#sorry i had to be comprehensive who knows when ill next get to air my grievances i didnt want to miss any...but i think this gets them all.

[steelycunt]

i am quite curious on your opinion on how regulus black is characterized in fandom… completely understandable if you do not want to answer, but since i have my own opinions on the matter i was curious about yours! i love a steelycunt ramble

hi omg yeah! unfortunately for all of us i do have thoughts lol...i already know im about to ramble because ive been dying for an excuse to do this for ages so i think it would easiest to break them down into points but tl;dr or i suppose thesis statement i think the fandom characterisation of him is soooo awful lol. terrible 0/10. i do not even massively care about him as a character other than as background for his brother but since he is pretty unavoidable ive been driven to develop opinions.

he was a willing fascist stop pretending he wasnt its LAME

so many colourful ways people have conveniently sidestepped his fascism to uwufiy them, all of which i find extremely lame and pointless considering we know virtually nothing of the guy other than that he was a fascist and then had second thoughts. which actually could be really interesting if you just accepted that rather than bending over backwards to create these alternative (and so much more BORING) narratives where his being a DE isn't his fault or he was forced or whatever. we know that wasnt true he was a fascist because he chose to be a fascist and he held the views of a fascist. the moral purification and absolution of his character because people want to interact with him but are uncomfy about the fascism thing is so lameeee and stupid lol imagine being so uncomfortable with a character you claim to love that you have to get rid of everything we know about him and invent an entirely new personality for him. boooo. grow up. you can be interested in fictional characters who are bad. although it is funny how much easier people seem to be able to reconcile their fav being a fascist than like. being a cheater or something. which is a cardinal sin apparently.

2. the black cat goth sassy millennial characterisation.

theres this really common characterisation of him where hes like this sassy dangerous deadpan tiktok-esque spurter of witticisms which i just find so cringy and boring and inaccurate. the whole 'ooh he takes his coffee black he looks like a cinnamon roll but he could kill you!!!!' thing that makes me feel like ive been dragged back to tumblr 2015. he kind of sucked he was a conservative who did one good thing in his life and got killed in the process i dont know where people have got this badass thing from he just wasnt. also the idea that he was a goth girl because his name was black? we can try a little harder than that come on now. but yeah im not trying to imply theres some moral problem with characterising him this way i just find it cringy and inaccurate and i think there are much more interesting things you can do with him

3. abuse + relationship with his brother.

another thing i find really annoying is the assumption that he was treated by his parents the same way his brother was. big disclaimer because i can hear the complaints already yes i accept that being a child in a house where there is abuse in and of itself in traumatic and horrifying. but there is no canon reason to believe he was directly abused by his parents the way his parents were, especially considering his brother seemed to be punished for transgressions against his parents. regulus was the good boy he was the better son and he did as they asked. i think people have begun to just assume he was also abused the way his brother was in order to make him more sympathetic or excuse his behaviour (not how this works anyway) and again i find it very lame. the dynamics we actually get from canon are consistently infinitely more complex and interesting than what people then do with them. as for his relationship with his brother theres the whole idea of sirius 'leaving' him in the house which is ridiculous and almost too laughable to discuss but. the idea that regulus is the victim of his abused brother running away...girls get real. he was in his room getting radicalised i dont feel sorry for him. plus his whole relationship with his brother tends to irritate me anyway--i dont know if these people just dont have siblings, but the whole ultra close, sirius being incredibly protective, would die for each other, them against the world thing again seems to contrast everything we actually know about that relationship and also...not all siblings are that close? like theyre just not? idk again, personal taste but i find their super healthy close relationship very boring its kind of a dealbreaker for me!

4. he wasnt conventionally attractive and if you cant deal with ur fav being ugly he's not ur fav

needed a section all of its own because thats how bad it annoys me but the way people swear to hell and back that he was actually super handsome. or 'umm he wasnt handsome but he was PRETTY. umm ummm ummm'. booo throws tomatoes at you. we know from canon (again like. one of five things we know about him). that he was not considered handsome, like his brother was. i find it so incredibly pathetic the way people who claim to like him deny this like their life depends on it and try to argue that actually he was like omg conventional beauty is everythinggggg to you people isnt it. omg this fictional character who isnt real is nothingggg to you if hes not described as a model is he. you cant really like him that bad!!!! again what a fun thing to lean into that fandom instead has to revise. the guy was not hot why does it bother you that bad omg. if you cant accept that i immediately know all ur opinions suck sorry its the same as when people have to pretend remus was some sort of hunky alt casanova to like him at this point just write an oc pleaseeee because you dont seem to like anything about him thats actually established. anyway. tl;dr he wasnt handsome get over it my god

5. he would not be friends with remus u guys just think he would be because you borrowed remus' personality to give him one

another dealbreaker for me i cannot read something that implies remus and regulus would be friends. to get the obvious out of the way: regulus was a fascist and remus is part of a minority group he would want dead. but otherwise the idea that theyd be friends confirms to me that someone doesnt get either of them and the only reason i think this has gained traction is because regulus doesnt have a personality and in order to position him and james as r/s 2.0 where james stands in for sirius, people just superimposed remus' fanon personality (quiet, sarcastic, dry, bookish, exasperated) onto regulus. which is a characterisation i dont like anyway but then because youve turned them into the same person people then say theyd get on...i cannot think of two people would be gel worse. theyd have nothing in common. nothing to say. absolutely nothing. they would sit in awkward, unpleasant silence. literally no two characters less suited to each other i am begging you. also the substitution of peter for him as the fourth person in their group nowadays bffr...not only is peter far more interesting but also he would not get on with any of them his brother included. i hate when i am reading a fic and he turns up when hes not supposed to. put him back! he belongs ina victorian dollshouse!

6. things i like + how i picture him.

okay done a LOT of moaning. again i dont really care about him as a character im not interested in him apart from how he affects sirius' character and i dont like jegulus so i dont really read much where hes a central figure but i do think he COULD be very interesting if done right, and so things i do like: characterisations that lean into the fact that he was a willing fascist as a teen, willingly radicalised, nasty nasty politics. i like a regulus who is very uptight, who has a very strained relationship with his brother as the younger brother to someone he knows would always have made a better heir than him, was better at practically everything but just didnt want to do it. i think living in the shadow of that would make him crazy uptight and touchy lol. as for stuff which is less grounded in canon and more just how i imagine him: i think he was a nerd, i think he was a serious young boy with a huge sense of responsibility, and i can imagine him having some sort of niche hobby which is quite antisocial like stamp collecting or model railways or reading big dense history books about ww2 or the magical equivalent of one of those. i think he was a bit weird and quite weak and sensitive. his brother is a massive sore point for him. he was not cool or sassy or badass i think he probably wore matching pyjama sets to bed and carried around a handkerchief with his initials embroidered into the corner and clung to his family and his wealth and his ancestry as a marker of his superiority and good breeding for dear fucking life because he did not have much else going for him.

[bluejayblueskies]

an ill-fitting definition

rating: M words: 4.3k relationships: jongeorgie, jontim, jonmartin, background wtgfs additional tags: canon compliant, pre-canon, scottish safehouse period, canon asexual character, fluff, kissing, implied sexual content, rumors and misconceptions

written for weeks two/three of @archivalpride for the prompts identity and doubt!

cw for misconceptions about asexuality, assumptions made about somebody’s sexuality, rumors and outing somebody without their knowledge, non-explicit/implied sexual content, mention of canonical character death, mention of canonical stalking and paranoia, gossip (including of the sexual nature), food, very mild blood, mild internalized acephobia

ao3 link in source

.

It’s three weeks and two days after they began dating, when Georgie picks up Jon’s hand where it’s clasped in hers and asks with plain curiosity in her voice, so does the ring, y’know, mean anything?, that Georgie hears the word asexual cross Jon’s lips for the first time.

It’s not a word she’s unfamiliar with; she’s run in enough LGBTQ spaces in her time in uni that she has a good idea of the breadth of identities that are out there. She rubs her thumb across Jon’s ring and thinks, in the voice of the gender and equality training instructor with sharp red heels and a “fun” black dress who’d stood in front of the seminar she’d been mandated to take for one of her courses:

Asexuality. A lack of sexual attraction. An aversion or repulsion to sexual activities.

It had been a small word on a large black-and-white slide, crammed in next to aromanticism and overcrowded by a myriad of other sexual identities discussed at length. It had been… quite a comprehensive training, Georgie thinks as she quits fidgeting with Jon’s ring and instead threads their fingers together. For a moment, she considers asking what he means anyway, but she quickly dismisses the thought. She wants to be supportive, and as Jon looks at her with open, trusting eyes and a faint smile, she decides that she knows enough. She doesn’t want to make it awkward, and with things like these, she’s found that asking Jon to explain his feelings in plain terms can be… well, awkward is certainly a word for it. Best just not to bring it up, she decides.

Still, she feels the need to ask, “Can I kiss you?” because the red no sex sign blinking on and off in her head is frustratingly vague on what, exactly, is contained within that stipulation. When Jon voices his assent, she tips her head up and presses a quick kiss to his chin before kissing him on the lips, wiping the disgruntled look off them.

So yes to kissing, she thinks, tucking that away next to no sex. Yes kissing, no sex. Yes holding hands, she adds as she squeezes Jon’s hand in hers and he smiles at her, warm and soft, that special side of Jon that she only sees on occasion. No pet names, she adds a week later when she tries out sweetheart and Jon’s nose wrinkles with displeasure. No foot rubs, when Jon swats at her and says, between giggles, that he’s awfully ticklish. Yes back rubs. Yes cuddling. No PDA. No touching with wet or sticky hands. Yes brushing hair.

That’s as far as she gets before, one year and two months after she begins dating Jonathan Sims, she stops. After which point she stops keeping track, because, well. There’s really no point anymore, is there?

.

.

.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says quickly, holding his hands in the air in a placating gesture. He scoots a few inches away from Jon on the couch for good measure, unsure just how much space Jon needs right now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize—I should apologize. I should have asked first.”

“It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, and when he takes his hands away his cheeks are dark and he won’t meet Tim’s eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s okay,” Tim repeats, watching with a twisting feeling in his stomach as Jon apparently notices that the button of his trousers is still undone and quickly goes to redo it. His eyes follow the movements of Jon’s hands automatically, and just as automatically, he notes the distinct lack of a tent in the front of Jon’s trousers. The same… cannot be said for his own. Particularly after nearly twenty minutes of kissing, which Tim had very much enjoyed.

Christ, had Jon been uncomfortable with that as well? All in a rush, Tim says, “Was the kissing bad too?” Then, he winces—fuck, that sounded accusatory—and adds, “It- it’s okay if it was, I just- I didn’t know, and I don’t want to do something that makes you uncomfortable, Jon.”

“No, the- the kissing was fine, it’s just...” Jon makes an aborted motion with his hands, like he’s trying and failing to find the words.

“... complicated?” Tim supplies.

Jon nods mutely.

“That’s okay,” Tim says, and he finds that he means it. “We don’t have to do anything more than kissing if you don’t want to.”

“I- I don’t…” Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s searching for the right words, the crease in his forehead deepening every moment he fails to find them. Finally, he lets out a long, labored breath, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and says, “Yes, that… that might be best.”

Tim studies Jon’s face. It’s pinched and a bit stiff, like Jon would very much like to crawl out of his skin or melt into a puddle and disappear. “You sure?” he feels compelled to ask, placing a hand carefully on Jon’s knee. “You, uh. You seem a bit unsure.”

Jon sits there a moment more, spine straight and rigid, before melting slightly against Tim’s hand, his face slipping into something more relaxed but no less unhappy. “Yes.” He hesitates a moment, then says, a bit stiltedly, “I’m, um. I’m asexual. Since we’re already talking about this, I… I may as well get that out in the open as well.”

Oh. A few pieces slot into place, and Tim says with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, “Oh. Why didn’t you tell—?” He cuts himself off and offers Jon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you for telling me.”

“We’re dating,” Jon says bluntly. “It was going to come up eventually.”

“Still.” Tim shrugs, then reaches for Jon’s hand and holds it tightly in his. “Thanks.” He hesitates only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s nose. Jon makes a disgruntled noise, which Tim thinks is adorable. Then, because it feels appropriate, he says, “Y’know, Danny… Danny was asexual. Aromantic too, actually. We had a big talk about it a few years ago where he sort of… laid it all out for me.” No sex, no romance, no thank you, had been the overall gist of it. Tim makes a new box for Jon and fills it in with the words no sex, yes romance, it’s complicated.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly, with that same sort of sadness in his eyes that he gets every time Tim mentions Danny, something much gentler than pity and significantly less cloying. If Tim notices the faint discomfort that accompanies it, something that whispers that isn’t my definition of asexuality, we’re not the same, you don’t understand if one were to listen closely enough, he doesn’t let on.

Tim does, however, notice the discomfort in Jon’s eyes—now mixed with anger—when two years, six months, and seven days later, he accuses Tim of murder. But by then, their days of hand-holding and nose-kissing are far, far behind them.

.

.

.

“Maybe he just needs to get laid,” Melanie says with a groan, lying on Georgie’s couch and staring at the ceiling. The Admiral is curled up on her lap, purring contentedly. She scratches absentmindedly under his chin.

“What, Jon?” Georgie appears in Melanie’s field of vision, wielding a damp wooden spoon and frowning.

“No. No.” Melanie shakes her head emphatically. “Martin. He’s been all… sulky lately. I think he’s still upset that Jon came to me instead of him for help, but I don’t know why he has to be all… touchy about it.”

“Ah. Well, you know, he is a bit hung up on Jon. At least, according to you.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Melanie says grumpily. “Besides, didn’t you say that Jon went on about Martin, like, all the time? Sounds like he’s got it bad as well. Maybe they could just… y’know.”

“Melanie.”

“What?” Melanie tries to shoot Georgie a glare, but it’s obstructed by the back of the couch. “I’m on my last nerve, Georgie!”

“I know, honey. But Jon’s really not… well, he’s not very open about these sorts of things. Getting him to talk about his feelings was like pulling teeth when we were together.”

“It still baffles me that you used to date.”

“He’s very sweet when you get to know him!” There’s a pause, a few clatters from the kitchen. “Besides, even if he and Martin got around to talking, Jon… well, he doesn’t.”

Melanie frowns. “Doesn’t what?”

“Have sex.”

“Really?” Melanie sits up, disturbing the Admiral, who lets out an irritated mrpp before adjusting himself accordingly and curling back up on her lap. “So when you were together…?”

Georgie shakes her head. “Nope. Never.”

“Huh.” Melanie thinks for a moment. “Is he like… religious or something?”

Georgie chuckles. “Jon? No, not at all. He’s asexual.”

“Isn’t that like… that thing that sponges are? Where they self-reproduce?”

“Seriously?”

Melanie scowls at the incredulous look Georgie’s giving her. “What? I’m not being a- a dick, I’ve just never heard of it before.”

“You were a YouTuber. Your job was to be internet famous.”

“Okay, now you’re just making fun of me.”

Georgie shoots Melanie a grin. “Sorry. Basically, it means that Jon doesn’t do sex. Like… at all. He just… doesn’t.”

“Huh,” Melanie says again.

“Yeah.” Georgie turns back to the stove. “Now, come here. Tell me if there’s too much salt?”

“Sorry Admiral,” Melanie whispers as she deposits him onto the floor and crosses the room to wrap her arms around Georgie’s waist from behind and take the bite of sauce on the spoon Georgie holds out for her. “Mm, tastes great. As always.”

And in the back of her mind, Melanie adds another line to the section labeled Jonathan Sims and writes, with careful handwriting, he doesn’t.

.

.

.

Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Martin pauses the tape and rubs his hands over his eyes. His cheeks are burning red, and he takes a few minutes to just breathe.

Doesn’t what? Doesn’t date? Doesn’t kiss? Doesn’t—

Martin stops that train of thought before it goes any further, the flush on his face growing in intensity. It’s none of my business, he tells himself as he ejects the tape and turns it over in his hands a few times before sliding it back into the small box it had come from.

He still can’t help but think about it. He thinks about it before the Unknowing, when Jon hesitates just a moment before wrapping him in a tight hug and whispering, I… I’ll be back, Martin. Then we can talk. He thinks about it when Jon’s in his coma, when Martin sits at his bedside and loses himself in daydreams and what-ifs. He thinks about it when Jon’s hand is clasped in his and he’s leading Martin out of cloying white fog and sea-salt air, his shirt speckled with bits of dark liquid that Martin tries to pretend isn’t blood. He thinks about it on the way to the safehouse, Jon leaning against his side, Martin’s hand clasped firmly in his.

He thinks about it a lot, in the confines of the wooden walls that let in the growing chill of the Scottish countryside.

Jon doesn’t.

He knows what Jon does. Jon makes him breakfast most days, eggs and toast and sometimes waffles, which Martin’s always considered a guilty pleasure but that he’s had more times in the past week and a half than he’s had for the past ten years. Jon puts his head on Martin’s shoulder when they sit on the couch and read, flipping through the dusty novels they’d found tucked in cardboard boxes underneath the bed that Jon had wrinkled his nose at but has been slowly making his way through nevertheless. Jon clings to Martin like his life depends on it when they sleep, and Martin will wake in the morning with one arm slung across his chest, a leg between his, and a sizeable portion of hair tickling at his nose.

And, nine days into their stay, Jon smiles at Martin as he shuffles into the kitchen in the morning, stands on his toes, and presses a soft kiss to Martin’s lips.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently, still half-asleep and trying to process what he’s 98% sure is their first kiss. He’d be 100% sure except for the fact that Jon kissed him like it was nothing, like it was easy, like it was something they do every morning.

The smile slips from Jon’s face, and he looks nervous. “I- I’m sorry, I should have asked first—”

“No, no, it’s- it’s okay,” Martin hastens to say, taking one of Jon’s hands in his and squeezing gently. “Just- just surprised, that’s all. I, um. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to kiss me, given that we haven’t…” He gestures absently, his face heating up. Stop talking, Martin. “Yeah,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” Jon says with a frown. “I… apologize for giving you that impression. I- I love you, Martin—I have no problems with kissing you.”

Warmth courses through Martin, as it always does when Jon tells him that he loves him. It all feels so unreal sometimes that he’s here, with Jon, away from it all and living in quiet domesticity. “Oh,” he says, face flushed. “A- all right, then. Great!”

“Great,” Jon echoes.

“Just- just thought maybe you didn’t—”

Martin clamps his mouth shut, face heating up more, this time in embarrassment. Shut up, Martin.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t… what?”

“Um.” Martin rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Kiss?”

Jon looks at Martin blankly. “Oh. Well, I- I do.”

“Right, yeah, I- I put that together. When we, um. You know.”

Jon looks amused. “Kissed?”

“Yep, that,” Martin squeaks out.

They look at each other for a moment before dissolving into giggles. Jon presses another kiss to Martin’s lips and finishes making the waffles and kisses Martin again when he hands Jon his tea, and it’s really quite lovely indeed.

So Martin adds Jon kisses to his mental list of Jon does and finds a sole remainder on the list of Jon doesn’t. And it’s fine with him, he decides, if Jon doesn’t want to have sex. He just wants Jon, in whatever way Jon will have him.

Jon doesn’t do sex, he thinks as he kisses Jon goodnight.

So, three days later, when they’re on the couch and they’ve kissed until Martin is red-faced and breathless and Jon pulls back with a pinched expression on his face, Martin assumes—with hot embarrassment coursing through him—that he’s somehow gone too far and strayed into sex territory and made Jon uncomfortable.

Then, Jon says with cheeks dark and eyes focused resolutely on Martin’s chest, “Martin, would… would you like to move to the bedroom?” and Martin’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Sorry, what?” is all he can think to say.

Jon’s cheeks grow incrementally darker. “I am asking,” he says slowly, like the words are clunky and unwieldy in his mouth, “if you would like to have sexual intercourse. With me, of course, I- I hope that was implied.”

Martin’s aware that his mouth is quite literally hanging open in shock. He closes it quickly before swallowing and saying, “I… yeah, Jon, I- I’d love that, but I thought you—”

He clamps his mouth shut again, a touch too late. Jon’s forehead creases in confusion and he says, “I what?”

Martin hems and haws for a moment before biting the bullet and saying, all in a rush, “I thought you didn’t like sex.”

Jon’s frown deepens. “What? Why?”

And god, Martin doesn’t want to admit that he’s been thinking about office gossip for nearly a year, but he’s dug his grave—he may as well lie in it. He sighs, worries his hands on his lap, and says, “I… may have listened to a tape where Melanie said that Georgie said that you… didn’t.”

Jon looks at Martin blankly for a moment before his expression flattens into something that’s equal parts irritated and resigned. “Ah. Right. That… that makes sense, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin says emphatically, placing his hand atop Jon’s and squeezing. “I- I didn’t mean to hear it; I was listening to the statements and it was just there.”

“No, it’s… it’s not your fault.” Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“What?”

Jon makes an aborted, dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ve… never been good at explaining my own preferences. I never did with Georgie, just… told her I was asexual and left it at that. I suppose she took that to mean that I, er. Didn’t.”

Asexual. Martin has a vague notion of what that means—he’s been in enough online LGBTQ spaces to have encountered the word before, but he’s never really looked into it much himself. If pressed, he thinks he’d also assume it meant that Jon didn’t. Something a bit guilty twists within him at that thought, amplified by his next thought that Georgie shouldn’t have assumed, because, well, that’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it? Still, he feels the need to voice it; he squeezes Jon’s hand again and says, “It’s not your fault that she just- just made assumptions about what you wanted, Jon.”

“Yes, but it’s my fault that I never corrected her.” Jon makes a face. “Or Tim, now that I think about it. I… I suppose I’m just not very good at talking about these things. Particularly because my own preferences are…” Jon’s pained expression deepens. “Christ, I don’t want to say complicated again, but there really is no other word for it.”

That’s not your fault either, Martin wants to say, but he knows Jon will just contradict him again, and he’ll repeat himself, and then they’ll just be talking in circles, and that won’t help anything. It’s frustrating, but it’s the truth. Still, Martin finds the words waiting on his lips when he opens his mouth, so he shuts it again and thinks for a moment, promising himself later. I’ll tell him later. Finally, he says carefully, “Do you… do you want to talk about it? We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t want to assume.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t want to keep assuming, I suppose, given that I’ve already assumed quite a lot.” Quieter: “Sorry, again.”

“It’s fi—” Jon cuts off, takes a breath. “Th… thank you, Martin.” He hesitates a moment, then says haltingly, “I- I do want to talk about it, but I don’t—” He makes a frustrated noise. “—I don’t know how.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a moment. “You said it’s complicated, yeah?” When Jon nods mutely, he continues, “Would it help if you described how you feel right now? That’s- that’s less complicated, right?”

Jon’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “I… suppose.”

“All right, then.” Martin makes a go-on gesture, then rests his hand atop Jon’s and applies a gentle pressure.

Jon takes a few deep breaths, squints at nothing, makes a few wordless noises, then says bluntly, “I want to have sex with you.”

Martin tries really, really hard not to blush, but he doesn’t think he quite succeeds given how hot his face feels when he says, “Right, okay.” His voice is a bit higher-pitched than normal; he hopes that Jon doesn’t notice. “And, um. Do you always… want to have sex with me? Or just right now.”

Jon grimaces. “That’s where it gets complicated.” He makes an I-don’t-know gesture with his free hand and says, “No? Yes? I don’t know, Martin. I’m told that not wanting sex all the time is- is normal, that- that you have to be in the mood, but apparently I’m just supposed to know when I’ll be in the mood and when I won’t be, and that- that doesn’t really work for me.”

“Are you—” Martin cringes internally, but forces the words out. “—in the mood right now?”

“Well,” Jon grumbles, “not anymore, but I was. And it’s complicated, because even if I am, I- I don’t always want to be touched, but how do you explain that to someone, how- how do you tell someone that it’s mostly no but sometimes yes and there’s a very good chance that I might change my mind halfway through and decide that it’s no after all?”

“I think,” Martin says patiently, “that you just say that.”

Jon gives Martin a look. “Martin.”

“What? It’s true!” Martin gives Jon as reassuring a smile as he can muster. “It made sense to me, at least.”

“Yes, but that’s not—” Jon makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not whether or not it makes sense, it’s whether or not somebody is willing to put up with a sexual partner who doesn’t know whether or not they’re going to want to have sex on any given day, whether they- they’ll be repulsed or interested or want to give but not receive or the other way around or- or something else that I haven’t thought of but that will likely happen because consistency is, apparently, off the cards for me entirely.”

“Hey, hey,” Martin says gently, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder and rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. “Jon, look at me.” When Jon looks, albeit reluctantly, Martin continues, “I can’t speak for other people, and I- I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you how I feel, and I… I’m willing. No, more than willing—I love you, Jon, all of you, and if this is how you feel, then I love that about you too. Whatever you’re willing to give me, it… it’ll be enough. You’re enough.”

Jon’s cheeks darken and he looks away. After a long moment, he says in a stiff voice, “Well. Thank you, Martin.” Then, a bit softer: “I… I love you too.” He looks at Martin then and offers him a small, weak smile. “It’s… well, it’s still awkward, but it’s not quite as bad—talking about all of this—as I thought it would be.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Talk to me about it, that is.”

Jon’s smile turns a bit hesitant. “So you would really be okay if I… if I never asked again? To, er. To have sex.”

