#please forgive my inability to draw hands

[basil-isdead]

what a beautiful family, i hope they aren't torn apart by the desire for power and control above all else...

Please don't repost on other sites!

[jadelynlace]

True Warriors Rarely Go Quietly⎮Modern Vikings AU [Ivar x F!Reader], Chapter I

read the prologue / preview here. 

synopsis: When you find the other person who was hurt by your ex-boyfriend’s cheating, you create an unlikely alliance. 

pairing: Modern Ivar x F!Reader

content warnings: Mentions of cheating and heartbreak, strong language / adult themes, sexual content, Ivar being a dick… 

author’s note: I know. Don’t say anything, I’m writing something new. Divider is by @firefly-graphics​

It was hopeless—sitting alone at his desk, whether is be the odd hours of the morning or the lonely hours in the midst of not being able to sleep. The only ones awake at two in the morning are the dreamers who are lonely, he had convinced himself. And Ivar, above all things, was lonely. Sometimes, people do the wrong things for the right reasons, and Ivar of all people should know that. Having a heart wasn’t in his guide, he locked that brackish idea away quickly. 

In retrospect, a plan for revenge seemed idea. It seemed logical, it seemed fair. The crackle of dead wood catches Ivar’s line of sight for a second time, and when his finger moves to push his glasses from slipping down his nose, the noise of the telephone catches his attention. 

“Your first meeting is here, sir,” A voice lulls on the line and Ivar’s singular reply ends the conversation. Through a muted sigh and a thick swallow, Ivar musters up the strength to stand, and is met with the old wooden door latching at the far end of the office. 

“Y/N?” Ivar finally says. You nod shallowly, quickly while watching his lips curve half of a smile onto his face. “You’ll do,” He then adds. “Come, sit,” Your stomach turns with an ache as you wonder what you’ve crawled into.

The office before you is sleek, lifeless and cold with no indications that Ivar doesn’t spend every waking moment enclosed in the walls. The furnishings draws as much attention as a white windowsill, but matches the price tag for Ivar’s suit. You neglect to find a single piece that hints towards any similarity of personality. 

In an effort to contain yourself, you look up quickly, eyes meeting the witty smirk plastered on Ivar’s lips. Scanning him quickly, you swallow—this isn’t the man you had imagined. He holds himself with class, standing at a slight angle while he leans weight on a cane: hand crafted with precision, clarity and an underlying scant of love. His entire persona stops at the top of each leg; there’s an untranslatable feeling you get when you look at him; not many people are so keen to placing the cane with the injury. Even less vocalize it. His suit jacket alone probably cost more than your rent. But those eyes, they’re distant and cold, aching to be warmed while hiding secrets behind blue irises.

“It didn’t take you long to find me, hm?” Ivar finally speaks as his takes his place back behind his desk. “Sit, please,” He adds with an extended arm.

“You’re not exactly a hard person to find, Ivar,” You answer back. “Freydis has a mouth that she likes to open,”

“Yes, despite her inability to give head,” Ivar sighs back and you know suddenly where all the personality in the room comes from. You can’t help but laugh at his words. You catch him smirking back at you, opening both hands and shrugging, like you caught a child sneaking candy before dinner. “What can I say, I’m honest,” Ivar adds, tucking those same hands behind his head as he leans back ever so slightly in his seat. 

“I am curious to hear what your plan is,” You find yourself saying. 

“You can take your coat off, I know it’s cold outside but there is a fire roaring in here,” He remarks.

“Forgive me, but Ivar, I know as much about you as I know about the meaning of life. You’re going to have to enlighten me, a bit,” You finally speak.

“Ah, well, I work in finance—clearly my father didn’t tell me he loved me enough when I was a child,” He starts, busying his hands as he rustles the papers on his desk. “You know, I happen to know a question that tests the true caliber of a person,”

“I’m listening,” You say. Ivar smiles, tapping his lips with the tip of his pen.

“Do you like pancakes?” Ivar asks.

“Is this how you’re so successful?” You challenge. “Bringing clients into a lifeless place like this only to liven it up with your demeanor?”

“Lifeless?” Ivar accuses. “Lifeless? How is it lifeless? There’s…furnishings. I went through great lengths to get them,”

“Oh I’m sure having them shipped to you already assembled was a hassle for a man of your proportion,” You scoff.

“Those outside the door aren’t lifeless!” Ivar remark with a grin. “At least, last I checked. Bloody slow at their work, mind you, but very much…alive,”

“Ready to cut the bullshit?” You ask.

“Sweetheart, I’m just getting started,”

“You said something about how Freydis wished she looked,” You recall. “What did you mean by that?” 

“People have so many little tells,” Ivar begins. “Things that you, for example, might find minuscule. Your feet have been pointed towards the door since you sat down—examining people is part of the craft. Small nuances that give away huge details,”

You only blink at the man before you.

“There were feelings of inadequacy between you and your past lover, yes?” Ivar asks and you straighten your spine. “Something drove him to seek more,”

“Oh, go to hell,” You finally spit. “I didn’t come here for a therapy session. I came here for revenge,”

“I work in finance,” Ivar hums, “It comes with the territory,” As your back turns to him, his eyes crawl down your figure, back up through your hair and Ivar tips his head to the side, as if he’s contemplating. Licking his lips, he speaks: “Do you want to make him feel as awful? Do you want him to wonder what he didn’t have?” Your hand is on the door knob, “Do you want revenge, or not?”

“Do not patronize me,” You spit coldly as your turn back to him. “Do not sit there and try to needle your way into a situation where your girlfriend did the same fucking thing. What is it that drove her away? Hm?” You ask as you turn and Ivar’s eyes finally leave yours. 

“Irrelevant,” Ivar remarks. “Ancient history,” And instead of continuing to needle away at the newly discovered weakened spot, you stand still. 

Ivar’s hands disappear from your line of sight, opening a drawer and you hear the tell tale sign of a medicine container pop. Watching carefully, he tosses back what is in his hand with a dry swallow and no indication of discomfort from the unpleasant taste. Vanity doesn’t follow this man around, you can tell he’s deeply troubled, he’s in pain, he’s his own bully and the lies he tells himself keep those blue eyes distant.

“I want revenge,” You finally admit. “I want him to know he’s not half the man he thinks that he is,” 

“Good girl,” Ivar chuckles darkly to himself. 

“They do have a thing in common,” You find yourself saying at you lean against the door. “They both have the inability to give head,” 

“He—?” Ivar stops suddenly and just makes a face. “Really?” You can only laugh as the sheer disbelief that’s laced through Ivar’s tone. “Even I can—did he not eat ice cream as a child?” 

“Oh my god,” You mutter. “What exactly is your plan?” 

“I suppose I can tell you now that you’re near the door, and a safe distance away from me,” Ivar says as he watches you. You’re caught under his gaze as he looks through his lashes at you and that smile paints his lips again. Finally his fingers lace together as he plants his hands on his desk. “How would you like to be my girlfriend?” 

Of all the plans this man could have had, that was one you were not prepared for.

“Because I look the way Freydis wishes she did?” You blurt out. “Come find me when you have a plan that doesn’t mock someone subconsciously. I wanted to stoop low Ivar, but that’s low. Even for someone who cheated.” And you leave with a slam of the door.

“You’ll come around eventually,” Ivar hums to himself.

*

Ivar believes everyone is allowed to have one secret; with lives so privy to the world, it’s hard to contain anything beneath your skin. Ivar knows what his is—and while Freydis’s fell under the category of infidelity, he considered that maybe he couldn’t fault her. Maybe is a grey area that makes even the most competent of men question their knowledge. In some instances, maybe can cost men their lives.

Counting the dots in the sky, Ivar’s eyes grow tired of relishing in the ancient constellations, in the stories of a earlier life. With the fire dwindling down, his fingers tap along his chin before they take a life of their own and gather his phone. After a few high pitched tones, there’s a connection and he speaks:

“What are you doing?”

“It’s 4 in the morning, I was sleeping,” You yawn.

“I don’t sleep much these days,” Ivar sighs, and truthfully, he could spill his darkest secrets to you right now. 

“Who’s mind are you playing with now, Ivar?” You hum, turning in your sheets. 

“Probably my own,” Ivar replies. 

“You just have to figure out what you need,” He suddenly hears you say. 

“I need breakfast,”

“Well, I know a little place that’s open 24 hours,” You answer. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Ivar smiles. 

“Are you asking me on a date, Ivar?” You ask. 

“It’s the middle of the night Y/N. What do you think?”

“I think, you asked me if I like pancakes,” You say. 

“I asked you that for a reason, love,” Ivar says softly. 

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[shytastemakerthing]

Hello hello! Can I request a romantic Twisted Wonderland matchup if matchups are open? My pronouns are she/her, my personality type is ISFP. I’m 154cm, I wear glasses, have medium length dark brown hair and eyes, I always have winged liner, and my style is generally hyperfeminine.

I'm quiet, reserved and introverted around strangers but witty, sarcastic, stubborn and kind of smug around those I’m comfortable with. I also ramble and infodump a lot too, especially about things I like (although I’m lowkey kinda insecure about how much I talk, I’ve been sheltered from having a social life in my youth so whenever there’s someone new to talk to I just yap away until they’re annoyed ;-;).

I am smart but at the same time a dumbass. I’m very dense (if you like me, you have to grab my shoulders and explicitly say “hey, I have a crush on you” cause I don’t catch social cues a lot of the time) and very affectionate with my friends. I often tease those I care about (with love ofc 💕).

As for things I enjoy, I like anime, video games, drawing, makeup, cosplay, and baking.

My only request is to NOT be matched any first or second years. Thank you in advance :)

Hello! Thank you so much for your patience while I start getting all of the requests going! It has been a very busy several weeks with the end of the semester rolling around.

On that note, I do hope that you like your match-up and if there is anything else you would like to see, feel free and let me know!

Enjoy!

Tw: None

I match you with.........

Idia Shroud

Even with being limited to the third years, he stood out the most when I read over your request. Lilia was rather close, but in the end, Idia Shroud, Mr. gloomy himself, is our winner!

There is a chance that you could have met him over one of the games that the both of you shared (much like how he met Lilia, despite not knowing that it was Lilia), as there was really no way to be able to meet him over wise. The man never leaves his room and the moment that he catches word that Ortho is bringing someone over, that door is getting slammed shut and there is no way that it is opening.

Now, after encountering each other in the real world, and though it was a little hard actually getting used to your company, there is a chance that he got used to you a lot faster than he would anyone else given how similar the both of you are both in actions and hobbies.

Speaking of these hobbies and likes of yours, the fastest way to get his hair to burn that lovely shade of pink is to do one of your famous cosplays of a recent character he is really into

Really-

It's a game at this point

See how fast you can get his hair pink

When it came to a confession, he literally did it over a game. Knowing your lack of social cues and his inability to actually articulate the words he wants to say in such a fashion without fumbling like a buffoon (and he really did not want to use his tablet for something like this)

Look, he went all out on this, cause he actually developed a game just for this moment. A limited play that could only be done once, and yes, he was terrified about how you would react

Thankfully, he had absolutely nothing to worry about

Literally, how did he manage this?

He does not know but he will not complain

You get first hand experience about how smug this man can be. All it takes is for him to get real into a gaming session with some of those online and our little ball of anxiety does a 180 on that personality... it's both funny and endearing

Just watch for when his hair starts burning orange, he would never forgive himself if you were hurt

Please infodump with this man, I beg of you. The both of you will just be going off for literal hours with this, but for the both of you, it is time well spent

Overall, his favorite part of the day, now, is having you in the room with him (he made you your own set up this man is so attached), and both of you are just spending time with one another. Please don't ever leave this man, he doesn't know what he would do with himself.

Thank you for your request!!

[yhwhrulz]

Today's Daily Encounter Monday, January 22, 2024

With Fear and Trembling

And the angel of the Lord appeared to him and said to him, "The Lord is with you, O mighty man of valor."1

I tend to be a bit of a scaredy-cat when it comes to public situations. I am not one to do things alone and find comfort in someone else's courage. Due to my bilingual status I am often called upon to translate. My family and I lived in Mexico for many years and our church frequently hosted missionary groups from the States. Often on a Sunday morning the pastor would approach me right before the service and ask if I could translate the sermon. Because of my apparent inability to say, "no", and of course my love for the Lord and His people, I would spend the next half hour of worship trembling in my seat. With my knees shaking and my heart beating fast I would approach the platform praying, "Please, Lord, speak for me!" And every single time, He did. Many times, after translating, I was approached by someone telling me how the Lord had spoken to them that day — thanks to my translation! By allowing the Lord to use my voice, someone was drawing nearer to Him and in my fear and trembling, in my weakness, God became strong.

One of my favorite Bible passages is Judges 6, the story of Gideon. The Israelites had disobeyed God, so God removed His hand of protection and allowed them to be harassed by the Midianites. When they repented and cried out to God, He heard them and answered by sending an angel to Gideon telling him that God was going to use him to deliver Israel from their oppressors. But Gideon, too, was a bit of a scaredy-cat and was found hiding. Even still, God saw Gideon as a mighty warrior, a man of valor! God saw past Gideon's trembling and into his heart. Gideon's fear was keeping him from being the man God intended for him to be.

Our fears rob us of being who we were created to be and we become afraid of things that seem bigger than we are. But our fears are never bigger than God! When Gideon finally surrendered to the Lord's will for him, God used his weakness, his fear, and made him victorious. The enemy realized that they were no match for the God of Israel and the Lord was glorified that day. God's strength is perfect and if we can allow our heart to remember that, then in our weakness, in our fear and trembling, God makes us strong!

Suggested Prayer: Dear Heavenly Father, you know my greatest fears and have already decided how you will be glorified through them. Help me to trust that you are always with me and to rely on your strength which is greater than anything I will encounter here. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Judges 6:12 (ESV).

Today's Encounter was written by: Veronica B.

NOTE: If you would like to accept God's forgiveness for all your sins and His invitation for a full pardon Click on: http://www.actsweb.org/invitation.php. Or if you would like to re-commit your life to Jesus Christ, please click on http://www.actsweb.org/decision.php to note this.

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[faultedloyalty]

“‘Anything’, you say?” The question is rhetorical, said merely to hear himself speak more than anything—the pen is all but flying across the sketch-page already, the illustration coming to life beneath his fingers without pause. “It’s quite my luck that I can work with such an open-ended wish, then.”

A chuckle is tacked onto the end; he can’t help the tease, can’t help from making his own amusement, at the young man’s expense. He thinks, for a moment, of how very dangerous that word is, when spoken to a creature like him—one cannot, should not, face his kind and say they wish for him to do ‘anything’. Even if it is just in the context of a quick drawing, such a thing bears consequence still (nothing is trivial, unless he so chooses to see it so).

Consequences, however, do not always have to be meted out on a grand scale; he is no stranger to doling out more than is fair, at times, but he is also not without his understanding of what could be too far. So Daisuke will suffer a small laugh, if only to satisfy Sebastian’s inability to ignore such the infraction (and for the better that he does—Saying such things, most especially without hesitation, can get even the most iron-willed beings into trouble, some day.)

“My, but do forgive me; I assumed not that you had meant so, either.” He corrects his own infraction easily, only sparing a glance (calculative speculation masked into apology) up from his work before he returns to it again. “Neither is it so unusual to assume that I have created art for my Master, however; what I meant is that his age is not the correlation to my doing so.”

Really, it is not as if he’s complaining; his meal does not need to be artistically inclined in order for him to consume it, after all. Beyond what is required of his education, his Master hardly partakes in the more creative avenues of life as it is (a soul living only for and until its want for revenge is fulfilled will hardly allot itself time for the finer aspects of existence).

“Nevertheless, there is no need for apology.” He continues on, the matter dismissed as easily as the clouds parting above them to reveal the sun. “Offense was neither intended nor done, if I may so humbly assume myself; there is no need for worry.”

But, oh, satisfaction curls deep and twisting within his mind as the young man finally gives in. Dark, smug elation is hard to keep from his own features; even if it took time, he got what he wanted out of the offer, and it is nothing short of pleasing.

Is it not so much easier to simply relent, to acquiesce to one’s own desires? Human’s overwhelmingly have such an inability to resist them for long, and even with a far more limited patience for waiting to see it done than he lets on, he will never tire of seeing attempts to try crumble with just a bit of prodding.

“That you would accept our gift at all is gratitude enough.” Especially for myself; I require nothing more. “Please, I implore you to think nothing of it.”

His duty as both creature and butler fulfilled, for the time being, he hardly notices when his own hands still over the paper. What he’s drawn is one of the roses growing in the garden, close-up and detailed—simplistic in its choice, perhaps even predictable given where they are, but he’s sure it matters not. Not just for it having gone said, but also because the young man had been enthralled by them upon initial sight. Though, to think it’s merely his duties that give him pause would be wrong, because what is this about him knowing famed artists, might young Daisuke elaborate on that—?

(Ah, but wait; it would not be so off-base...)

“...Young Master Daisuke,” he starts, , “it was not to my knowledge that you were of such infamy yourself!”

A light scold, mostly untrue; he’d done his reading of the Niwa family several days prior to the young man’s arrival, but what-with the warning of the Phantom Thief appearing, he hadn’t gotten far. Other than being of worth-enough to have his Master agree to their young son paying a visit, there’d been little other evidence to suggest they were of nobility beyond any norm—knowing artists of any sort was mere territorial expectation.

(And yet, he still can’t help but to want to press; if only to see what is found in doing so.)

“To be so acquainted with famous artists,” it doesn’t matter that they weren’t named or known to him, “that they give you advice, surely you would know something of criticism. Might this be a way for you to judge my talents instead of merely observing them, despite the knowledge that my own work will pale in comparison to such famed individuals? How very cruel of you; to make me think you were merely interested...”

Feigned self-doubt sees him sighing dramatically, tilting the sketch away from the human’s sight. Surely he could have been warned he would be in the presence of one like this, he would have prepared his heart—!

