#miles behind clever people on here but hello

[warlenys]

just. mac gave dennis a rocket launcher dennis loved it despite the lack of rocket…. it wasn’t about functionality it was about being known and seen and loved…… but then when the rocket came mac turned their relationship real and dennis didn’t want it anymore….. couldn’t handle a loaded gun…… only the safe illusion of it…... only the outline of power……. but mac could…. and so he used the rocket to blow up dennis’ car after dennis left him for giving him it…………

[ghoulphile]

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | part 01

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 3.7k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap, hair pulling, teasing, making out, mutual pining, lipstick kink, stockings, frottage, porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --” ➥ notes | i'm so sorry this is later than it should be. i am unfortunately a corporate slave and this fic just did not want to cooperate 🫠 there are a lot more things planned and this fic is turning into a bit of a beast (20+ pages and counting rip lmao) so i've decided to split it into two parts to make it more manageable for myself mostly un-beta'd atm a special thanks to @corinthianism for all her lovely help ❤️!!

feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

One of the ugliest things in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say. At least when he was a Marine, they told him where to point his gun, where to aim; nameless threats vanishing with a quick squeeze of the trigger.

Here, these ‘enemies’ aren’t enemies — not really.

It’d be easier if they were.

Worse still, they have names he holds as dearly as his own. There’s Barb, whip smart and always so clever. Then Janey, the light of his life and so sweet his teeth ache.

Once upon a time, life was sweeter than apple pie on Sundays.

Then came the separation.

Afterwards, he finds it hard to look at what’s left of his family without losing breath like a horse kick to the chest. Their absence rips open a hole inside him ten miles wide, its edges jagged and wrong.

And when he can’t take the silence anymore, fingers of malt liquor help dull the ache, though it’ll never be enough to mend what’s broken.

See, war’s something he understands.

But these domestic battlefields where he sits across from his ex-wife while lawyers barter this weekend and that holiday?

How he struggles to meet his daughter’s eye every time she asks if he’s coming home?

When Barb keeps the house and the money while he keeps the scrapbooks and the dog?

He doesn’t — can't — refuses to comprehend.

Because in what world can you reconcile looking down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman you love staring back, finger on the trigger? Left out to hang as Vault-Tec orchestrates his downfall.

The true depth of their involvement is unknown, but it’s no coincidence his bank accounts dried up faster than the Mojave in June. The ink still wet when the media snapped up the story of his failed marriage.

Thus, his reputation (rather what’s left of it) unraveled faster than a spool of thread.

Knocked on his ass and kept there by a boot heel crushing his windpipe. Whose? He hasn’t got a fucking clue.

But whoever they are, they’re making sure he stays a washed up nobody who struggles to land a call back, much less pay his monthly alimony on time.

See what we can do? You were America’s favorite gunslinger - now look at you. Mind your place.

Hell, millions used to scream his name.

Nowadays people whisper it behind their hands like a dirty secret, “Oh, did you hear? Cooper Howard…” as they dissect pieces of his life into bite-sized Before’s and After’s. “Hah! Serves him right. Y’know, I never liked him much.”

While he grits his teeth and swallows his bitterness with a smile, he hates how he can’t protect Janey from snide reporters and nosy strangers. Juggling actor-father-divorcé with fumbling hands.

It’s only been six months; a heartbeat, a lifetime, and already he’s scraped thin like butter over too much bread.

Something’s gotta give.

After all, he’s only one man.

But just when it's bleakest, the clouds part.

A young woman moves in next door, the first bright thing that’s come his way in a long, long while.

At first, he kept his distance.

Exchanged vague hello’s and how-are-you’s. Then Janey took a shine; always so friendly and eager to talk about her latest books.

Any reservations he might’ve had died when he saw how enamored you are with her.

Only made sense that over time small pleasantries turned into playdates. Then those playdates turned into sleepovers.

Before long, you’re watching her when a gig runs late.

Rustling up grub and tucking her into bed more often than not these days. And when he slinks in through the door, knees aching and stripped to the bone, there you are with a shy smile and a warm meal.

So what if he takes himself in hand after you leave, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress?

Imagines the wide stretch of your ruby lips as you swallow him down, lipstick smeared an awful mess?

Cums hard to the fantasy of your teary eyes and hiccupy breaths as you choke?

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

After all, he’s a gentleman... he promises to keep his hands to himself.

“All right, Sugar Bomb, it’s bedtime.”

Bundled in navy bedding up to her nose, Janey’s wide brown eyes peer up at you from beneath a riot of frizzy curls. Roosevelt, her ever faithful companion, plasters himself to her side. The tip of his tail swishes once, twice before falling limp.

“Ah, c’mon guys. Don’t look at me like that.” You sigh with a fond shake of the head, hip popping out to rest against the doorframe. “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

A muffled response sounds from the lump of little girl, “Nmfhm.”

Squinting, you dip your head and tap the side of your ear, "Pardon?"

“Mnhfmmmm.”

“Ye—eah… Didn’t catch that, Mumbler.”

Janey tugs down the blanket, her mouth pursed in a moue of displeasure. “I said,” she crosses her arms with a huff, “not until Dad gets home.”

Shit.

“M’sorry, baby. He’s still gonna be a while.” Walking across the room, you stop beside the bed and motion your hand back and forth. “Scooch over.”

Gangly limbs fumble as Janey wiggles into the middle of the mattress, her feet tangling in the blankets. Roosevelt takes a toe to the nose during the transition, but flops across her knees all the same.

Together they settle with a bounce of springs.

In the open space, you slide in.

The bed sinks under your weight, a plume of rich cologne tickling your nose; mint-spiced citrus. Cooper. Your stomach swoops, and your heart trips.

“I didn’t see him at breakfast — or lunch!” A pout tugs at her mouth. “Not even dinner. I gotta go home tomorrow. So when am I gonna see him?”

“Oh, bug.” You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbow. “Your dad’s been real busy at work. And I know that’s been hard for you, but I promise to make sure he’s here for breakfast tomorrow.”

“D’you mean it?” Her cold nose digs into your skin. “Me and Roosevelt miss him so much.”

Cuddled into your chest, Janey tosses an arm around your back. Her fuzzy head rests in the crook of your arm, springy curls tickling your skin.

You squeeze her tight and trace your fingertips over her forehead.

“I can do you one better,” you say, bopping the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle - a soft sound that sits warm and gooey in your chest. “I pinkie-promise.”

Her finger loops around yours, so small and fragile.

“I’ll even make pancakes. How’s that sound for a promise?”

“Oh, yes, please! I think Dad will like that,” a wide yawn cuts her off mid-sentence. “He’s sad, but he always smiles when you make food.”

Janey’s words — unexpected as they are sudden — cut so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. You flounder, your heart a throbbing bruise in your chest.

“... Then pancakes it is.”

As if nothing happened at all, she asks, “Do I have to go to bed now?”

“Afraid so, little miss.” Your responding chuckle sounds stilted even to your own ears. “Just you wait. When you wake up, Dad’ll be home.”

“Fi—ine, but I want extra pancakes.” Janey pauses, considers you with narrow eyes, then adds, “With syrup!”

“Whatever you want,” you say with an indulgent smile. “Now... time to sleep. It’s really past your bedtime.”

She gives you one last squeeze then lets you tuck her in nice and tight, blankets pulled up to her chin. You drop a kiss on her forehead while Roosevelt re-settles on the pillow beside her after a quick scratch behind the ears. 

Everything in order, you turn to go only for a little hand to stop you.

“Yes?” you reply, glancing at her from over your shoulder.

“... can you put on one of Dad's movies?”

The tremble in her voice - like she’s about to get scolded - breaks your heart clean down the middle. Stitching on a soft smile, you nod and walk to the darkened TV set in the room's corner.

After fiddling with the nobs, static flashes to life.

“The Man from Deadhorse okay?”

The holotape sliding into the track swallows the sound of her tiny “Yeah.” Starting up with a whirl of machinery, the second-hand Radiation King flickers to life in black-and-white.

A vast plain and bright sky stretches across the screen.

Then Sugarfoot creeps into frame with the one and only Cooper Howard sitting astride the noble steed. The sheriff’s badge on his chest glints in the sun.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, already half-way to sleep.

“Anything for you, baby. Sleep tight.”

Flicking off the lights, you leave the door cracked. Walk away pretending like hearing her whisper goodnight to the TV doesn’t lance through you like lightning.

The desire to whisk her into your arms and soothe all of her ails is almost impossible to ignore.

Somehow, you distract yourself by wiping up the table, then by fixing a plate of dinner for whenever Cooper rolls in. Though all the while, how brokenhearted Janey sounded sits in the back of your mind like a leaden weight.

When Cooper stumbles into the living room, it’s half past midnight.

You’d gotten up to greet him, curled as you were in an armchair reading, when something about the stern line of his mouth gave you pause.

Where the usual lighthearted greetings lingered, a pensive stillness trembled to life.

Tension crackles through the air; a held breath of agitation. By the faraway gaze and defeated slump of his broad shoulders, it’s plain to see the night didn’t go as intended. And no matter how much you long to soothe, you can’t.

After all, he’s not yours to touch.

Instead, you offer a sympathetic smile and ask, “Rough night, huh?”

Cooper ignores the prompt, squeezing past with a brief touch to your elbow as he makes a beeline for the dry bar. The heat of his body is there and gone in a flash, his cologne teasing your senses. He says, “Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Your heart flutters in your throat. “Ah,” you lick your lips, “well, I was going to finish my chapter first.”

Humming, he turns his back to you and fiddles with high balls and decanters. The tink of crystal glassware fills the air as he speculates which alcohol goes best with his mood. 

“Thanks again for watching Janey.” He nods in approval and fixes his whiskey neat. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr. Howard.” You shrug. “She’s a sweetheart.”

He shoots you a dry look from over his shoulder, stirring the dark amber of his drink with a forefinger. When he sucks his skin clean with a soft pop - a flash of a pink tongue taunting, teasing - your stomach swoops.

God, I wonder what else his mouth can do.

Flustered, you clear your throat and stare at a spot on the wall.

“How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Coop?” he says, digging through some drawers until he finds what he’s searching for: a lighter. “It must be a million and one by now.”

Flint sparks as flames jump, eating away at the end of a cigarette. Cooper inhales in short little puffs, pulling on the filter. His cheeks hollow, the shadows enhancing the cut of his jaw before the tip catches alight.

“Well,” he exhales, his gaze catching yours through a plume of smoke as he turns, brow raised. “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you chuckle.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. “I’ll drink to that.” He knocks back the last finger of whiskey before refilling with gin.

Springs groan in protest when he drops to the couch, settling in with an outstretched arm and wide spread thighs.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” he rasps.

Gulping, you try to ignore the space at his feet.

The stirrings of desire provoked by the urge to sink to your knees and fill it with your body, to ease tension from those shoulders with your hands, your mouth, your cunt — if he’d let you.

“You heading home?” Nursing the fresh drink, he swallows a mouthful, only to hiss low through his teeth at the chemical burn. His throat bobs, framed by the open collar of his shirt. “Whew! Goddamn, that’s strong.”

“No, I can stay for a while.” A bird on a wire, you perch on the cushion beside him. “Got nothing else planned for tonight, anyhow.”

Cooper snorts. “I doubt that very much. A sweet young thing like you,” he motions towards you with his glass, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fellas calling, especially on a Friday night. Don’t waste your time with me.”

“That’s not why I--” you stop yourself short.

Save for the bustling LA avenue right outside the complex, the apartment itself is stone silent for several heartbeats. Words hover on the back of your tongue, catching in the bend of your throat molasses thick.

Meanwhile, Cooper continues to swirl the alcohol in his glass.

Maybe in a different life, you wouldn’t hesitate to express yourself.

But here — with him — you shouldn’t.

Christ sake, he’s a grieving divorcé, you chastise yourself. The last thing he needs is me trying to lay one on him.

When you speak, his name glides off your lips for the first time, clementine sweet, “... Cooper, I’m not wasting my time. I enjoy spending it with Janey - and you.”

“Well,” he husks, hooded eyes dragging down your visage in a slow once-over, “you’re the first one in a long while to feel that way, sweetheart.”

Dripping like honey whiskey from Cooper’s lips, the simple phrase burns its way down-down-down until it blooms like liquid fire in your belly. Warms you all the way to your toes as your heart pounds against your ribcage.

“I mean it.” Your knuckles twist in the pleats of your sundress, bolts of blue fabric bunched around your knees. “Everything I do is because I want to.”

The flash of red nails plucking at the sheer nylon of your stockings snaps up his attention, his gaze snagging - staying as he chases the curve of your exposed leg, hungry.

He wets his lips, and tenses his jaw when he spots how the soft fat of your thigh dimples in because of your garter. “That’s awful sweet of you to say.”

You tremble beneath the intensity of his attention.

Greedy.

Little kisses of awareness spark bright along the path his eyes carve like the caress of shy fingertips.

However, before you’re able to confront him about his interest, the heat leaches from his expression, grows mute and cold like a muzzled dog. 

Readjusting the waistband of his slacks with a tug, he says, “I know you got better things to do than keep an old man company.”

Irritation sparks. “Cooper--”

“If this is about paying you for tonight,” his lips quirk into a sheepish smile, “I won’t be able to yet.” He scrubs a hand through the stubble peppered along his jaw. “The gig tonight didn’t… Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, that’s not what I --”

He plows on, “Anyway, the one I’ve got tomorrow should be enough. How about I stop by around seven o’clock? I’ll treat you to dinner as an apology.”

Frustration bubbles beneath the surface of your skin, antagonism thrumming through your veins. Your hands shake almost as much as your voice. “Cooper!”

“I… uh, yes?” He blinks.

Your brows furrow. “You don’t get it,” you say. “I mean, you truly don’t know?”

“I’m afraid there’s a lot I don’t get. You’re gonna have to be more particular.”

Maybe not said in so many words (or at all) but actions speak far louder.

Otherwise, why else would you spend most of your time in his apartment, fill every spare moment with Janey, and reserve evenings for his company?

Hell, you even cook and clean!

Almost scream your interest from the rooftops, and it’s obvious to everyone but him, it seems.

Here you are thinking he was preserving your dignity whenever he ignored a passing comment or lingering touch when, in fact, he’d been oblivious to their existence to begin with.

How a man can be so obtuse when you’re throwing yourself at him is beyond you.

If he wasn’t so captivating…

“Are you kidding me,” you ask, mindful of your tone, “how could you not know?” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been — for months!”

“Well, I don’t have a goddamn clue what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” he snarks, setting his glass on the table. “Care to enlighten me?”

Fine. If that’s how he wants to play, let’s play.

When he moves to take another drag from his cigarette, you strike, fingers locking around his wrist mid-lift. And although his glassy eyes narrow, he keeps his hand still.

Waiting to see what you'll do.

Tucking your knee under you for balance, you bend forward and watch his face from beneath your lashes. When your lips wrap around the filter, a dark hunger bleeds into his expression, his pulse a steady thud against the pad of your thumb.

Inhaling, the cherry lights up, a flashbang in the dim overhead light.

Cooper’s breath hitches, and then you’re pulling away with a lungful of smoke; the taste of ash heavy on your tongue.

He tracks your movements with greed, gaze flicking for the briefest of moments past your chin before refocusing on the ring of red lipstick staining white paper.

“If you wanted one,” he chokes, gripping the back of the couch with white knuckles, “all you had to do was ask.”

With a coquettish grin, you exhale to the side and stare at him with hooded eyes. “Is that so?” Plucking the cigarette out of his limp hold, you stub it out in the ashtray. “What if I wanted to ask for something else, Mr. Howard?”

The next moment finds you deposited in his lap, his hands shooting out to grab at your waist only to freeze before they make contact.

“Woah! I--”

“Tell me something.”

Your lips caress the shell of his ear, sharing breath - sharing space as you plaster yourself to his front, arms looped over his shoulders. He jolts, body trembling with restraint.

“Would you give me what I wanted if I said please?”

The distance between you snaps taut with anticipation. “C-Coop,” he stutters. “Call me Coop.”

You hum. “Well, Coop, would you?”

“That depends almost entirely on what you’re asking for, sweetheart.”

