#while also having us delight in watching like. a thirty year old pretend to be an anime obsessed geek)

[seaglassdinosaur]

There is a spectrum of ‘adults playing teenagers in high school’, on one end is Riverdale, on the other is Nerdy Prudes Must Die.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Guest Side Story

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Sarah Wilson Rating: T Word Count: 3214

Summary: Sam told Bucky not to flirt with Sarah. But this is her house, so Bucky's pretty sure she makes the rules.

Bucky’s missed white lies. Ones that don’t hurt anybody.

“Is that cigarette smoke I smell on your coat, James Barnes?” “No, Ma. ’Course not.”

“And you’re sure this dame knows it’s my arm she’ll be on?” “Sure, Steve. She’s been after me to fix the two of you up for weeks.”

Stuff like that.

Past few years, Bucky’s either been transparent or a brick wall, all lies or all truth. Which one he loses more sleep over just depended on the day. The most human thing, he’s learning, is to work with a little of both: fact and fiction. Give something here, hold something back there. Lying doesn’t have to be mean-spirited and telling the truth doesn’t have to make him feel hollow and guilty. Maybe you can only realize this kinda thing when you find your way home, even if the home isn’t yours.

Bucky’s standing in the kitchen listening to Cass teach him how to fish. It’s purely theoretical, no gear involved, just the overexaggerated motion of Cass’s arm as he mimes casting. Laughing, Bucky lightly grabs the boy’s elbow before it can collide with the refrigerator on an especially big swing. Cass downsizes his demonstration without pausing the excited flow of his instructions.

AJ catches Bucky’s eye; from the look on his face, he’s beginning to suspect that Bucky might already know how to fish. While Cass is focused hard on his hands pretending to show how to fit live bait onto a hook, Bucky smiles at AJ over the smaller boy’s head and raises a finger to his lips. White lies. Let Cass believe he’s the expert.

When Cass is winding down, Bucky moves around him with a grin, carrying an empty plate to the sink.

“I got it!” AJ declares, whisking it from Bucky’s hand and pumping a squirt of dish soap in the center while his other hand runs the hot water.

Cass slotted the Pop-Tarts the plate lately held into the toaster for him (no better end-of-the-day snack, Bucky was told) and now AJ’s cleaning up. They’re a hospitable family, all day long. No phoniness, no insincere offers of help that they’re hoping Bucky won’t take them up on. He actually had to race the kids to the shed to store a toolbox earlier. On the boat, Bucky has room to put in the effort for the Wilsons, but inside the walls of their home he’s not allowed to do a damn thing because he’s a guest. Per square foot of property, he doesn’t think he’s ever been treated this well in someone else’s house.

“Fine,” Bucky concedes, “but I’m doing all the dishes tomorrow—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And don’t get up early to drink a glass of orange juice and try to wash it before I’m awake, ’cause I’ll be listening.”

The boys giggle and Bucky leans against the counter, hovering while AJ hands the plate off for Cass to wipe dry and pretending not to listen to Sam and Sarah talking in the next room.

…But there isn’t a full wall separating the kitchen from the living room and Sam knows Bucky’s hearing’s good, right? He doesn’t think they’re discussing anything that private and if Sam’s annoyed with him later for what he supposes Bucky might’ve heard, Bucky’ll just offer up another white lie and swear he couldn’t hear a thing. And Sarah… Sarah wouldn’t think any worse of him if she knew. Bucky imagines she’d have a lot of compassion for his frequent urge to give Sam a hard time just for the hell of it. He flicks a quick glance over his shoulder, just to see her, and concentrates on what they’re saying, giving himself vague permission because he overheard his name.

“This was your idea,” Sarah’s saying. “You brought the stray cat home, just like when we were kids.”

“Don’t compare him to something cute,” Sam complains. Bucky’s mouth tenses to keep his smile from spreading too far.

“He is a guest in my home, Sam, and he’s more than earned it after the work he’s been putting in with the boat.”

“And what about the work you’ve been putting in watching him do that work?”

“Sam. Grow up.” Sarah’s voice is playful and Bucky almost turns, wondering what her expression looks like.

“So you’ve just been appreciating his skill with a wrench and some sandpaper,” Sam says skeptically.

“If I’m also appreciating his shoulders in that shirt— if—” she emphasizes when Sam tries to interrupt, “—it’s nobody’s business but mine.”

“Ok, you definitely can’t have him sleeping on the couch.”

“What do you think I’m gonna do? Try to sneak him to my bedroom after lights out? With you listening, trying to catch us? Uh uh. Your sister is a grown woman with two children, a home, and a boat she couldn’t manage to sell, and she can lust where she damn well pleases.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh and AJ gives him a funny look. Kid’s too perceptive.

“He’s tricky,” Sam lectures. “You can’t see it, but I do. I’ve been around him a hell of a lot more. You think he smiles like that at everybody? If he smiles at me at all, I gotta assume he just looked up and saw a meteor hurtling towards where we’re standing and is only smiling because we’ve got seconds to live and I won’t be able to tell anybody.”

“You are hilarious.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re telling me your friend is charming. That’s what you’re describing. Don’t I deserve to be charmed? Where else is he gonna sleep, huh? With you? In one of the boys’ little beds while they share the other one? Because I know you’re not suggesting we skip the pretense and put him right in with me.”

Sam lets out a noise of obvious frustration.

“Time to intervene,” Bucky tells Cass and AJ, leaving them to swap confused shrugs in the kitchen as he saunters into the living room.

“Hey,” Sam greets stonily, arms crossed over his chest.

Just for fun, Bucky decides to be all the friendlier.

“It’s so great of you to put me up. Thanks, Sarah. This beats a hotel by a mile.”

“Our gourmet kitchen does offer an impressive range of sugary cereal,” she jokes. “I might even cook you boys a special breakfast tomorrow before you head back to the dock.”

Bucky’s grin widens.

“Oh yeah? I wouldn’t wanna—”

“No, it’s no trouble—”

“Well, that would be—”

“Both of you stop it,” Sam orders.

“Sam, go outside,” Sarah orders right back. “Play some tag with your nephews.”

“Sarah, I’m beat. We’ve been working on that boat all day.”

“Mhmm, you and the rest of the neighbourhood. You worked all day and you come home and there’s still two kids to entertain. But guess what?” She smiles deviously at her brother and throws a few fake punches at his stomach. “You’re Sam Wilson, the Falcon! Looks like you’re special after all. Me and Bucky here know you’ve still got some gas in the tank. Go on.”

Sam looks fairly planted to the spot as he glares from his sister to Bucky, but he eventually moves with a lurching step.

“I’m gonna be right outside,” he warns.

Bucky sidesteps out of his path and says nothing, though it’s hard to resist the instinct to egg him on.

“We’re gonna have a super-secret discussion about which towels he can use,” Sarah goads at her brother’s back.

Sam ignores her, corralling his nephews in the kitchen and guiding them out the door into the fading daylight with a hand on each of their narrow backs.

“Great kids,” Bucky observes.

Sarah nods, watching her family disappear, then turns to him.

“We’re not really gonna talk about towels.”

“No?”

Bucky’s eyebrows rise in surprise and delighted anticipation until Sarah grabs a folded blanket off the back of the couch and passes it to him.

“We’re making up the couch.”

“Oh.”

This is ok too. Actually, really nice, standing next to Sarah and unfolding the blanket as she stuffs a pillow into a clean case. Her eyes find his already on her and he swears he almost blushes; he’s been smoothing out the same crease in this blanket for a good thirty seconds with no result, just watching her easy movements, the way she flips her braids back when they fall forward over her shoulder.

“I hope you’re comfortable,” she says, lingering once they’re done.

“I woulda slept on the floor. A closet, even, like Harry Potter.”

“You read Harry Potter? Don’t tell the boys—they’ll be bugging you to play wizards with them.”

Bucky laughs and shakes his head.

“Nah, I just watched the movie.”

“Which one?”

“There’s more than one?”

“You really better not bring it up then,” Sarah advises. “They’d try to tell you everything at once.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to get in out of my depth.”

It feels like a significant look they exchange after his words. Bucky wants it to be—he thinks he does—but he feels awkward, romantically clumsy. Heartstrings tied together like shoelaces, waiting to trip him up. He’s been telling himself she’s only being kind, but after eavesdropping on her conversation with Sam, he knows she’s interested. In his shoulders at the very minimum. Was that right? His shoulders? Just in case, Bucky does his best to square them. Can’t hurt.

He’s fucking ecstatic when Sarah does glance down briefly, her gaze returning to his face with something flustered in it. Sure, she’s a mom and she runs a business, but it’s like she told Sam: she deserves to be charmed. Bucky’s not entirely sure he’s doing it right though.

“So,” she says, “Sam was just being a pain when he tried to convince me you can’t sleep on the couch because you’ve got a bad back, right?”

Bucky sighs but keeps smiling. It’s natural in her presence.

“I’d say that’s him making old-man jokes about me.”

“I apologize for my brother and his bad manners.”

“Ah, he’s not totally wrong,” he concedes, perching on the arm of the couch. “These last few birthdays have required more candles than you could fit on a cake.”

“Then you just have to get yourself a bigger cake.”

Bucky laughs.

“I guess optimism’s pretty much a family trait?”

“We work at it. They say you need to take the good with the bad, but they don’t tell you that means creating the good out of nothing a lot of the time, if you want any at all. The Wilsons worked that out some time ago, so we mostly do alright.”

“It’s a good feeling to be around,” he tells Sarah earnestly. Clearing his throat, he gets to his feet. “Feels good, being around you.”

“We’re… I’m happy you could stay with us.”

The light’s softened in the room and her voice has gone with it. Bucky shifts on his feet.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he assures her.

Sarah’s eyelashes flutter when she looks from his mouth to his eyes. Probably too try-hard to bite his lip now. God, Sam thinks Bucky’s so suave with Sarah, but it feels like he’s only got one move and it’s fucking smiling. Some Casanova he is. Sarah, meanwhile, is beautiful and authoritative and generous and moving closer to toss the pillow he’ll rest his head on tonight onto the couch.

“Anything else you need to be comfortable?” she asks, gaze slipping from one of his eyes to the other. “Another pillow? Pajamas?”

“I’ve got some, but…”

“But?”

Sarah gives him a questioning look and Bucky starts summoning the courage to make a move. He’ll touch her waist—no, take her hand. He’ll cup her sweet face so there’s no doubt what he means.

“But,” he picks up, “if I get cold in the night…”

There’s longing in her eyes, Bucky knows it, but Sam bangs in the screen door right then, one nephew squealing where he’s been slung over Sam’s shoulder.

“Well,” Sam announces loudly to the house at large, “that’s it! No more gas in the tank! Everybody get to bed!”

Sarah appears sorry as she steps back. Bucky almost reaches out to pull her in, to take another shot with another lousy line. Shit, he’s bad at this.

“There are more blankets in the hall closet,” she says, and slips away.

“Thank you,” he calls after her.

Sam walks past, Cass still dangling upside-down over his back while AJ runs ahead, and watches Bucky like a hawk (or some other bird of prey) as he digs through his overnight bag. What’s Sam expecting him to pull out? A strip of condoms? Bucky extracts a green toothbrush and holds it up with an expression of fake wonder. Sam rolls his eyes and heads off down the hall.

They are going to bed early, barely 9pm. That’s probably late for the kids though. Bucky’s pleasantly weary after a day outdoors, more working than talking, feeling like part of something as the Wilsons’ community came together to repair the boat. Seeing Sarah throughout. Flashing Bucky a smile while she spoke to a neighbour, grasping his outstretched hand to let him help her aboard so she could see their progress, checking Sam’s work like she’s his foreman while Bucky grinned and watched the siblings good-naturedly pick at each other. Sam was probably out like a light and Bucky should be too.

He’s not.

He can’t get to sleep right away, but it’s peaceful to lie here on the couch, on his back, while the house gets dark and darker. Sarah left the nearest window cracked for him and a gentle breeze washes in with the chirp of insects. Bucky’s already looking forward to being woken by the sun streaming through in the morning. It’d be good to get from now to daylight in a single stretch of sleep; that’s what he fantasizes about while he lies on his back: no nightmares. His head’s propped up by the pillow he tells himself smells like Sarah, though it probably just smells like her laundry soap.

It’s hard to put his finger on what’s missing, why he can’t fall asleep, until he hears the soft shuffle of footsteps on carpet. They’re too close together to be Sam’s—either hesitant or made by child-sized feet. Bucky cranes his neck around, expecting to see someone walk past on their way to the kitchen for a glass of water. His gaze roams over nothing for a minute, then he slumps back as the footsteps retreat. Maybe it was Sam after all, getting up to look in on his nephews or something. It’s the sorta thing Bucky would do if he were an uncle; he’d treasure the time with those kids, try to remember everything about his visit so he could hang on to it when he found himself half a world away, in Berlin or Riga or Madripoor.

He’s settling, trapping the blanket against his chest with a heavy hand, when he hears the footsteps approach again. Then back away seconds later. Slowly, Bucky starts to smile to himself. It’s Sarah. Can only be her. She’s either trying to psych herself up to come in here and talk to him and failing, or trying to resist venturing down the hall and succeeding.

On her next attempt, she gets closer, and Bucky sits up, kicking the blanket aside, and drops his feet to the floor in anticipation of her rounding the corner. He’s nervously gripping the couch cushion on either side of his knees when she does.

“You sneaking past Sam?” he asks quietly.

Sarah jumps, pressing a hand to her chest.

“You scared me. I wasn’t sure you’d be awake.”

Bucky shrugs, dreamily fixated on her smile. One of her neighbours turns on their porchlight and now Sarah can probably see his smile too.

��Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

“Shoot. Did you need something else?”

Kinda funny how she’s pretending she was coming out here for another reason and is just making a detour for him. He knows better, but he’s got enough remnants of being a gentleman not to call her out on it.

“Nah. It’s nothing to do with you.” Bucky stares at her a few seconds and changes his mind. “You know what? Actually, it is you.”

“What is?” Sarah asks with a hushed, confused laugh.

“The reason I can’t get to sleep. Sarah…”

But she smiles and does what he did to the boys earlier—holds a finger to her lips.

With the confidence of a woman at ease in her own home and her own body, she steps forward. She wore a yellow t-shirt today, but the one she wears now is pale pink. It’s loose and worn and reveals the strong, elegant curve of her shoulder when she moves and it slips. Gazing up at her, Bucky shifts until he feels the back of the couch. His hands hover in the air as Sarah digs one knee, then the other, into the cushion on either side of him. She lowers herself onto his thighs.

Moving slow like the hour, deep like the black sky, Bucky runs his hands up her back.

Sarah’s palms land on his shoulders and, smiling, she confesses to him, “I like these.”

He’s smirking when she ducks her head to kiss him.

Now that he has her here—on his lap, in his arms—Bucky forgets every way he wanted to touch her earlier. How he was gonna woo her with tender contact applied just right. Well, thank god for Sarah. She sets the pace of the kiss and, when his hands go still at her upper back, reaches around to bring one of them back down to her waist. He can feel that there’s no bra beneath her shirt.

“Rusty,” he breathes when their mouths slide apart.

“You were on that old boat all day,” she reminds him. “You know I’ve got patience for rusty.”

Still, Bucky wants to do a little better, prove that maybe he’s what she had in mind when she decided he was worth smiling at. He cradles Sarah closer, pulling her in, dipping his fingers into the valley of her spine when she arches into him. They kiss firmer, then faster. At her quick nod of encouragement, he moves his hands to her hips. Lower.

“Sarah?” Sam slurs sleepily from down the hall. “You outta bed?”

Sarah presses a hand to Bucky’s chest and pushes off his lap, other hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. He chuckles too.

“As the Falcon, timing is one of his greatest strengths.”

“And as his sister,” Sarah counters, “it gets on my last nerve.”

“Well, I didn’t wanna say that, but…” Bucky grins.

“Sarah?” Sam calls out again.

She sighs.

“Is he trying to wake the boys?” She takes a step away from the couch, wearing a regretful smile. “I better go.”

Bucky catches himself before he can blurt out I’ll miss you. Overeager fool.

“See you in the morning?” Sarah checks, something shy about her now, but not in a bad way. Cautiously hopeful, Bucky thinks. He’s been feeling that way himself.

He gives her one more smile for the road.

“You bet.”

[the-last-kenobi]

Hi, how are you? Hope all is well) Can you please write "Where have you been" with Anakin and a very very depressed and sad Obi?

Of course!

From this various prompts list.

I admit I wasn’t sure exactly which angle you were hoping for, but this is the one my brain liked, so here we are.

_

Anakin’s hand shook slightly as he ran the cloth over the glass mug, turning it in his hands. Water beaded up in the wake of his first attempt, so he went back again a little slower, making sure he left no smudges behind. Then he carefully placed it in the cabinet where it belonged, each shelf lined with different mugs, most of them glass, a few of them seemingly random — porcelain, wood, something that looked like clay, a deep red crystalline substance.

Anakin knew that the ones that weren’t glass had all, once, belonged to Qui-Gon.

They were used rarely. Carefully. Cherished like treasures.

The rest, the glass, those were Obi-Wan’s.

He liked the perfection of glass, its transparency, the way he could watch the teas he brewed and steeped changing, colors swirling and fading beneath his fingers.

Anakin found them difficult to maintain and hard to clean.

His hand shook again, and he quickly put down the towel and set aside the next mug, turning away from the still untidy kitchen.

His gloved metal hand raked through his hair.

It was late.

It was very late.

He walked to the window and brushed aside the curtain with one hand, confronted first with his own ghostly reflection, and then focusing on the view outside. It was pouring down rain. A rare enough occurrence here on Coruscant, and tonight, of all nights, when Obi-Wan could be out there.

He could be anywhere.

Anakin didn’t know.

Obi-Wan had been missing for twenty-nine hours.

He had walked out of their shared quarters while Anakin was visiting Padmé, sometime in the early evening yesterday, leaving his cloak behind, leaving his lightsaber behind.

And then he was gone.

Anakin had searched all the usual places. He’d reached out to Dex, and alerted Mace Windu and Healer Che, and sent Ahsoka to check with the crèche and Initiates dorm in case he was there playing with and teaching the little ones. He’d contacted Bail and Padmé, and gained permission after the twelve hour mark to examine the security holos.

There was nothing.

It was as if Obi-Wan Kenobi had stepped over the threshold of their door and just fallen out of existence.

Anakin watched rain lash against the window, scattering his pale reflection into twisted fragments, and tried to remind himself that he had already been searching for twenty-five hours straight. That he hadn’t slept or eaten. That Master Koon had forbidden him from going out into the storm to search, when they already had rested and armored troopers doing a steady sweep of the Temple perimeter, even when they didn’t know if Obi-Wan had actually left the grounds.

The Temple was massive.

He could be hiding in an unused wing, or in the depths of the dustiest levels, or in the back of the Archives, or the towers.

No, not the Archives. Master Nu had already searched there and that woman would never miss so much as a hair out of place in her domain, much less a High Councilor.

Anakin had heard Master Mundi making noises about a possible trap or an abduction.

And while that was bad — nightmarish — to contemplate, Anakin had his own fears, and they felt much more realistic, much too close for comfort.

Anakin flung himself down on the sofa with his head in his hands and tried not to admit that he was frightened.

He had seen Obi-Wan like this before. Back when they were a new partnership and Qui-Gon was dead but there was still so much of him living in the Temple, like the mugs, one still the on the countertop with a faint imprint of his lips staining the rim, or his spare cloaks and boots, and the trinkets and potted plants that filled every available space. And Obi-Wan had...

Well. Whenever he thought Anakin wasn’t paying attention, he was so quiet. He barely slept for days and then slept too much. He hardly ate and then ate random things at random times. He hardly smiled.

He wandered off.

Alone.

The worst time had been when Anakin was six months in to his apprenticeship. He had woken up with a terribly bad feeling to find his Master missing from his bed, and with the unerring instinct of a worried child, he had shot off in search of Master Yoda, who had quietly raised the alarm amongst the older Masters. It was Master Windu who had found Obi-Wan, quiet and shrunken and apathetic, concealed in one of the many gardens, letting the life of the garden conceal his dimming force signature from view.

Anakin had clung to him like he was about to disappear, and Obi-Wan hadn’t seemed to really process that he was there...

Eventually he had pulled out of it. Anakin didn’t know how.

But this...

Anakin had been worried since Geonosis that he would lose his Master to death on the battlefield. Then there had been Ventress and Jabiim and Grievous and Dooku and Maul — Maul — and suddenly it felt like Obi-Wan was never safe. The war and his enemies chased him everywhere.

But Obi-Wan had lost friends and peers and younglings he had once taught or cradled in his arms when they were so very small, and his Master’s murderer had come back like a resurrected demon to plague him, to threaten his life and sanity and everyone he loved — and Satine had already paid with her life.

Others might.

And when Anakin had come racing back home from 500 Republica when he’d heard the news, it was already too late, and Obi-Wan had gone off all alone stars knew where.

That was enough.

Anakin leapt to his feet, his body trembling with fear and nausea, determined to ignore orders.

Damn their kindness and responsibility, damn the fact that he’d probably only get soaked and miserable, he was going out searching again.

Anakin strode towards the door on shaking legs.

It swung open before he neared it, and there was Obi-Wan.

Anakin gaped at him.

Obi-Wan stared blankly back. “...Anakin?”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin breathed, staring at him, taking him in. He was without his cloak and lightsaber, as he had known he would be, and was soaking wet — completely sopping, as if he had swum in a lake rather than wandered about in a rainstorm.

“Obi-Wan,” he said again, his voice strained. “Where have you been?”

His Master continued to look blank. “I went out.”

“You went out? You’ve been gone for well over a day!” Anakin cried out. “Where have you been?”

Obi-Wan shrank away from the shouting. His blue eyes flickered around the room as if looking for an answer, or perhaps an escape, and still his expression was utterly detached. “I... I don’t know, really. Here and there.”

A pause.

“Was I really gone for so long?” he asked. He sounded distantly, disinterestedly bewildered, and Anakin broke.

“Yes!” he shouted, his face screwed up in anger, in an attempt to hold back childish tears. “Yes you have! You disappeared! There are people looking for you, and the Council was worried you’d been taken, and I was so— I was — so — I— you can’t do that to me, Obi-Wan, please, I was losing my mind!”

Obi-Wan’s blank expression finally shifted.

A look of confusion and worry built behind the vague blue eyes, and Anakin launched himself at his friend like he had all those years ago, locking his limbs around him in a fierce hug.

For a long moment it was like hugging a statue. A very cold, very wet statue that shivered ever so slightly.

But Anakin held on, determined to keep Obi-Wan right here, to keep him safe and warm, to make him understand that he was needed, that he could also rest, that it would all be okay if he just stayed. Stayed like he had before. His tunics began to absorb some of the icy moisture coming off his Master but he kept holding on, his face buried in Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

And slowly, Obi-Wan came to life.

His hands inched upwards to rest against his Padawan’s back, and he tilted his head so that he was leaning against Anakin’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muffled. “I had no idea you’d be so concerned.”

“I wasn’t concerned, you absolute idiot, I was scared,” Anakin hissed, the confession both bitter and relieving on his lips. “How would you feel if I vanished with no word? For thirty hours?”

A long silence.

“Well,” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “I would be impressed with Padmé for not getting bored of you long before that.”

There was a dead silence.

Then a spluttered, incredulous laugh, and it took Anakin a moment to realize it was he who was laughing. His shoulders shook with it, with shock at the revelation of what Obi-Wan knew, that he wasn’t angry about it, that he was cracking stupid, mean, dumb jokes about it when Anakin was trying to be mad at him.

Obi-Wan chuckled quietly, and Anakin laughed harder, delighted that his friend was smiling, if only a little.

“You’re not off the hook you know,” he mumbled, guiding Obi-Wan to his rooms, planning on forcing him to take a hot shower and drink warm tea and maybe pull out one of Qui-Gon’s old cloaks, because that always helped.

“Neither are you,” Obi-Wan mumbled back, and squeezed his hand every so briefly.

~

When Plo Koon dropped by to check on Anakin, very early the next morning, he found him sleeping soundly on a chair, snoring quietly, his feet propped on the arm of the sofa, where Obi-Wan was fast asleep with an old cloak that was far too large for him draped over his body.

It was easy to forgive them to forgetting to inform the Guard to call off the search.

Mace could pretend to yell at them during their next Council meeting, during which, he was sure, the two friends would stand side by side, mischief in their eyes.

~

[theeternalblue]

maybe them meeting their daughters girlfriend, or their sons friends thinking veronicas hot when they go to their house, idk you pick

(I didn't edit this. Sorry for the mistakes)

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Archie asks as she follows Veronica around the kitchen he remodeled last summer with his own hands to distract himself from the imminent fact that his baby girl would be going to college and he was fast approaching his midlife crisis. Freddie mocked him and therefore he was punished into painting cabinets under Veronica’s ruthless quality inspection.

Veronica opens one food container her favorite caterer just dropped with some fancy-looking salad, and a smile grows on her face. There are several more filling the kitchen island.

“Because we want to have family time with our children and friends, enjoying homemade food.” She opens the next container with beet hummus, and she quietly adds, “and I don’t cook but we can always pretend.”

Snorting a laugh, Archie wraps his arms around her middle from behind and presses a kiss to her cheek. “You’re the best organizing and bossing people around, the Veronica Lodge brand. Besides, I’ll be manning the grill so we can count that as homemade.”

“You seem to forget I’m an excellent mixologist. One does not own a bar without learning a few tricks.” Veronica turns around in Archie’s arms, her eyebrow kinking up.

Archie leans closer to her, provoking a smile on her beautiful face, “We also swore we wouldn’t tell our kids about your entire business history and I wouldn’t tell a thing about my vigilante days.”

She giggles and makes a shushing gesture by placing a finger over her lips, before she rises on tiptoes to give him a kiss. It’s funny how after decades together, after a long marriage and children, she’s still fond of playing with his ears when she kisses him. Veronica’s nails rake the short hairs of the back of his head – where she claimed to have spotted a few gray hairs just last week.

Kissing his wife is certainly one of his favorite things – and it must be good for his blood pressure because it soothes him and has kept him sane for years. No one could blame him when he hums in delight from deep within his chest but of course they will anyway.

“Ew, Daddy, we have guests,” Audrey quips when she enters the kitchen, hand in hand with a slightly taller girl with red hair who is smiling in amusement.

“Shush, Addie. Just like you, I have the right to kiss my beloved. Even more so after more than thirty years.” Veronica pecks Archie’s lips once more to make her point.

Audrey chuckles and turns to her girlfriend. “So, BB, are your moms as disgusting as these ancient creeps?”

Bella Blossom might be Cheryl’s kid but she was raised by Toni as well, so instead of making a snide remark, her eyes widen and she stares at her girlfriend’s parents not knowing what to say.

“Watch it,” Archie warns with a lopsided grin and winks at the girls. “We’re happy you can join us for lunch today, Bella.” He walks past them, dropping a kiss atop Audrey’s hair, making her giggle.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”

Oh, how he dislikes being Mr. Andrews. Is there anything else that can make him feel older? Only the way his knee hurts when he hits the gym and he doesn’t warm up.