(His facetiousness knows no bounds.)

' mm , well , really --- ' he considers it for a moment : what he'd like against what he'd dare to say that he might need , and his heart's curiosity quickly wins out versus the rest . ' anything is okay ... ! '

even if sebastian's work turned out infinitely complex , wouldn't he still be able to study it , then ? taking to it like a souvenir , one he would find far more intriguing and organic than what priceless piece his mother expected him to return with from this place .

' er , uh ! i didn't mean anything bad by it about ciel being so young , either --- i guess i just imagined you drawing for him often , maybe ... ' or was that simply the sort of thing he'd have had his own butler doing , if argentine was anything like half as well-put together as the aide before him ?

the more he thought it over , the more stupid everything seemed after-all . even his own hidden dexterity contributed little to nothing towards creative endeavors . what did it matter how swift or clever a butler and phantom thief could be ? without the proper sense for art , motions were merely motions : ' ... sorry , i shouldn't have assumed anything . '

his head dips and his shoulders slump a little ; in the end , he easily relents . ' if it's really no trouble for a sketchbook either , then , um ... t-thank you . thank you to you both ... ! '

and an enormous apology , one he doesn't dare to actually voice , though the anxiety of such a decision remains clear on his troubled expression --- easily mistaken for a polite discomfort in accepting whatsoever . the irony of his interests has never gone unrecognized , at least by his own self . a phantom thief's duty was to rob fine arts ; not laughably attempt to produce them . sebastian's words could have comforted , if only they didn't remain half ignorant .

a pity and a shame , but best kept that way --- such various lies and omissions were perpetual , outright necessity . nevertheless , daisuke keeps his curious gaze down at the butler's work in progress .

' at least i can say if making art wasn't fun , not even a little a bit , then i probably wouldn't care about it so much . besides , back at home , i made friends with a lot of really famous , incredible artists --- ' lives that were like beautiful works of art in their own right . ' they were nice enough to give even someone like me compliments and lessons , sometimes ... so maybe i just don't want to disappoint them . '

[lid-the-kid]

Just some more messy stuff because I’m trash for these two. ;-; (Please forgive my utter inability to draw hands.)

[galadrielette]

an unthinkable fate, indeed part four

Anthony tries not to crush the bouquet of lilies of the valley as he marches up to the front of Danbury House. The warmth of the day is already making the delicate white blooms wilt in his sweaty grip. Not for the first time that day, Anthony grimaces at his own incompetence, at his own inability to keep any woman happy regardless of his feelings or lack thereof. 

The butler does not guide Anthony to the drawing room once he’s been admitted entrance, making him awkwardly wait in the foyer. Edwina hurries down the large staircase in a light pink day dress and a ruby red spencer on top. There is a softness in her gaze again that he finds he’s dearly missed during the past few weeks of their engagement. 

“Miss Edwina,” Anthony greets her with a bow, holding the bouquet out for her small hands to take. He watches as she dispassionately inspects the bouquet, her small fingers delicately touching the white petals. “I am told, in the language of flowers, that the lily of the valley symbolizes apologies.”

“And what apologies do you think you owe me, Lord Bridgerton?” Edwina asks with a heavy sigh. She offers him a sad smile, the first smile she’s given him in days. “Come, let us walk through the gardens. It is a lovely day, after all.”

“Certainly,” Anthony agrees, following her through the house to the terrace that leads to the gardens. The gardens of Danbury House are not as large as those at Bridgerton House but the blooms are just as beautiful. Edwina guides them to a bench surrounded by roses and situated next to a small fountain. Anthony waits for Edwina to sit before taking a step back and coming to attention in front of her. “Miss Edwina, I owe you an apology.”

“Thus the flowers,” Edwina murmurs, keeping her eyes on the bouquet in her lap. 

“I have been ungentlemanly,” Anthony says, keeping his explanation short and simple. “You were right to be distraught by my actions. I have represented myself poorly in your company and I can only hope that you can forgive me.”

“Of course, my lord,” Edwina replies with another heavy sigh. She offers him a small smile before patting the bench next to her. “I have my own apologies to make, my lord.”

“Miss Edwina, you do not - “

“But I must,” Edwina insists, closing her eyes. She seems to gather herself, breathing slowly through her nose before meeting Anthony’s eye dead-on. “I have been so angry, my lord. At you. At myself. At the Queen. At the whole of London society. And I have made you bear the brunt of that anger.”

“You had every right to be distraught,” Anthony offers, relaxing his stance the smallest bit. “I never should have assumed that we were of the same mind concerning this engagement, concerning this marriage.”

“I can say the same, my lord,” Edwina admits, her cheeks turning pink in the afternoon sun. “Will you not sit? Please?”

Anthony hesitates for a moment before sitting next to her on the bench. There is a safe distance between them that neither seems eager to broach. 

“I am unused to being angry all of the time. I have never been one to hold a grudge,” Edwina says with little prompting. “So, I will forgive you, Lord Bridgerton, for your deceptions and your lies. I will forgive you for the hurt you have caused me. I will forgive you all of it because it is what I need.”

“And it is more than I deserve,” Anthony agrees, quickly. 

“And you must forgive me,” Edwina says, ignoring his small comment. “For how unpleasant I have been lately.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“You are too kind,” Edwina murmurs. Anthony can hear the subtle sarcasm laced through each word and it makes him smirk. If anything, Anthony finds, it’s been an experience learning just how impertinent the season’s Diamond can be. “May I be honest with you, my lord? Now that we have made amends?”

“Of course,” Anthony says, reaching across the bench towards her hand. She clutches the flowers tighter and he stops short, letting his hand fall to the bench instead. He licks his lips nervously, still finding himself caught off guard by her reactions to him. “Please, speak as freely as you want.”

“I feel as if I have been played for a fool,” Edwina admits. Anthony jerks, his hand curling into a fist against the bench. Naturally, there is a denial on the tip of his tongue, a reassurance, but she holds a hand up to stop him. “I know it was never your intent, my lord. There were voices of dissent that I chose to ignore. For the first time, I listened to my heart for guidance. I relied on my own judgment. If I was old enough to marry, then I was old enough to judge my suitors for myself.”

She pauses for a moment, pursing her lips in slight irritation. Anthony cannot tell if it is directed at him or at herself. 

“I thought I understood why you would go to such lengths to spend time with me,” Edwina continues, though her voice is softer. “I thought I understood the many dances and promenades and gifts. You did not say the words but you are no poet, correct? You are a man of action and every action you took seemed like the actions of a man in love. What else could it be but love? To my mind there could be no other reason but love.”

“Miss Edwina . . .”

“And yet you do not love me,” Edwina finishes. It’s not a question. She says it as calmly as if she is reporting on the weather. Anthony is sure that his surprise is clear on his face but she does not comment on it. “Since our initial . . . conversation I have thought over all of our interactions. Every moment we spent together. All of those times that I thought this must be love and something struck me, my lord.”

Anthony’s heart is pounding in his chest. He’s finding it hard to breathe and his mind cannot help but remember the feeling of Kate’s hands on his own, holding on to her chest and the other to his own. He revels in the memory, if only to try and keep himself calm. 

“I can see from your face that you have been struck by this notion as well, have you not?” Edwina asks, looking down at the blooms in her lap again. She lets out a slow, wet breath. Anthony is sure that there are tears in her eyes but she does not turn her face towards him, does not let him see. 

“Miss Edwina,” Anthony murmurs, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He wants to reassure her, to comfort her the way he would Eloise or Francesca but his words die in his throat. It’s not his place. It will never be his place. “I am unsure of what you are implying.”

“Please,” Edwina says, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She inhales deeply and looks him in the eye, sitting up straight. “I am tired of lies and secrets and misunderstandings. Are you not tired of it, as well? Can we not be honest with each other? Finally?”

“What do you want me to be honest about?” Anthony chokes out. He cannot make himself confess it. Not without her prodding, not without her wanting to open that Pandora’s box. 

Edwina lets out a humorless laugh, her tears finally spilling over. She fiddles with her fingers, sliding the betrothal ring from her hand. She rubs at her face, sniffing loudly before holding the ring out to him. “I cannot marry you, Lord Bridgerton. I have to look towards my future and what it is that I want. What it is that I deserve. What any person deserves. You must understand.”

Anthony feels himself deflate, shoulders drooping and a sad sort of understanding spreading across his face. The ring drops into his open palm as he mumbles softly, “I do. Of course, I do.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Edwina says softly. She pets the flowers one more time before looking up at Anthony with tear streaked cheeks and a fierce sort of determination. “Thank you for understanding just as I understand that you will never look at me the way that you look at my sister.”

Anthony’s mouth falls open in shock, his stomach fighting its way up the back of his throat. 

“Once I thought back, it was obvious,” she says with a smirk that seems more pained than amused. “You are not a subtle man, my lord. You are simply lucky that I was a blind fiance.”

“Miss Edwina, I do not - that is. I cannot . . . I am . . .”

“Please, do not worry yourself, my lord,” Edwina says, patting his fist on the bench with a soft hand. “Should you manage to win my sister’s hand, I will know that you have earned it. She will allow nothing less, you understand.”

“I do not . . . I do not understand,” Anthony mumbles, tilting his head in confusion.

“I believe you shall. In due time,” Edwina says with a sigh. She stands up and offers him a deep curtsy. Anthony’s deeply ingrained manners manage to take over and he’s quick to stand and offer her a deep bow in return. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton, for a most informative debut season.”

“I wish you every happiness, Miss Edwina,” Anthony replies with another nod of his head. Edwina offers him a bright but sad smile before she leaves him alone in the garden with his own thoughts and failures.

[hannigramficrecs]

Newly Added Fics 5/16

Hello everyone, sorry again for the slight hiatus! I’ve replied to all the messages in my inbox (at least the ones that were sent to me before this past friday), so if you asked me something before that, be sure to check out my replies!

As usual, I’ve emboldened the fics I really liked and italicized the ones that are incomplete.

Looks Like Love by luvkurai [words: 5,987] — (AU)

After his sister's wedding, Will kisses his childhood housekeeper (and first love).

Betrothed by slashyrogue [words: 3,932] — (AU)

In one month he would marry a total stranger.

Titan Arum by ProxyOne [words: 64,614] — (AU)

Will is a botanist, working in the greenhouse of the local Botanical Gardens. He is getting his life back on track after his divorce, but he can't help but notice someone who keeps coming back to his greenhouse to draw, day after day. A man who seems to have been paying very close attention to him...

Find Me In The Dark by Rising_Phoenix [words: 40,131] — (AU)

After a fateful accident, the marriage of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter has reached its end. Grief and the inability to stop them from falling apart has brought an irreconcilable distance between the formerly deeply devoted couple. While Hannibal is apathetic towards his husband, ignores him, and is withdrawn, Will has started an affair with fellow teacher Francis and drowns his desperation in more and more alcohol. 

Light of All Lights by whiskeyandspite [words: 20,377] — (AU)

Dracula-like fic without any of the vampires

The Stage Just For You by CarnivalMirai [words: 6,494] — (AU + Age Gap)

Will has landed himself the role of Odette for world-famous choreographer Hannibal Lecter's rendition of The Swan Lake.

There Will Be Bells by Entropyrose [words: 36,639] — (A/B/O)

In Georgian England, male omegas are very rare diamonds. Baron and Baroness Graham have a plan to build their wealth and social status by offering their son Will's hand in marriage to a mysterious older Duke, an Alpha named Lord Hannibal Lecter. Will's personal feelings need not apply.

Alpha Mart by slashyrogue [words: 63,164] — (A/B/O)

Will needs an alpha. After years of fake knots, half-assed suppressants, and his own damn hand during heats he’s reached the end of his rope. He doesn’t do dating so he decides to waste his life savings and hype with the current trend. Alpha Mart.

Enchanted By Your Name by CarnivalMirai [words: 9,207] — (A/B/O + PWP)

“Now, my husband would prefer it if I got the job done quickly.” He says, slashing down the back of each gag as he passes each man, watching as the silk falls gracefully to the floor. “However, I want to have some fun. Considering you’ve troubled my husband so much… it’s only fair, right?” One of the men whimpered fearfully. Or: The name "Will Graham" is a name you'll only ever hear once.

I've Been Building Black Ships by cloudsarefluffy [words: 8,116] — (A/B/O + AU)

Alpha Hannibal moves to the States with his sister Mischa after being overtly done with the fancy life of a count, and his blind omega neighbor gives him an insight into love that he never quite expected.

A Rare Find by hit_the_books [words: 5,379] — (A/B/O + AU)

Life as an omega bookseller can be quite lonely. However, as the owner of Graham’s Books, Will Graham is reasonably content. That is until he meets—long-time customer and crush—Doctor Hannibal Lecter in person for the first time. Attraction blossoming between them both, Will agrees to a dinner date with the good doctor.

We All Have a Hunger by 1ntothew1ld [words: 12,260] — (A/B/O + Age Gap)

Hannibal will ensure a properly slow and painful death for an alpha who allowed a beautiful young omega to go to waste as this one has. Too skinny for his own good, a stuttering and humble mess. The likes of the omega in front of him belonged at Opera houses and in million-dollar mansions, not scrounging for his next meal. Meek and afraid in some disheveled row house. When he finally looked back up the alpha had to conceal the utter punch to the stomach that meager glance was, blue eyes full of innocence but also hunger.

The Doctor Is In by Kummerspeck7 — (A/B/O + PWP)

Will nearly scoffed. "You can't expect me to believe you'd want anything other than a delicate flower to adorn your side, keep your ostentatious home, bare you the exact number of children you want--No more, no less-- all while being available at your whims." "Not at all." Hannibal disagreed. "I would no more put a wilting flower in my home than in a bouquet given as a gift. Tell me, Will, is that how you are treated? Forbidden from work, cloistered inside and used at Mr Brown's discretion?" "My Alpha's discretion." Hannibal looked pointedly at the curve of Will's neck, free from a single scar. "Not yet he isn't."

Teenage Wildlife by writtenbyizzy [words: 10,163] — (Age Gap + Sugar Daddy)

While reluctantly prowling Grindr for a sugar daddy to pay for his dog Bean's vet bills Will comes across Hannibal, and gets far more than he bargained for.

Just As Poised As I Remember by CarnivalMirai [words: 5,721] — (Age Gap + School)

When Will was in high school he had an incredibly handsome psychology teacher-- tall and sharp with a thick European accent. And now, a decade later, said psychology teacher-turned psychiatrist... just swiped right on him.

We Can Chase the Dark Together by K_R_Closson [words: 16,615] — (Fantasy)

Will tips him and Hannibal off the cliff. Instead of hitting the water, he wakes up in his bed, several years in the past. His first, and only, priority is to find Hannibal again.

We Killed a Dragon Last Night by inameitlater [words: 88,150] — (Fantasy)

Will remembers falling. He wakes up months before Jack got him to work for him. Months before he met Hannibal for the first time. Free from his past he decides to change events and meet Hannibal again.

My Only Constant Is You by TheSilverQueen [words: 25,369] — (Fantasy)

Hannibal Lecter is an immortal who can never die. Will Graham is a time traveler who can never stay in one place. Perhaps that is why they are perfect for each other.

Motinos Kalba by Lyla_Joy [words: 6,040] — (Fluff)

Five times Hannibal Lecter spoke Lithuanian on accident and one time he meant too.

You Make Me Feel (Good) by sourweather [words: 7,190] — (Fluff)

Will Graham has sensory issues. The world gets too loud, he gets overstimulated easily, but most of all he hates being touched. He never expected someone to work so hard to make him comfortable, to be so patient with him.

Pick Me Up by sourweather [words: 6,053] — (Fluff)

Will doesn't go to bars much. He doesn't end up needing a ride home much. But when he does get drunk, he always wants to ask Hannibal to pick him up.

Hard to Get by JSinister32 [words: 5,561] — (Jealousy)

Will and Hannibal had been broken up for six months. When confessions are made during a work function, can they find it within themselves to forgive?

Polar Opposites by Lyla_Joy [words: 19,513] — (Kidnapping)

“Says the cannibalistic serial killer who knocked me out and is now holding me hostage,” sassed Will. The Ripper didn’t smile but his eyes crinkled in the corner. “Please call me Hannibal.”

Fate Is A Keen-Eyed Hound by LydiaFearing [words: 5,890] — (Mischa)

Hannibal may be a successful, charming psychiatrist but Mischa worries that her brother is lonely so she gifts him a puppy. Hannibal reluctantly falls for his little dog but wants to get involved with time-consuming FBI work and not just anyone can be allowed to look after his pet. Luckily, Alana can recommend a boarding kennel in Wolf Trap.

The Significant Other: The Will and Hannibal Edition by house_of_lantis [words: 18,431] — (Murder Husbands)

After their terrible and abrupt break up, Will and Hannibal attempt to maneuver through their social circles, side step ongoing gossip, and deal with the fact that Will knows the truth of Hannibal. Through impossible odds, Will and Hannibal do find their way to each other again.

Dancing with the Beast by proser [words: 86,347] — (Murder Husbands)

In order to catch a mediocre serial killer, Will must pose as Hannibal's date for a series of pretentious social events. Hannibal is dramatic and jealous as ever, and Will is having a great time without the encephalitis. Of course, it's a love story.

Arriving at the Crossroads by HigherMagic [words: 7,558] — (Mpreg)

"You haven't been my psychiatrist for a long time," Will echoes. "But you've been my friend. You've helped me. With…" He gestures vaguely to his head. "When my brain was on fire. On consults. When it's dark and I need a guiding light." "It pleases me very greatly to be a source of comfort and reassurance for you, Will," Hannibal says. "I have wanted to be that for you, for a long time."

The Hanged Man by justhavesex [words: 13,076] — (Mpreg)

Will Graham had never wanted children before, but he had never considered it to be a consequence of his omegan brain not finding anyone worthy, but the moment he had met Hannibal Lecter he had been filled with want. In which a dinner party one-night stand results in a pregnancy that changes Will's entire life.