“Yes,” Martin says, without hesitation.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “And- and if I said that I did? Want to? That… that would be okay too? Even if I’d already said that I didn’t?”

“Yep.”

Jon looks down at his hands where they’re twisted tightly in the hem of his jumper, then back up at Martin. “All right.” He hesitates a moment, then says, “And if… if I said that I wanted to have sex… now?”

Ah. It looks like Martin’s not done blushing quite yet. “Yep, that- that’s fine with me,” he squeaks out, then cringes internally. Fine? Really?

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t seem offended; if anything, he seems amused, his mouth quirking up into a small smirk. “All right, then.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Martin’s lips, soft and chaste and ever-so-slightly lingering before he pulls away. “I, er. I think I’d like to just kiss for a bit, though.” His smile turns teasing. “Foreplay is very important, after all.”

Martin groans and gives Jon a look, his face likely fully tomato-red by now. “Jon.”

“Need to make sure we’re fully in the mood before beginning proceedings—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Martin says, a giggle slipping out around the words. Then, because he’s nothing if not a little mischievous himself, he leans forward and captures Jon’s lips in a kiss, significantly less chaste and a touch more insistent, pressing until Jon is leaned back against the arm of the couch and Martin is hovering over him. Martin disengages from the kiss so he can marvel at the flushed, wide-eyed expression on Jon’s face. “Like that?” he says innocently.

Jon blinks up at him for a few seconds, like he’s not entirely sure how to process everything in front of him, before he smiles, a warm, happy thing that captures Martin’s heart entirely and steals it away. “I do believe that was adequate, yes. Perhaps you should do it again though, just to make sure.”

So Martin does. I love him, he thinks as he kisses Jon on the couch and kisses him again on the bed, kisses him in the spot between his shoulder blades where he always carries tension and in the dip of his clavicle and on the inside of his thigh. And when he’s curled up next to Jon after, he presses another kiss to the crown of Jon’s head and wraps his arms around him and quietly discards his mental lists of does and doesn’t. He’ll start from scratch, he decides, and after a moment’s thought, he comes up with two more lists, upon which it’s surprisingly easy to add item after item after item.

Jon likes to be kissed. Jon likes eggs and toast, but not jam, and likes his tea black and slightly oversteeped. Jon doesn’t like wool because he finds it itchy. Jon doesn’t like white wine, but he likes red, the kinds that are too dry for Martin’s tastes.

Jon likes Martin, and Martin likes him too. So, so much. And even when things change, when Jon finds a white wine he likes at a restaurant they visit and he takes his tea once with honey and enjoys it and he goes through a period where he doesn’t enjoy open-mouthed kisses and Martin adjusts his lists accordingly, that remains.

[anotheranimestan]

Picking Up His Drunk Girlfriend: Tsukishima

Fluffy (or as fluffy as Tsuki gets lol)

Time skip!

wc: 1.3k

Request from @estmagnifique ! This ones for you so come get ya mans 🤪

Tonight you were out with the girls at one of your usual spots. They had a special on margaritas tonight. So what if you were a light weight? You loaded up your tab because who could pass up such a good deal?

Your friends started asking you to slow down after three but...they were being dramatic.

After six drinks, four trips to the bathroom and one complaint from the guy you’d accidentally crashed into and made him drop a tray of glasses on the floor, your friends deemed it was time to text your boyfriend to come get you. No way were you making it home by yourself alive. They confiscated your phone and sent the SOS.

He rolled up and you waved your friends goodbye as you walked to the car. Still very much woozy, it’s safe to say you didn’t walk in a straight line.

Making it up to the passenger side you pulled the handle. Locked.

“Hey jerk. Open the door!” You called through the glass.

But he didn’t. Instead he rolled the window down about an inch.

“What’s this? A walking public disturbance?” He said through the crack in a disapproving tone.

You gave him a wild look of disbelief. “What?”

“I don’t know if I should let you in.”

“Shut up Tsuki. Hurry up. Unlock it!”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t call the authorities and turn you over right now for reckless public intoxication.”

You groaned. “Stop fucking around! It’s going to start raining soon!”

People were staring now. Bewildered at the scene playing before them.

“Better think fast then. I’m sure all that alcohol isn’t going to help with that.” He chuckled. Quite amused with himself. Public humiliation was his favorite form of punishment and reform.

“Are you serious right now?” You whined.

“Right, because I’m clearly the joking type.” He said emphasizing his sarcasm for your current compromised comprehension level.

You swore you’d punch him when you got in there. But clearly you were going to have to play his sick game.

“Ughhh. Fine! Because it’s cold and I’m going to get hypo...hypother-me-ma.”

He laughed. “Horrible.”

“Fucking because you don’t feel like being an asshole tonight!?”

“No.”

“Because I’m your girlfriend and you’re supposed to love me?”

After a moment of consideration, the door clicked open. You hastily went to reach for it but as soon as your fingers grazed the handle the car lurched forward a couple feet.

“KEI!” You yelled. The embarrassment was finally kicking in as you heard snickers from the people standing on the sidewalk.

You went to reach for it again, nearly tripping over your own feet this time. Again the asshole tapped the gas just when your hand neared the handle.

You started banging on the window. “Tsuki! I’m gonna kick your ass!” You screamed in complete frustration. More laughs from the peanut gallery.

“Okay, calm down drunk and disorderly. Get in.” He put the car in park and put his hands in the air as evidence that he was done torturing you.

Finally you climbed in the car and as soon as you shut the door behind you a drizzle started hitting the windows.

You muttered some more curses under your breath.

“Did you enjoy that you sadist?” You mumbled.

“Are you having fun being a delinquent?”

You slapped his shoulder but he just pulled onto the street, unfazed.

“Next time I’m calling Yams.” A poor attempt at getting under his skin.

“Great idea.” He said with a smirk.

You slapped his shoulder again.

“Don’t talk to me. I’m not talking to you for the next ten minutes.” You pouted. He was so mean to you.

“I’m sure it will be less.” He said confidently.

You huffed. He was loving this.

After a couple minutes of silently staring out the window in protest, you felt the alcohol hit your stomach. You closed your eyes and took some deep breaths. But the motion of the car was not helping. The subtle vibrations were making you woozy. The liquid in your stomach started aggressively churning and bubbling. You could feel a little trying to force its way up.

“Oh god—“

“Ahh only 4 minutes—“

“Shut up! Pull over! Now!” You pleaded, covering your mouth trying you best to concentrate on not spewing all over his dash.

He looked over in horror and immediately swerved to the side of the road.

In barely enough time you threw yourself out of the car to release everything out on the grass. It was god awful. You hated this feeling. It seemed like it would never go away.

You spent the next few seconds promising the gods, the universe and whoever else was listening that you’d never drink again. But you felt another rounding bubbling up.

You jumped when you felt Tsuki’s hand on your shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s just me.” He said quietly, pulling the hair out of your face.

He didn’t say anything else. Just started lightly rubbing your back until you were finished.

It was still drizzling. You knew he hated being out in the rain. Guilt mixed with vomit was an even worse feeling.

“Okay.” You said slowly trying to stand up.

“Maybe you should wait another minute.” You could hear the ill-masked concern in his voice.

After insisting you were fine he helped you back up and lead you back to the car. Making sure you were buckled in before he shut the door for you.

As he rounded to the other side you noticed he’d placed a blanket on your seat. It was your favorite one from his room. He must have brought it before picking you up. You hated being cold just as much as he hated the rain.

Snuggling your face into it, you were reminded why you loved your boyfriend so much.

Settling into his seat, he looked at you wearily.

“Are you going to be okay?”

You only managed a feeble shrug as you sank onto his arm. He pulled the blanket over your head. “Just close your eyes. We’re almost there.” He was extra careful to drive slowly and avoid potholes.

By the time he pulled into your drive way you were in no better state. Unable to move without confidently feeling like you weren’t about to vomit again.

You felt bad. You knew he wasn’t loving spending the night like this. Dealing with a sick girlfriend who doesn’t know her limits. He doesn’t even like alcohol but somehow got pulled into your mess.

“You can just leave me here.” You offered weakly.

“I can’t leave you.”

“Aw.” He was being sweet for once.

“I mean I literally can’t leave. You’re still in my car.”

Sigh. Short lived.

He chuckled. How could he still tease you when you’re like this?

“It’s fine.” He said earnestly.

He sat there patiently while your stomach settled. Holding your hand and gently stroking your head. You’d really fallen into him. You were basically laying on his lap.

After about five minutes of calming silence, you asked him to take you inside.

He helped you get ready for bed with minimal teasing.

You crawled under your blankets, still clutching the one he brought from his house.

He tucked you in but you caught his hand before he could leave.

“Stay for a little while?” You pleaded with soft eyes. His rubs were the only thing hold you over right now.

He couldn’t say no. You looked too adorable bundled up like that.

He carefully snuck in next to you, trying not to jar you around.

He was so long that his feet stuck off the end of your bed. But it was perfect. You curled into his chest as he wrapped you in his arms. Still stroking your hair just like you wanted.

“Are you going to say sorry for being mean to me earlier?” You prodded with a wave of confidence.

“No.” He said with a smile. His placed a few kisses on your forehead and cheeks before settling in for good.

He cuddled with you until you fell asleep. But even then he was too worried he’d wake you up by leaving so he stayed by your side the whole night, enjoying the rhythm of your breathing and kissing your forehead every once in a while for good measure.

~~

Read Iwaizumi’s version here

[deniigi]

bro, work made me depressed that I literally left my seat to regain any resemblance of joy or something equivalent before breaking down again. Do you think you can provide a ficlet I involving Peter and Sam to cheer me up?

FUCK CAPITALISM

TAKE THIS

Title: Calibrating

Summary: Sam and Peter talk themselves towards a meaningful discussion.

---------

Peter did this thing—this infuriating thing where he texted shit like ‘come over’ and then Sam had to bend over backwards to be flirty and coy.

It was imperative that he came across as flirty and coy.

Im-fucking-perative, regardless of what Leilani said or Matt’s annoyance at what he called the ‘jungle of depravity’ that overtook the group chat pretty much daily.

Sam didn’t care.

If Peter texted the group or sent any message that might be construed upside-down as something romantic or sexual, Sam not only had to catch it, but he had to volley it back.

This, he told Leilani, sealed their No-Homo contract.

She stared at him.

He decided to demonstrate.

“See, here, look, I’ll show you,” he said, dragging out his phone. “Exhibit A. There he is, see? Asking about the strength of PVC pipe in pounds per meter like a fuckin’ tease. Now I can’t just let him think that I saw that and didn’t think of it as a metaphor, alright? So I say—”

“Sam, why does he need to know the strength of PVC pipe?” Leilani interrupted.

It didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point of this discussion.

“I’m sending a winky-face,” Sam informed her as he did that very thing.

Leilani stared harder than before.

But look, skepticism was unrewarded. Peter texted a kiss right back and said ‘oh boo, you always know just want to say.’

How could she not see the No-Homo? Sam could do this all day. He could and there would be absolutely no problems and he wouldn’t want to suffocate himself in his pillow at the end of it all.

It was fine.

“Samuel,” Leilani said, “I’m going to tell you something and I want you to hear it with an open heart. Will you open your heart for me?”

Sam spun around in his chair and arranged his arms and legs so that they were as open as they could feasibly be without being obscene.

“I am more open than a boiled clam,” he informed her.

Leilani blinked slowly, then shook her head and checked over her shoulders. She waved him in closer. Then closer. And then close enough that he could smell her perfume on her neck.

“You’re the tease,” she said.

Then she left the backroom. And Sam could only stare after her, frozen in horror as his wide-open heart wrinkled in on itself, picking up mass and gravity until it was naught but a black hole.

“I’m the tease?” he whispered to himself in shock.

Oh no.

OH NO.

 --

  “SENSEI.”

Matt dropped his collection of folders and swore, clutching at his chest.

“We have discussed volume, Sam,” he said, bending down to collect his paper children.

Sam took the opportunity to throw both arms around his neck from behind as a threat.

“Don’t lie,” he warned. “Swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, amen.”

Matt stood up and Sam felt his toes leave the floor. He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“Or what?” Matt asked, 110% unfazed.

Sam wished that his feet weren’t kicking around in air here. It really put a dent in his intimidation factor.

“Am I a tease?” he asked.

Matt faced front with heavy eyebrows. Sam couldn’t see his face from this angle, but he knew that aura of irritation.

“If you have to ask the question, then you already know the answer,” Matt said. “Does that help?”

“No, I hate you now, actually,” Sam told him.

Matt dropped him right on his ass.

 --

 There had to be a way to attain proof. To determine once and for all that it was Sam who was in the wrong here, misinterpreting things like the genius that he was.

Thankfully, Sam’s experience of growing up as a non-only child for the last two decades had prepared him exactly for this type of conversation.

 SC: HANNAH AM I A TEASE???

HC: yes

HC: next question

SC: FUCK.

SC: WHAT IF ITS NOT NO-HOMO?

HC: my dear brother, the only options if something is not no-homo is for it to be no-no or homo-homo.

SC: Murder me

HC: gladly

SC: I’m in possible homo-homo with spiderman

HC: are you sure it’s not no-no?

SC: MURDER ME

HC: okay but like if it’s no-no then this is not a problem, right?

SC: If it’s no-no then I’ve read every sign wrong and I deserve to become a partially eaten tadpole awash in an indifferent boiling sea

HC: okay so we’re leaning INTO the drama today I gotcha. Alright but like, just for the sake of arguing, what if it was homo-homo?

SC: then I need you to bury my body somewhere no one will ever find it because my heart can’t stand requited love you know this about me.

HC: give me your login

SC: thank you I love you you’re the only person who matters

 --

 BT: Spiderman.

SM: Blindspot. DMing? You okay?

BT: this is Hannah.

SM: OH

SM: hi Hannah are you okay? Did you need something?

BT: My brother never got tested for reading comprehension but would have failed anyways. Can you arbitrate an arbitrary argument for us?

SM: I’m positive that there is a link between those two ideas that I am missing, but sure?

BT: okay are you ready?

SM: my loins have been girded.

BT: gross. you two are made for each other. Okay: what are your opinions on 24yo Chinese dudes with bad vision who are 5’7” tall, with terrible hair and brains as big and gaseous as Jupiter?

SM: positive

BT: you’re so romantic spidey.

SM: I know

BT: I’m going to tell him now

SM: WAIT DON’T TELL HIM

BT: byeeeeeee

 --

 Sam was going to have a heart attack. He couldn’t look at his phone. He was just going to lay here until he wasted away into a fossil.

Mm, yes, what a wonderful way to escape any and all feelings. That was—

His phone chirped and he nearly fell out of his chair in a hurry to answer it.

 HC: [image] [image]

HC: you owe me your bones

SC: AFASDFADFAS:FJaf’asdfjahsdlfihasdl’fas

SC: TAKE THEM

HC: if you fuck spiderman you have to get pregnant and demand alimony for your beautiful mixed babies Samuel

SC: Darling sister, we’ve talked about this. it isn’t going to happen I still have yet to steal a womb

HC: try harder

HC: ttyl

--

 Okay, this was fine.

Everything was fine.

Spidey liked Sam back, it was no big deal. Spidey liked everyone back. Even the teases.

Even.

The.

Teases.

Fuck, Sam had to move.

 --

 Foggy caught him biting his nails to pieces over the copy machine and asked him if he was okay. He was not. Foggy could read this off him. He didn’t ask again, but he did say that if Sam was feeling particularly anxious about something he was welcome to go have his breakdown upstairs in Kirsten’s kitchen instead of downstairs among the files.

Sam appreciated his offer. He hiked up the stairs, and halfway up, his phone chirped.

His heart stopped.

It chirped again, and then again. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, it was chirping every couple of seconds with messages being typed and sent at mach speed.

He kicked off his shoes and went to go stand over Kirsten’s sink to open the first one.

  PP: Sam it’s peter hey listen your sister messaged me

PP: and was asking some pretty invasive questions and I replied to her. I don’t know if you saw them but I just wanted to say that if that makes you uncomfortable in any way know that I absolutely don’t mind and I’ll stop

PP: you can tell me to fuck off if that crossed your boundaries. I shouldn’t have even messaged her back without asking you

PP: and obviously in future I won’t talk to her until I’ve cleared it with you I just wasn’t thinking I’m never thinking it’s a little hard to think sometimes

PP: especially when you message me back and I get caught up in the games and the emojis and stuff and like I’m sure that sometimes I overstep but I don’t mean to and you can tell me at any point if you want me to stop

PP: I guess I just really like to talk to you sometimes and it’s fun to have someone to banter with who actually banters back like not in a mean way but in a really nice and funny way. you’re an easy guy to talk to is what I’m saying

PP: which I’m sure you get a lot. I don’t mean that I want to like tell you all my problems I swear it’s not that it’s just more of a AHHHHH I don’t even know what I’m saying I think it’s sorry???

PP: I’m sorry??? I don’t mean to imply anything that isn’t there and I don’t want to make you feel like you have to either. Ar e you mad? Please don’t be mad okay wait no I’ve sent like seven fucking messages I’m being a creep oh my god IM SORRY ILL SHUT UP NOW OKAY SORRY BYE

  Oh nooooo.

The panic-induced infodump was not only familiar but horrendously endearing.

Sam had to explode now.

Man. Bummer.

  SC: it’s okay Peter

PP: OH THANK GOD

PP: is it tho??? Are you sure?

SC: I have positive feelings towards people like you too

  Sam’s heart pounded. He almost locked his phone and threw it in the sink, but another text came in just as that thought finished crossing his mind.

  PP: you do?

SC: yes of course I do

PP: oh nice

SC: yeah

  Annnnnnnd cue mutual nerd awkwardness. Great. Well done, Sam, you’ve done it again.

He sighed and turned away from the sink and sunk down onto the floor with his back against it.

Such a loser, Chung. So painfully awkward. Would it kill you to, just for once, slow down and chill for a minute?

God.

  PP: hey sam?

  No, Sam just wanted to sit on this floor and wallow.

  PP: hello? Are you still there?

 --

Sam let his head fall back against the sink. He closed his eyes.

His phone rang in his hand and he nearly had a heart attack. His fingers scrabbled over its face and the caller ID read ‘Peter Parker.’

Oh god.

Oh no.

Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.

“Hello?” he answered to the scratchy phone silence on the other side of the line.

He frowned.

“Hello?” he tried again, a smidge less desperate.

“Hi.”

There he was.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Sorry, just got awkward.”

Peter laughed through the line.

“Me too,” he said. “That was awkward.”

Yeah.

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I’m doing it again,” Sam moaned into his hand.

“No, no. Hey, you’re good,” Peter said. “I was just uh. Calling because.” He trailed off.

Sam waited.

“Sam? You still there?”

He startled and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said. “Sorry, zoning out a little bit. You know, busy day.”

“Yeah,” Peter said.  “Yeah, I know.”

Sam breathed as quietly as he could. He could almost hear Peter doing the same on his end.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta g—” Sam started.

“Hey, do you like me?”

HNG.

“No?” Sam answered and then punched himself in the leg. “Sorry. Uh. I didn’t—I mean, uh. Yes. Of course I like you. You’re a really good person. I admire you a lot.”

Hannah, oh Hannah, where is thine shovel? Sam needed it to dig this grave deeper, please.

“Oh. Okay, I just—I guess I uh, have a hard time reading the tone of your texts sometimes,” Peter said.

“It’s okay, I get that a lot,” Sam said. “I’ll try harder to be more direct.”

“No,” Peter said. “No, no, you don’t have to change anything.”

“Oh? Okay, well. Maybe I still will, though,” Sam said.

If Peter wouldn’t have heard him, he would have started to try to fit his whole fist in his mouth.

Five minutes of conversation and they were still saying nothing.

“Sam?”

He swallowed.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Next time you’re in the city, would you, uh, maybe want to go out somewhere? With me?”

Out? What like, to a movie or something?

“Yeah, just like that,” Peter said. “’Cause I uh. Would like to. Do that, I mean. With you.”

“With me?” Sam asked. “Oh right, and your other friends, uh, names—sorry, I’m bad with names. N-ned?”

“No,” Peter said oddly abruptly. “Well, I mean—I don’t mean it like that. I just—just with you. For now. That’s what I mean.”

“Oh. Uh. Kinda like a date?” Sam asked through the forcefield of self-hatred that felt like it spanned the entire continental US.

There was a pause. Sam held his breath.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Exactly like a date. If you don’t mind—you know, doing that with me.”

AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

“Are you trying to lure me to a secondary location, Mr. Parker?” Sam asked seriously.

The laugh that met him made all the muscles in his shoulders relax.

“Maybe if the bit at the first location goes well,” Peter said. Then added hurriedly, “If you’re down for that.”

Sam was down for it right now.

Actually, maybe not in Kirsten’s kitchen. But like, right now in a different location.

“If it’s a movie date, we can do it through Netflix Party,” he pointed out faux-lightly. “It wouldn’t be the same, but we could do it this weekend, even. Saturday—I’m off Saturday.”

Peter said nothing for a long time.

“Okay. Saturday,” he finally agreed, “I can do Saturday. Kinda hard to hold your hand through a screen, but I can give it my best shot?”

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFfffffff.

“Oh, I bet you will,” Sam nearly choked.

“You’re really cute, Sam.”

NO. SHUT UP. YOU ARE.

“Thanks.”

“I wanted to kiss you last time you were here, but I was too, uh. Shy. Embarrassed. One of them.”

Sam was going to puke, but in like, the happiest kind of way.

“I like you a lot too, Peter,” he whispered.

“Are you crying?”

“What? No.”

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”

“Shut up, I’m not. I—the old man’s downstairs, his ears aren’t as good through ceilings, but I just want to make sure—”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said. “I’m sure that’s what it is. So I’ll see you Saturday? Maybe Facetime or something?”

“Yeah, Saturday,” Sam said. “I’ll send you a time when I know. I’ve gotta go. Meltdown-alloted-breaktime is over.”

Peter laughed.

“Alright, man, I’ll talk to you later. Bye now.”

“Bye,” Sam said lamely.

He hung up the phone. He did not scream. But he did fist pump and then fall onto his side.

 ---------

Here’s to hoping things get easier for you anon!!

[blog-sliverofjade]

Of Doms & Subs 3: The Great Escape

Pairing: Angus Hopper x OFC

Summary:  What’s a submissive female to do when she fights her nature and goes on the run as a Lone wolf to avoid being assimilated into a pack?

Word count: 1733

Of Doms & Subs Master List

I was very appreciative of the thick carpeting because it allowed me to nearly soundlessly slide the dresser in front of the bedroom door.  The window screen was almost as silent when I popped it free of the frame.  The room faced the leeward side of the hill, so it was effectively a three story drop to the ground.  Not being eager to test the limits of my regenerative abilities, I took one of the ropes from my pack and tied one end around a leg of the heavy oak bed.  Rather than drop my bags noisily to the ground, I was grateful for my new strength that allowed me to climb down with them both slung across my back.

It was raining again.  Or would that be still raining?  Hard to tell in this part of the Northwest.  Hopefully it would help muffle sounds.  The thick grass squelched under my feet as I sprinted for the road, avoiding the driveway and the crunch of gravel.  I was so focused that I almost didn’t see the wolf charge at me as I rounded the house.  What was his name again, Ian?  I spun the duffel from my back to the front, using the momentum to slam the end into his solar plexus.  Fifty pounds of weight powered by a werewolf judiciously applied into a two-foot squared area was sufficient to knock the wind out of even another werewolf.

Unfortunately, werewolves recover much faster than humans.  Asphalt was so close I could practically taste the petrichor when Ian grabbed me.  Before I knew it, I was slung over his shoulder so that it dug into my stomach, which was still full of pizza and carbonation.  Not a good combination.  The duffel fell down and I extricated myself from the strap before it could strangle me.  Rather than start a fight I couldn’t possibly win, to keep myself calm, I pondered at what point suffocation would overpower regeneration.

“That was quick thinking with the duffel,” Ian said as a salve to my pride.

“Get mugged on the way back from the gym, or work, you learn to improvise.”  My voice sounded stuffy to me from the blood rushing to my head till it felt like it would burst.  “How’d you know?”

“We were all expecting it,” he laughed.  My stomach really wished he hadn’t as his shoulder bounced against my gut.  “Hell, there’s a betting pool going on when you’d try.”

Ian set me down on the porch and opened the door for me.  We pried off our muddy shoes in the aptly named mudroom.  “I’m gonna have to climb back up the rope.”  He cast a confused look my way.  “I pushed the oak dresser in front of the door,” I confessed.

He threw his back and laughed.  “You sure you’re submissive?”

“That’s what they keep telling me,” I shrugged.

“I’ll send Jim up, skinny dude’s like a spider monkey anyway.”  He gestured for me to hang the backpack on a hook, so I surrendered it with as much grace as I could muster before he marched me down to what I was rapidly coming to think of as the principal’s office.

If Angus had been woken up he gave no sign of it.  He was dressed in the same clothes he wore earlier.  The scowl was certainly the same, if a touch darker.  “Where were you going this time?” he demanded.

“Timbuktu,” I answered far more casually than I felt.  “What is this?  Another attempted case of forced Stockholm syndrome?  Right now the only difference I’m seeing between you and John is a mansion in the city vs cabin in the woods.”