Red nails skate along the back of his neck, play in the downy soft hair of his nape just to feel him shiver. And then you’re leaning back with your hands braced on his knees, your legs falling open in invitation.

The hem of your dress bunches around your waist, exposing the soft cotton of your underwear, and the darkened patch of slick soaking through.

“I think you know exactly what I want,” you purr. “Because you want it too. Don’t you?”

He bites down on a strangled moan when your hips arch forward, rocking the soft plush of your ass against the heavy weight of his thickening cock. The zipper digs into your skin as he tents the front of his slacks.

Mouth dropping open, his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a slick circle of temptation that makes you clench. “I, uh, I don’t…”

Reaching between your splayed thighs, you hook a finger beneath your panties and pull the fabric aside. He jerks forward, exhaling hard at the flash of your soaked cunt and twitching clit.

“C’mon, be honest.”

With a sigh, you gather your arousal on the tips of your fingers.

Cooper’s gaze is a heavy weight pinning you in place as you pretend it’s him dragging his knuckles over the top of your mond. Him dragging calloused fingers up along sticky folds to play with your sensitive clit, ripping soft little mewls from your lips.

“Can’t you see what you do to me, Coop?” you say, pulling your hand away to show the webs of slick stretching between your fingers. “I’m so wet. Please, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

His hips rock against your ass in an aborted thrust. “Shit - shit!” Eyes slamming shut, he grits his teeth and digs his fingers into your sides hard enough to bruise. “We really, uh, shouldn’t - oh fuck, you look --”

“Why not?” Your hand brushes over his groin. “I can feel how hard you are.”

“It isn’t right, that’s why.” He stutters, stumbles over his words, “Besides, Janey…”

“I can be quiet,” you say, lips trembling. “I promise.”

“Goddamnit, you can’t say things like that and expect me not to --” Cutting himself off, strong fingers seize your chin and tilt until you’re met with Cooper’s severe expression, his scorching gaze. “You need to tell me now: are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s no hesitation, “Yes.”

In what world would you refuse?

The words barely pass your lips before Cooper’s bowing his dark head, mouth ravenous as it captures yours in a slick glide of bruising lips and hungry tongues.

He steals your breath, licks into your mouth and traces along the sensitive inside of your lip.

Pulse jump starting, your toes curl over the edge of the cushion and your thighs squeeze the barrel of his chest, kneecaps digging into his ribs.

“Oh,” a moan punches itself out of your throat - a breathy little thing swallowed up by his lips. “That’s--”

Anticipation swells, simmers between you like a band before it snaps. A strong forearm locks around your waist, tugging you into the cradle of his chest until you’re plastered from stem to stern.

Too hungry for tenderness as his free hand slips up to cup the back of your head, fingers catching in the briar of your hair and tugging at the roots.

You claw at his shoulders while sparks of pain ricochet down your neck, sufficing into a prickly flush that heats your blood. “Hnn, Cooper,” you gasp.

He murmurs your name through languid flicks of his tongue and sharp little nips of skin that leave your mouth tender and swollen. When he pulls away to survey his handiwork, his eyes are dark. Fathomless.

"I never thought I'd get the chance to kiss you like this," he says, wicking his thumb over the pillow of your bottom lip. "You taste as good as I imagined."

Dragging your nails across his scalp, you plead, “No more teasing - I can't take it.”

"Well," he grunts, fingers twisting up in your dress, “If that’s how you feel, then you better put those hips to good use and work for it, sweetheart."

part 2 dropping soon

[enterdivinity]

uptown girl!

Prologue: Movin’ Out

a/n: have fun reading it! it didn’t take long, and the next chapter will be done around next month(early august) bc i have camp!

cws: ig swearing?

The best part about Chicago was that gorgeous house of yours. The balcony and backyard look on the clear blue water of Lake Michigan and the silver rocks. It was beautiful to say the least, and words could not explain how that view could make a heart flutter at a mile a minute. Sheridan Road wasn’t something to laugh about, it was more something to gawk at. Each neighbor and house around yours was almost the same as your house, since it was such a rich place to live in. Oh North Shore, how perfect it was to live and stay. Except, you wouldn’t be staying here in this huge home anymore. No no, your family was moving to the heart of Tokyo because of your dad getting a promotion and having to move to Japan. This wasn’t something from a fairytale at all, it was a complete nightmare for you.

“Y/N! Bring down the last box from your room,” your mom requested across the hall from your room. Your family wasn’t bad or anything, it was a typical family in the good ol’ US of A! Rolling your eyes, you hauled the last box and lazily dragged it out of your big bedroom and right by the staircase. You didn’t want to move at all, since it would be such a hassle to fly for so many hours and into a new continent. Plus, you didn’t know many basic phrases in Japanese, only knowing stuff like hello, thank you, and some food. And don’t get started on the writing system. Right to left?! Right to fucking left?! Was it some sort of dystopian thingy? Perhaps not, but you had to roll with it. Turning over a new leaf wouldn’t be that bad, since, of course, you’re leaving for another country. Duh!

Putting your phone back in your pocket, you heard the huge moving van for the furniture. You stood up and opened the door for the furniture guys. Each minute and second that passed by made shivers pass down your spine. What if you don’t make friends? What if these people don’t know what a Birkin Bag is? Does this college have enough vending machines? In those pictures on Instagram, it did look like there were nice people there, but no one to her taste. Of course, you would have to test the waters first rather than judging the book by its cover.

When the furniture guys finished packing into the moving van, your palms become sweaty, as your eyebrows furrow. Standing up, you began dragging some of your smaller suitcases into your mom’s Rolls Royce. “Here’s the rest of it, mom,” you grumbled, bitter of course. Well, bitter was quite the understatement. You were frustrated that your family had to leave it all behind for a new place.

You don’t want to have a clever conversation on the reason why you had to leave, but some kind of optimistic advice or message. However, there seem to be none that popped into your head. You would be all alone(of course, with your family) for the first time. New country, new language, like a fish out of a huge pond or an alien from a different plant or universe. Let’s hope you got to fit in like a chameleon, not stuck out like a sore thumb.

As the car stopped at the airport, you opened the back door to walk over and open the trunk. Taking out the able-to-carry luggage, your parents began lightly bickering about which food they should eat at the food court. Apparently, McDonalds was too cheap for your expensive family. “Money screams, wealth whispers,” they said, “you’re too much for some lousy fast food.” It was true, your family was too posh and polite for some kind of greasy fast food. Though, it would be the smallest of problems that became washing over you once the L/N family boarded the plane.

No doubt and no reasons why, your family was in first class. It took about 13 hours for the nonstop flight to land in Tokyo. Seemed like the whole flight was a blur to you, right? It was because you slept the whole time during it. Humorous, right? When the pilot asked for everyone to get off the plane since it was at the gate, you and your family started leaving the plane, getting all your carry ons and all that jazz. Each and every face(other than yours and your family’s faces) looked fuzzy, fully blurred by all that jet lag. This happened to you for about ten seconds, but then you snapped back into reality. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you followed your parents to baggage claim.

Holy shit, genuinely holy shit. How the hell would you get used to this? All those Japanese words above the English words looked like something from a different planet. Plus, as your family finished taking some of the other suitcases out of the baggage claim, everyone looked like businessmen or moms trying to get used to their rowdy children. Haneda Airport wasn’t something to laugh about at all, it looked like something out of a folktale, so futuristic, yet timeless. Who knew what your university would look like after your family got situated in Tokyo? Who knew what people you would meet? Who knew that you would be able to meet the love of your life here?

Like your favorite song Movin’ Out by Billy Joel said, “Mama if that’s movin’ up then I’m movin’ out.” Guess your parents really took that to heart, huh?

[upwards-descent]

Their Gothic Romance pt. 1

Aspergillus moved like a shadow, skirting the edges of lamplight as he made his way towards the cemetery. He felt high, like he always did in anticipation of another experiment. The Tome of Death had given him a massive advantage. He'd gone from resuscitating flies and worms to resurrecting his first proper creature; a little field mouse. It hadn't survived long after that but progress was progress.

The cemetery, thankfully, had its back to the woods which no local dared approach this late at night. Everyone would be asleep, nice and cozy in their beds. 

Aspergillus vaulted over the wooden fence, hitting the soft dirt in silence. He swept up around the edge, speed-reading every headstone, searching desperately for a body that may still be warm. Damn. A lot of these were shoddily done. It was to be expected, he supposed, for a little village in rural Romania. This wasn't Munich or London or St. Petersburg, this was a town surely no one a mile out of the way had even heard of.

"Aha!"

Asper bent down and summoned a small orb of light, using it to illuminate the grave at his feet. The inscription was for this year, 1934, and just a week ago. Perfect.

Before he could lay his palm against the soil, a noise had his ears perking up. Asper shot upright and whipped around. Hopefully it'd just been a bird or something.

"Oh. Hello."

Asper whipped around again and staggered back. Looming behind him like an obelisk of flesh was a man holding a lantern. He was enormous! Granted, Asper was quite small for his age but he knew in his heart that this person was a behemoth. His ears were big and stuck out to the side, his eyes small and beady but not unkind. He wore a dopey smile on his face and his voice was low yet not at all commanding. Asper assumed a whale disguised as a man would appear like this fellow.

"Who the hell are you?!" Asper demanded. He unsheathed his dagger and leveled it at the stranger's gut. "I'll carve you like a roast bird!"

"Hi," He echoed with a slow grin. "You're that guy people don't like seeing around here."

"Perhaps I am," Asper jabbed with the dagger but maintained the foot or two of distance between them. "What's it to you, huh?"

"I'm Franklin," Good lord, he sounded mentally challenged, like a big dumb baby. "My papa owns this cemetery. I help."

Asper lowered his weapon and looked up at Franklin in bewilderment. This was the gravekeeper's son? He didn't even know the gravekeeper had a son. How did you even hide the existence of a son so massive?

"I take it you've come to kick me out, then, eh?" Asper drawled.

To his shock, Franklin shook his head.

"Nope. Came to help," He raised his other hand as Asper finally noticed he was wielding a shovel. It looked like a trowel in his meaty fist. "You're small. Thought you'd want help."

This character was certainly full of surprises. Asper gave him a good look over. His clothes were patchwork but Asper assumed it was because clothes didn't come in his size so something had to be sewn slapdash to fit him. Despite his career, he smelled faintly of herbs, assumedly to cover up the smell of cadavers. Clever. 

"Why...?" Asper asked slowly. "You wanna help... Me? Everyone in town either hates me or pretends I don't exist. And... You, the gravekeeper's son... Wanna help me exhume bodies?"

Franklin seemed to think for a long moment. Asper worried he'd fallen asleep, standing and with his eyes open.

"... We are... Same," Franklin gestured with his fingers pointed at his chest. "People... Don't like me. Afraid. Disgusted. And..."

He then pointed one finger at Asper, reaching out to delicately tip his chin upward. Despite his bulk, Franklin seemed to have a solid grasp on reeling in his strength.

"You are very cute. Wanna help."

Asper flushed, his pallid cheeks turning pink in the low light. Wow. Huh. Intriguing. He peered up at Franklin, watching him, soaking in the very innocent expression on his face. The gravekeeper smiled even wider.

"... Okay, Franklin. I'll take your help. Thank you," Asper pointed at the grave between them. "I need this guy out. I'm studying the rate of decomposition in different environments and then I'm planning on making my first attempt at resurrecting a human. Could you make sure he comes out in one piece?"

"Hm," Franklin scratched at his jaw. "Bad idea."

"Bad idea?!"

"This guy," Franklin squatted down and patted the dirt like he was petting a dog. "Very sick when he died. Might... Mess things up. Better guy down two and up five. Died a month ago from falling on an axe."

Asper twisted around. Down two, up five? His eyes went wide. Franklin seemed to have every grave memorized and he could chart them out like a grid. Very impressive. The novice necromancer nodded and tapped his chin with a smile. 

"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Franklin."

"Yay."

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 286b: Friday October 13, 2023 - "William's First Mountain Hike"

After a restless anxious morning, we finally got out and up on the trail, putting the armor down and strapping the backpack on with our little boo inside pretending to be an airplane as I climbed the gravel steep switchbacks made for trucks not for hikers. We were on our way up the road to Lockett Meadow where the Leaf-O-Meter suggested we'd be right on time for some beautiful aspens and their quaking yellow leaves. Huckleberry led the way as we traded off the weight, slowly making our way to where the real fun could start and William could hike more on his own.

Up in the meadow we pulled off to a picnic table for a rest and reset where William, with Mama's clever coaching and suggesting, had his first pee on a tree in the woods. Its was beautiful tall and strong pine tree. And William collected one of its pine cones of a momento - a level up he certainly understands, natively, as a little boy, as a big deal.

Our hike launched off and immediately into the trailhead I knew something was wrong. The amazing first grove of Aspens that was the subject of so many great photos in past years out here, was all burned down and its burn scar cut across just gutting me. It was heavy and hard to walk through that area and just have nothing. I knew that there were forest fires up here last summer. I hadn't realized they cut into this autumn heart of Arizona. So sad. Not pictured.

The next grove we came to, I laid back against a big rock, frustrated. This second grove was trees with empty tops. All the beautiful yellow leaves laying on the ground. We took a break, and enjoyed William's passionate collecting of pine cones and contemplated turning back or going further on up the mountain. Audrie took charge. Got us up and moving, and tried for one last grove that I suggested was up there "but probably looks just like this...." - "well then we should probably find out for sure" and on up the trail we bumbled and when POP there they were, on the third grove - beautiful full yellow aspens with perfectly aligned white barked sticks shoving their bouqets into the thin blue sky. I laid out on my back and bathed in it as William played with sticks and growled like a lion. Perfection. Audrie came and sat down next to me, off the trail and we watched our son say Hello to all the peoples that came by before realizing as naturally as a ramblers son would - "this would be a great place to catch some mama milk" - put it on the board, gotta be top 10 of all time.

After hiking most the way up here, William now led us back down. In total, his falls on the trail have to push nearly 480. But he got up every time and seemed to really enjoy the challenge of the never ending rocks and roots hidden in a blanket of gentle yellow leaves. On the way down, he held Huck's leash veiled as "William do it" but really, it was providing him a little extra balance as Audrie and I took turns holding it tight for him. At one point, ahead of them on the trail I stopped and framed up a really perfect shot, crouched down waiting for him to come around from behind a log and right down the trail - focus half cocked, ready to snap at just the right moment - here he comes, and as he came into the frame he tripped and face planted right into the ground. Action shot of Williams first big mountain hike - perfect. And given how the time stamps suggested he was up and running and smiling 27 seconds later, I didnt feel bad getting such a good laugh of the luck of capturing that. We figure William probably hike 3ish miles - maybe more, along side his family, in a place that will be one of those important ones. An important one Ive been coming to since 2014. One that he'll be coming back to throughout his childhood. A taste of my home, up here on the volcanic mountains of the colorado plateau.

As we started the march back down the road, William propped William back up in the pack. All of us in better shape than when we started up here earlier in the day. Healed a little bit by nature. Audrie and I talked as we looked out over the flatlands below us, about how fun it was to watch Willam be able to run around in the woods. And how important it is to help support and create opportunities for this in his childhood. How great would it be to find some of our old magic for the outdoors in our busy stressful lives - maybe its the anecdote. The smile on Williams face all day seriously suggests that the direction our compass should be pointing. And I took note. Especially as I looked back on the pictures of the day and how important it all was - for me. I definitely took note.

Song: Casper Babypants - Ob La Di Ob La Da

Quote: Tell them you love them over and over again. Tell them too much, and never too little, for the time we have is short but the love we have is endless. ~Dane Thomas

[s-horne]

based on this prompt, making this a 1500 word stony meet-ugly... 

**

Tony was about to fall asleep when his phone suddenly started to buzz. Groaning, he threw his hand over his face and cursed the day that he’d made his agreement with Natasha. But he had made the deal and there was no going back, for better or for worse.

With another loud groan and a childish kick of his legs, Tony reached for his phone and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello?” he snapped and he didn’t even have to fake the agitation for once. He was genuinely exhausted and he didn’t like to be interrupted on the verge of sleep when it happened so rarely. “Hello?”

“Oh, uh, hi? I - is Nat there?”

