#unless i make this one like ridiculously long compared to the other few thousand word short stories lol

[shrunkupthejams]

yoooo!!! i wrote like 700 words??? in an hour and a half??? after nearly two months of writing nothing, this is amazing omg.

i got two scenes done (basically) i finished the one with geo & chad being vulnerable at the beach and the one right after. from that emotional scene we jump to silly banter bc they both desperately need to pretend everything's normal and that the emotional scene changed nothing fundamental about their relationship.

but fundamentally their relationship IS changed bc geo APOLOGIZED for the FIRST TIME in the 9 months they've been travelling together. AND they were sincere about it. like that's a big change for geo's character bc they start the story not giving a shit about chad at ALL.

also this wip is the one where chad let's himself be vulnerable and properly deals w/ his feelings for the first time in??? probably years honestly. like since he was teenager. not that ik how old he is beyond a handy wavy early to mid 20s.

really enjoying how this one is ending up becoming a massive turning point for the story in so many ways. THIS is why i couldn't finish this short story for my capstone. too many emotions and stuff like that. the whole dynamic shifts yk.

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur has never had wings. He has long since resigned himself to that fact. However much of his father's blood runs through his veins, it is not enough to grant him that gift.

Wilbur comes back to life, and his back begins to ache.

(word count: 6,141)

---------------------

It’s stupid, but when his back first begins to ache, he assumes it’s old age.

The thing is that he doesn’t have any real frame of reference for what constitutes as old and what does not. His father is old, but his father has lived for literally thousands of years. Technoblade is not quite so old as that, but Technoblade never dies is more than just a catchphrase. Tommy is young, he’s sure of that much, but Tommy has days where he wakes up and his head and ribs won’t stop aching, remnants of that third death that have never quite left him, so Tommy is perhaps not the best gauge of what pains are and are not normal for a young person.

Wilbur doesn’t think that he’s particularly old. He’s still not yet thirty, unless he counts the void years. Then, he’s older than thirty. Then, he’s older than his own bones. He tries not to dwell on the void years, because dwelling on the void years gives him urges that he’s still learning how to ignore. Urges like informing everyone gaily and at length when the inevitable heat death of the universe will be, or giving everyone a graphic description of what happens at a microscopic level in the human body when it picks up a stomach bug.

The point is, he’s not very old. But he feels it, a lot of the time, so when he wakes up one morning and his back is killing him, he shrugs it off and goes about his day. It hurts, sure. It hurts kind of a lot. But he’s had worse. The void took him apart molecule by molecule and put him back together again so many times that he learned to love it, and compared to that, this is nothing at all.

Life in the Arctic has been—nice. It’s been nice, reconnecting with Phil, cautiously rebuilding his relationship with Technoblade. Tommy comes to visit a lot, and it’s odd, trying to juggle the kid he thinks of as a brother with his father and his father’s best friend, especially when there’s so much bad blood between the lot of them, but they make it work. And Ranboo is around a lot, and he’s a nice kid, and Niki stops by every so often, and it’s good to see her. No one else is very interested in coming to visit him, which is understandable, but she always smiles at him, and he knows that they’re still friends. Which is good.

He’s fairly sure that the four of them, Phil and Techno and Niki and Ranboo, have some sort of secret club thing going on. They always give him different answers when he asks about it; Niki blinks and tells him it’s a book club, and Ranboo does not blink because he does not have eyelids, but Ranboo claims that it’s a pet grooming society. So they’re lying to him for sure, and he thinks he could know the truth if he wanted to, if he tapped in just a bit more to those bits of void that have nestled in his heart. The temptation is strong, sometimes, but he resists.

He doesn’t want to mess with a good thing, is all. He’s found a peace here in the snow that he didn’t think he would be able to find outside of the grave. He is hesitant to call himself healing, but most days, when his head cries out for blood and fire and burning the world and himself along with it, he can push the idea away and carry on without trying to act on it. That is healing, perhaps.

Captain Puffy tells him it is, anyway, and he’s found that Captain Puffy tends to know what she’s talking about.

But so. His back hurts. And he expects it to stop after a while, because even old person aches surely can’t last forever. Except, it doesn’t, and in fact seems to only get worse over the next few days, to the point that he starts to worry that it’s going to begin interfering with his functionality. Which he doesn’t want. He needs freedom, freedom to go where he wants, even if where he wants to go usually isn’t very far. It’s the principle of the thing. He does not do well with confinement, with spaces that are too enclosed, and if this pain ends up laying him out in his room, he’s going to go insane.

Poor choice of words, that. But the point still stands, so he makes a decision. The decision is this: he’s simply not going to allow that to happen.

So he slaps a smile on his face and carries on with his business, and does his best to ignore the way his spine starts to feel like it’s cracking open and stabbing into the surrounding muscle. And he is a very good actor, if he does say so himself, so for the most part, no one seems to notice that anything is wrong. Phil asks him if he’s feeling alright, but he’s able to deflect by claiming fatigue, and Phil accepts the explanation easily. And the pain only increases, does not let up at all, but it’s a gradual sort of increase, so before too long, he figures out how to adjust to it. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

And then Tommy stops by for a visit, and they’re chatting outside for a moment, and Tommy says something stupid and ridiculous, so he smacks him gently upside the head, which Tommy takes objection to. And then they’re wrestling, which makes the pain flare a bit, but it’s manageable, especially since he gets Tommy pinned in about four seconds flat, which. Is concerning, a bit, because he is not particularly strong, physically, so if he can pin Tommy, there are a lot of other people who could also definitely pin Tommy.

But he’s probably not thinking about it the right way. This was a play fight, not a real one, and it’s difficult, sometimes, to remember that the server is currently at peace.

He pins Tommy, both of them panting and grinning in the snow, and he doesn’t let up until Tommy admits defeat. And then he gets to his feet, and here is where he makes the error: he turns his back.

The snowball impacts him right between his shoulder blades. He stumbles forward with the force of it, and his knees hit the snow.

Tommy is already cackling, is calling him a bitch. Wilbur barely has time to think oh, shit before something spasms, and it’s like something has taken a knife to him from the inside out. He hears a strangled little scream, choked and agonized, and barely recognizes the fact that it’s coming from him, because black spots are dancing across his vision and his lungs aren’t inflating properly and he can hardly think.

“Oh, come on,” Tommy says, a wide smile still in his voice. “Don’t be such a pussy. I didn’t even pack any ice in.”

He can’t reply. The agony is centered where the snowball hit, but it’s radiating outward, and the whole of his back feels like it’s burning and freezing all at once, and he shudders violently, breaths coming in short, quick gasps. He clenches his fists, braces them against his thighs, pressing down hard enough to leave bruises.

“Wilbur?” Tommy asks, more uncertain. And then, Tommy is there, kneeling down in front of him, and his face goes all wide and panicky. “Wilbur? Holy shit, are you dying? Are you having a heart attack? A stroke? Are you freezing to death? Have I just killed you with a snowball? You’ve got three lives again, right? Where are you hurt, Wil, come one, you’ve got to tell me, you’ve gotta tell me so I can fix it, are you—”

“My back,” he manages, “my back’s been—my back’s been hurting, it wasn’t your fault, it’s just—” He cuts off with another gasp as all the muscles in his back convulse, tensing and untensing and tensing again and sending a wave of stabbing pain through his nerves.

“Oh, Prime,” Tommy says, “oh, Prime, alright, you’re gonna be fine, big man, let’s just get you inside, alright? Can you walk? Nevermind, just—” Tommy hooks his hands underneath his arms and hauls him to his feet, slinging one of his arms across his shoulders as soon as he can get them in the right position. He lets out a little whimper, and hates himself for doing so, just a little bit, but fuck, that hurts.

The stairs are a trial. His feet drag, and he would trip and fall flat on his face if it weren’t for Tommy. But then, they’re inside Phil’s house, and Tommy sits him down on Phil’s ratty little couch, and he immediately curls in on himself, hands gripping his forearms as if the pain will go away if he hugs himself hard enough.

“Okay, shirt off, Wil, let me see,” Tommy says, and he blinks dumbly for a moment.

“What?” he asks, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

“No, just—you’ve got to let me see what’s wrong, yeah?”

“‘S old man aches,” he mumbles, but doesn’t try to fight it when Tommy begins manhandling his arms, pushing at his coat sleeves.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Tommy demands. “You’re not that old. Who do you think you are, Philza fucking Minecraft? Come on, just let me see—” He finally manages to get the coat off, and then the shirt, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh as it’s exposed to the air. Tommy freezes.

“What?” he asks. “What is it, what’s—”

“I don’t,” Tommy says, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t, Wilbur, I don’t know what this is, I don’t—holy shit, that’s actually kind of scary. Um! No, nevermind, don’t pay attention to me, just keep um, breathing! Breathing is good! Breathing exercises!” He breathes in and out, loud and exaggerated. “See, just like that. I’m just gonna—”

And he puts a hand out, and before Wilbur can stop him, he rests it on his back. Light and cautious, but still too much, and Wilbur stuffs a fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming. In the same motion, he flinches away, violently, but the damage has already been done. Because the contact hurts, a lot, but what’s worse is the horror, because in the split second that Tommy’s hand touched his skin, he could feel the way that it is wrong, that his back is wrong, that there is something terribly wrong. Because there are ridges protruding from his back, long and thick and raised, and it’s wrong and it hurts and Tommy’s right, actually, this is scary, he’s fucking scared.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Tommy is saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I won’t do that again, I’m so sorry, Wilbur, are you okay? Please be okay, please—”

He nods, though it’s more like he lets his head fall and then painstakingly brings it back up a little.

“Okay, I think we need—” Tommy says. “I think that I don’t know what to do, so I think we need—” He takes a deep breath. “Phil! Phil!” Loud, panicked, earsplitting. Wilbur winces. “Phil! He is home, isn’t he? Phil!”

A second passes, and then, drifting up from the basement, a distant, “Tommy? Everything good?”

“Phil, get up here right fucking now!”

There is a beat of silence, and then there are footsteps, quiet at first but growing closer, and they are quick, hurried. Phil must have detected the genuine fear in Tommy’s voice, because Tommy and Phil generally stand on very shaky ground with each other, so while Phil will typically indulge Tommy in his whims, it depends on the day as to how far he’ll go, how quick he’ll respond. But it’s only a moment or two before Phil’s head pokes out of the floor, his hands clinging to the ladder, his face twisted in confusion.

“What on earth is the matter?” he asks, and then breaks off as his eyes land on Wilbur, who—he must be a sight. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. But terror flashes across Phil’s face, and he is crossing the floor in an instant, hands hovering over him, fluttering helplessly, though thankfully, he doesn’t touch.

“What’s wrong, where are you hurt, what—” The words come out in a jumbled flurry, but he stops just as abruptly, and Wilbur knows that he is looking at the horror show that is his back.

“It hurts, Phil,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Phil says, sounding—still concerned, but perhaps marginally calmer? “Okay, you’re going to be alright. I think I know what this is.” He settles himself on the couch right next to him and opens his arms, and Wilbur doesn’t hesitate before leaning forward, slumping against him. Phil seems to know better than to put any kind of pressure on his back, and instead places one hand on his arm and the other on the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Tommy demands.

“Tommy, I need you to run over to Techno’s and ask him for something for pain, and something for sleep. Can you do that for me?” Phil asks instead of answering, and perhaps Wilbur should be terrified by the implication that he’s going to need either of those things, but the promise of some kind of relief overrides any kind of trepidation.

“Like fuck I will,” Tommy says, “Not before you tell me what the fuck is wrong with him!”

Another convulsion wracks him. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, and tastes blood. His breath is hitching, and he can’t stop it.

“Tommy.” Phil’s voice is sharp, but then, Wilbur feels rather than hears him sigh. “It’s wings, I think. I don’t understand why now, but I went through this a long time ago, when I was very young. I recognize the signs. So Tommy, please.”

Tommy makes a surprised little sound. Wilbur isn’t looking, has his face buried in Phil’s shoulder, but he can imagine the look on his face: the slack jaw, the wide open eyes. And then, there are rushed footsteps retreating, and the door slamming, and Tommy’s muffled voice calling out for Technoblade.

And then, Wilbur processes what Phil just said.

He twists his head around so he can see his face, regretting it a moment later. Any kind of movement seems to make the pain worse, and he has to take a moment to tremble through it.

“Wings?” he whispers. “How?”

He’s never had wings.

If he were going to have wings, he would have gotten them a long time ago. He remembers nights spent as a child, staying up and hoping for feathered appendages to somehow miraculously appear on his back, just so he could be more like his dad. He remembers the crushing disappointment when he finally accepted that no matter how much divine blood runs in his veins, it is apparently not enough.

But he did accept it. He accepted it years ago. There is absolutely no reason for him to be developing wings now, as a fully-grown adult, but Phil sounds so very sure, and his back hurts so very much, and perhaps that’s consistent with actual appendages trying to sprout out of him.

“I don’t know,” Phil says. “I’ve never heard of it happening so late, even in avians. Which, I’m not exactly, but I got mine when I was a kid like they do, and I don’t—I don’t know, Wil, I really don’t, but I remember what it was like, yeah? I know what to do. It’s gonna suck for a little while, but you’re going to be fine, I promise.”

“Okay,” he croaks, “okay—” and then he has to stop talking, because the pain flares again, bright and intense and holy shit, but it’s worse this time, because now that he knows what’s going on, he can feel them. He can feel things inside of him, pushing against his muscles and his skin in ways that absolutely should not be possible, and there is too much of him to be contained in his body, and there are things inside of him trying to escape—

It’s almost like the way he gets when he thinks about the void too hard. Except not, because when he does that, he feels the urge to dissolve away, gently and peacefully, to let himself back into the quiet that is not quiet and the darkness that is not dark, where all the knowledge of the world is at his fingertips, too much for a mortal brain to contain and remain sane. That is not this. This is his own body trying to explode. There is no peace, no dissolution; it’s messy and physical and Prime he just wants it to stop.

He shifts in Phil’s grasp, fruitlessly trying to find a position that takes the pressure off, a little bit. It’s no use, of course, because he can still feel something moving under the skin of his back, and his vision whites out, and when he comes back to himself, he’s shivering, shivering and shaking and sobbing in Phil’s hold, and he doesn’t remember when he started crying but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Phil is keeping up a steady stream of soothing nonsense, and he latches onto the sound of his voice like it’s the only lifeline he has.

And then the door bursts open, and Wilbur doesn’t bother trying to look, but there are two sets of footsteps, not just one.

“Here,” Tommy says, panting, and there are several thumps, and several clinks, glass on glass.

“Oh god, don’t—and he’s doing it, he’s just dumping all of that on the floor. Don’t break those, Tommy, those aren’t splash pots. Have you never handled a potion before.” Technoblade pauses for a moment. “So, what exactly’s wrong with him? The child was making no sense at all.”

Wilbur thinks he detects a note of concern. But he’s not thinking clearly, and it’s always hard to tell anyway, with Technoblade.

“He’s got wings growing in,” Phil responds, voice clipped. Wilbur feels his hand leave his arm, and he whines at the loss of touch. And then another spasm, and he whines again, pressing his face harder into Phil’s shirt.

“Oh. Huh. Yes, that makes perfect sense, of course.”

Phil’s arm dips a bit, and Wilbur finds himself being moved, his head gently tilted back. Phil’s face comes into view, pale and blurry.

“You want to drink this for me, Wil?” he says, and then there is glass at his lips, and he parts them immediately. He doesn’t like being knocked out, doesn’t like the loss of control that comes with it, but if he has to be aware for another five minutes, he’s not going to be able to keep himself from screaming aloud.

He swallows, grimacing at the taste. The effects start hitting right away. His mind detaches from himself, and the pain drains from him. Every muscle goes lax.

He exhales.

“There we go,” Phil murmurs, “there we go. It’s gonna be alright, Wil. I’ll be here the whole time. You’re gonna be okay.”

The world falls away. He lets it. He trusts his father to catch him.

----------

He wakes up a few times, and each time, it hurts. Phil is always there, and usually, Tommy too, and sometimes Techno, and he can barely move but they always see that he’s awake, and they give him a potion and he’s under again, and he’s glad for it, because those moments of consciousness are a spiral of pain and confusion and his thoughts flying apart because he barely understands what’s going on or why he’s hurting and he just wants it to go away.

And then there is the time he wakes up and he thinks somebody is cutting his back open, and he can feel his own blood on his skin, sticky and hot, and he thrashes, trying to get away, and that makes the pain so much worse, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is inhuman, and he fights until a potion is poured down his throat and it’s back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and people are talking in low, hushed tones. He can’t make out what they’re saying. He cracks his eyes open, and it’s Phil and Technoblade, deep in some discussion, both looking terribly concerned. He decides he’ll ask what’s wrong later, and then closes his eyes and goes back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and some part of him is moving, and he doesn’t understand what it is because it’s not any of his limbs, not his arms and not his legs, and it feels alien and foreign and his back feels like it’s been shoved under a woodchipper and then tossed through a paper shredder for good measure, and he’s not aware enough to know why, so he panics. There is a bit of the void that still dwells in his heart, and he calls on it, cries out to it, and it answers, comes rushing in around him, and his mind expands to peer into galaxies.

Philza is at his side a moment later, and he is able to look at him and see all the weight of years that lie behind his eyes, and all the years that lie ahead of him, and the moment of his death, all spiraling out like a tapestry and like a mass, and the music is atonal, confused, but a closer glance reveals it to be twelve-tone, order in the chaotic lines. Wilbur is with the void again, and his heart still beats, but it’s a near thing, and he could stop it if he chose.

“Do you want to know, Philza?” he asks, words spilling from his lips like rain, like the river, like the flood. “Do you want to know when it will happen? I can see it. I can see how some part of you wants it. All our histories are like tangled up threads, but they all come to an end, and I can see those endings, Philza, I can tell you about them if you like.”

Pain constricts Philza’s face, and Wilbur doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know who wouldn’t love the void and its peace and its everything.

“I know, Wilbur,” Philza says, “I know, but how about you come back to me now, okay? Come back to me?”

“We’re all little bits of code, Philza,” he informs him. “None of us are real. We’re little bits of code and words on a page and lines in a script written by our better selves. Nothing in this world really matters. We might as well have all the fun we can before the lights go out. Do you want to know when that will be, Philza? Not too long after you, Philza. Not too long at all. I told Tommy, he knows, he didn’t want to know but that’s alright, he’s better off for it, if he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Come back, Wil, come on,” Philza says, “you can do it. You’ve got a heartbeat, do you feel it?”

Philza takes his hand and places it over his heart, and—that’s right. He’s alive. He’d forgotten. The void spins, and then it tucks itself away again, waiting for the next moment he needs it, and he is left with only vague impressions of what he’s just said and a vague idea that everything hurts and something is wrong with his back and he’d like to go to sleep now, please.

“Alright, yeah,” Phil says, “here, you can have this, you can sleep. You’re doing so well, Wil, I promise it’s almost done.”

He takes the potion. Or tries to; Phil has to hold it for him.

“Okay,” he says faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he hears Phil say, very far away. “So long as you come back, everything’s okay.”

He goes back to sleep again. He thinks he wakes up a few more times, but he doesn’t really remember. He doesn’t really want to.

----------

And then: awareness.

The first thing he processes is that everything aches, deeply and acutely, but none of it feels nearly as bad as it did before, and not even as bad as it’s been over the past couple of weeks. It’s irritating, painful, but more than manageable, really, practically a relief. The second thing he processes is that he’s lying on his stomach, and that there is something weighing him down.

His mind puzzles over this for a moment. He tries to roll over, to see what’s going on, but something stops him, and then he remembers: wings.

He’s got wings. There are wings on his back. Growing out of him. A part of his body. Wings.

As soon as he realizes that, he becomes aware of them. And it is so very strange, to suddenly have access to two extra limbs, to suddenly have additional body parts to move about and control. It’s a feeling impossible to describe, and he has to take several minutes to process it, to try to become accustomed to it. It doesn’t really work, but he tries moving them anyway, just a bit of a flex, and—

Ouch.

He groans, shoving his face into the pillow. A mistake. That was a mistake. He’d rather like to go back to sleep now and pretend that none of this is happening.

But his vocalization draws attention, and then there is a hand on his shoulder, gently brushing him just enough to feel, not enough to pain him. He turns his head to the side, reluctantly, and Phil is kneeling beside him, his face open and soft and clearly relieved, his lips curling into a slight smile.

“Hey,” he says. “How you feeling, Wil?”

He considers this, and decides on honesty. “Bit like I’ve been caught between a piston and a wall for the past couple of days,” he admits. “Better than before, though.”

“Good to hear,” Phil says, and then his face goes a bit more serious. “How much of that do you remember?”

“Not much?” he says. “I don’t think? Impressions, I guess. I know I wasn’t having a good time. I’m glad I don’t remember it too clearly. I was out for most of it, yeah?”

“Most of it,” Phil agrees, and Wilbur thinks that perhaps there is something he’s not saying, but he doesn’t feel like pressing the matter. He can guess what it is, anyway; there is a chill in his chest, and his thoughts feel just slightly more fractured than usual, so it’s not hard to assume what might have happened. Not hard to assume where he might have gone. He’s sure he’ll feel terrible about it when everything stops feeling so surreal.

He has wings.

“It’s over now?” he asks, and winces at the way his voice cracks. “It’s done?”

Phil’s eyes do the thing where they go immeasurably soft and crinkly at the edges, and it’s love and relief and sadness all at once. “It’s done,” he agrees, and then hesitates. “You’re not gonna be able to fly on them for a while, but would you like to see?”

He doesn’t understand why Phil is being so cautious about it. Of course he wants to see. If he’s going to be put through hell, he wants to see what came of it. He wants it to be worth it.

“Usually, when wings grow in, they’re all downy and shit. Like a baby bird,” Phil says, probably in response to whatever face he’s sure he’s making. “Flight feathers come in over the next few weeks.” He pauses again, and Wilbur thinks he understands his reticence, now, understands the still-present concern.

“But that’s not what happened with mine,” he states, and Phil shakes his head.

“Yours are fully fledged,” he says. “Probably part of why it hurt so much. I don’t know why, Wil. But do you wanna have a look?”

Wordless, he nods, and Phil takes that as his cue to reach out and help him sit upright. It’s far more effort than it should be, compounded by the fact that his sense of balance feels all wrong, and that’s going to take some getting used to, he can already tell. And he’s sore, like he’s run a marathon or fought another half dozen wars all in one go, and his head spins a little bit when he finally situates himself. He closes his eyes against it, breathing in sharply.

He feels Phil guiding his wings forward, into his field of vision. He opens his eyes.

They are very big, is the first thing he notices. They would have to be, of course, to hold his weight up. Magic and suspension of disbelief only stretches so far. They are very large, and the feathers are very large, and they are very angular and neat as well, so neat that someone has to have arranged them while he was unconscious, because there’s no way that they came out looking like that.

The color, though. The color. He swallows, hard.

They are black, perhaps. They look black. But he knows on an instinctive level that they are black in the same way that the void is black, and that if someone were to stare at them for too long, they would realize as much, would realize that actually, they are not black at all, but rather some color or some lack of color that is beyond human comprehension. The void translates as black to the human mind because it is as close as the human mind can get to true perception, and most of the time, Wilbur remembers it as black, but it was not, and his wings are not, and he is never going to be free of it, is he?

On some level, he knew that. Knew that the void is in him and about him, and no matter what he does, it will never leave him completely, not after all the years he spent with it, intertwined with the infinite nothing. But now he has wings on his back, and they should be a connection between him and Phil, should be something to celebrate, but he stares at the plumage and feels sick to his stomach.

“Wil?” Phil asks. He sounds confused, sounds worried by his reaction. “You okay, mate?”

He’s not sure how to phrase this in a way that Phil will understand. Not sure that he wants to.

“Void,” he manages, voice a broken whisper. “They look like void, Phil.”

He looks up just in time to see Phil’s face crumple.

“Wil—”

“They look just like it, Phil,” he continues. “Just like it. And I know I’m not always good about, about being here, about keeping myself stable, but I’m trying. I try to ignore it when it calls, I try not to reach out to it, and when I fail, I, I try to come back, I do, I swear. I can’t—I can’t have these, Phil, they’re from it, that’s why I’m getting them now, maybe it triggered something, I don’t know, but I can’t, Phil, I can’t—”

He reaches out toward them, intending to do—something, maybe, and Phil must have a better idea than he does, because his hand darts out and snags his, stopping him in his tracks.

“No, Wil, don’t do that, okay? We can work on it, we’ll figure it out, but please don’t—”

“You’re up!”

He and Phil both freeze, and as one, look to the door. Tommy is standing there, grinning like nobody’s business, and Technoblade is lurking behind him, his face contorted into an expression that looks like he wants to murder someone but really just means he’s feeling very awkward.

Tommy glances back and forth between the two of him, and his face slowly falls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Nothing—I mean, it all went right, didn’t it?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. Gently removes his hand from Phil’s grasp, and then spreads out his wings behind him, putting them on full display, as far out as he can make them go, and it aches and he’s not going to be able to hold them there for long, but it’s worth it. He wants Tommy to see. Because Tommy will know. Tommy remembers. And unlike him, Tommy hates to remember. Tommy hates the void. So perhaps this is an act of self-sabotage. That’s what Captain Puffy would say. But he does it anyway, because he wants someone else to see and understand, understand in a way he knows Phil won’t be able to.

“I’ve got void wings, Tommy,” he says, and a smile splits his face. “See them?”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he flinches.

Gratification is not nearly as sweet as he thought it would be. Actually, he just sort of feels like crying.

But then, Tommy’s brows draw together. And he steps further into the room, coming closer and closer until he’s standing right up against the bed, staring at the feathers. Wilbur holds himself very still.

“I see,” Tommy says slowly, “but Wilbur, I’m not sure you do.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, and cranes his neck to try to see whatever Tommy’s looking at. For a moment, he doesn’t; there’s just the feathers, void feathers, death feathers, a reminder that—

But arctic sunlight slants through the window, and if he shifts his angle just a little bit—

The noise that escapes him is small and involuntary. He hopes no one calls him on it, but that’s the least of his concerns right now. Because the colors do not change, not exactly, but if he holds them to the light, the sun illuminates the feathers, haloing their edges in gold, and there is a sheen of color running across them, a sheen that ripples and moves as he shifts them in the sunbeam, and it is a beautiful, rich blue.