As he makes his way outside to the backyard deck, Archie hears Audrey teasing Veronica about her home-cooked meal. It’s a running joke in the family how each time the kids had a bake sale, Veronica spent more money buying pastries than the school made selling them.

Burgers are almost done when Cheryl and Toni arrive. This time he’s not lucky and gets a few of those Cheryl Blossom’s snarky remarks while Toni makes damage control because Bella seems upset to see her mumsy being insufferable.

“I sometimes wonder what you did in your past life to have this kind of karma,” Jughead comments before taking a sip of his beer. “Lodges, Blossoms…”

“Bears,” Munroe jests but Archie doesn’t pay much attention to his friends when he spots three of Freddie’s friends looking at his wife too intensely for his taste.

It’s a known fact Veronica was deemed the hot mom years ago when Audrey started high school, and even before that when she was teaching and she was the hot teacher. She always tells him he can’t complain because the same thing happened to him – well, tough luck, because he hasn’t noticed other people lusting after him.

He hands the spatula and grill fork to Jughead so he can take care of the barbecue without thinking. Fortunately, Munroe decides to help instead when he sees the panic etched on the writer’s face.

“Hey, guys,” Archie greets the teenage boys huddled in a corner, with a smile that makes his face hurt. He’s never been good at pretending. “Do you want a beer?” An easy test to fail for a group of fifteen-year-olds. And they are boys, so they hesitate before one of them makes the right choice by meekly shaking his head.

With a humorless laugh, Archie smacks the shoulders of two of them, with much more force than needed. “Good choice. But you must be thirsty. Were you thinking about having a drink?” He tries, this time looking at his wife pointedly. But again, these teenage kids won’t take a hint.

Veronica is serving a cocktail and chatting with Cheryl. When she feels his gaze on her, she winks at Archie and makes a simple gesture to beckon him.

Just then Freddie returns to his friends, holding a bowl of sweet potato chips and baba ganoush – because this kid might be a carbon copy of Archie’s dad but he definitely has Veronica’s sense of style and palate.

“Kid, your friends are thirsty,” Archie says without preamble and because this is Veronica Lodge’s son, he knows it will take Freddie less than a second to pick up what he means. One look shot at the bar, the tilt of his head, an arched eyebrow and… “You should be a good host.”

Freddie has a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll get you something, and then I can tell you how in my family as a rite of passage in our family you must fight a bear–”

“Freddie–” Archie’s eyes widen. Veronica hates that story. She absolutely loathes it to the point Jughead enjoyed irking her by giving teddy bears to the children for their first birthdays. “Don’t”

“Why not? I thought you’d like for them to know you fought a bear, were in the army, worked as a firefighter, and in construction so you basically know how to kill them and make them disappear in hundreds of ways and no one would find them.” Then he turns sharply and stares at his friends. “Also, I advise you to stop looking at my mother because let’s face it, you think you’re good-looking but you’re not. She’s smarter than the three of you put together. Richer than everyone else in town. And with beauty only good genes I inherited can give.” He sighs. “So, unless you fought a bear, is there anything that makes you stand out in this place?”

“Dude,” one of Freddie’s friends mutters. It feels like this talk was a bit harsh, but Freddie also hated when Audrey’s friends flirted with Veronica.

“I know! Sad. I go to therapy because living under my parents’ shadow is unbearable,” Freddie replies, which is a lie. This boy is a Lodge in the body of an Andrews – and it’s scary.

When Archie makes his way to Veronica, he immediately wraps an arm around her and pulls her close to bury his nose in her hair.

“What?” she laughs at his childish gesture.

“Our children scare me,” Archie confesses.

“You realized it just now?” Veronica leans against his side, enjoying his hold on her.

“No, but I hate having more proof.”

She chuckles and soon cackles when he tells her what happened.

“Think about this, at least Freddie didn’t lock me in the supplies closet at school like Audrey did when her classmates ogled you on her eighth-grade talent show.”

[thekidultlife]

THE RETURN OF SUPERMAN | Kwon Soonyoung

Author’s Note: This is definitely one of my most favorite writings! Sorry I’m behind the posting schedule a little bit. Unstable internet connections are THE WORST!

Genre: I KNOW I’VE BEEN HURTING PEOPLE WITH MY TROS SPINOFFS, BUT THIS IS DIFFERENT. THIS STORY IS A HAPPY PILL. IT’S FLUFF. LITERALLY.

Word Count: 5,840

6:47 P.M.

It is nighttime and cameras are panning around a very cozy nursery. The walls are wallpapered with a pastel kind of yellow filled with clouds, ponies, fairies and more animal pets, some of which double into night lights. A dresser is pushed up to one wall, where baby pictures of the cute little room owner are found, along with her parents in what appeared to be a photoshoot. A clock and little blocks that spelled out Y-U-N-A are also on the dresser. Airplanes, more clouds and stars hang on the ceilings, reflecting the soft glow of the lamplights. The windows are hidden by billowy cream-colored curtains.

One camera is panning down from the plush, carpeted floor, up to the center of the room, on which a massive, white crib could be found. A very cute, chubby-cheeked little baby girl with a jeweled crown on top her soft curls was on the crib, her chubby hands clapping with delight. Her squeals and vibrant peals of laughter filled the whole room. But it was another kind of noise that made cameramen chuckle.

Thud. “Ow!” Kwon Soonyoung rubbed his forehead in mock agony. He made a crying face and pretended to sob loudly, kneeling on the carpeted floor. But he peered behind his hands on his face, grinning, as the baby burst out laughing again, her hands clapping as she did so. Her cheeks had gone red with her giggles.

When the laughter stopped and the baby simply sat there, her whole face waiting and expectant for the next thing about to happen to her dad, Soonyoung decided to do it one last time. He drew close to the crib and pretended to bang his head on the wood. Thud. He rolled back on the floor. “Ow!”

The baby rolled back her head, tears rolling down her cheeks as her guttural baby giggles wracked her entire body. She slumped on the soft quilt of her crib, laughing and laughing.

“Wow, Kwon Yuna,” Kwon Soonyoung muttered, tired of having done the same trick for about thirty minutes now. “You never get tired, do you? Come here.” Soonyoung reached out to take the child. “Let me put you to sleep properly.” He looked at the clock on the dresser. “It’s almost past your bedtime!” Like the pro appa that he was, he cradled Yuna in his arms, which she was already starting to outgrow. How much time do I have left to carry you like this? He thought fondly, already nostalgic of the moment that his baby would grow too heavy for his arms. Then he softly padded to one side of the room, next to the windows, where a rocking chair was. Yuna liked to be rocked to sleep.

He sat there for a long time, rocking and rocking her in his arms. Yuna reached out to touch Soonyoung’s face with her tiny hands, wondering at his face.

Soonyoung smiled and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, little one! Sleep, Kwon Yuna!” He started humming a lullaby to lull her to sleep.

After a few more minutes, Kwon Yuna’s eyes began to droop. She cooed sleepily, and as her head dropped to Soonyoung’s chest, her little crown fell on the carpet. Soonyoung hoisted her carefully on his one arm to pick up the crown, all the while singing the lullaby softly. Soon, deep breaths told him that his baby girl had fallen asleep. Soonyoung carefully stood up, peered into Yuna’s peaceful, sleeping face again, and laid her down gently on the crib.

He stood there watching her for a few minutes before he smiled and whispered, “Good night, my baby girl.” Then he slowly walked out of the nursery and into the adjoining bedroom. He left the door open just in case Yuna might wake up in the early morning hours. Cameras rolled slowly as Soonyoung laid on his bed, exhausted.

He faintly smelled of milk, baby lotion and cereal, but he could not be bothered to get up from the bed. He closed his eyes and began to doze off. It was still early, just barely past 7 p.m., but he felt drained of all energy. He smiled as he thought of Yuna giggling and reached out his hand to grab you close to him, but then he remembered: right. He’s alone, and he’s going to be for the next forty-eight hours. He reached for his phone on the bedtable and pressed the speed-dial to call you.

“My love!” He whispered excitedly when you picked up.

From the other end of the line and a continent away, you grinned. “Hey, Superdad.”

“Hey yourself. Yuna’s sleeping now.” Soonyoung touched his shirt lightly. “And I think I should change my shirt because I got soaked with milk earlier but I’m too tired to stand up.”

“Are you sure she’s asleep? Already?”

“Of course!” Soonyoung smiled at the direction of the nursery. “Our baby sleeps nicely when I rock her to sleep. I think she really likes me more than she likes you.”

You scoffed mockingly. “Don’t kid yourself.”

“Jealous, are we?” Soonyoung giggled, almost very much like Yuna. “I thought we talked about not getting jealous when our Yuna likes one of us more.”

“In your dreams, Kwon Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung took a pillow and hugged it to himself. “I miss you.”

You lay back on your bed for the night, too, a queen-sized one that was very comfortable but seemed empty without Soonyoung beside you. “I miss you, too. But don’t be such a baby! The cameras are rolling and they might think you’re too crazy about me.”

Soonyoung laughed at that. “But aren’t I?” He snuggled onto the pillow on his head, still holding the phone to his other ear. “I really am crazy about you.”

You blushed. “I love you.”

Cries from the nursery made Soonyoung sit up on the bed. “Okay! I think I have to go now.”

You smiled and closed your eyes. “Bye.”

“Hey.” Soonyoung was sliding into his slippers and shuffling on to the direction of the nursery door. “I love you, too, by the way.”

You laughed. “Good night, Yuna-appa. And change your shirt. Really!”

INTERVIEW WITH KWON SOONYOUNG, 30:

SOONYOUNG: (Bows as best he could with a baby girl on his lap.) Hello, everyone! Most people know me onscreen as Hoshi from SEVENTEEN, but right now in this show I am simply Kwon Soonyoung. (Yuna squeals on his lap, and he grins.) That’s a hello from my eight-month-old baby here, Kwon Yuna! We are both very excited to be on this show. (Reaches down as Yuna fusses and brings a bottle to Yuna’s lips.) Among my SEVENTEEN bros, I’m the youngest dad as of the moment. We often chat each other up and they always give me advice about how to do things since I’m still a bit clueless. They say baby years are the best years because you bond a lot with the baby, and you get fascinated by how they just grow up before you know it. (Kisses Yuna as she is busy with her milk bottle.) I’m really happy that I get to experience being her dad. It’s both a terrifying and beautiful experience. I just hope to be the best dad I could be for her.

Q: Are you on an indefinite break from work just to be with your wife and baby daughter?

SOONYOUNG: (Nods and smiles brightly.) Yes! Actually, I did not want to do so immediately because I felt like I might leave them unprepared since we are also readying for a comeba—oops. (Lowers his head, laughing.) Omo. I can’t believe it. Even as a dad I say things I’m not supposed to say. Anyway. Um. The members all insisted that I take the time to go and take care of Yuna here. I do go with them every now and then, mostly on mornings, so I could catch up with practice. My body clock changed after months of being with Yuna. I wake up earlier and I sleep earlier but these days I also have to wake up in the middle of the night. Yuna is at the age where she sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and cries for us. She knows we will come if she cries. (Ruffles Yuna’s hair playfully and Yuna smiles with her eyes at this, her toothless smile adorably seen as she stops drinking her milk to revel at her dad’s touch.) She’s pretty spoiled, I think. But who am I to complain? Looking this cute, I could not help but forgive her for waking her parents up at odd hours just so she could see us. (Grins at the camera.) Sorry. I know I’m being such a dad right now, spoiling my baby. But hey, that’s what dads do! (Laughs and takes the empty bottle from Yuna, and then bows again.) Please enjoy spending your day with us!

6:30 A.M.

NARRATOR: *Someone is having a very happy bath this morning! Let us see! The happy laughter is infectious! What lies ahead for a morning at the Kwon residence?*

“Ap-paaa!!! Wwaaaahhhbbbbiiiii!!!”

“I know! Your appa picked such a cute song! Good morning, too, Kwon Yuna!” Soonyoung happily translated as the Yuna played with the water on her bathtub. She giggled as bubbles erupted out of the water. Soonyoung scrubbed on her arms, her face.

Dad and baby are inside the bathroom next to the nursery. Both have been up for hours.

“Ggggurbbbbuuu app-paaa?” Yuna chatted with her appa, touching his cheek with a tiny hand filled with bubbles.

“Yes. The eyebags look awful, right? I had to stay up later for you!”

“Biiiii???” Yuna pressed, her eyes looking serious as Soonyoung rinsed her shampooed baby hair gently with warm water. “Bbbibbugabb???”

“Uh-huh. That late. But we’re still best friends! You slept very peacefully after I rocked you to sleep for the second time. Very good girl!” Kwon Yuna liked to wake up early and Soonyoung usually took that time to draw her a bath and get her things ready for the day. Once Yuna wakes up, the whole house wakes up, too! Who needs clocks? Yuna was one! My world literally revolves around this little person! Soonyoung thought to himself as he reached for a towel.

“Bbubbbubbbbbu,” Yuna babbled to her dad as he picked her up from the bubbly bathtub to dry her with a towel and dryer. “Gguggudduuuu!!! Ap-ppa, ap-ppa, appa!”

“Right! Your appa is so amazing, taking care of you all night and giving you a bath! He’s the best appa in the world! Isn’t he?” Soonyoung interpreted confidently as he playfully kissed his baby girl’s cheeks. “Wow. Eomma did a not-so-bad job at picking your bath soap. My love, if you’re watching this, I really dig this bath soap. Buy one for us, too!”

Yuna pinched Soonyoung’s cheeks playfully while he got placed her down the changing table. “Appa? Ggubbbuuu!!!”

“I know! You’re cute, too!” Soonyoung deftly got Yuna into her diapers and hauled her up into his arms. She squealed as they both got out of the bathroom and Soonyoung set her down on the newly vacuumed carpet, letting Yuna crawl around. Yuna gasped in delight at being let down. “Behave while appa gets out your clothes for you, okay?”

After dressing her up in a cute strawberry jumper that had green wings at the back, tying her hair rather clumsily with strawberry ponytails and securing her stray locks into another strawberry-themed hairband, Soonyoung grinned. “Cute, cute, cute!!!” He peppered Yuna with kisses. “Cute, cute, cute!!!”

Kwon Yuna did look like the cutest strawberry fairy, beaming at her dad, clapping her hands before ignoring him entirely and crawling around the nursery, gasping again as her quick little eyes found a picture book that was placed strategically by Soonyoung right where she could see it. She crawled faster with her hands and feet, straining just to get to the picture book. Upon reaching the picture book, she squealed out something like, “Gggaaaahhhhh!!!”

“Yas, girl! Like I told your eomma when we bought you stuff, that picture book is cool!” Soonyoung again translated, lying on his stomach next to his strawberry fairy, who looked like utterly amazed by the picture book, which contained different kinds of colors. Yuna stood up shakily, bouncing on her feet as she stood, before plunking down and sitting with her legs crossed, looking very much like a—yes, a strawberry. She babbled happily as she reached out to touch the book.

“Waaasss?”

“Okay. We’ve done this yesterday, remember?” Soonyoung sat up and imitated how Yuna sat. Then he pointed at the bright color on the book which Yuna was touching with her finger. “Red.” Soonyoung tapped the color again. “Red.”

“W-wed,” Yuna breathed out, her voice unabashedly wondering.

Soonyoung excitedly tapped it again and bent down to listen closer. “Red.”

“Wed!!!” Yuna giggled and clapped her hands, excited at mimicking Soonyoung’s words.

“Yaaayyy! Yuna deserves a kiss!!! Kiss!!!” Soonyoung picked her up and held her into the air, kissing her cheeks as she laughed in delight. “Good job, best friend!” Then he settled her onto his lap and took the picture book. He smiled at Yuna again before tapping another color. “Blue.”

Yuna puckered her lips and looked up at Soonyoung. “Byue?”

“Yaaayyy!!! Way to go, best friend! Yes!” Yuna giggled again as Soonyoung held her up into the air and gave her her reward: appa’s fluttery kisses. “Okay, let’s say it again!” Carefully, Soonyoung put her closer to the book balanced on his one knee so Yuna could touch it. He pointed at the color again. “Blue.”

“Byuuueeeee!!!” Yuna mouthed just like Soonyoung. “Byue!!!”

“Very good, Kwon Yuna!” Another flight up, another kiss. “What’s this color?” Soonyoung pointed back to the first color they learned about. “It starts like r—”

“—Wed,” Yuna said confidently. “Wed!”

“And this one?”

“B-byue!”

Soonyoung laughed and proceeded to educate Yuna about colors. Byue, wed, gweeen, pppink…you get the idea. The baby talk drove Soonyoung nuts but he was fascinated that Yuna was learning so quickly. She’s definitely persistent, Soonyoung noticed fondly. She would touch a color, hear him say it over ang over again, and then repeat. She loved getting kisses and she loved flying with her dad’s arms. Cameras zoomed in on the father and daughter as they forgot the picture book, doing something much more fun-filled for Yuna. She was hoisted up by her dad’s arms, flying around the room, her green wings fluttering, her ponytails whipping around as Soonyoung “flew” her around the room.

“AppaI Appa!” She giggled, loving her flight like the strawberry fairy that she is. Cameramen chuckled as her guttural giggles filled the whole room again. “Wheeeeeeeeee!!!”

Soonyoung stopped, cradling her back again into his arms and raining hugs and kisses on her. “Love you best friend!!!”

“Appa!” Yuna said in babyish delight. “Appa! Mmmnam?” Yuna gesticulated with her hands, suddenly fussing now. “Mmmm?”

“Now that,” Soonyoung murmured as he kissed Yuna again, “is Yuna talk for ‘food, appa?’ Such a bright little princess! Off to breakfast we go!”

INTERVIEW WITH KWON SOONYOUNG, 30:

Q: As asked to the other members, were you there when Kwon Yuna was born?

SOONYOUNG: (Nods happily.) Yes, I was! Unlike the other SVT dads, my wife’s labor pains came right on schedule. It was difficult for them because childbirth is very unpredictable at times. My wife used to have long phone sessions with other SVT mommies about how she might have an expected due date but that sometimes the labor comes sooner or later—we were both nervous. I asked for a break then, too, two weeks in advance, just so I could be there for her when the time comes. She got contractions as early as two weeks, so we were kinda expecting that she might give birth sooner. But Yuna came out exactly on the due date as stated by our OB/GYN. (Stares off into a distance, transported by the memory.) I remember phoning Cheol and asking him what to do. He was my closest neighbor since they live just a few blocks away from our house, and we had bonded quite a lot during the pregnancy because he was the one who gave me advice the most. (Breaks into a smile.) He offered to drive us to the hospital the moment my wife’s water broke that morning. Which was really great because I kept panicking and I was almost noisier than my wife during the whole drive to the hospital. Seungcheol-hyung was like, “Calm down, calm down, breathe” and I was like, “Does it hurt, my love? What do I do? You can punch me or slap me if you want if it helps” and I remember my wife laughing and crying at the same time because she said I was too hilarious to watch as I panicked. (Soonyoung sheepishly grins.) It was true, I was a bit too much. I remember pacing on the floor as she gave birth. She was in labor until evening. The members came to the hospital and waited with me, which became some sort of tradition whenever one of us gets to hold our kids for the first time. So all of them were there when I got to peek inside the hospital room. My wife was awake, and she was holding the baby. I remember taking the baby—(gesticulates how)—very carefully, and just staring dumbstruck at the tiny creature in my arms. I was like super amazed because there she was, my baby! I helped make this beautiful baby girl! I was also sort of terrified because I could already see my face in her. (Laughs loudly as he remembers his expression.) But all in all I was just, plain, simple happy…when her tiny fingers enclosed my thumb, I was like, in love all over again. The tears just started falling when she did that. (Shakes his head while smiling.) The members were telling me things like, “You should name her after you because you look so much like each other” but my wife objected thankfully. My wife and I named her “Yuna”.

Q: We’ve heard that there was a special reason why you named her, “Yuna.” Can we ask what it is?

SOONYOUNG: (Claps his hands together when he remembers why.) Yes, there was a reason! My wife was having these very strange cravings with food and movies and she just wanted to be with me most of the time. She even followed me around tours and fanmeets for a while. Wonu joked to me that that was probably why Yuna looked so much like me. Which is true, I think. (Laughs again.) Anyway, for about seven months, I would just lie with my wife on our bed, re-watching Kim Yuna’s figure-skating competitions. She was very much addicted to Kim Yuna. She’d never had a very keen liking for figure-skating or the Olympics before or any sport in particular, so I was really, really surprised. It was when she was already about four months pregnant, that we’d decided that if her Kim Yuna frenzy would not stop by then, we would name our baby after Kim Yuna if our baby would be a girl. (Soonyoung smiles at the camera and bows.) Kim Yuna-ssi, you were such an inspiration. Thank you very much!

7:15 A.M.

NARRATOR: *Let’s see what baby Yuna will have for breakfast! Looks like Kwon-appa is busy making something on the kitchen counter! What could it be?*

“Our Yuna, just wait patiently for your meal,” Soonyoung called out in a sing-song voice.

The strawberry fairy sat tapping her own spoon on her highchair table, making gurgling noises as she chatted with herself. She would squeal at times when she found a tapping rhythm that she liked, but every now and then, she would look up to the direction across her. “Appa?” she asked, her question understandable even by the other people watching from hidden places in the room. “Mmm, Appa?” How long are you going to make that breakfast, Appa?

Soonyoung was sterilizing the bowl that Yuna would use for eating, as well as her utensils. He put them into a saucepan and began putting in water. He waited until he had the water had already boiled for a few minutes before turning off the stove. Still humming (‘The Three Bears’ song was playing in the background) and eating his own apple—the half of the one he was going to use for Yuna’s breakfast—he poured the contents of another saucepan—chopped apples, oats, cinnamon and milk—into a blender. The sound of the whirring blender made Yuna drop the wooden spoon she was playing with.

“Ugh!” Her startled body shook, and her eyes widened.

NARRATOR: *Omo, she looked really surprised at the sound of the blender!*

“You’re still jumpy at the sound of the blender?” Soonyoung cooed as he munched his apple. “Don’t worry! Appa is here! It’s just a noise! Look!” Soonyoung pretended to bump his head on the cupboard. Thud. “Ow!”

Yuna forgot about the blender burst out laughing.

“Sometimes I wonder why we’re best friends, girl.” Soonyoung muttered. He pressed something on the blender, and it whirred again. Yuna once more looked startled. Soonyoung sighed and pretended to bump his head again. Thud. “Ow!”

Again, the little strawberry fairy doubled in laughter. She hiccuped as she did so—another sign that she was extremely happy.

The blender stopped whirring. Soonyoung finished his apple and checked to see if the mix had been pureed well. “Yes, yes, here it comes!”  A few moments later, Soonyoung gently laid before Yuna a plate of oat porridge and a sippy cup filled with unsweetened orange fruit drink.

INTERVIEW WITH KWON SOONYOUNG, 30:

SOONYOUNG: (Blushes at being complimented for being a good appa who knows how to prepare and cook baby breakfast.) I sort of cheated on that! I had to study very hard because even before we started taping for The Return of Superman series, my wife had to go on a very long trip for work. She’s a consultant for a technological company…which is kinda cliché by the way. I knew I fell in love with her when she showed me how to re-format my laptop. I just knew that moment! Anyway, she’s been away for almost a month now, but she’ll be back any day now. It’s just a matter of helping the company close that deal. (Shows a list on his phone.) See? She gave me this list of things to do with Yuna just in case I run out of ideas. But some of the ones at the top are a ‘must’. Like I really have to do it for Yuna whether I like it or not. Which involves cooking strange baby meals, crawling lessons—just kidding, of course, my love! (Blows a reconciliatory kiss at the camera.) You really researched these baby meals well! Good job!

“You are a very good girl this morning, so I took some time to find where Eomma put the recipe for your favorite porridge. She wanted you to eat something with spinach, but we’re going to have something more enjoyable!” The little girl clapped her hands, as if she really understood how her dad just disobeyed a direct order from Mommy Headquarters. “Let’s hope we don’t get in trouble, bestie! Who’s your best friend?” Soonyoung rubbed noses with Yuna, who giggled. “Who’s your best friend?”

“Appa!” Whether Yuna said that as a response or whether she just said it as some sort of reflex for her happiness. Nevertheless, these buoyant replies made Soonyoung smile even wider. His heart felt like it could burst inside him.

My baby just called me! Me! Or not. He tried not to look so happy, but the giddiness kept showing on his face. “That’s right!” Soonyoung eagerly said. “We’re best friends, girl. And we’re not gonna tell Eomma, right?”

Yuna’s eyes widened at that. Soonyoung nervously pulled the tray back a little bit. It was as if she understood! “Girl, you can’t tell on me, she’d be angry at the both of us!”

Yuna just kept looking at him.

Soonyoung stared back.

Uh-oh.

“Eomma, no-no?” Yuna looked thunderstruck that she would be asked to keep a secret from her . “Bbuggubbuubuu?”

Soonyoung stared deeply into his daughters eyes. “That’s right, bestie. This is just between you and me. Okay? Pinky-swear?” Soonyoung reached out to do a pinky-swear, but Yuna kept staring at him. Slowly, as if she was wiser than her eight-month-old self, she reached for her bowl.

“Ggaaahh.” She began spooning the cereal clumsily.

Soonyoung breathed a sigh of relief. This was probably nothing.

“Eat on, baby girl!” Soonyoung looked at his watch. We have to go for our walk soon!”

RECIPE FOR YUNA’S FAVORITE PORRIDGE (according to Kwon Soonyoung’s list on his phone):

Oats (instant) | 1.5 tblspn

Apple | ½ big apple

Cinnamon powder | ¼ tsp

Water | ½ cup or adjust depending on Yuna’s appetite

Sugar (optional, if the mix isn’t sweet enough but not too much!)

8:00 A.M.

“The walk” wasn’t actually anywhere far from the house. Using a stroller, Soonyoung would jog around the neighborhood, pointing out things that would make Yuna exclaim loudly as she curiously looked at the object of her attention. Sometimes it was a cat, sometimes it was a fellow baby being walked by a parent, sometimes it was a tree or a flowers or birds. They weren’t anywhere near a park, and Soonyoung usually had to make do with the neighborhood, which wasn’t so bad itself. It was very private and had walled, mostly traditional Korean houses. And it was a good way to get to know neighbors, too! They passed by Seungcheol’s house, which was one of the more modern-looking houses on the block and was empty. The family van was out, too, but Soonyoung saw cameras from windows. Probably at daycare, he thought to himself, before pushing Yuna’s stroller again.

After that walk with Yuna, who had gotten her much-needed Vitamin D from the sun, Soonyoung opened the back gate, where a playhouse that was connected to tunnels and assorted carpet squares, rugs and different type of surfaces were mapped out like a puzzle game on the manicured lawn. Soonyoung gently took Yuna out of the stroller and placed her on a pink carpet square.