“Nat? Who the fuck is this?”

There was a short pause before someone cleared their throat. “Sorry, sorry. I thought... I met Nat tonight? We got chatting in a bar.”

“Well, that’s obviously bullshit,” Tony said, looking up at the ceiling. It made a change, really, that the guy sounded quite unsure of himself. And not at all like the usual shitty men that Natasha seemed to attract, with his questions and his soft tone. “I’ve never heard of a Nat and this number belongs to a family friend who’s been dead for fifteen years.”

“Oh god. Oh god, I’m sorry. I - I only wanted to. Fuck, I’m sorry.” The voice actually sounded it, the man almost tripping over his words in haste to apologise. Tony hadn’t had a call like it before and he found himself oddly curious. “I swear she gave me this number. I only wanted to see if she wanted coffee. She – I’m–”

“Woah. Woah, dude,” Tony said quickly, waving his hand in front of himself as though the stranger would see it, “it’s alright. I’m messing, wow.”

“What?”

“I’m Tony, Nat’s best friend.”

There was a pause before, “what?”

Rolling onto his side, Tony tucked his free hand under his head and bit back a yawn. “It’s a thing we do. Nat isn’t exactly good with guys. No exactly about it, actually, she’s the worst at picking men.” And that included all of Tony’s bad decisions - and he’d made a lot of them in his college youth. And his adulthood, for that matter.

“So you... what is it that you do here?”

“Whenever I don’t go out with her, she gives my number out to the people she can’t get rid of and I answer the phone when they call and give them the dead person’s number speech.”

“Oh. Oh, so, that... That makes me a person that she couldn’t get rid of.”

Whoops. It did, indeed. “Yeah, sorry about that. You sound different to the others, though, if that’s any consolation? There’s a lot less cursing and yelling.”

“People curse at you?”

“Uh, yeah, Romeo. Did you not hear the part about Nat not knowing how to pick guys and having to give out a fake number?”

There was a soft laugh before a cough. “Sorry. That makes sense. I – I’ll let you go, then. It’s late.”

“It is,” Tony mused, biting down on a yawn. He’d been up for a few days writing code for hours until his eyes blurred and his fingers hurt, which was the reason that he’d had to leave Natasha alone at the bar and sign himself up to receive at least one phone call. As tired as he was, there was still something intriguing about the call and he found himself not willing to hang up. “You must have been eager.”

“I was,” the man said and Tony almost jolted with the honesty in his voice. It wasn’t hidden behind bravado or cockiness, or played off as a joke. “You’ve met her, right? Can you blame me?”

��Absolutely not. You forget that this isn’t the first call I’ve had, late-night-Lothario.”

“Oh. Right. Of course not. I just wanted to talk to her, though. She’s clever.”

Tony had been about to agree, when the words hit him and he frowned. “What?”

“Nat? She’s clever.”

“She’s a genius,” Tony said automatically, “but no one ever says that. They only ever talk about how hot she is, or what she was wearing, or what they wanted to do to her.”

“I didn’t want to do anything to her,” was the slightly bemused answer, “she was talking about her work and it was interesting. I used to beg my Ma to take me to museums every weekend and I thought it sounded so fun to be paid to be there.”

Nerd. “You were in a bar and you wanted to talk about museums?”

“Okay, when you put it like that I sound like a nerd.”

Tony snorted. “You said it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man huffed a short laugh, “I get it. I’m a loser. Maybe that’s why she - well. Who wants to talk about work at a bar, right? She was really cool, though. And seemed super – I don’t know, open? Easy to talk to and I thought she was in to it.”

To be fair to the guy, Natasha had the sort of personality that drew everyone in and she knew how to make use of her sultry gaze, always making whoever she was talking to feel as though they were the centre of the universe; for better or for worse.

“Sorry, dude. You,” Tony sighed and rolled onto his back, “you sound like a nice guy, but Nat’s careful.” 

Too careful, sometimes. For a stupid, brief moment, Tony almost contemplated asking for the guy’s name and maybe making Natasha reconsider. It was time for her to meet someone and Tony could vouch for the guy, in a weird sort of way.

“I’ll let you go,” came the quiet voice down the phone before Tony could open his mouth, “I... tell her I’m sorry, please?”

“What?”

“For whatever I did. However I made her uncomfortable. I’ll work on it, I swear. I don’t want anyone else to… I’m glad she had this method. It made me–”

“Woah, hey, uh…”

“Oh. Steve.”

“Listen, Steve,” Tony sat up and ran his hand through his hair, cursing his friend and his tired mind and the way that he seemed to be feeling something other than annoyance towards the asshole who had apparently made his friend uncomfortable. “You’re already miles ahead of the others by even saying sorry. I’m sure that–,” his phone buzzed in his hand before he could finish his thought and he muttered a curse as he pulled it away from his ear. “Steve? Hang on – I, oh. It’s from Nat.”

“What?”

“Nat’s texted,” Tony said, feeling as confused as Steve sounded as he read the text a few times.

“Oh, God. Is it about me? What did I do?”

Tony swallowed. “She, uh, she’s said ‘only gave it out once tonight! He’s a nerd, a gym-buff, and a sweetheart. Definitely your type and caught him looking at my lock screen pic of you more than once. Go for it’.”

“I... what?”

“That about sums it up,” Tony said on a slight chuckle. He ran his hand over his face and his laugh grew stronger. “You’re not an asshole at all, are you?”

Tony could almost feel Steve’s frown through the cell as he lifted it back to his ear and heard Steve’s confused voice. “I – I’m gonna go with no. I hope I’m not and I really, really would like to think this is some giant misunderstanding.”

Falling back onto his mattress, Tony grinned. “Nat’s the asshole tonight, Casanova. I think we’ve been set up.”

A deep sigh sounded in Tony’s ear, the following laugh as throaty as it was relieved. “What?”

“I think I was supposed to get the text before the phone call, in fairness to her. Don’t think she expected you to be so eager, though…”

“Oh, my God,” Steve said. “I’m never going to live that down.”

“You don’t sound all that upset,” Tony mused. He knew he wasn’t a patch on Natasha, but he did actually like the photo someone had taken of the two of them at Natasha’s last work gala. Maybe there was hope.

“I’m not. Not if you’re the guy from her lock screen,” Steve said and Tony laughed loudly at the clearly audible smirk.

“Guilty as charged.” A few more grey hairs, though, and an eye-bag or two, but who was counting?

“There we go then. A win all-round for me. I’m not an asshole and I got the actual number of a gorgeous guy. In all honesty, though, thank you. I thought I was gonna have to call my Ma and make her take me to her book club again.”

“Nope,” Tony said, pulling the comforter over himself again as he got comfortable, Steve’s laughter in his ear. “You’ve lost me.”

“Oh,” Steve said and Tony could really appreciate how nice his voice was when he wasn’t tense, “it’s a long story.”

“A bedtime story? I hear those help people sleep.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

Tony grinned, fingers tightening on the phone when Steve’s voice dropped a little. “I don’t know. Depends what time you go to bed.”

“Alright, alright. I guess I have time for one short story.”

Dammit, but Natasha really did know how to pick them, Tony thought as he settled in to hear about book club.

[anagentinwriting]

Lifeline - Part 2

Summary: (First Responders!AU) Moving to Los Angeles and living with your brother, Thor, was never part of your plan nor was being a 9-1-1 dispatcher, but plans change when you are faced with your own emergencies. In your case, it was leaving behind a relationship that wasn’t as perfect as it seemed. Will this be the fresh start you were hoping for or will your past find a way to catch up with you?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Odinson!Sister Reader

Word Count: ~2900

Warnings: Elevators, Angst

Lifeline Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Steve POV

“The 911 operator I was talking to had this great idea to use the hose to pull the little girl across the water to get her out of the pool,” Steve reminisced, sitting at the big island in the kitchen watching Sam cook.

“Dude, I was there, remember,” Sam replied.  “And hasn’t it been like a week since that happened?”

“Yeah, but it was such a clever idea. I didn’t even know they could see the whole house on their monitors.”

“Who cares! It’s probably some fancy technology not available on the market yet, but if I'm hearing this correctly, it sounds like she popped Stevie’s dispatcher cherry,” Bucky joked behind him.

Steve peeked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. “My what cherry?”

“You know when you talk to a dispatcher on the phone while on scene. Danvers takes those calls most of the time, but every once in a blue moon, one of us takes it.” Bucky wiggled his eyebrows. “Who was the operator?”

“Um...YN.”

“Oh, my sister,” Thor announced in a deep voice, patting him on the shoulder and taking the stool next to him. “She is very intelligent.”

“Wait, you have a sister?” Steve asked, widening his eyes at him.

“I have two sisters, while one half-sister, but we don’t talk about her because she’s the worst,” Thor answered with pursed lips. “YN is the best though, I like to think she got the brains, I got the brawn, and well, I guess, that makes Loki the beaut of the family.” He nodded with a half shrug. 

“Are we still talking about how Rogers popped his dispatcher cherry,” Carol smirked, walking into the kitchen with Valkyrie. Steve felt his face heat up as he tried to say something, but she held her hand up. “It’s okay! Everyone remembers their first time,” She winked, forcing him to shake his head.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Steve held up his hands in surrender, trying to hide the blush on his face.

_____________

You swiveled back and forth in your chair, waiting for the next call to come in. You had a half-hour left of your twelve-hour shift, and you needed a girls' night out. Living with your brother and Darryl was both a blessing and a curse. They offered you a place to stay, rent-free when you first moved here, but the amount of testosterone in that house was sometimes too much for you to handle. You tapped your fingers on your desk when your line started ringing. You sat up, letting out a deep breath, and pressed the spacebar.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hello,” a male voice replied.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m making a turkey and was wondering what the internal temperature has to be?”

“You do know it’s against the law to call with a fake emergency, right?”

“Yes, but this is an emergency.”

“No, it’s not, so get off my line.” You hung up the line, shaking your head. Right away, another call came through, and you answered it. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” 

“Hi, hello. My friends are trapped in the elevator. The elevator must have snapped or something because there was this loud bang.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The Natural History Museum. Please hurry!”

____________

Steve sat in his unassigned assigned spot at the dining table, eating a late lunch with the team. It was the cardinal rule at Station 107: Work as a team and eat as a family. Steve never thought he'd be able to find another firehouse he enjoyed working at, considering his previous teammates and friends at his old one. He hated leaving them behind, but he needed a fresh start, and so far, Station 107 was the best second home he could ask for. 

Everyone brought something to the team as every firehouse did.  Captain Danvers, or Ace as she preferred to be called in the field, brought her confidence and experience, which made for a great leader they could trust and rely on. Thor had his strength and his bravery, but he did have an ego. Sam was a great motivator and could keep everyone on task while still cracking jokes. It was no wonder Sam was the head EMT at this firehouse. Valkyrie was a badass and wasn’t afraid to put people in their place. As for Bucky, Steve knew he would always be there for him till the end of the line. 

The loud alarm blaring throughout the firehouse pulled Steve out of his stupor. Everyone knew what that sound meant, and they were ready to tackle whatever it might be. One after another, they slid down the firepole, pulled on their gear, and hopped in the truck, heading towards the scene. It wasn’t unusual to take calls that didn’t involve fire because whoever could get there the fastest was better than no one showing up at all. 

Thor hopped behind the driver's seat of the fire engine, pulling out of the garage. Carol sat beside him, giving him directions while speaking with the dispatcher through her headset. The sirens were wailing with Val and Sam behind them in the ambulance. 

“Alright, boys. We got an elevator crash at the Natural History Museum,” Carol said into her helmet mic after speaking with dispatch. “Dispatch says three students and their pregnant teacher are inside.”

“What’s the plan, Ace?” Steve asked into his helmet mic, concealing the siren blaring in the background. 

“I have contacted the museum's elevator technician, and he has already locked and tagged the power on the cars. The car sits near the basement level, so we will approach from the top in the lobby. I want Thor on the winch…”

“Ahh---what,” Thor interrupted her.

“Calm down, big guy, you can have the next one.” She gave him the side-eye, making the rest of the crew chuckle. “Steve and Bucky are going to do an immediate retrieval and approach from the top. Sam and Val will set a perimeter and then treat those who come up. Then, I will help with the retrieval, and Thor with the winch,” she stated with the last part dripping in sarcasm.

“It still hurts,” Thor added, taking a right at the intersection.

Once on-site, everyone grabbed their gear and took their positions.  Steve and Bucky strapped on their harnesses and helmets, switching on the flashlight. They started scaling down the elevator shaft from the lobby as Thor lowered them on the winch with the retrieving rope.

“How we looking, Steve?”

“Sexy, but not like we are trying too hard, but it’s more kind of effortless.” 

“Yeah, I mean, have you seen Steve’s ass in that harness. It could be American’s Ass or more like LA’s Finest Ass,” Sam commented with a whistle, echoing in the shaft. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Steve landed on the top of the elevator, unhooking himself while Bucky did the same.  “I’m down and unattached.”

“That’s what she said,” Carol responded with her head appearing in the shaft.

Thor chuckled, shaking his head. “Classic.”

Steve rolled his eyes and used his other flashlight to find the hatch on top of the elevator. He unclipped the lock, opening the hatch door, seeing the top of the lights. “I’m Fireman Rogers, please move towards the buttons. I’m going to kick the light out, so we can get you out of there.” It took a few kicks, but once it fell through, a few faces peeked up at him.  “How are we doing in there?”

“Oh my god, thank god, you’re here. I thought we were gonna die,” one of the kids replied, clutching his phone in his hand.

“Calm down, Flash. Everything is fine,” the pregnant woman reassured. “Right?” She looked up at Steve with worried filled eyes, and he nodded.

“Watch out, I'm coming down.” Steve crawled down into the hatch, and Bucky passed him the spare harness.  “Ma’am, you’re going up first, but first we need to get you strapped into this harness, then we’ll pull you up.” She nodded, trusting him, and allowing him to put the harness on her before Thor used the winch to pull her up.

“Okay, boys, who's going to go next?”

“I’m next,” the one they called Flash stated.

“Okay, then, how about you with the cool hat.”

“Thanks, it gives me confidence,” the kid smiled.

“And then, you,” Steve pointed to the kid wearing a Midtown School of Science and Technology shirt.

“Um...yeah--” he nodded a little too much. “--Yeah...I can go last. Get everyone else to safety first.”

“Perfect.” Steve clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this.”

___________

It turned out to be a quick rescue, and no one suffered any major injuries. Steve took some gear out to the truck and started repacking it when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned around, noticing the kid in the Midtown School of Science and Technology shirt wrapped in an ambulance blanket. 

“What can I do for you, kid?”

“Peter. Peter Parker. I’m...I’m Peter Parker.” He held out his hand, and Steve shook it. “I just wanted to say thank you...thank you for saving my teacher and my friends back there. We’re on our school trip from New York, and this was an adrenaline rush experience.” Peter held up his hand, and Steve noticed it shaking.

He chuckled. “It will wear off.”

“It felt like that opening scene of that old action movie. Where John Wick saves those people that were trapped in the elevator after the bad guy tried to blow them up with a bomb. They don’t catch him obviously because it’s the opening scene, but later he puts the bomb on the bus, and that Bird Box lady has to keep driving like fifty-five miles an hour, or the bus will blow up.”

“I know the one. I think you’re thinking of Speed, but I don’t think it’s that old.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that one,” he chuckled, pointing his finger at him. “It’s kind of old, I mean you’re kind of old, so it’s kind of old to you, but to me, it’s kind of new because I’m not that old.” He rambled on, his eyes widening, realizing what he was saying. 

“Peter, come on. The museum is going to show us some never before seen stuff because we almost died,” the kid with the cool hat shouted from across the street. 

“Coming, Ned,” he yelled back. “Thanks again, Fireman Rogers, and sorry about calling you old. I didn’t...”

“It’s okay, kid, I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Steve watched Peter run back over to his friends with a smile on his face. It was these moments when he loved his job, watching friends and families reunite after a tragedy. It was these moments where he felt like it could almost fix what he lost. 