“I tried to be delicate despite the situation and your nature, which is obviously ill suited to our culture.”  If I thought he was growly before, I was sorely mistaken.  What rumbled from his chest to spill through the room had never come from a human throat.  His voice was a wave of power like none I had ever felt before.  I shivered involuntarily.  As embarrassing as it was to visibly react, the more visceral response low in my body was mortifying.  The wolf was anxious to submit.  Our mutual arousal just made that urge worse.

“You are too new to control yourself.”  He no longer bothered with the amiable pose against the desk.  Now he assumed an Alpha stance, drawn up to his full height, feet spread slightly, so his presence was overwhelming even without the mystical power he exuded before.

“I have been terrified, hunted, tired, hungry, held against my will, and am royally pissed, but I haven’t lost control once.”  If someone only heard my words, they’d never suspect that my head was bowed and my shoulders practically hunched.  I told myself it was only a show to placate him in spite of my attitude.

“The full moon is weeks away, so do not make the mistake of complacency.  Do you know what happens to bad little wolves who lose it?”  His register and volume had dropped till it was far more intimate than a voice should be, like a caress that brushed places not entirely physical.  My wolf would roll over and beg for his praise instead of censure in that deliciously dangerous tone.  “Their Alpha puts them down.  Discipline is necessary to maintain the veneer of civility that allows us to co-exist with humans.  Those who cannot adapt to our ways don’t live long.”

Oh crap, I knew that look.  Angus had to teach me a lesson or else be seen as weak, possibly even flouting the Marrock’s laws.  The kid gloves were coming off or else the pack stability was at risk.  The needs of the many and all that.  My pride was bruised enough as it was, so I turned inwardly to my lupine half.  Promise not to go on a murderous rampage?  Her tail thumped happily in agreement.  All right, tagging you in.  She didn’t fully take over.  Instead she removed the inhibitions and fears of what others would think of me for abasing myself.  Wolves didn’t worry about human hang-ups.

I, she, we fell to our knees on the throw rug on the hardwood floor at his feet.  Perhaps it was there as a small kindness to those grovelling, like I was.  It lent a disturbing reality to the term called out on the carpet.

“I’m sorry, Alpha,” we whispered to the thick pile.  “Humans have taken advantage of my passive nature in the past.  I’m afraid that may happen again in a pack.”

“While you are in my territory you are safe, but you will abide by our laws, which means you will not leave without a proper escort.”  The power behind his words pressed the air from my lungs and settled into my bones.  There was no hope of disobeying now.  We weren’t even sure we wanted to.  “There are worse things out there than fey and wolves, pup.”

He knelt gracefully next to me, and faster than thought, his teeth nipped sharply at the side of my throat.  Not hard enough to draw blood, but there would certainly be a mark on my pale skin in the morning.  To my utter shame a gasping whimper escaped my lips and the slow warmth that had been growing between my legs suddenly flared into a blaze.  “Now go to bed.”

When I balked at her next point of protocol, the wolf took over just enough to crawl out the door in acknowledgement of the reprimand.  Once in the hallway I scrambled to my feet and practically ran upstairs.  Someone had retrieved the duffel and my pack, although the rope and any other climbing equipment was conspicuously absent.

Too tired to dig out my pajamas, which were in dire need of a wash anyway, I stripped naked and fell into bed.  My wolf’s last thought was, He’s a good alpha.  I had fallen into velvety sleep before I could wonder what that meant.

If her scent had been compelling before, it was maddening in her arousal.  Only Ian’s presence and her fear of being exploited allowed my humanity to remain in the driver’s seat.  Otherwise my wolf would have taken her right there on the carpet.  Dear God, he even liked the idea of claiming her in front of Ian so that he would know she was mine.  As it was, he wanted to seek her out in her den.  Barring that, he’d even curl up and sleep where she knelt.  We both liked knowing that she would carry our mark in the morning.

“I’ll be damned, boss, you may just tame the shrew after all,” Ian grinned from his post by the door.

“She’s not a shrew, only scared,” I sighed and rubbed my face.  “Imagine no preparation, no ceremony, simply an emergency Change by an old lone wolf in the middle of the wilderness.  Given the choice again, knowing what she does now, I doubt she’d make the same decision.”

“Isaac called right before the jailbreak,” he said.  “Their pack can be ready to greet her at six tomorrow night.”

“So soon?”  I had to force my lip to remain still and not curl up in a snarl at the thought of Ellie leaving my territory.

“Submissive female spontaneously Changed and leading us all on a merry chase while trying to deny what she is now?”  He cast me a wry, sideways look without providing a direct challenge.  “Hell, I’d be surprised if they didn’t already know about this latest attempt.  Which reminds me…”  He pulled a thick envelope from a back pocket, drew half of the bills from it, and handed it to me.  “You and Mickayla both picked midnight, so you get to split the kitty.”

“Speaking of Mickayla, see if she can get some time alone with our little escape artist before she leaves.”  I tucked the packet into a pocket.  “If John wasn’t clear on pack politics, I doubt he gave her a comprehensive idea of how much she’s changed.”

“You mean like how to use her nose?”  Ian’s grey eyes were twinkling far too mischievously.  “Or how her sex drive’s gone through the roof?  Because she might’ve already figured that one out on her own.”  I growled and cuffed him upside the head.  “’Night, boss,” he said unrepentantly as he strolled off to his room.

[catflowerqueen]

This is for you, @citrus-chickadee

Party Crashers Part 1

“My Dear, are you all right?”

The Grass-type blinked, the sight of Celebi waving a hand in front of his face dispelling his thoughts. “Hm? I’m sorry… did you say something, Celebi?

Celebi sighed in exasperation, crossing her arms and plopping down next to him. “I asked if you were all right,” she repeated. “You seem more distracted than usual… even considering what day it is.”

Grovyle winced at the reminder, briefly flicking his eyes in Dialga’s direction. Ever since the dark future had changed, he and Celebi were welcome guests in Dialga’s home. The Temporal Pokemon had even become a part-time employer of sorts, strange as that was given their history together. But today they weren’t there to receive any jobs; today was—or would have been, if she hadn’t disappeared—Laura’s Birthday, and it had become a tradition for Grovyle and Celebi to visit Dialga on the Temporal Tower Pinnacle to try and cheer him up. Despite everything that had ended up happening, Dialga still blamed himself for Laura’s ultimate fate.

Usually one or two members of the Sableye Gang came as well, but today they were all busy with other tasks. Dos, Trois and Seis had legitimate excuses, at least. Dos always honored the day by placing a new portrait in the Memorial Garden near Laura’s grave, and he had gotten a late start on painting this year’s addition due to a recent illness. Trois and Seis couldn’t make it because they were busy fixing their house since the roof had collapsed after a Castform decided their front yard would be the perfect place to teach his kids about weather changing moves—despite the fact that New PIT Base had training grounds conveniently located near the guest housing—and one of them became a bit too enthusiastic about the move Hail. But the other three—along with Dusknoir—weren’t there because they were trying to avoid the sadness.

Dusknoir was always conveniently “busy” whenever this date came around, and this year he had decided that it was absolutely vital that he go on a week-long scouting mission to—of all places—the Oran Forest. Cinq, Un, and Cuatro insisted they go with him to “protect him from danger.” Again, this was the Oran Forest they were talking about. If those guys weren’t doing this as an avoidance tactic, then Grovyle would eat nothing but Grimy Food for a week. In any case, it would probably be a few more days before they returned.

“Sorry, Celebi. I was just… thinking,” Grovyle finally replied.

Celebi giggled. “I can see that, my dear… What were you thinking about?”

Grovyle hesitated, looking towards Dialga’s depressed form again and weighing whether it was really worth it to upset him even more over what was probably a stupid question. In the end he decided that his desperate need to know the answer—even if the chances that it would be favorable were likely very slim—far outweighed the probability of pain. So he went ahead and asked, “I was just wondering… Dialga, are you really sure that Laura isn’t ali-with us, anymore? Somewhere out there?”

Dialga, who had perked up slightly at being addressed, winced and slumped even lower to the floor. He didn’t give a verbal response, but it was pretty clear from his body language that the answer was “yes.”

Celebi frowned, feeling troubled. “My dear… you haven’t thought about that possibility in years. What makes you think of it now?”

Grovyle shrugged, “When I went to Laura’s grave this morning to pay my respects, I was interrupted by this really weird visitor.”

“Oh? Weird in what way?”

Grovyle frowned, concentrating on bringing the memories back to the forefront of his mind before explaining, “Well, at first he didn’t realize where we were and tried to pick a fight with me over the flowers I’d picked for her,” he paused here to roll his eyes in remembered annoyance, “but then once he realized that we were at a grave… and especially once he realized whose grave it was… he was completely devastated. Like we all were, at first, you know? As if… as if he hadn’t known she was gone and it was a fresh wound.”

“That is strange,” Celebi agreed. “I mean… we’ve spread that story around enough that he should have heard it from somewhere…”

Grovyle nodded before furrowing his brow, realizing something. “Actually… he might not have.”

When Celebi—and Dialga, if only briefly—looked over in surprise, Grovyle explained, “I didn’t even think about it at the time, but… he was a celebi. He might not have heard it if he came from far enough in the past,” Grovyle paused and frowned as he suddenly realized something. “Which… actually makes how he behaved after I told him the story even stranger.”

“HOW DID HE BEHAVE?” Dialga asked, his attention riveted for some reason upon hearing the visitor’s species.

“He seemed…relieved. As if… well, as if he was worried that she had actually died from something like… I don’t know… age or illness, I guess. Something common.”

Celebi shot up into the air. “Wh-what?” she spluttered. “B-but that doesn’t make sense! I mean… okay, if he was from far enough in the past, then, yes you’re right, obviously death by ‘disappearing as a result of changing the future’ wouldn’t have crossed his mind… but it was still a grave. So why would he feel—” she came to a screeching halt as she realized something else. “…Actually, if he was from that far in the past… how would he even know who Laura was to get upset that she’s no longer with us?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Grovyle admitted. He frowned thoughtfully for a moment before theorizing, “I suppose he may have been thinking of a different Laura, but…”

“WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE?!” Dialga suddenly demanded, derailing Grovyle’s train of thought.

When Grovyle didn’t answer—being too startled by the wild look in Dialga’s eyes and how forceful the question had been—Dialga calmed his tone slightly and tried again. “LET ME CLARIFY… DID HE HAVE ANY SORT OF DISTINGUISHING FEATURES, OR DID HE JUST LOOK LIKE AN AVERAGE CELEBI?”

“…He was wearing a few odd accessories, but otherwise he looked normal,” Grovyle finally answered. He felt slightly confused when it caused Dialga to seem crestfallen, but before he could think of something to cheer him up he remembered another detail and added, “Well, unless his odd eye color would classify him as a different type of shiny celebi than Celebi here.”

“His eye color?” Celebi asked, cocking her head in amusement at the possibility that Grovyle had now been acquainted with two shiny pokémon of her species.

“Yes. His eyes were golden.”

Dialga pulled in sharp gasp before sitting straight up. “GOLDEN?” he repeated frantically, his eyes widening when Grovyle nodded in assent. “BUT THAT WOULD MEAN…” he trailed off, his gaze moving towards the Time Gear pedestal. He frowned and began to “mutter” in thought. “BUT IF IT REALLY WAS HIM, THEN WHY WOULD HEARING ABOUT HER MANNER OF DEATH MAKE HIM RELIEVED? UNLESS…”

He trailed off again and let his eyes become distant. Grovyle and Celebi glanced at each other, feeling slightly worried and wondering if they should go to the Oran Forest and fetch Dusknoir to help them decipher his master’s odd mood… or to help them subdue the Temporal pokémon if it turned out he was going crazy again. But then they jolted when Dialga finally came back to the present, threw back his head… and laughed. They then seriously considered going to get Dusknoir, since the laugh sounded far too joyous given the date.

“GROVYLE… CELEBI…” Dialga suddenly said, turning back towards them and causing them to jump. “I HAVE A JOB FOR YOU.”

Grovyle and Celebi blinked in confusion before their eyes widened in comprehension. “A… job? As in… right now?” Grovle asked, stunned.

“Is… is something wrong?” Celebi wondered aloud, sounding very concerned.

“NO, NO… NOTHING IS WRONG. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING…” Dialga paused to smirk. “BUT IT IS STILL VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU DO THIS.”

“…Okay…” Celebi said, still sounding unsure. “What do you need us to do?”

Dialga nodded happily and jerked his head, opening a dimensional hole to his right.

“I NEED YOU TO TAKE THIS DIMENSIONAL HOLE BACK TO THE PAST AND OBSERVE WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE IN THAT TIME PERIOD.”

Celebi cocked her head and placed a hand near the edge of the hole. She closed her eyes in concentration, focusing on finding out the date it would lead them to. When she had it, her eyes snapped open in shock.

“But this is… today’s date about four years after Team Rainbow took the Time Gears to Temporal Tower!”

Grovyle’s jaw dropped. “Wha…?” he turned to Dialga. “Why would you want us to go to then?” he demanded.

Dialga smirked again and gave a shrug. “I TOLD YOU: I WANT YOU TO OBSERVE WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE. FOUR YEARS SHOULD BE ENOUGH TIME FOR THINGS TO HAVE SETTLED DOWN SINCE THE CRISIS AT TEMPORAL TOWER, BUT THAT DOES NOT NECESSARILY MEAN THAT YOU WON’T FIND ANYTHING… INTERESTING, TO REPORT.”

Grovyle frowned. He didn’t like how suspicious Dialga was acting…

“BESIDES… LAURA IS NOT THE ONLY FRIEND YOU LEFT BEHIND WHEN YOU DRAGGED MY FAITHFUL SERVANT DUSKNOIR BACK TO THAT DARK FUTURE, CORRECT?”

Grovyle’s eyes widened. “Paula…” he whispered before looking away, slightly shame-faced. “That’s right… she’s probably missing Laura too…”

Celebi slapped her forehead. “I can’t believe I never thought of travelling back to see her before! She probably thinks we’re dead as well!”

“EXACTLY,” Dialga said, giving another grin. “WHICH IS ALL THE MORE REASON TO GO BACK FOR A QUICK VISIT.”

Grovyle glanced back at him once more with a frown before sighing and rubbing his temples. “…Okay, I give in.” He straightened up, transitioning into serious mode. “Do you want us to go now, or do we have time to pack first?”

“Oh, my dear, you’re so paranoid!” Celebi chided, rolling her eyes. “Why would we need to pack if we’re merely going to observe?”

“It’s always good to be prepared,” Grovyle cautioned. “Besides, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but the last time I went to the past I was labelled a wanted criminal.”

“I’m sure they would have repealed that by now.”

“You don’t know that… and there’s also the fact that—h-hey! Wait a minute!”

Celebi, tired of Grovyle’s attempts at making excuses, grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the Dimensional Hole. “Don’t worry so much! I’m sure everything will go splendidly!” she assured before—and without any warning—shoving him in. She waited until his surprised yelps and screaming faded away before turning back towards Dialga with a wide smile.

“We’ll give you a full report when we get back!” she told him before she remembered something. Her smile became mischievous when she added, “Oh! Make sure that you thwack Dusknoir and the sableye on the back of the head for being such sillies again this year if they return before us, okay?”

Dialga chuckled. “I WILL BE SURE TO DO THAT. HAVE A GOOD TIME.”

Celebi gave a salute before flying into the dimensional hole. Dialga watched as it flickered and closed, and then he settled down near the pedestal to allow the new memories of the past that had just become available to him to catch up and merge with the ones already in his head. He gave a soft, happy sigh as the image came to mind of a treecko with brilliant, rainbow-colored eyes smiling at him in greeting when he descended to the Hidden Land to see how she was coming along with repainting the murals…

“I HOPE LAURA WILL LIKE HER SWEET SIXTEEN PRESENT…”

--------

Grovyle groaned as he sat up, feeling sand shift beneath his claws (and internally wondering if that meant he’d ended up travelling back to a beach yet again), and shook his head to dispel the fog caused by the time travel. He looked around, locating Celebi—who, annoyingly, didn’t seem to have suffered any ill effects from the time travel like he had—and shooting her a weak glare. But she was too busy admiring the waves (well, that answered that question…) with wide, excited eyes to notice, so he quickly gave it up and settled for a soft sound of annoyance.

This caught Celebi’s attention and she turned to him with a big smile on her face. “My Dear Grovyle! You’re finally awake!” she exclaimed with glee before flying up and twirling in the air. “Isn’t this beach just amazing?” she gushed.

Grovyle chuckled minutely at her antics. “Yes, it is quite nice… but you’ve seen beaches like this before, remember?” he reminded her gently.

“Well, yes… but those were future beaches. This is a past beach! Just think: Laura and Paula may have played on one just like this when they took breaks from their exploration work!”

Grovyle tilted his head thoughtfully and looked more closely at his surroundings. “Actually… I think this is the beach they played on,” he said. “It looks like the one near Treasure Town, at any rate. What’s more…” he trailed off, looking up and squinting into the distance “…that outcrop of rock over there looks distinctly like a sharpedo, does it not? So that must be Sharpedo Bluff, where Laura, Paula, and I stayed for a while before retrieving the Time Gear from Treeshroud Forest.”

“Oh?” Celebi asked, flying a bit higher to get a closer look. “You’re right! It does look like a sharpedo! So that means that the Wigglytuff Guild must be nearby! That’s where Paula will be… right?”

“Most likely,” Grovyle agreed. But then he frowned slightly as a few other possible scenarios flitted through his head. “It’s been a few years, though, so she may have moved on by now.”

“But they’d probably know where she went if that was the case, yes?” Celebi asked, coming back down to hover at a more reasonable level. “Besides… the other members of the guild are your friends too, right?

Grovyle’s frown deepened and he crossed his arms, shifting over to look at the waves. “…I wouldn’t really call us ‘friends,’” he told her truthfully. “The only other member of the guild I really had the opportunity to talk with was Wigglytuff.”

Celebi pouted briefly before grinning again and tugging his arm. “Well now’s your chance!” she insisted.

Grovyle shook his head in amusement as he allowed her to lead him. “Now who’s the impatient one?” he teased. Celebi blushed and declined to answer.

Grovyle shook his head again and barked out a short laugh before something along the path caught his eye. “Hold on a moment, Celebi,” he requested, stopping in place. “This wasn’t here before.”

Celebi obligingly dropped his arm, turning back to look at what he’d seen. It appeared to be a building. It was a bit on the small side, but that just gave it an air of coziness. There was a colorful sign in front that read: “Rainbow’s Palette.” Celebi tried to look in the windows, but each one was blocked by blue-green curtains.

“Is it a shop?” Celebi wondered.

“It appears so,” Grovyle mused. “There’s a clay ‘SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED’ sign on the door…”

“Oh, I didn’t notice that,” Celebi said, floating closer to investigate. When she had affirmed the shop’s “closed” status, she headed back to Grovyle’s side… or at least, she was about to before she noticed another small structure slightly behind the shop. She tested the door, but it was locked. “Oh well,” she mentally shrugged. “We can always come back later.”

She zoomed back towards Grovyle and tugged on his arm again. “Come, my dear! The guild awaits!”

----------

Grovyle stared at the grate at his feet and swallowed nervously. He didn’t think the guild members would be hostile towards him or Celebi, but there was always the chance that they blamed him for Laura’s disappearance…

“Celebi… I think it would be best if you stayed behind me.”

Celebi rolled her eyes, but did as he said. Even though he was too stubborn and prideful to admit it to her face, she could tell that he was nervous. If letting him take the lead would give him some peace of mind, then she would gladly do it.

Grovyle stepped onto the grate. He took a breath and opened his mouth, preparing to call down and ask permission to enter the guild, but his words quickly died in his throat when the gates suddenly opened. He frowned, his deeply ingrained paranoia beginning to rise at how easy that had been. He cautiously poked his head around the corner of the door frame and scanned the enclosure for any danger. When he saw none, he glanced back at Celebi and silently jerked his head, indicating that she follow. She rolled her eyes again.

Grovyle cautiously climbed down the ladder, his frown deepening when he reached the bottom and saw that the second floor was empty.

“…Something’s not right here,” he muttered quietly. “I know it’s midday and most of the apprentices should be out exploring… but even so, the guild shouldn’t be this empty…”

“…Do you think something’s wrong?” Celebi asked in a whisper. When he nodded, she frowned. “But Dialga said that everything was fine!”

“He may have been referring to the ‘big picture,’” Grovyle reminded her. “It wouldn’t be the first time that he—did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Celebi asked, blinking as she watched Grovyle crouch low to the ground and slink over to the second ladder.

“I thought I heard something moving on the floor below us,” Grovyle explained, peering down the hole. “But it’s too dark to see…”

Grovyle suddenly nodded decisively and stood up, moving towards the side of the ladder. “Be prepared for anything!” he warned before foregoing the ladder in favor of leaping directly down the hole—thereby putting him in the optimal position if he needed to immediately launch an attack once he reached the bottom. Celebi—slightly startled by the sudden leap—quickly flew down after him.

---------

The members of the guild, meanwhile, who had all assembled on the bottom floor of the guild for Laura’s “surprise” Sweet Sixteen party were hurriedly scrambling to find good hiding spots so that they could surprise the Birthday girl as much as possible when she and Paula finally made it over. They weren’t actually anticipating being able to surprise her very much, though, since they’d told her repeatedly of their plans over the past few days. But it had been a necessary evil considering that the last three times they’d tried to throw her a surprise party without warning her first she’d freaked out and either fainted, attacked them, or attacked them and then fainted—which was never a good way to start a celebration.

“Are you SURE it’s them, Diglett?” Loudred asked in as quiet a voice as he could manage.

“Who else could it be?” Diglett whispered back as he popped out of the ground and hurried to get into position. “Everyone in town knows that today is Laura’s Birthday and that we’re throwing her a surprise party.”

“Meh heh heh… Including her,” Croagunk snickered.

“Shush!” Chatot ordered. “I think I hear them!”

There was silence for a few moments, and then the guild heard a light “THUD!” followed by a… soft fluttering sound? They could just barely see the outlines of two pokémon in the dim light, and when the one in front took a cautious step forward…

“SURPRISE!” they all shouted, jumping out of their hiding spots as the lights flicked on. “HAPPY—GAAH!”

They were cut off by a sudden barrage of attacks and had to immediately duck back into their hiding places to avoid getting hit.

“You really think I’d fall for something like that?” they heard a gruff voice—which, while it did sound sort of familiar, definitely did not belong to Laura or Paula… especially considering it was male—demand. “That has got to be the worst trap ever—and trust me, I’ve seen some pretty bad ones.”

“Uh, My Dear? I think you need to take another look around… I really don’t think this was a trap,” came another voice. This one was feminine, but it didn’t sound like it belonged to Laura or Paula either…

“What do you—” the first pokémon began sharply before breaking off. There was a momentary pause before, “—oh,” he finished lamely, presumably because he’d finally gotten a good look at the room and seen the party decorations, which were now likely ruined from his attack. “Uh… My apologies?”

“Wh—Your APOLOGIES?!” Loudred demanded indignantly, though he still stayed hidden in case the crazy party crasher decided he wasn’t through attacking yet. “You just ATTACKED us!”

“It was a misunderstanding, I assure you.”

“Hm… Seems like you cause a lot of those whenever you travel back to this time period, don’t you?” his companion giggled.

“I—Last time was not my fault Celebi, and you know it!”

Wigglytuff frowned. “‘Celebi?’ ‘Time traveling?’” he repeated. Then he blinked as he realized why the voice sounded familiar. “Friendly-friend Grovyle! Is that you?!” he asked, his voice full of hope as he sprang up from his hiding place.

“WHAT? GROVYLE?” the others repeated in shock, jumping out to see for themselves.

Sure enough, there, standing near the foot of the ladder and glaring at his companion—who appeared to be a… shiny celebi?—was Grovyle. The same Grovyle who had first become known to the guild for his theft of the Time Gears. The same Grovyle who hadn’t actually been stealing them, but was, instead, trying to collect them to save the world from becoming paralyzed. The same Grovyle who wasn’t supposed to exist anymore because of the fact that the world had been saved from that paralyzed future!

Grovyle dropped his glare and slowly turned to face the room. “Er… Yes,” he said, gulping and giving a somewhat nervous wave. “H-hello Wigglytuff. It’s… good to see you again.”

“Hello everyone! My name’s Celebi!” Celebi suddenly introduced herself with a big smile. “It’s so nice to meet you! My Dear Grovyle has told me so much about you!”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Friendly-friend Celebi!” Wigglytuff greeted, running over to shake her hand. “Paula told us all about you too!”

“Oh really? Did she say nice things?”

“Of course! She told us all about how you helped her, Laura, and Grovyle find the Passage of Time and—”

“Squawk! W-wait a moment, Guildmaster!” Chatot interrupted, wings fluttering in agitation. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to how these two are here when they’re not supposed to exist anymore?!”

“Hey, hey! Or why they didn’t come back sooner to let us know they were alive?!” Corphish added.

Celebi took the liberty of answering. “Well the first answer is a bit complicated, and the second is, ah…” she cringed in embarrassment and began twiddling her thumbs nervously. “…W-well, it took a lot of time to rebuild and get the two opposing histories to stabilize with each other, so we just, uh… never actually thought about it until today! Tee hee…?”

“Well, golly!” Bidoof exclaimed, seeming oblivious to the dumbfounded silence afflicting the others. “What makes today so special?” he wondered.