And they’re lovely.

“Oh,” he says, and Tommy laughs at him, the fucking gremlin.

“Yeah, fucking oh,” he says. “You’re such a moron. They’re so fucking ace, Wilbur.”

“I think that maybe you need to work on rememberin’,” Technoblade says from the doorway, “that you’re the sum of all your experiences, and not just one.”

Wilbur stares at him.

“Oh my god,” he finally says. “That’s so cheesy. Who the hell are you and what have you done with Technoblade?”

“Alright,” Techno grumbles, “see if I do anythin’ nice for you ever again. I didn’t come up here to receive this kind of treatment. This is an outrage.”

He laughs. He laughs, from the sheer relief of it, and his trepidation is melting away like snow in the sunshine, and he can allow himself to revel in it, to revel in the wings on his back, and he is sore and tired but this is what glory feels like, maybe, and perhaps he can fly into the air and there will be no wax to drip away.

Perhaps these wings are of the void, but they are of him, too.

And he looks to Phil again, and Phil is smiling at him, warm and happy. His own wings are flared out behind him, tattered at the edges, so many feathers torn or still missing entirely, and the more time that passes, the more and more likely it is that those feathers are never going to grow back, that Phil truly will never fly again. Phil has already resigned himself to it, he knows, but Wilbur has never given up hope, will never be able to bring himself to give up hope.

“It’s not fair that I can fly when you can’t,” he says quietly, and the room goes still and quiet. Especially when it’s my fault, he doesn’t say, though he knows everyone hears it.

“Wil,” Phil says, “nothing could bring me more joy than this.”

And Wilbur hears what he means: you, here.

So he flexes his wings and revels in the ache and revels in the sunshine and revels at his family, here, his father sitting by him and his friend-protege-brother poking at curiously at his feathers and Technoblade still in the doorway, not leaving even for all his grumbling. He revels in this, revels in this life, and for a time, the void recedes entirely.

And in its wake is the sunlight.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

So more on the Beauford Swan AU, how do you think Alice and Rosalie's relationships with him are different? I assume Rosalie doesn't compare herself to Beauford the exact same way she compares herself to Bella, and Alice's Barbie Bella dream probably doesn't translate directly into a Ken Beau. How would that effect their initial relationships and the eventual family dynamics (Let's just assume this is the Beau Gives Up and Asks Carlisle to Turn Him version)?

Ooooh, interesting question anon.

For reference the Beauford AU: one, two, and three.

Specifically, we're in post number three, where Beauford survives Edward (huzzah for Beauford).

Rosalie

Rosalie's relationship with Beauford is a rollercoaster of weird.

At first, Beauford is a nothing special human. Rosalie's a little amused the girls are going wild for him, and she sees the appeal if you're into sensitive pretty boys (not Rosalie's type), but it has nothing to do with her.

As you point out, Rosalie doesn't have that conflict with her own beauty and comparison to Bella. Just per being a man, Rosalie will not compare herself to Beauford constantly.

Then Edward has his Biology breakdown and becomes increasingly weird.

Rosalie probably still suggests they kill off Beauford for nearly being crushed by a van. While Rosalie did have inner conflict over Bella, most of what informed that was Rosalie's lack of desire to move, that wouldn't change because of Beauford.

She probably wonders what the hell Edward's deal is, why is he obsessed with this guy, and then she has her "oh" moment.

Edward is gay.

Edward has always been gay.

Suddenly everything makes sense. The fact that Edward has shown 0 interest in Rosalie, that he showed 0 interest in Tanya who was practically throwing herself at him, that he shows 0 interest in any woman period.

Rosalie never suspected as much before, or at least, never put two and two together. But of course Edward is gay, it all makes sense now.

Edward doesn't like that idea, not at all, and accuses Rosalie of being a jealous shrew who is so offended by the idea that Edward isn't attracted to her that she accuses him of homosexuality.

Rosalie never said a word of this out loud.

The family has the biggest fight they've ever had. And, somehow, it's not over the murder of Beauford, but Edward's sexuality. No definitive conclusion is reached, but if you ask Edward, he is most definitely a heterosexual hot blooded man. Now, if you excuse him, he's going to go sneak into Beauford's room to crush the spiders that might sneak onto his pillow.

But back to Rosalie and Beauford.

Rosalie becomes increasingly exasperated as Edward romances Beauford without admitting he's romancing Beauford. He also does ridiculous things like adamantly refuse to turn Beauford into a vampire.

Rosalie tries to point out that he and Edward have no future like this. Edward doesn't care, he'll nobly leave Beauford anyway, as soon as he has the strength to. Rosalie tries to point out that a man doesn't take another man to a romantic Italian dinner (where he can't even eat anything) unless he's romantically interested. Edward tells Rosalie that she's never been as beautiful as she thought she was!

Rosalie decides, "fuck it", and she will be a part of Beauford's welcome committee when Edward invites him to meet the family. She's only given a few hours notice, but she just feels so bad for this guy. Edward's stringing him along, but is too in love with his own closet to ever have a real relationship.

She has no idea what Beauford thinks about it, but she's just dying of secondhand embarrassment. And yes, she thinks that Beauford should probably live a human life, and that Edward should either leave him alone or turn him, but at the very least she has to explain that her brother's an idiot.

Well, turns out, Beauford is also an idiot. And he's weird.

Rosalie finds herself meeting the most sensitive, womanly, man she's ever seen in her life. This guy is a delicate flower, she feels like if she breathes on him he might shatter into a thousand pieces.

He's very polite, very charming, but she watches as he does things like cry at Edward's piano playing and then let Edward eat his tear.

What the fuck?

Rosalie throws her hands in the air. There's no helping these two, they deserve each other, Rosalie out. Well, the baseball game happens, which turns into a disaster and a half.

Rosalie still likely gives her "Why are we risking our own deaths over this guy we don't even know" and Beauford assumes that Rosalie hates him (not helped by Rosalie giving him "are you crazy" looks all the time as well as Edward telling Beauford that Rosalie is jealous of his beauty and Edward's very platonic affections for him).

That summer Rosalie barely sees Beauford. When she does, he and Edward are cuddling on the couch. She asks if Edward's admitting he's gay yet, the answer is always no. She rolls her eyes and leaves to work on her cars.

New Moon happens, Rosalie doesn't know what to think anymore, but she supposes this is a decent outcome. Beauford gets to live a normal, human, life and move on.

They're back six months later.

Fast forward a bit and Beauford is turned by Carlisle. Rosalie sits down to think about it, Carlisle makes it clear why this happened, and she's back to feeling bad for Beauford.

Edward treats him like trash, he's downright vicious to Beauford, and Beauford looks like he's about to cry constantly. Rosalie reaches out and the pair have a good long talk about life, the universe, and her Pig Brother Edward.

Rosalie assures Beauford that Edward will get over it, he'll forgive Beauford eventually, and someday he'll stop being an ass. Beauford is comforted, but Edward never stops being an ass.

Rosalie and Beauford end up best friends instead.

They have nothing in common.

Alice

Alice still makes Beauford her Barbie Beauford, but with a slightly masculine twist.

She buys him fabulous clothes, so that his closet is filled with blazers, turtlenecks, and very tight pants. She still throws him a sweet sixteen eighteen, only instead of a million pink candles the candles are now blue.

Beauford is still utterly mortified.

She gets him a tux for Prom and Beauford ends up going with Edward though neither Edward nor Beauford realize they're in fact going to Prom together as a couple.

Alice still sees Beauford as her best friend and is absolutely ecstatic for his and Edward's "friendship". As Alice never sees the pair having sex, she is absolutely fine with the platonic label and fully agrees with Edward that theirs is a very platonic relationship.

Alice is still the best friend Beauford ever had because he has no friends and doesn't know what friendship is. Though he kind of wishes she'd stop buying him clothes.

Their relationship goes down the drain after Beauford is turned.

As Beauford and Edward's relationship falls apart, he looks to Alice for comfort, but she has none to provide. She doesn't see him and Edward working out any time soon and, well, glad you're a part of the family?

Alice realizes that her and Beauford's friendship isn't going to work out either. She's upset about this, but doesn't see any way to salvage it without completely alienating Edward. Alice will choose Edward.

Alice ponders over might have beens and wonders when the future shifted but quietly watches as Beauford becomes closest with Rosalie.

[twinklelilstarkey]

Stopping You [Part 10] - Michael Gray

Words: 8.9k+

Summary: Y/N’s recovery from both her feelings and her wound takes a step back after a specific night.

Warnings: Female!Reader. Mentions of wounds, a lot of blood, death and night terrors. Emotional cheating. Self-hate (discrediting their own sadness and feelings; hateful inner voice).

Prologue    Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4    Part 5     Part 6    Part 7   Part 8    Part 9    Part 10    Part 11

It has been a total of 24 hours.

Yesterday was a bad day. Both mentally and physically.

Polly tried her best into bringing your mood up, which worked in some way. She eased your mind by telling you that what you were feeling is completely normal, but as soon as you were alone, it was like the whole world was crashing on you.

Over crying so much as hateful questions filled your mind, you were sore at the end of the night. You contracted your muscles so much while sobbing that you could feel your wound pulsate against your skin in pain.

You questioned almost everything about your life before and after Michael left and when he reappeared. Things have changed, not just around his family, but also around you. And that seems to be one of the most confusing matters.

You never cared too much about this, but you can’t help but think about how so many things have changed since Michael came back. From your behaviors to how you function. Everything has changed in some way.

You’ve always suffered with night terrors in your life, ever since your parents left, but they were almost never about Michael. The exception being when the whole Italian/New York mafia situation went down, and Michael got injured. But other than that, it was always you, or anybody else close, that would die.

Never Michael.

You want to know what could’ve possibly awaken those thoughts and that part of your brain that makes you think like that. Could it be because you now connect him to something bad in your life? Or that when he came back, he had-

No, you’re not going there. It’s useless. It will cost you nothing pain, and it won’t grant you any answers. Might as well push that away and live your life.

Or at least try.

You bring your hot mug back to your lips and take another sip of your tea, letting your eyes fall to the ground.

Polly believes you could talk to him. Tell him about how you’ve been feeling lately. But, honestly, for what? To say that you’re falling right back in love with him just to later be thrown in the face that he does not love or feel anything for you anymore.

He. Is. Getting. Married.

It would just be simply ridiculous to do such a thing.

He doesn’t feel anything for you and that’s okay. All he feels is pity and maybe he got a little scared over you being shot, but that’s it. There are no feelings attached, no romance. No nothing. Just simply… a connection through pain, which awoke lost and forbidden memories.

Maybe this could just be your pride talking over your heart but, you just can’t believe that you’re letting yourself fall so easily. After so long of crying over him and overworking yourself to become a Peaky Blinder and just- not worry about anything in your demolished love life. All of it going to the trash because… You caught feelings for him again?

It’s disappointing to say the least.

Today, you awoke as soon as the sun made its way into the living room and since then, you haven’t done much. You walked back to your room after getting yourself a warm drink and sat by the window staring at the green grass of the neighbors’ house like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world.

A book is resting beside you. You have read a few good pages, but you can’t bring yourself to read more than 20 at a time.

Your mind is too heavy.

Voices coming from downstairs make you look away from the window and up to your door. You try your best to identify them as soon as you find them familiar.

You can hear voices and the laugher of Lizzie and Arthur. Which is awfully strange.

You scowl at the sound, and the soft patter of quick feet running around the house squeezes your heart. The kids are here too.

You rise from your seat and walk across your bedroom to the door. You open it softly and the sound of everyone’s voices is now louder. Confusion is the most prominent emotion you can feel right now, but you can’t help but welcome it better than any other one you’ve been feeling lately.

While walking down the main stairs silently, a soft gasp is heard over the loud voices. Ruby’s.

You smile at her as she spots you walking down the stairs and she quickly let’s go of her mother’s hand to run towards you.

As you’re distracted swallowing down the jab of pain at your middle while leaning down to grab her, Polly’s eyes meet you. The smile in your face is almost like a warm hug in the winter. She could get used to this sight forever.

“Look who came back from war,” Ada jokes as she spots you.

She walks towards you and her arms wrap around you as soon as you’re close enough. You lean towards her, even with Ruby on your hip, and she squeezes you in closer.

“I was so worried,” She tells you, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

You pull away from the hug with a small smile and she gives you a wide one in return. It’s been a few weeks since you last saw her. She had left back for London not long before the whole event happened. You honestly didn’t expect to see her this soon.

As Ada moves back, everyone’s attention goes over to you. Everyone, or at least, almost everyone pulls you into a hug, sharing their words of how grateful they are from knowing that you’re still breathing.

You know they had visited you back at the hospital when you were still asleep, but nothing compares to actually seeing you move like nothing had happened. Arthur’s words, not yours.

Talking about Arthur. He was awfully apologetic while you two hugged it out. You believe he must have blamed himself for what happened, but you were quick to take that idea off his head.

You’re not about to see anybody else beating themselves for something out of their reach.  Unless that’s you, of course.

Tommy and Arthur, not even 20 minutes into stepping in Polly’s home, excuse themselves and leave off to work.

The crowd in the living room doesn’t consist in much more people. Both Ada and Lizzie, and of course the kids, stayed behind and took a seat on the couch. The kids surrounded you as soon as you all sat down, while the women in front of you were distracted on talking about whatever, or rather, whoever worth of gossiping.

You listen to some of their words while being continuously pulled into conversation by Charlie as you let Ruby sit next to you, leaning to your side.

Karl is sitting closer to his mother, but looking at you and joining the conversations, nonetheless.

“What about you, Y/N?” Ada asks as she sips her tea.

“What about me?” You ask confused, obviously having no clue on what she’s on about.

“We were talking about weddings,” Lizzie explains, “Sharing our opinions on what is the best wedding. And Ada asked if you have anyone in your mind as your future husband?”

Her tone is playful more than anything. Both Lizzie and Ada expect a disgusted scowl or a roll of your eyes as an answer, but Polly can’t help but tense up against her seat at the question.

As innocent as this conversation was, it was more than powerful to push you back into your inner darkness.

“Not that I know of.” You answer, trying to mimic Lizzie’s tone.

“Oh, come on. You don’t find any man attractive?” Ada asks, putting her cup down beside her, “Not even one?”

You shake your head slowly and she stares at you with half closed eyes, almost as if she has a suspicion of some sort about your feelings towards any male presences.

“There has to be someone,” Lizzie agrees with Ada, “It’s been… what? 3 years?”

You shrug, fighting your urge to correct her since it won’t do you any justice, and the two women share a look as Polly watches all the action unfold.

“What about Finn?”

Oh god, you almost gagged right here.

Ada laughs under her breath at your disgusted yet shocked look and shakes her thoughts of that couple even be slightly real, away.

“God.” Polly scoffs out loud, making every woman rip a slight smile.

“What’s so wrong about my baby brother?” Polly asks, hands over her hips, playful grin on her face.

“Nothing is wrong,” Polly explains, “They would just be the most chaotic couple to existence. Can you imagine?”

You chuckle at her words and shake your head.

“They would burn down the church right at their wedding,” Polly jokes making both Lizzie and Ada laugh, “Probably even when saying their vows.”

There’re a few seconds of silence as the women let their giggles die down.

“Where is Finn?” Lizzie asks curious.

“Oh, Tommy has been making the boy work double the shifts now, for some reason.” Polly answers, “I don’t understand why, but they changed a lot of his shifts since their last meeting.”

“There was a meeting?” You ask confused.

Polly looks over at you.

“Yes, there was. It was only between Tommy and some of the men.” She answers with a short nod, “Nothing too important was talked about, I’m sure.”

You nod at her a little bit unsure and Charlie is quick to grab your attention back to him. He pulls you by your sleeve to look at him and he starts showing you his new toy horse, again.

You feel like you’ve seen that horse a thousand times, now.

Another conversation restarts between the women and you lean back on the couch, letting Ruby continue to play with your gold necklaces as Charlie talks his heart out about the horse that his dad gave him.

Your mind is constantly somewhere else. But this time, it focused on work. Mainly, on what the meeting could’ve possibly been about. As if any meeting with just the men was ‘not important’. They always have the most interesting meetings.

And with that train of thought, hours go by.

You were so distracted by listening to the women beside you laugh and talk, or just with looking down at the kids, that you didn’t even notice the time pass.

Your mind is still on that damned meeting, but you don’t let it get the best of you. You’re sure that the information will eventually reach you. In one way or another.

Three knocks are heard from the front door, and only Polly stands to open it. Nobody thinks too much of it. Everyone knew that eventually someone would come and pick up Ada, Lizzie and the kids.

It’s soon to be dark out, they must be almost leaving now.

“I’m sorry that we’re late.” A familiar voice sounds from the door.

Ada freezes and at the same time she looks up at you, you look up at the door. Not even 5 seconds later, Michael enters the house, followed by, of course, Gina. His blue eyes travel to the couch in the living room, and as he finds you, you’re already looking down at Charlie.

Your hand rests against Charlies’ head, smoothing his soft hair between your fingers, detangling it softly.

He forces his gaze to go back to the blonde behind him and his mother closes the front door behind them.

“Go sit. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go make more tea.” Polly says, voice strong, not as soft as it was previously.

Ada’s and Lizzie’s eyes stay on both Michael and Gina as the couple stands in silence. They don’t find the women’s gaze as nothing more than their way to look at guests before exchanging some welcoming words, so, the tense air and shock just came unnoticed.

“Oh, hi Michael” Ada says, standing on her feet. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

She gives her cousin a quick hug, in which he hugs back, but her eyes quickly fall on the blonde.

“And who are you?” Ada asks softly.

“Michael’s fiancée, Gina” She says with her American accent, extending her hand towards the other family member she hasn’t heard of before.

Ada shakes her hand, feeling slightly confused and shocked with her words, but, just like anyone else in this room, she’s quick to hide her emotions.

“Please, sit. I don’t want you standing all night.” Polly says to the new guests, from the kitchen door.

Michael is the first one to move towards the couches. You don’t dare to look up at him and he notices, fighting his own urge to start a conversation.

Your heart quickens the closer he gets to you and Charlie looks up at him, probably recognizing his face somewhere.

“Charlie, honey, scoot over a little.” Lizzie tells the boy.

The boy in front of you nods in response and takes his eyes off Michael. He stands on the couch and carefully steps over your lap and sits on your other side, by the arm of the couch.

Michael takes his seat next to you and you hold in your breath as your arms rest completely against one another. Lizzie moves a bit to the side and Gina sits beside her fiancée, who has his attention somewhere else.

“How are you?” Michael whispers down at you and you still don’t look up.

“Good.”

Your tone is cold and distant, which he finds extremely strange and awfully uncomfortable.

The couch is surely not large enough for 4 people, but you and Michael are having it worse than anyone else seated down on it. Lizzie and Gina have at least a few inches between themselves, while you and Michael are almost completely leaning against one another, trapped between Gina and Charlie.

Michael’s hands rest over his lap as he hears the awfully awkward conversation between the women start, not finding it at all surprising that you are paying them no absolute attention.

Ruby lets go of your necklaces for the first time and looks down at your hands.

They’re slightly sweaty over the presence of the man beside you but she pays them no mind, grabbing onto them as she eyes the expensive jewelry, surely something she loves a lot about you.

Polly comes back not too long after, and she’s quick to serve everyone another cup of tea.

You refuse any more, since you feel like you’ve already drank too much and explode your own bladder if you keep on going. And as your hand lifts to dismiss the tea from Polly, Ruby catches it.

You smile a bit at her and Michael grins slightly at the sight of the small girl being so interested in your hand. You let her twist the rings on your fingers and her gaze moves up at Michael.

His grin seems awfully contagious to her since she ends up smiling shyly at him as she continues to hold your hand up. As they do their staring contest, you look over at Charlie, who entertains himself and his mind with his new, and very loved, horse.

You sigh softly as your heart continues to beat quickly against your rib cage and you can’t tell if it’s just because you’re anxious about Michael or is it just his presence that is making you react like this.

“Have you taken your pain meds?” Polly asks.

You look up quickly as you notice that the question must be for you and a shiver runs past you as everyone’s eyes fall on you, even Gina’s.

“I will when I go to sleep.”

She gives you a disapproving look and you give her a grin in return.

“It helps me sleep.” You justify, and she sits back in her chair.

Michael grins at the exchange of words and your stubbornness and Ada notices it before continuing with her conversation.

Ruby rests your palm against hers and starts comparing both sizes.

You chuckle at her and as your body jumps at the laugh beside Michael, he looks down at Ruby to see what made you react. The small girl looks up when sensing his eyes on her and as Gina joins the conversation between the other women, Ruby extends her other hand at Michael, holding it upright.

He looks at her confused and you notice.

“She wants to compare your hand to hers.” You explain in a low whisper.

He takes his hand from his lap and extends it to her. His hands are surely bigger than yours, and that seemed to shock the small girl.

You smile as she lays her hand over his with widen eyes and Polly looks up from her tea at you, mind still on the conversation she started.

Her heart swells up at the sight. You and Michael smiling down at the girl sitting on your lap as she holds your hands up and compares them to hers. She can’t hear what you say over the loud voices and from being across the room, but she sees you saying something to Ruby, making her nod.

Michael’s smile widens at the small girl and you look up at him quickly, stealing a look before you get caught, which you don’t, not by him at least. Polly surely did, but she doesn’t say or do anything.

It’s so obvious that you still feel something for him, at least for her. But Michael seems to be unreadable, sometimes. It’s hard to figure anything out.

Gina stares at Polly while grinning at what Ada says and finds her staring at her son, she follows her gaze and clenches her jaw. The urge to roll her eyes feels stronger than her, but her bottled up rage triples at sight of you smiling.

Ruby takes her hands off yours quickly, shyly putting them close to her chest. You continue to smile down at her and as you and Michael try to retreat your own hands, she holds on to them.

Her actions are innocent, purely curious on the size of your hands, but she still leans both of your palms together, still holding them upright.

You and Michael don’t give that much of a reaction as Ruby tries to align them perfectly at the base of your palms and see the size difference from the top of your fingers.

An idea pops in your mind as your hand rests against Michael’s, and as Ruby pulls back to check the difference after so much adjusting, you slide your palm against Michael’s, so your fingers align right at the same height.

Michael chuckles at the confused look on Ruby’s face and she smiles at the contagious sound.

But as soon as the small girl notices what you’ve done, she sends you a glare, making the two of you laugh at her.

Your conjoined laughs catch everyone’s attention for a quick second and Gina doesn’t even care to take a second look. Ada smiles as she sees Ruby readjusting your palms, and, this time, it’s Michael who moves his hand, almost making his fingers only lay over half of your palm.

Ruby glares at him too and you two laugh, again.

“Alright, we’ll stop.” You tell her.

Ruby retries, but this time she has a tactic. As she makes sure that you are aligned perfectly, she holds both your and Michael’s thumb and force them to rest against the other’s back of the hand.

She leans back and stares at the difference between your hands, now happy with her achievement.

You two let her stare at the size difference with her big wide eyes, but something interrupts the sweet moment.

“Michael, honey.” Gina calls out as the conversation between everyone restarts, “Can you pass me that cup?”

Michael takes his hand off yours and you can’t help but feel disappointed at the loss of his touch. He leans forward on the couch and grabs the cup of tea for Gina from the center table, something she could easily get it herself.

You let your hand fall back to your lap and you take a sharp deep inhale, not wanting to be sitting on this couch for any longer.

You let some minutes pass, so you don’t seem like a total bitch, and when feeling ready, you lean forward on the couch, wincing in pain as your body shows to have grown sore over the lack of painkillers and from not moving at all for the past few hours.

Polly’s eyes go over to you at the sound only her seemed to notice, and you look back at her.

“I’m going to bed, I think.” You explain, making everybody get silent and look at you, “I feel exhausted.”

“Need help to find your meds?” She asks, already starting to get up, and you shake your head.

“No, no.” You hold your hand up stopping her, “Stay here. I’ll find them.”

You make sure to sit Ruby on the couch comfortably before forcing yourself up from the low couch. You fight off any sound of pain as you stand on your feet, but your face made it quite obvious.

You really should’ve taken those meds earlier.

You walk to the kitchen, trying not to show any other expression of pain, and everyone’s eyes are on you. Gina stares as you lean against the doorframe to regain your strength, yet she doesn’t feel anything in return. Not even an ounce of pity.

You stumble into the kitchen and look at the main counter, expecting the meds to be sitting right in the middle, just like you left them. But this wouldn’t be Polly’s house if they were.

Your feet get dragged as you take your time walking around to the kitchen.

You start opening every cabinet and drawer that could possibly have your meds, but there are too many to find them right away. Maybe going to bed without your meds wouldn’t be that bad.

You just need to lay down, now.

“Need help?”

You turn on your heels to find Michael by the doorway, already in the kitchen. You look away quickly back to all the drawers and try to hide any type of emotion towards his sudden appearance.

“No, I think I got it.” You answer back.

You continue to look through the many drawers and only after 2 minutes of seeing you struggle; Michael decides to move. He walks towards you and you stand still as he does so.

As he passes between you and the counter behind you, he holds onto your shoulders to make you stand back a little and let him pass. Something that surely made your skin react, but, thankfully, it all came unnoticed to him.

He opens a drawer slightly away from you and pulls out exactly what you’re looking for.

“How did you know?” You ask, curious.

“This is where she would put my meds after I got shot. It’s her drawer from stronger meds.” He explains.

How the hell did you not know that?

You walk towards him as he opens the small paper bag, taking your medicine out and handing it over to you. You take it from his hands carefully and put it down on the counter beside you.

“Thank you” You whisper at him.

You take your medicine in silence as the conversation restarts in the living room, and you try not to cringe at anything that you’re taking. Why is everything so bitter?

Whenever you’re done with one of the meds, Michael grabs them slowly and puts them back on the bag without saying anything.

He slides the drawers closed when done and you start taking the jewelry off your hands, just to start and get your way to the bed way quicker.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks and you look up at him.

“No. But I’ll be.” You say sincerely before looking away and taking a step away from him, “That’s what matters.”

Michael notices your hesitation into continuing some sort of conversation, just like your slight cold tone, but he tries his best to ignore it.

“I’m going to bed,” You announce while turning your back to him and making your way out of kitchen.

“Good night.” He says as you reach the doorway.

You send him a tight-lipped smile and walk out, back into the living room. Polly is, of course, the first one to notice you.

