 Remake has returned me to my very first love--when I was young and innocent and before I knew anything about OTPs or ship wars. I’ve been back lurking for several months now and seeing all the fanart/fanfics and fun theories and analyses has reignited my enthusiasm for the FF7 franchise. It’s also fun coming back to this franchise with a more mature understanding of the themes/concepts that completely flew over my head as a young preteen.

(This ended up being super long, so the rest is below the cut to spare everyone the pain of scrolling. Apparently, my rambling tendencies have not changed at all. lol.)

When FF7R was officially announced (five freaking years ago!), I was filled with apprehension. FF7 was my first taste of a “grown-up” game. I was 11 and played my brother’s copy of the OG on PC in 1-2 hours spurts on the weekends when I visited his apartment. It took me months, if not years, to finish the game (I ended up stealing his copy to play on our computer at home...lol), and I was so blown away by it. I remember the exact moment I finished it and how I was literally shaking as I watched the ending FMV.

Later, when I found out my brother had a copy of FF8 (my poor brother was so accommodating to his annoying little sister...haha), I was so excited to play, in large part because I thought it would continue the story of FF7. Young, naive me didn’t understand the numbering conventions of Final Fantasy titles. I was madly theorizing and breaking my brain trying to find connections between the two games’ plots and had literally played through more than half the game before I finally realized the storyline of FF8 had absolutely nothing to do with FF7. I was sorely disappointed, and I think that has somewhat tainted my appreciation of future titles. Not to say I haven’t enjoyed the subsequent FF titles, but I think a little part of me is always comparing them to that first experience of wonder and awe that I had with FF7.

I discovered fanfiction in my teens and starting writing FF7/Cloti fics in college. Aside from interacting with a few fic writers at the time, I was not involved in any online communities, so I kept myself pretty free of any ship war drama and the like. When I did research for my fics, I’d sometimes see shipping sites and theories where I didn’t always understand the logic of how certain conclusions were reached, but frankly, I didn’t much care and didn’t realize that Clerith vs. Cloti was such a touchy subject. I was peripherally aware that some sort great LTD war was waging, of course, but it didn’t really touch me. I stayed in my Cloti shipping/fic-writing lane and was probably a lot happier for it. And, to be honest, based on FFN’s listings for FF7, I felt like I always saw a bunch of Sephiroth/Cloud fics and thought that was just as popular as the more conventional ships.

Graduating college and entering “real life” pretty much ended my FF7 fanfic-writing journey. In the intervening years between college and the release of FF7R, I haven’t gone back to the OG too much. I’ve played almost all the Final Fantasy games since then, and I always enjoy getting my FF7 crew fix when I play the non-canon mobile games or the Kingdom Hearts franchise. But FF7 was a happy part of my teenage years, and I was content to think on it with sweet nostalgia.

Remakes, in recent experience (*cough cough* Disney, why?), have been hit or miss, with a lot of misses. It’s hard to strike a good balance between catering to nostalgia and delivering a fresh product, never mind the change in social mores through the decades. I was so afraid FF7R would screw up my memories, especially since I wasn’t the biggest fan of Advent Children. The graphics were great and the action scenes were fun, but the story felt like a let-down. Cloud, in particular, felt so different (and yes, moody) from where we left him after the OG. I understand now that a lot of his character motivation was better explained in the On The Way to a Smile novels, but back then, I just felt like AC came out of nowhere.

Btw, because I see this question a lot on other blogs when I’m lurking, I’ve ALWAYS thought that it was very clear in AC--even without reading anything else--that the reason for Cloud’s depression was due to guilt and not because he was pining for Aerith. The only reason I didn’t like his characterization in AC was because it felt like it came out of nowhere since AC is set 2 years after OG and by the end of the OG, he seemed to be in a pretty decent place mentally and emotionally. That being said, I can absolutely understand why some traumas resurface years after the originating incident and how times of peace might actually be worse because he is no longer solely focused on saving the world, but I was just surprised and a little bummed that this was the direction the devs chose to take AC at the time. Now that I’m older, I do better appreciate the complexities of Cloud’s mental state and the fact that they depicted a hero with lingering mental health issues is actually pretty awesome. I’m drawn to characters that have flaws--sometimes serious ones--but try their best anyway. Hence, why why Tifa Lockhart and Kate Beckett are some of my all-time favorites.

Anyhow, that didn’t stop me from pre-ordering FF7R, of course. I avoided reading any reviews as I didn’t want my first impressions to be swayed, and boy, was I happy that I went in mostly blind. That sense of awe really almost felt like playing the OG for the first time again, but somehow more. The combat system is incredibly fun and the world-building is nothing short of incredible. The variety and abundance of NPCs gives the game so much flavor and the locations have been rendered so well. As I’m going through areas like the Sector 7 train station and Wall Market and Aerith’s house, I can almost superimpose the layout from the OG in my head, but now it’s in 3D and so rich and full. It’s obvious that a lot of attention was paid to details, and I love all the head-nods and homages to the OG.

And oh, the characters!

This is the Cloud I’ve been wanting to see in glorious HD and the Cloud I remember from the original game: all awkward, dorky trying to be cool, socially inept, mentally unstable, abrasive-at-times, reluctant to act depending on who’s asking, wannabe hard-ass who’s actually a big softie inside Cloud. I remember reading an article a few years back about how the devs basically redid Cloud for the Remake because they wanted him to go back to his dorky roots--which ends up making him closest to his personality in the OG than his appearances in other franchises--and I was SOOOO incredibly happy to hear that. I was so sick of the way Cloud was constantly depicted as this cool, broody McBrood in his cameos when he was a pretty big dork in the OG. (Anybody remember him doing squats in the Highwind when Tifa says it’ll be lonely with just the two of them and Cloud responds that he’ll make enough noise to make up for it? Like I said: cute, but a dork.)

I WAS surprised by how comfortable and sweet and touchy (so very very touchy) the devs made him with Tifa from the beginning. That initial scene of Cloud being such a smooth operator giving Tifa the flower had my jaw-dropping and every single flirty interaction after that (and there are many) had my Cloti heart overflowing in shock and bliss. Throughout most of my years as a Cloti shipper, even though I believed Cloti was supported by canon and pretty clearly together, I was also under the impression--mistakenly or not--that Cloti was the minority ship. So for Square Enix to make it so blatantly obvious that Cloud is really into Tifa at such an early stage has been an unexpected gift.

Also, they’re just really hot together. (Clotiscrew tunnel--be still my heart!)

As for Tifa...oh, what wonderful character development we’ve already gotten for Tifa. Tifa has always been one of my all-time favorite characters ever since reading her character blurb in the OG game manual. Initially, as a child, it was because I saw so much of myself in her. She was outwardly bright and optimistic, but tended to hide all of her stronger feelings inside. She fought with her fists, and for someone who was a tomboy growing up who liked playing contact sports with the boys, I connected with her in a way that I had never been able to connect with other female protagonists who were primarily back-row specialists. (I also aspired to grow to her listed height of 5′4″, which alas, did not happen...lol).

I love how the Remake delves into more of Tifa’s moral conflict between the destruction that she causes as part of Avalanche and needing to do something to stop Shinra, and yes, even seeking revenge. They touched on this in the OG lightly, but the Remake really hammers it home. She’s perhaps the most conflicted character in terms of motivation in Part 1. That scene with the Shinra manager on the train is actually one of my favorite scenes of her because it highlights that tension. The elevator scene, if you opted for it instead of the stairs (or if you did one, saved, and reloaded to do the other one, like me), is also underrated in terms of how much it reveals about Tifa’s inner struggle.

On this point, I also appreciate that the Remake has the characters reflecting on the damage they’ve both indirectly and directly inflicted--the Avalanche team all do this to a certain degree. In particular, Jessie’s constant inability to figure out what she’d done wrong with the bomb to cause such a massive explosion and her remaining feelings of guilt during her death scene (”they were my victims” ouch!) were heart-breaking.

Aerith’s depiction was another pleasant surprise. I’ll be honest; I didn’t much like her in the OG. She was too pushy and willfully oblivious to the point of being mean at times. In the Remake, much of her sometimes too in-your-face playfulness was kept--perhaps still a little too much--but I appreciate the nuance that they gave her. The train graveyard scene tells the player that she didn’t have friends growing up, and I think that partially contributes to her lack of social tact at times. The other factor that gives her personality more nuance is the hint of special knowledge that affects how she interacts with the rest of the group. It gives her additional hidden motivation and adds to her mystery for new players while simultaneously pulling at the heartstrings for old players who get the impression that Aerith is somehow aware--to a certain, unknown extent--of her own fate.

I also appreciate that Aerith is more grounded as a real person than as some sort of revered being. I do blame AC for some of that. When you have the power to cure a fatal disease from the afterlife and send the dead back to life, it gets into some godlike territory. Maybe it’s a fair depiction of her powers as a Cetra, but I just get the feeling that Aerith herself wouldn’t really appreciate being made into this goddess-like figure. Remember that her character blurb in the original game manual implied that she was more interested in earthly things (i.e. the love triangle) than in exploring her own powers. I personally think that Aerith used the “love triangle” in the OG as a form of escapism from the weight of her burdens rather than genuine interest, and I just think she’d want to be thought of as a person rather than as a god. One of my favorite scenes for Aerith is when she and Cloud are traversing the rooftops and she slips on the ladder, letting out a simple, “Shit.” It humanizes her in a way that combats some of the ways she’s sort of been deified in the last 23 years. Also, Aerith wielding a folding chair like it’s WWE never fails to make me laugh. Overall, she just comes off as a more reasonably flawed and--as a result, to me--a more likeable character in the Remake, and I do very much like her now.

Barret is pretty much the exact larger than life character I imagined in my head, only somehow even better, and I really love how expressive and emotional his eyes and facial expressions are. His scenes with Marlene are truly the cutest thing ever. Red XIII is a big, furry ball of sass, and I need so much more of him in the coming parts (Cosmo Canyon still wrecks me to this day). The interactions between the Wedge, Biggs, and Jessie are incredible, and they really feel like people who’ve been friends and basically each other’s family for years. The Turks and Rufus are pretty much as cool as I imagined them in the OG.

There’s still so much more I haven’t even started touching on about the Remake, and I think that’s why I’m finally posting this now. I just can’t contain my love for this game any more, and I really really need a place to express myself. I don’t know if anybody is still reading, but I appreciate having the opportunity to finally gush about this game and franchise that I’ve loved so much for pretty much two-thirds of my life.

#ff7r #final fantasy 7: remake #cloti #cloud x tifa #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #aerith gainsborough #jessie rasberry #barret wallace #red xiii #for the love of the game #personal experience #not sure i'm ready to wade back into fandom life #but i really needed to gush #oh man i forgot to mention the cats #how could i forget the cats?!?!?

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avenger-hawk · 5 years ago

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Also I saw ya mention starsigns and sis I am ALL about that noise. I just wanted to put my 2 cents in but this is not to argue or anything just a perspective! (And sorry in advance, this is going to be long, please feel no need to read it but it is cathartic to write!) I think in terms of Sasuke and Nruto I pretty much totally agree with their starsigns (obviously birthcharts are unknown but on the whole their sun signs make sense).

I guess the most well know trait for Libra is that they are friendly and well liked by everyone, which is pretty obviously a Naruto thing especially after the first few seasons as despite being a pariah at the beginning, he sways just about everyone to his side. But Libra is a cardinal air sign, this generally means they are leaders and full of ideas! They are very original and are the kind of people to get everyone excited and hyped. I think this is pretty obvious in Naru as he is always the most excited and getting people to join in on his ideas. As an air sign, being social and charismatic is all part of the charm (and Libra’s can be VERY charming) and they are great at keeping the peace, we see this in Naru and he is always the one talking the badies down and even standing up for some of them against his own people. Despite this, Libras can be superficial, they can be indecisive and unreliable. I see this in Naru when he is late to training/class/graduation, he tends to be focused on (sakura’s) good looks and vain in the sense of wanting to be the best to the point of neglecting personal development (seen in the early seasons). Although many of these characteristics can seem similar to a Leo, they differ in a number of aspects. (I, a Leo, will try to be unbiased lol). Leos are fixed fire signs ruled by the Sun (easy to see how we think we are the centre of the universe), as a fire type, it is easy to say Sasuke fits category well but there are more reasons than this why I think so. Keys characteristics of Leos are their loyalty, self-confidence and kindness. Although it could be argued Sasuke is not loyal, I would say he is and that his loyalty to his family both came first and was stronger than his loyalty to the village. Secondly, despite having lived in the shadow of his brother, it is always clear Sasuke is confident in his own abilities as seen when he is unbothered by Naruto as a rival in the early seasons and top of the class. With regards to kindness, Sasuke was a happy and kind child but this kindness was hidden as he grew up. He never tried to hurt anyone unless they got in his way, he genuinely cared for his friends but was driven by the need to avenge his family, another sign of his loyalty to them. And probably one of the most telling points was when he shared his lunch with Naruto, even though he passed this off as beneficial to the team, I believe he said this in order to protect his pride (Leos are VERY prideful). Leos can also be arrogant (do I really need to provide evidence lol), they are inflexible and once committed will not be swayed (his mission for vengeance) despite difficulty or personal suffering. Leos are lazy, although ambition and enthusiastic, Leos often take the easy way out especially if there is no strong motivation. Leos are very domineering, they want to lead (seen when he makes a bid for hokage), they tend to overpower others (basically everyone but Naruto), and can have difficulty listening to others (basically anytime someone makes a suggestion he doesn’t like lmao). Leo is very compatible with Gemini, Libra, Sagittarius and Aries (<3, Aries is bae). They do not tend to get on well with: Virgo, Pisces OR SCORPIO(!!!).

Brief interlude: Scorpios and Leos don’t tend to work out because Scorpio (as known as the honorary fire sign) are similar and opposite in all the wrong ways. Both have strong willpower and resolve, are inflexible and intense. Scorpios tend to be more controlled in their emotions but also more silently controlling of others compared to Leo’s loudly dominating nature. Leo’s want someone who will bow to them in the moment of truth but Scorpio bows for no one.

I’ll do Gemini and then stop I promise! Geminis are a mutable air signs. This means they are flexible, adaptable and changeable. The reason I can only half-heartedly defend Itachi as a Gemini is that I think his resolve is unchangeable and he is capable of being alone and isolated. Apart from this he does follow a number of other gemini traits such as being gentle (kill people as swiftly as possible, tries to avoid bloodshed and fighting), highly intelligent (hokage-level at early age), able to learn and adapt quickly(picked up fireball technique and others with ease). (and I know this is below the belt but fun fact most well known serial killers are Gemini/Pisces/Virgo). Geminis are most known for being multi-faceted, yes, a nice way of saying two-faced. They are open minded and thoughtful and are often known as artists, poets and writers. The story of gemini is that of two brothers divided by all circumstance(different temperament to Sasuke, different abilities, raised as first son). They are often innocent in nature (Itachi during the first war age 4/5 helping an enemy shinobi). They love to spend time with family, particularly younger as they are child-like in nature. Their intelligence leads them to seek understanding in all things (itachis depression and seeking for meaning in his life at young age). They require freedom (need to be away from the village and family pressures) and are usually quite talkative and eloquent (tbh he leads most of the conversation with Sasuke and talks a fair bit with Naruto).