______________

You sighed, taking a seat at your usual spot at the end of the bar in Happy’s Hydrant. Happy noticed you right away and smiled, giving you a bottle of beer. You thanked him with a nod, taking a sip, and scanning the crowd. It wasn’t unusual to spot a familiar face, considering this bar was created for the heroes of Los Angeles. It welcomed all those members who served or are currently serving as first responders, but civilians were welcome, too. It’s nice to have a place to go with people you could relate to and share similar experiences with after working a twelve or twenty-four-hour shift. They understand what we go through on a day to day basis. It was one of the many reasons Happy Hogan wanted to open this bar after he retired from his Fire Chief position at Station 12.

You swiveled back and forth on your bar stool until someone familiar on the other end of the bar caught your eye. You stopped moving, your eyes not wavering from the man. Your mouth went dry, hearing your heartbeat thumping in your ears. You gulped, feeling your palms start to tingle as the muscles in your legs start to tighten. Every nerve in your body was firing, telling you to run, but it felt like if you moved an inch, he would see you, and these past three months would’ve been for nothing. He glanced your way for a brief moment, and relief flooded your whole body. You relaxed, squeezing your eyes shut as you took a few deep breaths in and out. It wasn’t him. 

The weight of someone touching your shoulder makes you jump off your bar stool, and turn around to see one of the ladies you were waiting for.  “Hey, it’s only me.” Carol held up her hands in surrender, giving you a reassuring smile. “Sorry, I forgot how jumpy you can be.”

“It’s okay. Lost in my head again.” You nodded, returning to your barstool.

“Thanks for giving my transfer a chance to be the shining star of my squad last week.” She nudged your side, flagging down Happy for a drink.

“Your what...with what,” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her. 

“The pool, the hose, the little girl stranded on a floaty with the water electrified. Ringing any bells?”

“Ohhh, right. That one.” You took a sip of your beer. “Fireman Rhodes or was it Ronin?”

“Rogers. Steve Rogers.” You pointed the neck of your beer bottle at her and nodded. “You made quite an impression on him. He can’t stop talking about it, and it’s getting really annoying, but I guess you did pop his dispatcher cherry.” She nudged your side with an ever-growing smile on her face. You rolled your eyes at her, shaking your head. “And if single you is interested, I am sure he is willing to mingle. At least, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I’m not ready to start dating. I’m still trying to find myself after going through a terrible six-year marriage.” You gave her a half shrug, eyeing the bar. “When I am ready to date again, all I want is a nice guy.”

“Steve’s nice.  Hey, you should swing by one day before your shift and meet him,” she winked, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“I haven’t even filed for divorce yet.”

“Wait--” she turned on her stool to face you “--hasn’t it been three months? Why not?”

“I don’t want him knowing where I am.”

“Doesn’t he know where Thor lives?”

“No,” you sighed, shaking your head. “Let's just say he didn’t take much interest in my life while we were together. Besides, I don’t think he'd think I’d go to Thor with how everything turned out the last time I went to him for help.

“What an asshole.” She rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her beer, and you nodded.  “Well, at least you know you have an admirer,” she added, making you scoff.

“Hey ladies, sorry I’m late,” Natasha greeted, taking the other stool next to you. “Clint and I checked out this noise complaint a neighbor called in. And it turns out this guy was serenading his ex-girlfriend with hopes to win her back. It was this whole thing, and we wanted to stick around to see what happened next.” 

“So what happened,” Carol asked with curious eyes, wearing a mischievous smirk on her face.

“It was crazy.” She shook her head, letting out a breathy chuckle. “She came down and punched him in the face. Apparently, this dude cheated on her with, wait for it--” she drummed her hands on the bar countertop “--her brother. It was a twist I didn’t see coming, but talk about drama on duty. Sometimes I think it would be easier fighting fires or answering phones all day.”

“Oh please, Nat, you wouldn’t last a day. You would miss seeing the excitement first hand. Over the phone, you don’t get much excitement,” you replied.

“Speak for yourself,” Carol added, taking a swig of her beer. “You would love my job, Nat. You get to boss men around.”

“I kind of do that already. Besides, I don’t think I could leave Clint. He’d be lost without me,” she smirked, signaling Happy to make her a martini.

Natasha oozed confidence, which came off as intimidating to most women. When she walked into a room, all eyes were on her, but it was attention she chose to ignore. When men would buy her drinks, she'd take it to another lovely lady. Nat was all about lifting and empowering women to feel confident in their own skin. She wasn’t afraid to tell people to back off or shut up. She was the role model you wish you had when you were with him, then maybe you would've had the confidence and courage to leave sooner. 

“Here you are, Nat?” Happy pushed the martini glass to her. “Are you ladies still good?” He asked, pointing to the drinks in front of you.  

“Yeah, we’re good. Thanks, Happy,” you smiled at him as he walked away, shooting you a thumbs up. 

“How is apartment hunting going, YN?” Nat asked, taking a sip of her martini.

“Good, I found this cute little condo a few blocks away from work. It has a modern feel to it, but I think it would be perfect for me,” you described. “I loved it when I saw the pictures. The landlord is out of town right now, but she told me it’s mine if I want it.”

“I’m so excited for you,” Nat squealed, squeezing your forearm. “You need to get out of that testosterone-filled house and get on your own two feet again.”

“Yes, you do,” Carol agreed. “What’s your softie older brother going to think of you leaving?”

“I’m going to have to break it to him slowly.”

__________

AN: Thanks for reading part 2! I hope you all are liking it so far! If you caught it there was a quote from Brooklyn 99 that I thought was too good not to put in! 😂 Also, Darryl Jacobson, if you don't remember him, he was Thor's roommate in those Marvel shorts. I thought he would be a fun and entertaining addition to this story! Also, any ideas as to why Steve left his old firehouse? Did you enjoy the little Peter Parker cameo? And what do you think Thor is going to think of her moving it? Comments always welcome, thanks again for reading! 

[rosalineandrosemary]

one final goodbye

hi! i wrote this for @maribat-angst-fluff-april with prompt 14, goodbye. you can check out my partner, @yoltastic09 ‘s fluff submission here. anyway, warnings for major character death and descriptions of blood and the fic is below the cut!

the video is blurry, filmed with shaking hands. when it focuses, they see a girl coated in red spotted spandex. she’s leaning against a wall, eyes closed and smiling softly, but their eyes are locked on the stab wound through her abdomen.

“thanks… thanks alya.” her voice is soft and raspy, and behind the camera, someone chokes on a sob.

“lb, please. just hold on a bit longer. chat... carapace. Someone will bring your lucky charm and it’ll be okay.” the voice, alya, trembles, and the spotted girl’s eyes fly open.

“i didn’t tell you, did i? alya, there’s no saving me. that’s why we’re recording this. I have his miraculous but my lucky charm can’t fix me. it’ll fix paris and i’ll still be here.” the camera falls to the ground with a clatter, and beyond the black screen they can hear alya’s sobs. 

“alya please, I need you to do this. I need to be able to tell them myself. I need to be able to tell you myself.”

“tell me what?” alya’s voice is thick and broken, and the camera is lifted off the ground. they see a girl, fox ears coming from her head and in another spandex suit, before the camera focuses on the bleeding girl again.

“hello viewers, hi alya. my name is marinette dupain-cheng, also known as ladybug. and this is my final goodbye.” 

the dark room where they sit is filled by the sound of things shattering, a mug falling to a ground, a wine glass being crushed in someone’s tight grip. 

“alya, i love you. it’s been an honor fighting alongside you as ladybug, and despite our ups and downs, and even how things were before you got your head on straight, it’s been amazing being your friend. i’m so sorry that this is how things turned out.” alya sniffles, and her soft words are easily picked up by the mic.

“mari, please. you can’t leave us, please.” marinette smiles and looks away, faltering. she takes a deep heaving breath and looks back at the camera. 

“maman, papa, i’m so sorry i couldn’t tell you about this. i’m so sorry that i can’t say goodbye properly. i’m sorry that i lied and i’m sorry that i kept this from you. i just didn’t want you getting hurt. you two are the best parents a girl could have and i’m so grateful to call you two mine. please don’t blame yourselves. i chose to keep this a secret to protect you, and you raised a pretty clever little girl. there isn’t anything you could have done to stop this.” marinette is crying at this point, tears streaking across the red of her mask and down her cheeks. “make sure they see this alya. please make sure they see this.” 

“of course, i promise girl. i’ll do anything.” alya’s voice is broken but marinette nods solemnly before continuing. 

when they see this, marinette’s parents wail and sob, the sounds echoing throughout the arrondissement. their neighbors tense, waiting for the destruction their akuma could cause, but hawkmoth is gone, and tom and sabine dupain-cheng are free to mourn their only daughter. 

“bruce, or, well, dad. i thought you might want to hear me call you that at least once, considering i’m not going to be able to meet you again for you to hear me say that legitimately. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you about this. i’m sorry that when i said goodbye, that when i said i’d see you again soon, that it turned out like this. it was nice being your daughter, at least for a little while.” the viewers turn to look at him with the mention of his name, and bruce opens his palm, glass shards falling to the floor. he stands up, staggering to the side, and walks out of the room.

when bruce had first met marinette, he thought she’d fit in with the rest of them. he wasn’t oblivious to the jokes his kids made about the black hair, blue eyes, and the way she held herself made him think she’d fit in in other ways too.

she was always cautious, always nervous, like she was expecting something to attack her out of nowhere. she was good at hiding it, beaming sunshine smiles and a charming yet genuine demeanor, and he could see the resemblance from miles away. he had seen her baking with alfred, laughing with dick and jason, drinking coffee with tim. she had found a slot in their family and fit herself there perfectly, and in the short time he knew her, he had grow to care for the daughter he was unaware he had.

the last time he saw her, she hugged him and smiled, a soft tentative thing, as she whispered goodbye. she turned to leave, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too tense. he swore to himself that he’d find out what was troubling her back in paris and that he would see if there was anything he could do about it. 

bruce never got the chance. 

“dick. you’re a great older brother. i’m sorry that i couldn’t be your younger sister for very long. it could have been fun. we might have done acrobatics together, or you could have showed me trapeze if you wanted. you try so hard to take care of people, please remember to take care of yourself.”

marinette, dick thought, was tiny. she was so much shorter than he was, and she looked up at him when she introduced herself. bruce’s other unknown child. she has the hair, and the eyes, clouded with the same world-weariness he had seen in all of them. he hadn’t been the first to meet her, as that honor had gone to bruce and alfred, and tim had been walking by when she walked in the door, but he had been the first to declare her his younger sister. he asked her questions and she responded, she asked him questions and he responded. 

he learned of her love of fashion and cooed as she bashfully showed off her outfit that she had sewed and designed herself. he told her of his gymnastics and trapeze skills, and she was wide eyed and nearly glowing when she asked if he could teach her. he had swallowed heavily, looked away and back at her, and told her that “maybe we can next time, marinette. i think b-man has an itinerary for you and everything.”

she had looked disappointed for a second before composing herself. “okay, maybe next time. but speaking of mr. wayne, i should probably go find him again, talk to you later dick!” he had heaved a sigh of relief, scared of bringing her so close to something that had already taken his family once. 

when he hugged her goodbye before she left for the airport, small hands clasped around his back, dick resolved that he would try to teach marinette the trapeze next time she came over. There would be nets and she wouldn’t get hurt and then there would be more memories of the trapeze that didn’t come with the bittersweet tinge of all his memories at haly’s circus. 

dick didn’t get that chance. 

“hi jay. i was making you something, did you know that?” marinette laughs softly, then inhales sharply as she aggravates her wound. and yet, she continues. “no, of course you didn’t. i didn’t tell you. it was almost done, just had a few finishing touches. you could still wear it though. it's a leather jacket. i saw that the one you had seemed to be getting worn out, thought you might want a new one. a new leather jacket for my big brother.” her tears quicken and she attempts to curl in on herself, even as her body lay against the wall. she looks so small. “even if your advice wasn’t the best you were still there and i was happy to be ‘pixie pop.’ i wish you were here. you’re safe, you know that? you feel safe, like if anything tried to hurt me you’d fix it. And i’m scared but at least other people are safe now. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

jason todd did not think he was a good man. there was too much blood on his hands for that. and even if the bastards had deserved it, it still didn’t make him a good person. so when he had seen the tiny slip of a girl who ran into him as she attempted to find bruce, his first instinct had been to stay away. she was so tiny, so pure, and no amount of washing would ever be able to clean his hands. 

but then she had flinched and started spewing out apologies, hands flying everywhere as she drove herself further down this spiral, and he saw in her what he had seen in so many of the other street kids. fear of retaliation, a desperation to appease him because she was afraid of what he might do.

and jason was furious. not with her, but with whoever had taught this girl (bruce’s daughter. he had warned them all about her, telling them to hide the objects that showed their “nightly pursuits.” he hadn’t told them she’d be so small.) that she had to apologize like this. whoever had traumatized her in this way. 

“hey, no need to apologize, pixie pop. no harm, no foul, right?” she had looked up at him, confused, and he grinned at her and clenched his fists, trying to dispel some of the anger festering in his chest. 

“who’s pixie pop?” she had said, eyebrows furrowed adorably.

“you are, of course. because you’re so tiny, like a little fairy. and all my siblings need nicknames, like dickie-bird, or replacement, or demon spawn. and since you’re my little sister now, you get a nickname too.” she had smiled and nodded, responding with a soft “okay,” and he swung an arm around her shoulder.

“so let me help you find bruce. but on our way there, is there anyone you’ve got any problems with? Any bullies you’d like big bro jason to deal with?” she had tensed, pursed her lips, and shook her head.

“there’s nothing you can deal with. it’ll be fine.” he hadn’t believed her, but he wasn’t going to pry.

when he hugged her goodbye, she had shook, clutching the sleeves of his jacket within her hands, but when he went to ask her what had happened, she said she’d tell him next time. he said he’d help her through anything.

jason never got the chance. 

“cass.” with this, she attempts to lift her hands from where they lay on the floor. she’s shaking with the effort, but manages to hold them up to her chest. slowly, she signs out every word with her hands. “i think that you could tell something was up. i don’t know how, and i’m not sure even you knew it would end up like this, but i think you could. thank you for trusting me, even if it ended up like this. thank you for being my friend, and i’m sorry i couldn’t improve my sign language fast enough to have a full conversation with you. i hope this is good enough.”

cass could tell that marinette was like them from the way she held herself. she had muscles curled under her clothing, and whenever she tripped she shifted her center of gravity if she didn’t catch herself first. 

cass hadn’t really spoken with her, standing as bruce introduced her to marinette. she could tell when marinette had processed bruce saying she preferred sign language, and when marinette’s shoulders sunk, she could tell it was with concern instead of malice. 

marinette turns to her with a small frown, apologizing for not knowing any sign language. marinette smiles afterwards though, and reaches out a hand. “i’d love to learn asl though! and i’d also love to be friends if you’d want to be. of course we don’t have to be, i don’t want to…” she trails off as cass takes her hand and nods. marinette’s smile grows wider and a small warmth grows in her chest. 

friends sounds nice. and marinette promises that she’ll try to learn asl and they’ll have a conversation in a way that cass is comfortable with, talking with that same smile. 

the last time cass sees marinette, she signs goodbye. marinette’s right hand goes up, thumb out, and she closes the rest of her fingers to her palm. she continues with the sign for cass’ name, and cass responds in turn, goodbye and marinette, and marinette leaves, excited at getting it right. 

marinette inhales, a wheezing breath, and the video is interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls and a man’s calling voice. “ladybug? rena?” 

alya lets out another sob and the man approaches. they can tell when he sees marinette, as he stalls before sprinting towards them. 

he’s clad in blue and snake print, teal tips at the bottom of his black hair, and he goes directly for marinette, trying to press a red and black spotted objects into her hands. 

“ladybug please, please take it you can fix all of this with the lucky charm. just do miraculous ladybug and the magic will fix it.” he begs her, voice jumping. marinette clutches the object in her hand but makes no motion to do anything with it, and he speaks again. “ladybug…” he hesitates for a second before continuing. “marinette, my melody, please don’t die on me.” her eyes widen slightly before she looks away.