“Did you find it?” She asks.

“Michael did.” You answer.

You walk over to her and once close, lean over and kiss her cheek. The rest of the family distracted with something else or some other type of conversation.

Michael walks out of the kitchen and you reach the stairs, after saying a quick good night, loud enough for everyone else to hear.

You jump up the steps with your rings in your hands as you bring your cold and clammy hands to your neck to try and unclasp your necklaces. Your eyes land on Michael’s as you reach the top floor and he’s staring back.

Gina calls his name in a whisper and he looks at her, breaking your eye contact. And as soon as his eyes reach Gina’s, he doesn’t hesitate into giving her a sweet smile.

As he looks back up while walking around the couch, his eyes meet nothing but some painting on the wall.

You’re not there anymore.

(…)

The sound of birds surrounds you, their soft and energized tweeting coming from the trees far away from you and some branches above you, as the warm summer wind hits your body like a warm hug.

You shift your position on the ground, laying on your stomach and looking up at the sky between the branches high up, far, far away from you.

Solitary clouds float over the bright blue sky, almost not shielding any land from the sunlight.

Your exposed back is warm, erupting into chills whenever Michael moves his hand. You close your eyes again and let yourself relax again.

A hand touches the side of your head softly and slowly you feel its fingers start to trace your hairline. You open your eyes, blinking the sunlight away, and look up at Michael.

His hand falls to your cheek as you move and a small smile spreads over his lips.

“Let me sleep,” You whine, and he finally gives you a full smile.

“Alright,” He answers in a whisper, “Sorry.”

You sigh and hold yourself up with your hands, you push your body up on his torso and his hands go to your waist. Not caring over only wearing a dress, you lay yours legs over his hips, straddling his lap while pulling yourself up.

“I forgive you.” You whisper back playfully.

You snuggle into the crook of his neck and his smell hits you like an embrace. The small bit of communication pulled you away from your sleepy thoughts and movements, but you still felt just as clingy and slow.

As you lay back against him, his arms wrap around you, pulling you close to him with everything in him. You snuggle in to welcome his tight hold and one of his hands stretches over your skin of your back.

You’re wearing a simple black dress, baggy from your waist down, but completely backless.

“Can we lay here for, like…” You pause, “Forever?”

Michael chuckles from under you and leans his head to the side to rest it against yours.

“We’ll get hungry eventually.” He answers, and you smile.

“I’m sure there’s some animals around here.” You continue to play around, smile prominent in your voice.

“I hope you know how to make a fire, then.”

You giggle into Michael’s neck and pull away slightly. His hold loosens slightly so you can move a bit and you look down at him.

“Don’t you know how to make a fire?” You ask and he frowns.

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know” You shrug, “Weren’t you like a country boy or something?”

With that, Michael lets out the biggest belly laugh ever, leaving you to smile as he cackles away at your words. Your tone had been obviously playful, but it still made it just as funny for him.

“I lived at a farm. I wasn’t a cave man!” He exclaims, tilting his head to look at you better.

“Sounds the same to me.”

He smiles at you and you bring one of your hands to his cheek, caressing it with your thumb. You lean in and give him the softest peck you could. When pulling away, you look at him in the eyes as he tries to pull you into another kiss. You let him, letting your lips rest over the softness of his as you too fall into the pit of slow and lovingly making out.

He sits up in the middle of the kiss and you sit over his legs as he does it. His hands travel effortlessly down your waist to your legs, lifting your skirt enough to slither in his hands underneath.

You pull away and look down at him as you stand on your knees, adjusting your seating on his thighs. You peck his lips multiple times before sitting back and eyeing him.

“I love you” He confesses in a whisper, eyes staring back onto yours, “so much”

“Really?” You ask, serious, leaning a little back and he frowns.

“Yeah…?”

He’s confused, but soon your playful smile reappears.

“How much, again?”

“A lot.”

“How much is ‘a lot’?” You keep going. “Like, ‘a lot’ like the size of a mountain or ‘a lot’ as in…” You think for a second, but he interrupts.

“How old are you again?” He teases about your childish words and you force your smile to disappear, just so you can scowl at him.

“Oh, fuck off” You say to him, “I was trying to be cute here, no need to ruin the moment for us.”

“Alright, keep going then” He says, “The size of a mountain or…?”

“Uhm… The size of…” You try to think, mind completely blank over any ideas. “The size of… the ocean?”

He chuckles at your final words and you grin.

“The ocean.” He says, sure of his words, no hesitation.

You stay silent for a bit.

“Which one?”

“Oh, come on!” He says, completely bored out of this conversation, making you laugh at him, “The biggest one you can think of”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now, can you please” He emphasizes the word comically, dragging it, “for the love of God, just tell me that you love me back?”

You kiss his lips over his frown.

“You’re so romantic.” You comment sarcastically.

“I know.”

You smile at him and decide not to give in just yet. The boy can suffer for a bit.

Telling him that you loved him now or in 5 minutes won’t exactly make that much of a difference.

You stand up on your feet, away from his lap, and he stares up at you while letting out a sigh.

“You gotta earn it.” You say with a playful look, making his frown break slightly.

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” You nod.

You take a step back as he stands up and your smile doesn’t disappear at all as you move away from him. Every step forward from Michael is a step back for you, making his urge to get to you bigger.

And soon, the running around starts.

You laugh as you run from him, sometimes feeling his fingers graze over your arms, making your heart beat faster with the adrenaline.

The tall weeds slap the skin of your exposed legs softly, tickling you as you ran away from your boyfriend. The scenery in front of you motivates into keeping on running, the summery flowers all open and colorfully staring up at the sky.

All you hear is your soft steps over the plants and the birds, it gives you peace. You can still hear Michael running behind you.

You let out a giggle as he’s about to touch you and out of nowhere, it stops.

The warm breeze lifts into a cold one and you look around confused.

You know that the weather can be unpredictable, but this is too radical for it to make sense.

Your hands start getting cold rapidly and soon your body is enveloped into complete body chills, your dress being nothing but useless when it comes to make you stay warm.

The breeze goes from cold to freezing in the matter of seconds, leaving you nothing but panicked.

You feel lightheaded and short of breath and as you try to warm yourself up with your own arms, soon you realize… You can’t feel your own palms touching your skin.

The sunlight fades as clouds fly their way in to color the skies a dark grey and you stare up.

You’re in a dream.

You’re dreaming.

You look over your shoulder at Michael to find him just as confused just a few steps away. He must have stopped running right as you did. But his skin, is not reacting like yours. His exposed arms, from the folded sleeves are not reacting to the cold in chills. It’s like it’s not affecting him.

He’s not the real Michael.

“What’s happening?” He asks you.

“I don’t know” You lie. You know exactly what’s happening.

Your dream is becoming a nightmare.

You look around as the wind gets harsher and your heart starts to beat more violently, just like your shortness of breath forces you into panting your way to find your peace again.

You step closer to Michael and cup his face.

He stares back at you still with his confused eyes and you kiss him. Your lips touch his and his hands come to rest over your waist as the wind continues to come at full force towards you.

Your hands feel numb, not being able to feel the texture of his suit, just like you had felt a few minutes prior. But you feel his hands, the way they rest on your waist, warming your skin under the violent and freezing wind.

“I love you,” You tell him as you pull away.

You open your eyes and you’re met with Michael’s pale face. His eyes are empty, with absolutely no light or sign of life.

You caress his cold cheeks with your thumbs, and you notice blood over his bottom lip. His hands had fallen a second ago from your waist, and you already miss his familiar warmth.

You bring your finger to wipe the blood away carefully and notice that it’s all over his mouth, coloring his white bottom teeth.

A small trail of blood starts falling off his nose and soon from his ears as well, slowly coloring your hands into the color red.

Red, hands completely filled with deep red, now that you try and wipe it.

Michael falls onto his knees and you do the same, holding him close to you even though it’s just his corpse. He’s cold and his hold is not even there anymore. His arms are by his sides as his head rests over your shoulder.

You wrap your arms around him, and the wind becomes more and more violent.

You force your eyes closed and let it take you too.

You open your eyes, and a loud gasp escapes your mouth. You’re not panting anymore, but your heart is beating quickly.

You try to sit up, but a sudden jab of pain hits you. You gasp and wince in pain but still bring yourself to do it. A sob escapes your mouth too right as you’re able to sit upright.

Your face feels wet and cold in the air of the room. You must have been crying before you woke up.

You whine in pain as you bring yourself to turn on the light beside you and as the warm yellow light illuminates the room, all you see is blood.

Your own blood, spread around your white shirt and white sheets, painting your hands just like in your dream.

“Pol-” You try to call out, but your voice breaks in a sob as pain runs through you.

You sob into the empty and silent air and try it again.

“Polly!” You sob out loud, hoping that that was enough to awake her if it’s late enough for that.

You wait a few long seconds for any sound coming from the hallway or stairs, but nothing.

“Polly!” You try to scream louder.

Polly holds her hand up to shut up Gina and the room falls silent. Michael leans forward from the railing of the stairs and looks at his mom confused; arms still crossed over his chest.

“Poll-” You cough.

Michael, before Polly could even get up, makes his way up the stairs and runs down the hall, trying his best to be fast enough to get to your room.

Your door swings open and you continue to sob as the lights are turned on.

“I don’t know what I did wrong.” You sob to whoever is at the door, staring down at your hands, “I-I, I woke up and…”

Michael shakes his shock away at the sight of your bed all bloodied, just like your hands, and walks towards you. His eyes fall to your shirt and notices from where your blood is coming from, your wound.

“Mom!” Michael shouts while looking up at the door.

Your ears start to buzz as panic starts to set in in your system and two hands move yours away from your eyes.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” The voice repeats and you sob helplessly.

Michael sits in front of you in the bed and brings you close to him, ignoring that he’s now being covered in blood as well.

He makes you rest your hands on his shoulders so that they’re away from your eyes and starts to unbutton some of the buttons of your shirt.

Polly finally gets to the door and the sight is absolutely terrifying.

“She ripped stitches. I think.”

Polly forces herself to walk to the bed and to help Michael check your wound. He continues to unbutton your shirt with one hand only and he’s quick to rip the bandage off.

You sob in pain as he does it and both him and Polly try to look past the blood and ignore your sobs to see what happened to your wound. It opened, maybe 3 of the 9 stitches ripped.

“I’ll call the doctor.” Polly says.

Michael nods and holds you closer to him, not wanting you to move too far away. Your side rests against his chest and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, while one of his hands grabs the sheets and holds them over the wound.

You sob silently while leaning closer to him and he looks up at your face.

“Hey. You’re okay, look at me.” He whispers at you and you do it, “You’re okay. It’s not too bad. You’re safe. I promise.”

You stare at him in the eyes and he leans his forehead against yours.

“You’re okay” He whispers lower.

You nod as tears continue to roll down your face and he nods with you. Your breathing starts to slow down, and he presses a kiss over your wet cheek.

“I got you.” He whispers against your skin.

(…)

Michael sighs loudly as he walks into the kitchen and he feels exhausted.

“Is the doctor finished?” Polly asks him and he just nods, “And her?”

“Passed out before he could even start” He answers, “The doctor said to just let her sleep.”

He walks towards the sink and he turns on the water, holding his bloody hands under it. The two women standing in the kitchen are silent, watching him wash his hands carelessly while staring at the wall.

“I’ll go get you a clean shirt.” Polly says.

His mom walks out of the kitchen and he turns off the water, turning around to face Gina.

“Are we going to the hotel after this?” She asks softly.

“I can drive you there, but I’m staying here, tonight.”

She takes a deep breath and brings her hands to her head, annoyed.

“Why? She’s asleep. You can visit her tomorrow.” She tries.

“I’ll sleep better here.”

She scoffs.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“I’m unbelievable?” Michael answers, bringing his hand up to point at his own chest.

“Yes!” She almost screams, “You are unbelievable! And you want to know why?” She asks, “Because no matter what I fucking do or fucking say, you will always put her before me.”

“Always, Gina? Are you serious?” Michael asks in disbelief, “You’ve been my fucking priority ever since we met, and now because I show some sort of affection towards a girl that is fucking bleeding and crying her lungs out, I’m supposedly putting her before you?”

“Yes! I don’t even know what you had with her before me!” She shouts, “Ever since I step foot into this shit hole I’ve been listening to her name and seeing her over and over again. Do you really think I believe that she’s simply a ‘family friend’?” She air-quotes.

“You want the truth?” He asks, no shouting needed, but he sounds mad.

“Yes.”

“We dated for 4 years, almost 5. I ended our relationship when in America.” He answers and Gina stands silent, “See? I can tell you the truth when you ask nicely.”

“And if you broke up why do you still like her?” She asks, ignoring his hateful tease at the end of his sentence.

“You have to be joking-”

“Are you going to say that that’s a lie?” She asks, crossing her arms over her chest, “Let me give you some of my truth, Michael. I honestly don’t give a shit about what you two went through, or if you were in a good relationship or not when with her, but you broke up. I don’t care why, but you did. And there was a time when you chose me over her. That’s why you proposed, right?”

Michael doesn’t answer her.

“So, please, for the love of God, stop being a child and move on with your life. You’ve been mopping around her, touching her all the time as if you’re dying to do it at every second of the day… Even if she does still like you, you are with me now, not her.” She spits at him, “Move. On. She’s not yours anymore, Michael. I am.”

He swallows hard at her words and looks at her emptily.

Polly makes her way back inside the kitchen, acting as if she didn’t hear a thing, but that seems to not scare off Gina from continuing.

“Are you even listening to m-?”

“I am.”

“Then say something, Michael.” She scolds, “Is it not true, what I’m saying?”

Polly looks between them as if waiting for it to evolve in any way, and simply extends her hand towards Michael, so he can grab the clean shirt.

“Is she your priority or no-”

“Yes.” Michael answers, “Y/N is my priority.” He nods, sure of himself and his words. “Yes, I’m engaged to you, Gina, but I care for her, and she will always be my priority.”

Gina bites her tongue and looks at Michael.

It honestly comes to no surprise. She had just thrown these words at him not that long ago, at lunch. He had just never confirmed it for her, and now… he did. But ‘always’? You will always be his priority? Now, that, doesn’t sit right with her.

They stand in silence and Michael leans back on the counter, finally taking the shirt from his mom’s hands. He thanks her with a look but to no avail because her eyes are not even on him.

“You’re serious?” Gina comments in slight disbelief.

“I am.” Michael confirms.

“What does that mean for us, then?” She asks.

Michael stays silent and the blonde slides off the highchair she has been sitting on, standing on her heels. Her eyes stay on him as tears threaten to swell up at her eyes.

“I’m not sure.” Michael answers truthfully.

She nods at his words and brings her eyes to the ground. She feels disappointed but mostly betrayed. Her eyes are good to show that emotion, but soon, it evolves into something else.  Pure anger. Anger over the betraying words and truth, the one that just got thrown around as if it was nothing.

And Polly notices it.

“I think it’s better if you leave, Gina.”

Michael takes his eyes off his fiancée to stare at his mother, who just opened her mouth. He didn’t expect her to get herself involved in his worries, but she did.

“What?” Gina asks, bringing her head back up to stare at Polly.

“You heard me.”

Her eyes travel to Michael in hopes that he would defend her, but nothing. He’s just staring back at her, almost holding the same look as his mother.

He doesn’t want her here. He wants her to leave.

She shakes her head, overcome with emotion, and forces her feet to move. Her palms tingle with the idea of hitting something, or rather, someone, but her eyes fill with tears.

How could have she been so stupid?

She slams the front door shut behind her and the Gray family stand in the kitchen unphased.

“Rather dramatic that one, uh?” Polly asks her son.

Michael doesn’t answer her venomous comment, but that didn’t seem to surprise her. His mother walks around the counter and grabs the cup Gina used for her whiskey, bringing it to the sink so she can wash it.

It’s like this conversation didn’t affect her a slight bit.

Michael feels weird. He doesn’t regret telling Gina anything but the look she gave him spoke more than any of her words could. She felt betrayed by him, and she was holding back so many emotions and words.

He knows that if it wasn’t for his mom, Gina would be screaming at him, maybe even throwing stuff at the walls. Just like she usually does when she’s upset. But she didn’t do anything, she decided to contain herself and not scream or even curse him out.

And honestly, Michael doesn’t know what’s worse. The fact that she could be destroying his mom’s kitchen or the fact that she’s bottling up all her frustration and anger.

He thought he knew Gina before coming back home, but the trip only made him and her show their true colors. One can’t stop comparing his newfound love to his old one, and the other obsesses over the idea of power and desperately wanting to overthrow anyone in her way.

Quite a pair, that’s for sure.

(…)

You open your eyes as the lights burns your eyelids open and an involuntary groan runs off your mouth as you’re hit with the morning light right in the face. You turn your head to the side, but you’re met with another window with the curtains open.

“Fuck.” You curse out loud.

You sit up and another sound escapes your mouth, but this time, a whimper of pain.

It takes you a few seconds to connect the dots and you finally remember why you’re in pain in the first place.

“Jesus Christ.” You comment to yourself, again.

Your bloody sheets are set to the side, right next to your door, and before your mind could even try to process it, you push any thoughts of your nightmare away from you.

You pull yourself up carefully and try to ignore the tightness that you feel over your wound. You’re not quite sure what happened after the doctor appeared, but if you’re still at Polly’s house, it could only mean one thing…

It’s not as bad as it looked.

You walk to the bathroom and the sight that meets your eyes is, just, great.

Your shirt is mostly unbuttoned, bloodied, just like your bra. Some of your skin has been cleaned, but not all. Your face as some blood smeared on it, but it doesn’t surprise you. You remember moving so much when you woke up, it would be a miracle it your feet would be clean.

You throw the clothes into the bin and start cleaning yourself off. You can’t exactly bath over having to make the wound be dry at all times. But you have been able to manage quite nicely. With weird positions, for sure, but you’re able to wash your body and hair quite nicely.

You put on some washed clothes on and make your way out of the bedroom. It must be really early since the house is more than silent.

Before you walk down the stairs, you walk over to the guest’s room just to check. Finn is laying on his back over the large bed, mouth partly open as some light snores escape his lips, making you smile at him.

You take a step back and close the door back up. He must’ve gotten here after the doctor.

You make your way down the stairs easily, and as soon as your eyes land on the couch, you see Michael.

He’s awake with a mug on his hands, eyes on the carpet as he is completely lost in thought. He has a scowl over his face, hiding any kind of emotion from anyone’s eyes, and as your feet finally meet the last step, he looks up.

His scowl disappears and a slight grin appears over his lips.

“Good morning.” You say before he could.

“Good morning.” He answers back.

You walk towards him and he watches you as you carry yourself with ease over to the couch. You take a seat next to him and notice that his mug is still filled with warm coffee.

He extends the mug your way when noticing your interest and you smile, taking it.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

The hot mug burns your cold palms, and you welcome the almost uncomfortable heat into your skin. You bring it to your lips and take a small sip of the dark liquid.

You’re sitting close to Michael, sitting on top of one of your legs as you sit looking at him. You’re not wearing much more than a shirt, exposing your legs to him and to anyone in the house, but you don’t seem uncomfortable with your lack of clothing.

“Are you feeling okay?” He asks and you bring the mug down from your mouth, licking your lips at the same time.

“Yeah” You nod.

You give him back his mug after taking your generous sips and he takes it back onto his hands.

“When did Finn get here?” You ask him, curious.

“About half an hour after the doctor left.” He answers, leaning forward to put down the burning mug on the coffee table, finding it impossible to drink from how hot it is, still.

You nod at as his answer and while you’re thinking about what else to ask, he speaks again.

“You scared the living shit out of us last night.” He says, making you look back at him.

His eyes are back on the carpet and your chest tightens at the sight.

“I’m sorry.” You apologize.

“Don’t.” He says, finally looking back up, “It’s not your fault.”

He leans back on the couch and both of you continue to look at each other. The air is not thick as it usually is, it’s light and easy to breathe in. Your looks are both familiar, always taking your minds back in time for a quick second.

Your mind takes you to your dream and soon his pale face reappears in your mind. You shake the thoughts away, right as Michael opens his mouth to talk.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, “I can make you something to eat.”

You smile widely at him and bring your hands to your lap.

“Are you finally proving yourself useful around the house?” You tease, making him smile back, “I must be in a dream. Since when do you-”

“I’ve always been able to cook” He defends himself.

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!”

“Michael, you couldn’t even cook potatoes!”

“Couldn’t!” He says to you, leaning forward to be right in front of you, “Things have changed in my kitchen.”

A laugh escapes your lips as he smiles down at you and he stands from the couch. He gives you his hand and as soon as your palms touch, he pulls you up from the couch.

“Come on, I’ll show you my experienced cooking.” He encourages as you take small, demotivated steps his way, “Do you want me to make you potatoes, just so I can prove my point?”

“No.” You giggle, “Just- Do whatever.”

He turns around and starts walking to the kitchen, letting your hand fall from his as you stay a little behind.

“You know what?” You ask him as you get in the kitchen, making him look back at you, “Maybe you’re not as insufferable as I thought you were”

Michael laughs at your words as you say them, and he nods.

“Oh, why, thank you!” He says enthusiastically, “Aren’t you lovely right as the sun rises?”

You let out a loud laugh and he moves over behind the island counter, looking around the cabinets to look for something to cook for you.

You stare at the back of his head as he walks around and take a seat on one of the chairs.

One could get used to this.

Taglist: @ohhersheybars @woodland-mist @onlythechicagoway @soleil-dor @finn-shelbys-bulldog @oh-theres-a-woman @peakyxtommy @ms-reader @beautycinders @lovemissyhoneybee @graceedwards @jadesbabylon @marvelismylifffe @a-dorky-book-keeper @peakascum @shanetoo @hufflemendes @cherrytop02 @http-cherries @burnitup @livingforbarnes @iccyyyybitch @ravennaofasgar @carezzesuigraffi @fernweh-fangirl @hufflepeople @huskyhunny @desertgremlin @fireawayxx @lemur46 @sugarcoated-lame @i-sneeze-to-appease @gabytodd​ @cococola-cocaine​ @namelesslosers​ ​

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Hope you enjoyed this! If would like to make any questions about the characters or when the next part will be available. My ask box is always open.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Oldstones

Prompt: I got a prompt for you! (but no pressure if you don't wanna): The knights discover that Merlin is incredibly musically gifted but shy about it, and they try to make him see how talented he really is - aeonthedimensionalgirl

*vibes in playlists*

Read on Ao3

Warnings: it's fluff all the way down bois

Pairings: merthur, morgwen, can be platonic or romantic I don't care

Word Count: 2604

Merlin is allowed to keep secrets, yes, but that doesn’t stop people from wanting to find them out.

Come on, the man is literally the most conspicuous person in the castle, one doesn’t rise to that title without sparking at least half a dozen gossip trains each day. Whether it’s where he was when the King was in his private chambers with the knights standing guard, whether it’s how the speech the King hadn’t written is finished by the next morning, whether it’s how often things mysteriously show up just where they need to be…

There are rumors that he sneaks away from the castle at night. No one knows where he goes. Because it definitely isn’t the tavern.

But one doesn’t get Merlin without the host of people that surround him. Arthur, the King, of course. Gaius, the Royal Physician. Morgana, the Queen Regent, at least until her proper coronation. Gwen, who holds the ear of the servants in the castle—the real power here.

And the knights. Brothers, ’til the end. And Merlin is one of them. They couldn’t care less about the rumors flying around unless they hurt Merlin. Then, well, all bets are off. But Merlin is theirs and if there’s nothing wrong, they won’t ask questions.

That is until, of course, there is something that he really should’ve told them.

There is a negotiation with a neighboring lord about whether or not the knights will be allowed passage through his land on patrols. Arthur sends the knights and Merlin to go a broker a brief agreement with representatives before he can join them. The negotiations are long and offset by the fact that the leader keeps shooting narrow-eyed glances at Merlin.

“You sure we haven’t met before,” they ask for the fifth time, “you seem…familiar.”

“I can assure you,” he says, for the fifth time, “I would remember.”

Gwaine and Percival exchange a look. They’re making no headway, the leader is unwilling to accept anything as trade. If they don’t find something soon, the fingers itching towards swords will find their marks sooner or later.

Then Merlin sneezes.

He apologizes for interrupting the negotiations, only for the leader’s right hand to slap their knee and point accusingly at him.

“I knew it,” they crow, triumphant, “you’re the songbird!”

Merlin blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The songbird,” they repeat, standing, “you’re the one who sings in the abandoned arena.”

Well, that certainly explains where Merlin’s been sneaking off to if the way the tips of his ears turn red is anything to go off of. It certainly doesn’t help his case that a few more people run into the room, some of them children, and gasp when they realize that someone’s found the songbird.

“My apologies,” Merlin manages after a moment, the embarrassment still blooming on his cheeks, “I didn’t realize that anyone would—that I—that you could hear me.”

“But your voice is so pretty,” one of the children cries, “will you sing something for us now?”

“Oh, do the one about being happier!”

“No, no, the one about being a bad liar.”

“Ooh! Ooh! Or the one about the bright lights!”

“I’m quite partial to the ‘stay with me’ one,” another lieutenant remarks.

The knights look on, half amused, half bemused, as the requests pile up. Only when Merlin’s mortification begins to seep past his facade do they have mercy.

“That’s enough,” Elyan says gently to the children, “we don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Don’t we,” Gwaine mutters.

“Well,” Merlin says before Leon can respond, “I believe we’ve found something you want.”

The leader regards him for a moment. Their face twists as they think.

“…and how am I supposed to know that you are the pretty little songbird that’s been singing in there?” They look him up and down. “You could just be using that as a convenient excuse.”

The right-hand snorts. “No one else kriffing sneezes like that.”

Lancelot hides a snort behind a cough.

“You are correct that we cannot offer you anything material or legal in exchange for the deal,” Merlin says, still heroically fighting the blush on his cheeks, “but perhaps this will suffice instead?”

“Entertainment,” they muse, tilting their head back and forth, “a tempting offer.”

“A song for the deal?”

“Not just one song,” the leader huffs, “more.”

They glance back at the knights.

“What you’re asking of us, it’s a lot. That’s a lot of money we’re losing. Damages, labor, replanting.” They glance at the lieutenant. “How much?”

“Three thousand.”

The leader whistles. “That’s pretty steep.”

Their attention shifts back to Merlin.

