#those ridiculous track pants are growing on me they’re so awful but I like them

[mr-snailman]

saw this scene today and I couldn’t not draw it they’re so hnnnghhhh

[let-it-raines]

What a Wicked Game {14/15}

Killian met her in a pub on a rainy night in March. Going inside was only supposed to be a way for him to avoid the rain and fight off the demons in his head. It was a place for him to pass through, not stay. But then he was charmed by a blonde woman with a quick wit who had absolutely no interest in him or who he was.

That was a first. It was also the beginning of Emma Nolan helping to bring him back to life. It was the beginning of everything.

Five years later, with their worlds crumbling around them, Killian can’t help but wonder if this is the end of the peace they have known now that his family knows about his relationship. It wouldn’t be a problem if his father wasn’t the King of England.

rating: mature

a/n: all my thanks to @captainswanbigbang​, @resident-of-storybrooke​, @captainsjedi​, and all of you! I hope you enjoy this nice little snapshot to the future that is 100% a homage to the original insane “epilogue” 😘

ao3: beginning | current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |

-/-

December 2020

Emma’s in a white dress made of ornate lace and the most intricate beading work she’s ever seen. The material hugs her body, accentuating the curve of her waist and falling to her wrists where they stop so that the rings on her hands are visible. There are three now, two on the left hand and one on the right. Her hair is falling down her back in long, perfectly curled waves, and half of it is pinned back with a diamond barrette that almost perfectly matches the tiara gracing the top of her head. A veil is attached to it, and it wraps around her body and all the way down to the ground, the lace surrounding the edges of it.

She’s wearing a tiara.

Like, a tiara worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that she wore on top of her head for hours.

It was a year and a half ago and she’s worn plenty of nice jewelry since, but there’s something about looking at the pictures hanging in their hallway that still makes Emma stop in her tracks to stare at them.

It’s the nice clothes at first, her wedding dress and Killian’s black Naval uniform that he looked so handsome in, but then it’s the smiles on their faces, the true happiness written into their lips. Their foreheads are pressed together in this one, and while their lips aren’t touching, they nearly are. Killian’s eyes are crinkled, the lines prominent, and Emma remembers him telling her some awful dirty joke that had the photographer blushing and Emma laughing until tears were flowing from her eyes.

(They’d had to touch up her makeup, and it took forever because she couldn’t seem to stop laughing at her husband.)

Their wedding was on a sunny day at the beginning of June, and most of it was a blur. Emma’s stomach was in knots for the majority of the day, not because she was nervous about getting married. It was more over having to be in front of hundreds of people in the Chapel and millions more on television, as well as having to spend half of her day with Brennan. Thankfully, he stayed away from them as much as he could, seemingly respecting them enough to let them have their day without his disapproval and overall shitty attitude. It’s the nicest thing he’s ever done for her, letting her have that day.

It was a great day.

“Who the hell is that handsome bastard in the portrait you’re staring at, darling?”

Emma huffs and turns to look at Killian only for him to come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, tugging her back into him before laying sloppy kisses all across her jaw and down her neck that has her stomach flipping. He’s always doing that.

“You’re so conceited.”

“Confident.”

“Eh.”

He nips at her ear, and she sighs back into him, letting heat simmer in her belly even if she knows that they can’t do anything about it right now. They don’t have time.

“You have to learn that my confidence is warranted. How could it not be when my wife makes noises like you just made when I barely brush my lips over her jaw?”

“I’m not helping your ego grow by answering that.”

Killian rolls his hips into hers, grinding into her ass, all while kissing her ear again, lavishing the sensitive spot that causes her flesh to pebble, and she just knows that he has a dumb joke in his brain about making something else grow. He’s thirty-one years old, and the amount of erection jokes that he makes is ridiculous. Granted, ninety percent of the time she wants to hear them, but that’s entirely beside the point.

“Killian,” she moans when his tongue licks along the shell of her ear while his fingers ghost over her stomach and up toward the underside of her breast, “we don’t have t-time. We’ve got to go to Sandringham in fifteen minutes. The car is scheduled to take us to the train station.”

“Fifteen minutes is plenty of time.”

“I haven’t finished packing.”

“I suppose you’ll simply have to walk around in the nude since kissing you is the only thing I can think of doing at this moment.”

Emma laughs, but then she’s turning her head to kiss him. Their lips collide together softly, and Emma twists her body until her hands are grabbing onto the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to him. His mouth is warm against hers, and it sends another thrill down her spine, curling around each inch of her. His erection is hotly pressing into her thigh through his jeans, and she feels it even more when Killian backs her up to the wall behind them. When she parts her lips for him, his tongue quickly flickers into her mouth, she follows his lead, eager to feel him in every way that she can.

It’s been eight years of this, eight years of her entire body thrumming and of Emma wanting him, and while there are days that it wanes and days where just looking at his face annoys her, it’s mostly like this.

Loving him is the easiest decision she’s ever made.

Choosing to be with him despite all of the insane highs and deep lows is the best choice she’s ever made.

Killian’s a good one. No, the best one.

(And she’s not biased at all.)

She grinds into him and groans against his mouth when he hits a particularly good spot, and in the haze of his fervent kisses, she reaches down between them until she’s fumbling with the button on his jeans and popping it open all the while Killian mutters filthy curses into her mouth.

“What happened to not having time?”

“Shut up.”

“I love it when you speak to me like that.”

“You are - ”

He doesn’t let her finish, not when his lips are slamming back into hers, and he’s kissing her so deeply that Emma can’t breathe or think or even focus on anything other than the feel and smell of Killian and the way his fingers are tugging her leggings down until the warm air of the apartment is hitting against her skin.

“God, I love you,” Killian murmurs into her jaw while his hands hook under her ass and urge her to wrap her legs around his waist.

“What are you doing? Are you seriously trying to show off athletic prowess right now?”

His hands squeeze on her ass, and he feels her smirking into her skin. The bastard.

“Absolutely, I am. I can’t wait to be sore tomorrow.”

Emma’s head tilts back with her laughter even as Killian slowly enters hers, stretching her the slightest bit while her arms tighten around his neck and her legs curl even further around his waist. He better not drop her. One time he did, and they should really find a couch or something. They’ve got at least fifteen in this damn place.

But then it just feels too damn good just like this. It’s hard and fast, their bodies completely pressed together, and all of Emma’s thoughts are blurred and mixed in with Killian’s muttered curses and her harsh pants and then their mouths finding each other once more. They’re close enough that Emma’s on edge already, each of his thrusts brushing her exactly where she needs him, and her eyes squeeze more tightly shut when she begins to fall, letting Killian’s encouragements guide her until she’s there.

Damn, Jones.

He must finish quickly afterwards, his legs nearly collapsing so that the both of them fall to the ground, but he manages to keep hold of them, supporting her.

“Thanks for not dropping me on my ass.” Killian huffs into her neck at her words, and she feels him loosen his grip on her so that she’s tightening her legs and gasping as he tries to drop her. “That’s not funny!”

“I found it funny.”

“How is dropping me to the ground funny? Aren’t you supposed to love me and cherish me or whatever?”

He leaves a warm, open-mouthed kiss on the side of her neck before pulling back so that she can see the ridiculous blue of his eyes. She’ll never quite get over them. “I do love you, which is why I haven’t asked you to get down yet even though my legs feel rather flimsy right now.”

Emma kisses the top of his head before unwrapping her legs and slowly falling to the ground, her own legs shaky. “I love you, too. We should probably go clean ourselves up and pretend that we weren’t just fucking five minutes before we got in the car to go to your family’s Christmas celebrations.”

“‘Tis the season and all.” Killian kisses her again, this time slow and unbelievably soft. Those are always her favorite. “Thanks for marrying me, darling. You’re just as beautiful today as you are in all of these pictures.”

“I’m not currently wearing pants.”

“That’s the way I like you.”

He’s an idiot...who she loves so damn much.

-/-

Celebrating Christmas with Killian’s family is weird.

There’s really no other way for her to describe it. For one, they spend at least five days having to circle around Brennan, which is hard enough as it is. He’s never going to approve of her and never going to love Killian the way a dad should, but at least he isn’t outwardly hostile to them anymore. It’s more of a quiet simmer with subtle rude comments that are made when Allison is out of earshot, and as awkward and uncomfortable as it is, Emma will take it. This is how it is, and there’s so much more to Killian’s family than his dad.

Allison, for one, is the sweetest woman alive who tries to make up for all of her husband’s downfalls (Emma still thinks she should divorce Brennan, but she knows it won’t ever happen. Appearances and all that. It’s also none of Emma’s business), and she’s taken Emma under her wing in the past two years, teaching her everything there is to know about royal life even though Killian and Emma both decided to not be as prominent as Liam and Elsa. They still work, are nearly always out and about working with some kind of charity they’re passionate about, but they’re not into all of the frills and the publicity.

Her accident still haunts her, the attacks of the media that occur every day following right behind, and it’s the reason they’re having a house built in Bucklebury so that they can have some privacy away from all of the business of living in Kensington. Emma’s doing her best, but she does not accept having to stop caring for her own life and her own wants simply because of who her husband’s family is.  

It’s still so odd, Emma thinks. She fell in love with this wonderful, normal guy, and now she’s wandering around on an estate in formal wear to celebrate Christmas instead of lounging around in her pajamas eating junk food with her parents.

Her parents who are never invited to come for the holiday celebrations and who she misses dearly and will be going to see on the night of the twenty-fifth.

But besides having to spend time with Brennan, Emma also has to spend time with all of Killian’s cousins and aunts and uncles who she can never remember the names of despite her best efforts, and follow even more insane rules about what to wear and what silverware to use and what kind of presents to give. Killian held her hand throughout this entire week last year to help her learn, and he’s having to do the same this year. Though, she’s better at it now. She’s not a total fumbling fool.

Just a little one.

But she does know to always find Killian or Liam and Elsa, and if all else fails, she can spend time with Alex and Lizzie and be completely and totally charmed by their adorableness. Seriously. Emma thinks they might be the cutest kids alive, and she’s not biased at all because she’s their aunt. Alex is somehow four now even though she swears he was just two, and he’s the funniest child Emma has ever met. Lizzie is much quieter, more of an observer than anything else, but whenever she sees Emma, she runs to her and stretches her arms out so that Emma can scoop her up into Emma’s arms.

It absolutely makes Emma’s heart swell.

“Darling,” Killian calls out to her, and Emma’s head twists around to see Killian standing across the dining room from her in his tux, “would you come here for a moment?”

Emma turns back to the cousin - Rachel, she thinks - she was just talking to and excuses herself from the conversation to walk toward Killian, who is undeniably saving her before she got swooped away to talk to someone else.

“Thank you,” she whispers into Killian’s ear once she’s close enough, pressing her lips to the underside of his jaw and leaving a mark of red lipstick.

He kisses her temple and lazily loops his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Darling, I was just telling Liam that you were going to be on my football team tomorrow, and that he can’t draft you for his team first.”

Emma tilts her head and looks at Liam and Elsa. “Isn’t it Liam’s turn to have first pick? You had it last year.”

“Liam gave it to me last year,” Killian says, his eyes pointed at Liam, “even though it was his year. This year is technically still my year.”

“Rubbish. When I gave you first pick it was a gift because you were a newlywed, but we’re still supposed to switch off years.”

“No, this is still my year. Last year was a gift, and I did not agree to give up my pick.”

“I’ve just said that it’s not!”

Elsa rolls her eyes, and Emma brings her bottom lip between her teeth to bite. Seeing the boys be friends is never not refreshing, but it’s also obnoxious. They bicker all of the time in this friendly but obnoxious way, and if Elsa and Emma were to walk away, neither of them would notice.

“Babe,” Emma laughs, rubbing her hand up and down Killian’s back, “just give Liam the first pick. He’s not going to pick me. He’ll want to pick someone who’s actually good so he can beat you.”

“She makes a good point, little brother,” Liam says.

“Younger. It’s younger, and fine, you can have the first pick.”

-/-

Liam picks her first for the football game the next day.

Killian plays the entire game with murder in his eyes even if he immediately picked Elsa so Liam couldn’t have her on his team.

All’s fair in love and annual Christmas football matches.

(She and Liam totally kick Killian’s ass.)

-/-

When Emma wakes, she rolls over and checks her phone.

3:01 AM, December 25th, 2020.

It’s the middle of the night...or the morning, and she shouldn’t be awake. She’s got at least four more hours left of sleep, and she should not be awake. It’s been pretty much non-stop for the four days they’ve been at Sandringham, and she should be exhausted. Mostly, though, she’s hungry.

“Killian,” Emma whispers, reaching across the bed to poke his bicep. “Killian, wake up.”

He grunts and twists his head until she can see one eye open while the rest of his face is squished. “What?”

His voice is gritty and deep, and she’s really got to wake him up more if he’s going to sound like that. “How do I get to the kitchen?”

“What?”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

Killian twists again until he’s blinking at her and rubbing his hand up and down his face. “What time is it?”

“It’s three in the morning, and I’m starving. I have never figured out how to get to the kitchen in this place.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

Killian grunts and rolls over, throwing the covers off of him before standing from the bed and pulling his pajamas up on his waist so they’re not hanging indecently low any longer. “Come on. I’ll take you down there.”

“You’re my favorite person in the world.”

He grunts again and starts walking away, not bothering to find a shirt or shoes, and Emma quickly follows. She’s also got to pee right now, but asking Killian to wait might not be her best option when he doesn’t seem too thrilled about her waking him up in the middle of the night. She gets it. She wouldn’t be thrilled either.