I Don't Even Like Lana Del Rey by perpetuallycaffeinated [words: 4,328] — (PWP)

The tension and low thrum of arousal were making Will speak impulsively. He knew this, but he’d just finished his drink. There was nothing he could use to stop the question, blunt and presumptuous and rude. “So, what, you’re my daddy?”

A Bad Combination In The Dark by perpetuallycaffeinated [words: 1,957] — (PWP)

When a nerve wracked Will Graham accidentally cuts his hand on Dr. Lecter's letter opener, things quickly get out of control.

The Best Bait by sourweather [words: 3,327] — (PWP)

Will is a good fisherman, he knows which bait to use for his catch. Will seduces Hannibal at a party by being sexy.

Whimsy by justheretoreadhannibalfics [words: 3,001] — (School)

Doctor Hannibal Lecter is standing in as a teacher while Professor Graham is out of town on a case. The students start to kind of like him, and become very invested in his love life.

Callipygian by ProxyOne [words: 2,260] — (Season 1)

Hannibal has a lot of sketches of Will, which he normally keeps safely away. One day though, Will shows up unexpectedly and Hannibal is caught unawares, and unprepared.

L'appel Du Vide by sourweather [words: 5,413] — (Season 1)

Will is hiding things from his coworkers. From himself. But Doctor Lecter knows.

Friends Don't Frame Friends: A Lesson for a Clueless Cannibal by LadyFelixTristis [words: 5,041] — (Season 1)

Ear? What ear? Will Graham doesn’t try to thwart Hannibal Lecter’s plans for him. He just does. By accident. And then on purpose.

For All My Pride, You Were the Fall of Me by nobetterlove [words: 13,212] — (Season 2)

After being released from the BSHCI, Will grabs the dogs he can't live without and leaves without a trace

Letters to God by CarnivalMirai [words: 4,698] — (Season 3+)

Will writes letters to Hannibal every day after his incarceration. But they never make it.

Blankets, Coffee Cups, and Christmas Morning by sourweather [words: 6,352] — (Season 3+)

Hannibal wants to enjoy the domesticity. The love, the closeness, the being Known. But something about his life with Will makes him want to lash out.

All These Fictionary Tales by ProxyOne [words: 18,492] — (Season 3+)

After the fall, Hannibal is presumed dead. Will has been declared dead. But Will isn't willing to believe that Hannibal would just abandon him like that 

Seduction by BloodunderMoonlight [words: 7,086] — (Season 3+)

“For fuck’s sake, Hannibal.” Will glared at him, brimming with wrath he had only seen behind Will’s gun. He had no doubt Will would draw out a knife from beneath the duvet or pillows, but clearly words were enough to make him gobsmacked—“Are you a fucking virgin or monk? If all these can’t get you to bed then I don’t know what can.” Hannibal stood gaping at Will.

Blood, Cedar and Dog Hair by sourweather [words: 3,351] — (Season 3+)

Something terrible happens while Hannibal is in prison. Something he never prepared for.

Hidden Potential by sourweather [words: 20,789] — (Soulmates)

The first time you make eye contact with your soul mate, you see a vision of their greatest accomplishment. They call it your Peak. Unfortunately for Will Graham, his soul mate's Peak is a vision of blood and horror. Fortunately for Hannibal Lecter, his soul mate's is too.

Karoliai by slashyrogue [words: 4,577] — (Sugar Daddy)

Will works at a jewelry store. He has worked there for three months and sold less than any other person there. His boss tells him to sell something by the end of the day or he may not have a job tomorrow. If there was one thing Will hated more than having to talk people into buying jewelry they didn’t need, it was trying to do it two days before Valentine’s Day.

[littlemisspascal]

Ezra’s Journal Entries #4-6

Fandom: Prospect / Pedro Pascal

Pairing: Ezra x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1,133

Summary:  I don’t deserve you, little love of mine. Not one damn piece of you.

Warnings: angsty fluff, night terrors, PTSD, Ezra dealing with the aftermath of the Green, language, 1st person POV (Ezra), dialogue in italics because that’s just how I chose to do it, overuse of space metaphors, no beta so all mistakes are mine

Author Note: As always, thank you readers for your support! All the love to each one of you! Hope you like these new segments 💖

Entries #1-3 #7-9

Cross-posted on AO3

Look for additional notes at the bottom.

I feel a little less torn after speaking with Cee, hearing her voice crackling across the radio regale me with details of her current studies at Cero Tol, the latest novel she’s devouring, the daytrip she made to Lao to collect shells for an art project—it reminds me there was a sliver of profound goodness to come out of my otherwise disastrous journey to the Green. She rambles and babbles and laughs at her tongue’s inability to keep up with all she has to share. Her soul has found exactly what it has always yearned for: a life of her own making.

For all that she lost on the Green, she has adapted to her new path and overcome every obstacle with the same bullheaded determination a helianthus possesses. Never losing sight of her goals just as the flower never loses sight of the sun. 

I must admit I’d been reluctant to split ways with her after our perilous escape from the Green—after all, nothing bonds people together faster than the collaboration of slicing off an arm and creaming the gaping wound shut, then immediately engaging in a bloody conflict with heavily armed mercs—but she deserved better than to live a floater’s life tainted by a lack of morals and the uncertainty of not knowing if she would survive from one sunrise to the next.

She deserved to live a life amongst her own peers. To rouse that spark of creativity her father tried to extinguish. To turn gold in all the ways I cannot. 

Sending her to school was worth every point and credit we managed to scrape together. Still, I remember how bittersweet it felt watching that little bird, ever so fearless in the face of sudden change, march right up the ramp of the freighter at the Pug, determined to make me and you proud by excelling at the academy. Standing amongst the sea of parents waving goodbye to their children, I wrapped my arm around your waist, rested my head atop yours, and forced myself to swallow a harsh pill of truth.

With or without me in her life, Cee is going to be just fine.

I remember how you swung our linked hands as we walked back to our ship, your sweet voice a soothing balm easing the ache of my melancholic heart. Ezra, she’s fierce and bold and strong. That little golden child is going to have her name written in the stars one day.

Kevva do I hope I live to see your vision come true.

First thing I remember noticing about you was your eyes. Remember how I caught you staring at me from across the bar? You looked at me like I was your North Star pointing you home, like I was something shiny and special. You scared the fuck out of me. It’s the worst thing I ever thought, but it’s true. I would have fled the scene if your gaze hadn’t anchored my soul. 

You introduced yourself, and I knew goodbye would never be a word exchanged between us. No, we became a pair of binary stars, constantly orbiting each other round and round, hello again and see you soon. Falling in love with you was inevitable. The Currents designed you perfect for me. Designed you with meteorite in your bones and sunlight on your lips and all the constellations sparkling in your eyes. There is no grander form of paradise than to feel you beneath my hand. There is no comparison. No second place contender. Just you, your tender heart, and the galaxies you contain. 

Sometimes, late at night when you’re asleep and my thoughts are too loud for my head, I stare at the ceiling and speculate about alternate verses. Verses starring another me and another you crisscrossing each other’s paths as we’re pulled across the galaxy by our heartstrings. Somewhere, there is another me who never escapes the ruthlessness of the Green and breathes my last with Inumon’s knife in my lungs. Another me who will never know the emotional and physical anguish that accompanies the loss of a limb. Another me who pulls the thrower’s trigger without hesitation, firing a shot between the wide eyes of an innocent girl. Another me who ignores the temptation of harvesting aurelac in hopes of making a reputable name for myself. 

Somewhere, there is another me who ran away from another you.

And it pains me to wonder if perhaps you’re happier never knowing me.

I speculate about those two most of all.

I woke up to screaming. My mind was a tangled mess, caught between the thin barriers separating reality from dreamscape, and I was truly convinced my head would explode from the noise. Inumon wouldn’t stop screaming no matter how hard I squeezed my fingers, no matter how much of my bulk I pressed down upon her. It’s me! She wailed like an animal in a trap, sensing impending doom but unable to flee from it. It’s me, it’s me, it’s me! Please, Ezra!

A thought crossed my mind, as sudden and blinding as a shooting star streaking through the midnight sky, and I found myself incapable of ignoring it. How does she know my name? I had cloaked my identity using a dead man’s name. It wasn’t feasible for her to know the truth or for the sound of my name coming out of her mouth to set my skin aflame. 

There aren’t words to describe the horror which consumed me when I looked down upon your tear-stained face. 

My mama once told me everybody’s a sinner. We have wickedness embedded in our cells from womb to tomb. It buries its roots deep, resistant to our attempts to rid ourselves of its corruption, and waits for the precise moment to inflict pain upon those we love most. Those who choose to love us despite the warning signs.

In the aftermath, when my fucking fingerprints were smudged across your throat blue and purple, you held me like I was a human and not a monster or a vexation or a broken thing to toss aside. I couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t stop my mind from conjuring a torturous loop of what ifs. 

What if I hadn’t stopped myself? What if you hadn’t broken the nightmare’s spell? What if your last word had been my name? 

Hush, you whispered. My tremors worsened upon hearing the raspy quality of your voice and you pressed your lips to my forehead. An undeserved benediction. I’m here. You haven’t lost me. 

I don’t deserve you, little love of mine. Not one damn piece of you. If I could I’d give you the whole galaxy, but I only have one hand and it terrifies me to risk letting you go. Forgive me, please, for asking you to stay with me.

Forgive me for how much I dearly love you.

Notes:

Cero Tol is a made up academy based on Cerro Tololo Inter-American Observatory located in Chile. 

Lao is an island planet(?) mentioned in Prospect. Damon tells Cee she was born there.

Helianthus is the genus for sunflowers. I liked the fanciness of it 🙂

Points were referenced in Prospect as a type of currency. Credits are a Star Wars form of currency that I thought would also be fitting to use.

Binary Stars =  a system of two stars in which one star revolves around the other or both revolve around a common center.

I like to think there are alternate realities or a multiverse. It’s fun to imagine all the different possibilities another me is experiencing. 

I don’t think I’ll ever understand why guns in Prospect are called throwers, but that’s what the creators decided so that’s the terminology I’ll use too.

Series Taglist: @insomniamamma

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan, @melobee, @randomness501, @captain-jebi, @artsymaddie, @happiestsparkleofall, @gallowsjoker, @vintagesaph, @sylphene, @chibi-yuki, @freeshavocadoooo, @stilllivindue2spite, @pointy-sharp, @leilei-draws, @over300books, @theocatkov, @oh-no-a-whovian, @you-and-i-deserve-the-world, @lin-djarin, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @coaaster, @waywardmando, @thisshipwillsail316, @grogusmum​, @asta-lily, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos, @absurdthirst, @disgruntledspacedad​, @read-and-rec​

[pfreadsandwrites]

Congrats on gaining 100 followers🎉🎉You deserve all of them and more! 🥳 I'm looking forward to everything you're planning to write in the future❤️ As for the prompts, would you please do #160 with Kakashi? Go wild with it 👁👁 Thank you and I wish the best for your blog❤️

100 follower celebration

Okay, here it is! I want to thank you specifically @madaras-housewife because you have been so amazing and supportive from the first fic I posted here and your encouragement has really helped this blog grow and made me write more. So thank you so much, and I’m sorry this took me forever to get out!! This was a bit of an unusual one so it took me a while to think about, and apologies if it’s not wild enough heh but I tried my best to develop it into something. But thank you for everything and I really hope you enjoy this :) I tried my best to go ‘out there’ and wild with it lol.  Also can I just say this mangacap is perfect for the last part of this one-shot lol. 

warnings/notes: third person, Kakashi pov, female civilian reader (she works at the hospital but plz don’t ask for details beyond that lol), pining Kakashi, kinda fluffy, then kinda sad, then kinda hopeful, marking this as 18+ since there is a paragraph that is brief NSFW mentions, in my mind this takes place between the time skip between part 1 and part 2 but it doesn’t really matter. Told in 4 small vignettes/parts essentially. 2.7k words.

taglist: @allthingskakashi @datblobbyfish @enchantedpendant @madaras-housewife @ibukiirisha @praisingkuroosbedhead @cinam00n @feelingsandemotionsnotexplored

160. “Do you think you could teach me that?”

i.

It’s a simple question.

Of course, it’s also a pointless question, one that Kakashi’s sure she’ll see through, one that he shouldn’t even think about asking.

Of course, he’s in the hospital again. Of course, she’s the one with the misfortune of tending to him again. Of course, he’s mesmerised while her hands dutifully wrap the tourniquet around his arm, like she’s cutting off the blood to his brain.

So, of course, he asks it without thinking.

The self-admonishment starts before the words finish leaving his mouth.

Do you think you could teach me that?

His cheeks heat up as the words catch up with him. They echo again and again, serving only to jeer at him further. What the hell is he thinking, making a request like that? A request that’s so nonsensical, so outlandish, so flimsily shrouding its true intent that she’d be justified in ridiculing him right there.

But it’s done now. Here he is, asking a bizarre favour of a civilian woman already doing him a favour.

Kakashi’d be content if the ground gives away underneath him, snatching him from this damn hospital bed. When he ponders the situation further, and he finds himself contemplating her reaction - no doubt a bewildered, adorable expression would grace her beautiful features (God, how much deeper could he get?) - he almost wants to slap himself. How did he go from the Copy Ninja, Konoha’s best jounin, to an awkward dork so swiftly and smoothly? Not only that, but she hadn’t even said anything yet. Kakashi wanted to die.

Fortunately, she only pauses. Unfortunately, her delicate fingers still against his skin, and the sensation flusters and soothes him simultaneously. But it’s only for a moment, before she diligently returns to the task at hand. Even if she’s surprised, or worse, amused, she knows to conceal it. Taking his question seriously in that earnest way that only she can. It should have eased his mind, but instead there’s only guilt at having perplexed her.

“…You want to learn this? Don’t you have enough on your plate?” She asks, bereft of judgement or ridicule.

He shouldn’t have expected any less, he knows that, and yet he still finds himself on the edge. On that precipice between anxiety and comfort, where he’s always standing around her. He can’t even formulate a response to her simple question. Yes - he probably did have enough to do. And yes, he wouldn’t have got this far without some knowledge of first aid and basic medical ninjutsu - and she probably knew that too.

“I could probably manage. It’s not a problem if you don’t have the time.” As typical as it is for him to answer a question without explaining himself further, he berates himself for it this time. Why had he made this so convoluted? And why does she let him?

“I could probably make time,” she retorts, though her voice remains gentle. “I just didn’t think there’d be anything useful you could learn from me, or that you didn’t already know.”

Nothing useful you could learn from me, or that you didn’t already know.

This time, her words echo in his mind. They’re just as kind and nudging as he thought they would be. But that didn’t mean they were any less ridiculous.

Apparently, there’s nothing he can learn from her. Nothing she can teach him.

Nothing he can learn from the woman who always smiles so brightly and indiscriminately at anyone who graced her that it renders them all equal - turning everyone from the grumpy old curmudgeon to the innocent newborn to cheerful, optimistic entities at her mercy. Nothing he can learn from her inability to use her mysterious power for anything but good, to see the value in everyone, in him, against all better judgement.

Nothing he can learn from her selflessness, and her weird knack for chiding herself for her momentary lapses in kindness, for things others don’t think twice about. Nothing he can learn from her patience and empathy in the most ridiculous situations, and her faltering in it when she draws the attention inwards.

Nothing he could learn from the woman who’s determination to revel in life, even as the opposite surrounded her, surrounded him, surrounded everyone in this cursed village, managed to bring even the heavy weight of death to its knees. Nothing he could learn from the woman who didn’t even seem fazed by it, as she tended to the hospital’s neonates with a giggle and a zest for life that he barely comprehends, much less hopes to emulate.

If - he surprises himself at his optimism, but he owes it to her - he’s incapable of learning nothing from all that, then there isn’t much hope for him at all. And if there’s one thing she inspires, if he can even pick one, it’s hope.

Kakashi eventually stops ruminating. And of course, she lets him. A wry smile forms on his lips. “I wouldn’t say that.”

She glances back at him expectantly. Curiously.

“I think there’s a lot you could teach me, you know.”

She’s already taught him without intending to, he remembers, when she doesn’t press him for an explanation. She only smiles that shy, powerful smile.

But they both know it’s acknowledgement. Of what he’s trying to say, of what he’s asking her in his awkward, haphazard way. Kind as she is, even if she shouldn’t be, she agrees.

***

ii.

And so, ever the one to keep her promise, she sets about teaching him. And Kakashi, ever the one to falter, but never one to abandon, keeps coming back. He’s a quick learner in more ways he thought.

She teaches him that finding something to smile about in the day is easier than it seems.

She teaches him to laugh when he drops by the hospital to see her and a very small patient points at his hair and berates him from escaping from the geriatric ward.

She teaches him allowance for his mistakes, and respite for his suffering.

She teaches him what a fool he’s been for denying himself an embrace all these years.

She teaches him that a kiss might be more eternal, more damning, more fate-consigning that it has any right to be.

She doesn’t have to teach him just how intoxicating, addictive it is to kiss her between the legs. She doesn’t have to teach him just where and how to move his tongue before she’s tugging at that wild silver hair of his. And when he moves in her, when she clutches onto him for dear life, whispering his name in that weak, but lingering whimper, when their breaths mingle together and she manages to exalt everything from him - his love, his strength, his seed - she doesn’t have to teach him that though the price of vulnerability is high, the reward is even higher.

She teaches him, when he dares ask what he sees in a man like her, that there’s an answer to that question that satisfies him.

She teaches him that whilst leaving for a mission used to be easy, it might one day become difficult - even for him, the one who has over a thousand under his belt, the one who only has that many because he wished one would kill him. She teaches him to admit that, too.

And when it does become difficult, just as she taught, he learns that a person waiting back home is much more motivating than a death wish could ever be.