So yeah I guess I’ll wrap up haha. I’m not really a fan of the other characters placements I guess for the main ones I’d say:

Naruto: Libra/Taurus/Leo (friendly, food, fiery)

Sasuke: Leo/Scorpio/Aries/Sagg (somethin’ with PASIÓN)

Itachi: Leo, Virgo, Cancer (somethin’ clever but also capable of bein a sad boi)

Orochimaru: Scorpio, no way he ain’t lmao

Sakura: Cancer, come on, how is she not

Kakashi: Gemini, Aries (he a smart boi but he go off too)

Madara: Scorpio, you don’t get fucked up enough to destroy the world without being a scorpio imo lmao

I’m leaving your opinion here because I already replied to an ask on N*ruto character’s starsigns, so it’s pointless to say I disagree with their official ones, so with yours as well. I can tell you know a lot about it and I’m not the most knowledgeable person on horoscopes so it’s just my personal opinion. Anyway what I can add is that Itachi as a gemini to me seems more like a choice made because Gemini is a double sign graphically, and that kishi chose it like this, not considering how the actual sign is, even though your explanation makes sense I’m not entirely convinced lol, he seems a person under Saturn signs somehow. S*kura as a sensitive cancer is totally not my thing, she isn’t empathic or sensitive, she strikes me more like an Aries or Virgo, some stubborn and imposing one. NO offense to Aries or Virgo ppl ofc, I mean her as a bad example of them.

#vivalarevolution #replies &co #submission

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smolstrawberrychara · 6 years ago

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Klance Au Month - Day 11 - Historical

18th century love letters.

Penny For Your Thoughts

At a London Coffeehouse in the 18th century, Keith is a writer for the local newspaper. He takes tip-offs from the public in the form of scrolled up paper in a lion's jaw. Only, today, he gets more than he's bargained for.

Getting to his feet, Keith cleared his throat, ready to read their latest tip-off. Then his breath fell short.

This wasn’t? He couldn’t? Keith’s cheeks flamed. The quiet around him suddenly became achingly so as he processed what he was supposed to be reading aloud.

Dearest Keith, your words are as fine as that behind you so gracefully hide beneath the tail of your handsome silken coat. From afar, my admiration will eternally shine. X

“So?” Shiro urged, leaning closer, “what does it say?”

Read here, or on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745950

Keith’s head felt like a balloon, vision swirly and messing completely if he moved too fast. The floor also seemed to be moving, avoiding him like the deck of a ship. He stumbled forward, stomach slamming into the bench. He grinned, congratulating himself on getting exactly were he wanted to be. Climbing over the seat, he wiggled into a comfy position on the stark wood. In front of him, the server was collecting cups, snuffing out the candles balanced on the empty tables as he went.

The server. He was a tall man, with tanned skin and unruly brown hair. He swept through the coffeehouse with practiced ease, even when the walls were bowing outwards with the number of patrons. He laughed it off, yelling out opinions and adding titbits to the conversation. He always seemed to know the right thing to say.

“You,” Keith began, throwing an arm across the table to grab his attention. The server jumped, turning to face Keith with the barest hint of amusement. “You m’st be, like. THE most nintelli- inetla-SMARTEST person in this roooom.”

Keith grinned to himself, satisfied with turning out that perfect sentence. The server raised the slightest eyebrow, making a point of shining his gaze across the entire shop before sending it back to Keith. He couldn’t help preening when it did, sitting a little taller.

“Well, there is only you and I here, so I would hasten to agree.”

Keith felt his cheeks warm, and he curled his elbow in to rest his head against it.

“Mnnhow come,” Keith said, stretching in place. He was so very tired today but the reason why seemed to be evading him. “How come, d’you never join in?”

The server shrugged, “I join in plenty.”

Keith frowned, poking at a dip in the wood. “Not mines, you don’t.”

The server smiled, crossing his elbows against the table top and leaning forward. His lips were crooked, eyes sparkling above them. Keith’s heart raced.

“Okay, here’s an idea.” He said, smirk unwavering, “I’ll leave a message in the lion’s head for you to read tomorrow.”

Keith sprang up, nodding eagerly.

“But it’ll be just for you, so no sharing.” He continued with a wink. It made Keith’s stomach swoop. He watched as the server swayed back through the house, grabbing paper and a quill at the desk. His tongue poked between his lips as he wrote, eye flickering back to Keith’s before an undeniable grin pulled onto his cheeks.

Then he was passing Keith once again and tucking the paper under the sharp fangs of the golden lion bust. Keith lunged forward, knee smacking into the bench and stopping him in his tracks.

The server tutted, shaking his head.

“Tomorrow.” He said, wagging a finger at Keith, “it’ll come quicker if you go home and sleep now.”

Keith bit his lip. On the one hand, the letter was here now. On the other, he’d given his word. And Keith was a man of words. So, straightening the thick fabric of his jackets, he got to his feet, standing tall.

“Then I’shall go.” He announced with a nod. The walk across the shop seemed to take longer than usual and someone had clearly moved the tables from their rightful positions as Keith found himself knocking heads with a fair few. But somehow, he’d managed. And the twinkling laughter behind him was a good source of motivation to keep walking.

~*~

Squeezing through the crowd, Keith dodged elbows and narrowly missed smacking his hip into the thick corner or one of the wooden tables. The coffeehouse was always buzzing but mid-morning was when conversation really seemed most rampant. Cups slammed against benches, voices roared. Men threw themselves over tables, so caught up in passionate debate they were. Blacksmiths fresh from the forge, cheeks still red and clothes ashen sat side by side with seasoned travellers, fresh from the oceans, cheeks burned red and clothes adorned with the many jewels of their labour.

Keith felt the familiar buzz in his veins. It was just like that first day. With just one penny he’d found in the gutter he had bought himself into a whole new world. He wasn’t ignored - kicked to the kerb and treated like a dog. He was someone. With an opinion. A view. He could tell people the injustices of their city, the toils of its people and the crimes committed under their very noses. And people listened. And they spoke back. Keith had gained a power that day. And with his long-learned ability to blend into the background, it became legendary. He used his skill to learn more of the world and spread that knowledge like wild fire.

Soon he was not only spreading gossip, but news and political debate. He’d pointed out the number of orphans on the roads and suddenly there were food packages delivered to the children. And not long later, Shiro recruited him to his newspaper team. The man took a young Keith under his wing, taught him to read and write and stake his point so that no-one could ignore it. Now, Keith afforded a small apartment down the back roads of London and a steady income, working alongside Shiro to write the coffeehouse newspaper.

Keith shuffled along the bench, down to his seat alongside the golden lion bust. This was his favourite part of his job. The lion’s mouth was carved open, teeth forming a cage for paper to be slipped in. Anyone in the coffeehouse could give them their stories, could share their thoughts, their news. It was exhilarating.

Grabbing the latest instalment, Keith threw his coat tail out before landing in the seat next to Shiro.

“Alright Keith!” Matthew Holt whooped, rubbing his hands together and leaning in. He was a frequent at the coffee house - a well to-do young man studying at Oxford. Keith thought he wouldn’t like him much - with that kind of background he was destined to live a life of luxury, abusing any common street urchin he saw. But then Keith discovered him sneaking his sister into the male dominated world and he instantly changed his mind. Matt’s intentions were pure, his desire to level the playing field, make knowledge available to anyone who wanted it, was a plight Keith admired. Matt had Keith calling endless defences, angling his shoulders in defiance as he stared down pompous professors who believed knowledge was only for the elite.

“How’s the head?”

Keith rolled his eyes. The whole reason he’d had all that ale was that he was too busy investigating their latest pocket connoisseur to come in for coffee. It was a sore-head or incurable disease from contaminated water.

“Fine.” He said firmly.

“That must mean he’s still drunk!” Matt hooted, falling over the man next to him. Laughter burst out around him and Keith couldn’t help the twinge of a smirk against his lips.

“Let’s hear the latest then.” Shiro said, nudging his ribs with an elbow. He took a swig of his coffee before wincing at the bitter taste. Another secret Keith had learned: Shiro was not a fan of the stuff his life was built around.

Keith unrolled the scroll as Shiro hushed the table. Getting to his feet, Keith cleared his throat, ready to read their latest tip-off. Then his breath fell short.

This wasn’t? He couldn’t? Keith’s cheeks flamed. The quiet around him suddenly became achingly so as he processed what he was supposed to be reading aloud.

Dearest Keith, your words are as fine as that behind you so gracefully hide beneath the tail of your handsome silken coat. From afar, my admiration will eternally shine.

“So?” Shiro urged, leaning closer, “what does it say?”

Keith blinked at him. Then around at the entire table. Everyone was staring, fingers squeezing around their full cups. Familiar faces. Unfamiliar ones. Eyes boring into Keith. Matt tilted his head ever so slightly. He stretched, eyes turning down and Keith quickly squished the paper to his chest.

“It’s the Shipping Report.”

A groan erupted. Across the table, people were quick to voice their grievances until the buzz was effervescent once again. Keith quickly sat down hurting his ‘fine behind’ in the process. Blood rushed to his face. What was happening? Was it a mistake? A love letter mis-delivered? But then he was mentioned by name. He quickly drank his coffee, swallowing down the jittering in his stomach.

“Well that was disappointing.” Shiro sighed. All Keith could manage was a nod, gulping more coffee. It slid down a little too fast and then he was choking.

Shiro slammed a hand over his back, probably doing more damage than any good with his brute strength.

“Are you okay?” Matt asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yep!” Keith squeaked. It was probably just a one-off joke to spite Keith.

~*~

It was not a one off.

The next day, as Keith read off their news clippings there was another stuffing between the mess of paper and ink.

Shipping Report? How romantic. Pray tell me the details of those ships that made your face light up like a lamp. Were their sails at half mast, or dare I say, full? I could return your kindness with a secret of my own.

Keith’s face exploded once again, lucky enough to have returned his drink to its place before his choke spilt the coffee everywhere.

“Something funny, my friend?” Shiro asked. Keith fought for words. He couldn’t show him the very personal albeit crass, note. But what could he say? All words were evading him.

“Just, uhh…”

“Top up, anyone?”

Keith jumped at the voice, the server ducking between them to pour drinks. Keith’s whole body sighed in relied. Thank goodness for that interruption. He fell into his seat, nearly panting with the effort of hiding his emotions. Quickly, he slipped the note into his pocket, and moved on with his reports.

~*~

The notes didn’t stop there. They kept coming, thick and fast, and Keith was beginning to get concerned he was being silently mocked.

You are a disaster waiting to occur, sweetest Keith. I shall have to end my letters with a tip-off or I fear you shall combust! O, how I long to caress one of those flaming cheeks in the warmth of my palm.

Mr Avery has been smuggling rum on the Thames

My dear Keith, I admire the confidence in which you hold yourself. You accuse with such conviction I fear if I told you a lie it would come true. I could watch you debate for eternity.

Mrs Spry sews flowers into the seams of her husband’s coat

O Keith! Your story on the wolves of London made me swoon. It is a wonder how those sharp features of yours can hide such blinding kindness. Run away with me. We’ll take the dogs from the streets and run down the sands of Scarborough, hand in hand. Lead a revolution with me.

The Apothecary forgets which herbs are for which treatment

Keith shuddered. Because, as much as he told himself these notes were all a harmless joke, his heart skipped at the words. His very own article mentioned. His stomach spiked with joy. He prided himself in his work, uncovering the down trodden and bringing light to their lives. If another person felt the same as him for those poor abandoned dogs, he wanted to meet them with all his heart. But Keith quickly stamped the thought down with fear. If this really was a joke, then Keith wanted no more part in it. His stomach was doing twists all over the place and he felt as if on a very thin ledge, one breath of wind away from falling. Falling where, he wasn’t sure. And if there was going to be no-one there to catch him, he wanted to know now. So, once his friends had left the shop, Keith ripped off a notelet and scrawled a reply.

Do you mock me, sir?

It was simple and unimaginative. But if this indeed was a joke, he wasn’t about to waste his time on sonnets. Keith’s heart raced. Maybe he could write sonnets? Taking a deep breath Keith shoved the paper under the lion before he could let the floodgates open. He could only hope it would meet its intended recipient.

~*~

Keith felt nervous as he re-entered the coffee house the next day. What if he never received another word again? Obviously, he would be thankful the joke was over. Or at least, should be. So why was his stomach doing turns like a fish slowly being encased by a net?

He lifted out the day’s letters, noticing his own had gone. He flicked through the tips offs, eyes only for that familiar script. His heart soared when he found it.

Heavens no, my Keith! The only desire I harbour is to connect to your heart with the words I dare not speak. My dearest, if uncomfortable my love makes you, burn my quill and spill my ink, for I only write to please you.

Mr Lampert carries a knife around town

Keith’s stomach fizzed warmly. And the feeling travelled all the way up his body and into his cheeks. They tightened under his eyes.

“What’s got you so happy?”

Keith jumped at Matt’s words. He quickly angled the paper away from his prying eyes. These were his words now. And he wasn’t about to share them.

“Mr Lampert carries knife.” He said bluntly.

Matt narrowed his eyes, brows tilting in confusion. “And that makes you laugh?”

Keith’s stomach fell into his feet. Maybe he should do more thinking instead of talking? He really always had preferred writing.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, before redirecting their conversation. “What are your thoughts on the new market stall?”

“The one selling foreign books?” Matt asked, before sighing to himself, “I only wish I could read them.”

The buzz was back and soon the team were all scrawling out their articles with the same reckless abandon as always. Shiro was sent running to the print press and it was quiet once again. So, Keith peeled away another scrap of paper and wrote a letter.

Stranger, tho stranger only to my form, I cherish your words. Burn not your quill, unless your intention is to carve our names into the wood of this very table, for I wish to learn yours.

Your most gracious, Keith

Mr Shirogane has no taste for coffee

~*~

Waiting for reply was like waiting for a storm. It could not be predicted and certainly not prescribed. It was as mysterious as the stranger Keith had found himself unwittingly yearning for. He squeezed through the shop although it seemed easier these days. He was arriving earlier and earlier, too eager to wait for his letters. Sliding into his seat, Keith slipped his fingers into the lion’s mouth and fished out the paper. Leaning into the wall, he was relieved to find one for him.

O my, Keith, a kindly reply after so long! I shall have to keep this paper tucked close to my heart. Your request is noble, tho I shall have to deny. For when you discover who I am, I fear you will cease to write.