All of the hallways are dark, but Killian easily navigates them, twisting and turning and taking several different staircases until he’s pushing through a set of double doors and they’re entering an industrial kitchen that doesn’t at all mix with the rest of this house.

Emma literally has no idea how they got down here.

“What do you want to eat, love?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nope. What do we have?” He opens the fridge, and she steps into his space until she’s looking inside as well at what looks like a hell of a lot of baked goods that they can’t eat. They’re probably for something else. “Can we eat any of this?”

“I think the baked goods are Mum’s gifts to the staff to take home to their families, but I can make you something. Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“Do you even know me at all?”

Killian laughs, but then he’s reaching forward and grabbing cheese and butter and moving away from the fridge, shuffling around and getting everything that he needs. When she offers to make it herself since this was her idea and Killian doesn’t even like grilled cheese, he tells her that he’s got it if she can make him some tea. They’re probably not going to sleep again, so they might as well get some caffeine.

Caffeine and maybe some cookie dough that she found in the freezer.

(She can’t help herself.)

“You know,” Emma yawns, “I used to be up at three in the morning all the time, but now I can’t do it.”

“It’s because you’re getting old, darling.”

“Says the man who is in his thirties, meanwhile I can still say that I’m in my twenties for ten more months.”

“And then once you hit that thirty mark, you’ll officially be old.”

“I will not be old. Thirty isn’t old. That’s a social construct.”

“It’s too early in the morning to be focusing on things like that.”

“True,” Emma sighs, taking a sip of her tea while Killian plates her sandwich, sliding it over to her with a napkin. It smells freaking amazing. “Thank you for this.”

“It’s no problem. You’ll burn your mouth if you eat it right now.”

“Some things are worth the risk.”

Killian chuckles and leans forward to grab his own tea, taking a large gulp. “I wouldn’t get up at three in the morning to cook for anyone else. I hope you know that.”

“I do know that. I wouldn’t wake anyone else up to make me food at three in the morning. Though, I really only needed you to show me where the kitchen was. I didn’t need you to cook.”

“It’s not a problem. You’re suffering through Christmas with my family for the second year in a row. This is literally the least I can do.”

Emma finishes chewing her bite before leaning forward over the counter to press her lips into Killian’s. “I’m happy to do most everything that I have to do as your wife. It’s weird and definitely not how I ever imagined my life, but I wear a hell of a lot of Spanx for you. That’s true love.”

His eyes crinkle, and Emma is so incredibly charmed by him and his stupidly mussed hair and sleepy smile. It’s kind of ridiculous, but she loves that smile and the way his hair can’t be contained when he hasn’t combed through it.

“And I make you the grossest sandwich in existence.”

“It’d only be the grossest if it involved mayonnaise and tuna or something.”

“This is true.” It’s Killian’s turn to lean over the counter until his lips are brushing across the tip of her nose. “I truly am thankful for you and not simply because you wear Spanx for me and heels that make your feet scream.”

“Yeah, babe,” Emma sighs, her heart content. “I know.”

“Merry Christmas, Swan.”

“Merry Christmas, my love. Should we steal some more cookie dough?”

-/-

February 2021

“This is weird.”

“What is? Being here?”

“Yep,” Emma hums as she looks out the window and sees the congested streets of Manhattan. “I don’t know...I knew it would be different to be back in America, but it’s just - I don’t know. I’ve only been to New York three times, so it’s not like it’s somewhere I spent a lot of time. Driving on this side of the road is kind of freaking me out.”

Killian huffs, but then his fingers are twining together with hers and he’s pulling her knuckles to his lips to kiss right above her wedding band. “We’ve been in America for a week, darling. I feel like you should be used to it by now.”

“Yeah,” she yawns, “I know, but honestly, I can’t tell you what we’ve done this week. It’s all a sleep-deprived blur. What are we even doing today?”

“I believe we’re going to a basketball game to meet with some children and promote the North American opening of Kidding A Goal, and then tomorrow we have several charities we’re visiting before a meeting with our U.S. diplomats.”

“And then we go home?”

“No, then we have the function at NYU. I’m giving a speech, but after that, I believe we’re going home. We’ll have to ask Ariel when we get to the hotel. I’m sure she’ll have everything mapped out to the exact minute.” Emma yawns again before her eyes flutter closed and she’s lulled into drowsiness. “Emma?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you need to stay in the hotel tonight and sleep? No one would blame you if you missed the game.”

She scoffs. There are literally thousands, probably millions of people who would blame her. Brennan would be the first person, and then all of the people who already hate her would be right in line after him. She’s been hailed as some kind of American princess for years now, and all of their aides and publicists have been marketing this visit with her returning to her roots or something.

Los Angeles, Atlanta, and New York City aren’t exactly her roots.

But this is her life. She loves it even when she hates it. She can roll with the punches.

“I’m fine,” Emma promises. “Of all of the things we’ve had to do on this tour, I think going to a basketball game might be the easiest.”

-/-

The basketball game takes forever.

Seriously. How can a game that’s slated to last a certain amount of time exceed that time by hours? Either be like tennis where you have no idea how long it’s going to take or like football (soccer) where when the time is set, it usually stays that way.

This is why she’s never liked this sport.

And really, the entire time that they’re there, one of the publicists from the team talks down to her like she doesn’t know what’s going on. Granted, she doesn’t know all the rules, but there’s a difference between explaining something and talking down to someone. But it’s all fine and good, and she and Killian have a nice experience sitting courtside and stuffing their face with popcorn while sweaty men with squeaking sneakers run by them. Afterwards (and during honestly) there are a million and two photo ops, but Emma likes getting to talk to all of the kids that are there for them and for the game. They’re all adorable, and they give her and Killian matching jerseys that she feels like Killian is definitely going to be wearing more often than he should.

He seems to like basketball more than she does, but maybe she’d enjoy it more if she wasn’t so exhausted that she could fall asleep standing up.

They probably don’t get back to the hotel until two in the morning, and when they do, Killian promptly kisses her goodnight and then falls asleep.

Emma doesn’t.

Because, of course, she can’t fall asleep, and when their alarm goes off the next morning and Killian rolls over in bed to kiss the side of her neck, lingering there as he whispers sweet words against her skin, all Emma can think is that she only got two interrupted hours of sleep.

Her makeup artist is going to kill her.

If Emma doesn’t fall out from exhaustion first.

Several cups of coffee and a hell of a lot of concealer later, however, she’s good to go for another day of representing her new country to her old country.

Life gets weirder every day.

She’d do it all over again in a heartbeat for Killian.

-/-

“Love, have you packed our toiletries already?”

“Love?”

“Emma?”

There’s a tap against her shoulder, and Emma jumps, blinking several times until Killian’s blurry face comes into clearer view so that she can see the blue of his eyes and the scar on his cheek.

“Emma, darling, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, waving him away and grabbing a pair of leggings out of the drawer. There’s no way she’s flying home in actual pants. That’s too long of a flight for anything that doesn’t have a soft elastic waist. She’s also wearing comfortable shoes because she’s going to boycott heels for a month. “Did you need something?”

Killian’s head tilts while his brows furrow. “I was asking if you’d packed away our toiletries. I’d like to brush my teeth again after drinking coffee, but I can’t seem to find the bags.”

“Really?” She begins to walk across the suite in their hotel room toward the bathroom. “Because they should be on the vanity. I haven’t packed them up yet. I - ”

Her feet catch in the carpet as her head suddenly begins to spin, and not for the first time in the last few days, Emma feels light-headed. But this is different. She can’t focus on anything, every object around her a pixelated version of itself, and before she can grab onto a blurred version of a dresser, she’s falling to the ground with the sound of Killian’s voice echoing behind her.

-/-

-/-

I did say this was pretty much like that original epilogue, didn’t I? Sorry to all of you newbies 😘🙈

tag list: @mrtinski​ @klynn-stormz​ @jonirobinson64​ @snowbellewells​ @therealstartraveller776​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @sherifemma​ @shardminds​ @captainsjedi​ @galaxyzxstark​ @galadriel26​ @idristardis​ @karenfrommisthaven​ @teamhook​ @spartanguard​ @searchingwardrobes​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @owlways-and-forever​ @jamif​ @shireness-says​ @ultimiflos​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @onepunintendid​ @bluewildcatfanatic​ @397bartonstreet​ @killianswannn​ @carpedzem​ @captainkillianswanjones​ @mayquita​ @jennjenn615​ @onceuponaprincessworld​ @a-faekindagirl​ @scientificapricot​ @scarletslippers​ @xellewoods​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @tiganasummertree​ @singersdd​ @tornadoamy​ @captainswanbigbang​

[cagestark]

-Defender-

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six

Read here on AO3.

Warnings: homelessness, poor!peter. Adult!Peter. Mean!Avengers. Not Steve Rogers friendly. Also, in this AU I’ve taken it upon myself to change some aspects of Spider-Man (not too many, no worries). Enjoy. 

-

The first time he meets the spider-kid, it is after hours on the eighty-second floor of the main building of Stark Tower.

But the kid is on the wrong side of the glass.

“FRIDAY, run that by me again,” Tony says. He’s in his pajamas—a pair of hastily pulled on pants with not even boxers underneath, donned only when FRI sounded the alarm. The holographic video plays in front of him, but what it shows him makes no sense. It isn’t even possible. “What exactly am I seeing?”

“Fifteen minutes ago sensors on the first floor were triggered, suggesting a human presence. On closer examination, the intruder seems to be scaling the side of the building using grip enhancements that I can’t identify.”

“Okay, but is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

“Do you think he appears to be washing the windows, boss? Because all signs point to such.”

As they speak, the figure (barefoot—barefoot and more than eighty floors above Manhattan) dressed head-to-toe in black including a dark balaclava that obscures their features, pulls a squeegee from where it is secured to a multi-purpose belt around their waist. They wipe the glass clean in long, smooth strokes, flicking the water and soap off behind them. The way they move across the glass gives him goosebumps, makes him shiver with terror and awe.

He takes the elevator down from the Penthouse, passing the Avengers’ floor where the others are sleeping peacefully (God knows he doesn’t want to wake any of them up). There’s no indication that this person is a threat—and if they were a threat, this is hardly a dastardly plan.

The eighty-third floor is dark and quiet. It’s an accounting floor where they work to manage his assets and the company’s assets. He passes cubicles on his left and right, and though he visits this floor maybe once a month or less, he feels at home here. The entire building is home to him, and he knows it the way Steve and Bucky knew their tiny homes in Brooklyn, the way Clint knows the farm his wife maintains.

The south wall is entirely glass. Tony stands back in the shadows to watch as the dark figure crawls from east to west. They become preoccupied when they realize that their bare feet are leaving smudges on the glass, and their floundering is—well, it’s almost cute.

Tony approaches that glass cautiously, unwilling to startle person and send them plummeting to their death. When they pass by, squeegee pressed to the glass, the freeze with their face just inches from Tony’s. The balaclava has goggles on over it to obscure the person’s eyes, but Tony doesn’t need to see those eyes to know they are wide with alarm.

Grabbing a paper and pen from a nearby cubicle, he writes a quick message and presses it to the glass.

MEET ME ON THE ROOF.

They stare at the paper for so long that Tony begins to question their literacy. But then they attach the squeegee back to their belt and lift the bottom half of the balaclava. They reveal a cut, angular jaw and thin lips. Leaning in, they come so close to the glass that Tony thinks they’re going to kiss right where Tony’s mouth is—but instead they heave a silent breath, and in the fog of it, write with one bare finger: NO.

“Are you kidding me, right now?” Tony mutters. He uncaps the pen again, holding it in his teeth, and writes on the other side of the paper. TRESPASSING!

They breathe again, write: BUSY. Then they squeegee over the words and continue on like they aren’t dangling 1200 feet above Manhattan.

“Boss?” FRIDAY says. “I believe I’ve pegged the identity of our intruder. It wasn’t until he wrote on the glass that I was able to get a decent map of his fingerprints; all other readings keep coming back inconclusive. His name is Peter Parker. He was hired by Stark Industries in early August as a member of the maintenance department. Twenty years old, native of Queens, emergency contact is one May Parker, also of Queens—”

“Thank you for solving the mystery, Velma, any ideas on why he’s acting like an oversized microfiber cloth on my building’s glass at the devil’s hour?

“Jinkies, Shaggy, I’m an intelligent digital assistant, not a mind reader.”

“Shaggy? You’re grounded, baby. I’m a Fred guy all the way.”

“If anything, boss, you’re most similar to Daphne. But according to Mr. Parker’s recently opened emails, the maintenance department was mandated just yesterday to wash the windows on the main, north, and south towers. It appears Mr. Parker is getting a head—and unorthodox—start.”

“This maniac works for me?” Tony mutters. He follows along the window while the kid cleans, though he loses him when Parker crosses around the corner of the building and disappears onto the west side. “How the hell is he sticking to the window, FRI?”

“I can’t tell, boss. Diagnostics can’t find anything between his hands and the windows, but whenever he is sticking, the characteristics of his fingerprints change. It appears he grows scopulae.”

“Scopulae? As in, spider hair?” Tony stands at the window for several long minutes, lost in thought. At last, he heads back towards the elevator, shivering in the air conditioning. Instead of asking FRIDAY to take him to the floor Parker is currently cleaning (Floor 69, as of now), he tells her to take him back up to the penthouse. If the kid’s enhanced, then he’s safer on climbing the walls than anyone else Tony knows.

Not to mention, the windows are fucking spotless.