Grovyle—who had been staring perplexedly at Celebi’s interactions with the denizens of the past—glanced over at him and quirked his lips into a sad grin. “Well, there were a few reasons,” the Grass-type said vaguely, deciding not to tell them that today would have been Laura’s Birthday for fear of making them upset, “but the main one is that Dialga—”

“Oh my gosh! Dialga is involved?” Sunflora suddenly panicked. “He’s not going crazy again, is he? Eek! That would be terrible!”

“No, no, no! It’s nothing like that!” Celebi assured. “He just thinks that enough time has passed since the crisis at Temporal Tower that things should be settled down here, and he wanted us to come observe how everyone was getting along and make sure you were all doing fine.

“Phew…” Sunflora sighed, feeling greatly relieved. “You had me worried!”

“Meh heh heh… You seem very close to Dialga, considering that he spent ‘years’ trying to kill you…” Croagunk mused.

Grovyle winced. “I suppose it is a bit odd when you put it that way,” he agreed. “But… well, it’s complicated. When Celebi said that we had been doing a lot of rebuilding, she wasn’t just talking about the tangible things.”

“Besides, Dialga isn’t really so bad when he’s not being influenced by darkness,” Celebi added. “He even suggested that while we were here we should pay a visit to some of our old friends!”

Wigglytuff cocked his head. “Oh, oh? You mean like Paula and—oh! This is perfect!” he suddenly exclaimed clapping his hands together with excitement. “Here we were all thinking that there wouldn’t be any surprises today… but you two will be the best surprises ever!”

Grovyle blinked and shared a glance with Celebi, “I beg your pardon?” he asked, feeling a rising sense of trepidation.

“Oh my gosh! You’re right, Guildmaster!” Sunflora gasped, clapping her leaves to her cheeks when she came to the same conclusion as Wigglytuff. “She’ll never see it coming!”

Suddenly it clicked with the remaining guild members. “OH! RIGHT!” Loudred exclaimed before turning towards Diglett. “How much time do we have before they’re supposed to GET here?”

But before Diglett could answer, the ringing of a bell echoed through the guild, signaling that someone was at the gates.

“…Apparently none! Everyone, get into position! It has to be them this time!”

Grovyle and Celebi looked on in befuddlement as everyone began scrambling for a hiding spot. Corphish noticed them and scurried back over. “Hey, hey! What are you two doing? You’ve got to hide!” he chided, pushing them down to crouch behind the ruined food table. “Now stay there and keep quiet!” he ordered, rushing off to dim the lights again before hurrying to find his own hiding place.

The duo from the future was left bewildered, sitting in the dark, and Celebi leaned over to whisper, “Grovyle, is everyone in the past always this strange?”

“If they are, I certainly didn’t encounter it last time I was here,” he whispered back.

“Shush! No talking!” Chatot ordered, causing them to quickly silence. Although, that might have been due more to the fact that they could hear quiet voices coming from the floor above them. Voices that seemed very familiar…

“…maintain that I wouldn’t have fainted if they hadn’t been acting so weird leading up to it.”

“Okay, fair point. But still… did you really expect that they would just let an excuse to party slip by?”

“Considering that I outright said I didn’t want one? I kind of hoped they would.”

“Oh come on, you know deep down that you enjoy that stuff just as much as they do.”

There was a pause, and Grovyle could practically hear the grin in the voice when the second speaker interpreted her companion’s silence as an unwilling agreement and said, “But anyways… you won’t attack them this time, right? I mean… they did warn you they were going to do this.”

“…I can make no promises that if they all jump out and yell ‘Surprise!’ I won’t—”

Just then the lights came on and everyone, except for the duo from the future, who were still trying to puzzle out the identity of the voices, jumped out and yelled, “SURPRISE! HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN, LAURA!”

“Laura?!” Grovyle thought, stunned, but feeling a sudden surge of hope pouring through his soul. “Did they just say—?!”

He shot up from his hiding place, and his jaw dropped at the sight of Paula standing slightly off to the side of the ladder, sheepishly rubbing her neck under the scowl of the familiar-looking treecko who was standing beside her.

“Did they just say Laura?!” Celebi, who had also shot up at the mention of Laura’s name, gasped in joy.

At the sound of the voice the treecko stopped scowling at her partner, who was now slack-jawed with shock, and whipped around, her rainbow-colored eyes wide with a strange, yet perfect, mixture of disbelief and hope.

At the sight of her eyes—eyes which he would recognize anywhere—Grovyle drunkenly staggered forward a few steps. “L-Laura…?” he whispered hopefully, tears threatening to fall.

“G-Grovyle…?” the treecko—Laura!— whispered back, just as hopefully, as she too took a few timid steps forward, tears forming in her own eyes and slowly rolling down her cheeks.

At the sight of his long-time partner crying—actually, finally, crying—what little composure Grovyle had left completely shattered and his tears overflowed. The salty liquid blurred his vision as he ran forward and scooped Laura into his arms, twirling her around in joy before hugging her tightly. “Laura… you’re alive! You’re really, actually… alive!” he laughed out in a happy mantra.

“Grovyle, Grovyle, Grovyle!” Laura chanted back just as joyfully as she fiercely returned the hug.

---------

Eventually the duo calmed down enough to be able to at least partially focus their attention on something besides each other, and the group sat down to catch up and try to figure out how this miraculous reunion was possible. Of course, Grovyle was still reluctant to let Laura out of his sight, so he made to sit as close to her as possible and hold one of her hands so tightly that it was just shy of being labelled as a death grip. Despite being at an age when such displays of affection were usually very embarrassing, Laura wasn’t complaining. Instead she was reveling in the contact.

“I just can’t believe you’re really here…” Grovyle murmured for the tenth time, giving Laura another tight hug. “You even got your eye color back!”

“Yeah… and that’s not the only thing she got back… Grovy. Meh heh heh…” Croagunk mentioned mischievously.

Grovyle cringed at his old nickname and scowled down at Laura in betrayal that she had shared it with her friends… before he blinked suddenly in realization and his eyes widened at the implications. “Wait a minute… you got your memories back too?” he exclaimed incredulously.

Laura nodded. “Most of them,” she clarified. “I’m still missing a few, but considering who I am…” she trailed off with a shrug, as if to say that the situation wasn’t unusual or worrisome in the slightest.

Grovyle immediately noticed the jewelry she was wearing and couldn’t help but ask, “Isn’t that the bracelet you told me was a gift from your goddess? It looks a little different, but…”

“Yeah, it’s the same one,” Paula confirmed. “Apparently it was still stuck in that keyhole in Relatia’s Cave when she found it.”

“I finally found the letter you left there for me as well,” Laura added.

“It was still there? How odd,” Grovyle murmured, frowning in thought.

“Why is it odd? You already admitted that I was right about the cave!”

Grovyle winced in embarrassment and scrambled for something to save face, “Ah, W-well… uh… that may be true, but… um…”

Corphish couldn’t take it any longer. He understood that this was a very emotional time for everyone and that it was only natural that Grovyle and Laura would want the chance to talk since they hadn’t seen each other in years—not to mention the fact that Laura now had more of a context to work from—but he had a very important question to ask that had been pressing on his mind from the moment he saw Grovyle and Celebi in the world of the past. “So… hey, hey!” he suddenly blurted out. “I know you said the answer was complicated… but I’ve just got to know! What did happen to that whole ‘pokémon from the future have to disappear when they change the past’ deal?”

Celebi looked over from where she was sitting beside Grovyle and Laura and fondly watching their interactions. “Well… we did disappear. But only for a few moments,” she explained. “We were surprised too, but Dialga told us that someone who was ‘higher than himself’ brought us all back.”

“Wait… everyone got brought back?” Paula asked with a frown. “Including the pokémon like Dusknoir and the sableye?”

“Yes. They were all still alive—if only barely, considering what we had just gone through—when you and Laura changed the past, so they got brought back too,” Grovyle affirmed, causing mixed emotions among the assembled.

“…How are they doing?” Laura asked quietly, looking up at Grovyle with worry.

Grovyle gave a sad, soft sigh, “As good as can be expected considering that we all thought you were dead.”

Laura winced and opened her mouth to apologize, but before she could get the words out Loudred interrupted with, “Wait, wait, WAIT! You thought she was DEAD? Why would you think SHE was dead when EVERYONE ELSE—including the BAD GUYS—came back?”

“It isn’t as if that was our first assumption,” Celebi defended. “When Laura didn’t reappear on Temporal Tower’s Pinnacle with us, at first we figured that she had just reappeared in the past. But when we asked Dialga, he said that you hadn’t, Laura… and then when he couldn’t see you anywhere in the future… we had no choice but to assume the worst.”

“So… where were you all those months, Laura?” Paula asked, confused. “If you weren’t here… and you weren’t there... then…?”

“…I don’t know,” Laura admitted quietly, biting her lip and still feeling upset about all the worry she had caused everyone. “The only thing I remember about that time is what I told you when I woke up after you and Bidoof found me on the Beach.”

“…Could you repeat it for those who weren’t there at the time?” Grovyle asked, a brow raised expectantly.

“Uh… It was something about colors and… loneliness? I think?” Paula obliged. “There was more, but…”

“‘Colors and loneliness?’” Grovyle repeated in surprise. “Hm… That sounds a bit like Dusknoir’s original theory...”

Chatot blinked. “Squawk! What?!” he demanded. “Dusknoir’s theory? Since when do you listen to him?!”

Celebi ignored him, choosing to question a different part of Grovyle’s thoughts, “But didn’t Dialga say that was unlikely?”

Grovyle shrugged, the motion a bit awkward considering the precious bundle he was still holding in his arms, before replying, “Dialga isn’t perfect. For example: He didn’t even bother to double-check Laura’s possible location, and it turns out that she did show up back in the past. Okay, granted, it apparently took her a lot longer to reappear than it did us, but still… and then if you take into account what I told you about that meeting with Palkia…”

He trailed off when he heard a small “Um,” from his lap and looked down to see that Laura was frowning up at him.

“What was Dusknoir’s theory?” she asked.

“He thought that, considering you aren’t actually from the paralyzed future—a fact which, along with your age, you neglected to tell me!—you had been transported back to where he originally took you from,” Grovyle explained, still feeling somewhat annoyed, even years later, that she had kept what he considered vital information from him.

The guild members and Paula’s eyes widened and their jaws dropped at that bit of knowledge, but Laura simply blushed in embarrassment. “W-well it didn’t seem that important!” she weakly excused herself.

“It didn’t seem important that during our entire journey you were just a little kid?” Grovyle asked incredulously.

“You were a child for part of it too!”

“It didn’t seem important to mention that all your knowledge about time and theories on the world of the past came from PERSONAL EXPERIENCE?!”

“Well it’s not like I experienced it for very long…”

“It was still experience!” Grovyle hissed in exasperation.

Laura opened her mouth to retort again, but she was cut off by Sunflora frantically waving her leaves in a “stop” motion and saying, “Oh my gosh! Wait a minute! Laura, what did Grovyle mean when he said you weren’t from the paralyzed future?!”

Laura’s face drained of color and she stammered, “I… uh, w-well…”

Upon hearing Laura’s distress, Grovyle took a deep breath, calming himself down before explaining, “Apparently Laura wasn’t actually born in the pokemon world; she was born on Earth—the human world.”

Unfortunately, he was drowned out by the voices of everyone else exclaiming, “WHAT?! LAURA YOU WERE BORN IN THE HUMAN WORLD?!” with jaws dropped.

“But was Dusknoir right, Laura? Did you end up back home?”Celebi quickly cut in, anticipating that someone would soon ask a frantic question demanding further explanation.

At Celebi’s question Laura’s face took on an uncharacteristically hard look—complete with a bitter scowl—and she turned away, crossing her arms. “That place is not my home,” she said emphatically. “Yes, I may have been born there, and, yes, I may have spent the first few years of my life there… but that place has never been my home!”

Grovyle looked down at her, several choice memories suddenly coming to mind like pieces of a puzzle, and his eyes widened with a sudden, horrifying understanding. “Laura…” he tentatively began, “were your guardians really that bad?”

Laura sighed sadly, dropping her arms and glancing back up at her old friend. “Grovyle,” she quietly said, “life in the paralyzed future was a paradise in comparison.”

Everyone stared at her in horror, but, upon seeing that a few mouths were opening and correctly assuming that their owners were about to ask for more information, Laura quickly continued, “In any case… I don’t think I went back there. If I had, then Relatia would have told me when she visited here during the whole fiasco when the Time Gears were losing energy.”

Grovyle nodded in agreement. “Yes, that does make sense—” he suddenly paused as her words caught up with him. “Wait… WHAT?! That goddess of yours actually came here?! When did—? Wait. What was that about the Time Gears losing energy?!”

Laura winced, “Uh… It’s a long story. But you don’t have to worry about it! She and Mason assured us that the problem was fixed, so…”

“Who the heck is Mason?” Grovyle demanded.

“Oh!” Laura exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with happiness. “Right, you wouldn’t know him! He’s—”

But she was cut off when there was a giant flash of light in the room, leaving a familiar, golden-eyed celebi in its wake.

The celebi’s eyes roamed around, and a huge grin split his face when they finally located Laura (internally questioning why she was holding the hand of a strange—yet vaguely familiar—grovyle, but deciding he could wait until later to figure out the reason since she didn’t seem to be upset or in danger). “Surprise!” he yelled, opening his arms for a hug. “Happy Sweet Sixteen, Laura!”

“Mason!” Laura cried out in delight, all but wrenching her hand from Grovyle’s to accept the invitation of the celebi’s open arms.

Grovyle, for his part, was stunned that the sudden presence of this stranger had so quickly and effectively cut short his reunion with his old friend—who he’d thought had been dead for the past four years or so—and began to feel pangs of jealousy gather in his heart. Pangs which only grew stronger when Croagunk playfully elbowed him, teasing, “Meh heh heh… In answer to your question, Grovyle… he is Mason.”

(By the way, Mason was, indeed, the celebi that Grovyle alludes to fighting with earlier in the day. The reason he’s so upset about the flowers is that his plan for Laura’s birthday present was to make her a giant bouquet of Treasure’s Desire flowers. In preparation for that, he planted a bunch of seeds and time-traveled far into the future, so that he could ensure that the flowers would be the pinnacle of flowery perfection. Unfortunately, when he finally reached the spot where he’d planted the flowers... he found evidence that they’d been cut. He tracked down the source and found--you guessed it--Grovyle. This, among other things, is why he spends many of the next few chapters in a state of annoyance with him--and Grovyle has his own reasons to be annoyed with Mason, in turn, as soon as he figures out who he is. Laura, meanwhile, is mostly oblivious to their annoyance with each other (or is at least pretending to be), in part because they’re trying to hide their animosity from her. Celebi is genuinely oblivious, and wouldn’t really care one way or the other. Mainly she’s just distracted by the novelty of the situation and getting to explore everything the town has to offer, though. She may or may not be the one to let slip to the others about Duskull’s relationship to a certain Dusknoir. I’m still undecided on that front, though, as that bit of information might be better served coming to light/getting mentioned by someone at a later time I have in mind.)

[miyusawafanfics-blog]

Baby, Baby!

「 Baby, Baby! 」

❝Pretzel twist!❞

It was an ordinary day in the dorms of Seidou Baseball Club. Nothing could even get as ordinary as this for the morning alarm of everyone was still Kuramochi and Sawamura's wrestling larks. 

❝Ah! My bones are breaking!❞ Sawamura whined, tapping the floor in panic. He was surrendering already for he knew that fighting the shortstop would only lead to more broken bones―which he could not afford to had, especially if he wanted to catch up with Furuya, and be the ace. 

Pulling himself away from the first year, Kuramochi laughed in triumph, pumping his fist on the air, ❝Kyahaha! You are too weak, Sawamura!❞

The mentioned southpaw just pouted while rubbing his arm, glaring at his roommate menancingly. It was not like he was complaining or something, but Kuramochi would be the best upperclassman if he would only stop practicing his wrestling moves on Sawamura. 

❝You, apparently, attacked me while I was sleeping!❞ Sawamura retorted, glaring at Kuramochi without any intention to give some respect. 

Well, it was not like Sawamura was respectful from the first place, anyways. The pitcher was a walking trouble, but every soul in the team would agree that the said man's presence was already necessary for the team.

Kuramochi stood up from his current position on the floor before stretching his arms. He gently kicked Sawamura's shin as to give an indirect implication that the southpaw should alreadtly get moving, as well. 

❝If I didn't do that, you won't wake up.❞ The shortstop reasoned out, pointing at Sawamura accusingly, ❝Have you forgotten what day is it today?❞

Uh, it wasn't like Sawamura intentionally forgotten the event that day, but he was fatigued from the late night practice yesterday thus resulting his mind to shut down any impending occurence. 

But still he had forgotten so the first year used his puppy eyes to apologize on his roommate, ❝Sorry.❞ He muttered with a pout.

Kuramochi knew that it would come. He certainly knew that the idiotic pitcher would use his puppy eyes to get away with this. He already had prepared himself, but knowing his huge brotherly complex towards Sawamura, he had just lost the battle of endurance, yet again. 

❝Fine, get ready. We will go out with the other folks, remember now?❞

It was a hasty recollection, but Sawamura patently remembered the agreement that he, Kuramochi, Miyuki and the third years talked about before going to sleep last night. They would go outside and would had some fun because they finally had a three-day break before training. 

❝Ugh, I forgot! I will get ready now!❞ Sawamura frustratingly messed his hair up before climbing down of his bed. 

Kuramochi could only watch him with a sigh. The southpaw would be in trouble if no one would watch over him. What was he, some kind of a toddler?

Seriously, Sawamura. Seriously.

―――

The crew was already in the mall, and they were having the time of their life. They messed around, bought whatever they wanted, and ate together in the food. It was going all to well according to the plan that Kuramochi got a feeling that something incredulous would happen. 

❝Oi, Sawamura! Carry these bags!❞ Jun yelled, motioning for the mentioned first year to carry the shopping bags. Seriously, though, why were they shopping too much? They were not even girls, duh.

But, being the only first year in the bunch, Sawamura had no choice but to follow the command. He pouted, getting the bags from Jun,  ❝Is this the only reason why you invited me to come?❞ It is obvious that the southpaw was already sulking at this point. 

Laughing his head off due to Sawamura's escapades, Miyuki snaked his arm around the brunette's shoulders. 

❝We are such great senpais, aren't we?❞ Miyuki snickered, eyeing the pitcher who just huffed his cheeks at the process. The catcher was tempted to pinch those cheeks if they were not only exposed on the public's eyes.

Still moping, Sawamura shoved away Miyuki, and decided to walk away from the group. He wanted to threw all of the bags, but he knew very well that he would be reprimanded upon having ill discipline. 

❝Sawamura, let me help you.❞

The southpaw was stopped on his tracks when Chris suddenly held his shoulder. Ah, what a saviour, indeed.

Having all googly eyes for his favourite upperclassman, Sawamura immediately yelped a loud, ❝Master!❞ showing his gratitude towards the said third year. 

Beside Chris was Tetsu, looking at Sawamura firmly. He was not saying anything, but the pitcher knew for himself that the captain would also help him. Even if he had some bastard senpai, there were still some who could Sawamura rely, afterall.

Tears were visible on the edge of Sawamura's lids. He was so thankful that these two upperclassmen were ready to help him at any cost. He was about to express his gratitude, but he was cut off. 

❝Nii-san! You are a pitcher, aren't you?❞ 

Sawamura blinked repeatedly, feeling a soft tug on the hem of his shirt. Looking down, Sawamura saw a boy―a kid who was about four years old―grinning widely at him.

The southpaw was not someone to resist a kid. It was not unknown that Sawamura had a huge heart, so it really was not a surprise for him to acknowledge the sudden presence.

❝Do I look like one?❞ The brunette grinned, crouching down as to level with the boy. He was jut happy that his form or maybe something about him was recognizable as a pitcher. Whatever may the reason be, Sawamura was just too happy to be recognized. ❝But yeah, I am a pitcher.❞

❝What is this? You have caught the attention of a brat, Sawamura?❞ Kuramochi asked, he and the other guys were approaching the pitcher. 

❝Heh, this idiot's charm only works for children.❞ Miyuki said teasingly, looking at Sawamura with a smug expression. But, his cool façade was immediately prompted away when Kuramochi snickered, ❝Miyuki is a kid then?❞

This lark between the two went on for a few minutes, but Sawamura decided to just ignore them and to focus on the child in front of him.

❝Hn! If you are a pitcher, then this is for you!❞ The boy grinned toothily, giving a baseball on the southpaw's opened palm. 

Sawamura stared at the ball on his hand. He had hold a lot of balls in his life―including his Kazuya's balls, ehem―but this one felt rather strange. He could not pinpoint what because it just looked ordinary.

Maybe it was the weight? But, no. The weight was just right. There was something else which was bugging the brunette, restlessly. Well, maybe he was just thinking too much, right? There was no way a harmless kid could do something to him, anyways. 

Before Sawamura could say thank you to the kid, he saw a flash of letters suddenly being written on the ball that he was holding.

❝What―❞

He could not believe his eyes. There, on the same ball that was given to him by a rather peculiar kid, were words which abruptly appeared out of nowhere.

『 Sawamura Eijun, have a good night sleep. 』

And without any further ado, his lids became heavier. There was no room left for resistance. Darkness consumed him right then and there.

❝Sawamura!❞

―――

Miyuki could not even comprehend what happened. 

One second, Sawamura received a ball from an unknown kid. The next was the kid suddenly ran away, and even before their shortstop could follow him, he totally vanished out of sight. And then now...

Their pitcher just suddenly lost consciousness, going completely limp. Fortunately, Miyuki was able to react accordingly, catchinf Sawamura even before he hit the floor. 

❝Oi, Sawamura!❞ The catcher shook his boyfriend's shoulders repeatedly. He knew that he could not let panic to overtook his senses, but it was difficult to remain calm when he did not know what happened. He could not even reason out to himself that everything would be fine because as he stared at Sawamura's unmoving form, he bacame more and more frantic. 

Then there was a hand who touched his shoulder, halting his motions into naught. 

❝Miyuki, calm down.❞ Chris voiced entered his cognition. He was sure that the third year was worried by the tone of his voice. 

But how would he calm down if he didn't know what in hell was happening to his boyfriend? Heck, he was just teasing the latter awhile ago about having a kid fan, and now this? None of this made any sense. 

Due to his current state, Miyuki felt hid glasses getting foggy. Oh, no. It was his eyes that were swimming on tears. 

He opened his mouth, croaking on the process, ❝S-Sawamura... He... What happened?❞ The catcher could not even properly form his sentence. He could not think rationally, as well.

❝Miyuki Kazuya!❞

See? He could even hear a toddler's voice when there was clearly no baby with them. 

❝Stop squeezing me, Miyuki Kazuya!❞

Wait, what? 

Miyuki looked at the form that he was craddling on his arms, and if he could only cuss every known curses in the world, he already did so.

He tried to shout, but he failed his attempt. His voice was caught in his throat, and he could not force them out. He was too horrified beyond any comprehension. 

The catcher was just lucky that his shock was voiced out by the other upperclassman.

❝What the fuck just happened to Sawamura? Why is he a baby right now?!❞

Yeah, in some unknown circumstances, Sawamura Eijun suddenly became a toddler―and a rather cute one.

―――

❝I want some ice cream!❞ The four-year old Sawamura mentioned, pointing at the ice cream vendor. 

Miyuki could not help but to let out a sigh. The others made him to watch over the pitcher while they ran back to Seidou to tell the coach personally about what happened to their boisterous first year. 

The little Sawamura clutched his finger, his whole fist is covering only one of Miyuki's fingers, tugging the catcher as to get his attention.

❝Yeah, I got it. We will buy ice cream.❞ Miyuki let out an exasperated sigh, brushing his hair backwards. It was not like he didn't appreciate this rare chance wherein his boyfriend became a toddler, and he could squeal all over his cuteness, but no. The catcher was even more worried if his Sawamura would even came back on being an adult.

The little southpaw's face suddenly brightened up. His chubby cheeks were stretched widely while he was stomping on the ground, happily. 

Miyuki would not deny that he smiled at the sight. Damn, his boyfriend would never fail on amusing him no matter which form he was in. 

Kneeling down to face Sawamura properly, Miyuki ruffled the toddler's hair out of affection. ❝Aren't you such a cutie?❞ Miyuki praised.

And since it was Sawamura, it was to be expected that the squirt loved the compliment all too much that he became too elevated, jumping into Miyuki's arms abruptly. The catcher didn't fail to catch his pitcher, of course. He was a catcher for a reason, afterall. 

Sawamura leaned and kissed Miyuki's cheek, making the both of them to blush darkly. 

❝I like Kazu-chan!❞

With the sudden announcement, Miyuki broke into fits of smile. He would even admit that his heart was thumping really loudly against his ribcage. 

❝Ei-chan likes Kazu-chan more than he likes ice cream?❞ Miyuki probed, grinning widely when he saw how confuse Sawamura became. The kid looked back and forth from Miyuki to the ice cream vendor before he pouted, cheeks puffing. 

❝I...❞ Sawamura mumbled, rubbing his tiny nose on Miyuki's. ❝I like Kazu-chan more.❞ Before giving a cute and small peck on Miyuki's lips. 

Even before Miyuki could react to that illegal cuteness, Sawamura jumped out of the catcher's hold, and then he grinned widely, ❝Be my wife, Miyuki Kazuya!❞

Miyuki blinked repeatedly, could not believe what he was hearing. 