“i should have known you already knew, mon coeur. but you also have to know this is the end.” she smiles at him, lifts the object in her shuddering hands and attempts to yell miraculous ladybug. she’s cut off halfway through by her own coughing, shaking her whole body and sending blood spilling from her lips.

it works regardless though, and the remaining waynes watch in awe as glowing ladybugs reverse the property damage. they fix the walls and the pavement before crowding around marinette’s body, but when they leave the wound is still there. the blood is still there. 

marinette’s eyes are drooping, and when she tries to talk, it comes out a whisper. “damn it. i thought i had more time.” she coughs again, more blood dripping out of her mouth. “tim, i was so happy to be your work buddy. steph, you are so fun and so important and it was so so lovely being your sister and your friend. damian, i wish i could have been your sister without scaring you, but that won’t be a problem anymore.” her breathing is shallow but she continues going, trying to say all the words she’s scared she wouldn’t be able to. “alfred, being your granddaughter, baking with you, all of that was such a pleasure. babs, spending time with you was so much fun and i wish we could do that again, that we could be friends for longer. duke, i know we didn’t interact much but i wish we could have.” she exhales, leans her head back against the reformed wall. her eyes flutter closed. 

“goodbye.” she says, one last word before her chest stills and marinette dupain-cheng dies.

[doctenwho]

Exhilarating

Hello! Thank you so much, you’re far too kind! I’m glad you, and everyone else, seem to be liking what I make! Now, as for the prompt, I really wasn’t sure how to go about it, or how to write a make out session but I tried my best! I hope it was what you were looking for!

Warnings: Attempted make out session (kinda)?

Word Count: 3,103

Summary: Read the prompt! :)

(Gif doesn’t belong to me, credit to the creator!)

You didn’t really understand how danger seemed to follow the Doctor around—or, well, you could understand, he was a hundreds of years old Time-Lord who regenerated instead of dying, but still, how much trouble could one Time-Lord get into?

It seemed that almost everywhere he went (except earth, who had fan clubs about him), someone, or something, or even sometimes the whole planet, had some kind of grudge against him. It was hard to wrap your mind around. He seemed like a perfectly nice guy; how could he piss off so many people almost effortlessly?

It didn’t really matter where he put the TARDIS, someone was always upset, or out for blood when it came to the Doctor. It would almost be funny how many people disliked him, if it weren’t his, and your, by extension, life on the line.  

You’d gotten used to that though, you had on your first few adventures with the man. You’d gotten used to exploring and then running for your life, or exploring, getting caught and then escaping custody. Or even sometimes stepping out of the TARDIS after landing to a ring of armed aliens surrounding you.  

It wasn’t always like this, of course, the Doctor was an amazing guy who was really just trying to do right by everyone—he just didn’t usually think ahead of what his actions to save one specific person would mean after the fact. To really think about what would be waiting for him after a stupid stunt, or calling attention to himself in order to save someone else.  

He really was just trying to save people who needed it, or to change outcomes (that weren’t fixed in time). You knew he really tried to be the superhero no one knew they needed.  

He’d been your superhero too at one point. And he still was, but there wasn’t the same savior aspect to it anymore, not after you’d been traveling with him for ages and had seen him being a regular guy reading books in his spaceship instead of being a super amazing alien who’d saved your life.  

It seemed the man had no regard for his life, not when there was something more interesting, or something he decided was worth more than his own life. Maybe being over hundreds of years old did that to you. Took away your own need to survive and save yourself.

And there was really nothing you could do when he was like that. Not when it was usually you, he was putting before himself, you and your safety. No one could say the Doctor wasn’t a kind and loyal man. There had been more times than you could count where the Doctor would step in front of you to shield you, or direct attention onto himself so you could escape.  

He was just the best person you’d ever met.

But...

That didn’t mean he wasn’t an idiot.

You weren’t sure where you were. Which planet, nor which part of the galaxy.

It was cold, compared to most places you’d been with the man. You were further away from sun, but you were almost certain you weren’t still in your galaxy.

The whole place was like a giant labyrinth, dead ends and twists and turns. The Doctor had grinned ear to ear as he led you into the giant maze by a firm grip on your hand. The walls were tall, taller than you could see. When looking up there was just a small little sliver of light at the top.  

The walls were almost stone-like, words and symbols of a language the TARDIS didn’t translate carved into almost every stone. The Doctor had studied them, but made no indication of whether he understood them or not.

You were on your own now, having split from the Doctor at the first sign of danger. It wasn’t that you had wanted too (well, not entirely at least) but it was that the Doctor had demanded you turn on your heels and run, while he distracted whatever beast was after you.

He warned you that whatever was hidden behind these walls would be after him, and not you necessarily. He said something about his blood, as the two you snuck down the halls, backs pressed against the wall. His Time-Lord blood, he’d kept saying, and the regenerating ability. Whatever that creature was, it wanted him, and you were just collateral damage.  

You’d barely gotten a glance at the beast. It was large, furry to cope with the chill on this planet. You’d been in the maze for a while, the Doctor promising that the two of you weren’t lost countless times. It had only been towards the end that the two of you started hearing noises, groans and growls, and then suddenly it was getting close, just as you were to it.  

The creature’s eyes were black, soulless, and the only thing it seemed to be able to focus on was the Doctor. The Doctor, like he always did, seemed to notice this, as he slowly side-stepped away from you. “Run,” he’d muttered under his breath without really moving his lips, then again, a bit louder, “turn around slowly and run, (Y/N).”

You couldn’t do more than follow orders, not with your heart beating a mile a minute, and your limbs numb with fear. You turned slowly, not drawing the creature’s attention away from the Doctor, and then you were running. Sprinting away. You chanced a glance back to see the Doctor dodging around the creature and running in the opposite direction—the way the beast had come.  

You tried your best to stay as straight as you could, dropping articles of clothing in whichever direction you went when the labyrinth offered a fork in the road.  

You were so glad that the Doctor had insisted you wear warm cloths beyond your jacket. Your hat had been the first thing dropped, followed by your scarf, and your two mittens. There had only been a lucky four turns you’d made before hitting a dead-end, where you decided was safe enough to wait for the Doctor.  

Last thing you needed was to get lost in a labyrinth without the Doctor. You’d surely die out here if the Doctor didn’t find you. You hoped he’d follow the trail you’d left.

There was nothing else you could do besides wait and hope the Doctor made it back to you before you froze to death. You knew it was a lost cause to try and make it to the TARDIS alone—not that you’d ever leave the Doctor for real. There was a difference between running a bit from danger, and leaving him alone on a planet and disappearing into the TARDIS.  

You waited for a while, back against the cold stony wall. You were tucked into your coat, hood up and hands stuffed in your pockets to try and keep warm without the rest of your warm gear.  

Then, suddenly you could hear running. Shoes slapping on the stone ground and claws grinding into the rocks too as the creature ran. The Doctor was coming, and the beast was chasing him. The Doctor was leading the creature down your dead end.  

You were both surely dead now.

The Doctor turned the corner, but before you could be angry at him, he was pushing up against you and holding you against the wall with his body almost completely blocking yours in. His hand had slotted behind your head, so when you were pushed back, you head didn’t knock against the stone.  

His other arm wrapped around your waist, which the Doctor trapped between the wall and your body as he pressed close. He didn’t seem bothered though, and it allowed him to press closer to you.  

He let his chin fall to your shoulder and he was nuzzling your neck and pressing small kisses to it.

It felt nice, but there was a dangerous creature following behind him, so you really couldn’t enjoy it.

You’d pegged the Doctor for a bit of a crazy guy, had since that first day, but he was clearly completely nuts or something as the beast turned the corner behind him. Blocking the two of you in.

The Doctor slowly moved his head up so he was looking at you, kissing your chin, and the corner of your mouth before finally kissing your lips. He was getting really into it too, which was very unusual for the Doctor, and any other time you’d be thrilled and returning every gesture given the opportunity, but you couldn’t manage to return the kiss with your literally death standing a few feet behind you, sniffing the air.

“Doc-”

“Shh,” he hummed, trailing his kisses back down to your neck. “It’ll know we’re here if it hears you.” The man had whispered that against your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses across your neck slowly as he spoke. The vibrations made you shiver, the along with his warm breath on your cool skin.  

You snapped your mouth shut, nearly wincing at the noise it had made, but the Doctor didn’t seem bothered. If he wasn’t bothered, you shouldn’t be either, right?

“Clever girl,” the Doctor continued on almost inaudibly as the beast took a step closer, sniffing getting louder as if searching for a scent it couldn’t seem to pick up. You couldn’t look at it, not when your eyes were squeezed tight as the Doctor nuzzled into the skin under your ear before pressing a kiss there as well, “a trail of clothing, very smart, my dear.”

You had half a mind to push the Doctor away and take your chances running past the beast, but you really didn’t want to. Not when the Doctor was being so affectionate. How dangerous could it really be if the Doctor was trying to tempt you into making out here with a creature with the intention to kill you stepping closer by the second.  

And even if death was coming, was this the worst way to die? With the Doctor pressing soft kisses along your skin? It was almost pleasant, well, minus the upcoming death part.  

The Doctor froze swiftly with his lips pressed to the side of your jaw as the beast stepped so it was right behind the Doctor. You froze as well, stiffening as the beast sniffed the two of you deeply, eyes wide and unseeing. It gave a second deep sniff, and then a third before it was lifting its head.  

Then, almost as if it were a miracle, the beast turned abruptly, leaving the two of you alone and stalking out of the dead end you’d put yourself in. You gaped widely as you watched the retreating creature walk away, its tail disappearing around the corner behind it, and then it was gone from sight.

The Doctor pulled away for a second to grin at you before pressing another, lingering kiss to the side of your mouth. “Brilliant, (Y/N), completely brilliant,” he praised as he finally stepped away.  

In his hand the had been wrapped around your waist was all the clothing you’d dropped as a way to lead the Doctor to you. He handed them back, wrapping the scarf around your neck as you slipped your icy fingers back into the gloves.  

“That thing was going to kill us,” you said in reply, eyes wide. “We almost died and you wanted to make out.”

“It was,” the Doctor grinned, “exhilarating, wasn’t it?”

“Are you insane?” you couldn’t help but huff out in annoyance, “we almost died.”

“There was such a small chance it was going to kill us. There was at least a ninety-five percent chance we were going to make it out alive.” The man pulled your hood up over the hat you’d slipped onto your head, then grinned down at you.

“What about the other five?” you frowned, not really liking the odds, even thought they were in your favor. That didn’t seem reasonable enough for the Doctor to jump you like he had. Cocky bastard.

“Well, the other five would’ve been it sniffing through my disguise. It had been following me from sound alone, since I’d left it’s den at the center of the labyrinth.” He paused, patting whatever was in his pocket before grinning at you, “I got what I came for anyways. I knew the dangers, and I came prepared, you really weren’t in any danger here.”

“What about the other five percent?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes at him, and crossing your arms across your chest.

“Well, I was ninety-five percent sure you weren’t in any danger.” You opened you mouth to growl a reply, “and,” he cut you off before you could even start, “and, the other five percent I would’ve thought of something to get us out safely had it come down to that five percent. I wouldn’t’ve put you in harm's way if I didn’t think I could get you out.”  

“Why are we here anyways?” You frowned again, leaning against the Doctor’s side. The sheer fear you’d felt really drained the energy out of you, “and what was that thing?”

“This used to be training ground of sorts, back when Gallifrey still...” He left it hanging, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. He cleared his throat before glancing down at you and continuing, “I came here when I was very young, it was a long journey from Gallifrey. The beasts in the labyrinth were the obstacles, Time-Lords, a fine delicacy for them. They can smell a Time-Lord's blood from miles away. I really wasn’t sure they’d survive without the Time-Lords interfering, but clearly I’d been wrong.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you said nothing at all.

“I suppose I probably should’ve guessed that they would’ve survived given that they had before Time-Lords intervened.” The man gave a laugh as he started leading you through the turns of the maze with practiced ease, “there was a highly sought-after prize in the creature’s lair. The center of the labyrinth. Few came close, others lost their lives trying. The creatures are savages, brutal and when given the opportunity will go for the kill.”

“But...” you couldn’t help but mumble. The beast had been so close to the two of you. Had sniffed the Doctor and walked away with nothing. It didn’t go for any kill.  

“I told you,” the Doctor grinned, “I was disguised.”

The Doctor lifted his hand up, showing a ring on his finger. It was small, but the patterns decorating the outside of the ring were familiar. “It’s a Chameleon Arch,” the man explained, “Time-Lord technology that was used to place the prize in the creature’s lair when one had been collected. I’m sure you’ve seen the fob-watch Chameleon Arch?”

“Yeah,” you gave a nod. You remember the Doctor showing you one, explaining it, and how he’d had to use it with one of his earlier companions to hide himself from something. “But you didn’t forget.”

“No,” the man agreed, “I’ve been modifying this ring for hundreds of years. Time-Lord technology is a pain to mess around with, even if you know what you’re doing. I had to decrease the components, but also make sure it worked in disguising my genetic code perfectly. To that creature, I was nothing but a human, and humans aren’t as easily tracked, unless you’re bleeding. It can’t smell you the same way it can smell me.”

“So, it couldn’t smell you?”

“Right,” the Doctor grinned, “the creature is basically blind. It relies on its sense of smell, and it’s hearing. Humans smell like nothing. And its hearing is hardly as good as its nose. So, it didn’t hear, smell or see us in the dead end, therefore, we couldn’t be there.”

That actually explained a bunch. Maybe the Doctor had a right to be a cocky bastard. “You knew the ring would work? If the creatures were still alive, you knew the ring would hide your Time-Lord DNA?”

“Eh,” the Doctor hesitated, flashing a grin, “I had few doubts.”

“Few doubts,” you mocked with a glare. “And what was so important you’d risk a run in with whatever that creature was for it?”

The Doctor flashed a bright grin before reaching down and digging through his pockets. When he withdrew his hand there was a box that you had no idea how the Doctor fit in his pocket. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small by any means either.  

It looked a bit like a coffin if you were honest. But the Doctor looked incredibly proud of it.  

“This is a Hand of Omega,” The Doctor informed with a pleased grin, “it’s a bit smaller than the originals, and not nearly as powerful, but this small device is able to turn regular stars into supernovas, which can fuel the TARDIS in time travel should we ever need it.”

“Really?” you tilted your head to look at the device in the man’s hand. It didn’t look nearly as cool as it sounded.

“Really,” he nodded. “I’ve only really read about them, they were scarce. This trial, the labyrinth trial, was the toughest and few Gallifreyans returned, let alone came back victorious. I never managed to finish back then, but I have now. This is quite possibly one of the last Hand of Omega left in existence.”

The Doctor almost sounded giddy, excited and giddy. “This is quite the accomplishment, (Y/N).”

“Well,” you bit your bottom lip before glancing at the Doctor and watching him slip the device back into his pocket for safe keeping until the two of you were back at the TARDIS, “I’m proud of you then.”

The man grinned once more, pausing in his steps to pull you into another kiss, this one, no doubt a victory kiss. “I’m sorry to kiss you when you were frightened,” the man whispered against your lips. You were happy to return the kiss now, “I was just so excited, I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s alright,” you smiled against his lips, “I liked it, I think.”

“Oh, you did,” the Doctor pulled away grinning, “your heart was fluttering like mad, I was afraid the beast was going to hear it.”

You blushed brightly, making the Doctor laugh before he was pushing into your space once more like he had back at the dead end. He pressed a series of kisses on your neck, just above your scarf before whispering a husky, “you can’t tell me that wasn’t utterly exhilarating, (Y/N).”

“Okay fine,” you relented with a breathy huff, “maybe it was a bit exhilarating...”

<><><><>

As always, you’re welcome to prompt again if it’s not what you’re looking for, but hopefully it is! Thank you for the prompt, it was fun to write, even if I had no idea what I was doing, or where it was going! Sorry it’s a bit short, but I couldn’t think of anything else to make it longer. 

The labyrinth, if I didn’t describe it well enough, is based off the Zelda: Breath of the Wild labyrinths, and the Hand of Omega was just a cool Gallifrey invention I tweaked to fit the story! Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading!

[msgrumpygills]

Social Media Anon Here!

Firstly, never change Grumpy ;) you are probably the only person on Tumblr to LISTEN to another view and let it change a prejudice.

Secondly, the Padagram/Social Media change bus continues. Don't be fooled people will be looking at positive and negative reactions to that change on social media.