-

Peter is up to his eyes in the HVAC unit of zone 3 in the Stark Tower main building when his ears pick up the sound of the elevator door opening on the other side of the floor. With a building as tall as Stark Tower, heating and cooling takes division of the building into several zones with their own separate units. Zone three is for floors twenty-four through thirty-six—and twenty-four in particular, where the HVAC home base is, is a marketing floor. People here come and go without noticing him, walking briskly and talking on their phones. The elevators open and close all day long, but something about this particular incoming occupant has the office going silent.

The hairs raise all over Peter’s arms and legs. Danger? he wonders. But then he hears the murmuring of voices, a name said over and over in reverence: Mr. Stark. Tony Stark.

Tony Stark. The man who had caught Peter scaling the side of his supertall last night. Emblazoned in Peter’s memory is the image of the man coming out of the darkness on the other side of the glass, wearing nothing but some low-slung pajama pants. And who knew that Tony Stark, forty-plus years old still had the remnants of a six pack? Peter had been distracted for the rest of the night, even almost losing his grip around floor 21. Which wouldn’t have killed him (probably) but would have been very shocking to anyone walking down below on the street.

And now the man is on Peter’s floor? Well. It doesn’t take a genius to know what’s coming.

“Fuck,” Peter mutters. He immediately starts packing away his tools, tucking his hat down lower on his forehead to obscure his brow. His senses activate accidentally and suddenly a wrench is stuck to his hand and he shakes and shakes but for the life of him, it won’t come off—

“Well, hello.”

The wrench goes flying out of Peter’s hand, and Tony Stark barely manages to dodge it as it careens by him, hitting the wall and denting the plaster. They stare at each other, eyes wide, neither of them expecting such a thing to have happened and not being entirely sure how to proceed. The man is even more handsome in the light, eyes like the whiskey he drinks, hair immaculate and threaded with grays around the temples, lips full and curving into a smile. Fuck, Peter has had a crush on this guy since his Uncle Ben took him to a Stark Expo more than a decade ago. Seeing him in the flesh is almost too much to handle.

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, going to pick up the wrench.

“Don’t be. You’d be surprised how often I get that reaction.” He sticks out a hand, and Peter’s got no fucking clue what Tony wants him to do with it until the older man wiggles his fingers. For a business guy by day (and a suited superhero by night), Stark’s hands are calloused and strong. He looks Peter in the eye, gaze soft and unassuming, like he isn’t the most powerful man in the business world, like Peter isn’t some gum he’s tracked in on his shoe.

“I’m sorry for the wall, too,” Peter says. “I’ll fix that.”

“No, you won’t.”

Peter’s shoulders hunch. Of course, he won’t. Stark’s going to fire him. Peter will be back to shelter hopping and picking pockets until he finds another job. At least now he might have some references from coworkers who all seem to have taken to Peter, the youngest of their troop. The quiet woman Sam saves him a seat every lunch hour in the breakroom, and Carlito has started asking his wife to pack him two sandwiches so he can give one to Peter. Everyone has been so nice.

Peter should have known it wouldn’t last.

“You’ll be much too busy, I imagine,” Stark says. He takes the toolbox from Peter, like Peter is some dainty girl who can’t carry her own books to class, or something. Like a gentleman might. Peter is keenly aware of everyone’s gaze on them while the older man escorts him to the elevator. It must look ridiculous: Peter in his dirty work clothes, sneakers taped together, walking beside Tony Stark.

“Are you calling the cops on me?” Peter asks when the elevator door closes. He can tell that it’s moving upwards and not downwards, though—

“Why would I do that?” Stark asks. He’s wearing tinted glasses, and it’s a crime, because he’s so fucking pretty Peter would kill to see his face without them.

“Because of last night.”

Stark’s face smooths out. “I wasn’t sure if we were going to pretend like I didn’t know it was you—but I guess this makes it all a lot easier on my part. No, I’m not calling the cops on you.”

The elevator opens on the most lux penthouse Peter has ever seen: modern decore with glass tables and marble countertops and windows that show Manhattan below them like a toy city that Peter could step out and crush if he so felt like. The wood floors are polished and gleaming under Peter’s disgusting tennis shoes, and he’s never felt more out of place and more at home all at once.

“Thirsty? Hungry? I’ve got leftovers, if you don’t mind my germs. If you do mind my germs, I can order in for you. What do you like? Any food allergies?” Stark’s head pops up from where it had disappeared into the refrigerator. With narrowed eyes, he assesses Peter’s silence.

“Water would be—that’d be cool.”

“Sparkling? Distilled? Alkaline?”

“Uh—tap?”

“Excuse me, tap?” Stark shuts the door with a thud. “Now I am calling the cops. Seriously. You? Sit.”

Peter sits at the stool tucked beneath the island countertop. The marble cools his heated palms when he presses them against it. Despite his words, the man does not make any move to call anyone. He moves a Styrofoam dish to the microwave and heats up something that smells lovely, like marinara and basil. He cracks open a bottle of water and places it in front of Peter. It’s the crispest, most tasteless water he’s ever had. Probably harvested from mountainous glaciers or something.

At last Stark joins him on the other side of the island, sitting the dish of—yes, pasta—between them. He hands Peter a fork. “Dig in, kid,” he says. “I don’t have cooties.”

What the fuck, Peter thinks as he shares pasta with Tony Stark. Unbidden to his mind comes a scene from some Disney movie, when the two dogs share the piece of spaghetti and it makes them kiss. Just the idea of it has Peter staring resolutely at the wall of cabinets, chewing mechanically, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Shall we talk shop while we eat?” Stark asks, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

Peter shrugs. He has no idea why he’s here. No idea what shop this man could possibly have to talk about with the likes of him.

“You’ve got mad skills,” he says at last. Stark lays his phone flat on the table and from it comes a holographic projection. Peter watches himself in 3-D scale the side of Stark Tower. Yeah, he looks pretty cool—except for the squeegee. That’s kind of dorky. “How are you doing that?”

“It’s—a long story,” Peter says, rubbing his thumb against the prongs of his fork. Society has made a lot of advancements regarding its treatment of enhanced humans, but there’s still a minority of people who are afraid in their ignorance. It was on the news last week when Peter was killing time in a McDonalds before he could arrive at work to Stark Tower: an enhanced teenager was murdered by some concerned townsfolk who believed she was destroying the crops with her weather-controlling capabilities.

He can feel Stark’s gaze on him. It makes him bristle, makes his shoulders hunch. Peter doesn’t do well with authority—that is, most authority seems to just use and abuse Peter. He’s suddenly keenly aware of how vulnerable he is right now: a twenty-year-old with no family, no friends to come looking for him, in the penthouse of the most powerful man in the world who has perfect blackmail material on him. Peter’s palms start to sweat, and he wipes them on his pants.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Peter asks, voice low and quiet. He can’t look. But he has to know—has to prepare himself.

Stark stands, abruptly. “No—Parker. Peter. Look at me.”

Peter does, his jaw clenched and eyes flat. He might be scared, but he’s no coward. Only, Stark doesn’t look anything like a man who is about to hurt him. His mouth is downturned in the softest expression of tragedy that Peter’s ever seen. “I’ve just realized,” Stark says. “This won’t do. I need Burger King.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Burger King. Don’t you know that I’m an eccentric billionaire, doomed to give in to my every whim? And my whims want a Whopper. Come on. Grab your metaphorical coat—or your literal coat. Should we stop by the maintenance floor?” Stark strolls to a closet and rifles through it, pulling out a long, dark, very expensive looking coat. Peter can almost feel it under his fingers, it must be so soft. “Kid? Are you hearing me?”

“I don’t have a coat.”

“Alright, take one of mine. Let’s go. My stomach waits for no one.”

When Peter tries to step onto the elevator behind Stark without grabbing a coat, the man insists on going back in and finding one for him. The billionaire puts him in a half dozen coats made of the soften Italian wools and genuine cashmeres, before settling on one that’s very similar to Mr. Stark’s, only with a collar that Peter can pulls up around his throat to keep the wind away. It smells clean, but faintly of cologne, like the man has worn it out recently and put it away without washing it. Thank God the coat is thick enough to hide the semi he sports.

They end up hiding in a booth in the back of a Burger King two blocks away, both of them with Whoppers and Large Fries and Cokes. Peter inhales his—an enhanced appetite, not to mention the general lack of food he suffers from on a typical day’s basis—but Tony keeps up, holding his own. He takes out his phone and sits it on the table again, tapping several buttons, and suddenly Peter’s head throbs a little, senses spiking.

“Is that bothering you? I’m using it to scramble anything we say from being overheard by anyone around us, but we can do it the old-fashioned way if we must—you know. Whispering.”

“It’s fine—that’s, that’s amazing.”

Stark blinks. “I—thanks. I made it.”

“I figured—how does it work? Can you tell me?”

And the man humors him. Actually humors him, explaining in laymen’s terms even though he might be surprised at the level of conversation Peter could keep up with. When Peter asks a question, the other man grins showing neat, white teeth that Peter would give anything to run his tongue along.

“You’ve been really nice,” Peter says when their food is gone and cups nothing but ice. It’s an understatement, because this is the nicest anyone has treated Peter in a long, long time, and the way Stark talks and looks at him isn’t condescending or pitying. It’s like he sees Peter as a human. “But why am I here? So, you know. About me. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Stark says. “It’s not illegal to be enhanced. And while it is illegal to trespass, mostly it’s very unsafe to do it more than a quarter mile above the ground, so I do ask that anymore night time adventures aren’t spent scaling my building.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees. “I just wanted to make it easier for the other guys. They really look out for me. I didn’t want to make them have to work so hard, when I could do it so easily.”

“That’s very generous of you, Peter. May I call you Peter?”

Peter shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes—and you can call me Tony, okay kid? I’m not here to call the cops or to fire you. As a matter of fact, I want to offer you a job. Tentatively.”

“You want to promote me?” Peter asks, brow furrowing.

“It’s hardly a promotion. The hours are longer. The pay is—well, under the table. There’s danger too. Potentially mortal peril.

“Tell me, Peter, what do you know about the Avengers?”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Mutilated Mannequin (Part 17)

“I leave you alone with them and this is what you do to them!” Ursa’s voice is shriller than usual. “You couldn’t just leave them be? I almost didn’t recognize him without that scar. Making him get rid of that wasn’t enough for you?” Her voice carries loudly from two floors below.

“I was thinking of his future. I couldn’t send him off to high school with that kind of scarring.” Ozai insists. “They’d rip his self-esteem to shreds. He’s already a softie…”

“Zuko wasn’t enough for you.” Ursa repeats. “You had to do this to our beautiful girl too. She didn’t even have any scars.”

“She had a baby face.” 

“She’s fifteen!” Azula doesn’t need to see her mother to know that the woman was throwing her hands up. “Of course she has a child’s face, she is a child.”

“You had a womanly face when we started dating.” Ozai argues. 

“We’re not the same person! She’s a late bloomer, you can’t rush these things.”

At this Azula’s face flushes. Zuko slumps down against the wall next to her. “Just like old times, right?” He comments. 

“They used to argue about jobs.” Azula shrugs. “Not about us.”  She pauses, it is still a bit of a hassle to enunciate things clearly. She can’t wait for some feeling to return to the right side of her face. “Not about how to raise us, anyways.” Custody matters had been a common topic back then. Ultimately they were left with their father as his income is more stable. Ursa had taken a leap of faith in leaving them behind for her career. She said it was her best chance. Ozai refused to make the move with her because his career is where they are now. 

She supposes that she still holds a little resentment at how Ursa had chosen her career over them. But she can’t say that her ambition wouldn’t carry her to make the same choice. It doesn’t matter anyhow, she doesn’t have the energy to cling to rivalries. Not when she could use her mother’s special brand of care. 

“I guess so.” Zuko replies. 

“I have a sturdy job now.” Ursa declares. “More than sturdy, I have nearly as much wealth as you do. If you think that I can’t get custody of my children after this, you’re mistaken.” 

“You will not take my children. I raised them, I did the hard work.” 

“You raised them and you broke them.” 

“They’re fine. I taught them to be resilient.” 

Azula finds herself lucky that he did. Part of her is inclined to say that she would have given up at the diagnosis if he hadn’t at least taught her to push through things. Not that she is anywhere near ready to embrace her situation. She has hardly accepted it yet. 

The surgery is through with, to her surprise, and with a splinted arm, they had cleared her the very same day that they’d done the procedure. The splint is terribly uncomfortable and she has been fated to wear it for at least three weeks. 

She tenderly cradles the splinted arm and listens for the conclusion of the argument below. 

“They are staying with me, Ursa.”

“We shall see.” 

Zuko seems to smile at this. “We might get to live with mom.” 

Azula isn’t so sure that she shares his delight. She is wholly torn. “Maybe.” she mumbles in way of a response. 

.oOo.

It seems like it has been ages since she has been in the halls of Agni High. “You can go to class, Zuzu. I can take care of myself.” She rolls her eyes and shoves a few textbooks into her shoulder bag. She picks it up off the floor with her good arm and hoists it on lets it rest on her uninjured shoulder. 

“Are you sure that you don’t want help with those?” 

“I can handle a few textbooks.” She closes her locker and gives him a shooing gesture. 

“I just want to help.” 

“And I don’t want people to treat me like I’m helpless just because my arm is in a sling.” 

Zuko seems to hesitate. “Just don’t hurt yourself worse.