“Let’s practice crawling, Kwon Yuna!” he said like a pro dad, already gathering different elastic balls. He then knelt, carefully watching as Yuna tried to place her hands on the carpet square. Her strawberry-green wings fluttered with the morning breeze. Soonyoung smiled broadly. “Yuna, look!” He placed a ball three squares away. “It’s a ball!”

“B-ball!!!” Yuna shrieked excitedly and began crawling on the towards as fast as her little limbs could carry her. Soonyoung excitedly bent down to help just in case she tumbles.

“Yes! A ball!”

Yuna reached for the ball with a hand and it bounced, sending her into more squeals. “Ball!” She clapped her hands as she sat up, her strawberry bottoms bouncing. “Ball!”

“Well…how about this one?” Soonyoung placed a stuffed star four squares away. “Star!”

“Tar! Tar!” Yuna excitedly clapped her hands again and began to crawl towards the star. Soonyoung was heady with excitement. Their lesson-slash-playtime session was going well for the first two tries! When Yuna reached the star, he began to put another object, this time, five squares away. It was Yuna’s favorite outdoor toy. If you know Soonyoung, then you guessed it: a stuffed tiger. “Tiger!”

“Hosh!!! Hosh!!!” Yuna screamed with delight, much happier than before, and was faster this time. The crawling took only about five seconds. She wasn’t hesitant about this particular object—she knew that toy!

Soonyoung thought of you then. “Blame yourself, my love,” you said loudly for the cameras, “our daughter is calling tigers by my stage name!”

Yuna grabbed the tiger’s nose clumsily with finger and thumb. Her face was red with excitement, and her cheeks looked very much like Soonyoung’s when he was younger. “Hoooshi! Hooooshi!” She hugged the tiger close to her, her wings fluttering with her bouncy movements again.

NARRATOR: *AWWW! Everyone’s hearts just fluttered at this show of affection! She must really love her tiger!!!*

Soonyoung smiled again, before taking the tiger from Yuna. Yuna pouted, having been deprived of Hoshi the Tiger.

“Hey, look! Hoshi wants to race!!!” Soonyoung scooted over the carpet squares and made the tiger “run” across the carpet squares and into the playhouse, with Yuna following happily as fast as she could, her giggles sending warmth into the cameramen who were filming the whole thing.

However, once father and daughter were resting on the playhouse, Soonyoung noticed a strange smell. Sniffing and looking at Yuna, who was looking up at him innocently with her mother’s eyes, Soonyoung groaned. “Okay! Playtime’s over!!! Let’s change your diaper.”

TIPS ON HOW TO CHANGE A BABY’S DIAPER (according to Kwon Soonyoung):

Make sure the diaper you are using is fit for your baby’s skin—no matter how good the brand, it still depends on your baby!

Always sanitize changing areas, whether at home or outside, and keep away stuffed tigers while changing—they might catch the smell. Not so good for stuffed tigers like Hoshi the Tiger!

Make sure you throw the used diaper in a proper waste disposal. And don’t forget to take out the trash at the end of the day!

NEVER run out of diapers. It happened once to me while we were at an ocean park—and it was a very bad experience. #NeverForget

Wash your hands before and after!!!

10:00 A.M.

The doorbell rang, and Soonyoung tiptoed out of the living room, where he was rocking Yuna to sleep. She had changed from her clothes and her diaper, and she looked extremely adorable in her new tiger jumpsuit.

INTERVIEW WITH KWON SOONYOUNG, 30:

SOONYOUNG: (Nods at the camera and smiles.) That’s right. I made my wife buy that jumpsuit. My daughter can be a tiger, too! (Does his signature roaring pose.) Horanghae!!!

“Bbbabbujji?” Yuna asked you, all traces of sleepiness vanishing from her face.

Soonyoung grinned at her. “You’re probably wondering a lot, huh? Well, let’s see…” Soonyoung walked towards the door and grinned. “Hellooooooo, playmates!!!”

Jeon Eunha stepped in and bowed. “Good morning, Hoshi-samchon!”

Jeon Wonwoo grinned at Soonyoung and pushed up his glasses. “Hello, Yuna! Hello yourself, Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung chuckled and made way for the visitors. “Come in! Come in!” He welcomed them into the spacious living room with a playpen on one side. Jeon Eunha immediately skipped away to the bookcase, studying the contents carefully.

“What’s she doing? And I’m so glad you made it, Wonwoo!”

“Let me see my goddaughter.” Jeon Wonwoo reached out like a fellow expert dad and drew Yuna to him. Yuna, who had begun to become aware of strangers just a month ago, didn’t seem to mind this handsome stranger who was now rocking her. “She’s getting even more and more beautiful!”

Soonyoung beamed like the proud dad he was. “That’s my girl right there!”

“Soonyoung-samchon,” Eunha gently tugged at Soonyoung, who bent down to ruffle her hair. The beautiful Jeon Eunha looked like an Athenian queen in the making, wisely holding a book again. “Can I read this to Yuna?”

“Of course!” Soonyoung smiled. “Yuna would love being read to!”

Eunha happily skipped again towards the playpen, where plushies were next to the bookcase. “Appa, take Yuna here! I’ll read to her!”

“Okay.” Wonwoo rubbed noses with the cute Yuna and said, “Let’s go to Eunha-unnie, Yuna!” And he went to where his daughter, who was opening the picture book she had. Yuna quickly warmed up to Eunha after a few minutes.

“Yuna loves her unnie,” Soonyoung commented, looking at the two affectionately. “Thanks for coming by, Wonu!”

Wonwoo grinned at him. “Hey, we planned this, remember? Our kids are going to play with each other. Eunha’s been asking and asking me when she saw Yuna on your Instagram while I was scrolling.”

“She’s a very wise girl.”

“She is!”

“I hope Yuna learns from her as she gets older!”

Wonwoo grinned and the two dads walked into the playpen as well, participating with Eunha’s reading session. She was reading “Peter Rabbit”, which had been translated into Korean. Yuna was paying close attention to the pictures as she sat on Eunha’s lap, touching the pictures of the rabbits and the fences and the letters.

Wonwoo and Soonyoung talked about dad stuff and SVT, zoning out of the little kids’ world as the cameras rolled.

INTERVIEW WITH KWON SOONYOUNG, 30:

Q: Does Jeon Wonwoo regularly visit your house with Eunha?

SOONYOUNG: (Beams.) Yes, and I’m very happy he keeps me company! We have always been close, but I think we got closer when we both became dads. He’s the second guy who gives advice to me about stuff. We usually talk on the phone, but as Eunha got older, she wanted to see other friends and go to places. She’s very sharp and bright for her age. (Soonyoung scratches his head.) It’s like Wonwoo carbon-copied himself on his daughter. I’m glad that Yuna has an unnie who takes care of her when they meet, someone she can learn from truly.

“Being a dad changes us, huh?” Wonwoo commented, staring at the two. Yuna has started to doze off on Eunha’s lap. “There’s a tenderness and strength to us that we never had when we were merely guys…husbands…this is different.”

Soonyoung nodded. “Yes. Really.” He sighed. “Yuna changed my life. Literally.”

Wonwoo smirked. “I bet.”

“Congratulations on the addition to the family, by the way!”

Wonwoo smiled wider. “Ah, could I get any happier?”

The two dads laughed.

Suddenly Yuna’s eyes opened and looked directly at Soonyoung. She looked like she was about to cry as her lips pursed menacingly.

Soonyoung knew exactly what to do. He leaned on the picket fence of the playpent and—you guessed it!—bumped his head on it. Thud. “Ow!”

Yuna burst out into a fit of giggles on Eunha’s lap. Eunha, too, did not look so much like the extraordinary three-and-a-half-year-old girl. She was putting her hands into her mouth, book forgotten, laughing as hard as Yuna.

Wonwoo was laughing, too. “You idiot. Stop doing that or she’ll keep asking for it! There are a lot of friendlier games.”

“What can I say?” Soonyoung stopped pretending to cry and grinned at Wonwoo. “Dads do stupid things sometimes, huh?”

Wonwoo nudged him with an elbow. “Not yet, please! I’m still not ready for the dad-jokes phase!”

“Now that I have been so ready for. But in the meantime,” Soonyoung bumped his head again. Thud. “Ow!”

Yuna, Eunha, and Wonwoo burst out laughing, along with the muffled laughter of everyone who was watching behind the cameras.

Judging from the thudding noises, it was going to be a great day for the Kwon residence.

EPISODES | Ep. 1| Ep. 2 | after-party | Ep. 3 | only us |  Ep. 4 | afterglow |  Ep. 5 | Ep. 6.1 

- Admin Leanne

[ibijau]

chap 2 of the modern xisangyao, also on AO3

Against his better judgement, Meng Yao finds himself quite charmed by the too handsome researcher who wants to meet his employer

Mister Shanzi will be unhappy when he discovers that Meng Yao has agreed to meet with a researcher without first consulting him, but he is simply too curious. It is so odd for anyone to be so interested in that obscure painter, and so desperate to see more of his work. Of course, Mister Shanzi himself holds a clear interest in Nie Huaisang, one that he has unwillingly transmitted to Meng Yao… But mister Shanzi is an odd man, and ordinary people cannot be compared to him. 

For this reason, Meng Yao's first instinct upon being contacted by Lan Xichen had been suspicion. Mister Shanzi has his enemies, as Meng Yao knows well, and they try to act clever sometimes. 

His second instinct, after a quick internet search, had been amusement. Surely nobody expected him to believe that this man, handsome enough to play the lead in a drama, was a mere university teacher. 

A more thorough search had confirmed it though. Meng Yao knew enough about running a con to spot modified photos and fake credentials, and he had found none of that. Digging further, Lan Xichen appeared in the background of photos and was referenced here and there on relatives' social media, with no incoherence to the presentation he'd given in his email. 

So Meng Yao had found himself intrigued, and offered to meet and chat. 

A decision he half regrets now, because somehow, Lan Xichen is even more handsome in person. He is, in fact, the single most beautiful person that Meng Yao has seen in his life, easily outranking mister Shanzi who had reigned there supreme since the day Meng Yao met him during a con gone wrong. 

"I am so glad you offered to meet me," Lan Xichen says with a warm smile. "I am really sorry that I was so insistent, but it is so rare for several of Nie Huaisang’s works to be in a single place."

“I understand,” Meng Yao replies, trying to match the warmth of that smile when he can’t help being a little dazzled by that handsome stranger. “Though at the moment, my employer is a little wary of showing any of those paintings in his possession until he has inspected them all again. It is very embarrassing that several fakes fooled him, and mister Shanzi wants to restore his reputation. He is still getting used to modern technology, and how much it has changed the art market in recent decades.”

Mostly, mister Shanzi complains a lot on the matter, and keeps saying he’s going to have to change career soon. Apparently, back in the days, it was much easier to sell a decent fake as long as you also sold enough real things. But now with age testing of the paper and analysis of the ink, it’s nearly impossible to do a good enough job.

Of course mister Shanzi could quite easily make as much money only selling legitimate art, he has the connections, the collection, and impeccable taste. So Meng Yao suspects it’s not just about money, and more about the twisted joy of deceiving others. He can't fault him for that.

“Yes, that makes sense,” Lan Xichen sighs. “I was fooled as well, so I understand the feeling. It’s so disappointing, but not unexpected. Nie Huaisang attracts forgers like no other artists.”

Meng Yao nods sympathetically. He’s heard mister Shanzi boast that well over half of Nie Huaisang’s paintings in circulation are copies he made himself, and perfectly undetectable unless one runs those ‘damn new tests’ on them.

“If I may be so bold, why the interest in that particular painter?” Meng Yao asks. “Surely you could have found someone less complicated to study.”

Rather than to answer immediately, Lan Xichen considers the question. He takes a sip of tea with more elegance than this café deserves, and Meng Yao is struck once more with the idea that this man should be acting in drama, not writing essays nobody will ever read. It’s easy to imagine Lan Xichen playing the role of a noble prince, or even a god. 

“He’s just a fascinating character I suppose,” Lan Xichen says at last. “Outside of his art, we know so little about him. We don’t even know his real name.”

“What?”

Lan Xichen smiles, clearly very pleased to have gotten that reaction.

“He wasn’t born Nie Huaisang,” he explains. “That’s only his courtesy name. You see, he belonged to that… well, they called themselves a sect, though at the end of the day they were closer to nobility, with the same inheritance problems and power struggles. Still, Qinghe Nie held a number of beliefs, and one of them was that the birth name of its members had to be kept a complete secret… and Nie Huaisang is among those who succeeded at obeying that rule. So we don’t know his name, we don’t know his date of birth, and we don’t know how he died or when.”

“Is there anything that is known about him?” Meng Yao teases, more endeared and intrigued than he would care to admit.

Lan Xichen must notice, because he smiles again, as if delighted to have found someone willing to listen to his impromptu lecture.

“We know he was raised by his brother because their father died when they were young,” Lan Xichen says. “Well, half-brother. Nie Huaisang was the child of a concubine, or even of a servant. His father recognised him, but his legitimacy was called in question a few times. We know he survived a local insurrection nicknamed the Sunshot Campaign, though it’s unclear if he was old enough to have taken part in any fighting. His brother did though, with great success, but died without heirs a few years later and Nie Huaisang found himself in charge of a fief.”

He pauses there, his expression turning sadder, as if he were talking of a personal friend rather than a long dead man. Meng Yao finds it ridiculous and a little endearing.

“A few anecdotes from the lives of contemporaries tell us that he must have had a rough time at first,” Lan Xichen continues, “and he was suspected for a while of being implicated in the murder of the head of the Jin clan, but nothing ever came out of that. He’s just thirty at that point, still fairly young, and he lives on for another fifty, maybe sixty years… and we don’t know anything about what he does during that time. Nobody really talks about Qinghe Nie again until his successor rises to power and brings the clan back into the political sphere. Nie Huaisang’s life is a mystery. What little we think we know comes from the few poems he left, and whatever clues we can gather from his numerous paintings. Isn’t that fascinating?”

What’s fascinating, Meng Yao thinks, is the way Lan Xichen’s eyes light up when talking about something he’s passionate about. If it’s an act, then it’s an excellent one… but Meng Yao finds himself hoping that it’s sincere, that Lan Xichen really is just an odd man who is apparently half in love with a painter who died a millennium and a half ago.

There is no way that mister Shanzi would ever let anyone see his private collection. Even Meng Yao is barely allowed to go to his employer’s house, to avoid attracting attention to the place. Lan Xichen’s request is never going to be granted.

But it has been a long while since Meng Yao has been so intrigued by someone, not since first meeting mister Shanzi in fact. And mister Shanzi, in spite of the mutual attraction that Meng Yao knows to be there, has made it quite clear that he isn’t interested in anything but a professional relationship. Meng Yao has satisfied himself with that so far, because his life really is pretty good as it currently is, but Lan Xichen changes that. Surely there’s no harm in pretending that there’s a chance he might get to see the painting, at least until Meng Yao can decide if that too handsome man is trustworthy or not, dateworthy or not…

“It does sound interesting,” Meng Yao admits. “I’m sure mister Shanzi would…”

His phone starts vibrating, interrupting him. Meng Yao can’t help a slight frown, which turns to a deeper one when he sees the message he’s just received.

“Well, I have to go,” he sighs. “I’m really sorry. But… mister Lan, if I may be so bold, would you agree to exchanging numbers? That way we can continue talking about this more easily.”

“Yes, of course,” Lan Xichen replies. There is a trace of pink on his cheeks as he takes out his own phone, which Meng Yao finds both very fetching and rather encouraging.

He’ll have to be careful, this could be a trap, Lan Xichen might be an excellent actor, part of a team skilled enough to have fooled Meng Yao, but… but he might not be, too, and it would be a shame to miss this chance.

After having exchanged numbers and promised to be in touch soon, Meng Yao quickly heads home. He lives on the edges of the city, in a building that already looked ancient when he was a kid. Today’s a good day, because the lift is, in fact, actually working for once.

Upon getting to his floor, Meng Yao goes to knock on the door next to his. It opens nearly immediately.

“Meng Yao, you’re saving my life,” the young woman who lives there greets him. “I’m really sorry, I’ve tried everyone else, but I’ve been called in for an extra shift and I need the money so bad, I’ve had to buy her new shoes this month, and…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind at all.”

His neighbour thanks him again, and rushes inside. She’s back quickly, her daughter in her arms. The child nearly throws herself at Meng Yao, and her mother runs off to work, leaving them alone.

“Well, Beastie, it’s just you and me,” Meng Yao says, walking to his door. “What are we going to do tonight?”

“Watch fighting movies! Eat candies!”

“And what will we tell mama we did?”

“Watch documentaries and eat greens and I went to bed and I was good!” The little girl roars.

Meng Yao laughs, and puts her down while he unlocks his door. Beastie runs inside to check the tv, while Meng Yao makes sure they actually have something to eat. He tries to keep his fridge full and his cabinet fuller, especially since Beastie has become a regular at his place. Her mother is a hard working girl who, like Meng Yao’s mother, got pregnant too young from a man who didn’t stick around. He used to babysit Beastie for extra cash before meeting mister Shanzi, and for some reason he never really stopped, even if he refuses to take money for it now. He just likes Beastie and her mom, and he remembers how much his own mother used to rely on neighbours too, whenever things became rough.

As Beastie and him settle down for the night, ready to watch one of those cheesy, over the top old kung-fu movies that they both love, Meng Yao gets a text from Lan Xichen, thanking him again for meeting him. After only the briefest of hesitations, Meng Yao quickly answers that he’s sorry he had to leave so fast, because he loved chatting with Lan Xichen. This prompts another text from the handsome teacher, to which Meng Yao replies as well.

His phone doesn’t stop buzzing all nigh, and Meng Yao doesn't stop smiling. 

-

In the days and weeks that follow, Meng Yao and Lan Xichen manage to meet in person a few more times, and text nearly constantly. At their second meeting they’re still pretending that this is only about Lan Xichen’s research, but by the third one they start openly chatting about other things.

Lan Xichen is very open about his life, and everything he says fits with what Meng Yao had found during his initial investigation. He has a little brother nearly fifteen years younger than him who lives with him, he enjoys teaching and researching equally, he has a pet rabbit called Liebing he dotes on, he can’t handle spice at all, he has, in fact, been asked more than once if he was interested in a modelling or acting career but always refused because academia is his calling.

Meng Yao is more careful with the information he shares. He admits to having worked for mister Shanzi for nearly five years, but doesn’t elaborate on how they meet because that's not a story for honest people. He confesses he didn’t have any particular interest in art until taking the job, though he has tried to educate himself on the subject since then (Lan Xichen offers to go to a museum together someday, and to his own surprise, Meng Yao agrees). He doesn’t have pets, but he does have Beastie and he’s pretty sure that counts.

The way Lan Xichen’s eyes go soft over that… it does things to Meng Yao’s poor heart.

As does almost everything Lan Xichen does or says, in fact.

Meng Yao is half appalled at himself for how fast he’s falling for Lan Xichen. He tries to resist it, tries to be reasonable, but Lan Xichen just has to smile the right way, and Meng Yao’s heart flutters in his chest. He feels like a teenager with a crush.

He starts thinking like one, too.

Ever since meeting mister Shanzi, Meng Yao has been loyal to his employer. There is something about the man that demands it, and though he has never made threats of any sorts, Meng Yao can feel that mister Shanzi is not a man who takes kindly to betrayal.

And yet, it would be so easy to arrange for Lan Xichen to come to mister Shanzi’s home without his knowledge. Meng Yao is in charge of his employer’s schedule, so he knows where he is at any given time. He also has the keys to that isolated house in the middle of nowhere. It would be so easy, and Meng Yao has never been too good at resisting temptation.

At this point, he knows that if he tells Lan Xichen he won't see the paintings, the other man will be disappointed but will ask if they can keep seeing each other anyway. This isn't about finding a way to keep his attention: Meng Yao knows he has it already. 

It's about Meng Yao guessing how happy Lan Xichen will be to see those paintings, and deciding surely that's worth the risk. 

That’s how Meng Yao and Lan Xichen find themselves in a car one day, heading out of the city together. Meng Yao feels his skin buzzing with nerves, though every time he takes his eyes from the road to glance at Lan Xichen and finds him glowing and as excited as a child, he knows it was the right choice. It takes them a few hours to get to the house, which they spend chatting about a number of things. About midway through the trip, when they take a break, Meng Yao announces that due to a last minute problem, mister Shanzi won’t be able to meet them at the house, but welcomes them to check the paintings without him. Lan Xichen is of course disappointed and offers to try again another time, but Meng Yao convinces him it’s more convenient to go that day.

The house, hidden in a bamboo forest, takes Lan Xichen’s breath away when he discovers it, just as it did for Meng Yao the first time. It’s not particularly big or extravagant, but there’s something about it that makes Meng Yao’s heart ache every time he sees it, as if he’s known it before. It’s ridiculous, of course. He’d never really left the city before starting to work for mister Shanzi.

“It looks like home,” Lan Xichen whispers as he exits the car.

“Does your family have a place like that?”

Lan Xichen frowns, and shakes his head. “No, not at all. But it still feels like home. I can’t explain why… Ah, don’t mind me. Let’s just go inside.”

Meng Yao hides a smile and goes to open the door. In truth, he’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. Mister Shanzi has no reason to be back from his trip until tomorrow, but Meng Yao won’t feel safe until they’ve left. It really is stupid to have come here at all, and even Lan Xichen’s happiness is starting to not feel worth the risk.

The house is quiet when they go in, and a little cold, making them shiver. It’s always fresh in there, which Meng Yao assumes is why mister Shanzi has taken to calling his home the Hanshi. 

“It’s not a very welcoming name for a home,” Lan Xichen says as he looks around, sounding a little distracted.

“It’s not much of a home anyway. He doesn’t live here most of the time,” Meng Yao explains as they head for the kitchen. “It has his private collection, a few personal belongings, and that’s it. He prefers to stay with friends or at hotels if he can. Check the fridge and you’ll see how bad it is.”

While Meng Yao pours himself a glass of water, Lan Xichen does check the fridge, and finds it predictably empty except for some forgotten leftovers. Sometimes, Meng Yao suspects that mister Shanzi doesn’t eat at all unless he has company.

After taking a moment to rest from the long trip, Meng Yao takes Lan Xichen toward the workshop in the basement, where he knows his employer usually keeps the best parts of his collection, fake and authentic paintings carefully divided according to a system he taught to Meng Yao.

It really feels more and more like a betrayal to be doing this, but Lan Xichen is glowing, and mister Shanzi will never know.

Meng Yao starts opening the door.

His blood turns to ice when he realises that there’s light inside the room.

He thinks, for a second, to stop and run away while he can, but it’s too late already. Lan Xichen would ask questions, and he wouldn’t like the answers. It could save him from also dealing with mister Shanzi’s fury at least, but even that won’t be afforded to him. When Meng Yao peaks inside, mister Shanzi’s swivel chair is turning toward the door, with mister Shanzi sitting crossed leg in it and looking curiously at the intruders.

It is painfully obvious that mister Shanzi isn’t expecting visitors. Instead of the polished outfits he favours in public, he’s wearing a pair of novelty boxers with emoji on them, and a hoodie two sizes too big with ink stains on the sleeves. His long hair isn’t in a neat braid, but in a messy bun held in place by some cheap chopsticks. In short, mister Shanzi doesn’t look like the refined young man he endeavours to be when he has to show his face somewhere, and more like a college student who has forgotten the taste of any food except instant noodle and energy drinks.

That impression is only made worse by the headphones he’s now lowering, and the game console on his lap. They must have caught him taking a break.

“Meng Yao, why are you…” mister Shanzi starts asking, unfolding his legs so he can stand up, only to interrupt himself when his gaze falls on Lan Xichen.

His hands start shaking, badly enough that his console falls from his grip and onto the floor, its screen cracking upon impact.

“You!” mister Shanzi gasps, eyes wide with terror.

[creepy-spooghetti]

A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 6- I’m Awake, I’m Alive

Most of that day is spent keeping herself busy and distracted with various things; reading, sketching, scrolling through YouTube and hoping to find something entertaining. Even over the course of several hours, her message to the unknown number has yet to be answered, but she never really expected it to be. And there’s always the chance that it wasn’t ever meant for her; perhaps they were trying to reach another Y\n. 

It would be a big coincidence, but not one totally unbelievable. More likely than not though, it’s just some kid pulling a cheap prank. And she chooses to chalk it up to that exact thing. At around four-thirty in the evening, she decides to go downstairs and find something to eat, while also conversing a bit with her grandparents in an attempt to get rid of some of the unseen tension between the three of them. 

The news that Darcy and Marvin were murdered and that her cousin is missing, likely dead and decaying in the woods somewhere, is still sinking in, and she assumes it will for quite a while yet. Something like that can’t just be brushed aside as if it’s completely meaningless, or at least, that’s what Y\n thought. But her careless father managed to do it. Impressive or just incredibly cold-hearted? A little bit of both, in her opinion.

She sees her grandmother in the kitchen, pulling a pan of something out of the oven, its sweet, enticing aroma traveling through the air and drifting up to her nose, therefore drawing her interest. She catches herself wandering into the room, recognizing the scent slightly though not wanting to outright assume anything. Nana turns, noticing Y\n’s abrupt appearance and looking almost surprised as she pulls the oven mitt off of her hand.

“Hi, dear,” she says, keeping her voice mellow and pointing at the stovetop. “I made cookies.” Ah, cookies. The first thing that’s sounded appetizing since breakfast, and that’s been hours ago. Her stomach rumbles mildly from within the confines of her torso, and only now does she realize how hungry that she’s quickly starting to become. Perhaps a couple of cookies can ease that for a bit longer until she feels like eating something more filling.

“Oh.” She steps closer to get a better view, tilting her head to the side curiously. “What kind?”

“Oatmeal chocolate chip. Your old favorite, remember?” Recalling the distant memories of her childhood self stuffing her face with the delightful treat without a care in the world makes her want to laugh, despite the constant nagging in her gut and the aching in her chest. God, I was so naive.

“Yeah, I remember,” she replies, a ghost of a smile sweeping over her face for the briefest of moments before being replaced by an eager expression as she takes another whiff of the cookies. “They smell so good.” Nana releases a small chuckle and shakes her head.

“I’m glad. Dig in, I made them especially for you.”

“Ah, you didn’t have to do that.” She meets the woman’s gaze with a sincere one of her own, knowing in the back of her mind that she only made them to act as a sort of comfort food for Y\n, and though she’s greatly appreciative, the idea of being pitied doesn’t sit well with her. Still, she won’t say anything about it. Nana did it solely out of compassion and love for her, and she isn’t going to reject that.

“Of course I did.” Her hand finds its way to the girl’s shoulder and squeezes it affectionately. “You’re only here for a few weeks. I have to make sure you know how much we love you.” 

“I already do know, Nana.” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as she looks to Farrah, touched at what the lady’s saying and trying to figure out how her father could have straight-up abandoned her without blinking an eye. “I don’t need cookies just to realize that.”