The daughter of Mrs Cortez is planning a trip to Gretna Green

Keith frowned, rereading the words. Why on Earth would a name put him off? He thought he should write as much. And so, began a back and forth that only made his heart squeeze tighter. Written words simply were not enough anymore. He wanted to meet this ridiculous man.

Keith started spending longer in the Coffeehouse, watching the passers-by as he dreamed of his golden-quilled admirer. Even after their paper was published and Shiro was long gone, Keith remained. Who was he? The stranger behind the letters. Did he frequent this very table? He certainly knew of Keith’s work. And he was well-learned of the gossip crossing the streets.

“Oi! Server!”

Keith jolted. Behind him a patron was standing on his table. Pot-bellied and pig-faced, his words sent spit flying across the shop.

“My drink is empty!”

“Good sir,” The server called back, calm as ever, even as his eyes shot danger to the man, “I’ll be right with you!”

The man groaned loudly, landing back in his chair with a huff. Keith glared at him.

“Do you have reason as to being so rude?”

The man scoffed. “He’s just a server.”

“A human none the less.” Keith corrected with venom.

“A human with a job-”

“Is still a human.” Keith corrected, swinging his feet around the bench.

“Quit starting arguments, street urchin.” The man sneered with satisfaction. Clearly, he believed it to be the last word. Keith had other ideas.

“If you didn’t want an argument, you shouldn’t have come to a coffeehouse.”

The man growled. “Know your place boy.”

“My place is wherever I put myself.” Keith said with defiance, raising to his feet. The man followed suit, throwing his chest at Keith’s.

“You wanna put your face under my fist.”

“Sirs,” came a level next to them, ice cold. “This is a coffeehouse not an inn.”

The server stood beside them, full jug of coffee in his hands and head raised high. “Keep your debate civilised or take it elsewhere.”

Keith nodded, but the server wasn’t watching. His glare was holding the other man down until he slunk back into his seat. Then he curtly poured his drink before leaning over Keith.

“Thank you.” He whispered, before leaning back and sending him a wink. It burned through Keith like a torch being lit. And there was something about it. It was almost as if the expression was familiar. But that would be impossible. Keith had never spoken to the server before. No matter how many times he saw the man speak with the rest of their patrons, he avoided Keith like he was diseased. Keith had given up catching his eye long ago. But now his heart was galloping against his will. And as quickly as the server had appeared, he was waltzing away. Keith helpless to just watch.

~*~

Keith had mastered the art of blending into the background and thus had learned that once someone noticed, they didn't stop noticing. And now, he'd broken the spell, Keith couldn't stop noticing the man serving the drinks.

The feeling was only amplified as he read his daily letter.

My only Keith, your passion is a burning fire that ignites me. But I am unafraid. Any fire you set is one I wish to join, courageous and determined. You light the way to a life I long to be a part of. And perhaps, I may. See, I have caught one of your sparks and I am fostering it to become my very own.

The server’s name is Lance

The information. It was so different. Not a piece of gossip from the corner of a napkin but a solid fact. It felt like a clue. The flickering orange light beckoning one towards the last candle in a dark home. It made Keith’s nerves stand on end.

“You seem distracted.” Shiro stated. Keith hadn’t meant to drift off again. His articles were usually written in half this time. But he just couldn’t stop thinking about the letter. And the clue. Eyes continually wondering to the tanned skin server.

“Something on your mind?” Shiro asked, nudging his arm.

Keith stopped himself before he could nod. How much could he reveal without ruining their whole secret exchange? He didn’t want to share the letter. It was too personal. But he was so stuck. Keith feared he was missing something important. That the letter contained an intended cue that could lead him down a diamond encrusted path, but without it he’d just end up at a dead-end. Keith decided on a roundabout question to satisfy both problems. “If someone tells you somebody else’s name, what do they mean?”

Shiro frowned, looking at Keith a second longer. Keith said no more and Shiro sighed, before mulling over the question.

“I’d say they’d want you to talk to them.”

Keith nodded, eyes flickering over to the server. He was dodging stray elbows, effortlessly hopping over legs kicked out between benches and laughing along to another conversation. He was so at home here. Part of the furnishings. Maybe Keith could give talking to him a go? He frequented the coffeehouse so often, it really seemed strange that they hadn’t spoken before.

~*~

As the coffeehouse filtered out, Keith stayed put. And soon, the streetlamps were lit, and the bustle of the street markets was giving way to coats pulled tight and heads ducked low.

“Lance!” Keith called before he could chicken out. The server jolted, eyes wide as he turned around. Keith hadn’t meant to scare him and guilt immediately tumbled through his stomach. He bowed his head shyly. “Sorry. It’s just, you must gain a lot of knowledge here right?”

The man nodded, unwrapping his cleaning cloth and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

“And you see lots of people.”

Again, the man nodded, “sure.”

Keith felt the action a little awkward. He’d seen the server many times before. He was a happy person, loud and unrestricted. Keith liked watching him. He had a lightness to his feet, an air of dignity despite being treated like a rat by some of the patrons. He was strong. Confident. He had an innate ability to brush off the worst of comments, moving along like water. Ever the professional he wouldn’t yell like Keith, and yet still found a way to put people in their place. Keith admired that. So, he couldn’t help noticing that this particular behaviour was strange. Even so, Keith had a mission and powered on.

“Have you seen who leaves the messages in the lion’s head?”

Lance’s eyes briefly washed with shock before he quickly swept it away under a smirk, leaning up on the counter.

“Now that would be telling.”

“So you know?”

Lance hummed, sending a sly eye over to the lion.

“The lion’s there for anonymity. It would be unethical to divulge that information.”

Keith sunk back in his seat. Lance was right. Secrecy was how this system worked. If they broke that even just once, the whole system would lose its integrity.

“You seem disappointed? Why’s that?”

Keith blinked back at the server, lips parted. Why? Because he was so close to finding his mysterious admirer. The wordsmith who made his stomach warm with just a few sentences. He shook his head. The man’s secrecy should be respected.

“No reason.” Keith said quietly, removing himself from the bench. Stuffing his hands in his pockets he left the shop.

~*~

Keith hadn’t planned to leave for the Coffeehouse so early. He’d just had a rough night sleep and as a result had given up trying. Cutting some bread and cheese for breakfast, he’d watched the sunrise by the dock before heading up. A cloaked figure headed up to the door ahead of him, pressing a key into the lock. Keith hung back. It would be rude to enter during set up. So, he slunk across the street to watch the window inconspicuously. That’s when he noticed the figure remove some paper from behind the front desk. He watched as they grabbed one of the candlesticks and headed straight to Keith’s seat. They bent down, orange flickering over the gleaming golden lion. Keith chest tightened. His paper lover.

Keith raced across the street before he could stop himself. Throwing the door open, he came to an abrupt stop as the figure turned around. Cloak falling free, the man gaped at Keith. Tan skin, a mess of brown hair and perfect pink lips. Keith recognised him instantly.

“Lance.” He stammered. “You’re my-?”

And then the shock dissipated. Warmth spread through Keith’s veins, face softening with the flow. Lance was his secret admirer. Wonderful, radiant Lance. Keith was only too happy to give him his heart along with his words. His whole being. He ventured across the room.

“Why did you write letters?” Keith asked, stepping into his space. “You could have spoken to me.”

Lance glanced away, then back again, before staring at the floor and sucking on his lips.

“You don’t remember do you?”

Remember what? Keith bent down to catch his eye, shaking his head. Lance sighed, cheeks turning the faintest bit red.

“You asked me to.”

Keith blinked. When? He was pretty sure he’d recall such a bold act.

“When you were drunk.” Lance elaborated. “I wrote it to tease you, thinking you’d remember. But you didn’t.”

Keith’s memory of the day was blurry at best. He remembered the morning after much more clearly, though the details of his vomit could have gone a miss. But the drunken mess beforehand? It slowly formed in his brain, but it was swirly, like he was watching from underwater.

“And you looked so funny when you read it, all red-faced and flustered! I had to send more.”

Lance bowed his head in shame. “And when I realised you had no recollection of the event, I took advantage of being just an ink stain on paper. It was just so liberating. I was always too scared to speak to you in person. This way I could tell you how I felt and all those embarrassing things…”

He trailed off and now his whole face was red. Keith’s fingers twitched at his sides. He understood that second letter now. There was nothing more enticing than the red of shy skin. He wanted to touch it, taste it, kiss it. His stomach suddenly filled with overwhelming longing.

“Look.” Lance said sharply, raising his head with those steel eyes Keith couldn’t stop watching from across the room. Now they were on him and his heart raced. “It was inappropriate and I am sorry. I will not disturb your patronage any longer with my unwanted feelings.”

Keith shook his head, fighting a smile. If there was anything Keith wanted more, it was for his patronage to be disturbed. Lance’s feelings weren’t just wanted, Keith needed them. He had a face for the words now and the two collected together in his heart, pushing it forward with desire. He wanted all of Lance’s words, written and spoken. He wanted to flirt between drinks, support his arguments and have his icy demeanour by his side when he was about to lose control.

Stepping forward, Keith reached out and cupped Lance’s cheek. It was warm and soft and leaning into him.

“I’ll forgive your inappropriateness.” Keith said softly, “If you’ll forgive mine.”

Then he leaned forward, close enough to feel Lance’s hot breath across his lips. He met his eye, awaiting response and Lance’s turning to sparkling curves. Then lips were on his and Keith gave himself to them. The kiss was soft but raw. Passion growing like the warmth unfurling in his chest. When they parted, Keith felt a little giddy - tipsy from their touch. Lance smiled widely, every inch of his face soft and Keith melted all over again. He giggled, pressing in another peck for good measure.

“Let’s go for a walk. After your shift.” He said, bringing his hand down to clutch Lance’s. The other nodded, squeezing back.

“Sure.”

#klance au month #historical #klance hisorical au #klance love letters #klance fluff #klance fic #my writing #my post #I was not supposed to spend my whole day writing!!#i have coursework #I am banning myself from writing until i can get it done.

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shade-without-color · 6 years ago

Text

The Thieving Magpie Chapter 3: Accused

Note: Y’all I am so sorry for the delay in posting Thieving Magpie as I have a long case of writers’ block due to exhaustation and all. But I am glad I got it through. So I will see if I can post up the new chapter this week as it is gonna be wild and it was super hilarious. Good news I finally caved in and made an Ao3 account so please enjoy this fic!

A few weeks later

Somehow Gascon's breath grew bated, as he looked over the cafe name. That seems strange, Gascon heaved his breath quietly as he tried to ring up that number. No answer at all. Seems that from his impressions with his mysterious client, he thought for a moment they will meet in some dingy pub outside of his apartments, and soon he will lead to some secret cult where he will be passed different passwords, maybe like an obscure reference of a French film or even worse interpretive hand gestures.

Instead, it was something similar as he entered the cafe, no one gave a copious gaze to him, let alone an air of suspicion that lingered by each person. He somehow held his breath slightly.

It should be nothing.

It could be just a regular day to get some coffee. He barely glanced at his phone, following the harrowing news on Meve and the Rivia family’s estates, absorbed by the sounds of small talk (It could be categorized something like either gossip between girlfriends or a business deal), computer keyboards racing furiously for an important deadline and the whistles of steam from the milk foamer. The cashier looked at him pensively “Hello Sir may I take your order…”

“One tall latte please …” and soon he heard a buzz from his phone which reads like “G….the cheque….” Gascon closed his phone again glanced over the pastry cabinet. “Do you want something to go with your latte….”

“Oh...One pain au chocolat” as he scanned over the crowd, there is surely be someone looking for him. He smiled at her quietly as he heard another buzz which reads something urgent “Sorry…could you hold the Pain Au Chocolat… I will take the latte a moment please….” Somehow he felt his stomach churn slightly, as he quickly dropped the exact change to her. “Your name sir??”

“G….”

Gascon bit his tongue slightly as he scanned over the cafe crowd, where he glanced at a man in a particular suit, he seems to watch him pensively “Why did you stop halfway on your order.. you got something to hide…” Gascon noticed that he started to tap something on his iPad, but he barely turns his head to the computer. "Not much, About the cheque..."

Something is in amiss as Gascon received the buzz from his phone. "Watch..." his ears perked up to the final hiss of steam. “One tall latte for G…” even before he could reach for the collection station. He felt something protruding his neck. Gascon did not hesitate to press a button around his jacket but it came too late as he snatched it away and stomped it on the ground. “We have matters that needed your presence. Our boss needs some airtime with you…”

Gascon rolled his eyes slightly “Should he come to me in the face…” as he saw a small piece of paper “And I suppose he is afraid to give me that thing in the face..” as he slipped it quietly “Would you ever be so kind to let me get my latte…before we speak of terms….”

Slowly another man came by with a scowl in his face. “I am afraid, you do not have the time to dilly dally…”

Meve cleared her throat slightly, as she repressed the trembling fear in her fists. Reynard steadied her slightly “You are brave madam to face them...” as he heard the mummers of the press “I wish this will never happen to you…” “You wish….” somehow Meve’s words grew heavier as she could hear the servants slowly manoeuvring what is left from the auction. Meve clutched her necklace slightly in fear. Her mind swirled with the what-ifs and whys while fighting the blinding flashlights, as she walked to the empty room with faces looking at her with horror and shame. It was once a venue which she could treasure a fleeting moment. But now many who question her liability including a certain Caldwell who sneered at her surrounded her.

“Say Meve… we have been associates for years am I right…” "We did not need to escalate the situation drastically, all you simply need is to tell the press that, you, Meve will give your share as ordinates by your husband and conspired a common thief to steal the statue...You are in love with him..." Meve sucked her breath and stared at Caldwell firmly “Caldwell....what you did is….” Caldwell did not hold back his empathy, as he looked over his heavy stack of documents with glee. “Simple, I oversee your husband writing his will, poor bastard has a shock of his life, at a party not too long while you are pregnant with Anesis. It was lucky that he slipped away from being armed.” He smiled gleefully at Meve “Otherwise I will take it easier, but alas cannot count my chickens before they hatched….”

“Do not mock me…”

Caldwell grimaced quietly “I do not intend too, madam…I have documents all of the years, and you do not have the fight, even Reynard witness our conversations when your husband pen his words in the moment of sanity…"

Meve bit her lip angrily, muting out any sound of anger out of her mouth. Reynard withdraws slightly from the argument. Perhaps to some extent, he was right, however, Meve found it unlawful and thought of someone else. “I have an old friend mine, and his…” Meve muttered pensively to Caldwell “He, too helped my husband to oversee his collection and he will put a case against your head and my sons…”

Caldwell rendered himself silent. Maybe it is out of glee to see Meve holding back the tears. He took that opportunity to waltz out from the room "I will not play my cards that high if I were you..." Meve could read his expression that he would rather saunter quickly, and Reynard came to her side rather swiftly "Come, I think they all seek you..." Her eyes glared fiercely at him, she only mutters angrily that he will deserve a harrowing end.