She teaches him to forgive himself, as she begins to accompany him on his graveside visits. She teaches him that there’s a chance - a small chance, Kakashi admits, but a chance nonetheless - that there’s more for his life than living it as a penance to ghosts.

She teaches him that dreaming isn’t just for the young, the idealistic, the good. It’s for the hurt, tired veteran too.

She teaches him that hearing those three words aren’t as terrifying as he’d convinced himself all these years.

He learns, when he finally returns them, that he should have said it back long ago. Because it was all worth it just for that look on her face.

***

iii.

Their time together, dreamlike as it is, is always interrupted.

She’s used to it, calmly nodding in his direction at the summoning bird that’s taken to pecking at her window now too. He nods in kind, and with a quick kiss, he’s off on his next mission. She’s always accepting, always understanding, but the patient stare that bores into his back as he leaps off towards the gravestone (an eternal part of the farewell ritual) belies her anxiety.

Still, Kakashi does make it back. And he does again and again. Sometimes his returns are at the hospital - and that expression of hers, where she doesn’t know whether to chide him for his injury or cry that he’s still in one piece - fills him with equal parts guilt and encouragement.

She still never loses that smile, though. The smile that everyone knows.

He has to leave it behind again.

He makes it back. Without a scratch, for once, but figures he might surprise her at the hospital anyway. Strange. He used to be so good at avoiding this place, and now it’s the first place he comes to of his own accord. It’s just another way he’s lost against her, but he doesn’t begrudge it. Maybe he wants some praise for being more careful, but he won’t admit that outright. Maybe he’s getting worse and worse at waiting for that smile, too.

His optimism is never rewarded. He’s been through enough to remember that, but he’s still foolish enough to forget.

It feels different, today, walking through the corridors that she’s made so inexplicably light, so jovial. She easily leaves her mark without trying, to the awe of shinobi and civilians alike.

So when the atmosphere is dense, experience teaches him to dread it. He asks at the front desk, forgetting his tendency to hide all he can about his personal life. The woman stares up at him with wide eyes, hesitating before regaining her composure.

“(Name) isn’t working at the moment. She’s in room 175.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but it wouldn’t matter if she had. The familiar dread creeps up through his bones.

He’s prepared himself for the worst by the time he’s at her room, but it’s moot when he sees her lying there. She’s lost all her colour, she’s thinner - everything about her that’d remembered these few weeks had become so weak. Her vivacity, her will to endure, had even fooled him. But she was just as fragile as anyone else. Except for him. Why the fuck couldn’t he break, instead of someone else, instead of something that meant anything just this one fucking time?

He sits at her bedside, his calloused fingers touching her dainty ones. She’s only sleeping, at least. Purple and blue spread like constellations over her skin, bandages on her arms and cheeks - the kind of injuries he’d expect on a ninja. Of a ninja too. Thoughts upon thoughts flood his mind - how the hell did this happen? Who did this to her? If she’s not safe in the damn village that he fought to protect, where the hell could she be safe?

And, of course, the curse that he’s done so well to forget he has. Did this happen, somehow, because against all judgement, he had let himself become close to her? It makes sense that he’d only be able to fool himself to a point.

And, of course, as if to shush his self-loathing and anxiety, in that fucking selfless way she always did, that broke his heart even more - her fingers move against his.

She blinks her eyes open slowly and turns her gaze to him. She doesn’t have the energy to smile, but she tries to mimic it in the look in her eyes.

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

He clasps her hand tight - and lets go just as quickly when she winces. “What the hell happened, (Name)?”

She softens her gaze. “It’s funny that I’m the one that ended up like this, when you’re the one that went out on a mission.” Her tone is light, but somehow the hum of her voice brings gravity, whether she wants it to or not.

She won’t answer his question. As if she feels guilty that she’s putting him through something, which only hurts all the more. And Kakashi knows that insisting too strongly is too unfair, too cruel when she seems so tired, no matter how much his blood boils.

There was an attack, he figures that much, and he overhears more from a nurse. A drunk jounin who’d come across her on his way home.

It’s dealt with swiftly, with the speed and efficiency Kakashi prides himself on, but it isn’t enough. He can’t forgive himself, even if she does.

She recovers soon enough, but only to a point.

Her smile is gone. The openness she’d inspire in everyone around her, the joy she’d invite - it dwindles down to nothing. It’s all too much, too familiar, a sad story he’s seen up and close too many times.

Any smile she makes now is a facsimile, a ghost of anything she could have offered previously. But her kindness still forces her to attempt it, no matter how much it hurts, when Kakashi looks at her.

As impressive as her will is, it’s only finite. He berates himself as she breaks one night, and sobs into his chest.

But she doesn’t do it again.

She doesn’t seem to do much of anything anymore.

He has another mission.

***

iv.

Kakashi’s at the training grounds again. He’s here a lot these days. When there isn’t a mission, he’s got into the habit of putting his body through the wringer. It’s what he deserves, at the very least. Besides, he has a lot more free time than he used to. As the raindrops mix with his sweat, his lightning style blends just as seamlessly with the sky.

“Do you think you could teach me that?”

The voice is familiar. Gentle, just like it used to be. Shakier than it used to be, but there’s a faint hint of the quiet resolve he used to hear, that he was foolish enough to take for granted.

He pauses. The chakra he’d gathered in his hands dissipates, and he turns around. He’s no amateur, he knew he wasn’t alone. But he could tell his little observer wasn’t there to pose a threat, either. She watches him with her wide eyes, the wide eyes that historically and even now freeze him in place. She was never one to marvel at his ninjutsu before, only acquiescing or being impressed where appropriate, - and that’s not quite what she’s doing now, either.

“Well -,” she holds her right arm with her left. It’s a normal gesture. One that would have endeared him, but only makes his heart sink now. Suddenly it’s difficult to watch her doubt herself. “Not that exactly. I don’t even want to do that even if I could. But anything you can teach me. It doesn’t have to be a lot. I think I’d be fine with a little. It’d be enough to feel better. If you don’t have too much on your plate.”

He’s watching her now, studying that expression in her eyes. Where she’s determined and defiant, even in that modest way. He believes her - she doesn’t want to learn a lot. She doesn’t want to be too much like him. But she’s allowing herself to learn from him. She’s letting herself take, not just give.

“Alright. Tomorrow, then. But let’s get you home first. It’s late, raining…,” his voice trails off, brushing off the rain from his hair sheepishly. “And I could use a break.”

She begins to smile that shy, powerful smile again. It’s sincere, and her ability to infect others with it seems to have returned. “That’s fine by me. I hear you’ve been overdoing it lately."

Kakashi finds himself grinning back.

Do you think you could teach me that?

It’s a simple question.

[spicycreativity]

Intertwined - Chapter 1

Rating: Teen

Content Warnings: It's a hanahaki fic, so. Mild body horror, blood, respiratory illness. (Starts at Ch 3 and gets worse from there).

Characters: All

Pairing: Moceit

Additional Notes: This one was supposed to be Darker and Longer, but turns out I'm not in the headspace to write angst atm, so it ends up moving p fast. Swaps between Janus and Patton's POVs. Post-PoF, light angst. Not whump. They both get hanahaki, but there is absolutely no version of Moceit in my mind where Janus isn't the one who falls first. My AO3 username is WizatdGlick.

Summary: The story of how Janus and Patton find each other at rock bottom and fall in love anyway.

A gentle knock on Janus' door drew him out of his thoughts. He donned a mask of triumph as he rose to open it, straightening his hat as he went. It couldn't be Remus; Remus never knocked so softly, which meant that Janus had to perform. He slid into the role with difficulty, struggling to find the edges of this gloating persona when all he felt was numb and tired and lost.

It was Patton at the door, and Janus felt everything slip, and Patton's eyes lit up with recognition, and all of Janus' resolve fell away in the face of that beseeching gaze.

"Come for another debate?" Janus asked in a low voice, making no effort to hide his ironical smile.

Patton smiled too, though he dropped it a moment too soon. Janus got the distinct impression that Patton was also far too wrung-out to put on any kind of act tonight. "Just came to check on you."

It would be as natural as breathing for Janus to draw back, place his fingertips delicately to his chest, widen his eyes. ' Check on me?' he would say, all faux-innocence, ' Please, Patton, I'm not a child. I don't need your pity.'

But he didn't.

Here was Patton, reaching out, and hadn't that been what Janus had wanted all along? That tiny, fervent flame that he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge, that smallest ember of hope that someone might just give him what he was convinced he had to take.

The seconds stretched out until the silence verged on awkward, and Janus' pride stood up to do what his cunning would not: "I'm fine." He was fine, strangely. Not happy, as he perhaps should have been, but nothing hurt.

Patton's brow furrowed. "Am I supposed to believe that?" he asked gently.

Something warm and soft and dangerous bloomed in Janus' chest at Patton's look of confusion. He had freckles on his nose, scattered like spilled cinnamon: a trait assigned by Thomas’ subconscious. "Patton," Janus said, flicking his gaze upwards to meet Patton's eyes. "Would you like to come in?"

"To your room ?" Patton asked, eyes widening. He looked past Janus' shoulder and Janus fought not to move and block Patton's gaze with his body. He had just invited Patton in; there was no point getting shy now. "Won't that, y'know, do something to me?"

"It's just a matter of self-control," Janus said, hoping to get a smile out of Patton.

Sure enough, Patton did smile. "What color is my shirt?"

Janus said, "True blue," and stepped backwards to let Patton in.

It was a risk to bring someone into his room like this, but he felt unusually clear-headed tonight, calm and strangely secure despite the fact he had just let a known enemy past his defenses, and despite the exhaustion that made every breath feel heavy.

"Warm in here," Patton remarked, looking around.

Janus motioned him over to a set of armchairs. To be seen was to be judged, and he wasn't sure what he would do if Patton found him lacking again . "I have a question for you, Patton."

In the low light, the tear tracks on Patton's cheeks glimmered when he tilted his head inquisitively. "You do?"

Janus nodded, slow and calculated. He was sure he already knew the answer to the question, and preemptive anger bubbled thick and hot in his veins. "Who," he said, unable to keep from glaring, "came to check on you?"

"Well," said Patton, "Ah… They don't-- Everyone's upset right now--"

"And you're not?" Janus demanded. "And don't you dare tell me that you're fine." His emotions were running too hot; he needed to check himself, but seeing Patton make excuses filled him with a passion he'd only ever felt on Thomas' behalf.

"I am--"

"Don't."

"But I have to be," Patton whispered. "I can't-- I know they told me… They said it was okay for me to be sad, but--"

"If you fall apart, there's no one there to pick up the pieces," Janus guessed. "Sure, you can be sad, as long as it doesn't interfere with your role."

"Don't be mad at them," Patton pleaded, and Janus realized with a jolt that he would get into no one's good graces by slinging around insults.

"It's just hard," Janus said plainly, only half-noticing the words coming out of his mouth. He had just become aware of a keen and sickening new desire, borne on the back of a newfound respect for Patton that he had even lasted this long without having some sort of spectacular breakdown. Janus' whole chest ached with it, that and the equally sickening knowledge that he had just become horrifically vulnerable, that he had fallen under a spell he could never hope to break.

He saw it in his mind's eye: he saw himself stand and lean over, take Patton's jaw in his hands, kiss him long and deep and slow. He saw himself lay his body and soul bare before Patton, getting on his knees to forgive Patton all his perceived flaws. He meant well, after all. He only ever meant well, and it wasn't really his fault that those good intentions were capable of morphing into a cruel and deadly weapon.

But he would plunge that weapon straight into Janus' heart before their lips could ever even meet. Janus could see it now, Patton pulling away in confusion and disgust. His tenuous patience would give out then and there, and Janus would have no hope of acceptance ever again. Same for Remus, probably. They would remain Dark Sides forever, damned to be eternal outcasts. All thanks to Janus' pathetic inability to control himself.

"Why do you care so much about…" Patton hesitated for a moment and gave a shallow sigh. "Well, about me?"

And now Janus found himself walking a chasm’s edge. His instinct was to lean hard into the opposite of the truth and insult Patton so deeply that he left and never came back. Eliminate the threat. But that wasn't an option now of all times. No, he had to maintain a friendship with Patton, somehow. He had to keep himself under control. How fun. "You're a part of Thomas," Janus said. He paused.

"So are the others."

"You've earned my respect."

"Oh," said Patton. "Wow, um. Gosh, that's…" His lower lip trembled. "I should go," he said in a broken voice.

Janus surveyed him in silent agony, teetering on the precipice of a lie. With a monumental effort, he pulled himself away from it and opened his arms. "Come here."

The floodgates opened. Patton fell into Janus' lap, already sobbing. Janus held him, all his muscles stiff and awkward. He was much smaller in the mindscape than he was in Thomas’ eyes and it was difficult to support Patton’s much larger frame. A sharp pain flared in Janus’ collarbone where Patton had buried his forehead and his tears were already starting to seep through Janus' clothes. He cringed at himself and the absurdity of the situation, wishing he had some way to make it better. He should have had words for this, all the right words to soothe away Patton's worries and set him right again. But he was so tired.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Patton said through shuddering sobs that dug his forehead harder into Janus' clavicle.

"It's okay," Janus said, concentrating hard on keeping the effects of his room at bay.

"Are you--" Patton sniffled " --sure you're okay?"

A rush of affection melted Janus' heart and he sighed and held Patton closer despite the shooting pain in his collarbone and the ache in his arms. Even in the midst of a post-breakdown breakdown, Patton was self-sacrificing (self- destructive) enough to check in on him. "You don't have a selfish bone in your body, do you?" Janus sighed, lamenting Patton’s bleeding heart. For some reason, this only made Patton cry harder. Janus cast his mind back to the last time Remus was this upset, found nothing, had to speculate. He and Remus and Virgil were self-sufficient, secretive. When it came to personal crises, they weathered them alone and bore the aftermath in stoicism. "Do you want me to play with your hair?"

"I don't know," Patton sobbed into Janus' chest.

Janus sighed and began to run his fingers through Patton's honey-colored hair, grateful that the thick material of his gloves kept their skin from touching. It was better this way, and a good reminder for Janus. He guarded his heart so closely for a reason.

 

Janus, despite the discomfort from the awkward weight distribution and the clammy feeling of cooled tears on his shirt, was half-asleep in the chair by the time Patton stopped crying.

"Sorry," Patton said, pulling away, and even with snot and tears all over his flushed cheeks, even with his eyes all red and puffy behind his fogged-up glasses and his hair standing up at strange diagonals from Janus' attempts at comfort, he was radiant.

"For having feelings?" Janus asked, gently imaging himself into a new, dry shirt.

"For making them your problem." Patton took his glasses off and began to polish them on the hem of his own shirt.

"Patton, I need you to know this." Janus waited until Patton looked at him before continuing, "I owe you nothing. If I had wanted you to leave, I would have asked you to leave and thought nothing of it."

Patton nodded and went back to polishing his glasses. They were silent for a long moment, during which Janus found himself unable to suppress a series of yawns. It must have been around 4:00 in the morning by this point. They had to have been the only ones awake.

"Hey, Janus," Patton said, finally putting his glasses back on. "You know The Breakfast Club?"

"Yes," Janus said distractedly, trying to figure out where Patton was going with this.

"This wasn't our version of that, was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"When tomorrow comes and we're back to, to some sort of normal… You'll still be my friend, right?"

Now here was a situation Janus had never once envisioned for himself. He had pictured winning over Roman, had pictured gaining Thomas' support. Never once had he expected real friendship with any of them, let alone Patton. "Yes," he said, feeling sick at the irony of it. He had been comfortable as Patton's enemy, was now yearning for his kiss… How could he be friends with Patton when he burned like this for Patton's wholehearted affection? Was he really just supposed to endure it?

Patton smiled, so sweet and earnest that Janus had to bite down on his tongue. "Good," he said. "Speaking of, do you wanna have breakfast with me?"

"Not right now, I hope," Janus teased.

"No, no, not right now." Patton muffled a yawn into his sleeve. "I guess I'd better go."

Janus nodded. "See you in the morning?"

"Um," said Patton, who didn't appear to have been listening. "Thank you, Janus. You didn't have to-- Well, thank you."

He sank out without another word.

Janus imagined himself into his pajamas, imagined the lights off and threw himself onto his bed. "Fuck."

 

--

 

Frigid air seeped from the hallway seeped under the crack where Janus' door stopped just short of the carpet. He didn't allow himself to notice, and continued to put his outfit on piece by agonizing piece. The cold air made his joints slow and achy, and he struggled to get the clasps done up. It was just as well that he hadn't put on his gloves yet. He had become quite adept at handling things while wearing them, but for this task, the bulky fabric would only get in the way. After all, just like his singular snake fang, his gloves were for aesthetics, not function.

Finally, he donned his hat and faced the door, forced to confront that fatal truth: He could never have what he wanted. The moment he had achieved his goal of Thomas’ acceptance, the triumph had slipped away in his hands to be replaced with a truly unattainable goal.

Memories from last night, the phantom sensation of Patton in his arms, teased him until he had to sneer at himself. Pathetic. He was acting pathetic. Falling for Patton was strategically inadvisable, even if he couldn’t help it, but actively pursuing him was out of the question. It was all-risk, no reward. Still, his treacherous heart fluttered, teasing him with the thought of Patton’s lips on his own, Patton’s hands on his body, sharing heat, deepening the kiss--

“All risk,” Janus said out loud to himself, “no reward.” A mantra to see him through. He opened his door, his gloved hand slipping a little on the polished brass of his doorknob, and nearly walked straight into Remus as he passed by with an armful of dismembered dolls.

“Well,” said Janus, tilting his head to better examine the pile of plastic limbs and bodies in Remus’ arms, “I won’t ask what you’re up to.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand, visualizing a piping hot cup of coffee. A shudder wrecked his concentration and he frowned. “Are you the reason it’s so cold in here?”