So here goes!

1. They are starting to market season 2 of Walker in Hiatus. That really doesn't happen. That means they know they need to target new viewers. They are acknowledging they have a problem. The main problem is Jared either didn't learn enough about production quality on SPN (Jensen/Misha were both more interested in behind the camera's) or that he thought he could stick a Stetson on and we all had such sh1t for brains we'd watch anything. So they need a viewer boost DESPARATELY and are going all out to (a) persuade Walkers remaining viewer(s) that it's worth sticking around and (b) get back old viewers or convert 1m+ viewers to season 2. So now we see all the cast (and Keegan has more followers than Jared and Lindsay has a VERY engaged following) trying to persuade their followers how fabulous Walker is. Expect this scrabbling to continue if they want their COVID paychecks.

2. Connected to 1, Jared has started trying to break out of the fandom bubble. I don't think he's trying for power couple (the clue in a power couple is that two FAMOUS people get together and create a super brand, here we have one niche C famous guy and a hanger on wife), I think we are in Jared profile raising and trying to raise his recognition score, which is probably a little low having half assed it in the last year and a half. He's doing it by scatter-gunning so I'm not sure it's going to stick.

3. Connected to 2,

(i) if I run my algorithm clean laptop with a "Jared Padalecki" news search, I get (a) a daily mail article on Jared "clarifying the rift" (b) a "hello" magazine saying he's been "inundated with support after death of "family member"" (c) the new york times article on Walker and Supernatural. It then goes into a variety of articles about Jared raising money for Holly's family (fucking atrocious in my view to use her death for publicity) and a series of derivative articles on his mantrum and later explanation. ONLY THE NEW YORK TIMES ARTICLE MENTIONS WALKER other than as a throw away, all of the others link to Supernatural only. Walker isn't on the main radar of anyone as a show. It's not mainstream enough to mention. it has ZERO buzz.

(ii) if I run the same search on my compromised tablet, I get a SEA of fluff articles "jared padalecki goes to venice", "jared padalecki's wife wishes him a happy birthday" "jared padalecki goes to watch soccer" "jared padalecki goes to the wrestling". I'm expecting "Jared Padalecki defecates regularly" tomorrow.

At the end of that I get the same articles as in (i) but the majority of his publicity is still going through the fandom and the, not very viewed, endless zine type websites that update on every episode of every geek show every day.

So we are seeing, and I expect it to continue, a break out Padalecki, (who knows he and his forehead may wish to have a final crack at films), and a fluff Padalecki, trying to stay relevant a year after SPN relevance ended, because he hasn't got the same push for season 2 of Walker as he had for season 1 and Walker has zero presence. No one, not even the fans are talking about Walker.

Will it work? I don't think so. Keegan has 7m followers on Insta and that's because he's a photographer and writer and it's interesting. I would follow his account (I don't), but certainly it isn't a Walker instagram.

Jared is a clever guy, but he's boring on social media. He has a limited appeal. He does family snaps, hunk snaps, flogs orange pee and flogs his show. He says "family" and "mantra" a lot but that's really it. The clue is, if you didn't know who he was and came across his instagram you wouldn't follow him. Why would you? For a video of a guy running up steps? A smug picture of two middle aged men trying to flog you something?... (oh and lots of "brother" comments on Keegan's social media, which is irritating. It's like he thinks that is his repeatable formula and it isn't).

His media approach won't work because advertising and exposure pushes a product. In TV's case, it's not a one off product and there is a lot of competition. Product Jared needs to be more interesting (his mantrum's are the only exciting thing about him - and that is tragic) and his TV show just needs to be BETTER, well, a LOT BETTER.

Soooo, expect the Padapush to continue, but it's not about a couple, it's about individual marketing and for Jared breaking out of SPN bubble. For Gen, it's her tag along profile that she'll never break out of. She'll have to be satisfied with her superpower of being able to persuade people to buy toothbrush's and dog food (if she can).

Expect though the couple's bit to die off a little. Jared is getting over exposed. His engagement rating is plummeting (nearly 3% is a plummet) because of the repetitive photo content. He'll have to back off or people will switch off (I have already). What makes me laugh is.... from the dawn of time when cavemen took their wives 2 miles away for a new cave weekend.... NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN INTERESTED IN SOMEONE ELSE'S HOLIDAY SNAPS.... Gen and Jared apparently need to learn that lesson...

I might stop these posts now because, well, it's gotta be a bit boring for you and I write LONG. :)

Stay safe and wear your masks ;) xxx

I don’t want you to ever ever change, lovely! Also, I’m NEVER bored by your messages! You put so much effort into the research you do and the messages you send and it’s appreciated! <3 

I started following Lindsey on IG because she seems pretty genuine, and her cat is way too cute! Plus, I like her attitude. I haven’t followed her for the whole Walker season, but even she doesn’t post a lot about it. She posts interviews and then posts about that night’s episode, but other than that, nothing.  Can’t speak for Keegan, but how are fans and non-fans supposed to be excited about a show when the people STARRING in the show can’t be bothered? Maybe they’re all aware of how shitty it is or maybe they’re lazy, but it doesn’t make sense. 

I’m always interested to see the difference in an “algorithm-free” setting and one that has an algorithm. I always figured Google was the same for everyone, but seeing the difference in articles you’ve outlined is insane. It really just goes to show that Jared isn’t the star that his stans think he is. He’s not as important as they think he is, he’s just an actor.  It’s even more jarring to see just how little Walker is talked about at all. All of my devices probably have been “contaminated” when it comes to algorithm so I can’t really speak personally about the public and fans talking about Walker or not talking about it. I can say that on the posts about Walker from the Supernatural Facebook page, a good chunk of the comments are people saying they stopped watching, never got into it, or thought it was trash. There are only a handful of comments talking about how they enjoy the show. 

I think it was disgusting for him to use a fan’s passing for publicity. And no, I don’t think it was anything other than a PR stunt. Her family had a GFM going that was promoted by plenty of the case INCLUDING GEN, so you know he knew about it. But for him to make his own special one and then have articles posted everywhere about how charitable he is? That’s gross PR bullshit and I hope it backfires. 

I still follow a few Supernatural fans, Jared fans, Jensen fans, etc. on Tumblr and even they aren’t mentioning it. I think maybe the hardcore Jared stans post gifsets or whatever, but I don’t see much praise for the show itself, just Jared’s looks. Even the fans aren’t biting and that would make me reevaluate everything if I was Jared. 

I'm expecting "Jared Padalecki defecates regularly" tomorrow. This made me laugh way too hard!

who knows he and his forehead may wish to have a final crack at films You are on a ROLL!  Maybe I’ve become biased, but I can’t see Jared doing films. I mean, I could see him doing like a side character role or something small, but I can’t see him having a big part of a movie. Like I said, maybe that’s me being biased but I see him staying in TV. I could be proven wrong, but I don’t know. 

I agree about Jared being boring on SM. I used to get some giggles from his Twitter posts and even some of his early IG posts because they were goofy, clever, and candid. It showed his humor and was more personable. Now it’s just all fake and comes off as someone whose only motivation to engage with fans is money and that’s a big turn off. 

For me personally, I think that if instead of the “couple goals” bullshit that they try to push for their lavish trips, if they just posted cool pictures they took of different locations, activities, food or whatever, that would be more palatable than all the “Look at my hubster and I! We’re in Italy! Look at how in love we are!” But maybe that’s because I’ve become a bit of a photography nerd? 

I guess time will tell whether or not Jared will make positive changes and if Walker can be saved, but I’m not really optimistic about it. 

I AM optimistic about your takes on things so keep them coming! Long posts or not, I love them! <3

[humanlighthouse]

hello i am here and i have heihua kiss prompts!! either 8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand. (+bonus if hurt/comfort!) or 23. A kiss that tastes of the food/dessert they are eating. xoxo

Hello friend!! I went with the second prompt, you will notice a theme in there perhaps :D I hope you like it! This was cross-posted here for better readability~

 __________ 

For their young master’s birthday celebration, the Xie clan went all out, as was expected. 

It was a grandiose event, with only the finest of culinary delicacies, the prettiest of dancers, and the best of everything that could be drunk. Everyone of importance in the antiques and less-legally-acquired antiques business was there, in black tie - or almost everyone. Xie Yuchen’s smile never quite reached his eyes but he shook sweaty palm after sweaty palm and posed for the required photos with a level of patience that should honestly count toward his general karma. Thankfully, by midnight, the young master was deemed properly toasted to, fed and celebrated, and the guests bid their goodbyes at last.  

Xie Yuchen closed his bedroom door behind him and rested his forehead against the wood panel. 

Here’s to another year. 

Shrugging off his jacket, he walked into his closet. His own face stared at him from three different angles as he loosened his tie. He wasn’t tired yet, but he should probably change anyway. He crossed the room toward his pajama closet, looking for something comfortable. There had been enough showing off for one night, so he pushed aside the silk co-ords. Maybe the velvet robe. He took it off the hanger, running a manicured hand over the fabric. No. Too hot for the season. He dropped it on a chair. When he turned back toward the closet, he noticed a midnight blue sleeve peeking out from behind where the robe had hung, in the darkest part of the closet. His only hoodie. 

There was an idea. 

He stared at it for a long moment, before grabbing the garment and shrugging it on over his dress shirt and wool-blend pants. He swapped his leather shoes for crepe-soled boots and turned the lights off. 

Less than five minutes later, he exited the manor, having successfully avoided every single person in it. He had had to duck behind a vase at some point so a maid didn’t see him, and for the first time that evening, he had laughed, albeit silently. There would be no real consequences, no consequences at all, even, if he was found out, but it was exciting to sneak out. He snapped a face mask onto his ears, checked again that he hadn’t been spotted, and walked down the street and away from the gates. 

As he walked, Xie Yuchen wrestled his phone out of his pants pocket. With the ease of habit, he created a throwaway account, and then pulled up the webpage of his favorite fast food place. The closest one would be too suspicious - he had been there only last month. Selecting the next one over, he submitted his order and paid. By the time he arrived, his number was first on the list, and a greasy bag of treats awaited him. 

This restaurant was farther from his house but closer to the river. It was warm enough, that evening, that groups were scattered here and there along the riverside. Xie Yuchen found one empty spot with a decently clean bench to sit on, and dug into the bag. 

The city lights twinkled over the water’s surface, ever changing - stop lights turning red and green and red again, car blinkers sparkling to life, office neons buzzing in the distance. There were people laughing nearby. He listened to what he could of their inept conversation as he chewed, salt and fat heavy on his tongue. Usually he would be annoyed at the forced proximity, at the unwanted company of these strangers sharing beers and laughs, but not tonight, for some reason. 

Still, it was better to be alone after the night he’d had. Enough socialization for one day. Even after an entire burger and most of a large serving of fries, he didn’t have the energy to keep up the usual pretense. Maybe if he was there with a friend it would be different, but he didn’t have that many of those. Wu Xie certainly counted as one, but according to the birthday card he had sent, he was off raiding a secret spot in the South with his boyfriends this week and wouldn’t be back for a while. Xie Yuchen hoped it was code for something else. At least one of them would be having fun tonight. 

He finished the fries and crumpled the greasy paper, throwing it back into the mostly empty bag. The only thing left was what he had been looking forward to: a tub of soft-serve ice cream doused with an extra helping of chocolate fudge. He rummaged around the bag for the plastic spoon and popped open the container, inhaling the sweet scent with a smile of anticipated delight. That would almost make up for tonight. 

He carefully chose the ratio of chocolate to ice. That first spoonful was always the best one. He brought it to his mouth and closed his eyes. The fudge melted onto his tongue, vanilla ice cream following right behind, hot then cold, and delicious. He couldn’t help but let out a small moan. 

“That good, uh?”

Long legs folded beside his on the bench and for one short second Xiao Hua was tempted to throw the ice cream tub into the river and pretend this never happened. 

It was too late. Hei Xiazi had seen him, and he would never let him live this down now. 

Oh sure, the man had seen him in more compromising situations, technically speaking, but from the way he smiled at Xie Yuchen’s face, Xie Yuchen knew that his guilt was obvious. He was screwed. Hei Xiazi had just hit blackmailing gold.

“Gimme a taste if it’s that good,” he asked with a jerk of his chin toward Xie Yuchen’s ice cream.

Xie Yuchen frowned and moved the tub away from him. He had expected a few days of grace before the demands started, at least. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked in return. 

The man’s attire was ridiculous, even by his low standards. Under his usual leather jacket, the one he always wore, the one Xie Yuchen could recognize the stink of from miles away, he wore a tank top and a black polyester tie, haphazardly tied around nothing and dangling well under his belt. He looked like a cheap gigolo. Maybe that was his new side gig. Xie Yuchen made a mental note to inquire about that. 

“Well, you see, I was on my way to wish a friend a happy birthday, maybe a little later than I should have, admittedly, but what’s a little night visit between friends? Except, what should I see when I arrive at their home, but a shady silhouette sneaking out of it! Very suspicious, you’ll admit. I felt that it was my duty to make sure that the interloper was properly identified.”

“What bullshit are you sprouting now?” asked Xie Yuchen, eyes narrowed. 

“I followed you,” replied Hei Xiazi with a satisfied smile.

“No you didn’t.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I checked. You ran into me here by pure chance and extrapolated the rest,” he guessed.

The smile fell from Hei Xiazi’s face, but the humor stayed in his voice. 

“Yeah, okay I did.”

Xie Yuchen huffed a laugh and turned back to his ice cream before it melted. 

“I really was on my way to you, though,” continued Hei Xiazi. “Look, I even have a gift and all.”

When he turned, Xie Yuchen found himself faced with a brightly patterned square. The gift wasn’t badly wrapped, Hei Xiazi’s fingers were certainly skilled enough for it, but it had been done with the tackiest paper Xie Yuchen had ever seen. There had been plenty of gifts at the party earlier, covered in gold-embroidered fabrics and satin, tucked into leather boxes and glossy bags, but this was the first that Xie Yuchen had wanted to open all night. It was the only one of those that seemed … heartfelt. 

He quickly ate another spoonful of ice cream instead. It was probably just another joke. 

“What’s in it?” he asked after a minute.

Hei Xiazi was still holding it out to him, and probably would until he relented. Sighing, Xie Yuchen took the package. 

“Open it later.”

At the strangeness of his voice, Xie Yuchen raised his head and looked at Hei Xiazi. The lights were playing on his face, and with those stupid glasses he could never be sure of anything, but it almost looked like he was blushing. The man was looking toward the river, not at him, so Xie Yuchen allowed himself to stare.

In his hand, the ice cream tub was cold and slightly wet with condensation, and the sweetness of chocolate remained in his mouth. There were still people laughing nearby, in riotous bursts, but he found that he didn’t envy them anymore. 

It was his birthday, and Xie Yuchen was going to celebrate it the way he wanted.

“Hey,” he called.

With a hum, Hei Xiazi turned, just enough for Xie Yuchen to grab his face and kiss him. He startled but didn’t pull away, rather turned his head aside to deepen the kiss, hands curling around Xie Yuchen’s waist and into his hair. His clever tongue swiped at Xie Yuchen’s lips and he licked into his mouth when they opened. 

“Wow, you were right,” he exclaimed when they broke for air. “That is good ice cream!”

With a roll of his eyes, Xie Yuchen handed the tub to him. It was a day to indulge in guilty pleasures, it seemed. 

[sk1fanfiction]

Hello! I saw that you reblogged the "I wish you would write a fic where..." post, and I have two ideas for the Running From My Destiny verse that might make neat scenes. The first I can't really make a summary for since it's such a general idea, but I'd really like to see a Quirrellmort POV. For the second one:

Malfada Prewett meets the Weasleys. This... does not go as well as her parents thought it would, even if they didn't have particularly high hopes.

OR

Malfada absolutely does not get along with her cousins; she loves them anyways, though.

I hope the prompt(s) is(are?) fun! It's cool that you're doing this; it seems like it'd be an interesting experience. Have a nice night! :)

Thanks so much for the prompts! They were both very cool ideas! Hope you have a nice morning/afternoon/night as well!