“Come here, baby,” she says, reaching her arms out and wrapping them around Y\n’s b\s frame in a gentle, caring embrace. The h\c leans into her, snaking her own arms around her but squeezing a bit more softly, relishing in the warmth of her grandmother’s hug. She knows that this is a temporary comfort; once her parents come back and she leaves, she likely won’t be returning until after she’s eighteen. That’s too long for her to wait. What if something terrible happens while she’s gone, like what took place at her cousin’s house just a couple of years ago?

She wouldn’t know how to react. Every emblem of love that’s left within her family can be found here, in this quaint household, and she isn’t ready to lose that. Especially since she only just rediscovered it. Nuzzling her face in the nook between Nana’a shoulder and neck, she squeezes her eyes shut and savors this feeling, fighting the tears threatening to form. She won’t cry and worry her; she has enough stress surrounding her as it is. The last thing Y\n wants is to be the cause of stress, for both of her grandparents.

A minute passes and Nana leisurely pulls away, grabbing a paper plate and napkin from off the counter and handing it to Y\n. At first, she thinks that maybe the napkin’s to wipe away tears that, unbeknownst to her, are slipping down her cheeks, though after she’s flashed with a sweet smile and Nana nods toward the tray of cookies, she realizes what it’s for and takes both from her hold. “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, dear.” Y\n carefully picks up two of the cookies from the pan, being extra cautious so she doesn’t get burnt, and places them on the paper surface in her hand. She then grabs a glass of milk and heads to the living room, seeing Pops sitting in his chair, seemingly content as he watches reruns of Full House on the TV. Nervousness swivels in the depths of her chest, and she eases her way toward the couch, knowing that there’s likely to be a bit of anxiety lingering in the air between them since their conversation this morning. 

Her throat, at this point, feels much better than it had previously, and she’s hopeful that no real damage was done to it during her unnerving, confusing spell of agony earlier. By tomorrow, maybe she’ll be able to talk in her regular voice without having the slightest twinge of pain in the back. She sets her glass on the coffee table, pretending not to notice the way her grandpa side-eyes her every few seconds, as if apprehensive about something. 

Her eyes travel to look at the TV screen, trying to seem more interested in the show currently playing than she really is, until she can’t handle the pressure on her shoulders to just say something, break the ice in some way. Meeting his eyes timidly, she finally speaks, her tone honest. “Pops… I hope you know that I’m not mad at you for anything. I really do appreciate you telling me what happened.”

“Oh darlin’, I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.” He twists around in his chair slightly to face her. “I know that news like that, especially after having just got here, has to be difficult to comprehend.” She shrugs solemnly as Nana makes her appearance, taking a seat beside her on the couch with her own cookies and milk held in her hands. 

“You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Though her voice is disheartened, her facial expression is earnest as she takes a small bite of her cookie, a wave of nostalgia hitting her as she does so. “It can’t be harder on me than it is you guys. I’m sorry that happened.” She doesn’t see the sorrowful look that her grandparents share with each other before moving their attention on her, once again. 

“We are too, Y\n,” Farrah says, lacking any better words as she pats her back comfortably. Y\n, after another drawn-out silence, wants nothing more than to just find a different subject to talk about so everybody in this house won’t feel so sad. Taking a sip of her milk, she glances at Pops. 

“...So what season is this?” The question is directed at the TV show flashing across the screen, and he answers soon enough. 

“Four.” 

“What episode?”

“Eight, I think.” 

“Ah. So DJ’s going on her ‘crash diet’.” He nods. She remembers aspects of the show quite well, having watched it constantly as a young kid and having a very distinctive crush on Jesse, though she hasn’t seen it in years so she isn’t 100% knowledgeable on everything about it. Episode 8 was fairly popular, though, so she’s able to recall certain details about it that she can’t about others. She doesn’t leave the living room again for another four and a half hours, using this time to visit with them and enjoying their enlightening company. 

She can feel her eyelids start to droop as the sun begins its slow descent behind the trees, the bright silver moon replacing its glorious rays of light with something more gentle but just as majestic, soon accompanied by thousands of glimmering stars that pepper themselves all in the sky. Glancing out through the window to her right, she’s able to see a fluffy, white, and grey lump sitting on a chair outside and grooming itself, and she stands, going toward the front door to grant him entrance. 

Once it’s open, his head shoots up and he stares at her a moment before hopping down and rubbing against her legs as he walks inside. She reaches down toward him and he briefly stands on his hind legs, bumping his head into her palm in greeting as she shuts the door. “Hey, Marshmallow,” she says, voice quiet. As expected, he soon walks away from her, in search of his food bowl, and she rolls her eyes, and her gaze trails back into the living room. Nana gets to her feet, releasing a yawn and running her fingers through her thin, grey hair. “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes, I am. Phil and I have to get up early and go to the store tomorrow to buy groceries.” Y\n’s lips form an “o” shape as she leans against the doorframe, fiddling with her fingers absentmindedly. “Will you be okay here alone for a little while?” A mildly concerned expression forms across Nana’s face. “Or do you want to come with us?”

Y\n thinks it over a second. She really doesn’t feel like going anywhere, but then again she could help them out and spend quality time with them. But she’d be in public. What if she were to have another coughing fit? Not only would it draw loads of attention, but it would make her grandparents frantic. She definitely doesn’t want that; they’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Not giving herself any more time to consider against staying home, she shakes her head lightly. “N-no, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m used to staying home alone anyways.” Nana looks a bit hesitant, though doesn’t further argue the point and instead nods. 

“Alright. If you say so.” She pulls her in for a quick hug, which Y\n eagerly returns. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Call if you need anything.”

“You, too.” She watches as Farrah walks slowly up the stairs, going over what she’s going to preoccupy herself with, both tonight and tomorrow. She doesn’t want to go back to sleep for fear of having another nightmare, this one even more horrendous and bone-chilling than the last one. What’s her mind going to predict next? Marshmallow falling from the roof and dying? Her grandma slipping on mud and breaking her arm? She’s afraid of whatever it will be, which is why she’s decided to stay awake tonight for as long as possible. 

She’s going to go to sleep at some point, whether she likes it or not, that much is inevitable. She just wants to delay that process for as long as possible. After all, how hard can it be? She’s pulled all-nighters before. All she has to do is participate in mind-jogging activities. Nothing relaxing like music, or tea, or reading. Things like sketching, or exercising, or listening to Jacksepticeye and Markiplier play horror games on full volume.

Then again, maybe horror games aren’t the best things to watch in her lowkey paranoid state. Perhaps she should instead watch things like babies falling asleep while eating an ice cream cone, or kittens playing with each other, or memes about the Avengers. Something entertaining and yet energizing at the same time. She turns to go put the cookies away so they won’t get stale sitting out, and as she does so, Pops switches the TV off, rises from his seat, and walks toward her, likely to inform her that he’s following his wife to bed.

"I'm gonna go to bed too, hummingbird." Yup. She thinks as he pats her on the shoulder. "Sweet dreams. Love you."

"Love you, too. Goodnight," she says, watching him walk away and up the stairs after Nana. If only I could actually have sweet dreams. She stretches the plastic wrap over the plate of cookies and begins to walk out of the kitchen, though not before switching the overhead light off and grabbing a stick of string cheese from the fridge to snack on while she finds something to do. Watch TV? Maybe there's something good on. But that may disturb Nana and Pops' sleep, so she decides against it. She takes her phone out of her pocket and scrolls through her Tumblr blog, a small smile stretching across her face each time she reads a supportive comment about her 'amazing' art skills.

She originally logged into Tumblr a couple of years ago, whenever her parents refused to give her constructive criticism, or any criticism at all, in fact, about her paintings, so one day she just gave up and turned to the internet. At the time, most of her friends had Tumblr blogs, so she figured, why not join in? So she began posting artwork that she did, and within a month's time, she had over a thousand followers. Way more than she ever expected to get.

Her last picture was posted on the 21st of June, one week before she was hauled all the way across two different states and dropped off at her grandparents' house without a second thought. Not that she can complain now, though. Her grandparents love her way more than her actual parents do, she's sure of it. And even if she's wrong, it would be nice to hear the words 'I love you' come from their mouths every once in a while. But she supposes she just isn't that lucky.

Marshmallow emerges from the darkened dining room, just having eaten his supper and likely ready for a long, relaxing nap. He hops onto the couch and kneads the cushion with his claws before slinking onto her thighs, curling into a fuzzy ball, and closing his eyes. Her hand finds its way to his head and she strokes softly, able to feel his body vibrate against her legs as he purs in content. She scrolls through notifications, watches YouTube compilations (on low volume as to not wake Nana and Pops), and plays games like Among Us and Agar.io until her phone battery is at 2% and the screen is dimmed to the lowest possible setting by default.

She looks at the time in the top right corner, now finding that it's 12:29 at night. Her charger is all the way upstairs, and to get to it she would have to disturb the resting feline. He's shuffled about and changed positions a couple of times during the past four hours, but has overall slept peacefully. With a defeated sigh, she drops her hand-held device next to her on a pillow and throws her head back, leaning into the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling. Now that she has nothing to do but sit here in silence, she can't stop the giant wave of thoughts, questions, and concerns from hitting her and boosting her anxieties. 

So many things seemed to have already happened in the mere four days that she's been here, ranging from mild and questionable to utterly fear-inducing or depressing. For starters, the terrible dreams she's been having almost every night? Or the way her latest dream basically predicted what she was going to be told only a day later? How about the random coughing fit, or the way Jack seemed to just disappear out of thin air? All these incidents plus some have her aching to know more, but at the same time, she's scared to know more. She has no clue what's happening. Maybe a bad case of allergies?

Yeah, right. Allergies don't predict the future or make weird men in white masks stare at you from the woods. She feels her eyelids grow heavy once more, though she shakes her head and bumps her temple with the heel of her hand to keep herself from becoming drowsy. You can not afford to go to sleep, right now. Her eyes land on a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, and she blinks, focusing perhaps a little too hard on it as she tries to see a spider or any other living creature nestled inside, but fails to. 

She studies it for so long that her vision becomes blurry and the only thing she can center her attention on is that same cobweb. Random ideas pop up in her mind, thoughts that would normally be considered strange by individuals who get enough sleep at night, but they're only intriguing to Y\n. How long has the web been there? Did its weaver die? Did it once protect thousands of baby spiders until they hatched? Could she reach up and touch it if she were standing on a piece of furniture? 

Before she can even comprehend it, her eyes are fluttering closed and she's drifting off into an alleviating sleep. At least, she would have been, had her body not jolted awake right beforehand and left her heart beating wildly within her chest from the sudden adrenaline rush she just experienced. Glancing around, she quickly recalls where exactly she is and releases a huff from her nose, raking a hand through her hair. Oh yes, what a classic. Falling from a building and waking up before you hit the ground. How exciting.

Her abrupt movements shake Marshmallow and he, too, wakes from his deep sleep, looking a bit alarmed before letting out a yawn, his white canines on full display for the shortest of moments before he rests his head on his paws, once more. Y\n slides her hands beneath his small body, however, and lifts him up, kissing his cheek preparatory to laying him on a particularly soft-looking pillow on her right. "Sorry, buddy. I've gotta get up before I go to sleep, too."

He shoots her a dissatisfied scowl and curls his tail in front of his eyes as if telling her he doesn't want to even look at her. She turns to head upstairs, albeit quietly, stopping by the bathroom to relieve her screaming bladder on her way to her bedroom. As she steps out from behind the door and turns off the light, though, she catches sight of her father's old room, the door shut for some peculiar reason. They probably just didn't want to be reminded that their once loving son left them behind without a care in the world. 

Knowing she has better things to do than peer into a bit of her joke of a father's childhood, she lets out the tiniest of scoffs and goes to her own room, unable to ease the bit of pain that forms in her chest as she does so. The woman that this room used to belong to is gone. Dead. Out of the picture. This room will always hold a part of her in it. It shows what her personality was like back when she was Y\n's age, and beyond that. It's a sad and difficult revelation to come to, but Y\n bites the inside of her cheek and keeps the tears at bay. She doesn't want to cry, not right now. She just wants to avoid another scare that will take five more years off of her life. How does she do that? She refuses to sleep.

Although, when one doesn't rest for long periods of time, they can suffer hallucinations. Y\n does not want to suffer from hallucinations, but she supposes that at least she would know that they aren't real. They're merely figments of her imagination. Like that masked figure at the edge of the forest. Or the weird buzzing in her head. Heck, maybe Jack isn't even real. How else would he vanish without a trace? Or get black sludge on her face from what was supposed to have been a nosebleed? It's all a bit too baffling for her, so she just chooses to go with the most simple and less mind-boggling explanation; they were hallucinations. Granted, very vivid hallucinations, but hallucinations nonetheless.

It wouldn't be too far of a stretch. She hasn't been getting enough sleep lately, that on top of lacking a social life, her pathetically bad parents, and discovering three of her closest family members are gone would give just about any person mental strain. She grabs her sketchbook from her backpack, considering the blank canvas sitting inside a moment before disregarding the thought. Making some terribly-drawn pictures should keep her busy for a couple of hours more. 

Her stomach rumbles, signifying that it's empty and wants something that will actually fill it up, and as she passes the kitchen after walking back down the stairs, sketchbook, and pencils in hand, her mind wanders. What could she eat that is both appetizing and satisfactory, that wouldn't take forever to make, and that wouldn't cause unnecessary racket? Nothing that she can think of. That string cheese appealed to her just fine. The same clearly can't be said for her stomach. 

Perhaps she just isn't in the mood nor the mindset to care about eating anything else for the time being, but oh well. A bit of hunger never hurt anyone, right? She inwardly curses herself when she realizes that she forgot to grab her phone charger from her room while she was there, and now she'd have to trek all the way back up the stairs just to get it. She does not feel like she has the energy at the moment to do such a thing, but would she rather have a dead phone? What good is that? It isn't like I have people to contact, anymore. Or who contact me.

But what if her parents were to try and get ahold of her about something, but she wasn't available? What if one of them got in a car accident, or their trip got canceled and they were going to be returning tomorrow? Wouldn't she want to be notified of something like that? They're both highly doubtful scenarios, but they're a possibility, if only minor ones. "Agh, fine." She grumbles to herself, laying her things on the coffee table and spinning around to, once again, walk up the staircase that just seems to get longer each time she conquers it, going into her bedroom and being thankful that the lamp sitting on the desk is switched on to provide comforting light. 

She unplugs the cord from the outlet and wraps it messily around her hand, being careful not to get it tangled. Tangled wires are the worst, every modern-era kid would agree. Especially earplugs. Once they're twisted and knotted, it either takes hours of work trying to fix and get them straightened out—valuable time most people don't have to waste—or spend more money buying a new set. Sure, she's never really had a problem with that whole money issue, but it's still frustrating because oftentimes she never has a ride and is forced to walk all the way to the store in order to buy a new pair, either that or wait a week for the ones from Amazon to be delivered. And who wants to do that?

Perceiving the fact that she just had a mental rant solely about tangled earbud wires, she snorts quietly and shakes her head in disbelief. God, I really am going crazy. She's about to head back toward the living room but stops in her tracks and instead averts her gaze outside, to the darkness blanketing the house in an eerie aura. She isn't sure what possesses her to do it in the first place, all she knows is that she leans in closer to the window, her eyes scanning the area as if looking for something. What that 'something' is, she hasn't a clue. 

Just as she's about to give up and look away, she spots it. At the edge of the treeline, shrouded partly by bushes, is some sort of lanky figure. Maybe it looked too much like an actual tree that she easily looked over it the first few times, but now, it's like she can't take her eyes away. A familiar buzzing sound wraps around her mind as she has a one-sided staring contest with this... thing. Or is it really one-sided? She can't make out many details simply because it's too dark, but it looks to be wearing a formal outfit of some kind. Perhaps a suit? Its skin looks white almost, but that could also be the silvery beams from the moon shining down and reflecting off of it in a way that lacks any color. 

Her chest tightens and her breathing quickens as she finally forces herself away, blinking frantically and rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. Another hallucination, that's all it is. There is nothing out there but nature, nothing scary at all. She's fine, she's only imagining it. That's what she repeats in her head, over and over for the next thirty seconds before willing herself to look outside, again, purely out of curiosity. To confirm what she's tried convincing herself.

The droning disappears from her mind, and she's more than relieved when she sees nothing but trees. No boogyman in the bushes, no lanky beast lurking behind the trees and waiting to murder her. It's fine. Rolling her eyes, she exits the room and walks back downstairs, into the living room. Marshmallow is still lying on the pillow, probably asleep by now, and she steps quietly to the couch, fitting the charger into an outlet nearby before plugging the other end into her phone and setting it back on the table. 

She tries to get comfortable, sitting on the soft surface and resting her back against its arm. Her legs stretch out, though not all the way so she doesn't bump the fluffy feline and for the third time that night, disrupt his sleep. The lighting in the room is gentle and soothing, but still helpful, and it allows her to see the sketchpad propped in her hands and resting against her slightly bent legs fairly well. She takes a 6B pencil and begins tracing dainty lines across the paper, forming a mental image of what she wants to draw and slowly bringing it to life. 

The hours pass by expeditiously as she creates one drawing after another, not particularly satisfied with any of them but just content that she found something to both keep her awake and entertained. Though try as she might, she just can't keep the drowsiness at bay for more than a few minutes at a time. She could make coffee. That has loads of caffeine. Caffeine keeps people awake, right? But she doesn't ever remember seeing either of her grandparents drinking it. Odd. Most of her old friends' grandparents and parents alike drank coffee all the time, for either work or just out of habit. Isn't coffee a known drink for older people?

Maybe Nana and Pops just don't like it. She supposes it is quite an acquired taste; she's tried it on multiple occasions and it wasn't exactly satisfactory, but it had a strong flavor. That's what she needs. But if her grandparents don't drink it, what can she get? Tea? No, people drink that specifically to relax. She wants to be anything but relaxed. Her breathing and heart rate slows steadily, and she loses her train of thought. Soda. Soda could work. It's tasty and it hypes you up, which is exactly what she desires. 

She mentally screams at her body to get up, to move, but it seems to be too exhausted to do any such thing, much to her displeasure. Each time her eyes begin to close, she pries them open, again, and tries to concentrate fully on the drawing half-done in her hands. But alas, her decreased energy level and the lulling thought of rest wins the battle, and despite all her greatest efforts, her fingers become limp, she slides farther down into the couch and drifts off to sleep. 

～

The first thing she notices is the smell. The rancid, horrid smell of something rotting. A smell that she recognizes all too well. The area surrounding her is dark, and she has to blindly walk around and hope that she doesn't bump into or trip over anything. A familiar fear sinks into her chest as she tries to be as quiet as possible. Drawing the attention of some hungry cryptid wouldn't be a very wise thing to do, after all. 

Her body shakes mildly in apprehension, and she glances around desperately, eager to see something, anything, that could tell her where on earth she's currently standing. Or is she even on earth anymore? Is she on another planet, or been teleported to a whole different dimension? The possibilities seem endless, much like the questions swarming her mind, as she treks forward, cautiously. The gloom around her gradually lessens, and at last, she can make some form of sense from everything. This place. She knows this place. This is her aunt's and uncle's house. 

It's the same as she remembers, save for the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and the knocked-over flower pots scattered along the floor. Aimlessly, she wanders through the household, looking for any sign of life that may possibly still reside here. The smell gets worse the farther she goes, and suddenly, she shivers. It's getting chilly. Cold is often an indication of death, not life. She turns, looking into the ominously dark hallway before her and hesitating. Does she want to go?

No, she doesn't. She wants to leave. Nobody's here, so she shouldn't be, either. But an invisible force pushes her forward, and slowly, she starts walking. Deeper into the dreadfully sinister corridor, the smell getting stronger and more repulsive, so much so that she's forced to cover her nose just to stop herself from gagging. Her feet get stopped by something lying in the middle of the floor, and she places a hand on the wall so she doesn't fall. 

She squints her eyes at the ground, trying to see the object, and eventually just bends over and grabs it. This is no ordinary object. It's her uncle Marvin's javelin. The so-called 'murder weapon'. She stares down at it, ignoring the foreboding fog gripping at her feet. It's slippery. Why is it slippery? 

A shriek of what she can only describe as agony erupts from the room at the end of the hall, the end that she finds herself too close to for her liking. The door is closed, obstructing her view from the inside, then again that may be a good thing. Subconsciously, she grips the javelin, suddenly not caring what's on it and why it's slippery. If anything comes barreling through that door at least she has something to stab it with. 

She backs away anxiously, her breathing increasing as her eyes never leave the closed entrance. Her hands shake and her footsteps are uncoordinated, but she doesn't really mind it, just as long as she's able to escape before whatever happened to that person inside the room happens to her. 

She bumps into something hard, and squeaks from alarm, twisting around, ready to attack. Though she only gasps when she sees a wall. No, surely not... it's impossible. But if it isn't... 

Her eyes avert around, looking for another door, but all of them have disappeared. It's like whatever force surrounds her wants her trapped. All of her exits are gone. She has no escape, and she tries to blink away the distressed tears, gripping onto the javelin even tighter than before. Only now does she realize that the door from the end of the hallway has gotten closer, so close in fact, that she could take two steps and she'd be able to touch it. 

Trepidation masks all of her previously sensible thoughts and a whimper escapes from between her lips as she wills herself to do it. Just do it and it'll be over. She'll know what lies behind the door. But at the expense of her life? It doesn't look like she has another choice. 

Reluctantly, she reaches out and twists the knob, and to her dismay, the door creaks open. It's silent from the other side, meaning that whoever it was screaming before has been silenced. Likely by death, as that seems to be the only reasonable explanation. But maybe it's a prank?

She steps through, muscles tensed and weapon at the ready. Empty. The room is empty, with only a window allowing the moonlight to shine through and spill onto the floor. A crash from behind her, and she looks back, eyes widening when she sees the door slammed shut. Oh well, she could always go through the window. The real question is, who closed it? Another shiver wracks her body, and a whiff of that same powerful odor near about makes her throw up.

A loud static courses through her mind as she twists back around, not trying to hold back the tears that fall from her eyes once she notices two motionless bodies lying in the moonlight. They most certainly weren't there a second ago. Neither was all of the blood. Two large pools of it, beneath their mangled corpses, where they were mercilessly stabbed. But with what? A strangled sob climbs its way up her throat, and she drops the javelin, letting it clatter to the floor. 

Blood is all over her hands. It's all over the javelin. There's no doubt in her mind where it came from. But if she has the murder weapon, where is the murderer? She turns on her heel, grabbing at the doorknob, trying to twist it open, but her hands are too wet. They slide down it each time. 

"Let me out!" Her voice seems more voluminous than it would usually be, but she suddenly doesn't care who hears her, anymore. She just wants away. Out of this nightmare. Can't it just end already? The static grows stronger, more painful, and she takes to beating on the wooden portal, kicking it as hard as she can. Maybe it will rot away. Maybe she can escape. "Please!"

The desperation is thick in her horrified tone, and she musters up all of her strength, taking in a breath and slamming into it. To her relief, it snaps and she falls to the floor. Finally, she reached the other side. Finally, she can escape. A cold wind blows through her hair and she takes notice of the grass beneath her trembling frame. Grass? Wasn't she just in a house?

Trees. Endless trees surround her, their branches seeming like wicked beasts in the shrill moonlight and the shadows hovering around. There's one right in front of her, a large one. There's something carved into its trunk. She crawls forward a few inches in an effort to see what it is. A message maybe? It looks like a messily-crafted circle with an oversize 'X' in its center. What does that even mean? She almost wants to think that she's seen it, before, but she can't figure out where. 

"I control you..." A whisper rides the wind and meets her ears, giving her goosebumps as she shakily stands to her feet. 

"Who are you!?" she screams, wanting more than anything to know who is causing this torment. 

"Where I go..."

"What do you want from me!?" Her voice cracks, and she looks around frantically for the source of the disembodied voice.

"...you will follow..."

～

Her eyes shoot open and her head turns to the side, trying to remember where she is currently as she attempts to slow her shaky, shallow breaths. The living room. She’s in the living room. Not her aunt’s house. She isn’t trapped, there are no dead bodies, no javelins. She’s safe. Tears well up in her eyes and she sniffs, looking back to the sketch pad still in her hands and being quite alarmed at what she sees. In the center of the page, drawn in dark grey and scribbled carelessly, or hurriedly, is a circle and an ‘X’ that’s placed inside, its limbs elongated and escaping out of the confines of the circle. It obscures her unfinished sketch beneath, making it look more like a background than an actual drawing. 

She switches her attention down to her dominant hand, fingers clenched painfully around her pencil, as if she had just been gripping it for dear life, and releases her hold, letting it drop to her lap as she leisurely sits up and tries to gain control of her rapid heart rate. It was just another dream. 

A low, threatening sound reaches her ears, and her eyes shift up toward the opposite end of the couch, instantly growing confused when she sees Marshmallow, ears folded back in aggression and tail swishing around as he stares at her warily. She furrows her eyebrows, wanting to reassure him that everything’s okay, and leans forward, reaching her hand out to him cautiously. “Hey, boy, i-it’s okay. Don’t be scared—” She’s cut off when he suddenly swipes at her hand, claws drawn, and slices through her skin, sending a burst of pain through her nerves. 

She winces and yanks her arm back, examining the damage and seeing three vertical lines traveling the length of the back of her hand, blood quickly coming to the surface and making them much more noticeable. This seems to be the thing to drive her over the edge because she lets out a broken squeak as nausea starts to make its presence known.

She feels the abrupt urge to throw up, and tosses her sketchpad and pencil to the side, standing to her feet and hurrying to the nearest bathroom, the one on the first floor of the household. Her stomach swirls uncomfortably and makes her go even faster, not wanting to soak the floor in vomit, until she reaches the said bathroom, only bothering to switch on the light before collapsing in front of the toilet, pushing the seat up, and craning her neck forward.

With one hand, she pulls her hair back, and the other she grips the porcelain, hold tightening automatically as her stomach convulses, sending bile to the back of her throat. This alone makes her gag and forces the hot substance out of her mouth, where it lands in the toilet and makes a small splash. The odor finds its way up her nose and makes her gag once more as acid and half-processed food gets torn from her mouth, chunks of cookie, cheese, and bacon floating in the now discolored water, amongst the puke.

She takes deep, consoling breaths, trying to brace herself for another wave of inevitable retching as her fingers squeeze the toilet bowl, so hard her knuckles turn white. As expected, her stomach contracts, however this time the only thing that comes out is more acid and bloody mucus, much to her displeasure. She continues her aching process of heaving up nothing, strained tears slipping down her cheeks and dropping into the water mere inches away from her face at this point, until finally, her body has all the exertion it can take, and it gives out, allowing her to collect her bearings.

She gasps for breath and releases the toilet, leaning her back against the wall and zoning out as she stares at the floor. Her hands shake uncontrollably, and she swipes at her mouth in an effort to get rid of the sticky liquid residing on her lips, before letting out a sob and tucking her knees into her chest. Burying her face in her arms, she muffles her cries and whimpers pathetically. What the heck is going on? What’s wrong with me…?