She rolls her eyes, and yet, she deep down she has to admit to herself that she appreciates the sentiment. She thinks that this might be the closest they have been since they were children. She can’t exactly place when they had grown apart, but she is sure that father had created the rift with his ridiculous expectations. She watches her brother make his way down the hall before slipping into her own classroom. 

TyLee greets her with a warm smile. She slips into her desk and arranges her supplies upon it. 

“Need a copy of the notes?”

Azula shakes her head. “Zuko’s been getting them for me.” She pulls out the worksheet she had finished the night before. She hands it to Kyoshi who replaces that one with a new assignment and a welcome back.

It is so ordinary.

The day is so mundane it is almost as though nothing has changed at all.

Almost.

TyLee and Mai walk with her as she makes her way to the gym. People murmur to themselves. She might be able to pretend like she isn’t the subject of the murmurs were they not looking at her just a little too long.

Pitying stares that make her both furious and uncomfortable, perhaps furiously uncomfortable.

“Do you want to stop by my house after school?” Azula offers, a small attempt to invest herself in a conversation that didn’t leave her feeling awkward. She almost wants to ask if the state of her face is as bad as their expressions suggest.

“I can stop by if you don’t mind Tom-Tom tagging along.”

“Does five o clock sound good? I’ll have some time after gymnastics.”

“Five sounds perfect and I’m sure mother would love to meet Tom-Tom.” Azula replies.

“You think that she’ll take him off my hands for a bit?”

“Probably.” Azula says. They reach the gymnasium door. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She enters the gym and scopes Kyoshi out. She refuses to sit on the sidelines again. “What are we doing today?”

“You’re sitting out and working on your lit assignment.” Kyoshi shrugs. “The rest of us will be playing soccer after a few warm up laps

"I can still use my legs, Kyoshi. And one arm.” Azula insists. “I can play soccer.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Kyoshi agrees to let her speed walk the track so long as she promises to either walk or stop entirely if she doesn’t feel well. She supposes that she shouldn’t push her luck and makes her way to the track. 

She hears someone sprinting up behind her. Before she can turn around, Yue is standing in front of her, leaning in way too close for comfort. “I heard that your face is all messed up.” 

“Keep talking and yours won’t be any better.” She replies dryly. 

Yue takes a step back. “It isn’t as bad as Jet made it sound.” 

“Jet hasn’t even seen my face yet.” 

Yue taps her chin. “It’s still pretty awful.” She shrugs. At Azula’s scowl she adds a hasty, “no offense.” 

Her frown only deepens as she stalks away from the other girl. It isn’t like she hadn’t been expecting Yue to make things more difficult. No, she had very much anticipated the girl making her feel worse about herself then she did already. 

She hears footsteps again. “Go, away.” 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I thought that you were Yue.” 

“She’s over there.” Katara pointed. “Pouting about something.” 

Azula rolls her eyes. 

“How are you doing?” 

“Better, I suppose. I guess that I’m just going to have to get used to everyone looking at me like that.”  She takes a deep breath. As things stand, she doesn’t feel as though such a feat is possible.  They make her feel like some sort of creature. She casts her eyes to the floor. 

“They’ll get used to it and stop staring.” 

“There are more people than the ones in this school…” She doesn’t like thinking of being in a crowd, walking amid people who haven’t and won’t ever get the chance to get used to it… “this is going to be peoples’ first impression of me.”

“And you’ll know who’s worth talking to right away.” Katara replies. “If they’re rude then they aren’t worth talking to anyways.” 

“I don’t even have a thrilling story to tell. At least Zuzu got to tell everyone that he got his scar saving the neighbor’s kid from a kitchen fire.” Azula slows her speedwalk to a halt. “I get to tell everyone that my plastic surgeon fucked up.” 

“You don’t have to tell the truth.”

“Yes, Toph said the same. She suggested that I tell everyone that I was fighting an evil government agent who threw acid in my face. She also mentioned something about being attacked by a mutant.”

“You should hear her ‘how I went blind’ story.” Katara laughed. 

“I’m sure that that’s entertaining.” Azula glances around the track. “Where’s the nimrod.” 

“He got sent home for a dress code violation. I told him that he needed to stop sagging his pants. They already gave him several warnings.” 

“They let him be the class president…” Azula grumbles. Regardless, she decides that it is doing her well to have more mundane conversations again. 

.oOo.

Azula stares at her applesauce with annoyance. She still can’t eat solids and she is growing sick of oatmeal, apple sauce, and yogurt. She isn’t even sure that a healthy person can live on such a diet. She casts a longing look at Toph’s egg rolls and dumplings and an even more longing look at TyLee’s arrangement of cupcakes. Those are soft and fluffy, perhaps her doctor will approve of adding them to her meal plan.

Katara sits across from her and offers her a carton of orange juice. “I don’t really like oranges.” 

“Neither do I.” 

“Okay, one of you is going to have to move!” Yue stands before Mai and TyLee. “I am not sitting next to the clownfish.” 

“Clownfish?” Mai questions.

“She’s been calling me that since...nevermind.” 

“Since Katty accidentally swam diagonally while doing the backstroke and made our team look like a big joke.” Yue shrugged. 

“And I call her, the eel because she’s a snake.” 

Yue folds her arms and wedges herself between Azula and TyLee with a ‘hmph.’ “I don’t like our new table mates.” 

“You’ll get over it.” Toph shrugs. 

“This table is too crowded.” Yue eyes Suki. 

“Well it’s about to get more crowded.” Chan declares. 

“Move over a little Katara, make some space for Chan’s ego.” Azula remarks. 

“Happy Monday to you too, Azula.” Chan greets. 

It is nice to get back to the playful jesting. Though she still believes that they are due for a talk. The sooner the better, but she doesn’t want an audience. For the time being they will have to deal with the remaining threads of tension. That subtle spark of awkwardness that settles when he sits down. 

Jet follows in suit. 

“Good morning, Jet.” TyLee greets.

“It’s the afternoon.” He fixes his gaze on Azula. Judgement rolls off of him in waves.

“You look a lot worse than I thought you would.” He picks up a french fry and, before popping it into his mouth, says, “you weren’t pleasant to look at before. But this is awful.”

“She was kinda pretty before.” Yue interjects.

“She was really pretty, Yue.” Chan adds. Was, was, was. It only makes her feel that much worse for having lost whatever beauty she might have once had.

“Well she sure as hell isn’t now.” Jet replies. “And if she was such a looker before, why didn’t you take her to homecoming?”

Another relentless blow to her ego.

She braces herself for the next, it didn’t come in the way she had prepared for.

“Because she was changing things about her that I liked the way they were and it was frustrating to watch.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that before I got the first surgery?” She asks. “You know that I first thought of getting them because of you, right?”

This time it is Chan who looked as though he’d taken a physical hit. “Wh-when.”

“Can we talk about this later?” She sends a cutting state towards Jet. “Alone.”

Chan nods but she can tell by the way he pushes absently at his mashed potatoes that the rest of lunch will be heavy.

“You know what?” Azula asks prompting the whole of her posse to look up. “I think that I have a solution to our overcrowded table.”

Chan cringes.

Without a word, she picks up Jet’s lunch tray and moves it to the corner table. She gestures to it. “Go on, Jet.”

Yue holds a hand up to her mouth, “ooo, Jet, you’re in trouble.” She snickers, “even I haven’t gotten evicted from the table!”

Jet scowled. “That’s fine with me, I didn’t want to look at that anyways.” He motions to Azula. “It’s disgusting.”

Azula lets out a breath, a tickling sensation flutters up in her tummy.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, Azula.” Katara mutters. But she thinks that he does. She can’t say that she disagrees with him, she has gone out of her way to cover and avoid mirrors.

She feels TyLee wrap her arms around her and snuggle her cheek against Azula’s.

Azula signed and gives him one final glance. She sees him making his way to Smellerbee’s table. He may be tables away but the damage has been done. Chan has his head propped up by his arm and dismally stares at his still untouched meal. And Azula herself feels numb.

[sidon-reader-support]

Request for a s/o that is super clumsy and gets bruises daily. What's his initial reaction?

(I can relate to this on a spiritual level. Everyday I wake up and find some bruise or scratch from the day before but I have no clue from where, it’s ridiculous~ Also don’t worry you’re not completely topeless or anything throughout this. Anyways enjoy!~)

Clutz

Word Count: 846Warnings: Bruises, Minor injuries, Clumsiness

“I am so tired.” You let out a yawn and Sidon chuckles watching as you begin taking off your clothes to get ready for bed.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” He teases, already claiming his spot on the bed with his royal ornaments hanging upon their stand for tomorrow. You respond by sticking your tongue out at him then looking away to put on new pants. “Sorry, love, just hurry and join me. I’m getting lonely over here.”

“Right,” you mused and turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “That’s why you’re watching me undress.”

Sidon’s cheeks flush with heat but still he smiles mischievously. “I’m only admiring my beloved, is that such a crime?” His eyes suddenly finding the empty bedsheets beside him very interesting. A laugh from you draws his attention back to your form just as you’re digging around in the dresser for a night shirt.

“I suppose not, though with those eyes it’s very debatable.” You finally seem to decide on a shirt and and pluck it from the drawer only to drop it when you try to put it on. She laughs and you shoot him a pout before picking it up, your back to him again. It is then, while admiring you from behind, that he notices something odd; something that absolutely does not belong on your perfect skin.

A bruise, intruding right on your hip with its awful purple pigmentation. You should not have a bruise, because having a bruise means that you got injured, and there was no way you could’ve gotten injured unless somebody hurt you.

The mere thought of anyone doing such a thing to you made Sidon’t blood boil.

Sidon stands from the bed and crosses the room, hastily closing the distance between the two of you which makes you freeze with your shirt just halfway up your arms. You stare up at him with wide-eyes, in them he can see your confusion and worry; you glance over to the bed then look back up at him. Sidon’s body tenses sharp yellow eyes glaring down at your body because there’s more than just one.

On your upper arm resides a smaller bruise, and on the elbow is a scrape that has already scabbed over, and on the other is a scratch. “My love,” he finally manages in a strained voice as he gently brushes his thumb against the small blight on your skin, “Who hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” You blink up at him then raise your elbow just enough to see the bruise that has so quickly captured his attention and gasp in realization. “Oh, Sidon no! Nobody has hurt me, I did that!”

It’s Sidon’s turn to stare at you letting his shoulders fall but only by a little bit and he blinks puzzled. “I… don’t understand.”

You laugh and let your shirt fall so you can free your arms and point to the bruise, “You know I fall and trip a lot because I don’t pay attention, it’s kind of stupid but I can’t really help it, it just happens and then I get little scrapes like these everywhere.” You explain with a sheepish smile as you gently prod the scabs on your elbow. “I think I got this from hiking around the mountain.”

“Even the one on your back? That one did not seem very little.” Sidon points out a little less tense.

“My back?” You twist your body to look at the injury letting out a small, “Huh,” like this is just as much a revelation to you as it is to him.

“Love were you not aware that bruise was there?” Sidon couldn’t help but snicker at the oblivious look on your face as you examined your hip.

You shoot him a fierce pout then cross your arms over your chest as you retort, “Hey, I told you, I don’t pay attention. I get these things everyday, they’re hard to keep track of.” You huff but Sidon laughs, all of his concerns fading off with the cheerful sound even though he can see your pout grow more discontent. “Don’t laugh, I know it’s stupid”

“Oh my sweet pearl, it’s not stupid at all. I was just worried that someone had harmed you, but knowing that it was just an accident,” He bends down in order to peck your cheek, “It is quite a relief.”

The corners of your lips twitch, trying to fight off a smile, but Sidon persists with more sweet kisses and manages to break through your sour resolve and rouses a laugh and a bashful smile. “Alright, alright you big sap. Can I put my shirt on now please?”

The Zora pulls back just enough to look at your tank top before smirking and capturing your hands in his own. “I don’t know, love, do you really need it? I quite like seeing your arms.”

“Sidon,” You murmur looking away shyly though he can feel you squeeze his hands.

“Now don’t be upset. Shall I kiss all your battle scars to make you feel better?”

“Sidon!”

[onlymorelove]

fic: my life is for you (and no one other than you) (1/1)

Title: my life is for you (and no one other than you) (1/1)  Fandom: Teen Wolf Relationship: Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken  Characters: Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar Word Count: 2293 Tags:  Established Relationship, Future Fic, Post-Canon, Idiots in Love, Romance, Implied Sexual Content, Bisexual Male Characters, Banter, Boys grow into men eventually Rating: T Summary:  It’s a journey they began years before, but one they have to take again and again. Together.  (Post-coital, slice-of-life fic. AKA sass and fluff.)  A/N: The title is a lyric from Sting's Desert Rose.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Liam is draped across their bed, one arm flung outward like a starfish, the other resting over his eyes. The resonant bass of Theo’s heartbeat trip-trops in his ears and travels down until it settles, reassuring and familiar, somewhere in Liam’s own chest, while he catches his breath, still riding the high of his orgasm. The pulse of Theo’s heart as it pushes blood through his veins is the music that rocks Liam to sleep every night, an auditory security blanket he couldn’t relinquish even if he tried.

He hears the snap of latex as Theo removes his condom, ties it off, and throws it in the small trash can near their bed. “Ugh,” Liam groans. “I can’t move. Babe, I’m never going to be able to move again.” “Well, that could be a problem,” Theo answers, a smile heating the thick, lush slide of his voice, “considering your come is currently drying in your chest hair.”

Every nerve ending in Liam’s well-loved body wants to light up in response to the caress of that voice . . . But he’s just too damned tired and sated.