“Three thousand, huh? Three hours.” They lean forward, their eyes on Merlin’s face. “That’s about how long you normally spend in that old arena. Three hours.”

Merlin nods. “When?”

The leader’s smile grows. “Tomorrow evening, little songbird, when the lord and your king can come to watch.”

They ride back to camp with the paperwork of the deal completed, Gwaine teasing poor Merlin about his habit of sneaking out to an old abandoned arena and singing. Leon watches on, not bothering to hide his smile, as Merlin’s embarrassment fills the air. At one point he shoots him a look that clearly says ‘are you not going to help me?’

The one he sends back makes it clear that this is more than enough entertainment for him.

“Alright,” Lancelot says eventually when he sees Merlin’s jaw start to wobble, the line of embarrassment to humiliation much shorter than he would like, “that’s enough, leave him be. After all, the songbird has to perform tonight, don’t make him lose his voice before he closes the deal.”

“I’ll take it,” Merlin mutters.

They do thank Merlin for agreeing to do this when they get to camp. Leon slaps him on the shoulder and congratulates him for being willing to do it.

“It’s fine,” Merlin says, shuffling a little next to the fire, “I just…wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, no,” Gwaine sighs loudly, “I also wasn’t expecting to find out that one of my oldest friends is a songbird.”

“Merlin’s your oldest friend?” Elyan snorts. “How bad are you at making friends?”

“Oi!”

“No, wait, seriously, do you have no other friends?”

“I have friends!”

“Really? Who are they?”

Merlin grins as the topic of conversation steers away from him and more toward Gwaine’s apparent inability to make friends. Well, meaningful friends. People you down pints in the tavern with don’t really count—no they don’t, Gwaine.

Of course, just because the knights are getting distracted doesn’t mean Leon is getting distracted.

“How long have you been able to sing for, Merlin,” he asks softly, too unobtrusive for the others to notice, “did your mother teach you?”

The tips of Merlin’s ears redden again. “No.”

“It’s alright, Merlin,” he says softly, “there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, it’s alright.”

“It’s—it’s—“ he shifts— “it’s nothing.”

“If the lord was ready to make a deal over the promise of your voice, that’s not nothing, Merlin.” Leon frowns when Merlin just keeps shifting uncomfortably. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s alright.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Never,” he promises gently, “not if it’s worrying you this much.”

Merlin shifts a little more. “…I’m not actually that good.”

“Lie.”

Merlin’s head jerks around as Leon glances over his shoulder to see Lancelot watching them. The knight nods toward the other three who are now arguing about the precise alcohol quantity of some tavern drink as he scoots closer.

“Lie,” he repeats softly, “I’ve heard you sing, Merlin, you’re incredible.”

“Did you—“ Merlin splutters— “did you follow me?”

“No,” Lancelot says, raising his hands, “but the patrols do go there from time to time.”

Merlin buries his face in his hands. How many people have heard him?

“Shh,” Lancelot says, bringing his hands away, “you’ll do great. And if you don’t, we’ll be the ones who suffer the consequences for agreeing to a ridiculous deal.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

“Because it was the first thing they suggested that wasn’t entirely unreasonable.”

“You think this is reasonable?”

“Well, yes, compared to the thirteen caskets of gold, two barrels of opals, and six cartloads of mead.”

“It will be fine, Merlin,” Leon promises, “don’t worry so much.”

Merlin is plenty worried, thank you very much, especially when Arthur, Morgana, and Gwen show up the next day to look very very confused at what the deal has turned out to be. Arthur is fully intent on teasing Merlin mercilessly about his singing only for Leon and Lancelot to shoot him a death glare. He shrugs. He can do it perfectly well afterward.

The lord meets with them, they sit in their places of honor, and Gwaine cups Merlin’s elbow as he steps onto the stage.

“Ready, songbird?”

He sighs. “Are you going to keep calling me that?”

Gwaine just grins.

Merlin looks…small on the stage, they realize, despite the fact that he looks right.

Then he begins to sing.

Gods.

Three hours feel like an eternity, collapsed into an instant. His voice lifts and soars, pouring into the air like an endless well. The happy songs send them into the stratosphere, the sad ones drop them into the planet’s core. Arthur reaches blindly for Morgana’s hand at one point and they cling to each other, there in the upper corners of the theatre.

One song reaches deep into Morgana’s chest and tugs in too many places to be unfamiliar. Wrapped up in power, unable to use it properly, cultivated as a thing, a cog in a machine, trapped. A dangerous flare in her gut, reached only by the way Merlin’s aura hides reluctant darkness, one borne on necessity and resentment.

One song pushes back against Arthur’s shields, calls out to a child. A child, too soon knighted, too soon forced into the mold of the perfect King, still raw from years and years of being overlooked, not being chosen, not being wanted. It calls out in remorse, in mourning for someone lost long ago yet could not be grieved because they’re still here, just buried under layers and layers of armor. The person they used to be.

One song hurts them both.

They’re not sure how long it’s been when Merlin stops for a moment, smiling, before he takes a moment to talk about the next song.

He says that there is a tale, an old one, about a soldier. A legendary warrior, impervious to all harm, except for one spot on his body. His heel. When his mother held him as she bathed him in power, something that would keep him safe, keep him invulnerable. What she did not realize is that her son did not have just physical weaknesses, nor that her son’s supposed invulnerability would keep people from realizing that he was a person too.

He says that the story tells of someone very important to this warrior, someone who realized that he was human, first and foremost, and that someone was taken away. Murdered. And what good was that invulnerability if he could not protect the one he loved? The warrior was only human, after all, and humans make mistakes. And they need to be reminded that’s all they are, behind all the power, all the invulnerability, they’re human.

The name of the warrior?

Achilles.

His voice has a sense of urgency now, one that they’ve only heard once before. When a squire, suddenly happy after months of being lost in their own head, climbed to the highest balcony in the castle and stood there, wobbling in the wind.

The song climbs, higher, and higher, the urgency growing, his light shining brighter and brighter.

Then the trick.

Another voice, dark and distorted, a twisted version of him, ringing out in the theater despite the fact that his mouth is closed. Gasps and shock as the audience tries to figure out what the trick is, how this is happening, too caught up in the thrill of the performance to care that it might be magic. The dark voice whispers temptation, scorns the others, tells the warrior to jump.

Morgana does not let go of Arthur and Arthur will not let go of Morgana.

The dark voice sings alongside Merlin, the theater caught in the storm of his making. The dark voice vanishes into a whisper, Merlin all but pleading the warrior to come down.

As the last verse starts, he looks directly at them.

There is no more facade, no more roles for him to play. This is Merlin, singing to them. The concert may be for the deal, this song is theirs.

Throw yourself into the unknown

With pace and a fury defiant.

Clothe yourself in beauty untold

And see life as a means to a triumph.

Today of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above.

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond

Ah, it's more courageous to overcome.

When the song ends and the spell is broken, the whole theater has to take a moment to breathe.

There are more songs, more that touch different people in different ways.

“I will say this,” Morgana whispers, still blinking away tears, “I don’t see them backing out of the deal.”

Arthur can’t find the words to reply.

Too soon, Merlin announces that the next song is the last one. The theater crows in protest, Arthur and Morgana among them, despite themselves. A strange look crosses his face as he raises an eyebrow.

“No? You don’t want to leave?”

Another round of ‘no’ goes up.

“But we have to,” he says softly, his voice still ringing as if surrounded by old stone halls, “we can’t stay here, as much as we want to. We have to keep going. We can’t be the rock that the water beats away at, we’ll be worn to nothing.”

To their surprise, he sits.

“…or we’ll fade into ghosts.” He looks around. “But we’d like to stay here, for a moment longer, with the ghosts, yes?”

At the noises of agreement, he smiles. “Then let’s do a different song for the last one.”

And oh, what a song he chooses.

It’s not as vocally impressive as some of the other ones, nor does it tug on their heartstrings as painfully. But this one, more than any other song he’s sung tonight, sounds like Merlin.

A girl, dancing in the ruins of an old stone castle with the ghosts of her loved ones. Season after season, year after year, until she too became a ghost, dancing with them once again.

They can almost feel hands on their shoulders.

The song ends and the deal is complete. The leader approaches to have a quiet word with Merlin before he exits the theater and waits. The lord stumbles to Arthur and Morgana, almost in a trance, with the promise to ride behind them to Camelot to officially sign the deal the next morning. Arthur is only conscious enough to nod and murmur a reply. Morgana isn’t much better. The knights have already formed a protective huddle around Merlin as they return to camp, the little songbird all sung out.

When they get back to camp, Merlin barely has time to thank them for coming before Arthur pulls him into a hug.

“No,” he whispers, “thank you.”

[maybe-theres-hope]

Of Will and Wildflowers, Interlude - Carlos: “Indecision”

-Hello all. I debated about ever having this see the light of day, as I wrote it as sort of a character study to keep myself honest while writing the main story, which I always intended to be single POV for the drama of it all. 

However, in my heart I feel like I owe you all at least something for how long you’ve waited for the conclusion to this story (I originally intended to post the whole thing before the season even started and...here we are lol), and I figured you’d appreciate this. It doesn’t spoil anything, so don’t be afraid to read if that’s something you’re worried about (unless of course you haven’t read the story at all, in which case here you go!). It’s just a glimpse into Carlos’ psyche in this AU. 

This takes place the second night of the Strand’s visit, after TK and Carlos take their first journey around the grounds that ends in the apple orchard, and subsequently Elena spilling that Mr. de Castillo will be joining them soon.

This is for all those who have encouraged me so much with this story, and I promise you all you will get the conclusion! Life has just gotten in the way so much lately :( @oquinn53, @reyeslonestar, @howtosingit, @a-l-ias, @mtnofgrace, @descending-into-the-crazies if I missed you let me know please! I love you all :)

Carlos was having difficulty dressing for dinner, and it wasn’t because of the fiddly fastenings of his waistcoat.

TK Strand was…The man was…

Carlos was also having difficulty with full sentences, even ones inside his own head.

The morning they’d shared had been as if from a dream, or a fairytale from one of Raquel’s storybooks. Every time TK smiled at the vast landscape of Carlos’ home, every time his eyes lit up at the brush of scent from the wildflowers hitting his nose, Carlos was arrested. Time stood frozen for a few moments in which he could admire the man before him at his leisure, when he could ascend to a higher plane of aesthetic dominated by the gentle slope of TK’s jaw.

Carlos had also to admit to himself—if not out loud just yet—that there was also the man’s intellect, not just his beautiful face and impeccable seat on a horse, that drew Carlos’ attention. When Carlos had asked him of his life in New York, TK had for some reason shied away from speaking of his father’s company and his own part in it, as Carlos might have expected from a man of business on a business trip. Instead, he talked of Central Park and the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and how the architecture compared to that which he’d seen on their journey through the South. He spoke of the air surrounding them and how clean it smelled, even though Carlos knew they were downwind from a herd and they both knew it.

The man was charming in his innocence and captivating in his depth in turns, and Carlos could hardly bear to look away or allow himself to speak in his turn when TK asked him a question about this landmark or that bit of wildlife.

They’d passed the morning gently ambling along wherever the horses saw fit to take them, talking of everything and nothing, and it had been glorious. And their picnic…their picnic! Carlos had never worshipped Mrs. Smith’s blackberry jam quite as much as when he caught a glimpse of it clinging to the side of TK’s mouth just before a deft tongue slipped out to take it away. He was quite taken aback at the weight of his infatuation, to be honest. He’d not ever had occasion to fall so fast into regard for someone, and it was at times disorienting and grounding. His body felt as if it had been given over to some mystical force, using its hands to ensure the movement of his heart when it stopped itself at the sight of TK’s smile in the sunshine and guiding his eyes to alight once more upon TK’s handsome profile.

The apple orchard had been…a risk. Carlos simply could no longer help himself in his desire to be near this man. He made every clandestine endeavor to brush a shoulder or knee or knuckle as they walked. Holding TK’s hand properly to help him down from Flor’s saddle was akin to ascension to the clouds beyond.

His hand still tingled when he thought of it.

Was this what everyone referred to when they spoke of love? Surely not. He’d only known the man for two days. And yet.

And yet.

Just then a knock at his bedroom door startled him out of his thoughts, which he was secretly glad of.

After a word of acquiescence from Carlos, Christina passed through the door before shutting it again behind her quietly. Her face still held a small trace of trepidation in it when she caught his gaze, and he was instantly reminded of the scene on the porch when they’d arrived back from their tour of the property.

Fernando was coming, and that muddied his thoughts more than all the rest.

“I came to see how you were faring, and I see it’s just as I suspected,” she offered in greeting. She stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped against her skirts, looking at him in earnest.

“And what did you suspect?”

“You’re warring inside your own head as we speak. Your thoughts are plain as day on your face. As is your utter admiration for our handsome Mr. Strand. Don’t try to deny it, I know you far better than you wish.”

“That is the truth,” he muttered with a sigh. “What am I to do?”

“About what? Your obvious inclination toward Mr. Strand? Or your equally obvious promise to Mr. de Castillo?”

“There was no promise!” He flopped himself down on the bed, dressing forgotten for the moment. They’d had this argument before. “It is merely an understanding, built upon mutual need. We can just as easily misunderstand each other as well.”

“But you’re not that kind of man, Carlos. You don’t go back on your word,” she replied, her expression turning miserable. She was perhaps the only one who truly understood what had been going on in his head when he’d made the promise in the first place. Christina was also possibly the only one who truly understood why he was warring over it now. She could read his face, his tone of voice, the shape of his stance like a book.  Sometimes he hated it, but for the moment he was quite glad to not have to articulate the particulars of this struggle in bare words. He was content to skirt around the topic they both knew was on his mind with veiled hints and euphemisms.

“I know. So, esteemed elder sister, what should I do?”

She came closer and laid a hand upon his shoulder, her face still a picture of commiseration.

“You should do what every gentleman and lady wishes they could do, but for which they all lack the courage.” He stared at her, waited for her to elaborate. “You should follow your heart.”

“I can see now why all those other gentlemen and ladies lack the courage! I am damned if I do anything. If I keep my word to Fernando, I will be secure but restless, adrift, unfulfilled and bound to endure it, and it will be no fault of his but completely my own. He is a good man, and he does not deserve my indifference.”

“But he would have it anyway, would he not? You don’t—“

“You’re right, I do not. But that is not the point!”

“I thought it was? And what should happen if you break your word?” Her eyes seemed to bore into his skull despite the soft brown of her irises.

“I…” Words seemed to slip away on the wind from the open window. He thought again of TK asking about the wildflowers, how his smile lit up the landscape more than the rising sun. He could picture a thousand mornings spent just as they had this one, or perhaps instead of combing Carlos’ family homeland on horseback, they would promenade in Central Park among the birds and trees. They would walk arm in arm with no destination, just the inclination to be together in the bright spring air. He would utter some quip about the couple across the way just to hear the bells of TK’s laughter. TK would point out some high society maiden and they’d remark—under their breath of course—about the ridiculousness of her hat. At the end of each day they would return home together to sit by a roaring fire and talk into the night about everything and nothing before lying down beside each other and drifting into dreams that could do nothing to rival their waking lives.

The picture abruptly vanished at the thought of Fernando, however. Carlos was right, the man did not deserve to be slighted after all he’d done to assure Carlos of a life beyond his mother’s death and Rosa’s inheritance. Fernando was handsome, kind, and the catch of the century. Anyone would be envious of Carlos’ position.

Except Carlos.

Christina, who had been heretofore silent while her brother ruminated in his thoughts, finally sat beside him on the bed and slipped her arm into his, laying her head upon his shoulder.

“I know it’s not ideal, but you have to choose the path that puts your heart at ease, the one you can live with for the rest of your life. If you do that, you’ll be content. If you go against your own heart, you’ll never know peace.”

The problem was, Carlos couldn’t make sense of what his heart wanted in the slightest, and because of that he was frozen in indecision.

[princessmadafu]

That Book (excuse the long post)

I didn't want to jump into the fray without first thinking over the published extracts of FF and the various critiques and synopses in the press. I'd just like to send huge thanks to YankeeWallee and everyone that YW herself thanks for the collated screenshots of the excerpts and RoyahNikkah's review. I'll do what the rest of you do and state here that these are my personal opinions and anything quoted comes under "fair usage", etc. Long live free speech!

My over-riding reaction is, what an absolute pile of lies, lies and more lies. Starting with Scobie's sources, of which he says there are at least two per nugget of information. I believe most of the book has come directly or indirectly from MM herself, and that any "sources" have MM's blessing, sanction or outright order to disclose. FaceTiming in the bath? How would Scobie know? Unless he was in the bath with her, this can only have come from herself or the friend being FaceTimed. There is too much of a highly personal nature for it to be Scobie's own investigative work. So there's the first lie, straight from the weirdly-toothy Sussexy horse's mouth; of course she collaborated!

Some of us had our reservations right from the start of Harry and MM's relationship, but we were prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt and join in the welcome of a biracial, divorced American actress. Right-wing, left-wing, a-political or not-royally-bothered, we all thought, Let's give the pair a chance to see what they can do.

How about this article from Spiked on the engagement of Harry & MM from 2017:

Meghan Markle: Generation Woke's Princess Diana - spiked

"...look no further than the fawning response to the engagement of Prince Harry and American actress Meghan Markle – one of those rare occasions in which both the Telegraph editorial team and the identity-politics set erupted in simultaneous celebration."

How quickly the celebration wore off as the pair of them squandered our goodwill. Another article from Spiked from July 2019, less than two years later, is harsher, when we've all been insulted, preached at and condemned as racists by PH&MM:

Meghan Markle is the worst kind of snob - spiked

"With the possible exception of a few sad social outcasts, no one has a problem with the fact that Meghan’s mum just happens to be black. No, Meghan is criticised for being snobby, elitist, hopelessly out of touch and possessing all the self-awareness of a flea. It’s not Meghan’s skin colour that annoys people, but the fact that she thinks nothing of donning an outfit that costs more than most people in the UK earn in a year and then getting her minders to order the public not to take photos of her. [...] There are heaps of reasons for people not just to criticise Meghan and Harry, but to ridicule their hypocrisy and puncture their pomposity. And not one involves the colour of Meghan’s skin. Meghan comes in for criticism because she is the worst kind of snob who condescends to tell others not just what to do, but also what to think. The fact that she is biracial is completely irrelevant. Of course, there is an obvious solution for Harry and Meghan if they do not like the public attention and criticism. Harry could denounce his claim to the throne. They could give up the titles, move out of the palaces and fund their own lifestyle. I can’t for the life of me imagine why they don’t."

Prescient, no? Six months later and they announce they're off. She played him like a fiddle. The raptures she went into over Botswana and wanting the spend the summer? Did she feed his fantasies of moving to Africa permanently? How strange that Africa became Canada, which then became Los Angeles? Strange my perky little bottom! She had this planned all along. I don't know if PH is with her over there, but she certainly seems to be feeding the illusion that she is now Hollywood Royalty. If she couldn't cut real Royalty, she definitely won't cut the LaLaLand version which is a lot less restrained in voicing its opinions of jumped-up wannabes. Especially the Markly ones who cut, dump, run and show no loyalty or staying power.

The following points, in no particular order, are mostly from an assortment of DM writers and comments from members of the public.

"The book claims the so-called ‘old guard’ tried to undermine the couple and ‘were concerned that the global interest in and popularity of the Sussexes needed to be reined in’." A little self-aggrandisement here, possibly? Global interest, maybe, of the rubber-necking car crash variety, but global popularity? When was that, exactly? Royal staff are all well aware that the purpose of the Royals is to support HMTQ; that is their job. If the Sussexes needed reining in at all, it was because they weren't doing their job properly.

"Harry and Meghan believed ‘few inside the palace were looking out for their interests’ and felt that most courtiers could not be trusted with their sensitive information." Ditto, the courtiers' job is to look out for the interests of HMTQ; PH&MM's job was to look out for the interests of HMTQ, not themselves.

"They believed that these ‘men in grey suits’ were stifling their attempts to launch their initiatives, and when they tried to air these frustrations ‘the conversations didn’t lead anywhere’." I mean, come on! PH is 6th in line. He knows that. There is no "they" involved here - it's all MM again, isn't it, thinking she's more important because she's more popular and she famously gets what she wants... She thought she could snap her fingers and make whatever she wanted happen. She ignored the hierarchy and the protocols, and probably (I suspect) got dimwit Harry believing that she knew best, and that together they could change the world.

"One source said Harry felt that some of the old guard at the palace ‘simply didn’t like Meghan and would stop at nothing to make her life difficult’." I can well believe that staff at the palace didn't like her - she showed her true colours quite early on - but deliberately making her life difficult? I suspect this is what MM told Harry. Twisted the truth, naturally. I'm guessing she made a few ridiculous OTT demands, or wanted some unworkable project, and the staff, knowing their jobs as they do, tried to point out the flaws in her ideas, prevent her making a fool of herself, or otherwise politely protect her from herself. Goodness knows, she made a fool of herself often enough, barging in front and all that...

"The book concludes that Meghan was ‘totally foreign’ to this group of advisers, who ‘could sometimes be even more conservative than the institution they guarded’." They were guarding an institution with over a thousand years of history from someone with neither understanding of nor respect for British history, the Monarchy, or the duties of the RF; and she made no effort to learn.

"Another insider said: ‘The fact is that Meghan was welcomed with open arms and everyone did their best to offer their help about how to navigate such a tricky public role – advice she would often choose to ignore." The arrogance of the woman! And she was welcomed. She just believed that she knew best.

"Omid Scobie said Meghan’s high-profile career as an actress and the fact that she was a divorcee left her ‘ripe for exploitation’." High-profile career, mwah! Actress, mwah! Divorcee, so what? Charles and Camilla are both divorce/es, Anne is a divorcee, so is Andrew, and a whole bunch of other lesser royals. As for being ripe for exploitation, I think we all know how this panned out and MM wasn't the one being exploited! Far from it. She milked every opportunity and opening her new title and her new husband could bring her.

"During one of their final engagements as senior royals, Meghan was ‘purposefully snubbed’ by Kate in front of a global TV audience, the authors claim." Well now, where to start on this one? MM threw a hissy fit because she wasn't allowed to walk in the procession with HMTQ, C&C and DDoC. The DDoC decided to appease MM by pulling out of the procession and taking their seats. Now I don't know what DDoC thought about that but I can just imagine them comparing MM's behaviour with that of their own beautifully behaved kids. I can just imagine them thinking thank God she'll be gone soon! I doubt there was any purposeful snubbing at the service but MM has no manners and no idea how to behave, not even in church. The DDoC are too well brought-up to "carry on" in a place of worship, nor would they lean across seats for a happy little chat, just a quick turn round for a friendly word with Edward and Sophie immediately behind them before the arrival of C&C and HMTQ. Churches are not places to be gossiping and grinning inanely, and you definitely don't push your way through the chairs when the service is over! She is so rude and ill-mannered.

"The book claims Meghan and Kate’s ‘cordial but distant rapport’ was apparent when the pair appeared alongside each other at the King Power Royal Charity Polo Day last summer." I don't remember the dates exactly, but I should think by this time DoC was well and truly fed up with MM's shenanigans; the doe-eyes she'd been pulling at PW, the rumours she and the SS had been fanning about PW and une petite liaison with a long-time friend... Cordial but distant was probably the best MM could hope for at this stage; DoC was hardly about to play Happy Families with the troublemaker.

"The couple were dismayed when no photograph of them and their son Archie was displayed during the Queen’s Christmas speech last year." It was quite clear that the photos on display represented the direct line of succession, from HMTQ's father through to her great-grandson - five generations of the Monarchy. I truly believe that MM wanted to "modernise" the RF to such an extent that PH would be elected King! With MM at his side, dripping in all the jewels she could get her greedy mitts on! I realise it must be hard for PH to get to grips with his status as "Pretty Much Relegated Former Spare", but she must have been really feeding his insecurities if she got him upset about the absence of a photograph.

"Prince Harry was the first to say 'I love you' in his relationship with Meghan Markle, with friends revealing the couple were 'immediately obsessed' with each other, according to the latest extract of a bombshell biography." Oooh, how would Scobie know something as intimate as this? Immediately obsessed with each other, I can well believe; MM with his status, title, money, the palaces, the jewels... and she reeled him into her fantasy world with lies and perfectly posed KamaSutra yoga until he was obsessed with this chameleon woman, at the same time both mother-figure and hot, sexy, adoring, sophisticated, intelligent, humanitarian animal lover. Oh the lies, the lies; "Will you walk into my parlour, said the Spider to the Fly."

"They enjoyed a romantic dinner, with staff taking great pains to ensure their privacy, whisking them in through a staff entrance usually used to bring in fish discreetly." This is their second date at SoHo House, and again, how would Scobie know little details unless MM had told him herself? I like the hint of shade by the writer noting that the entrance was used to bring in fish discreetly - there's definitely something fishy about MM!

How about some comments from DM readers?

"Every single shameless self-serving tabloid "leak" and publicity stunt she has orchestrated has backfired specularly. Hence why Harry has gone from beloved military man and active working Royal to a national embarrassment within two short years! Her efforts at aggressive self-promotion are no match for her lack of talent or perspective in that area. She could have heeded advice from other, more dedicated Royals, but No. Meghan knew better and decided that she was deserving of instant worship fit for her 'celebrity' expectations. The Duchess of Cambridge has earned respect over years with quiet dedication to her causes. Meghan felt entitled to all the glory instantly, and was clearly slighted to learn that respect is not something to be commanded. She is a culture vulture with no respect or understanding of the very people that she promised to represent." [Jace T Adams]

"The narrative of the relationship is laughable. Everyone knows they first met in Canada when Harry was there for Invictus. He needed a girl for the night and Meghan was arranged for him. She must have been impressive as they had a date the next day and the rest is history." [Lady M]

"You can't work with someone you don't trust and these two have proven untrustworthy." [ellegrav]

I have no inside information on any of above, but people better placed than I am are making similar judgments on the contents of FF; people who've spent their working lives following and reporting on the RF.

"The Queen’s former press secretary Dickie Arbiter told the Mail: ‘I think it has their fingerprints all over it. We had a similar scenario in 1992 when Diana swore blind she hadn’t helped Andrew Morton and yet a year later it came out that she had indirectly helped him so history is repeating itself. ‘There are too many things that we have seen in the serialisation that could only come from the horse’s mouth, like deciding to gatecrash Sandringram when they landed from Canada."