Now she must face the show.

Meve struggled to catch a breath, as she looked over the peering crowd who lurked at her vulnerability. They probably have many questions on that scandal. “I speak, in behalf of myself and my family- yes that issue of the missing statute looms in us. I vouch that I will have the magpie in chains, and facing every worse penalty. Yes, I may be grieving..but I beg all to never escalate the situation…"

“Apologies Meve may I interrupt this press statement for a moment…we got some breaking news…"

Soon a harrowing remark came over Caldwell and he deliciously savoured the moments of torment "We deeply regret the death of our client Reginald, yes he may have a tender heart but alas when it comes to that sculpture, which we are working with the law to recover that...." as he pressed the remote control to switch one of the slides to that face. "As of now, we managed to capture him at a designated point, apparently he has been paid highly to rob the statue..."

He glared at Meve cruelly "Initially it was planned that we will take it to court over the will However recent evidence shows that she worked with a con thief..." as he clicked one of the slides to one of the emails. Meve's eyes widened with horror on these words. "G.. attached here are the maps to my estate... you can make your way...". Meve's face grew pale with horror, beads of sweat dripped from her forehead. All lies... all lies...

"I object that..traitors! Traitors! Traitors!"

The press caved in like vultures hungering for fresh meat. Soon Caldwell's men clasped her in handcuffs "As for now…you will be escorted to somewhere to suit your needs under a small court, and your rights to vouch are absolved…” Caldwell’s eyes glanced at her gleefully “Any parting words to the press, before I made a statement that you tarnished your husband’s reputation….” Meve flared her nostrils “Nothing " She could hear a pop in her knuckles as she clenched it so tightly. "I want you to see you rotting in jail, and everyone will forget you... or better…" She tried to steady her breaths by posing herself calmly and giving him a cold shoulder.

“No matter what you said, you will twist my words into heinous lies..." "Now, now, now Meve... controversial... yes..." Caldwell interrupted slightly as he delighted himself with her stiffness "I wish that Reynard would be easily swayed…” He glanced at Reynard glaring at him defiantly, as his hands are locked in handcuffs by one of his men “We discuss a while back, should you took yourself to fight me, I offered him a good sum and lifetime insurance in exchange that he will vouch for me…”

"Sadly he would rather stay with you…”

Caldwell gave a pregnant pause as if to spite her even more. “I knew that Reginald is too soft for him. And knowing him, he rather throws the fire towards you…"

Somehow Meve held her breath, as she looked over at the window of her car- she and Reynard are rendered silent “What are you going to do now...” Reynard pondered at the corner of the window, for the swarms of crowds escort them. Chatter dulled her ears and soon she slipped herself into the black car, Meve shielded herself from the glaring flashes.

“I am taking all who accomplished Caldwell...” Meve sucked her breath. “They will be sorry if they ever crossed with me..” Meanwhile, Meve’s eyes trailed to another car, and she recognised that face. That stupid face. He seems to be in ease with his arrest, along with all of Caldwell’s men trailing the path. He entertained his many fans by blowing kisses into the air and giving a wink. Gascon gave a chuckle as he slipped himself into the police car with ease.

Meve hissed under her breath. He is indeed despicable.

Soon the flashes slowly faded away into the jailhouse. They glanced at the man walking with a swagger of a rockstar. He seems to be unfazed by that whole session. A whisper came by at the distance, as if pleased “Say Meve, Caldwell really kicks your ass…”

“DO NOT SPEAK TO HER LIKE THAT. SHE ALREADY…"

"Shut it... not talking to you..." Gascon growled angrily to Reynard, and he glanced "Meve... Personally, I think he is interested to liquidate you and the sales. My, are you that bloody hopeless. The trial is just a bloody facade. Your sons and that...in the end who will win..Caldwell will get the sales. You are just an obstacle." Reynard glared at Gascon slightly "Well, of course, you guys too...", as he flicked his phone and play some harrowing tune for shits and giggles “What still crossed with me...” He popped his tongue slightly as he focused his gaze on Meve.

“Yes to a certain extent Meve…”

Gascon lamented slightly “I think he is still pissed off over one of his stolen paintings- it is still kept in my room. I treasured it as if it was my life’s work…”

“Wait is that…”

Meve heard about the mysterious disappearance of a treasured painting by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, depicting the muses crowing Apollo. It is usually a conversation starter in Caldwell's dinners about the mysterious theft of it. Could Gascon himself do that feat? Meve thought pensively, by his casualness "And I suppose you must take things that belong to him..." Gascon glanced at one of Caldwell’s guards staring at him pensively. “Meve... I will tell that another time... ” Reynard glared at him slightly “What are you planning to do? We have no one too...”

“Getting ourselves out of that prison...." Quickly Gascon passed them earplugs, and he too covered it, with his headphones "Just bear with it, it gets pretty loud...." Slowly the speakers started to echo with a brisk march. Reynard raised his eyebrow as he paused the music to change it to a muzak theme "It seems normal…” as he took out a small pen from his blazer "You may want to keep your earplugs on..." Gascon muttered cheekily as he clicked the top of the pen, and soon that tune emits squeaks at the distance, and soon the guards’ faces seem frazzled with that ringing. They only got up again, rubbing the temples before it flicked to another obscure piece.

He has that grin which Meve could read it as, watch and learn... Soon he clicked the pen to the top. That brisk piece boomed through the speakers and soon they went through different rooms to key in the emergency codes for lockdown.

“Now run…”

He gripped the wrists of Meve and Reynard and quickly ran as fast as they could. Soon alarms blared at every corner, and only one who has his headphones noticed the chaos. “Shot they are getting away…” He got out form his seta and chased them without any hesitation. Gascon quickly spray the passageways with gas and cut every communication line with a penknife. Reynard muttered angrily, “Is this your plan, classical music and causing an emergency lockdown how this your plan…" as he tried to push the regenerate force of the way.

“You just have to keep it up…"

Via the janitors’ room, only guided by a handphone torch as their guiding light, they went. To lift their spirits he whistled that tune which was blasted in the court. “We just took a new meaning of ear worm….” which of course Reynard groaned loudly as they made out to the obscure end. For that moment Meve took a sharp breath of air and gazed slightly. “Why did you decide to help us? I thought you…”

“To spite him…” Gascon gave a playful wink to Meve “Remember that conversation in the jailhouse about a painting I stole- ahh I was Apollo being crowned by the muses for its glories and that will be Caldwell screaming to his buffoons.” He quickly showed that post to Meve. She gasped quietly, perhaps her instincts are right. It was that painting which Caldwell lamented.

“Dear gods…” Reynard muttered, “How can you…"

“And plus I have a reputation for escaping through the worse of courts. This one is child’s play…"

Soon he looked over the main road, and quietly they descended to a bus stop “Coast is clear, we need to do is to hop that bus, I will tell you more…” For that moment Meve smiled at Gascon, she was grateful that there is hope. And surprisingly she found herself along with Reynard on the shabby estate. Meve knew that her husband used to come to those places to help the children, and she heard horror stories from people.

But this.

This.

How could it be for a master thief like Gascon?

“Since you are ex-communicated by that hack...” Gascon huffed slightly “and your house will be bombarded by his Guards...” He gave a bow to his guests, and soon men dressed in jumpers and pants came down from the stairs “You have no choice but to stay here, sure it is not a 5-star hotel but at least it is something...”

The stench of mould tingled Reynard’s nose, Gascon quickly took the air freshener and sprayed it quickly “Apologies Reynard!” He hides a burst of boyish laughter. “Seems we have to pull something quick for you guys...” He cues his boys to look over the place while Meve sat comfortably on the ratty couch. “Until we can make plans...”

“So what is your idea...”

Gascon looked over at the city lights “We all know that going out and calling in public is a no-no and given that you become involved with me on the escape...” He heaved slightly “We have to wait it out Meve... until I can think of something to prove your innocence …” Gascon took a beer bottle and drank it “In which we have none.” Meve grew silent. She refused to be called out by Caldwell. “Unless I speak with Fableston. He is an old friend of my husband. He vouches for many cases…I just pray that he does not betray us…”

“And how can you be certain…”

Reynard trembled slightly “The last time your husband and Fableston spoke, it did not end well. I fear he will not look kindly at you...'Gascon nodded slightly as he looked at the city, and Reynard looking exasperatedly on the apartment's condition “And that I agreed with that grumbly folk, who knows what Caldwell pull you in…”

“I will try to call him up, see if he could vouch for you…” Meve glared quietly “With or without your help…”Soon Meve slopped against the couch, the week’s events worn her out, but for that moment Gascon saw the fierceness in her eyes. She seems determined to clear her name no matter what.

Tag List (DM if you wanted to be tagged)

@oichealainn

@witcherislovewitcherislife

@tcustodis

@etaedraws

@akazireael

@highkingofhuckleberries

@dukeofqueers

@dukeofdogs

@this-is-a-job-for-vesemir

@riviae

#writing #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #fanfic: the thieving magpie #Thronebreaker #the witcher tales #Queen Meve #Gascon Brossard #Reynard Odo #Count Caldwell #fanfic #fanfic OTP: In Angern I admire you #drabble #Hitchcock #creative writing

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lanceville · 6 years ago

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Hello, I really want to get this out of my mind, so I hope I do not bother you, if I bother you please ignore me, ok this will be long. I saw one of your previous answers, where you say that you feel different or with a weird mood, I've also been feeling weird, and I've been thinking about things that really stress me, I'm in a mood so pessimistic and depressing that I come crazy and terrible ideas about many things (part1)

one of those strange thoughts is this: LM and JDS have said (or so I’ve heard correct me if I’m wrong) that they do not want to talk much to avoid surprises about the plot of the following seasons … so I came this horrible thought. if they for example do not want to ruin the surprise about Klance by becoming a canon, Why do they talk so much about them? (part2)

why they give the fans so many hopes and make them believe that they will become canon if they want it to be a “surprise”?. then my pessimistic thoughts lead me to this, the surprise is not klance becoming canon, the surprise will be that another ship either All//ance, K and R or even worse She//ith is the one that will become canon. So if I’m not bothering you I’d appreciate it if you answered this, I’m sorry for bothering you with this stupidity (last part)

it’s alright bro, i gotchu.

first, it’s true that lm and jds and known to be super secretive about the plot and upcoming events, and they have been vague about lance’s and keith’s relationship until this interview. there are instances were they were talked about them in a romantic context several times too but i’m just gonna focus on this video for now. there are two reasons that they have decided to openly talk about it like that:

1. they were approached specifically by the author of this article to hear out what they think about the “science behind shipping,” since they’re the executive producers of the show with the most popular ship on the internet.

2. they’ve realized it’s necessary to keep avoiding klance at this point. the klance fandom is huge, and no matter how much they try hide who the endgame will be or even sway us a little bit from it, the klance fandom only grows each time. they never expected klance to gain such a huge fanbase so quickly and for the fans to pick up on the hints that easily. it was as if they were still in shock and denial that their endgame surprise has been exposed, but there’s no use denying it at this point. they know we’ll forever believe in the ship, so since everything’s exposed, they don’t see why they can’t engage with the fans about them. if it is really not the endgame ship, they would’ve tried to do more damage control to not break the hopes and fail the expectations of the fans later, but they only spoke positively about klance in that video.

and don’t allow yourself to think that, annonie. i know that it’s really worrying because of how little keith and lance have interacted in the past few seasons, but that does not mean in any way that their relationship has regressed. season six especially was the very definition of intense, and there was barely any time for keith to interact with any of the other paladins besides shiro. keith, especially, was under a lot of pressure, and they were all stressed. but now since everything’s calmed down and keith’s finally back on the team, things will get better. have faith.

(gonna put the rest under read more bc this has tuned way longer than expected)

and about other ships becoming canon, you can rule that idea out by the process of elimination.

keith/romelle and keith/allura are never gonna happen. you know why?

the endgame is between two main characters (”characters who have been present since the beginning″ aka the paladins). romelle isn’t

keith and allura have only ever interacted in what would seem like (but it isn’t) a romantic fashion in s2, and it was just bc of keith’s heritage. even though it’s kinda disappointing since i’d like to see more of their friendship, they’ve barely interacted with each other outside of missions. there’s no way they’re gonna develop romantic feelings for each other when neither has shown interest in the other.

literally

also dude keith’s clearly not straight. no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, the man isn’t. one look at him is enough to know that.

biggest proof is allura, a gorgeous space princess who everybody swoons over, falling right into his arms and him not even blinking a goddamn eye. his indifferent expression still cackles me tbh.

also, it’s known that the endgame involves lance, so if it’s a ship that does not include lance, then nah it’s not happening.

not gonna even bother with why shiteihaha will never become canon in a bazillion realities because it’s ridiculously clear as to why to those who have at least 2 functional brain cells. don’t even let that idea cross your mind.

this leaves us with all//ance. tbh, it did have a chance of becoming canon up until s5. but dude, after watching s6, i was like “did they just really kill this ship.” all//ance is really cute and sweet, and i wouldn’t have minded it becoming canon since both allura and lance really care about each and i loooooooooove their friendship so goddamn much. but this is the thing. what allura and lance have is friendship. they both were really good friends up until the writers decided to bring lance’s crush back from the bottomless pits for drama’s sake. lance’s crush on allura is so valid man. he truly does like her. but the thing that killed the ship wasn’t this; it was the whole love triangle drama. allura fell in love with lotor and never requited lance’s feelings even when she knew about them, meaning she does not view lance that way, and it’s her right - she can like whoever she wants. the writers said that romance will happen naturally in the show. if allura would ever reciprocate lance’s feelings, she would’ve at least displayed some signs of that at this point. she got to know lance and see some of his greatest moments. she even got to experience what lance dying would feel like, yet she still didn’t develop any romantic feelings towards him. if feelings of loss and grieve didn’t make her realize how important lance is to her romantically, then that’s because there are no romantic feelings present in the first place. it would not make sense at all for her to develop feelings for him later on. she cares deeply about him as a friend, and romantic love is not some upgraded form of friendship love - it’s a totally different type of the same class, and that’s what she feels about him.

it would be utterly cruel and unfair for both if they end up together after the shit that has happened in s6. allura would never find a lotor in lance, and lance would always feel inferior if he gets with allura because he know’s he’s no lotor - that he isn’t who she wants (lance is much better than all the boys in the entire universe and whoever has him is literally the luckiest person ever but this is not the point so moving on). allura’s feelings for lance would not be genuine, which would make allura feel bad because she would never want to make lance feel like a rebound or a second choice. lance, on the other hand, really likes allura, and being the helplessly selfless person he is, would accept to be allura’s rebound while being fully aware of it and accepting his fate as a second choice which, god, would take a heavy fricking toll on his already bad self-esteem issues. seriously man, every time i think about them getting together after s6, their relationship is just full of heartbreak and hurt, and i don’t want either of them to feel like that because they don’t deserve it. even the showrunners admitted that them getting together right after would be a disservice to both of them. i fucking love them both and their friendship so much and i don’t want anything to ruin it.