Remus ignored the question, his feverish eyes darting from Janus’ mouth to his hand to his face. “I knew you were up late last night. That’s why I came this way.” He gave a crooked but strangely boyish grin. “I wanted to know where you’d gotten off to. Or who you’d gotten off with. ”

Janus, to his horror, blushed. Fragmented images flashed through his head-- What if he had kissed Patton? And Patton had kissed back? Mask, mask, mask! “I was spreading the Gospel.”

“You were spreading something , though, weren’t you?” Remus shifted the dolls in his arms and held up a masculine torso. “I know I heard Big Daddy’s voice. Play a little game of Patton- Snake , did you?”

Janus swore he could hear porcelain cracking as his heart began to race. “In all seriousness, Remus, we did reach an agreement.”

“Sounds like you reached more than that.” Remus waggled his tongue.

God, he was relentless when he was on the scent of something. Janus hid his face behind his hands, realizing a moment too late that this display of shame would only add fuel to the fire. So he took the only option left and muttered, “Boundaries,” into his palms.

“Oh,” said Remus, leaning back on his heels. “ Oh. Janus, you didn’t .”

“Of course we didn't!” Janus hissed, dropping his hands.

"But you wanted to?"

“How much did you hear yesterday, anyway?”

“Oh, I heard the whole debacle, including that heartwarming little moment at the end,” Remus said, rocking forward onto his toes. “Thanks for putting in a good word for me, by the way.”

They fell into an awkward silence as Janus once again reached for words that simply weren’t there. “I didn’t mean it,” he said finally, cursing himself.

“No?” said Remus. “Not even a teeny tiny little bit?” He poked Janus in the chest with the plastic torso, still clenched in his left hand. “Right here?”

“You,” said Janus, “are just as evil as I am.”

Remus backed off with a grin, leaving Janus in doubt that he had ever even been angry in the first place. “So where are you off to now? Roman’s got this place awfully cold; gonna go warm Patton’s snake?”

“You already made a ‘Patton snake’ joke,” Janus said, slamming another mask onto his face to hide his blush. “But to answer your question, he asked me to join him for breakfast.”

“Aww.” Remus wiped fake tears from his cheeks. “You better not start spending too much time with him or I’m going to get jealous.”

[falling-pages]

TurnTables: TamaKyo

I wrote my first smut piece!! And it’s about my otp, naturally. But I’ve been writing so much fluff for Tamakyo recently that I really wanted to try something new with them. 

We all know Kyoya is absolutely a dom and Tamaki is a softie, but what if they swapped? What if Tamaki became a dominating beast instead?

WARNING: LEMONS. SMUT. LEMONS AND SMUT. SO MUCH SMUT.

-

-

-

“I’ll see about the shipment. The supplies should already be there, Mr. Tanaka,” Kyoya said into the phone, balancing it between his jaw and shoulder. He scrolled down the computer screen with one hand and wrote notes on a pad with the other, pausing to scratch the last of the ink out.

“No, no, don’t worry, I’m sure there was a misunderstanding.” He silently cursed as he grappled for another pen, the disorganization of his desk finally biting him back. He found one, seized it, and scribbled out a circle to force the ink to flow. “Yes. I assure you I will handle it. There is nothing wrong with your order.”

He focused on the computer, studying the graphics as the man on the other end rattled on. Ahead of him he saw his office door open, and Tamaki walked in, though without his usual bounce.

“That is the Ootori expectation, Mr. Tanaka,” he continued, shaking his head pointedly as Tamaki closed the door. He didn’t have time for the blond’s usual shenanigans. He was on the verge of losing a major business partner.

“Kyoya?” Tamaki mumbled.

Kyoya covered the mouthpiece of the phone, glaring at him. “Not now, Tamaki.”

He went back to the conversation, not noticing how Tamaki locked the door behind him. 

Kyoya prattled on, laying on flattery like butter, as Tamaki walked closer, his footsteps even and quiet. It was unusual, especially for a man so loud and...bouncy...as Tamaki normally was. But then again, that devious gleam in his eyes was unusual, too.

Tamaki snuck behind his fiance, running his hands roughly over his shoulders. Kyoya was too busy for his own good. Too busy for Tamaki’s good.

“I will personally call with an update tom--AH!”

Kyoya gasped as Tamaki sunk his teeth into his neck, not deep enough to hurt but enough to awaken some tension below his belt. He stiffened, feeling warmth pool in his stomach, but shoved the other man away. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Tanaka, my cat--”

He bit back a cry as Tamaki did it again, instinctively raising his hand to swat the blond away with a vengeance. Tamaki did nothing to suppress the moan gathering in his throat, and he let it loose with accompanying kisses to the bite marks. Deep, red teeth marks right on the side of the neck. Not easily hidden. Kyoya would hate him for that, but Tamaki didn’t care.

That was the only way to get his attention.

“Mr. Tanaka, I will have to call you back later, please forgive my interruption.”

Kyoya slammed his phone down and whipped his chair to face Tamaki, instantly incensed. 

“What the HELL was that?”

“You haven’t been paying attention to me,” Tamaki said, narrowing his eyes on his victim. 

“Tamaki,” Kyoya said, struggling to keep from shouting, “that was a very important client, and I might have lost him because of your inability to control yourself! How many times do I have to tell you to WAIT until I am FINISHED--”

“That’s all I do with our sex life!” Tamaki roused in response. “All I do is WAIT until you’re FINISHED with work, wait until three or four a.m., wait until you finally have enough time to sleep, wait until you decide it is convenient to love me.” He crouched in and settled his hands on the desk either side of Kyoya, trapping him and forcing his attention. “I’ve been a good little fiance, waiting my turn. But not tonight. Not right now.”

There was a primal, guttural tone lurking in his voice, something so different from his unrefined colloquialisms that it took Kyoya by surprise. He let his guard down, not used to being spoken that way, not by anyone--and certainly not by Tamaki.

“How have I not--”

“You haven’t shown me affection in weeks,” Tamaki said, lowering his eyelids to Kyoya’s lap.

Kyoya’s cheeks burned, but he took the opportunity to stand up and duck away from Tamaki’s advances. “What do you mean? I kiss you every morning before I go to work.”

A snarl burst from Tamaki’s throat. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He straightened up and stalked towards his fiance like a predator towards prey. And with that rare dominant stance he took, Kyoya was feeling more like the hunted rather than the hunter he normally was. “I mean,” Tamaki continued, “the lust, the desire, the itching in my hands to pin you down until you whine my name and can’t remember your own.”

Kyoya’s blood turned hot, and though he was slightly concerned about the feral streak in Tamaki’s eyes, he felt that hot blood go directly to his dick.

“You’ve let Daddy go too long without satisfaction,” Tamaki purred, finally reaching him. Kyoya backed up until he hit the wall, and Tamaki stepped forward until he was pinned there, in between hard oak and an even harder blond. “I’ve gotten off to memories of you in the last few days, but you are right here, and it wasn’t enough, not enough, it wasn’t really your skin or your cock or your smell--”

He leaned in and sniffed near Kyoya’s jugular, softly taking in the skin between his teeth. Kyoya whined, not proud of how his fiance had just humiliated him, but damn if he didn’t miss his body just as much.

“The only thing that truly satisfies me,” Tamaki resumed, grabbing Kyoya’s chin and studying his lips, “is you. Only you. In the flesh.”

They kissed, and Kyoya felt the hot desperation in Tamaki’s tongue, felt the need and the want and the waiting. Tamaki, too, felt the heir pull him closer in an almost involuntary reaction.

“Your body needs me,” Tamaki hummed. “You can say you’re so busy--” he slipped his hands into his lover’s pants, gliding his fingers over the evidence, “but your body doesn’t lie. It wants  me.”

Kyoya hissed, embarrassed at how easily Tamaki could turn on a dime from a happy submissive to an angry dom. It wasn’t often that he did, but he enjoyed it. It was nice to be told what to do sometimes. Kyoya was a foal not easily broken, but here he almost had no choice, like Tamaki was a wild animal snatching what he wanted and tearing it away. Not that it was a bad thing. And he certainly did not mind losing control once in a while…

“See?” Tamaki smirked and withdrew his hand, his point clearly made.

He kissed him again, and this time the men shuffled to the couch in the corner of the office, thinking in one mind and consisting of one thought alone. Kyoya fell first, his back pushed into the leather by his lover, who hovered on top of him. Kyoya had to admit, through foggy eyes, that Tamaki did look absolutely beautiful on top of him, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, pinning his wrists on either side of his head.

“You want me, don’t you?” Tamaki whispered, drawing sloppy kisses up Kyoya’s neck.

Kyoya squirmed, feeling pleasure bloom at the new position. “I--I do. I want you.” He bristled against his pride.

Tamaki smirked as he begged, rewarding him with a long kiss before fully settling his weight on top. “It’s a good thing I want you, too,” he said. He shoved his hand down Kyoya’s pants and found his shaft, stroking it. “And whatever Daddy wants, Daddy gets.”  

[imaginedhaven]

Rules of Engagement: Chapter Nine

Link to Masterpost

Got this one out for you as quickly as I could, y’all! Hope you enjoy.

~*~*~

The Vaults were everything a princess such as Aelin should avoid. The building was tucked away in the heart of Rifthold’s slums, dim and positively reeking of subpar ale and human sweat among other, far worse scents, and shady deals were being struck in practically every corner available. Small nooks with ragged curtains housed women and men selling their company for the night, and a large unmarked pit was in the center of the main room. The two cutthroats brawling in the center of it made its purpose clear enough.

Rowan truly wished she had allowed him to venture here alone, but he supposed that would rather ruin the point of their visit.

Aelin wandered back over to him, hips swaying in a confident swagger as she carried a mug of ale in each hand. “You could try to look less like an outsider, you know,” she grinned.

Rowan took a deep, calming breath and immediately regretted it. “We are outsiders,” he pointed out. “You have a better chance of blending in than I.”

“Oh, please,” she replied. “You could start by looking less grumpy. Have you smiled in the last century?”

“That’s terrible advice,” he argued. “We’re in a dump, surrounded by hardened criminals. Perhaps you’ll get somewhere by smiling, but it would only look stranger if I did.”

Aelin caught his gaze as she handed him one of the mugs, turquoise eyes searching his for something. Is it going to be a problem? she seemed to ask.

He shook his head minutely. Even among the Fae, he was long used to standing out. He would adapt, as he always did.

That determination didn’t stop him from tugging the hood of his cloak lower as he followed Aelin deeper into the crowd, though.

She weaved her way around the building, every step projecting an easy confidence as she looked at the people they passed with a tiny smirk and eyes that missed nothing. These were not the movements of a princess who had remained in her castle, he realized. No, this was what her assassin had taught her. This was the side of her he had encountered that first night.

It was not Aelin Galathynius he was following toward the fighting ring. No, it was her face, but it was Celaena Sardothien looking back at him through those eyes.

It was truly amazing just how different and yet similar the two were, now that he had spent time with both sides of her. Celaena was everything that Aelin was never allowed to be, all harsh edges and crude swagger as she faced her problems with the sharp blades he knew she had tucked in a surprising number of places given the fit of her trousers. By adopting Celaena’s more catlike grace and dark outfits, she could pass largely unnoticed where Aelin would ordinarily be recognizable by her golden hair and Ashryver eyes.

The determination that shone in those eyes, however, was a common thread between both personas, as was the feral smirk that graced her features as she approached the men who were running the fights.

“Name?” one of them grunted.

“Celaena Sardothien,” she purred. “Looks like an… exciting venture you have here.”

“Are you here to talk or fight?” the man snapped, and Rowan barely restrained himself from baring his canines in response to the implicit threat to her safety.

Aelin grinned and reached toward the man, tracing a single fingertip down the center of his chest. “I don’t suppose I’d get to fight you, would I?” she smirked.

It was clever, what she was doing. However, despite the obvious success she was having in setting the man on edge Rowan found himself unable to approve of her tactics. The man clearly disapproved as well, for soon she was set to fight one of the toughest competitors he had been able to find.

Aelin seemed unfazed as she allowed him to check her for weapons and then slid down into the ring, but Rowan felt a thrill of nerves on her behalf. It would be one thing if she were allowed to fight with magic, or even with her knives, but he knew she had only recently begun to learn hand-to-hand combat. A few weeks’ practice with her cousin couldn’t possibly be enough to win here.

If Aelin shared his concerns, she didn’t show it. Instead she sized her opponent up with a confident smirk, eyes never quite meeting his face but tracing along his form. “Well, this ought to be exciting, don’t you think?” she drawled.

As she circled him, keeping to the edge of the ring, Rowan suddenly realized exactly what she was doing. She had sized him up, and realized that in a competition of brute strength she was going to be found wanting. Instead, she was doing her best to keep her competitor on edge and irritated. It was either going to explode in her face, or it was one of the most brilliant tactics he’d seen.

As she had obviously wanted him to do, he shouted and ran toward her, hands curled into fists. Rowan watched her smirk widen into a full grin before she dropped to her knees, landing one solid hit between his legs and a second to the back of a knee before rolling away.

These were not tactics her cousin would have taught her. No, these would have been taught by her former lover, or perhaps from someone who had come into her guard from a less savory beginning. They way she fought now was not about honor, but survival, and Rowan grudgingly admired her for it.

That did not stop his fingers from curling around the hilt of a knife as the man advanced again, all the more enraged now that Aelin had humiliated him once. Only the rules of their bout, few as they were, stopped him from intervening.

In the privacy of his own thoughts, Rowan could also admit that interfering would likely only enrage Aelin, and he was not stupid enough to do so without a need for it, not now that they had finally reached some level of understanding.

This time Aelin stomped on the man’s foot before whirling just out of reach, using the agility her smaller frame provided, and Rowan allowed himself to grin as her opponent swore. Judging from the way he was moving she had broken at least one bone in his foot, and his anger would make him clumsy while the injury would slow him further.

Rowan growled and the crowd hissed as Aelin’s opponent pulled a knife in flagrant violation of what few rules there were. It would have been within Aelin’s rights to end the match there, but instead she simply grinned and pulled her own blade from her boot.

Rowan felt the tension leave his shoulders at her grin, and he allowed a small smirk of his own to grace his features as they circled each other again. While the man had clearly thought to gain an advantage over her, Rowan knew how Aelin fought with knives and was confident in her impending victory.

Aelin closed ground quickly now that she was fighting in her preferred style, and allowed her opponent’s blade to graze her cheek in exchange for drawing her own across his forehead. It was a smart move; even though the cut itself was small he would soon find his vision impaired, and it would only continue to impede him. It would still be best for her to end this quickly, however, and she seemed to agree with his conclusion. Her next move was to slam the hilt of her blade down on the man’s temple, and she grinned as he fell to the ground unconscious and she was declared the winner.

He watched as she glanced at the crowd, gaze lingering on at least two different people, before she finally climbed back out of the pit and made her way back to him.

“Well, you certainly made an impression,” he muttered as he handed her cloak back to her.

“Didn’t I?” she grinned. “Come on, we’ve been here long enough.”

Though they took a circuitous route to avoid being followed, it was still only a few short minutes until they reached their room for the night. Aelin lit a candle and then cringed, eyes wide with surprise.

Rowan turned, and froze as the candlelight illuminated golden hair and furious Ashryver eyes. “You’ve been busy, cousin,” Aedion growled.

~*~*~

“I’m still angry with you,” Aedion muttered as they prepared for their walk to the palace two days later.

He glared at his cousin as she looked back at him, eyes wide with false innocence. “Must you be? I thought we agreed that you would forgive me.”

“Eventually,” he corrected. “We agreed that I would forgive you eventually. But you snuck out without telling anyone where you were going, and you used my instincts against me. You knew I wouldn’t be able to follow you, not with Lysandra bringing home a child. And even if it’s healed now, you got hurt.”

Aedion had been furious when she had snuck back in with Whitethorn that night, and even more so when he had seen the gash on her cheek. He didn’t expect her to tell him everything, of course, but he had hoped she would at least tell him she was going somewhere at all. Instead he had been left with nothing but blind panic and the inability to leave his mate and their ward vulnerable. The excuse that they had simply been exploring the town had absolutely not lessened his anger, and Whitethorn’s silence on the matter didn’t help either.

Aelin sighed, the light of the morning sun catching and glimmering in her braided hair. “I know you won’t believe me, but it was worth it.”

“You’re right,” he replied. “I don’t believe you, and you had better believe the only thing that will make me believe you is you telling me why you left. And before you say another word, I know you’re not telling me the full story. You don’t have to now, we’re in public. But I don’t want you to think for one second that I think you’ve told me everything.”

He watched as Aelin’s shoulders slumped, and immediately regretted the harshness of his words. If he looked at Whitethorn now he was certain he’d be met with a fierce green glare for the offense; the male had been remarkably protective of Aelin for this whole journey, and the past two days had been no exception. Aedion sighed. “I’m sorry. That was harsh, and perhaps overly so. But you need to realize that we want to help you, and we can’t do that if you’re not telling us what we need to know. Lysandra was terrified, you know.”

“Don’t bring Lysandra into this,” his mate said from where she was straightening Aelin’s skirts. “Lysandra already had it out with Aelin, and can fight her own battles. There, you’re as ready as I can make you.”

Aelin grinned over at him, clearly trying to change the subject. “Think I’m ready to meet royalty, cousin?”

She was, but then he had expected nothing less. Her hair was neatly braided around her head, making it look longer than it actually was, and a small golden circlet was peeking out of the top of it. She was wearing a gown the deep red of Adarlan, with golden accents and a deep blue lining on the inside of billowing sleeves and around her neck. Anyone who even glanced at her would be able to read the message of the choices: she had come to ingratiate herself with the royal family and especially the crown prince.

“You almost look presentable,” he teased, tugging on a loose strand of her hair.

“Och!” she cried, batting his hand away with a grin. “I don’t know why I asked you, you’re as insufferable as ever.”