And Jan Moir: JAN MOIR on the Meghan and Harry biography that has put ...

What did the pair of them want or expect? Top billing, it seems. What is remarkable is that Harry’s whole life and entire upbringing have been devoted and calibrated to him being a prince. Surely he understands how it works? Surely he could have explained the system to his vexed new bride? Primarily, that being royal is a form of active service, with ranks and a hierarchy so uncomplicated that schoolchildren throughout the realm understand the line of succession and its importance to the Windsors — and to us.

And Robert Hardman: ROBERT HARDMAN: Harry and Meghan are ... - dailymail.co.uk

Yet Finding Freedom is a struggle against protocol and seating plans. It is based on the perceived unfairness of a pecking order which has governed — and preserved — the monarchy for 1,000 years.

We can't all be wrong!

[trustsalvatorewriting]

wasteland, baby! | kol mikaelson - chapter ten

Summary: Kol makes a deal with the Hollow to revive the first woman he ever loved. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go as planned.

Trust’s Note: Please like and reblog! I hope you enjoy. I added some Rebekah and Aniya content for y’all <3

Word Count: 2,708

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

❝ kiss me on the mouth and set me free ❞

TO BE CLEAR, Aniya Grover had never been talented at confrontation. Quite the opposite, really. Growing up, she’d been caught between her mother’s culture and that of the Vikings. Regardless, they’d both valued two traits in a woman: submissive, and quiet. She wasn’t to speak unless spoken to, not to act even when acted against. She was meant to cook and bear children for her husband -- something Rebekah had always rebelled against. Aniya, however, had learned to give into these ideals; and it was now, in the twenty-first century, that she was learning to lose them.

    Aniya looked up at Kol, staring daggers at him from across the dining table. It had been several hours since they’d left the diner and returned to the Abattoir. Aniya had left first, refusing to say her goodbyes after nearly murdering the witch that suggested Henry’s sacrifice. It had been Kol that stopped her, claiming that she ‘was only trying to help.’ It was then that she left without another word. Kol followed shortly after.

    When they returned, Kol called for his siblings to have a family meeting in the dining area. He excused Hayley and Hope, and gave Freya an open invitation despite not having met Aniya when she was alive. The two sat across from each other in the dining area, the air growing thicker with each second. Finally, they heard the sound of heels clicking against the pavement, and internally let out sighs of relief as Rebekah took her place next to Aniya.

    “Now, what might this be about?” Rebekah asked, pushing her chair in. “Have you come to ask for a custody agreement, Kol?”

    Kol smiled tightly at her, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ll have to say ‘no’ to that offer, sister. I wouldn’t want to run off with your only friend. After all, no one else seems to like you.”

    “Yes, well, at the very least, I have a friend,” Rebekah pointed out, a sickly sweet smile on your face. “You haven’t had a friend since the 1800s.”

    “1700s, really,” Niklaus cut in, taking his seat at the head of the table. He smiled smugly, and folded his arms in front of him, blue eyes glimmering with delight. “I’m afraid he was daggered for most of that century.”

    “That reminds me, I haven’t had the chance to return the favor,” Kol sneered and stood from his chair. Aniya’s brows furrowed at the harshness of his voice -- the way he seemed to growl the veiled threat at his half-brother. Slowly, she began to feel the weight of a thousand years on her chest. Whatever human version of Kol Mikaelson she’d loved had died centuries ago, and she began to wonder if all her suffering had been the result of pining after a person that no longer existed. If perhaps returning her memories would do more harm than good.

    Subconsciously, she reached hand up to touch the ring around her neck. Kol noticed and glared.

    She watched as Elijah placed a calming hand on his brother’s shoulder, suggesting that he take a seat. Kol clenched his jaw at his elder brother, but obliged, sitting back in his chair. Elijah nodded and took his place between Kol and Niklaus. He took a moment to adjust his appearance before giving a polite smile. Even this Elijah seemed foreign to her. More confrontational and protective, compared to the mere child he’d been before. He was well put-together, calm and a perfect mediator; and, in Aniya’s eyes, a perfect stranger.

    “So, what did we need to discuss?” Elijah asked, looking around the table. Rebekah and Niklaus shrugged in unison, and it occurred to Aniya that Henry’s life would mean nothing to the Mikaelsons so long as they had what they wanted. It would be Rebekah who would be most eager to have her memories returned to her, and Niklaus who would want Vihaan resurrected and return to -- somewhat -- mortal life.

    “It seems that Kol and a New Orleans witch have found a way to return your memories,” Aniya spoke slowly, watching for negative reactions among the siblings. Elijah and Niklaus had reacted the fastest, their eyebrows furrowing in confusion at her statement. Rebekah’s eyes widened as she turned her attention to the young witch. Aniya continued, “As well as a way to resurrect my brother.”

    “Kol, the last thing we need to do is be involved with the witches again,” Rebekah spoke quickly.

    “The witches have lost their link to their ancestors, and are being forced to practice Earth magic. They are at their weakest, meaning they will be willing to deceive and manipulate anyone who is foolish enough to play into their games,” Elijah explained. “In case you don’t remember, they were willing to sacrifice four teenage girls not ten years ago.”

    “As if we’re any better,” Kol shot back. He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering in Aniya’s direction. “If it hadn't been for you and Freya, Davina might still be alive."

    "If it hadn't been for me and Freya, the Mikaelson family line would have been murdered before your very eyes," Elijah corrected. "You may have loved that girl, but she was not your family."

    Rebekah placed a hand on Aniya's hand, which had been resting in her lap. "That's quite enough from both of you. I'm sure there's a way Aniya can return our memories without having to confide in the witches."

    "On the contrary, I have heard of her brand of witches less than a dozen times in my immortal life," Kol argued. "She refuses to practice magic unless provoked, so we aren't even sure she can do simple spells--"

    "You do not speak for me," Aniya cut him off, narrowing her eyes at him. She turned to the Mikaelsons, wringing her hands as she spoke. "I possess an offensive magic. It's a finite source, depending on the state of my health in order to be put to use. As of late, I have combined it with defensive tactics, in which I essentially use nearby resources to protect myself against the attacker."

    "And what the bloody hell does that have to do with memory erasure?" Rebekah questioned.

    "It seems that when I was sacrificed, all traces of my brother and I's existence was wiped off the face of the Earth," Aniya responded. "According to Kol's little witch, I can return your memories by erasing the memories of others."

    Nik spoke up finally, though his face remained blank as he processed the information. "And why would you need the help of New Orleans witches to achieve this? We have a witch, too. One who is not hellbent on returning to power at this very moment."

    "Our dear sister practices earth magic, Nik," Kol said with a sickeningly sweet smile. "She's only practiced sacrificial magic once, she's barely familiar with the concept."

    Aniya raised an eyebrow at his behavior. "Why are you so willing to hand me away to them? I'm not a New Orleans witch. They have no motive to help me."

    "Their motive is that they are indebted to me, and this is their way of paying it off," Kol said with a shrug. "It only cost a few dark objects."

    "You're interested in our marriage," Aniya stated. A light scoff left her lips and she crossed her arms over her chest. It had only taken a few short years of friendship to learn when Kol was lying. She'd recognized it in most of the Mikaelsons, outside of Niklaus. Each time, she'd been kind about it. Smiled politely and calmly asked for the truth. She took no interest in doing so now.

    If he'd simply asked, she might have shown him the memories herself. It might have hurt his head, the way it had done the night before, but at least then she might have been able to prevent the wall of ice building itself around her chest. Not only as a result of Henry, but of his doubt. She wouldn't need a grimoire to teach her the spells she'd spent eighteen years memorizing. She wouldn't want it.

    In her later years, her father began to teach heavier sacrificial magic. Spells to return or take away memories; to ensure the misfortune of an enemy; and spells to take a life. Her father had never taught her to return it, stating it wasn't the job of a witch to interfere with the will of the god's. It had been a pathetic excuse, of course, but she and Vihaan had kept their mouths shut.

    "And you're interested in a human," Kol remarked. "How did he know about Tyaag witches? Perhaps he's a New Orleans witch himself."

    He hadn't been. Henry Pearl had been perfectly human -- a tall, gentle mortal. He wouldn't have survived living in the village a thousand years ago, and she was afraid he wouldn't survive now. Perhaps she should have said goodbye after all.

    Kol watched the pendant that hung from her neck, its velvet ribbon covering the darkened scar she'd refused to heal. She might have gotten hurt if she'd tried to return the memories on her own, and there was no telling whether she would know where to begin. Every time he so much as thought of her within Death's grasp, an aching pain seemed to spread through his body. Some part of him would have rather died than see her get hurt, and he was no longer sure how to fight that side off.

    Turning his attention to his brothers, Kol pointed out, "You two are being ridiculous."

    "And you are being reckless," Rebekah snapped. "I want my memories of Aniya back as much as you do, but I am not willing to risk the life we've built for Hope. Are you?"

    He didn't answer. Instead, he clenched his jaw and turned to walk out of the room. Rebekah let out a sigh and stood behind Aniya's chair, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

    "I'm not sure why, of all people, you chose to marry one of my brothers."

    Aniya nodded, a look of defeat crossing her face. "He's the meanest boy I've ever met."

    Elijah and Kol made their way out of the dining room after saying their farewells to the two girls. Rebekah accepted a forehead kiss from Elijah before taking her seat next to Aniya, a gentle smile forming on her pink lips as dark waves fell over Aniya's face. "Let me know when you want me to plait these. I'm sure you're quite famished after a night out with my brother."

    "Quite," Aniya chuckled. "He was never like this."

    Rebekah's smiled dimmed a bit. "No, he wasn't. I suppose it's a difference between who you are and the person you need to be in order to survive; and in the presence of Niklaus, whilst running from Mikael and fighting bloodlust, we all changed a bit. Tell me, have I always been this way?"

    "Yes. I did admire you," She admitted. There had been a time during a bon fire, where she had chosen to stay indoors and help the women prepare food, while Rebekah stood outdoors and sat by the cattle. "Your father should have considered you a Viking."

    "I am sure I have always been a Viking," Rebekah said with a small laugh. "I can't think of other people that traveled around the world on ships; but then, we were running from our father, so I suppose we were more pirates than anything."

    Aniya's lips turned downward, her gaze falling to her hands. "The years not have been kind to you."

    "They were not, but what of you? A thousand years of sleep?"

    "Of nothing."

    She recalled having woken up to nothingness. She was met with a cold, dark silence, as if someone had locked her in an endless room and shut the lights out. She remembered waiting for Vihaan, who'd been killed two minutes earlier, and screaming when she realized he wouldn't come for her. She could recall the pang in her chest, and the sobs that had wracked her body as she bargained with the gods to bring her back.

    She'd been given someone who would observe her silently, capture all of her habits and flaws and loved her despite. Someone that had gotten lost in all of her features, and it had been ripped away from her. She'd been given a taste of freedom with each Mikaelson. Even little Henrik had been a chance for her to escape into a life she would never have: one where she might have raised a child.

    And she'd been left with nothing.

    After a moment, Aniya reached for Rebekah's hand shut her eyes, opening her mind to the Original. Rebekah fell into the void, and a few moments passed before her sight was able to adjust to her environment. She blinked, and notice a frail Aniya sitting a few feet away, her arms holding tightly onto her knees as she stared at the ground. She appeared to be the same way they found her: covered with dirt and dried blood. The blonde pursed her lips at the sight, and pulled her arm away from Aniya.

    "There's no need to worry now," Rebekah assured her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're immortal. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

-

"WHY AM I HERE?" Aniya huffed as she stood at the gates of Lafayette Cemetary. Kol had promised her a milkshake. "Nik and Elijah agreed that we weren't to seek help from New Orleans witches."

    "Nik and Elijah are not my fathers," Kol remarked, pushing the doors open. He stood and held it for her, causing her to stare blankly at him. "All of your problems would be solved if you did two simple spells. Both of which you would have aid in, if you only asked."

    "They threatened Henry."

    "And they shred the soul of my former lover. Everybody makes mistakes."

    "Then why trust them?"

    "Because we haven't a choice in the matter, and at worst, we double cross each other," Kol said, as if it were obvious. "I am well-versed in the art of massacres."

    "Lovely. All the more reason to trust you," Aniya muttered and begrudgingly took a step into the cemetary. She hadn't returned since the night she was resurrected, though the Mikaelsons had dealt with the Hollow shortly after. They's done something with a parallel dimension or Geminis -- truthfully, Aniya never paid much attention to Nik's coffee chats.

    "I feel caught," Kol snickered as he walked alongside her. He looked down at the shorter girl, his eyes barely glancing at the path in front of him despite the graveyard's sharp turns.

    Aniya scoffed at his response, taking a moment to think before asking, "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

    "What?"

    "I despise you."

    It was his turn to scoff. "You despise me. Why do you despise me?"

    "With every chance you have to do the right thing, to be kind and selfless and caring; you are nothing but conceited, selfish, and miserable," She listed, despite the mocking look painted across Kol's face. Aniya rolled her eyes at his response. "I feel sorry for you, I really do. I just wish you'd bear it better."

    "Well, you wouldn't understand, now would you? You've never had to watch who you thought was the love of your life, truly die."

    Aniya stopped and turned to face him. She analyzed his every feature, his brows twitching in anger and eyes filled with spite as he looked back at her. His lips were somewhat pulled behind his teeth, as if baring them at her in defense. Even his posture looked as though he were ready to pounce, despite the fact that they'd only had a verbal argument.

    She smiled tightly at his statement, fingers reaching for the old wedding ring before she remembered the previous night. "No. I'd move on if I couldn't be loved. I suggest you do the same."

[fieryfantasybooklover]

First Date - A Prinxiety fluff fic

---------------------------------------------------

“This was a mistake. A huge mistake. A terrible terrible mistake”, groaned Virgil as he flopped backward onto his bed. “Why did I have to be so stupid? There is no possible way this can go well. I mean, I’m ANXIETY. I’m not meant for romance. I don’t deserve romance, especially not with him. I’m an antisocial, insecure mess, and he’s, well, HIM! A smooth, passionate, cute… Oh god, this was a mistake.”

“Come now Virgil. Stop that talk! I don’t happen to see the problem.” reasoned Logan as he firmly did his best to calm the anxious younger side. “You like him, right? I have to assume so, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked him out on a date. And I know that he likes you very much, so what’s the worry for? There is more empirical evidence to suggest that you do, even if the thousands of times I’ve caught you staring aren’t enough-oh stop it!”

Upon hearing this, Virgil had turned an impossibly bright shade of red, buried his head under his pillows, and muttered “well if he does like me I don’t deserve it”.

“You do deserve this! You both do! You two have been dancing around each other, dropping hints and such for too long! Both me and Patton have seen enough of this, and frankly I think Patton might die if you don’t make a move soon. So, if you value our existence, GET READY FOR THE DATE!!”

Virgil, stunned at the outburst from the normally calm and rational side, gave in at last and shoved Logan out the door to get ready, along with the statement “Fine walking encyclopedia, be quiet leave me alone then. And close the door on your way out!” When the door quietly clicked shut, Virgil locked it and turned to survey the chaos that was his room to find something suitable enough for a date.

Sadly, this simple action was made much harder by the state of Virgil’s closet. After looking at it for merely a split second, he gave up and pitched backward onto his bed. He would have stayed there, to hell with the consequences, had Patton and Logan not teamed up and threatened to break down his door.

Doing his best to keep an open mind, Virgil examined his closet again. After scouring it thoroughly, he spotted an item in the back that he had yet to wear. After seeing it, an idea hit Virgil with the force of an out of control freight train and he grinned. “Maybe this situation isn’t so hopeless after all” Virgil thought to himself as he started putting together his outfit.

Finally, after an hour’s worth of angst and worry, several passing stages of impending doom, multiple broken objects that had been hurled against the wall in frustration, and several complaints from various sides about blasting Evanescence music, Virgil was as ready for the date as he thought he’d ever be. Doing his best to reign in his anxious nature, he surveyed the outfit in his mirror.

“If only I could call Roman to tell me how it looks” Virgil thought woefully to himself. Pointedly ignoring the massive butterflies that erupted in his stomach at the mere thought of the golden boy, Virgil decided the outfit was suitable enough for his first ever date. Now the only challenge left was to gain victory over his thoughts in the time that remained before the to-far-away yet much-to-close date with the boy Virgil had been pining over for months.

Meanwhile, in another room there was a very similar situation…

Roman had been trying outfit after outfit for hours, determined to find one worthy of the glorious boy he was wearing it for. Roman still couldn’t believe it, even after everything that had transpired between the two. He still couldn’t believe that his feelings were reciprocated by this dark, beautiful deity who had haunted his dreams for so long. Roman found himself repeatedly pinching himself every day to make sure this wasn’t all some gorgeous dream.

Finally, after managing to give Thomas a terrible migraine asking for fashion advice over and over, Roman settled on an outfit that he hoped would make for a memorable first date. Glancing at the clock on his wall, he realized he had to leave for the date now or risk being late. Praying to every single god and goddess he knew that this would go well, Roman departed.

Virgil arrived at the lake first. Surveying everything Roman had done to prepare for this, a mixture of amusement and affection bubbled up within Virgil, causing the return of the butterflies in full force. Of course, the butterflies came accompanied with a sensation of giddiness and lightheadedness. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long with his thoughts for Roman to arrive, as Virgil barely had time to prepare himself before Roman shimmered into being.

In Virgil’s opinion, Roman was looking… he had no words to describe it. Stunned and unable to form words, Virgil could only gaze upon the stunning man and remind himself that this was in fact real. Roman had styled his beautiful dark brown hair in waves, and chose an outfit sent straight from hell to be the downfall of Virgil.

Roman had chosen a blinding white semi formal suit with bright scarlet and shimmering gold worked in. Snugly cut, the suit clung to Roman’s form, accenting his broad shoulders and muscles. The outfit was finished off with white dress shoes. Realizing he was gaping, Virgil shook off the haze he was in, stood, and offered a shy smile and a “hello” to Roman. Of course, Virgil was unaware of the turmoil behind those beautiful eyes.

When Roman arrived to find Virgil already there, he began to freak out, but when he took in the other boy’s outfit, all thought was banished from his mind in an instant. It wasn’t until this moment that Roman realized how far gone he was, and strangely he didn’t even care.

Virgil had shown up in a shining obsidian suit. However, after a few moments Roman realized that there were subtle hints of deep purple and blue worked into the suit, and that Virgil must have spent at least an hour working those shades of color into the suit. His outfit was also snug, showing off Virgil’s slim form. The final pieces of the outfit were the bright black boots Virgil was wearing, and the slight hints of gold eyeshadow that caused his already breathtaking eyes to shine.

With Herculean effort, Roman dragged his eyes to Virgil’s face and was in an instant trapped in that rare, shy smile on the other boy’s face. As he offered a smile of his own to Virgil, their first date commenced. Both of them, dizzy with happiness and wonder, were completely unaware of the effect they had on the other.

“Hey there Princey” smirked Virgil, who was completely unprepared for the blinding smile that followed his statement. “Hey there emo nightmare” came the reply. “Shall we?” asked Roman as he gestured to the meal he had set out beside the lake. “Unless you have any better ideas” replied Virgil with another smirk as he headed for the food. Shaking his head, Roman followed.

The goal of the dinner was for them to get to know each other better, and it was a smashing success. Roman learned that Virgil despised the color orange, hated action films, and adored sugary cereal. Virgil learned that Roman loved country and pop music, hated lettuce, and found the idea of skateboards ridiculous. Both sides were amazed with the other, reveling in the happy dialogue, and thus treated the conversation as if it were a beautiful, breakable thing made of spun sugar and glass.

The second part of the date was to canoe out to the center of the lake and enjoy the stars. As both boarded the boat, they were overcome with dizzy excitement and nervousness. Virgil remarked to himself that the feeling was like boarding a roller coaster, only multiplied many times over. Roman compared it to the feeling a person got right before they auditioned for a part in a show or play. Both however, acknowledged that whatever this feeling was, it couldn’t be compared to anything else.

The boat was quiet as it silently, smoothly rushed over the water toward the center of the lake. Both sides were equally scared and had no idea what to do, afraid of ruining the new, precious thing between them. As the boat halted at the center of the lake, their eyes met and an electric shock seemed to zapp through the air between them, seeming to herald things to come.

“Well the sky is beautiful tonight” remarked Roman after a minute of loaded silence. “However, there are still a few things more beautiful than it.” “Well, I could name one right now” Virgil cautiously ventured. “Pray tell, my dark souled friend. What is this creature so beautiful it outshines the stars?” asked Roman, while ordering his heart to shut up and calm down. Their eyes met again as Virgil whispered “you”. At that moment, Roman was filled with the most intoxicating mix of emotions he had ever felt - wonder, happiness, disbelief, joy… and love. Gathering his remaining will, Roman brought his eyes back to Virgil’s and hesitantly whispered “I have to disagree. I see only one person so beautiful he outshines the stars. And he doesn’t do just that. He provides me with all the light I need to live.” With that, their lips met for the first time.

In that moment, both boys felt like they were living in a dream, because there was no way real life was this good. Nothing could ever feel so right. There was no way that people were this perfect. There was no way someone could hold so much love for another.

The kiss was fragile, yet strong. It hinted at something new, yet something that endured. It was as tempestuous as a storm, but as calm as a starry sky. There were no words in this world worthy of describing it.

After a minute, the two broke apart and shared a wide smile that was, for both of them, shielding a heart bursting with joy. Virgil’s heart was pounding a million beat’s a second, and Roman’s was soaring to impossible heights. With that moment echoing through both sides’ mind and soul, Virgil and Roman moved closer to each other and snuggled up together. As both boys wrapped their arms around the other and raised their eyes to the heavens, both made a silent, unbreakable oath. Not just an oath, it was a promise and a statement resounding with the truths they dared not speak aloud, not yet.

You are my everything. I will follow you to the ends of the Earth and beyond that. Without you, I am nothing. Without you, my life is bleak, empty and dark.

I will NEVER leave you.

My first attempt at a Prinxiety fanfic. Hope you enjoyed reading!

[thewickling]

@trensu This is originally your idea why would I complain if you continue. I was honestly going to pile on more sad (writing how Wei Wuxian came in care for A-Yuan and the breakdown of Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian's relationship. Oh an maybe Yunmeng siblings reuniting and separating again). Instead I wrote this? I wouldn't call it happy, it's a continuation of your scene so somewhere between hopeful and angsty.

Lan Wangji heart thrums. The blood racing through his veins sends him nearly dizzy. He can’t faint. If he closes his eyes, what if he opens them and this moment is a dream.

Wei Wuxian’s scent coats his nose, making his soul sing. His moon is well and alive. He can touch Wei Wuxian. He does what he wishes he did thirteen years ago.

“Lan Zhan?!” he shouts, pounding Lan Wangji’s shoulder. His fist tapped light, not at all forceful. His protests tinges with surprise. 

If he were in his right mind, Lan Wangji would stop. His human skin feels too slow. He can’t move fast enough but he makes do. He marches.

“Father?” Lan Sizhui’s voice chases them, uncertain.

He wants to speak but all those words he howled to the moon stick in his throat. All he can do is move. His every cell urging to bring his moon somewhere safe.

“Wait, father?” Wei Wuxian gasps. He hangs like a noodle as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Werewolves are strong but of course the amazing Jade of Lan would have heaven defying power. He isn’t escaping unless he stabs Lan Wangji but why would he ever do that?

The more pressing matter is when did Lan Wangji marry? Why didn’t he hear about it? Even as hidden away as he was, news like that spreads like wildfire.

At least he understands why he finds A-zhui so pleasant now. His mannerisms mirror his father, combined with his much sweeter face, his entire demeanor is comforting and considerate. He is exactly the other child parents compare their children to.

“Mister, do you know my father?” he asks. He trails behind. Concern mars his expression. He’s only ever seen his father this franic once — the day he was found. 

“Moon carried your scent to me.”

The childhood tale he loved bubbles up in his memory. It overlaps with the whispers from his Xi-bo about the fated mate his father lost and how the moon provided him a fated son in its place.

Wei Wuxian hums, “We’re the closest. Don’t you see it yourself?”

He winks. 

“Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding?” he says, slapping Lan Wangji’s shoulder like how a drunk man slams his hand on a table to demand more booze.

Lan Sizhui picks up pace. A part of him wonders if his father truly ever associated with someone so frivolous before. A part of him questions if he should stop his father. Granduncle has always been strict about who enters their lands. Yet he can’t bear to.

“I’m not married.” Lan Wangji’s tone lands somewhere between pained and outraged. He forces the ridiculous phrase from his mouth. He thinks, I searched for you everyday since you left. How could I marry? 

Wei Wuxian’s jaw drops. For perhaps the third time in his life, he is rendered speechless. Bewildered, he wonders, What kind of woman would dare to run off on a perfect gentlemen like the Jade of Lan, Lan Zhan?

Lan Sizhui watches his father scurrying home, moving at a pace he can barely keep up with, at a pace that certainly breaks the thousands of regulations their pack has. He is astonished. His father has only broken the rules once — that was to bring him home.

His faith shines. For his father to react like this, he can't be blamed for looking the other way. Even if granduncle punishes him, he’ll always be on his father’s side.

Except if he was asked if that was his reasoning, he wouldn’t be able to answer with certainty that it wasn’t simply because he liked Wei Wuxian. And if you asked him why he liked this man, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. He just felt like someone he should like.

He breaks into a jog. The boundary of their land is just ahead. If he’s too slow, his father’s jade pendant won’t cover him. 

“Oh, wow. How did I never realized this was here?” Wei Wuxian asks, whistling. “Lan Zhan, you kept a lot from me.”

Lan Wanji freezes. Those words touch an unpleasant memory, shocking his senses back to him. Lowering Wei Wuxian, he confesses, “I am a werewolf.”

“I can see that.” Wei Wuxian smiles.

This should feel familiar, he thinks, but it doesn’t. It isn’t that the light doesn’t reach Wei Wuxian’s eyes because it does or that the tone isn’t right. He can’t place the difference.

“Lan Zhan?” He waves his hand in front of Lan Wangji’s face.

He whispers, “Wei Ying.”

“That’s me,” he says, helplessly. Tilting his head, a spike of concern worms it way through Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji has never behaved like this before. 

“You are alive.”