[praiseyah]

Top 9 things you need to know about King Dawid ( David) and how the book of Psalms, killing his mistress's husband, his sons brutal rape of his own sister, were just the cusp of his story. ... King Dawid, ��The man after Yahs own heart'

#1  He took over the Kingdom of Ysrayl after King Shaul failed as king.

2 Samuel 5:1-4 All the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron and said, “We are your own flesh and blood. 2 In the past, while Saul was king over us, you were the one who led Israel on their military campaigns. And Yah said to you, ‘You will shepherd my people Israel, and you will become their ruler.’”

3 When all the elders of Israel had come to King David at Hebron, the king made a covenant with them at Hebron before the Yah, and they anointed David king over Israel.

4 David was thirty years old when he became king, and he reigned forty years. 5 In Hebron he reigned over Judah seven years and six months, and in Jerusalem he reigned over all Israel and Judah thirty-three years.

#2 He was from the tribe of Yahudah ( Judah)

1 Samuel 17:12  Now David was the son of an Ephrathite named Jesse, who was from Bethlehem in Judah

#3 Dawid fell out of favor and angered Yah for lusting after a woman while she was bathing and then fornicating with her and getting her pregnant.

2 Samuel 11:2-5 It happened late one afternoon[d] that David got up from his bed and walked about on the roof of the king’s house, and he saw a woman bathing on her[e] roof. Now the woman was very beautiful.[f] 3 David sent and inquired about the woman, and someone said, “Is this not Bathsheba the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” 4 Then David sent messengers and took her, and she came to him, and he slept with her. (Now she had been purifying herself from her uncleanness.) And she returned to her house. 5 The woman became pregnant, and she sent and told David, and she said, “I am pregnant.”

#4 After he got Bethesda pregnant he then plotted to kill her husband, Uriah. Dawid told his servants to send Uriah to the front lines of war, so that he can fight against the fiercest opponents and be killed first.

2 Samuel 11:14-16 And it happened in the morning, David wrote a letter to Joab, and he sent it by the hand of Uriah. 15 He had written in the letter, “Put Uriah in the front, in the face of the fiercest fighting, then draw back from behind him so that he may be struck down and die.”

16 When Joab was besieging[j] the city, he put Uriah toward the place which he knew there were valiant warriors.[k] 17 The men of the city came out and fought with Joab. Some from the army from the servants of David fell; Uriah the Hittite also died.

#5 After Dawid successfully got Bethesda husband killed, he married her and she gave birth to their son.

2 Samuel 11: 26-27 When the wife of Uriah ( Bethesda) heard that Uriah her husband was dead, she mourned over her husband. 27 When the mourning was over, David sent and brought her to his household, and she became his wife and bore him a son. But the thing which David had done was evil in the eyes of Yah.

#6 Yah cursed Dawid by causing evil in his household. Putting family against family, etc. Yah also took his wives and gave them to his neighbors so they can sleep with them in broad daylight

2nd Samuel 12:11  Thus says Yah, ‘Look, I am going to raise up evil against you from within your house, and I will take your women before your eyes, and I will give them to your neighbor, and he shall sleep with your wives in broad daylight

#7 Once Yah caused evil to rise up against Dawid's family due to Dawids lack of discipline and self control- things got worst. So worst, that his other children were also feeling the brunt of it; because soon after, his own son raped his daughter.

Amnon ( Dawids son) became sexually obsessed with his own Sister ( Tamar)  and then concocted a scheme with their cousin  to rape her. House in shambles.

2 Samuel 13:1-14 In the course of time, Amnon son of David fell in love with Tamar, the beautiful sister of Absalom son of David.

2 Amnon became so obsessed with his sister Tamar that he made himself ill. She was a virgin, and it seemed impossible for him to do anything to her.

3 Now Amnon had an adviser named Jonadab son of Shimeah, David’s brother. Jonadab was a very shrewd man. 4 He asked Amnon, “Why do you, the king’s son, look so haggard morning after morning? Won’t you tell me?”

Amnon said to him, “I’m in love with Tamar, my brother Absalom’s sister.”

5 “Go to bed and pretend to be ill,” Jonadab said. “When your father comes to see you, say to him, ‘I would like my sister Tamar to come and give me something to eat. Let her prepare the food in my sight so I may watch her and then eat it from her hand.’”

6 So Amnon lay down and pretended to be ill. When the king came to see him, Amnon said to him, “I would like my sister Tamar to come and make some special bread in my sight, so I may eat from her hand.”

7 David sent word to Tamar at the palace: “Go to the house of your brother Amnon and prepare some food for him.” 8 So Tamar went to the house of her brother Amnon, who was lying down. She took some dough, kneaded it, made the bread in his sight and baked it. 9 Then she took the pan and served him the bread, but he refused to eat.

“Send everyone out of here,” Amnon said. So everyone left him. 10 Then Amnon said to Tamar, “Bring the food here into my bedroom so I may eat from your hand.” And Tamar took the bread she had prepared and brought it to her brother Amnon in his bedroom. 11 But when she took it to him to eat, he grabbed her and said, “Come to bed with me, my sister.”

12 “No, my brother!” she said to him. “Don’t force me! Such a thing should not be done in Israel! Don’t do this wicked thing. 13 What about me? Where could I get rid of my disgrace? And what about you? You would be like one of the wicked fools in Israel. Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you.” 14 But he refused to listen to her, and since he was stronger than she, he raped her.

**After he raped his own sister, Dawids other Son Absalom killed him for being a sick and twisted pervert and raping their sister. House in Shambles.**

2 Samuel 13:26 Then Absalom said, “If not, please let my brother Amnon come with us.”

The king asked him, “Why should he go with you?” 27 But Absalom urged him, so he sent with him Amnon and the rest of the king’s sons.

28 Absalom ordered his men, “Listen! When Amnon is in high spirits from drinking wine and I say to you, ‘Strike Amnon down,’ then kill him. Don’t be afraid. Haven’t I given you this order? Be strong and brave.” 29 So Absalom’s men did to Amnon what Absalom had ordered. Then all the king’s sons got up, mounted their mules and fled.

V.32 This has been Absalom’s express intention ever since the day Amnon raped his sister Tamar.

#8 Things didn't get better for Dawid and his family-Yah continued the curse and killed the son that he had with Bethesda. Their 1st born child together.

2nd Samuel 12:13 Then David said to Nathan, “I have sinned against Yah!”[j] Nathan said to David, “Yah has also forgiven your sin; you shall not die. 14 But because you have utterly scorned[k] Yah in this matter, the son born for you will certainly die.”[l] 15 Then Nathan went to his house, and Yah struck the child that the wife of Uriah ( Bethesda) bore for David, and he became ill. 16 David pleaded with Yah on behalf of the boy and David fasted. He went to spend the night and lay upon the ground. 17 The elders of his household stood over him to lift him up from the ground, but he was not willing, and he did not eat any food with them. 18 It happened on the seventh day that the child died, and the servants of David were afraid to tell him that the child was dead, for they said, “Look, when the child was alive, we spoke to him, but he would not listen to our voice. How can we tell him, ‘The child is dead’? He may do something evil.” 19 When David saw that his servants were whispering together, he realized that the child was dead. Then David said to his servants, “Is the child dead?” And they said, “He is dead.”

#9 Dawid was extremely remorseful that he fell out of favor with Yah, and caused all this destruction to himself and his family. So remorseful, that he beautifully wrote Psalms 51 as an open apology and humility letter to Yah.

PSALMS 51:A Prayer of Repentance and Plea for Mercy For the music director. A psalm of David.

51 Be gracious to me, O Yah, according to your loyal love. According to your abundant mercies, blot out my transgressions. 2 Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and from my sin cleanse me. 3 For I myself know[b] my transgressions,[c] and my sin is ever before me. 4 Against you, only you, I have sinned and have done this evil[d] in your eyes, so that you are correct when you speak, you are blameless when you judge. 5 Behold, in iniquity I was born, and in sin my mother conceived me. 6 Behold, you delight in truth in the inward parts, and in the hidden parts you make me to know wisdom. 7 Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. 8 Make me hear joy and gladness; let the bones you have crushed rejoice. 9 Hide your face from my sins, and all my iniquities blot out. 10 Create a clean heart for me, O Yah, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.[e] 11 Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your Holy Spirit from me. 12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and with a willing spirit sustain me. 13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways, and sinners will turn back to you. 14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O Yah, the Father of my salvation; then my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness. 15 O Yah, open my lips, and my mouth will proclaim your praise. 16 For you do not delight in sacrifice or I would give it. With a burnt offering you are not pleased. 17 The sacrifices of Yah are a broken spirit; A broken and contrite heart, O Yah, you will not despise. 18 Do good in your favor toward Zion. Build the walls of Jerusalem. 19 Then you will delight in righteous sacrifices, burnt offering and whole burnt offering. Then bulls will be offered on your altar.

FUN FACT:  Dawid wrote majority of the books in Psalms. Most of them are apologies for his wrong doings to Yah.

Thank you for reading! Yah bless & Shalom!

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

The Truths Found On Petram Viridios IV (4/?)

A/N: Not only is this a long chapter, but I found a way to incorporate a prompt given to me by @hoodoo12 almost two years ago I think. Also, @twenties-sweetheart I incorporated what led the reader and Zeta-7 dating. This fic is almost done. I think there's only one or two chapters left. Hope you guys enjoy!

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

_________

Chapter 4 : Your Answer

You remembered when you didn't love him; a time when you had hoped he'd be a father figure and a friend who you could play card games with on Tuesdays. You used to not know him; though once you did there was no turning back. You used to not need him, but you didn't know how you couldn't. It used to be a simple crush, but he already loved you from the start.

Perhaps, you had always known, but you didn't want to see it; you had wanted to know, but your brain at times didn't want to believe it. You thought words like his were meant for fairy princesses who lived in high towers above the heavens, for royals and the knights who attended to them; for anyone else….except you. It just didn't seem possible that this man could want you, but he did and explained for the last half hour as to why.

“That’s...that’s amazing!” you exclaimed despite yourself. “You really feel that way about me?”

He nodded, his face still flushed. “I do...I-I-I love you. Do you,” he gulped. “do y-you love me?”

Of course you did, you had said so a few times already, but he was going to need a better explanation; to be reminded continually. You screwed your mouth to the side, wondering how you could put it delicately. “Well…there's too much to say, and I know it would never be enough, but I can try. Oh, and if I start to wax poetic, then let's just say it's the writer in me trying to get out. Ricardo,” you paused, encouraging him to sit down because the poor man looked ready to shake out of his skin. “what I feel is beyond love; it's our souls dancing and singing in the night, moonlit kisses, and disappearing during daybreak. Why it's not even serendipitous, but a luxurious splendor you shower me in, day in and day out, with breaks which threaten to tear me into bits and madden me. It's an adventure," he perked up at this; it was familiar territory. "with discoveries and revelations that nip at my inward parts, and pains me with equal parts desperation, fear, and gladness." Caressing his lips with your fingertips, he sighed happily." You fill my mouth with bliss, working peace along the curve of my cheek, and color my world with mystical, intelligent sayings. Ineffable creature, your veracity; how you express yourself so honestly, I'm surprised the whole world hasn't fallen in love with you. Though, I'm glad you reserved yourself just for me.”

Placing a kiss behind his ear, he made a funny noise, but you continued. “To say I love you my dear Zeta-7 isn't enough, for you are as much of myself as I am of you. Like I've said before, I'll remind you as much as you need me to.”

“H-h-h-h-how do you know? When - when was it that y-y-you started to see me differently?”

The question really struck you as odd considering it wasn't in any of his usual tones; he had seemed so sure of himself earlier, and now self-doubt peaked it's little head out. It was solemn, in a faraway voice, followed by a frown, and the deepening of the lines in his forehead. You stood up, seeing as he seemed upset, and he took this opportunity to go and make some tea; it was one of his coping mechanisms. Soon the scent of lavender filled the house; he returned and set down the cups carefully so as not to spill it.

“Oh,” he frowned; a bit tired from the emotional rollercoaster he had been in for most of the day. “I'm s-s-so sorry. If only I-I kept things simple, then it wouldn't have gotten so complicated.”

“It's okay,” you whispered. “we're both a little flustered. It….it really took a lot of courage to say what you had said earlier. So you shouldn't apologize for being human.”

“But I'm - I'm still so sorry.”

You moved your chair as close as you could, stretching out to work your fingers through his soft hair, and managed to find the beginnings of silver strands, but you said nothing of it. “You should have seen how you looked when you told me you loved me. You were so earnest and charming."

He reached out to take your hand and place it upon his heart. It was beating wildly, almost dangerously you thought. You waited until he calmed a little, and when the heavy blush and the redness of his ears softened, you knew that it was time. He really was too much, too good for you, too lovely, and you sincerely hoped you wouldn't offend him. “I hope you're ready, cause this really is going to be a long story. I think by telling it, it'll make my answer to your proposal more believable.”

________________

For years, you two had lived in the same town, in the same neighborhood, only houses away from each other. It was funny how you two hadn't met before, though Rick would later tell you it was because of his job. At the time, you would say you were old enough to know what heartbreak felt like, as well as what warmth and kindness should be; though you hadn't been in any sort of serious relationship. Like any woman your age, you had dreams of meeting someone, but for the most part, your love life wasn't first and foremost on your mind; you were busy trying to get through everyday.

So when you met Zeta-7, it never occurred to you how much he would someday come to mean to you; let alone how much your life would change. Now, it had taken a while, a little longer then you'd care to admit. It certainly wasn't love at first sight, for under the set of circumstances in which you two had met, Rick had come off as a friendly old man. But of course, after helping you carry groceries, a cup of tea, and a ukulele song, you warmed to him and became fast friends.

At first, you were hesitant in allowing him into your home; you'd seen enough Dateline to make you cautious. So, you two would meet on your porch on a regular basis, though it was not long before you felt safe enough to let him come over and repair small appliances; it was fascinating watching him tinker. And when he wasn't too busy, you'd go and see what he was doing in the garage. Perhaps you should have known then that he was different, but you had no point of comparison, and just went with it.

Sometimes, you two would just watch TV or have an occasional dinner at Shoney’s, or a late-night ice cream on your front porch. And you'd listen to his laughter; how his happy noises seemed to fill up the house. You were delighted by the nuances of his gentle voice, and at night, he'd tell about the stars, going into detailed explanations of constellations and about other heavenly bodies. It made you wonder what was out there, and it only fed your curiosity. You were comforted by his warm presence, thinking it was nice to have a father like figure around again, to fill up the time, and carry on long, meaningful conversations with. His eye for detail and selective word choice made most of your conversations laid back but stimulating.

Whether it was in your house, in his kitchen, or a quick cup of tea in the garage, he enjoyed sharing his homemade brews and you enjoyed drinking them. While at first glance he seemed simple, you took quick notice of his genteel manners, in the way he talked, in his general presence which you found was pleasing. It did not take long to notice that he was a learned man, with various degrees which hung in the left corner of his living room; he was actually a doctor in several meanings of the word. Perhaps in all meanings of the word.

Watching him mutter to himself, blissful, carefully piecing together a device that did who-knows-what filled him with joy. And you had always assumed that anyone above thirty-five - at least from what sense and sensibility told you - could not have any passion left, but you saw it every time he showed you a new invention; you saw him as he should be. As though he were this character who stepped off a page, you found yourself growing ever so curious about his thoughts, feelings, and machinations of his wonderful mind. You wanted to get close, to know him better, and he took this positively as you wanting to be best friends. And when he held you in his arms for the first time, you knew that he had ruined men for you. He wasn't supposed to feel so strong, and his arms weren't supposed to be sure, and hold you warmly, and most of all, there wasn't supposed to be a flutter.

Now having it formed in your mind that he was indeed a man, you could not smother your curiosity, though still, you tried to conceal it. It felt good to feel cared for again, and you didn't want to threaten it. Still, the affection you held for him was not the kind one felt for a parent. And your hopes and dreams were shattered, with this sudden, intense awareness of him, conscious of every breath he took, of his mobile features, recognized every nuance in his reflections.

All those times when you'd watch him dance in the kitchen, swaying about, more spritely than others your own age, you'd laugh, and he’d ask you to join him. And when your hands touched, it was like a current passed through you, and that giddiness would last all day. Those hands, which could create worlds, whisk a cream, or trace pictures in the sand, you could hold them in yours for eternity. Even longer, if what he spoke of at times was true.

If he had weeks where work kept him busy, he would call you, and you'd drop what you were doing to listen; he was always so excited to hear your voice; it lightened up your day. Or when he finally saw you after a few days, he'd greet you with a warm hug, and you'd return with equal enthusiasm. At times, you felt as though neither wanted to let go and held on to each other longer than what was platonically acceptable, but you'd pretend as though nothing happened, even if your heart was screaming. Why you'd almost lose yourself in his grasp.

As a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, you never felt as though there were any hidden agendas, or that he had a pervy attraction to you. On the contrary, you felt like the pervert for feeling all giddy and excited whenever he spoke with enthusiastic intelligence or showed you his experiments. There were times when you'd reach out and pat him on the back, telling him he had done such a good job, and he'd gift you with his winning smile, which caused unusual thoughts to cross your mind, and it messed you up. What was he to you?

Whether you were at home, or you sat in his home for a tea party, you knew something was the matter with you. You were a mess of feelings, of messy, happy, effervescent feelings, which you expressed in your work, in your writing. Harmless thoughts, which lingered and filled the contents of a novel. It was the story of a young woman who had fallen in love with her older, mute neighbor. In your head, you reasoned that your character was nothing like him, that the older man, as brilliant as he was in mathematics, science, and botany, who expressed himself through his actions, and kindness was made up. Perhaps your readers thought the same, but the modest ebook sales only reinforced that maybe there was something to it.

Missed glances, brief moments where you touched, awkward laughs, and a heart heavy feeling sitting on your chest; he was always on your mind. In between your issues, when you were doubtful, he'd reassure you of your capabilities, and when he felt lacking, you'd remind him of his genius. And while there were many moments which had been lovable, which were dear to you, you replayed the times that were nearest to your ideals; of what fits into your daydreams. You're not sure when, but it had been you who started to flirt regularly, and watch him blush, stammer, and get flustered; it gave you an odd thrill knowing it had been you who had caused him to feel as such, but then it would trouble you all the more. It wasn't fair to him, and you weren't helping your cause.

What were you doing, trying to toy with the feelings of an old, lonely man, who had little in the world, but your friendship and a few possessions; it filled your heart with grief. You didn't want to hurt him, you just wanted him to think you were beautiful, smart, funny, and well everything you'd want your crush to feel. If you were unhappy, he'd cheer you up with gifts, desserts, and his generous affection. For the most part, you knew his intentions were honorable, but in your head, you'd hope differently.

It could not work, he was so much older than yourself; not that you cared. For all you knew you were like the daughter he never had. In your heart, you tried to resolve that all you felt was friendship, but then he'd smile, laugh, or be kind to you and you were falling apart. You weren't a kitten, you had always liked men your own age, but you didn't just like him, you were intoxicated by him.

He wasn't even handsome. Well…at first, you didn't think so. You did however find him strangely adorable, and lovely. He was tall and slender, so he wore clothes well. Very gentle and nice, clean-shaven, with abundant blue hair, with the exception of the few strands which choose to be rebellious, prominent buck teeth which gave him a childish innocence, but straightforward, electric blue eyes which reminded you otherwise.

Your eyes would follow him as he moved about the room. Rick had long lashes for a man and was just as impressive overall, and intelligence was even more so. Could anything possibly stop him? Death perhaps, though Zeta-7 didn't care to admit how age played a big role in his energy levels at times, but you knew it was to be expected. You knew what you were getting yourself into when it came to dating someone so much older than yourself; if he'd consider it that is. For hours, he somehow kept up with your foolishness, and you barely managed to follow his genius.

You'd follow if he asked you to come, and in time you knew you were his. You felt loyalty to him, the kind which you knew you'd never revoke. You thought at first that it was his personable nature which had endeared you to him, but it was everything. He was everything.

Zeta-7 had always been affectionate, but not in the way which made you worry. You craved it, his attention, his affection, and wished to be closer than woven gossamer, and took everything he was willing to give you. You were not in love, you would tell yourself, it was merely infatuation. He was simply a cheerful grandpa kind of man, whose arms you would melt in, whose gentle, and generous affection you were greedy for. You were selfish, that was simply it.

Then came the defining moment, which happened one night while you two were cooking together. You needed a few cloves of garlic to chop for the eggplant lasagna, and he just kept handing you cloves. You told him you had enough, and he smiled warmly, telling you there could never be enough garlic and you stopped. You two stared at each other for what seemed like hours even though only seconds passed. It was as though you had come to an understanding.

His winning smile had been the most beautiful thing you had ever seen, his eyes captured you, and you knew for a fact that what you felt was something greater than friendship. The rest of the evening you found yourself in a daze, and hesitant to be near him. In your heart, your feelings felt as though it were almost forbidden, as though you shouldn't feel this way for someone who was a great friend. You blamed these feelings on your own impatience, inexperienced like the man before you. Yeah, you wanted his attention, and he had been attentive. Everyday he made sure your emotional needs were met, he'd probably do just about anything if you asked him to, but you were scared, perhaps just as afraid as he was. Still, the words themselves were an enigma, they burned, they toiled, begging to be said, but you were afraid. Yet, you searched his face, and found the answer; you were falling in love with him.

His sing-song voice twisting and curling about you. You wouldn't risk it you told yourself, but before you went to bed that night he called you and apologized if he had offended you. “No”, you had said, “I'm just not feeling well, but I'll be fine. I promise, I'm going to be okay, so you don't have to worry about me.”

“I-I-I can't help it, I care about you.” was his sincere reply.

Those dizzying warm feelings of affection bubbled and boiled, and you did your best to try to repress them. As usual, he wanted to help you feel better, but you were afraid it would ruin things; you'd rather hurt yourself, then hurt him, and never see him again. For the next week, you thought long and hard, and the next time you two met, you were sitting in his home for afternoon tea, and you told him of how you felt right out of the blue. “Rick, I like you.”

Being the dear man he was, he thought you were talking in platonic terms. “Gosh, really? Well, that's why I'm - why I'm glad we're best friends.”

“No,” you sighed. “that's not what I meant.” You watched as his smile turned to fear, but you continued. “I know you're much older then I am, and you probably see me as some kid, but I'm a grown woman, with adult feelings. And for a while, I thought it was nothing, but I can't ignore it anymore. I care about you as my friend and I understand if you don't want that to change, but I see you as a man, and I hope you realize that I like you so much. There's nothing you can say which will change it because I don't want to change these feelings of mine. I'm not saying this to make fun of you, or because I'm lonely, but to let you know that I like you and that I'm not ashamed.”

So what if you were a kitten, you cared about him, and you knew that if he were to let you down, he would be gentle about it. The sweet, kind man that he was, gently, and carefully placed a shaky hand upon yours and gave it a squeeze. And he cried, “Gosh, you - you don't know how relieved I am. I-I-I thought I was a pervert for-for feeling the way I had.”

“Wait, you….you like me too?”

He groaned, as though he were in pain, and studied you before he continued. “I-I-I don't understand, I'm - I'm so old and gross, and y-you are like a freshly bloomed rose. H-h-h-h-how…..w-w-why?”

You reassured him, taking his hand in yours, rubbing your face into his shaky palm. “Because I just do.”

When he calmed, he looked at you with such affection, and the soft look he gave you made your breath caught. He was in love with you. Even back then, his feelings had been greater, but you dared not believe it. How could you believe it?

Your kind, gentle friend had won you over with such kindness and attracted you with a tender heart. When did you know? In moments when you saw him, not the old man, but of the softness, the beauty of an intriguing mind, and of winsome determination to be happy and to help you be happy too. You held each other so tight, you felt as though you were bound together.

He held you with a strength you did not realize one his age even still had. This was a time before kisses, before great declarations. It was a time to feel, to learn, to hold one another in a soul-crushing embrace. His heartbeat was alarmingly fast, and there had been something almost boyish in the way he placed a tress of hair behind your ear. You were the first to admit your feelings, but he had been the first to ask. A nervous chuckle escaped him, and a little lip-bite followed. “I-I am quite fond of you, and seeing that we - that our feelings are mutual, would - will you…will y-y-you go steady with me?”

As archaic as the terms might have been, it was still charming, and being the kind of man he was, you knew he meant it, and that there was only one way to answer. “Yes, I'd love to.”

Of course, you would go out with him. And forever, that memory would be etched upon your soul.

________

With wide eyes, he remembered how ashamed he had felt. He sat up, ready to shield his face, but you held your arms open. Like back then, you held each other in a soul-crushing embrace. “Do you understand now, my dear, dear friend? There was no way it could have been anyone else. Like a tree planted by streams of water, I've flourished under your attentions. You see me…. you see what I am, as I am. We make each other happy, every day, all the time.”

You two were not wary strangers; passersbys in one another's narratives; not in this instance at least. Neither were you two butterflies emerging from cocoons; descendants of lovers found in a field of barley; discovering and reveling in springtime gusts and gales. No, you were not beautiful like alabaster apples on a ledge; nor figments of one's imagination. You were, however, on the cusp of change; this was the rest of it; the continuation of what had been attempted two years ago; it was nothing like how you thought it would be, but the expectancy of the moment was palpable nonetheless. For your part, you admired the lovely scarlet coloring which crept up his neck and tinged the top of his ears; how becoming it was as well as boyish. And if it weren't already obvious, you didn't need time to think of a reply, and with clear purpose, you answered. "And dear, well, we are still friends. We're best friends. The sweetest, dearest friends that anyone could ever have, except that we love one another. Oh, I do want to. I will marry you."

Oh, whatever future there might've been destined for him, you altered its course by your acceptance of his proposal. Unlike the nihilistic view where no one had a choice, and what had been written was set in stone and that nothing mattered, you decided would not be so. In partaking in this agreement, you had taken on the consequences of what might occur in connection with Rick's work life. You had also taken on the responsibility of what you'd have to do once Rick surpassed the ability to mechanize himself any further than he already had. Still, you could live with this new burden because you were no stranger to heartache and had to make the best of what you two had; love made you do it; unbidden joy was your reward.

Tbc

[chiseler]

Glad Rags: Fashion and the Great Depression

Some years ago, in a breathtaking lapse of taste, The New Yorker published a fashion spread that aped iconic photographs of Dust Bowl migrants. I was as appalled as the next right-thinking person by the pouting models in $400 distressed cardigans pretending to thumb rides along desert highways. But if the charge is infatuation with the aesthetics of the Great Depression, I am guilty, guilty, guilty. Throw me in the clink—just so long as it resembles the hoosegow that Barbara Stanwyck saunters around in Ladies They Talk About (1932).

Why was everything, from automats to automobiles, from nightclubs to radios, from skyscrapers to bus stations, from cocktail shakers to the battered hats on homeless men, so elegant in the thirties? Why did bums back then look better than bankers today? Why are the movies and music, the clothes and every aspect of design from typefaces to elevator panels, so intoxicatingly stylish?