i wanna also elaborate on another point. if you’ve noticed, allura and lance shared a couple scenes that paralleled klance’s but they’re slightly more romantically-coded (the scene might seem this way but since allura has 0 romantic interest in lance it ain’t, but anyway). the reason i think they included such parallels is to tell the audience that, “if you see those a///rance scenes as romantic, then those previous klance scene were meant to be romantic as well :)” as i mentioned before, the writers were quite surprised we have picked up on klance pretty quickly and early. since they might’ve thought we wouldn’t, they might’ve thought “something” was needed to hint at where they’re planning on taking klance’s relationship, and that “something” is all//ance. but unlike all/urance’s scenes (especially the dying lance moment which resembled the bonding moment) where the romantic interest is one-sided, the similar feelings in klance’s scenes are reciprocated by both parties (bonding!!!! moment!!!!).

now then, guess which ship we’re left with!!!!! yup! it’s klance. i could go on and on and on and on about how they!!! are!!! gonna!!! be!!! canon!!! but i’ve seriously spoken too much (and i cant feel my fingers anymore erfberk) and i don’t even know if you even have read it all the way to end bc ik i’m quite boring when i explain stuff ebjrvkebr but!!! seriously dude. just go rewatch s3. that’s all the confirmation you need of their budding romance. they have some of the most trope-y romantic scenes. and dude, i say all that but, whatever happens, i will forever believe that there’s no better ship in this show than klance. nothing will surpass it.

edit: gonna just add the petty ask i sent voltron (that i knew they were never gonna answer but i had to send it nonetheless bc i needed to let the salt inside me out somehow lmao) because it’s succinct and summarizes what i said above lmao

#uhhhhh this turned REALLY long actually.... rip........#i'm sorry for replying late! i just needed to choose the right day to allot some time to replying to this properly #hope i could ease your worry a bit????#mp #analysis #klance #anon #asks

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littleteatimestories · 6 years ago

Text

SAVING MILANO

-Continuation of Overweighed Milano-

(Note: Hey, fellow fans and writers! First off, Merry Christmas! It has been a while ever since I did update some drabbles and stories around here. I got really busy with work and I’ve been reading too much fanfictions lately. I’ve been going in with a few new fandoms recently. After Marvel and Assassin’s Creed, I went to Kingdom Hearts then to Transformers. From time to time, I jump from any of these aforementioned fandoms; whichever I find inspiration to. So far, you all know that I wrote many stories for AC and some for KH and Marvel. While I want to write for Transformers oh-so desperately, I don’t think I have the skills to write one since we’re talking about machines in here and I’m not really good with describing mechanical engineering stuff especially for robots. I mean, how do Transformers fanfic writers do that??

Anyway, as a little Christmas gift, here is the second part of “Overweighed Milano” series. If you don’t remember this, you can check the link above so that you could refresh yourselves of the story.

You can check more of my drabbles and stories right here. Enjoy!)

The ship crashed in a marsh. It was no ordinary swamp as it was a deep one, like a quick sand. One of the doors of the Milano opened as a certain raccoon was shooting from his cannon gun an adorable emerald-colored butterfly, which happened to be the culprit as to why their ship crash landed. He actually blamed his tree best friend for bringing such creature with him. The walking tree reasoned out that it wasn't his fault at all.

"Alright, enough about that. We all have our faults here. Rocket, you know what to do. Fix the ship," Peter instructed.

Rocket checked the ship's main engine part and it appeared it was damaged badly.

"Good news, Quill, we're short on parts," Rocket announced in a sarcastic tone as he examined the engine carefully.

The Milano shook intensely, which surprised the Guardians, as it was slowly getting itself eaten up by the swamp. Gamora declared that the ship will completely be submerged after a few hours.

"How are we going to do this then?" Claire asked. The Milano continued to descend itself into the swamp.

Rocket began to give out instructions. "Me and Groot can start with the repairs. Claire, do what you always do. Make sure that nothing, if anything is out there, will stop us from getting this ship fixed. The rest of you will have to get the parts that we need. Gamora, get me a 300 micro-frequency laser. Quill, get me a stuffed animal. A freakin’ huge one."

Before the anthropomorphic raccoon can even give his directions to Drax, Peter interrupted quickly. "Hold on a sec. That's a fake assignment."

Claire scolded him at once upon hearing him say that. "Quill, we don't have time to be complaining about that. Our ship's not going to last long.”

"Tell that to Rocket. Every time we split up, he always asks me to get something that he doesn't really need and laughs about it later."

"Hey, this one's real!" Rocket assured though it sounded like he was jesting.

"Alright, then let Drax get my part and I'll get his."

Drax laughed quietly, seemingly more interested in exchanging their assignments. Rocket huffed.

"Fine. But remember, you asked for this."

Peter smirked.

*****

Claire, as always, became the watchman. She actually preferred this job rather than getting some parts for the Milano to get fixed. As she was standing at the ship's roof and observing the area intently, she wasn’t able to notice behind her that something brown and moving came towards the ship. She then felt the unknown presence when it came into contact. She immediately turned her head at the back and saw nothing at all. She didn't shake the feeling of danger as she took out her dual pistols hidden under each of her sleeves as she went inside the ship with caution.

While in the engine room of the Milano, Rocket told Groot to start the engine so that they can detect the real problem that caused the ship to malfunction badly. Groot did just that as he went to the flight deck to test on the engines. As Rocket was continuing and trying to fix the ship, his instincts activated suddenly and he felt an unusual presence. He ran out of the engine room and looked around the Common Area. He saw a large black shadow figure far across him and this rather irked the talking raccoon.

“Really, Groot? Didn’t I tell ya to start the engine? Geez.” He climbed up to the flight deck.

It shocked him more when he saw his tree best friend already sitting on the pilot seat when he just saw him moments ago. He then questioned him as to how he was able to get here so fast. Said tree explained to him that he had been in the cockpit all along.

"We have an intruder," Rocket concluded. "That Claire. I told her to stand watch. What did she even do?" He pulled out his cannon gun and climbed down the Common Area sneakily until he was face-to-face with Claire herself, who also pointed her pistols at him.

"Claire!" he yelled. "You were supposed to be guarding the ship from intruders! Now we have one inside!" He blamed her.

"Oh I'm sorry if I'm not the perfect watchman! Why don't you do my job then?" she argued back. "Either way, we don't even know what we're dealing here."

"I am Groot? (What are we even looking for?)" Groot queried.

"Why are you asking me? I don't know! Let's just find it!" Rocket sensed something in his quarters as he stepped inside and opened his cabinet to find that 'thing'.

Claire went to Peter's room and she could just cringe on how messy his room was. Typical of him. Groot, on the other hand, went in Drax's room. While checking for anything bizarre, the door just slid closed by itself as Groot was alarmed suddenly. He pounded on it. Claire and Rocket heard the sound as both of them ran outside of the rooms they were in. A weird-looking plant monster finally showed itself up.

"Groot!" he called out to his best friend. He then took out his cannon gun again. "What did you do to him?!" He fired some shots at the monster.

Claire mimicked his actions as she also fired a few rounds from her pistols. However, even though the plant monster had taken quite some holes on its body, it healed itself, just like Groot's regeneration ability.

Rocket roared and put down his weapon as he just attacked it with his bare paws.

"Rocket!" Claire cried.

Said raccoon, though, screeched as he was somehow torched by the touch of this monster. He quickly tapped out the flames that was about to burn him. Claire came to his side and inspected him for any injuries. The plant monster dispersed itself as Groot finally got out of the room that he got trapped in.

"Groot! That thing just burned my fur!" He showed it to him.

Groot observed the area and it looked like everything was normal. He shook his head and said, "I am Groot. (There’s nothing here.)"

Rocket reasoned out with him. "You don't believe me?! Then ask Claire here! Help me out in here, sweet cheeks!" He glanced over at the said Terran female.

She stood and when she was about to open her mouth, the plant monster showed itself again. Her eyes widened as she took her pistols swiftly. "There it is!" She fired again.

"I am Groot!" Groot was surprised.

"I told you it was real!" Rocket proved as he triggered his own weapon at the monster.

The plant monster charged as Groot did the same. The two contenders pushed themselves with force when Groot lost his own strength when his tree-barked hands flamed out. He was thrown to the side and, given this opportunity, swung his arms to get the fire out. Both Rocket and Claire continued firing their weapons at the 'Man-thing', as what Rocket called it. But, the Man-thing kept on regenerating as it swayed its hand horizontally to attack the two of them in one hit. They dodged it by climbing up the flight deck.

"Come and get me!" Rocket taunted as he positioned himself on the captain’s seat. The monster did attack him and he evaded it by jumping to the co-pilot seat and pressed the 'Eject' button. The monster was sent flying out of the ship, and a kaboom was heard and witnessed afterwards. He then cackled. "That's what you get for messin' with me!"

Claire sighed in relief. "At least that's done." She went down to the Common Area to check on Groot. Rocket followed behind.

“You okay, tree?” she asked in concern.

“I am Groot (I’m okay),” he answered.

“Now that’s peaceful around here, I can continue on with fixing the engine. That stupid Man-thing just came out of nowhere,” Rocket mumbled loudly as he walked in the engine room.

"I am Groot (I have a bad feeling about this)," Groot remarked.

Claire patted his shoulder. “It’s probably gone. Rocket blew that thing up in the sky.”

Groot just remained silent and really hoped that the Man-thing was gone for good.

TO BE CONTINUED.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

#Guardians of the Galaxy #guardians of the galaxy fanfictions #gotg x oc #gotg fanfictions #littleteatimestories: oc fanfics

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pantstomatch · 7 years ago

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I really liked how you wrote the a/b/o dynamic in your last fic. It wasn't some thing that overruled and defined everything about the characters, which is so awesome because I doubt many people - Stiles especially - would deal well with that. Anyway, i thought I'd washed my hands with a/b/o fics but it's sucked me back down again. Do you have any fic recs?

thank you so much! that fic was super fun to write, and I loved cramming in all my favorite tropes :) I’m a big fan of a/b/o, idek why, but I love it. I’m sure all the ones I’d rec are well known, but here’s a list of some of my favs in no particular order.

we can take our time by KouriArashi

Tact and social mores are completely relegated to the back of Derek’s brain, and without thinking, he blurts out, “Did you spend your heat alone?”

Stiles’ head jerks around in surprise, and then he flushes pink and looks away. His voice comes out brusque and unfriendly. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I spend every heat alone.”

Knot if You Don’t Knock by jsea, marguerite_26

Stiles never expects to present as an omega – that’s something that happens to people like Greenberg, not him. He is so wrong.

His life only gets stranger when Derek Hale mistakenly bursts through the door of his exam room during a doctor’s appointment. What happens next is a complicated series of events, including freshly baked cookies, book-carrying and surprise heats.

Build an Ivory Tower by teot

Stiles didn’t know how Derek sleeping on his floor developed into sleeping in his bed, or how cuddling ended up turning into Derek humping his ass. He didn’t agree to being knotted in the school locker room, either. But what can you do when Derek Hale wants something? He’s the Alpha, after all.

You Smell Like Mine by bleep0bleep, marguerite_26

People talk about the alpha instinct, an alpha’s head being swayed by a nice-smelling omega, or the desire to drop everything and show off. Derek’s never felt any of that. He’s just not that kind of alpha.

Then he meets Stiles.

Say It With Me (Don’t Assume) by orphan_account (I’m pretty sure this is by KuriKuri, does anyone know if this was abandoned on purpose or not, since they’re’ still on AO3 with other fic?)

Derek knows way too much about how omega heat suppressants work now, after having been partnered with Stiles for as long as he has. They’re probably his favorite thing to bitch about whenever they’re stuck on a stakeout. Of course, omegas on the force aren’t required to take them. Derek’s never really understood why Stiles does, if he hates them so much, especially –

– especially because he’s bonded.

#omegaproblems by subnivean

Stiles didn’t need an alpha. He might want one, though.

The Sanctuary by chase_acow

Stiles runs away during his first heat, right into the waiting and ambiguously scary arms of the Alpha’s nephew, Derek Hale. He doesn’t have any choice except to submit, but along the way, he digs up a mystery that threatens his family and even the town’s safety.

Old Traditions, Werewolf Edition by Footloose

Stiles does not work his Omega ass off to attract frat boy Alphas. Absolutely not. He’s at college to get his degree. If he’s crushing on an Alpha who never crosses the lines of propriety, well, no one needs to know, right?

Mix and Match by Jerakeen

Stiles walks into the Beacon Hills alpha-omega mixer with a smile on his face and three condoms in his wallet.

monday i can fall apart but by friday i’m in love by tryslora

It’s just past five in the morning and Stiles is barely awake, wearing only sleep pants that hang low below his pregnant belly, and he can’t get the damned brand new jar of decaf coffee open. But he has a neighbor, and he’s too tired to think that waking someone else up at this hour might not be the best (or politest) of ideas.

Someday Came Today by Fatebegins

“March 2, 1810…Today, I met the man I’m going to marry.”

At the age of eight, Genim “Stiles” Stilinski showed no signs of Great Beauty. And even at eight, Stiles learned to accept the expectations society held for him–until the evening when Derek Hale, the handsome and dashing Alpha of the Hale pack, solemnly kissed his hand and promised him that one day he would grow into himself, that one day he would be as beautiful as he already was smart. And even at eight, Stiles knew he would love him forever.

But the years that followed were as cruel to Derek as they were kind to Stiles. Stiles is as intriguing as the Duke boldly predicted on that memorable day–while Derek is a lonely, bitter man, crushed by a devastating loss. But Stiles has never forgotten the truth he set down on paper all those years earlier–and he will not allow the love that is his destiny to slip through his fingers . .

Rare Books and Special Collections by KuriKuri

Derek Hale hates libraries.

Unfortunately, not all books can be ordered on Amazon.

(Or: in which Derek is a grumpy omega writer, and Stiles is an annoyingly attractive alpha special collections librarian.)

The One With The Mail-Order Brides and A/B/O Dynamics by Stoney

Wolves aren’t meant to be alone. Laura tells Derek this repeatedly. Which… is why Derek knows he’s losing his mind, as Laura has been dead for more than six years. Wolves aren’t meant to be alone.

And so he sends away for a companion. JUST for a companion, not for a mate. The universe, however, has a different plan in store for him.

here comes trouble by grimm

All Derek wants is one day where he can sleep without worry of being woken by gunfire, without the threat of death hanging over his head. He wants a full stomach and no pain clinging to his bones, no ache in his feet from months of running. He wants a shower, a safe place to put his head. He wants his family, the healing comfort of pack. He’ll never have any of that again.

You’re a Mess, But You’re a Catch to Me by jsea

The laws are clear: omegas are required to have an alpha guardian. So when the sheriff gets shot, Derek is roped in to stepping up as Stiles’ temporary alpha while he recovers.