Theo tugs at a few of the hairs near one of Liam’s nipples to emphasize his point about the sticky mess painted on his chest.

“I don’t care.” Liam’s mouth sinks into a pout. “You’re disgusting, Liam.” Theo nudges him in the calf with the barest hint of a claw. “Just take two minutes and clean up in the bathroom.”

“You clean it. It’s only fair since it’s your fault I can’t moooove,” Liam says, drawing out the O. “You fucked all the energy and motivation right out of me.” He raises his ass in a half-hearted thrust and hears Theo smother a laugh. The sound is so light and happy, so free of sharp edges, that Liam wants to record it and play it back on repeat. His lips twitch with the desire to arc in a dopey smile; he lets them. It’s nothing Theo hasn’t seen before.

A hand curves around his flank and kneads. The touch, tender but confident, coaxes a sigh from Liam’s kiss-bruised mouth. If he had any sense left at all, he’d stifle it. But that would take energy Liam doesn’t have, and besides, he knows it’s too late: he let Theo in on most of his secrets, the dark ones and the stupid ones and the in-between ones, too, long ago—including the fact that he morphs into something soft, malleable, and totally, utterly, deliciously whipped in Theo’s long-fingered hands.

“Are you complaining, little wolf? 'Cause that sure sounded like a complaint.”

“Mmm-mm.” Liam bites his lower lip and shakes his head from side to side where it lays on the pillow. “Just stating facts. Definitely not complaining.”

“I hope not. 'Cause ten minutes ago you were all, ‘I need you, Theo. Fuck me, Theo.’” Amusement and affection coil around and through the words.

But the wickedly accurate mimicry sends hot blood rushing to Liam’s cheeks. “Are you done?” he says, voice frigid.

“‘I need your cock, Theo,’” Theo adds, undeterred by Liam's disapproval, and apparently not finished eviscerating Liam’s pride. All with a complete lack of malice, of course.

He loves this man—the coyote; the wolf; the shadows; the nightmares; the tender, vulnerable parts Liam can still scratch if he isn’t careful—fuck, does he love him, but Theo knows exactly where to apply pressure when he wants to be a dick. “Idiot. I do not sound like that,” Liam says, and yeah, okay, maybe it comes out a touch whiny. “Shut up.” Eyes scrunched tight, he smacks the bed, not trying very hard to aim for Theo.

Theo tsks and cards his big, warm hands through Liam’s hair in a lazy drag that soothes his bruised pride and threatens to melt him into exquisite, boneless ease. “That’s exactly how you sound, sweet cheeks. You know it; I know it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.” Liam surges up, catching Theo off-guard, and shoves him onto his back. “Take it back, you assmunching twatwaffle,” he says, straddling Theo’s lean hips and digging his fingers into his ribs, his favorite tickle spot.

Theo grips Liam’s thighs and beams a laugh at him, with his head thrown back, teeth flashing white, eyes crimped at the corners. Liam blinks; fuck, if normalcy doesn’t look amazing on Theo. “Such a dirty mouth,” Theo says through his laughter, gasping, “for such a pretty face.” The words drip with mock reproach.

Fortunately, Liam can give as good as he gets. He grins. “You love my dirty mouth when it’s wrapped around your dick.”

“Hmm,” Theo replies, sounding non-committal. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You really think I’m pretty?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?”

“No.” A pause. “Maybe.” Liam lifts one shoulder in a shrug and rubs his thumb across Theo’s bottom lip. “Is it working?”

Using the barest hint of fang, Theo nips at Liam’s thumb, then releases it. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” he asks, eyes dancing, just before he rolls Liam onto his back. The pads of his fingers glide over Liam’s cheek; he leans into the touch and fights not to purr his pleasure. His wolf, on the other hand, because it lacks any dignity whatsoever, seems to give a contented snuffle and rolls over, presenting its belly for a thorough rub and scratch.

“Definitely you,” Liam quips.

The mattress dips when Theo leans in closer. The salt sweat scent of his skin sends fresh heat spiraling deep inside Liam. “No, you, pretty boy,” Theo murmurs on a warm puff of air, and Liam’s eyes slip shut again. “Your cheekbones are sharper than my claws.” His voice curls smoky and whisper soft against the shell of Liam’s ear, pulling goosebumps and a helpless shiver from his sensitive, love-drunk body. “And your eyes . . . Those blue, blue eyes . . .” The words trail off; Theo clears his throat.

Liam’s eyes open by slow degrees, as if in a dream, and he glances up at Theo. Strands of dark, tousled hair fall across his forehead—hair that Liam had gripped and pulled while they’d loved each other—rendering him boyish and carefree in a way that Liam knows Theo wasn’t when he was actually still a child. But now . . .  Now his eyes aren’t hollow and edged in bitterness like they once were. Now he doesn’t reek of loneliness and regret like they’re clawed deep into the very marrow of his bones.

Now Liam’s heart speeds up, like a wolf racing through a midnight forest crisp with moonlight.

Theo’s mouth, still kiss-pink and soft at the edges, twists in a knowing smirk, as if Theo hears the increase in Liam’s heart rate. (Of course the bastard hears it.)

“Why are you flattering me, anyway? What do you want?” Liam narrows his eyes and flicks Theo in the stomach, watching with languid interest as the muscles there flex in response. “You already got in my pants.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth, Dunbar.”

“Oh, goody.” He bats his eyes in Theo’s direction. “So I guess my pretty ass is just gonna lie here and be a sloth,” Liam says, and it slips out wrapped around a smile.

Theo’s eyebrow quirks up. “And that would be different from any other day how?”   “Remind me why I keep you around.” Liam lets his eyes flash gold for a moment

“That’s easy.” Theo shrugs, face impassive but for the unholy light in his beautiful eyes. “‘Cause no one else could fuck you like I do,” he says, eyes glowing yellow right back at Liam. Coming from anyone else, that statement would sound ridiculous. Coming from Theo, it simply sounds matter of fact.

“Nope.” Liam presses his lips together and shakes his head. “That’s not why. I bet tons of other people could do what you do to my body—”

“—I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Cocky motherfucker.” Liam rolls his eyes and covers Theo’s mouth with his hand. “Let me finish, asshole.” His tone mellows. “But no one else could do what you do to my heart.”

This time Theo’s heart picks up speed; Liam hears it but doesn’t react, just drops his hand and lets a spark of satisfaction ping through him. He breathes into the comfortable silence that covers the room like a worn, nubby blanket and waits for the response he knows will come eventually. Head cocked to the side, Theo asks, “Are you a hopeless romantic, Liam?” A twinkle flares in Theo’s hazel eyes, igniting a traitorous, answering warmth that spreads from Liam’s chest all the way down to his toes.  

He chooses to answer the question with another question. “I married you, didn’t I?” Liam stretches until his fingers find their home, woven together with Theo’s.

Theo swallows, throat working, and Liam’s eyes track the motion. “That you did.” Still naked and radiating toasty heat, Theo rises over Liam, bracing his free hand on the bed, by Liam’s shoulder.

Liam inhales sharply, watching the light and the shadows in their dim bedroom play along the muscles beneath the skin of Theo’s arms, chest, and shoulders. His husband’s pupils are dark and blown wide. He unwinds their fingers, and Liam fights an aching sense of loss at the absence of contact.

“I’m still a mess, Theo,” he feels compelled to announce, gesturing at his chest, when Theo tips his chin back with a single finger.

“Baby, I don’t care,” he says in a low rumble just before he dips his head to mouth at the sensitive skin at Liam’s throat. “So am I. Not sure I ever stopped being a mess,” he adds, almost under his breath, and it has the tenor of a confession.

Liam understands the double meaning, so he circles his arms around Theo and pulls him in as close as he can, taking all his weight, then closer still.

“Fuck, you smell good.” Reverence, awe, and affection entangle the words, and Theo shudders. Liam feels it through every single point of contact between their skin. The scruff on Theo’s jaw prickles against Liam’s neck, a bracing counterpoint to the softness of his words—and his heart. “Like sweat and come and you . . . and me.”

“Ew”—Liam curls his leg around Theo’s and drags his foot against the coarse hair on his calf—“Sounds gross.”

Theo shapes a laugh against his skin. “It should be, but it isn’t.”

“Geez, Theo,” he says, and taps him lightly on the ass, “when did you become this ginormous sap?”

“Probably when you freed me from hell.”

“Best thing I ever did, even though I didn’t do it for you.” Liam moves his hands from where they’re stroking circles on Theo’s back, to his hair.

“About that”—he lifts his head to look Liam directly in the eyes—“I, um, don’t know if I ever said thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me out. For not sending me back." Theo pauses, mouth open, then sighs with a swift shake of his head. "And for everything after that.”

Liam smiles and pushes Theo’s hair off his forehead. “You never said the words”—he pauses and kisses the smooth skin at Theo’s temple—“but you didn’t have to; I heard them anyway.”

Liam pulls the blanket over them both, then tightens his arms around Theo, inhaling their commingled scent, and damn it all to hell and back, he must be as much of a sap as Theo is, because, well, it is a good smell.  

Theo. Pack. Mine, he thinks, with nary a trace of smugness. It just is.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve you,” Theo whispers against Liam’s cheek, a tremor in his breath and his pulse.

“Shhh”—he presses his hand gently to Theo’s mouth, gaze flickering to the gold band on his ring finger—“Stop. You already do.” They're treading ancient ground now, a dirt path littered with the vestiges of old paw prints and weathered, storm-blown branches that snap and crack under their feet.

Theo shakes his head and swallows, eyes dark as a night with no moon.

Theo, stubborn Theo, always Theo, calls to Liam’s blood with a pull as strong and inexorable as the full moon when she crooks her bone-white fingers and beckons to Liam’s wolf.

When Theo calls, Liam always comes.

Letting his hand drop back to stroke along Theo’s shoulder, Liam raises his head and reaches for his husband’s mouth, slowly, so slowly, a millimeter at a time, giving him a chance to retreat if that’s what he wants. But Theo doesn’t retreat. Instead, he angles his head, light catching on the fan of his lashes as his eyes fall shut, so Liam presses onward until their lips finally meet.

It’s a journey they began years before, but one they have to take again and again. Together. Some of the roads are the same; some of them will be different.

But Liam kisses Theo soft, slow, and achingly sweet, coaxing, coaxing, until he moans his surrender into Liam’s mouth, and Liam thinks he’ll never hear anything more beautiful than that. He kisses Theo and tries to tell him all the things he’s told him a thousand times before. Things like I love you, and I want you, and I need you, and you’re mine, and I’m yours.

And if there isn’t a God, maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe there’s nothing holier than this: naked skin, warm hands, and kisses strung in a rosary like every silent prayer Liam knows Theo never uttered.

I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m . . . yours.

A/N:  Thanks for reading! Please comment if you feel up to it. :) If you want to send me a prompt, feel free.

[fifteenstrawberries]

You have one piece fic I know you have one piece fic please post a one piece fic :D

I still don’t know why you like this one so much?

For those of you who are not my twin sister and beta reader, this is a scene from a One Piece/Castle crossover I wrote a couple years ago, basically imagining how the Water 7 arc from One Piece would happen if it was set in the Castle universe. 

Castle is a police procedural show where a wealthy and eccentric author and a hard-nosed by the book detective team up to solve murders. One Piece is crazy anime pirates getting into crazy shenanigans in a crazy world.

If you’d like to see something else, check out this post for the full list.

And without further ado, here’s the fic!

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be going after this guy without more backup? I mean, he is a pirate.”

“He’s not a pirate, Castle. He just has a pirate flag on his boat. Plenty of people do that without actually being pirates.”

“But what if that’s just what he wants you to think? Maybe he’s just waiting for us to get up there and as soon as we do, the rest of his pirate crew will come swinging over from the next building with cutlasses between their teeth— maybe we could hire some ninjas instead��”

“Castle, are you going to take this seriously?”

“I am taking this seriously!” Award winning author Richard Castle pouted at his partner, Detective Kate Beckett, as the two of them climbed the stairs to the hotel roof, “You’re the one who’s dismissing the very real possibility of a pirate attack.”

Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD paused on the landing, sighing and rubbing at the tension headache that inevitably formed whenever Castle got stuck on one of his ridiculous theories. “Castle. For the last time. We are here to question suspects in the attempted murder of Thomaso Ghiaccio. Not to accuse them of piracy. That’s the coast guard’s jurisdiction, not ours.” She continued climbing, “I’m still not sure why we’re on this instead of Major Crimes.”

“The chief probably just wanted his best detective on it.”

“That’s what he told me, but I’m homicide. I don’t usually get cases where the victim is still breathing.” She grimaced, remembering their trip to hospital to get witness statements from Ghiaccio’s teary secretary and the rest of his shaken employees. She’d seen the doctor’s report. The guy was lucky to be alive.

“It makes a nice change. To be able to stop a killer before they’ve actually killed someone instead of hunting them down after the fact.” Castle offered.

“It does,” Beckett admitted, “But still, this case! A prominent Italian engineer gets gunned down in his apartment without any sign of a break in. His employees are split between accusing a rival ship-building company or their most recent disgruntled customers, and are ready to lynch both of them, just in case. The rival company apparently has mafia ties, the customers sailed into town a week ago flying a pirate flag—they’re not really pirates, Castle, don’t even start. It sounds like something you would write, honestly…” She stopped dead, looking at the man beside her—the wealthy, well-connected, best-selling author, who had installed himself in her precinct and her life in search of ‘inspiration’ without so much as a by-your-leave—with growing disbelief. “Castle. You didn’t.”