His boyfriend―who became a toddler―just proposed to him, right? Like, proposed―getting married? Yeah, right. 

❝When you grow up, I will surely marry you, idiot.❞ Miyuki said with a glint on his glasses. He is smilimg way too much, watching how the toddler squealed out of glee. 

It was a sincere answer, though. Miyuki had always told himself that if it was Sawamura then he's willing to go all throughout and marry the mentioned southpaw.

❝Well? Let's buy an ice cream now.❞

❝Yeah!❞

Maybe, Sawamura as a toddler was not that bad at all.

Later that night, Miyuki slept with the little southpaw beside him. Sawamura didn't want to go anywhere without the catcher that everyone just agreed for them to sleep together. 

And to Miyuki's surprise, he woke up with long limbs tangled with his. Sawamura―the teen one―was laying on top of him, face buried on his neck. 

Ah, what an eventful day.

Miyuki silently thanked the little brat who gave Sawamura the mysterious and magical ball. Because afterall, he had experienced something which he thought would never happened.

❝Miyuki Kazuya, let's get married.❞ Sawamura said when he woke up, looking at Miyuki expectantly. 

The catcher could only chuckle.

This Sawamura Eijun was still the best for him.

END.

[roseamongroses]

Antithesis: “what do you have? “ I have a kNIFE” “NO”

[Specific-Summary]: They should expect growing pains. For not everything to feel right or make sense. That doesn't mean it'll always hurt, nor does it mean they can't have fun along the way. It's senior year. Everything may be different. It won't be senior year for long. Everything will be okay.

[General Warnings]: Implied Emotional Abuse, Implied Physical Abuse, Bad Parents are Bad Parents, Mild Sexual Content/jokes,Mentioned Homophobia, Mentions of underage drinking (backround), Some Catcalling,Cursing , Self Hate,implied pregnancy talk/inability to become pregnant, adults arguing where the “kid” can hear it, adults drinking,

[Tags/mood:] highschool au,  fluff and angst but its all good, chat fic, teen stress, its flordia no snow we die like men [Pairing:] Roceit (Roman Sanders/ Deceit Sanders), hinted future/possible logince/roloceit/loceit [Characters]Roman Sanders/Deceit (Dmitri) Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Logan Sanders, Patton Sanders, Remy (Sleep) Sanders, Nate Sanders, Dragon Witch (Diana) Remus “The Duke” Sanders (minor/brief)

(Ao3) (Previously)

(8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15)

(16) (17) (18) 

L: I May Have Lost Roman

V: nice

P: not nice :)

V: i feel vaguely threatened

Rem:@L how the fuck did you manage that Rem: nvm i know how just give me details

L:I don’t know ? One second we were at check out L: Next minute he was Gone and Nieve is looking suspicious

L:Hold on lemme ask Dmitri

V: why is he there

L: I mean he’s actually pretty chill L: But he dropped Roman off and Nieve got attached L:I’m...not sure if she’s planning on letting him go?

V:logan, my friend, my buddy, V:the only person in this chat with basic reading comprehension

Rem: that’s pretty fair

P: it really is tbh

V: Send. Pictures.

L: Okay L: Slight Issue

V: you lost the snake too

L: I lost Dmitri too and Nieve is not spilling

Rem: oh they’re defeinately fucking

L:...Where? The bathroom?

Rem: Don’t knock it till you try it ;)

V: not to be that guy but im vetoing this discussion V: cause thats a Yikes even for you Remy

L: Alright time to find them

Rem: check ;))) the;))) bathrooms ;;))))

L: Remy.

Rem: alrighlright too far ill stop

L: Thank you.

V: keep me updated V: i only have silence and physics homework as company

L:Huh L:Found them

L: Roman….found a katanna…

V: im sorry WHAT V: Why The Fuck Does He Have A Sword

Rem: drop the location of that store man

L: 1) It’s a Katanna L: 2)I will certainly Not. L: 3) He’s trying to convince Dmitri why he should have it

L…..and Dmitri looks more amused then concerned

V: if I can't have a tarantula he sure as hell cant have a sword

L:I told him it was probably fake/ poorly made and that he should take the time to invest the proper skill in money in a real one

V: goddamit logan you cant logic roman.

L: It worked. He put it back. L: So I say I can do what I want with roman

Rem: some spicy takes from the chats only brain cell ;)

---

“So you’re turning eighteen, in a few months. ” His aunt said, dabbing her cheeks with a napkin. She still managed to hold an air of prestige despite getting utterly shitfaced the night before. Her appointments have been going well.

Dmitri looked up, masking his surprise and holding his tongue.

Dr. Montag looked over, quieting the running water and placing the dish was he was cleaning down, “Really?” he said, brushing his hands, “You got any plans?” he asked, Dmitri.

“Oh we usually do something small,” His aunt interjected, “But seeing as he’s my father’s favorite grandchild,” Only grandchild, “He’s is flying from Paris to join us. And he was never a man of modesty so I’ve been thinking about doing something special for the occasion.”

Oh.

Dmitri fought the smile creeping on his face, ducking his head. He shouldn’t be surprised that she remembered after all if his grandfather was visiting. It’s how he got his phone, laptop, his car.

It’s probably why she puts up with him, to begin with. Cause it wasn’t guilt.

“--We should get your hair cut,” She continued, and Dmitri snapped out of his thoughts, “Maybe invite Diana--he’d like her,” she murmured.

“Diana and I a-” He closed his mouth, and his aunt’s eyes shot over.

“You broke up?” She narrowed her eyes, examining her nails, “Huh, makes sense seeing as...” she gestured at him vaguely, “So who have you been sneaking around with?”

“I’m not sneaking around with anyone,” Dmitri said, meeting her gaze. And technically he was right, it’s not sneaking if she just hasn’t been asking. And he’s given up on telling.

Dr. Montag’s eyebrows knitted together confused,” Well that isn’t true,”

Dmitri’s eyes went wide, stomach sinking.

His Aunt’s grin spread, “Oh really?”

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck--

“He’s been helping me out, hon,” Dr. Montag set down a glass of water and pills beside her plate, “You’ve been so stressed lately,” he looked guilty and produced some tickets, “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Her face softened and like that the tension left the room. Those two got to linger in whatever lovey-dovey spell had taken hold of them in the last few months, but Dmitri was still on edge.

She still kept him on edge, but he could get her back. Even the playing field. Anytime he could leave this—Anytime he could flip this switch and put her on edge and make her—

He stopped eating, setting his plate aside.

He felt sick.

---

R:helllloooo R:anyone up R: sigh R: allll by mySELLLLF

L: Roman?

R: the one and lonely yes hello human contact???

L: Are you alright? It’s 3 am why are you still awake?

R: why are YOU up mm????

L: My parents have newborn twins. What’s your excuse?

R: well fuck got me there

R: i was texting dee but he was rlly tired and i stILL can’t sleep

L: Any particular reason?

R: u m

L: Private chat?

R: please

- [TheTruthAboutTheMoon]

TheWalkingMouth: Okay shoot

Cowboy:it's stupid

TheWalkingMouth: I’ll tell you if it's stupid or not just say it

Cowboy: i just….like Cowboy: it's all kinda….hitting me a ll at once and i Really don’t like thinking about it but i cant bottle shit up either like you bastards so i feel like the human equivelent og a washing machine with too much laundry in it

TheWalkingMouth: Then don’t? TheWalkingMouth: Even if it's too ‘stupid’ for me I’m sure Dmitri wouldn’t mind

Cowboy: yeah but i feel like im going to say something shitty to him i Cowboy: like we should talk about it Cowboy: and i will Cowboy: but not now--later when it's not too stressful for either of us

TheWalkingMouth: Why would you say something shitty?

Cowboy: idk id jst get frustrated trying to explain it Cowboy: like hes smart as hell and probbaly get it without me saying anything but like Cowboy: I have neither the patience nor articulation right now to explain like a civil person and he doesnt need me being shitty about it

Cowboy:like,,,,,for example,,,,, if he fucks up in school, he’ll get recommended a tutor and teachers would assume hes doing his best and hes such a sweet and quiet boy

Cowboy: like he is sweet!!but hes a little shit too!! And gets away with it!!! Half those pranks he pulled on virgil, as Iconic as they were he never got in trouble for them!!!

Cowboy: when i fuck up i

Cowboy: god it's stupid

TheWalkingMouth: Might not get a second chance? Yeah I get it.

TheWalkingMouth:Remember when I first transferred here? None of the teachers would take me seriously bc of my accent and if they did, they were afraid of me. I could repeat something another kid said word for word and still be told I had an attitude.

Cowboy: god i remembered that Cowboy: you answered his yes or no questions in a fuckin montone, quiet ass voice and he legit called in the office cause he got scared of a goddamn freshman

Cowboy: But ye when i fuck up Cowboy: im suddenly the lazy ass brown kid who should spend less time corrupting youth with my feminine hips and curls Cowboy: like it's not like a lot of them say it outright but it feels like if im not perfect im fufilling all the stereotypes

TheWalkingMouth: Ah okay, rant away

Cowboy: OK like like like im not like virgil right?? in a lot of ways and it fuckin shows

Cowboy: he’s been planning on going into engineering since sixth grade meanwhile i only got my shit together in highschool

Cowboy: and like now that im here/???what now??? My mother expects me to have my shit together meanwhile im over here freaking the fuck out over whether not it's worth it to even try Cowboy: like yes mother i want to go to an art/or librel arts school that may or may not accept me that we may or may not afford to find a career in who the hell knows because if i have to sit in a healthcare class or a applied mathmatics class like you did i miight actually shank the professor????

Cowboy: that i dread the thought of not trying to explore my options outside of this fucking state but i dread the thought of going bc i cant stand the thought of being away from home but i cant fucking find a reason to stay cause everyone i love is leaving or planning their own life anyway???

Cowboy: like remys gunna fuck off to who knows where regardless of whether or not he has a plans or money, pattons gunna take care of his grandmother whereever the fuck a canada ,moms moving in with tia, virgils already mentally flipping me off ready to fuck nasa , and i only fucking hope dmitri even getss the chance to choose where he goes but hes g o n e and i die from yearning behind a screen like the gay victorian i am , and you….i actually dont know

TheWalkingMouth: Teaching for either biology or physics

Cowboy: huh it fits but what about chemistry??

TheWalkingMouth: Fuck chemistry.

Cowboy: oh thank god we’re on the same page

TheWalkingMouth: Anyway, I assume you’re more worried about whether you should apply rather then if you could get in?

Cowboy: i think so

TheWalkingMouth: Well if my opinion means anything to you

Cowboy: more than you’re assuming but yeah continue

TheWalkinMouth: Wait

Cowboy: nothing nothing continue

TheWalkingMouth: Okay-- I think you should go for it but you don’t need to dive head first into it and commit to everything 100% like virgil did.

TheWalkingMouth: You’re allowed to keep your options open, to have backup plans for back up plans

TheWalkingMouth: It doesn’t mean you’re not passionate about your art. Doesn’t mean you’re inevitably going to get a office job and abandon all your dreams. It means you’re being smart and not backing yourself into a corner

TheWalkingMouth:It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay not to have it all figured out

TheWalkingMouth: Nobody does.

TheWalkingMouth: Even if no one else gives you a second chance at least give yourself a second chance.

TheWalkingMouth: It’s perfectly normal to be afraid to fuck up and get fucked over TheWalkingMouth: That doesn’t mean you will everytime TheWalkingMouth: And it certainly doesn’t mean it's the end

Cowboy:

Cowboy:

Cowboy:

[...Cowboy is typing…]

---

@daflangstlairde

@ace-anx

@cataclysm-al

[loxxxlay]

Whumptober ~ October 7th ~ Kidnapped

Summary: After a series of ill decisions, Thor gets himself into a dangerous and humiliating situation. One from which there seems to be no escape. [Part 3/4]

Tags/Warnings: (for this part) Thor&Loki, Thor/Amora, Amora is a Bad Person in this, nonconsensual love spell, mind control, referenced noncon, brotherly feels, Loki is the only decent person here lmao, pre Thor

Author’s Note:  THIS CHAPTER ENDS ON A GOOD NOTE Also, no noncon happens in detail. Only referenced/mentioned. Enjoyyyyy

(For mobile users, there is a read more cut.)

Parts: [1] [2] 3 [4]

[Read on Ao3]

In the morning, sunlight streams through the bedroom painting their bare bodies in gold. Amora opened the window before they went to sleep, and it’s late enough into summer that Thor appreciates the morning breeze that stirs him awake. Birds sing to other birds, and the chirping of crickets hasn’t quite abated—peaceful and loving sounds, but they are of little interest to him. Rather, Thor spends the allotted time staring at Amora.

She washed her face of any powder or paint before bed, but even bare of embellishment, she is beautiful. Her natural eyebrows are a thin blonde, her eyelashes long but light. Freckles rest like trickled dust over her nose and cheeks, and Thor thinks that to count them would be the same as counting the stars.

He loves her.

He loves her so much he can barely stand it.

And yet, she sleeps, leaving Thor without purpose, without task. He can only lie there and stare at her until she gives a command, which could be minutes or hours or fortnights from now. The helplessness is powerful enough to drive a man mad, but he resists the tug of insanity—because she is his focal point. She is the light at the end of his tunnel. It will be over just as soon as she wakes up, as soon as she wakes up.

A knock on the door breaks the static.

Amora’s eyes blink open, and her eyelashes flash rainbows as they flutter in sunlight. She looks at him, and Thor feels trapped in her gaze—this moment, this contact, is all he needs, all he wants, all that exists. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

“Who do you think that is?” she asks with a yawn.

Relief floods him. Answering her question becomes his sole purpose, driving the madness away. Desperate to please her, Thor thinks through all possible answers—not a servant, a servant wouldn’t knock; a guard perhaps, sent with his father’s or mother’s summons, but it would be unlikely so early in the morning; his friends don’t visit—his head silences itself when the person knocks again. This time, Thor needs to know who it is, so he listens carefully.

The familiarity strikes him immediately. “It’s Loki,” he says.

Amora groans with displeasure, and Thor’s heart is crushed. Right then, he hates his brother for giving this woman, this perfect, beautiful woman, anything less than pure joy.

“Alright, go answer it. Don’t let him know I’m here, and tell him to go away.”

Thor is up on his feet in an instant. He’s ready to cross into his guest area and answer the door in the nude, cock hanging between his legs, until Amora adds, “get dressed first.” Then Thor is thrustings on his pants and manhandling a shirt over his head. All the while, the knocking on the door repeats, more and more urgently.

Thor hurries over and swings the door open. It turns clockwise, he knows, so Amora will be hidden.

Sure enough, Loki stands on the other side, looking very much relieved to see him.

The second Thor’s eyes land upon him, he’s struck with something. An aura radiates from Loki’s presence that he has never noticed before. He only recognizes it now because Amora has one, too. But this is more powerful than Amora. It cloaks the air with a smothering cold, and standing, here, in Loki’s presence, Thor suddenly isn’t sure what to do.

He opens his mouth to tell Loki to go away , but the words won’t come. He tries again, but no. No. He doesn’t want to say it. He wants to tell Loki to come in.

(He wants to say Amora is here on his bed—)

No no no no.

“Are you alright?” Loki asks quietly.

Panicked, Thor lets the thoughts of Amora drift away. Instead, he focuses on his brother and notices Loki’s red-rimmed and tired eyes. But Thor can’t ask Loki why he’s been crying or even answer the question Loki asked. He wasn’t commanded to. He stands there silently as the conflict undoes his mind.

Loki’s head ducks and he shuffles his feet. “Never mind,” he says. A deep breath. “I came to apologize. It wasn’t my place to interfere with your business yesterday. Especially not when the last time we talked was . . .” Loki sighs raggedly, and his lips thin, as if he’s holding something in. It takes a long moment for him to continue. “You were right. I don’t have many friends, and I do miss you. I wish we could spend time together again. Like we used to.”

That’s when Thor remembers. Before Amora, before the dancing, he used his words to slice Loki’s heart into ribbons. More than anything, Thor wants to drop to his knees and say no, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it . He can’t. He’s locked in place. The icy aura surrounding Loki’s presence isn’t enough to let him speak.

Loki looks up at him, and his eyes are naked with vulnerability. “So?” he asks quietly. “What do you think?”

Thor thinks he’s sorry. He thinks he is the cruelest brother, the cruelest of friends, in the entire nine realms. He thinks he deserves everything that is happening to him.

Loki’s eyebrows raise, urging Thor to speak. “Well? Will you not answer?”

Thor opens his mouth because he can’t leave his brother with this silence. He can’t. But the help me, please help me becomes an uncaring monotonous, “go away.”

Hurt flashes across Loki’s face. His fists clench, his eyes shine, and his lips tremble with a hysterical rage. “You know,” Loki says, voice wavering, “if you died tomorrow, I wouldn’t care. I’d be glad even.”

I'm sorry , Thor wants to say, but he isn't allowed.

“Rot in Hel, Thor,” Loki hisses before storming away.

Thor is left alone in his silence.

Once Loki is long out of sight, Amora joins his side. One arm loops around his waist, raising chills of both lust and fear, and her other arm nudges the door out of his grip until it’s closed. Her presence ensnares his attention, but it’s not reigning him in, not quite yet. There’s nothing to reign in. He’s too numb.

“Hey,” Amora says, “look at me.”

Her finger traces the line of Thor’s jaw and draws his chin in her direction.

Meeting her eyes, Thor loses himself in them. He loves her. Loki doesn’t matter. He loves her. Loki . . .

“What happened?” she asks. “Why did it take you so long?”

“He—he felt different than you,” Thor says without thinking. “Standing next to him, I . . . It was different.” He frowns at himself. “I don’t—I don’t understand it.”

Amora’s eyes light with comprehension. “Oh, dear. That’s just the presence of his magic trying to make a fool of you.” She pauses and lets her finger on his chin brush over his lips. He sings with a needy heat. “If you ignore it, or better, stay away from him entirely, then it won't trouble you anymore. And I’ll be so happy. You do want to make me happy, don’t you?”

Thor nods. “Of course. I love you. With all my heart.”

“Good,” she says and plants a kiss to his cheek.

Thor’s heart sours at the touch, and everything becomes clear again.

Time passes in a blur. It’s a never-ending cycle of a lust carved into his veins. The pursuit of her commands, the absolute craving to please her with his utter obedience. Then, the reward, the climax of her attention in a kiss, a smile, or even a nod. And last, the emptiness of waiting, waiting, waiting for the cycle to rinse itself of dust and repeat.

She visits him every night, but he can only make love with her once a fortnight. Those are the nights he longs for the most. She looks so beautiful with her face screwed tight in pained pleasure. Arms tangled in sheets, and limbs soaked in each other’s sweat. She’s most gentle afterward. Most happy.

Thor loves seeing her happy.

She only really asks that he live his life as normal and that he meet his father’s expectations. He does both with an eagerness unmatched by anything he’s felt before. His parents compliment him on his choice of woman—a good influence, they call her, whenever she dines with them (Loki, always notably absent). He excels in his training and his studies, and his father includes him in more of his council meetings, both public and private.

The more he thrives, the happier Amora seems with him, and Thor would do anything to give her happiness.

The only trouble is when he’s spent too long away from her.

After a day alone, he starts to have . . . thoughts. They aren’t his thoughts, he is sure, but they feel inherent and real and alarming at the time of them. They drive him to do ridiculous things. Once he dropped a glass and let it shatter on the floor just to get a passing servant to stop and sweep the pieces with barely veiled resentment. Another time, he drew an ink cross across all of his assignments (and the pages of library books). To his tutor’s great chagrin, he was unable to explain why.

Worst of all, on his way back to his room at night, he’ll often pause at Loki’s door until the drowning of his heart becomes too much to bear. (Luckily Loki never catches him.)

He mentions it to Amora, and she tells him it isn’t fault. Everyone has thoughts like that, she says. Everyone does things like that every once in a while.

But Thor can tell it upsets her, so he doesn’t mention it again.

Weeks into his newfound happiness, Thor is on the training grounds, and he has spent too long away from her.

She failed to visit him the night before (leaving a message that something had come up), and now the bad thoughts are growing restless and demanding and starting to persuade him of their truth. He hacks away at the straw man in front of him, practicing a rhythm of strikes, but the thoughts are asking him to turn around and attack his instructor.

No, Thor thinks and takes his fear out on the straw.

( You don’t love her , the bad thoughts say.)

Thor strikes harder.

( She raped you. You told her no, and she raped you , they say, louder.)

Thor hurls the sword into the ground and smashes his ears with his hand, wishing he could drown out the noise.

( You need to find a way to get away from her. )

“No,” Thor chokes to himself.

Someone touches his shoulder. It’s Fandral. At the attention, the bad thoughts lessen, and Thor cautiously lowers his hands from his ears.

“You alright, friend?” Fandral asks.

“Yes,” Thor says to appease Amora’s command (even as the voice in his head whispers, say no, say no, say no). “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Fandral frowns. “You dropped your sword.”

Thor looks at the blade at his feet and is struck with an urge to stick it in Fandral’s chest. He shudders. Rips his gaze away. “I’m fine,” Thor says. “Just whacked my head with the flat edge.”

Fandral’s frown deepens, but he must be somewhat satisfied with the response, for he nods. “Alright then. Take it easy there.”

Thor picks up the sword and leaves Fandral behind in fear that he’ll do something bad. He approaches one of the unused wooden dummies, abandoned for its crooked, mangled stand. It’s one hard strike away from breaking.

Amora’s command asks that he practice his strikes as instructed while the bad thoughts scream for attention.

Thor does both at the same time. With a careful precise set of strikes, Thor carves the word help into the wooden dummy. The marks are barely legible—easy to see as mere mindless scratches on a wooden canvas—but if someone is looking hard enough, they’ll see it.

( Oh please let them see it. )

Thor whirls to return to an empty straw target when he catches Loki climbing down the stairs to the training ground. Their eyes meet.

Thor is not supposed to look at him. Or talk to him. Or be near to him.

Of all of Amora’s commands, that is the one she pressed upon him most. The command drowns the bad thoughts away, and Thor is relieved at the loss of tension. Eager to keep his mind silent, Thor obeys the command.

With Loki watching, he all but runs from the training grounds, desperate to return to his room and await Amora’s visit tonight. It’s too early a departure, but not so early to cause him trouble, he hopes.

The next day, Thor is armed with new commands. He is still to avoid Loki’s presence, but now acting as normal as possible takes precedence. If Loki is near but otherwise ignoring him, then Thor may remain where he is and continue his other tasks. If Loki speaks to him, Thor may answer, but only for as long as it takes him to courteously slip away.

By the time evening draws close and the bad thoughts begin to resurface, Thor can easily appease their urgency by practicing on the dummy closest to the broken one—the one still inscribed with the word help .

It’s going well, much better than yesterday—at least, until he is ambushed by the cold, smothering aura of his brother.

Thor stops what he’s doing and turns to find Loki staring at him. Thor doesn’t move.

“Thor?” Loki asks quietly.

“Yes?” Thor says, monotone.

Loki swallows. “Did you train with that one yesterday?” He gestures at the broken wooden dummy.

The bad thoughts screech with glee. Thor wants to cover his ears in terror. “Yes,” he says, because Amora never told him to lie.

Loki is frowning now. His eyes dart between Thor and the message, and half of Thor prays for him to give it up and the other half prays that Loki pursue the question. Please , he thinks, not knowing which part of him is begging. Please please please please please—

“Are you in trouble?” Loki asks.

And maybe Thor wants to, but he can’t answer that.

At the silence, Loki’s frown deepens. “Do you need help?”

Thor clenches his jaw shut.

“Blink if it’s yes,” Loki says.

Thor’s eyes go wide because he can’t say yes, he can’t, he’s not allowed. He stands there straining to keep them open until he has no choice but to break the normalcy and shield his eyes from view with his hand. He blinks, long and hard, letting his eyes settle with moisture again.

When he lowers his hand, Loki doesn’t look worried nor confused anymore. He’s fuming. “Where are you supposed to meet her?”

“What?” Thor says, confused.

“Amora,” Loki says. “Where are you to see her next?”

The bad thoughts are starting to win. Thor thinks he’s glad that Loki’s asking. He’s glad he’s allowed to answer this question in truth. “My chambers.”

Loki nods. “And when will she be there?”

“She should be there now.”

Without speaking, Loki takes Thor’s hand and drags him across the yard toward the stairs. Thor starts to tear away, but—but Loki’s touch is grounding. It’s the same way that Amora is his focal point, the light at the end of his tunnel, but this time, it's Loki, not her. Thor finds himself going numb in his brother's presence, and it scares him. Amora will be so angry when the anchor of Loki’s contact is gone—and Thor will want to die for displeasing her.

“It’s alright,” Loki says, and Thor realizes that he’s hyperventilating. “It’s alright, I’m just taking you to her. She’ll be fine with that, won’t she? She’ll want you to meet her?”

Yes, Thor thinks. Yes. She wants him to meet her in his room, after all. She wants him to go there. And she can be the one to tell Loki to go away.

They reach his room, and Loki lets Thor open the door and go in.

Amora is inside, toying with his belongings (his favorite quill—the bad thoughts say, encouraged by Loki’s presence—and she’s sitting in his desk).

She looks up as Thor enters. “Aren’t you a little early, love?”

“A little,” he answers.

Rising, Amora goes to embrace him ( she’s turning her back to the door , he thinks), and that’s when Loki shoots into the room and rips her away from Thor. His arm loops around her neck, and a blade in his hand presses against her throat—sharp enough for a drop of blood to spill down her collarbone.