Derek knew it was going to be a bad idea, but he never could have predicted all of the ways that Stiles would end up turning his life upside down.

Worth the Wait by Dexterous_Sinistrous

Stiles always had a thing for Derek, but then again, so did everyone else. Stiles just wanted to be seen as different, which was why he waited.

But maybe he waited a little too long.

Can’t Be Saved (Not So Frail) by weathervaanes

“Kira doesn’t care a wick if you can afford her dresses and bonnets, I’m well aware. It doesn’t change the fact that I have to look after her best interests. I’d like her to be with an Alpha that puts her above all else even if he cannot afford her every luxury.”

Scott looks surprised. “I know you do not know me, sir, but I can promise you that that is my only wish. I—I love Kira quite dearly, and all I want is to provide for her, make her happy.”

“So you will marry off your brother,” Derek says, taking a sip from his drink.

-0-

In which Kira is Derek’s ward, Stiles is Scott’s brother, and omega heat cycles are good for everyone.

Fight Fires In Your Best Clothes by standinginanicedress

The key isn’t actually being confident, he repeats in his head in Lydia’s breathy voice. It’s faking the hell out of it and looking as sexy as possible while you do it. For omegas, it’s easy. There’s a natural charm to all of us that only takes seconds to engage, and barely takes practice.

Walk into the room, he chants in his head. Own it, and look people in the eyes. Find the best looking alpha, have them buy you a drink, and the rest is easy.

Fallen for You by Mynuet

Stiles is not swooning when his hot next door neighbor comes to his rescue. He’s not! Maybe a little.

Survival of the Species by Lissadiane

“I think I’m dying.” Nothing makes sense – and now Derek has left him.

“No, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says grimly, rooting around in his special cupboard of herbs and remedies. “I’m afraid not. You’re merely suffering from a biological imperative to bear your alpha’s children and strengthen the pack.”

Stiles considers that for a moment, as best he can with his mind a hazy mess, and then he says quietly, “I think that might be worse.”

“So, so much worse,” Scott agrees.

*In which Derek’s pack is apparently stable enough to begin planning for the future, and somehow, the universe has decided Stiles is the perfect candidate to bear his alpha’s children.

i need your sway by thatworldinverted

Stiles always figured it would be Scott who saw him through his first heat. They pinky-swore on it, in fact, when they were eleven and newly-presented. There haven’t exactly been an abundance of offers between then and now.

What there is now, though, is the pack, and pack takes care of each other.

How to Woo Your Local Omega by alocalband

Stiles knows a pity gift when he sees one. Mostly because that’s all he’s ever gotten from anyone since the moment he hit puberty.

I don’t know why, but I guess it has something to do with you by LunaCanisLupus_22

“You smell like me,” the guy says, scowling as he crowds in and Stiles staggers back between the coats and finally hits the wall. “Why do you smell like me?”

He barely lets out a garbled sound as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “No reason,” Stiles yelps, struggling to get his footing and grasping at a whirlwind of puffy fur.

Or the one where Stiles goes thrift shopping and steals an alpha’s shirt. And gets a lot more than he bargains for.

#anon #replies #fic recs #sterek #a/b/o dynamics #teen wolf

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searchingwardrobes · 7 years ago

Text

OUAT Fandom Crescendo: Hope for the Orphans

I wanted to join in with @scribblecat27 's wonderful idea to "re-release" some of our early works in the fandom as a celebration leading up to the finale. I have actually been meaning to clean up this fic's formatting on Ao3 forever, so this was good motivation. Reading over it was interesting. It's nice to see ways I have grown as a writer since I wrote this two years ago. (Hard to believe!) I gave @whimsicallyenchantedrose a prompt wanting to see little!Killian and little!emma meet somehow in canon. I'm sure she would have knocked it out of the park, but I started thinking it over, and this - my first fanfic - was born. I'll never forget how scary it was hitting that post button! And who knew how far it would take me . . .

Tagging people I think may be interested: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @ohmakemeahercules @shady-swan-jones @awkwardnessandbaseball @shireness-says

When Killian Jones first saw Emma Swan, he had the strangest sensation that he had met her before. It was like a long-forgotten detail that niggled the back of his brain, and just as he began to grasp it, away it slipped like grains of sand. So he was delighted when it had been Emma Swan to volunteer to climb the beanstalk with him. “I was hoping it’d be you.” And as they climbed, he uncannily just knew things about her. That she was an orphan, for one. He wasn’t lying when he said she had the look of a lost boy in her eyes, but he noticed the look after the knowing. “Open book,” he had told her, but he hadn’t the slightest clue how or why.

The longer he knew her, the more he felt he had always known her. Of course, he never voiced this to Emma. He knew his Swan – he knew if he said such a thing it would terrify her. So it wasn’t until the night of their honeymoon, that he voiced it in the dark.

“From the moment we met, I have felt . . . like I’ve always known you.”

Emma surprised him with her response. “You too?” she asked, propping her chin on his chest. He could just make out the green of her eyes by the light from the bedside lamp. There was no fear there, not anymore.

Killian gazed down at her, confused. “You mean you’ve felt that way too?” At her answering nod, he asked, “How long?”

Emma snuggled into his side before answering. “Since the first day we met. I looked into your eyes and thought that I knew you from somewhere. I mean – I’m not saying it was love at first sight or anything-“ he could almost feel her roll her eyes at that notion – “it was more like a vague ‘I’ve seen this guy somewhere before,’ know what I mean?”

Killian chuckled, “Exactly.”

They both fell silent for a moment, contemplating what it might mean. Emma finally scooted herself up to nuzzle his neck. She murmured against his skin, “It’s probably just the whole true love thing.” How far his Swan had come to speak of it so matter-of- factly!

“Hmmm, “he sighed, as she lightly kissed his jaw. “And pray tell, love, exactly what does that mean?”

“You know,” she murmured as she lazily kissed a path across his face, “two souls destined to be together. Kindred spirits who recognized one another immediately, despite all reason. That sort of thing.”

And that was what they decided. The soul mates cliché. After all, what other explanation could there be?

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

Nine year old Killian Jones stuck his head slowly out of the hatch leading below decks, so only his eyes were visible through a narrow crack. He searched carefully to be sure no other sailors were above deck. He knew, of course, that there was a sailor on watch up in the crow’s nest. But he would be scanning the skies and sea, not looking down below at the deck. Seeing that the coast was clear, Killian quietly slipped out on deck, padding silently to the railing. The wood was cool beneath his bare feet. He leaned over the railing and down at the water below. It was a calm night. He could even see the moon and a few stars reflected in the almost glassy surface of the sea, the image broken only occasionally by the undulating waves. He looked up at the velvet sky and reveled at the sight of so many stars twinkling down at him. He breathed in deeply the familiar scents: salt, seaweed, and damp wood. He listened to the familiar sounds of the ocean and the creaking and rocking of the ship. He felt the cool night air gently fan his flushed cheeks. This was what he needed so desperately after being cooped up for three whole days below deck. Even if the slight saltiness of the air stung his right cheek just a bit.

“Killian Jones! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Slowly and reluctantly, Killian turned to face his older brother. Liam stood there, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking far older than his 13 years.

“I just needed some fresh air, brother!” Killian tried to explain. “I couldn’t stay down there in the hold one more minute.”

“Little brother,” Liam said on a sigh, putting his hand gently on Killian’s shoulder, “you had a raging fever for three full days. The last thing you need is to stand out here, breathing in the deadly night vapors. You must remain abed until you get your strength back.”

Liam tipped Killian’s head up, then turned it to the side to look at his cheek. The deep cut there was still a bright, angry red, but the wound was no longer weeping. Killian saw the regret and guilt in his brother’s eyes.

“It could be worse, I suppose,” Liam grumbled, dropping his hand from Killian’s face. “You’ll have a scar, though.”

Killian decided that the best course of action was to make light of it. “Well, every good sailor worth his salt needs a scar,” he said brightly. Then he poked Liam in the chest, “And what do you expect? I was stitched up by a 13 year old.”

Liam winced. Okay, maybe it was too soon for that joke. But according to Cook, Liam may have saved Killian’s life.

“Well,” Liam replied, poking his little brother in return, “you should have kept your mouth shut, as usual, and refrained from setting off the Captain.”

Now it was Killian’s turn to wince. Liam was constantly berating him for his sass. “Just keep your mouth shut, Killian, and do as your told,” was the seemingly endless refrain from his brother’s lips. And it was true, Killian’s mouth was constantly getting him into trouble. He just couldn’t seem to help himself. A few days ago, the Captain had sent his youngest cabin boy below decks for some more rum. Unbeknownst to Killian, the barrel he had filled the decanter from was not properly sealed. Salt water had seeped in and ruined the rum. The Captain had taken a large gulp and promptly spit it out across his desk. He had roared at Killian, blaming him. Killian should have taken the scolding meekly and gone to get rum from the second barrel, but instead, as usual, he had opened his mouth.

“As drunk as you are, I’m surprised you noticed.”

The Captain had roared even louder and would have knocked his desk over if it hadn’t been nailed down. Instead he threw the glass tumbler in his hand right at Killian, who had ducked just in time. The tumbler smashed into pieces against the wall directly behind his head (really, who uses glass tumblers on a ship? was Killian’s ridiculous thought). Ducking hadn’t prevented a shard of glass from slicing across his cheek. The Captain screamed at him to get out, face red and eyes bulging. Killian had stumbled out, putting a hand to his stinging cheek. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. He wiped his bloody hand on his tunic, and reached up to his cheek again. By the time he stumbled on deck to his brother, his face and cheek were slick with blood again.

“Liam,” was all he managed to say before he swayed on his feet.

The rest was a blur. Killian remembered opening his eyes to find himself laid out on the table in the galley, Liam and the bos’un, Starkey, arguing.

“Cook’s gone to shore for supplies.” Starkey hissed, “What’ll we do?”

“I don’t know,” Liam hissed back, as if he didn’t want his brother to hear him.

“Go to shore and look for him, or a healer.”

“Captain was adamant that his slaves stay on board. He may do worse to me and to Killian if we disobey. Besides, Killian needs help NOW. Look at how much blood –“

“Then what’ll you do?”

“Get Cook’s kit. I’ve seen him do it before . . . “

“Have you lost your senses?” Starkey practically screeched. “You’re just a boy!”

“Exactly!” Liam shot back. “I need you to hold him down. I’m not strong enough.”

Then Killian saw Starkey and Liam bending over him. Starkey and the Cook had taken a liking to Liam and Killian a year ago when their father had left. The boys trusted both men with their lives.

Starkey took Killian by the shoulders. He thought he remembered tears in the man’s eyes, but surely he had imagined that. “I’m sorry son.” Then the pain. Killian writhed and screamed. Then everything went dark.

When Killian awoke, he was in his hammock in the hold. He was shivering all over, and no matter how tightly he wrapped his scant blanket around him, he felt chilled. For three days, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He heard snippets of conversation around him.

“The wound’s turned septic.”

“I was a fool thinking I could stitch him up!”

“You did what you had to, my boy.”

“The Captain is demanding to know where his second cabin boy is. He has work he needs him to do.”

“Then stall, damn it!”

Concerned faces floated in front of him. Someone made him lift his head to drink some water. Extra blankets were tucked around him. It wasn’t until later that he realized his brother, Starkey, and Cook and given him there’s. As the fever raged higher, he started to hallucinate. Calling out to his mother. To his father. And most frightening of all, was the hallucination he had of Liam. His brother was weeping, begging him not to leave him alone. It had to be a hallucination. Liam never cried.

But by some miracle, this morning Killian had awoke sweating and hot underneath the pile of blankets. When Cook had come down to check on him, Killian had asked for something to eat. Cook laid a gnarled hand against Killian’s forehead, and then whooped with joy. He had never seen the man do anything but scowl. He tried to get up, but Cook, and later Liam, insisted he was too weak. The two of them and Starkey were covering for him; the Captain had been too drunk to know his smallest sailor was missing.

And that was why, on this night, Killian had snuck out of his hammock as soon as the rest of the crew was asleep. Staying in bed all day when he had all his wits about him was about to drive him mad. It was dark, stuffy, and hot in the hold with absolutely nothing to do. And now he had no doubt Liam would send him right back down there.

So Killian couldn’t believe it when Liam said, “Ok little brother, we’ll stay up her for a bit.” When he saw Killian’s grin, he hastily added, “But not for long, and you’re sitting down.”

Killian couldn’t argue with that, he was swaying a bit where he stood. The two boys sat side by side with their backs to the railing and looked up at the night sky.

“There’s a man in the moon tonight,” Liam pointed out. Killian looked up. Sure enough, there was the outline of a man’s face. “Do you remember what mother used to say about the man in the moon?”

Killian shook his head and sighed, “No brother, I sometimes fear I am forgetting her completely.”

Liam gave him a small, reassuring smile, “It’s not surprising. You were only seven when she passed. But I can tell you stories. That way, you won’t forget her.”

“Ok,” Killian agreed with a smile.

Liam cleared his throat. “She always said to give your problems to the man in the moon. But you had to make sure to tell him everything, so he had all the pieces. Like a puzzle. Then, while you were sleeping, he would work out the problem for you.”

Killian tilted his head up to gaze at the moon. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated. He knew he could remember his mother if he thought hard enough. He had to. Slowly, an image came to his mind. A smile that would light up a room. A turned up nose with a dusting of freckles. He saw her face, still a little fuzzy, leaning over him and wiping his brow. He was four or five and was ill. He saw curls framing the pretty face. Light brown, like his brother. Her eyes? He concentrated harder. They seemed to change color. Crystal blue when she was laughing. A stormy gray when she was arguing with his father. Sea green as she sang him to sleep.

“She sang us to sleep!” Killian exclaimed triumphantly. “And told us bedtime stories!”

Liam laughed softly, “That’s right. She had a beautiful voice. Her favorite was –“ and Liam began to sing haltingly:

Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly,

Lavender’s green;

When I am king, dilly, dilly,

You shall be queen

Roses are red, dilly, dilly,

Lavender’s blue.

If you will have me, dilly, dilly,

I will have you.

The song came back to Killian and he joined in. “I’ll say, little brother!” Liam exclaimed. “It seems you’ve inherited her singing voice.”

The boys continued gazing at the sky silently, lost in their own thoughts of their mother.

“Do you remember what you always asked her at the end of every story she told?” Liam finally broke the silence.

Killian laughed, “Yes I do. No matter what it was about, giants, kracken, true love’s kiss, I would always ask her if she believed in it.”

“And she would always say, ‘I believe in everything.’”

“Aye,” Killian scoffed, “and you would always roll your eyes and say it was silly.”

“Not you,” Liam chuckled, poking his ribs, “you would always loudly proclaim, ‘Then I believe in everything too!’ Momma’s boy.”