Castle at least had the grace to look guilty. “You said so yourself, it’s a really interesting case.”

“Castle. Tell me you did not use your influence with the chief to land us this case because you wanted to investigate pirates.”

“…”

“Castle?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“… I hope your pirates make you walk the plank.”

“Hey—! Wait, do you think Alexis would avenge me? She takes fencing. And she’ll probably bully you into helping her track them down… I can see it now. ’Allo, my name is Alexis Castle, you killed my father, prepare to die. No Alexis, don’t give in to the dark side—!”

“Focus, Castle.” Beckett instructed, rounding the corner of the final flight of stairs. “The roof’s just ahead.”

“Sorry,” Castle dropped his arms, running a little to catch up with Beckett, “You really think they’ll be on the roof? And if they’re not, ooh! Could we start a man-hunt? Because the only thing that would make this case better than it already is would be a city-wide manhunt for the attacker.”

“The manager saw one of them headed up these stairs.” Beckett said, deciding to ignore the bit about a city-wide manhunt for the sake of her sanity, “It’s as good a bet as any. Though why the alarms wouldn’t sound—ah,” She frowned at the wires hanging loose in front of the door, yanked out of the roof alarm, “They’re lucky we’re not building inspectors.”

“Thank God. Can you imagine trying to write a book about building code violations instead of murders? ” Castle said, and opened the door.

The first thing Castle noticed about the teenager leaning against the air-conditioning unit opposite the door was his hair. How did he even get it that color? It was a bright, almost glow-in-the-dark green. Combined with three piercings in one ear, cargo pants, ratty white wife-beater, and sullen glower, he looked like every boy he’d ever warned Alexis about, distilled into the archetypical punk.

The first thing Beckett noticed about the teenager was the unsheathed katana in his left hand.

Her hand dropped to her holster, drawing her gun and clicking off the safety in one move, “NYPD, drop your weapon.”

The teen glanced at her, his gaze dropping to the badge on her belt before he grunted in acknowledgement. “Yes. Choto, I am almost done.”

Beckett stiffened, about to demand that he put away his sword now, not when it suited him, but the teen had swiped a piece of thin paper along the edge of the blade and sheathed it before she could do more than open her mouth. He shifted onto his knees slowly and placed the sword on his far right, just out of easy reach. Then he leaned back again, slouching against the air conditioning unit, and raised an eyebrow as if to say, happy?

Castle was impressed. He wasn’t sure if it was teenage insolence or straight up arrogance, but either way, it took major guts to bait Beckett when she had her game face on.

Beckett twitched, eyes narrowed, looking like she still had half a mind to arrest him on general principles. But she holstered her gun, the only concession to still-twitching nerves the hand she rested on the grip. “We’re looking for Lufisacio D. Monkey.” She said, “Do you know where he is?”

That earned them a sharp look that even pulling a weapon on him hadn’t gotten. But his gaze shifted somewhere behind them, to the billboard toward the front of the building, and he yelled, “Oi, Luffy!”

“Hã?” Another boy’s voice called out, somewhere above them.

“Satsu-yo.”

“Satsuyo?” Beckett asked under her breath, not really expecting an answer as she looked for the owner of the second voice.

“Japanese slang for the police,” Castle replied, just as soft. He was still watching the green-haired teen, eyes alight, “You know, I think this guy might actually be yakuza! Well, no maybe not, no tattoos and he still has all his fingers. On a more important note; why didn’t you tell me that our prime suspect’s name was Lufisacio?”

“Because I knew that you wouldn’t shut up about it if you knew and it was a long drive.” Beckett muttered, then called louder, “Sir, would you mind coming out please?”

Gravel exploded beside them. Another teenager—shorter than the first, wearing a red basketball jersey and cut-off jeans– landed in a crouch. He straightened, placing the straw hat hanging around his neck back on to wiry black hair.

Beckett noted bandaged limbs and wondered where he had gotten the scar beneath his left eye.

Castle noted the sixteen foot difference between the top of the billboard and the roof, and wondered if the young man made a habit of jumping from high places.

Lufisacio D. Monkey glanced between the two of them, “Zoro said you are a polícia?”

“Yes,” Beckett said, “I’m Detective Kate Beckett, this is my partner Richard Castle.”

The teen, somewhat surprisingly, brightened, “Richard Castelo? O autor?”

“If, by that you mean the famous, best-selling author that has been translated into dozens of languages around the world, then yes, that’s me.” Castle smirked a bit, holding out a hand.

“Que barato!” The teen grinned widely, seizing Castle’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically before turning back to his friend. “Zoro, mee-te!”

“Ah, ah, wakkatte.” The green-haired teen waved lazily, then linked both hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

Unperturbed by the lack of enthusiasm, he turned back to face Castle and Beckett with the same wide grin, “Nami and Robin read your stories all the time to us. They are very good!”

“Glad you enjoyed them,” Castle was matching him grin for grin by this point, “It’s always good to meet a fan.”

“You will sign our books?”

“Sure!”

“Unfortunately,” Beckett broke in, “I’m afraid neither of you will have time for that.” She was immune to Castle’s reaction at this point, but she wasn’t quite prepared when they both turned puppy eyes on her. She had to steel herself before continuing, “We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Monkey—”

“Vovô?” The teen interrupted, looking around in alarm.

His friend snorted, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like, “aho, teme-ga.”

Whatever it was, Luffy relaxed, turning back to them with a grin, “My name is Luffy. Mr. Monkey is my vovô, my grandpa. Entendes?”

“Luffy is a lot better than Lufisacio.” Castle said, with a sympathetic smile at the awful name.

“Sim.” Luffy made a face, and glanced at Beckett, “Detetive, you have questions?”

“Yes.” Beckett said, pulling up a picture on her phone. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Avô Tom. Yes, I know him.” Luffy nodded. “He looked at our ship when we brought it for repairs.”

The president of the entire company personally evaluates a ship for damages? There’s got to be something up with that. Beckett nodded, making a mental note, “And were you satisfied with his work?”

Something in Luffy’s face shut down. Aha, Beckett thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Castle lean forward.

“Sim … talvez.” Luffy stared down at his feet, “Não.”

“English please, Luffy.” Beckett said, a touch impatiently.

“He said Allons-y Allégrement could no longer sail.”

“Is that your ship?” Luffy nodded, “Did you have an argument?”

“Sim,” he shrugged, “I wanted Avô to fix her. We brought lots of dollars to show we could afford the repairs, but he said it did not matter how much money we had, it was impossible.”

“Why was that?”

“Allons-y Allégrement is a wood ship. Her quilha, her keel … he said it was broken.”

“Did you believe him?”

To Beckett’s surprise, that question made him rally, He lifted his head, looking her in the eye. “I do not know how to fix ships,” He told her, “Meu tripulação does not know how to fix ships. If Avô Tom and his friends say she cannot go on, I must trust him.”

Which was not a ‘yes.’ Definitely something to look into.

“Still,” Castle interjected, “That must have been pretty difficult, just giving up on your ship like that. We saw pictures of her; she looks like she’s been through a lot.”

“Eh,” Luffy shrugged again, uncomfortable, “We need to keep moving. We need to buy a new ship. I wish it was not necessary, but it is what we must do.”

“Speaking of moving,” Castle said, “According to our records, you’re docked down at Liberty Landing Marina.” At Luffy’s nod, he continued, managing to sound only curious about a detail he was convinced would crack the case. “I can understand wanting to see the Big Apple, but what are you doing all the way in Brooklyn?”

“Cheap hotels.”

… Damn. Luffy can’t lie at all, can he? Beckett thought. If he was closed off before, he was positively stony now, and the contrast between that and the cheerfulness he had greeted them with made his reluctance to answer painfully obvious.

Hiding or not, Castle’s pet theory was going to have to wait. It was time to get down to business. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Ghiaccio?” Beckett asked.

“Yesterday.” Luffy glanced at her curiously. “Why? Is he lost?”

“Mr. Ghiaccio was shot last night in his home.”

“… Heh?” Luffy was staring, eyes wide and shocked, “Avô Tom was … fala serio!”

“He was shot twice in the front and three times in the back.” Beckett had to squash an instinctual rush of sympathy at Luffy’s expression, bearing on brutally. “He’s still alive. But only barely.”

“Não.” Luffy shook his head in denial.

Beckett and Castle shared a glance. Neither of them had understood all of what Luffy had said, but Beckett had broken the news of a loved one’s death to enough families that she could guess.

Which begged the question. Luffy was a suspect. The only possible suspect, according to Ghiaccio’s main foreman and quite a few employees.

Why was he acting like a victim?

“Quem—” Luffy began, stopped himself, and began again in English. “Who would shoot him? Why? He is a nice man, todos o amam. Who would shoot him?”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, letting her silence speak for itself.

When the silence crossed the line from ‘telling’ to ‘awkward’ and Luffy looked no closer to getting the message, Castle coughed slightly. “We were hoping you could tell us.” He said delicately.

Luffy gave him an exasperated look. “How can I know? We only come to town a week ago!” He crossed his arms with a considering frown, “Castelo tells good stories, but maybe he is not so good with real life mysteries?”

Beckett had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as Castle swelled indignantly. “I am too!” He all but squawked, and abandoned all notion of subtlety. “Why do you think we’re here talking to you? You’re the suspect!”

“Hãããããã?!?!?!?!” Luffy’s jaw dropped and eyes bugged as he gaped at them.

It would have been funny if they weren’t accusing him of attempted murder.

Any humor she felt at the situation evaporated. “Luffy,” She said, catching his attention, “Where were you between nine and eleven pm last night?”

“By a marina. Maybe in the park? Then walking to the hotel.”

“Is there anyone who could verify that?” Beckett asked, opening her notebook to write down names.

“Sim. My friends. We had lost one, but …” Luffy trailed off, looking positively grim before he shook himself and finished answering, “Todos de meu— all of my friends were there but her.”

Castle stayed quiet as Beckett asked the questions needed to complete Luffy’s alibi, considering the dark look that had crossed the boy’s face. It actually took some real effort for him to snap out of that, Castle thought, intrigued.

What are you hiding, Mr. Lufisacio D. Monkey?

Beckett was looking rather grim herself, though she hid it well under a layer of cool professionalism. “Would you mind coming down to the station while we check out a few things?” She asked.

“À delagacia?” Luffy blinked.

“Is he arrested?”

Castle started, glancing over at where the green-haired teen was no longer asleep.

The teen glowered suspiciously at them, “Is Luffy arrested or no?” He demanded.

“We just want to verify a couple parts of his alibi.” Beckett said smoothly, “He’s not under arrest.”

Yet, hung unspoken in the air. The teen’s eyes narrowed, trying to stare Beckett down.

Castle was rather glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of that glare. From either of them. The green-haired teen was brimming with suspicion and hostility, and looked frankly dangerous despite his young age, while Beckett watched him with all the calm assurance of a senior detective of the NYPD, hand on the grip of her gun as if daring him to try something…. Darn it, why is there never popcorn when you need any?

“Dai jo bu, Zoro,” Luffy said easily, cutting through the tension in the air. The teenager broke off his staring contest with Beckett to give Luffy a worried scowl, “Even if I am arrested, está bom. We did not think to look in prison.”

“That woman would never allow herself to be caught unless she meant to be.” Zoro shot back.

Luffy shrugged, “Sim. But maybe a polícia know what we do not? Either way, I will go.”

Zoro scowled deeper for a moment, before sighing, “Shi, capitao.”

Luffy nodded, satisfied, then seemed to think of something and turned to Beckett in alarm, “Do you think Zoro is a killer too? His a-lee-by is to be with me, and if I must come with you—”

“Your friend isn’t under any suspicion.” Beckett assured him. Giving Zoro a look askance, she added “But if he wants to come with you, that would be fine.”

“Hmmmm.” Luffy crossed his arms, considering. He made a decision, going to crouch down beside his friend. “Zoro. You want to come?”

“… No.” Zoro rubbed his face, suddenly looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with his recent catnap. “No. I will wait.”

Luffy nodded, then stood up, walking to Beckett and Castle without hesitation, “Vamos!” He yanked the roof door open and ran down the stairs. His voice and footsteps echoed up the staircase as he called up to them, “You have a police car, yes? With sirens and lights? You will turn them on, yes …?”

[fairysoldier-plisetsky]

Valentine’s Event FS - Yuriy Plisetsky

Simple and Clean (Ray of Hope Remix) Theme: Love Costume: Black pants and shirt (Otabek’s still not returned Aria T-Shirt), two chokers, and a white jacket. 

00:00 – 00:16 The music starts, dreamy and wistful. He picked this song specifically for Otabek—for them, and Yuriy wonders briefly if he’ll even recognize the alternate arrangement. Yuriy starts moving immediately, gliding elegantly along the ice as his mind slowly drifts away from Detroit back to Barcelona. He closes his eyes, his feet carrying him easily through his crossovers and spiraling 3turns, and he’s on the back of Otabek’s bike. The Russian Fairy spirited away by the Hero of Kazakhstan, and he’s dreamed about that day more times than he’s ever admit. It was the beginning of everything. Yuriy leans forward into an Ina Bauer and extends one arm out. Yuriy.

00:17 – 00:32 Their progression after that was rocky, to say the least. Yuriy shifts, bringing his free leg forward and out in front of him as he spirals. Yuriy’s rapidly growing feelings for Otabek quickly spiral out of control before either of them either realize it’s happening.

When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.”