Enraged, Thor starts forward.

“I’ll kill her,” Loki says. “If you take one step forward, I’ll do it. She’ll be dead.”

Thor stops. His lungs throb, his hands clench, and his eyes glare at Loki’s hand. If Loki loses his guard for one instant, Thor will pummel him into the ground.

“He wouldn’t kill me,” Amora says to Thor.

Thor takes half a step forward.

Loki’s knuckles whiten, and a second drop of blood spills from her neck. “I would.”

Thor pauses.

“There’s no evidence,” Amora snaps. “Love spells have been banished for centuries. Do you know how long it took me to find any whiff of this one?” She shakes her head in minute, barely noticeable jerks. “And once I learned the spell, I burned any trace of the book. It’s gone. You can’t prove it. Even if you’re his son, the All-Father will have no choice but to imprison you for murder.”

“You think I care?” Loki growls. “You think I’d sacrifice my own brother just to avoid imprisonment?” His hand not holding the knife tangles into Amora’s hair and yanks her head backward so that he can whisper in her ear. “I would rather spend a thousand centuries burning in the depths of Hel before allowing you to touch him again.”

Amora’s face is white as bone, and Thor’s heart pounds. He doesn’t know what to do. “Stop,” Thor says to Loki. “Let go. You’re hurting her”

“Shut up,” Loki says.

Thor goes quiet.

“Are you pregnant?” Loki asks Amora.

Amora scowls. “Not yet.”

“Swear it. On Yggdrasil. On your life.”

She doesn’t speak, but when Loki presses the knife harder to her throat and and a stream of blood stains her pale skin, she opens her mouth. “I swear it.”

“The whole thing,” Loki says. “Say it back to me.”

Amora rolls her eyes. “I swear it on Yggdrasil and my life.”

“Good. Now release the spell.” With the blade, Loki gestures to Thor. “Do it now.”

Amora’s eyes are lit with wrath, but her hands twist at her side and illuminate with a brilliant green.

Thor shudders. The layers of his thoughts crack open like masks, over and over, until he can hear the truth within. Bad thoughts, he thinks by habit, and then blinks, horrified at himself. Reality evaporates. The beautiful, perfect, loving woman in front of him becomes something repulsive and terrifying—a sight of nightmares. Likewise, his brother becomes something to cherish, something to love, and Thor is disgusted with himself. A mere moment ago, he wanted to choke Loki to death.

He drops to his knees and stares at his hands. They’re shaking. His vision is going white.

There’s the sound of a scuffle—someone stumbling to across the floor.

“Get out,” Loki hisses.

A moment later, the door slams shut.

“What,” Thor gasps at the floor. “What is happening.”

“It’s okay, Thor.” Loki is kneeling beside him, and his arm settles over Thor’s shoulders. “You’re alright now. You’re alright.”

Thor shakes his head. His eyes are wide as he remembers everything. The night Amora raped him, and the nights they made love. They’ve fucked each other seven times now. Seven. Times.

Thor chokes on a sob.

“Shhh,” Loki says, “shhh, it’s okay.”

His brother pulls Thor into his arms, and Thor lets his face smash against Loki’s chest. He wails and wails and wails, and Loki holds him through all of it. Whispered words fall like rain over Thor’s head, cleansing him of fear—she won’t touch you anymore. I’ll make sure of it, I promise. I promise.  You’re safe now. You’re safe. You’re alright. I have you .

The last one is murmured when Thor’s sobs are dying into whimpered breaths.

“I’m sorry, Thor.” Loki’s voice is clogged with tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

Why are you sorry? Thor wants to ask. No one in all of Asgard noticed that anything was wrong. No one except you. You saved me. You freed me.

But he’s too drained to say it. Too numb. Too broken.

Instead, he circles his arms around his brother’s waist and clings with all his might to thank him.

Even then, it’s not enough.

[girlafraidinacoma]

In The Lap of the Gods: Chapter Three -  ‘Don’t Forget to Smile!’

Summary: What do you get when you mix a tight-knit art community, young, hot-blooded twenty-something university students and good old-fashioned British Rock & Roll? Probably the next best hope for art and music that generation has to offer. With her friends’ band skyrocketing to fame, what exactly does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself sitting in the lap of the gods? The answer: do the only thing she can do, rise to the occasion of course!

Pairing: Gwilym Lee!Brian May x Original Female Character [chill guys, this WILL be a Bri fic…eventually].

Warnings: ummm mentions alcohol??? That’s it.

Words: 1.7k+

Author’s Note: They finally meet!!!! So I made cover art for the fic, I really hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did making it. As always, feel free to comment, reblog or leave a like it if you want.

Kind of AU, contains both elements from real life and the Bo Rhap universe, so imagine whoever you prefer whether they be the real thing or the Bo Rhap Boys–be free.

[Link to the Ao3 fic!]

Chapter Playlist:

1. Ramble On - Led Zeppelin 2. Hello, I love You - The Doors

Chapter Three - 'Don't Forget To Smile!'

London, 1969.

It all started with a couple of drawings. Pencil or charcoal drawings, quick studies of hands, profiles of people and renders of the view of the street from the flat Roger and Freddie shared. They sat in a small pile in their living room, under a couple of magazines that Brian had been perusing to pass the time. What had caught his eye however was a detailed portrait of Jimi Hendrix with his Stratocaster. It wasn’t just on some scrap bit of paper either, it was made on thick stock, the kind that artists used, and it had rough edges as if it were originally a larger piece of parchment that was carefully divided into several A4 pages.

Jimi was dressed in an open flowy shirt and had his eyes closed in concentration, the light from above him casted deep shadows upon his face. It didn’t look like Fred’s handiwork, and he had seen numerous other ones he had done before. There was a distinct impression on the bottom right hand corner of the page, the artist’s initial he would have guessed; it was a long and swooping line like the body of a snake and formed a slanted capital 'W'. Brian didn’t really know much about art, and was more comfortable measuring the distance between stars, or better, fluffing about on his guitar, but he decided he liked it very much.

“Rog,” he said, calling the attention of the man currently buttering a piece of toast in the kitchen.

“Yeah?”

Brian sidled up to his friend, showing what he had in his hand, “Is this yours?”

“Hm?” Roger turned his gaze at the drawing, swallowing the bread he was chewing he said, “No, a friend of mine drew that.”

“Do you think-- Could I have it?” Brian asked sheepishly, his eyes still admiring the pencil work.

“Good isn’t it? I’ve got one of Jane Fonda in my room,” he grinned with a wiggle of his brows, “Yeah, don’t think she’d mind, she leaves loads round here.” His friend had turned back to his meal, slathering more jam on his toast.

“Thanks.” Brian said, pleased.

Weeks later, after he’s hung his favorite new picture up on his bedroom wall at home, Brian was back at Fred and Roger’s place, hoping to talk to the blonde about their upcoming gig that week. The door to their flat was unsurprisingly not locked, still he gave a short knock at the door to warn people of his entrance. He had made the mistake twice or three times before of walking in on Roger with a lady friend. Why he hadn’t taken them to his room or at least locked the door, was beyond Brian’s comprehension. He suddenly felt a great sympathy for Freddie whom had to live with Roger’s antics on the daily.

What he was met with inside however was a lulling pitter-patter of percussion, and the warm strum of an electric guitar over Robert Plant’s familiar vocals. Neither Fred nor Roger was anywhere to be seen, but someone had left the record player on. The music of Zeppelin was like a balm to Brian’s ears as Page’s guitar played the quick rise and fall of notes on the fretboard. He made a beeline to the player in the living room, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He was so engrossed in his study of the vinyl jacket that he failed to notice the other person in the room.

“Can I help you?” a voice from the armchair asked.

Brian whipped around so fast he had dropped the empty vinyl sleeve. He had a hand to his chest and he felt his hammering pulse beneath his shirt. “Sorry,” he said, going for the item he had dropped. “I didn’t see you there.”

The person smiled at him from where she sat, eyes dancing at his priceless expression having been so caught off-guard. It was a woman, close to his age, and she had a purple scarf tied around her wavy brown hair which cascaded down her shoulder. She sat sideways in her seat and her lean legs were draped over one arm of the chair while her back was supported by the other. Her feet were angled towards the end table with the stack of magazines. Despite the way she had so casually perched on Freddie’s armchair, she was holding herself so easily and so regally that she could have been Cleopatra on her throne.

“Er, I was looking for Rog?” Brian answered in reply to her initial question.

“He’s still asleep.”  

“Right, right.” Brian nodded, his gaze flickering over to the door of Roger’s room. Of course he’d still be asleep, it was only half past twelve after all. He took the seat across from her on the sofa. “I’m --”

“You’re Brian, aren’t you?” she finished for him.

“Sorry,” he said, apologising once more. “Have we met? I thought I’m usually better at remembering these things.” Brian was scratching his curly head trying to put her face to a name.

“No, no. Only Roger mentioned he was in a band and that he had a friend called Brian who played guitar. Dark curly hair, tall, lacks fashion sense, lost puppy-dog eyes.”

“Rog said I looked like a... puppy ?”

The girl chuckled, “Just my observation.” Her tone was cheeky, but not unkind.

“Oh,” he said with a blush.

“I’m only playing,” she laughed, there was a rosy tinge to her cheeks. “I like your eyes, they’re very nice; and I don’t think you’ve got terrible taste in clothes.”

“Um, thanks.” He said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. He didn’t think that she was lying; though looking down at his simple pinstripe button down and dark trousers ensemble, and knowing his eyes to be a rather plain blue, Brian thought himself to be rather unremarkable.

“Could afford to pop open a few buttons though,” she mused, “And maybe roll up the sleeves?” Her brown eyes, a shade or two deeper than her hair, sparkled in the early afternoon light. He might have blamed Led Zeppelin, or maybe the way her hair fell around her like a halo, it may have been due to the fact that her eyes had never left his during their entire interaction thus far, or perhaps it was a combination of all of these things, but Brian was utterly smitten.

“I um, appreciate the pointers.”

“Sometimes all it takes is a fresh perspective.” The girl said with warmth.

Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air 'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair But Gollum, and the evil one Crept up and slipped away with her, her, her, yeah Ah, there's nothing I can do now I guess I'll keep on

They spend the next minute or so in relative quiet, happy to let the song speak for them. That was...until Brian next chose to open his mouth, “So, you're...here for Rog?” It was more of a statement than a question at this point.

“Hmm?” The girl raised her eyebrows.

“You and Rog, you’re-- here f-for him -- with - with him?” Put one beautiful girl in front of him and the astrophysics major is reduced to a stuttering idiot. His fingers tapped on his knees anxiously, he sees her lips press into a thin line and her eyes grow stormy.

“Right, because men and women can’t ever just be friends?” Her accusation was followed with his dumbfounded silence. She felt mortified and her chest burned. “D’you go around assuming every woman that’s ever stepped foot in this flat has slept with your mate, or am I just special?”

“I didn’t really er-- that is, I know that sounds…” he struggled for the words.

“No, no, it’s fine. It was just your observation.” she said, having lost the humour in her voice. It seemed as though their conversation had officially ended. It was then that Brian noticed the sketchbook in her lap, and the charcoal held between her fingers. But before he could peek at what she had been doing, she had closed the book shut and reached for her satchel propped against her chair.

The door to Freddie’s bedroom opened unceremoniously and the man came out fully dressed, keys jangling in hand. “Sorry to make you wait, I couldn’t find my other bloody shoe.” Freddie was surprised to find Brian there that afternoon, and especially so, finding the taller man looking quite ill and confused. “I see you’ve met Brian.”

“Yep.” the girl said, putting her things into her bag.

Fred might have guessed as to what led to this uncomfortable situation: one, Roger had never been the type who was short of female companions; two, for someone normally so articulate, Brian had probably one of the worst cases of foot in mouth syndrome Freddie’s ever been witness to; and three, his poor new friend has entirely no idea of the effect she had on the opposite sex. This scenario appeared to make the most sense to him. Seeking to relieve the tension, Fred had thought a speedy escape would be their best course of action. Collecting their coats in a calm fashion, he beckoned to her, “Coming, darling?”

“Born ready, Freddie.” she replied, her face was an impassive mask as she spared one last look to Brian before walking out the door with Fred.

Brian, rooted in his spot on the sofa, released a long suffering groan into his hand. He had gone and done it now, alright. He really had no luck with women, and he felt like a true dolt. He somehow managed to insult a mutual friend of both his best mate as well as that of that best mate’s flatmate all in one fell swoop. And he didn't even know the poor girl’s name.

Standing up, he walked over to where she had just been. Her seat was still warm, and by the end table was another set of fresh drawings. It appeared she been working on a flyer for their upcoming gig; ironic, given the circumstance, in large bold letters it mocked him saying, ‘DON’T FORGET TO SMILE!’.

Sure enough, on the bottom right-hand corner was a single initial, a pristine, looping 'W'.

I can't find my bluebird I listen to my bluebird sing I can't find my bluebird I keep rambling, baby I keep rambling, baby

[capaldisrighteyebrow]

I don’t need a bodyguard! -spacedarcy

@spacedarcy​ This has taken a while. And it’s not exactly finished…but it’s going somewhere. Modern AU fluffiness. How did I get here?

He’s run through half of his speech for the fifth time that afternoon when a series of short knocks interrupts his train of thought. Muttering a few more lines, he crosses the room, fumbling with the remaining buttons on his freshly pressed, tailored shirt before giving up and opening the door to his suite.

“Oh.” The girl’s head snaps up from chest to eye level so quickly there’s a possibility of whiplash. She’s no less befuddled by his face, it seems, for she asks, “Ben Solo?” as if she expected someone else.

“Yes?”

“You don’t look like your picture. You’re ol…your hair is longer,” she amends in accented English, shaking her head like her mind’s an Etch-a-Sketch and she’s reshaping lines from a new reference. “Sorry. I’m from…”

He’s already pieced it together and finishes her sentence: “From my uncle’s shop.” Ben turns back into the hotel room, waving his hand in a gesture that she should follow him inside. “You can leave the case on the table. I’m sorry he troubled you to bring them.”

He buttons his shirt all the way to the throat, then takes up the ends of his black, silk tie, looping them around with practiced ease, only half watching the knot form in the mounted floor-length mirror. His eyes rest on the girl’s reflection, taking in how her white knuckles continue to clutch the stainless steel briefcase despite his instruction.

“Is there something else?” he asks.

She clears her throat. “Luke didn’t tell you?”

He takes a deep breath. His uncle isn’t the most forthcoming, living like a practical hermit holed away in his shop, surrounded by antiques and relics of eras long since passed. Ben had spent his formative summers roaming through the dusty shelves that smelled of must and decay – it wasn’t a place he visited often, not anymore.

There was nothing to be gained by searching for answers in rare texts and historical artifacts, as his uncle had once wished him to do. Luke had been so focused on looking inward, seeking nirvana through meditative retreats, that he’d forgotten to look around at the suffering of the world. Ben, with his ambassador mother’s influence and his own company’s impressive reach, was determined to do something about it. Global crises required present action and future commitments. It’s why he’d dedicated his life to combining technological advancements with humanitarian efforts.

He smooths the tie against his chest, assessing the final look; he fiddles with the knot. “What is it?”

In the mirror, she shifts her weight from foot to foot in her black flats. Wearing khakis, a white blouse, and a navy blazer that’s too tight in the shoulders and too broad in the waist, she looks like a kid dressed up as an FBI agent for Halloween. Her hair is the only kept thing about her: secured in a low bun that makes her look years older than Ben suspects she actually is.

“I’m attending the event with you.”

Ben’s hands tighten the silk a hair more than comfortable, thrown off by her statement. “Excuse me?”

She brushes her hand next to her ear, though there’s no stray hair to push back. A nervous tick, perhaps. “I’m going along as security.”

He turns and narrows his eyes at her. It’s hard to determine the amount of muscle, or perhaps weapons, hidden beneath the ill-fitting garments. Still, it doesn’t matter. “I don’t need a bodyguard,” he dismisses.

“I’m not–” she starts, then cuts off the thought, as if calculating her approach, trying to gauge how he’ll react even before she delivers her retort. “I’m not here for you. I’m here to ensure these make it back to your uncle.”

He blinks – once, twice. “You’re here to protect my accessories?”

She places the briefcase on the coffee table in front of the loveseat, putting in a combination and scanning a fingerprint to open the latches. The girl turns the case in his direction; inside are a gold watch ringed with an inlay of diamonds, an equally bedecked tie clip, and golden cufflinks in the shape of dice which belonged to his father. She waves her hand over the family jewels like she’s a model on The Price is Right.

“Luke said they’re invaluable,” she reports. “Irreplaceable.”

His uncle may be on to something there, but it doesn’t change Ben’s attitude about having a shadow all evening. Growing up as an ambassador’s son, he’s long since had his fill of someone watching his every step. Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t wish to wear the pieces in the first place; it was only at his mother’s insistence that he agreed, only at the reminder that the award he’s presenting is to honor his late father that he gave in.

“They have more sentimental value than anything else. There’s no reason for you to stay,” he repeats, taking up the watch and sliding it over his wrist.

“With all due respect, Mr. Solo–”

“Ben,” he abbreviates with a wince, finally understanding why his mother hates when people address her as ma’am; he doesn’t want to be a mister anything in this girl’s eyes. “Formalities aren’t necessary.”

Her shoulders set against the friendly shift in his formerly detached tone. She won’t be turned from her duty. “I don’t take my orders from you.”

She’s staring him down more intensely than any sponsor or politician ever has, all over some baubles that his uncle dug out of the Skywalker vault. She looks just as ready to lay him out on the floor as she looks ready to protect him from red-carpet thieves. And, while he wasn’t sure at first, he now believes she’s capable of both.

Ben decides then that he likes her – that even as his exasperation grows, so does his respect.

His curiosity has always been an insatiable thing, and it’s found someone new to whet its appetite. They’ve only just met, but he finds himself with a list of questions on the tip of his tongue. Everything from the mundane, comprehensive where are you from? types to the ones which will synthesize her personal philosophies and life goals into a deeper understanding of who she is. He wants to listen as her dreams fall from her full, pink lips.

Restraint, he scolds himself, tamping down on the romantic notions that pop up suddenly, unexpectedly, while meeting brown eyes that seem to see him, not the founder of a startup so successful that they can hold a celebratory gala. She’s here for a job, not a date.

“Fine,” he acquiesces, sliding the tie clip into place and holding out his hand to her for the cufflinks. “I guess that makes you my plus one.”

An eyebrow stretches tall as she drops the cufflinks into his open palm, then retracts her hand. “Does that actually work for you?”

His neck heats, and he does his best to look sheepish. “What? You’ve been tasked to keep my uncle’s valuables safe, haven’t you Miss…?”

If you want to know her, you should probably start with her name, he thinks belatedly.

“Rey,” she finishes, not backing down from the way he leans forward into her space. She isn’t intimated.

“Rey,” he repeats, drawing the name across his lips slowly. And, just like that, he needs another day – maybe a week – to understand her, to have the opportunity to say her name again and again.

Her eyes go dark, arms crossing over her chest. “I can do my job from the sidelines.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” His grin is a challenge as he secures the cufflinks in place and shakes his wrists to settle his shirt. He moves to the closet and unzips the garment bag holding his suit jacket, then slips into it with a shrug. “I’m only trying to make your job easier, Rey.”

“You are, huh?” She takes a step toward him, closing the distance between them in a bold move that stirs something within him.

“As my guest, you’d be able to keep your eye on…things.”

He nearly says me but chickens out at the last moment. It’s been a long time, too long, since he’s tried to openly flirt with anyone. It’s not something he should be focused on anyway: he should be focused on the queasiness rolling through his stomach at the thought of the speech he has to deliver in a little under two hours.

“Oh, I won’t be letting you out of my sight,” she guarantees, casually pulling the lapels of his jacket closer, as if she’s done it for years. She taps her index finger against the jeweled tie clip. “Alright. You’ve got yourself a plus one.”

“Excellent.” His hand motions up and down in the air, indicating her attire. “Of course, you can’t go like that.”

Now it is her turn to flush with color, though she quickly places her hands on her hips and puffs out her slight chest; it practically grazes his own. In a pointed tone, she reminds him, “I dressed to blend into the background.”

“Something that will be remedied, post-haste,” he assures her.

[writingwitchly]

Sunrise

Hey! ;-) I have a request. could you write a oneshot with young sirius black where his gf like gets poisoned and then faints and sirius catches her but then her life is in danger and she might not survive and sirius worries like crazy. thanks!xx ~ an Anon who gave me some quite hard work

Pairing: Sirius Black x fem!reader Word count: 2,2k  Warning: FREAKIN BLACK FAMILY / poisoning / bullying / dark thoughts / sadness / a much needed hApPiE eNdInG A/N: Ok, let’s be honest. At first, I didn’t know how to write this, I didn’t get ideas for the request, but then it just clicked in my mind and it’s such a relief to share with you the extremely odious and shallow creatures that the Blacks are in my head (Andy, Reg, and Pads deserved so much better, imma cry). Also shiiite, but this got me exhausted, wrote the final part listening to Halo, by Queen B, and it definitely gave me the feelzzz. ’m also kinda proud of how it turned out? Thanks for the request, Anon, feel free to send more in. Enjoy.

“I am sorry I brought you here.”

Yeah. He can be.

The cold air seeps through your pores, and tears have formed two little streams on your cheeks. You wipe them with one of the sleeves of your cardigan, the one you had bought especially for today.

“Y/N.”

Sirius grabs your elbow and forces you to a halt. His eyes are so full of regret that you almost feel ashamed for crying. Almost.

“I-” But the words die in his mouth.

They are replaced by anger, an ugly anger that hardens your boyfriend’s facial traits. What you just suffered in the house of Orion and Walburga Back bears no name, and deserves no justification.

Two weeks ago, when they heard about their elder son’s girlfriend, Sirius’ parents immediately wrote him a letter. Your boyfriend was quite happy: his family was showing a hint of interest in him for the first time in long years. He was diffident, of course, but even if they are the most horrible people on Earth, they still remain his family. He is proud of you, and thought they would be too.

Like the naive girl that you are, you let Sirius convince you. Maybe it would somehow calm Walburga to meet her future daughter-in-law, you thought. As if this woman was capable of motherly love, or feminine complicity.

When you arrived at the Black manor earlier this evening, a strange weight appeared in your belly at the sight of the abandoned garden and dusty entrance. You told yourself it would disappear soon, believing it was just hunger, but the sensation became heavier when an unhealthy-looking house-elf opened the door, bowing his sad, grayish head until it touched the floor.

Inside, the whole Black clan was waiting for you, superiority and derision already displayed on their faces. The women were sitting in their extravagant dresses, listening to the political discussion that the men were emphasizing by moving their richly jeweled hands in the air. The atmosphere, already full of untold reproaches and hypocrisy, was worsened by the undulating column of smoke that the expensive cigars released in the room.

Sirius was standing next to you as you observed his family members. Even if he looked disgusted by their behavior, you had to admit that, with his immaculate clothes, his perfect hair, and sophisticated features, he fitted well in the picture. A very unpleasant picture of extreme wealth. One to which you do not belong.

As soon as you stepped in, the humiliation started. ‘Her skin looks like a troll’s,’ ‘The load of rags she wears doesn’t even deserve to be called a dress,’ ‘What do you reckon happened to her hair?’ are some of the whispers that filled the place. Almost every present host criticized you blatantly, ignoring the fact that you were standing right in the middle of them all. You felt your boyfriend boiling with rage next to you, but calmed him down with looks of patience and resignation.

Everybody got more bearable when the news that you are pureblood sank in. ‘At least she’s not total garbage,’ laughed Walburga. She even offered you a drink.

Wanting to make a good impression, you lowered your guard, throwing shy smiles here and there, and placing some words in the conversations. You really wanted to help Sirius. You thought things could get better, but their masquerade didn’t last long.

The word ‘mother’ slipped from your tongue, addressing Walburga.

An icy veil fell on the house. All eyes were on you. Sirius’ mother raised from her armchair, and told you to leave. As you didn’t react, she screamed at you. She claimed that she would never allow somebody like you to call her ‘mother’.

Like an automate, you stood up, and your legs carried you toward the door. Behind you, screams and laughter echoed in the living room. You heard Sirius yell something, gasps, the muffled sound of a fist on a jaw, several more hits, and the door closed behind you.

Seconds later, the door slammed again, this time with such an intensity that it could have brought the whole house down. Sirius’ steps joined yours, and you exited the neglected garden in a mutual hurt silence, his nose dripping blood and the sinking feeling in your stomach a million times worse.

“Let’s- Let’s just move over this, okay?”

Your whisper costs you a big effort, because your tongue feels incredibly dry, but it softens the young man’s expression.

“It’s not your fault,” you try to comfort him, hating the thought that he is feeling guilty about the whole story. “It didn’t go that bad.”

Your eyes have a hard time focusing on him. The stress must have gotten to your nerves.

“Of course it didn’t.” His voice is as tense as a violin’s strings. “My whole family just showed how odious they are by being total jerks to the woman I love, my mother threw you out of the house, and I punched and got punched by my father. Funny, isn’t it?”

He furiously wipes his mouth, wet with blood.

With a flick of your wand, you attempt to fix his injury. Your mind is racing to find something to say, because Sirius just entered a vicious cycle of blaming himself for having the worst family ever.