The easy answer is that art deco glamour was a form of escapism, a consolation to the down-and-out, and an expression of irrational optimism. Cruise ships, trains, office towers, mechanized restaurants: art deco was all about speed and modernity, the thrill of zooming into the future. (Then why does deco still look modern and alluring, while the space-age design of the sixties just looks dated and silly?) If cynicism was society’s ballast during the Depression, style was the kite-string tugging upward, the flag that kept flying.

It’s not the swells in their glad rags that I admire most, or even the bootleggers in silk shirts, but the wardrobes of working girls. Take the plain, slinky black dress that Stanwyck, as an ambitious office worker in Baby Face, accessorizes with a series of different detachable white collars and cuffs. Those starched cuffs and collars—chic, yet as humble as table-napkins—are perfect, almost poignant symbols of Stanwyck’s determination to better herself with the small means at her disposal. In Golddiggers of 1933, out-of-work chorus girls draw lots for the privilege of wearing a gorgeous, borrowed outfit to an audition. The little hats that hug one side of the head, the soft dresses molded to the hips, the scarf collars and pleated hems, create a look that collapses the two meanings of “smart.”  Neither frivolous nor utilitarian, it’s a neat, streamlined look that is still seductive; it signals quiet confidence and also wit, the sort of wisecracking verbal self-defense these girls mastered.

Movies like Baby Face tell their stories largely through their heroines’ clothes and belongings: they climb from cotton frocks to furs, from paper matchbooks to jeweled cigarette cases. (Clothing is no less crucial to the gangster’s rise; tailored shirts and luxurious overcoats are almost the point of his law-breaking.) Like Stanwyck in Baby Face, Joan Blondell in Blondie Johnson starts out in the drab, shapeless clothes of the down-trodden. Alight with anger after her mother dies, denied aid by a sanctimonious government official, she vows to get hold of dough, “and plenty of it.” Next we see her, she’s wearing a snazzy velvet suit that fits like a glove and conning suckers out of ten dollar bills by pretending to be a damsel in distress. She’s willing to bat her eyelashes and exploit her curves, but it’s really her brain she uses to get ahead, rising to become the head of a criminal “corporation,” and fiercely defending her virtue, even while clad in diaphanous pajamas. In Hold Your Man, Clark Gable calls attention to the warmth of the room, trying to talk Jean Harlow into doffing her coat. She complies, but when he suggests she remove her hat as well, she quips, “I’m pretty cool about the head.”

It’s this sense of wit and sass that’s often missing from latter-day reconstructions of the thirties, making people in period pieces appear overly formal. Current actors, looking embalmed in handsome clothes and make-up, fail to capture the way Cagney in his pin-striped suits was always poised on the balls of his feet, ready to crack into a tap dance; or the stunning bodily freedom with which women wore their thin, fluid, backless gowns, somehow never looking unduly exposed. Carole Lombard in shiny satin wide-legged lounging-pajamas and high heels furiously riding an exercise bicycle: there is the deco spirit in a nutshell. I sometimes wonder if it was the sheer delight of wearing such flattering clothes that gave women in thirties movies their unequaled zing.

Their sleek clothes don’t hide the female form the way dresses of the 1920’s did with their dropped waists and bosom-flattening bands. Neither do they exaggerate it with structured undergarments like those abandoned after the first world war and re-introduced after the second. It takes little insight to observe that the times when fashion has been most extreme in its devotion to the hourglass figure have been repressive eras for women, and periods when their clothes were more androgynous have been times when women made strides toward equality. In the early thirties, however, fashions were feminine without being cartoonishly so; they simply revealed the way women really look. The ideal of beauty was slender but not boyishly skinny, effortlessly athletic without gym-workout muscles.

Thirties dames look sexy on their own terms, not trussed up for male consumption like women of the fifties in their waist-cinching girdles, teetering stilettos and torpedo bras (often filled out with falsies on actresses of the fifties.) Many women in the early thirties wore very little under their clothes, as pre-Code movies prove with their obligatory lingerie shots. One almost feels sorry for pre-Code men faced with gals like Blondell, who in Blonde Crazy allows Cagney to inspect her flimsy underwear but repels his every advance with a slap that sends his head snapping back against his spine.

It is surely no coincidence that the interwar period was perhaps the only time when fashion was dominated, or at least heavily influenced, by women designers. Chanel borrowed from men’s tailoring to make women’s clothes simple, comfortable and sporty, without making them mannish. Madeleine Vionnet pioneered the bias cut, constructing garments so the grain of the fabric ran diagonally across the body, creating that smooth, clinging drape that defines feminine style of the thirties. Stanwyck’s lithe, bold stride wouldn’t be the same without the skirts that show off her beautiful hips and just enough of her killer gams. The jazzy, diagonally-striped ensemble that Claudette Colbert wears in It Happened One Night—something she has apparently purchased with the proceeds from pawning her wrist-watch—is the sartorial equivalent of her cocked eyebrow and throaty, sarcastic delivery.

These are Hollywood movies, of course, in which actresses often wore dresses so tight they couldn’t sit down between shots. But there’s plenty of documentary evidence that ordinary women, while they made have had less perfect figures, had just as much stylistic sass. Inept, small-time criminals Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow might never have become folk heroes if police hadn’t found a roll of undeveloped film in their hideout in Joplin, Missouri in 1932, and if the pictures hadn’t shown Bonnie wearing a snug beret, a skirt and sweater as jazzy as Colbert’s, and standing with her high-heeled foot hiked saucily on the bumper of a Ford V-8.

Or consider the stout matron in Walker Evans’s 1935 photograph of a New Orleans barbershop, sporting a blouse with sizzling concentric stripes, a jaunty black tie and a black hat with a rakish white feather. Men were no slouches either. Evans’s 1936 pictures of street scenes in the “negro quarter” of Vicksburg, Mississippi feature men lounging idly in shirtsleeves, unbuttoned vests and felt hats, each one a fashion plate. Lined up in a row in the wood-frame buildings behind them are hand-painted signs for the Savoy Barber Shop, the New Deal Barber Shop, and the Brother In Law Barber Shop. These men may not have jobs, but at least they have well-trimmed hair.

One can always ask, was there really such an epidemic of elegance in the thirties, or did photographers just seek out images of dignity? In the same way, one can look at the photographs of Robert Frank or the documentary footage of Los Angeles in The Savage Eye (1960) and wonder if there was really an epidemic of ugliness and vulgarity in the late fifties and early sixties, or whether artists just emphasized it. But the question is moot: either way, the images reveal how Americans—or at least their professional observers—saw themselves. Struggling against deprivation and anxiety, they were proud, stoic and stripped to their lean, essential spirit. Prosperous and secure, they were hapless victims of an aesthetic crash. A movie like Murder by Contract (1958), about a hit man killing time in L.A., staying in suffocatingly tacky motel rooms, seems to be the portrait of a man sleepwalking through a society where taste has flatlined.

Fifties style was artlessly boastful; its ideals were plastic mannequins of happiness, innocence and surfeit. This is why when it failed it failed so hideously: the old, the poor, the ugly, the lonely look caught in a pitiless glare, all their shortcomings exposed. The beehive hair, bouffant skirts, school-girl necklines and cat’s-eye glasses made young women look stodgy and matronly, and older women look grotesquely girlish.  In the thirties, haute couture expressed sublime hauteur, but it was based on aesthetic principles so sound that even when they trickled down to the cheapest knock-offs and most threadbare hand-me-downs, they still looked good. And so we come to the paradox of men in breadlines, women in migrant camps, whose je-ne-sais-quoi can inspire fashion spreads.

I am haunted by a bit of archival footage from the superb documentary Riding the Rails (1997), which shows a group of teenage hobos gathered on an open flat-car. Their elegance is unforgettable. It’s partly that their ragged clothes are so well-cut—in those days before baggy, one-size-fits-nobody garments—and partly that they’re worn with such an air. One boy wears an overcoat that’s too big for him and a handkerchief knotted on his head; he looks like a Napoleonic soldier retreating from Moscow. Men today who affect newsboy caps tend to wear them as though they were balancing a plate on their heads, but these boys wear their soft caps pulled down low over one eye, making them look at once tough and shy. They also seem, like everyone Dorothea Lange photographed, to stand and move with uncommon, easy grace: idle, but charged with contained energy. Their faces are wary, reticent and disillusioned. In another archival clip, boys sitting around a fire in a hobo jungle respond to a reporter who asks them why they are on the road. “Out here for my health,” one deadpans. “Just riding,” another tersely shrugs.

These are the real-life versions of the characters played by Frankie Darro and the Warners juveniles in Wild Boys of the Road (1933). Several things about that film are startling. One is how the kids dress and act like grown-ups (at a school dance, they wear evening clothes and circle the floor to “The Shadow Waltz”), as opposed to today, when grown-ups dress and act like kids. Another is how quickly and completely two middle-class boys turn into outcasts, panhandlers, embittered scavengers living in a garbage dump. But most startling of all is the way stoicism and dignity are taken for granted, the universal determination not be a burden or feel sorry for oneself. The elderly interviewees in Riding the Rails are candid, matter-of-fact, wry and compassionate. There is more to elegance than dressing well, than being tasteful or—that overused and inelegant word—“classy.” There is an intangible quality, a kind of mental and moral grace. Elegance has spine, but it’s not rigid; it bends but doesn’t break. It is understated; it is reserved. It knows the virtue of holding something back—some strength, some anger, some sense of irony—because there is more than one rainy day.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[castiels-angel-friend-blog]

@jayswing96 Please let me know what you think. I wrote this in like 30 minutes, so please don't hesitate to be honest. I love constructive criticism. I hope you enjoy!

______________________________

Prompt 43: "It's been six years!" Continuation

______________________________

-2 weeks later-

Martin Whitly smirked as he ambled out his cell, a bloody scapel held loosely in one hand. The other trailed along the wall, smearing blood in its path. He stopped spreading his art long enough to grab the keycard his guard had once wore and opened the hallway door.

Martin hummed quietly to himself as he left, the door closing on the horrific scene he had left behind. He left the facilty effortlessly. After all, it wasn't difficult to escape without being seen if there were no witnesses...

********************

Malcolm Bright was having a wonderful day. His little bird was safe learning at school and his mother was off helping some charity from the background. That left him free to be kidnapped by Ainsley for breakfast to bond.

Malcolm would pretend to fuss and act like he was annoyed but Ainsley saw right through him. She'd just grin and nudge him gently before swooping in to steal a sip of his drink or a bite of his food. He'd chide her but always let her get away with it, content to let her have her way.

********************

Malcolm manged to enjoy a walk with his sister, sit down at lunch and eat with his mother and watch a football game with Gil.

Now he was joining Danny and JT for a drink while Ainsley picked up Grace for a sleep over. Honestly, Malcolm had no idea who was more excited between Grace and Ainsley. He didn't care though as both his girls were thrilled. Even Jessica was happy to be hosting.

Malcolm was beaming as he greeted his team, eyes gleaming with happiness. He was actually really enjoying his life at that moment.

"Hey, Bright!" JT called, lifting his beer in welcome.

"Hello-" Malcolm's phone vibrating in his pocket cut him off. He pulled it out and grinned at the name.

"Are you already calling me to pick Grace up?" He laughed into the phone. "She's not that bad." Danny smiled at his words. "Come on, what happ-"

"Malcolm," Ainsley sounded serious and worried. Malcolm's father instincts immediately went on alert. "Grace is missing. The school said-"

"What the hell do you mean, Grace is missing?" Malcolm's teeth were gritted so tightly it was a miracle he could even be understood. Danny and JT stood.

"Malcolm, the school said her grandfather picked her up."

Malcolm's whole world came crashing down.

********************

Martin had many connections outside his cell, so many people eager to help The Surgeon. He used those connections to get new clothes and a car. He even had a tech savy fan hack in and get him access to his goal, along with some much needed paperwork and identification.

"Hello," Martin smiled brightly, eyes unusually warm. The woman behind the desk flustered and blushed, head dipping in embarrassment. "I'm here to pick up my granddaughter. Grace Bright."

"Oh, name?" the woman said.

"Martin Bright." He said, simply.

She typed something into her computer. And there it was, the name 'Martin Bright' on the list of people allowed to pick up Grace. It sat snuggly between Malcolm and Ainsley's names. "Let me just go get her." She smiled and hurried out the office.

Martin leaned against the desk, crossing his ankles. The suit he had managed to get fit perfectly and he gently brushed out imaginary wrinkles. He looked up as he heard the door open, eyes going wide. The receptionist walked in, a little girl following behind. Martin took her in.

Her hair was long and curly, pinned back on one side with a barret in the shape of a bird. The black locks sat over her right shoulder of her pale yellow dress. Her little shoes were black with yellow birds printed on the sides. In her hands was a tiny backpack and Martin was suddenly back to walking Ainsley in for her first day of school.

He was jolted out of his memories by a little hand tugging lightly at his pant leg. He looked down to find a pair of bright blue eyes staring up at him. His darling boy's eyes shining out of his granddaughter's face.

He knelt down, ignoring how the receptionist fluttered around. Smiling gently, he held out a hand.

"Hello, little one, I'm your grandpa." He beamed. Grace eyed him warily but grabbed his hand to shake anyways. Her daddy taught her manners, after all.

"Hello," her soft voice was sweet and made Martin's smile grow. "I'm Grace."

"I'm sorry, but has she not met you before?" The receptionist interrupted. Martin looked up at her, smothering his anger at her interference.

"Little Grace," he said standing and laying a hand on top of Grace's curls. "Hasn't seen me since she was a baby. I've been... away due to my work." He dipped his head in faux discomfort. "I'm ashamed to say that for too long I've put my work ahead of my family. But," he lifted his head, eyes set with determination. "Not amymore."

Martin reached down and gently took Grace's hand in his, she looked up at him so trustingly. His heart swelled.

"From now on, it's all going to be about family."

********************

It took ten hours for Martin to contact Malcolm. Ten nerve wracking and tear filled hours. Malcolm wasn't ashamed to admit most of those tears were his.

Every minute that passed was agony for the terrified father. He remembered all to well what Martin Whitly was like with children.

He was charming and fun and loving. He was the perfect dad in all the ways that mattered. And Malcolm was afraid that he'd get Grace to love him, to completely adore him in a way that loosing him would destroy her. Just like it had destroyed him once.

He waited with bated breath for the call. He knew his father would call. The only reason he took Malcolm's little girl was to kick start a family reunion.

Malcolm had refused police help, knowing Martin would be utterly furious if they were involved. And Malcolm refused to put his baby at risk. No, he knew Martin Whitly better than anyone, not the police. Not anyone at all.

The best way to solve this was to do it Martin's way. Let him have all the control. Because in the end, his downfall would be caused by the same thing as last time. He utter love for his son.

Malcolm had no doubt he'd be able to negotiate with his father. He knew what a father's life was like. How desperate a father is to please his child. He also knew that while Martin held love for Grace it wouldn't be greater than his love for his son.

Malcolm had held his father's heart for thirty years while Grace had only been added two weeks ago. All Malcolm had to do was make a trade and wait. Wait for Martin to let his ego get the best of him. Once the killer made that mistake, Malcolm would be free to escape.

His heart beat faster as his phone rang.

********************

They met at the cabin. Martin's smile was so wide Malcolm was surprised it actually fit on the man's face.

"Malcolm, my boy." Martin said radiantly, eyes blazing. "Welcome."

"Where's Grace?" Malcolm cut to the chase. Martin shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and chuckled.

"Not even a hello for your old man?" He asked, grinning as Malcolm took a threatening step forward. "Relax, kiddo, she's safe and sound. As she'd always be with me." His smile faltered at the disbelief that shone in his boy's eyes at that.

"Besides," Martin pushed on. "We're here to talk. Let's talk." He spread his arms out, smile reappearing. "You said you had a deal for me?"

Malcolm strode forward until they were inches apart.

"No," he growled, hands seizing Martin's jacket by the lapels. "We can talk after you answer my question. Where. Is. My. Daughter?"

Martin looked utterly delighted with his boy. He smiled happily at his son while laying his hands gently over Malcolm's.

"Oh," the killer laughed. "There's my boy."

Malcolm snarled and shook the other man slightly.

"Answer me."

"Well," Martin smirked. "All I can say is that you'll find your darling girl where you were made." The way he said it sent a cold shiver down Malcolm's spine. He had no idea what the man meant, but had a suspicion he wouldn't like the answer.

"What?" He murmured, releasing the killer in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Martin chuckled again, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Tell me Malcolm, what ever did happen to the girl in the box?" Malcolm flinched. "You can find all your answers here. And I'd hurry," Martin said, voice serious. "Little Grace is waiting for you..."

Malcolm ran inside the cabin, heart sinking. He couldn't help but feel as if something terrible was going to happen. He prayed he'd find his little girl soon, heart aching at the thought of her terrified and alone. Malcolm took in the room, cataloging everything in his mind. He had a lot of work to do, desperate to find the answers he needed to save Grace. And he would, no matter the cost.

Because no one, absolutely no one touched his child. Not without paying a high price. God help Martin Whitly once Grace Bright was home safe and sound. No force on earth would protect the man from Malcolm.

And Malcolm wasn't planning on calling the police. Not this time. Not after taking Malcolm's family.

[i-larb-you]

Behind the Glass Wall

I got inspired when I went to the Marvel exhibit at the Franklin Institute and this is what happened.

You can also read this on AO3 here.

***

I’m fine, Peter says.

“I’m fine,” he tells May.

“I’m fine,” he assures Pepper.

“I’m fine,” he says to Happy.

“I’m… getting better,” he answers when Morgan asks. He can never lie to her.

But his tongue has become so accustomed to the words they fall right off before he can think about it. They are stale, tasteless in his mouth. They make him want to claw his heart out from behind his ribcage and place it behind a wall of glass instead.

There are times he’s not lying. He’ll read Morgan a bedtime story with stupid voices that make her giggle during his visits to the lake house. He teases May when her cooking comes out less than stellar and offers to run to Mr. Delmar’s new bodega. He laughs so hard he spits out his chocolate milk at lunch with Ned and MJ. There are times he thinks that maybe things will be okay, that maybe he really is getting better.

And then he’ll see the street art, the graffiti, the many thousands of drawings and paintings still proudly displayed in homage to the man who saved the universe, and the façade he’s built will come crashing down yet again.

Everyone at Midtown thinks he’s doing it for attention. They don’t say anything, but he knows they do. Or they would if half of them hadn’t also spontaneously stopped existing. That’s what most people his age lie about now. They pretend it doesn’t bother them that they lost five years of their lives or that they’re suddenly older than their siblings. Peter always thought Class of 2019 sounded ridiculous, but Class of 2025? It makes his brain hurt in more ways than one.

School itself has just become so monotonous for Peter. Sit in an uncomfortable chair, listen to an underpaid and overworked teacher drone on about a concept they know the students won’t care about but they’re required to teach, eat bland cafeteria food and endure a whole hour of kids yelling back and forth across the tables. Not to mention the constant threat of a sensory overload every goddamn day. If his senses were dialed to an eleven before, they’re at a twenty, minimum. And that’s on a good day.

Add in the worst nightmares he’s ever had in his life, and yeah, Peter’s doing just fine.

You have to be fine, his brain says. Other people have it so much worse than you. Just be like everyone else for once and suck it up.

“Peter?”

Pepper’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts and his head shoots up, eyes wide. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and only when he sees the faded old couch, the wooden staircase leading upstairs, the faint outline of Gerald behind the shades in the window, does he let himself relax. He’s not anywhere he shouldn’t be. He’s safe. He’s home.

After a second, he realizes that Pepper’s looking at him.

“Y-Yeah, sorry, I kind of zoned out a little,” he says, trying for casual and ending up with a notch below slightly suspicious. “What’s up?”

Pepper raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it. “Morgan’s waiting for you outside.”

Shit.

Peter shoots to his feet and he’s out the door before Pepper can even finish, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks for reminding me!”

It’s a warm day, rare for this time of the year. The trees surrounding the house are all green, but across the way, the leaves look like a rippling fire every time the wind blows. Pretty soon the birds will be giving one final symphony before heading south and according to Morgan, the whole lake will freeze solid, just as it has every year she’s been alive.

As he steps off the porch and walks down to the lake, he can’t stop replaying the conversation in his head, second-guessing everything from his words to his tone of voice. Could she tell? Did she hear how his voice trembled, how it was just a little too high?

Stupid, stupid, stupid, his brain screams. You call that being fine?

He finds Morgan at the edge of the dock, waiting patiently just like her mother instructed. Where most kids probably would have jumped into the water already, Morgan just isn’t capable of not following directions. Of course, she has her moments like every young kid does, but when it comes to safety, like staying on the dock until an adult (or Peter) is there to watch her swim, she does exactly what she’s told.

She definitely did not inherit that from her father.

“Hi, Petey!” she calls with a wave. He’s been at the lake house for almost two days and Morgan still greets him with the same enthusiasm that she did when he first arrived.

“Sorry it took me so long, Mo,” Peter says, brushing some hair out of his face. “You can head in now.”

Squealing with delight, Morgan skips across the length of the dock, grabs Peter’s hand, and drags him to the little beach off to the side. Peter leans against the edge of the boat and watches as she splashes and dives and makes waves that travel all the way out to the middle of the lake. The water has to be cold, but Morgan doesn’t seem to mind.

She’s going to grow up without a father.

The thought comes unbidden to his mind and Peter almost visibly recoils.

She’ll find out someday, his brain whispers, and if a brain could sneer, his would be. One day Morgan will know that Mr. Stark chose you over her and then she’ll hate you, just like everyone else.

Peter’s stomach does flips. He covers his face with his hands and counts to ten, twenty, thirty, to calm himself down, to make the voice go away. When he lifts his head, Morgan is looking back at him, her big brown Bambi eyes full of concern.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I’m fine, he starts to say, but the flat taste of the words makes him stop. He can’t lie to Morgan. Instead, he says, “I’m… getting better.”

Morgan apparently deems that an acceptable answer and returns to her imaginary battle against the monster she insists lives at the bottom of the lake.

Maybe Morgan won’t grow up with her dad around, but she has Pepper. She has Pepper and Colonel Rhodes and the blue chick from space and Hawkeye’s kids and Peter. God, if there’s one thing Peter will absolutely make sure of, it’s that he’ll be there for Morgan Stark. Not just because he knows it’s what Mr. Stark would have wanted, not just because of the guilt that eats away at him every time he looks at her, but because he’s the best big brother in the world to the best little sister in the world and that’s his job.

Still, for the rest of the weekend, Peter can’t quite meet Morgan’s eyes.

***

After the relative peace and tranquility of the lake house, going back to school on Monday is a shock to Peter’s system. Voices bounce off the walls, carrying down the halls from teachers in classrooms on the second floor and students yelling in the cafeteria and two kids getting high in the bathroom down in the Math wing. Bodies he does not know touch him, invading more of his space with each step he takes. Peter winces as locker doors slam shut and books scrape against the metal shelves inside.

Quit complaining, you big baby, his brain says. You’ve literally been to space. You can handle a little noise for one day.

His skin burns under the collar of his shirt and the tops of his sneakers dig into his Achilles tendons like a knife waiting to carve him open, but he agrees with the voice for once. He went to outer space. He can deal.

The day crawls by. One class after another, lectures upon lectures upon lectures. Peter’s all but dragging his feet by the time eighth block rolls around. He settles into his seat at the back of his last class and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, holding back a yawn. He’s so tired he can hardly remember which subject he has right now—a particularly bad nightmare had him up and awake well before dawn—but he’s in the right room so he doesn’t care.

Peter puts his head on the desk as other students trickle in. MJ sits down next to him and gives him a nod of acknowledgment before burying her nose in her book again. Peter doesn’t pay attention to anything other than keeping his eyes open and not giving his teacher a reason to write him up.

When the bell rings, Mr. Ryan lifts his hand up to get everyone’s attention.

“I’m gonna be honest with you guys,” he says, “I feel like crap but we’re short on subs, so I have to be in today. I really don’t feel like teaching so we’re just going to watch a movie that only kind of has something to do with history and pretend we learned something new today. Sound good?”

Everyone agrees wholeheartedly.

Mr. Ryan has Jen in the front row help him set up the computer and projector while the class whispers amongst themselves. Peter hears all about what Owen and Kirby did over the weekend and how stressed Tabatha is for Dr. J’s Chemistry test on Thursday and where Althea got her Homecoming dress, which is apparently a gorgeous sea green. Their words roll in one ear, out the other.

Someone turns off the lights. Despite his best efforts, Peter’s eyelids droop dangerously low. He struggles to lift them, but it’s a losing battle.

He falls asleep.

For a while, it’s all just black. No dreams, no nightmares. Only that weird in-between stage where he knows he’s asleep and he’s just waiting to fall deeper into the pull of unconsciousness.

Then he finds himself in the ruins of the Avengers compound upstate, surrounded by fires and debris, but everything is quiet. There are no gunshots or screams. The whole place seems deserted apart from him, no one fighting for their lives or for control of the gauntlet.

Peter glances around in confusion. He knows he’s dreaming. He’s had nightmares that have started out eerily similar before. There has to be a reason his subconscious is making him come back here.

He finds his reason in the form of a small gathering of people, just past where the swimming pool used to be. Peter doesn’t want to go toward them, but he feels himself being tugged forward, like an invisible hand with a string wrapped around his torso. It pulls and pulls until he’s right next to them and he sees the scene that’s been burned into his memory—Mr. Stark, right side blackened and scarred beyond recognition, slumped against a pile of rubble; Colonel Rhodes standing a few feet away, tears painting his dusty cheeks; Pepper kneeling in front of her husband, her hand on the arc reactor, assuring him that it’s okay, they’ll be okay.

Peter wants to curl into a ball and never come back out.

But this time there’s someone new. A tiny someone, whose small body had initially been hidden behind her mother’s.

“Morgan,” Peter breathes.

But when she turns to look at him, it’s not with concern or compassion. She no longer looks young and innocent, carefree, with just a hint of baby fat still on her angelic face. She’s much older, older than Peter, even. Her eyes are full of broken promises and disappointments and so much more that Peter had hoped she would never have to experience. In her features is an anger, a loathing that makes Peter flinch.

“You stole him,” she hisses, accusatory and hostile. “You took him from me. It’s all your fault.”

Peter opens his mouth, though he’s not sure what he could even say to that, but the words won’t form on his tongue.

“You’re the reason Dad’s dead,” says Morgan, and she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s all his fault, all his fault. “That’s his legacy, Peter. Not me, not Mom. You killing him.” Then she drives the final nail into the coffin: “I hate you.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His heart shatters into a million tiny pieces and Peter just wants to sweep them up and put them behind that wall of glass. He moves toward her, raises a hand to cup her face like he does now when she’s scared of the monster under her bed, but a different hand latches onto his wrist. Peter looks down to see Mr. Stark clutching onto him, gripping him so tightly it hurts. His expression is dead, which is even worse than any emotion it could hold.

“Why?” is all he asks before he goes limp again, his fingers still curled around Peter’s wrist.

“I’m sorry!” Peter screams. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark! Morgan, I-I’m so sorry!”

“Peter?” someone calls from a thousand miles away.