ᑫᑌIᖇᖇEᒪᒪᗰOᖇT/TᑌᖇᑎIᑎG TO ᗩᔕᕼEᔕ

(spark)

Quirinus Quirrell surveyed his classroom, then glanced down at his attendance sheet, running a shaking finger down his list of names.

“P-Parkinson, P-Pansy?”

“Here, Professor.”

“P-Patil, P-P-Parvati?”

He’d always been ashamed of his stutter. There wasn’t a time he remembered not feeling afraid of his own voice. He expected peers, now students, to laugh at him and make him feel smaller and smaller, until he was annhilated.

“Here, sir.”

He pushed his reading glasses up his nose and focused on the next name.

His heartbeat stuttered in his ears. Something seemed to click. To focus. And when he spoke, his voice was as composed and steady as he’d always dreamed.

“Potter, Harry.”

“Present, sir.”

He could not help but look up at the speaker. But it wasn’t as if he was one looking. Rather, someone or something else had nudged their way to the front of his brain, gazing at the small first-year in the second row, scrawny, bespectacled and overall unremarkable, except for the round-rimmed glasses and bright green eyes that seemed to stir some distant memory, as if he had seen them both on another person.

Dead. And yet he felt more alive than ever.

He shuddered, and moved on, taking note of the remaining few Gryffindor and Slytherin students.

(ember)

It had been mere days since Quirinus had returned to the school; mere weeks since Voldemort’s disembodied spirit promised him everything he’d ever dreamed of.

No longer would he be the bullied, cowed Professor of Muggle Studies.

No longer would he be an afterthought.

There is no good and evil, only power, he reminded himself. Whether he vanquished Voldemort or brought him back to life, he would be great. And that was all that mattered.

And so, he had found himself standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, performing spells that he did not understand (but the other, strange new part of him did) and renewing the runes drawn around an ancient bloodstain.

But now, he was sitting in his office. And that green-eyed, unremarkable boy was sitting across from him (though the part of him that was Voldemort whispered, Quirinus, he is the one).

“Do you think I should be worried at all about the shadows?"

Harry Potter’s voice seemed to be coming through several miles of water. For his part, Quirinus felt frozen, and yet, more clever and powerful and strong than he ever had. His limbs had new life, every square centimetre of his being thrummed with magic, and he felt a strange, vast understanding of everything around him; even the boy’s mind.

"You were right to come to me, Harry Potter.” And there came the new, clear voice again, but it faded quickly. “If you are at all interested in learning to... control... to develop... your power, I may just be able to point you in the right d-d-direction."

(flame)

Halfway through the Quidditch match, something strange had come over Quirinus. That same terrible focus and perhaps not-so-mysterious power.

And every nerve in his body sang with the same fierce joy: Kill him, kill him, kill him! They’ll never trace it to you! Dumbledore is not here to see! KILL HIM!

Quirinus had not taken even a single year of Ancient Runes while he was at Hogwarts, and his affinity for the Dark Arts had always been weak. But now, he sat quite calmly in the professors’ box, muttering an Ogham chant and tainting the air with foul magic.

He saw what the others could not; Harry Potter was being consumed by his own shadows. The boy reached for his broom, hanging on with the last of his material form. His eyes were glassy and empty, and everything in Quirinus sung with the triumphant knowledge that his strange enemy was close to death. The Reaper was coming.

The two Weasley boys circled around him, trying to save him (foolish children, none can save him from Lord Death himself!).

It was the girl that snapped him out of his focus; she threw herself into the box like a wildcat let loose and despite the protests of the professors around him.

But it mattered not. Her precious brother was fast losing his grip, and soon the great Boy-Who-Lived would be nothing but a stain on the grass below; a tragic accident—

“INCENDIO!I”

The box crackled with flame, and the thing inside Quirinus howled in anger; yes, she should not know that, but fire would save the boy, sap the shadows.

Even as Snape shouted at her, it was her victory, not his, because Harry Potter had pulled himself back on the broom to safety.

How hard is it to kill an eleven-year-old child already cursed by a parasitic monster? You are just as much of a failure as they say you are!

And yet, thought Quirinus, he did not know if it was the thing, or himself howling in fury at his inability to kill the boy.

(ashes)

He did not like her. He did not like either of the Potter children at all.

Perhaps he liked Harry Potter sometimes, when he delved into his mind and forced the Obscurus to manifest, savoured his terror and the fear-filled memories of his Muggle relatives. When he entertained the idea of using him as a weapon against Dumbledore, now that he had shielded the boy from Legilimency from anyone but him and instilled within him a fear of his Headmaster.

Perhaps he liked Harry Potter when the Dark magic had burned out, and he lay helpless on the floor of Quirrell’s office.

Quirinus found that he liked to toy with the child; make him feel as helpless and utterly annihilated as he once had felt.

After all, he would one day kill Harry Potter. He would make the life bleed out of those green eyes and watch them go still and glassy (like his mother’s, he remembered now), someday soon.

Even as he Obliviated the second child who dared to intercept his search for the Stone, Quirinus knew the end was dawning.

With shaking hands, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled death. The weak, prim Quirinus who would have balked at the very idea of polluting his body with such a thing was no longer important to him. After all, what was nicotine and tar and his disgust at the idea of a smoking habit when the spirit of the Dark Lord lived within him?

No. He had been chosen for greater things.

Tonight was the night the end begun.

Quirinus signed the bottom of his letter of resignation, put out the cigarette, and placed in it his brand-new ashtray.

And yet, he cried.

“I have given you my all, My Lord,” he said, and his voice, his own voice was steady. “And now I am nothing.”

𝙼𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚊 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚝/𝚃𝚘 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚎 𝚄𝚙 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚕

August, 1986

“Just give it a chance, will you?” asked her dad, taking her luggage out the boot. “You won’t know you hate it until you try it.”

Everyone seemed to be giving her the same stupid advice today. When they stopped to get petrol during the drive from London, some weirdo in the petrol station had told her “Cheer up love, it might not happen!” She had responded by sticking her tongue out at them.

Mafalda frowned, crossed her arms, and leaned against the car.

“I don’t see why I can’t go to Roedean.”

“Well, you’re a witch, Mafalda.” He wiped his forehead and frowned. “Bloody hot, isn’t it?”

Witch. She hated the word already. Yeah, some of the girls at school were into Ouija boards and palm-reading and whatnot, but Mafalda didn’t go in for all of that nonsense.

The kind of nonsense that got Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon killed.

“And what do they call you and Mum again?”

Her dad sighed. “Squibs.”

“Yes, Dad! It’s not very nice, is it?”

She glared at the house as if it had personally offended her. It was tall, maybe four or five stories and so crooked that there was no way it hadn’t fallen down by now. A couple of brown chickens hobbled around the yard.

And in here lived the people who had sent her father off to Muggle boarding school, as far away from them as they could possibly manage, as soon as they could.

As her dad strode towards the door, Mafalda followed, kicking a rusty cauldron as she went by.

Before Mafalda could make her great escape, her dad knocked on the door and a plump, short, red-headed someone opened it almost immediately.

“Alfred?” she asked in a squeaky, shocked voice. Then, she glanced furtively behind her as if to check that no one was listening. “Alfred, what are you doing here?”

Her dad frowned, fanned himself with the collar of his shirt, and beckoned her closer so that the rude woman could look her up and down.

“Come on, Mals,” he whispered. “In for a penny, in for a pound, eh?”

Yeah, her hair probably looked a mess and the dress Mum had forced her to wear was all creased, but Mafalda didn’t think she would look particularly nice if she’d just spent three and a half hours in a stinky, sweaty car.

“Well,” said her dad, “this is your niece, Molly, and she’s a witch just like you. Got her Hogwarts letter last week and everything; Professor McGonagall said we should come over and see you. Of course, her mum and I know next to nothing about the wizarding world and Mals just barely remembers your brothers—“

Mafalda couldn’t help herself.

“You’re my aunt? Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon’s sister? Why’d you never come to see me?”

The woman — Aunt Molly �� went red in the face.

“Come in, Mafalda,” she said tiredly. And at her father’s hard look, she added: “Come on then. Both of you. In.”

Once they were inside the cramped, cluttered kitchen, she was introduced to her cousins. Mafalda kind of tuned out for most of it because most of them were younger than her, bloody annoyingly loud, and she wasn’t the World’s Biggest Fan of small children, but she did pay attention to Charlie (thirteen and Gryffindor Seeker) and Bill (fifteen and a Prefect of Gryffindor House). The youngest boy was crying his eyes out because someone turned his teddy bear into a giant spider, but Aunt Molly didn’t seem to care. A ugly-looking sweater was knitting itself on the sofa.

While she obviously knew what a Prefect was, Mafalda had no idea what a Seeker was or why everyone was making such a big deal over Gryffindor or more to the point what Gryffindor even was!

“Who’s that, Mummy?” asked the youngest, a little girl with hair the same violent red as Mafalda’s.

“Your cousin, dear,” said Aunt Molly tiredly. “She’s just come to meet us, her father’s a Squib you see—“

The little girl screwed her face up.

“I don’t wanna Squib cousin!” she yelled.

Despite herself, Mafalda flinched, and her dad did, too.

“Don’t worry, dear. She’s a witch, just like you.”

As if that made it any better.

“I don’t wanna,” the girl repeated, glowering at Mafalda.

“Look,” said Mafalda harshly. “We’ll just leave, get our Squib selves out of your way and on the three-and-a-half-hour drive back to London. Thanks for nothing.”

“You didn’t call, Alfred,” said Aunt Molly.

Her dad pinched the bridge of his nose, looking frustrated.

“There’s no way to contact you, Molly. No phone, and you don’t get our kind of mail. Where am I going to get my hands on a trained owl?”

“She can sleep with Ginny,” said Aunt Molly, nodding towards the little girl.

Mafalda gave Bill, who seemed like the most sensible one of the bunch, a look that clearly said, I am not going to bloody sleep with that demon and that’s final.

“I can sleep with Charlie, Mum, and Mafalda can have my bed.”

Aunt Molly beamed. “What an angel,” she said. And to Mafalda. “Come, dear, let me take your trunk. We’ll all go shopping in Diagon Alley tomorrow, doesn’t that sound nice? Alfred, you wouldn’t mind—”

“—Not letting the world know you have a secret Squib cousin, you have nothing to fear, I’m well practiced, Molly.”

Charlie stood up. “Can I show her around the house, Mum?”

The youngest boy looked up, too.

“And can I have a piggy-back ride from her?”

“You’re too old, Ron!” said the snootiest-looking boy, who was sitting in the middle and had the least amount of dirt in his face.

“I’m not too old!” shrieked Ginny, waving her freckled arms. “I’m only five years old, Mum! I want a piggyback-ride!”

“When your dad gets home from work,” said Aunt Molly.

“You’ll get used to us,” Bill whispered.

I don’t have to like you, thought Mafalda.

“So are you coming?” asked Charlie. “We’ve got to de-gnome the garden. You should come too, Uncle Alfred.”

Dad said he’d come with them, but would rather watch. De-gnoming apparently seemed to involve spinning the tiny, screaming, spiteful little (animals? creatures?) until they shrieked with giddiness, then tossing them as far as you possibly could, which Mafalda was very good at, and Bill and Charlie were all too happy to cheer her on, even convincing her dad to join in, too.

"Don't mind Ginny," said Bill as he flung a particularly angry gnome over the hedge. "She doesn't know anything about anything. And it was wrong of Mum to push you away, but I hope we can be friends still, and that you'll come to Hogwarts with us."

Mafalda, despite herself, thought that was an entirely reasonable proposal.

Maybe she wasn’t going to hate the wizarding world.

It turned out that unfortunately for the sake of her sanity, Charlie loved to talk while he was working.

“Have you heard about Quidditch, Mafalda — oh, good one, Uncle Alfred! That must have gone like twenty yards! Did you know the Antipodean Opaleye has no pupils? What House are you going to be in?”

And yet, she found herself (ew) getting a bit fond of them already.

[august-bleeds-red]

Be A Good Boy, Brahms - Chapter Two

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four

~

You don’t know how for long you’ve been walking. You don’t even know where you are. The time was 02:47 when your phone died. What time was it when you left the station? You don’t remember. You only had time to grab a handful of things before the crowd started gathering around the body.

 The body you’d left there.

 The rain is starting to come down in earnest now. You’re soaked to the bone and tired to the point of exhaustion, the soles of your shoes feeling ready to peel away at any moment. Part of you wants to simply curl up at the side of the road and sleep, hardly caring if the cold or a passing car takes you once your eyes close. How long would it be until the police found you?

 You’d been as careful as you could on the journey to . . . wherever this was. You’d left your car at home, picked a train almost at random and bought a ticket to the end of the line. The sprawling metropolis of the city faded away to dark countryside, the lights of civilisation becoming more sporadic as you travelled deeper into rural England. You didn’t even recognise the name of the village as it flashed past the window. You pulled the hood of your jacket down further over your face as you left the carriage, but nobody stopped you or even glanced your way. It was nearing midnight – far too late to be paying attention to trainline stragglers. You could have hailed a taxi from the rank outside the station, asked the driver to drop you off as far as the cash in your pocket would allow, but that would be another person to remember your face, so you hitched your rucksack further up your shoulders and headed off into the misty night on foot.

 The distant sound of an approaching engine sets your heart racing and your eyes dart through the drizzly gloom for a place to hide. The road forks not ten metres ahead, a narrower path leading off towards the left. You start to run, rucksack bouncing against your back, shoes slapping against the tarmac. The new path slopes uphill, but you keep running, until the surrounding trees start to thicken, and you feel suitably distanced from anyone who might be passing via the main road. The slim trunks give way to broad pines, casting thick beams of moonlight across the ground ahead of you. Shielded by the overhanging branches, the rain eases from a ceaseless torrent to heavy droplets, splashing down around you. As you were leaving the flat, you had the sense to grab the sleeping-bag you once used to go camping with your dad, but don’t want to stop and set up base just yet. Another mile or so away from the road and you should be good for now. Then, come the light of morning, you can take stock and decide what you’re going to do.

 Maybe you shouldn’t have run. Guilty people always run, right? Maybe if you’d just stayed and explained what happened . . . but no, who would have listened? Who would have believed that an officer so upstanding and respected as your stepfather could be guilty of such a crime as attempted murder? It was what had kept your mother from reporting him for so long. He was clever – never bruising her in places it would easily show – but his rage towards you made him sloppy tonight. But even the bruises you’d seen around your little brother’s neck would not be evidence enough to condemn him, you knew that. The law would never act against one of their own, so you’d had to.

 Which moment had made you a murderer? When you’d crossed the balcony to where he stood, puffing on one of those disgusting cigars like he hadn’t just tried to kill your brother? When your hands had pushed against the broad space of his back, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling over the rail? Or when his flailing body had landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement seventeen stories below?

 Something large begins to loom out of the shadows ahead of you and you slow. It’s a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, supported by two intimidating brick pillars, open wide enough for a car to pass easily through. There’s no name or number, no indication as to what may lie beyond. Curiosity has always been your fatal flaw, so you approach, keeping an ear out for the sound of tires or footsteps. The house that awaits at the end of the long driveway is unlike any you’ve seen in the city or the surrounding boroughs; it’s tall and grand, the liquid light of dawn illuminating what seem to be turrets in the architecture. It’s beautiful, in an American gothic style of build. Certainly not the kind of English manor you’re used to in period dramas. The moment you stop before the front steps, your feet and calves begin screaming in protest, as though sensing the possibility of a place to rest. Even if you could just sit on the porch for a while, at least until the sun rose.

 The moment your butt hits the floor, the weight of the last twenty-four hours’ events settles on you like a heavy blanket. You’re hungry, thirsty, but all you can think of doing right now is getting an hour or two of sleep. You unravel your sleeping bag and crawl inside, resting your shoes atop your folded jacket beside you. Your sodden T-shirt and jeans don’t make for very comfortable sleepwear, but you’re certainly not about to strip to your skivvies on some stranger’s porch, especially if the milkman may be along within the next couple of hours.

 You sleep fitfully, the image of your stepfather’s face floating repeatedly to the surface of your mind like a photograph in water, and you’ll awake scared and sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold. The sun rises milky yellow just beyond the treeline, and you decide it must be late enough for you to risk knocking on the door. With any luck, they might be able to tell you how to reach the nearest village, where you can . . . you don’t know. Gathering your things, you shoulder your pack and approach the heavy wooden door, plucking the dampest patches of your T-shirt from your body.