Her reaction was just as much a message as anything else she ever did. By teasing back the way she did, she was telling him without actually saying the words that she was giving them an opportunity to reach level ground once more before they traveled to the palace. He had lived with her long enough to read the message hidden in her actions, and he quietly nodded. He had said all he could for now, and only time would convince Aelin to open up further.

A glance over Aelin’s shoulder granted him a glimpse of Whitethorn’s nod of approval, and briefly he wondered just how much she had told the warrior and how much he had found out on his own. He obviously knew more than he was letting on, but he was clearly defending Aelin just as he had been for weeks.

As Aedion stood and opened the door, he decided that it would be maddening if it didn’t make him so godsdamned happy that his cousin had someone else looking out for her as well.

Their journey to the palace was brief, and before long they were waved through the gates by the guards. Aedion glanced up at the building that was to be their home for the next several weeks and stopped in his tracks, openly staring.

It was one thing to hear that the upper levels of Adarlan’s palace were constructed of glass. It was quite another to actually see it. The first several levels, forming a building approximately the size of Orynth’s palace, were made of the same stone as much of the rest of the city. The glass extension nearly doubled the size of the building, sitting atop the stone like a gleaming crown and catching the light of the sun. Aedion cringed internally at the idea of living and working in such a distracting location, and took a moment to hope that their assigned rooms would be in the lower levels.

Several of the guards led them into the building, and in just a few short moments they were in the throne room and being greeted by the crown prince himself. Aedion stood to one side, hands loosely clasped behind his back as would be expected of him, but his eyes swept the room for threats.

Before all else, even with everything that was unsaid between them, he was Aelin’s protector and he intended to do his duty.

~*~*~

Dorian offered to escort Aelin and her escort to their rooms personally, every inch the welcoming crown prince he was expected to be, and smiled as Aelin took the arm he offered to her. “I hope your journey wasn’t too hard on you,” he said as they walked. “I know you set a fast pace.”

Aelin smiled back at him in a way that meant she had quite the story to tell, he was certain. “It was certainly an adventure,” she admitted. “This is the furthest I’ve been from Orynth in years, ever since we lost my parents.”

“It was hard on Terrasen,” Dorian acknowledged. “It made sense for your regent to keep you close, where you could be guarded while you came of age.”

Aelin nodded. ���Such a depressing discussion, though. I’d much rather talk about your father’s improvements to the castle.”

Dorian laughed. “Truthfully? I spend as little time in the glass portion of the castle as I can get away with. You’ll all be living in the lower levels as well,” he revealed, and he smiled as the rest of the group breathed sighs of relief. “It’s not much further from here, I know you all must be exhausted.”

The first room, which had been prepared for the two warriors Aelin had brought with her, was the room that would best suit for the child they hadn’t been expecting to travel with the group. One of the warriors, who looked similar enough to Aelin that he presumed him to be her cousin Aedion, joined the girl. The woman who had traveled with them remained in that room as well, leaving only Aelin and her tutor. “I wasn’t certain whether to expect you, Prince Rowan,” Dorian admitted, “but I am glad we prepared for the possibility.”

The Fae prince smiled, though there was no humor in it. “I aim to surprise,” he replied. “It’s gotten me far in life.”

“I see,” Dorian muttered. “The room next to Aelin’s was meant to go to her assistant, though it appears she is staying elsewhere. It is already prepared, if you wish to stay there instead.”

The warrior nodded in response and slipped into the room, leaving only Aelin to escort to the next door. “I had a few surprises brought up for you,” Dorian admitted.

Aelin grinned, turquoise eyes sparkling with excitement. “Did you, now?”

Dorian only opened the door to her rooms and quietly gestured for her to enter, wanting her to see rather than spoil the surprise.

He was not disappointed when she reacted with a gasp, hand covering her mouth as she saw the stacks of books he’d selected from the library. “We don’t have quite as wide a selection regarding ancient history as the Library of Orynth,” he disclosed, “but I found what I could. I know you like your books older than most can remember.”

“I love it,” Aelin replied, a small tremble in her voice as she delicately traced the spine of one of the manuscripts. “I’ll enjoy discussing these with you, I think, if you’d care to.”

“I would be delighted to hear your opinions on my selections, of course,” Dorian grinned. “I would expect nothing less.”

As he watched, she began sorting through the small collection. That wasn’t his only surprise for her, though, and she blinked up at him when he told her as much. “I’m not certain how many more surprises I can take,” she confessed. “And to think it’s only my first day here.”

“There’s only one more today,” he reassured her as he moved closer to the desk. “I’m not certain of the customs surrounding courting in Terrasen, but here in Adarlan it is customary for a prince to give his intended a token to affirm the negotiation. Even though we have our own understanding, I thought it best to adhere to the custom.”

Aelin nodded. “It would certainly be advantageous. This will only work for both of us if we’re convincing.”

“I thought along similar lines,” he agreed as he pulled a plain golden ring from his pocket and took her hand.

Aelin stared at him, eyes wide enough that he could see the ring of gold that highlighted their blue shade, and he rushed to explain. “Our history says that this ring was brought across the sea by one of your ancestors, and brought into the Havilliard family by marriage centuries ago. It seemed only fitting to return it to a Galathynius, regardless of how our little arrangement ends.”

The corners of Aelin’s lips curled into a smile. “Such a thoughtful courting gift, Prince Dorian,” she mused. “Why, people will start to talk.”

Dorian laughed. “I believe you revel in the attention. Regardless, it would be terribly hurtful to reject it, so I’m afraid I must insist.”

The ring had been forged and sized for a man long ago, and so Aelin’s thumb was the only finger it would reasonably fit on. However, this realization only made her grin, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief. “I will treasure this, then,” she said as she looked down at it, “as a most thoughtful gift from someone I hope will remain a dear friend.”

“As a prince, I feel obligated to say it would benefit both Terrasen and Adarlan for us to maintain close ties,” he replied. “As a man, however, I will admit I hope so for more personal reasons as well. You’re the first person I’ve met outside of my tutors and advisors willing to discuss history and literature alike with me, and I’m selfish enough to want it to continue regardless of what happens.”

Aelin smiled. “Well, if I’m lucky I can make decent headway into the first of these by the evening meal. Perhaps we can discuss it further then.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Dorian said as he moved back toward the door. “I’ll make certain someone helps you find your way to the dining room.”

As Aelin hummed in acknowledgement and opened the first book, he smiled and left her to get settled in. Everything was going according to their plan, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

~*~*~

The first text Aelin had opened happened to recount the creation of Doranelle, and Aelin was enthralled from the first words. For all that she had given her tutors a difficult time as she grew up, her lessons in history had long been her favorite. Whether it was the history of Terrasen or of its neighboring lands, it had been the one subject in which Aelin had truly excelled.

As she had grown older, and especially after her parents had died, she had become more interested in learning about Doranelle in particular as well. She had promised her mother that she would never go there herself, but she had known on some level that someday representatives from Doranelle would come to her, and she had wanted to be as prepared as she could be.

Of course, that day had come and she had quickly realized there had been absolutely no way to prepare herself for Rowan Whitethorn.

As she turned the page, she thought that perhaps she ought to discuss this history with him. Although it was incredibly unlikely that the male had actually been around for Doranelle’s creation while Mab and Mora yet lived, as someone who had been born and raised there perhaps he would have some insight she would miss as an outsider. Not only that, but he would be able to tell her what it was like there now, and that was just as important as the historical context of the city.

She carefully closed the book as she heard the door to her room open, and she glanced over, expecting that perhaps it was Lysandra or even Rowan come to check on her. Instead, she saw a young man wearing the dark uniform of Adarlan’s royal guard. As he closed her door behind himself she studied his close-cropped chestnut hair, and as he turned around she met warm brown eyes.

Perhaps this was who Dorian had sent to make certain she would be able to find her way around, though it was early yet. “Well met, guardsman,” she called, hoping that her acknowledgement of his presence would prompt him to say what he was doing in her rooms in the first place.

“Your Highness,” he responded as she finally pieced together his features and a portrait she had seen what seemed like ages ago. This was Chaol Westfall, the captain of Prince Dorian’s guard and rumored to be one of his closest friends. Lysandra’s dossier had noted some of his familial ties, but those were less important to her in this moment than the fact that he had risen to captain at such a young age. Either he was promoted due to his friendship with the prince or due to impressive skills, and the way he walked strongly suggested the latter to her.

“Dorian mentioned he was sending someone. Is that why you’re here?”

Captain Westfall squared his shoulders, one hand straying to the hilt of an impressive-looking sword. “Partially,” he replied. “Chaol Westfall, Captain of Adarlan’s royal guard. As captain of the guard, he asked me to make certain yourself and your escort were comfortable and to show you around the palace. However, that’s not the only reason I’m here.”

“Oh?” Aelin asked, a single eyebrow raising in question. “Did one of my people give one of yours a difficult time?”

“That remains to be seen,” the captain replied. “I’m hoping that my inquiries can be resolved quickly and quietly.”

“I believe that would be advantageous for all involved,” she said carefully, “and I will do what I can to answer your questions.”

“Then you will have my thanks, though I doubt you will want them,” the young captain said as the warmth left his eyes.

“Oh? Is there something I’ve done to cause offense?”

“One of my guards reported a disturbance in the city two nights ago, and I went to investigate,” he began. “The perpetrator was claimed to be a young woman with golden hair, going into the worst part of the slums and entering an illegal fight. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be a matter for the royal guard, and I would’ve left it alone. However, Dorian had given me descriptions of those we were to be expecting to arrive at the palace so that you might pass through the gates more easily. So I went to investigate myself, just to make certain that we wouldn’t have any trouble.”

He stepped closer, and Aelin did her best to keep her surprise off of her face. “My question for you, Your Highness,” he continued, “is what exactly you were doing in the Vaults two nights ago.”

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up

[polaroid15]

Febuwhump Day 1: Mind Control

It’s heeeeeere! 

Summary: The one where Parker luck is proven to be the worst luck. But hey, at least he's got the best family in the world to help him through it all.

Read at https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/71533821

Love you guys!!  Thanks for joining me on this journey! 

---

Chapter One

Peter doesn’t realize that something has gone terribly wrong until the last alien hits the ground.

At first he’s excited, body thrumming with adrenaline as he sidesteps over their victory. The fight had been, for lack of a better term, a satisfying study break. He takes a moment to stretch out the tightness in his back and shoulders, relishing in the cold air as his heart rate calms.

Satisfied, he sweeps his eyes across their small battlefield in search of a familiar flash of red and gold. Though the fight had started on the ground, they’ve ended up on the rooftop of some ritzy skyscraper, the city stretched far beneath them and painted gold in the dark light of the moon.

Aside from all the alien guts, it’s not a bad view.

“Tony?”

The man had called him just over an hour earlier asking for his help in scrambling up a couple of rouge aliens from their last big mission. Being close by and more than ready to assist his hero, Peter had been in his suit and by Tony’s side in a matter of minutes, hardly believing his luck. Somehow, despite everything they’ve been through, he still managed to get nervous every time he fought alongside his hero.

To his relief, however, the fight went off without a hitch. Unlike their normal brand, neither sustained any injuries, ‘finishing off the fight with flare’, as Tony would say.

But where is he now?

“Tony?” Peter calls again, slipping off his mask and looking around with enthusiasm. “Where’d you go?”

His voice carries and dies in silence.

“Hello?”

Confused and a little unnerved, Peter spins on his heels in a full 360 and debates putting his mask back on to ask Karen for Tony’s location. It’s out of character for Tony to vanish like this, and it makes his stomach tighten in worry.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Here.”

Peter jumps and turns towards the noise, feeling relief leak into his limbs. “Oh. H-hey man. There you are.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, stiff as a board and levitating a few feet off the ground. There’s a chunk of metal missing from his helmet, ripped clean through so his right eye and nose are showing.

“You’re mask-”

“Peter Parker?”

“What? Yeah Tony. Are- are you okay? You look a little off. Did one of the aliens hurt-”

But there is no ‘you’, because before Peter can finish his sentence, Tony is flying towards him at an alarming speed, repulsors glowing bright. Startled, Peter jumps out of the way and shouts in alarm. “Tony! What the-”

A fiery blast of hot energy hits the ground between his feet. Yelling out once more, Peter scrambles back, hands raised in frantic defense at the sudden rush of heat. “Tony! Stop! What are you doing?”

He doesn’t get an answer. As Tony progresses forward, Peter tries desperately to connect with the man, but his eyes are as blank and empty as the night sky behind him. It’s then that it all comes together, and Peter feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“Oh- oh no. Did you breathe in any gas? Oh God. You did, didn’t you?”

Another blast of energy is fired towards him. It barely misses his shoulder and the material of his suit begins to smoke. Not good. So not good. The aliens were known to produce an aerial toxin that triggers the brain to be particularly inclined to violence. Someone would kill their own family if exposed to it.

And right now, Peter is the only target.

Just his luck.

“Snap out of it Mr. Stark! Wake up!”

Peter feels his heel catch on uneven cement and he stumbles, falling hard on his butt and using the momentum to scramble backwards on his hands and feet. The fear hits him now. He feels it in the sharp sting on the back of his tongue and the inability to fully breathe, his spider-sense screaming and making his head spin. He moves to pull on his mask and realizes in detached wonder that he no longer has it in his hand.

“Peter Parker,” Tony says again, his voice monotonous and void of everything Peter is used to. It’s chilling, and Peter lifts a shaky hand in warning.

“D-don’t come any closer!”

But Tony does. Without blinking an eye, he closes the distance between them and encloses his gauntleted hand around Peter’s outstretched wrist. Before Peter can comprehend the pain, his web shooter sparks with electricity as the gadget breaks under pressure. He screams as his wrist snaps along with the mechanism and arcs his foot up in a reflexive kick. It hits Tony in the abdomen and succeeds in forcing the man to let go, pushing him back a couple steps.

Breathing heavily, Peter scrambles away, broken wrist pinned to his chest protectively. He can feel Tony following him closely and gasps when his metal fingers close around his shoulder, halting his escape.

Peter uses his remaining web shooter to fire a web at Tony’s oncoming fist, pulling the force of it off course so it slams into the concrete at their feet. It breaks like ice around the impact and the shock of knowing it had been directed at him leaves him weak.

“Tony please-”

Undeterred, Tony swings his arm with the web out to the side, throwing Peter off his balance. As he stumbles, Tony uses his other hand to throw a hard punch into the boy’s ribs. He hears them crack but hardly feels the pain, tears welling in his eyes.

“This- this isn’t you. Look at me-”

Peter gasps as his undamaged wrist is pinned against the roof, the metal crushed just like the first. As he screams, Tony finds his eyes, staring blankly and completely unaffected by Peter’s pain.

“It’s me. It’s- It’s Peter. This isn’t you! Fight it!”

The panic and fear in his body has made him numb. When Tony closes his hand around Peter’s throat, he can barely blink, let alone fight it away. The very real possibility that he’s about to die races through him like lightning.

“T-Tony. Mr. Stark.”

The pressure on his throat increases as the man lifts him off the ground. Peter manages to lift his hands to the vice grip, fingers curling around Tony’s in an attempt to relieve the strain. It makes his wrists shoot in pain and for a moment, all he can see are stars.

When his vision clears, he’s hanging by Tony’s hand over a 100 story drop. The city swarms like an anthill beneath them and Peter tightens his hold against Tony’s. His web shooters are shattered.

If Tony drops him, he will die.

“Tony,” Peter chokes. With every ounce of being he can muster, he searches Tony’s eyes. Just as before, they hold no resemblance to the man Peter knows. His hero. His friend.

His family.

“Don’t drop me.”

The grip tightens so dramatically that Peter thinks his neck will be crushed before he even gets the chance to fall. Despite the pain, he refuses to break his eye contact with his mentor. They glimmer against Peter’s reflection, glassy and distant.

“Not your fault,” he chokes. It’s hard to speak around the vice grip and nearly impossible to pull together sentences through the thick fog in his head. But he tries, even when his vision tunnels. It’s important. “I- I- forgive you. Don’t- don’t blame yourself, okay?”

He needs Tony to understand. This could be his last chance, and more than ever, despite hanging above certain death, he knows it to be true.

“I l-love you.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Tony’s eyes. A glimmer of himself that almost has Peter believing that it’s over, that they’ll be okay.

But then Tony drops him.

He doesn’t have the breath to scream.

Though Tony disappears quickly from his view, Peter keeps the man’s face in his mind as the ground races up to meet him. It fills his eyes with tears, the injustice of it all.

Tony will never forgive himself.

And Peter is going to die.

The wind rips through him viciously as he plummets. He’s fallen through this same skyline countless times and can hardly believe it’s his last.

He closes his eyes and sees May’s face beside Tony’s. Ned and MJ’s, too.

Though he’s never prayed before in his life, the words come to him now.

Help them be safe. Help them be okay.

He wants to be brave. He wants it more than anything.

Eyelids dark, it’s impossible to tell how close he is to the ground. The sounds of traffic draw closer, he thinks he hears a scream.

The impact is jarring.

It hits him all at once, stealing his air and lighting every broken bone on fire. For one soul wrenching second, he thinks the pain of it is his last conscious thought. That just like that, his short sixteen years have expired into dust.

Then he feels metal arms under his shoulders and thighs, hears through the static the distant roar of repulsors. Swears and sobs echo through it all in a delirious cocktail of grief, and Peter comes to the realization quite slowly that he hasn’t died after all.

“Tony?” It’s weak and breathless, like he’s just hopped off the world’s fastest roller coaster. With the last of his energy, his eyelids separate and he sees Tony’s face, covered in tears and unmistakable horror.

He had caught him.

“Tony-”

They crescent their journey on the top of a different, much shorter building. Peter feels himself being laid on his back and for some reason beyond his current comprehension, can’t find the strength to move from it.