“I am.”

The dam remains strong in Lan Wangji’s throat. A thousand lamentations, wishes, and prayers mingle on the tip of his tongue. A thread that encases him is the desire, the need, to keep Wei Wuxian on their lands.

Ice rises in his heart. Millions of warnings his uncle gave ring in his ears. The scandal of his father’s actions still scars their pack.

“Stay here, please.” He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Wei Wuxian refuses.

“I’m not going to run into any—” Wei Wuxian mimes claws and fangs, but the acidic undertone of fear sullies his scent.

He still won’t love me. The recollection slams into him, but barely takes ground against the relief pulsing through his veins. He promises himself, Wei Ying is alive. That is enough for me. 

“No. You won’t.” It’s too close to the border and their pack knows better than to take that risk.

Clapping, he says, “Then, I’ll impose on Lan Zhan for the night. We have a lot to catch up on. Like you have a son? What blind dame left you?”

“No one.” Lan Sizhui interrupts. Standing a distance from them, he rocks as if he isn’t sure if he has the right to intrude. “Mister, I’m adopted.”

It feels important to clear this up. Something nagging him that if he doesn’t something bad will happen. Call it a gut feeling.

“Oh! Of course, Lan Zhan is a good Samaritan.” He nods. Grinning to himself, he gestures for Lan Wangji to lead the way.

Lan Wangji places it. The smile comes from a different place. It isn’t as easy and doesn’t linger as long. More than anything he wants to know why that’s changed. He has a night and hopefully more. He can’t impose his feelings on Wei Wuxian but perhaps he can convince him to socialize for a few days or a week. 

[brittie-frog]

Haunting of Bly Manor

Right.

I love horror and after spending sometimes days watching video essays on gay history, specifically in (horror) movies and film, I now kinda understand why so with the Haunting series and its gay rep and them not being the villain of the story, I loved it.

(Quick note I have only rewatched the show twice and can only take from my own experience of media)

My phone also knows me so will suggest news stories on things I've recently watched or current murder cases. So it suggested me this story today:

I went in open minded knowing that some people were angry about the ending falling into the 'kill the gays' trope (which I will come back to).

At first it was fine, talking about the ghost story/love story comment and how it relates to the show and has good analysis that I agree with. Then it goes on to basically summarise the show.

It keeps mentioning that all the gay subtext is implied:

why Dani broke up with her fiance

why Jaimie is reluctant to be vulnerable with Dani (before the monologue)

And that there needs to be a “lot of filling in between the lines” to understand their romance despite their practically constant flirting (Jaimie's 'Poppins' for Dani is the cutest nickname) and multiple kissing scenes. However, I digress, it can be sometimes hard to understand certain attitudes to each other at the beginning.

It also states that its like they want on the pat on the back for "making them queer, without making anything about them very queer". I don't know what this means, but I took two interpretations:

That not all queer people need to stereotypically look queer to be and that is a step forward for gay rep (I prefer)

That the creator wants to be celebrated for making gay rep without truely showing their queerness (which I think is pretty false)

Then it talks about the fireside chat and Jaimie's backstory, describing the monologue as "shoehorned" into the scene and "devoid of any mention of her sexuality". This is where the first part of my 10 minute research for context comes in. This is set in 1987 in a small town in England with an American. In charge of England at the time was the famously homophobic Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher that implemented Clause 28. No one in this setting and right mind - especially after being ridiculed for most of her life - would come out to any one, flirting or not, that they have known for at most a month or two. Also, this entire scene resolves around Jaimie's attitudes towards people, and why she's reluctant to get close to people, favouring taking care of her flowers over interacting with others.

Then it talks about Owen and Mrs. Grose having "more meaningful screen time and backstories that continue throughout multiple episodes".

First Hannah. We basically get Hannah's entire backstory in episode 5: how she met Owen, scenes of her working at the Manor (in non-chronological order) and how she died in the first episode. Then that continued into the final episode when she finally comes to terms with her death and her love for Owen to save everyone. We don't actually get much backstory in the way of her childhood or even how she met the family (from what I remember, correct me if I'm wrong).

Now Owen. His backstory is that he grew up in Bly, left to go to France and became a Sous Chef, only coming back because his mum got diagnosed with dementia and he needed to take care of her despite her constantly mistaking him for other people. That is also only explored through Hannah's memories of the interview and the bonfire-side chat.

Those are both sad backstories but you can't call them any more or less meaningful than Jaimie's of in depth about how her and her family were ridiculed and bullied throughout her life and even spent time in juvie. They all have points mentioned in their stories that I would love more indepth on: how Hannah met the family/met Sam, either Owen's childhood in Bly or his time in France and why Jaimie spent time in juvie. But I also realise this is a short series that has to make fleshed out characters and tell an entire story in 8 episodes.

The article then talks about how even the ghosts got an entire episode to themselves when they barely show up. If you look in the background of the majority of scenes you'll see them and personally I really enjoy getting their stories of how they died. However, that episode is about more than just finding out about the ghosts and Viola's life, it’s mainly about what led to her being the first ghost and causing other dead people to stay as ghosts and the origin of those specific words that give a ghost access to an alive person’s body, to help explain the majority of the show. If I showed my friend this show and removed that episode I would have more questions asked than when my mum finished it.

Now I don’t know what to say. I agree there is no law on art so it can be anything and I usually think that the haunting series are in a slightly different universe (it’s how sleep at night knowing that someone can’t be so stubborn they become a murdering ghost) but also yes, trans-roles should be given to trans people more often. However they are actors and their job is to play some they aren’t for entertainment so for the most part I agree with Scarlett about being able to play anything. Also yes the self-congratulatory approach after playing an LGBT+ character when you’re cishet is kinda bad unless you have the full support of the community telling you it was a good portrayal and accurate representation. It won’t be enough for minorities if our representation, that people outside the communities are calling great, are just surface level characters that are just there for tokenism but you can’t compare Bly Manor characters to those types of characters. All of them have so much development and are well done that the majority of the community that has watched the show have no problem with and love their representation.

Personally I love both Theo Crain and Jaimie and Dani because they represent different things. Theo Crain is on a basic level. as a lothario, a stereotypical butch lesbian, constantly hooking up and struggles to actually open up and love people. Dani and Jaimie are soft, domestic cottage core lesbians in a flower shop AU. This is not a bad thing and just because they have a “tepid romance” doesn’t mean it’s a step back. Also more context time:

 As said before Thatcher was in charge and heavily homophobic, creating laws to stop people from teaching children about homosexuality since gay sex had been decriminalised recently

 It was the middle of the AIDs epidemic. Dani was coming from a country that was doing nothing about the deaths of thousands and going to a country where hysteria about AIDs was rampant but they were doing more, like the ‘AIDs: don’t die of ignorance’ information leaflet despite it not being as huge with 46 deaths by 1984. (That assumes that the AIDs epidemic happened in this universe)

Dani clearly had some form of internalized homophobia before even coming to England because she spent so long with her fiance hoping to feel the way she’s supposed to (I think the ghost of him is her guilt and internalized issues personified as it constantly appears when she’s trying to move forward.)

Also in the final episode it shows that is probably at least some homophobia in America as they kiss in the shop then look outside and go to the back so no one can see. (This could be interpreted as seeing if anyone is planning on coming in so they can escape without having to stop early for customers but Jaimie had already changed the sign to closed.)

Now onto the ‘kill the gays’ trope. Yes this is a huge trope that is so damaging to the community that we’re constantly the ones killed off for views or when their tokenism is no longer important, that is fucked up! However this doesn’t mean that we should give every gay character plot armour, cause that’s also unrealistic, just to please the select few that will call it out as a damaging trope. There is huge difference between say, The 100 killing Lexa and Bly Manor killing Dani as one has plot relevance and brings the story to a close while the other enraged an entire generation so much they started a brand new convention to celebrate queer relationships/characters in media. It’s also not like she was the only one to die, it’s horror after all, Hannah, Rebecca and Peter, the parents and all those ghosts died or were already dead.

Like many of the comments on the article - If all you got from this show was it falls into kill the gays, you have completely missed the entire point of the show.

[themurphyzone]

PatB Oneshot: A Whole New World

AN: Well I did have an angst story in mind which I do have a basic outline for but I feel like I gotta balance some of the more despair-driven stories with some fluff.

I decided to use a HC I posted a few days ago: That Pinky would serenade Brain with A Whole New World. Just with a small modification to help the story flow better. Cause it’s cute and adorable and just let them be happy please.

FFN

Pinky loved endings. Happy endings, teary endings, pencil endings. They were just fun to chew on even if they left a rubbery taste in his mouth!

And when Aladdin and Jasmine kissed on a starlit night filled with fireworks and flew off on their magic carpet, it was so magicafantastical! Or was the right word beauwondersicle? And then the moon turned out to be the Genie the entire time! He never would’ve guessed!

The moon outside was just as big and beautiful as the one in the movie, except it was made of cheese instead of genies. And there was a funny face in the cheese too. Maybe a moon mouse carved it so earth mice would have something to laugh at and brighten up their nights!

That was really kind of them to help cheer Brain up. And hard work deserved a reward! What kind of cheeses and scented soaps did moon mice like?

Making a gift basket would have to be number lollipop on his to-do list though. For now, there was a lovely reprise of A Whole New World. It was such a romantic song, and it didn’t take long before Pinky was swaying and humming along to Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle’s vocals.

The counter was a magic carpet, and the walls twinkled with countless stars. Pinky let his movements flow like a gentle breeze, making sure to keep his limbs tucked inside the magic carpet at all times.

A body cuddling close, warm compared to the cool night air. The warmth spread through his chest, making him tingly and melty and a thousand other things at once, like the time he’d tried plugging a broken cord from one of Brain’s whatchamajigs into an outlet and gotten shocked. Only this was a good tingly and not a painful one.

“Pinky, put me down at once!” a hand clamped around Pinky’s snout and yanked insistently.

Pinky stood on his tiptoes as the song went into the next verse, and the next tug made him slip and tumble. Pinky laughed as his face smooshed against the countertop.

There was an ‘oof’ from underneath him, which was a strange sound for his tummy to make. It usually made more of a ‘gurgurgur’ noise.

“Zort! Tummy, you’ve got it all wrong!” Pinky scolded. “You’re supposed to growl and grumble like something that’s good at being growly and grumbly!”

Pinky had eaten his dinner during the movie, but his tummy growled anyway.

“That’s a good one, tummy! You sound almost exactly like Brain!” Pinky giggled. He arched his back, bending his head so he could get a good look at his tummy, but sneezed when his nose brushed against the fur on Brain’s chubby head.

Brain scowled, fixing Pinky with his best warning glare. “Pinky, if you don’t let me up in the next five seconds, I shall have to hurt you after I finish hurting you for pulling me into your ridiculous dance.”

Pinky stepped aside and helped Brain up, giggling at how Brain’s face resembled a tomato. Brain could turn his entire face red, and Pinky wondered how he could make his own face turn different colors. Maybe a nice indigo? That was his favorite crayon after all.

And so were aquamarine and periwinkle and scarlet and maroon and…well, picking a favorite crayon was harder than he thought. They were all fun colors!

And a sharp pain to his head let him see even more colors. Olive green, smiley face yellow, and there was even a pretty chartreuse!

“Narf…” Pinky murmured, transfixed by all the swirling hues.

Pinky stumbled, landing flat on his face again. After a few seconds, his head stopped swirling and he could see Brain setting his pen down and trying to rub the red out of his face.

“Zort! I saw so many colors! You should try it sometime!” Pinky exclaimed.

Brain shoved his hands into his pockets, and Pinky remembered that he kept meaning to ask Brain about that because he wasn’t wearing pants.

“I’ll have to decline your offer, Pinky,” Brain replied, his fur back to its usual white. “I’m still debating if I should be more concerned about the objects you put into your mouth.”

“Don’t worry, it was just food pellets. We’re all out of moldy cheese and lint balls, remember?” Pinky said.

“Thank you for proving my point,” Brain muttered as he hit the off button on the remote. The cheery music from a car commercial faded away.  

“You’re welcome, Brain!”

Brain grabbed Pinky by the arm and half-dragged, half-led him across the counter to where a notepad was propped up by a stack of books for supersmart mice. Great pictures, but how did x get lost from the rest of the letters and wind up in Numberland anyway? It was a mystery that Pinky still hadn’t solved.

“It’s time to focus on tonight’s plan,” Brain declared, lightly tracing a series of music notes with a pencil. “We’ll broadcast our hypnotic emotional song across the airwaves. This song contains lyrics with double meanings designed to pull at a human’s natural curiosity. They’ll have to listen many times in order to understand what I desire to accomplish, and with each repetition, the suggestion will continue to grow until every human on earth comes to the lab on bended knee and a willingness to make me their ruler.”

“Egad, Brain! Brilliant!” Pinky clapped his hands in delight, grinning when he caught a small lopsided ‘I know I’m smart’ smile on Brain’s face. “Oh wait, didn’t we already try this with Spinatra?”

Brain waved his hand dismissively. “Already accounted for. I was too concerned with vocals in that plan. The background instrumentals will have a much more important role this time. I’m even including a swelling crescendo and key change towards the end.”

Pinky gasped. “That poor croissant! It needs cream to help with that swelling!”

“I need cream for the headache you’re inevitably going to cause,” Brain sighed.

“Does this mean you’re singing again? Can you sing it right now?” Pinky asked. “Cause I love it when you sing, Brain!”

Brain squirmed, the redness creeping into his face again. He was funny about singing, acting like he didn’t enjoy it. If the world ruler thing didn’t pan out, then singing would be a great back-up career. Pinky could just picture it!

Brain Maine, the blond international singing sensation whose stage name was a US state for some reason who dealt with normal people things like being a genetically altered lab mouse in his private life!

“We’ll broadcast the song over the radio,” Brain said, avoiding Pinky’s eyes while he busied himself by adding several squiggly lines into the margins around his lyrics. “Yes, this plan requires me to sing. As for your other question…”

He trailed off, mumbling something Pinky couldn’t make out.

Pinky raised a hand to his ear, wondering if he needed to clean it again. He could never find the Q-tips though. “Sorry, Brain. Didn’t quite catch that. Did you say they’re making Goodnight Moon into a Jelly Belly flavor? Because I don’t think paper and jelly beans go well together, poit.”

“No, Pinky,” Brain scowled. “I’m at an impasse. My lyrics are thought-provoking and profound. My notations are highly technical and intricate, logically designed to invoke a strong emotional reaction in listeners based on precedents set by great composers and music theorists in the past. But for all this excellence, I haven’t been able to organize my lyrics into a configuration that will appeal to the auditory pathways.”

Pinky blinked. He knew Brain liked to hide behind big words. That was just how he played hide-and-seek, like how Pinky enjoyed hiding in a paper towel roll. “That’s a lotta big words, Brain. I just want a teensy tiny sneak peek of the song. Unless you still need time on that part. That’s okay, I’ll just run on my wheel while I wait.”

Brain sighed as he crossed out several music notes. “Precisely, Pinky. I’m well-versed in being objective. However, objectivity falls short when a plan hinges on people’s…feelings. The final product needs to be emotional, but I can’t induce a reaction until I know what sounds will produce a maximum effect!”

He threw down the pencil and kicked it away.

Pinky tilted his head, taking in the numerous edits spread over the page. Brain really poured his heart out for these pretty-looking words. Like his heart just tipped out of his chest and he was trying to cover it up again while scolding it for being visible in the first place. And being upset because he couldn’t find the tune for his heart’s song.

Wait…

A heartsong!

“Just like the penguins who saved the South Pole with the power of tap dancing and singing and Robin Williams!” Pinky exclaimed, grabbing Brain by the shoulders. Brain tried to shrug him off, but Pinky clung on. “Brain, that’s what you need! A tune for your heartsong!”

“Pinky, now you’re just babbling,” Brain said, crossing his arms and leaning back as far as he could without falling over. “And don’t describe my hard work as a ‘heartsong’. You’re making it sound like sentimental sap.”

“Sounds delicious!” Pinky replied. “But all you need is just a little inspiration, Brain! Let me help you find a tune so you can feel everything and help the world feel your song too! Please with a maraca cherry on top?”

“Maraschino cherries, as much as it pains me to acknowledge such a childish form of pleading,” Brain corrected. “I assume you’re not letting this, or by extension, me…go until I indulge you.”

“Nope!” Pinky said.

“Very well. I resign myself to whatever you have in your unconventional mind, Pinky.”

                                                  O – O – O – O – O

In the end, the setup was just a stereo and a Disney CD with their most popular movie songs. Pinky had decided against wearing his fedora, since Brain didn’t seem to care for his Donald O’Connor impression very much.

Since the CD case had a coffee stain on it that prevented him from finding the song number, Pinky took a moment to listen to the first few notes of each song before pressing the next button. As much as Pinky loved Hakuna Matata, it just wasn’t what Brain needed right now. He’d save that one in case they ever got dropped into the jungle again. It took about nine, or maybe twelveteen tries before Pinky found what he was looking for.

Satsified, Pinky paused the song and turned back to Brain, who was drawing several neat lines on a yellow sticky note.

“What’s that, Brain?” Pinky asked, leaning over Brain’s head for balance so he could get a closer look.

Brain tilted his head to the right and Pinky slipped off, laughing when he landed on his elbow. “I’m setting up my notes, Pinky.”

“We only need music notes, Brain. Not notes-notes or sticky notes,” Pinky said. Sometimes Brain could be a little confused. Why would he need notes for his heartsong?

“Oh yes, Pinky. How silly of me. The notes will just magically write themselves after all.”

Well, of course they would write themselves. But Brain still wouldn’t budge from his sticky note and pencil.

So Pinky decided to resort to drastic measures.

“Chase me!” Pinky shouted, snatching the sticky note and pencil from Brain and dashing around to the back of the stereo as fast as he could while his paws were full. There was an angry growl from behind him, but Pinky had a good head start on Brain. Normally, Pinky slowed his running speed to give Brain a fair chance at catching him, because it just wasn’t fun if the chaser couldn’t catch up to the chasee.

But this time around, Brain would need to listen closely to his feelings, whatever they were. And he couldn’t do that with notes that weren’t music notes.

“Give those back, Pinky!” Brain yelled, rounding the corner just as Pinky stuck one side of the sticky note into his mouth and grabbed a knobby thing from the back of the stereo, hauling himself up with one paw clutched firmly around the pencil.

“Not ‘til after the song!” Pinky meant to say, but it came out more like ‘nafthang’ because of the sticky note. Brain’s paw clamped around the middle of his tail and threatened to pull him down when he was halfway to the top. Pinky clung to his handhold tightly, keeping his legs spread for balance.

The tip of Pinky’s tail flicked against Brain’s nose, and Brain’s grip loosened. Encouraged by this, Pinky let his tail go wild, brushing it against Brain’s eyes, nose, and fur. Pinky glanced down just as his tail lightly danced around the outside of Brain’s ear, watching Brain let go to bat the rest of the offending appendage away.  

Brain really did resemble a white and red tomato with ears now that Pinky had a top view. Pinky couldn’t enjoy it for long though. Quickly pulling himself to the top, Pinky laid the note down, taking a few seconds to spit the sticky stuff out of his mouth. Then he braced the pencil against the handle, making sure it wouldn’t roll away.

“I hope you’re happy,” Brain muttered, crossing his arms as Pinky hopped down. “I wouldn’t be so tolerant of your antics if I didn’t need this for research purposes.”

“Oh, I’m plenty happy,” Pinky chirped. “Are you ready for the song now?”

“We’re delayed by ninety minutes,” Brain said. “I suppose I have no choice if this plan is to be implemented in time for morning rush hour.”

“Okey-dokey then! You’ll dance with me?” Pinky said, rushing back to the front of the stereo. His hand hovered over the start button, glancing at Brain for the go-ahead.

Brain opened his mouth to reply, but then it suddenly snapped shut again. He did this several more times, and Pinky realized he probably didn’t know what to say next.

Brain wasn’t familiar with non-smarty mouse stuff, though Pinky knew he could hand Brain a bunch of numbers and letters and squiggles and Brain would find an answer faster than Pinky could blink.

Pinky decided to borrow a page out of Aladdin’s book, making a mental note to return the page later, because what if Aladdin was reading it and the page was important to the story? Pretending he was Aladdin inviting Princess Jasmine onto his magic carpet, Pinky held his hand out to Brain.

“Do you trust me?” Pinky asked, giving Brain his best reassuring smile.

Brain just stared down at Pinky’s hand like it was covered in really icky goo.  

“Do you trust me, Brain?” Pinky repeated.

“With certain things more than others,” Brain admitted after a long moment, slipping his hand into Pinky’s. “Remember, this is strictly for research purposes only.”

Pinky hit the play button, and a gentle piano melody flowed out of the speakers.

The lab quickly melted away and they were dancing on a magic carpet, a starry sky above and a bustling city below. Romantic music flew by, supported by a gentle breeze.

“I can show you the world-“

Brain jerked slightly, eyes wide as the wind sweetly sang about the world beyond the lab and domination. Pinky carefully reeled him in, helping him balance until he could find his footing again.

The world was bathed in silvery moonlight, and the shadows weren’t so scary when they flew by on their magic carpet. Pinky’s fur brushed against Brain, sending millions of tingly little sparks through his body as they weaved around brick and stone and steel, not wanting even a single building to interrupt their dance.

And they were going up, so high that Pinky could reach out and touch the clouds. He’d always wanted to dance on fluffy, cottony clouds. The ground was a million miles below, but Pinky wasn’t afraid. Brain and the magic carpet wouldn’t let him fall.

Then Pinky was tugged in a completely different direction from where he’d been trying to go, only for the step to be hastily corrected at the last second. Brain’s eyes flicked down when Pinky looked at him, so Pinky gave his hands a squeeze to let him know it was alright if he wanted to lead now.

Brain liked control, and Pinky wanted to return his efforts in kind.

With newfound confidence, Brain swept Pinky into a wide arc. Every step precise, every turn sharp. The world blurred around them, Pinky’s heart beating rapidly as he kept up with Brain’s commands.

Forests, oceans, deserts, and mountains disappeared into the distance just as fast as they came by. Pinky saw the sprawling Great Wall of China, the huge Empire State Building, the wavy Sydney Opera House, and numerous other landmarks he couldn’t remember the names of. All part of this world, and they would belong to Brain someday.

Brain’s breathing grew heavier, coming out in little puffs of air, and Pinky’s throat felt tight. Tight like he’d just run so fast, so far, without stopping to catch his breath.

The lab came back into view, the last of the stars fading into the dark walls.

The stereo played the first line of I’ll Make a Man Out of You, so Pinky turned it off. They weren’t ready for a fast-paced training montage.

They headed back to their cage for a much-needed drink of water, and Brain guzzled down nearly half the bottle before letting Pinky have his turn. While Pinky drank his fill, Brain’s attention returned to his notebook, filling in the pages with renewed vigor.

“Did you find your heartsong, Brain?” Pinky called, rushing over to find a bunch of music notes and squiggly lines that hadn’t been there before. “Zort! That’s a lot of circles!”

Brain drew several more lines, filling the spaces with even more music notes. “Whole notes, Pinky. I’m including several long ones to help enhance the emotional quality of my work. However, there’s one significant change I’d like…no, need to make before we broadcast it over the radio.”

Pinky waited, noticing that Brain swallowed a very huge gulp down his throat. “Um, Brain? I think something’s stuck in your throat. Are you okay?”  

“Iwanttomakeitaduet,” Brain mumbled.  

Pinky blinked. “Is that another big word?”

“I said I want to make it a duet, Pinky!” Brain shouted. Then he took a moment to rub his big head, sighing heavily. “Apologies.”

“Gesundheit,” Pinky grinned.

Brain paced around, murmuring to himself. “Hydrogen bonding. A hydrogen and oxygen atom forming a bond…no, it’s more covalent than hydrogen. Hydrogen bonds are weak unless there’s millions to create surface tension. Covalent bonds are much stronger. And a duet is chemistry in lyrical form, showcasing the singers’ covalent bond-“

“I can’t wait to duet with you, Brain,” Pinky declared, pouring every ounce of feeling into his words as he could. “What am I singing?”

“-like carbon with hydrogen, or even just two of the same element. And you’ll need to know your part. Of course.”

Brain copied the song onto a separate sheet of paper, then grabbed a pink highlighter from a drawer and drew it across two verses and the refrain. Pinky’s parts in pink for easy remembering! This was gonna be a fun plan!

“Pinky?”

Pinky looked up from his paper. Brain was half-turned to his notebook, half-turned to Pinky.

“If you want to know how I felt earlier, the best description I can think of is…weightless.”

He felt happy feelings when Brain’s eyes gleamed in triumph at an idea. Scared feelings when he was trapped in a maze without Brain to guide him. Sad feelings when Brain yelled and grumped and cried because he thought Pinky didn’t want to be with him anymore.

And weightless feelings?

Pinky thought of dancing in the sky and the rush of happiness he felt when Brain took the lead. Cuddling together if the lab grew too cold, listening to big words, imagining what they would do when Brain took over the world.

“That’s a good feeling to have, Brain.”

“Yes, Pinky. It is.”

AN: I think I’ve listened to way too many 90s love songs. I tried watching the Pinky POV to help me get into Pinky’s mindset, and wow that episode is weirder than I remember it. I’m sorry, but Pinky was visualizing a thong on Brain I don’t know what to say that XDXDXD

So, references. I’m not very good when it comes to pop culture outside of animation, musicals, and animated musicals but yeah. Robin Williams voiced Lovelace in Happy Feet and of course Genie in Aladdin (we don’t talk about the live action one here). Pinky would totally love the concept of the heartsong.

Honestly, the Brain Maine thing came about because I was thinking, ‘hey, Maine rhymes with Brain’. That’s it. My mind just be like that.  

Donald O’Connor sang Make Em’ Laugh in Singin’ in the Rain, which the segment Just Say Narf parodies.

And of course, Aladdin, but that doesn’t bear repeating here I think.

I need to find a new song now. I lost track of how many times I listened to A Whole New World in the past few days.

[bubbletimestories]

Quarantine Beck (Quentin/reader)

Summary: The story of how Quentin Beck is so bored during confinement that he decides to find a damsel in distress for Mysterio. Except he falls on your profile and you start to trot him in the head. Between the heat, the confinement and the fact that he can send drones to observe whoever he wants, Quentin could well lose his mind.