“Hey!” Killian protested, but he didn’t really mind his brother’s ribbing too much. His mother used to always says she couldn’t believe two brothers could be so different. Now that his memory had been jogged, more flooded into his mind. The clearest memory was the day his mother died. His father was away, he couldn’t remember where or why, but Elizabeth Jones had insisted on her boys being allowed in the sick room. Their father was a respected merchant, able to afford a housekeeper for his modest home. Little did they know he had gambled it all away. Agnes, the housekeeper, had tried to argue with Elizabeth, but to no avail. She dutifully brought the boys to their mother.

Elizabeth spoke to Liam first, asking him to look after Killian. “You are all he has left,” she had said. He now realized his mother had known their father wouldn’t stick around. She gave Liam a ring with a garnet stone, hanging on a chain. She slipped it over Liam’s head, saying, “This ring will always bring you safely home.” Liam had nodded solemnly and vowed that Killian would always be safe.

“Killian,” Elizabeth had called, gesturing to her youngest son. Killian stepped to her bedside, unable to stop the tears that flowed down his cheeks. Liam was strong, but he was weak. “Killian, you have more love in your little finger than most people have in their whole bodies. When you love, you love fiercely, with all that you are. That is rare, my son. And it is strength. It will make you a hero some day.” At this, she took Killian’s freckled face in her hands. “No matter what happens, Killian Jones, no matter what mistakes you make – and we all make some – never forget that you are destined to do heroic things. Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I won’t mother,” Killian had sobbed. Then he had thrown his arms around her. Elizabeth had held him close, drawing Liam into the hug as well.

“Forgive me boys, for leaving you.” She wept. “I don’t want to.”

“Of course we forgive you, mother,” they had both declared. And the next morning, she was gone.

Killian looked up now at the man in the moon. He didn’t have a problem for him, not exactly. More a question. He realized he had broken his promise to his mother. He had already forgotten that he could be a hero. Because his mother was the only one who had ever seen that in him. So, with her gone, he had forgotten. Liam loved him, he knew without a doubt. But he always had the nagging feeling he was letting his brother down. “Why are you always getting into trouble, Killian?” “Can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself, Killian?” It was always something. So Killian Jones looked up at the moon and asked one single question as he closed his eyes.

“Will anyone ever see me the way my mother did?”

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

Killian’s eyes blinked open. He must have fallen asleep on deck. But – something wasn’t right. The surface against his cheek was smooth and cold, not rough and damply warm like the wood of the ship. Someone was saying something to him. . .

“Sweetie . . . come on, sweetie, you need to wake up and get off the bus.”

Wait . . . what? Everything was off. The woman’s strange accent, calling him sweetie, and . . . what the bloody hell was a bus?

Killian jolted up, looking frantically around him. In front of him was a plump woman, middle aged, holding what looked like a rectangle of smooth wood.

“Wh-where am I?” he stuttered. He looked around him – it was all so strange. Two rows of leather benches with an aisle down the middle. And the entire thing was encased in some kind of metal? What was this place?

The woman in front of him chuckled. “You’re at the Valentine’s Day party. All the other children are already inside. You must have fallen asleep.” She looked down at her piece of wood. “Now, what is your name? I thought we had counted everyone.”

“K-Killian J-Jones.”

The woman frowned. “I don’t see your name here.” She shrugged and looked at him with sympathy. Killian wasn’t sure, but it seemed like she was staring at the cut on his cheek. “You must be a brand new arrival. I’ll add your name – go on inside.”

Killian didn’t know what else to do but obey her. He walked down the aisle towards a door at the front of the vehicle he was in. He guessed it was a vehicle. The seat at the very front had a wheel in front of it. He walked down the steps and onto a smooth, black surface. It was all so strange. He looked behind him at the vehicle he had just exited. Large and bright yellow with four enormous wheels. Bizarre. There were words painted across the side in black. He was grateful that Liam had continued his reading instruction after his mother passed. “Baptist Children’s Home.” A children’s home. A nice way of saying orphanage. Great. He was apparently in a strange realm, separated from Liam, and in an orphanage.

“Better hurry up,” the woman behind him admonished. “The food will all be gone.”

Food! Well, at least he wouldn’t starve. He could certainly eat before trying to get back home. Even Liam couldn’t argue with that. He saw a strip of white through a small green lawn. A path. It lead up to two large doors. From the doors and windows of the strange looking building poured a bright, glaring light. What type of lanterns did they have in this realm to make light that blinding? As he walked nearer to the doors and the light, he could see the kind of clothes he was wearing. His trousers were made of a stiff, blue material. The shirt he was wearing was thin, but soft, with strange pictures. The pictures were like nothing he had ever seen, but he could read the words “Star Wars.” That was odd. Over the thin shirt, he wore a short coat made of similar fabric as the trousers. He shivered a little as the wind blew. Seems orphans wore coats too thin in any realm.

Walking into the bright room was overwhelming. At first Killian didn’t know where to look. Glittering, paper hearts of red and pink were hanging on almost every surface of the room. Children of various ages were all around the room. Some were talking, some were playing what looked like carnival games, and at one long table children sat with more paper hearts, rubbing them with colored sticks. But what finally arrested Killian’s attention was the table draped in pink and red tablecloths in the dead center of the room. Food! He tried to calm himself as he approached the table, but he had never seen so many confections in his life! His mother used to make them shortcake with strawberries for their birthdays, but this! The table was a rainbow of color he had never seen on food before. Cakes, pastries, cookies, and . . . was that chocolate?! Pirates would raid ships carrying chocolate, vanilla, or cinnamon, but in this realm such things must be as abundant as sea water. Why else would they serve such rich foods to mere orphans?

Killian almost couldn’t decide what to try first when his eyes landed on a large, heart shaped cookie. The last one on its tray. It wasn’t just the enormous size of the cookie; it was the fact that it was completely covered in pink frosting. Killian had never had frosting in his life. He had seen wealthy patrons buy cakes with frosting from bakeries, but had never tasted it. He picked up the large cookie almost reverently, his mouth watering.

“Hey, kid! You ain’t eatin’ that! It’s mine!”

Before Killian knew what was happening an older boy who towered over him had shoved Killian and snatched the cookie from him. Killian clenched his fists as he watched the boy cram the cookie in his mouth. The bully laughed, his gaping mouth filled with pink frosting and mashed cookie. Killian felt the anger rising, and all reason flee. The boy was huge, but so help him . . .

“I can split mine.”

The soft, kind voice stopped Killian in his tracks. Forgetting his rage, he turned around to see a girl, not much younger than him, standing there with a heart shaped cookie extended to him in her small hand. She was dressed in a similar manner to every other child in the room: the blue trousers, the cotton shirt (with a glittery pink heart), the thin jacket, but she may as well have been the only one in the room wearing a ball gown the way Killian’s heart suddenly skipped a beat. He had seen Liam get tongue tied over girls, but it had never happened to Killian. Until now.

The girl laughed – a wonderful sound. Then she rolled her green eyes and cocked her blonde head. “So ya want the cookie or what?”

Oh, she was a tough lass. He could tell already. Speak, you idiot! Killian thought to himself, but all he could do was nod.

The girl carefully broke the cookie in two, handing half to Killian. Killian ate his half slowly, relishing every sweet bite. It was almost sickening it was so sweet. Almost. Then he shyly licked his lips and his fingers, watching the little girl. She laughed again.

“Didn’t get many sweets at your last home, huh?” She said. “Same here. My last place it was nothing but bologna sandwiches. That I had to make myself, of course. Guy spent all the state’s money on beer. My name’s Emma Swan. What’s yours?”

He hadn’t understood half of what she said. But he had sense enough to remember what Liam had told him about ladies. Whether a duchess or a slave, you should always be a gentleman when greeting a lady. So Killian took Emma’s hand, bowed over it and said, “Killian Jones, m’lady.”

Emma giggled. “You talk funny!” Killian’s face fell until she said, huge smile on her face, “But I like it!” Then he was elated. This Swan girl would be the death of him.

“You must be new,” she continued. “Is the cut why you’re here?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . . “

“This home, you don’t stay long. It’s for emergencies. You don’t have to be embarrassed.” Emma rolled up her sleeve and showed Killian her wrist. On it was a scar, puckered and red. “Bologna and beer guy. From his cigarette.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, but he saw a little wetness in her eyes.

Killian gently patted his cheek. “Glass of rum,” he told Emma with a smile, “he threw it at my head.”

She smiled back and he just stood there stupidly. “I’m nine,” he finally said, “how old are you?”

“Seven,” she answered, then abruptly grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s do something! The craft table is lame, totally for babies. But they’ve got some good games.”

Emma dragged him to a table with little darts laid across it. On the wall behind the table was a dartboard surrounded by shelves of stuffed toys. Emma picked up a dart and showed it to Killian.

“Suction cup darts. Don’t want to give the screwed up orphans real ones,” then she laughed. Seven and already cynical. Yeah, Killian could relate.

She leaned closer to him to whisper in his ear, and he thought his heart might pound right out of his chest. “I want the duck. Think I can do it?”

“I think you could do anything,” he whispered back. And he meant it.

He watched as Emma picked up a dart and concentrated on the board, her tongue sticking adorably out of the corner of her mouth. The first dart didn’t even make it to the board, and the second dart hit two circles from the edge. Emma blew out her breath and narrowed her eyes as she threw the third dart. Close, but no bullseye. Emma sighed.

“Sorry kid, you only get three tries,” said the volunteer.

“Figures,” Emma grumbled.

“I’ll give it a try,” Killian said. The volunteer gave him his three darts. Killian tried to ignore the fact that Emma was watching him, but it was bloody hard to ignore her. His first throw hit the edge of the board and bounced off crazily. He breathed in deeply on his second. He had to win that duck for Emma! His second dart hit on the very edge of the bullseye and he heard Emma cheer beside him. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the bullseye, tossed the dart and …

“We have a winner!” exclaimed the volunteer. “Now, what would you like, little boy?”

Killian didn’t hesitate. “The duck.”

Killian thought it was obvious that he had played for Emma, but when he turned to her and placed the duck in her hands, her mouth dropped open.

“You won this for me?” she whispered, hugging the duck to her chest.

“Of course I did,” Killian said with a shrug. Why wouldn’t he? He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. He scratched behind his ear. “I mean, you did share your cookie.”

Suddenly Emma was grabbing his hand and dragging him along. Again. Not that he minded. He would follow this angel anywhere. The two of them slipped out of a side door and then down a dark hallway. Emma stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

“We’re not supposed to be here,” Emma whispered conspiratorially. “You just got here, so you haven’t come to the Bible lessons yet, huh.”

“Bible lessons?” Killian asked, once again confused.

“Yeah,” Emma whispered back. “They’re not so bad. They read you a story, you make a lame craft, play a game. There’s cookies and juice. That’s the best part.”

The only thing Killian really understood was the part about cookies and juice. Food was certainly easy to come by in this realm.

“I mean, it’s the deal with this place. Bible lessons every Wednesday afternoon. But they take us places. I’m hoping I’m still here next week. We’re going to the movies. I’ve never been.”

Once again, Killian had no idea what Emma was talking about. “So what’s behind the door?” Kilian asked.

“Oh, right,” Emma laughed. “The first Wednesday I came here, I had to go to the bathroom. And on my way back to class, I saw colored light shining through the little window here in this door. I was curious, so I snuck in. And . . . it’s sort of my special place. I wanted to show it to you.”

Emma was the one who seemed shy now, chewing on her bottom lip. Killian smiled at her,” I would be honored to see it, Swan.” Emma giggled, and somehow he knew he was “talking funny” again.

Emma pushed open the heavy door and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Then she silently motioned for Killian to follow her. When he followed Emma into the room, he gasped. This must be a cathedral! he thought. Each side of the massive room was lined with exquisite stained glass windows. The room was dark, but the moonlight poured through the colorful windows, spilling colored light onto the carpeted floors. “I see why this is your special place,” he breathed.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” Emma agreed, “but I have a special spot. Come on.”

And she was pulling him along again. Did Emma Swan ever slow down? Killian didn’t think so. She stopped at the end of a pew and plopped down on the carpeted floor, her back against the wood. She yanked Killian’s hand to sit down next to her. Just a foot in front of them was a beautiful scene in stained glass. It was a man (the same man who seemed to be in a lot of the glass pictures) seated on a rock, surrounded by children. The man’s face seemed gentle and kind, and the children looked at him with smiles on their faces. One little boy sat on his lap, and he had placed his hand on a little girl’s head. At the bottom of the window, in the stained glass, were the words, “Let the little children come unto me.”

“Who is that man?” Killian asked.

“Jesus,” Emma answered. “You’ll hear a lot about him in this place, trust me.”

“Is he a god of this realm?”

More giggling from Emma. “Realm? Yeah, they say he’s god.”

“So you worship this god?” Killian asked, trying to understand fully why this was her special place.

“No,” Emma sighed, “I mean, I don’t really know what to think about him. But the first night I came in here, we had just heard this story. Jesus was really important, so they tried to send the kids away, they thought he was too busy. But Jesus said the kids could come and actually told the grown-ups they ought to be more like the kids.”

“Really?” Killian asked, surprised. Liam was always telling him to grow up.

“Yeah, I know. And then I saw this window, and I don’t know, it’s just – the Bible teacher said Jesus meant that kids believe stuff real easy.” Emma pulled her knees up to her chest. “But I’m only seven, and it’s getting harder and harder to believe in stuff, you know?”

Killian thought of his mother. I believe in everything. What had happened to the little boy who would echo those words back to her? Killian sighed, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“And in this home, they keep going on and on about how Jesus cares for the orphans. And I want to believe that someone cares – anyone – but it’s just so hard. So when I come in here and look at this window, I imagine those children are orphans. And for one moment, I don’t know. I feel . . . I feel . . .”

“Hope?” Killian supplied.

Emma looked at him and smiled. “Yeah.” Then she took Killian completely by surprise and rested her head on his shoulder. They both gazed up at the window for a while in silence, and then he heard Emma softly snoring. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, and suddenly felt very, very tired . . .

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

“Killian! Killian, wake up!”

Suddenly, Killian felt someone shaking him. He felt damp wood beneath him and smelled salty air. He groaned. His head felt full of cotton and his limbs felt heavy.

“Killian,” Liam spoke urgently, “we fell asleep, and now you’re burning up. I’ve got to get you back to bed.”

Liam began yanking Killian to his feet, and Killian didn’t like it. Not one bit. “Swan?” he asked. He was on his feet now. Liam tried to pick Killian up, but he wasn’t strong enough. Killian swayed and leaned into his brother.

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, little brother, now walk.”

“The – the swan. With golden hair. She was a little angel.”

Liam chuckled. “You’re fever is definitely back. You’re hallucinating. Besides, you said girls were a nuisance.”

“Not this one,” Killian mumbled as Liam helped him below and then into his hammock. “Bloody brilliant she was. Amazing.”