Yuriy twists his body around at his torso and contorting his body until he feels the cold bite of his skate as he grabs the blade. It had hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced before when saw Otabek kiss Mila, and even worse when he walked away from Yuriy without even looking at him. Heartbreak wasn’t something he was used to feeling at the time, but he’s sure that’s what it was; the horrible aching pain in his chest. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight Those few days they went without seeing each other, only speaking to each other through a short exchange of drunk and angry texts had been torture. Everything had been perfect between before that moment. Simple, with nothing to complicate things until suddenly everything became complicated with one kiss. It’s hard to let it go

His first jump is next, a triple axel and he lands it perfectly, swinging back into a deep arc. Otabek was on his mind constantly back then, not like he still isn’t now. He hated thinking that the friendship they’d only just started building together could have been ruined in only one evening.

00:47 – 1:02 You’re giving me too many things lately Yuriy backtracks a bit, trying to draw on more positive memories. He’s supposed to be skating about love, not heartbreak—if they mostly go hand in hand. Otabek presented Yuriy with the helmet and Yuriy immediately fell in love with it. The words they’ve shared between each other as they ride along the streets are easy; something only they can understand. Even when they’re not speaking at all, the soft hum of their breath through the speaks is enough. You’re all I need Yuriy covers his face with one hand, leaning back as he twirls with one foot hovering above the ice, slightly bent. His arms always wound so tightly around Otabek’s waist. After the first time, he was never afraid of falling off—he just wants to be closer. You smiled at me and said He straightens up and drags the hand covering his face down his neck and chest, holding it over his heart as he continues to spin. He can feel it beating beneath his palms, fluttering in the same way it does whenever he’s close enough to notice the scent of Otabek’s leather jacket or brush their hands together. 1:03 – 1:17 The daily things (like this and that and what is what?) that keep us all busy are confusing me The quad toe loop comes easily to him, his body feeling lighter than usual. Right out of it, he swings his free leg around behind him, bending backwards so he can grab his skate as he switches smoothly into his spin combination. Everything with Otabek is entirely new to him and a healthy amount of confusion is completely understandable. When did they cross that line between friends and something more? Was that what they wanted? Was it even possible? That’s when you came to me and said Simple, accidental contact between them is his favourite; when they get so close to each other without trying or meaning to.  Everything feels natural to him; the same way he sinks in and out of his sit spin and contorts his limbs elegantly as he finishes out the combination. 

1:18 – 1:34 “Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but does that mean I have to meet your father?” Otabek skating for him, and just for him, was the wake up call that Yuriy needed. Seeing him pour himself into his a routine, a routine made just for Yuriy and how he felt about him. Yuriy’s heart had been racing the entire time, matching the lyrics to Otabek’s song almost perfectly: I never noticed my heart until I noticed you. I never knew love like this until I knew you. Yuriy takes three quick strides across the ice, picking up speed and launching into a split jump, tossing his head back slightly. He lands on one blade, spinning twice before his free leg joins the first. When we are older you’ll understand what I meant when I said “No, I don’t think life is quite that simple.” 1:35 – 1:49 When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Unfortunately, Yuriy thinks, “love” doesn’t always feel good. He loops and turns through his step sequence, creating exaggerated motions with his arms while twisting and bending his upper body. He shifts on his skates, alternating which foot is the lead and which is his free leg as he works through his choreography. He’d felt useless when Otabek came apart in front of him after his Disney free skate. Seeing him break down and cry like that and being able to do nothing to help him, hurt. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight   It’s hard to let it go They both ended up crying that night, Yuriy trying to kiss away as much of the pain as he could before they fell asleep curled up and emotionally exhausted in each other’s arms. He never wants to see Otabek that torn up again. He wants to keep him in his arms and shield him from everything and everyone in his life that’s ever wrong or hurt him or treated him as if he isn’t good enough. 1:50 – 2:04  Hold me Whatever lies beyond this morning is a little later on Yuriy back tracks again, this time to New Year’s Eve and where he officially marks that everything changed, and he transitions into his next spin combination. He folds his arms over his chest as he slides down into a sit spin. He holds himself tightly and blushes faintly when he imagines it’s Otabek that’s embracing him; perhaps even the same way he did when they shared their third ‘first kiss’ beneath the bursting fireworks. A layback spiral is next, and Yuriy extends one arm out; reaching up and out. Yuriy had felt so warm and so ridiculously happy that he didn’t think he’d come down from his euphoria from his first kiss anytime soon. They had no idea where they were going then, only that they were moving forward in the same direction and they wanted to go together.   Regardless of warnings, the future doesn’t scare me at all Nothing’s like before Yuriy’s seen how badly these types of relationships can go: the fights, the misunderstandings, the break-ups and more. He’s seen all of it, and they’ve had their own fair share of problems already, but nothing that they haven’t been able to come away from; both stronger people. Together. They’re growing together, bringing out the best in each other and taking the worst in stride. 2:05 – 2:20 When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Yuriy bursts into a quad salchow barely punctuated with a small pause before he follows it up with a stunning triple axel, raising both arms in the air. Nearly ‘splitting up’ when they were even together over ice cream had been the worse. It was a pattern with them that Yuriy hoped they’d soon grow out of; starting off so sweet until things turned horribly sour.   Guilt. Disgust. Yuriy had made Otabek feel that way about himself.

“…I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go Yuriy slips in a few crossovers out of his jumps, weaving intricate patterns across the ice as he skates; completely focused. The moments after their near not-break up were a few of the best and worst they shared together. The kissing and cuddling hand been fantastic, but the strained conversation Yuriy forced them to have afterward had been awful. “No more guessing games, Beka.” Yuriy doesn’t want to lose this, any of it, just because they’re too afraid to say what’s on their minds. “I don’t want to do this if we’re too afraid to be honest with each other.” 2:38 – 2:52 You’re giving me too many things lately Yuriy leans forward into a spread eagle with his arms out to the side; open with his hands palm up. He turns back on one foot and elongates himself, shifting into an Ina Bauer. Another ‘fun’ habit they’ve developed is Otabek constantly finding reasons to worry over Yuriy. The hickeys on his neck that Otabek was afraid hurt him, to Yuriy’s insistence to never opening up more than he needed to. Yuriy bends forward to transition into his camel spin. “Not saying things plainly just so you can save me the worry.” You’re all I need Yuriy comes out of his spin, closing his eyes and raising his arms above his head before slowly dragging them back down over his sides with a subtle roll of his hips as he drifts backwards. Yuriy’s breath hitches slightly, his heart fluttering at every soft kiss Otabek pressing into his knuckles. His hands feel cold, but each kiss leaves his skin warm and tingling and it slowly brings a smile to his face. The gesture is so sweet and soft and intimate in the strangest way that Yuriy’s not used to yet; just purely full of love and affection without anything else behind it. Love.

You smiled at me and said 2:53 – 3:08 The daily things (like this and that and what is what?) The triple toe loop is next and his manages it with little trouble, keeping one hand high in the air that he slowly brushes through his hair for a bit of finesse once he’s landed. One of the problems of being technically, not technically with Otabek is he’s too damn attractive for his own good and he doesn't even realize it. Flame of jealousy had licked at Yuriy on more than one occasion, from the horribly brazen and depraved girls from Instagram to the waitress that attempted to give Otabek her number.   that keep us so busy are confusing me Yuriy melts back into another spin combination, reaching up and out with a graceful arch in his spine. He’d claimed Otabek as his to that waitress and his cheeks darkened when he remembers that Otabek had actually heard him. that’s when you came to me, and said “So…I’m taken, huh?” Yuriy does a quick butterfly spin to switch legs into a hairsplitter layback. Otabek’s response to Yuriy declaration had been favourable to say the least and Yuriy swears he can feel his lips tingling at the memory of the kiss; pushed back against his door and loving every second of it before Minami picked the absolute worse time to return. They flew away from each other like they were scalded, Yuriy throwing himself face down into his mattress and pillows to hide his burning cheeks. 3:09 – 3:21 “Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but does that mean I have to meet your father?” When we are older you’ll understand The step sequence is next, filled mostly with crossovers, three turns and Choctaws while Yuriy paints intricate shapes and patterns with his arms. Walking in on Otabek dancing, being completely dumbfounded learning that he could move that way and had been hiding it for so long had been very interesting. Otabek moved like he was one with the music, every pop and roll of his hips making Yuriy’s heart skip a beat and his mouth go dry. He wants to get closer, and he does…it ends about how he expected it to. What I meant when I said “No, I don’t think life is quite that simple.” 3:22 – 3:37 When you walk away you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” “Everyone I try to love leaves me!” Yuriy feels his chest tighten up, remembering the words he’d screamed at Otabek when he’d been doing his best to take care of him after they left the hospital. “I’m fucking scared, Beka.” Yuriy exits his sequence in a forward lunge, his front knee bent sharply with one arm reaching out, grasping for the air. “Beka, I’m sorry. I keep fucking this up.” Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go A few more crossovers, a low sweeping dip towards the ice and Yuriy spins once. "I can't take away your past hurts even though every last cell of my body wants to. And I can't promise you there won't be any future ones. But I can promise you one thing: I will never leave." 3:41 – 3:56 Hold me Yuriy flies into the first jump of his combo, wrapping his arms securely around himself as he rotates through the air. Otabek unzipped his jacket so that Yuriy could lay back and tuck closer against his warm chest, wrapping the edges of the jacket around Yuriy like a little cocoon. Whatever lies beyond this morning is a little later on Yuriy feels his heart rate pick up. He’s included the lutz again, which he failed to land last night, or any of the previous attempts during his late night practice that Otabek had walked in on. Still, he has to try, ignoring the phantom ice burn pain in the palm of his hand. Yuriy had woken up kicking and screaming, eyes wide and terrified and seeing things that weren’t actually there, but like always, Otabek was able to calm him down. They talked, more liked kissed and cried, in the other room until they were both relaxed enough to sleep, curling up together on the couch. It isn’t flawless, the entry giving him trouble as usual, but he stays on his face and a beautiful smile crosses briefly across his face. Regardless of warnings, the future doesn’t scare me at all Nothing’s like before 3:57 – 4:08 When you walk away, you don’t hear me “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Yuriy goes into his last step sequence, chasing the sweet, familiar melody of the music that he’s started to think of now as their song. He thinks of a future…one not to faraway, but long enough away that he’ll still enjoy every moment he’s given now with everything he has. Yuriy imagines himself standing in the airport, right in front of his departure gate, but unwilling to go. Otabek’s gate is further away, but…they’re stubborn. Of course they’ll stay by each other for as long as they can, before that last boarding call because neither of them has the stomach to walk away first, or to have to watch the other go. After all, Detroit is only temporary; they however, are not. It’s not like they won’t see each other again once they leave, Yuriy already knows he’ll make damn sure of that. The last note approaches and Yuriy finishes strong, adding once last simple double toe loop he hadn’t planned on before he finishes, arms outstretched with a determined look on his face. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go

[thetalesfromthedarktower-blog]

Tales from the dark tower. PT 1. Mr Dumont meets the Low Men

Opens on a smoke filled cramped office. Three men, wearing yellow rain coats, wide brimmed hats and sunglasses stand in front of a desk, behind which sits another man, Mr Dumont

Narration: These men were not to be trifled with, that much was evident. There’s a part of your brain, commonly referred to as the lizard brain that deals with all the primitive stuff, the pure basic means of survival, the fight or flight response, that sorta thing. This morning, faced with these three men, every alarm it had was loudly blaring ‘run’.

Lowman 1: ‘Mr Kim, we’ve heard you have a skill for finding individuals that perhaps don’t want to be found’.

Dumont: ‘That’s something I’ve done from time to time...’

Narration: The alarms had now been joined with an itch, maddening, behind the eyes.

Lowman 1: ‘Excellent, very excellent Mr Dumont. That’s make us very happy. Here’

[The Lowman passes two photographs across the desk. Dumont takes them with a slight shake in his hand.]

Lowman 1: ‘We require the location of these two gentlemen, a Mr Richard Hart, and his Son, Kyle. You’ll see there last known locations on the back of those images’

[Kim flips the image over and studied the address]

Lowman 1: ‘Here is fifty percent of your fee. Another fifty percent plus any reasonable expenses will be paid once we have their location. Do not make contact with them, please leave that to us’

[The lowman tosses a bundle of notes across the desk]

Dumont: ‘If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your interest in them? Are they dangerous?’

Lowman 1. ‘We have a business opportunity that Mr Hart has been...reluctant to accept. Our terms have changed and it’s vital that we contact him to relay this information. Richard is a good boy, he won’t give a man like yourself any problems’.

Dumont: ‘When I find them, how do I contact you?’

Lowman: ‘Do you know of ‘the hopscotch’ Mr Dumont? A rather quaint game children play! When you find where they lay their heads, make a hopscotch pattern with a star and moon at the head on the sidewalk outside. We’ll do the rest’.

Dumont: ‘that’s all’

Lowman: ‘That’s all’

[The lowman lightly touches the brim of his hat and nods, then leaves the office. Mr Dumont exhales and slumps in his chair. He flings open desk draws until he find a bottle of scotch and a small revolver, muttering profanities to himself as he does so. He sits at his desk, thinking intently.]

Narration: It took me all of about twenty minutes to convince myself these men weren’t human. Everything about them seemed wrong, from the maddening yellow coats to the wax-plastic of their skin. I had an intuition that behind those ridiculous glasses, their wouldn’t be eyes, just empty lifeless sockets. Their teeth, too white and too large, were really filed points.