“What I’m saying, love, is that it could have been worse,” you try to sound peaceful, but the pounding veins in your skull only allow you to frown. With a lame smile, you try to joke, “I mean, at least your mother didn’t poison me when she gave me that dri-”

A sharp pain in the ribs makes you buckle, but Sirius retains you before you can fall.

“Y/N? Are you okay? Y/N!”

He holds you to his chest, cupping your lolling head with one hand.

“Y/N! What’s happening?”

Suddenly, comprehension washes over his face.

“Y/N! What did she put in the drink? What color was it?”

Your legs are noodles. The world is spinning. Your mouth involuntarily forms a rictus.

“Y/N! For Merlin’s sake, answer!”

Why does he sound so desperate?

Don’t worry, Sirius, I’m fine here. Stop yelling. The world feels… cold… and empty. But… There are people. They say they are friends. Why can’t I see their faces? Oh, they are shadows.

Spare bits of sentences reach your brain in your semi unconsciousness.

“The drink-”

What drink?

They tell me to take their hands.

“Color-”

Oh yeah, that drink. I didn’t like it. It tasted sour.

But my friends, the shadows, they say I’ll be fine with them.

“Answer!”

Why is it so important? If it makes him happy, I can remember. It was… Like his hair. Like his family.

“B- black.”

As soon as the word leaves your mouth, the world becomes darkness.

Frantic pounding resonates in the hallway.

The very last thing that Filch expects to find as he opens the school’s doors on a calm Saturday night is one of his worst nightmares, covered in blood and bruises, holding in his arms an ill-looking body.

“You!” he shouts. “What are yo-”

But Sirius pushes him aside and hurriedly steps in, his face lightening as he recognizes the silhouette standing in a velvet red night robe behind the caretaker.

“Minnie!”

“Black,” the woman exclaims in return. “I’d rather have you to call me-”

Her eyes widen in shock as she notices you.

“For Godric’s sword, what happened to her?”

Without waiting for an answer, she levitates you from your boyfriend’s arms and they both stride toward the Hospital Wing.

“Black,” she shouts, not caring to wake up half the castle, “How did L/N-”

“Poisoned,” he bitterly admits.

No more words are said until they burst into the Hospital Wing.

“Poppy!” calls Professor McGonagall.

The next moments are of agitation and worry. Madam Pomfrey and her assistant examine thoroughly your skin, eyes, and mouth, while the Head of Gryffindor walks past the exit and runs toward the Headmaster’s office. Sirius is unable to do anything but staring at your inanimate face and biting his nails. With his free hand, he desperately grasps your hand as to keep you in this world.

“When did she take the poison?”

The healer’s voice is so high-pitched that she has to repeat her question before the young man can get the sense of it. As he answers, her expression becomes unreadable.

“Mr. Black, I must ask you to leave this room.” Her cold voice makes Sirius’ hair stand on end.

“What does it mean?” He presses her.

“It means that you need to leave, please. Now,” she answers.

But the boy doesn’t like the idea of it. He doesn’t like the fear in her eyes.

“I won’t! I’m staying with her!”

His voice is hurtful, but the nurse doesn’t change her mind.

Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, who just arrived in the room, have to force him outside.

As the massive wooden doors lock in front of him, Sirius lets out a cry of pain and frustration and kneels on the floor. It’s all his fault.

If anything happens to you, he will never forgive himself.

Hey, Sirius, look! It’s the same shadows! But they don’t sound as friendly anymore. Why are they laughing?

Oh… It’s not them. It’s your family. It’s the Blacks.

They’re laughing at me. And at you. And at Andy. And at Reg.

Why? What did you do to deserve this?

I thought they would accept me. I thought that in their heart there was a place for you. I thought that they didn’t mind Andy’s silence and different interests. I thought that they loved Regulus, because he does what they want.

But they’ll never accept me. There was a place for you in their heart, except it’s buried under bigotry and pride obsession. They don’t like Andy because she’s not as loud and hypocrite as them. They mock Regulus because he believes in making things better.

They are not laughing anymore, Sirius. They are grabbing my arms. And yours. They want to tear us apart.

Their fingers are icy.

Why can’t I see anymore? I want to open my eyes! I want to scream! I don’t want to leave you!

Sirius?

Where are you?

I need you.

Please stay with me.

I love you.

“I love you…”

Sirius’ words are barely audible, but it’s not like there is anyone to hear them. You can’t hear them.

Madam Pomfrey finally let him in, and he took a seat by your side.

His eyes travel from your strangely colored skin to your grayish hair. The healer said that you’re out of danger and will recover soon, but there still is a ball of concern blocking his throat.

A ray of light caresses his cheek. It’s sunrise, the time of the day you prefer. You always say that it is the best moment to start over. If only you were awake to witness it, to see the glint of light on the glass panels, to observe the clouds’ movement in the sky, to hear your voice saying his na-

His head jerks to face you.

“Y/N?” he whispers, afraid that louder sounds would break you into a million pieces.

He sighs. Was it his imagination?

“Sirius…”

No, it was not! Your lips moved! It feels so good! He grabs your hand and presses it to his lips.

As you feel his touch, warmness travels through your body, and you force yourself to open your eyes, just a little bit. Through the thin crack, his perfect smudged face and perfect tangled hair come into focus. Also his smile. His perfect bright smile. The one that got you. That made you fall in love.

“Sirius,” you breathe again.

His smile widens.

Yes, this is how he looks better. You want to see him smiling for the rest of your life. You want to make him smile for the rest of your life.

“I love you, Sirius.”

Your mouth feels dry, but it costs you nothing to say it. It’s so natural.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” he fondly answers. “But now you should rest.”

The sunlight comes from behind him, and it shines like an aura around his body. Is it sunrise? It’s the time you prefer, the best moment to start over.

“What are we going to do, Sirius?”

You let your words sink in.

Now that you understood that you can easily lose each other, what are you going to do?

He is aware of your anxiety, because he shares it.

“We are going to love each other forever, Y/N. We’ll buy ourselves a house wherever you want, grow our children there, and live the happiest life ever. I’ll keep you away from the bad things, I’ll never let anything happen to you. Never ever again. I love you too much.”

He tenderly squeezes your hand, making a mental note to kiss you as if his life depended on it as soon as you’d get better.

Your fingers intertwined, a smile on your lips, and your heart in peace, you allow the sleep to take over you.

Yes, it’s definitely sunrise.

Permanent tag list: @daytodayfun @miss-nerd0905 @funnymrspotter

Sirius tag list: @glitteryfreakslimeegg

[redditnosleep]

The Lake In The Woods

by coffinstuffer

This is a story about my sisters. Juniper and Marigold. June and Mary. Twins born on the first day of September. Two and a half years older than me.

We lived in rural Wisconsin. Our father was a long haul trucker and our mother waited tables at the Denny’s. Mary, June and I were great explorers, charting the woods behind our modest home with construction paper and dulled crayons. We spent most of our time playing outside, sun, rain or snow.

There was safety in numbers. We were always back in time for dinner. In retrospect, I’m not even certain our mother knew just how far from home we strayed.

This is a story about a lake we found, a couple of miles into the wilderness. It was a Saturday in early February. We were bundled up in puffy jackets and snow pants. When we first came across the clearing, it was striking. The most beautiful thing my young eyes had ever seen.

Crisp white snow, sprawling flat as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t so much as a twig or a paw print to interrupt the pristine blanket of powder.

It was Mary who realized there was water beneath. She pointed out the reed stalks that speckled the perimeter. Even approached what must have been the edge, crouched down and brushed away the snow to reveal ice. She was always very science minded. Even with her mere twelve years of experience on the planet, she was one of the smartest people I knew.

So of course, she was the first to ask why we’d never seen this lake before. In all our years of wandering, we must have come this way at least a dozen times. I had no answers. I simply shrugged and pulled my hat down tighter around my ears to stave off the cold.

June was silent. Staring out into the vast expanse of white.

Other people had trouble telling my sisters apart, but I never did. They had the same wavy chestnut hair, grey eyes, and angular jaws. They had the bones of birds, thin and fragile. But June was softer. Quieter. She had more freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. Mary questioned and June listened. That was the way it had always been.

“Do you hear that?” She almost whispered, gaze glued to the horizon.

“What?” I asked, somehow feeling I should be just as quiet.

“The crying… someone is crying.”

“Junie, what are you talking about?” Mary straightened up, dusting the snow off her gloves.

June raised a finger to her lips, requesting silence.

I didn’t hear anything. No birds. No rustling trees. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced a deeper or more unsettling quiet.

If there’s one skill Mary never quite developed, it was keeping her mouth shut. It only added to the gravity of the situation when her eyes widened in sudden comprehension and a full minute passed before she said anything.

“Where is it coming from?” She wheeled around, staring at the frozen lake, just like June was.

June took a few steps closer to the edge of the lake. There was an odd look in her eye. One I’ve never seen before or since. She looked empty. Like an upright shell with nothing inside it. Her face was devoid of any expression.

Mary, on the other hand, was growing more agitated by the moment.

“We have to look for help!” She blubbered. “There–was a hunting cabin a little ways back, wasn’t there? The Darby boys have a hut out here–we’ll go get them.”

June didn’t give any indication of agreement or dissent. Mary grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it.

“Ryan. You and June stay put. Stay right here and I’ll be back.”

I nodded, confused, more than a little afraid. I still didn’t hear anything. I accepted it all. Because the prospect of both my sisters going insane at the same time seemed less plausible than my just not being able to pick up on what they were hearing.

Mary bounded off, leaving boot-prints in the snow. I watched her run until she disappeared between the trees. When I turned around, June was already a few feet out onto the lake.

I called to her, asking what she was doing. No response.

I yelled that it could be dangerous and that she should turn around. She ignored me.

I started crying. At first they were crocodile tears. The kind a little brother can usually muster when he’s trying to get pity or attention from his older sisters. But it turned all too real when the resounding crack echoed through the air. June sunk below the ice instantly.

My cowardice is probably the thing that saved me. I was paralyzed. Shocked and terrified. There was a gaping hole where my sister had been. No matter how much I wanted to move, to run to her, to save her, I couldn’t do it. I just stood there as the seconds ticked by into minutes and she was surely dead.

Time is a funny thing to pin down. I couldn’t honestly tell you how long it was before Mary showed up, with two of the Darby boys in tow, and I tearfully choked out what had happened.

The Darby boys looked at me in utter bewilderment. Mary frowned with concern.

“Ry… June is right over there.”.

Mary pointed. I turned to look. There was no hole in the ice. June was standing a ways off, next to the edge of the pond, still staring at some undefined point in the distance.

Apparently, whatever sound Mary heard had stopped. The Darby boys rolled their eyes and grumbled about what wild imagainations my sisters had. But they walked us back towards a more clearly marked trail, and said we shouldn’t wander off so far.

June didn’t say a word the whole walk home. The hairs on the back of my neck kept prickling, like someone was staring at me. But any time I glanced over, June was looking straight ahead.

Maybe I imagined it. But I could have sworn there were droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes.

This is a story about how my sister started to change.

I was still a little young to understand the finer points of puberty. But June’s came early. We were sitting on the couch together when she bled through her soft, pink sweatpants.

She didn’t stand up right away. In fact, she probably noticed long before I did.

“Huh. Guess I’m a woman now. Fucking fantastic.”

She started shaving her legs and wearing tighter clothes. She’d put on makeup in the girl’s bathroom at school. She used to have lunch with Mary and I. But with the change in appearance, people started to notice her. It wasn’t long before she sat at the same table as the girls who had money. The girls who lived in big houses, and carried around real leather purses, and drank pilfered strawberry vodka when they had sleepovers. It wasn’t long before June started talking to boys and twirling locks of hair around her index finger as she giggled at jokes that weren’t funny.

June used to come into my room late at night and sit on the edge of the bed.

Sometimes she’d talk to me. Sometimes she would just stare. Either way it seemed threatening in a manner that was hard to place. I would pretend to be asleep if it was late enough. But we both knew I wasn’t.

Sometimes I would cry.

“You watched me die, Ryan.” She would say, in that soft, eerie calm voice. “You didn’t even try to save me.”

“I’m sorry.” Pressing my face into the pillow didn’t hide the tears. But I didn’t know what else to do.

“You don’t love me.”

“I do, June. I’m sorry. I–I was scared–”

“You have no idea what it’s like to drown. All that stuff about it being peaceful is bullshit. It hurts, Ryan. It feels like barbed wire wrapping around your lungs. It’s like being trapped in a tiny box, that keeps getting smaller and smaller until you’re completely crushed.”

She would lean down to whisper right in my ear. Her hand on the back of my neck, squeezing just a little too hard, was icy as the first snow.

During the day, she’d carry around those little chemical hand warmers that skiers put in their gloves. But she wanted me to feel the cold, because it was my fault.

“Say you love me, Ryan.”

“I–I love you, June.”

“Good boy.”

Frank Darby went missing. I was probably the last person to see him alive. Or well, the second to last.

I saw him climbing out of June’s bedroom window a little after sunset, while I was raking leaves. It wasn’t a secret what they’d been doing. I’d gone outside because I could hear the slick sounds and creaking mattress springs through the thin walls.

June climbed out after him, smiling much too wide. Her hair was messy, and her face was flushed. The two of them got into the branches of the tall maple tree that grew beside our house, and shimmied down it.

They walked towards the woods, holding hands.

Just as they were about to disappear into the trees, June looked over her shoulder and winked at me.

The park rangers found Frank about a week later. I didn’t see the body, only heard stories. It’s hard to say what was embellished and warped in the game of telephone that spread through town. But the most common details are that Frank’s throat was ripped out, and his ribs had been cracked open. Whatever killed him took his heart.

My mother fell ill. Stage three breast cancer. I was twelve. June and Mary had recently turned fifteen.

Mary cried a lot. June spent most of her time at the hospital, stroking mom’s hair and feeding her soup.

Sometimes I wonder if her hands were cold. I wonder what my mother thought about that in the fading twilight.

Mom died in the middle of the night in early spring. June was the only one in the room with her.

Joe Darby met a similar fate to his older brother, for a slightly different reason.

Joe asked Mary to the homecoming dance.

At that point, Mary was wearing glasses. We didn’t have much money, so her dress was from the thrift store—several decades out of fashion.

She and Joe swayed back and forth at arm’s length. Smiling awkwardly. Or that’s how I imagine it happened. I wasn’t there.

I was there for the shouting match in our backyard. When June called Mary a cunt and they pulled each other’s hair and fingernails broke skin as they tumbled on the ground together.

Joe went missing shortly after that. Mary spent a lot of time searching the woods for him. After June apologized, they went together. They disappeared into the trees, holding hands, and a pile of bricks settled at the pit of my stomach.

Mary came back with damp hair and stopped wearing her glasses.

A few days later, the police found the shredded remains of Joe Darby. Once again, missing his heart.

This is a story about a lake in the middle of the woods, and how my sisters tried to drown me in it.

It was a foggy winter morning. My sisters kept throwing each other meaningful looks across the breakfast table, communicating in that way twins will. Having a conversation I could never hope to understand.

I was fourteen, and afraid of them both. When they asked if I wanted to go on a hike, I said no. They didn’t insist. They didn’t have to. Mary had made breakfast. The sleeping pills were already in my system.

When the drowsiness hit, I tried to make myself throw up, but it was too late.

They put me on a sled and dragged me out into the forest. I was unconscious for most of it. Just little flashes of trees and sky.

They waited for me to wake up. They were standing over me, completely naked, smiling wider than a human mouth should be able to stretch. They didn’t seem uncomfortable, despite the frigid wind whipping through their hair, and the snow between their bare toes.

“Can you hear it yet, Ryan?” June laughed.

“I’m sure you will soon. You’ll join them. All of them, at the bottom of the lake.”

“Screaming for help.”

“Begging for mercy.”

“It’s a little pathetic, really.”

I wanted to believe I was dreaming. But I knew I wasn’t. In a dream, my sisters would have shifted into something monstrous. Their hands would have become talons. Their teeth would have morphed into fangs around a forked tongue. But they looked the same as they ever had. Identical except for the freckles.

They each grabbed one of my arms and lifted me to my feet with a surprising strength. They stepped in tandem, slowly towards the edge of the lake in a grim procession. I was the star of it all.

My survival instincts must have kicked in about halfway to the ice. I began to struggle and scream, sure that nobody was listening. What is there to do when faced with imminent death but shriek at the heavens for mercy?

As I screamed, there was a swelling chorus of tortured cries. It sounded as if the ground hand opened up beneath me to unleash the anguish of the damned. The deafening noise echoed all around us. Centering on the lake. The lake that was no longer frozen over, but frothing and steaming like the surface of a cauldron.

My sisters held my shoulders firmly and lowered me into the water. Feet first. It was blistering. Painful beyond the point where I could distinguish heat or cold. It burned. That was all I knew.

Perhaps it’s poetic that a Darby saved me.

Perhaps it was divine intervention.

I tend to think it was nothing but dumb luck. It’s hard for me to believe in God anymore. Or at least, I can’t believe in a God that is fair and merciful. The only thing I know for sure is that evil exists. Something dark and twisted claimed both of my sisters, and will never give them back.

But a gunshot rang through the air, just when the water was lapping at my knees.

June released her grip on me suddenly. My center of gravity shifted backwards. It was enough time for me to wrench out of Mary’s grasp and crawl back up the snowy bank of the lake. I couldn’t stand. But I kept pulling myself along, farther and farther away from the water.

Two more shots in rapid succession cracked through the air above me. I saw the eighty-year-old grandmother Helen Darby, with a floral handkerchief tied around her head, holding a double barrel shotgun. Aiming it at the lake.

I didn’t turn around until long after she rushed past me. June’s naked body lay prone on the lake’s shore, bullet wound in her back leaking blood into the ground. Steam floating into the air from her torn flesh.

Mary was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t hear any more gunshots. Helen Darby circled around after a while. She put me back on the sled and dragged me to the hunting hut, where the rangers came to get me.

I lost three of my toes to frostbite. I considered myself lucky.

After my sisters disappeared, Helen Darby effectively adopted me. Whenever my father wasn’t home, she’d make a point to stop by. She’d teach me how to cook, help me figure out how to run the washing machine, knit while I did my homework or watched TV. Most importantly, she’d sit in the living room with the shotgun, long into the night. Making sure whatever had gotten a taste of me didn’t come back for another bite.

When I was old enough, or rather on my fifteenth birthday, Helen gave me a gun of my own and taught me how to use it.

Part of me knew it was all a little bizarre. But I could pretend it was about the grandsons she’d lost. She was just treating me as their replacement. We only talked about what happened at the lake once, and never again after that.

It was a cold night in December. We were sitting by the fireplace, listening to a radio broadcast of A Christmas Carol. Helen had been drinking gin straight from the bottle for a couple of hours. She often got sad when she drank. Her baggy, wrinkled eyes shone with a hint of tears, and the corners of her mouth sagged downwards.

“There’s something wrong out in the woods.” She said suddenly. Unspoken context looming over us. “It takes the little girls and kills the men. It’s been there longer than this town. Folks just stopped believing in it.”

I had so many questions but couldn’t voice any of them. I just stared at her wide eyes.

“It still talks to me. Always talks to me. It tried to make me kill my brother. My husband. My sons… but I’m too old for it now. It can’t do much besides talk. I’ve tried avoiding it but look what that did. No. Somebody has to stay out there.”

She took another long swig from her bottle.

“You know, I’m not going to live forever, Ryan.”

I nodded, solemn. Life already a tangled mess of grief. What better cause could I pursue than wardenship?

“You know what has to be done when I’m gone.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A sigh of relief.

This is a story about how I moved into a small cabin in the middle of the woods. I hunt and fish, and sell lumber to whoever needs it.

I don’t hear the voices or the screams. But some moonlit nights there’s a rapping on my window. I see the silhouette of a shriveled, naked woman with matted chestnut hair.

One day, she will probably finish what she started. Until then, I will keep watch, and do my best to pass along the story.

The worst things happen when we try to forget the warnings of a different time. Don’t wander in the woods. Don’t stray off the path. Something evil might get you. Just like it got to me.

[imagine-loki]

A Warrior’s Life

TITLE: A Warrior’s Life

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Sixty-Two AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Viking Loki coming to your village, raiding, and pillaging, before deciding there is something about you that intrigues him and deciding to take you back to Asgard with him. There, you are forced to learn a new life and language, and though you hate what has happened to you, you learn that Loki is not as bad as you think.

RATING: Mature

NOTES: Set a month or so after the previous chapter. 

“You cannot be serious.” Loki jumped to his feet in anger.

“I am, this has to be done Loki,” Thor stated in return, far calmer than his brother.

“I refuse to do it.”

“Loki…”

“No Thor, you cannot honestly think to make me do such a thing.”

“I understand your concerns with regards to Maebh and how ill she has been, but she has mother now.” Thor attempted to sound diplomatic.

“She is still ill, you have heard Eir and you have heard from Volstagg and his wife, I have to be close to her, if she were to lose the baby, or…” he could not complete the sentence.

“You are being over worrisome Loki, and in doing so you are not thinking of your role,” Thor stated in a dismissive tone.

Loki glared at his brother, coming over and into his face, his index finger pointed directly at the older man. “Do not dare suggest for one moment that I am not loyal to you or dismissive of my position.” He hissed. “I nearly died protecting the future king of my land, I nearly left my heavy pregnant wife a widow and my sons fatherless to protect my land, and you dare suggest I do not think of my role.” His voice rose to a roar as he spoke. “I am the reason you are alive, why you stand here today to speak this way to me, I could easily have let you be slain in front of me, but I did not, did I? I risked my life for you.” Thor looked at him guiltily. “You owe me this, brother. I did not get to be there for Maebh when Vali was born, but if I have to fight the Great Odin himself, I will witness the birth of my next child. You will not get to preside over the naming of another of my children.” With that, he turned and stormed from the building, ignoring the worried faces of Sif, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun, as well as others as he grabbed the reins of his horse, mounting it before turning it to head to his home, and kicking it hard with his heels, causing it to rear before galloping out of the village.

*

“I am going to explode, wait and see, I will rupture before this child is born.” Maebh groaned, the baby had moved within her during the night and the new manner in which it rested meant it was high, pressing against her ribs, making her feel far bigger than she physically was.

“You are being oversensitive Maebh, it is just going into position, you heard Eir only a week ago, it was the wrong way around, it will settle head down and you will be far better then.” Frigga soothed, knowing the sensation that Maebh was feeling, having experienced it herself with Loki.

“Could you imagine having to birth a child legs first?” Maebh shuddered at the thought. “It cannot be good for you.”

“Many a woman has suffered great exhaustion before her child is even halfway out. Getting the head out first is most certainly optimal.” Frigga agreed. “Wait and see, soon it will be head down, you will be able to breathe and eat again without feeling as though it is in your chest, though it will be kicking you incessantly.”

“That is not particularly comforting either it must be said. With Vali, I felt as though I had Sleipnir within me, nothing but legs kicking everywhere.”

Frigga laughed. “It is good to see you embrace all that is of Asgard so well my dear; I often forget you are not born of here.”

Maebh gave a small smile. “I suppose that is good, though some days I wish to remember my roots more too if that makes sense. Not that I am unhappy with how I am here.”

“There is no need to try to explain, for there is nothing to explain. You are of Midgard; Vali is half so, as is that little one you carry now. They will be born here, but that does not take what you are from you, or indeed them. The day will come when they will wish to know how their parents came to be wed, meaning how you came to be here will arise, and then too, their curiosity in themselves. Not to mention, your sense of identity is a part of that also.”

Maebh felt better knowing Frigga understood her perspective, she rubbed her stomach, which was no longer able to hide her growing child, but showing the world once more, that a child flourished within her. “I’m scared.”

“Darling?”

“What if I am not strong enough to carry this child.”

“Maebh…”

“I am still ill, longer than is usual, daily, it is not normal.” She explained.

“Sweetheart, you are not yet halfway. As Eir explained, the child is badly positioned and slightly larger than Vali, so that is the reason for your increased size, and your illness, sadly it lasts a tad longer in cases where women are struck with it, you do not need to fret.” She tried to calm her, knowing she was more worried than she should be, something that Eir had warned to prevent.

Maebh inhaled deeply, “You are right, you are right.” She stated. “I am sorry, I am just so frustrated. I am not sleeping very well, I feel too uncomfortable, I am trying not to get angry at everything, yet I want to be, and I want eggs, duck eggs, chicken eggs, even a damn goose egg, but I can have none of them because they make me ill, and I can only eat at certain times a day because otherwise I will be ill, and I wish I could be of use.”

Frigga raised her hand to silence her. “Sweetheart, you are very much of use, you are carrying a child, the future of our family line, while also feeding one and rearing two others, you have the most essential of roles within this family at present, bar Thor, please do not think otherwise.” She stated adamantly. “You deserve more credit than you give yourself. Being tired and being irritable are completely comprehensible, and that is fine, I know not to take offence, I understand.” She smiled.

“Thank you,” Maebh smiled meekly back.

“Now, why do we not go and take a small walk with Vali, you need to get some fresh air, so nowhere too far.”

Rising from her seat, Maebh smiled brightly at the idea, elated at the idea of not being inside, the weather of late having been slightly wetter than usual. “I cannot voice enough my agreement to such an idea.” Vali gurgled against her. “Apparently neither can you.” She grinned, looking at the baby, who returned her bright smile happily.