Peter just shakes his head, trying and failing not to collapse in on himself with a sob. Tears drip off his eyelashes as he screws his eyes shut. He can’t look at them, can’t face them again knowing what he’s done.

That someone’s voice is a lot closer this time as they shout, “Peter!”

His head shoots up from the desk, eyes wide open and brimming with tears. Heart racing, the words fall from his lips like a stone in the open air with no end in sight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Arms circle around him and just hold him, rocking back and forth. There’s a voice in his ear shushing him. Not trying to quiet him, trying to calm him. His chest heaves as another sob rips from his throat.

Peter glances up for a moment and he freezes all of a sudden. Just like that, his apologies die in his throat that’s already closing up and the crying stops and he just stares in horror at the SMART board.

“Tell him about the dance-off to save the universe.”

“Like in Footloose, the movie?”

“Exactly like Footloose! Is it still the greatest movie in history?”

“It never was.”

Kevin Bacon grins at whatshername and Peter’s chest constricts and he can’t breathe. He’s falling apart again, being torn away piece by piece, inch by inch, until all that’s left is dust, dust, dust. Quill’s voice rings in his ears, his quiet “Oh, man,” bouncing through his head until it’s the only thing occupying any space up there.

Peter pushes at the arms and they retract. He needs air, he needs space. Not that kind of space. The space where he can actually breathe and his heart isn’t a jackhammer in his chest. His eyes dart around the room, brain working on overdrive to find the fastest exit.

Front door—too far away, too many bodies to pass through.

Back door—blocked by desks and a panic-stricken Mr. Ryan.

One option left.

Peter doesn’t even think as he jams his backpack onto his shoulders, shoves open the window, and kicks. Shouts ring out behind him. His foot connects with the screen in a solid hit and it pops right off. He stands up on his chair and scrambles over the counter and out the window, dropping the ten or so feet to the ground below. As soon as his feet hit the grass, he takes off running, sprinting across the lawn and the football field and down the street, as if he can escape from his memories and the mountain of guilt inside him that way.

***

Hardly a month after the battle at the compound, after the snaps that brought everyone back and saved the universe, an anonymous group of New Yorkers erected an Iron Man statue outside of Central Park, the first of many throughout the city. It stood tall and proud, a reminder of the man himself, of the confident and suave hero the whole world loved and mourned.

Peter always tries to avoid it if he can. For one thing, looking at it only deepens the wound in his heart and widens the hole in his life. For another, it just bothers him. He knows the real Iron Man, the real Tony Stark, and he knows that the whole ‘confident billionaire’ act is just that—an act. He learned firsthand that Mr. Stark wasn’t this unshakable wall of a man with no fear that the public and the tabloids made him out to be. Mr. Stark had lots of fears. Some he shared. Some he didn’t. But he taught Peter, in words and actions, that there was nothing wrong with that. That even superheroes could be afraid.

As he stands in front of the statue now, hood up to block the light rain that’s begun to fall, Peter doesn’t feel much like a superhero. He feels small, weak. Like the sixteen-year-old kid he is.

Everyone has a lot of questions about the future. Who’s going to take over the job the Avengers left behind and defend the Earth from new threats? Who’s going to step up and lead the new generation of heroes now that the old is gone?

Who will be the next Iron Man?

They ask him this, as Spider-Man. Ask if he will be able to fill Tony Stark’s impossibly large shoes. If he is going to be the next Iron Man.

He stares up into the stone face standing guard over Central Park. As much as Peter loves Iron Man and the man behind the mask, he doesn’t want to be Iron Man. Doesn’t want that responsibility. He wants to be Spider-Man, the one and only.

You can’t always get what you want, his brain hisses.

Peter’s shoulders are hunched over, weighed down by the burden the rest of the world has placed on them. Even if he hadn’t been the one to kill Tony Stark, he knows he is, to some extent, part of Mr. Stark’s legacy. Not as much as Morgan, obviously. But enough to be significant. Enough to be a possible footnote in the biography of Mr. Stark’s life.

Enough that it’s too much.

Too much expectation and too much pressure and too much for an anxiety-ridden, nightmare-prone sixteen-year-old kid to handle.

What’s so special about you anyway? asks his brain. You’re nothing. You’re just a stupid kid with the shittiest luck in the entire world.

Peter turns away from the memorial and walks down Fifth Avenue, ignoring the weight of his phone in the pocket of his hoodie. He turned it off after he finally calmed down from his nightmare-slash-panic-attack, when the incessant vibrating got on his last nerve. May’s smiling face and Ned’s ridiculous picture just embarrassed him even more than his little episode.

Rain falls harder on his hood. He should head home, he knows that. At the very least he should call May and tell her where he is, how long he’ll be out, but he can’t bring himself to talk to anyone right now. He doesn’t think he has the capacity for words, let alone the energy.

You’re pathetic, his brain screams, and Peter can’t really argue with that.

***

All told, there is no punishment. He explains to May, in as little words and details as possible, what happened at school, and she just nods, giving him that sympathetic smile he’s come to hate. There’s nothing wrong with him. At least nothing he can’t handle on his own. He’s not some stupid, helpless little kid anymore.

Except you are, his brain reminds him.

The rest of the week passes without incident, though not without its annoyances. Ned walks on eggshells around him. MJ keeps an eye on him from a distance, like she always does. No one in his History class can pay attention on Tuesday because they’re all too busy watching him, waiting to see if he’ll have another freak-out. Mr. Ryan comes up to him after class that day and asks, albeit a bit awkwardly, how he’s doing, if there’s anything he can do to help Peter.

Peter looks at Mr. Ryan with dead eyes and a dead expression to hide his very not dead heart and gives him his classic line: “I’m fine.”

When the weekend arrives, Peter feels the tension ease from his shoulders the closer he gets to the lake house. He’s come to relish these trips, to appreciate every minute of quiet he has with Pepper and Morgan. In the back of his mind, he wonders how much longer he can hide the bright red label of blame he’s put on himself, how much longer he has until they agree with his brain and cast him out of their lives for good. But when Morgan runs up to him and smashes into him with the biggest hug she can muster, and when Pepper sits with him late at night after another nightmare and regales him with stories about some of the dumb stuff Mr. Stark did when he was younger, Peter manages to push his worries aside for a little bit longer and just enjoy the moment.

Peter lets out a sudden oof as Morgan lands on top of him on the couch.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asks, all smiles and curiosity.

“Nothin’ much, little munch,” Peter replies, matching her casual tone.

Morgan giggles at the nickname and lays down on Peter’s stomach, face pointed toward the ceiling. One of Peter’s arms comes to rest across her tiny body. Morgan takes his hand in her own and plays with his fingers, making them dance to a beat in her head. They’re quiet for a while. Listening to each other’s breathing.

Then, in her small, innocent voice, she breaks the silence. “Mommy said you made Miss May scared the other day.”

“She did?” Peter’s brows furrow.

Morgan nods and Peter can feel her head move against his chest, feel her hair scratch at his neck.

“What else did she say?” he asks.

“That I should give you lots and lots and lots of hugs when you come to visit,” she says, and as she does she flips herself over so that their stomachs are flush and their noses are inches apart. Morgan tries her best to put her arms around his body. They don’t quite make it past the point where his skin meets the leather of the couch, but it’s the thought that counts. She rests her head on his chest. “Daddy always says I give the bestest hugs.”

Peter can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, and he wraps his own arms around her in return. “Well, he’s right, Mo. You definitely give the bestest hugs.”

After another small stretch of silence, Morgan tells him, very matter-of-factly, “You’re my favorite big brother.”

“I’m your only big brother,” Peter reminds her.

“That’s why you’re my favorite, though,” she says. She lifts her head to look at him and her voice drops to a fake whisper. “But don’t tell anyone else.”

Peter laughs again. “I won’t, I promise.”

“Guess what?” she says, still in that theater whisper. “I love you 3000.”

Morgan settles her head back on his chest and Peter watches as it rises and falls with his breaths. Something in his heart bursts open, breaking down the glass wall he’d tried to hide it behind, filling him with so much love and awe for this tiny person on top of him, who trusts him and loves him in return, even despite the flaws his brain constantly reminds him of.

“I love you, too, Morgan,” he responds, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

“Are you all better now?” she asks quietly.

Peter pauses for a moment, weighing the question in his head.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “But I think I will be. Eventually.”

And for the first time in a long time, he really believes it.

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 121: Rocknaldo

“I don't love that. I don't accept that.”

Ronaldo Fryman has always been annoying.

From his first speaking role in Cat Fingers, and his first starring role in Keep Beach City Weird, this has been obvious. He’s selfish and insensitive, dominating every conversation he’s a part of and refusing to respect viewpoints that differ from his. He works well in small doses, where his grating nature can be properly diluted, so it’s understandable that an entire episode of Ronaldo at peak Ronaldo is not a widely beloved entry in the Steven Universe canon. But even though I can’t stand watching Rocknaldo, I actually, uh, kind of love it.

That’s a hard “uh, kind of” though. It’s tough to separate my emotions about this one, because I respect such an incredible portrayal of toxic fandom, but I hate toxic fandom so much that I don’t enjoy spending time with it, even as parody. This isn’t an episode I’m ever in the mood for, but it’s just so good at what it’s doing that I can’t stay mad at it.

Ronaldo’s propaganda is first played for laughs, with Steven’s bewilderment at what he’s reading (“They’re adding mind-controlling minerals to our water suppl—they hate men?”) and the vaudevillian back and forth of Ronaldo’s Rock People talking points and Steven’s quick and absolute dismissals. Ronaldo’s embarrassment is a bit of a surprise considering he’s never seemed capable of such a sensation, and his willingness to admit he’s wrong seems like a good sign, but oh boy does that attitude not last.

The mindset that led Ronaldo to make his bad faith arguments in pamphlet form (which he calls Ronalphlets because heaven forbid we get the idea that it’s not about him) persists, and it’s so much worse in conversation than as printed media. It’s not enough that he impedes on Steven’s personal space, but he checks off multiple key items on the Pathetic Internet Troll I Find Useless List (or “PITIFUL” if we’re using proper jargon). He’s casually sexist. He negs Steven into accepting his intrusions. He gatekeeps the concept of being a “true” Crystal Gem, which is lousy in a bubble but so much worse in practice because he’s doing it to an actual Crystal Gem. He gaslights by stating his incorrect views as obvious facts, complete with his own lingo, to make Steven question his own validity. And perhaps worst of all, he takes advantage of Steven’s empathetic nature to pretend that a tolerant person must accept abuse.

On the one hand, Ronaldo’s extreme behavior can be chalked up to severe sleep loss; that’s certainly the angle the episode goes for. But on the other, his toxicity begins well before he decides to stop sleeping, and as someone whose record for consecutive waking hours is an inadvisable thirty-six, fatigue will make you cranky, but it won’t make you more conniving. In cartoon world it’s a clean device to up Ronaldo’s awfulness in a way we can walk back from, but ugh he’s still a trashfire. Zach Callison always deserves kudos, and Rocknaldo is no exception, but Zachary Steel wins out here for capturing such a loathsome version of his character.

A key ingredient for Rocknaldo is timing. Steven just had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and this is our first glimpse at how it’s changed him, so what better way to test our all-loving hero than to pit him against a black hole of selfishness? He’s grown a lot since Keep Beach City Weird in a way Ronaldo hasn’t, and while his instinct is still kindness, now there’s a welcome dose of teen moodiness mixed in. 

It takes a while for Steven to realize it’s a grift, but beyond this slowness being a necessity for the conflict of the episode to work, it makes sense for where he’s at this point in the show. Again, kindness is an instinct for this kid, and even when Ronaldo starts getting infuriating, we’ve seen Steven be patient with him before. He’s also got that martyr complex revved up: this isn’t the first or last time he’s been willing to suffer to make someone else comfortable. He knows how much it sucks to be called the wrong name by now, so he’s the only person who consistently calls Ronaldo “Bloodstone.” And considering Rose Quartz wasn’t what he thought, he now feels that he must double his efforts to be his best self to compensate.

Also important is Steven’s willingness to defend his friends from the start, calling the term “Rock People” offensive and defending the Gems’ decision to leave Ronaldo behind on a dangerous mission. He can take Ronaldo’s lousiness all day, but finally snaps when Connie’s worthiness is insulted. It’s sweet that he sticks up for people, but it’s a bummer that he probably would’ve put up with Ronaldo even longer if the only one suffering was himself. Steven would do anything for his friends, but he’s not doing much for Steven.

This is why Ronaldo is the ideal antagonist for an episode coming off Steven’s space adventure. Steven’s selflessness contrasts perfectly with Ronaldo’s selfishness, but instead of a story about selflessness being good and selfishness being bad, we see how selflessness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Yes, it’s good to care about others, but it’s also important to have boundaries and enough self-respect to defend yourself; this isn’t even the first time we’ve gotten this message, but it bears repeating. There’s are limits to tolerance that trolls will always exploit (“White Nationalists aren’t welcome here? So much for the ‘Tolerant Left!’”), and on a show about empathy we need for Steven (and the audience) to see that empathy doesn’t mean being a doormat.

Steven’s patience fuels the episode, but the wheels are greased by the Amethyst and Pearl’s disdain. It’s a minor part of Rocknaldo, but I’m not sure I could survive how grating Ronaldo is without some backup from the Gems.

Garnet may lead a slow clap at Steven’s rousing speech on the nature of acceptance, but Amethyst is happy to crack jokes at Ronaldo’s self-seriousness, down to that perfect impression near the end of the episode. Meanwhile, Pearl openly hates the guy. We don’t even get Sassy Pearl (perhaps the greatest Pearl of all), she’s just bluntly dismissive as a refreshing antidote to Steven’s hospitality. She doesn’t bother to remember his ridiculous new name because she refuses to humor the notion that he’s a Gem, and it totally works for me; misnaming is played for drama when Steven is concerned, as befits the trans allegory that comes to a head in Change Your Mind, but Ronaldo is a human belittling Steven’s identity by pretending he shares it, so “Bloodstone” isn’t worth getting right to her (it helps that “Fryrocko” is also a delightful thing to call somebody). This jokey take on names works in the moment, but more importantly primes us for a more serious take in our last scene.

The final conversation, after a rare time jump, does salvage Ronaldo somewhat. He apologizes and admits he was acting like a jerk, and remains dedicated to helping the Crystal Gems in his own weird way. But the root of his problem isn’t gonna up and go away, and that root, again, is selfishness. He doesn’t fit in because he would rather the world adjust to meet his whims than take a single step towards self-improvement, so he chooses to see himself as “the ultimate outsider.” I guess it’s nice to find a positive spin on qualities you’re not great at, but it reeks of self-importance in a way that’s true to the character but is still frustrating to watch. Ronaldo is very good at being who he is, but I just don’t have much patience for intentionally annoying characters.

Still, we get that lovely moment of Steven talking about his name; it’s not a big revelation that folks only call him Rose Quartz when they’re mad at him, but verbalizing it shows that he’s aware of the pattern. The issue of his name will pop up more and more, becoming a cornerstone of both the Season 4 and Season 5 finales, so it’s nice to discuss it in a calm moment so we can keep Steven’s opinion in the back of our minds when things get messy. Ronaldo, to his credit, asks permission before sharing this story on his pamphlet, and evokes fellow emotionally-challenged antagonist Zuko in his attempt at solidarity. (Fun fact: in no other way is Ronaldo similar to Zuko.)

Moving from Zuko to Zuke: I don’t know where Rocknaldo’s production lined up on the timeline of the Steven Universe fandom's worst elements harassing Jesse Zuke, but I hope Zuke got some level of catharsis in portraying such “fans” in this pathetic manner. Speaking as a guy with a blog, calling Ronaldo “just a guy with a blog” is perfect putdown for a loser that makes himself feel big by pretending to know how to run a ship better than the captain. Imagine if I spent every post saying how much better of a storyteller I am than this crew. Ugh.

Fandoms can do great things, but man are they pros at doing horrible things. During the week that I wrote this review, a 15-year-old Super Smash Bros player got yelled off the internet for beating an established player in an incredible fashion, because while the community adores a young upstart, they can’t stand when that upstart is a girl. And no, I’m not saying the entire fandom did it, just as the entire Steven Universe fandom didn’t target one of the show’s best boarders (note that this article was written when Zuke still went by Lauren), but there are more than enough Ronaldos in every community, and it’s up to people who comprehend the basic tenets of empathy provided by a show they claim to love to stand up to such bullies.

If you don’t like Rocknaldo, that’s just fine. Because you shouldn’t like how Ronaldo acts in it. Liking something doesn’t give you the right to harass people, so do your part in shutting that nonsense down. 

I’ve never been to this…how do you say…school?

Just give us an episode with Peridot, Yellow Pearl, Peedee, and Ronaldo trapped in a room already.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

I hate watching this episode, but that doesn’t mean I hate the episode. It does its job very well, which is worthy of admiration even if I’m probably never going to watch it again now that this review is done.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

Steven’s Dream

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Gem Harvest

Three Gems and a Baby

That Will Be All

The New Crystal Gems

Storm in the Room

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Adventures in Light Distortion

Gem Heist

The Zoo

Rocknaldo

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

No Thanks!

     6. Horror Club      5. Fusion Cuisine      4. House Guest      3. Onion Gang      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Stella and the Wolf - Chapter 21

You can read it on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter Index here. 

It’s probably a sign of the apocalypse that Stiles is out of bed early on Sunday morning. He staggers downstairs to find Dad reading the newspaper at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee steaming in front of him.

“Couldn’t help but notice there’s a werewolf sleeping in the spare room,” Dad says mildly.

“Yep.” Stiles shuffles to the refrigerator, liberates the orange juice, unscrews the lid, and lifts the juice towards his mouth.

“Glass,” Dad says in a warning tone.

Stiles grunts and obeys, but he feels a little more human when he pours his juice like a civilized person and takes a sip.

“So,” Dad says, setting the paper down. “Derek.”

“He was living at his old house, Dad.” Stiles slumps into a chair beside his dad. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Son, I wasn’t complaining you asked him to stay,” Dad says slowly. “I was steering you towards elaborating on the nature of your relationship.”

Stiles almost spits out his juice. “Holy shit, you sound like you’ve fallen straight out of an courtroom drama!”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a kind of vested interest in the law,” Dad says. “And don’t try to dodge the subject, Stiles, because I also have a vested interest in my sixteen-year-old son’s welfare.”

Yeah, that’s fair.

For a moment Stiles wonders if there’s anything he can say to Dad that’ll change who they were on Friday night at the cemetery, where they both would have died for the other one. And Stiles doesn’t think there is, but at the same time he doesn’t want to test it. He’s never had this discussion with Dad. Then again, maybe he hasn’t had to, because Dad picked up on it anyway, didn’t he?

Stiles’s fault, probably. He’s never been subtle.

Also, that was not a bro-hug Dad caught him sharing with Derek the other night.

Stiles sighs and pushes his juice away. He drags his fingers through his bed hair. “It’s not nothing,” he says at last, “but also, it’s not anything yet, you know?”

Dad raises his eyebrows.

“Like, I’m pretty sure there are feelings there,” Stiles says, his heart hammering, “on both sides, even, but nothing’s happened. And that’s okay, because he just lost the last of his family, you know? I’m just gonna be his friend for a while, because I think that’s what he needs most of all right now.”

Dad’s mouth twitches.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nerves twisting in his stomach. “So that’s how it is with us, I guess.”

“You’re a good kid, Stiles. And, despite a lot of evidence to the contrary, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders too.” Dad’s eyes shine. “I’m proud of you.”

Stiles’s feels a flush rising at the unexpected praise. “Thanks, Dad.”

Dad reaches out and puts his hand over Stiles’s. Squeezes it. “Your mom would be proud of you too, kiddo. You and Stella.”

Stiles swallows, his throat aching.

“Mind you, after the other night, you’re both grounded until you’re thirty.”

Stiles shrugs, and reaches over to filch a piece of Dad’s toast. “It’ll save on college expenses, I guess.”

Dad laughs at that, and lets him steal the toast.

***

Stella prods and pokes at Derek all day. Stiles would tell her to stop, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind. His expression is softer around Stella, his body language less guarded. He sits with her in the living room and helps her make a play house for her soon-to-arrive kitten. It involves threading curled pieces of newspaper and strips of fabric through holes in the bottom of the box, and fastening them, so that when the box is turned upside down it’ll be a tentacled cave. Stiles personally thinks that any kitten worth its salt will systematically destroy it in minutes, but that’s a problem for the future, isn’t it? At the moment it’s keeping both Stella and Derek distracted and entertained.

Stiles curls up on the couch with a stack of his old Batman comics and listens to Stella drag more words out of Derek than he’s ever heard before.

“Was Peter a good uncle?” she asks, stabbing the end of the scissors through the box.

“Mmm.” Derek tears a strip of newspaper. “He was the fun one. The one who’d always go behind our parents’ backs. Like once, he was supposed to take us to an exhibit at the museum that Mom wanted us to see, but she and Dad were working. She called him when we should have been home that afternoon, and he said, ‘Where are we? About halfway to Disneyland. See you in four days!’”

Stella’s gasp is part delighted, part scandalized.

And this, Stiles thinks, this is what Derek should have told Scott about pack. Not about alphas and betas and omegas, and rules and hierarchy and codes. This right here. This part where pack is family. Because Scott still doesn’t really understand that werewolves aren’t monsters. He doesn’t understand they’re people, the same as anyone.

Stella’s eyes are round. “Was your mom mad?”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “I think she pretended to be more mad than she really was.”

Stella gasps, and Stiles looks away from Batman in time to see Derek shred another strip of newspaper—this time with his claws.

Derek glances at Stiles, his cheeks pinking when he sees Stiles’s grin.

And this too, Stiles thinks. Scott should see moments like this, where unsheathed claws don’t mean threats and bloodshed. There’s so much more to werewolves—to Derek—than Scott has let himself see.

It’s sad, but it’s not unfixable. Scott’s not a bad guy, though he can be as intractable as Stiles in his own way. He just needs a little time, and maybe a little nudge. Stiles can help with that, and will.

“Must have been amazing,” he says, “growing up in the Preserve. I’ll bet you ran around barefoot, right? Like a bunch of little hellions.”

“Throwing stones from right inside that glass house of yours, huh?” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs, delighted. Derek’s smile grows. “We did, actually. We were barefoot in winter even, since we run hotter than humans.”

In all the ways, Stiles thinks, but luckily doesn’t voice that with Stella in the room.

“Laura used to talk about rebuilding the house,” Derek says, his voice softening. “I don’t know though.” He ducks his head. “It wouldn’t be the same.”

“It wouldn’t,” Stiles agrees. “But that’s okay, I think.”

Derek nods slightly. “Maybe. It’s hard…” He pauses, swallows. “We were on the run for so long, me and Laura, that it always seemed like a pipe dream. I didn’t think it was something I’d ever have to really consider, as long as Kate was out there. And now…”

“It’s been a day, Der,” Stiles says softly. “You don’t need to decide anything right away.”

Derek nods again, his gaze dropping as he feeds a strip of newspaper through his hands.

Stella shuffles over so that she’s close enough to lean on him. “When you’re a wolf, do you eat squirrels?”

Derek knocks her gently with his shoulder. “Sometimes.”

“Gross!” But she sounds thrilled. “Do you pee on trees? Do you sniff other wolves’ butts?”

“Derek pleads the fifth!” Stiles exclaims, rolling up his Batman comic and reaching out to bat her in the head with it. He takes in Derek’s relieved look. “Although, it’s valid question, and if you ever feel like answering it—”

Derek snatches the comic off him, and hits him over the head with it, while Stella screams with laughter.

That’s how Dad finds them of course: Stiles half off the couch with Stella straddling him and tickling him, and Derek smacking him with a Batman comic. They all freeze like deer in the headlights when Dad clears his throat.

“Well,” Dad says at last, “I guess the three of you just volunteered to fold the laundry. Since you’re clearly doing nothing more important.”

And then he vanishes again, before they can refuse.

“Unfair!” Stella yells after him.

“Ugh.” Stiles finally lets gravity win and rolls all the way off the couch onto the floor. He squints up at Derek. “You don’t have to. You’re a guest and—”

Derek cuts him off. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, his gaze drawn to Derek’s. “Cool.”

Derek swallows, and looks away.

It’s such a little thing but it’s been a long time, Stiles supposes with a sudden ache in his chest, since Derek had a parent tell him to fold laundry.

***

Jesus. School tomorrow, and it’s going to be a mess. Stiles is not used to being the center of attention, but what with being kidnapped on Friday night—and it being all over the news—he knows that he’s not exactly going to be able to fly under the radar tomorrow. Also, he hasn’t done his homework. It’s already 7.30 p.m. by the time he realizes this, which sends him into a soda-fuelled two hours of frantic sub-standard work. But it’ll do, right? As long as he hands something in, most of his teachers might cut him some slack because of his extenuating circumstances. Not Harris, of course, because he’s a dick.

Stiles is ready to crash just before ten, so he heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Coming back, he notices the light is still on in Stella’s room, and he can hear her reading aloud.

He leans in her doorway.

Stella is sitting up in her bed, leaning against the headboard, a book in her lap. “I cannot for the life of me understand why small children take so long to grow up,” she says, following the words with a finger. “I think they do it deliberately, just to annoy me.”

Derek is sitting beside her. He’s watching Stella’s face as she reads, his expression filled an ineffable longing that can only come from having had a little sister once, and having lost her.

And not just her, of course. There were other names on that black granite memorial in the cemetery. Too many of them.

“Stella,” he says, and she looks over at him. “It’s late.”

“Just until we finish this chapter,” she says, and it’s not a question.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, but if Dad busts you, you’re on your own.”

She grins, because that’s a risk she’s willing to take.

“Goodnight, Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek smiles at him softly. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles is on his way back to his bedroom when he hears the familiar sounds of Little Mix’s DNA blaring out. Dad really needs to sort out the security settings on his cellphone if he doesn’t want Stiles and Stella to keep stealing it and changing his ringtone. It’s just common sense.

“Chris,” Dad says. There’s silence for a moment and then: “What do you mean a problem?”

Stiles stands at the top of the steps and listens.

“No,” Dad says at last. “If he’s here for the funeral, that’s one thing. But if he comes near my kids, or near Derek Hale, then we’re going to have an issue. You feel free to let him know that in whatever language it takes.”

Another pause, and a snort from Dad.

“Well, keep me in the loop. And it sounds like you’d better watch your own back. Yeah. Goodnight.”

Stiles presses a hand to his chest.

And then, from downstairs, Dad calls, “Stiles? I know you’re there.”

Who needs wolves with super hearing in the house when Dad’s here with his own mystical powers? Or, well, sixteen years of experience in knowing Stiles is an inveterate eavesdropper.

“Bedtime,” Dad says. “Now.”

Stiles scuttles off to bed.