Warnings: stupid Beck, he’s an asshole, as usual. Broken mug.

Themes: love, obsession, being bored, quarantine

A/N. This is not an ad for Smule (the application used at the end) but it is true that it relaxes. I especially wanted to stage a slightly stupid Beck and the fact that he sings ^^ Fic written quickly, without proofreading, for fun.

Translated with Google traduction, sorry ^^’

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540031 (eng)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539569 (fr)

*************************************************************************

Everything was ready for the big appearance of Mysterio, for the Elemental’s very first attack which would bring a whole new hero into the spotlight. Everything, absolutely everything was ready. And then the Covid struck.

At first, no one really cared, they weren't planning to launch any of their virtual creatures in China. A little Asian virus was not going to steal them the limelight in the newspapers, not against an earth giant or a walking tornado. But the little Asian virus did not stop there and we all know that in the space of a few months, the whole world was frozen behind thick windows. When the confinement was announced, more than one citizen felt a ball of anxiety crushing their throat, but it was nothing compared to the dull terror experienced by all the members of the "Mysterio" team. Being locked up is one thing, but when the greatest danger is cloistered between four walls with you, the global pandemic seems very slight.

The confinement was declared several weeks ago, the spirits are still heating up but many have already resigned themselves to having to wait quietly for the sun to shine on them again. Speaking in a low voice in a corner of the warehouse that has served as their home for far too long, Janice laments, carefully dusting the costume of the hero who does not yet exist.

"There is at least one good thing ... the helmet fits perfectly with the rules of hygiene. "

Victoria chuckles behind her back, recovering almost immediately with a concerned look upstairs, where their leader has taken up residence. Amid the debris of drones and other shattered objects, he turns in circles like a tiger in a cage, his slender figure cutting against the smoked glass window. Impossible to launch their great illusion now, it would be ridiculous to see a monster devastating a deserted city. No drama, no tension, it would have as much effect as a wet firecracker. So they have to wait, wait again, praying a little louder every day so that the operation chief does not commit murder. When he grabbed the hammer lying there yesterday, everyone held their breath as they imagined their last hour arriving.

" Hello everybody ! "

A cheerful voice startles the two women as Quentin descends the shaky staircase to mingle with the crowd, his face radiant and freshly shaven. He greeted everyone, patting one on the shoulder, saying funny word to an other, his irresistible charming smile on his lips. He’s sorry for yesterday, he got a little carried away, nothing serious. After all, there are worse things than being stuck here with friends. It gives them time to discuss, to refine certain details, to perfect what they have prepared with such care. Maybe they could think about how to add a little emotion to their script, although the tearful story of the bereaved soldier is already a great teardrop. Finally, he comes up to the costumer, slipping a hand behind her back, leaning over to watch her work.

- I am always impressed by the detail of this cape, all these hours of work… - It's ... it's because it's for you, Quentin.

The young man smiles and darts his blue eyes on Janice, just long enough to see her lose all means. It is easy for Beck to lead his world, a simple look is enough for him, a smile or a well-placed word opens all the doors. He decides to prepare a coffee before returning to see the seamstress, taking the opportunity to exchange a few words with Guterman on the story they have invented, the alliance on his finger... After having recovered the drone control bracelet to be able to check certain settings by speaking (he likes to be able to play with them), Quentin returns to his armor which he examines with a critical eye. Suddenly, his face darkens as he points to a small scratch on the shiny surface.

" What is that ? "

There is silence all around them although the tone of the young man has remained calm and playful. Janice suddenly feels in balance on the razor's edge and explains like a mother would talk to her son, if the latter was armed with a butcher's knife.

"Well ... it's a trace of past battles. The story of the Quentin Beck fighter will be more credible if the public sees traces of wear on the armor. "

He was the one who made this remark, insisting strongly that small details are the glue of good lies and that it should be as true as possible. The team leader nods slowly when he hears this common sense answer.

"More credible for the public ... it is for the public to believe in it ..."

With a great movement, he smashes the happily empty cup on the edge of the desk. He doesn't even pay attention to the handle that remains in his hand while the rest of the ceramic lies in a thousand pieces around him. His immense eyes give off a burning anger, unless it is madness dancing in flames in his angelic pupils.

"The audience will see what I want them to see. They'll believe what I want them to believe. Everything must be absolutely perfect, I mean PERFECT, for the arrival of Mysterio and perfection does not admit a scratch on the armor! "

He laughs as he steps aside, his fingers absently gliding across the control screen to make the drones fly, these obedient extensions of himself. Unlike others whose metal tentacles are the real masters, he can fully rely on the robots that roar around the warehouse, their weapons out and ready to fire. Quentin walks slowly, scratching his thin beard, deeply saddened by the fact that he has to live with people who fail to meet his ideal.

"I invest myself body and soul, we are all investing body and soul in this adventure, to make all these years of work something more important than stupid therapy for an alcoholic billionaire. All this hard work shouldn't go up in smoke because of a little mistake. "

No one dares to answer for fear of being shot in the head. Beck seems to regain his calm as he gently places the broken handle on the costumer's desk. The latter, tense of apprehension, feels uneasy when she feels a hand go up along her back to her shoulder, pressing gently as for a massage. The contact, as unexpected as it is sensual, is accompanied by a warm breath that disturbs the strands near her ear.

"Janice, Janice, Janice, you are a pearl ... Forgive me for this moodiness, I'm sure you can rectify that without problem. "

The woman nods vigorously and the drones all disarm together to return to land in their corner, their leader smiling, whispering before standing up.

"I knew I could count on you, honey. "

He can count on everyone here, they are a very close-knit team. Why these burial faces? It's a good day. Quentin regains his good humor, as do his comrades, as if the mug incident no longer existed. Well, since they're stuck here, why not put a little spice in the frame of their future hero? The young man has been thinking about it for a few days, but finding a damsel in distress would be a way for Mysterio to gain points. Who doesn't love rescue stories with a hint of romance? It's decided, he will take advantage of this confinement to choose the ideal candidate as others would peel the dating sites.

“We will find the ideal pigeon for our history. "

That's it, he is again totally focused and excited by their project, which reassures more than one person in the group. They are coming together, it will be like a game where everyone will judge the female profiles, even if the last word will obviously go to Beck. The latter settles down quietly, letting Will do the research and project the images using drones (they are very useful for watching a film). Quentin's eyes sparkle as he imagines the perfect prey, the one who will swoon in his arms under the applause of the crowd.

"She has to be pretty but not vulgar, not a bimbo or a brainless doll. Nor should she be too self-confident or intelligent, that would sound elitist. It is out of the question to take a teenager or an old woman, maybe a few years younger than me and obviously without disability, I don't want anyone to think that it is out of charity. Besides, she must be able to run and shout my name. Skin color doesn't matter, I'm not picky. "

Despite this last sentence, William realizes that his boss will not take the first young lady and it is by mopping the sweat on his forehead that he begins his research, going from photo to photo, from a Facebook, LinkedIn profile to another at the whim of "no", "no", "too cliché", "too ugly" from his leader. Hours go by and no woman really finds favor in Quentin's eyes, in his quest for perfection. If only he had a really clear idea of what he wants ...

- Walentyna Chmielewska… - Unpronounceable. - Alina Baez, dermathologist… - No - Y/N, she is currently in… - Ordinary - Christina Liang, professional dancer. - Lesbian, take a better look at her profile.

With an annoyed sigh, Quentin puts an end to this game which no longer amuses him, which in fact no longer amuses anyone. He will look for a young woman on his own, it will be simpler and faster. He therefore goes back to his office, giving free time to his team, eager to take advantage of a little calm. All the glimpses seen mix in his mind with a crisp buzz, hundreds of fake smiles, photoshoped skin and seductive poses. Although a photo trots in his head, very clear compared to the fog of other female figures. He found you ordinary and didn't even take the time to reflect on who you are.

Y/N... You are far from having a beauty of a model and besides, you don't seem to know how to pose or show off, even in selfies. But there's something in your eyes, in your way of smiling as if you were thinking of something secret that catches Quentin's attention. Since there is nothing else to do, he will be busy for an hour or two. Peeling your Facebook page turns out to be excruciatingly fast, you post nothing, your likes being limited to a few trivialities. Empty Instagram account, the only source of information is from your LinkedIn profile. If your photos reveal a blatant lack of narcissism or even self-confidence, your professional career shows that you are far from being stupid. You even have a higher level of education than Beck, which should offend his pride. He has rejected more than one profile for fear of being overshadowed, he likes to be the smartest one in the room. But no, you don't seem aware of your genius or you don't care.

"A girl like you posts more than that ..."

It is sure, you must have a pseudonym to browse other sites. Finding which alias you use takes him longer than he would like to admit, but when he finds out, it's the cave of wonders that opens before his eyes. Starting with your Tumblr account, nourished for years with your obsessions of the moment : fandoms, ships of all kinds. If a man's heart goes through his stomach, yours goes through your passions. With infinite fun, Quentin discovers what makes you vibrate, sometimes laughing with you in front of some funny posts.

Outside the office, the atmosphere gradually returns to normal. The debris from the cup are swept away, the drones carefully stored out of sight. Beck's absence gives the team some respite and they take advantage of it while it lasts. They do not know that a young qualified woman of some sort is currently occupying their chief, making him smile without even having met you. Without saying that you are fascinating, the engineer discovers you day after day, layer after layer, first the intelligent woman then the obsessive fan. Finally, he comes across a nugget, an oil well: AO3.

He should have suspected it, you love to write, it's an uncontrollable impulse that takes you to your body and pushes you to strum furiously on your computer for long hours. When he starts reading your fics, Beck likes to imagine you in front of your screen, shortness of breath and dilated pupils, letting the stream of words flow freely at your fingertips. Even if he is not really interested in these fandoms of which you speak, he swallows one, two, five fics without realizing it, carried away by your style. He imagines you as the reader, chatting with fictional characters, quivering under their caresses in your few writings for adults. Hidden behind your screen, you expose yourself and reveal a sensuality that cannot be totally imaginary, totally fictitious. You have written several since the beginning of confinement, translating your thirst for adventure, your hunger for physical contact, with a touch of humor. But do you only have experience in body and love games? It is not certain and it is all the more exciting: he can make you discover sensations that you hitherto only partially imagined.

Without even knowing it, you creep into the mind of the young man to occupy his thoughts, ghost or fantasy that has nothing to do with the companion he wanted for Mysterio. You are neither magnificent nor the kind to languish against a hero in armor, but Quentin does not think of you for his avatar. He imagines you with him, behind the smoke screen, impressed by his ideas and his virtuosity. Confinement is bad for him and he spends most of his time with you, in thought, until he decides to go further with the discovery. He wants to see you, not only in pictures but moving, living. Without really telling the rest of his team, he sets out to send a drone outside, devoured by curiosity. After all, if he has to make you the love interest of Mysterio, it is normal that he learns as much as possible, he is the perfectionist type.

This is not really voyeurism, he does not intend to spy on you in intimate moments and, anyway, he could only see through the windows. Feeding his obsession, Quentin does not care about the surprised or even disapproving whispers which fill the warehouse a little more every day. Opinions are divided between those who find that their leader goes too far, especially using their precious drones, and others who see this little break as a deliverance. As long as Beck is busy elsewhere, the team is safe from his rage. Even though citizens are cloistered at home for their security, Quentin sees the world scrolling from his small screen as one could walk on Google maps. You're not hard to find, sitting at your desk above your study books. Since the announcement of confinement, your brain has paused and you can’t work, even for an hour. Not knowing you are being watched, you breathe a dramatic sigh while rocking back, arms dangling on each side of your chair.

"I'm so lazy..."

Your unsightly and totally natural posture has something comical, especially for the one who spies on you, drinking from you for days. You look younger than he thought, maybe because of your loose t-shirt that makes you look like a teenager. It’s strange to hear your voice for the first time, as if you suddenly became real. The ambient heat makes your skin shine and you get up by shaking your top to get some air under the fabric, still grumbling. Beck loses nothing of your movements or the detail of your silhouette with full curves that terry shorts absolutely do not hide. He suddenly wants to be really close to you, to feel your thighs streaked with white under his fingers, to hear his first name in your mouth. What is your laughter like? What does your skin taste like? Do you like popcorn in the movies? It’s totally unrealistic, stupid and even perverse to be so interested in you. He really has nothing to do with his days to be so bitten. He hadn't been spying on a woman for years, it was the withdrawn and bizarre teenager who resurfaced. Today, he can have all the women he wants with a snap of his fingers and yet he still finds himself fantasizing about a chance encounter, a way of approaching you.

"Show yourself instead of looking at me from afar, it's scary. "

Immersed in his thoughts, Quentin jumps when he hears you say that, he made sure to hide the drone, you cannot have seen it and even if it was, you cannot react so calmly by knowing you were being spied on. An icy chill runs down his back but you are not looking in the right direction, your eyes lowered towards a ball of hair which comes to rub against your legs. A cat, you were talking to your cat.

« Since you're here, I consider that you send me a sign. No more work, I relax. »

Always ready to see signs of the universe when it comes to not working, you close your book and get a headset and your phone, your thumb fluttering at high speed on the cold surface of your screen in a gesture automatic. Intrigued, Quentin bends down slightly to observe your strange ride, the way you walk back and forth by adjusting the microphone of your headset before clearing your throat. Are you about to call a friend? You dance slightly while staring at your screen, marking a rhythm that only you hear while continuing to stroll under the bewildered gaze of your voyeur. What are you doing ?

In sleep, he sang to me In dreams, he came That voice which calls to me And speaks my name…

You sing ... you sing into your micro while holding your phone, your voice soaring up to the drone as you smile without being able to stop yourself, as if you were on a Broadway scene, simmering with excitement. Hidden in his warehouse, Beck does not believe his senses ... Not only do you sing well but you are simply magnificent, radiant with simple joy, thinking you are alone in the world. Thinking that you’re out of sight and criticism, you have fun without shame and it makes you beautiful. Fascinated, the young man who shakes an entire team of engineers, who is only animated by the burning fire of pride and revenge, has eyes only for you. Without realizing it, he begins to sing too, joining you softly for what is technically a duet. When the song ends and you catch your breath, Quentin lets out a satisfied laugh. He holds his solution to approach you, not as Mysterio but as... himself : he will join you on this application and sing with you.

More cheesy, you die.

[artificialqueens]

Elastic Heart - Part 3 (Branjie) - Mia Ugly

A/N: Soooo this chapter took a turn for the sad-bastardish, but I swear there will be less moodiness and more kissing in the future. Also I’m trying to use she/her pronouns in Drag Race, and he/him out of drag, but sometimes it all goes to hell, bear with me! Thanks to everyone who’s been so sweet about this fic so far.

Social media -

Is not Brock’s strength area. 

Detox used to hassle him about it before he even went on Drag Race, and he made a promise to himself that he would do a better job after.  Tell the world when he - ate a bowl of cereal or whatever. 

Post photos of his cats at the very least.

So when his manager comes to him with the expectation that he and Jose play up their relationship for the fans, Brock says: (nonononononononononono)

He says “fine.”

Jose’s in, apparently, and - well, Brock can only take that information second-hand because the two of them haven’t really.  Spoken. Recently. 

He says “fine” and then he goes on Jose’s Instagram and almost has a panic attack (because some people are so pretty it is unfair, some people are basically built to break your heart - from atoms to molecules to cells.

Jose in sweats and snapbacks. 

Vanessa in gloss and feathers. 

Each one feels like a hand around Brock’s throat.)

So. 

After about thirty minutes in the fetal position, Brock leaves it all in his manager’s hands (or whoever his manager is paying for social media these days.)  Someone adds flirty comments and cute photos to anything Jose posts, someone keeps the fans happy.  

Brock doesn’t need to see it.

It’s too soon (too much, too real) for him.

He tries to avoid Instagram; Twitter is about all he can handle (he knows his mom follows him and he doesn’t want to make her worry.)  He doesn’t read  any of the speculative articles about their relationship, but he is always extremely polite when he’s asked about it (just flirty enough to give the fans hope. Professional, friendly, not too fond. It’s a fine line, and he worries sometimes that his feelings rise a bit close to the surface.  That the people who know him best are going to watch one of these interviews, peer through the ice at his blue skin and see everything.)

Friends keep texting him.  Leaving him voicemails, asking him how he’s doing.  Brock ignores the ones he can, and responds whenever anyone seems a bit too concerned. Gotta make sure the outside world stays outside.

Clearly it’s all going to come out by the time the finale airs, and that’s just something Brock will have to be ready for.  Maybe he can do a European tour.  Or an Antarctic one.  They don’t have internet there, do they?

He’s wonderful, I love him, he says on ET Canada as if that doesn’t mean anything, as if it isn’t the first time he’s said ‘I love him’ out loud.

Brock keeps working (because he’s still a force of nature, even without a crown.)  He does shows across the mid-West, hosts club nights, dances the house down because he is a queen, damn it. He goes on tour with the First Wives Fight Club, let’s Ginger Minj distract him with the most offensive jokes Brock’s ever heard (and it’s good to feel outrage rather than longing, for a change. It’s good to do something different, something that’s not related to Drag Race and soft-skinned Puerto Ricans who won’t answer his calls.)

Or probably won’t.

Because Brock hasn’t called.  

It’s shady and pathetic and each day feels like pulling teeth out, but he’s trying to respect the boundaries Jose put up. They said their piece at the reunion before Brock died of blunt force trauma to the chest (it’s fine, he’s fine) and he’s not the kind of person to push someone to take him back.  

To beg someone to want him. 

He can’t say if it’s pride or fear that stops him every time he gets shit-faced and picks up his phone.  He can’t count the number of texts he’s written and then deleted.  And then re-written.

The night after the First Wives show in Vancouver, the other queens go out to whatever local club hasn’t been closed yet, and Brock goes for a run on the beach. It’s dark out, and after a couple of miles he stops, stretches, and sits cross-legged in the sand.  

The ocean reaches out for him, black-fingered and impetuous, dotted with the twinkling lights of oil tankers. 

Brock hasn’t had anything to drink.  There’s really no excuse when he takes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls to Jose’s number.

His thumb hovers over the keys, thinking thinking (over-thinking).

(I’m on the West coast and I’m miserable without you and I want to hear you laugh again even if it’s at me even if it’s mean I want to hear your voice and you killed it on Jimmy Kimmel and I’m losing my mind I think you’re incredible I think you’re hilarious and brilliant and I miss you I miss youImiss -)

“Damn it,” Brock hisses, because he’s smarter than this. He’s stronger than this (he wants that to be true.)

“I’ll be at Drag Con,” he texts before he can think too much about it. “Hope i see u.”

He waits.  He’ll probably delete it without sending.  He should delete it without sending because Jose doesn’t want to talk to him.

His thumb sits on the ‘Send’ key, barely touching it.  It’s such a pointless, empty message.  It doesn’t say any of the things he wants to say. 

This was easy once.  Talking to Jose was like breathing. What the fuck happened? (He knows what happened, and he resists the urge to throw his phone into the sea.)

After a few seconds, Brock deletes the message and puts his phone down. 

Then he picks it back up.

He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit he mostly gave up in middle school.

This was easy once. 

(“When this is all over –“

“Oh Jesus, oh Mary, there she goes.” Vanjie at her station, rummaging through yards of tulle. “You wanna shack up or something? Get cats, turn me into a proper wifey?”

“Well.  I was thinking more like buy you dinner.”  Brooke doesn’t touch her, because the world is watching. Still - her eyes linger on the bones of Vanjie’s hands, her wrists, her jaw.  There is not a part of her body that doesn’t beg for contact, not a part of her that Brooke doesn’t want to touch.

“Ha, okay. But I’m a classy ho.  It’s gotta be Olive Garden at least, get me some unlimited breadsticks.”  

There’s a faint blush on her cheekbones even though she’s rolling her eyes, and it makes Brooke love her even more than –

Shit.

Shit.

She did not just think that word.  

They aren’t - there yet.  Brooke’s tired and stressed and her brain is clearly short-circuiting. It’s nothing.  It’s fine.

“That shut you up, hey? Olive Garden too bougie for you? Don’t worry, girl– when this is all over and I’m a honey-thousand dollars richer, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”)

He should have known then.

Stopped it all in its tracks before it got totally out of control. But he didn’t.

Brock lies back against the sand, breathes in the copper-sweet taste of the ocean.  

(That’s a star, right?) 

The waves roll in, and he can almost see stars.

* * *

Back in her hotel room, she’s running over choreography for Tuckpantistan in her head, counting under her breath (one and two and three and -) when a noise distracts her.  

A papery scratching at her hotel-room door.  When Brooke goes to investigate, she sees a folded note that’s been slid underneath it.

U up?

Then below it: Haha, JK. Got a PA to deliver this, some real high school shit. Thinking bout your pretty face. <3 <3 <3

It’s signed Papi and Brooke turns rose-petal pink with embarrassment and pleasure.  Fuck, she wishes she had her phone. Wishes she could FaceTime Vanjie any time she wanted, see her all bleary-eyed and soft and sleepy.  Just the thought of that image makes Brooke’s heart clench painfully, and she tries not to think about why.

Instead she takes out the notepad from the desk in the hotel room.

How do I know this is really you and not just a producer fucking with me?

She folds the paper into a flat square and writes Return to Sender on the front of it, before sliding it under her hotel room door. 

Then she immediately feels like an idiot.

This is ridiculous.  They aren’t teenagers.

Brooke goes back to rehearsing for tomorrow, and tells herself there isn’t a stupid smile on her face.  That would just be too undignified. 

About fifteen minutes later (not that Brooke was counting or paying attention or anything) she hears that same scratching sound, and goes back to the door.  A new piece of paper has been slid underneath it, and Brooke bites down on a grin.

You want a ring or some shit? 

Thought you’d like that, something only the real MISS VANESSA VANJIE MATEO would know. This PA’s real nice, I’ma take advantage of her. UNLESS SHE’S READING THIS. 

What you wearing?

Brooke snorts out a laugh (then covers her face and pretend that sound didn’t just come out of her.)  She sketches out a quick, terribly unsexy picture of herself (basically a beefy stickman in pajama pants and a t-shirt) then folds it up and sticks it back under the door.  This is the most bizarre flirtation she has ever taken part in, and - and she shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does.

Vanjie’s reply includes a decidedly more X-rated stickman.

I better get some nudes next. Gotta occupy my time somehow besides missing on you.

Brooke laughs at the thought of the horrified PA that could be reading this.

You’ve seen it all in the werkroom anyway, she writes, And you could occupy your time with sleeping, maybe?

Brooke sends the note off, and gives up the ghost of rehearsing for a minute. She stretches out on her bed, arms against the headboard and bare feet nearly hanging off the end.  Story of her life, really.  She’s always felt like she’s too big, too tall, too much.  Compared to Vanessa, she’s like some sort of beast, stumbling around crushing beautiful, delicate things beneath her feet.  

Vanessa is beautiful. Brooke wouldn’t call her ‘delicate’ though, not by a long shot. She knows Vanjie well enough by now to know that she can hold her own.  

(She wonders how much of that attitude is for the show. What Vanjie’s like when she’s all alone.  Every so often there’s a moment where it seems like the other queen is letting her guard down, softening the sideways grin and adorable swagger that Brooke sees when the cameras are rolling. 

How much of that is protective, Brooke wonders.  How much of that swagger is self-defense?

How much of that humor is about survival.)

There is a reply not even ten minutes later: Nah girl, you’re keeping me up. Gonna think about you in those overalls all night, haha. When I can’t do shit tomorrow I’ll be blaming your fine self for messing with my head.

Brooke folds and unfolds Vanjie’s reply too many times, unwilling to put it down. She’s glad she can’t see herself, knows that she’s probably glowing with affection. She’s got a crush, right, just like she told them in the confessional.  That’s what this is. Just a massive, ridiculous crush. 

An impossible, stupid, hopeless crush.

I take no responsibility for that. 

But also your angel costume is the real problem here, how am I supposed to get anything done?  

Go to sleep and dream about my overalls, Miss Vaaaaanjie.

Brooke has had crushes before.  She’s always survived them.

When she slides her note back under the door she thinks that will be the end of it, but a reply comes later, clock nearing midnight and shadows sliding like fingers through the blinds.

Sweet dreams Brooky Poo.

Brooke holds the note against her chest, and laughs, and when she falls asleep she’s still smiling.  Her dreams are full of white feathers, falling gently as snow from the ceiling of her hotel room. Settling soft as a promise against Brooke’s open mouth.

[xcayde6]

Before you read: these are only snippets out of my upcoming Cayde stories. Please pay attention to the ratings and warnings, have in mind that English isn't my native language and don't be mad at me in case publishing takes a while. I'm the slowest writer ever.

ONESHOTS Title: ? 2 exos 1 girl? Idk yet Pairing: Cayde-6 x female reader/Clovis Bray's daughter x Shiro-4 Rating: Explicit Warnings: knife-play, gun-play, humiliation kink, very smutty, watch your panties

—  a boring company anniversary takes a sudden turn when your two exo bodyguards pay you back after teasing them for so long

“Are you two going to eye fuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?” The two exos approach and surround me slowly. Their optics eyeing me like men starving, making me feel like I'm their trapped mouse. Which is ironic because they're my bodyguards who are supposed to protect me, to make me feel safe. But right now I feel neither.

I realize there's no use in defending myself. I was so drunk that I barely could stand up straight and also very tiny compared to these taller exos, human minds turned into ruthless war machines.