“Then I will take this young man, you just look after you, if you feel ill, let me know.” Frigga took Vali, who willingly went to his grandmother.

The day was dry but overcast, and there was a chill, so they brought an extra pelt for the baby. “I cannot put into words how grateful I am for everything you have done these past few weeks that you have been here Frigga. I would not have recovered as much as I have but for you.”

“I am only too happy to be of assistance. With Thor's rule and Loki’s aid, I was beginning to feel useless, but with helping you raise your family, I feel as though I have a purpose once more.”

“We would never think you useless, you know that.”

“No, but I would feel it, besides, I miss having my family around. When it was just Odin and myself, it felt lonely also, but now, seeing my grandchildren every day, knowing soon there will be another one to dote on.” She smiled lovingly as she looked to Maebh’s stomach.

“You mean another one to wake you at night crying, to not give you any peace. I feel somewhat guilty, you have reared your children, I feel bad for shouldering some of the care of mine on you also.”

“On Midgard, did you have any of your family close by?”

Maebh took a moment before answering, not out of hesitation, but to recall, having not thought of her life there for a significant time. “My mother was born to a formidable family in Mumhain, a land far south of where my father was heir to, so we did not see her parents, I do not know if they even live still. My father’s father, my grandfather, died when I was young, I think Daire was not a year old at the time, and because my father did not wish for his mother to be alone, he insisted she move to our home.”

“So it is similar to what has occurred here so, no wonder you were so at ease with the idea.”

“I fear my father’s mother was not as good as you, though; crass is the term I would use to describe her. She had no issue with voicing her thoughts, however, good or bad they would be. She was ridiculing of my mother, thinking her nothing near good enough for her son, though her family were of good blood also. I was not too sorry when she died. I recall my mother saying once that she was the reason there was so long between Daire and Síofra.” Frigga listened intently. “It was she that promised me to Maedhbh of Connacht’s son. She had made that arrangement with her without consulting my father, and when it came to light, my father either had to agree or face a very formidable foe.”

“So he was displeased?”

“By then, much to my mother’s and grandmother’s chagrin, I was already showing signs of being the better-suited heir to my father. Daire, though I loved him greatly, was not as level-headed, or battle smart, and my father knew that.”

“What do you think would have occurred should your brother have fought you for the stake in the thrown?” Frigga asked.

Maebh knew well she was comparing her and Daire to Loki and Thor, though thankfully, Loki had never tried to overthrow his brother. “I do not know, we would have had to battle, and I know I would have been victorious, so it would have probably have cost me, my brother, be it that he would have been alive and defeated, or slain, neither something I would want. I think he too knew I was better suited, he never contested me, not properly, obviously, he would argue with me sometimes, but do not all siblings do such?”

“Oh yes, I had a sister, she died in childbirth many moons ago, but she and I used bicker incessantly. I am surprised my parents did not throw us both to the wolves.” Frigga smiled, fondly recalling her childhood.

Maebh was going to reply when she stood open-mouthed, listening. She heard it not a moment before she saw the cause of the sound; Loki’s horse’s hooves pounding the ground before turning the corner far too hurriedly to stop should he come across something. Thinking quickly, she threw Frigga and Vali to the side, herself with them, one hand protecting her growing stomach and the other around Frigga’s back, making sure she and Vali did not crash to the ground too heavily. Luckily, the older woman and young child landed in the grassy ditch, which though sodden, cushioned their fall. With both her hands occupied, Maebh landed harshly, but in a manner that her unborn child was cushioned, her head colliding painfully with a large uncovered tree root.

Loki had been so consumed by anger at Thor's words; he had not been focusing too greatly on his surrounds. It was only when he saw a flash of colour and heard Vali’s cry did he pull on his horse’s reins and look around. Immediately he pulled for the horse to turn and rushed back. “Mother, what are you…Maebh!” the sight of his wife, looking at him with her eyes clearly not in focus from the ground and with a hand to her head to stem the flow caused Loki to freeze.

[chronically-able]

Throwback Thursday: An Old Essay That Still Rings True

I wrote the following essay a few months after I initially broke my back in 2012. Many doctors and many diagnoses later, it’s funny how in some ways I still feel like the same 19-year-old kid navigating the same emotions that come from chronic illness. 

In today’s ultra-almost- too-modern society, we’ve pin pointed every action down to the data second. Lose directions to dinner? We pull up the coordinates on our phone. Forget to study for an exam and only realize an hour before? Google tutors you for 45 minutes and you get a passable C-. Feeling awkward at that strange social gathering called a “party”? No problem, Tetris can make you look almost too popular with all those fake texts you keep checking on. Never are we lost, never are we wrong, never are we awkward. We are infallible.

Or so we think. What we forget is no matter how many schedule alerts pop up on our phone or warnings we heed about new bus routes or Thai restaurants, accidents can still happen. A margin of error exists. And as much as you believe “that could never happen to me” while looking at a fallen friend, family member, jag off or stranger, the truth is, it can and for most of us, in one way or another, it will.

But not to worry! As a victim of a Chicago porch mishap, I am a converted member from the “that will never happen to me” club to the “anything can happen” society. And I think I’m better for it. Because as terrifying as life can seem once you know that terrible can touch you, it’s even worse to be blessedly ignorant of the terrible and never see it coming.

So whether you’re reading this post-injury, in the midst of your agony or looking for a cautionary tale, I’m about to give you a comprehensive guide so you can make it through an injury of the accident variety.

So you’ve broken your back. Or femur. Or toe. Or brain. Whatever. Anyways, you’re not getting out of bed for a while; you can say good-bye to school or work and any chance of a social life has been shrunk down to a bedroom, a TV and a care taker of some sort. You feel stagnant and hey, so does your bank account! And all of these changes crashed on top of you about 2 days ago.

But it’s not all hopeless, I promise. Follow these steps and I swear, the pains from your injury and boredom will minimize:

Find a comfy new home and like it. May I suggest a queen size bed or massive couch? Make sure you have enough pillows that you could drown in their foamy goodness. You comfortable? Good. You’ll be in this exact spot almost consistently for the next 5 to 8 weeks. It’s going to hurt like hell but try to move your body, especially the injured part, into a new position 2 to 3 times a day. This way, your mattress/couch cushion won’t be permanently etched with the shape of your body after 2 months AND you’ll be less likely to turn into a super stiff jointed person. Plus, even a 2-inch change of perspective is better than no change at all.

Think of the word “independent”. Focus on it. Feel it. Then chuck it out the window that’s airing out your stale room. After a traumatic injury, there’s no room for an “I can do it better” attitude. You can’t work for yourself. You can’t cook for yourself. Hell, if you’re as needy as I was, you might not be able to even dress yourself. And that’s okay. No one expects you to be on bed rest and function like that’s your scheduled programming. Still, you probably will feel guilty. 

I remember when one night, my mom had made me a delicious home-cooked meal for the fifth night in a row. In between shoveling chunks down my throat, I let out, “I’m so sorry. I can’t help with anything.”

My mom shot me a look of confusion and replied, “So what were you going to do? Limp in agony down the stairs and do the dishes? It’s fine. Eat.”

It isn’t easy, but at the times when you feel like a bottom dwelling leech, try to laugh about it. Laugh at the fact that you smell awful because you can’t make it to the shower. Laugh at when you drop your phone on the ground and you literally can’t answer any calls until someone comes home. Laugh at it all. And if you can’t legitimately laugh, laugh anyways. It’s better than wallowing in pity and regret.

Have every form of entertainment at arm’s length at all times. Sign up for that 8-dollar Hulu Plus account. Get the books you thought about reading but didn’t have the time for. Keep your laptop open in hopes that someone, somewhere may actually contact you. This is the one time in your life you get to sit on your ass, do nothing and suffer no repercussions. Enjoy it!

Read the medication directions. Carefully. Engrain them in your brain. If you’re anything like me, you may be up to 5 medications a day. Some of them actually manage your pain; some of them manage the pain the other medications cause you. The ridiculously long names and directions start to blur together like your vision after you take your nightly Ambien. But Morphine twice a day and Dilaudid 3 times have very different effects if the dosages are reversed. And if you’re not lucky, you can end up in what feels like a waking coma, your eyes narrowed to slits, your mouth just ajar and unable to respond to foggy faces asking, “Are you okay?”

Bear with people. Your Mom will forget the milkshake you asked her to get on her way home from work. Your roommate will get you the wrong brand of snacks. Your friends won’t completely understand where you’re coming from when you describe your pain. And as pissed as you may get, as fed up as you are with your aching just to have something else go wrong, you need to express some compassion. Because as much shit as you’re going through, your loved ones are dealing with their own trauma, the trauma of watching someone they really care for having to reboot their life.

And speaking of therapists, please take care of yourself. Physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally. Take care of yourself in every avenue possible. Whether that’s self-care at home (heating pads, rest, meditation) or turning to medical professionals (physical therapists, occupational therapists, psychologists). And after your recovery time, however long and strenuous the time is or may seem, it’s even more crucial to continue this upkeep. Because as I’m quickly discovering, returning back to where, how and who you’re supposed to be is one of the most challenging parts of the recovery process. But with that challenge comes a chance for renewal. You’ve got this broken part of you, but also this experience, this knowledge that you know can give you strength in your new life if you just find that outlet. And the support you, your loved ones and medical professionals provide for you can help you in the journey to that outlet.

And last, but not least, in fact, this is the most important point of this guide: The only way you have a chance of surviving the recovery of your injury is by knowing that there will be life beyond it; life beyond the adjectives of sharp, throbbing, splitting and tearing. In lieu of such adjectives will be your choice of words. And for the first time in a long while, that decision won’t be an accident.

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part V

Let’s play the “how much worse can we make it” game! This one’s a little shorter, but in my defense, it covers a lot of ground.

Words: 3,239 Warnings: Alcohol (ab)use, implied suicide

Part I Part IV

Jekyll woke up when Poole set a tray on his nightstand. He could smell scones and Earl Gray. He had a blistering headache and felt like his tongue was wearing a sock. Everything was sore, like he'd been run over by a carriage. Judging by the fuzziness of his memories, he might actually have been run over by a carriage. That might explain why his hand was a red mass of pain wrapped in bandages.

"What time is it?" Jekyll managed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Eight o'clock, sir," Poole said.

Jekyll yawned, sitting up, and stretched. Poole bustled off in the direction of the window.

"That's not so—"

Poole flung open the curtains, and brilliant daylight flooded the room. Jekyll stopped mid-stretch, his eyes snapping open, a lance striking down his spine and locking it ramrod-straight.

"I'm sorry, Poole," Jekyll said, his voice gone glassy. "Could you repeat that?"

"It's eight in the morning, sir," Poole said. "By my watch, you've slept a bit over sixteen hours."

"And nobody thought to wake me?" Jekyll said.

Poole must have caught the edge in his voice, because he stayed over by the window.

"Everyone else was sleeping, sir," he said. "And Dr. Lanyon recommended you be allowed to wake on your own."

"I'm sure he did," Jekyll said. He got up out of bed. He was sore all over, his head pounding, but at least he was dressed, even if it was in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get to the Society."

"Oh, come now, Dr. Jekyll," Poole said. "And let all this breakfast go to waste?"

"Poole," Jekyll said, clinging to his composure by his fingernails. "In less than ten days, I have to present an exhibition so stunningly brilliant that it will make the idiot masses forget that a quarter of London was burned to the ground. The building in which the vast majority of the items to be exhibited were housed has, likewise, been burned to the ground. I am responsible for a large number of people who are now homeless and, additionally, are on the bad side of every policeman and citizen within a ten mile radius. It is my sole responsibility, solely mine, to fix all of this mess within the next ten days, or the option of ever fixing it will vanish into thin air, and every ounce of work I have put into this Society and all its members along with it! If you will excuse me, Mr. Poole, I really must be going!"

"Yes, sir," Poole said, plastering himself to the wall. "Very good, sir."

Jekyll slipped his shoes on, hurriedly fixed his hair, and grabbed a scone and the cup of tea off the tray Poole had brought in.

"And thank you for the wake-up call," he said to Poole. "Perhaps a touch earlier next time."

"Yes, sir," Poole said again.

Jekyll hurried out. He didn't even taste the scone, barely noticed the tea burning his tongue. He only paused to grab his coat and hat and drop off the empty teacup with the maid. He headed straight for the Society, the brisk morning air whipping up his circulation. Much as he would have liked to be back in bed, there was nothing for it. He could sleep again when the exhibition was over.

The coat still smelled like Jasper.

When he got to the Society about fifteen minutes later, he'd managed to get his mind back into something resembling its proper order. The main priority would be figuring out what assets they still had left, what hadn't been destroyed, what was intact and what could be salvaged. Keeping everyone's spirits up was paramount—if the lodgers gave up, everything else was pointless. Finding what had become of Dr. Frankenstein and the creature was next, because having them on board for the exhibition would be ideal—

Because Frankenstein was ill and needed help, she came to you, they came to you for help—

Jekyll shook himself. He was getting sidetracked. He stopped for a moment in front of the Society, rubbing his hands against the cold. Someone had hung a large panel of canvas over the hole in the front, which was flapping gently in the breeze. All the fires finally seemed to have gone out. He hurried inside, chewing over his internal To-Do list. It was looking a little scrambled, fallen out of the order he had so meticulously put it in, and he was already having trouble remembering the lower items on the list.

The foyer was, to his relief, bustling with activity. Several of the lodgers seemed to have taken it upon themselves to clean up the mess, and had made significant headway with it in the time he'd been gone. It was with even greater relief that he noted that Jasper was not among them. However, shortly after he entered, a different figure detached itself from the crowd and beelined for him.

"Ah, Rachel, good morning," Jekyll said. "I was wondering if you'd—"

She stormed right up to him and slapped him. Jekyll saw stars. His ears rang. Blinking and stunned, he worked his jaw, concerned it might be dislocated.

"I quit," Rachel hissed. "Consider that my notice of resignation, Dr. Jekyll."

"Rachel—"

She shoved him, hard. He stumbled back, still discombobulated from the blow to the head.

"I don't care," she snapped. "I don't care about your excuses, or your reasons, or your stupid apologies! Take your silver tongue and choke on it!"

She stormed off. Jekyll stood very still, shaking with tension. He could feel the palm print stinging on his face. It would doubtless be visible for quite some time. His fists clenched on empty air. How dare she do this to him in public, how dare she make a spectacle of him, he ought to—

Throttle her! Hyde snarled, frothing with Jekyll's own rage.

Jekyll took a slow, deep breath. He straightened up. He fixed his shirt and his hair, settled his composure back in place. The anger would not leave him, burning like a hot coal in his chest, quickening his blood and reddening his thoughts.

"Er, sooooooo. . . ."

Jekyll came back to himself. Mr. Archer had sidled up to him, eyes darting. Several other people were staring. Jekyll cranked out his best smile and a little eye-roll.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I believe Miss Pidgley is a tad upset with me. I'm sure it'll blow over, given a bit of time."

"Rrrrrright," said Archer. "What was all that about, then?"

"Personal matters," Jekyll said. Blood was seeping through the bandages on his hand, the stitches pulling. "It's hardly important at the moment, hah hah."

"Hah hah," Archer agreed nervously. His eyes flicked to Jekyll's hand. Jekyll slipped the offending appendage behind his back, under his coat, and rested it in the crook of his other elbow.

"Was there something you needed, Mr. Archer?" he inquired.

"Me? No, nothing at all," said Archer, raising his hands in surrender. "Here to help, that's all."

"Very kind of you," said Jekyll. "In that case, I'm off to attempt some sort of comprehensive inventory. If you could find someone capable of consoling Miss Pidgley, I'd appreciate it."

"Will do," said Archer, tossing him a casual salute.

"Thank you," said Jekyll. "And if you see Mr. Kaylock, would you please let him know I'd like to speak with him?"

"Uh," said Archer, "sure."

Jekyll nodded to him and started off in the nearest convenient direction. He could feel the lodgers staring at him as he went.

The rest of the day was filled with so much work that everything else faded to a background chatter. He forgot to eat, of course, which wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't stood up too fast in Dr. Maijabi's (thankfully untouched) laboratory and blacked out for a moment, after which he was scolded into the kitchen and scowled at mightily until he had actually eaten something. Rankled, he promptly excused himself to go check on his own laboratory, although he knew very well that it was perfectly fine. The lingering gazes of the lodgers were making him itch.

Once the heavy doors had closed behind him, he breathed easily again. The exhaustion leapt upon his back like a tiger, as though it had been waiting for him to let his guard down. He leaned his head back against the doors, sighing, eyes closed.

Now this seems familiar, Hyde chuckled.

"Oh, do go away," Jekyll said, rolling his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of spouting the same old drivel every single day?"

So fucking tired, Hyde said. Why don't you just give up, and spare us both the pain?

"Abandoning all subtlety, are we?" Jekyll asked. He pushed himself off the door and went to his desk. There was plenty of paperwork that needed his attention. He could take care of it while he waited for the lodgers' gossiping to die down.

Maybe you are, said Hyde. I resent the implication I've ever been subtle.

"All right, then," Jekyll said, lowering himself into his chair. "Allow me to be blunt: go away."

You're never going to get all this shit sorted out before the exhibition, Hyde sneered. Run yourself into the ground if you like, you're already screwed.

"I wonder whose fault that is," Jekyll said. Without really noticing, he plucked up the half-empty bottle of wine from his desk and poured out a glass of it.

Yours, Hyde said. It's always your fault, isn't it? Everything you touch winds up ruined, it's no wonder your life's a shambles. You brought it on yourself and you know it. But by all means, keep putting your grubby little hands all over everything. See how much you can take down with you.

Jekyll sipped his wine, eyes on his paperwork.

Worked its magic on Rachel, Hyde said, lounging in the cheval glass. She hit you so hard I felt it. Not that you didn't deserve it, because you did. I told you it'd happen. And now she's out of a job, too, isn't she. Nicely done, Mr. Jesus.

Jekyll had just opened his mouth to retort when there was a knock at the door. He looked up, scowling. Hyde went up in a puff of smoke and was gone.

"Yes?" he said.

The door opened and, once again, Jasper poked his head in. Jekyll's heart skipped a beat, his stomach turned a flip.

"Um," said Jasper. "Miss Flowers said you wanted to see me."

"Yes, yes, come in, close the door," said Jekyll, averting his eyes. Jasper did as instructed, but stayed near the door, fidgeting.

"What was it . . . about?" he asked. His voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat.

Jekyll sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tempted to finish his wine, but that might not have looked particularly good for him. Instead he gestured to the chair by the lab bench.

"Please sit, Jasper," he said.

Heel, boy, Hyde sniggered. Now speak!

"All right," Jasper said uncertainly.

Good boy! Have a biscuit.

He went to the chair and sat like he expected it to bite him. Jekyll spent just a moment too long collecting his thoughts.

"What happened to your hand?" Jasper asked.

"Nothing," Jekyll said. "Had a minor glassware accident, it's nothing to be concerned about."

"All right," Jasper said dubiously.

Jekyll sighed. He leaned his elbows on his desk and stared at his hands.

"I wanted to say . . . how sorry I am," he said. "About what happened. It was . . . immensely unprofessional, entirely inappropriate, and . . . incredibly unfair. And I am deeply, deeply sorry, Jasper. I don't know what came over me. All I can say is that it won't happen again. That, I promise."

"Oh," said Jasper, and Jekyll did not miss the twinge of disappointment in his voice. It made him want to eat his entire stupid apology, and possibly his hat. "It's only—I thought Mr. Hyde would be more upset than I ever was."

"Why should Hyde give one single damn what I—"

Jekyll broke off mid-snap, reigning himself in. He took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten.

"Mr. Hyde," he said stiffly, "has no bearing on the matter whatsoever."

"He doesn't?" Jasper said, baffled. "It's only—I thought—"

"You thought what everyone thinks, and nonetheless it is still wrong," Jekyll interrupted.

Jasper shrank, apologetic, and Jekyll clenched his injured hand. That pain was easier to bear.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I am sorry, Jasper. I've—it's only that I've heard that rumor one too many times. It does rather get under one's skin, hah hah. You may rest assured that this particular matter—and all of my personal affairs—do not concern him in the least."

"Oh," Jasper said again, sounding considerably more upbeat. "Then—sorry, then what's the problem?"

"The problem," Jekyll began, and had to stop. The words were too hard to say, too final, too foul. He glanced at Jasper, at the naïve and fragile hope in his face, and wished himself dead on the spot.

"Yeah?" Jasper prompted.

"The problem, Jasper, is that I am in a position of far too much power over you for anything—any unprofessional associations to ever be . . . sane," he said, although his voice shook. "I never, ever want to put you in a position where you would feel uncomfortable saying no to me. I refuse to even allow the possibility. Your safety is of paramount importance to me, and this—this isn't safe. This can never be safe, so long as you are a lodger at the Society and a rogue scientist under my provision. There's simply too much leverage on my side. I'm sorry, Jasper. I'm sorry this even had to be brought up."

"But—you'd never do anything like that," Jasper said. "Use the Society and all of your—everything to manipulate me. You'd never use any of that leverage, I know you wouldn't."

"Jasper—" Jekyll began, distraught. He put a hand over his face, shaking, ruinous. It had to be said, even if it killed him. Hyde could have done it. Hyde could have had it done with five minutes ago. "You have known me all of four days, Mr. Kaylock. I am not the saint you imagine me to be."

Jasper was very quiet. There was no air in the room. Jekyll's stomach was full of maggots. He braced himself, for anger, for betrayal, for the sting of a sharp and well-deserved rebuke.

"Oh," said Jasper, and it was worse than anything Jekyll could have imagined.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled. "I'm so sorry, Jasper. It should never have come to this."

Jasper stood up.

"It's all right," he said, and he sounded nothing so much as disappointed. "Thanks for talking with me about it, anyway. It's good to know where things stand. It's good to have the air cleared out."

Jekyll could only nod. He had to keep his eyes closed. He couldn't look. He couldn't bear to look.

"I'll . . . see you round, Dr. Jekyll," Jasper said, and Jekyll's heart snapped in two.

"I suppose you will, Mr. Kaylock," he managed.

Jasper walked away. Jekyll clenched his fist until it bled and prayed the earth would swallow him whole.

Hyde at least gave him a few minutes before he started niggling.

Those are called "feelings," he said helpfully, while Jekyll nursed his second glass of wine. I know it's been an awfully long time since you've had any, so if you need any help with them—

"No," Jekyll said flatly.

Oh, fine, go on wrecking everything, then, Hyde said, smug. It's getting funny at this point.

Jekyll sipped his wine. The pain in his hand was starting to fade, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"It was one mistake," he said, "and it's fixed now."

Fixed? Hah! You've fucked it up worse than ever! If you want it fixed, now, I can fix it.

"No you can't," he said.

There's no inconvenient power dynamic between me and the wolflet, Hyde purred. You can have it all~

"In four more days, you can state your case," Jekyll said, although he was aching. "Until then, it will do you no good."

Give it up, doctor, Hyde said. You've already lost, and you know it. You were always too weak to make it, and now you've got the proof to back it up. Isn't that what your ~science~ is all about? Well congratulations, dear doctor, we've empirically proved you're a failure!

Jekyll sat for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his hands shaking. He opened the carved wooden box on his desk and drew out a key. He felt Hyde go ice cold inside him.

What are you doing? he said.

Deliberately, Jekyll turned and unlocked the top drawer of his cabinet. Hyde swarmed across the glass, frenzied and turbulent.

Jekyll, what are you doing? he demanded.

Eyes down, he rifled through the contents until he found the right phial. He tapped out a measure of the white salt into his wine. His hands were steady. His face was stone. There was no heartbeat in his chest.

Stop, Hyde said, pressing his hands to the inside of the nearest cabinet's glass. Stop this right now. You stubborn, spiteful ass! What are you trying to accomplish? What could you possibly hope to gain?!

Like a clockwork soldier, Jekyll carried on. He stirred and stirred until the spoon stopped crunching at the bottom of the glass, until the salt was all dissolved. He raised the glass to his lips and took a single bitter sip.

Henry, for God's sake! Hyde screamed.

Finally, Jekyll paused. The wine tingled on his tongue. He met Hyde's eyes in the glass, took in his desperation, his abject terror—basked in it, reveled in it. He raised an eyebrow.

Please, said Hyde.

Jekyll spat the mouthful of poisoned wine back into the glass, then took the whole ensemble to the chemical waste bin and poured it out.

"Don't test me, Hyde," he said. His voice did not so much as quaver. "You will always, always lose."

You're a madman, Hyde spat. You're a lunatic!

"If I am, then so are you," Jekyll said, unconcerned. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. His tongue was still tingling. He rinsed his mouth out cursorily. "But you don't care much about that, do you. You care very little about anything but yourself. Fortunately, I still have the power to take even that from you."

Much good it'll do you when you're dead.

"I shall be laughing in hell," Jekyll said.

Look at yourself, Jekyll, Hyde sneered. Is this what you wanted? Was this where your ~grand designs~ were meant to carry you? You are everything they accuse you of, everything you built your stupid Society to dismantle. Hypocrite. Liar.

"No," Jekyll said, as though instructing a child, "you are a hypocrite and a liar. I am a gentleman. And if you will stop annoying me, perhaps I will allow you a night out."

Hah, you're cracking, Hyde said, without venom, or indeed much feeling at all.

"Don't push your luck, Edward," Jekyll said sweetly.

Hyde did not say anything else.