Above him, Tony has his head in his hands. He’s shaking and Peter tries to reach out towards him, to show him he’s alright, but all he can do is twitch his fingers.

“Nice- nice catch.”

Tony’s shoulders still, going dangerously quiet. Peter watches with blurred vision as his face appears from behind his hands, the eye Peter can see bloodshot and brimming with an emotion he’s too tired to fully recognize.

“Pete-”

“Not your fault,” Peter breathes, exhausted. He closes his eyes and almost can’t find the strength to open them again. His body feels like the plane he had crashed in Coney Island.

“It is my fault,” Tony says. There’s tension and remorse coloring his voice, which tremors violently. “Christ, Peter. I hurt you.”

“You- you saved me.”

“No!”

“You always save me.”

“Peter-”

“S’okay.” He tries for a smile, but it must look like a grimace because Tony stifles another noise of regret. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Oh kid-”

With a rush of vertigo, Peter feels himself being pulled up into Tony’s arms. It’s only until he feels the warmth of Tony’s skin that he realizes he’s removed himself from his suit. It’s nice, familiar, and the last of Peter’s resolve vanishes like smoke.

His hero.

His friend.

And in some ways, his father.

If he hadn’t known it before, he sure as hell knows it now.

“I love you too, kiddo,” Tony whispers, and Peter feels their hug tighten, as if it’s the man’s sole intention of never letting go.

And maybe, Peter thinks, it is.

[ladylynse]

The Trouble with Ghosts: Lancer hadn’t realized how closely young Mr. Fenton’s school troubles–and the secrets he surely wasn’t telling his parents–were tied to ghosts until after that encounter with Phantom.

<<  < Part XII [FF | AO3]

-|-

Lancer wasn’t entirely surprised to see that he was missing one of the shrubs on his front lawn. The Shakespeare lawn ornament wouldn’t be salvageable, either; the poor fellow was bent up enough to have written Richard Armour’s Twisted Tales from Shakespeare himself.

Still, he stepped aside to allow Mr. and Mrs. Fenton into his house without a word.

“You said Danny’s safe,” Maddie was saying. “Where is he? What happened? Did he tell you?”

“Did you just find him after he got away from that no-good ghost?” Jack put in. “Did—”

“Danny’s doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances,” Lancer said. “Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, might I have a word before you go to visit your son?”

A trace of a frown crossed Maddie’s face. “You mean before we pick him up to take him home.”

“I sincerely hope that to be the case.” He gestured toward his living room, where he’d set out another chair and cleared up most of his books, banishing everything that didn’t fit on the bookshelves out here to his bedroom. He planned to find more permanent homes for them all once these more pressing issues had been addressed—which is to say, he planned to buy and assemble at least one new bookshelf, once he found one that would fit within his remaining wall space. It would be a rather cathartic exercise after all of this. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“If this is about Danny skipping his detention again,” Maddie said slowly as they all settled into their seats, “I’m sure you’d agree that being caught in a ghost attack is a reasonable excuse for his absence, at least in this instance?”

“That ghost scum is determined to attack our family,” Jack added, not bothering to clarify which particular ghost he meant. Lancer dearly hoped he didn’t blame Phantom for all of this.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Fenton, it has come to my attention that your son has a very honourable excuse for all the detentions and classes he has missed.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid it’s his right to give you the details, and he’s agreed to do just that.” Under pressure, admittedly, but Lancer couldn’t see how they could do this without the cooperation of the Fentons. Besides that, it wasn’t right for Danny to keep this secret from them when it endangered his life. Were he a parent, he would rather make amends than continue to target his own child. The very idea of allowing this to continue as it had…. It was appalling.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your son has, shall we say, done a considerable amount of community service. While I cannot merely forgive every failing grade, I do believe that I can ensure that he receives partial credit for his work. I will also speak to my colleagues and see that they are more understanding of his absences, tardiness, and—if you’ll allow me to be quite frank—his inability to remain awake during class. With special allowances, Danny will be able to write makeup tests for those he misses and submit additional assignments for extra credit when need be.”

Maddie’s eyebrows rose, but Jack beat her to the question, saying, “You’d do all that for Danny-boy?”

Lancer spread his hands. “Really, it is the least I can do. I cannot speak for my colleagues, and I’m not sure how much he’ll allow me to share with them, but I do have considerable influence. We all know your son isn’t stupid; we merely had no idea what the problem truly was.”

“And his problem, so to speak, was community service?” There was a touch of hesitation in Maddie’s voice. The barest hint of incredulity. She knew that wasn’t strictly correct, but she couldn’t imagine the truth.

Frankly, Lancer couldn’t blame her. He’d have never dreamed it, either.

“Let’s just call it some rather unconventional extracurricular activities for now, shall we?”

“He was doing that—whatever that is—when the ghost found him,” Jack guessed. “So it’s made him a target of ghosts? And he can’t even carry around an ectogun in school? Are you going to talk to the board? Try to get them to make an exception for those who can prove they know how to use them? They shouldn’t cause more than a mild burn to human skin—”

“The no weapons policy will still include ectoguns,” interrupted Lancer. “At best, I can draft a proposal for your Fenton Thermos—a purely defensive weapon which cannot be used, accidentally or intentionally, against other humans in any way other than a conventional thermos might—but you would have to be prepared to draw up a distribution plan for those thermoses, as well as designated days they can be emptied or traded for empty thermoses. And I’m rather afraid the testing period would be quite extensive; we have no idea how someone might try to modify your thermos to achieve more nefarious effects, and we cannot hand any of our students, however much training they’ve had, a weapon that could be turned on others. Of course, the propriety of your design—”

“Perhaps,” interjected Maddie, “you could keep your proposal to just Danny and Jazz, given their experience and likelihood of being targeted?”

“There would still be no guarantee. Lockers are hardly impenetrable.”

“But they would be more likely to allow it, considering what happened to Danny.” Jack crossed his arms. “Extra activities or not, he was still on school property. At least try.”

Lancer ducked his head, acknowledging their points. “It is certainly something to consider amending—”

“I’ll draft the proposal and submit it to the school board,” Maddie said, “if you’re so reluctant to be associated with it. This is for my children’s protection. Even if it’s first dismissed, I want it discussed.”

She might not be quite so adamant when she realized how those very thermoses could become a detriment to her son, were someone to capture Phantom. True, Lancer didn’t think there were many sympathizers with the various ghost hunting groups that came through town, but Phantom had a lot of fans, and that wasn’t always a good thing.

Still, that was something that could be addressed in the future, and given what he’d learned from Danny, there was something else he wanted to address now. “Speaking of your children’s protection,” he began slowly, not sure if this was his place but not willing to let it go unspoken, “have you made any, ah, more recent safety amendments to your home laboratory?”

Jack and Maddie exchanged guilty looks, and Lancer had his answer before Maddie said, “The kids have their own HAZMAT suits, and they know basic lab safety and first aid.”

“Teenagers often believe themselves to be invincible,” Lancer said dryly, “and cannot always be trusted not to touch what they shouldn’t, even if they know better. Besides which, the safety of your own weapons and prototypes—”

“Danny told you how many of our weapons mistakenly target him?” Jack interrupted. “I’m working it out. I keep trying things. I’m going through them one by one. I’ve eliminated so many—”

“Please,” Lancer cut in, and Jack mercifully fell silent. He’d worried the man would bowl over his words in an attempt to justify what Lancer was beginning to think was a negligence so ingrained it felt normal. “I’ve seen a variety of your weapons. I own a few of your defensive ones. I can only guess how much you have stored in your basement and how dangerous even a handful of those weapons might be. I know it cannot be easy nor lucrative to be inventors, to run your own company, but you need to look into locating your lab somewhere else. It’s not just your safety or that of your children, though I hope that would be reason enough; were something to go catastrophically wrong, you might endanger your neighbourhood. Surely your desire to protect them in the future won’t drive you to continue to compromise their safety now?”

Jack raised a hesitant hand. “Did Danny tell you about changing the ecto-filter on the Fenton Ghost Portal? Because I, ah, might have exaggerated the consequences to get him to do it. More than once.”

Judging by the look on Maddie’s face as Jack said this, Lancer doubted she thought Jack had been exaggerating terribly, and that just made it worse. They were aware of what could go wrong and hadn’t sought to even look at potential properties to continue their research? Money was a factor, it had to be, more so than convenience, and pride might have kept them from asking Vlad, but considering the quality and quantity of weapons they produced, they were making something.

Perhaps, if they reinvested in infrastructure instead of buying new supplies to craft different weapons….

But perhaps that wasn’t what was holding them back at all.

Perhaps it was the ghost portal in their basement.

And the accident that could very well involve it, if Vlad’s had involved its prototype.

It made a cruel bit of sense. If Danny’s accident was indeed tied to the ghost portal, his parents did not know the details. And that meant that they couldn’t know everything that Danny had done with the portal, how he had tweaked their settings or whatever had gone on, and that meant they weren’t sure if they could replicate their results.

And they were afraid that they couldn’t.

Even if they didn’t know the truth, even if they didn’t suspect the truth, they knew there was something they didn’t know, and that had kept them from trying to separate their work and home lives even once safety had become an issue.

“Danny has left me to draw far too many of my own conclusions,” Lancer said slowly, “but he’s told me enough to give me cause for concern.”

Maddie straightened in her seat, recognizing something in his words before her husband. Not the right thing, perhaps, but enough of it. “Surely you don’t think we don’t care for Danny and Jazz?”

“I think you care a great deal indeed,” Lancer said, “but I fear that when it comes to your chosen occupation, you can both be rather…overzealous. To the point of preoccupation.”

“You really believe we care more for our work than for them?” Maddie’s voice was quiet. Cold. Lancer had never heard her angry before. A glance at Jack revealed hurt in his eyes at the thinly veiled accusation, but he held his tongue.

“I think your beliefs about ghosts can be a rather complicating point in your relationship with your children,” Lancer said carefully.

“We care about our kids,” Jack growled, “and we care enough to stop ghosts from doing anything else like this. The Fenton Spectre Deflector—”

“Mr. Fenton, I suspect both your children are more than capable of handling themselves in a ghost fight.” If Jazz knew the truth about Danny, she would have been helping him whenever Sam and Tucker could not—most likely, whether or not he thought he needed that help. She would be involved in more than a few isolated incidents, and she clearly knew the full truth about Vlad. “I do, however, wonder if you’ve ever taken the time to listen to them speak about the subject, or if you’ve simply contented yourselves with lecturing to them.”

“Of course we listen to them.” Maddie got to her feet, and Jack jumped to his as well. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lancer, but if that’s all you have to say, I’m afraid it can wait until after we’ve taken Danny home. If you would like to have a candid discussion about how Danny’s doing in school or at home, we can set up a conference once we know Danny is safe.”

Lancer didn’t rise from his chair. “I can assure you that is my intention.”

She smiled at him, but though her anger no longer showed in her voice, it came through in the lack of warmth in her expression. “Excellent. We’ll speak with you early next week to arrange a time.”

They didn’t want to listen to him right now.

He hoped that was merely out of concern for Danny and the fact that this conversation was keeping them from their son.

He hoped he hadn’t been wrong.

“Danny is just down the hall. In the bedroom on your left.”

Jack and Maddie murmured polite thank-yous before heading down the hall. Lancer took a few deep breaths but couldn’t steady his nerves. After everything that had happened…. Oh, for the love of The Railway Children, he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake, but it was far too late for him to second guess his decisions now. He’d make more tea—he’d happily drink the entire pot himself if no one else wanted any—and then join them. If nothing else, he’d have to apologize to Danny. His conversation with Jack and Maddie had not gone nearly as well as he’d hoped.

-|-

His parents burst into the room, all questions and concern, and Danny was happy he’d only eaten a little; his stomach was twisting enough that he wasn’t sure even that was safe.

Valerie pushed herself up and sat at the foot of the bed, neatly avoiding his parents as they came in with hugs and kisses and more questions.

Too many questions, considering they wouldn’t want to hear the answers.

“Mom, Dad, it’s okay. I’m fine.” A lie. His usual one. Habit. “Mr. Lancer’s been taking good care of me.”

“How long have you been here?” Maddie asked.

“Which ghost took you from the hospital? I’ll tear it apart molecule by mol—”

“It wasn’t a ghost.” If he was going to tell them the truth—and he couldn’t very well chicken out with Valerie right there, which come to think of it was probably the real reason she’d stayed—he might as well start there. “I didn’t…. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I…I asked Mr. Lancer to take me to his place.”

“Sweetie, you know if you’re concerned about ecto-contamination, we’re much better equipped at home than the hospital, and we’d understand—”

“It’s not ecto-contamination.” He bit his lip. “I mean, I don’t…. I don’t think it is. Maybe it is. I just…. It…. That part doesn’t matter anyway. These—” he gestured at his injuries “—didn’t come from a ghost.” They came because I was the ghost. Except he couldn’t make his mouth form those words. “It was an accident.” Everything was an accident, except for the part where Vlad had specifically targeted him. “Phantom—”

“I knew that putrid piece of protoplasm was going to be involved!” Jack exclaimed. “Don’t worry, Danny, when we find him—”

“You don’t have to look for him.” He had to bite his tongue and swallow the urge to follow that statement with lies. Anything to mislead them. “He’s…here.”

“And not responsible,” Valerie said loudly as Jack and Maddie produced various weapons. “For any of this. Trust me, I was there, too. I was just lucky enough to get out of it unscathed.” They turned to her, but she answered their question before they could voice it. “I didn’t see Danny or I would’ve said something. I didn’t realize he was there until later.”

Man, she was good at that. Maybe that’s why she’d gotten away with ghost hunting for so long. He’d always figured her dad was more aware of her activities than his parents were of his.

Of course, now she was looking at him, obviously waiting for him to take what she figured was a golden opportunity.

Why did this have to be so hard?

“I was…hiding.” That wasn’t the right word for it. “I mean, I was there, but Valerie didn’t know I was there. No one knew I was there.” He didn’t know how to start explaining this. All he knew, now that those words were out of his mouth, was that this was not the best start. “She didn’t recognize me.” Was that any better?

“What do you mean, honey?”

Okay, clearly not any better. Why couldn’t he just come out and say it? I’m Danny Phantom. That’s it. That’s all he had to say. Three little words.

They probably wouldn’t shoot him immediately, considering Valerie was in the room.

Her presence should be enough to make them pause long enough to question him, as opposed to the usual ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ policy. They shouldn’t automatically assume that this was a trick of Phantom’s, that he’d developed the ability to shapeshift or something and was trying to pretend to be their son. Even though they already assumed ghosts were out to get them and were willing to use any trick in the book and….

Still. Valerie had taken it well. And his parents had in the past. Granted, they’d been a bit more prepared for it in the past. Somewhat. This wasn’t….

He should just spit it out.

“Do you remember when you first built the portal?” Maybe that was a better place to start.

His parents exchanged glances. “What are you getting at, Danny-boy?”

“My accident. In the lab. When you guys weren’t home, and I convinced you I didn’t need to go to the hospital once you got back. That I’d be fine. That I was fine.” He hesitated, watching as their expressions pulled into confused frowns. “I wouldn’t even have told you if I’d thought you wouldn’t notice we’d been down there. Me and Sam and Tuck, I mean. Because I was…scared.”

“Sweetie, you know you don’t need to be afraid of us. We don’t want you touching our prototypes because we’re not sure they’re safe for everyone else to use yet, and we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I know. I…. Even though the portal was done, even though it wasn’t working, I just…. It was stupid. We were being…. We weren’t thinking. I mean, I still put on my HAZMAT suit, since I was poking around, but it was…. It wasn’t that I tripped on a cord and caused something to short out and something else to start working, or whatever we told you. I can’t even remember. The thing is, I actually went inside the portal. And then it…turned on. I mean, I…. I hit something. And then it started to work. While I was still inside.”

Silence. Fear on their faces. Concern, more like. His mom had gone white, and his dad put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “Danny,” she whispered, “that could have killed you.”

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? It nearly had. Maybe it really had. He still wasn’t even sure what he was. Poindexter had called him a halfa, and Danny had joked about being half ghost, but half ghost wasn’t really a thing. Half dead wasn’t really a thing, either. True, he hadn’t exactly tested the boundaries as far as he could have while Phantom—he still took air with him into space, even though he’d gambled that the cold and the vacuum wouldn’t immediately kill him, but…. Shouldn’t it have? If he was really human at his core?

He hadn’t thought about it at the time.

He hadn’t thought that he might not be able to change back.

Did that mean he really was more a ghost that could pretend to be a human than a human with ghost powers? What he and Vlad did, what Dani could do—was that just an extremely unique ability? Like his ghostly wail? Was that ability what really defined a halfa, just like shapeshifters had a greater control over their form than the average ghost?

Or was it just what Jazz had theorized, some infusion of ectoplasm messing with his DNA? Maybe it was just extreme ecto-contamination that should have killed him but hadn’t. Because of how he’d gotten it.

Just like Vlad.

“I know.” Danny looked away, not wanting to see their faces. He caught sight of Valerie’s horrified expression and turned away from her, too, only to find Lancer at the door. He had no idea how long Lancer had been standing there. He’d never heard the kettle whistling, but Lancer had reset the tray with a tea pot, a box of hot chocolate mix, and an array of empty mugs and spoons. His expression was more of grim acceptance than horror or surprise.

Maybe he’d guessed as much from what Danny had told him earlier.

Maybe he’d just guessed as much because he knew the Fentons pretty well after all those parent-teacher conferences he kept calling, not to mention all the ghost attacks he’d witnessed.

Danny tore his eyes away and stared at his hands instead, knitting his fingers together and breaking them apart and twisting them together again. “The thing is, when I first woke up…. I thought it had. Killed me, I mean. I was…. I was terrified. I wasn’t…. I wasn’t myself.”

He should look at them. Try to read their reactions. Gauge the situation. See if they’d figured it out, so he didn’t have to say it.

But he was afraid he might see something else in their eyes or their expressions. Something he didn’t want to see.