[sholiofic]

Er. So. First of all, I posted a de-aging fic for Danny a little while back, in which Danny is five years old but still has his adult memories (with all the trauma THAT implies). In the comments, @asofterhibou​ suggested de-aged Ward. Well, specifically:

I had the horrifying thought of what if Ward was the five-year-old the next day, but that is almost TOO heart-breaking. Like I can only imagine that the first half hour is just Ward curled up in a ball under the hotel room bed while Danny lies on the floor and talks quietly to him to get him to come out.

I swear I was just going to write a couple paragraphs of this, and then suddenly there was like 1900 words of it. (I’m not really sure if this is canon relative to the other fic; it’s more like a what-if spun off from it.)

Seeing Ward as a small child was almost too strange. Danny didn't remember him like this at all. Their five-year age difference had loomed impossibly huge in their shared childhood; his earliest memories of Ward were of the other boy being so much bigger that he might as well have been a grown-up, a source of both torment and protection, fear and comfort. Danny had been scared of him and admired him in equal measure.

It was an extremely disconcerting perspective shift to suddenly be the bigger one, the older one; it was hard to see Ward as a little kid and not see a ghost of the adult Ward superimposed over it, like looking at childhood photos of your parents.

Not that Danny had seen much of him yet, since Ward had been curled up under the bed for most of the last hour. He wasn't crying -- in a way, Danny thought it would have been less worrying if he was crying. At least it would have been more normal five-year-old behavior. Instead he was just curled up shivering. Ward's adult memories weren't something that Danny would wish on his worst enemy, let alone on a little kid.

Danny had given up on talking (much) and just decided to lie on the carpet next to the bed, with one hand stretched out underneath it and his hand on Ward's pointy little shoulder.

"You want to come out and have something to eat?" he asked. "There's a place down the street that has desserts and stuff. Ice cream. You wanna go have ice cream?"

Ward shook his head. Okay, Danny thought, a five-year-old turning down ice cream was a really bad sign.

He rolled over on his side and discovered that Ward was watching him, a flash of light-colored eyes in the darkness under the bed. Was Ward scared of him? he wondered. 

There was no Hell in the Buddhist afterlife, and Danny wasn’t even sure what his own religious beliefs were exactly anyway (it was sort of a mishmash of all the various cultural influences in his life), but if reincarnation and karma actually did exist, he hoped Harold was currently reincarnating as an endless series of mosquitoes and getting smashed every single time. A few thousand years of that ought to be about right. After that, maybe Harold could graduate to rice weevils or something, and work his way up from there for the next few million years.

"I can also call down to the front desk and have them bring ice cream to our room," Danny said, pillowing his cheek on his arm. "There won't be as many choices, but I bet I could have some vanilla ice cream brought up. Vanilla with chocolate sprinkles, that was your favorite, right?"

He just wanted to drag Ward out from under the bed and hug the stuffing out of him, but he also knew that would be the worst thing he could possibly do. A Harold kind of thing to do ... well, minus the hugging, probably. The only thing he could do was try to show Ward that he wasn't that kind of adult.

"So I'm gonna go do that, okay? I'm just going over to the phone."

He made the call sitting on the floor where Ward could see him. He wasn't sure whether that actually was important, but it felt important. After that, Danny lay on the carpet again.

"Hey, Ward, do you want to see a picture of your sister?"

He thumbed through pictures on his phone until he found one of Joy. He didn't have very many of her due to ... well ... circumstances, but he did have a couple from last year, during that ever-so-brief period when they'd been speaking to each other and it had seemed, for awhile, that things were going to be okay.

"She's just a baby for you now, right? This is what she looks like when she grows up."

He turned the phone screen so Ward could see it. After a little while, Ward uncoiled somewhat and scootched over so he could see the screen better.

"Here's another," Danny said, flipping to a new one. This was Joy at her desk at Rand, giving him an exasperated look as he'd peeked into her office to take a quick picture of her to use as his phone photo for her. (He'd just discovered that you could set a picture to go with someone's phone number in a smartphone address book. He remembered being delighted about that.)

In a very tiny voice, not much more than a whisper, Ward asked, "Do you have any pictures of me?"

"Sure I do." Lots more than Joy, fortunately. Danny flicked to the recent ones. "Here, you're in most of these." Generally either ignoring him, or giving the camera (and by extension, Danny) assorted variations on his sardonic "why me?" expression while Danny took pictures of temples and markets and parks that also just happened to have Ward in them.

There was a knock at the door. Ward retreated back under the bed. "It's just the hotel people bringing us our ice cream," Danny said, and he passed the phone under the bed where Ward could keep looking through photos while he went to answer it.

He had to hand it to the hotel's restaurant: they'd done a nice job. Danny came back with two glass bowls, each with a heaping scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate shavings and a strawberry on each one. He set one down on the carpet and held the other. "It's gonna melt," he said, dipping his spoon into his. "I can put yours in the room fridge if you want it later instead."

There was a short hesitation and then Ward cautiously crawled out from under the bed, with the phone clutched in one of his hands. "That's me?" he said dubiously, showing the screen to Danny.

Danny was aware that he had no particular talent for photography, so it was a little bit off center and crooked, but it was actually a nice picture of Ward, sitting on a low stone wall with a sweeping vista of gardens and jungle behind him and a sketchbook in his lap.

"Yeah," Danny said, grinning at him. "That's you."

"I'm drawing?" Ward said, and frowned. "I'm drawing," he said again, thinking his way through it.

Danny remembered that part of what this was like: everything was overwhelming, and you got the most intense memories first and hardest (which had to be part of what was giving Ward such a rough time). But putting things in order or remembering anything specific was the hard part.

"Yeah! You like to draw. You're really good at it, too. Here, I'll show you."

He hopped up and got the sketchbook, which was stuck in the top of Ward's luggage, where it usually was. Danny also got out a box of Ward’s colored pencils. He figured it was Ward's sketchbook and Ward had an equal right to draw in it when he was five as he did when he was thirty.

When he came back, Ward had the enormous bowl of ice cream in his lap and a spoon stuffed in his mouth. He glared at Danny as if daring him to make something out of it.

It was really weird how much like his adult self he still was at this age. In a way, Danny thought, that was probably what had gotten him through all those years of Harold's abuse. Ward had a rock-solid core of, well, of Ward: prickly and angry and sarcastic and stubborn. It made him a real dick sometimes, and it certainly had when they were kids, but it had also kept him from being completely steamrolled by Harold, over the years. Danny felt a sudden intense wash of ... just, feelings: love and admiration and the intense desire to kick Harold's ass around the astral plane for awhile. Luckily Ward was looking at the sketchbook rather than at Danny's face, because hiding his feelings was something Danny really wasn't good at.

"See, here," Danny said, opening the sketchbook up randomly to a drawing of a temple carving. "You're really good at this. Here you go." He put the pencils next to it. "You can draw in it, if you want."

Ward touched the page hesitantly, then jerked his hand away when he noticed he'd left a smear of melted chocolate on the drawing. "I'll mess it up," he said in a voice that sounded small and fragile.

"No, you won't. It's yours. Anyway, it's already gotten wet and had coffee spilled on it and got trampled by a bunch of goats in Cambodia." Danny flipped to a fresh page and showed Ward a coffee ring on top of a half-finished sketch of Danny. "See? You can't do anything bad to it."

Ward shoved the spoon into his mouth, and said around it, indistinctly, "I'm bad at it. Dad said --"

"Your dad's not here," Danny said, more fiercely than he intended, and Ward quailed from the anger in his voice. Damn it. He gentled his tone down and got himself under control. It turned out that dealing with a traumatized five-year-old was better training at emotional control than anything the elders in K'un-Lun had ever come up with. "Look," he said gently. "You're awesome at it. At least, I think so, and I'm the only adult around here, so I must be right. Right?"

Ward looked like he was extremely doubtful about this logic, but he also had the ice cream spoon in his mouth again.

Danny flipped the sketchbook to a blank page and shook out the box of pencils in a heap next to it, noticing Ward's eyes following them covetously. Then he dug into his own bowl of ice cream.

After a little while, with the ice cream in his bowl mostly gone, Ward picked up a pencil.

Danny leaned back against the side of the bed and pretended to be interested in his ice cream and only his ice cream, and not at all in the slow relaxing of Ward's rigid little body as he got interested in the drawing. It worked that way for adult Ward as well, which had given Danny an extremely unpleasant (but plausible) theory that Harold had made him stop because it was something that made him happy that Harold didn't have control over; it was something that Harold could neither understand nor use to control him, and therefore it had to go.

Danny clenched the fist that had once been the Iron Fist until the metal handle of the ice cream spoon actually bent. Carefully, he pried his fingers off it and flexed his hand until the purplish imprint of the spoon handle had faded, and then went back to eating.

When he'd finished his ice cream, Danny picked up his phone and pretended to be absorbed in it, while keeping a subtle eye on Ward, who was now completely absorbed in his drawing.

And a little while after that, without saying anything, Ward picked up the sketchbook and his pencils, and crawled into Danny's lap, and spread the sketchbook on the floor and -- sprawling half in and half out of Danny’s lap -- went back to drawing in it.

[lilacmoon83]

Dreaming Out Loud

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 115: Only You

Imagine a world where everything you thought to be fiction or myth turned out to be real. Imagine a world, larger than life, where Gods ruled, a simple kiss from a Prince really could wake a Princess, and the lines between good and evil were not as defined as one might think. Imagine that all the stories you think you know so well turned out to be much different than you thought. Imagine if magic was as real as science. Imagine if you didn't have to imagine any of that and it was all true…

"This is what you have so far?" Greg asked, as a barrage of real footage they had collected and images they had captured played on the screen after Landon's voice over ended.

"Yeah...it's great, don't you think?" he asked.

"It looks like a movie trailer. No one is going to think it's anything other than that," Greg complained, as he paced the room.

"I can't believe that three years of work and this is what we have," he growled.

"Hey...this is good. We have some really damning footage of real magic being performed and real life depictions of actual people that are thought to be fictional characters," Landon admonished.

"That no one will believe!" Greg argued.

"After three years...we have nothing! My father's bones are buried in the FBI crime lab, because no one cares about a thirty-three year old crime! And you've just made a fancy movie trailer that I'm sure any Hollywood studio would love to fund, but I have nothing!" Greg raged.

"Calm down...we can take a different approach with the footage. Maybe I got a bit cinematic with the voice over," Landon agreed.

"You think?" Greg snapped. Landon sighed.

"The crime lab is still our in with all of this. I know it's been a long time, but they will get back to us. They'll get a match. They may already have, but opening a cold case will have to go through proper channels. But that's good for us," he continued.

"How?" Greg asked.

"Because if they do match your DNA to the remains and identify him as your missing father...that will attract the attention of some of the higher ups. Opening a cold case that's over thirty years old doesn't happen every day," Landon replied. Greg sighed.

"Fine...just do something about that silly voice over," he said.

"Relax…I'll get rid of the voice over and turn on the regular audio. Maybe if we just go with the bare bones footage, people will see that it's completely unedited," Landon replied, as they watched some of the unedited footage.

"I just want her to pay…" Greg growled.

"I mean...she killed my father, but they allowed her to remain free and move on. All this bull about how she's redeemed herself and even found love! It's ridiculous! She deserves to be in prison!" Greg ranted.

"I agree with you...and maybe we can take a different strategy," Landon said.

"Like what?" Greg asked.

"Well...we've managed to acquire a few beans without them knowing over the years. Hell, they've grown so many that they'd never miss them even if we took a bushel. Maybe it's time to go to the FBI and make them listen. Maybe it's time to find a way to make her confess. We get her outside Storybrooke...there's no magic there to protect any of them," Landon replied.

"How are we going to do that?" Greg asked.

"She has a son...she has someone she loves now. We can use them to get her to do whatever we want," Landon replied.

"We'd have to lure them away from the rest," Greg reminded.

"Not easy...but not impossible either," Landon surmised.

"Okay...let's do it. Let's make her confess and then take her to them," Greg agreed.

"Great...in the meantime, I'll shop this tape around the Internet. No credible documentary company will pay it any mind. But on the dark web...that will be a different story. If we can get people talking about it...then eventually, it will go viral," Landon said.

~*~

Snow's emerald eyes opened and she smiled, as she found herself firmly ensconced in her husband's arms.

"Good morning," he said in a husky tone, as they shared a kiss.

"Good morning handsome," she purred back, as he held her close and they heard some babbling coming from the baby monitor.

"Sounds like someone else is awake," she mentioned. He smiled and kissed her cheek.

"I'll get her," he said, as he ventured off to the adjoining nursery. She heard their bedroom door open at that point and smiled at the sound of tiny feet beating it toward the bed. She leaned over and pretended to jump in surprise.

"Boo!" little Xander exclaimed and Snow gasped, as she helped him climb onto their large, King sized bed.

"Good morning sweetheart," she cooed, as she settled him in her lap and kissed his blonde haired head.

"Morning mommy…" he cooed in return, as he was focused on playing with the toys he had brought with him. About that time, David returned with their baby. Ten months ago, Snow had given birth to their third child, a little girl they decided to name Iris. While their son had inherited David's coloring in hair and eyes, their second daughter had very fine raven colored hair like Snow and David's blue eyes as well.

"Daddy!" Xander called, as David sat down on the bed with them and let the baby crawl between them, while his son jumped into his arms.

"What do you have there, little man?" he asked, as he noticed the toy horse in his hand.

"Horsie," he replied, as his baby sister had crawled into Snow's lap. David had changed her, but she was ready to nurse. He helped her settle down in bed and she began to nurse their daughter. These were their typical mornings, spent quietly together, before their daily routine would set in. They ruled together equally. David spent much of his time overseeing the defense side of their Kingdom and Sheriffing all the Realms with Emma, which he greatly enjoyed. Snow handled the day to day tasks on the diplomatic side, though there were many meetings they attended together, especially when military officials visited from other Kingdoms.

During the day, Ruth, Serafina, and Robert happily watched their grandchildren, as did Hades, Persephone, and Eli when their ruling duties allowed it. But Snow and David's children weren't the only ones keeping their six grandparents busy. There had been many changes to their family and it had grown in more ways than one.

"You go ahead and clean up first. And then we can switch," Snow said.

"You sure?" he asked. She nodded and cuddled the baby and their son, who was very occupied with his toys.

"Okay...then I'll get the munchkins dressed while you clean up. Then we'll go get breakfast," he said, as he kissed her tenderly.

"Granny's?" Xander asked. David chuckled.

"Yeah...we'll go to Granny's," he agreed.

"I want pancakes," he announced.

"Mmm...pancakes sound good. With blueberries," Snow said.

"No...chocolate chip, like Emmy has," Xander replied, making them chuckle.

"Okay...chocolate chip it is," Snow agreed, as he smiled at them and went to shower.

~*~

James looked out over his Kingdom from the balcony of the King's bed chambers. It was almost mind boggling how much his life had changed in the last three years since he had been miraculously resurrected. He was sure now that if Cronus knew for certain that he couldn't count on James' loyalty, he probably wouldn't have chosen to bring him back. But the God of Time had much bigger problems than him. He didn't know much about Cronus' original plan, except it had involved eliminating Zeus and then claiming the power of the skies. But that power had chosen Persephone as its new champion and had almost guaranteed that Cronus would never rise to power. He had settled into ruling his own Kingdom for the last three years and while they would always be leery of him, he was not the biggest threat out there.

After Leopold unfairly took back his own Kingdom, James had opened his castle to Regina and Henry, giving them a place to stay close. While they could have returned to the mansion in Storybrooke, Regina knew Henry wanted to be close to his biological family and Regina was sincerely working on repairing her relationship with Snow; much to his sister-in-law's delight.

It was a surprising thing to see Regina and Snow become good friends, especially after all the bad blood between them. But Regina had really committed to becoming a better person, for herself and for Henry. He understood her journey better than anyone, so it probably shouldn't have surprised them when they fell in love. But they did and after the shock had worn off, they had entered into a loving relationship, one like he had never had and never expected to have. And one she like she hadn't experienced since Daniel, except for what she found with James became far more powerful. With Daniel, it had been true love, but quite innocent and unburdened. But with James, they both still had darkness in them and would always struggle with it. But among all that, they had found kindred spirits in one another and ultimately a love neither of them expected or was even looking for, or so they thought.

"Why are you up?" Regina complained sleepily, as she put her arms around his waist and rested her head against his back. He smirked and turned so he could put one arm around her.

"Sorry...you know I get this way before we have big diplomatic meetings with the other Kingdoms," he said.

"Yeah...I kind of miss the days where I could just storm in and they would agree to whatever I want," she mused.

"This democracy thing definitely comes with more bickering than I like and having to be in a room with Midas and Leopold for hours makes me want to drink," he agreed. She smirked.

"Well...we still have a while until we have to be ready. I can give you something to think about during the meeting," she purred. He smirked and turned to her, as they engaged in a passionate kiss.

"We're supposed to meet everyone for breakfast," he reminded, as she led him back inside.

"Henry is with Emma and Neal so we can be a little late," she replied, as he eagerly followed her back to bed.

~*~

Henry sat in front of the television that morning in their sitting room, playing video games, while his parents shuffled around. The blonde baby girl in Neal's arms fussed a bit, while he dug through her diaper bag.

"Henry...have you seen Tallie's stuffed unicorn?" Neal asked.

"Nope," the teen replied and Neal rolled his eyes.

"Then stop playing the game and help me look. You know how fussy she gets without it," he said. Henry paused the game and started to look around, before finding it behind the sofa.

"Hey...big brother to the rescue," Neal said, as he showed their six-month-old daughter the stuffed toy. She grabbed onto it with chubby hands and calmed down, allowing him to put her in the stroller, as Emma came downstairs.

"Okay...let's go have breakfast and then we'll get you off to school, kid. Do you have your homework?" Emma asked.

"Yep," Henry replied, as he grabbed his backpack and turned the television off.

"Hey sweetheart...are you giving Daddy a rough time?" Emma cooed to their daughter.

"Like her mother," Neal deadpanned.

"Please...you love it," she said, nudging her fiance.

"Yeah...I do. I probably should have my head examined," he joked.

"Wouldn't do any good. No doctor can fix you," she joked back.

"Haha," he mocked sarcastically.

"Are we going or not? I'm starving," Henry complained.

"You're fourteen. You're always starving," Neal quipped, as he pushed the stroller out and they walked through one of Hades insta-portals, as they had come to call them, and arrived in front of Granny's for breakfast.

~*~

"Okay sweetie...there all cleaned up," Belle cooed, as she blew a raspberry on her little boy's tummy and he giggled. Rumple smiled from the doorway of the nursery in their castle.

"Everything in order?" he asked.

"Oh yes...we just had a bit of a diaper emergency. I don't think we'll be having anymore strained apricots for dinner anymore," she replied, as she finished dressing him and picked him up.

"You know, I could have cleaned him up with a wave of my hand," he quipped. She shot him a look.

"And I told you I don't want you changing Gideon's diapers with magic," she chided.

"Fine...but can I at least get rid of the dirty one?" he countered.

"Now that would be okay," she agreed, as the dirty diaper disappeared. She looked at him suspiciously.

"Where do all those dirty diapers go when you poof them away?" she asked. He shrugged.

"Who says that I don't just disintegrate them?" he answered with his own question.

"Because the other day, when we were at Snow's and David's, you made one disappear and Hades seemed to think it was funny," she responded. He smirked.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked. She rolled her eyes.

"You're right...it's probably best that I don't," she replied, as she handed their son to him and got his diaper bag. An insta-portal opened and they stepped through, arriving in front of Granny's.

~*~

"Ohhh...there they are. Come to Nana…" Persephone gushed, as Snow and David arrived at Granny's with the little ones.

"Nana!" Alexander called, as he rushed to her and she lifted him into her lap.

"Hello my handsome boy," she cooed, while Hades poofed a stuffed three-headed dog for him to play with you.

"You three spoil them rotten," Snow admonished, as she hugged her father.

"That is what Grandparents are for," Eli said, as eagerly took his tiny granddaughter in his arms. Snow shook her head in amusement and sat down beside her husband. Since her father's royal role these days was simply as an adviser, he had been very happy. The stress she had seen upon him while she was growing up, at least in the alternate reality, was gone and for that, she was very happy for him. Surprisingly to some, Hades was happy ruling beside her mother and gladly maintained his supportive role to her. He had naturally worried about his former Throne and who was taking care of the dead. It was very big job and one he took seriously. He regretted the years where he had ruled unjustly, but when they managed to learn that Prometheus had exited Elysian to take up the mantle, that had been a relief to him. Prometheus was a fair man and had always been an ally to mortals, being that he had gone against Zeus long ago when he gave fire to mortals. He had paid for it dearly, but had been rewarded a hero's afterlife in Elysian by Hades, centuries ago, much to Zeus' chagrin.

Persephone had proven equally that her new role as God of the Skies was very well suited to her as well. The last three years in the United Realms had yielded peace and for that, Snow was incredibly grateful. There were still conflicts, crime, and the normal day to day strife that any society faced, but peace had mostly reigned.

"Hey…" Emma called, as they were the next to arrive.

"Hey sweetie," Snow said, as she hugged her parents, while David eagerly lifted Tallie out of her stroller.

"Hey there peanut…" he cooed and patted his grandson on the arm.

"Oh...that reminds me," David said. Snow smiled and dug out some comic books from the pocket on their stroller.

"Wow...thanks Gramps," Henry said, as he accepted the gift.

"And Nana and Papa didn't forget you, sweetie," Snow cooed, as they presented her with a new stuffed sheep.

"You seriously just lectured us about spoiling our grandchildren," Hades mentioned. Snow smiled at him.

"Well, like you said...it's what grandparents do," she mused.

"Grandparents usually don't have kids the same age as their grand kids though," Emma teased.

"You shush and Iris got a new stuffed toy too when we picked out one for Tallie," Snow replied, as Rumple and Belle were next to arrive with Gideon.

"Hey…sorry, we're a bit late. We had to change clothes already this morning," Belle mentioned. Snow winced.

"We've had those mornings too," she replied. Gideon and Iris were only about a month apart. Snow and Belle had gotten pregnant nearly at the same time and being pregnant together had made them even closer friends. It had served to do the same for David and Rumple as well.

"Sorry we're late…" Regina said, as she and James finally arrived and she kissed Henry on his head, as they sat down.

"It's okay...our order is already in," Snow said.

"How do you know what I want?" Regina replied.

"Apple pancakes, mom...you're kind of predictable," Henry teased, making James chuckle in amusement. She nudged him.

"Very funny, you...new comics?" she asked. He smiled and slid one over to her.

"Yep," he answered, as she opened it to read, while they waited on breakfast and conversation flowed effortlessly as usual when they all managed to get together. Robert, Ruth, and Serafina arrived last, completing their family gathering, just as breakfast was delivered.

~*~

Ravenna paced in the secluded chamber of her palace, where Claude Frollo had conducted his work and experiments for the past three years. It was painstaking work and she felt no closer to any of her goals. If she didn't hold control over him, then she might think he wasn't doing what she asked. But unfortunately, the particular thing she was asking for was not easily accomplished.

Originally, she had wanted to find a way to curse her former step-daughter. She wanted her to suffer a fate worse than death, but she had quickly learned that there was no curse that existed that true love could not overcome. It became clear that death was the only thing that true love could not save her from. And so the search to find the perfect way to kill Snow White began. She wanted her to suffer and she wanted those around her to suffer losing her. She was so tired of her being the one that all the Kingdoms adored. She had everything. True love with a handsome, loving husband, who thought the sun rose and set with her. Three beautiful children and a large family full of people that would do absolutely anything for her. In addition to that, most of the people in the Kingdoms, particularly her own adored her and still called her the fairest of them all.

Her jealousy had steadily grown and her hatred with it. Hans had implored her to let it go, as he could see nothing good coming of it for their Kingdom. His older brothers agreed as well, but with Arawn still imprisoned for war crimes, Ravenna was next in line and had ruled flippantly. Her own interests were first, while the people did without. She was a very unpopular Queen and their own people constantly discussed how much better the rulers of some of other Kingdoms were. Snow White was always mentioned among them, which only further enraged their sister.

But Ravenna refused to work for her people in favor of fulfilling her own interests. She was always harshly criticized at the United Realm Council meetings and Hans was sure today would be no different.

"We may finally be onto something today," Frollo said.

"You've said that before and it always goes up in smoke," Ravenna retorted.

"And without this cauldron, you may never have gotten this far," he argued.

"Fine...do you have it then?" she asked.

"Not yet...but my research has revealed one crucial ingredient we need for success. Unfortunately, it is not available in our Enchanted Forest," he replied.

"Then where can we get what we need?" she demanded to know.

"Another magical forest...across the ocean," he answered. She had heard of this place and could even see it in the distance from her vantage point. It was still a mysterious place and the only place that had not sent a dignitary to join the United Realms Council. Very little was known about it still and there were even plans to send a group of diplomats there to make contact. No one was certain of why no one from this land had sent their own individuals out, but they had so far respected their obvious desire to remain isolated. If they still planned to send a team, she knew they would never choose to send her. They were always claiming she was too volatile and had an irresponsible rule. But that would not stop her from going there if the ingredient she needed was somewhere in that forest.

"Then we will leave for this new land, in secret, after today's Council meeting," she decided.

"Yes, my Queen," Frollo agreed, though he had little choice. As long as she held the Promethean flame, the very first and famed flame the God Prometheus had given to man, she would be able to control his every move.

~*~

Breakfast was finishing up and they paid their checks, while preparing to hand off all the little ones to Ruth, Robert, and Serafina, who were happily watching all of them, while they were attending the monthly Council meeting that morning.

"Okay kid...bus is pulling up outside," Emma said, as she hugged him and Regina did as well, as she kissed him on the head. He and Neal bumped fists, as he headed out to the bus

"Have a good day sweetie," Snow called, as he waved to his family. Just as they prepared to head back to the castle, Emma's phone rang.

"Sheriff," she answered, as she listened to the complaint on the other end.

"All right...we'll be right there," she said, with an eye roll.

"Another active bar fight at the Rabbit Hole," she said, as she put her jacket on.

"I'll give you a hand," David said, as he kissed Snow quickly.

"I'll catch up to you at the meeting," he promised. She nodded.

"Be careful," she called to both of them.

"Need an extra hand?" James asked.

"Couldn't hurt," David agreed, as his twin kissed Regina and followed them out. Snow smiled, as she watched her husband and daughter do what they did best. Helping and protecting people. She kissed her little ones and Ruth smiled at her.

"Off to save the day again, those two," she said fondly.

"As always. Thanks for watching them," Snow said.

"You know we love it," Seraphina replied. To have the three of them to help out was invaluable. Snow was not a fan of hiring a nanny and since her children had so many grandparents to help out, such had not be necessary.

"Well, I guess we better get to the Council meeting," she said, as they left the diner as well. She couldn't say that they ever accomplished a lot in their meetings, but they were still important to get all the leaders together in order to discuss the issues. She always hoped for less arguing and more solutions, which she did not always receive. Thus was the reality of politics. David usually got even more annoyed than her, for her husband was always one for action. But the diplomacy and this process were important and necessary, even if the results were slow to be realized most of the time. But she felt that the future had never been brighter as far as she was concerned and she only hoped that their relative peace continued to reign...