But Liam was right, his fever was back. Killian spent two more days in a feverish fog, and when he woke up he assumed the blonde angel and her strange realm had all been a dream. And as hundreds of years ground away at his heart and mind, even the dream faded almost into oblivion.

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

Killian and Emma knew that the other parents of Storybrooke were probably rolling their eyes at the idea of taking an 8 month old to a Valentine’s Day party. Although none of them should have been surprised. As orphans, they had missed out on so much. They were determined to give their little girl everything they had missed out on. Children’s events at the public library were one of them.

Belle had always been a natural at running the library, but after becoming a mother she took it to a whole other level. She convinced Regina to approve the addition of a children’s wing, and she kept said wing abuzz with activity. Storytime, laptime, babytime, summer reading programs, and countless special events were a welcome improvement over research to defeat monsters and secret war councils. In the peace that had descended on Storybrooke, the Jones family were Belle’s number one customers. They brought baby Elsa to babytime every Wednesday morning, alternating weeks. Belle had tried not to chuckle the first time Killian brought her. Elsa couldn’t even hold her head up yet, so when they sang the song about riding a pony to town, Killian couldn’t bounce her on his knee like he was supposed to. So really, was a Valentine’s Day party that crazy of an idea?

Granted, Elsa drooled, babbled, and squealed her way through storytime about two rabbits who try to outdo each other with declarations of love. Emma had basically done the craft for her after Elsa tried to eat the glue stick. And now Killian was trying to figure out how to balance a plate of food with his good hand while holding Elsa in his other arm. He was trying to grab Emma’s attention across the room where she was talking to Snow, but with no luck. Suddenly, Elsa made a grab for Killian’s plate, taking a heart shaped frosted cookie into both her chubby hands. She squished the cooked delightedly and then tried to cram the confection into her mouth with both fists.

“Oy, little pirate lass!” Killian pouted. “That was your Papa’s cookie!”

Killian heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see Emma, holding another cookie out to him.

“Wanna split mine?”

And suddenly, just like that, they both remembered. They both gasped.

“It was you!” Emma exclaimed first.

“I thought it was a dream.”

“I thought you were an imaginary friend,” Emma laughed. She stepped forward and drew her thumb across the scar on his cheek. “Rum, huh? Figures.”

Killian grinned. His hands were full, so he gestured with his head to her wrist. “So that’s why you got the tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Emma said while rubbing her wrist, “the scar never did go away.”

They just stood there staring into one another’s eyes, both their hearts breaking for the little lost girl and the little lost boy.

“But how?” Emma asked, shaking her head.

“I don’t know,” Killian shrugged. “All I know is, I fell asleep asking the man in the moon a question. And the next thing I knew . . .”

“Seriously?” Emma rolled her eyes. “The man in the moon? What did you ask him?”

“If anyone would ever see me the way my mother did.”

Emma cocked her head to one side. “Mmhm, and how did she see you?”

“A boy who could be a hero one day.” Killian’s smile lit up his face as he leaned down to kiss his Swan. But before the kiss could get really good, two chubby hands patted Killian’s cheek, covering him in pink frosting. Killian pulled back, both he and Emma laughing. Emma reached up with a napkin to wipe the frosting out of Killian’s scruff.

“What happened to the duck?” Killian asked. “It didn’t earn a place in your memory box?”

Emma laughed. “You’ll never believe this. Another kid stole it.”

“Stole it?”

"Yeah, the same kid who stole your cookie.”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Figures. We were truly made for each other Swan.” And he bent to kiss her again.

#cs ff #ouat fandom crescendo #little killian #little emma #my first fanfic

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uglygreenjacket · 7 years ago

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Hahaha that line in "Let Me See It" is maybe my favorite too! (Although my favorite of yours is O&D!) Loved your answers on that ask! Do you have favorite lines/scenes in other people's fan fiction too?

Hey, anon!! It makes my tiny, little, writer’s heart happy to hear that you enjoyed that scene. I’m still pretty proud of that silly one-shot

And YES I have lots of favorites from other stories! Shall we venture in to a few of them?!

From Senshi’sBard’s amazing fic, Hunches:

“He would never tell her why he needed her so badly. He could never really describe the way the hollow in his chest stopped aching whenever she was near; how his mind could clear again in her presence; how the fog lifted, how the stupor vanished, and how he felt invigorated, revitalized, energized, restored. How the constant edge of creeping destruction that hovered nebulously around him seemed to dissipate at her touch. How deeply, madly, horrifically in love he was.

No, he wouldn’t tell her, because he was a proud sort of boy with a vanity that led to standoffishness. He wasn’t used to opening up and spilling his guts and this particular subject didn’t exactly his image of his own masculinity. Being a man and being head-over-heels for some beautiful girl – that meant he was either profoundly lucky or profoundly whipped, depending on what sort of male you asked. Not that he really cared, much; his closest acquaintances were men many years his senior or very sensible, studious young women, and how could he, Mamoru-kun, a very dedicated, very reserved, very down-to-earth sort of fellow, skip into class one day and start singing about love, of all things? He chuckled at the thought of his professors’ faces when they saw Chiba-kun dancing around the desks and clicking his heels together. They’d think he lost it for sure.

But he was far from going crazy; he’d never felt more sane.”

From @wishwars stunning fic Companion Preference: Blonde:

“He looked at her for a moment and then, in an instant, he understood. She was being his someone – as she had so aptly termed it. She was acting as if they were together – had been together – for a while now. At first, he wanted to push her away. To tell her he couldn’t do this – not with her – not if it wasn’t real, but then he realized he didn’t care. For a little while, just a little while, he wanted so badly to pretend it was.

And so when she pushed on his shoulders again, he let her guide him down until his head was in her lap, his legs stretched out over the rest of the couch, as she brushed small fingers through his hair.

As she pet him, he allowed his body to relax into the couch – melting under the soft butterfly touches of her hands along his brows, his ears, his temples – and he told her about his day. About the young man who had finally gotten out of his wheelchair and started to walk, about the small girl who he had found crying next to her mother’s bed because she still hadn’t woken up, about the elderly man who had proposed to his nurse because he liked her smile, about the woman who had decided she did not want to undergo surgery even when he told her it was her only chance. Every monumental moment and tiny detail.

And she listened. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she moaned, and sometimes she would simply increase the pressure of her fingers for a moment, as if to say, I’m here. I’m here.

And Mamoru soaked it all in – the feeling of her fingers in his hair, the warmth of her legs under his head, the sound of her voice in his ears – knowing that for now, for tonight, he was not alone.”

From Quid Pro Quo by Adamina:

Confused, he held up a hand. “You said I owed you.”

“And I still say that,” she said. Her back straightened, as she stood not a foot’s length away from him. “I came with you, I helped you, and I’ve given you all that I am. You must know that.” What was this sensation she felt surrounding her, she wondered honestly, and where was it coming from? “In all my life I haven’t felt more selfish than I do right now, when I tell you that you’ve given me nothing in return.”

“I’ve told you-”

“It’s not enough.” Her eyes were swiftly brutal as they stared upon him. She took another step back, and the moon dimmed. “You’ve told me I’m beautiful. You said you’ve wanted me. That you care. And I’ve given-I’m giving right now.” Her stance was challenging though the quakes in her were full of foreboding and potential weep. “Give me something back.”

“Usa…” That single thread of emotion was fighting free and past his defences. The area stipulated it, alarm discarded it. It was a war struggling to an only one way victory. “What do you want?”

Her voice was so unexpectedly sad, full of melancholy and misery. If he still couldn’t love her… “If you can’t figure that out, Mamoru-san, then we shouldn’t even be here in the first place.”

She was pulling away. Even though she didn’t move, he could feel her pulling away from him. No, she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let her. He reached out blindly for her hand, caught it. “I would do anything for you, Usa. Now, forever. I would kill for you, die for you, do anything just to see you smile for me. Anything.”

He was saying all the right words, she thought sorrowfully, except one. Bitterness rose in her throat as the sky’s luminosity seemed to weaken out, and the wind seemed to stop dancing, and the grass stopped swaying for it. “Why?” she demanded, tugging away, ready to stalk away from him, and the pain he was throwing at her. “Because you ‘care’?” The word, unlike before, just wasn’t enough anymore.

“No.” He didn’t move after her. “Because I love you.”

From Pearl Prynne’s Repercussions:

“My name is Serenity,” she said. “And I’m really just here on borrowed time.”

Mamoru swallowed, glanced at the sleeping girls one more time, debating. Something wasn’t right, and he knew the sensible thing was to wake the senshi and explain that Usagi wasn’t making sense, that Serenity was speaking through her lips. But, her hand on his, gently, stilled his thoughts.

“No, Mamo-chan, don’t wake them,” she said. “This isn’t anything to do with them. This is about you and me.”

“There is no you and me,” he insisted and Serenity almost laughed at the absurdity of such a statement. As if he’d said there was no moon, just because he could not see it in the sky.

“Let me tell you some truths, Mamoru Chiba,” she said. “If I do, will you believe me?”

He just looked at her, confusion in his gaze.

“You’ll understand,” she said, “soon enough.” She paused. “Or maybe… maybe it will take something more than a heart to heart talk through a millennia.” She met his eyes and sighed. “We all have our demons, Mamo-chan. We all have our chains.” She wound her fingers through his and sighed. “Some are more beautiful than others.” She smiled. “I have the most beautiful of them all.”

And, because she wanted to, because she could, she leaned forward and kissed him again. She felt his turmoil, his will power pushing against his mind, telling him to stop, that this was dangerous, that somehow the mere act of brushing his lips against hers could somehow send her careening toward an early grave. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “But you see, I can’t let you do this, Mamo-chan. I told Endymion the same thing. There is no me without you.”

Smiling at the slightly foggy expression in his eyes, she ran her thumb across his lips, sending a silent apology to her past self for hijacking her body in such a way, but knowing that Usagi needed the curse to be lifted as much as the time stream did. “She needs you, you stupid boy,” Serenity said. “We have a future. It’s beautiful.”

From The Serenity Case by @idesofnovember:

He looked at her for a long moment. “Understand that whatever dramatic confessions you were making about eating, sleeping, dying,” he smirked for a second, shaking his head.“It’s barely half of what you’ve done to me, princess.”

“Do you mean… you…,” she said, her open mouth pulling into an amazed smile. “You… love me back?”

“Does it matter?” He ran a hand through his hair, resting the other on his hip - the very picture of frustration. “You know, cute nicknames aside, you are Serenity Von Mond,” he looked at her- a warning, wary look. “You are so far out of my reach you might as well be on the moon.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m well within your reach,” she countered, taking a step toward him in the small room. Mirroring what she’d seen that other woman do, she ran her hand down his chest - and this time he responded, swallowing hard and tensing his jaw. “Please,” she said, looking up at him in dizzying awe, “I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

His lip pulled up a bit and he gave the smallest shake of his head. “A girl like you don’t know the first thing about wanting.”

She tugged on his shirt. “Then show me.”

She’d never been kissed like this. She never knew you could be kissed like this, his hand on the back of her neck, thumb sliding down behind her ear, mouth over hers - hot and slick and desperate. She hadn’t realized that she’d taste him - spicy and warm like chocolate. She hadn’t anticipated the brush of his hair against her own forehead, or the tickle of his breath against her skin, or the almost-moan he made when her tongue hesitantly responded to his. This was perfection. This was heaven.

She curled her fingers together at the nape of his neck, his other hand steadying her around her waist as he tilted her back, her thighs pressed against the edge of the table, her hips angled up to his.

“You love me,” she clarified, breathing the words out once her mouth was free to talk, when his lips were on her jaw, tracing down her neck.

“Yes,” he murmured confirmation.

“Even if I were poor?” she continued. “A nobody?”

He smirked at her, pulled back so their noses were barely touching. “Money or not, someone like you could never be ‘nobody’.”

She wrinkled her nose, made a face at him. “Will you ever stop making fun of me?” And the smirk turned to a grin.

“When I’m dead,” he said. “Maybe.”

Unable to think of a retort, she settled for kissing him again, and he didn’t seem to mind that one bit.

Andddd last but CERTAINLY not least, a snippet from Ikigai by @floraone:

“You might want to duck,” she said and he looked at her bewildered, ripping his gaze away from dimpled, slender knees.

“What?” he breathed.

“I can see Natsumi pass over there, she might see you. Just a fair warning,” she smiled at him.

He furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“Natsumi?” she asked, an amused look on her face. “The red-head in my class who follows you around?”

Oh! His eyes widened, and he ducked quickly. She giggled.

Face in his lap he mumbled upward, “Is she gone?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she smiled, then leaned down towards him a bit further. “But don’t worry, I will save your sorry ass if she does see you, I’m Superman after all.” She smiled cheekily, pointing her finger towards the “S” on her T-shirt, the hand at her hip.

He raised an amused eyebrow at her. Most common expression on his face when around her. “Ah, right,” he started. “Because everyone knows Superman is a woman.”

“Well,” she grinned. “It’s my clever disguise, so no one suspects me.”

“Ah, right, yes,” he twinkled at her. “Clever. No one would suspect the man of steel under such long eyelashes, I see your point.”

She puffed up a bit, spluttering. “You’re one to talk with your girly eyelashes.”

He laughed at her and she smiled, then, his heart realized with a start, she was leaning her face down towards his, peering into his eyes, studying his eyelashes closely.

His pulse sped up, her face was so close to his. He’d only need to lean forward just so much in order to…. He could smell her; the clean and flowery scent of her hair, that unique musky and sweet scent of a light sheen of sweat mixed with sunshine. He had to close his eyes for a second.

Her head was still level with his, the way she was peering into his eyes, bending slightly and putting her hands on her dimply, naked knees which touched his legs and he swore inwardly at his black denims between them.

He felt the need to kiss her so acutely, but held it in, he couldn’t pull her into his world further, but then he noticed her lean in slightly more, her breath now tickling his skin.

And she asked him in the quietest and most breathy voice he’d ever heard her use, “Is it ok if I … May I kiss you?”

And all thoughts flew out of his head, and although it’s she who had asked it’s his hands that fly up and bury themselves into her hair, pulling her face towards his and touching his lips to hers; for once, letting go on his constraints of the pull he feels towards her daily and kisses her like he’s wanted from day one.

It’s desperate, but soft, he’s pouring all the emotion he feels into it. Yet when she opens her mouth he doesn’t let his tongue sneak into it, trying to keep it innocent, tender, the lightest brushing of their lipss, brushing both her lower and upper lips with his with tender strokes, pulling one slightly into his mouth for just a moment.

It was perfect.

And was this what kisses were always supposed to be like? But it didn’t feel like a first kiss - it felt like this is what they’ve always been doing, and it felt so right—

And those are just a few of the amazing passages that have inspired me to start writing

#sailor moon #sailor moon fanfiction #inspiration #usagi x mamoru #fic rec #answered #anon

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