 You notice the door is open just as you raise your fist to knock. Perhaps they forgot to lock up last night – a huge house like this in the middle of nowhere, probably not much foot traffic to run the risk of burglars. You give a few loud knocks, anyway, but no response comes.

 “Um, hello?” you call, pushing the door open just a little further.

 The inside of the house is as impressive as its exterior, all dark wood and teal blue rugs, and quiet as a graveyard. There is a blanket of stillness everywhere, giving the place an air of abandonment. You walk further into the entrance hall, staring up the grand staircase to where a semi-circular balcony overlooks the lower floor.

 “Hello?”

 Nothing – no movement, no sound; not the grumbling of pipes nor the hum of a heating system. You drop your rucksack on the floor beside a great stone fireplace and take a few tentative steps up the stairs. As you reach the top, you notice a large portrait hanging on the opposite wall of three people – a man, a woman and a small, angelic-looking boy. You wonder if this is the family of the house.

 “Hello?”

 Your third attempt also goes unanswered and, with no cars parked outside and the open door, you’re convinced the place truly is empty, at least for now. Your feet make no sound on the carpet stair-runner as you descend, picking up your pack by one strap and going in search of the kitchen. It’s quite small and surprisingly modern for such a grand mansion and, with only the smallest twinge of guilt, you conceal some packaged foods from the cupboards and fridge in your pack. You pick an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and take a bite, the crunching of your jaw loud in the silent room. You didn’t realise just how hungry you were and tuck a second apple into your coat pocket. Through the window, you can see a rambling garden stretching out across the grounds, the grass and leaves tinted blue in the dawn light.

 Leaving your pack by the front door, you decide to have a look around. A great house like this must have at least twenty rooms, and its unlikely you’ll get another chance to explore anywhere so richly furnished. You briefly wonder how far the behind you the police might be, but try to calm the panic that rises at that particularly thought. You’re no good half-dead on the run, and this might be your last safe space for a while.

 Heading back upstairs, you decide to investigate the nearest bedroom. It looks like it might belong – or at least once belonged – to a child, but there aren’t any toys you’d recognise from a modern child’s nursery. The clockwork figures and wooden mannequins look like objects from the 1950’s, as do the books on the shelves. Some of the toys are scattered over the floor by the bed, in contrast to the almost military neatness of the rest of the room, and one of the frames pictures is hanging askew on the wall. Almost automatically, you reach across and straighten it, and that’s when you see it – on the rug, a small, dark red stain, about the size of a side plate. A ripple of unease passes through you, though you know it could be something as innocuous as cranberry juice or ink.  

 As you’re about to exit the room, you notice something else – one of the doors on the opposite side of the landing has a large hole through it. The edges are rough, as though someone had forced their fist through in an attempt to reach whoever was on the other side. You wonder if there was some kind of a burglary, and you’re ten steps away from discovering the horribly mangled bodies of the man, woman and boy you saw in the portrait. Perhaps the assailant is still here, lurking behind one of these doors. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something a little unusual – on a large wooden trunk at the foot of the child’s bed is a long metal pipe with a curved end, kind of like the head of a harpoon. Picking this up, you venture out into the hall and move, as quietly as you can, towards the broken door. The room beyond is trashed – clothes scattered everywhere, and an old-fashioned telephone lying broken on the floor. The wardrobe door is standing open, and as you move closer, you see a strange panel standing open at the back. Glancing over your shoulder to make sure the room is still deserted, you push open the panel to reveal a passageway, just wide enough for a grown man to move through, built into the inside frame of the house. Part of you knows it would be an incredibly bad idea, but the other part of you that’s holding the makeshift weapon, allows your feet to lead you inside the secret passage.

 The tunnel is dark and dusty, dimly illuminated by the light of the rooms outside and the occasional electric light bracketed to the brick interior. A couple of times, you come across large gaps in the walls, where the wooden slats have been shattered by a great force. By peeping through the slats, you can see exactly whereabouts in the house you are. After ten or so minutes of sneaking, you spy a bright shaft of electric light coming from beneath a door ahead of you. Like Alice venturing further down the rabbit hole, you reach out and push against the wood.

[planetesastraea]

Sweet Nothings

Written for @myidlehand‘s birthday! <3

Read on AO3

Eskel paces slowly by the gigantic basin, trying to catch sight of the animals. Waiting for his brother at the rehabilitation center has always been one of the most peaceful moments of his week. He gets to be alone with his thoughts and some of the most beautiful, peaceful sights. 

Soft paces approach behind him but they aren't Geralt's. He turns around, thankful despite himself that the stranger is coming from his good side. 

"Hey," the young man says. He smiles and his hand makes a little wave. His eyes are a clear, piercing blue and his smile seems effortless.

"Hello," Eskel answers. He wonders if he should go back to the main area before the man introduces himself.

"I'm Jaskier. Is it okay if I hang here with you?" He asks. "I'm early for an appointment and it would be a shame to miss the sight."

"No, of course," Eskel nods and the man beams at him. 

"VIP?" Jaskier says, nodding at his badge. 

"Oh, I don't know that's there's anything important about me," he ducks his head. "My brother is a veterinarian here. I'm just waiting for him."

"Oh, that's awesome! Man, do you think he gets to pet sharks all the time?"

Eskel smiles at the man's dreamy voice. 

"He probably does. He loves these creatures."

"Gosh, me too."

Eskel smiles softly.

"They are mesmerising, aren't they?" Eskel says, nodding to the sharks that just came into view.

"They are," Jaskier can't stop himself from stepping closer to the glass. "They're such a symbol of resilience, too," he says softly, kindly, looking at a middle-sized creature with a severe scar across its face and eye. "Mankind has been absolutely awful to their species for centuries and yet they're still here, tolerating us idiots. Still trusting us to try and help fix them when we are the main threat to their well-being. They could turn against us on sight but they don't even begin to think that way. They just want to live their lives in peace," he says softly and focuses on the animal. "Look at you, my beautiful, unbreakable boy," he whispers and chills run down Eskel's spine. "You've been through so much and yet, here you are.  Those scars, do you know what they tell me? That you've lived and survived. They tell me you kept going despite all the shit that's been thrown at you. And you're doing so well, darling."

Eskel's throat tightens and he swallows hard, blinking a few times to get a hold back of his emotions. 

The shark spins back to the other side of the tank and Jaskier turns to Eskel with more vigour. "I swear to God, every time some moron writes a shark movie I want to show up in their office and give them the bottom of my thoughts."

Eskel chuckles, amused at the man's sudden passion.

"Sorry," Jaskier says, shaking his head. "I can't ever shut up about sharks."

"No, no. It is nice. I enjoy your enthusiasm." 

It seems enough to prompt Jaskier to keep talking.

"Did you know there's only about eighty unprovoked shark attacks a year? There's four human deaths a year from shark attacks. That's almost four times less than the number of people who die from a coconut accidentally cracking their skull! Yet you don't see any freaking Coconutnado bullshit flick popping on TV every goddamn year."

There's a beat.

"Four times?"

"Yeah!"

"Damn. That's a danger I have very much been underestimating."

Jaskier snorts and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

"Sorry, I just- I get sort of carried away when I start talking about sharks."

Eskel tilts his head. "Do you?"

Jaskier laughs and it's one damn sweet song to Eskel's ears.

"I probably shouldn't bother you any longer."

"You aren't."

Jaskier bats his eyelashes, seemingly surprised. "Oh. You're not just being polite, right? I know I get annoying-"

Eskel shakes his head and smiles softly. "I'm not. You're not." 

Jaskier's blinks, frozen into place for a moment. Eskel finds himself wondering if maybe his heart missed a beat.

"Do you know what they're called?" Jaskier asks. Eskel frowns slightly, surprised at the question. Jaskier seemed to him like the kind of passionate person who would be able to tell apart sharks from miles away and call them by their Latin appellations. "This one is a spinny dogfish."

"Oh yeah, sure, but that's not what they're actually called," Jaskier smiles and points. "See, that handsome fellow here is Ferguson. Back there you could see Sheppard a minute ago. There's also Mulan, Stark and Dear Heart, of course."

"You've named them?" Eskel smiles.

"Absolutely. I like to be on first-name basis with my friends, don't you?"

There's a beat before Eskel gets the hint.

"Eskel. I'm Eskel."

"Eskel," Jaskier repeats like he's tasting the name. "That's beautiful," he smiles and Eskel blushes. 

"Thank you." 

"I'm glad I'm early, Eskel." Jaskier says and this time, Eskel's heart missed a beat. He tries to think of something clever to answer.

"So are you from the research department?" he asks before getting any more flustered.

"Me? Oh no! I'm a singer. Nothing to do with our lovely friends here, sadly," he smiles. "Except, you know. Doo-doo doo-doo doo-doo," he hums. "My father owns the place," he says casually, waving his hand to point at, well, the entire compound.

"Oh," Eskel manages before Jaskier backtracks.

"I mean- sorry, I don't usually- shit, I sounded like a total asshole, didn't I-"

"No, no-"

"It's just- okay, he's wealthy, you know. Family heritage and all that stuff. But when I was 7 he asked what I wanted for my birthday and I said, I want to save all the sharks. So he," his hand waves again. "He built this. For me. For them." 

"That is incredibly kind," Eskel replies.

"It is. He's amazing. He didn't really know the first thing about sharks except that I was obsessed with them but he learned so much stuff to find the right people and make this right." 

"It's very honorable," Eskel says. 

Jaskier smiles nostalgically.

"I really love this place," Jaskier says dreamily and Eskel finds himself caught in the moment.

"I'm starting to find new reasons to love it too."

[alisonwritesimagines]

Good Little Girl ~Prince Caliban Imagine~

Summary: You’re Sabrina’s innocent best friend. When you help her go to Hell to rescue Nick, you all meet Caliban the moment you enter Hell. However, Caliban takes an interest in you the moment he laid eyes on you.

Author’s Note: There’s not enough imagines for Caliban from the Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. Let’s get on the Caliban train guys. 

Part Two

 You felt cold and wet the moment you entered the portal to Hell. Coughing out some water was strangely odd to you. You looked around to see everyone else okay as they as well coughed out some water.

“Is everyone okay?” Sabrina asked worriedly.

“Wait. So, Hell is a beach?” Harvey asked. 

You all looked around until you saw a sign that read, The Shores of Sorrow. You and everyone else stood up as you all looked around. You shivered a little from the cold. 

“I thought Hell would be warmer,” You shivered.

You saw a big sand castle nearby making you wander closer to it. 

“Y/N!” You turned to see Sabrina rushing over to you.

“You know you can’t wander off. I know you have the tenancy to explore a lot but right now, isn’t the best time to be wandering off,” Sabrina said.

“I’m sorry but I just saw a big sand castle and wanted to see it closer,” You said. 

“Guys, what are those?” Theo asked. You all looked over to see people trapped in some cage on the waters.

“The souls of the dammed,” You heard. You and everyone else looked over to see a strangely handsome guy appear from behind the sandcastle.

“I think I know who built the sandcastle,” You tell Sabrina.

“They drown as the tide rolls in, over and over...for all eternity,” The guy tells you all. You, Sabrina, and the rest walked over to the guy who had his shirt opened. Exposing his well detailed chest.

“Hi. We’re looking for Lilith. Um, Madam Satan, Queen of Hell. She’s in Pandemonium, if you happen to know the way,” Sabrina said. 

“All blood flows to Pandemonium,” The guy said as he pointed over to a river of blood that was streaming downwards.

“Follow the blood-red road where it flows, and there you’ll find the throne of Hell,” The guy tells you. 

“Thank you. I like your sandcastle by the way,” You mention with a smile.

“What is your name?” The guy asks you. 

“What’s yours?” Sabrina asked, guarding you a little.

“Never step off the road,” The guy tells her. He took a look at all of your shoes.

“It’s clever you’re wearing dead men’s shoes, though... any demon worth his salt can smell mortal flesh a mile away,” The guy warns before going back to his sandcastle. 

You noticed a broken shell making you pick it up. As everyone started to head off you walked over to the guy before handing him the shell. He looked up at you and the shell.

“Give it some decoration at least. It looks nice,” You smile before giving him the shell. 

“What is your name?” He asked you. 

“Y/N. I should be going,” You said before jogging back over to your friends. 

After facing through Hell, you all finally made it to Pandemonium. After Sabrina struck a deal with Lilith on announcing her as Queen of Hell officially, you all stood to the side to watch it all go down. When the Kings of Disorder rejected Lilith and proposed a new king, you saw the guy from the beach walk over. 

“All hail Caliban, Prince of Hell. Molded from the clay of the pit itself. Native son of the inferno,” You and your friends looked at each other.

“He’s made out of clay?” You asked in confusion to Theo. Theo gave you a shrug as you watched Caliban walk closer.

“Born to restore and rule our dark domain.”

“Hello again,” Caliban smiled. He looked at Sabrina first before looking at you and giving a wink. After they all talked about Hell and Earth and all that, one sentence from Caliban snapped you out of your thoughts.

“I’ll show mercy only once. And is to make her queen as I rule Hell,” Caliban said as he looked over at you. All eyes went to you. 

“No. You are not dragging Y/N to Hell to be your queen,” Sabrina said.

“Yeah. Y/N, is an angel. She doesn’t belong here,” Theo pointed out. Most of the demons sneered or hissed at Theo’s words. 

“Sabrina, can we please leave,” You begged feeling uncomfortable. 

The moment you all left, you felt weird. You wanted to go straight to church and beg for forgiveness. 

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Roz asked you.

“I’m fine,” You tell her. 

“Y/N, I promise you that you will not be Caliban’s queen,” Sabrina tells you. 

“Okay,” You nodded. 

“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Harvey said.

“Thanks, Harvey,” You said.

As you lied asleep in bed, Caliban watched you sleep. Caliban appeared in your room the moment you fell asleep. Caliban walked over before sitting down near you on your bed. 

“Such beauty. And so much innocence,” He says out loud. As Caliban caressed your cheek, you stirred a little. Caliban leaned down before giving you a kiss on the cheek. 

“Sweet dreams. My princess,” Caliban whispers before leaving you room.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 20: A Line

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs. 

Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.

Read on AO3

It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.

That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage. 

Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.

He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.

Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.   

He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. 

“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.

“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.

“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.” 

Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.

But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.

He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.

Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.

He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.  

Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.

With a heavy tread, he kept walking. 

****

In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes. 

From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it. 

Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.

He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.

As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve. 

Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible. 

Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend. 

Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well. 

He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer. 

“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.

Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning. 

It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago. 

“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want. 

“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”

“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.” 

He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”

“I can leave right now. Your house?”

“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up. 

“Good.”

****

The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.

“Now follow this road for another two miles.”

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”

Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient. 

“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness. 

“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”

Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”

He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”

The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot. 

No, there was one thing. 

“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?” 

“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.” 

By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath. 

Counting. 

“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.

“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”

From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson. 

With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest. 

Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.

“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.” 

He stared. “You knew that would happen?”

“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”

Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.

“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”  

“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand. 

“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”

“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”

“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”

He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm. 

“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”

Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”

Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.

It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad. 

“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”

“Where?”

“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”

Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated. 

“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”

He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.

But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”  

Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double. 

“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.

He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”

He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”

“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”      

“And I’ve had to live with that--”

“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”

“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”

“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”

“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”

He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”

“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”

A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood. 

“As for Leona...?”

Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”

He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.

Until now. 

Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony. 

“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”

Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate. 

A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again? 

“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.

He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.

Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time. 

Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly. 

He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.

But Belle was gone now. 

And Jefferson was here.

Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him. 

They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.

But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.

Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.

Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.

When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered. 

“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again. 

It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same. 

They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.         

“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”

It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.

“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.

Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”

Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”

“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“To Belle?”

“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”

There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.” 

“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”

 In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs. 

His cock.

“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”

He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”

Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”

He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”

“And I thought six months was bad.”

“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”

“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”

Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?” 

“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”

He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”

“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”

Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft. 

“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.

“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”

Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”

It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.

Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.

Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” 

The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.

He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.

“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”

Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”