However, they were right about one thing, and that was my knack of finding people. Growing up, my nana had called it my shine, I’d never had a better name for it, so it stuck.

As a younger man I could, more or less, find anything. Keys, glasses, that twenty you swore you had in your pants pocket but was actually stuffed way down the back of your sock draw.  People though, they were my speciality. Usually a photo was enough to get on track, sometimes even just a name. The only way I can explain it is like a series of hunches. I’d open a door in my mind and allow whatever information that felt inclined to stroll on in, put its feet up and hang around for as long as it liked. For the most part, it was fairly routine and mundane. Finding keys to the garage, Locating Mr Pancakes, the next door neighbours cat. Occasionally, darker things would work their way in and by middle school I had learnt to steer clear of any local newspapers, for fear of catching a flash of anything particularly disturbing. I learnt to shut and lock the door, and that’s how it mostly remained. The plan had always been to join the force, maybe a cold case department eventually, but an undiagnosed heart murmur meant even passing the most basic physical an impossible task. So I threw myself to the next best thing; a private detective.

[Cuts to montage of Dumont as a younger man. We seem him hunting down various items. Then back to office, Donny swirling the revolver around]

Narration: Sitting there in my office it crossed my mind to run. Just leave the office, and go, see how far I could get before those things caught up with me. Catch me they would, I knew that as firmly as I knew they weren’t from this world. Reluctantly I resigned myself to the only option that presented itself. Play for time and ride it out, hope that I’d luck my way out this like I had so many other awkward cases.

[cuts Dumont driving at night in the rain. We see him running in and out of various establishments]

Narration: Picking up their trail wasn’t hard. A man and boy traveling across country alone with no mother soon stick out, and it wasn’t long before I had a solid lead in the form of Gloria.

[cuts to American dinner. Dumont car pulls up and he kills the engine. He exits, walks in and takes a seat in a booth. A pretty waitress approaches.]

Gloria: ‘what can I get you handsome’

Dumont:’ just coffee thanks...’

Gloria: ‘ coming up…’

[Cuts to Gloria walking away, we follow her as she works, chats with customers]

I liked how she walked. Easy for girls in her line of work to get knocked down, sub servant to the rest of us mortals; but Gloria, she seemed to float, skip across the surface of reality like a flat stone thrown across a calm lake.

Gloria: ‘ here you go....’

[Gloria poured Dumont a coffee.Dumont leans forward to read her name badge]

Dumont: ‘Gloria, you wanna help me out?’

Gloria: ‘That depends, I ain’t in habit of helping out strangers, even as good looking as you’.

Dumont: ‘it’s real easy, I just wanna know if you saw these two when they passed through’

Dumont slides the photographs across the table. Gloria ignores them

Gloria: ‘You police?’

Dumont: ‘no M’am, private detective’

Gloria: ‘That so? What they done.’

Dumont: ‘Nothing as far as I know. I just need to find em is all’

Gloria: ‘And then…’

[Dumont splays his hand wide as if that’s a conclusion. Gloria looks around suspiciously, then slides into the seat across from him.]

Gloria: ‘Yeah, I saw them’

Dumont: ‘When?’

Gloria: ‘Friday I think, it was late and I remarked how boy his age should be tucked up in bed at that late an hour. He was a real sweety, ate like a horse though. They paid cash and left...not much too it’

Dumont: ‘Didn’t say where they were going?’

Gloria: ‘No, not that I asked. Come to think of it they didn’t talk much at all, even to each other.’

Dumont: ‘Think hard now Gloria. Did you see them leave? What kind of car were they driving’

Gloria: ‘Something Japanese. I ain’t to good with cars, and it was dark. Maybe blue…. Hey, they ain’t in trouble are they?I don’t want to cause them anymore...

Dumont: ‘No trouble as far as I’m concerned’

Gloria: ‘Well...good. They seemed like decent enough folk. (reluctantly) I better get back to it, this coffee don’t serve itself...

Dumont: ‘Course. Thank you. Grab me some of that pie when you get chance, I’ve got an apatite again…'

Gloria: ‘You can have anything you like Mr Dumont…'

[She winks as she walks away. Open on exterior of cheap motel]

Narration: I made love to Gloria that night like it was the last time I’d ever touch a women, mostly because by now I was convinced it was. What ever these men planned with the man and child, I had an hunch my fate would be much the same.

[Dumont and Gloria both lying in a motel bed looking up at the ceiling]

Gloria: ‘These men that hired you, they’re not good men are they?’

Dumont: ‘I don’t think so’.

Gloria: ‘You can’t run? We could run.’

Dumont: ‘I think they’d find us. The man and boy are giving them trouble for some reason, but me and you, we’d be easy’

[Gloria looks at Kim intensely]

Gloria: ‘They’re not from this place are they.’

[Dumont takes a long time to answer]

Dumont: ‘you pluck that outta here that easy? (Touches his forehead) The moment I walked in, you knew exactly who I was looking for right? That’s how you knew my name before I told you. I expect you know most things about most folks you meet. None of the deep parts, not the secrets, but the stuff here at the front, the immediate concerns, you can see that?’

[Gloria nods reluctantly]

Dumont: You listen to me. If they come for you, and I think you’ll know when they’re close, you run, you understand? You get a mad itch behind your eyes, or hear a faint buzzing in your head you can’t explain, you get going, got it?

Gloria: Will they come for me?

Dumont: I don’t think so...you shine like me, but not in the same way and not nearly as strong. I’ve got an idea that maybe this man, maybe he shines too. I feel him occasionally, in bursts like a distant radio station when you’re on the freeway. I seem to zone in and out of him. He must be really pumping out some juice for me to pick him up like that. Maybe that’s why these men want him.

Gloria: Maybe….What I do know is there’s only one man I want right now...

[Dumont smiles and rolls on top of her and kisses her. They make love again. Cuts to Kim leaving in the morning quietly, gets on his car and drives]

I left without waking her. She had the shine alright, not as strong as me, but strong enough to reach into the front of my mind and grab those thoughts. Thinking back now, I’m sure it’s no coincidence that I bumped into Gloria. If a man gets lost at night, he’ll stumble towards any light. I think me and Gloria were both stumbling around in the dark, arms out reached and happened upon each other’s dim flames.

It didn’t take me long to track them down. It was mostly my shine that did the hard lifting, but over the years I’ve developed an understanding of those looking to disappear. If I man doesn’t want to be found, he’s inclined to look for a certain kind of work. Pan scrubbing, timber yards, laundry, the kinda work which pays cash, pays quick and doesn’t ask any awkward questions like ‘what’s your social security number’.

I followed Richard for two days, shadowing him. I was almost ready to make my mark and await the arrival of my employers.

[cut to Dumont sitting outside a guest house in his car reading a paper. Suddenly the passenger door is heaved open and Richard jumps into the car. He sticks a stubby revolver into Dumont’s ribs. Dumont reaches for his own piece but he’s too slow]

Richard: hands on the wheel, eyes strait...

Dumont: ....

Richard: Who’s your employer?

Dumont: Hard to say, never got a name.

Richard: Sombra Corporation? Yellow coats, wide brimmed hat, wore sunglasses even indoors. Ring any bells?

Dumont: Yeah, that sounds about right…

Richard pauses and lights a cigarette. He keeps his eyes and gun focused on Mr Dumont

Richard: You’ve laid in bed with the Devil and opened your legs nice and wide! Lord, you have any idea how much trouble you got coming your way?

Dumont: I’m starting to get an idea, yeah... When did you make me?

Richard: Laundry place, yesterday. No single man washes that many clothes.

Dumont: Single?

Richard: No ring...

[With that Richard pistol whips Dumont with the butt of his revolver. Cut to black. Fade back in. Kim is tied to a chair in a cellar. Before him sits Richard on a chair and Kyle cross legged on the floor]

Richard: Long days and pleasant night, Sai. I’d take it easy, I cracked you quite hard so you may feel a bit woozy for awhile.

Dumont: Believe it or not, it’s not the first time I’ve been at the end of a revolver butt..Jesus, where am I?

Kyle: Dad, he’s a breaker!

Richard: You sure?

Kyle: Yeah, he’s no that strong, but he has it. Something...he was stronger, but something happened and he buried it.

Richard: Ah shit! Make sense why they hired him now. You must be like a beacon to this guy. He coulda come from halfway across the country for all we know.

Kyle: I didn’t feel him, like I do the others…

Dumont: What did I break?

Richard: Nothing yet, and let’s hope it stays that way.

Dumont: Who are the men looking for you?

Richard: We call them the low-men, but technically they’re Can-toi.

Dumont: They wear…human.

Richard: The disguises? Not that convincing huh. Mostly they go unnoticed unless you get real close, or you have the touch like yourself or my boy.

Dumont: What’s underneath?

Richard: It’s not pretty, put it that way. So..what the hell do we do with you now?

Dumont: I was supposed to mark your location, didn’t get a chance before you went at me with that revolver. Maybe they don’t know you’re here? I could run, forget I ever saw you?

Richard: Ha! You know as well as I do, you’ll barely make it to the end of street. Stars and moons chalked on sidewalks aren’t the only means these…men have. To be fair I’m surprised the low-men ain't here already, something must have them mighty distracted to pass this up. They’ve probably had a close eye on you for sometime I imagine.

Kyle: (trancelike) They’ll come, and soon. His eye has moved towards us.

Dumont: Who’s eye?

Richard: It’ll take to long to explain, just someone you don’t want to meet. We need  to move and now.

Kyle: We…we have to jump Dad.

Richard: (Sighs). You sure? I’m not sure you can take many more. Maybe, if we time…

Kyle: We don’t have any choice Dad, they’re getting close real quick.

Richard: Can you manage three?

Kyle shakes his head reluctantly. They both turn their gaze on Mr Kim

Richard: Well then, this is where our Walt’s ends Mr Kim I’m afraid.

Dumont: What’ll happen to me?

Richard: If you’re lucky, the Low-men will put a fright into you and leave it at that.

Dumont: and if I’m not?

Richard: pray that you are… You ready Kyle?

[the boy nods. He stand and joins Richard, holds his hands and closes his eyes. A shimmer effect appear and strong chimes break into the audio. Kyle’s nose explodes with blood and he drops to his knees. The shimmer intensifies and Richard and Kyle slowly disappear.

Dumont remains tied to chair. He struggles and eventually frees himself. He rubs his wrists absently]

Narration: Running seemed pointless now, Richard was right, I’d make it no distance at all before they’d find me. So I settled down and waited for the itch, for those maddening coats and brimmed hats. I didn’t have to wait long.

[slow motion of the low men entering the cellar]

Lowman 1: Mr Dumont, you disappoint us!

Dumont: I kept my end of the bargain.

Lowman 1: So you did, but not to discreet were you. I’m inclined to think that maybe had you been more careful, I’d be in possession of my best employees.

Dumont: The boy?…I wouldn’t know anything about that.

Lowman: I’m sure Richard filled you in? No? Would you like to see my real form?

Dumont: real form?

Lowman: Now now Mr Dumont, lets drop the act shall we. You can see past our rather modest attempt to imitate your form. Believe it or not, we idealise your species, your beauty, your...essence. I’d very much like to show you the full me.

Dumont: No, no thank you.

Lowman: Maybe for the best. The last human I showed my form bashed his brains out right there on a concrete pillar. Fascinating thing, the human brain, even when slopped on a parking lot floor. Not everyone can take it it seems, too much for some with gentle minds.

Dumont: So…Now what?

Lowman: Well Mr Richards, I’m afraid your services are still required. We have far greater plans for you! We need everyone on board for the big push, and a man with your talents can’t go to waste lulling around here.

Dumont: And if I decline this new…opportunity?

Lowman: We can overlook some with gifts, Mr Dumont. Like a certain waitress. I wonder how strong her mind is? Would she push a carving knife through her throat if she saw my real form? Her touch isn’t particularly strong, but I’m sure we could find other tasks for her around the compound. We may not be human, Richard, but we have needs too. Our anatomies don’t match to well, us and humans, the male of our species is rather larger in the, er,  trouser department, if you like. Occasionally humans can get split right up the middle...

Dumont: You’ve made your point.

Lowman: Come then! A new world awaits. Your going to love Thunderclap. Plenty to see, lots to do...

Dumont gets to his feet and walk between the Lowmen. We see him leaving the cellar. Cuts to black. Fades in on large hall, with comfortable seating, filled with people. Some are reading, others playing chess. Lowmen are patrolling quietly. Mr Dumont is sitting in a wingback chair reading a newspaper.

So, here I am. Turns out finding people wasn’t my only skill. I sit here, in my chair. One part of me reading the paper, the other part, the part that shines chipping away at a beam which holds a tower, around which all the countless world’s revolve. So much for special , huh Nana.

The Can- Toi ain’t so bad once you get used to them, they try they’re best to keep us in line, but they’re more human than even they realise. Before I arrived there was an escape, and they lost their best breaker, Ted. There’s whispers here and there, but for the most part it’s assumed he’s gone for good.

I think about the boy from time to time, wonder where he is. I’m happy he got away, and I hope it stays that way. And I think about Gloria, but I don’t allow myself that luxury too often.

Mostly, I wait. Breaking beams isn’t too good for your health, seems to scramble something up on a base level and sooner or later you get paid a visit from the big C. Could be leukaemia, could be a brain tumour. This world at one time was far more advanced than the one I’m from, but seems like they never got round to a cure for cancer, or if they did it was lost long ago.

Maybe one day I’ll escape, like Ted. I’ll find Gloria and we’ll disappear. If Ted could do it, maybe I can too.