“Got you. You're screwed now.” Cayde quickly puts his hand around my throat and slams me against Shiro's body. I feel something hard pressed up against my butt. “Is that your gun or are you excited to see me?”, I can't help but chuckle. “It's definitely not my gun.” “Look at that little tease.”, Cayde snaps icy, his aqua blue optics glowing even colder. His voice sounds deeper and huskier than usual and makes me shiver. “You're going to regret that, babe.” His gloved hand is curling tighter around my neck and my alcohol dazed vision gets blurry. “Me and my friend share everything. Even you. Now move.” Somewhere in my delirious state, with the barrel of Cayde's Ace of Spades filling my mouth, the two exos jerk me to my bedroom. My body is betraying me with arousal, but I'm so nervous and excited. I want them. I want them to have me. I just can't help it. *** Title: ???? Pairing: Cayde-6 x female reader/Clovis Bray's daughter Rating: Explicit ⬆️— without Shiro version of the fic above for anon ***

Title: #1 Crush Pairing: Cayde-6 x female reader Rating: Explicit — your bodyguard Cayde caughts you right in the act thinking of him I thrust my fingers into me in a faster in a punishing pace, feeling so close to the edge, imagining how his cock slams into me, without mercy and tearing my insides apart. „Oh Cayde... Fuck me... Fuck me harder...”, I whimper to myself, encouraging the handsome robot in my imagination. A not unfamiliar chuckle makes me freeze in my movements. “We can arrange that.” My bodyguard was standing in the door. Arms crossed, a amused grin forming his mouth-plates. He enjoyed my one-woman-show like a man starving. This was real, not another projection of my imagination to get off to. He's real and he's walking up to me, something intimating in his slow movements. My attempt to pull down my skirt over the exposed wetness between my legs is cut off by his hands pinning mine down on the desk behind my back. “Soo...” He speaks up, leaning over to me, as his aqua-blue optics study my face interested. “Did I fuck you good?”, he whispers in such a husky voice that it sends a cold shiver through my sweaty, heated body. Before I can even get a proper sentence out he cuts me off with a chuckle again. “Hush! Of course I did.”, he answers his own question overconfident and leans in so close to me that his spiky horn bumps my forehead softly. “But I'm gonna give you the real thing...” *** Title: Dressed up to undress Pairing: Cayde-6 x female reader Rating: Explicit —  Your bodyguard Cayde takes you to The Last City and you claim him as your boyfriend for a day. „Being your boyfriend today? Huh. I'll tell your dad that this costs extra.”, he responds sarcastic, shaking his head in disbelief. „Oh Cayde...”, I snuggle up on his arm and look at the attractive exo, admiring his unique profile. „I know I'm the best job you've ever had.” Cayde looks back at me, a little smile forming his blue metal plate lips, reflecting the sun light. „Got it's moments.”, he mutters under his breath, winking at me. „So... Where are you taking me, my handsome boyfriend?” He seems to be comfortable in his new role and puts his arm around my shoulder, tugging me closer to his body. „Anywhere you want, my beautiful, pain in the ass girlfriend.” *** Title: I will steal you back Pairing: OC x Shiro-4 other characters: Cayde-6 (mentioned), Andal Brask (mentioned), Colonel, Saladin's “mascots” Rating: Explicit Warning: Shiro saying a lot “lady” in his angelic voice — grieving over a lover and friend seems so much easier together. Cayde's stash box jumped open. [Shiro-4.] The exo and the blonde freezed in their movements, when a not unfamiliar voice echoed through the hangar. “Cayde?”, the young widow whispered with tears in her eyes when she recognized her dead husbands voice. Shiro pulled the sobbing blonde gently into his arms and buried his face into her hair. “Shh... I'm here, Feena.”, he whispered softly, his hands running over her back to soothe her somehow. [Hey pal. Long time no see. When you hear this, I'm dead. I got killed, or you killed me. I wouldn't even blame you after our last conversation. Anyway. Congratulations, you get the vanguard gig. Stop. Stop. Stop. Listen. Before you start yelling, consider this. You don't have to freeze off your robo ass at the tempel anymore and... you'll be around my Queen Of Hearts. You're welcome. I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid. I know you love my girl as well, and she loves you too. So... I'm not big on goodbye scenes, but please take care of my queen. She made me happy and I want her to be happy. I want you happy, too, my man. See you.] Shiro and Feena sat there for a while in front of the stash box, holding each other tight, while Cayde's voice and words lingered heavy in the cold air. For the very last time. *** Title: The Last City (Destcember #2) Pairing: OC x Cayde-6 other characters: Amanda Holliday, Petra Venj, Shiro-4, Zavala Rating: mention of suicide attempt — a princess and exo find purpose in life again after saving a little girl and each other. “Feena! Cayde!” Little Amanda ran over to the blonde and the exo, clinging to their legs like her life depended on it. “You two were gone when I woke up! I was so scared!”, she cried out, hugging both of them tighter. Feena looked down at the little girl and gently ran her fingers through her curly blonde hair with a sad smile. How should she tell her that her parents died last night? The thought of it shattered her aching heart into thousands of pieces, she was afraid that Cayde and Amanda could hear it. Cayde saw that Feena was struggling and knelt down to Amanda's level, his aqua blue optics glowing warm. “Sorry, sweetie. Feena didn't feel good and needed fresh air. We would never leave you alone, sweetheart. Never.”, he assured softly and hugged her tight. Feena watched these two and quickly wiped away tears streaming her eyes. She didn't want to show weakness in front of them. They needed her. And she needed them. “Cayde's right.”, she blurted out briefly. “Yes. It's me and my girls now. Unless you're afraid of me, Amandy.” “I'm not afraid of you! You look so cool! Like a badass unicorn!”, she yelled excited. “Did you just call me unicorn?! I used to be a soldier!”, he spat back playfully offended, making Amanda even more giggle. God, her little laugh was heartwarming. Feena was so thankful for Cayde being able to make this little one laugh again, after all the horrible things that she's been through. He was wonderful. “I wanna touch your horn! Please!” The little blonde girl jumped into Cayde’s arm and her big blue eyes glowed with excitement when her little fingers explored that spiky, blue horn attached on top of his head.The exo held her tight in his arm and couldn't help but chuckle. “Smooth right? Amazing.” He turned to Feena with a wink and a grin formed his lip plates. “You wanna touch my beautiful, beautiful horn too, princess? “Let's rest for tonight.”, Feena suggested, before pressing a soft kiss on Cayde’s horn and Amanda’s cheek. She only knew them for a few hours, after a really terribly incident, but these two already meant anything to her. When the little family walked back to the shelter, all of them felt a moment of happiness and hope again, even though The Last City was in ruins and Cayde couldn't shut up about Amanda calling him a unicorn. *** Title: All I Want For Christmas Is You Pairing: Cayde-6 x female reader Rating: Explicit — Cayde hates Christmas and you're trying to get him into the mood with cookies, movies, cuddles, Last Christmas from Wham and more... „Merry Christmas, Caydie.” I hear a deep chuckle roar through his torso, as he turns around and puts his arms around me in return. I moan softly against his chest with a smile. His warmth and the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder was infatuating. „Hey beautiful.”, he greets me softly, his aqua blue optics looking me up and down in my sexy Santa dress. Another chuckle escapes his throat, the orange lights in the back of his throat flickering. „You look... ridiculous.”, he scoffs tender, pinching the fuzzy bobble of my Santa hat with his finger. I push him away from me, lift my dress up slightly and turn around slowly. „Your eyes say something different, my vanguard...”, I whisper seductively, looking over my shoulder and winking at him. He forcefully grabs a fistful of my dress and pulls me back to his body. „I mean it. Ridiculous.”, he repeats in a mocked tone. God, I loved it when this exo was a sassy. „But, but... I wear this for you...”, I whimper, turning away from him, starting to act out the most dramatic fake crying in the history of fake cries. „You hate it. I wanted to look pretty for our date.”, I sob and pretend to rub my eyes. „No, no, no... sweetie. You look stunning. I just hate Chr-”, I hear him awkwardly stutter behind my back, but I quickly turn around and laugh at his dumb but overall adorable helpless face. „Ha! Got you! You should see your stupid face!” I press a sweet kiss on his cold metal chin and take his hand. ”Now come on, we're late for the Christmas market at the Bazaar, Grumpy.”, I sąy and pull him with me out of his beloved Hangar. Cayde follows me more or less unwillingly and sighs. „I swear, if I hear Last Christmas one more time I'm gonna blow something up.”, he mutters under his breath and I can't help but smirk at him. „Can't lie, I would love to see that.” He chuckles, the orange lights behind his mouth-plates outlining a smirk back at me. „A girl after my own heart.”, he praises and gently puts his warm cloak around my bare back and shoulders. **** FULL STORIES (might be published on archiveofourown too) Title: In debt to love Pairing: Cayde-6 x OC other characters: Clovis Bray, Shiro-4 Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance Rating: Explicit Warnings: veeeery smutty, graphic violence, self-harm, ... — „... and hearts for this girl I guard. She's the best debt I've ever had.” Cayde is paying off his debt by guarding Coco Bray, the daughter of the man who ruined his life and turned him exo. Now or never. Swiftly and suddenly Coco closed her fingers around the handle of Cayde's gun and she pulled, knowing full well that she was taking a risk. Cayde quickly opened his optics as he felt her hand on his waist and his Ace of Spades being pulled from the holster, but it was already too late. The girl pushed and kicked the exo off her body with all the strength left in her weakened body and pointed the gun at him with a sweet smile, her face was a mixture of triumph and surprise. She finally had the upper hand. “Thanks for the ride, handsome. Any last words?” Cayde stared stunned at the pinkish haired girl pointing his own gun at him, but still he couldn't help but chuckle. A pretty girl with a pretty gun. His Ace Of Spades never suited anyone better. He should've known that something like this would happen, after all the things he heard about her. “You literally kick ass. Just a girl after my own heart, sweetheart.” He was completely at the her mercy, but decided to play along and raised his hands. “I'm impressed, I really hate so say this, doll. However, you won't do it.”, he gave back amused, before shoving her back on the ground again with his elbow, bending over her small frame. “If you blow a hole through my head, you better pray that I won't get fixed and come back at you, cause...”, he leans in closer to her, the muzzle of his own gun pressed upon his chest and his horn gently poking her forehead. “I'm gonna hurt you... make you cry... and fuck you into a coma.”, he hissed, sounding threatening and cheerful at the same time. She wouldn't shoot him, Cayde knew that. He hoped that. After all they've been through already, she wouldn't. She couldn't. The Ace Of Spades was shaking in Coco's hands. Her green eyes lost that glint of achievement and were replaced with the feeling of unshed tears beginning to blur her vision. If she really wanted to escape, she actually had to shoot him. Coco lifted her gaze and locked her eyes with his optics, her lips formed a sad smile, as her hands clasped tighter around the grip of his gun, her finger hovering over the trigger, that would decide her fate. His fate. “Please don't make me like you, Cayde-6.” “Isn't it too late, Coco Bray?” **** Title: Queen Of Hearts Pairing: Cayde-6 x OC other characters: Uldren Sov, Andal Brask (mentioned),... Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Adventure Rating: Explicit Warnings: suicide attempt, physical abuse — Cayde saves and kidnaps a princess, but she saves him too. Feena listened intently to every word Cayde was saying. She didn't know why, but she was intrigued by him. Just his voice alone was making her feel calm. “You're crazy.”, she said forcefully as she turned back towards the depth. “I am, but with all due respect, princess. I'm not the one who wants to jump off this castle.” His aqua blue optics stared at her and his mechanic heart broke for this girl. He blamed himself that he never noticed that she suffered in silence. Suffered so much that she wanted to end her life. “Please, give me your hand, princess. I don't know what happened to you, but I swear, I'll protect you better from now on.” Cayde reached out his gloved hand to her carefully, as not to frighten her. Feena looked down at his outstretched hand and she was surprised by her instinct to reach out and touch him. She slowly turned around to him and they both immediately locked eyes and optics. He felt his heart instantly stop when he looked into her green eyes and it shocked him that she was looking at him in the same way. “Phew,” he said relieved as he squeezed her soft, cold hand. “I'm Cayde-6.” “Princess Feena Brask.”, she breathlessly introduced herself as well. “I know damn well who you are.”, he chuckled, causing her to smile. That smile. He didn't know how long he was on duty in this castle, but he never saw her smile. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. Cayde looked at her in amazement when he finally saw life sparkle in her always so sad and empty eyes. Her long blonde hair was tickling his face plates and the scent was intoxicating. “I got you.” He gripped onto her waist as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and he lifted her up over the railing, feeling like his body was electrocuted in the most gentle way touching her. She was one slip away from death just second ago and he saved her. She was safe. Her heels clicked as they touched the ground, but her legs gave out on her and he was able to catch her before she hit the ground. He held her body close to his, their faces just inches apart. “Are you alright?”, he asked concerned, as he felt her chest rise and fall against his armor. “Never felt better.”, she said as her hands clung to his shoulders. Feena took a moment to take in Cayde's metallic features and felt her heart flutter, feeling so warm and safe in his embrace. Something she never felt before. “Who hurt you, my queen? I'm gonna kill anyone who hurt you. Anyone.” ______________________________________________________________ *changes/improvements possible. Soo... Which one is your fave? Do you wanna get tagged when I publish these? Are you interested in the playlist I listen to when I write these? Let me know anything and feel welcome to like and reblog if you’re interested in these beauties. xo

[norbah]

The Plover and the Crocodile

A continuation of this other story: 

http:// norbah. tumblr. com/ post / 182333442252/ another-grima-piece-fgrima-msummoner

Just something that came to mind while thinking about Grima. Didn’t mean for it to get this broody and philosophical. Hope you like it anyway. Any thoughts would be INCREDIBLY appreciated. Thank you!

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Lucina's eyes were trained on the sprawled form of the Fell Dragon as she approached it, but her eyes flickered upwards to its horns, one of which was currently serving as a perch for a lone human. He was kneeling dangerously close to its edge, hands busy wringing a mop's head over a bucket. He was either extremely confident in his own balance, or trusted the horrid beast beneath him not to move too brusquely. A distressing idea, in Lucina's head. That anyone could trust that treacherous snake... how ridiculous. Her grip tightened over her blade's hilt, bolstering her confidence by its presence alone.

"Move aside, Summoner," Lucina said as she stepped forward, Falchion in hand. "I would not want you caught in battle."

The Summoner blinked in surprise and looked up from where he had been working, already mopping the horn's surface in the time Lucina had been musing. He looked down at her, confusion in his eyes, before panic bloomed in his expression and he twisted around, as if looking for someone.

"What are you doing?" Lucina asked, not expecting this particular reaction. It was with no small amount of dread that she noticed Grima's eyes had opened, and now regarded her, unreadable and cold.

"You said a fight was coming," the Summoner called back down, unaware of the staredown that had been initiated. "I assumed the Emblian army had broken through!"

"Wh-What?" Lucina broke eye contact with the Fell Dragon, stunned. "No! I meant Grima! Move aside so I may slay Grima!"

"Oh. I guess that makes sense." The Summoner seemed calm now. He turned to face Lucina, but instead of hopping down from the horn, he sat down on its edge, legs dangling off, and looking down at her with a calm expression on his face. 

"No. No, I don't think I will."

"What?" Lucina was genuinely bewildered. "But can't you see?! This must be done, Summ-!"

"Plover, please!" He called down before she could finish. "Call me Plover!"

Lucina couldn't help but flush. The Plegians (Tharja, Henry, and Aversa) had taken to affectionately calling him "the plover" once they'd noticed his devotion to the Fell Dragon's hygiene. Henry had explained to the more curious Heroes that they were referencing a small bird from Plegia, which seemed to enjoy a unique relationship with the vicious crocodiles in their rivers. It would clean the reptiles' teeth, pecking away at anything caught in them, and the normally voracious crocodile refrained from closing its jaws around them. Over time, "the plover" had simply become a nickname, "Plover". It didn't help that very few Heroes had actually bothered to ask his name. Or that the nickname seemed to fit him better than any name could. It was a bit embarrassing that he had found out.

"So where's this coming from?" The Summ- no, Plover, asked Lucina from all the way atop Grima's horn. It spoke to how much time he spent on the dragon that he seemed to know which volume would carry best to the ground. He didn't sound like he was shouting.

"It has killed hundreds! Thousands! It needs to be stopped! To be killed before it can unleash destruction here in Askr! Please, P-Plover," she cursed internally as she stumbled over the informal form of address for the tactician of the Order of Heroes, "let me fulfill my purpose!"

He seemed to think for a moment. Lucina caught Grima's eyes again, and started shaking as they fixed on her again. The beast hadn't moved once, and its eyes held no aggression, but... was Lucina imagining it, or was there mockery in those three hellish red spheres?

"She," Plover suddenly called out, breaking the spell over Lucina.

"Wh-What?" the future Exalt could only ask. And it was frustrating to realize that this whole time, that had been her biggest reaction. Surprise. Not decisive action.

"She," Plover repeated. "You keep calling Grima 'it', but she's, well, a she."

"I... How is that relevant?!" Lucina felt so, so frustrated. Even dealing with the other versions of herself didn't vex her like this.

"It's not," the Summoner admitted. "But I felt it was important."  For the first time, Grima's eyes looked away from Lucina and fixed on the Summoner, and Lucina could never have imagined they could look so soft, so gentle. The great dragon rumbled loudly, shaking the earth around them moderately. The Summoner held to Grima's horn with almost casual ease, not minding the razor-sharp edge of the bony appendage. Lucina stumbled a little, but kept her balance, ready to dodge an attack, until she realized...

"Wait," she thought. "Is Grima purring?!"

"In any case, I'm sorry, but I have to deny your request, Lucina," Plover went on, and to his credit, he did look apologetic. "Unless you can answer one simple question."

"Ask your question, then," Lucina declared, confident once again. If this was all that stood between her and Grima's defeat, then she would answer any question unfalteringly. Whatever was required of her. 

"Here goes, then," he said, and leaned forward, as if to look at Lucina even more closely. Grima was quiet once more, and its- her eyes, Lucina grudgingly granted, once more only on her. 

"How many Plegians?"

"I-I'm sorry?" Lucina asked, her confidence wavering only a little. What kind of question was this? The Summoner's idea of a joke?

"I should have elaborated," Plover murmured, but the silence was such after Grima's minor earthquake that Lucina heard him, even if vaguely. "Here it goes again: 

"How many Plegians have died to that sword?" he asked, pointing at Falchion. 

"I haven't-" Lucina began, not quite liking where this was going.

"And just to be clear," he went on, "I don't just mean at your hands. At your father's too. And his father's. And that one's important," he said with a rather pointed look. "I have heard he waged a rather bloody war on Plegia in his time. How many dead, do you think?"

"That was different!" Lucina called up, but a pit in her stomach had opened up at the mention of her grandfather. There was no denying that his actions had led in the long term to Validar's possession of the Plegian throne. Emmeryn had spent her life trying to undo the hatred and resentment born from his brutal actions. 

"It was?" Plover seemed surprised. "I don't see a lot of ways how that could be."

"Of course you don't!" Lucina yelled, getting angry now at his flippancy. "You tend to Grima! You serve it-"

"Her."

"-almost like you worship it!" She went on, not hearing his firm correction. "Almost like you're-" and a thought occurred to her now. A sobering thought that horrified her, but one she chastised herself for not thinking before.

"Like you're Grimleal..." Lucina whispered, horror-struck. It made sense, she realized. His slavish devotion to Grima's comfort and appearance. His claims of Grima's innocence, his insinuations that the Ylissean royal family were as bad... It all pointed to-

"Okay, now I know you've been hitting Gray's Duma Moss a little too hard," Plover called down, snapping her out of her spiral. 

"... What?!" She spluttered out after a few seconds of shocked silence, mortified. Was he implying that she used substances?! 

"Word to the wise," he kept going, oblivious to her distress, "don't keep going after the third toke! It builds up!"

"Stop shouting that!" She hissed, red in the face and glancing behind her to make sure nobody was hearing this. If this rumor ever got back to her father...!

Grima's throat rumbled again, this time in quick succession and with higher intensity, and Lucina went scarlet in the face, in both rage and mortification, when she realized the Fell Dragon was laughing at her embarrasment. 

That brought her back to the present situation, and seemed to do the same for the Summoner, even if he still had a smile on his face.

"No, I'm not Grimleal," he said gently. "I don't worship her, any more than you worship..." his brow furrowed.

"Gerome?" He asked. She blinked, confused. "Inigo?" He tried again. "Severa? Brady? Laurent? Robin? Kje-" he stopped when he saw her go red one earlier, and blinked in honest surprise. "Robin, huh? Way to break the bro code on that one..." he murmured. Grima snorted as well, amused in some way by this knowledge. Lucina could only growl at the two of them.

"Well, I don't worship her. Same way you don't worship Robin, and he doesn't worship you. Not literally, anyway," he finished. Now it was Lucina's turn to snort in derision. How ridiculous.

"How can what Robin and I share be anything like what you and Grima have? They are different bonds in every way, are they not?" She asked, mentally comparing the two in front of her to a twisted version of what Robin and her father shared. Trust and camaraderie beyond what regular people shared. That, at least, she could respect. Perhaps she could understand now why he seemed so hellbent on-

Aaaaaaand he was blushing bright scarlet now. And avoiding eye contact with her. Things certainly couldn't get more awkward, Lucina thought. 

Until she noticed Grima staring directly at her. And as soon as Lucina made eye contact, its massive, bony, scaly eyebrows rose, then fell. Once. And again. And again. 

Desperately trying to ignore the fact that Grima had just waggled its eyebrows at her (and hoo boy, would that one require some therapy to get past), Lucina latched on to the last piece of rational discussion she could remember hearing, and tried to bring this whole thing back to Ylisse. Zenith. Wherever!

"But why compare Falchion to i- to her?" She amended, seeing the testy look on Plover's face. Once that faded, however, he looked relieved to be back on track. He shrugged again.

"Just wanted to point out that if we were to measure something's malice by how many it has slain, then your blade is pretty evil in its own right."

"That was a war. It was different," Lucina argued. 

"Does that make their deaths any more just? I'm fairly sure many of those soldiers also thought they were doing the right thing. I doubt that even half of them were zealots at all, either."

"And what of her?" Lucina asked, anger creeping back into her voice as she pointed at Grima. "What of the many slain by her? The deaths to come if she were to be left unchecked?!" 

"Just as terrible and unjust," Plover said agreeably. Lucina paused. She'd expected him to argue against this. To claim Grima was innocent of any wrongdoing. The dragon herself held Lucina's gaze, almost defiantly. 

"Everybody she killed," he kept going slowly, picking his words with care, "was a life taken. And it was as unfair as the ones taken by Ylisse. The ones taken by Falchion. But it is as you said. It was war. You can't win a war without enemy casualties. The world isn't so nice. Hell, we're at war right now." 

"But just as Ylisse fought their war against Plegia and against Valm, and as you fought yours against fate," he went on, "she was fighting her own war." 

"Against who?" Lucina demanded. Plover grimaced and scratched the back of his head. He seemed almost unsure of his next words.

"Against humanity," he said, glancing away. "Against people who might seek to use her, to hurt her."

"I chose," Grima's voice hissed out from between her jaws, vast and grotesque, sibilant as the wind in a seaside cave. Lucina could feel every bone in her body vibrate as the gravelly sound washed over her, and only through great force of will did she resist the urge to lift Falchion before her, "to wage my war on all of mankind. Let none who might have sought my pain or my service survive. If leaving naught but the bones and ash of the human race was what it took for my survival... then so be it."

"But... But that's insane!" Lucina argued, her voice shaking after Grima's first words in the discussion. "To eliminate all humans over the potential of one seeking to use or destroy you..." 

Plover drew in a deep breath, and Lucina knew from the pain in his eyes that he did not like saying what came next.

"As insane as trying to kill your husband over the chance he might be an unwitting enemy agent."

Lucina's breath caught in her throat, and for an instant she saw red. This man, this non-combatant, this traitorous filth who knew nothing of war was daring to compare her to Grima?!

But... he wasn't entirely wrong, was he? She had turned on Robin. She wasn't able to go through with it, even after he spread his arms wide with a smile and said to go ahead, that his life was hers. But she had turned on him nonetheless.

And she thought of her original timeline. Of Grima's future. When everything in Ylisse, Plegia, and Regna Ferox seemed to be out for her blood. When only her friends and family remained at her side. When the whole world was hellbent on her destruction. How close had she come to despairing then? 

She'd been willing to do anything to fix that, hadn't she? To destroy her enemy And save those she loved, she'd been willing to bypass time in its entirety. But if she'd had world-ending power at her disposal and no loved ones to save... could she really say with any certainty she'd have been that much different?

With a heavy, heavy sigh, Lucina sheathed Falchion. She turned to leave, but Plover's voice stopped her.

"You never did answer the question, you know," he said. But it was quiet, almost gentle. Lucina's fingers found Falchion's hilt again. But instead of the usual comfort and strength its presence brought her, the sword felt heavy with questions she'd never have posed before. To herself or to others. 

How many Plegians? No. That wasn’t the true question. How many people? Plegians, Valmese, Alteans and people of Gra. Humans, Manaketes, and Beastfolk. How many had met their end on its blade?

"Far too many," she finally said, her voice and heart as heavy as the sword at her side. "And yet... as many as were needed," she finished her thought, and felt both revulsion and disgust with herself for even saying it. Because even among the heroes who had killed because they had to, because it was the only way to stop disaster from ending even more lives, death stained the blade. Of innocents in their own way. Her father had told her of the Plegian general Mustafa, for one. And more than that, the shadow of her grandfather darkened the grim duty and noble resolve that the Sword of Seals should embody into something much worse. There? There lay no justification. Only cruelty.

"We do what we must, don't we?" Plover asked her softly. She turned her head to look at him, and found him looking at her with a sad smile. 

But it was Grima she was looking at when Lucina answered.

"Yes," Lucina said. "We do." 

And for the briefest of moments, Lucina thought some understanding passed between the two of them. But it was only an instant. Lucina turned back again, looking at the castle.

"It's not over yet," she called out loudly, knowing they could hear her. "I'm still not entirely convinced. And I have earned a fight with her."

It was a few seconds before she got her answer.

"You have."

Lucina nodded in acknowledgement, and walked away. Maybe it was her imagination, but Falchion felt lighter now than a minute ago. She would have to talk with her father... and with King Marth, if she could find him. Maybe they could help her make sense of this.

----------------------------------

They watched her go, curious and apprehensive at the same time. Then Grima's eyes turned to Plover. The question was not voiced, but he knew it anyway. 

"I think we gave her a lot to mull over," he said softly. Grima rumbled in response, her eyes sliding towards Lucina and following her as she left. 

"Gave you something to think about too, huh?" He asked with a smile. Grima didn't answer. But with the two of them, that was an answer in itself. He simply laughed and decided to put the words away for today. He still had a job to do, after all. He hoisted himself back onto her horn, careful not to shear his calves off as he did, and picked up the mop. Grima's eyes soon drifted shut, as she fell gently asleep.

As the afternoon wore on, the plover continued to clean its beloved crocodile. Not out of hunger, as other birds had done in the past. It cleaned because it wanted the crocodile to be happy. And the crocodile knew this.