“My reflection wasn’t mine.” He didn’t want to be doing this. Why had he agreed to do this? He could have convinced Lancer to give him a bit more time, surely. Or at least managed to get Jazz here. She’d be good at damage control. She’d anticipate their questions and have answers at the ready, while he…. He wasn’t sure how much he was thinking and how much he was just talking to keep from outright panicking. “The boy in the mirror that looked back at me…. It was Phantom. I’m Phantom.”

He waited for questions.

He waited for denials.

He waited for the telltale whine of any of their myriad of weapons to power up.

Instead, springs creaked and the mattress shifted as his mother sat down on the bed between him and Valerie. Looking up, Danny saw his father sink into the chair Lancer had abandoned earlier. Neither of them said anything.

No one else did, either.

“Sam and Tucker knew from the start, since they were there when it happened,” Danny said into the stretching silence. “Jazz figured it out a long time ago. They’ve been helping me. I…. I didn’t know how to tell you, so I asked them not to say anything. To anyone.”

Maddie reached out and pried one of his hands free, gripping it tightly in her own. Now that he couldn’t go intangible, he wasn’t sure it was a grip he could break and stay free, and for a few panicked milliseconds, he thought she was grabbing him to keep him in one place. He wanted to pull back—had to actively fight the urge to pull back—and wait.

He knew it couldn’t have been a long wait, but it felt like an eon passed before Maddie said, “It doesn’t matter how you told us. It…it matters that you’ve told us.”

He couldn’t read all the emotions in her expression, but she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t ready to blame Phantom, to call this a trick, to pull him closer and hold an ectogun to his head.

And when his eyes flicked to Jack’s, he saw pride there.

Maybe they believed him after all. Maybe this wasn’t going to go as horribly as he’d imagined. Maybe—

“Breathe, Danny,” came Valerie’s voice, and he remembered to suck in a much-needed breath and relax.

And then he let himself change.

He wasn’t sure if his mother’s flinch was in reaction to the sudden light or the fact that the hand she now held was the gloved one of a ghost she’d long considered an enemy, but it still hurt.

It really, really hurt.

Even if she hadn’t meant it to.

“Danny-boy,” Jack breathed, but he didn’t say anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Danny whispered.

Maddie squeezed his hand and glanced back at Jack before saying, “We’re sorry, too, sweetie. For not listening.”

“And for making you afraid to tell us,” Jack added. He got to his feet and wrapped Danny and Maddie in a hug. “We still love you, son. Don’t think we don’t.”

Danny was pretty sure he heard Valerie mumble I told you so under her breath, but he didn’t care. He just hugged them back and let his tears soak into their shoulders.

(see more fics | next)

[aurorawest]

Hi! I’d love for a directors commentary on the real Asgardians of the galaxy, any section you choose, it’s my favourite story! Also I was wondering if you could do a commentary on chapter 7 of you come to me wild and wired please? Thank you!

Of course, thank you for asking! I’m so glad you like The Real Asgardians! 😄 I went with this section from chapter 25. Loki, Thor, and Mira have stopped on the Market Planet (aka Promachos), a place entirely of my own invention. Promachos is a planet that’s one giant, sprawling market. The section that the three of them visit looks very much like a souk in my head—I was definitely imagining the Arab Souk in Jerusalem as I was writing it. But you know, think the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, that sort of thing. Old, ancient feeling, labyrinthine covered market where it feels like you can get everything that’s ever existed.

In this conversation, Loki and Thor are having a nice conversation that turns sour, as they so often do.

“You know,” Thor said, the heavy-handed nonchalance in his voice sending up red flags, “that’s something New Asgard doesn’t have.”

“Children?” Loki said, playing dumb and immediately regretting it. 

Not really a reference, but this line has always reminded me of the exchange in Jurassic Park between Grant and Satler: “What are those?” “Small versions of adults, honey.”

Thanos hadn’t discriminated. He’d slaughtered Asgard’s children as easily as he had the adults. 

Womp womp. Seriously though, one of my favorite things to write with Loki is how he absolutely careens from one emotional end of the spectrum to the other. He makes this joke and he immediately jumps to the worst possible interpretation of it.

At least they’d managed to evacuate most of them, though Loki would never forgive himself for allowing a single Asgardian to die that day.

I recently had to put an exact number to how many children survived The Statesman. At this point I definitely was like, ‘eh, no idea!’

“No,” Thor said. “A school.”

“Mm.” Loki was getting increasingly worried that Mira was going to turn around and ask for the necklace. “What do they do, make repairs in the fishing nets because their fingers are smaller?”

This is one of my favorite jokes, actually. Loki is such an ass. There’s so much contempt packed into this sentence.

But more beyond that, his disdain for New Asgard is really important to his arc. We really see him lash out about it in this scene.

Thor glared at him. “No. They go to school. There just isn’t one in New Asgard.”

It couldn’t be overstated how uninterested Loki was in the education policies of New Asgard. Yes, his people lived there, but he had no personal stake or interest in the place. “Where do they go, then?”

Incidentally, I chose this scene because it seems kind of like a throwaway scene, like it’s more to express Loki’s distaste for New Asgard. And it is that...but it’s also got payoff down the line.

Uncertainty flickered over Thor’s face. “They go…I…er. I’m not exactly sure.” Loki didn’t push this issue. It was easy to imagine what had happened, anyway. The children would have been running wild in the months after the Snap. Brunnhilde, ruling New Asgard in all but name, would have gone to Thor, drunk, useless, drowning in depression and grief, and said something needed to be done, and he was the king, so what should they do? And Thor most likely would have slurred at her to figure it out. [...]

“I think they go to school in Tønsberg somewhere,” Thor finally said.

Thor kills me here. He’s pushing down every single bit of his regret and guilt. And Loki doesn’t get it at all. All he can do is snipe at Thor for screwing this up, for not taking charge, for not being the king that Loki thinks he should be. I’m actually enormously proud of “I think they go to school in Tønsberg somewhere,” because it says nothing...and also everything. Or at least, I hope it does.

Arching an eyebrow again, Loki said, “Oh. I see. So you’re raising humans.”

Loki gets none of this. All he can see is how much he doesn’t want to live on Earth, how much he doesn’t like New Asgard. He can’t fathom why the Asgardians would want to be there. It never occurs to him to stop and think about the fact that the Asgardians have been part of this community for six years. That they aren’t totally isolated from Norway or Earth. In Loki’s mind, New Asgard is like...kind of temporary? He can’t accept that it might be permanent.

“No,” Thor said, making a face as though this was the most stupid thing he’d heard in his whole life. “We’re not raising humans, I mean—not that I have a problem with humans, I love humans—”

Sometimes a little too much...but not in a creepy way, in a respectful way...

“As you’ve demonstrated,” Loki muttered, rolling his eyes. Not that he should talk.

Loki is consciously thinking of alt!Strange here, but of course...gosh he spent nine months living at the Sanctum and maybe he got close to one of its occupants...

“The point is,” Thor said, dropping all pretense of subtlety, “you’ve got some experience with it, and you should come back and—”

Thor takes a massive risk here and straight up asks Loki to come back to New Asgard. Not only that, but he’s asking Loki to come back to New Asgard and...open a school? This is the sort of thing that should thrill Loki. Thor is asking him to stick around! Thor is telling Loki that he wants him in New Asgard. And Loki...

Loki’s glare was poisonous enough that Thor took a step back. “No,” he hissed. “I will not.”

Loki doesn’t take kindly to it. Instead of seeing this moment for what it is, which is Thor reaching out to him, all Loki can see is this like, blaring red warning that he’s going to end up as something he Doesn’t Want To Be. And he doesn’t even really know what it is, right? He just hates what New Asgard symbolizes. He hates that he initiated Ragnarok, which necessitated New Asgard’s existence. He hates that New Asgard is so small, because of his own inability to protect his people from Thanos. He hates what Thor became in New Asgard. It’s really not even about New Asgard, it’s all of this other stuff.

Aaaaand chapter 7 of You Come to Me Wild and Wired!

So this was written for a @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt a couple weeks ago. The prompt was ‘broken windows.’ Their prompts are very very open ended, so I generally check them first thing on Friday morning and then let the day’s prompt rattle around in my brain until an idea occurs to me. With this one, I thought I could do something with the Oculus at the Sanctum being broken. I had also, a couple days before writing this, I had seen a reference to some sort of prompt for another ship about Stephen being angry, and I thought, you know what? It’s fun to write Stephen being angry. I should try that sometime! Broken Oculus means attack on the Sanctum, and I thought, what if Loki gets hurt in the course of that?

And to think, Loki was beginning to wonder if Strange ever got angry.

The idea of these fics is for them to be I think between 100-1000 words. This one was 1360, I believe, when I finished it? So I had to trim it down quite a bit (I eventually got it under 1100 but not quite down to 1000). The ‘And’ at the beginning of this sentence would have been an easy one to cut, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just loved it too much.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” 

I love writing sweary Stephen. I love it so much.

Strange’s hands shake as he pulls Loki’s torn sweater from the wound. One of the wounds. The sweater is ruined. Shame. Loki’s always liked it. Even without the damage, the blood stains will never come out.

I also love writing Loki being more concerned with his wardrobe than his own physical wellbeing.

Loki feels woozy. Strange’s question strikes him as funny. “I was thinking I wouldn’t get hurt.”

This is clearly not the answer Strange is looking for.

Loki finds that funny, too. “I’ll tell you what I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking I’d ruin my favorite sweater. Do you see this color? Really brings out my eyes, don’t you think?”

See when you’re bleeding out, you can say things like this.

Strange’s jaw clenches. His eyebrows draw together and his eyes narrow. He picks up a bottle and doesn’t bother blotting whatever’s inside onto a cloth—he just sloshes it over the gash on Loki’s stomach.

When Loki yelps, Strange says, “Oh, shut up. That’s not going to kill you. Which is more than I can say for the horde of demons you faced—on your own.”

Gritting his teeth against the sting of alcohol, Loki says, “Yes, but they didn’t kill me.” The wooziness is probably due to blood loss. His sweater isn’t just stained—it’s soaked with crimson. That’s all his blood. The demons’ blood was black.

I’m not actually a big fan of hurt/comfort when Loki is the one who’s hurt. When I’m going to hurt Loki—and I do—I prefer to do it with psychological and emotional torment. Physical pain? Honestly, it’s not that fun for me to write. Here’s the thing with Loki: he doesn’t care. Physical pain doesn’t frighten or even really bother him. He’s completely blasé about it. And in order for it to be dangerous to him, it has to be so bad that he’s passed out. Where’s the fun in a passed out Loki?

In general, I far prefer to put Loki in the comfort role, because it seems like it’s such an unnatural fit for him, and that’s way more fun to write about. I like to make my characters uncomfortable, haha. The two people that Loki is closest to in my verse, Thor and Stephen, are also really not the kind of people that want to show physical weakness. And Loki isn’t nurturing (well, he can be, but it’s buried deep down inside him), so like, it’s way more fun to have Thor be hurt and have Loki needing to feed him or whatever.

And I’m straying from this fic but this is the director’s cut, haha.

Strange doesn’t respond. At all. His hands can barely hold the—what is that? Oh, a bandage. He’s trying to bandage the wound, but he drops it because of his hands’ violent tremor.

Stephen’s hands shake more when he’s emotional.

“You need to go to the hospital,” Strange says as he picks up the alcohol again. He sounds like he might kill Loki himself.

“I’d rather not.”

At these words, which Loki delivers in a perfectly affable tone, 

This line just makes me laugh. Something about the word ‘affable.’ Loki’s so cheerful about his impending death.

Strange drops the bottle. It spills all over their shoes; splashes their pants. Loki’s legs sting as the alcohol soaks through his pants, so he knows he has open wounds there, too.

Trying to show, not tell.

Strange swears, a long string of profanity that penetrates Loki’s fog. He’s never heard Strange talk like this.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Odinson? Like seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Strange rakes a hand through his hair. Blood, Loki’s blood, smears his forehead. “You’re bleeding out. You’re gonna fucking die and you can’t swallow your goddamn motherfucking pride to let someone who can hold a fucking needle and thread stitch you up—”

The beauty of these little ficlets is I don’t have to come up with the whole long slowburn backstory or figure out too much about the characters’ arcs up until this point, but, I will say, I love to write a Stephen who has entirely come to terms with his disability and for him to actually be mad at Loki for not seeking treatment from someone who can actually help.

“This won’t kill me.” Loki considers. “Probably not, anyway. Though I don’t feel well.”

Strange looks like he’s going to scream.

Loki glances around. “Can you use superglue to close a wound? I’m sure I’ve heard Lang say that.”

It cracks me up to imagine Scott describing how like, one time at Baskin Robbins he cut himself on the soft serve machine or something, and he had to close it up with superglue. And that Loki feels this is an appropriate thing to say at this moment.

Strange stares, his eyes blue, then green, then this curious, almost colorless color. Colorless color. That doesn’t even make sense.

In my other fics I usually refer to this as ‘seaglass’ but I try not to be too repetitive.

Perhaps Strange is right. Perhaps Loki is in danger.

“Why would you do something so stupid?” Strange asks quietly. Loki expected more rage. Rage he can deal with. People are always angry at him. 

Lol come on I wrote this fic, you didn’t think there wouldn’t be angst in it, did you?

It’s funny, actually. Loki has always taken pleasure in getting a rise out of people. It’s easy. People are predictable.

Strange has never been predictable.

So Loki tells the truth. No snark. No sarcasm. “The Oculus was broken,” he says. “Broken windows aren’t a good sign. I thought you might be in danger.”

Sometimes, Loki fears he has become predictable. Didn’t Thor tell him so, once? But he can tell this is the last thing Strange expected to hear.

“I wanted to help you,” Loki adds for good measure. He feels light-headed. He probably wouldn’t say these things otherwise. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. Maybe it’s time he said this to Strange, to Stephen, whom he cares very much for, even if he pretends otherwise. He likes making Stephen angry by being difficult, by being intractable, by being an arse. He likes trying to get a reaction. He feels like he’s standing outside Strange’s window, throwing stones, trying to break the glass of his impenetrable, unruffle-able coolness.

As I write these ficlets, I find that I tend to start with a literal interpretation, and along the way, I find my way to these metaphors. They usually help me tie the fic together, too, so that it’s not just a collection of sentences but actually has a itty bitty plot and arc. I’m particularly proud of this one, I’ll be honest.

But Strange is immune to Loki.

It’s a bit of an act. Alright, it’s entirely an act. Loki isn’t good at seeking attention unless it’s negative.

My cat is also like this tbh.

“Did think maybe I had it under control?” Stephen runs his shaking fingers through his hair again. There’s red in the gray at his temples.

“I thought maybe you didn’t,” Loki replies.

Stephen covers his eyes with a hand. Bloody fingerprints mark where his fingertips rested when he moves it. 

I have a thing for my boys being covered in blood.

“Let me take you to the hospital.”

There’s something in Strange’s eyes. It looks like fear.

Strange’s hands shake more when he’s emotional.

Suddenly, Loki realizes Stephen has been putting on an act, too. He’s not cool and unruffled. He’s not immune to Loki.

Suddenly, Loki thinks Stephen might care more about him than he lets on.

Loki looks at his blood-soaked sweater. Considers how dizzy he feels. Ponders the fact that the shape of Stephen Strange’s lips is very attractive; the way his eyes change color with the light hypnotic.

Maybe it’s the blood loss. But he wouldn’t like to die without knowing how Stephen’s lips feel.

Aaaand there it is. So I’m a serious slow burn person, and that makes it hard for me to write these short little things. You’ll notice actually if you read them that there’s always all this unspoken backstory, like ‘they’d been working together for years...’ etc etc. But I always try to get that build even in these short little things, and if I can make myself go, AWWWWW then I’m happy.

“Alright,” Loki says. “I’ll go to the hospital.” He stands. There’s a rush in his ears. His legs feel like sodden paper. 

Stole this line from myself. I have a nearly identical simile in one of my original novels.

They buckle.

But Stephen is there, holding him, an arm tight around Loki’s waist. His hands may tremble, but he radiates safety and steadiness.

Safety is hugely important to Loki. He couldn’t ever fall in love with someone who didn’t make him feel safe, even though he probably wouldn’t admit that out loud.

A portal blooms, Metro-General Hospital on the other side. Stephen tucks a piece of hair behind Loki’s ear. “The sweater does bring out your eyes, by the way.”

Obligatory callback to the beginning of the fic. When I had Loki note that the sweater brings out his eyes, I knew that I would have Stephen agree at the end of the fic.

“Aha, you think about my eyes,” Loki says. It’s getting hard to hold his head up. Stephen guides him through the portal. “That means you think they’re pretty.”

“I think they’re gorgeous,” Stephen says. He hesitates. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

‘Gorgeous’ is my preferred word for Stephen to use to describe Loki. Loki tends more towards ‘beautiful’ to describe Stephen.

He lowers Loki to a chair. “Now sit here while I get help.”

Loki grabs Stephen’s wrist and lets his head fall against the wall. He peers at Stephen through slitted eyes, knowing he’ll survive this, because he’s survived worse. He still says, “I would kiss you, but I want something to look forward to if I don’t die.”

Emotions pass over Stephen’s face like the play of shadows on the ground as clouds scud across the sun. 

I love the word ‘scud’ but it’s definitely one of those ‘you only get to use this once in a fic’ type of words.

He swallows hard. “Yeah, well.” He squeezes Loki’s hand. “We’ll see how you feel after you’re patched up.”

Loki smiles and lets him go. He knows how he’ll feel. After all, he’s been throwing stones at the windows of Stephen’s heart.

He just never realized Stephen was throwing them back.

METAPHOR! The wonderful thing about finding the metaphor is that it’s a really easy way to end the fic. It’s the central theme, right, so you use the last line to tie into it, and done.

Thank you so so much for asking!

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut